Shots in the Dark (12 page)

I shook my head. “No. I'm certain he's never been in my bar before, at least not when I've been there. I'm really good at remembering faces, and I've never seen his.”

Arty looked at Duncan. “I guess we're back to square one,” he said. “Do you want us to try to take a different run at this Apostle Mike guy?”

Duncan shook his head. “No. Let it go for now. I suspect it's a dead end. Let's go back and take another look at the evidence.”

That was my cue to do the same. Back to the latest letter and a pending trip to a cemetery. I hoped it wasn't a sign of things to come.

Arty and Doug drove me back to the bar, and our return trip was as silent as the first one. Arty muttered a “Sorry, Mack,” as they pulled up in front of the bar.

“Me too,” I said. “I had hoped we might finally have a resolution to this thing.”

“We'll keep at it,” Doug said. “Have faith.”

His words struck a chord with me. It was a similar expression uttered by an Episcopalian minister, and a bit of intuition, that had led to the solving of the last case, albeit a little too late. As I dragged myself and my crutches from the car and made my way back into the bar, I felt defeated and exhausted. I had no faith in my ability to figure this thing out, and I prayed—while I'm not a religious person per se, I'm not above hedging my bets—that an answer would come soon.

Back inside, I headed up to the Capone Club room. Navigating the steps with my crutches made me feel even more tired than I had before, and I cursed myself for not putting in an elevator when I did the new construction. By the time I got upstairs, I knew I would be of little use to anyone for the rest of the night. The group greeted me with expectant looks and enthusiasm, no doubt hoping I'd be delivering news of a break in Gary's case. Cora, Joe, Frank, and Mal knew just how involved that case was, but the others simply thought Gary's death had been a bad bit of luck. At least I thought they did.

“Any news?” Cora asked as I settled into a chair next to Mal. He laid a hand on my arm and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. His touch was reassuring.

“I'm afraid not,” I told them. “They had a suspect who they thought might have had a connection to the bar or to Gary, but I didn't recognize him at all.”

“Just because he hasn't been in the bar doesn't mean he didn't do it,” Carter said.

“I suppose,” I said with a shrug. “But I don't think they have any other connections between this man and Gary. Sorry, guys, but it looks like it's a no go.”

The disappointment on their faces made me want to cry. For the hundredth time, I debated telling them all the truth about the case, letting them know that their lives might be in danger. Was I doing the right thing by keeping it to myself? Every time I considered revealing all, I imagined what the group would do. They'd tackle the case with everything they had, and I feared that would only escalate the letter writer's actions. But didn't they have a right to know? I looked over at Clay Sanders and wondered what he would do with the information if he knew about it. Could I trust him not to print a story about it? Not yet, I decided. But then Carter threw me a curveball.

“We were discussing Gary's case while you were gone,” he said. “His and Lewis's. And we all agreed that it's too much of a coincidence that two people from your bar, from this group, have been killed by someone. We're starting to wonder if we're the target.”

I felt Mal's grip on my arm tighten ever so slightly. “Why would you be a target?” I said, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt.

“Well, we
have
solved several crimes recently,” Carter said, “although the main impetus behind those solutions was you.” He paused and gave me an apologetic look. “We also considered that you alone may be the target.”

I looked around the room at the faces of everyone, their concern for me ramping up my guilt over my seeming lack of concern for them.

I pointed toward my crutches, which I had leaned against the side of my chair. “Well, if I'm a target, I'm an easy one,” I said lightheartedly. “But your theory about the group being a target is an interesting one. Maybe we should disband.”

“Or maybe we should just be extra alert,” Holly said.

Several people nodded their agreement with this sentiment.

“That's always a good idea,” I said. “But just in case you're onto something with this theory of yours, any of you who want to drop out of the group for now would be perfectly justified to do so.”

Everyone in the room exchanged looks, waiting for someone to be the first to speak up. It was Sam who finally did.

“I'm staying put,” he said. “I agree that we should perhaps be more alert and wary of who and what's around us, but this work we're doing here is too important to me to drop it.” He paused and gave everyone a sheepish smile. “Besides, I rather enjoy it.”

“Me too,” Holly said, and Alicia echoed the sentiment.

“I'm in,” Carter said.

