by E. C. Diskin
“We’re walking a fine line here. Grace could be traumatized from that accident, she could be traumatized by something she saw at Cahill’s house, or maybe she’s our perp. I’m not ready to share all our cards yet.”
“Shouldn’t we get over there and find out more?”
“No need. We got what we needed this morning,” Bishop said, walking back to his desk.
“What do you mean?”
“Kewanee, with the tribal police, checked it out. The Potawatomis own the casino, so their tribal police are deputized and help us out when it comes to tribal property. He already learned that the woman’s a waitress, she arranged for another waiter to cover her shifts last week, and she’s off this week. No one has seen her at home or work, and everyone assumes she’s left town. She’s not due back at work until this coming Friday.”
“So this woman is connected to the victim the day before his death and now she’s skipped town?”
“Well, yeah, but we don’t know enough to assume anything too nefarious yet. She may just be on vacation.” He sat behind his desk and reviewed some notes. “Anyway, how are you coming with Grace’s cell records?”
Hackett went to his own desk that faced Bishop’s and leafed through the paperwork. “I got the warrant processed last Thursday, but the phone company said it could be at least a week for the texts and phone records.” He hoped it would take longer. It would all be over if Bishop saw the call logs before they figured out who killed Michael.
His boss sipped his coffee and continued working on the half-eaten muffin he’d abandoned when the women arrived. “We also got some new information just now.”
Hackett took a seat. “What’s that?”
“When you took Grace to get the prints, Lisa mentioned that Cahill had a temper. She said Grace was afraid of him.” Bishop cracked a half smile, like he’d just gotten a great nugget. Like maybe Grace blew him away, a battered woman who’d had enough.
Hackett was surer than ever that he’d been right to keep quiet. Someone had to keep Bishop from going after the easiest target. “We don’t have any record of abuse,” he pointed out.
“True. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Call the crime-lab fingerprint unit, ask for Miles. Tell him we got Grace’s prints and we need them checked against the prints found on the photos.”
“Okay. Didn’t he say there were more than one set of prints on them?”
“Yeah. But we know that Cahill’s wasn’t one of them. If Grace’s prints are on those photos, that’s motive.”
Hackett made the call and said a silent prayer for Grace. And for himself. As he hung up, Bishop was grabbing his coat. “Come on. We’re heading up to Berrien Springs.”
The wind off the lake had picked up, swirling some of last week’s snowfall into the road. The entire landscape was still covered in a thick blanket, and the temperature wasn’t expected to let up anytime soon. Hackett rubbed his hands together, trying to get warm and focus on the facts—to play the part of investigator—but his thoughts kept falling into a ditch, where they went round and round, back to Grace’s face and back to the phone call that might ruin him.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Bishop asked.
“Nothing,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the white-covered fields.
“You watch Stripes yet?”
Hackett chuckled. “You just told me to watch it yesterday!”
“Well, what the hell else you gotta do? How does a young guy spend time around here anyway? You never seem to be hungover, so I’m guessing you’re not that type.”
“No,” he said.
“Come on,” Bishop prodded. “Give me something. I’m almost a half century. God, that sounds bad. My free time is spent at basketball games, ballet recitals, chores—did I say ballet recitals?”
Hackett laughed.
“It’s my duty to live vicariously through my good-looking, young partner who’s probably swinging from chandeliers. I mean, look at you!”
Hackett laughed. “Hardly. You’d be so disappointed.”
“You got a girl?”
“No.”
“And your family’s in Indiana?”
“Yeah. Chesterton. I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“Well, I guess that’ll change soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Christmas.”
“Oh right, yeah, maybe.” Maybe. His mom had left several messages, and he knew it might make things worse if he didn’t go, but everyone else was much better at pretending the family hadn’t been irreparably damaged. And he didn’t want anyone looking at him like he was some wounded bird. He couldn’t stand their pity.
“Well, we need to solve this case ASAP.”
“What’s the rush?”
“It’s just shitty timing.”
“Christmas?”
“That and I’m on double duty right now. Sandy’s mom is in the hospital again. Doesn’t look good.”
“What is it?”
“Cancer. She’s battled it for years, but looks like the fight is about over. Sandy won’t leave her side, sure she’s going to go any minute, so she’s up in St. Joe night and day.”
“That’s tough.”
“Yeah, and don’t get me wrong, I love my mother-in-law and I know it would be shitty to lose a parent, but I’ve never been in charge at Christmas. She’s leaving it up to me to make the magic happen.”
“How old are your kids?”
“Fifteen, thirteen, eleven, and nine.”
“Wow, that’s a brood. At least they’re older, right?”
Bishop shook his head. “You have no idea how hard it is to shop for these kids. The older ones understand that because of Grandma, it’s not a great year, but Paige, my nine-year-old, is still talking about Santa. Last night she asked me to download this app on my phone that tracks his movements so we’ll know exactly when he’s getting close to Michigan on Christmas Eve.”
“They have that?”
