Tradition of Deceit (23 page)

Thirty-Seven

Eve's House was an
unremarkable two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. Well, Roelke thought, did you expect a neon sign at a shelter for battered women?

Closer inspection revealed the security measures. He heard children's laughter coming from the back yard, which was surrounded by a tall, solid fence. The front door was sturdy; the first-floor windows had been replaced by glass blocks. Men can be so damn toxic, he thought, imagining women inside—terrified, depressed, nursing bruises or broken bones, wondering what on earth they were supposed to do now.

When he rang the doorbell, a thirty-ish woman cracked open the door, leaving a safety chain in place. “May I help you?” She wore jeans and a turquoise turtleneck. She'd captured her honey-colored hair in a long braid that reminded him painfully of Chloe.

He held up his badge and ID. “I'm a police officer, ma'am. I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge.”

The woman studied the badge before letting him inside. “I'm Helen,” she said, locking the door securely again. “The director of Eve's House. Let's go into my office.”

She led him to what had once been a dining room, now divided by a wall. Another woman sat at a metal desk, hunched over a telephone, speaking in a low, calm voice. Helen led Roelke through a door into her private space, which held another cheap metal desk and a couple of file cabinets. The cubicle was decorated with posters. Some were informative—
Ten Common Signs of Domestic Abuse—
and some were reassuring—an earth mother presented in warm hues, toes on the ground and hands reaching for the stars. Roelke removed a one-eared stuffed bear from the chair facing the desk and sat down.

Then he held out Erin's photograph. “I'm trying to find a woman named Erin Litkowski, also known as Joanie. The last time I saw her she was blond.” He watched Helen, and
yes
, there it was; a flicker of recognition.

“Why are you looking for this woman?” Helen asked.

“I want to make sure she's safe. She left Milwaukee a couple of years ago when her husband threatened to kill her. She recently returned to the city and began waitressing in a tavern. Her husband might still be prepared to kill her. Erin isn't safe in Milwaukee, even hiding at a shelter like this.”

Helen fiddled with a paperclip, assessing him. She had a narrow face and intelligent hazel eyes. Finally she said, “I don't normally discuss the women who come here with anyone but social workers.”

“I am a cop,” Roelke said, feeling a bit defensive.

Helen's expression didn't change. “I know exactly who you are. Erin said you might come.”

Roelke leaned forward eagerly. “She did? She's here?”

“She
was
here. She's gone.”

His moment of hope disappeared. He'd missed her. Erin had been here, and he'd missed her.
Again
.

Helen abruptly nodded, as if she'd come to some conclusion. “I can't tell you where Erin has gone. But I will tell you that Erin didn't come here as a client. She came here five months ago as a volunteer.”

“A volunteer?”

“She'd heard that her husband was living with another woman. A former friend. Erin came back to warn her against getting involved with him.”

“Did the friend take her advice?”

“No.” Helen spread her hands in a gesture of resigned futility. “But Erin decided to stay in the city, at least for a while. I was glad to have her help. Women who have endured abuse themselves have instant rapport with the women who come here seeking help.”

“Did Erin ever mention another police officer to you? Officer Rick Almirez?”

Helen's gaze didn't waver. “No.”

So, still no hard link between Erin and Rick. Roelke tried to hide his frustration. “Well, thank you for telling me. If Erin ever comes back, will you please ask her to get in touch with me? I just … I just want to know she's okay.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” Helen said evenly. “I've already told you more than I normally would.”

Roelke was running out of patience. “Look, ma'am, I know you've seen and heard some horrible things, but I am a
police
officer. You, and the women who come here, can trust me. I know it can be hard to share personal stuff with a cop, but—”

“Frankly, Officer McKenna, being a cop doesn't count for much around here.”

He sat back, suddenly feeling stupid.

