The Heirloom Murders (20 page)

“I’ve learned some things about AgriFutures,” Roelke said.

“Yeah?” Chloe was glad for a distraction. “Anything helpful?”

“Financially, the company is doing great, and Sabatola told me that he was a sure bet to take over as CEO. But evidently it’s not that simple. Simon runs the implement division, and his half-brother Alan does chemical stuff. They’re both vice-presidents now. The Board of Directors seems to be split on who should take over.”

“Two brothers fighting for the top spot? Ouch.”

“Simon is older, and he definitely wants the job,” Roelke said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if even the
hint
that Alan might be given the CEO nod would make Simon go ballistic.”

“How big a company is it? Do they sell all over the country?”

“They’re international. Sabatola told me he wants to revolutionize agriculture in developing countries. They’re creating special equipment designed for conditions in African countries. Probably Latin America too. There’s obviously a hell of a lot at stake for an ambitious man. A lot of pressure.”

Chloe sighed. “If he held it together at the office, all that steam might have exploded when he got home every night.”

“Yeah. We’ve got all the classic signs of abuse. After Bonnie married Sabatola she withdrew from friends and quit a job she loved. Sabatola gets drunk at a blue-collar bar every week. He’s somehow involved with the woman who owns it. They go way back.”

“An affair?”

“Maybe. And maybe that’s why Sabatola wanted me off his tail, and tried to scare me by running me off the road. His wife just committed suicide, and if it came out that Sabatola was involved with another woman … or a man … well, it wouldn’t look good. Especially right now, when he’s desperate to get board approval to take the big corner office at AgriFutures.”

Sordid stuff, Chloe thought. “I hate to think that Dellyn is spending time with Simon.”

“Can you warn her to stay away from him?”

“What would I say? We can’t prove anything. Simon’s all the family she’s got left, and he’s been making nice lately.”

They drove in silence for a few more minutes, passing pastures of placid Holsteins, fields of corn and soybeans, weathered old houses and barns crouched beneath huge blue silos, women weeding gardens. It all seems so peaceful, Chloe thought. So at odds with the events circling in her head. “Where are we?”

“I grew up near here.” Roelke flipped on his turn signal.

A few moments later he pulled over and turned off the engine. “This is it. The old Roelke place.”

“Wow.”

“My mother was born here. My grandparents farmed it. It didn’t go out of the family until my grandfather died. I spent a lot of time here when I was a kid. Milked a lot of cows.”

Chloe stared at the abandoned brick farmhouse. It was tired but had, as one of her professors used to say, good bones. From the distance of the truck cab, she received no particular perception from the building; from the layers of Roelke’s ancestors still dusting worn floorboards and walls. Much more palpable was Roelke’s sense of ambivalence about the place.

“I don’t know who owns it now,” he added. “Nobody lives here. They just rent out the fields, I think.”

“Oh,” Chloe said. A song sparrow landed on a bobbing teasel plant, then flew away. They sat for a few minutes longer, watching the farm doze like an old cat in the sun.

“I gotta ask you something,” Roelke said.

Something in his tone made her wary.

“I want you to tell me what it feels like to be depressed. I mean—
you know. Really depressed.”

Chloe’s shoulders hunched. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. I’m better now. I don’t want to go back to that place.”

“I’m sorry to ask. Really. But—”

She turned on him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I need to understand what took
Bonnie
to that place. That place where she felt compelled to put a gun to her own throat. You’re the only person I know who might be able to tell me.”

“Is this about Bonnie Sabatola?” Chloe slid down on the seat and propped her feet on the dashboard, finding some comfort in the semi-fetal position. “Or is it about me?”

He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he said, “Both, I guess. I keep thinking that if I can find a reason why Bonnie killed herself, then …”

“Sometimes there’s a concrete reason, but sometimes it just comes from inside. A chemical imbalance.” Chloe sighed. “Look, if you want to find some conclusion that will convince you that I’ll never get depressed again … well, that’s not going to happen.”

“But to reach a place where you would want to—”

“Why are you assuming Bonnie
wanted
to kill herself ? Maybe she’d been fighting that urge for weeks. Maybe she just woke up one day and was so tired, so damn weary, that she knew she simply couldn’t keep going. Maybe the grayness had seeped into every corner of her life.” Chloe realized that her voice was rising, and tried to bring it down to normal range. “And maybe she didn’t have a best friend to call.”

