In the Drink (3 page)

“Just don't share anything else with them unless you run it by the group here, okay?” I cautioned him.

He nodded vigorously, still pouting, and said, “I won't talk to dem dere newspeople ever again.”

Cora looked over at me and winked. “I have him reined in,” she said. “And we're going to start looking into his sister's case, so that's made him happy.”

“Any progress yet?” I asked.

“Not really,” Cora said. “We're just getting started and so far all we've done is go over some of the info Tiny has in his own file. It's kind of limited and it would help if we could get our hands on the official police file, or at least some tidbits of official information, but I don't suppose Duncan or anyone else over there is going to be very amenable to such sharing right now.”

“No, I suppose not.”

The Signoriello brothers, Joe and Frank, were kicked back in cushy chairs pushed up as close to the fireplace as they could get without combusting from the heat. They each had a beer in hand and two empty sandwich plates sat on the table in front of them. A hint of a smile graced both faces and it made me smile, too, seeing how comfortable, cozy, and relaxed they looked. They weren't as spry as they used to be, given that their combined ages hit just shy of one-fifty, though their grizzled, wrinkled faces and salt-and-pepper hair hadn't changed much in the past twenty years. Now that my father was gone, Frank and Joe were the closest thing to family I had. My mother died shortly after giving birth to me, not from the birth, but from a head injury she sustained in a traffic accident weeks before I was born. She was kept alive on machines until I could safely be delivered, and then the machines were removed and she was allowed to die. My father raised me, and given that the bar was his life, it became mine as well. A number of women served as temporary, surrogate mothers as I grew up, offering me advice on girly stuff like bras, clothing, hairstyles, menstruation, and dating . . . subjects my father didn't feel comfortable discussing or was hopelessly uninformed on. But over time most of them moved on. The Signoriello brothers, however, have been there since before I was born, and they're like two kindly, doting uncles, offering advice, watching out for my interests, even screening potential boyfriends for me, something they've been doing since my high school days. Since they are both retired insurance salesmen, they are also a great asset for the Capone Club.

Cora had become like a sister to me in recent months, and thanks to the nature of her business and her independent employees, she could work anywhere she wanted to as long as she had a laptop with Internet access. She had set up a Wi-Fi Internet system in the bar several years ago, and this allowed her to spend a good portion of her day—sometimes her entire day—in my bar rather than in her office, which was just around the corner.

It was Cora and the Signoriello brothers whom I wanted to pull aside; they were my family, my most trusted confidantes, and the people I hoped would have the wisdom to tell me what to do about that letter in my office. But I didn't want anyone to know the reason why I was about to summon them to my office, so I made up some stories.

“Cora, I'm having some problems with the Wi-Fi access. Can you come down to my office and look at it?”

“I sure can,” she said, picking up the laptop she never went anywhere without.

“Joe, Frank, I need to talk to both of you, too, if you don't mind. I need you to go over my new insurance policy on the bar. I'm worried that I don't have enough coverage, what with the new expansion.”

“We'll be right down,” Joe said, stretching and then slowly easing out of his chair. “Though I hate to leave this fireplace,” he added. “That heat feels awful good on these cranky old joints.”

“That it does,” Frank said, mimicking his brother's slow movements.

Cora and I headed for my office, leaving the brothers to come along at their own pace. Normally, I would have waited and escorted the brothers down the stairs but I wanted a minute or two to talk to Cora in private.

I led the way, scurrying across the main floor, keeping my head down to avoid any eye contact with the customers, and breathing a sigh of relief as soon as we were safe and secure behind my office door.

“What's the real reason you called me in here?' Cora asked.

“Am I that transparent?”

“To me you are. I know you well enough by now to know when something is bothering you. And besides, the Wi-Fi is working just fine. Is it Duncan?”

“Sort of,” I said with a shrug and a little waggle of my head.

“Still no hint of romance in your discussions?”

“Not much. He returned to work this week and I hoped he might pop in to say hi, but he hasn't.”

“Maybe he feels like they're still watching him.”

“Plenty of other cops come in here every day. Several of them even participate in the Capone Club.”

“Those other cops didn't get a suspension. Give him a little more time.”

