Murder on the Rocks (16 page)

“But if money is his big motivator, why not just kill his wife? That would get him
the money, assuming he didn’t get caught.”

“There’s the rub then. As the husband he’d be the primary suspect and I think he’s
smart enough to know that. So maybe he vented on the woman he thinks screwed him over.”

I gave him a curious look. “Do you think she did screw him? Is there evidence to suggest
Ginny wasn’t honest in her dealings?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t had time to look into Ginny’s business dealings that closely
yet. But I’m not sure Amundsen’s interpretation of the way Ginny presented the deal
is how it actually went down. Amundsen was, and I think still is, a desperate man.
And people in general tend to hear what they want to hear, desperate people even more
so.”

I nodded and another silence followed as we drank. Then Duncan said, “I suppose it’s
only fair to tell you that I haven’t ruled you out yet, either.”

I nearly choked on my drink and Duncan slapped me gently on the back a couple of times.
Something in the experience, though I don’t know if it was the choking or Duncan’s
touch, made me see bright sparkly lights overhead.

“Are you all right?” Duncan asked.

I grabbed a napkin to cough into and nodded. “I’m okay,” I said when I could. “You
just caught me off guard.”

“I’m good at doing that. They teach it to us in detective school.”

I realized his hand was still on my back, just lying there. Feeling awkward, I slipped
off my stool and from beneath his touch. I made my way behind the bar, holding what
was left of my drink, which I poured down the sink. I washed the glass, set it aside
to dry, and said, “I think it’s time we call it a night. You’re welcome to come back
tomorrow and continue your little charade. I open for lunch at eleven.” I paused,
drying my hands on a bar towel. “That is, unless you plan to arrest me before then.”

“I’m not going to arrest you tonight, or tomorrow,” he said. “Unless you confess,
or some solid evidence turns up that changes my mind. There are still too many things
that don’t add up.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that Ginny’s car is still missing.”

“You haven’t found it?”

He shook his head. “But don’t worry. While it’s true I can’t rule you out as a suspect
yet, you’re very low on my list. Mainly because I don’t think you killed your father
and my gut keeps telling me these two murders are connected somehow.”

“Whatever.” I felt a tiny surge of anger and I wasn’t sure why. I suppose it might
have been the fact that this man, who I found myself increasingly attracted to, thought
I might be a murderer. As romantic notions go, that one was a real relationship ender.
Then again, I already had a relationship that I barely had time for so the idea of
starting another one was rather ridiculous. “It’s been a very draining day and I’m
really tired, so if you don’t mind . . .”

Duncan nodded, finished off his drink, slid off his stool, and headed for the door.
I followed and watched as he took a few seconds to scan the street outside before
turning back to me. “I know this has been hard on you. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Give me your cell phone.”

“What? Why?” The sudden change of topic and his request had me momentarily confused
and frazzled.

“Please, just give me your cell phone.”

“Why? Do you think there’s evidence of criminal activities on it? Or are you afraid
I’m going to use it to book my escape out of the country? Because I have to tell you,
I have landlines, too,” I added, only half joking as I took the phone from my pocket
and handed it to him.

“I do want to look at your recent calls but I also want to give you my personal number.”
I watched him as he scanned through my call log, which didn’t take long. I don’t have
many people to call and I carry the phone mainly during work hours in case I have
an emergency. When he was done weighing the pathetic dregs of my social life, he plugged
his name into my contacts along with a number before handing the phone back to me.
“Call me if anything occurs to you, if you need me for any reason, or if anything
happens, okay?”

I nodded, both bemused and amused. Apparently my expression showed that because Duncan
cocked his head at me and said, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He scrutinized me for a few seconds and I made a concerted effort to shift my facial
expression to neutral. “Make sure you lock up behind me,” he said finally.

“Trust me, I will.”

He stepped outside and stopped just beyond the stoop, waiting for me to close the
door and throw the locks. Once I had, he turned and walked away, leaving me with an
oddly hollow feeling I wasn’t sure was real.