Tad, Frank, and Joe echoed his remark. The newcomers—Greg Nash, Sonja West, and Stephen McGregor—nodded, too, but they looked less determined.

Clay Sanders said, “If the police thought any of us were in danger, they'd say something, wouldn't they?”

He shot a knowing glance at Mal when he said this, and I felt Mal's grip on my arm tighten again almost imperceptibly.

“I'm sure they would,” I said quickly. “But it's still a good idea to keep your ears and eyes open, just in case.”

Clay narrowed his eyes at me, and I could tell he suspected I knew something I wasn't sharing. The mental strain of it all was wearing on me, and I wanted some time alone to think. So I grabbed my crutches and pushed myself up from my chair. “I need to go downstairs and check on some things,” I said to no one in particular. “I'm not sure if I'll be back up here tonight. If I'm not, I'll see all of you tomorrow, assuming you choose to come back.” I looked over at Clay. “You need to be here tomorrow morning by eleven thirty. Knock on the front door, and I'll let you in.”

“I'll be here with bells on,” he said with a smile.

I didn't smile back. I was too tired even to muster up basic social politeness. I simply nodded and left the room. Mal got up and followed me.

“Are you okay?” he asked as I tackled the stairs.

“I'm fine. Just tired. Everything is a bit overwhelming.”

“Did this Apostle Mike really turn out to be a bust?” he asked in a low voice.

I nodded. “It turns out he's color blind, and I'm certain there's no way he could have written the most recent letter, given the green ink and all.”

“Interesting,” Mal said. “So where does that leave us?”

“With a trip to a cemetery come Monday. In the meantime, I want to stay focused on the Middleton case.”

When we reached the main floor, I turned to him and said, “Why don't you head home. I'm going to check on some things at the bar, and then I'm going to go upstairs for the night. Billy can close up for me. I want to rest so my mind is fresh tomorrow, when we go to the prison.”

“Are you sure? I can stay if you want, sleep on your couch again.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, but I really do want to be alone. I need to sort my head out.”

“Okay then. I'll see you in the morning. Want me to bring breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“What would you like?”

“Surprise me.”

“Okay.” He gave me another one of those chaste kisses on the cheek, and then he was gone.

I headed behind the bar, where Billy and Teddy were both working. “How's it going?” I asked Billy.

“Teddy is a natural at this.”

Teddy looked over at me with a hopeful smile.

“You're hired,” I said. “Can you work tomorrow?”

“I can work seven days a week if you need me to,” he said excitedly. “Thanks!”

I turned back to Billy. “Would you mind doing the closing stuff for me tonight? I'm feeling a little puny, and I'm going to head upstairs.”

His smile faded into a look of concern. “Sure. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Or at least I will be once I get some rest. This darned leg is a heavy thing to haul around. Between that and the pain pills, I'm just tired.”

“No problem,” Billy said. “You know you can count on me.”

I did, and it was a nice feeling. “Thanks, Billy. See you tomorrow. I'm not sure if I'll be here when you open up at five. I'm planning a trip up to Waupun.”

“The prison?” Teddy said, and I nodded. “Who do you know there?”

“You have another case,” Billy said before I could answer. “I heard Missy talking about it. What is it?”

“It's that Middleton carjacking and murder case that happened last year,” I said, knowing Billy was up to speed on all the crimes in the area, particularly one as high profile as the Middleton case had been. “I'm not sure if we're going to look full into it yet. I'm going to have a chat with the accused tomorrow to see how it shakes out.”

Teddy looked back and forth between me and Billy with a curious expression. “What's this all about?”

Billy said, “I'll fill you in later. Suffice it to say that Mack and some of the other patrons here are fervent crime solvers.”

“Speaking of which, you might be able to help us out, Teddy,” I said. “Did you know Tiffany Gallagher?”

“I knew of her,” he said. “I can't say we were friends or anything like that, but up until recently we ran in a lot of the same circles. I know her brothers, Aidan and Rory.”

“Any chance you heard any gossip about her having an affair?”

Teddy thought a moment before slowly shaking his head. “Can't say that I have. But I know some folks I could ask, people who are more in the know with that crowd these days than I am.”

“If you don't mind,” I said. “It could be helpful.”