“Erin spoke well of you, so I'm going to be candid,” Helen said. “Erin discovered that someone on the Milwaukee Police force, someone in the local district, had been charged with domestic violence. You know what happened next? The DA quietly dismissed the charges. The whole thing got swept into the shadows.”

Roelke's right knee began to piston.

“I don't know who it was,” Helen continued, “but that officer is still responding to domestic calls. How can I convince battered women to call the police for help when the cop who shows up might sympathize with the abuser?”

Thirty-Eight
September 1921

A constable walked slowly
through the Milwaukee train station, eyeing the crowd, tapping his wooden billy club against his palm. I can't appeal to him for help, Lidia thought. How can I be sure that he wouldn't side with Thomas?

She'd arrived in Milwaukee weary, nauseated, anxious, and broke. Now she sank down on an empty bench, watching other travelers. She seemed to be the only person in the station with no one to meet and nowhere to go. With a surge of panic, she wondered if she'd just made a colossal mistake. Although life with Thomas could be bad, there had been good times too …

But—no. Lidia reminded herself that Grandmother Magdalena had been strong enough to immigrate. Mama had grown up with
out parents and survived the death of her husband. I must be
strong too, Lidia thought, and make my own new life.

Someone had left a newspaper on the bench, and she skimmed the pages. Perhaps she could get a job that included lodging. A nanny, maybe, or a maid …

Then she found an advertisement for a Settlement House—a place for immigrant women to learn what they needed to know in this strange city. I'm an immigrant of sorts, Lidia thought, clutching Magdalena's Polish shawl around her shoulders. She'd start there.

Women hurried up the steps of the Abraham Lincoln Settlement House on Ninth Street as Lidia arrived. Two teens in old-world clothes and new-world hairstyles jostled past her, laughing. “Sorry!” one of them called over her shoulder in Russian. Lidia heard more conversations in Russian, and other languages too—Polish, German. The mix transported her back to Bohemian Flats, and that gave her hope.

A heavyset matron with gray hair styled in permanent waves sat behind a table in the entryway. “May I help you?” she asked. “Are you here to register for a class? We offer instruction in hygiene and American cookery, as well as English language.”

Lidia thought of the immaculate and oh-so-American house she'd shared with Thomas. “I'm not looking for classes.”

“Perhaps you're looking to buy a copy of
The
Settlement Cookbook
? It's wildly popular, and sales support our programs.”

Lidia thought of the fragrant, floury afternoons she'd helped her mother bake bread and
pierogi
and
pączki.
She cleared her throat. “I just arrived in Milwaukee and have nowhere to go. I was hoping that you might help me find work and a place to stay.”

“Oh, dear.” The other woman shook her head. “I'm so sorry, but we're not an employment agency. Nor do we offer lodgings. Our main goal is to help newcomers to this country become American.” The sound of an instructor counting to ten in English—each numeral repeated by a chorus of foreign female voices—drifted down the hall.

“I see,” Lidia murmured. She was so used to the Bohemian Flats' pervasive spirit of helping newcomers that it hadn't occurred to her that she'd be turned away from the Settlement House.
I have nowhere else to go
, she thought numbly. As she turned away she whispered a prayer to Mary: “
Do Ciebie wolamy wygnancy, synowie Ewy
…” To thee we cry, poor banished children of Eve.

If Jesus didn't understand why she'd fled her husband, maybe his holy mother would.

She left the building, clenching folds of wool. What now? She knew Milwaukee's Polish immigrants had built a beautiful church called St. Josaphat. Should she look for help there? After enduring her own priest's censure, she didn't want to …

Footsteps clicked behind her. “Miss? Please, wait.” The woman from the Settlement House caught up to Lidia and lowered her voice. “I can see you need help.”

Lidia gestured back toward the building. “I do, but as you said, there is nothing here for me.”

“Many of Milwaukee's immigrant women need exactly what the Settlement House can provide. But every once in a while …” Something haunted flickered in the woman's eyes.

