In the Drink (5 page)

“I am.”

Duncan smiled. “If there is something odd or different about it, what is it and what does it mean?”

“Well, the letter is handwritten using calligraphy. That's something that usually requires a special pen, right? Does it require a special type of ink, too?”

“Good question. Let's look it up on the computer.”

I grabbed my laptop and brought it to the table. After a few minutes of exploring various sites and reading up on calligraphy, we came up with a list of facts that might or might not be a clue as to why it was used to write the letter: Greek origins, the need for a more water-based ink, the special types of paper that can be used, special types of pens that can be used, and the types of strokes needed to make the various letters.

When we were done with our research, Duncan said, “Where do we start? How do we know what's relevant? How can we even be sure the calligraphy is a clue?”

“We can't be one hundred percent sure,” I admitted. “But it makes sense to me because the calligraphy is unusual and everything else about the letter is ordinary and generic. Though I have to admit I'm not sure if it's the fact that calligraphy was used that's significant, or if it's the ink used to create it.”

“We can't just dismiss the content of the letter, either,” Duncan said. “The
happy days
reference might be more than a clue to where the body was found.”

“You're right,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “There are too many variables here.”

“We should pick a path and stick with it for now. Let's go with the idea that the calligraphy is the significant thing. I would think the pens and ink used would be found in an art supply store. We could start by canvasing them, beginning with the ones closest to where we found the body.”

“You mean
I
should start by canvasing them.”

“No,
we
should.”

“Duncan, it has to be me . . . me alone. You can't be a part of this, at least not in any obvious or apparent way. Your involvement has to stay behind the scenes.”

“All right then, let's divide and conquer. You look up art supply stores in the area and either call or visit them to see if anything pops up. Get Cora to research any Greek references related to Milwaukee to see if anything comes up that seems relevant. Have her research the phrase
happy days,
too, to see what other locations or items might come up.”

I glanced at my watch. “It's almost six-thirty already. I wonder how many art supply stores are still open.”

“I don't know. You might have to wait until morning to hit them up.”

“That's too long. The clock is ticking on this.” I felt panic rising inside me and the need to do something, anything, now. “Can you check to see if there is any new information about the man who was killed that might help?”

“It's not my case, but let me make some phone calls to see what I can find out.”

“Don't tell anyone why you're asking,” I cautioned, garnering an eye roll from Duncan. “And while you do that, I'll make some calls to see if I can get a head start on these art stores.” Duncan nodded, punched a number into his cell phone, and wandered off into the kitchen. I got back on my laptop and did a Google search of art supply stores in the area. When the list came up, I located the one closest to the Fonz statue, which was also the one closest to my bar. It was a little over a mile away, in the Historic Third Ward. I dialed the number, praying they would still be open. They were.

“Collier Art Supply, this is Jim.”

“Hi, Jim. I'm interested in learning how to do calligraphy but I wasn't sure how to get started. Someone said I need a special ink and pen for that. Is that something you would sell?”

“It is. Are you going to be taking a class? Because sometimes the instructors work out discounts for materials with specific stores.”

“No, no formal class. Just something I want to look into as a hobby. I've always been interested.”

“I should be able to get you started with anything you want.”

“How late are you open tonight?”

“Until nine.” I glanced at my watch, seeing that I had a little over two hours. And I didn't miss the fact that his closing time coincided with the time deadline mentioned in the letter.

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone and looked over at Duncan who was coming out of the kitchen and also disconnecting his call. “I'm going to start with a visit to this art store,” I told him, showing him the Web page for the shop. “Did you find out anything about the guy who was killed?”

“I did,” he said, looking grim.

“Anything that might help us, like some trace evidence?”

“Not yet, but I'm sure they'll find something by the time they conclude the autopsy. I can tell you that the body was wrapped in two layers. The outside was plastic sheeting like you can find in any home improvement store. It might be good for prints but we won't know if there are any until the lab processes it. Inside the plastic sheeting was a large canvas tarp. Again, until the lab can analyze it we don't know if it will offer anything.”

“Was any of that revealed to the news media?”

Duncan nodded. “I didn't ask for specifics, but I do know that the news reports I heard earlier mentioned both the plastic sheeting and the canvas tarp because both of them were visible at the site when the body was retrieved.”

