In the Drink (8 page)

I shrugged. “Like I said, he seems like a nice guy, but we've only had one dinner together. That's hardly enough time to determine much of anything.”

Cora arched an eyebrow, assumed a crooked smile, and shook her head. “Boy, did Duncan dig himself a hole with this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he managed to find the one guy out there that can give him a run for his money.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Mack Dalton, I can read you pretty well and I can tell you are more than a little interested in Mal O'Reilly. Don't insult my intelligence by denying it. You may have the extrasensory stuff with other things, but when it comes to matters of the heart, I've got you beat.”

I smiled at her and caved. “Okay, yes, I'm a bit interested in Mal. He was very easy to get along with and not once did we have one of those awkward moments one might expect on a first date.”

“He's not exactly hard on the eyes, either,” Cora said slyly.

“No,” I said with a sigh. “He's not.”

“Is Duncan still upstairs?”

I nodded. “He's going to wait until I come up. I think he plans to spend the night.”

“So things seem to be going okay with that for now?”

“If sneaking around as if we're in high school is going okay, then yes.”

“Interesting,” Cora said. “I'll be curious to see how all this plays out.”

“You're jumping the gun, don't you think? Mal is only pretending to be my date. I may not even be his type.”

Cora arched a skeptical eyebrow at me. “Based on the expression I saw on his face when he first set eyes on you, I'm pretty sure you're his type.”

“Whatever,” I said, though secretly I was glad to hear it. I turned to head out of my office, but Cora stopped me. “I'm curious about something, Mack. Do you taste chocolate when you hear Mal's voice?”

My abashed expression told her all she needed to know.

“Oh, yes,” she said, rubbing her hands together with glee. “This is definitely going to be interesting.”

When we returned to the Capone Club room, we discovered that Billy had asked Gary Gunderson to cover the bar for him and had headed upstairs to the Capone Club group. Gary was a bouncer and bartender who had been working at the bar since before my father was killed. He had to take a leave of absence for health reasons nearly two months ago, but had recently returned to his job.

Of course, now that Billy was hanging out upstairs with the club members, Alicia had followed along. Mal looked comfortable sitting at one end of several tables that had been pushed together, and he was drinking the Irish coffee I'd ordered for him. I figured it was a fitting drink for a man with the last name of O'Reilly. Plus I've put my own spin on the original classic to make it extraspecial. I use a mix of espresso and chilled coffee, and always make it with brown sugar instead of white. Then I top it off with a pinch of nutmeg.

“Your guy here is a natural,” Tad announced. “He figured out today's riddle.”

I looked over at Mal, feeling anxious. The last thing I needed was for him to give himself away by demonstrating better than average sleuthing skills.

He seemed to sense my concern and said, “They're making it sound like more than it was. I had a bit of an advantage.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Don't tell her,” Frank said. “Let's run it by her and see if she can figure it out.”

I walked over and grabbed an empty chair, dragging it up next to Mal's. Cora settled in across from us. I looked over at Mal with a sad expression and said, “Don't expect much. I suck at most of these.”

Mal leaned toward me and spoke in a voice that was low but could still be heard by others nearby, “Just remember our conversation tonight and I think you'll figure it out.” Then he proffered his glass and added, “Dynamite coffee, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Frank said. “Sam came up with tonight's riddle. He said it's designed to see who the lateral thinkers are, whatever the hell that means. Personally I think he's running some secret psychotherapy experiment on us for one of his classes. So watch out. The men in the white coats are probably right around the corner, and given some of the personalities in this group, I suspect they'll be busy for quite a while.”

I smiled at that, but on the inside I quaked a little. My past relationships with shrinks hadn't been pleasant ones, thanks to my synesthesia. “Okay,” I said. “Fire away and make me look bad in front of my date.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. He looked directly into my eyes and said, “Listen carefully, because all the information you need is in what I'm about to say. In a small town, police are called to the home of a wealthy man where there has been a break-in, murder, and robbery. There is a witness of sorts, the rich man's wife, who was upstairs when the break-in occurred. Her husband was downstairs and she heard him yell at the intruder, heard sounds of a struggle, and then a shot. When she heard someone climbing the stairs to her level, she hid under a bed in a guest bedroom. She could tell from the way the person walked that it wasn't her husband who had come up the stairs, so she stayed as quiet and still as she could. She was never able to see anything, but at one point the perpetrator's cell phone rang and she heard a man's voice answer. Then she heard him say, ‘Got it. Poker game in thirty minutes at 5731 Sunset Drive. See you there.'

