Tradition of Deceit (4 page)

Five

This, Chloe thought, is
one god-awful mess.

She was sitting on a wide stone windowsill inside the mill. When she put one arm around Ariel's shoulders, she felt uncontrolled shudders spasm through her thin frame.

“It was Professor Whyte,” Ariel whispered, for about the two hundred and thirty-seventh time.

“Yeah,” Chloe said. “I know.” Professor Everett Whyte was one of the key players in the plans to save, restore, and interpret the mill. How the hell had he ended up where he did?

They were waiting for the police to say they could leave. Owen was pacing. Jay was still in the wheat house, talking to the detectives. The ambulance team had removed Everett Whyte's body. But through dirty windows, the cop cars' flashing lights pulsed a dire pronouncement:
Death, death, death.

Chloe felt cold, hungry, and tired. She longed for a swig of something strong enough to purge her mind of what she'd glimpsed in that grain chute. But she didn't have the luxury of self-indulgence—not when Ariel was shivering and white-faced.

“We've already given statements, so why do we need to stay?” Owen exploded. “I'm going to see what's taking so long.”

Chloe was relieved to be rid of Owen's agitation. She needed to calm herself so she could help calm Ariel. Folding her arms, Chloe hunched over her knees. Breathe in, breathe out …

Two sturdy black shoes appeared in front of her. “Would you like some coffee?” a woman asked gently.

Chloe straightened again. “I beg your pardon?”

“It looks like you two could use some hot coffee.” The woman held up a silver thermos. She was maybe thirty-five, with short dark hair styled in a blunt cut possibly designed as homage to Dorothy Hamill, and wise brown eyes behind glasses with blue plastic frames. Jeans showed beneath her coat. “I heard what happened up there. I'm sorry.”

“Are you with the police?”

“No. But the officers know me, and said it was okay if I stepped inside.” The woman set up shop in the next windowsill and produced cardboard cups with little fold-out handles from a hamper. “I'm Sister Mary Jude.”

“You don't look like a nun.” Chloe's cheeks flamed. “That is—
I—sorry.”

Sister Mary Jude smiled as she unscrewed the thermos lid. “I get that a lot.”

Ariel roused herself. “Sister Mary Jude takes care of the homeless people who live in the mill.”

“I'm afraid ‘takes care of' is a bit of a stretch.” Sister Mary Jude poured a steaming cup. “But I do what I can. I have cheese sandwiches too, by the way.”

Chloe introduced herself before sipping gratefully. “Aren't the sandwiches for the people who live here?”

Sister Mary Jude sighed. “We won't see a soul again today. Not until people are sure the police aren't hanging around.”

“Yeah, well, one of those vagrants probably killed the professor.”

The three women turned to the police officer who had made that blunt—and, Chloe thought, premature—assessment. He leaned against a rusty sack-packing machine with crossed arms.

Sister Mary Jude crossed
her
arms. “Do you have reason to believe that, Officer Crandall?”

Crandall shrugged. “We all know it's not the first time a body's been found in the mill.” He looked at Chloe, evidently recognizing her as a newcomer. “A month or so ago we found some dead homeless guy dumped into one of the empty grain bins.”

Chloe winced. Sister Mary Jude stood straighter. “He was not ‘some dead homeless guy,' ” she snapped. “William lived a life much like yours until his family died in a car crash two weeks after he was laid off from his job. When the money ran out, he ended up here. William deserved much better from our society than death in an abandoned mill. His friends put him in the grain bin because they didn't know what else to do.”

“Look, Sister, a lot of people who hang around this place would be a whole lot better off if you didn't encourage them to stay here—”

“Do you think people
want
to sleep in a rat-infested hulk like this? You pompous—”

“O-
kay
,” Chloe said loudly. She admired the nun, she really did, but this debate was fraying her very last nerve. Ariel was giving her best impression of a turtle trying to disappear into a worsted-wool shell.

“Hey, Crandall.” A female police officer with dark chocolate skin and an expressionless face paused nearby. “Let's go.”

Crandall swaggered away. If he's that woman's partner, Chloe thought, I do not envy her in the slightest.

Then again, there wasn't anyone in this mammoth mill that she envied today.

Something in her chest ached. Strange. She'd had a bad shock, but she hadn't known Professor Everett Whyte. So why did she feel grief?

It wasn't grief balling up beneath her ribs, though. It was longing.

Chloe was a strong and capable woman. But at that moment, nothing would make her happier than seeing Roelke McKenna, over-protective boyfriend and take-charge cop, walk through the door.

