Tradition of Deceit (7 page)

“Is he a cop?”

“He's a real estate agent.”

Roelke glanced to the door where Chloe—the smart, strong, and beautiful woman he cared so much about—had disappeared. “Is it hard, being married to someone who doesn't work law en-
forcement?”

“Yeah,” Bliss admitted. “It can be.”

“But you think it can work?”

She sighed. “I sure as hell hope so.”

Hardly a ringing endorsement, Roelke thought.

Bliss leaned into her car and retrieved a glass serving dish. “I brought a tuna casserole. I can do notifications on the job when I have to, but when it's personal, I never know what to say. Were you on your way in or out?”

“In, but—hold on a minute, will you? I haven't talked to anybody from the MPD today. What's the news?”

“You heard they found the gun?”

“Dobry told me that last night, but he didn't know the details.”

“An American Derringer, twenty-five auto.”

Not surprising, Roelke thought. On the street, .22 revolvers or .25 automatics were cheap and available, and he'd pulled a lot of them off bad guys. Crooks rarely bothered to clean their guns, so they were generally pieces of crap. But they were sturdy enough to work anyway and small enough to hide in a pocket.

“Any prints?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” Bliss watched passing traffic. Roelke watched her, alert to something in her expression. Finally she said, “There's something else. They ID'd the gun.”

“They did?” Roelke blinked. That was more than he'd expected.

“It came from Evidence.”

A door slammed behind them. A siren wailed in the distance. A delivery truck pulled into the lot. And all the while Roelke tried to process those four little words. “It came from Evidence?”

“Yeah.”

“The gun that killed Rick came from Goddamned Evidence?
Our
district Evidence?”

“Yeah,” she said bleakly. “Perfect match. Ballistics and serial.”

Roelke's fist came down on the roof of her car so hard that a white flash of pain streaked his vision. Bliss flinched. He turned away.

“McKenna,” Bliss tried.

He kept walking, beyond the end of the parking lot this time, not stopping until confronted by the indifferent brick of an apartment wall. He leaned over, hands on knees, struggling to find enough oxygen.
Jesus
. The gun that killed Rick came from Evidence.

Whenever cops took a gun away from a bad guy, it was fired once and inventoried. Cops recorded the unique tool markings made on the casings when the bullet left the barrel. The inventory noted what was known about the gun's make and provenance, including the serial number. The record would show who'd owned the gun when it came into custody.

But that wasn't the point.

When he could, he straightened again and walked back.

“It's not just you,” Bliss said quietly. “Nobody knows what to think. What to do.”

“Does the press have that juicy tidbit?”

She shrugged helplessly. “Not if the brass can help it, I'm sure.”

“Because you know what this means,” Roelke said flatly.

“Maybe not. There might be some other explanation.”

Roelke shook his head. Nice try, he thought, but, no. Once a gun was inventoried, it was kept in the locked room until guys from the Property Bureau downtown came to collect it.

That meant the SOB who shot Rick Almirez in the back of the head and left him to die in the road, was a cop.

Nine

“I guess we know
why Rick turned his back on the shooter,” Roel­ke said bitterly. “It probably
was
someone he knew. Someone he worked with.”

Bliss jerked her head toward the apartment building. “Should we tell Jody?”

The idea of telling Jody that her fiancé had been killed by another cop made Roelke feel nauseated. “No. Not until there's more to tell. Like, the bastard is in custody.”

“Okay. I won't say anything.”

Roelke leaned against the car and folded his arms. “What the hell is going on, Bliss? What could Rick have done to make someone want to do this? Everybody
liked
Rick. Didn't they?”

“Yeah, everybody got along with Rick.”

“Was he working on something sensitive? Drug stuff?” It wasn't unheard of for a cop to seize six bags of cocaine and inventory five. Or for a couple of guys to bust some underage drinking party, confiscate the booze, and go back to the garage for a party of their own. It didn't happen often, but it happened.

“Not that I know of.”

“If Rick saw somebody on the take, he would have gotten in their face about it. He had no tolerance for that kind of crap.”

“That would be easier to believe if he hadn't been caught boozing it up himself right before he died.” Bliss raised both palms to deflect his glare. “If Rick was hanging out at a bar, there must have been a good reason. But that's not what people are saying. Word's out that he'd just gotten engaged.”

Dobry Banik has a big mouth, Roelke thought irritably.

“It's easy for some people to conclude that he was celebrating while on duty,” Bliss was saying. “And if he'd do that …”

“Let's get back to the gun.” Roelke squeezed the words past clenched teeth. “Who had access to the Evidence room? Did a key go missing?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, can you ask around?”

Bliss worried her lower lip. “Heikinen came to roll call and barked at the whole shift. Basically told us to keep our mouths shut and our noses where they belonged until the killer gets caught. I can't just go poking around.”

Roelke stared at her right eye. “For God's sake, Bliss! It's Rick we're talking about here.”