I busied myself turning off the bar lights before heading upstairs. By the time I
showered and got ready for bed, I felt wired and tense. Sleep seemed unlikely but
ever the optimist, I turned out my bedroom light and slipped between the sheets. The
darkness felt heavy around me, a weight I could actually feel. I tossed and turned
for an interminable amount of time, hearing odd sounds and seeing movements in the
shadows that might have been real or creations of my synesthetic mind. Frustrated,
I punched the mattress, sat up, and started to reach for the light. But as my hand
touched the switch, I had a sudden urge to look out my window and parted my drapes
just enough to take a peek at the street below. My bedroom is located on the side
of the building overlooking the street that connects with the alley, and for a few
seconds I stared at that intersection, wondering what had happened there with Ginny
last night while I slept, oblivious.

Something caught my eye and when I looked that way I saw movement inside a car parked
across the street off to the left, near the entrance to the alley. My hackles rose;
then a face I recognized appeared in the car window.

I pulled back and sat there a moment, contemplating what I’d seen. Then I settled
back into my bed and closed my eyes.

Though I didn’t know if he was out there to watch the crime scene, or to watch me
because I was a suspect, it didn’t matter. Knowing Duncan Albright was nearby allowed
me to finally drift off to sleep.

I
slept until just before nine the next morning and the first thing I did was look
out my bedroom window to see if Duncan was still there. There was a police car parked
in the same spot but the officer standing outside it wasn’t Duncan. There was also
a news van parked out there, which convinced me to stay inside. I got out of bed,
turned on the coffeepot, and grabbed a bagel out of the bread box. That’s when I was
reminded of my missing knife collection. By now it was probably sitting bagged and
tagged in an evidence locker somewhere. I made do with one of my regular silverware
knives and settled in to eat with the Capone book I’d found, my laptop, and a cup
of hot coffee.

The first thing I did was check the local news on my laptop. Ginny’s murder was top-of-the-page
news, but the article wasn’t as long as I expected. It was basic information: the
location where the body was found and the fact that the victim was a successful Realtor
named Ginny Rifkin. That’s probably all the information that the cops were willing
to release to the media by the time things went to press.

The article made no mention of any specific suspects, nor did it reveal the cause
of death. All that would come later, after the autopsy was done and the police had
a little more time to investigate. And if what happened when my father was murdered
was typical, the story would be front-page news for a day or three, maybe a week if
there were any breaks, and then it would disappear to make room for more current events—a
sad commentary on the ever-moving machine of life.

When I finished with the news, I took out the e-mail Ginny had written to my father.
Then I spent the next half hour on my laptop, exploring the Internet sites listed
in the e-mail. It was more of the same information the book covered: theories, rumors,
and speculations about Capone’s life, motivations, actions, and secrets. And there
were plenty of secrets surrounding the man: gangsters, greed, murder, and corruption
leading to rumors about bastard offspring, underground bootlegging tunnels, hidden
caches of cash and booze, and a quirky set of mob-related morals.

By the time I finished perusing the various Web sites, it was after ten, so I dressed,
contained my curls in a hair clip, brushed my teeth, threw on some mascara and lipstick,
and headed down to the bar to begin my preparations for the day. I saw Debra hurrying
up the sidewalk toward the door carrying a tray of whatever baked goods she was bringing.
I swear the woman is a hybrid mix of Betty Crocker and Ann Landers. Two men—one with
a camera and the other with a microphone—were hot on her heels and seeing that her
hands were full, I hurried over to unlock and open the door for her. The second she
stepped inside I slammed the door closed, just as the reporter started firing questions.

“Sheesh, quite the gauntlet,” Debra said, walking over and setting her tray of goodies
on the bar. She grabbed a bar towel and used it to dab at the beads of sweat on her
face. The strangely hot weather was continuing and the day was promising to be a real
scorcher. “I brought carrot cupcakes today,” she said, tossing her towel into the
hamper behind the bar while I wondered how she found the time.

Shortly after Debra’s arrival, Pete Sampson, my daytime bartender, showed up. He,
too, was followed by the TV crew but he ignored them as he unlocked the front door
and let himself in. Pete was in his sixties and a retired pharmaceutical rep who worked
part-time for me to augment his income. At one time he had been a regular customer
of ours, but around a year and a half ago, when my father found out Pete had once
made his living as a bartender and was looking for part-time work, he offered him
a job helping to cover our lunchtime rush. Pete started the very next day.

