Dark Waters (12 page)

He pulled on rubber gloves and went behind the desk. He picked up the photograph of Bloom with a woman in a sundress: Mrs. Bloom, with essentially the same expression she’d had after learning of her husband’s demise. Was she sour enough to cut out her husband’s heart and nail his hand to a tree?

A calendar book was open to a date two days ago. Marty made note of all the appointments, knowing he’d have to call each person and find out what the meeting involved. Then he flipped ahead to the next day and wrote down all those appointments too.

“Was he working on anything pressing that you know of?” he asked Knox.

“That community center. Everything seemed to revolve around that lately.”

Marty looked at what Bloom had written. “This says ‘tribal council meeting’ for tonight.”

“Really?” Knox said, with what seemed to be genuine surprise. “That’s actually kind of odd. He never said anything about that.”

“So you don’t know which tribe?”

“I’d assume the local Karlamiks. You know, the ones who run the bingo hall just outside town.”

Marty made another note. The Karlamiks were a thoroughly modern band of Native Americans who employed top-notch PR in their quest to enter the lucrative gaming market. So far the state had refused permission to build casinos in Dane County, saying it was too near the capital, but that hadn’t stopped the Karlamiks from opening an elaborate bingo parlor that had all the bells and whistles of a casino.

He put his notebook away. “There’ll be some men here shortly to box up all these papers. Can you give them a hand?”

“Everything?” Knox said dubiously.

“We’re looking for a murderer.”

“I know, it’s just …” He looked away and scratched his unshaven neck.

Marty’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something Bloom keeps secret, isn’t there?”

Knox said nothing, but he pointed to the picture of Bloom and his wife. Marty picked it up, looked more closely, and found the CD stuffed into the frame between the picture and the backing board.

MARTY CLOSED THE
folder on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and stared up at the ceiling.

Garrett Bloom, the great social activist, was a
fraud
.

The notes and correspondence he’d printed from the hidden CD proved beyond a doubt that Bloom’s whole drive to build a community center was built on a deliberate deception. First the community center would be finished, with the surprise blessing of someone hired to represent the long-departed Lo-Stahzi. A ready-made story describing how they were actually the ancestors of the modern-day Karlamiks was already prepared, conveniently ignoring the utter lack of evidence for it. Then just before the center was to open, ancient artifacts would be discovered. This would cause the building to be classified as on tribal land, and the resurrected Lo-Stahzi would use the existing Karlamik PR organization to gain public sympathy for this once-forgotten tribe. Once that happened, a lawsuit would be filed, and the settlement proposed. Then the building would be retrofitted into a tribal casino located smack-dab in the middle of Madison.

And Garrett Bloom, in the center of this web, would reap profits at every turn—first as the savior of the local neighborhood, then as the “evil” developer trying to hang on to land that rightfully belonged to the Lo-Stahzi, before finally coming around and supporting the casino settlement. It was a reversal worthy of professional wrestling.

So what had gone wrong?

Kyle Stillwater, the Native American actor hired to pose as a Lo-Stahzi, was supposed to bless the project, not dispute it. Yet the man who showed up did not match the description of the actor, even taking makeup or special effects into account. Had Bloom been double-crossed by his coconspirators, represented in the notes by numerical codes?

Marty had no answers. And at the moment it didn’t matter, because the trail to Bloom’s apparent murderer led in a completely different direction. Yes, Kyle Stillwater threatened him, but so did someone else. Someone with a much more mundane motive and plenty of opportunity.

He locked up the files, then prepared to meet Ethan for dinner.

———

IT WAS ALMOST
time for Martyn Park to close, so Patty tried to stay out of sight behind a tree. She often wondered how the city thought it could close a wide-open park with no fences or other ways to separate it from the rest of the world. Would an alarm go off if you stepped on the grass after eleven o’clock?

She felt like a spy, or a ninja. She wore a black T-shirt and black sweatpants, and wore her dark hair down around her face. There was probably no need for such an elaborate getup, but it added to the fun.

Not that her day had been much fun so far. After the scene with Rachel and her sister, Patty had gone home and cried herself to sleep. Then she woke up, wrote a few lines of a new song, and sat in the bathtub as the sun went down.

Rachel doesn’t need that kind of psychodrama
, she thought as she soaked.
No one does, but especially not someone like Rachel. She deserves a sister who cares about her, and supports her, and is there for Rachel—and not just when
she
needs something
.

She needs a sister
, Patty thought with sudden realization,
like me
.

Then she remembered the lake spirits.

So now she stood in the darkness, looking down at the water lapping and smacking against the erosion-blocking rocks. The wind was strong, and the waves more violent than they’d been earlier. Patty knew the water was barely knee-deep here, but in the dark it looked bottomless and empty, a void waiting to swallow the unwary.

She peeked around the tree. The park was deserted, and a police car drove slowly down Yahara Street.
Where were they when I was being kidnapped?
Patty thought.
They’ve fixed the barn door after the horse has been rescued
.