“I
know
that,” she snapped. “But even if I did manage to hear something, just what exactly would you do with it? Go and question somebody you don't have any right to question? My butt would end up on the kicking end of Heikinen's boot.”

She had a point, but he wasn't willing to let go. “Could you ask your dad?”

“Are you out of your mind? My dad would never discuss anything like that with me. When it comes to police work, I'm just a lowly sergeant.”

Roelke ground his teeth. Word was that Chief Bliss was a tightass.
His
dad had been a cop, too. Roelke understood that Bliss needed to protect her career. Still … “Just keep your ears open, okay? Please. Let me know what you hear.”

“I will,” Bliss promised. “He was my friend, too.”

Chloe hadn't been sure what to make of “artwork” on someone's door, but when she saw a dozen masterpieces created by young hands and fingerpaint, she knew she'd found the right place.

Jody answered the chime, and her eyes lit with appreciation. “Chloe! It's so sweet of you to come.”

The six-plus hours Chloe had spent behind the wheel that day were instantly worthwhile. “I was admiring the artwork. Nieces and nephews?”

“I teach kindergarten.”

“You teach kindergarten?” Chloe's throat swelled. For some reason that made everything seem worse.

“Please, sit down.” Jody indicated a plump sofa. “Want some coffee or tea? Or something to eat? People have brought all kinds of food.”

“Tea would be great.”

After Jody disappeared into the kitchen, Chloe sized up the apartment. The décor held muted tones of beige and rose, but more student art provided cheerful splashes of color. Two easy chairs matched the sofa, the twin bookcases hadn't been banged together from particle board, and the print of Lake Michigan shoreline on the opposite wall had been beautifully framed. A picture on the end table showed Rick and Jody facing each other in a crowd. Rick was holding Jody's waist and smiling at her with intense joy. Jody's hands rested on his shoulders, her head tipped back to meet his gaze.

Jody returned with steaming mugs. “That was taken at Summerfest. I think Rick decided to propose that day, even though it took him seven more months to work up the nerve.”

Chloe felt a new fissure in her heart. “You two were engaged?”

“Oh, sorry—I assumed Roelke had told you.” Jody reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “Rick asked me after the wedding reception, right before he went to work, actually. And you know what's terrible?”

Everything,
Chloe wanted to say. “What?”

“All those months, I kept hoping that Rick wouldn't buy me a ring. I wanted to help pick it out, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So he didn't buy me one. We were going to go look together. Then a few hours later he gets killed. Now I wish like
anything
I had a ring that he'd picked out for me.”

Chloe reached for a tissue and blew her nose, too.

Jody used a spoon to squeeze her teabag. “Chloe, I want to say some things that I probably won't have the nerve to say later.”

“Um, okay.”

“Rick didn't propose for so long because he's—he was—a cop. And I'm not.” Jody gave Chloe a level gaze. “You understand what I'm talking about?”

“I think so,” Chloe said, although she wasn't sure.

“Once our relationship got serious, I thought about it a lot. We
even took a couple of weeks away from each other because I
needed to decide if I could handle it. And knowing that the person you love most might get killed every time he goes to work is only the beginning.”

Do I want to hear this? Chloe wondered, but wanting didn't count; she needed to hear this. “Go on.”

“Cops work all kinds of hours. They can get called in for emergencies, so it's hard to make plans. They don't make a lot of money, so they pick up odd shifts when they can.”

Chloe thought of all the times she and Roelke had struggled to find time for a date. “I do know a little about that.”

“All guys like Rick and Roelke and Dobry want to do is help people, you know? That's why they became cops. But they get sucked into all kinds of human misery, day after day after day. They don't want to bring it home, but they can't help it. And that can take a toll on the people they love.”

Chloe remembered Dobry's wife, polite but distant.

“There are things they won't talk about. I don't mean secret stuff, I mean all the things they believe to their bones that no one can understand except another cop. Do you know what the divorce rate is for cops?”

“I do not.”

“It's sky-high. Highest of all is a cop married to someone who isn't a cop—
God
.” Jody abruptly put her mug down and tea sloshed over the rim. “I shouldn't be talking like this.”

“It's all right,” Chloe said quietly. “If this is what's on your mind, it's exactly what you should be talking about.”

Jody blotted the spill with tissues. “I know you and I only just met, but I knew right away we could be good friends, and … and I thought you should know. I don't know how serious things are between you and Roelke—”

Neither do I, Chloe thought.

“—but maybe you need to do what I did. Take some time to really think things through before it goes any further.”

“I'll do that,” Chloe promised. “But Jody? Although I haven't been around cops as long as you have, I know a few things, too. I know that coming here”—she gestured at the peaceful, feminine space—“was good for Rick. I know you were a good partner for him. I know these last months were the happiest of his life because of you.”

Jody summoned a watery smile. “No wonder Rick spoke so
highly of—”

The doorbell cut off the rest of her sentence, which Chloe thought was just as well. She wiped her eyes while Jody went to the door.

It was no surprise to see Lucia Bliss follow Jody back to the living room. It
was
a surprise to see Lucia alone. Where was Roelke?

