by E. C. Diskin
“You’re right. But as soon as we get those scans of that shirt, I want you to go through Cahill’s Facebook page. Grace didn’t have an account, but he had tons of pictures in his profile. I remember that she was in some. If we see that shirt on Grace . . .”
Hackett dropped his pen. “Wait, even if the shirt is Grace’s, what does that prove? She lived there. The perp could have mopped up some blood with a T-shirt he or she found at the scene and disposed of it.”
Bishop nodded halfheartedly.
Thank God. “Of course, if we can prove the shirt is definitely not Grace’s, well, then it could be our perp’s, right?”
“Maybe so,” Bishop said.
An hour later, they pulled into the Bellaire Apartments parking lot. “The New Buffalo police question anyone here?” Hackett asked.
“They didn’t have a known crime in the system at the time. But now we need to find out if anyone saw anything odd on Friday night or Saturday morning.”
An older woman, maybe sixty, with strikingly silver hair and flanked by two Labradors, answered the door at the management office. She turned off the television, closed her People magazine, and moved a pile of older issues from the sofa, offering them seats. She seemed glad for the company, and when they told her their purpose, she pulled a list of tenants from a desk drawer.
Hackett scanned the list while Bishop asked a few questions. “Do you have any security cameras in your parking lot?”
“’Fraid not. A couple of officers came by after those things were reported being found here, but I wasn’t much help. As far as I knew, no one had seen anything. I certainly didn’t. My unit is in the front of the building. The bins are out back. You can go see. They’re a bit removed from the main parking area. And when it’s dark, they aren’t lit.”
“Okay, thanks,” Bishop said.
Hackett looked up from his list. “Ma’am, by chance do you know if any of these female tenants are blonde?”
“Well, sure,” she said as she stood up and went over to the list. “There.” She pointed at unit 306. “She’s my only blonde.”
The men thanked her and headed outside. “So let’s start with 306,” Bishop said.
When they knocked on the door, a petite woman with long platinum-blonde hair answered. Hackett’s radar perked up. She was definitely a looker, just like the bartender at The Rack had described.
Bishop handled the introductions. “Hello, ma’am, I’m Detective Bishop and this is Officer Hackett. May we come in for a moment?”
“What’s this about?” She wore a little black miniskirt and scoop-neck top pinned with a name tag. Her bare feet shuffled back and forth as the cold air seeped into the apartment.
Bishop pointed at the name tag. “Miss Preston, may I call you Sheri?”
“Okay.”
“Did you know Michael Cahill?”
“Yeah, he was that guy who was killed, right?”
“That’s right.”
“He was Grace’s boyfriend. You came into the restaurant last week. I was there.”
Hackett’s heartbeat thumped. “So you work with Grace?”
“Yeah.” She relaxed a bit against the open door.
“May we?” Bishop asked. “It’s pretty cold.”
“Sure.” She let them in and closed the door. Hackett scanned the room while Bishop continued asking the questions.
“Are you a friend of Grace’s?”
Preston went to the couch and sat. “Sure, kinda. We know each other.”
Hackett sat on the arm of a chair, but Bishop continued standing. “Did you socialize with Grace outside of work?”
“Yeah—when we were working the same shifts. We usually all go out for drinks after our shift. We’re pretty wired after running around for hours. She’s nice enough. I mean, we didn’t confide in each other or go to the movies, but we hung out. She’s pretty quiet, that’s all.”
Unlike this one, Hackett thought. It was the way she walked—she was an attention grabber, just like Olivia. “And were you friendly with her boyfriend as well?”
“I knew who he was—I knew the name, but I didn’t know him.”
Hackett slid out his pad and noted Preston’s connection to Grace, her physical match to the woman at The Rack, and her denial about knowing Cahill.
Bishop walked around the room, casually scanning pictures and knickknacks. “So, Sheri, it seems that some items were found in the trash bins behind your apartment recently that can be traced back to Cahill’s death.”
Preston crossed her legs. “Like what?”
“Like the murder weapon and a shirt covered in his blood.”
“Oh shit.” Neither Hackett nor Bishop spoke right away. Preston looked at them, then around the room. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, so she slid a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table and tapped it against her knee. “So what does this have to do with me?”