“Oh yeah. And the older ones just want electronics: PlayStations, Wiis, Xbox. Lucky for my boy, I enjoy a game or two. But those iPods, iPads, iPhones—I hate that frickin’ i company. They need to stop marketing expensive shit to my kids.”
Hackett smirked at his tirade.
“I say no to everything,” Bishop added with a grin, “but nothing makes you feel like more of a failure than disappointed kids on Christmas morning.”
Hackett’s thoughts went to Donny, opening up his gifts on Christmas, probably the first one he’d understand. Beaming as he ripped through wrapping paper, content to play in an empty cardboard box—and Hackett wouldn’t see any of it.
“Well, you’re a chatty Cathy, aren’t you?” Bishop said.
“Sorry.” His thoughts were now stuck on Christmas, on how every future Christmas would bring nothing but dread.
They drove another twenty minutes in silence. As Bishop turned onto Shawnee Road toward the center of town, he smacked the steering wheel to break Hackett’s spell. “Okay, I got another quote for ya.”
“Hit me.”
“Now, this is a classic. Everyone in the world has seen this movie.”
“Okay.”
In his most strained voice, as if he could barely get out the words, Bishop said, “I got no place else to go. I got no place else to go! I got nothin’ else.”
Hackett grinned, watching him mug for a few seconds before giving up. “I got no idea.”
Bishop’s tone was now deeper and gruff. “Oh, come on, May-o-nnaise.”
“What?”
Bishop continued in his best imitation of the unnamed actor, throwing at him some insulting remarks about Oklahoma.
“This is all the same movie?”
“Yes! Kid, what have you been doing all your life? It’s An Officer and a Gentleman. Richard Gere. Debr
a Winger.” He clapped his hands and went into a high-pitched falsetto. “Go, Paula!”
Hackett cracked up, suddenly picturing his balding partner in a dress. “Same movie?”
Bishop chuckled and backhanded him on the knee. “Of course.”
“Well, now I have to see it.”
They pulled into the parking lot of The Rack, just a half mile down the road from Cahill’s construction job. Cahill’s foreman had said a stop at The Rack was like the second half of any shift. The building, enlivened only by neon beer signs in the window, was run-down, sandwiched between a thrift shop and a parking lot. Inside, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer greeted them as Led Zeppelin blasted from the jukebox. The bartender, mid-sixties, with long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, multiple earrings, tattoos covering both forearms, and a massive belly that spilled out from beneath his Harley T-shirt, leaned against the rail at the end of the bar, reading the newspaper.
Hackett and Bishop took seats at the bar and introduced themselves. The bartender offered them a drink, which they declined. “Had to ask.” He smiled. “I’m Ed.” He shook hands with both of them. “What can I do you for?”
“You recognize this man?” Hackett held up a photo of Cahill.
“This is about that murder, huh?”
He nodded. “We heard from Mr. Cahill’s foreman that he and the boys often came here after work.”
“Yeah, Mike was a regular.”
“How often would you say he came in?” Bishop asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, few times a week? There was usually a load of ’em who came in after their shifts over at the site to kick back for an hour or two before headin’ home.”
Bishop gave Hackett the nod to jump in. “We’re trying to piece together his last days. Can you remember the last time you saw him?”
“Couple weeks, I guess.”
“According to his boss, he’d worked four days on the week before his death.” He checked his notes. “Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Would you have any record of whether or not he was here any of those days—after his shift, perhaps?”
“Nah. No real bookkeeping. I mean, unless someone pays with a credit card, there’s no telling who’s been in and out.”
Bishop spun his barstool away from the conversation, toward the pool tables.
“How well did you know Mr. Cahill?” Hackett asked.
“Not well. I mean, he’s ‘Mike’ to me, for one. I ain’t no Sam or nothin’.”
“Sam?”
“You know, Sam—Cheers?”
Bishop turned back and smiled. “The reference is wasted on my partner, here. Turns out he doesn’t know anything from before 1990.”
“Come on, guys,” Hackett protested. “I can’t help it if I’m not old!” The men laughed.
“Shall we get back to it, please?” he asked. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Cahill? Mike?”
The bartender sipped his coffee. “I know he wasn’t here after Sunday, week before last. I know because I was planning to give him some shit, bust his balls a little, but I never got a chance.”
“So you know he was here that Sunday?”
“Yep.”
“And why’d you wanna bust his balls?” Bishop asked.
“Oh yeah. Kinda funny, really. The boys are always hanging out. They’re loud. Riding one another a bit. Placing stupid bets on the games. Sometimes I go in on them, but shit, I’d be broke if I did that with all the customers. Anyway, I remember that Mike was telling all the guys about how he couldn’t place no more bets for a while, that his ring was setting him back a bit.”
“Ring?” Hackett asked.
“Engagement ring. He was showing it off. Had it with him. He’d told the boys that he was finally gonna do it, and they all teased him a bit.”
“So that’s what you wanted to tease him about?” Bishop asked.
“Fuck no. I wanted to tease him because the very night that he’s telling the boys how he’s taking the big plunge, I seen him leave here with some other woman.”
