17. Pick A Lane

Riggs

Riggs's mood had significantly deteriorated by the time he pulled into the lane to his house.

This was because the hospital was a good twenty minutes out of town, but since he was responsible for dessert that night, he'd had to swing by the grocery store to get it.

He should have grabbed something from the deli to eat, but he didn't want to spoil his appetite for whatever Nadia had planned for dinner. He'd had her spaghetti, and her cake, so he knew whatever it would be, it was going to be good.

So he had a shit day to contend with, and now he was even hungrier, because it took him more time than he would have liked to get home.

His mood didn't get better when his house came into view.

This was because there was a Fret County Sheriff's cruiser there, and standing outside it, leaning against the fender, was Raul Hernandez.

Riggs didn't know the kid well, he just knew he was one of the newer deputies, and young, so inexperienced.

Riggs could see that call from Harry, since he needed his more senior deputies to be dealing with investigating a break-in when a rash of burglaries were happening, but he still didn't like it.

The other part was that his driveway was clogged with vehicles: Nadia's Range Rover, his mother's Lexus, and Dave and Brenda's truck.

He parked off to the side, grabbed the grocery bag, got out, shot a chin lift to Hernandez, and saw his day looking up, minimally, when Dave and Brenda exited his house as he got close to it.

He liked them both, but for once, he was in no mood to play host.

Dave looked pissed and worried. Brenda just looked worried.

They came right to him.

And Dave, being how Dave was, didn't fuck around.

"Gail says you're gonna take care of the cabin."

"Yeah," Riggs confirmed.

"Send me the invoices," Dave ordered.

"You got it."

"We came to see if Nadia was okay and offered her the option of staying with us until you got things sorted," Dave declared.

Riggs's neck got tight.

"She said she already unpacked her toothbrush, whatever that means. I just know it means she's staying here," Dave muttered.

Riggs fought a smile.

"We're gonna get out of your hair. She's got dinner ready," Dave stated, not a talker, but when he did, he was a straight shooter.

And…

Thank fuck.

Dinner was ready.

"You spilled my secret," Brenda added on an accusation aimed at Riggs.

Riggs looked at her, and he saw she now also looked pissed.

"Sorry, Bren," he murmured, not actually sorry because tacos always sounded fantastic, but right then, they sounded miraculous.

She blew out an annoyed breath.

Dave clapped him on the shoulder and Brenda shot him a glare, before that melted, and she gave him a finger wave. They then headed to their truck.

Riggs headed in.

He smelled the tacos the instant he stepped inside, his stomach made itself known again, and he looked right.

His son was sitting at the kitchen bar, Nadia leaned into her forearms opposite him, and his mother was at the end of the bar, by the open landing that led to the stairs, and beyond, the dining room. She had a glass of white wine held up in her hand.

It was then Riggs saw what Nadia was talking about when it came to his mom.

She was wearing dark jeans, a crisp blouse, a lot of silver, her hair was perfect, as was her makeup. She had her back ramrod straight, her legs crossed, one arm along her midriff, resting her other elbow on her hand to hold up her wine.

And she had an air of matriarch about her, surveying the scene, keeping an eye, even if all she surveyed was not technically hers, she was making it clear she claimed it on principle.

He was in a faded tee he got at a Springsteen concert years ago, a jean shirt over it, the jeans covering his legs had a split in one knee, and there was mud on his boots.

Abigail Riggs looked like she belonged in that fancy kitchen he'd renovated so everything was top of the line.

He looked like he was coming in for a glass of water after doing her yard work.

This thought making his mouth twitch, he went to his mom first, kissed her cheek, then to his son, where he mussed his hair while Ledge tried to duck it without really wanting to duck it.

And finally, he rounded the bar, dropped the grocery bag on it, put his hand on Nadia's back and started rubbing, at the same time he smiled at her since she'd twisted her head to look up at him and was doing the same.

"Where we at?" he asked.

"Nadia is helping your son with his vocabulary homework," his mother drawled.

He cut his eyes to his mom, then to his boy, catching his guilty look, then to Nadia, who was still beaming.

She was in her zone, happy to be doing teacher shit.

He looked to his kid.

"Ledge," he warned.

"Dad, she likes doing it," Ledger defended himself.

He had no choice but to let his hand fall away when Nadia straightened, asking, "What?"

"He's in fourth grade, but he tests in reading at a seventh-grade level," Riggs explained. "When they get into vocab, it takes him about a minute to finish the work. Sorry, honey, but he doesn't need your help."

