Tradition of Deceit (25 page)

Roelke blinked back tears.
Finally
, a concrete link between Erin and Rick.

But he still had no clue what the
wycinanki
cards meant. Had this one been sent to Rick from Erin, or had Rick intercepted something meant for Erin? No knowing.

Roelke held the card next to the note and compared the handwriting. Different, definitely.

Okay, he thought. He knew who to ask about that.

Roelke called Erin's sister Pauline just after seven a.m. the next morning. He needed to catch her before she left for work, and he didn't think she'd mind.

She did not. Thirty minutes later he sat down at her kitchen table and began a brief summary of events, just as he'd rehearsed.

Pauline didn't let him get far. “Erin is in Milwaukee?” she gasped.

“I think she
was
,” Roelke said carefully. “I didn't recognize her at first. By the time I did, she was gone. She didn't get in touch with you?”

“No.” Erin's sister tented her hands in front of her mouth as if praying. “She's obviously still afraid of Steve. He's taken up with Erin's best friend from high school.”

“I didn't call you earlier because I had nothing definite to tell you. But something's happened, and I need your help.” Roelke held out the note he'd found on his truck, and the
wycinanki
card. “Can you tell me if either of these is Erin's handwriting?”

Pauline glanced at both, then pointed at the penciled name on the back of the folk art card. “That one. See that tiny little loop on top of the E? She started doing that in grade school.”

Roelke flipped the card to display the artwork printed on the front. “Have you ever seen something like this before? It's a print of a Polish paper cutting.”

“No.” Pauline took the card, but she wasn't interested in the artwork. She turned it again and touched her sister's ephemeral sig-
nature.

The ache in Roelke's chest seemed to radiate well beyond his likely cracked rib. He hated to involve Pauline without having more to offer. He also hated knowing that the cemetery invite was indeed a trap. A trap set by someone who knew enough about Erin, Rick, and
him
to set it up.

Pauline looked at Roelke with a worried frown. “So—who
wrote that note about meeting you in the cemetery?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “But I am going to find out.”

Forty-Two

After Ariel went to
work Thursday morning, Chloe found a re­cipe for Polish doughnuts called
pączki
—just the thing for a depressing morning. Ariel had kept secrets, and Chloe didn't know how to get around that. First my guy, and now my friend, Chloe thought. Lovely.

She also found herself in a difficult spot. Toby would surely become Suspect Number One if the cops learned that he'd gone to the mill to put the fear of God into Whyte. Chloe believed that Toby had only wanted to protect his sister from further harassment. And she believed that Everett Whyte was, despite his many accomplishments, a slimy little jerk. Still, Ariel and Toby had withheld information that might be of critical importance to the detectives working the case. So … what was she supposed to do now?

Chloe was still trying to figure that out when the last bit of sweet dough had been transformed into a filled doughnut. As she cleaned the counter, she unearthed a stack of index cards—and snatched them as if Roelke had transported them there, just for her. She settled down with pen, mug of coffee, and a doughnut. She sampled her handiwork—oh
my,
was it good—before writing
Everett Whyte
on one of the cards.

Toby wouldn't be off the legendary hook until someone discovered the truth behind Whyte's death. The drowning might have been accidental, but knowing what kind of man the professor had been opened up a world of new possibilities. Chloe jotted notes and ideas on cards, surveying them, arranging them, making associations, and arranging them again. She'd met too many men like Whyte, men who used their power to demean women. He had done so to Ariel, evidently without fear that he'd be held accountable. What other women had he abused? Other students? Colleagues?

What about women at the mill? Girls like Star must have appeared particularly powerless and vulnerable. But girls who survived on the street—or in the mill—were tougher than Ariel. Perhaps Whyte had threatened one of them, and the intended victim had struck back.

Chloe wrote,
Ask Sister Mary Jude about the girls
. She knew them best. And,
Talk to Jay.
He may not have noticed any unacceptable behavior, but if nudged to think back, looking for telltale signs, he might have insights, too.

Chloe called the State Historic Preservation Office. “Jay Rutledge is working at the mill site today,” the receptionist said.

“Thanks.” Chloe hung up and chewed her lower lip. She was
not
keen on returning to the mill, but maybe Jay was working with the crew by the river again, and she could talk to him outside.

She licked jelly from one finger and considered her cards. This system truly is helpful, she thought. And scribbling on index cards did evoke Roelke's presence in a comforting way.

So … what other bits of cop advice could she retrieve? Chloe replayed the lone conversation they'd had on Tuesday night, when he called to ask about Polish folk art and chickens.
I'm spending time in the old neighborhood,
he'd said.
When a crime occurs, it's important to go back to the people who live in the community. They know the place, the people, better than anyone.

