Tradition of Deceit (2 page)

Roelke stared into the darkness, trying to figure out why he'd picked a fight with Chloe. Tonight at the reception he'd been conscious of every off-color joke, every crass comment about some recently-arrested asshole. Such talk had never bothered him before. Hell, he was part of it.

Chloe, however, was not. She'd once told him that they were too different to make a good couple. Other people had hinted at the same thing. Now they
were
a couple, and doing just fine all in all, thanks very much. But obviously, Roelke thought, the whole idea of our differences still bugs me.

Well, he'd apologize, first chance he got. He wished she wasn't going away for the rest of the weekend, visiting some friend.

Some
museum
friend. From her
grad
school
days.

Roelke punched his pillow, ordered himself to quit stewing, and tried to get some sleep.

When the phone rang, Roelke jerked awake and grabbed it. “Mc­Kenna here.” The clock read 5:10 a.m. Maybe Chloe was calling to say good-bye before she hit the road. No, probably not. Her definition of “hitting the road early” was still several hours away.

He realized that too many seconds had ticked by. “This is Roel­ke McKenna.”

“R-Roelke? I'm sorry to—I—it's Jody.”

Roelke felt every sensory detail sharpen: the smooth plastic against his palm, the illuminated clock's glow, the whisper of Jody's irregular breathing in his ear, the infinitesimal quiver of every hair standing erect from his skin.

“What's wrong? Where's Rick?”

“Rick … He … Somebody shot him.”

Roelke grabbed the pencil on his nightstand. “Where'd they take him? How bad is he hurt?”

Jody's words squeezed out between sobs. “He's dead, Roelke. Rick is dead.”

Two

Chloe felt relief as
she drove west on US Highway 12. Other than worrying that her decrepit Pinto would crap out, and feeling guilty for burning gas instead of using public transportation (which wasn't available near her house anyway), she loved road trips. And the timing for this particular trip was, evidently, good. She was still confused about Roelke's mood when they'd left the wedding reception. Had the wedding itself put him on edge? Taking a date to a wedding was dicey. Had he worried that she might misinterpret the evening? Was he afraid that she might think he was getting more serious than he really was?

Lovely, she thought. Just when things had actually been going pretty well.

Six inches of snow blanketed the landscape, but the sun was out and the roads were dry. Once in the Twin Cities, she drove with scribbled directions clutched in one hand. She only got confused a couple of times before finding the bridge to Nicollet Island, in the Mississippi River. She parked in front of a cottage painted yellow and purple and patted the Pinto's dashboard in thanks.

Two people came outside to greet her. The woman was almost lost in a bulky fisherman's sweater. She was slight, with big gray eyes and dark hair wound into a bun. Her features were delicate, even fragile. But the hug she gave Chloe was a bone-crusher.

“You're
here
!”

Chloe grinned. “It's great to see you too, Ariel.”

“Do you remember Toby?”

Toby Grzegorczyk, a head taller that his sister, looked like a lumberjack. Chloe extended a hand. “We met in Cooperstown once, right? Good to see you again.” She and Ariel had gone through the Museum Studies program in New York.

Toby smiled. “Nice to see you also.” He kissed his sister's cheek. “I need to get on the road, kiddo.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“That's what big brothers are for.”

Chloe and Ariel waved as he drove away. “I hope he didn't leave because I was coming,” Chloe said.

“Not at all. He came down from Duluth yesterday because an elderly neighbor gave me an antique china cabinet, and I needed help getting it into the house.” She gestured toward the cottage. “Welcome to my place.”

Chloe was diverted by a chicken pecking for grubs in the next yard over. “Funky neighborhood!”

“It's quite bohemian. That makes rent affordable for someone racking up student loans like pinball points.” She led Chloe inside.

“How's the Ph.D. program going?”

“I'm at the stage where the end seems nowhere in sight and I can't figure out what the heck I was thinking.” Ariel hung their coats on a hall tree. “How long has it been since I've seen you? It was before you moved to Switzerland.”

“Geez, seven years or so, then. I've been back in the states for a couple of years.”

“I want to hear all about
everything
.” Ariel checked her watch. “We're set to meet a couple of people at the mill this afternoon, but we have time to eat first. Just give me a minute to throw the salad together.”

While Ariel worked, Chloe studied her friend's home. Like her own place, the décor was largely thrift-shop chic, with a few honest antiques, including the spectacular cabinet now displaying Ariel's collection of flow blue china. Degas prints and black-and-white photographs of contemporary ballerinas provided an unexpected accent.

“Are you still dancing?” Chloe asked.