After leaving Jody, Roelke drove east through Milwaukee. His brain was a slide carousel flashing pictures of him and Rick, fresh from twenty weeks at the recruit academy. Although they'd formally been hired by the city, districts—each with their own buildings and staff—operated almost like individual police departments. Rick and Roelke had been giddy with glee when they were assigned to the same district.

That was in 1975. Just eight years ago, Roelke thought. It felt like eighty. He felt an odd sense of the unknown-familiar as he entered the building and talked his way beyond the lobby. Compared to the Eagle PD, the district was a busy place, with twenty or thirty beat men on a shift, a few detectives, and clerks working the desk.

He hadn't gone far when Captain Heikinen, who ran the district, and Chief Bliss, who ran the city PD, emerged from a meeting room and strode down the hall toward him. Roelke instinctively stepped aside and became fascinated with the floor tile. Back in the day when he'd answered roll call here, he—like all beat cops—avoided the top brass. It was always better to take problems or questions to the sergeants. After eighteen months away, that same instinct kicked in now. The two men passed Roelke and parted with a quick, muttered conversation.

Then the captain backtracked, walking so fast he overtook Roel­ke. Heikinen was a tall man with brooding eyes under a craggy brow and hands big enough to strangle a hog. He'd worked his way into a command position the hard way, and he knew the streets as well as anyone. The district cops would never have said they liked the man, but they respected him.

“McKenna, isn't it?” Heikinen barked.

Muscle memory brought Roelke's hand up in salute. “Yessir.”

“Where are you assigned these days?”

“I'm out in Waukesha County now, sir.”

Heikinen scowled, as if Roelke's move was a personal affront, then went on his way. Okay, Roelke thought. Everybody is operating from a bad place right now, and at least the captain didn't toss you from the building. Get on with it.

Sergeant Malloy was on the phone when Roelke approached, so he paused a respectful distance away. Memory flashed Malloy's greeting when Roelke had first presented his rookie-self way back when: “Get in the car, kid. Don't touch anything, don't break anything, don't say anything unless we're alone. If I want coffee, you get it. If a drunk pukes in the car, you clean it up. Got all that? Yeah? Well then, we'll get along fine.”

Now Sergeant Malloy slammed down the phone and regarded him. “McKenna. I figured I'd see you again today.”

“I don't want to take a lot of your time.”

“Good.” Still, Malloy gestured vaguely to a chair beside the desk.

Malloy was a bulldog—short, squat, muscular, intense. The former Marine was a master at command presence and excelled at talking his way out of trouble. “I know what you're thinking,” he'd once told a gun-waving whacko, while rookie-Roelke looked on, trying desperately to figure out what the hell to do. “Listen, neither one of us wants to get hurt. Let's both put our guns down.”

And they both did.

Now Malloy regarded his old trainee. “So. You want to be a pallbearer?”

The question sucked air from Roelke's lungs. “What I want,” he managed, “is to understand what happened to Rick.”

“We all want that.”

“So, what do you know?”

“Not a whole lot. Yet. He was shot in the back of the head at close range.”

“Why are you saying that he screwed up?”

Malloy's gaze skewered Roelke to his chair. Roelke remembered something Malloy had taught his trainees:
Always look bad guys in the right eye. If they're right-handed—and most of 'em are—it's their dominant eye. You can stare 'em down that way
. It took every ounce of Roelke's control to not look away.

Finally Malloy said, “I believe my exact words were, ‘Almirez may have been too trusting'. ”

“Rick was
always
careful—”

“And I imagine you've heard he missed a mark and was found drinking in a tavern.”

Damn. Roelke had assumed that Dobry hadn't told anyone exactly where he found Rick.

“This,” Malloy was saying, “was after he attended a wedding reception, where I imagine he had one or two cold ones. Just how careful do you suppose he was at 3:45 in the Goddamn morning after all that celebrating?”

Roelke thought of something he should have considered before. Rick had gotten engaged right before starting his shift. If there was ever a time he might …

No
. Roelke's right knee began pumping. “Rick was a good cop.”

“Damn straight. But your friend made a mistake. Have you ever made a mistake on duty, McKenna?”

Roelke gripped the arms of his chair. Short answer: Yes. Too many to count. A few qualified as monumental.

“Being a cop means making a million decisions every day. Some you make in a split second, like reacting if someone you trust pulls a gun. Some you think about, like drinking on the job. Sometimes even good cops make mistakes. I have, you have, Almirez did.”