“The police immediately head for the address the woman gave them and when they enter the house they find there is indeed a poker game going on. Seated at the poker table are five people the cops know: a fireman, a police officer, a construction worker, a mechanic, and a golf pro. Without asking any questions or even speaking to any of the players, the police immediately walk over and arrest the fireman. How did they know he was the culprit?”

Sam sat back in his chair and smiled. Everyone in the group stared at me, waiting. I ran back over Sam's words as carefully as I could, and then I tried to recall the conversational topics earlier in the evening with Mal. He had talked about his family mostly, his parents, his sisters, his cousins, aunts, uncles, and such. Did family play a role in this? If so, I didn't see the connection. We'd also talked some about his work as a cop, and his work in construction. His father owned a construction company and the whole family was involved in the business. Then I remembered something else he had mentioned, something that amused him about his family and their business. A mental lightbulb turned on, and oddly enough I saw an accompanying flash of light with it. I replayed Sam's words and his list of suspects: a fireman, a police officer, a construction worker, a mechanic, and a golf pro. And with that, I thought I had it figured it out.

“Is it because the fireman was the only male member of the group at the poker table?” I posed.

The group exploded with a chorus of exclamations and Mal gave my arm a squeeze and said, “Atta girl!”

“You're definitely getting better at this,” Joe said, looking like a proud uncle.

“Not necessarily. Mal was right when he said he had an advantage. You see, his family owns a construction company and they all work in it. He has two sisters. One of them is a master carpenter and the other is a master plumber. At dinner tonight he was telling me how amusing the reactions are when his sisters show up to do their jobs. The stereotype of men holding those jobs is so ingrained that when a woman shows up, the reactions run from disbelief and worry about their ability to do the job to over-the-top feminist affirmation. So the idea of gender role reversal was planted in my brain earlier, and Mal helped me remember it.”

“We make a good team,” Mal said, smiling at me.

I smiled back. “Yes, we do.” From the corner of my eye I saw Joe give Frank a nudge in the ribs with his elbow and the two of them exchanged a look.

Cora said, “I do believe Mal has earned himself a free drink.”

Mal shook his head. “I'm happy to accept but I'll have to take a rain check. This is enough for me,” he said, holding up his nearly empty glass. “I have an early day tomorrow.” He drained the last of his drink, got up from his chair, grabbed his coat, and looked down at me. “Walk me out?” he asked.

“Sure.”

The group bade Mal good night, invited him to return at any time, and then the two of us headed downstairs. I saw him to the door and stepped outside with him so we could speak with some level of public privacy. Once I made sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop, I leaned in close to him and said, “I need to make a trip to the zoo.”

“Something in that letter you got at the art store?” he said just above a whisper.

I nodded.

“Are you planning on going tomorrow?”

Again I nodded.

“Need someone to come along?”

“That would be nice.”

“I offered to put in some OT tomorrow . . . cuddling up to the boss, you know. But I only have to work until eleven. Give me some time for travel, a shower, and a change of clothes, and I can be here around noon. So if you can wait until then, I'd be happy to go with you.”

“The zoo is open until four-thirty on the weekends, so that should give us enough time,” I told him, hoping it was true. I knew we could easily cover the zoo area in the amount of time we had if we didn't dawdle at any of the exhibits, but I was basically going on a scavenger hunt where I didn't know what I was looking for, or if I was looking for it in the right place. I had to hope that my intuition—and Duncan's—was on target, and something at the zoo was the answer to the latest letter. And that I'd somehow figure out what that something was once we got there.

“Great,” Mal said. “Shall I pick you up here around noon?”

“Sure.”

“Then it's a date,” he said with a smile. “And speaking of dates, we should make this look official, so brace yourself.”

With that he took me by the shoulders, leaned down, and gave me a kiss on the lips. It wasn't a deep or romantic kiss, just a basic peck really, but the feel of his lips on mine set off a visual display of fireworks.

When he was done, he stood there, staring at me with an odd expression. Several seconds ticked by, and then he suddenly turned me toward the door. “Go inside and tend to your customers,” he said, giving me a nudge. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I felt rather than saw him turn away, and I started to open the door to the bar to go inside. But instead I turned and watched him walk down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, a light wind whipping his dark hair. Warmth had flared in my chest with that chaste and brief little kiss, but by the time Mal turned the corner and disappeared from my view, it had cooled, leaving me feeling strangely hollow inside. I finally opened the door and headed back inside. I made my way to the bar, asked Gary if he and Billy would close things up for me later, and headed upstairs.