“Might you be able to spare something to eat?” It galled Lidia to ask, but she needed to think of her unborn child. “Perhaps just a piece of bread?”

“I'll do better than that,” the woman promised. “I found someone to work the desk for me, and I'm taking you home. You'll be safe there while we figure out what to do next.”

Thirty-Nine

Chloe sat in her
car with the old
wycinanka
on her lap. She knew from reading Ariel's files that some Polish women had worked in the mill.
I have to include some Polish baked goods in the goodies for the reception Friday night
, she thought.
And we need to expand one of our interpretive themes.
The old Gold Medal and Pillsbury cookbooks were only part of the story. The mill museum needed to honor immigrant women who had made their way to Bohemian Flats, and possibly found work in the flour mills.

Chloe knew a lot about ethnic food traditions. She'd also brought her battered old copy of
The Settlement Cookbook
along. Using recipes from a wildly popular cookbook that had been published in Wisconsin would spotlight regional connections, and actually lend credibility to the notion that her visit was intended to be reciprocal. She'd brought a few other old regional cookbooks as well. Nothing made her happier than telling stories about the anonymous women who had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to make new homes in the Upper Midwest.

Most of them had left nothing behind. But a Polish woman in Minneapolis had once pinned up this paper cutting in No Man's Land. Now, making Polish foods would provide a tangible link back.

When Roelke left Eve's House he drove in erratic circles again, watching his rearview mirror. When he was sure that no one was tailing him, he left the district and parked in a vacant lot, backed against a wall so he could see anyone approaching. Then he confronted what Helen had told him.

A cop in the local district had been arrested for domestic violence. The charge had been quietly dismissed. Now battered women who called the cops might find
another
batterer knocking at the door, badge in hand.

Roelke remembered the fear in his own mother's eyes when his father had exploded in rage; remembered how he'd felt as a child, listening to the arguments, the thumps, the cries of pain. His mother hadn't found the strength to leave with her two boys until Joe Mc­Kenna had thrown her against the banister with enough force to break her arm.

Jesus
, Roelke thought now. He felt sick. Somehow Rick's murder had reached into his own worst memories, dredging up people and events he'd long ago committed to permanent storage.

Roelke thought of all the men he'd known in the district. Sure, lots of them were old-school tough guys. Some cops still believed that domestic arguments should be private, even if the woman got roughed up a bit. Roelke could imagine that a cop might not reach out to help a frightened woman as
he
would, encouraging her to press charges, but it had never occurred to him that one of his fellow cops might be going home and knocking around his own wife or girlfriend.

So … who was it? How could he ever know? He didn't have any friends in the DA's office, and it would take a
very
good friend to spill those kind of beans. Roelke scrubbed his face with his palms. One thing he was pretty sure about—Rick had known. And Rick had zero tolerance for guys who punched women. He'd probably tried to talk the guy into fessing up, maybe even quitting the force. He'd probably threatened to expose him.

And he'd probably gotten killed for it.

Roelke felt something hot and hard beneath his ribs. Don't get
stupid now, he ordered himself. You're getting close. Find the SOB before he finds you.

He reached for his notecards and instead found the brochure for Eve's House folded up in his pocket. He stared at the tri-fold, trying to pull some clue from the text.

Abusive individuals need to dominate their wives or girlfriends. They often express jealousy, are quick to blame others for their problems, and try to isolate their victims. They may use threats or other forms of intimidation to control their partner, and alternate abusive actions with expressions of love.

Victims of domestic violence are likely to withdraw from family and friends, become subservient in an effort to appease their partners, and appear anxious to please. They may also miss work frequently, speak of becoming accident-prone, and wear heavy makeup and clothing intended to hide physical signs of violence.

Roelke hadn't known all the district cops well even when he'd worked in Milwaukee, and some people had come and gone since. Still, he tried to think back, to remember any hints he might have missed …

And as he worked his way through that mental inventory, a few facts started to sort themselves into a hard line.