In this case, the neighborhood was the mill. Sister Mary Jude had mentioned that the detectives had tried to interview people living in the mill, with poor results. But the detectives were men. If homeless women had been harassed by Whyte, they'd be much more likely to talk to the nun. Or to Officer Ashton. Or to
her
.

Chloe glanced at the clock. Ten past noon. She tucked the cards away and reached for her coat.

Roelke called Fritz three times on Thursday morning. “Got anything with those prints? Find a match?”

“Nothing yet,” Fritz muttered, three times. “Call back in an hour.”

The waiting was unendurable. Roelke felt wired and tired and jumpy. After doing what he needed to do at Forest Home Cemetery, he drove aimlessly—east to Lake Michigan, north to Mequon, west to Elm Grove. Everything was the same and everything was different. Rick was gone and Chloe
felt
gone, and one of the few friends he had left might soon be revealed as a killer.

At one o'clock he dialed the now-familiar number again. Fritz came onto the line. “Roelke.” His voice was heavy.

“You found a match.”

“Yeah.
Jesus
.” Fritz's voice quivered with rage or grief or both. “The gun you found at Kozy Park was definitely handled by a cop.”

When Chloe arrived at the mill, she wandered down to the riverside ruins. No sign of Jay. “Shit,” she muttered. So much for Plan A.

She made her way to a mill window and peered inside, expecting to find Sister Mary Jude cleaning up from lunch. Although her VW was parked nearby, there was no sign of her, either. So much for Plan B.

Chloe retreated to her car. Her theory—that someone had retaliated for Whyte's abuse—didn't explain why someone had tampered with the roller stand that injured Owen. She was not going into the mill alone.

Forty minutes later backup arrived in a Minneapolis Police Department car. Chloe got out to meet Officers Crandall and Ashton, trying to invent Plan C on the fly. “Good afternoon,” she said brightly. “I was looking for Sister Mary Jude, but maybe lunch ended early.”

“Her car's still here.” Crandall scratched his butt. “She's probably in there coddling some nutjob.”

Yes, Chloe thought, you are still a jerk.

“She should just—hey! You kids have no business down here!” Crandall scowled as two preteen boys flew around the corner on bikes. The boys, amazingly enough, stopped and waited as he lumbered in their direction.

Chloe turned quickly to Officer Ashton. “Could I get a little of your time? Just yours. I want to look for a young woman in the mill. She'd
never
show herself if Crandall comes, and I'm too chicken to go by myself.”

A smile twitched at Officer Ashton's mouth. “I'd call that wise, actually. Sure, we can make that work.”

Five minutes later Crandall was off on a coffee break, as suggested oh-so-respectfully by his partner, and Chloe and her escort were inside the mill. Officer Ashton asked, “What's this about?”

“I'm wondering if Everett Whyte hassled some of the runaway girls. I've heard rumors.” That understatement sent heat to Chloe's cheeks. “I met a girl called Star the other day. She might talk to us.”

“You really should take this to the detectives working the case.”

“Are either of the detectives female?”

Officer Ashton sighed. “Okay. I've got maybe forty minutes before Crandall picks me up.”

The two women worked upward, floor by floor. “I'm looking for Star,” Chloe called. “I just want to talk.” By the time they got to the eighth floor they'd found blankets and shopping bags and discarded lighters. They'd heard voices and the sound of running feet. They'd seen exactly no one.

“Either this young woman isn't here, or she doesn't want to talk,” Officer Ashton observed.

Chloe wasn't ready to admit failure. They'd stopped near the huge dust collectors. Chloe shone her flashlight in the corners, behind the massive equipment, along the brick walls. Graffiti glowed like neon. Some of it was electric blue.

“Star might have left some of this graffiti,” Chloe said, remembering the vivid shade she'd noticed on the girl's coat.

Officer Ashton considered the spray paint. “This is surreal, isn't it? Not what you typically see. Weird how the stick people are up high, while constellations are near the floor.”

Chloe felt a sinking sensation. Not constellations. Stars. Fallen stars.

She crouched for a better look. Each star in the little clusters had two letters inked in the center. Initials, probably. These girls had almost lost their collective voice, but one had felt compelled to leave a record. “This must be where the girls sleep at night.”

“Sad thought.”

“It truly is.” Chloe straightened and studied the rest of the impromptu mural. Each floating stick figure had a particular anatomical detail. Male, all of them. Chloe could only speculate about the first two—a father, a teacher, a next door neighbor back home? But the third … “Look,” she said. “This one is holding—”

“Whoo-hoo!” someone shouted.

