"You going to tell me why you're here?" Trent finally asked. "Or are we just going to sit here staring at each other until the other one blinks like a couple of middle schoolers?”
Slade's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “You have your father’s sense of humor.”
Trent had a retort, but it would’ve been sarcastic, not to mention rude, and his mother wouldn’t have approved.
Slade set down his mug, the ceramic clicking against the wood with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet kitchen. “When I learned my niece was moving here, I figured it would be sooner rather than later that I’d pay a visit. I honestly just wanted to pay my respects. I should’ve said this at the bar. I’m so sorry to hear about your mom. Your father spoke so highly of her.”
“They were an amazing couple,” Trent agreed. “Thank you.” He saw no point in being a jerk. He’d spent half his life pushing boundaries and pissing people off. He was done with that.
“I hadn’t planned on showing up this early. Honestly, I was going to call and ask to meet you for coffee, but something happened, and I couldn't wait to speak with you.” Slade reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it flat on the table and slid it across toward Trent. "This is a formal request by my office that was sent to the state trial office for this county.”
Trent looked down at the paper but didn't touch it. The header read, "Department of Justice - U.S. Marshals Service" in an official-looking font. Below that, a block of text too dense to parse at a glance.
"What is it?" Trent asked.
“Five days ago, a man named Merik Parrish died of pancreatic cancer in a hospice facility in Daytona. He was sixty-seven years old. He had one daughter that he was estranged from,” Slade said.
The name meant nothing to Trent.
"Parrish was never charged with anything related to the Gulf Coast case. But he was a known criminal. Hired muscle. Willing to do jobs most people wouldn’t touch. Also very good at what he did because he never got caught. He was like a ghost. The feds called him The Janitor.”
“I’m confused. What does this have to do with my father and whatever the US Marshals office is requesting?” Trent took a closer look at the document and caught the date. It was sent to the court two days ago.
“When Parrish died, he left his estate to his daughter. She went in and cleaned it out and found what we refer to as a dead man's cache," Slade said.
Trent reached for the coffee mug, brought it to his lips, and gulped, wishing it had some booze in it. He felt like he’d been dumped in the middle of a mobster movie and hadn’t been given the backstory.
“My office, the feds, and local police have been going through documents, photographs, recordings—basically evidence of crimes Parrish committed over the years. None of it was supposed to get into our hands. It was his insurance in case the people who’d hired him tried to screw him, or maybe he blackmailed some of them.”
“I’m still not following and wish you’d get to the point.”
Slade tapped the document with one finger. “Parrish was hired to take out your father.”
“Are you saying that crash wasn’t an accident?” Trent asked. His heart lurched upward and landed in his throat.
Dove moved across the kitchen and rested her hands on his shoulders. Normally, he would’ve shrugged them off because he couldn’t stand being touched when he was that agitated. But right now, he needed someone to ground him.
“That’s the most bizarre thing about this. Parrish admitted to taking the money, but in all the paperwork we found, he clearly states his plan and that he never executed it. That he sat there and watched a freak accident—one nearly identical to his plan—kill your father and nearly kill me.”
Trent stared at the paper. The words on it seemed to blur and shift, refusing to resolve into meaning.
"What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
"I'm saying the Department of Justice is opening an investigation into your father's death."
The words hit Trent like a physical blow. He actually rocked backward in the chair as the air rushed into his lungs, leaving him dizzy.
"They're forming a task force. They want to re-examine what evidence still exists. They want to re-interview anyone who witnessed the crash. The doctors who treated me and pronounced your father dead. The ambulance drivers. Everyone.”
Trent's throat had gone dry. “Does this mean they’ll reopen the investigation into those involved with the bribery, Gulf Coast, and the murder? Who sold out my father and leaked his name?”
“That all depends on what they find.” Slade let out a long breath and leaned back. “Gulf Coast Energy Partners wasn’t able to survive the backlash. However, Edward Kirk had other businesses. He survived. The feds tried to nail him on just about everything, including tax fraud, but they couldn’t. He retired a wealthy man with money tied up in some questionable places, but no one has proof of anything. I’m sure they’d love to nail his ass.”
The kitchen tilted. Trent gripped the edge of the table, the solid oak grounding him, reminding him where he was. His father's table. His father's house. His father's ghost lingered in every corner.
He’d been fourteen years old when he’d seen a man in a suit pass an envelope to a man with a politician's smile. Trent had run home to tell his father because something about it had felt wrong. So wrong.
He'd never told anyone except his parents. His father had made him promise. Don't ever speak of this again. Not to anyone. You didn't see enough to matter, and if they think you did...
