Shots in the Dark (25 page)

“I don't know,” Clay said, pulling at his chin. “I got the sense that she did want to talk to me, even though she said she didn't. She could have hung up on me several times, yet she didn't. She kept skirting around the issue and asking me why people were looking into Ben's case.” His frown deepened, and he scratched his head. “My reporter instincts kept telling me there was a story there, but maybe I was reading more into it than there was.”

I pondered his information for a few seconds. “Think she might talk to me?”

“I doubt it. But I can give you the number if you want to try.”

“I do,” I said.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of my bar napkins with a phone number written on it. “Here you go,” he said. “Good luck.”

I took the number, stuffed it in my pocket, and thanked him.

“I have to go finish an article for tomorrow's paper,” he said. “Let me know how it goes.”

He donned his coat and headed downstairs.

I took a moment to think about Melanie Smithson and how to approach her. If Clay was right, the woman was scared of something. But what?

While I was thinking, Cora came up the stairs, carrying a stack of papers and her laptop.

“Hey, Cora. Do you happen to recall whether or not we've recorded my reaction to the smell of Opium perfume?”

She squinted in thought and shook her head. “I don't think so. Why?”

“Duncan had me take a look at Gary's car last night, and I detected a smell on the passenger armrest. Duncan had it analyzed, and it came back as Opium perfume.”

Cora's eyes grew big. “Does that mean the killer is a woman?”

“Possibly. I want to know the specific reaction I have to that perfume, because there were other smells there, too, and that complicated things.”

“I'll check the database, but I'm pretty sure we haven't logged that particular one. I can order some for you if you want.”

“That would be great. Thanks. I'll reimburse you for the cost.”

“Did you open that box from the cemetery yet?”

“We did.” I filled her in on the contents of the box and our interpretation of them. “Mal and I are going to hit up the casino tomorrow and see what we can find.”

“Be careful,” she said. “It sounds like this letter writer is ramping things up.” She handed me back my office keys. “Did Clay have any luck with the Smithson girl?”

“He was able to talk to her, but she didn't tell him anything. He said she sounded scared.”

Cora nodded, looking thoughtful.

“I'm surprised you trusted Clay enough to tell him you were accessing confidential IRS files to find a number for Smithson,” I said. “What if he prints that information?”

Cora gave me a sly smile. “That wasn't exactly the truth. It was a test of sorts. I don't do any work for the IRS, but I do handle security for some banking networks. I was able to dig up Smithson's credit card info and saw that she had purchased several burner phones over the past year. I gave him the number for the most recent one she bought, and told him that she was living out in Washington State somewhere. That was a lie. She pays her credit card bills online, and I was able to trace her ISP to somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

“I should have known you'd be smart enough to cover your tracks,” I said with a smile.

“Did he give you the number?”

I nodded.

“Are you going to call her?”

I nodded again.

“Well, good luck with it. I'm going to go hand over these drawing copies and see what the group comes up with.”

“Good luck to you, too. Tell Mal I'm headed for my office. He can join me if he wants.”

She nodded, and we parted company. Cora returned to the Capone Club room, while I made my way down to my office.

By the time I reached my office door, Mal had caught up to me. “What are you up to?” he asked.

I told him about Clay's talk with Melanie Smithson and my intent to call her.

“Mind if I sit in?”

“Not at all.”

We went into the office and locked the door behind us. I settled in behind my desk, and Mal sat across from me. I took out my cell phone and started to make the call but stopped. I set the cell aside and picked up my landline desk phone instead.

“If the woman is paranoid about people finding her and discussing this case, it might be better if I call her from a number with a caller ID that she can verify,” I said as Mal gave me a curious look.

He made no comment, and I dialed the number. Then I switched over to speakerphone. We listened as the phone on the other end rang several times, and I felt my hopes flag. Just as I was about to disconnect the call, someone answered.

“Hello?” said a tentative female voice. Melanie's voice manifested with a visual reaction rather than a taste, something that sometimes happened with women's voices. I saw falling flower petals.

“Is this Melanie Smithson?” I asked.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Mackenzie Dalton. I own a bar in Milwaukee called Mack's Bar. You can look it up and call me back at the listed number if you want.”

Silence.

“I'm calling you about Ben Middleton.”

She let out a perturbed sigh. I waited, expecting her to hang up, but she didn't.