Her jaw dropped and her eyes moved to Ledger.

"You were having fun!" he cried.

"Rascal," Nadia replied through a smile.

Riggs pulled the clear plastic container of grocery bakery cookies out of the bag.

"Dad, totally lame," Ledger decreed, eyeing the cookies. "I'm having leftover cake for dessert."

"I don't know," Nadia said, also eyeing the container. "I'm going to soften some ice cream and make myself an ice cream cookie sandwich."

"I change my mind," Ledge stated immediately, "I'm having that."

Christ, they were killing him with all this talk about food.

"Are we going to eat soon?" Riggs asked, his attention having moved to the meat simmering on the stove. "I haven't had anything since this morning."

Nadia instantly jumped to it, exclaiming, "Oh my God! I'll get on shredding the lettuce."

"We're eating like civilized people," his mother announced. "In the dining room."

So his mom was staying for dinner.

His lips started twitching again.

"Help me set the table?" Nadia asked Ledger.

"Sure," he answered, starting to put his work away.

"Where are your placemats?" Nadia asked Riggs.

"Honey," he replied.

No lip wrinkle that time.

Her eyes actually fucking twinkled at the way he admitted he was not a man who owned placemats.

"Time for more online shopping," she muttered to herself before she asked the room at large, "What am I working with? Is this a family that does premade tacos, and they handle the fixin's? Or do you go from the base up?"

"Base up," all three of the Riggs in attendance said at the same time.

Nadia laughed then started ordering Ledger around. "You and I will get the table set and then you can take in all the stuff while I deal with the lettuce and start warming the tortillas."

"You got it," Ledger agreed.

They hustled off with plates and cutlery and paper napkins while his mother strolled Riggs's way, likely on a trajectory to the fridge to top up her wine.

But she stopped at him.

Close.

And spoke.

Quietly.

"Your son is knocking himself out to make your neighbor fall in love with him. Actually, the both of you."

That didn't make a weight settle on Riggs's chest.

It made it feel tight.

"She and I had a quiet moment, however, and after some subtle probing, she shared what it was clear she thought I already knew. That you two were firmly in what she calls the friend zone," his mom kept on. "It's my impression, you're the one who put her there."

Fuck.

"Mom—"

"From what I see, my son is delivering a dizzying array of mixed messages. Pick a lane, Doc," she ordered. "But a warning. This time, you can't whiz by all the others on a joy ride. This time, you go as slow as it takes and get where you're going in one piece, keeping your passenger safe alongside you."

She didn't let him respond, not that he could, due to all his attention shifting to the tight knot that had formed in his chest.

She headed to the fridge just as Nadia and Ledger came back, Nadia babbling, "The cheese is ready to roll. You can take that in, sweetheart. I'll drain the corn and dish out the beans closer to. We don't want them to get cold." This she said to Ledge, but to him and his mom, she commanded. "Hit a chair. We got you."

Riggs hit the fridge first, asking Nadia, "Wine or beer tonight?"

She shifted her chin toward a half-full wineglass on the counter then started hacking at a head of lettuce.

So he took the wine from his mother and topped her up.

Then he took his beer, Nadia's wine, and hit a chair in the dining room.

He put Nadia's wineglass at the seat beside him.

Riggs came downfrom making sure his boy was settled in for the night to see Nadia on his couch, her stocking feet on the edge of his coffee table, her laptop on her thighs, her head turned to watch over her shoulder as he approached.

His mom was gone.

Hernandez was still out there.

And later, Nadia was going to be in a bed that was as far away from his as his house could put her, and still, that was way too close for his peace of mind.

"He good?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Good. Come here, I want to show you something."

He descended the steps into the living room and sat beside her.

Nadia instantly scooched closer and then listed into his side.

It felt good. It felt comfortable. It felt right.

But damn.

He'd been fucking with her head, he knew it, but even if he knew he shouldn't do it, he couldn't stop himself, and now he knew he'd fucked up.

Even having that thought, he shifted to pull his arm from between them so he could drape it across the back of the couch, but mostly because that was close to her shoulders.

He could tell himself that made him even more comfortable, and that would be true.

But it wasn't the only reason he did it.

Nor the primary one.

"So last night, when I got home, I emailed a friend of mine who practices estate law in Chicago," she stated. "And she sent me some super interesting stuff."

She was scrolling through a document that looked legal on her laptop.