He reminded me of my father a lot; they had the same white hair, blue eyes, and slightly
pudgy build. Their personalities were much alike as well. Pete had the same affable
nature, quick wit, and tender heart. He was also a widower like my father had been.
His wife had died of cancer when she was in her late thirties and Pete raised his
two sons on his own after that. They were both grown and out on their own now, and
neither of them lived in Milwaukee. The eldest, Skip, was a successful criminal lawyer
who lived and practiced in Madison; the other, Nate, was an IT guy who worked for
Intel out on the West Coast.

The fact that Skip was a lawyer wasn’t lost on me. Realizing I might need one, it
was a subject I intended to broach with Pete today at the first opportunity. Pete
knew what was going on; he had called me several times yesterday after I called him
off for his regular lunchtime shift. He was up to speed on Ginny and the murder, but
he wasn’t aware of my arrangement with Duncan, so as soon as he arrived, I took him
aside and filled him in. I kept it brief, wanting to get as much info to Pete as I
could before Duncan arrived. He listened carefully as I explained the charade and
the fact that the other staff knew about it but were sworn to secrecy for now.

“So I hope I can count on you to play along, too,” I concluded.

He nodded his agreement, but didn’t look pleased. “Do they have a prime suspect?”
he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said, debating whether or not I should say anything about Gary.
I could tell that Debra, though she made a great effort to look busy and distracted,
was eavesdropping on our conversation. “They’ve been questioning a lot of people and
I suspect you’ll be added to that list today if they haven’t talked to you already.
So far, ironclad alibis seem to be few and far between and I’m not certain they even
have a definite time of death yet, so there are a lot of people they’re looking at,
including me.”

“You?” Pete scoffed. “Why would they suspect you?”

I shrugged. “Well, there is the fact that her body turned up out back, and the fact
that I knew her. They seem to think I might have had some jealousy toward her because
of her relationship with my father.”

“That’s absurd,” Pete said.

“Detective Albright seems to think there might be a connection between Ginny’s murder
and my father’s.” Recalling the book and e-mail I found yesterday I asked, “Did my
father ever say anything to you about Al Capone?”

“Al Capone?” He looked at me like I’d just lost my mind. “No. Why? Do the cops think
your father had mob connections?”

Pete’s quick leap to this assumption startled me. “Did he?” I shot back, even though
I knew in my heart that the idea was ridiculous. Pete didn’t bother dignifying my
question with an answer. Instead he just stared at me with an expression of disbelief.

A lump formed in my throat, which triggered a buzzing sound in my ears. Tears welled
in my eyes and Pete’s expression morphed into one of sympathy. He reached over and
pulled me to him, giving me a hug.

“You listen to me, Mack. Those cops are a bunch of idiots to suspect you, or to try
to drum up some imagined mob connections, but I get that they’re just doing their
job.”

I didn’t bother to correct his erroneous assumption. For all I knew, maybe the cops
were
looking into possible mob connections, though I imagined it would not be the Italian
mafioso but rather the Irish mob.

“I’m sure they’ll realize the foolishness of their ways soon enough,” Pete went on.
“In the meantime, I’ve got your back. And if need be, I’ll get Skip involved on your
behalf.” He released me and held me at arm’s length, looking at me. “Buck up, okay?
This will turn out all right, you’ll see.”

I swallowed down my tears and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
A pounding at the front door broke us apart and when I went over to see who it was,
I found Duncan standing outside looking very impatient as the TV crew fired questions
at him and tried to shove the camera in his face. As I locked the door, I wondered
if the TV crew would want to come inside the bar once I opened. The last thing I needed
was them harassing me, my staff, or my customers. “Good morning,” he said, once he
was safe inside. He looked tired and I suspected he’d gotten even less sleep than
I had.

“Good morning,” I countered. “Are you ready for round two?”

“Probably, but I need to talk to you.”

Pete was watching us from behind the bar so I lowered my voice and said, “We can talk
in the kitchen in a minute. First let me introduce you to my daytime bartender.”

I led Duncan over to the bar and made the necessary introductions, letting Duncan
know Pete was aware of our little subterfuge. I wondered if Duncan would be upset
by the fact that I had clued Pete in, but if he was, he didn’t show it. As soon as
the introductions were done, Duncan pulled me into the kitchen, clearly anxious to
have our little chat.