“I just …” Roelke avoided her gaze. “I know I’ve lost perspective. There’s something about the Sabatola stuff that—that just
eats
at me. I need to figure it out before it does cost me my job. All I know is that women … Dammit, men can make life a living hell for women. It can go the other way too, but most often, it’s women on the receiving end, and—and
you
, and Erin Litkowski, and—”

“O-
kay
.” Chloe had no idea who Erin Litkowski was, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. And she definitely wasn’t up to a recital of all the women Roelke had met in the course of his police career.

“Sorry,” Roelke muttered.

“I know you mean well. But let’s keep this about Bonnie Sabatola, all right?”

He was silent.

“Everyone’s situation is different,” Chloe said finally. “But if you want to talk about this more sometime, call me and I’ll try to help. I promise.”

When Roelke arrived at
the station the next afternoon, Skeet was going off-shift. “Anything going on?” Roelke asked, trying to sound off-hand.

“Naw.” Skeet jerked his head toward the chief’s door, which was closed. “Chief told me there’s nothing new in the Van Dyne murder investigation. I knew you’d want to know.”

“Yeah,” Roelke said. “Thanks.”

Skeet lowered his voice. “You hear anything from the Police Committee?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.” Skeet glanced this time at Marie, who was typing away but doubtless following every word of the conversation. “Listen, man. I just wanted to say … well, whatever happens—you know, with the job thing—we’ll be cool, right?”

“Sure,” Roelke lied. “We’ll be cool.”

“Good.” Skeet nodded. “OK. I’m outta here, man. See you tomorrow.”

Roelke spent the afternoon patrolling, including a stint in a speed trap, trying not to obsess about the philosophy of speeding tickets. When he couldn’t stand that anymore he started on bar checks. He stopped first at The Eagle’s Nest, almost hoping to find some brawl to break up. No such luck.

Next stop was Sasso’s. Inside the barroom, several of the regulars lifted their hands or smiled in greeting. Roelke nodded back, and asked the bartender, “How are things tonight?”

“No problems,” the man said. “Thanks for stopping in, though. I appreciate it.”

I’m good in this town, Roelke thought, as he began his circle through the crowded room. I’m good
for
this town.

It was a typical week-night crowd. Most of the patrons wore faded jeans or overalls, but a few businessmen who commuted to Waukesha or Oconomowoc had settled in for a cold one, jackets tossed aside and ties loosened. As usual, a group in one corner wore old-fashioned costumes. No one gave them a second glance. Everyone in Eagle was used to seeing interpreters from Old World Wisconsin pumping gas, stopping at the post office, relaxing at Sasso’s.

Suddenly Roelke went still. Dellyn Burke was leaning against the wall, wearing her patched and faded Old World garb. He’d never seen Dellyn when she didn’t look stunned, grief-stricken, exhausted. She still looked tired, but her expression was animated. She was clearly enjoying the conversation she was having … with Markus Meili.

Roelke walked in their directions.

“Millions of people in poor nations who subsist largely on cassava roots rely on local legumes that are rich in protein to round out their diet,” Dellyn was saying. “And if crops engineered in industrial countries are forced upon them …”

“Not only will the local species likely go extinct,” Meili said, “but local people might lose an essential nutritional element.”

Dellyn sighed. “I’d really hoped that my little Garden Fair would give me an opportunity to help Old World’s visitors think about things like that. I mean, the USDA admits that in the last eighty years, we’ve lost ninety-seven percent of vegetable varieties here in the US! It’s appalling.” She shuddered, then put a hand on Meili’s arm. “Listen, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared toward the ladies’ room.

Roelke took a step closer, and Alpine Boy looked up from his beer. “Officer McKenna.” It wasn’t a warm greeting.

The two men stood staring at each other. The clamor of conversation surrounding them faded into obscurity.

Then Markus leaned a little closer. “I’m glad to see you, because
I need to say something.” He kept his gaze locked on Roelke’s. “You are not what Chloe needs.”

Roelke felt every already-tense muscle tighten more, as if someone was winding an internal winch. “I’m not what she needs?” he repeated softly.

“She doesn’t need a cop,” Markus said. “She needs someone who understands her work. Who understands
her
.”

