Tradition of Deceit (6 page)

Marge hitched up her duty belt. “I got it.”

Roelke nodded and drove on. He was too exhausted to be of much good to anybody, especially Marge. She could be a pain in the ass, and he had no energy to deal with that right now. None.

When he finally reached Palmyra, he parked in the lot behind his walkup flat. He heard his phone ringing as he trudged up the stairs. “Jesus,” he muttered. It was almost two in the morning. He unlocked the door and walked back to his tiny living room. “McKenna here.”

“Roelke?”

He dropped onto the sofa and pushed one knuckle against his forehead.

“It's me,” Chloe said.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. “I'm sorry to call so late.” Chloe's voice had grown stiff. “But I was getting worried. I knew you were expecting me to call, and—”

“Rick is dead.”

The sharp intake of her breath sounded over the line. “
What
? Oh my God. What
happened
? He was on duty?”

Roelke's eyes began to sting. “Yeah. Listen, Chloe, I—I just can't—I've been up since—”

“It's okay. I can hear the details later, it's just that … I'm sorry, Roelke. I'm so, so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I'll get on the road first thing in the morning. If I leave by—”

“You don't have to.”

“I want to be there.”

Another pause stretched over three hundred miles of phone line. He knew she was waiting for him to say something. But he couldn't find the right words, and besides, his throat ached so much he could hardly speak. “I've got to get some sleep,” he managed. “I'm on at eight.”

“Okay. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow.”

This time he couldn't push even a monosyllable from his throat. Seconds ticked by. Then he hung up the phone.

Eight

Chloe woke Sunday morning
to a percolator's burble. All of yesterday's horror and sadness flooded back. Her eyes filled and she curled down in the sleeping bag, wishing she could stay there all day. Comforting Ariel had been a struggle, but she'd failed Roel­ke. Chloe flexed her fingers, remembering how she'd clenched the receiver, willing her strength to somehow travel through the line to him. Damn, she thought, cursing the phone, the distance. She hadn't known Rick Almirez for long, but she'd liked him a lot.
Be patient with that guy
, he'd whispered.
You're good for him.

I'll be there for Roelke
, she promised Rick silently.
If he'll let me, I'll be there
.

The scent of coffee wormed through her nylon cocoon, and she had a long drive and difficult homecoming ahead of her. She unzipped the sleeping bag and stumbled to her feet.

Ariel turned from the counter. “I hope I didn't wake you.”

“I needed to get up.” Chloe wriggled into jeans and padded into the kitchen. “Did you get any rest?”

Ariel handed her a glass of orange juice. “Some. Say, do you talk in your sleep? I thought I heard you in the middle of the night.”

Lovely. “Sorry I disturbed you,” Chloe said. “I was on the phone, actually. I'd been trying to reach this guy I've been seeing.”

Ariel's eyebrows lifted. “Sounds serious.”

“It's kinda serious,” Chloe admitted. “His name is Roelke Mc-
Kenna.”

“Keep talking. Fruit and yogurt okay for breakfast?”

“Perfect.”

“So, Roelke McKenna.” Ariel disappeared behind the refrigerator door. “Does he work at Old World?”

“No. He's a police officer.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Ariel took that in. “Not what I would have guessed.”

“Nor anyone else. Including me.”

Ariel began slicing bananas. “He must be a good guy.”

Something beneath Chloe's ribs tightened, like a knot being cinched tighter. “Yeah. He's a good guy. Speaking of guys, is it just my imagination, or does Owen have a crush on you? Anything going on there?”

Pink spots appeared on Ariel's cheeks. “He hasn't asked me out or anything.”

“Would you say yes if he did?”

“I don't know. It might complicate things. He doesn't work for the MHS, but he's very involved in the mill project. And …” She shrugged. “He's younger than I am.”

“Roelke's four years younger than I am,” Chloe told her. “And at least Owen's a history nerd. He's a born interpreter.”

“True.” Ariel almost smiled as she slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “But back to your middle-of-the-night phone call. Is everything okay?”

“He had terrible news. His best friend Rick, also a cop, was killed on duty sometime early Saturday morning.”

“Oh,
no
.” Ariel squeezed Chloe's hand. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Chloe wiped her eyes. “Me, too. Roelke is really torn up. And … I feel like I need to be there.”

Ariel's eyes widened slightly. A flash of—what? Disappointment? Anxiety?—appeared, then was gone.

Chloe rubbed her forehead. Shit. “I'm sorry, Ariel. After what happened yesterday … and we haven't had a chance to catch up, much less talk about the interpretive plan.”