“I don't think Rick—”

“Shut up, McKenna. It's my job to call things straight. A good cop is dead. The chief and the mayor and all my guys got blood in their eyes. The rookies are shook up. Rick Almirez is a fallen hero, but if mistakes were made, I've got to say so. Stupidass mistakes can get you killed out there. This is a reminder for everybody else. I've got to protect the living.”

Roelke opened his mouth, shut it again.

Malloy leaned forward. “Officer McKenna, I know that you and Almirez were tight. I know you want to charge out there and help nail the asshole who shot a cop. Well, you can't.”

“But—”

“We're going to do this, but we're going to do it right, and
you
”—Malloy jabbed a finger toward Roelke's chest—“don't even work here anymore.”

“But—”

“Your friend got killed. That ain't easy, but sometimes it comes with the job. So do us both a favor and go home.”

“But—”

“Go
home
, McKenna. A full investigation has been launched. We'll find the bastard who did this. Right now, I've got nothing else for you. What I do have is a funeral to plan. So I'll ask one more time. Do you want to be a pallbearer?”

Roelke tried to stare Malloy down, sending a mental message:
I'm not that kid you ordered to clean the squad car. And I've helped out on a homicide investigation or two.

Malloy stared back.

“Yeah,” Roelke finally said. “I do want to be a pallbearer.”

“I'll be in touch, then.” Malloy picked up the receiver on his desk phone and began dialing. Translation:
You are dismissed.

Roelke left the office. He left the building.

He also left Malloy's brick wall behind. The sergeant had said his piece. Most of it even made sense. But I'll be damned, Roelke thought, before I drive back to Eagle and twiddle my thumbs, waiting by the phone for news.

Rick's sardonic voice echoed in his mind:
Don't be a dumbass, Mc-
Kenna
.

“You'd do the same for me,” Roelke muttered and headed for his truck.

Six

When the detectives investigating
Everett Whyte's death finally released the dejected little band of historians, Owen announced his intention to drive the women back to Ariel's apartment. Since Owen had arrived in Jay's car, and since Chloe wasn't keen on urban driving at the best of times, she decided to let him. Ariel curled up on the back seat. Chloe and Owen made the short drive in silence.

The phone started ringing as they walked into the house. Maybe it's Roelke, Chloe thought, before remembering that she hadn't given him the number. Ariel stared at the phone like she'd never seen such a contraption before.

Chloe picked it up. “Ariel Grzegorczyk's home.”

“Chloe?” The voice was male.

Maybe it
is
Roelke, Chloe thought, before realizing that the voice belonged to Jay. I really need to knock off that waiting-by-the-phone thing, she thought irritably. “We just got here,” she said. “Any news?”

“The police issued a preliminary statement. A wound on Everett's head matches a gear wheel up by the distributor.”

“Maybe he tripped,” Chloe suggested. “Or had a heart attack and fell.”

“They don't know if that injury caused his death.”

“I think it takes more time to get an official ruling.”

“Yeah. And actually, that's not why I called. Word is spreading like wildfire. Everett's exhibition will still open tonight, but his friends are going to gather early for a potluck/wake kind of thing.”

Chloe shared that news with her companions. “You guys want to go?”

“Absolutely,” Owen said.

“Yes,” Ariel echoed. “We definitely should do that.”

“We'll be there,” Chloe told Jay. “Thanks for calling.”

Ariel shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the sofa. “I should make a hotdish.”

Chloe almost smiled. Hotdish—a good Minnesota woman's instinctive offering. “I'll give you a hand, but do you mind if I use your phone first?”

Ariel waved a hand:
Help yourself
. Owen followed her to the cubbyhole-kitchen, giving Chloe a semblance of privacy.

She dialed the operator and explained that she wanted to charge a long-distance call to her home number. The call went through quickly. “Eagle Police Department, Officer Deardorff speaking.”

“Skeet? It's Chloe Ellefson. I thought Roelke was on duty this afternoon.”

“He called in sick.”

“He did?” Chloe's eyebrows rose. “Okay. Thanks.”

She disconnected, dialed zero, and placed another call. After the eighth ring the operator said, “Your party isn't answering.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said. “Thanks.”

When she wandered back to the kitchen, Ariel was staring into her cupboards. She turned, blinking as if surprised to see Chloe in her home. “Um … no luck?”

“I was trying to check in with a friend of mine, but he didn't answer. What are you looking for?”

Ariel looked dazed. “Well, my mom made hotdish with ground beef, frozen corn, tater tots, and canned mushroom soup.”

“You're missing an ingredient?”