I nodded, frowning. I wasn't convinced that more time would make any difference. “That's not the main reason I wanted to talk to you,” I said. “This is.” I pointed to the letter, which was still sitting on top of my desk where I'd left it. “Read it but please don't touch it.”

Cora set down her laptop in a nearby chair and walked around to my side of the desk to read the letter. I watched her facial expressions change as she did so, from disbelief to skepticism, horror, and finally fear.

“Do you think this is legit?” she asked.

“If it's a practical joke, it's not a very funny one.”

The Signoriello brothers walked in at that point, and I explained the real reason I'd asked them into my office and repeated the instructions I'd given to Cora. She joined me on the opposite side of the desk and watched along with me as the brothers read the letter, their facial expressions mirroring the ones Cora had exhibited moments ago.

When they were done, Joe shot me a worried look while Frank simply looked skeptical.

“It came in the mail yesterday or maybe the day before,” I told the others. “I thought it was going to be another fan letter.” The skepticism in my voice when I said the word
fan
was heavy.

All three of them looked at me questioningly, not surprising since I hadn't yet told anyone other than Duncan about the letters. So I explained. “Ever since that big media storm three weeks ago, I've been receiving letters from folks in and around the Milwaukee area that have seen or read the news reports about me. Many of the letter writers have been supportive or at least neutral, and a few even asked if I would provide private fortunetelling services for them. Two letters came with checks and questions the senders wanted me to answer. I returned those, along with the money and an explanation that I'm not a fortune-teller. Those were amusing, but several other letters I've received have been anything but. For instance, I got one last week from a religious fanatic who calls himself Apostle Mike. He thinks I'm an abomination in desperate need of saving and redemption if I'm to have any hope of ascending to heaven. Another letter that came a few days ago accused me of being a charlatan who's trying to sucker poor unsuspecting people into paying money so I can scam them with some made-up prophecies.”

“Geez,” Cora said, frowning. “Why didn't you tell us about these letters?”

“I didn't see any reason to. I've discussed them with Duncan, though only in general terms, and he feels they're harmless. I haven't told him about this one yet, though,” I said, pointing to the latest letter. “Do you think I should?”

Frank said, “Do you think it's real? It could be nothing more than a practical joke, a sick one, I'll grant you, but still . . .”

“I don't think she can ignore it,” Joe said. “The stakes are too high.”

“I'm with Joe,” Cora said. “I think we should run it by Duncan.”

Part of me was glad they felt Duncan needed to be involved, if only because I wanted so badly to see him.

Frank frowned and shook his head. “I'm not convinced it's real. It's probably someone's perverted idea of a joke. Or maybe it's someone in the Capone Club, trying out a new crime puzzle on us.”

“I don't think anyone in our group would be this twisted,” Joe said. “Real or not.”

“Do
you
think it's legit?” Cora asked me.

I thought a minute before I answered. “I do, mainly because there
is
something unusual about the letter. And that makes me think that whoever wrote it is serious about testing me. If they're crazy enough to do that, who's to say what else they might do?”

“What's unusual about it?” Joe asked.

“It's written by hand in a fancy, calligraphic style, but the ink sounds unusual.”

“It sounds unusual?” Cora said, settling onto the couch and opening her laptop.

“Yes,” I said. “All inks come with sounds for me. For instance, when I look at a typed-out letter of any sort, I can tell if the ink is from an ink jet printer or a laser printer because the ink sounds different. I think it's because they smell different. The ink used in the majority of pens is distinctive, too, and they all have underlying associated sounds. But this ink doesn't sound like any I've ever heard before.”

Cora started tapping the keys on her laptop. “I don't think we've cataloged any of your reactions related to ink or paper before, but let me search through what we've recorded in the database so far to make sure.”

“In the meantime, you should call Duncan,” Joe said.

“But the letter makes it clear I shouldn't do that. If I do, it puts all of you in danger.”

“
If
it's serious,” Frank said. “I suspect it's a lot of bluff and blunder. Besides, Joe and I can take care of ourselves. And I suspect Cora here can, too.”

“I can't risk that on a guess. What if the sender targets someone else, like one of my employees, or someone else in the Capone Club?” I shook my head. “I couldn't live with that.”

Cora said, “If you don't involve Duncan, your chances of figuring this out on your own are much slimmer, even with our help. And if you don't figure it out and it's legit, someone will die anyway.”