Mal's kiss had unsettled me, and I felt an almost desperate need to be with Duncan, to reaffirm our relationship, even though I wasn't sure what kind of relationship we had. Regardless, I felt certain that once I was with him, things would seem right again and everything would make sense. But when I got upstairs, I discovered Duncan was gone, along with both of the letters and the envelopes they had come in, and some of the other letters he'd been looking at. In their place was a note that said:
Something came up and I had to sneak out. Sorry . . . I will miss you . . . will call you later
. He had signed it off with a capital letter
D,
no heartfelt closing, no words of love, not even his full name.

I crumpled the note in my hand, walked into the kitchen, and tossed it in the trash. For some reason I felt a hot ball of anger building inside me, but I wasn't sure what, or who, I was angry with. I had no reason to be mad at Duncan. After all, I was the one who had put him off first tonight. Maybe I was mad at the lunatic who was writing the letters, the nut-job who had set my life atilt, the whacko who seemed to be manipulating me as if I were a marionette.

I desperately needed to unwind and relax, to get my head straight. So I opened a bottle of wine and ran myself a hot bath. As I sank down into the water and felt the warmth seep into my muscles and bones, another thought occurred to me.

I realized that Duncan must have left through the bar. If he had used the alley exit, it would have set off the alarm, something Billy or Gary would have told me about. Had Duncan disabled the alarm? I got out of the tub, dried off, and redressed. Then I went back downstairs and into my office to check. The alarm was still on, so he had gone out through the bar. Had his disguise been good enough? Had someone recognized him? And if so, was someone else going to pay for it with their life?

I decided I might as well take advantage of my staff closing shop for me, and I headed for bed around one, hoping to snag a few extra hours of sleep. But my internal clock—and my racing mind—wouldn't allow it. After an hour or two of tossing and turning, I finally fell asleep around three when all the noises downstairs had died out. I awoke the next morning at a little after nine and settled in at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper online. The body that had been found beneath the
Bronze Fonz
was the top story of the day and the identity of the victim had been released. The article gave some details about Lewis's life, some of which I hadn't known. What I did know was that he was an ICU nurse at a local hospital, single, and not from the Milwaukee area originally. What I hadn't known was that his family currently lived in Minnesota: his parents, a brother, and a sister.

The article ended with a plea to the public to call a hotline number if anyone had any information they thought might be relative to the case. I had plenty, but nothing I was willing to share with anyone other than Duncan, Cora, Mal, and the Signoriello brothers.

I knew that Lewis's death would be the topic of the day in the bar, particularly with the Capone Club members. Even though I had had time to process the fact, I would have to act as if the news was as much a surprise to me as it was to the others. I spent a few minutes over my coffee, mentally rehearsing my reactions.

Just before ten, Duncan called.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he said, and his words made me taste fizzy chocolate that blended nicely with the lingering taste of my coffee. “Sorry I had to leave last night.”

“Me, too. What came up that was so important?” I heard the slight tone of resentment in my voice and wondered if Duncan could, too. “And how did you leave?”

“Something came up on one of my cases that couldn't wait,” he said vaguely. “And I borrowed a scarf from you. Between that, my wool cap, and the bulky coat, my face was well hidden. I walked straight out through the bar. No one noticed.”

I said nothing, too miffed to speak, so he went on. “I did manage to get a little work done on our shared, secret case last night. I dusted the envelopes and the letter for prints, and had a friend run them for me on the sly. I told her it was for something personal. We came up with several prints on the envelopes, but the only one that produced anything in AFIS was the art store guy, who has a record. He had a prior arrest for burglary.”

“Do you think he might be behind this?”

“I don't. The burglary rap was six years ago when he was in his early twenties and it was a friend he robbed. Claimed the stuff was his originally, but the jury didn't believe him. He did ninety days in jail and a year of probation. Other than that, his record is clean.”

“That doesn't mean he couldn't have written the letters.”

“True, but I did some checking and he owns and runs that art store. He's there every day from when he opens until he closes. I don't think his schedule is very conducive to what the letter suggests and there are witnesses who say he was in the store around the time that Lewis Carmichael was killed.”

“So it's a dead end,” I said, resisting an urge I had to add that I'd told him so.