"I haven't had a lot of time to read through it," she carried on. "But Susan started with a cursory search as a favor, but then she got engrossed, because she told me she's never seen a case this bizarre. So she wrote a whole brief to me detailing what she's found so far, along with sending a ton of stuff."

"What are you talking about?" Riggs asked.

She was clicking into another document, but she stopped doing that to tip her head back to catch his eyes. "Lincoln, Sarah and Roosevelt Whitaker."

Well, goddamn.

"She found something already?" he asked.

"She found a lot of things, Riggs," she answered. "All through filed court documents. First, she was intrigued, because she said the courts can go slow, but eight years of contention is unusual."

"No shit," Riggs remarked.

"I know, right? So she started at the beginning, and get this, they had joint accounts."

"Who?"

She pressed into him and made her eyes big. "All accounts and all of them. Lincoln, Sarah and Roosevelt."

"All three of them shared joint accounts?"

She nodded.

"Fucking hell," he muttered.

"I know," Nadia replied. "And Lincoln and Roosevelt had set up a trust for their royalties, and this trust had three trustees, Lincoln, Sarah and Roosevelt. But upon one or the other brother's death, Sarah was the managing trustee. Now, no surprise, there were stipulations, and if something happened to Lincoln, Sarah got it all. She's his wife, and he would assume she'd use what she inherited to take care of herself, and their kids. But, surprise, if something happened to Roosevelt, again, Sarah got it all. Though, that said, she kinda already had it all, considering she was named as managing trustee in the trust."

"Right," Riggs said when she stopped talking.

She started again. "Onward from that, if something happened to Sarah, both Lincoln and Roosevelt got it all. Down the middle, equitable split."

"I guess, considering they made their money writing those books together, that's not a surprise," he noted.

"No. But the trust was adjusted twice since it was formed. Not when the kids were born, but instead, five years before the murders, this in order to umbrella all the possessions, monies, investments, contracts, future earnings and properties of the two brothers. The second was a year and a half before the murders, and this was to release the properties from the trust, because, get this, Lincoln and Roosevelt worked through a title company to have everything, the cabin, this house, the lake, and Sarah and Lincoln's place in Seattle transferred to Sarah's name."

"What the fuck?" he asked.

"Right?" she asked back. "And it gets weirder, because, even after Sarah was dead, for some reason, Lincoln did bupkus to change this trust, though he did take possession of the properties, and everything else, since he inherited them from Sarah. Now, the dissension begins not simply because the managing trustee was dead, the other trustees were dead, and no other trustee was listed, nor inheritor named, and there was a whole lot of dough up for grabs. Not because Lincoln murdered their daughter. But because Sarah's parents never liked Lincoln or Roosevelt. And I say that, but from what Susan could tell from filings, it was more like hate. They hated the brothers. Didn't want their daughter to marry Lincoln or have anything to do with either. Since she essentially posthumously inherited everything, they're not youngsters, they're both still alive, and they think they should have it all."

"Not their grandkids?"

"I'm getting to that."

He grinned at her and shut up.

"Due to their attitude to the Whitaker boys, and Sarah's, shall we say, connection to both, there was no small amount of estrangement before the incident occurred. It's reported through the documents, none of the family, including the kids, had seen their maternal grandparents for a good decade. And before that, things were already ugly. So the twins' parents, also both still alive, don't think they should have anything. And considering they believe Sarah was the root of both their boys' downfall, they don't think Sarah, or her descendants, should have it either."

Jesus Christ.

"They want to cut out their grandkids too?"

"I know," she repeated. "Seriously, it's dysfunction to the highest degree. And that doesn't take into account Sarah's sister, Mary, who is also a claimant, who also wants it all, cutting out everyone, her sister's children, her parents, definitely the in-laws. The whole lot of them. She, too, is estranged from her own parents. But she says she and Sarah were close, and Sarah's will gave Lincoln and Roosevelt everything, Lincoln actually getting it, because he was the only one left alive. But the sister says, when the two of them were out of the picture, Sarah would want her to have it all."

"Over her sister's children," he remarked, but it was a question.

A quick nod from Nadia and, "That's what she claims. But this is where it gets even more interesting, Riggs, because, according to quite a bit of evidence they were able to produce, which Susan said is expansive and difficult to refute, particularly the publishing contracts, this being that, although Lincoln and Roosevelt came up with the idea for their flagship series together, and their folks admit that the first three books the brothers wrote as a team, after that, Lincoln essentially tapped out. So there were twenty-nine books published, twenty-one in their flagship series, five in a new series they'd launched, and three standalones. And of those, they contend Roosevelt, and Roosevelt alone, wrote twenty-six of them."