“Oh,
Jesus
,” Roelke whispered. It couldn't be. It couldn't really be a friend …

A siren blared, and a police car raced by. Nothing to do with him, but a reminder that he couldn't let his guard down. He surveyed his surroundings carefully.

Then he found a blank index card and wrote two words on the top line:
Dobry Banik
.

1. Tina wears tons of makeup
2. Tina rarely speaks to Dobry's friends

Roelke tapped his pencil against the steering wheel, thinking. In his memory, he heard Dobry's summation at the Almirez house:
Stuff like that happens, Roelke. We all had a good time at the reception, Jody agreed to marry him, and then Rick started a shift. Would you blame the guy for celebrating with a brewski?
Stifling a growl, Roelke continued with his list:

3. Dobry tried to shift blame to Rick, and reported the drinking

4. D wanted to talk to me in the driveway, instead of asking me inside, the night I stopped by

5. D gave me the wrong translation of the Polish word on Erin's folk art card

6. D refused to ask Malloy some questions re: Rick's death

Honestly, that one might not be entirely fair. The guy had a right to protect his career, even if it meant making choices Roelke didn't agree with. Still.

7. D was the one who saw Rick drinking on duty in the first place

Maybe Rick
hadn't
been drinking on duty. Sherman had confirmed Rick's presence in the bar, but not the alcohol. Maybe the bartender had lied. Maybe Rick had only been in the Rusty Nail to talk to Lobo. Maybe Rick had blown off his mark call because trying to discover if Steve Litkowski had hired Lobo to kill Erin was more important.

But still … Dobry? Baby-faced Dobry? Longtime friend Dobry? Roelke stared at his notes, wondering if he'd lost his mind. Was Dobry capable of smacking Tina around? Maybe. But was Dobry truly capable of shooting Rick in the back of the head?

Okay, Roelke told himself. Think this through. All he had was suspicions, possibilities. Before accusing Dobry—or anyone else—of domestic violence or murder, he had to find
proof
.

Chloe wanted to tell Ariel in person what had happened to Owen. And now I have a treasure from No Man's Land to give her too, she thought, hoping the find might counterbalance the shock of Owen's accident.

She managed to find the Minnesota Historical Society building, and then she managed to find the Historic Sites Division offices, only to learn that Ariel was tied up in a meeting. “I'm sorry,” the young woman at the reception desk said. “Can I give her a message?”

“Have we met?” Chloe asked. The receptionist—Simone, according to her name badge—looked familiar. “Oh, wait. You were at the wake for Dr. Whyte.” Simone and Ariel had huddled together for comfort while she'd been talking with Jay.

“You're Chloe, right? Ariel's told me about you.”

“I wanted to make sure Ariel knew about an accident at the mill this afternoon.”

Simone nodded soberly. “Jay called from the hospital. Owen has regained consciousness.”

Chloe's shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank God.”

“Yeah. After what happened to Whyte, everybody was pretty shook up to hear about Owen.” Simone blew out a long breath, as if ridding herself of bad vibes. Then she nodded at the carton in Chloe's hands. “You want to leave that for Ariel?”

“Thanks, but I'll take it back to her place,” Chloe said. “Good to meet you, Simone.”

But it wasn't good to meet Simone, not entirely. Something scratched at Chloe's brain as she left the building. She didn't feel like going back to Ariel's cottage, so she locked the carton in the trunk of her car and went in search of an honest cup of coffee.

Fifteen minutes later she took her first sip and tried to relax. What was bugging her? It was more than Owen's accident, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Maybe I need index cards, she thought. How many times had she seen Roelke scribbling notes on three-by-fives, arranging and rearranging them as he tried to work through some difficult problem? She swiped at tears, missing Roelke so much that her throat ached. They'd worked through their share of problems together, each contributing ideas and puzzle pieces until the picture became whole.