The winch in Roelke’s chest cranked again. “And that would be you?”

“I lived with her for over five years. We were good together.” Alpine Boy’s accented voice dropped even lower, as if he was confiding a deep secret. “And we’re going to be good together again.”

They already stood only inches apart, but Roelke took one step forward, deliberately crowding the other man’s space. “I could break you in two,” Roelke said softly. “Right here, right now.”

The smug self-assurance drained from Meili’s face. Roelke knew a stab of fierce satisfaction.

Then Meili smiled. Actually
smiled
, the bastard. “Thank you, officer. You just proved my point.”

“Hey, guys.” Dellyn appeared and made a point of elbowing her way in between them. “What’s going on?”

Blood started pounding audibly in Roelke’s brain.

“The policeman and I were just having a friendly conversation,” Meili told Dellyn.

The pounding in Roelke’s head grew louder. He nodded at Dellyn. Then he left. Outside he slid into the squad car and slammed the door. He grabbed his clipboard, so it would look to any passer-by that he was busy with
something
. But he couldn’t write. Couldn’t think.

Jesus Christ. While on duty, while wearing his uniform, while carrying his service weapon, he had threatened Markus Meili with physical harm.

Roelke went back to the station and told dispatch he wasn’t well enough to finish his shift. Then he got in his truck and drove to Libby’s house.

She opened the door to his knock, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Hey! What are you doing here?” She stepped backward so he could come inside.

“Are the kids asleep?”

“Justin is. Dierdre had a bad dream. I was reading her a story.”

“Can I do that?”

Libby crossed her arms and considered him. Finally she cocked her head toward the little girl’s bedroom.

The room was small, painted pink, furnished with lots of ruffles and lace. Dierdre was propped up on an extra pillow, wearing a plastic tiara studded with glittering rhinestones.

“Hey, Princess,” Roelke said. He eased down on the edge of her bed, and kissed her forehead. She smelled sweet, as if fresh from a bubble bath. It made him want to cry. “Can I finish reading your story?”

“You can read it,” Dierdre said, with an air of royal dispensation.

Roelke picked up the book Libby had left open on the pink sheet.
Winnie the Pooh
. He began to read. Dierdre’s eyes drifted closed, and her breathing settled into the gentle rhythm of sleep, but he didn’t stop.

Finally Libby stepped into the doorway. “She’s asleep, you know.”

“Yeah.” Roelke closed the book reluctantly.

“Come on.” Libby led him to the kitchen. She opened a Lienie for herself. Then she put a shot glass on the table and, to his astonishment, filled it with whiskey.

“You want me to drink?” he asked dumbly.

“You look like you need it. And you can walk home from here.” She sat down catty-corner from him.

Roelke hesitated, not from self-control, but because the shot glass reminded him of Simon Sabatola. Well, the hell with that. He picked up the shot and knocked it back.

“OK.” Libby gave him a level gaze. “What’s going on? Did they give the job to Skeet?”

“No!” Roelke scrubbed his face with his hands. “This isn’t about the job.” Although it was, because everything was all tangled together.

“Then what?”

“I’ve been thinking about genetics.”

Libby blinked, and sat back in her chair. “OK,
that
was unexpected.”

“I have a temper.”

“Well, yeah.” Libby spread her hands. “And this got you upset because … ?”

“Because of Patrick!”

“Oh. Oh, hell.” Libby chewed her lip. “Whiskey was a mistake. A big one. Sorry.”

“No, it’s not the booze.” At least not today. Roelke rested his elbows on the table, and his head in his hands. “Do you remember Patrick’s temper? He was just like my dad that way. Something would set Patrick off, and boy, he could snap just like that.” Or throw a punch. No matter where he was, or who he was punching, or what price he’d have to pay.

Alarm flickered in Libby’s eyes. “Did you do something you shouldn’t have done?”

Maybe I am like Patrick, Roelke thought. Scary thought. Even worse? That he was like Sabatola. Sabatola, who believed he deserved a promotion. Sabatola, who believed he was justified in—Roelke suspected—playing without rules.

“Roelke?” Libby demanded.

“I haven’t punched anyone,” he said carefully.

“I’m making coffee.” Libby got up and filled the coffeemaker. “When was the last time you saw Patrick?”