“Melanie, I work with a group of people who look into cold cases and adjudicated cases where we think an injustice may have been done. We have reason to believe that Ben Middleton is innocent. I'd like to talk to you about his wife, Tiffany, specifically about her life from several years back.”

More silence. No, that wasn't quite true. I heard a faint tapping sound in the background, and it made me smile and give Mal a thumbs-up. I recognized the sound as the tapping of computer keys, but Mal gave me a confused look, making me wonder if he was able to hear the sound.

“Something happened to Tiffany when she was in high school, something that affected her deeply,” I said. “I'm trying to determine what that might have been, and I understand that you and she were close. Do you know anything about it?”

More silence ensued, as the tapping sound had stopped.

After a few seconds I said, “Melanie? Are you still there?”

“You're passing yourself off as some kind of mind reader?” she said finally.

I looked at Mal and saw that he finally understood. “You must have found some of the news articles about me,” I said. “They aren't totally accurate. I don't read minds, but I do have a disorder that gives me a different perspective on things. It's complicated. Suffice it to say that I can pick up on things others can't.”

“I can't help you,” she said, and I felt my spirits tank. “Please leave me alone.”

“Melanie, I promise you I won't tell anyone we spoke. I don't know what or who you're hiding from, but your secret will stay safe with me. I promise you that. Please think it over. If you decide you want to talk to me, call me back. You can call on my landline here at the bar. You can find the number online. I live above the bar, and the phone rings there, too. If you call after two
A.M.
and before ten
A.M.
, I should be the only one here. Or if you want, you can call me anytime on my cell.” I gave her the cell number and then said, “I hope you'll talk to me. If you really were a friend to Tiffany, don't let her death be for naught.”

I closed my eyes and waited, listening. I heard her breathing for several seconds, and then the sound was gone. I waited a little longer and then heard a sound that told me our call had been disconnected.

“Damn,” I muttered, punching the speaker button. “She knows something. I can feel it.”

“Even
I
can feel it, and I don't have your sensitive . . . talents.”

“I guess I'll just have to wait and see if she calls back.”

A knock came on my office door, and Mal got up and opened it. It was Tad.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking at Mal. “I was hoping to have a chat with Mack.”

“Come on in, Tad,” I said. Mal stepped aside and waved Tad in.

“I have some information for you,” he said, and then he slid his eyes toward his left shoulder, toward where Mal was standing. I got the message.

“Mal, would you mind letting me talk to Tad privately for a few minutes?”

“Not at all,” Mal said. He stepped out of the office and shut the door behind him.

“What have you got for me?” I gestured toward the chair Mal had just vacated.

“I don't need to sit,” he said. “I don't have much to tell you. I looked over the finances of the Gallagher family, and I can't pinpoint any unusual large expenditures,
large
being a relative term here, given their wealth. But Colin Gallagher pulls cash out of his accounts all the time. There's no way for me to know what he does with it. As for Tiffany, her trust account had some transfers of money from time to time, out of her account and into the joint account she and Ben shared, but I saw nothing there to raise any eyebrows. And for what it's worth, her father did have control over that account. His electronic or real signature was required for any money transactions. Ben pulled down a decent salary on his own, but—”

His cell phone rang, and after a little hiss of annoyance, he pulled it from his pocket and looked at it. “Sorry,” he said, rolling his eyes again. “It's Suzanne. I have to take it.”

“Go ahead. Want me to step out?”

“No need.” He answered the call with, “Hey, Suze. What's up?” I watched as he closed his eyes and grimaced. The muscles in his cheeks twitched with annoyance, and after a few seconds he took a deep, bracing breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. “Yes, dear,” he said in a tone that belied his impatient expression. “I understand. I just have a few more things here in the office to finish up.” He listened some more and then said, “You know I don't answer the office phone after hours. I've told you that.” He shot me a guilty look. “Give me an hour or so and I should be done. See you soon.” More listening. “I love you, too.” He disconnected the call and dropped the phone into his shirt pocket. Then he raked a hand through his hair. “Suzanne has been on me a lot lately about not coming home earlier.”

“Why are you lying to her?”

“She's worried that I'm having an affair. I keep assuring her that's not the case, but I think she knows I'm not in the office sometimes when I say I am.”

“So tell her where you are.”