I looked at all of them with a pleading expression. “So what should I do? If I don't involve Duncan, someone might die, and if I do involve him someone might die. I can't win.”

“Then we should find a way to involve Duncan without anyone knowing,” Joe said. “What if you call him, read him the letter, and then arrange to meet him somewhere on the sly?”

Cora brightened up then and said, “And in the meantime, maybe we can use all this press attention you've been getting to your advantage.”

“How so?” I asked, curious.

“The next time one of them comes into the bar, mention that you and Duncan are a thing of the past, and that you don't want anything more to do with him. Don't make it obvious. Just let them overhear a discussion you have with someone.”

Joe said, “If we're careful about it, maybe we can use some of the other cops who come in here as secret go-betweens for you and Duncan. There should be a couple of cops you can trust to do that, right?”

“Maybe,” I said, not sure if I liked the idea. “Though it seems to me that the more people we involve in this, the more likely it is something will leak. That's why I decided to share this with you three only and not the rest of the group. I trust you guys to keep it to yourselves, at least for now.”

“And you know we will,” Joe said. “But I think we're overlooking an even more important issue here.” He paused to see if anyone could guess what he was referring to but we all stared blankly at him. “
Your
safety,” he said. “Clearly this nut-job has a bone to pick with you. He's fixated on you, and that means you're in jeopardy.”

I frowned at this, staring at the letter. “I suppose,” I said. “But I don't get a sense of imminent danger toward me. Instead I feel like whoever wrote this wants to hurt me in other ways, by killing people, people I know and care about. It feels like it's a game to him . . . or her, because I suppose it could be a woman who wrote it.”

“Statistics don't bear that out,” Cora said, “but you're right. We shouldn't harbor any biases or jump to any conclusions that might blind us to the facts.”

“I'm all for involving Duncan,” Frank said. “I'm still not convinced this isn't some kind of sick prank, but I agree that the stakes are too high for us to simply shrug it off or ignore it.”

I nodded my agreement. “If we can involve Duncan and keep it from being known, that would be my preference, too. I could have him come down here and enter through the back door in the alley behind the new section. There's no way to be sure it isn't being watched, but I think if Duncan understands the need to be secretive, he can pull it off.”

“That works for me,” Cora said, and the two brothers nodded their agreement.

“Then we're agreed,” I said. I took out my cell phone and after a deep, bracing breath, I added, “Here goes nothing.”

I hit the speed dial number for Duncan. He answered two rings later, and his voice triggered a sweet burst of chocolate in my mouth, though the taste was also fizzy and slightly metallic as a result of hearing it through the phone. The metal taste and fizziness always infiltrate the flavor of voices when I hear them over the phone.

“Hey, Mack,” he said. “I was just about to call you.”

“You were? Why?”

“I'm off duty tonight and I'm about to leave the station. I was wondering if you might be able to escape the bar for a while and have dinner with me.”

Though I was delighted to hear him suggest some personal time together, I wanted to cry over the bad timing. “I don't think that will work. And here's why.”

I then told him about the letter and read it to him over the phone, letting him know that the words
happy days
were in quotes. When I was done, there was a disturbing silence on his end that lasted so long I thought the call had been dropped.

“Are you there?” I asked.

“I am. Sorry.”

Assured I still had his ear, I told him about my discussion with Cora, Frank, and Joe, and my concerns about not following the instructions in the letter. “I don't want to be responsible for anything happening to someone,” I concluded. “But we're all wondering if this might be some kind of stupid prank.”

“I'm truly sorry I got you involved in any of this, Mack.”

“I'm a big girl who made her own decisions. I went into it willingly and with my eyes wide open. Besides, what's done is done and it can't be undone, so all we can do is move forward from here.”

“You're right, but it still irks me that this has turned into such a nightmare for you. That was never my plan.”

“We can talk more about that later if you want. Right now the clock is ticking on this letter and I could really use your advice and thoughts on how to proceed. Do you think we should take it seriously?”

“I'm afraid we have to,” he said with a sigh. “The squad on duty this afternoon got an anonymous tip earlier, and they found the body of a man who had been stabbed to death. The body was on an ice ledge under the east side RiverWalk bridge area. It was wrapped in garbage bags so it looked like trash someone had tossed over the railing.”