“All of them. I could make red jello with sliced bananas and green grapes instead, but I don't have any jello.” Ariel looked stricken. “I don't have any jello! I should always have jello and tater tots for when somebody dies!”

Chloe hugged her friend. “Sweetie, jello and tater tots don't matter.”

Owen watched with concern. “Ariel, do you go to church? Maybe we could call your pastor.”

“I haven't been to church since moving to the city.” Ariel pulled away from Chloe's embrace and swiped at her eyes.

“Why don't you call Toby?” Chloe suggested.

Ariel nodded slowly. “Well … yes. I should do that. He'll be home by now.” Clutching her elbows, arms folded across her chest, she headed toward the phone. A moment later the murmur of conversation drifted to the kitchen.

Owen said quietly, “She's in bad shape.”

“Just being in the mill made her anxious enough without … you know.”

“It feels like we walked into
The Twilight Zone
.” Owen settled onto a barstool. “I just can't imagine what happened to Everett.”

“Would he have gone to the mill alone?”

“He's been going there for years.” Owen took an apple from a bowl and began turning it in his hands. “Jay knows the buildings as well as anybody, but all he sees are the historic structures and the stories they can tell.”

Chloe leaned against the sink. “Doesn't that about cover it?”

“Everett's take was unique. He took hundreds of photographs to document the Washburn Mill and everything left inside. But he also sees beauty there … ” Owen faltered. “He
saw
beauty there. He was an industrial historian with an artist's eye.”

“This sounds like a cliché, but can you think of any reason why somebody would want to hurt him?”

“
No
. He was a great guy.” Owen's eyes glistened, and he blinked furiously. “His courses were tough, but he was a good professor. Nothing made him happier than seeing his students get excited about historic buildings and stuff …
God
. Where am I going to find a new advisor?”

Owen's bewildered grief hurt Chloe's heart. “The police will figure out who did this. I'm dating a cop and believe me, once they start an investigation, they don't let go.”

“Everett didn't deserve something like this. I want his killer caught.
Fast
.”

“Maybe nobody actually killed him,” Chloe said. “Maybe Everett had a heart attack in the mill, and the … the tenants didn't know what to do, so they hid the body. Sister Mary Jude said that happened once before.”

“Sister Mary Jude wants to believe the best about everyone, but I have a feeling that Everett happened to cross the wrong path at the wrong time. Maybe he startled some frat boys who'd snuck into the mill for a party last night. Or maybe one of the homeless people went berserk. Some of them are mentally ill.” Owen shook his head.

“A cop named Crandall seemed pretty sure that one of the residents attacked Dr. Whyte,” Chloe said. “Have you met Officer Crandall?”

Owen rotated the apple again. “Sure. The cops patrol through when they can. And Sister Mary Jude is there almost every day, trying to talk one more crazy into leaving the mill or something.”

Chloe profoundly wished that Ariel had been given another project to work on.
Any
other project. It was hard to imagine a task that her friend was less suited for.

Which is why I'm here, she reminded herself. She and Ariel were friends, but at the heart of Ariel's invitation to visit was a plea for help. Their class at Cooperstown had been small—just fourteen people. During the two-year Museum Studies program they'd learned to work collaboratively, letting each member of the group shine in his or her own way. It was nice to think that the bonds forged back then still remained strong.

Ariel plodded back into the kitchen. “Thanks for suggesting the call, Chloe. Talking to my brother helped a lot.” She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I still don't know what to take to the potluck, though.”

“We'll improvise,” Chloe said firmly. “What are those?” She pointed at a pile of old cookbooks on the counter.

“I've been collecting Gold Medal cookbooks. And some are from the Pillsbury Bake-Off. Pillsbury's mill is right across the river. We can't exclude their story just because they were a Gold Medal competitor. Both helped make Minneapolis the flour-milling capital of the world.”

“I'll tell you what,” Chloe said. “If you throw together a salad, I'll bake something.”

While Ariel rummaged in the crispers, Chloe began shuffling through the cookbooks. Halfway through she paused. “Oh
my
. Look at this.” She held up a booklet featuring the 1966 champions of the Pillsbury Busy Lady Bake-Off. A color photograph of a chocolate Bundt cake, cut to show gooey chocolate oozing from the center, graced the cover.

Ariel emerged from the fridge with a glorious purple cabbage in hand. “That's the Tunnel of Fudge Cake. It's probably the most famous Bake-Off recipe of all time.”

“This is the one, then.”