“I can't. I mentioned the bar once weeks ago and told her about the Capone Club thing and how much I enjoyed it. She had a meltdown, told me that the kind of publicity this place has gotten is bad for my reputation and hers. She said if I kept it up, I'd end up losing clients. I think she might have hired someone to follow me. That's why I haven't been here as often in the evenings. I feel safe coming here for lunch, but not so much in the evening.”

“I'm sorry, Tad. You don't think you can talk her into some sort of compromise?”

He laughed at that. “Have you met my wife? The word
compromise
is not in her dictionary. She expects me to be at her beck and call all the time, and she drags me around to all these social events that are so boring, they make me want to kill myself.”

With those words, an idea popped into my head. “What were you going to tell me right before Suzanne called?”

“Just that Colin Gallagher wielded a lot of control over Tiffany and her money. The house she and Ben lived in was owned by him, and while Tiffany's name was on the deed, Ben's was not. Same thing with the boat Ben and Tiffany had, and Tiffany's car.”

I thought about Tiffany and whatever demons had haunted her. Had the girl been so depressed and controlled that she wanted to kill herself? Was that why she hadn't tried to get out of the car when Ben was wrestling with the gunman? It was a sad, dark thought, one that made me ache for the girl. Her life didn't sound like a very happy one, which just went to show that money couldn't buy happiness.

Tad glanced at his watch and said, “I really should go. I still need to run by the store and pick up some perfume for Suzanne for Christmas. But before I do, tell me if you guys have made any progress on the case.”

I updated him on what I knew, and then, curious, I asked him what type of perfume he planned to get for Suzanne.

“Opium,” he said. “It's the only thing she wears.”

After Tad left, I sat in my office, trying to decide what to do about what Tad had just told me. Suzanne Collier wore Opium perfume. But then, hundreds, maybe thousands of women in and around Milwaukee probably wore it, as well. What possible motive would a rich woman like Suzanne have for taunting me? Then I recalled Tad saying that Suzanne suspected him of having an affair. Did she think I was Tad's mistress? But that didn't make any sense, either. If she was having Tad followed, she would know that he and I rarely saw one another. Plus, I'd been plenty visible courting around with Mal lately.

I convinced myself that Suzanne's choice of perfume was nothing more than a coincidence, and left my office. Business had picked up, and the bar was bustling. Billy looked a little frazzled, something I almost never saw, so I chipped in for the next few hours and helped out, propping myself up on my crutches and mixing drinks behind the bar. Mal settled in on one of the barstools and watched for a while, and then he headed upstairs to the Capone Club room. The customers were all hepped up on holiday cheer, and a group of people in the dance floor room started singing Christmas carols. More folks joined in, and at one point nearly the entire first floor was singing. It should have lifted my soul and put me in the holiday spirit, but I had too much on my mind.

By one o'clock things had slowed down enough that I was able to head upstairs to the Capone Club room. The group had dwindled some. The Signoriello brothers had gone home, and Holly and Alicia had left, too. The remaining group was huddled around some tables that had been pushed together, and on top of the tables were dozens of papers with Carter's drawing on the top half and different lower facial features drawn on the bottom half.

“Hey, Mack,” Carter said. “We've been playing around with the facial characteristics, and it's interesting, but we're all a little confused as to just what it is we're supposed to be looking for.”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I thought maybe you'd get lucky and come up with something that looked familiar.”

“We haven't,” he said.

“Well, save them all. I'll show them to Clay later and see if any of them resemble anyone he might have seen at the trial.” Thinking about Tiffany's mystery lover from her senior year in high school, I decided I should probably show them to Teddy Bear, too. He knew a lot of the same people Tiffany would have known, and maybe he'd recognize someone.

Tyrese said, “You might even take them up to the prison and run them by Ben Middleton. See if he can identify the shooter.”

“Good idea.”

Carter gathered up all the sheets and handed them to Mal. “Why don't you guys hang on to these for now. I'm going to call it a night.”

“Me too,” Sam said. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, everyone in the room got up, gathered up their belongings, bid one another good night, and headed out.

“I think I'm going to head home, too,” Mal said. He held up the drawings in his hand. “I'll walk you downstairs and drop these in your office.”

Half an hour later, I was upstairs in my apartment. Mal had gone home, and Billy was closing up shop for me downstairs. I readied myself for bed and climbed in, feeling exhausted and certain I'd fall asleep quickly and easily. But I kept staring at the phone beside my bed, willing it to ring, hoping that Melanie Smithson would rethink her willingness to talk.

