Detective Frank Doyle arrived at the Malone house at 9:30 AM Thursday morning, twenty minutes after Elizabeth Malone's flight had landed and ten minutes after the funeral director had left with a list of Clara's preferences for the service. The timing was deliberate—Frank had learned over two decades of police work that grief made some people more forthcoming and others more guarded, and he needed to gauge which category Clara Malone fell into.
The house sat on a tree-lined street in Millhaven's working-class Riverside neighborhood, identical to dozens of others built in the post-war boom—white aluminum siding, small front porch, chain-link fence around a yard that someone had tried to keep nice despite the October weather. Frank could see a basketball hoop over the garage, a child's bike in the driveway, Halloween decorations that would never be taken down.
Elizabeth Malone answered the door—a sturdy woman in her early sixties with silver hair and Eddie's same steady brown eyes. She looked like she'd been crying for hours but had pulled herself together for practical matters.
"Detective Doyle? Clara's expecting you. She's in the kitchen."
Frank followed Elizabeth through a living room that felt frozen in time. Family photos covered every surface—Eddie and Clara's wedding, Jimmy as a baby, school pictures charting the boy's growth from gap-toothed kindergartener to the lanky teenager Frank had seen in the morgue. The ordinariness of it hit him harder than he'd expected.
Clara sat at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a coffee mug, staring out the window at the backyard where a tire swing hung motionless from an oak tree. She looked fragile in the morning light, like she might break if he spoke too loudly.
"Mrs. Malone? I'm Detective Frank Doyle. I'm very sorry for your loss."
Clara looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Have you found who did this?"
Frank sat down across from her, pulling out his notebook. "We're working on it. The partial license plate gave us some leads, and we're processing evidence from the scene. But I need to ask you some questions first, if you're up to it."
"Of course." Clara's voice was hoarse from crying. "Whatever you need."
"Can you tell me why your husband and son were together yesterday afternoon? Shouldn't Jimmy have been in school?"
Clara frowned, as if the question hadn't occurred to her. "I... I don't know. Eddie was supposed to be at work. The Morrison construction project. And Jimmy had classes until three-fifteen."
"When did you last speak to either of them?"
"Yesterday morning. Before they left. Eddie said he'd be late because of the foundation pour." Clara's eyes filled with fresh tears. "Jimmy was excited about some field trip to the museum today. He'd been looking forward to it all week."
Frank made notes, filing away the contradiction. According to the school, Jimmy Malone had been marked absent from his afternoon classes. According to Eddie's foreman, Eddie had left the job site at 1:30, saying he had a family emergency.
"Did your husband or son mention meeting anyone yesterday? Any appointments or plans?"
"No, nothing." Clara looked to Elizabeth, who shook her head. "Eddie would have told me if something was wrong. He wasn't the kind of person who kept secrets."
Frank noticed the slight emphasis on "he," filing that away too. "What about enemies? Anyone who might have had a grudge against your husband?"
"Eddie?" Clara almost laughed. "Detective, my husband fixed people's plumbing and built their decks. The worst enemy he might have had was someone whose bathroom renovation ran over budget."
Elizabeth leaned forward. "Detective, was this really an accident? The way you're asking questions..."
Frank considered his words carefully. "We're treating it as a hit-and-run investigation. But I have to explore all possibilities. The impact pattern suggests the other driver was traveling at extremely high speed, and the timing of the collision..." He trailed off, not wanting to voice his suspicions yet.
"You think someone did this on purpose," Clara said quietly. "You think someone murdered my husband and son."
"I think we need to follow the evidence wherever it leads." Frank closed his notebook. "Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that might help?"
Clara shook her head, but Elizabeth spoke up. "Detective, I've been thinking about this all night. Eddie called me three days ago, Sunday evening. He sounded... worried about something."
Frank reopened his notebook. "Worried how?"
"He asked me if I remembered his friend Ray Kowalski from high school. Ray works for the city now, in the building inspection department. Eddie wanted to know if I thought Ray was the type to take bribes."
"Did you ask why?"
Elizabeth's face was grim. "Eddie said he'd seen some things on job sites that didn't add up. Inspections that got passed when they shouldn't have, materials that didn't match the specs but somehow got approved. He was thinking about talking to someone about it."
Frank felt the familiar tingle he got when an investigation took an unexpected turn. "Did he mention any specific companies or projects?"