When the car was safely out of sight, she kicked off her shoes, pushed up her pants legs, and sat down on one of the rocks, her feet dangling in the water. Once again, the smell reminded her of Dewey, and she smiled as she recalled their night together.

Then she closed her eyes and cleared her mind as much as possible. “I want to meet Rachel’s spirits,” she said aloud, since spoken intent carried more power.

Then she waited.

Until a shadow cast by one of the streetlamps fell over her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

P
OSTED BY THE
Lady to the
Lady of the Lakes
blog:

The Lady needs your help. I want to find the rather, ahem, attractive gentleman who disrupted the ceremony at Olbrich Park over the weekend. I promise confidentiality, but I’d like to interview him for this blog. I know my readers, at least the female ones who appreciate a fine specimen of manhood, would love to know more about him. So if you’re out there reading this, Kyle Stillwater, drop me a line. You have my word it’ll go no further.

“THERE IS NO
record anywhere of a Kyle Stillwater who matches the description of the man we saw,” Marty said. “There’s an actor with the same name, but he doesn’t look like our man. We interviewed him, and it wasn’t him.”

Ethan and his brother sat in the Irish restaurant on the south side of the square. It was early evening on a weeknight, so they had the place mostly to themselves. Their server—a college boy with dyed-black hair—watched them from the bar in case they needed anything. They were his only customers.

“If he’s an actor, maybe he was using makeup or wigs or something.”

“You were there. Did he look like he had on makeup?”

“No,” Ethan had to admit.

“It was probably an alias he got out of the phone book, or somewhere online. He needed a Native American–sounding name.”

“And nobody has
any
photographs of him?”

“Not one that clearly shows his face. A lot of the people we talked to said their cameras or cellphones fritzed out on them. Even the newspeople didn’t get anything substantial.”

Ethan frowned. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s your prime suspect?”

“He’s one of them. Everyone is until they’re weeded out. Stillwater claimed to be a Lo-Stahzi, and Bloom was killed in imitation of a Lo-Stahzi sacrifice, so that puts him high on the list, if you’re looking for something blatant.”

“And are you?”

Marty shrugged. “Experience has taught me to look a little closer to home.”

Ethan took a sip of beer. “How about Vincent Anspach? Is he on your list?”

“Sure.”

“How high?”

Marty put down his utensils and narrowed his eyes. “Not very. He and Bloom didn’t get along, but they’re in politics, so
nobody
gets along. Why?”

Ethan told him about the meeting. When he finished, Marty said, “Well, that moves him up a few notches, for sure. But if he
was
involved, I doubt he was the triggerman. Or knife man, in this case. He’s a backroom negotiator all the way.”

“Maybe he hired a hit man.”

Marty chuckled. “A hit man? Have you been watching cop shows again? Next thing, you’ll want me to ‘put the word on the street.’ ”

Marty’s teasing annoyed Ethan. “He’s already trying to horn in on the project, and Bloom’s not even in the ground yet. I just wanted to pass on the info, smart-ass.”

“Sure. And thanks.” Marty reached over and took a swallow of Ethan’s beer.

“Hey!” Ethan protested.

Marty burped slightly. “I’ll have to work all this off in the gym tonight. By the way, have you talked to Rachel?”

“I tried. I called her twice. She didn’t answer.”

“And you’re going to leave it at that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said I would. I shouldn’t have even tried to call her.”

Marty nodded. “I still eat breakfast at her diner, you know.”

“I know.”

“She looks very sad these days. Not in an unhealthy way, but just … lonely. I think she’d like to hear from you.”

“I
tried
, Marty. She didn’t call me back. There’s only so much I can do.”

Marty shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, I want to warn you about something. We have a prime suspect in the Bloom killing, and it’s not that Stillwater guy.”

“Really?”

Marty nodded. “There was a message in Bloom’s voice mail left the night he died but before the time of death. It was … I don’t want to get into specifics, but there was a veiled but clear threat.”

“Isn’t ‘veiled but clear’ a contradiction?”

“I believe the message said, ‘Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity, and I want that for us, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.’ ”

Ethan laughed. “You don’t recognize that line? It’s from a song. ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’ ”

“I know that. It’s part of the ‘veiled but clear’ bit. And if Bloom wasn’t lying in a morgue, I probably wouldn’t think anything about it. But he is, and before it happened someone said they wanted to die with him. That’s a clue.”

“Maybe. It’s thin.”

“It’s what we’ve got. And the person who left the message has no alibi. Since it’s such a public crime, I
have
to make an arrest based on it, no matter how thin it is. That way we’ll at least
look
like we’re making progress. Hopefully the suspect will get a good lawyer, because the charges really shouldn’t stick.” He shook his head, disgusted with his own words.

“Why warn me?” Ethan asked.

“Because of who it is.”