It was well past four before I finally drifted off, and my phone remained silent throughout the night.

* * *

I awoke at ten the next morning, and after a quick shower I went downstairs. Pete was in already, readying the bar for the eleven o'clock opening time, and Jon arrived at ten thirty and fired up the kitchen. Debra and Teddy both came in shortly after Jon, and Missy showed up just prior to opening time. I unlocked the door at eleven, and Cora, Frank, and Joe all arrived minutes later. Other customers quickly followed, so I invited Cora and the brothers upstairs to the Capone Club room and filled the brothers in on the latest letter and my planned trip to the casino today. I barely had time to tell them everything before other members of the group began arriving.

I went downstairs to wait for Mal, who arrived at quarter to twelve. I told Pete and Debra we were heading out to do some shopping for a few hours, and without further ado, we left.

It had snowed some during the night—not a lot, but enough that everything outside was covered with a fresh, clean layer of white. The sun was out, and the new snow sparkled in its light. With only two more shopping days left until Christmas, the downtown traffic was heavy and the sidewalks were crowded. That plus the newly fallen snow made maneuvering with my crutches that much more difficult. Mal held my arm as we walked to his car, and then he helped me get inside.

“I don't suppose our gal called you last night,” he said as soon as we were under way.

I shook my head. “I fear that's a dead end. When we get back from the casino, I want to take those drawings Carter did last night and run them by Clay and Teddy, to see if either of them recognizes anyone.”

Mal shot me a questioning look. “Why Teddy?”

The burden of my promise to Kelly was a heavy one, and I desperately wanted someone to help me shoulder it. After giving it a millisecond of thought, I decided I could trust Mal to keep the secret along with me. I told him about Tiffany's senior year, the pregnancy, and the mystery man. “I can't help but wonder if whoever got her pregnant might have come back into her life around the time she was killed,” I concluded. “And if so, there's a good chance he's someone who hung with that social circle. Since Teddy knew the same group, I'm thinking it's worth a shot to have him look at the pictures and see if he recognizes anyone.”

“Wow. That poor girl had a time of it, didn't she?” Mal said.

“Yes, she did,” I agreed. “It makes me wonder if the reason she didn't try to escape from the car was that she didn't care if she died.”

We fell silent for the rest of the trip, and I imagined Mal was thinking along the same lines as I was, about how tragic, lonely, and desperate Tiffany Gallagher's life might have been. It made me grateful for what I had, and determined not to lose any of it.

That was a good mind-set for our arrival at the casino, but as soon as we were inside, I felt myself resenting my synesthesia. We were surrounded by flashing lights of all types and colors; loud noises that roared, rang, banged, clanged, wheedled, and whistled; the smell of people, food, booze, and cigarette smoke. The place was a cavernous open room with a high raftered ceiling, and there were gaming tables and slot machines as far as the eye could see. My brain went into a synesthetic overload similar to what I often experienced when I went to a mall or to the Public Market, but this was ten times worse than anything I'd ever experienced. I couldn't help but wonder if the letter writer had planned it that way in an attempt to throw me off.

“I need a minute,” I told Mal. “This is overwhelming.”

Mal nodded, and we stepped off to one side. I closed my eyes and focused on trying to shut down the synesthetic side of my brain, parsing through the things I could still smell and hear, relegating each one to real or synesthetic. As soon as I felt I had those senses under control, I opened my eyes and tried to do the same with the smells and sensations triggered by all the colorful flashing lights, which were everywhere I looked. When I felt as if I could function normally, I examined our surroundings more closely.

“I have no idea where to even begin,” I told Mal. “This place is huge.”

“Let's just survey it for now, walk around it all. Maybe something will come to us.”

We did so, meandering our way past large card tables and down aisles that ran between rows of slot machines. It was a busy place, which made maneuvering on my crutches that much more difficult.

“I'm surprised this place is so packed,” I told Mal at one point. “You'd think with the holidays coming, people would have better things to do.”

“Don't underestimate the lure of Lady Luck,” he said.

After traipsing up and down dozens of aisles without seeing anything that might be a clue, Mal stopped and said, “You have a picture of the last letter on your phone, don't you?”

“I do.”

He gestured toward a seating area and a coffee shop near the front entrance. “Let's sit for a few minutes and take another look at it. Maybe there's a clue in there that we overlooked.”