"Just that it seemed to involve some of the bigger construction firms. The ones that get all the city contracts." Elizabeth's voice dropped. "Eddie was a good man, Detective. If he saw something wrong, he wouldn't have been able to let it go."
After Frank left, he drove straight to the Morrison construction site. The crew was working despite yesterday's tragedy, but the mood was somber. Frank found the foreman, a weathered man named Pete Carlson, overseeing the concrete work.
"Terrible thing about Eddie," Pete said, shaking his head. "Good worker, reliable. Twenty years I've been doing this, and Eddie Malone was one of the best."
"I understand he left early yesterday. Said it was a family emergency?"
Pete nodded. "About one-thirty. Got a phone call and said he had to go pick up his boy from school. Seemed upset about something."
"Did he say what kind of emergency?"
"No, but Eddie wasn't the type to leave work unless it was serious. He needed the money like the rest of us."
Frank thanked Pete and drove to Jimmy's school, Roosevelt Middle. The principal, a tired-looking woman named Dr. Sarah Bennett, confirmed that Jimmy had attended his morning classes but had been picked up by his father at 1:45.
"Mr. Malone seemed anxious," Dr. Bennett recalled. "Said Jimmy had a doctor's appointment they'd forgotten about. Jimmy looked confused—I don't think he knew about any appointment—but he went with his father."
The timeline was starting to make sense. Eddie had received some kind of call that made him leave work, pick up Jimmy, and drive to the Oak Street intersection where they'd been killed. But what had prompted that call?
Frank's phone buzzed as he sat in the school parking lot. It was Officer Mendez with an update on the license plate.
"We got a match, Detective. Partial plate comes back to a 2019 Mercedes S-Class, registered to one Vivienne Russo."
Frank felt his stomach drop. He knew that name—anyone who'd worked in Millhaven law enforcement for more than five minutes knew the Russo family. Clive Russo's criminal empire had tentacles throughout the city, and his wife was known to be as ruthless as she was beautiful.
"Where's the car now?"
"That's the problem, Detective. Mrs. Russo reported it stolen yesterday morning. Says she discovered it missing when she went to drive to her hair appointment."
Of course she had. Frank rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. A case involving the Russos meant politics, pressure, and probably orders from above to tread carefully. It meant witnesses would develop sudden amnesia and evidence would mysteriously disappear.
But two people were dead, including a thirteen-year-old boy. Frank had been a cop long enough to know when a case was going to be buried, but he'd never learned how to let it go quietly.
His phone rang again. This time it was Captain Mitchell.
"Frank, I need you in my office. Now."
Captain Roy Mitchell's office occupied a corner of the second floor at Millhaven PD, with windows overlooking the parking lot and a collection of commendations and photos that documented thirty years of police work. Frank had always respected Mitchell—the man was a good cop who'd worked his way up through the ranks honestly.
But the person sitting across from Mitchell's desk made Frank reconsider that assessment.
"Detective Doyle, this is District Attorney Richard Blackwood. He has some concerns about your investigation."
Blackwood was younger than Frank had expected, maybe late forties, with the kind of expensive suit and perfect haircut that screamed political ambition. He stood to shake Frank's hand, his smile never reaching his eyes.
"Detective, I understand you're pursuing some leads in the Malone case that might involve certain prominent citizens."
Frank kept his expression neutral. "I'm following the evidence, sir. The partial license plate led to a vehicle registered to Vivienne Russo."
"Yes, I've been briefed. Mrs. Russo reported her vehicle stolen yesterday morning. She has receipts from her hair salon proving she was there at the time of the accident."
"Have we recovered the stolen vehicle?"
Blackwood and Mitchell exchanged glances. "Unfortunately, no. It was probably stripped and sold for parts within hours. You know how these car theft rings operate."
Frank did know, but he also knew that professional car thieves didn't usually commit vehicular homicide in broad daylight. "Sir, the impact pattern suggests this wasn't a random accident. The driver targeted the Malone vehicle specifically."
"Based on what evidence?" Blackwood's tone sharpened. "Detective, I've reviewed the witness statements. They describe a car running a red light and striking the victim's truck. Tragic, but hardly evidence of premeditation."
"There are inconsistencies—"
"There are always inconsistencies in eyewitness accounts." Blackwood stood, straightening his tie. "Detective, I appreciate your thoroughness, but sometimes an accident is just an accident. I don't want you wasting department resources chasing conspiracy theories."