“Before he went to prison.”

“Roelke …” Libby came around behind him, and wrapped him in a hug. “Go see your brother. Talk to him. See how he’s doing. Maybe you can help him somehow. I know you hate to talk about him—to even think about him—but I can also tell that makes you crazy sometimes.”

“I don’t want to talk to Patrick.”

“One visit. Just one.” Libby squeezed a little tighter. “Make peace with him.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Promise me you’ll give it a try.”

The coffee machine started to burble. Libby didn’t move.

“I’ll try,” Roelke finally mumbled. He had no idea if he was lying or not. What he did know was that he needed to pull his shit together. He was very close to screwing up—not just the Eagle job, but his entire career in law enforcement.

_____

Midnight found Roelke alone in his apartment, pacing, trying hard not to think. He didn’t want to think about the Police Committee. And he sure as hell didn’t want to think about Markus Meili, who may have already told Chloe that Roelke—while on duty—had threatened him. What I really need, Roelke thought, is a few hours of shut-eye. The combination of whiskey and caffeine had left him sleepy but wired, like the wide-awake drunks he saw guzzling Irish coffee every St. Patrick’s Day.

Dammit.
Patrick
. Roelke didn’t want to think about his brother, either.

He remembered the stricken look on Libby’s face when she’d realized that pouring Roelke a drink had been a mistake. She’d even admitted her error—something so rare it deserved notation on a calendar. He’d have to reassure her on that score. None of his problems were her fault.

Roelke put his kettle on the stove to boil. He didn’t know what herbal tea would do to his head, but it couldn’t hurt.

Once the tea was steeping, Roelke sat down at the kitchen table. The index cards were still there, neatly stacked. He put the
Alex
card aside, and the
Simon
card too. Instead, he took a blank card and wrote
Bonnie
across the top. He’d focused primarily on how Simon Sabatola had treated Bonnie ever since Libby had told him to stop obsessing about the logistics of Bonnie’s last moments.

But maybe Libby had been wrong about that, too.

Right this moment, with his brain too fuzzy-jittery to function well, something in Roelke’s gut insisted that he needed to return to the scene he’d found on the White Oak Trail that day.

He drained his mug and shoved to his feet. Maybe he could grab a couple hours of sleep. He was off the next day, and he needed to make good use of it. He set his clock for 4:30 AM.

A few hours later the alarm’s buzzer woke him from a deep sleep. Once he’d grabbed a quick shower, he felt ready to face the day.

The EPD was locked and dark when Roelke arrived. He washed out the coffeepot and made a strong, new batch. He cleared some counter space and spread out the photos he’d taken the morning Bonnie Sabatola committed suicide. Before sitting down he went to his locker to retrieve his water bottle. He picked up Erin Litkowski’s photo too, and set it beside the photographs.

Roelke studied each shot slowly. Made some notes on index cards. Thought. Rearranged cards. Wrote some more.

Finally he leaned back in the chair. A single column of index cards now neatly bisected the counter. These cards had questions written on them. Questions he should have started asking days ago. He’d wasted time. And now, he was almost out of it.

He rummaged in the cupboard until he found a half-eaten package of Fig Newtons. Sounds like a Chloe-style breakfast, he thought, but forced his mind away. He couldn’t afford to think about Chloe right now.

It was 7:15. Roelke looked up a phone number, dialed. “Hey, Peggy—yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry to call so—yeah, I am at work. I—yeah, I am feeling better, thanks for asking. I—sure. I could meet you then.” Roelke closed his eyes, hoping he was doing the right thing.

He’d made one more call before Marie arrived fifteen minutes later. The clerk assessed him with raised eyebrows. “Isn’t this your day off ?” She sat down at her desk, opened a file drawer, and dropped her purse inside.

“Yeah. But I needed to ask you a question.”

“There’s this thing called a telephone …”

Roelke grabbed a vacant chair, scooted it close, and dropped into it. “Has the Police Committee made their decision?”

The clerk sobered at once. “No. Nothing yet.”

That was good, right? He needed to get through the next day or so without any walls crashing down. “Anything new on Harriet Van Dyne’s murder?”

“No. Chief has a call in.”

OK, down to business. “Marie, you remember that day we got the suicide call from Bonnie Sabatola? What happened after Skeet and I left?”