"So Roosevelt was carrying Lincoln?"

She nodded. "Yes, supporting Lincoln, not to mention providing for his wife, his family and his living large with two properties in two locations, both of which were rather impressive. Because this house is very nice, but he also had waterfront property in Seattle that was worth some big bucks."

"Jesus," Riggs muttered.

"This means, if the Whitaker parents can sway a judge, Sarah's parents, and her sister, at least, have no claim to anything that came from what those twenty-six books produced, which, obviously, is quite a bit of the whole banana."

The whole banana.

Christ, she was cute.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed.

"And just to say, several of the parties, namely the Whitakers, noted that the brothers were fighting about the movies. Lincoln wanted to sell more rights. Roosevelt did not. He apparently didn't like the notoriety it was causing him. And if it's true that Lincoln didn't have a hand in writing any of the books after the first three, which were the only rights sold, it could be that Lincoln didn't have a leg to stand on in pushing his brother to sell more. The elder Whitakers contend things were coming to a head between the brothers, and Roosevelt wasn't changing the pen name they'd come up with, because by then, it was branded. But Roosevelt had shared with them, if Lincoln didn't back down, he was going to let it be known his brother was no longer creatively contributing, and the intimation was that things might get financially dicey for Lincoln if his brother cut him off."

"Motive for murder," Riggs noted.

"I'll say, premeditated at that," she replied. "And I'm not done."

"Jesus, does this shit end?"

"Susan said she's only skimming and hasn't had near enough time to do a deep dive, so I guess the answer to that is no."

"Great. Give the rest to me," he invited.

She cozied up to him and went back to it.

"Now, Lincoln and Sarah had three kids, two boys and a girl, with the girl in the middle. And not only are they up against both sets of grandparents and their aunt, they're combatants against each other, with the oldest boy on his own, and the younger two ganging up against him. There is no love lost between any of the interested parties. The only ones sticking together are the two kids, and each set of grandparents."

"What are the kids claiming?" he asked.

"The oldest wants an equitable distribution of the estate among him and his siblings. The younger two want the oldest disinherited, because, they claim, that's what their parents would have wanted. Apparently, the oldest didn't see eye to eye with either Lincoln or Sarah. In fact, he was closer to Roosevelt than any of them, including his siblings. Apparently, he spent all the time he could at the cabin with his uncle. He was in Misted Pines nearly as much as his mother was."

If memory served, that was true.

Though, Riggs didn't really know any of them. He'd seen Lincoln, Sarah, and Roosevelt in town, but it was mostly Lincoln or Sarah. He couldn't recall seeing any of the kids, but one boy, a few years younger than Riggs, he'd seen a couple of times with Roosevelt.

And Roosevelt stuck close to his patch. Rumor had it, and from what Riggs had noticed himself, he barely left it, and to do mundane things like keeping his larder full, it was known he had an assistant take care of it so he could stay on his patch.

"Do you know how old the kids were when their parents died?" he asked.

"Um…" She looked back at the laptop and started scrolling and clicking. "No," she mumbled. Then, "No, wait, here. The oldest was seventeen. The younger two were fifteen and fourteen, respectively."

"So the oldest was old enough to drive to Misted Pines the night his family imploded."

That got him her attention again.

"Wait…no," she breathed "Do you think…? Holy cow, yeah. That makes sense. The oldest finds out his mom is cheating on his dad with his beloved uncle, he loses it. The dad walks in on the situation and moves heaven and earth to cover for his boy, including sacrificing himself."

"It's a scenario," Riggs allowed. "Though, it doesn't fit with Lincoln purposefully setting it up so all hell would break lose when he offed himself. If you go that extra mile to protect your kid, you'll engage an attorney to make sure all of them are covered when you're gone."

"Yeah," she whispered, looking again to the laptop.

"It's a stretch, got no clue and never will, where my head would be at after I murdered two people I loved, so he could have just been fucked up. But this all could also be Lincoln's last fuck you. Revenge. Because it doesn't seem like anyone, including the kids, are real great people."

"Yeah," she repeated to the laptop where she was now closing all the documents.