“That part is, but after reading through a couple of the other letters you had, I zeroed in on one in particular, the one from Apostle Mike. He sounds like a zealot, so I thought it would be worth it to take a deeper look into him and his so-called mission.”

“And?”

“Well, he's a fringe lunatic, but I'm guessing you figured that out on your own. He is also clearly not a fan of yours and he has a record for felony assault. He pistol whipped a couple ten years ago who were the landlords of the house he was living in. He did two years in prison and another five on probation.”

“Anything since then?”

“Yeah, plenty. He started this right wing group of militant conservatives who protest against the government interfering in any way with individual rights, particularly the right to bear arms. There is a possibility he has connections to some militant groups in upper Michigan who are known to have huge stockpiles of weapons and a belief that such stockpiles are necessary to protect them against a police-run state. So given your prior connections to me and the department, it's quite possible that this guy and some of his compatriots see you as part of the Big Brother enemy.”

This revelation made me taste fear. The idea that I was facing one lunatic was bad enough. The thought that it might be an entire group of fanatics was almost more than I could stand. “How do we find that out?”

“We need to have a chat with him.”

“But if you do, and he is involved, it would let him and anyone he might be working with know that I involved you in this against his explicit instructions. I don't think I could bear to live with the consequences if he carries out his threat. I've already got one death on my shoulders. I can't handle another one.”

“Lewis's death is not your fault, Mack. And I thought you might balk at the idea of me questioning this guy, so I thought I'd have someone else question him about something unrelated to you and your letters. I can have one of the other guys bring him in and question him while you and I secretly observe.”

“You mean, at the police station?”

“Yes.”

“But if I'm seen even going to the police station . . .” I let the implication hang, knowing he would guess what I meant.

“We can figure ways around that,” he assured me. “And I have one or two guys I can trust to help us out with this and keep it under wraps.”

“Is Jimmy one of them?” Jimmy Patterson was Duncan's partner and someone who had eyed me with skepticism and a degree of distrust from the first day I met him. The distrust part was mutual. Whenever he was around, I sensed the level of dislike and discomfort he felt with me.

“He is,” Duncan said. “I know the two of you haven't seen eye to eye on things all the time, and I know he's been skeptical of you and your abilities, but it doesn't mean he dislikes you. And regardless of whether or not he believes in you, he's someone I trust.”

“I don't agree with you about him not disliking me, but I'll accept your judgment of his trustworthiness,” I said, thinking
at least for now, since I don't have much of a choice.

“I'll let you know when we find Apostle Mike and we'll figure out a way to sneak you in here to listen in when we talk to him.”

“Just don't do it today. I'm going to the zoo, remember?”

“Yeah, about that . . .” He sighed. “I don't like the idea of you traipsing around to these places alone. We don't know what this person has in mind. Maybe it's not a game they want to play. Maybe they're trying to lure you out somewhere so they can kidnap you, or worse.”

“The zoo is a public place,” I said with more conviction than I felt. I didn't want Duncan to sense how afraid I really was. “Besides, I'm not going alone. I'm taking Mal.”

“Okay. That's good,” Duncan said, though the tone in his voice suggested otherwise. Why, I wondered? Was he worried about my safety, or was he starting to feel a prickle of jealousy? “I'll try to arrange for Apostle Mike to be brought in some other time then, maybe tomorrow. That might be better anyway since there are fewer people around here on a Sunday.”

“Let me know,” I said. “In the meantime, I'm more or less free until Mal comes at noon. Can I interest you in sneaking over here for brunch?”

“That sounds great, and I do want to see you, but I don't think I can get away. Jimmy and I pulled a drug-related double homicide and right now I've got more work than I can handle. Can I take a rain check?”

“Anytime,” I said, trying to disguise the disappointment I felt.

After hanging up, I headed downstairs to start my morning bar prep. As I entered the bar I saw my daytime bartender, Pete, was already in and busy cutting up fruit for the bar. Debra had just walked in and was shedding her coat, a lighter weight one than her usual.

“Good morning,” I said to the two of them, eyeing the brilliant sunshine beaming in through the windows. I knew that at this time of the year that sunshine can be deceptive, shining bright in the midst of bitter, brittle cold. “What's it like outside? The paper said we were in for a bit of a warm spell for a couple of days.”

“It's nice,” Debra said. “It's in the upper thirties now and I think it's supposed to hit the mid- to high fifties later on.”

Given that we'd just had a two-week stretch of temperatures in the teens and twenties, the fifties sounded heavenly.