“Of course you have to go. Don't worry about the interpretive plan.”

The percolator's little signal light turned from red to green. Chloe got up and poured them both a mug of steaming coffee. “Do you have spare copies of any of the research material?”

“I do, actually. I've kept a master file
and
a working file where I can scribble.”

“If you're willing to loan me the master, I'll read through it when I get home. We can kick ideas around over the phone.” Chloe sat back down. “This isn't the weekend we'd planned.”

“Not quite.” Ariel looked wan. “But I understand. Maybe we can try again sometime.”

“We will,” Chloe said firmly. She added silently, As soon as I'm sure Roelke is okay.

Roelke scowled at the typewriter in the EPD's cramped squad room. He was not a great typer at the best of times. Which this was not. He was about ready to heave the machine through the window.

He got up and poured himself another cup of stale coffee. It was after one o'clock. Chloe must be getting close to home, if she'd truly gotten an early start. If she came at all, after he'd practically hung up on her.

Well, if she's mad, she'll have to be mad, he thought. He had to focus on getting through this shift so he could get back to Milwaukee. An Eagle citizen had called earlier, concerned about a vacuum cleaner salesman. “When was the last time you heard of someone selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door?” she'd demanded. “He might be casing the neighborhood.” Roelke had found the salesman and informed him of the village policy against soliciting. The guy had apologized respectfully and driven away.

Filling out the damn form was taking longer than handling the incident itself. Roelke dropped back into the chair, reached for the bottle of Wite-Out, and unscrewed the lid. The tiny brush emerged dry, scattering white crumbs. “Dammit!” he exploded. He got up again and stormed to his locker. He didn't like to mess with the clerk's stuff and always kept a few basic supplies stashed for emergencies.

You are such a Boy Scout!
Rick hooted in his memory. A long-standing joke.

I try to be prepared, like you were NOT when whatever SOB pulled a gun on you
, Roelke snapped back silently.

And immediately felt worse.

You have to focus on Eagle right now, not Milwaukee, he told himself. But when he wrenched open the locker door, the woman in the photo on the shelf smiled down at him. Erin Litkowski was a pretty redhead he'd met on a domestic call back in his Milwaukee days. Her sister had given Roelke the photo after Erin fled the state to escape her husband. Roelke kept it in his locker as a reminder that for every victim of violence, there were loved ones who suffered, too.

Like I need a reminder of that, Roelke thought. He stared grimly at the photo. Maybe he should have stayed in Milwaukee instead of moving out to Eagle. He'd wanted to be close to his family—Libby and her kids—but Rick was family, too. Like a brother, really. And—

He twitched when the phone rang, both relieved for the interruption and dreading another call about errant salesmen. He dropped back in his chair and grabbed the receiver. “Eagle Police Department, Officer McKenna speaking.”

“Hi, hon. It's Olivette. I've got that list of Rick's calls. Pretty ordinary stuff.” She ran through the calls Roelke had already discovered in his own round of neighborhood bars. “And I have his last call. The owner of Gus's Market was worried about some kids loitering in front of his shop.”

Roelke knew the place. “What time was that?”

“Three-seventeen in the a.m.”

Roelke beat a pencil against the counter, unable to find anything meaningful in the new info.

“I'm on days this week. You need anything else, you just call.”

“Thanks, Olivette. I really appreciate it.”

Roelke hung up and pulled a pack of index cards from his pocket. On one he wrote what he knew of Rick's last hours:

Midnight—shift starts

12:50—calls in on mark
1:00—calls Jody from payphone
1:50—misses his mark; spotted drinking at the Rusty Nail
2:50—calls in on mark
3:17—responds to last call at market
3:45—report of shot fired

Just one shot fired, Roelke thought. A single shot to the back of the head. Had Rick turned his back on someone he trusted? If he was hurrying, as the timeline suggested, had he not been as attentive as he should have been?

But Rick was careful. Never sloppy.
Never.

Roelke slapped another index card on the counter and began to write.

1. verify Rick was actually drinking at Rusty Nail
2. check call box history—pattern?
3. FI reports?
4
.

A man wearing a Sunday suit walked through the front door. Roelke shot to his feet. “Chief! Is there a problem?” Sometimes the good people of Eagle, who liked the chief as much as his officers did, called him at home instead of contacting the PD.

“I came to see you, McKenna,” Chief Naborski said. He pulled over the clerk's chair and sat down. “I heard about what happened. I know that was your old beat, and that this officer was a friend. How are you holding up?”