“I try to squeeze in a couple of classes a week.”

Chloe studied a shot of Ariel. The photographer had captured her suspended in the air, one leg forward and one stretched behind in an impossible split, arms graceful, face serene.

“This picture is amazing,” Chloe said. Her dancing of choice involved ethnic folk costumes, hand claps and foot stomps, and sweet tunes scratched from old fiddles or squeezed from accordions.

“I was seventeen, I think.” Ariel smiled wistfully as she set a bowl on the table. “A long time ago.”

“Did you become a ballerina because your parents named you Ariel? Or were they just prescient?”

“I think my mom was trying to counterbalance Grzegorczyk,” Ariel said dryly. “Let's eat.”

Chloe dug into the wild rice salad with pecans and dried cherries. “
So
much better than road food,” she mumbled. “Now, tell me about your new job.”

“I'm a curatorial assistant in the Historic Sites department of the Minnesota Historical Society.” Ariel dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “I'd hoped I'd be helping oversee collections or programming at the state's historic sites, but the big project right now is the abandoned flour mill the society wants to turn into a museum.”

Chloe eyed her friend. “Kind of a stretch for the woman voted Most Likely to Work in a Victorian Mansion in grad school.”

“Kind of,” Ariel agreed. “My advisory committee decided I should write my dissertation about women mill workers.” She picked at a nubbin in her sweater, then looked back at Chloe. “Actually … I'm hoping you'll brainstorm with me this weekend. On Friday I have to present an interpretive plan proposal during a special reception and tour of the mill site for partner agencies and donors. I've been working on it, but I just … it just … I don't know. I'm having a hard time.”

“Sure, I'll kick some ideas around with you.”

“
Thank
you.”

“Not that I know diddly about the flour industry.”

“That doesn't matter. I've learned so much about it that I've lost my perspective. And this deadline has me anxious. My proposal will go to granting agencies, so it's a big deal.”

“You'll do fine.”

“I hope so. At least the job got me to the Cities, and that was my first goal. When I was working at the county historical society west of here, I was commuting over an hour to get to classes. And I'm less than three hours from Toby and his wife. They have a baby now, and they're all the family I've got.”

“I wasn't thrilled to be returning to Wisconsin when I took the job at Old World,” Chloe admitted. “Now that I've settled in … I must admit, it is nice to be closer to my folks. Mostly, anyway.” She speared an errant pecan. “I bet this mill thing turns out to be more interesting than you expect. There are a gazillion old farm and house museums in the world, but industrial sites are rare.”

“The Washburn A Mill is on the National Register of Historic Places,” Ariel said. “Jay Rutledge—he's with the preservation office—is working to get it listed as a National Historic Landmark. You'll meet Jay at the mill this afternoon. And the opening reception for that photograph exhibition is tonight. I told you about that, right?”

“It's a fundraiser,” Chloe said promptly.

“We're raising money and raising awareness. Dr. Everett Whyte, one of my professors, is an amazing photographer who's taken some fascinating shots of the mill.”

“Sounds intriguing. I'm looking forward to seeing the site.”

“And so you shall.” Ariel, having eaten about a quarter-cup portion of salad, pushed her plate away. “Ready to go?”

Back outside, the wail of a distant siren made Chloe think of Roelke. He was scheduled to work today. Maybe he was on a call, too. She was still mildly miffed that he'd gotten all snappish on her the night before, but they'd get past that. It helped to imagine Roel­ke assisting someone good or arresting someone bad, happy as the proverbial clam, right this very minute.

Roelke watched the impromptu wake at Rick's parents' house in Milwaukee.
Rick is gone
, his brain announced over and over.
Rick is dead. Rick is gone
. He couldn't grasp it.

The doorbell kept ringing. Deliverymen with downcast eyes offered bouquets of flowers before fleeing back to their trucks. Women with drawn faces arrived carrying foil-wrapped dishes or Tupperware bowls in shockingly bright colors. Someone had brought a crystal plate of cupcakes—who brought cupcakes to a house in mourning?—and someone else brought something smelling of cabbage. It clashed with smoke from the scented candles burning in every room.

A priest had come and gone. The chief of the Milwaukee Police Department and the captain of Rick's district had come and gone. Sergeant Conrad Malloy, Roelke's field training officer back in the day, had come and gone, too. “Hell of a thing,” he'd said to Roelke.

“What—who—”

“Not here,” Malloy muttered gruffly. He'd paid his respects to Rick's parents and left.

In the living room, Rick grinned down from a portrait over the mantel. He was posed in front of an American flag, looking sharp in his light blue uniform shirt, dark jacket, and visored hat. Mrs. Almirez sat on a flowered sofa, clutching her haggard husband with one hand and Jody, who looked stunned, with the other.