“Did you see the news this morning?” Debra asked.

I nodded solemnly. “Lewis, you mean?”

She nodded just as solemnly. “What a horrible thing. It's scary to think that someone we know has been murdered. Makes me wish you and Duncan were still close so you could get the scoop.”

“Maybe some of the other cops who come in can give us some info,” Pete suggested. “I didn't know the guy real well, but he seemed nice enough.”

“He was,” I agreed.

With that topic out of the way, Debra started quizzing me relentlessly on my date with Mal last night. “Did you like him?” she asked. “Are you going to see him again? Did he hold your hand? Did he kiss you?”

Pete's questions were more fatherly in nature. “Did he treat you well? Did he act like a gentleman? Did he pay for your dinner? Have you checked into his background?”

I fielded their inquiries with honest answers—at least mostly honest—until Debra hit me with “So what happened with you and Duncan?”

Pete echoed this question with one of his own before I could answer. “Yeah, what's the deal with you and Duncan?”

I didn't want to lie to them, and even though I felt I could trust both of them, I didn't want to tell them the truth, either. Sometimes people let things slip unintentionally when their guards are down, or they are otherwise distracted. And I wasn't willing to risk a life on someone else's careless slip of the tongue. Based on that, I figured the fewer people who knew the truth, the better. So I opted for evasion instead.

“I don't want to talk about Duncan,” I said, trying to look wounded and hurt. “Let's just say that for now I'm content to see where things go with Mal.”

With that, I disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two of them behind and putting an end to the interrogation. But I did look out through the door window once I was in the kitchen and saw Pete and Debra exchange a look between them. I had no doubt that speculation about what had happened between me and Duncan would be the second most popular topic of gossip in the bar for a while, but like most gossip, it would eventually grow old and be replaced with something juicier, more current, and more interesting. Hopefully, it wouldn't be the murder of someone else we all knew.

We opened the doors at eleven and the usual group of regulars came in. The Signoriello brothers ate lunch at my bar nearly every day of the week. They were very punctual and always arrived within a minute or two of eleven. Cora was less driven by the clock, but she typically showed up within the first couple of hours and then spent most of the day in the bar. Today she arrived at five minutes after eleven with Tiny in tow.

“I have some exciting news about Tiny's sister's case,” she announced to us. “Send anyone who's interested upstairs to the Capone Club room.”

Over the next ten minutes, Carter, Holly, Tad, and Alicia arrived and headed upstairs to join the brothers and Cora. By eleven-thirty, Sam and Kevin had joined the fray. Saturdays were always the busiest day for the Capone Club since most of the members were off work on the weekends. One exception to this rule was Karen Tannenbaum, or Dr. T as we called her, who worked various shifts in the ER at the same hospital where Lewis Carmichael had worked. As it turned out, Dr. T was off for the day, and she showed up at eleven-thirty for lunch. I was curious to see how folks in the group would react to the news about Lewis, and also curious to see how they would react to Cora's news about Tiny's case, so I ventured upstairs to listen in.

Just as I'd thought, Lewis's murder was the hot topic. Everyone looked a little shell-shocked over it, and several folks were consoling Dr. T, who had known Lewis better than any of us.

“Have you heard any rumors about what happened?” Cora asked her.

Dr. T shook her head. “The cops haven't said anything, though they've been talking to a bunch of us. I imagine they'll be around to talk to you guys, too. So far they're keeping mum on the subject, and if they know anything they aren't sharing. No one knows of anyone who had it out for Lewis so the speculation for now is that he was the unfortunate victim of a robbery gone wrong. If I hear anything more concrete, I'll let you guys know.”

The group spent ten minutes or so holding a mini memorial for Lewis, sharing some memories and anecdotes of him, but his involvement with the group had been hit and miss for the most part, so aside from Dr. T, the mourning remained on a somewhat distant, superficial level. Cora, Frank, and Joe shot me meaningful looks several times, and I knew they were making the connection between Lewis's murder and the letter. They looked troubled and worried, but not particularly frightened, and I made a mental note to talk to them later and caution them to be extra-wary and careful.

None of the others seemed to feel particularly threatened by the proximity of Lewis's murder to our group, and I felt some relief over that. But I also felt guilty hiding the knowledge I had. Was I endangering them more by keeping the information I had to myself? Or was it better to let them live on in blissful ignorance? Only time would tell, and I prayed that I was making the right decision.