“Happy to help,” he said. “I'll let you know.”

With that, I said good night and headed upstairs to my apartment. I ran a hot bath and threw some bubbles in for good measure, feeling a need to pamper myself. When the tub was ready, I carefully lowered myself in, while keeping my casted leg out of the water. Once I was settled in, with my bad leg resting on the side of the tub, I closed my eyes and let my brain go into free thought. Doing this sometimes helped me to figure out problems, but tonight the only thing my mind would focus on was the dead. I kept seeing a parade of people who were gone: my father, Ginny, Lewis, Gary. . . .

I wondered if these visual manifestations were a synesthetic reaction or just a product of my exhausted mind and the events of the day. Whatever it was, it ruined any chance I had of relaxing, so after ten minutes of soaking, I gave up and got out of the tub . . . an Olympic feat with the damned cast.

Half an hour later I was in bed with the TV on, but I had no clue what was airing. Within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I was sound asleep.

I awoke on Sunday morning just before nine o'clock, feeling rested and eager to tackle the day. I made a pot of coffee and sat down at my kitchen table with the morning news online. After an hour of reading, I tackled the crossword puzzle but had barely gotten started when my phone rang. I saw it was Mal and answered with a chipper “Good morning, Malachi. When are you bringing me my breakfast?”

“I have it here now,” he said. “I'm downstairs, by the front door.”

“I'll be there in a sec. Make that a minute or two. I'm not a fast mover these days.”

I disconnected the call and made my way downstairs. Mal stood outside, bearing a bag filled with something that smelled awesome and triggered a warm, soothing feeling on my skin, not unlike the sensation I'd had last night, as I'd sunk into the tub.

“You brought doughnuts,” I said, licking my lips.

“Man, it's hard to surprise you,” Mal said with a smile.

He came inside, and I shut and locked the door behind him. He followed me upstairs, where I poured him a cup of coffee and took out plates for the goodies. After eyeing the choices for several seconds, I finally opted for an apple cider doughnut covered with caramel frosting. My first bite triggered a sound like wind chimes, and I closed my eyes to relish both the flavors and the music.

“Yummy,” I said. “Thanks for this. It's the perfect way to start the day.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am. I really needed the rest last night. Life has been a bit . . . overwhelming of late.”

We spent the next hour or so sampling the wares and chatting about life in general. At one point Mal gave me an update on the status of his undercover job, stating that he felt like he was finally making some progress and would hopefully garner an invite into the boss's inner circle soon.

At a little after eleven we headed downstairs to the bar to await the arrival of Clay and Tyrese, taking the remaining doughnuts with us. Clay showed up at eleven fifteen, knocked on the front door, and then peered in through the window at the top of it. Mal went over and let him in. locking the door behind him.

“Thanks again for letting me come along,” Clay said, settling down at our table. He had a to-go cup of something from a nearby coffee shop. “I know you have some reservations about me, and to be honest, I have a few about you still, too. But if today plays out the way I think it will, we might have a bright future working together.”

“We shall see,” I said noncommittally, a little put off by his presumptuousness. I offered him a doughnut, and he surveyed the selection much as I had before finally settling on a plain glazed one. His choice surprised me; I had him pegged as more of a fruit-filling kind of guy.

My phone dinged with a text message just before eleven thirty. “It's Tyrese,” I said, reading the message. “He says he's five minutes away.”

“Then we best get a move on,” Clay said.

Mal helped me get my coat on and then grabbed up the bag with the remaining doughnuts. Tyrese was out front in his car, waiting for us, by the time we got to the door.

Clay took the front passenger seat, while Mal and I climbed into the backseat, dragging my crutches along with me. I did the introductions between Clay and Tyrese, who both regarded one another with polite reservation.

Once that was done, Tyrese inhaled deeply, eyed the bag in Mal's lap, and said, “Whatcha got in there? Whatever it is smells yummy.”

Mal handed him the bag. “Help yourself. Mack insisted we share.”

“It's the least we can do since you're playing chauffeur,” I said.

Tyrese peeked in the bag, stuck his hand in, and pulled out the sugared, jelly-filled doughnut I had thought Clay was going to take. “Thanks, Mack,” he said, handing the bag back to Mal. “You're okay in my book. I don't care what the other guys say about you.”