Bang!
A flash glinted in Chloe's peripheral vision. A whiff of smoke induced instant panic. Explosion! Flour dust! Conflagration!

“Smoke bomb,” Officer Ashton muttered. “Fool kids! I'll be right back.”

“Sure thing.” Chloe hoped her thumping heartbeat wasn't audible.
Enough with the hysteria
, she told herself. Time was ticking by, and she wanted to decipher what she could of Star's pictographs.

She looked back at the third man-figure, holding a small box with something protruding from it. A camera with telephoto lens? If so, Everett Whyte was almost certainly one of the men who'd trampled Star beneath his feet.

Officer Ashton's voice drifted from the next room: “You could break your necks running around in here! Why aren't you in school?”

The vivid blue graphics progressed along the wall. Chloe slowly followed, deciphering what she could of Star's biography. A swing set, a school bus … the story seemed to move backwards in time, before Star came to the mill and completed her descent.

The pictographs were about waist-level here. Chloe stepped back to get a better view. Was that a house? She side-stepped—and her right foot met only air. Thrown wildly off-balance, she half-fell. Her right shoulder slammed into concrete. Her left leg was jerked sideways with a painful wrench. Her flashlight flew from her hand, thunked against something metallic, and went out.

What the hell had just happened? Gasping, blinking against tears and the sudden gloom, Chloe tried to make sense of the last twenty seconds. When she did, her mouth went dry. While following the graffiti, she'd wandered into the room where they'd found Everett Whyte's body. She remembered Jay imploring them all to use caution here because of trapdoors in the floor.
Each of those trapdoors in the floor leads into a nine-story bin that held twenty thousand pounds of grain
, he'd said.

Someone had opened one of the trapdoors. She had stepped into the hole and partially fallen through. Her body weight pinned her right arm against the hard edge of the opening. Her left hand was free, but there was nothing to grab.

Why hadn't Officer Ashton come back? Was she in earshot, or had she felt compelled to escort the boys all the way outside? “Help!” Chloe tried to cry, but the word emerged more as a croak than a yell. Her body was starting to tremble.

All right,
focus
, she ordered herself. You haven't fallen yet. You can do this.

Clenching her teeth, she leaned farther to the right. With another painful wrench she bent her left leg and tried to draw the knee closer to the edge of the hole. If she could just manage to kneel … and wriggle her right arm up to brace on the other side of the opening …
maybe
she could rise high enough to get her butt up on the floor.

She was straining to accomplish that when something rustled behind her. “Officer Ashton?” Chloe panted. “Help me!”

Footsteps came closer. Then a foot rammed her left knee. She tried to resist the unyielding pressure, but could not. Her left leg slipped through the hole. Pain burst in her hip, then her left elbow as they hit concrete in fast succession. Her legs pedaled frantically. She felt dizzy. She heard herself panting, too terrified to scream.

Her left shoulder struck the edge of the trapdoor, then her head followed.
Grab hold!
her shocked brain commanded, but she was already falling all the way through the hole and into blackness.

Roelke was defeated by a locked garage. Through a side window he could see a Ford Thunderbird—new model, stylish, red. Five minutes inside, and he might have had proof. But he couldn't get at it.

He swore under his breath. Fritz's news had fueled the rage now threatening to devour his self-control, and it took everything Roelke had to
not
kick the door in. You're a better cop than that, he told himself, over and over. You
are
.

Besides, this was a residential neighborhood. He'd taken a risk just in checking the garage door. If some nosy neighbor called the cops, he could probably talk his way out of it. That would take time, though. And he didn't dare risk missing the rendezvous at Forest Home Cemetery. Since he'd failed here, that trap offered his last opportunity to nail Rick's killer.

Chloe's plunge lasted a split second and an eternity. She bounced off something hard and unyielding before hitting something hard but pliable. A harsh and metallic
clang
echoed from above. Then—nothing.

Awareness returned with pain and confusion. Chloe knew she must have blacked out. The notion was appealing because everything hurt.
Everything
. Worst was a throbbing pain in her left wrist. She had a headache, too.

Where was she? The air tasted fetid. The darkness was thick and black. Sitting up seemed impossible, so she tried moving her fingers. Miniscule pellets shifted beneath her skin. She froze. The tiny pellets were wheat seeds, poured twenty years earlier into a concrete bin designed to hold twenty thousand pounds.
Falling on grain is like falling into quicksand,
Jay had said.
Every movement makes you sink.