“Then that's it!” I said excitedly. “I don't think it's a coincidence that the body was wrapped in a
canvas
tarp.” Duncan stared at me with a confused expression. “Don't you see?” I said. “The calligraphy, the unusual ink, canvas . . . it all points to an art store.”

“Maybe,” Duncan said, sounding unconvinced.

“I'm going to head for this art store to see if I'm right. Do you want to stay here while I'm gone?”

“You can't go alone.”

“Duncan, we've been over this. I can't be seen with you.”

“I know that. But I'm not letting you go traipsing about on your own, Mack. For all we know this whack-job could be trying to lure you out to hurt or kill you.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “It's a game, and whoever is writing those letters wants to play it out.”

“So now you've suddenly developed deductive reasoning well enough that you're willing to risk your life on it?”

I gave him an exasperated look.

“There's something else you need to know about the body they found earlier,” he said, and the gravity in his tone stopped me from making any additional objections or arguments. I sensed he was about to tell me something awful and I braced myself for it. Good thing I did because what he said next made me weak in the knees.

“They have a tentative ID on the victim and it's someone you know, someone from the Capone Club.”

I collapsed into one of the dining room chairs. “Who?” I asked, not sure I could bear to hear the answer.

“It's Lewis Carmichael.”

“Oh, no.” I felt sick to my stomach. I swallowed down the bile that was threatening to come up and took a few deep breaths to try to center myself.

“I'm sorry, Mack,” Duncan said, walking over and gently massaging my shoulders.

“It's Lewis Carmichael? Are they sure?”

“Sure enough,” Duncan said. “They haven't informed next of kin yet so it's not official, but he's been identified by ID he had on him, fingerprints, and some unique scars he had on one of his legs.”

Lewis Carmichael was a nurse who worked at a nearby hospital and a frequent patron of my bar as well as a member of the Capone Club. The letter writer had kept his or her promise, striking close to home. The sick, frightened feeling I'd had a moment ago faded and an intense anger took its place. I literally saw red, something that always happens when I'm really mad. “Damn it,” I seethed. I squeezed my eyes closed and massaged my temples. “What now?”

“I have an idea,” Duncan said. “Give me a minute.” Once again he retreated to the kitchen and dialed a number on his phone. I tried to eavesdrop, but he spoke in a low voice and all I could make out was a word here and there. After several minutes he disconnected the call and came back out to the dining area.

“Okay, here's the plan. We have a guy who's been working undercover for the past month with a construction company that we think might be operating a sophisticated burglary ring using some of its workers. He's likely to have to maintain his undercover status for a while as we think only the long-term hires that the boss comes to trust get let in on the alternate business. His name is Malachi O'Reilly and he's your date.”

“My
what?
”

“Date,” Duncan said grinning. “Think about it. It solves several problems. You can have police protection while you're looking into this letter and no one will know. Just tell anyone who asks that you and he are a couple. Parade him around to the Capone Club and others in the bar. Once everyone sees that you and Malachi are an item, it will make it clear that you and I are no longer together.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “How much time are we talking here?”

“As much as we need. Malachi isn't seeing anyone right now, so we won't be interfering with his social life. He'll need to be at his construction job during the day of course, but he's free every evening and every weekend.”

I stared at Duncan with disbelief. “You want me to pretend I'm dating someone else?”

“Basically, yeah,” Duncan said with a shrug.

“What about us?”

“We'll still be us. We just have to do it behind closed doors and without anyone knowing for now.”

“And what happens if I need to go out and look into something during the daytime hours when Malachi is at work?”

That gave him pause. After a few seconds he shrugged. “We'll just have to try to avoid that as much as possible.”

I didn't like the idea of having anyone with me because of what the letter said, but I also liked the idea of knowing I wouldn't be out there completely on my own. After weighing the pros and cons for a few seconds, I nodded. “Okay. I'm fine with that, for now.”

“Good,” Duncan said, leaning down and kissing me on the cheek, “because Malachi will be here in about ten minutes. While we're waiting, we need to come up with a backstory for the two of you . . . how you met, how long you've been together, some shared history, that sort of thing.”

“That isn't going to work. The regulars here are going to know something is up. They know I've been hiding out for the past few weeks so how could I have met anyone?”

“Tell them he's an old friend from the past.”