“Did you two have a chance to meet on Friday night?” Jody asked. “Lucia, this is Chloe Ellefson. She's a friend of Roelke's.”

Chloe offered a very polite smile. “We didn't officially meet. Hi, Lucia.”

“Hi.” Lucia put a CorningWare dish on the coffee table. “Jody, I brought you a tuna casserole.”

The Wisconsin version of hotdish, Chloe thought. Probably tuna, noodles, and cream-of-something soup. It was hard to know what else had been included—a can of peas maybe?—beneath the crust of crushed potato chips. She wished she'd had time to make a Tunnel of Fudge Cake. Maybe she could bring one over later. Jody probably already had three tuna casseroles in her freezer, but surely no one had brought such decadent chocolate comfort. Roelke might like it too …

Roelke
. What the heck was taking him so long? Chloe glanced out the front window just in time to see him drive out of the parking lot, turn onto the main street, and disappear.

Roelke drove straight to the old neighborhood. A district cop had killed Rick—or, at the very least, provided the gun. He had to find out who, and why.

Don't be a dumbass, McKenna.

“Too late to change now, buddy,” Roelke muttered. He parked on Lincoln and got out of the truck.

He'd patrolled these streets for six years and been away less than two. He still knew this beat—the bad corners, the homes most vulnerable to robberies, the spots most enticing to homeless adults and runaway teens. He knew where to warm up on frigid nights. He knew where to hole up if a smartass sergeant came out to check up on the beat men. Most just wanted to know their guys were safe, but every once in a while some overzealous newly promoted sergeant went looking for someone to report. It was fun to play cat-and-mouse with those guys. Usually they calmed down quick enough.

It wasn't just the place that felt familiar, though. It was the people who lived and worked in this neighborhood—Poles, Latinos, American Indians, others, too. Roelke knew the knuckleheads and the drunks. He knew the people who'd go out of their way to help the police, the people who didn't want to get involved, the people who simply didn't give a damn. He knew who spoke English and who could translate for the Hispanic people who did not. He knew who had a telephone, who locked their doors, who looked out for their neighbors.

Roelke zipped up his coat and tugged on gloves. He might need
to talk to any number of people before finding all the answers.
Right now, he was only looking for one.

It didn't take long to find the man in a pocket park in Lincoln Village, near the basilica. Roelke heard tuneless harmonica chords before spotting a figure in tattered military fatigues sitting on a bench, puffing away while pigeons pecked at the ground around his feet.

Roelke approached slowly. “Hey, Sherman.”

The man broke off abruptly and sat up straight, his bright blue eyes wide with alarm. Then he nodded vigorously. “Officer McKenna!”

To Roelke's relief, Sherman looked relatively sober. Aside from a few more gray streaks in his beard and matted hair, he hadn't changed since they'd last talked.

Sherman had drifted around Milwaukee's Old South Side for years, drinking too much, always wearing military camouflage. Word was he was a 'Nam vet who'd spent time as a POW. Roelke hated seeing him live on the streets, but he'd never been able to pry any information about family from the guy. Maybe he didn't have any. Maybe they'd given up on a returned soldier who couldn't find his way back to his prewar self.

The older man suddenly frowned. “Where's your uniform?”

“I don't work for the MPD anymore. I'm still a cop, though.”

“That's good.” Sherman looked relieved. Then his expression turned hopeful. “Say, do you feel like eating a cheeseburger? I feel like eating a cheeseburger.”

Roelke almost laughed. “I do,” he said. “Let's go.”

Five minutes later they entered a local diner, a narrow space with counter service on one side and booths along the other wall. Roelke chose the back corner, glad there were few other patrons. He wanted a private conversation. Besides, he'd forgotten how bad someone with no access to a shower smelled. He didn't want to inflict that on other people.

Roelke ordered coffee, cheeseburgers, fries, and double helpings of cole slaw—God only knew when Sherman had last eaten any vegetables—and let the man enjoy his meal. When the last morsel had disappeared, Sherman wiped his mouth politely with a napkin. “Thank you. Do you think they might have an extra bun or two in the kitchen? I'd like to take something back for my pigeons.”

“I'll ask.”

“You were always nice to me. Some of the new guys, all they want to do is blue card me.”

“Yeah.” Roelke sighed. The standard procedure after finding a drunk on the street was to haul him in to sleep it off for five hours. A blue card was filled out to document the offender—time in and time out. And in his day, Roelke had found Sherman falling-down drunk more than once.

Trouble was, even in winter, blue carding him was the worst possible response. Sherman freaked
out
if he sobered up and found himself in a holding cell. After one such experience, Roelke avoided hauling the guy in if at all possible. A cup of coffee and a cheeseburger were sometimes enough to ward off a binge.

“Officer Banik is okay, too,” Sherman amended. “He doesn't buy me cheeseburgers, but he usually leaves me alone. And Officer Almirez is nice. But … I heard about what happened to him.”