He shook both their hands. His grip was firm but brief, the handshake of someone who understood that formalities mattered even when everything was falling apart. "I came straight from the office. Fort Lauderdale PD is five minutes behind me."
He looked at the door. At the gap. At the splintered wood near the lock, where someone had put a boot or a shoulder through it. His jaw tightened, and Dove saw something flash behind his eyes—not just professional concern, but something personal. Slade had been his agent. His colleague. Maybe even his friend.
"Walk me through what you found," he said.
They did. Room by room, in the same order they'd cleared it. Corrick listened without interrupting, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression schooling itself into the careful neutrality of a man who was cataloging every detail for later.
When they reached the part about the office—the files, the empty folders, Jack Mallor's name—Corrick inhaled slowly through his nose. It was the only crack in his composure.
"I won't lie to you," he said, turning to face them. "I have no idea who would do this or what they were after. Slade's last few active cases were straightforward. Witness protection check-ins, administrative closures, nothing that would warrant this kind of..." He gestured toward the house. "Aggression."
"What about enemies?" Dove asked. "Thirty years in the marshals. He had to have made a few.”
“Slade was meticulous. He didn't cut corners. He built cases by the book, protected his witnesses, and kept his head down." Corrick's voice carried the weight of someone defending a man who could no longer defend himself. “All that said, he could also be antagonistic, and he knew when and how to bend rules. While he was well-liked in the marshals' office, there were a few who didn’t particularly care for him, and he definitely made a few enemies among the criminals.”
"What about regarding my father's case?" Trent asked. “About there being a mole.” Trent glanced at Dove. His brow scrunched and the muscles in his face were tight. “He told me that he didn’t see the point in exhuming my father’s body. That he’d help me fight that if I wanted to. And for some reason, that doesn’t make sense to me.”
Dove understood the comment because she agreed. However, she didn’t like the implication that her uncle was hiding something, even if she believed deep down in her bones that he had been.
Corrick folded his arms. He blew out a puff of air from his nose like an agitated bull. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Slade came to you and suggested that. The only problem is he didn’t have a decent enough argument as to why we shouldn’t, and I told him that.” He adjusted his stance. The kind of subtle shift that told Dove the next thing out of his mouth was going to be uncomfortable. “Did Slade tell you that the medical examiner who performed your father's autopsy twenty years ago—Dr. Raymond Weiss was brought up on charges eighteen months ago? Falsifying records. Taking bribes to alter findings on several cases." Corrick's voice had an edge. “Dr. Weiss has agreed to testify against the person inside the justice department who asked him to falsify records.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dove said as her pulse picked up speed.
“He’s adamant your father’s case was clean. But given the scope of his misconduct and the person involved, the DOJ is compelled to verify the integrity of every autopsy he performed during the relevant period. Your father's included."
The words settled between them like stones dropped into still water. Dove watched Trent's face. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The way his hands curled into fists at his sides, then slowly, deliberately, uncurled.
“There is no reason to believe there was any tampering with your father’s autopsy,” Corrick added quietly. “There was more than one witness to the accident. But one other witness died. Evidence burned. And now this dead man’s cache. We need to cover our bases.”
Trent was quiet for a long time. Long enough that the sound of approaching sirens began to thread through the neighborhood—thin and distant, growing closer. “I won't fight it," Trent said.
Dove stared at him, unable to say anything because the change in his opinion shocked her.
"I don't like it," he continued. His voice was rough, the words dragged out of somewhere deep and reluctant. "I hate it, actually. The idea of someone digging up my father's grave makes me want to put my fist through a wall." He held Corrick’s gaze. "But if there's even a chance that it leads to whoever did this to Slade—gives Dove some answers—I won't stand in the way."
"I appreciate that. More than you know." He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dove. "I'm going to keep you in the loop—both of you. Whatever we find—in this house, in the investigation, in the exhumation—you'll know. That's a promise."
The sirens were close, now—two Fort Lauderdale PD cruisers turning onto the street, light bars washing color across the pale stucco of the neighboring houses.
Corrick straightened his jacket. "Excuse me. I need to brief the responding officers." He took a step, then turned back. "Your uncle was one of the finest marshals I ever had the privilege to serve with. I don't say that lightly, and I don't say it just because he's gone. I mean it. And I will find out who did this." He walked toward the cruisers, his stride purposeful, his shoulders squared against whatever came next.
Dove's throat ached. "He was going to retire," she said. The words came out small. Fragile. Nothing like the the professional voice she'd used in the medical examiner's office. "Two months. He had a place picked out in Jupiter. He loved scuba diving and fishing and said that place was the best for both. He sent me pictures." She pressed her fingers against her eyes. "He was going to get a dog. A lab. He always wanted a lab but said his schedule wasn't fair to a dog. He was finally going to get one."
Trent didn't say anything. He just put his arm around her and pulled her against his side, and she let him. Let herself lean into the warmth of him, the solid, sunbaked weight of a man who smelled like the Everglades and coffee and the faint musk of python that still clung to his clothes from this morning.
"I'm going to find who did this," she said. “And whoever’s coming after you.”
"I know you are."
"And when I do?—"
“We’ll figure all that out together.”
She looked up at him. His face was half in shadow, the afternoon sun cutting a line across his jaw, his eyes darker than usual, holding something that wasn't pity and wasn't sympathy but was more useful than both. Understanding. The bone-deep, hard-won understanding of a man who'd lost people, lived with the weight of it, and had come out the other side still standing.
"Together," she repeated.
"That's what I said."
