Tradition of Deceit (5 page)

“Listen,” Dobry said, “I can't leave Tina sitting in the car too long. She's pretty shook up.”

“Sure.” Roelke glanced at the car. Tina sat looking out the side window, smoking a cigarette of her own. He didn't know Dobry's wife well, but she struck him as aloof, brittle, hard to please.

Or, he thought, maybe she just doesn't like hanging around with cops. Sort of like Chloe. But he didn't have room to think about Chloe right now.

“Hey,” Dobry said, “we're good, right?”

“Sure. We're good.”

After the Baniks drove away, Roelke shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking. What bar had Rick been planning to visit after hanging up with Jody? Maybe someone there had called in a problem. Maybe that problem hadn't ended at the bar. Maybe some pissed-off asshole had followed Rick after he left. Or maybe Rick had spotted a car that belonged to somebody with a warrant, parked outside the bar. It was amazing how many seriously bad guys—dealers, kidnappers, killers—got arrested because of an expired registration, a missing taillight, or a recognizable vehicle parked in plain sight.

Roelke balled his fists. There's nothing more I can do here, he thought. Dobry will keep me posted. I might as well go home.

Just one problem. He still didn't feel like going home.

Roelke got back into his truck and pulled an old map from the glove box. He hadn't worked the district in a while, but he knew this area—knew it well.

It was time to reacquaint himself with the old neighborhood.

Seven

As Owen drove to
the gallery that night, Chloe struggled with a nagging sense of concern about Roelke. He'd been in a strange mood after the wedding, he'd called in sick, and he wasn't answering his telephone. She didn't know what was going on, and she didn't like it.

People were gathering in the atrium by the time they arrived. Ariel and Chloe found room for their culinary offerings on a table near the door. Ariel had concocted a colorful salad, and when Chloe cut pieces of the Tunnel of Fudge Cake, two young men grabbed the paper plates out of her hand. “We done good,” she assured Ariel.

A photograph of Everett Whyte sat on an easel near the food table. Ariel turned away, with Owen on her heels, but Chloe stepped closer. She wanted a mental picture of the living professor to nudge aside the image currently lodged in her brain. The photo showed Dr. Whyte with a thick thatch of white hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy, sun-creased face. He was a small man, standing in front of a grimy door, holding his own camera. He was half-turned, as if someone had called his name and snapped the shot. The professor's grin resembled that of a young boy about to enter an amusement park.

“I can't believe he's gone.”

Chloe found Jay at her shoulder holding two glasses of white wine. When he offered one, she gratefully accepted.

“This is a great picture,” she said. “Professor Whyte looks like a man who spent his years doing work he loved.”

“That he did. And he wasn't slowing down. He'd been dreaming about preserving the mill site for years. Where other people saw obstacles, he saw only opportunity.”

“I wish I'd had a chance to meet him.”

“I just hope the whole consortium doesn't collapse now.”

Chloe sipped her wine, regarding the mourners over the rim. The people talking in hushed clusters ranged from college kids to octogenarians. The group was predominantly male, which wasn't surprising; more men than women specialized in architectural history, and industrial history probably skewed even farther in that direction. But those gathered were of different races, dressed in Sunday finery and blue jeans and everything in between. The diversity said good things about Everett Whyte.

“I'll bet every person here will work to keep his dream of a mill museum alive,” Chloe said. “What better way to honor his memory?”

“You're probably right, but even a short delay could cause enormous problems. We've developed a timeline that takes various grant deadlines into account.”

“Is Ariel's interpretive plan proposal part of that?”

“It's the foundation. The very first step. Everything else flows from that.”

“Ah.” Chloe searched the crowd and saw Ariel talking to a beautiful young woman with long black ringlets wearing a purple ankle-length peasant skirt. “I'm worried about her,” Chloe admitted. “Ariel has always been a bit … fragile. I promised to help brainstorm ideas, so we'll do that before I head home tomorrow evening, and I'll keep in touch with—”

“Everybody?” A young man with Asian features tapped a beer bottle with a spoon. “Thanks for coming. I'm one of Dr. Everett's graduate assistants. Was one.” He cleared his throat. “He worked us hard, but he also made us think. The man could read an old building like a book. He … I … Thank you.” He turned away.

A man wearing a gray suit and a truly ugly bowtie clapped the student on the shoulder before turning to the crowd. “All of us in the Public History Department are stunned by this tragedy. Professor Whyte can never be replaced. But his accomplishments will live on in the work of his students and friends, and in his photographs. In a few moments we'll open the doors to the public. On this terrible night, Everett's work will speak for him.”