After Blackwood left, Frank remained seated across from Mitchell's desk. His captain looked uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact as he shuffled paperwork.
"Frank, I want you to focus on the hit-and-run angle. Canvas the area for witnesses, check traffic cameras, see if any other vehicles saw the stolen Mercedes."
"Roy, you've known me for fifteen years. Have I ever chased theories without evidence?"
Mitchell finally met his eyes. "This isn't about your instincts, Frank. The Russo family has legitimate businesses throughout this city. They employ hundreds of people, donate to charities, pay taxes. We can't go around making accusations based on a partial license plate and a gut feeling."
"What about Eddie Malone's concerns about building inspections? His mother said he was worried about corruption—"
"Eddie Malone was a construction worker, not an investigator. Maybe he misunderstood what he saw." Mitchell's voice carried a warning. "Frank, work the case, but work it smart. Don't go looking for trouble where there isn't any."
Frank left the station feeling like he'd entered an alternate universe where logic no longer applied. He'd worked hundreds of cases, and his instincts were usually reliable. The Malone murders—and he was now certain they were murders—had been orchestrated to look like an accident, but the execution had been sloppy.
The question was: how far up did the cover-up go?
His phone rang as he sat in his car in the parking lot. The caller ID showed a number he didn't recognize.
"Detective Doyle? This is Clara Malone. I need to see you. There's something I found in Eddie's things that I think you should know about."
Clara was waiting for him on her front porch when he arrived, holding a manila folder and looking more alert than she had that morning. Elizabeth had taken over the kitchen, making calls to relatives and coordinating with the funeral director, giving Clara space to process her grief.
"I found this in Eddie's toolbox," Clara said, handing Frank the folder. "He kept his important papers there—insurance documents, warranty information. But this was hidden underneath everything else."
Frank opened the folder and found himself looking at photographs. Construction sites, building inspections, official city documents. But more interesting were Eddie's handwritten notes, documenting discrepancies between approved plans and actual construction.
"The Morrison project," Clara said, pointing to one set of photos. "Eddie wrote down the concrete mix ratios they were supposed to use versus what they actually used. And look at this—" She flipped to another page. "The electrical inspection on the Riverside Heights development. Eddie says the inspector never even showed up, but the permit was approved anyway."
Frank studied the documents. Eddie Malone had been building a case against several major construction firms, documenting systematic violations of building codes and safety regulations. The implications were staggering—if substandard materials were being used in city projects, it could affect everything from schools to bridges.
"Clara, did Eddie ever mention names? Specific inspectors or companies he was concerned about?"
"He was careful about that. But look at the last entry." Clara's finger traced her husband's careful handwriting. "He wrote this Sunday night, the day before he called your mother about Ray Kowalski."
Frank read Eddie's final notes: "Confirmed—R.K. taking payments to approve substandard work. Multiple projects affected. Need to document everything before going to authorities. Jimmy asked what I was working on. Told him it was just work stuff, but smart kid knows something's up. Hope I'm doing the right thing."
"He was going to turn them in," Clara said quietly. "Eddie was going to expose all of it."
Frank closed the folder, his mind racing. Eddie Malone hadn't been killed in a random accident or even a moment of road rage. He'd been murdered because he'd discovered a construction corruption scheme that probably involved millions of dollars in city contracts.
And if Eddie had been asking questions about Inspector Ray Kowalski, then Kowalski might be the key to understanding who else was involved.
"Mrs. Malone, I need you to put this folder somewhere safe. Don't tell anyone else about it, not even Elizabeth. And if anyone comes asking questions about Eddie's work or what he might have left behind, you call me immediately."
Clara nodded, but Frank could see the wheels turning in her head. She was starting to understand that her husband and son hadn't died because of a drunk driver or a moment of carelessness. They'd been killed to silence Eddie's investigation.
As Frank drove away from the Malone house, he realized that the case had just gotten exponentially more dangerous. Construction corruption involving city contracts meant political connections, and political connections in Millhaven meant the Russo family.
He was going to need allies he could trust, and in a department where the DA and the captain were already pressuring him to back off, those allies were going to be hard to find.
But Frank Doyle had been a cop for twenty-two years, and he'd never walked away from a case involving a murdered child. He wasn't about to start now.
Even if it cost him his career.
Even if it cost him more than that.