Though I suspected he meant the comment as a joke, I didn't smile. “Are they talking about me?”

He gave Clay a nervous glance and then looked at me in the rearview mirror. “I was just kidding,” he said with a dismissive expression, and I knew from the taste of his voice that he was lying. He smiled, trying to look innocent, but the smile faded fast. “Well, mostly kidding, anyway.”

“What are they saying?” I asked.

Still looking at me in the rearview mirror, Tyrese shot his eyes toward Clay and raised his eyebrows in question. I gave him a subtle nod as he stalled for time by taking a big bite of his pastry. A large dribble of raspberry jelly oozed out the bottom and onto his jacket. “Damn,” he said, scraping the jelly up with his finger and eating it. Then he proceeded to make the small reddish stain larger by swiping at it with a napkin.

I waited, prepared to repeat my question if necessary, but I didn't have to.

“There was some talk last night among some of the guys. Those detectives who brought you in to observe that Apostle Mike guy said you really do have a knack when it comes to sizing up people. They said you picked up on something no one else had.”

“Did they say it in a good way or in a ‘she's spooky, crazy, weird, and we better stay away from her' way?”

“Neither,” Tyrese said, dabbing at some sugar on the corner of his mouth. “It was more of a ‘let's not dismiss her too quickly' kind of tone.” He took another bite and pulled out into traffic. “Despite what the brass feels about you, Mack, you have a lot of fans within the department.”

This surprised me some, and it also made me feel better.

Clay, who so far had sat quietly through all of this, finally spoke up. “Why were you at the police station?”

“They had a suspect they wanted me to look at, to see if I recognized him at all. It was regarding Gary's murder.”

Clay nodded, and I could tell his wheels were spinning as he tried to discern if there was more to the story than what I was telling him. I half expected him to grill me more on the topic, but he surprised me with his next comment. “You just need a spin doctor, Mack.”

“A spin doctor?”

“Yeah. You know, someone who will spin you in a more positive light.”

“I don't want to be spun at all.”

“Well, it's going to happen if your group keeps solving crimes,” he said. “The problem isn't with you per se. It's with the way the press has portrayed the police.”

“Pot, kettle,” I said.

Clay smiled and shrugged. “I wasn't as harsh as some, and all I did was report the facts. Those facts made the cops look a bit foolish and incompetent. They'll get over it.” Tyrese shot Clay a look of irritation, which Clay either didn't see or chose to ignore. “And if the right reporter writes you and your group up in a way that makes the police and the DA look smart, it could lead to some future working relationships that would benefit everyone involved.”

“And are you offering to do that?” I asked.

“Maybe. Let's wait and see how this visit turns out, and we can talk some more about it later.”

I was relieved that he hadn't immediately jumped on the idea. If he had, I would have suspected him of trying to butter me up simply to gain my trust. The fact that he was still on the fence reassured me some. But judging from the frowns on the faces of the other two men in the car, I was alone in this judgment.

Our ride took just short of an hour and a half, and by some unspoken agreement, we switched the topic of conversation to miscellaneous stuff for a while—safe, innocuous topics. But as we drew closer to Waupun, talk inevitably shifted to the Middleton case.

“I had a look at part of the police file,” Tyrese said. “I know you didn't ask me to, but I got curious. There wasn't much there of interest that I could see, at least nothing more than what was in the news about the case. But there was one detail in there that struck me, one I don't recall coming out in the trial.”

“What?” I asked, intrigued.

“Well, there was blood splatter, blowback from the head wound Tiffany had. But there were some voids in the splatter. One area was on the driver's side door. There was blood on the outside of Benjamin Middleton's jacket sleeves but none on the inside. That doesn't make sense to me if he was facing Tiffany down, aiming the gun at her. There was also splatter on the right side of the bodice part of his jacket, but none on the left. That suggests that Middleton was facing forward in the car. And there was also a long space running down the inside of the driver door, near the middle, where there was no blood splatter. This was in front of where Ben's body would have been, and there was splatter on either side of it. To me, that suggests that something blocked the splatter.”

“Like another person's arm reaching in through the window?” I asked, playing out the scene in my mind.