Chief Naborski was not a man for empty pleasantries or BS, so Roelke had no idea how to answer that. “I'm holding it together,” he said finally. “But I'd like to take a few days off. I called some of the part-timers and got all my shifts covered for the week.”

Naborski looked pensive. He was of medium build, but one look at his eyes would deter anyone stupid enough to consider taking him on. “What do you have in mind?”

“I need to be in Milwaukee.”

Naborski ran a hand over his gray hair, which was buzzed military style. It reminded Roelke that the chief had survived the Korean War, and therefore nothing in Eagle—or Milwaukee—was likely to faze the man now. The chief said, “You know they've got their best guys working the investigation.”

“But the thing is, sir, I really don't give a rat's ass who's working the case. I need to be part of it.”

The older man tipped his chair back on two legs. “Why?”

“Because Officer Almirez was my partner once, and my best friend.”

“Not good enough.”

Oh, I'm just getting started, Roelke thought. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I know the way Rick worked. How he thought. How he interacted with people. Also, I know the beat. I haven't been gone all that long—people will remember me. Some of them will be more willing to talk to me now, since I'm not MPD anymore.”

Naborski eyed him for another long moment. Then his chair thumped back to neutral. “Okay. I'll give you a week. After that, I want you back here on duty with your head screwed on straight.”

“Yessir.”

“But I do not know a thing about this, got it?”

“Yessir.”

“And you listen to me.” Naborski's gaze was intense. “Do not do anything illegal. Do not do anything that will cause trouble for the Milwaukee guys. Do not do anything that will reflect poorly on this department.”

“I won't.”

“And do not let the way you feel make you stupid.”

Roelke swallowed, wondering if that ship had already sailed. “I won't.”

“Switch the phone to the sheriff's line and skip the rest of your shift.” Chief Naborski stood. He let his hand rest on Roelke's shoulder for a moment before leaving.

Roelke turned back to the typewriter, figuring he should at least finish the report before taking off. He had just claimed victory when Chloe walked in. Her coat was unzipped and her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were uncertain.

“Hey,” he said.

Chloe wrapped him into a hug. He felt her arms squeezing his shoulders and smelled her hair, and it was all so good that it scared him. He pulled away. “You didn't have to cut your trip short.”

“I wanted to be here for you.”

He didn't have room for that. No room for her. Not while Rick's killer was still roaming Milwaukee. But he didn't know how to explain, so he didn't say anything.

Chloe bit her lip and looked away. Finally she said, “I also wanted to visit Jody. Were you planning to see her today?”

“I was, but …” He waved a vague hand. “I can't take you. I'll be staying in Milwaukee for a while. I don't know how long. I've got some people I need to see tonight.”

“How about if I follow you there?” she said evenly. “I know you're off duty. I ran into Chief Naborski outside.”

Roelke didn't want to imagine what that conversation might have covered. “Sure,” he told her. “I'm going to change out of uniform. Then we can go.”

Be patient with that guy. You're good for him.
Rick's final words to Chloe rang in her head as she drove to Milwaukee. “I'm trying,” she said, on the off-chance that Rick was hovering nearby, “but I sure could use some help. You knew him a lot longer than I have. What do I say to the man?”

She waited, but evidently Rick wasn't ready or able to whisper advice. Or maybe, she thought, he doesn't know what I should say to Roelke right now either. Chloe felt fatigue tug at her. Maybe she should have stayed in Minneapolis after all. She'd left a friend who wanted her company and driven five hours to be with one who, evidently, did not. Well, at least she could offer condolences to Rick's girlfriend.

Jody lived in an apartment complex in the southwest suburbs. Chloe managed to reach the parking lot without losing her guide, and parked her Pinto next to Roelke's truck. They got out of their vehicles.

“Shall we go in?” Chloe asked.

“Sure,” Roelke said, but he was watching a beat-up gray Datsun turn into the lot. Sergeant Lucia Bliss emerged.

“Chloe, you go on ahead,” Roelke said. “Jody's apartment is the first on the left. The one with artwork on the door. I'll be along.”

“Hey, Bliss.” Roelke strode across the lot to meet her. They met with a quick hug, a reminder that Bliss was not actually one of the guys.

“McKenna. Good to see you.”

“You, too.” Being around people who had known Rick helped, somehow. Bliss wore her uniform, but her usual attitude of capability was gone. Her eyes were red. The knot of hair behind her head looked haphazard. She raised a hand to brush an escaping strand from her eyes.

Roelke blinked as something winked in the sun—a diamond ring, worn above a gold band. “Bliss, did you get married?”

“Hadn't you heard?” She regarded the rings. “Almost a year now.”