When Roelke had arrived at Jody's apartment that morning, all he'd known to do was fold her into his arms and hang on while she sobbed. He tried to find words of comfort. None came. Finally she'd pulled away. Roelke had driven her to the Almirez house in numb silence.

Now Roelke's shock was giving way to rage. He trembled to get facts. Who did this? What happened? How did it happen? He wished he'd followed Malloy, maybe caught him in the yard. He used to work for Malloy. He understood why the sergeant hadn't wanted to have a conversation in the living room, but Rick had been dead for what, five or six hours already? Roelke wanted to leave this suffocating house of crying people. He wanted to drive to Rick's district station and demand answers.

A gray-haired woman with red-rimmed eyes appeared at Roelke's elbow. “Would you like some enchilada casserole?” She waved a weary hand toward the dining room table. “Or—”

“No thank you, ma'am, I—pardon me.”

Dobry Banik had stepped inside, wearing his own dress blues. Roelke waited until Dobry offered condolences to Jody and Rick's parents before catching his eye and cocking his head:
Follow me.

He led the way through the kitchen and outside to a patio. The air was brisk, but the sun made the sheltered corner tolerable. Roel­ke blinked at the sheer normalness of the scene: a stack of empty flowerpots by the wall, a Weber covered with a fitted cover, two wooden recliners—all waiting for a spring that would never come. Not for this house. Not for this family.

Dobry offered one of those awkward gestures men make, half hug and half back-slap. “I don't believe this,” he muttered. “I don't fucking believe it.”

“What
happened
?”

“I had my hands full with a drunk when the call came through.” Dobry pounded one fist against his palm. “Officer down at Kozy Park.”

Roelke winced. Kosciuszko Park, thirty-five acres of gently rolling land scattered with trees, was the heart of the Lincoln Village neighborhood in Milwaukee's Old South Side. It was a place for games and picnics. Even the local numbnuts generally respected the precious green space.

“In the park itself?”

Dobry shook his head. “He was in the road. Lincoln Avenue.”

Roelke's stomach muscles clenched. Lincoln was one of the busiest streets in the district.

“By the time I got there, the ambulance was gone and guys were crawling over the neighborhood. Word is that based on the way Rick was lying, he'd probably approached a parked car. He was killed by a single shot to the back of the head. The shot could have come from the driver.”

“Rick never would have turned his back on the driver unless he felt totally secure.”

“Yeah.”

“He was walking the beat alone?”

“We were short because of the wedding, and it was after bar time.”

That was about what Roelke had expected. In the city, two guys usually patrolled together until the bars closed. Then each traveled alone.

“A ‘shot fired' call came in from a civilian at 3:45 a.m. The clerk tried to raise Rick but couldn't. He was already dead.”

“Where on Lincoln?”

“Just west of the statue.” The General Kosciuszko Statue, he meant. “But Roelke … ” Dobry glanced over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Something hinky was going on last night. Today, on the surface, it's all about one of Milwaukee's finest being killed on duty—”

“
On the surface
? What the hell does that mean?”

“Sergeant Malloy … ” Dobry fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Roelke thought he might explode. “Sergeant Malloy
what
?”

“Malloy says Rick screwed up.”

“Rick screwed up?” Roelke stepped closer. “Rick is dead, and Malloy says
he
screwed up?” The ache in his chest turned molten. Now he
really
wished he'd followed Sergeant Malloy after his perfunctory condolence call. Followed him and tackled him and pounded his head against the ground.

“Rick missed his mark at 1:50, and—”

“At
1:50
? And nobody found him until four?”

“Would you let me finish a sentence? He wasn't shot that early, he just missed his mark.”

“He wasn't carrying a handy-talkie?” Roelke asked, although he knew the answer.

“Rick always said it slowed him down.” Dobry hitched one shoulder up and down. “I don't carry one either.”

During the time they'd worked together, Roelke's buddies had often chided him for being an “early adopter.” When police vests came on the market, he got one. Radios had been in the cars for years, but when personal radios were made available, he carried one of those too—despite the annoyance of an eight-pound weight on his belt. In Milwaukee, handy-talkies were optional. Lots of the beat men still relied on the old call boxes sprinkled through the city instead.

Would carrying a handy-talkie have made a difference for Rick? Roelke closed his eyes. With a handy-talkie, Rick might have had time to squeeze in a 10-78 call, which basically meant
I'm getting my ass handed to me out here
. Every cop in the area—and plenty who were not—would have descended.