“That's sad,” I said, “but what's that got to do with this? Just because someone was killed doesn't mean it's connected to this letter. It could be a coincidence.”

“I don't think so,” Duncan said, sounding grim. “The body was located directly underneath the
Bronze Fonz.
”

The
Bronze Fonz
was exactly what it sounded like. Back in 2008, a tourism group in Milwaukee raised money to commission a bronze statue of Arthur Fonzarelli, the character made popular in the Milwaukee-based sitcom,
Happy Days
. The statue features Fonzie in his characteristic leather jacket and jeans, and he's posed in the character's iconic thumbs-up stance. Its creation and placement was a controversial topic for the city, but it has proven to be a popular tourist attraction. Given where the body Duncan just mentioned was found, the “happy days” reference in the letter I received clearly wasn't a coincidence.

“Who is the victim?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer. I feared it would be someone I knew, someone I cared about. Even if it wasn't, I felt the guilt start building inside me. Whoever the victim was, he was dead because of me, however indirectly.

“I don't know,” Duncan said. “They hadn't ID'd the guy yet last I heard.”

I winced and felt icy cold fingers traipse down my spine—literally. I felt weak in the knees and dropped into the chair behind my desk. “This is all my fault,” I said in a tone of disbelief.

“It is
not
your fault,” Duncan said, and Joe said the same thing a split second later. Duncan must have heard him because he said, “Who's there with you?”

“Joe, Frank, and Cora. They know not to discuss it with anyone.” I glanced at the faces of the others in the room and they all nodded.

Duncan said, “The letter said there was something unique about it. Any idea what it is?”

“I think it's the ink. It's unusual.”

“You mean it looks different?”

“No, it smells different.”

“It smells different literally, or synesthetically?” Duncan asked.

“Literally, I think. Ink smells trigger specific sounds for me, but this ink doesn't sound like any I've encountered before.”

“I need to see it.” After a pause, he added, “And I need to see you. I've missed you, Mack.”

I squeezed my eyes closed and pivoted in my chair, turning my back on the others, hoping to hide my smile and relief. It seemed callous and cold, under the circumstances, but I couldn't help myself.

After a few seconds I said, “You can't be seen here. The letter is pretty explicit about what will happen if the writer thinks you're involved or helping me in any way.”

“Just because I come by the bar, it doesn't mean I'm helping you with this. I'm entitled to drop by for a drink or a meal like anyone else.”

“No!” I said, emphasizing my adamancy with a firm shake of my head even though Duncan couldn't see it. “I won't risk anyone else's life that way. There's no way to know how closely I'm being watched. For all I know, the writer of this letter could be sitting out in the bar right now, drinking my booze and eating my food. We can't risk anyone seeing you come here, or seeing the two of us together. But I have an idea on how we might be able to get around that.”

I then told him my thoughts about him entering through the alley door in the original section of the bar, which is located at the end of a hallway right next to both the basement access and the door leading to my apartment. Unfortunately, that hallway also provides access to the bar restrooms, so it tends to get a lot of traffic. The alley door is locked on the outside but opens from the inside with a simple push. It's alarmed and there are signs on it warning people of that fact and instructing them not to use it as an exit unless it's an emergency. “I can disable the alarm long enough to let you in and then reset it,” I told Duncan. “If we time it carefully and have the door to my apartment open, you should be able to slip inside without anyone seeing, even if someone happens to come down that hallway to use the restrooms. You'll just have to be careful to make sure no one sees you entering the alley and coming in through the door.”

“I can make that work. I'm going to set up a bit of a decoy before I come over there, so give me an hour or so. Six sound okay?”

“It does.”

“See you then.”

“Duncan?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do me one more favor before you come by?”

“What?”

“Can you bring me something from the police file on Lori Gruber, Tiny's sister? Anything that might help?”

There was a long silence on the other end, and I knew Duncan was debating the risks involved with doing that.

“It's not an active case,” I urged, hoping to sway him. “It's been cold for years.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” I quickly disconnected the call so he couldn't renege, then I updated Cora and the brothers on the plan.

“We need to be extremely careful,” Cora said. “The writer of that letter could be anyone.”