We wandered into the coffee shop, ordered up some drinks, and settled in at a table. I took out my phone, pulled up the picture of the letter, and then set my phone on the table between us. We huddled together, both of us reading.

“Tell me again which words were written in the different-colored ink,” Mal said after a few minutes.

I didn't need to look at the letter to answer him. “The key words were
lucky
,
wager
,
game
,
bet
,
risk
, and
buffalo stampede
.”

Mal looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his face lit up. “All those words are general gambling terms except for the words
buffalo stampede
. I thought at first it was a reference to the Native American casino ownership, but what if it means something else?”

“Like what?”

He turned on his stool and studied our immediate surroundings. “Look at these slot machines,” he said. “They all have themes of some sort. What if buffalo stampede is the name of a particular game?”

I considered this, and it made as much sense as our first interpretation. “Let's give it a whirl.”

We slid off our stools and continued our meandering, weaving between rows of slot machines and tables filled with card players. It was a constant and somewhat exhausting effort to shut out all the synesthetic reactions; there was a never-ending stream of sounds, tastes, smells, and visual manifestations. My head throbbed, and I wasn't sure if it was a headache from the strain of trying to deal with all the sensory input, or a synesthetic reaction of some kind. Either way, I wished it would go away.

After another fifteen minutes or so, we had made our way to the opposite end of the casino and an exit that led out onto Canal Street. My frustration level was through the roof, both from the irritating environment and my anger over our lack of success. My spirits tanked, and as I turned to ask Mal what he thought we should do next, I felt his hand grip my arm. He was staring off to my right, and when I looked that way, I saw what he saw: a bank of slot machines along the wall. There were ten machines all together, and six of them were called Buffalo Stampede. All of them had someone seated in front of them, playing.

Mal and I walked over to the area and stood behind the players, scanning the machines for any envelopes or packages that were lying around. All I saw were plastic drink cups and several ashtrays crammed into the narrow spaces between the machines.

“Do you think we need to play one of them?” I asked Mal.

Mal leaned close to my ear and spoke in a low voice, though how anyone could overhear what we said amid all that clamor was beyond me. “I don't think you can rig one of these machines that easily, and even if you could, how would the letter writer know when we'd be here or when we'd play it? There's the same problem if it's been set up so that someone who works here is supposed to look for you playing this machine. This place is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There would have to be several shifts of workers looking for you.” He paused and shook his head. “It makes no sense. I think we need to check out the area around the machines more thoroughly.”

The slots sat atop a credenza-type structure that was flush with the carpeted floor. That eliminated anything getting stashed beneath them. There was a small amount of space between each machine—eight inches or so—but it was easy to see into each of these spaces all the way back to the wall. However, the Buffalo Stampede slots were made in such a way that the face of each machine extended out beyond the main body, creating a small hidden spot along the top and around the perimeter of each one, behind the bright neon edge. It wasn't a large enough space to hide a full-size envelope, though, and since the main body of the machines was black, a white, gold, or manila envelope would be painfully obvious. Still, I sidled my way down the bank of players, scanning what I could see around and on top of each machine. I saw nothing and said as much to Mal.

“I suppose there could be something taped beneath the seats,” he said, “though that would be risky since they can easily be moved.” He looked above us and then scanned the room. “This place is monitored all the time, so if there is something attached behind the face of any of these machines, it would have to be small and not easily seen.”

Just then, a woman playing one of the Buffalo Stampede machines got up from her seat. Mal quickly moved in and motioned for me to sit down. He fished out his wallet and handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

“Here. Play it,” he said.

“I don't know how.”

“Stick the money in here.” He pointed to a slot, and I slid the twenty in until the machine sucked it up. “Now push this button labeled
MAX BET
.”

“Max bet? Isn't that a bit reckless?”

“It's a penny slot,” he said. “The max bet isn't that much.”

I put my finger on the button Mal had indicated and pushed it. Things on the screen in front of me spun and shifted, triggering a cacophony of synesthetic smells. The sounds of bells, whistles, snorting buffalo, and Lord knew what else made my mouth burst with fleeting tastes. I had no idea what I was doing, so I just kept hitting the button. Mal sidled up next to me on my right—it wasn't easy, because the person at the next machine was mere inches away—and ran his hand around the back side of the front flange on my machine. Then he switched sides and did the same thing on my left. When that produced nothing, he turned his back to me and faked a stumble, using it as an excuse to run his hand around the back side of the flange of the machine to my left.