Maybe Roelke was sitting in a diner too, right this minute, working on his own problem. She sent him a mental message:
Figure it out soon. I have a problem of my own, and I miss you
.

Roelke felt tense muscles ease a bit when Lucia Bliss walked into the diner. Cops loved the George Webb chain because the restaurants stayed open all night. No one would think twice about seeing a woman in uniform there.

Bliss slid into the back corner booth across from him. She did not take off her coat.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“I can't stay long, but when you said you had new information about Rick's death … ” She paused when a waitress brought the hot tea Roelke had ordered. “Coffee for me, please.”

When both mugs were filled, Roelke leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of Erin Litkowski?”

“I don't think so. Who is she?”

“A woman who fled Milwaukee to escape her psycho husband. She came back, but she's gone into hiding again.” Roelke realized he was getting sidetracked. “I'm working on that, but I need a favor from you. Can you look to see who arrested a bad guy named Alberto Marquez? He was in Waupun because somebody hired the SOB to kill his wife, and he might be back in business.”

Bliss frowned with confusion. “What does that have to do with Rick?”

“I've learned that a district cop was the cause of a domestic disturbance call.”

Her eyes widened. “A cop, beating up his wife? Christ.”

“His wife actually pressed charges, but the DA's office dismissed them and hushed the whole thing up. Have you heard anything about that?”

“No, but I could name two dozen possible candidates.” She
dumped some creamer into her coffee. “You know how it is. Cops get their adrenaline up when some asshole tries to run, and they end up roughing up the guy a bit. If a cop loses his temper on the street, who's to say he won't do the same thing at home?”

“Yeah.” Roelke sipped his tea. He understood that heat-of-the-moment urge to inflict street justice all too well. One of the things he liked about the Eagle PD was Chief Naborski's take on that. The chief was old enough to be old-school, but he wasn't. He wouldn't tolerate that kind of thing.

Bliss looked a little sick. “So, you think Rick somehow discovered who it was, and that led to him getting killed? Somebody felt threatened and decided to protect his career by shutting Rick up?”

“I don't know,” Roelke said carefully, “but I'm going to find out. Do you have any connections in the DA's office? Someone you know through your dad?”

Bliss made a futile gesture, palms up. “Like I said, my father keeps work stuff separate from family stuff.”

“Could you ask around at the station? Maybe bring up the subject of domestic calls and see if—”

“McKenna, I'm a female sergeant on the Milwaukee Police Force. You think the guys treat me like one of the gang?” Bliss rubbed her temples. “They don't.”

“I wouldn't ask if I had anywhere else to turn.” Roelke stared at her right eye. “It's Rick we're talking about here.”

“I
know
,” she said, with a little heat. “It's just that …”

Roelke felt a twinge of unease. Maybe he shouldn't involve Bliss. She was a good cop who knew how to take care of herself. But given what had happened to Rick, and to
him
…

“Have you asked Banik? He'd get farther, just joking around with the boys.”

Roelke had anticipated that question. “I'd rather not ask any of the guys about this. Given the issue, I thought you'd be best.”

Bliss's eyes widened with understanding—and shock. She placed both palms on the table and leaned forward. “Do you actually think Dobry Banik might have—”

“I didn't say that.”

“No. No
way
. Dobry would never, ever—”

“I didn't say he did,” Roelke repeated. “Look, forget it. You're right. It's probably too dangerous to even raise the topic.”

Bliss stared at the table for a long moment. “No, I can't walk away from this. I'll see what I can do. For Rick's sake, I'll see what I can do.”

Roelke blew out a long, slow breath. “Thanks. Just don't men
tion this to anyone else. If I'm right—and I'm pretty sure I am—
this guy has already killed one cop, and tried to kill me.”

They left the restaurant together. Bliss walked away quickly. As Roelke paused, pulling on his gloves, he noticed the dome of the basilica, blocks away but still sending a protective glow over the neighborhood. And Roelke McKenna, who hadn't attended mass in years, found that a comfort.