"And it'd be masterful, considering what I bought this property for, because it's probably around the same amount Roosevelt bought it for decades ago. So they took a massive loss on that investment by being a pack of hyenas."

"Yeah," she said again.

"It could just be they're all greedy fucks who are so intent to suck off the teat of two men's hard work, they'll grasp at anything to get the golden milk, so dedicated to the task, they aren't realizing they're sucking that teat dry."

She slapped the laptop closed and shot him a smile. "A colorful metaphor, but also very likely."

"How old are the parents?" he asked.

"I don't know that either, but considering the ages of the three principles, my guess is that they're all in their seventies by now, at least."

"That's dedication," he stated.

"I'll say."

He then did something else he shouldn't do.

He caught a lock of her hair and started twisting it in his fingers.

It was softer than he would have guessed.

Shit.

He did this before he asked, "You doing okay after today?"

"I am. Of course, preliminarily, it was a shock. Now I'm just annoyed. We can just say it takes more than that to bring an Antonov down."

He had no doubt.

"And Ledger was around, so you didn't give the full brief of your afternoon," she continued. "What's up with that?"

"I don't know, and Bubbles isn't conscious yet. The only thing I can tell you is something you already know. It has something to do with the wine. Harry is as baffled as me. It sucks, but we gotta wait until Bubbles wakes up. He's the only one who might have answers."

It wasn't the entire truth, but close enough to it, and seeing as Harry had trusted him with what he'd shared, he wasn't going to break that trust, even for Nadia.

"I think they got what they were looking for, so I don't think they'll be back," he told her. "But I'm still doing that work on the cabin, and I want you to put my number and the sheriff's office number in your favorites so you can get to us fast if something tweaks you."

"I can do that," she agreed.

"And I'm just gonna put it out there that immersing yourself in a fifteen-year-old double homicide is a lot easier than facing the tragedy that's happened to your own family. But I'll remind you, you got a resource and a sounding board close at hand who gets you, so think about taking advantage of that."

When he stopped talking, she did a face-plant in his shoulder.

Oh yeah.

She was avoiding it.

He was forced to let her hair go with her movement, but he cupped the back of her head when she landed.

He also bent his neck so his face was in her hair.

It smelled phenomenal.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured there. "Although, I'll share I don't think you need to do a deep descent and get mired in that shit, because bottom line, it's someone else's shit, not yours to take on. But since the fallout for you is extreme, I also don't think it's healthy to flat-out avoid it. Obviously, this is all about me. I don't want Maribeth showing and finding out I've fallen down on the job."

She laughed softly and lifted her head.

And fuck him, he kept his hand where it was.

"I'll start dealing," she promised.

"I wasn't pushing you, just reminding you. And while I'm doing that, from what I can tell, my mom likes you. And she might have some insights too."

"Does she know about what happened?"

He shook his head. "Not that I know. I can ask, and I can tell her so you don't have to, if that's what you want."

She seemed surprised. "So you didn't tell her?"

"I told her you're my neighbor, you're a good sort, you're dealing with some deep shit because your dad was an asshole, and considering the last part, that was all she needed."

"Right," she whispered.

"We need to unwind. You don't watch Witcher, so what do you wanna watch?"

"There's an Only Murders in the Building fest in town this weekend. Have you seen that?"

"Honey, I have no fucking idea why, but they've had that festival since that show started. I made the mistake of being in town when it was on last year, and I ran into Kimmy wearing a fake fur with a fake bird stuck to the shoulder and weird glasses with her telling me all weekend, if I saw her, I had to refer to her as ‘Bunny.' Then she shoved a tray full of bowls of dip in my face. I haven't seen the show, but I'm already traumatized by it."

She started laughing even as she said, "You have to see it. It's hilarious."

"Whatever you want," he murmured.

She grinned at him, then she leaned forward to put her laptop on the coffee table and grab the remote.

The instant she sat back, he commandeered the remote, because there weren't many rules at his house, but the man having the remote in his hand was one of them.

It was a brand-new rule he'd made just then, but he was sticking by it.

She settled back into him, grumbling, "Macho man."

"Whatever," he replied, and he switched on the TV.

He could see how it would have been easier for her to have the remote, since she had to tell him what service the show was on and guide him to finding it.

But he didn't give a fuck.

And she didn't either, seeing how she curled up into the couch as well as into his side when he lifted his feet to the coffee table and stretched out his legs.

He didn't want to like it.

But he saw from the get-go, she was right.

The show was damned funny.