I gave Duncan my best skeptic look. “We already used that one with you when you went undercover in my bar during the investigation into Ginny's murder, remember?”

“Oh, right.” He thought for a moment and then said, “Why don't you tell them it's a blind date someone arranged for you?”

“Who would do that?”

Duncan thought for a moment. “Cora?”

He had a point. It sounded like something Cora would do. And Cora, more than anyone else, except perhaps the Signoriello brothers, would eventually know the truth anyway, so we might as well involve her right up front. “Okay, let's see if she'll play along.”

I texted Cora on my phone and asked her to come upstairs to my apartment. Then I went down to the foyer door to meet her. She showed up barely a minute later, carrying her laptop.

“What's going on?” she asked, looking worried. “Did Duncan break up with you or something?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “He's here. We need your help with something.”

I led her upstairs and we filled her in. A few minutes into it, Duncan's phone rang and after answering the call, he informed us that Malachi was outside the bar waiting for instructions.

Five minutes later we had a plan in place and Cora went back to the bar. After a few minutes I joined her, leaving Duncan alone in my apartment. Cora hadn't gone back upstairs to the Capone Club room; she had stayed at the bar in the main area instead, chatting with my bartender, Billy Hughes.

The place was busy and I scanned the tables. Anxiety struck me as I recognized a face sitting at a table near the bar. It was Clay Sanders, a balding, forty-something, particularly pushy reporter with the local paper who had badgered me in the past for details about my involvement with Duncan. His presence now was a good thing, considering what was about to happen, but that didn't ease my nerves any. I avoided looking at him as I walked to the bar.

“I don't know about this,” I said to Cora, sidling up next to her and speaking loud enough for Clay to overhear. “I never should have let you talk me into this.”

“Talk you into what?” Billy said, drying a glass and smiling quizzically.

“I fixed Mack up with a blind date,” Cora said. “He should be here any minute now.” Though she spoke in a normal conversational tone, she made no effort to keep her voice low. In the bar, where the ambient noise level was fairly loud when it was full like it was now, many people had to speak louder than usual in order to converse. I knew Clay Sanders was no dummy but hoped he wouldn't be smart enough to figure out that we were purposefully speaking louder so he could hear.

Billy shot me a look. “A blind date? I thought you and Duncan were . . .” He left the conclusion hanging, which struck me as disturbingly apt.

“Duncan and I have gone our separate ways,” I announced. “Things didn't work out.”

“That's too bad,” Billy said. “You two seemed like a good fit.”

“Sometimes what seems like the right thing isn't,” I said.

This statement had special meaning for me with Billy, who was dating someone I felt was all wrong for him, particularly since he could have his pick of women. He was movie-star handsome with his café au lait colored skin, emerald green eyes, and tall, lanky build. His whip-smart mind, good sense of humor, and charismatic smile rounded out the package. He was in law school and would finish in another year—an event I would approach with mixed emotions since I would be happy for him but sad for me—and I had no doubt he'd make a superb trial lawyer. Despite the number of women who flirted with Billy, he had stayed true to his girlfriend, Whitney, for the past two years. At first blush, Whitney seemed like a good match for Billy. She was a dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty from a wealthy family and was also enrolled in law school. But once you got past the beauty on the outside, there was some ugliness beneath. I'd met Whitney a few times when she came into the bar to drop something off for Billy. With each visit she made it very clear that she considered the bar milieu beneath her, and Billy's job there beneath him. By association, anyone in the bar, and me, for owning it, were beneath her as well. Her distaste with us and the place was screamingly obvious whenever she came in, in the look of disgust on her face, in her cross-armed body language, and in the snobby, condescending tones she used whenever she talked to anyone.

Whitney had been trying to talk Billy out of his job ever since she met him. Billy, however, liked bartending and was good at it. He made far more in tips than any of my other bartenders. It was a good fit with his amiable nature, his school hours, and his lifestyle, so I was glad to see that he had resisted Whitney's attempts to shame him out of the job, at least so far. I just wished he could resist the rest of Whitney along with it.