“Exactly,” Tyrese said.

“You said ‘voids.' Plural,” Mal noted. “What were the others?”

“There was only one other area I noted, and it was on the gun itself. There was a void around the trigger, which you'd expect to find if someone had a finger wrapped around it, but there was also a void along the top of the barrel. In fact, most of the barrel was clean. And Benjamin Middleton had blood on the backs of both of his hands.”

Mal said, “If someone had a hand wrapped around that gun barrel, wrestling for it, it might explain the void.”

“It might,” Tyrese agreed, giving Mal a curious look. “And if Middleton did shoot his wife, why would he have a hand wrapped over the top of the barrel?”

“Maybe Tiffany saw what he was about to do, and she wrestled him for the gun,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Tyrese said, sounding unconvinced. “But I saw no mention of the presence of gunpowder residue on Tiffany's hands, and there would have been if she'd had a hold on the gun.”

“When we talk to Middleton, we should have him reenact the crime for us,” I said. “See if his story jibes with this blood splatter evidence.”

Our arrival at the Waupun prison went almost exactly like it had during our previous visit. We checked in at an outer gate, drove inside the compound, and parked. Tyrese led the way to the front entrance, where we had to pass through another guarded gate—this one with a metal detector—before we were allowed inside the main building. Then we checked in at a third gated station, where we all had to hand over our IDs to a guard sitting behind a glass enclosure that ran along a barred floor-to-ceiling wall with a gate. On our previous visit there had been two guards inside the enclosure; today there were three. Seated at the check-in spot was a man whose name tag said
R. DINKLE
—the same guard we'd encountered on our first visit here—and behind him sat a second guard, one I didn't recognize, who was watching a series of monitors that showed various areas in and around the prison. Standing beside Dinkle was a third guard named Karl Houston, someone else I recognized from our previous trip.

“Back again so soon?” Dinkle asked, eyeing us dubiously. “Your entourage is growing. Planning a party?” No one answered him, so he looked at a clipboard he had in front of him and started flipping sheets. “Here to talk to the same prisoner?”

Tyrese shook his head. “No. We're here to see Benjamin Middleton.”

“Ah, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Dinkle said. He apparently had arrived at the proper sheet, because he stopped flipping and read the page in front of him. “His lawyer isn't here yet, so you'll have to wait. Karl can take you to the meeting room, and you can wait there.”

After handing us back our IDs, Dinkle slid a clipboard toward us through a slot in the glass and had us all sign in. Once that was done, Karl pressed a button and the gate slid open. We followed him down the same short hallway we'd been in before, and the barred gate we'd just come through banged closed behind us. At the end of the hallway we stopped in front of a large metal door, which Karl unlocked, and we all stepped through into a second, bigger hallway. There were five windowed doors—two on each side and one at the opposite end—and at this point our trip changed. The last time we had entered the room behind the last door on the left, and this time we were led to the first door on the left.

The room might have been a different one, but you'd never know it. It looked exactly the same: a bare-walled, windowless cinder-block structure with a scarred wooden table at the center. Karl locked us inside, and we made our way to the table, which once again had only two chairs on the side closest to us and one on the opposite side. On our last visit, the men had remained standing, and I had taken one of the closer seats. The other had been occupied by the prisoner's lawyer, who had arrived ahead of us. For now, we all stood on our side of the table, waiting. I could tell the men in the room felt as uncomfortable as I did, locked inside the barren, cold room. They shifted nervously, Tyrese with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Mal with his arms folded over his chest, Clay looking around the room, taking it all in. I wondered if Clay was composing a story in his head and gathering details so he could adequately set the scene.

“I hope we don't have to wait too long,” I said, an attempt at idle conversation. I had hoped it would help everyone to relax, but my voice echoed coldly inside the room, making our isolation seem even more pronounced.

The minutes ticked by, and I swore I felt each one as a tiny drip of water on my arms. Finally, the door behind us was unlocked, and a woman who looked about my age walked in. She was wearing slacks, ankle-high boots, and a red wool car-length coat. Her hair was black and cut short; her eyes were a brown so dark, it looked like her pupils were fully dilated. Over one shoulder she had a leather messenger bag. She approached us with a warm smile and addressed me before the men.