RACHEL WENT UPSTAIRS
to her apartment after balancing the cash register and opened the door as quietly as possible. Becky didn’t wake up well on good days, and if she was still asleep, Rachel would just as soon she stayed that way.

She heard the shower, though, as soon as she closed the door behind her. She went into the bedroom and saw Becky’s clothes neatly arranged on the bed. Her purse stood open as well, and the temptation to snoop through it was strong. But Rachel ignored it. She went into the kitchen instead and got a beer.

By the time she finished her drink, Becky emerged from the bathroom. She wore a towel tucked under her arms, and her hair hung straight, parted in the middle. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She saw Rachel through the bedroom door and said weakly, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Rachel said, and held up the empty bottle. “Want a beer?”

Becky shook her head. Her voice was subdued and lacked its usual defensiveness. “No, thanks. I hope you don’t mind me using your shower.”

“No problem.” Rachel came into the bedroom and sat on the foot of the bed. “Feel like talking?”

Becky dropped the towel and began dressing. “No. I should probably go down to the office. It’ll be a madhouse, and I may be the only person who knows where everything is.”

“It’s late.”

She shrugged. “We never kept set hours. Garrett wanted to be available when people needed him.”

Rachel nodded. “I’m sorry about him.”

“Me too,” Becky muttered.

Rachel idly watched her sister put on her clothes.

“Rachel,” Becky said abruptly, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you remember how Daddy used to watch the news and say, ‘Some people just need killing’?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“Yeah. The problem is, who gets to pick?”

Becky considered that as she buttoned her blouse. Finally Rachel said, “Do you want to stay here tonight? So you won’t be alone?” It would mean Rachel could not slip away to the lakes, but for the first time in months she didn’t mind.

But Becky shook her head. “No. If no one’s at the office I’ll go home. I want people to be able to reach me. I feel bad that I freaked out earlier.”

She adjusted her clothes, smoothed down her hair, and managed a smile. Rachel stood and reached to hug her, but Becky put up her hands and stepped back. “Don’t, Rachel. I’m barely holding it together as it is.”

“Okay,” Rachel said. She was silent as Becky gathered her belongings and went to the door.

Becky paused there but did not look back or say anything. Then she was gone, her footsteps fading as she descended the stairs. In the silence the back door opened, then closed with a loud click as the lock slid back in place.

Rachel picked up the discarded towel and went into the bathroom. As usual, Becky had left it a mess, and she spent several minutes cleaning and straightening. When she finished, she got another beer and sat on her couch.

Tainter emerged from under it. He’d known Becky his whole feline life and understood that it was best to be scarce when she was around. Rachel often wished she had that option as well.

She scratched the cat behind his ears while he stretched and raked his claws lightly over the couch’s fabric. It was unlike her to have a second beer, but she felt so odd and off-kilter inside, she figured it wouldn’t matter. By the third sip she was yawning, and she stretched out to sleep away the rest of the evening.

JAMES RED BIRD
reclined on his bed in the Best Western across from the state capitol. He wore only boxers emblazoned with an American eagle, and his long hair was loose around his shoulders. He watched the local news, which was rife with coverage of Garrett Bloom’s murder. They talked to everyone who ever met him, it seemed, including James Red Bird; he was watching to see if his comments would be used.

The bathroom door opened and a blond girl emerged. She wore a towel around her hair, and nothing else. She was intimately clean-shaven, and had a Native American design tattooed across the small of her back.

Red Bird glanced at her, then turned back to the TV. Her name was Stacy. She was one of those middle-class white girls with just enough enlightenment to feel culturally guilty for what her people had done to his, and he was happy to show her ways to make reparations. She’d spent the evening doing just that, convinced she was helping him through a difficult time.

That made Red Bird smile. Providing a way to get this beautiful girl on her back was the best thing Garrett Bloom had ever done for him. Too bad it was also the last.

“Are they still talking about your friend?” Stacy asked as she began to brush her hair.

“They took time out for the weather and the score from last night’s Mallards game,” Red Bird said. “Now they’re doing a bio on him.”

She stretched out beside him and fingered his hair. “Will this be coming off?”

Red Bird frowned. “What?”

“Don’t your people cut their hair to express their grief?”

“Yes, when family dies. Garrett Bloom wasn’t family.”

“You said he was like a brother to you.”

Red Bird shrugged. “It’s hard to talk about.”

She kissed his bare chest. “Okay.”

As her kisses proceeded down his torso, his mind turned to what he would tell the police when he met with them tomorrow. It was important that most of what he told them be the truth; complex lies were too difficult to track.

By now Stacy had reached her destination, and her expert caresses were stirring him back to life. He laced his fingers behind his head and said pitifully, “Stacy, I don’t know, I’m just so upset about Garrett.…”

She renewed her efforts, and they had the expected result. He reached down and ruffled her blond hair, still wet from the shower, the way he might pet a dog. “You deserve this, Jim,” she said huskily, and returned to her activity.

He smiled at the ceiling, and at the certainty that she was, in fact, dead right.