“You and Duncan broke up?” said a woman seated two stools away. It was Alicia Maldonado, a woman in her late twenties who worked at a bank near the bar. Alicia was from a mixed Hispanic and African American background and had coal dark eyes and long, wavy, dark hair. She enjoyed participating in the Capone Club's crime games, but if Billy wasn't nearby, she would usually drift away from the club regulars to be near him. Alicia had a major crush on Billy, and despite getting nothing more than friendly banter and smiles from him, she refused to be discouraged. Her flirtations with him were shameless and obvious.

“We did,” I said to Alicia's inquiry. I was about to embellish the story but Cora spoke up before I could.

“Malachi's here,” she said, waving at someone across the room. I saw Clay Sanders turn and look toward the door.

Cora knew what Malachi looked like because Duncan had shown her a picture of him on his phone, a picture he wouldn't let me see, claiming it would add some legitimacy to the blind date story. I couldn't help but wonder if there was something else behind his reluctance. Was it the way Malachi looked? Did Duncan think I was shallow enough to balk at claiming someone for a boyfriend if he was less than perfect?

Malachi knew what Cora looked like because Duncan had also taken her picture and sent it to Malachi's phone. I had no idea if Malachi knew what I looked like. My face had been on the news at times over the past few weeks but I didn't know if Malachi had seen it. When I realized I was nervous and fretting over this as if it was a real blind date, I forced myself to take a deep breath and relax. Then I turned and looked at the man who waved back at Cora.

Malachi O'Reilly was about six feet tall, very muscular, with even features, black wavy hair, and brilliant blue eyes. As he smiled at Cora—revealing deep dimples in both cheeks—and made his way over to us, I found myself feeling relieved. Maybe I was a little bit shallow after all.

“Hi, Malachi,” Cora said. “Good to see you, as always.”

“You get lovelier every time I see you, Cora,” Malachi said, and his voice triggered a burst of sweet mint flavor in my mouth with just a hint of chocolate. It was a little startling. No other voice had ever triggered a taste like that. I watched as Malachi leaned over and gave Cora a buss on the cheek as if he really was the old friend he was pretending to be. I had to admit that both of them were frighteningly good at this last-minute deception. They had me convinced they knew one another, so I had no doubt others would believe so, too.

After Malachi's quick kiss, Cora turned her blushing attention to me. “Malachi O'Reilly, this is Mackenzie Dalton.”

Malachi looked at me with those startling blue eyes and I felt mesmerized. “Wow, you weren't kidding when you said she was lovely, Cora,” he said, and the minty chocolate taste intensified. I looked around and realized our little tête-à-tête was the focus of attention for half the people in the bar, including Clay Sanders. I felt both relieved—goal achieved—and embarrassed.

Malachi cocked his arm and proffered it to me. “Shall we? I've made dinner reservations for us.”

I took his arm and the touch made me see a crackling fire—hot, comforting, yet sizzling. “Sure,” I said. “Just let me grab my coat.” I walked Malachi over to my office, unlocked it, grabbed my coat from the coatrack, and shrugged it on. After zipping it up, I again took Malachi's arm and let him escort me from the bar as dozens of eyes watched us leave.

Once we were outside, he said, “My car is parked a couple of blocks over.” With that out of the way, he started up with typical blind date chatter. “Cora tells me you've lived in the bar all your life.”

“True, well, not in the bar per se, but in the apartment above it.”

“You must like what you do to live and breathe it every day like that.”

“I love my work. I love the bar, I love meeting all the different people who come in, I love experimenting with drink recipes, I love being a part of the downtown milieu. It suits me.”

“That's nice, loving what you do.”

There were other people out walking around, and I couldn't help looking at each and every one of them, wondering if they were eavesdropping on our conversation and watching my every move.

“How about you?” I said. I was still hanging on to Malachi's crooked arm, and I let it go long enough to unzip my coat. The temperature outside was surprisingly warm. “Cora tells me you're in construction,” I continued, taking his arm again. “Do you enjoy it?”

“It's not my life's dream,” he said with a shrug. “I hope to someday move into something different. But I do love the building aspects, the creation of a bigger something from pieces and parts. I'm hoping to go to school to become an architect one of these days, just as soon as I get settled.”

“Are you from Milwaukee originally?”

He shook his head. “I'm from Washington State.Yakima to be exact.”

“How did you end up here in Milwaukee?” As I asked, I wondered how much of what he was telling me was true and how much of it was made up on the fly.