“How do you know it was another woman? Do you know his girlfriend?” Hackett asked.
“No, no. We don’t get many chicks in this place. It’s more of an escape. But this chick came in looking like, I don’t know, like Sharon Stone or something. Fuckin’ hot, that’s my point. Mike’s up at the bar, getting a few, and this girl, she starts chatting him up, flirting. She wasn’t no girlfriend. I mean, I was at the other end of the bar, but you can tell when girls want some just by the way they hold a cigarette, you know?”
“So she smoked?”
“Well, not in here, of course. But she was holding an unlit one at the time. Anyway, next thing I know, he’s leaving with the girl. Got his arm around her and everything.”
“So this was Sunday . . . December first?” Hackett asked, looking at his notes.
“Yeah. Had to be.”
“So he meets some girl and takes off with her? Can you remember what the girl looked like?”
“Skinny thing, high heels, long blonde hair. You know that white blonde, like a porn star. Yeah, I mighta left with her too, if she’d asked me.”
“Did she come in with anyone else? Did you see her talking to anyone else?” Bishop asked.
“She might have come in with someone. I didn’t see. But there weren’t any other women in here. Grant you, it’s not exactly normal for a looker like that to be hanging out in a shithole like this, but she obviously liked what she saw in Mike. I mean, I guess he’s good-looking. Was good-looking. Fuck.” Ed shook his head and crossed his arms.
“Just a second.” Hackett pulled out his phone, searched “Michael Cahill” on Facebook, and found the picture posted a few days before the murder. “Is this the girl you saw with him?”
The bartender took the phone and squinted at the picture. “I don’t know if I could say. The hair color is about right, but I didn’t focus too much on her face, if you know what I mean.”
Hackett took back the phone. “And you work on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Cahill didn’t come in?”
“That’s right. I didn’t see him, anyway.”
Hackett turned to Bishop. “Cahill worked on Wednesday too.”
“Who runs the bar on Wednesdays?” Bishop asked.
“Richie. He’s got Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.”
“So it’s possible Mr. Cahill—Mike—was here on Wednesday.”
“Hold on,” Ed said. A customer waved him over. The bartender poured his shot and beer, then returned to Hackett. “No idea, man.”
Bishop stood. “Well, this is helpful. Do me a favor. Write down Richie’s number.”
“Sure thing,” Ed said, noting the number on a cocktail napkin.
“Does he live around here?” Hackett asked.
“He’s about an hour away in Three Rivers. But like I said, he’ll be in Wednesday, anytime after two.”
Bishop held up the napkin. “Well, thanks. One other thing,” he said. “In general, would you say that Mike was a heavy drinker?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Never belligerent, never had to cut him off?”
“No.”
“You ever see him and wonder if he was on drugs?”
“Nope.”
“And how would you describe him—nice guy, tough guy, difficult? Anything?”
“I don’t know. Good guy. They’re all good guys. Some rougher around the edges, but these guys keep me in business. So yeah, I’d say they’re all nice guys.”
“And on that Sunday you saw him, how many drinks would you say he had?”
“Maybe two beers.”
Bishop nodded, then pulled out his card. “Thanks,” he said. “And if you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Sure thing.”
/> Back in the squad car, Bishop turned to Hackett. “We need to talk to Wesley Flynn again.”
“The guy who found Cahill?”
“Yeah. Flynn said he hadn’t seen him since Sunday. Maybe they were here together. Maybe he saw this woman Cahill left with.”
“Okay. What are you thinking?” Hackett asked.
“This girl he hooked up with, it sounds like the girl in the naked photos. Also sounds kinda like that girl in the Facebook post.”
“True. And the ‘Congratulations’ comment on her post—you think that’s about the engagement?”
“Maybe. But that’s kinda weird, right? If that girl is the one in the photos, would she be saying ‘congratulations’ about marrying someone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“We don’t know if they’re the same woman. Cahill had a lot of Facebook friends, and many were women. He may have been quite the player.”
Hackett’s thoughts turned back to Grace. Why was she ever involved with this guy?
“You know what else,” Bishop said. “Think about those naked photos. You know what’s odd about them?”
“What?”
“Who took them? They only capture the girl from the back, like someone was at the foot of the bed.”
“You think someone else is involved?”
Bishop shoved some tobacco inside his lower lip before answering. “Don’t know. But the photos were taken somewhere other than Cahill’s house. It wasn’t his bed; it wasn’t their bedroom.”
“What about a webcam? Maybe it was part of some kinky sex-tape-type stuff.”
Bishop spit out the window and continued. “But if I’m gonna cheat on my girlfriend, why would I have photos of another woman and me in the bedside table, where Grace would easily find them?”
Hackett wondered if Grace had found them or if she’d suspected Cahill was cheating. It would be a couple of days before the crime lab would know if her prints were on the photos.
“What if I wanted to blackmail someone?” Bishop said. “We now know Cahill took five thousand in cash out of the bank a week before he died.”