Formalities complete, Jay and Chloe wandered into the gallery: white walls, discreet lights, and a few black-and-chrome benches scattered about. An interpretive panel introduced
Beauty in Blight
with an artist's statement from Everett.

“Someone referred to the exhibit as
Beauty AND Blight
once.” Jay chuckled. “Everett bellowed, ‘Those things are one and the same! I'm trying to show why old buildings
matter
!' ”

“I think I would have liked him,” Chloe said wistfully.

She studied a large framed photograph of the towering Gold Medal Flour sign at sunset. The slanting rays struck not the letters, but a broken window in the top story of the head house just below. The juxtaposition of bold pride and cracked decay was poignant and evocative. “Wow.”

“Everett had the eye,” Jay agreed. “He wanted this exhibit to introduce the importance of our city's industrial heritage to a new audience.”

Each photograph revealed loveliness and ruin in the same frame. Rusting machinery, crumbling concrete, and dangling belt drives were paired with vibrant graffiti, an iridescent pigeon sitting on a nest, textured limestone walls, a few weeds in a soup can vase left on a windowsill.

“I'm not much of a city person,” Chloe murmured, “and I admit that before today I would never have used the word
beautiful
to describe urban blight, but …”

“Yeah.”

She blew out a long breath. “Oh, I
really
hope Professor Whyte died of natural causes.”

Jay lowered his voice. “The police asked me if I could think of any reason why someone would want to harm Everett.”

“Can you?”

“Not really, but …” Jay looked pained. “I can't say the mill project isn't controversial.”

“I assume the price tag is, shall we say, high?”

“Certainly some people would rather see the entire mill complex turned into high-rent condos or offices. Everett agreed that our project was only a part of a revitalization plan that's bigger than the mill museum itself, but he argued with anyone not ready to agree that the main mill structures provide a rare—unparalleled, really—opportunity to preserve and interpret a vital part of history.” Jay rubbed his forehead wearily. “Lord, it's been a long day.”

“It
has
been a long day.” Chloe scanned the crowded room. “I imagine Ariel's more than ready to go home.”

And so am I, she added silently, feeling the day's full weight press down. She'd had a late night at the wedding, an early drive to the Twin Cities, and then … this. A hot bath and the dubious comfort of Ariel's sofa sounded too good for words.

And with any luck, she'd even get Roelke to pick up his telephone before she turned in.

At almost eleven p.m., Roelke admitted defeat. He'd visited the Rusty Nail, quickly flashing his EPD badge. The bartender's attitude had bordered on surly: Yeah, Rick Almirez had shown up in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Yeah, he'd ordered a beer.

“What time did he get here?”

“I don't know. And I got customers waiting.”

Roelke glared at him. “I asked what time Officer Rick Almirez arrived. Think—
hard
.”

“Lulu!” the man shouted. “What time did you leave on Saturday morning?”

A brassy blonde wiping the bar paused. “One forty-five. My ride was waiting.”

“Didn't you bump into that cop when you left?”

“Yeah. He was coming in, I was going out.”

The bartender turned back to Roelke. “There you go. He came in at one forty-five.”

One forty-five, Roelke thought. That made no sense. Five minutes before his mark? No cop in his right mind would settle down for a Policeman's Coke five minutes before he was due to call in.

“You done here, officer?”

Roelke was getting very tired of this asshole's tone. “No, I am not. Did Officer Ramirez often come in and drink?”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“Who did Officer Ramirez talk to while he was here?”

The bartender shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Yeah, Roelke thought, and I'm the Pope. He'd never met a bartender who didn't know exactly what was going on in his or her tavern.

“I'll be back,” Roelke said. He liked having the last word.

Outside, he leaned against the wall, feeling the cold creep through his parka. Rick had been drinking in that grubby bar while on duty, just moments before he should have been at the call box; just hours before he was shot in the head. Why?
Why?

There were seven other bars in Rick's beat area. Roelke visited every one. Most were largely indistinguishable from any other Milwaukee tavern, where locals gathered for a cold brew or a fish fry or a game of darts. Some of the bartenders remembered him, some didn't, a couple were new. One of the old-timers glared when Roelke asked if Rick had ever ordered a drink. “I oughta punch you in the mouth. Rick Almirez was a good cop. You were his friend. You should know better than to ask a question like that.”