“I know, which is why I think it would be best if you guys return to the group right away and stay there while I meet with Duncan. I don't want to rouse suspicion by keeping the three of you separate from the others for too long. Cora, I'd appreciate it if you'd stick by your cell phone in case I need to call you and have you look something up. Just pretend it's someone from your office calling so no one knows it's me you're talking to.”

The three of them nodded and then, as a group, they left the office and headed back upstairs to the Capone Club room. I stayed behind, once again imprisoned in my office. I stared at the letter, breathing in deep. I wanted to pick it up and touch it some more, run my fingers over the letters, but I didn't. I'd already messed things up just by holding it while I read it, and in case Duncan might be able to do something more with it, I didn't want to contaminate it any further.

After staring at the page for a while, I closed my eyes, leaned forward, and sniffed. The ink was definitely not your standard variety stuff.

I realized then that I was going to have to transport the letter from my office to my apartment somehow, and that meant touching it again . . . or maybe not. I left the office and went into the kitchen where my new cook, Jon, was busy at work. I offer a number of food items in addition to drinks, mostly typical bar fare such as deep-fried cheese curds, fries, burgers, sandwiches, and pizzas. While the variety might not be anything unique, I do try to add my own spin to many of the food items to make them stand out.

Still keenly aware that someone might be in the bar watching my every move, after greeting Jon and telling him for the umpteenth time what a great job he was doing, I spent the next ten minutes or so pretending to inventory supplies, something I'd already done this morning before the bar opened. But I needed to hang in the kitchen for the amount of time it would take to fix a pizza. Once my requisite time had passed, I grabbed one of the empty pizza boxes that I use when customers want to take their leftovers home with them, found a clean pair of tongs and dropped them into the box when Jon wasn't looking. Then I added two large plastic baggies with zip closures. After closing the box, I also grabbed a plain brown bag, tossed a box of gloves into the bottom of it, and added a few empty containers on top of that to give it some bulk before rolling the top of it closed. I carried both items back to my office, hoping that any onlookers would assume there was food inside them.

As soon as I was inside my office with the door closed and locked, I emptied the pizza box, picked up the letter using the tongs, and slipped it inside one of the baggies. I then did the same thing with the envelope it came in. When I was done I sealed the baggie, placed it back inside the pizza box, and closed the lid. Next, I took the containers out of the paper bag and gathered up the rest of the “fan mail” I had received over the past few weeks and put all of it in there instead. Finally, after glancing at the clock, I walked over to the alarm control board and disabled the one on the back door to the alley in the original part of the building.

At two minutes to six, I again stepped out of my office, carrying the closed paper bag in one hand and the pizza box in the other. I made my way down the back hall to where the doors to both my apartment and the basement were located, right next to the alarmed exit to the alley. This next part of my little subterfuge was the riskiest. The back hallway wasn't visible to the main area of the bar, though anyone going in or out of the kitchen could see down it. It was also where the restrooms were located and if anyone went in or out of those, they would see me. I had to hope for the best and try to time Duncan's entrance and the opening of the two doors so that anyone entering into the hallway wouldn't see him or what I was doing. I glanced at my watch, saw it was seconds away from six o'clock, and set down the bag so I could unlock my apartment door and have it ready. Just as I inserted the key in the lock, two female figures entered the hallway headed for the women's bathroom.

“Hey, Mack!” one of the girls hollered down the hall, and as I looked, both of them waved at me. I recognized them as locals who had been in the bar before a few times, though I couldn't remember either one's name. I waved back with the hand that had been holding the key, which now dangled from the lock, and balanced the pizza box in my other hand.

“Do you need a hand?” one of the girls asked.

“No!” I said, and immediately wished I could have a do-over. I knew I'd sounded too hurried, too desperate. “I got it, but thanks.” The two of them looked at me with bemused expressions for a few seconds while I silently prayed that they would heed my dismissal and go on about their business. Finally, one of the girls shrugged and pushed open the door to the bathroom. Both of them disappeared inside and I let out a sigh of relief, watching the shadow of light on the hallway floor disappear as the bathroom door closed behind them. I unlocked my apartment door and propped it open with the bag of mail, then after one more glance down the hall to be sure it was empty, I pushed open the alley door, hoping Duncan would be there.