“I have some news,” he said, his expression grim. “And you’re not going to like it.”

I braced myself with a deep breath and crossed my arms over my chest. “Lay it on me.”

“First off, Gary is in the wind. I had some guys head for his place last night to
keep an eye on it and him, but he never went home after leaving here. I have no idea
where he is. That makes me nervous, and if it makes me nervous, it should make you
nervous.”

“It does,” I admitted.

“Have you done anything about changing the locks yet?”

“Good grief, no. When would I have had time?”

“This morning?”

“I have a business to run here, in case you hadn’t noticed. And besides, it’s a Saturday,”
I said with no small amount of exasperation. “Good luck finding a locksmith who will
come out on a Saturday. Even if I did find one, I’m sure he’d charge some horrendous
fee for the short notice and the weekend trip. I can’t afford that.”

“You can’t afford not to do it,” Duncan said. I opened my mouth to protest but he
stopped me by holding up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m glad you didn’t set anything up yet.
I thought you might have trouble getting it done on a weekend so I asked around down
at the station and got a name and number for a guy who will do it for you. He owes
one of our guys a favor so we called it in. I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead
and set him up to do it today. He should be here anytime.”

Duncan’s inquiry as to whether or not I minded his efforts left me uncertain. On the
one hand I was impressed, relieved, and even a smidge touched that he had gone to
the trouble to make sure I was safe. On the other hand, I have a fierce independent
streak in me and something about his taking on this task without consulting me had
me feeling put out. Duncan must have sensed my mental quandary and misinterpreted
the cause because the next thing he said was, “If you’re worried about paying for
it, don’t be.”

“I’m not worried about paying for it,” I lied, annoyed at how defensive I sounded.
To compensate, I smiled at him and added, “Thank you for setting it up.”

“No problem. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that we found the murder weapon
and it’s the knife missing from your kitchen.”

So much for smiles.
“Are you sure?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Where did you find it?”

“On a concrete shelf in a sewer grate at the end of the alley. It’s a perfect match
for the one missing from your set and for the wounds on Ginny’s body, and it had blood
on it that matches Ginny’s type.”

I swallowed, hard.

“It also had several fingerprints on it,” Duncan added, and from the expression on
his face I knew what was coming next. “A few of the prints were smeared but some were
left pretty much intact. They were a match for yours.”

Blood started pounding through my body, in my chest, in my head, in my throat. The
sensation triggered a bitter, tart taste in my mouth. I tried to swallow it away but
to no avail. “Of course my fingerprints would be on it,” I said. “I use that knife
every day. It doesn’t mean I used it to kill Ginny.”

“I know that,” Duncan said. “Fortunately for you, unfortunately for me, that knife
could have been taken by any number of people in this bar. The fact that your prints
were the only ones we found is rather damning, but they are explainable, particularly
since none of them were made with Ginny’s blood. My guess is the prints are from you
cleaning and handling the knife when you closed up the night Ginny was killed, and
whoever used it afterward wore gloves.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief at his explanation, though I knew I wasn’t in the
clear yet. Not by a long shot.

“We also narrowed down the time of death,” Duncan said. “Ginny was killed early in
the morning yesterday between the hours of five and six. Unfortunately, that doesn’t
help much in whittling down our list of suspects. I don’t know too many people who
have alibis for those hours of the day unless it’s from someone they’re sleeping with,
and those types of alibis are always suspect.”

“So where do we go from here?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the
answer.

“We continue looking into possible suspects and analyzing the evidence. Now that we
know what the murder weapon was and the time of death we can be more specific with
our questions. Since access to the knife is key at this point, I’m going to stay focused
on your bar, your employees, and your patrons. The ability to enter the kitchen implies
an employee over a customer, excepting the ones you seem to give special privileges.”

His tone sounded the tiniest bit snide and the chocolate taste his voice triggered
was bitter.

“I’ve got a team of guys going through Gary’s apartment,” he went on, “and we’re still
working on Ginny’s place, too. I’ll continue to hang out here today if you’ll have
me, mostly as a base of operations and just to see if anyone says or does something
of interest. But I don’t think we’ll do any more interrogations on site.”