The man's anger was a comfort. “I'm still Rick's friend,” Roelke said. “And I had to ask.”

Rick had hit several taverns after his shift started at midnight. He'd been called to one to break up a fight between two brothers. He'd been called to another to handle a young couple's screaming match. At another he'd escorted a few underage drinkers to the door. Each situation had been resolved without evident complication. No one remembered seeing Rick between one and two in the morning. No one told Roelke anything that would explain where Rick had gone after he called Jody.

Okay, Roelke thought, Plan B.

He drove back to the district office and parked where he could see people coming and going. Eight minutes later an orange AMC Gremlin pulled in. The woman who emerged was heavyset, with a helmet of gray hair and a purse the size of Rhode Island.

Roelke got out and went to meet her. “Olivette? It's Roelke Mc—”

“Oh,
hon
.” Olivette put a hand on his arm. “I'm so sorry about Officer Almirez.”

“Yeah.” Roelke swallowed, cleared his throat. Olivette was a former prison matron who'd transferred to the district after an inmate threw her against a wall, and her husband insisted that the MPD find something else for her to do. When it came to Olivette, no-nonsense and straightforward worked best. “Did you work graveyard shift last night?”

“Yes.”

“What was Rick's last call?”

“I don't know.”

“Will you get a list of his calls for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You should leave this to the detectives. They know what they're doing.”

“I know they do. But Rick was my friend, and I've got to …” He spread his hands, out of words. The com center was staffed mostly by old guys easing toward retirement, plus any female cop temporarily benched for being pregnant, but there wasn't a soul who wouldn't want to help if Olivette snapped her fingers. She knew all the cops at the district—their quirks, their habits. When rookies screwed up on the radio, she quietly explained the problem instead of scolding or complaining to a sergeant. She'd helped Roelke out of his share of bungles in his early days with the MPD. Either she'd help him now or she wouldn't.

After a moment she opened her purse and pulled out a notepad and pen. “Write down your phone number,” she said. “I'll get back to you.”

“I was looking forward to girl talk tonight,” Ariel said when she and Chloe got back to the apartment. “But I'm ready for bed. Do you mind?”

“God, no,” Chloe assured her. “It's been a long and horrid day.”

After Ariel disappeared up the stairs, Chloe tried calling Roelke again. What the heck? she thought, listening through ten, eleven, twelve rings. No answer.

Chloe brooded about that as she pulled her sleeping bag from its stuff sack and settled on the sofa. Her relationship with Roelke McKenna had its difficult moments, but he was unfailingly steady. This unexplained disappearance was starting to scare her.

She nibbled her lower lip for a moment, then placed another call. “Hey, Libby?” she said, when Roelke's cousin answered. “Sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if you'd heard from Roelke today.” Libby and her two kids were all the family Roelke had. If he was sick or hurt, Libby would know.

“Nope,” Libby said. “But I was out on a winter hike with Justin's scout troop all day, followed by a pizza party. Why? Is everything okay?”

“He and I just miscommunicated somehow. I'm visiting a friend and have been trying to reach him.”

“If you're away, he's probably hanging out with friends, too. Just a sec.” Her next words were muffled. “Justin, I told you to get ready for your bath. You are making a very bad choice right now.” Then to Chloe again, “Sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry to bother you. Talk to you later.” Chloe hung up thinking, Libby's probably right. Roelke had reconnected with old buds at the wedding. Maybe they'd made impromptu plans to continue the reunion. She smiled, remembering him joking gleefully with Rick and Dobry.

Then she remembered the grin Roelke and Lucia Bliss had shared onstage during her seductive rendition of “Slow Hand.” Had that glance been friendly, or salacious? Maybe—

“Oh, screw that,” Chloe muttered. She was not going to wade in that water. What she
was
going to do was keep calling Roelke until she reached him.

Weariness pulled at Roelke's eyelids as he left the interstate and hit the secondary highways that would take him home. Well, no surprise there. Twenty hours had passed since the phone rang. Twenty hours since he'd heard Jody crying over the line. Twenty hours since he'd learned that his best friend was dead.

He slowed when he saw flashing lights ahead. A Waukesha County deputy had pulled over a dark van. As he drew close he recognized Deputy Marge Bandacek. There were at least two guys in the van, maybe more.

Roelke stopped and rolled down the window. “Need help?” he asked quietly, praying that she did not.