“I actually bought all of the ingredients a while ago. I thought it would be fun to serve at a planning meeting. But I don't really bake.”

“I do.” Chloe skimmed the instructions, glanced at the clock, and nodded. She had just enough time. Since Ariel had the nutrition end of things covered, she'd take charge of comfort food.

Daylight was fading when Roelke parked on Lincoln Avenue. A news van from the local ABC affiliate was parked near the Kosciuszko monument. A young man talked into a microphone while a cameraman panned from reporter to an impromptu memorial. Roelke didn't move until the reporter had finished his standup and the van pulled away.

Something cold squeezed Roelke's chest as he got out of his truck. The statue, depicting General Tadeusz Kosciuszko seated on a prancing horse, had long been a place for Polish-Americans to congregate on festival days. A place for the more recently arrived Mexican and South American parents to rendezvous with their kids after playtime. A place for friends and romantics to meet. Now, this was where Officer Rick Almirez had been murdered.

Bouquets of flowers lay against the statue. Candles flickered in
luminarias
and glass holders. Someone had thrust a simple cross into the hard pile of snow left by the last plow. The flowers were good. And maybe the cross would comfort Rick's family. Roelke stared at it, trying to find some drop of solace for himself. Nothing, nada, zip. Although he'd lapsed years ago, he too had been raised in the Catholic Church. So, he thought, where was God when somebody executed Rick? He looked at the basilica, kitty-corner down the street. The golden dome, which towered over the working-class houses surrounding it, glowed on sunny days. Now, at twilight, even the dome looked bleak. Cars whizzed past, the drivers uncaring.

Finally Roelke turned away, trying to figure out why he was here. Seriously, what could he accomplish that the detectives, with all their resources, could not? Well, maybe keeping busy would keep him from going nuts. Maybe getting a complete picture of his friend's last moments would make him feel better. I just need to understand what happened, he thought.

He stared at the street. As soon as Rick had been found, all hell would have broken loose. The first responder would have made that most dreaded call:
Officer down
. With an ambulance on the way, everybody within phone or handy-talkie or blue light range would descend—patrolmen, detectives, sergeants, captains. Somebody would establish a staging area for the press. Somebody would set a perimeter and organize officers for yard searches, because bad guys were often too panicked or too dumb to hide incriminating evidence well. With any luck …

A gray sedan pulled over and parked nearby. Two people were in the car but only one emerged—Dobry. He added a bouquet of flowers to the shrine, stood for a moment with head bowed, and crossed himself. Only then did he acknowledge Roelke's presence. “Hey.”

“Hey. Didn't expect to see you again today.”

“Tina bought the flowers. She thought we should … you know.” Dobry pulled out his cigarettes and tapped one from the pack.

“I talked to Malloy a while ago. You reported that Rick was drinking?”

“Had to. I told you that Cox reported the missed mark.”

“You could have—”

“What? Lied? Rick would never have expected that.”

Roelke struggled to make his tone more conversational. “No, he wouldn't. I just hate having people saying he did something wrong.”

“Yeah. You hear anything new from Malloy?”

“Malloy told me to take myself home like a good little police officer.”

“Me too, more or less. He put me on desk duty for a while. Said I was too close to Rick.” Dobry scowled. “I should be out there.”

“You should,” Roelke agreed. Dobry was a good cop. He knew he looked like Opie on
The Andy Griffith Show
, and from the day he'd started the academy, he'd worked extra hard to prove himself.

“There is some good news. One of the guys crawling over the neighborhood found the gun in a trash can a couple of blocks from here.”

Roelke felt a tiny spark of hope. “That's great!”

“It's a start, anyway.” Dobry turned his back to the wind and lit up.

Roelke stared at a bouquet of frozen roses. “Listen, Dobry … will you keep telling me what you hear around the station? Being on the outside is making me crazy.”

Dobry exhaled a plume of smoke. “Of course.”

“Jody said Rick called her at one and said something about going to a bar.”

“Probably just a routine bar check.” Dobry shook his head. “But
something
weird happened. I wish to God I knew what was going on with Rick last night.”

“I found out he proposed to Jody.”

“He did? He decided to pop the question, and he didn't tell us about it?”

Roelke didn't want to admit that the secrecy bothered him, too. “I guess he wanted to see what Jody said first,” he said.

Dobry's eyes narrowed. “Well, if ever a guy might decide he deserved a cold one—”

“No.”

“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?”

“Shut it right there.” Roelke wished he'd kept news of the proposal to himself.

A bus belched to a stop at the next corner. Half a dozen people emerged and began trudging home.