Bishop cleared his throat. “Well, we’ve been trying to figure out what Cahill was up to in the days before his death, and it seems he was seen leaving a bar with a blonde—a blonde who sounds a lot like you.”
“What? Well, you’re wrong. I didn’t even know the guy.”
“You ever been to The Rack in Berrien Springs?”
“The Rack?” She scowled. “What kind of name is that? Sounds like a strip club or something. No. I never heard of it.”
Bishop made another circuit around the room. “So if we show your picture to the men who were in the bar that night, no one will recognize you?”
She sat back, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, and shook her head. Not even a hint of fluster. “I’ve never been to Berrien Springs. I don’t even know where that is.”
“Really?” Bishop said, incredulous.
She smiled. “Really. I’m from Chicago. I just moved to New Buffalo last summer. Thought it would be a summer job, hang at the beach. But I decided to stay. College sucks. So yeah, I don’t know every town around here.”
Hackett didn’t buy it. “Can you tell us where you were on Sunday, December first?”
“Jeez, I don’t know.” She stood and walked into the kitchen to look at the calendar posted on the fridge. “Well, I wasn’t working. But that was more than two weeks ago. I don’t remember. I’ll have to think about it.”
Bishop said what Hackett was thinking: “It seems a bit of a coincidence to find evidence from a crime scene right here, just steps from your place, and to hear about Cahill leaving a bar with a woman matching your description a few days before his death. And I must say, the clothes look to be about your size.”
Of course that was a stretch, but Bishop was obviously looking for a reaction, and he got one. “You’re crazy. This is a huge apartment building. I’m not the only person who lives here. And who says you even have to live here to use the dumpsters?”
“Can you tell us where you were on Saturday, December seventh?” Hackett asked.
“You can’t be serious.” She plopped down on the couch again. “I take it that’s the day he died?”
“Yeah,” Hackett said.
“I was sleeping. I got up about eleven in the morning, then I went to work. I had a three o’clock shift.”
“And is there anyone who could verify where you were in the morning?”
She leaned back and crossed her arms. “In fact, there is. I was with Dave Jacks. My manager.”
The men looked at each other.
“We’d hooked up, okay? No big deal. A bunch of us were partying on Friday night.”
“And he was with you all night?”
“Yes.”
“At your place or his?”
“His.”
“I don’t suppose you know where we could find Dave now?”
“I’m guessing at his apartment. We both got off a little while ago, but he
’s going back in this afternoon. He lives downstairs in 104.”
ELEVEN
WHEN HACKETT AND BISHOP KNOCKED on Dave Jacks’s door, they found a man half-dressed and visibly stoned. He stood in the doorway in boxers, a white tee, and an unbuttoned blue dress shirt. They smiled, held out their badges, and introduced themselves.
“Hello, Officers, what can I do for you?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, betraying any attempt to be casual, while his face remained sandwiched between the door and the frame, preventing them from seeing inside his apartment.
“Can we come in?” Bishop asked.
Jacks didn’t move. “I’m not really ready for company, guys. How can I help you?”
Bishop stepped closer. “Mr. Jacks, do you remember us? We came to the restaurant last Thursday in regard to the Michael Cahill murder?”
“Sure, sure, I do. Yeah, what’s up?”
Bishop put away the badge and rubbed his hands together. “It’s freezing out here, Mr. Jacks. Could we please come in and speak with you?”
“Oh, sorry guys, it’s just—” Jacks glanced back into his living room. “Maybe I could come down to the station to meet you? I’m not dressed and I really need to get in the shower for work.”
Bishop put his foot in the doorway and stepped closer. “I don’t smell marijuana, do I?”
Jacks shook his head, but his shit-eating grin carried far more influence than his denial.
Bishop’s hand was on the door, pressing against it. “I think you’d better let us in, Mr. Jacks.”
Jacks let go of the door in defeat and walked into his bathroom as they entered the apartment. A two-foot-tall bong sat on the coffee table. Jacks returned from the bathroom wearing a robe. “It’s recreational, guys. You’re not gonna make a big deal of it, are you? Hell, I’m sitting in my own apartment, not hurting anyone.”
“Where do you get your stuff?” Hackett asked. Bishop lifted the lid of a cigar box on the coffee table and pulled out a sandwich bag of weed, a small pipe, and a little bag of pink-and-white capsules.
Jacks said nothing about Bishop’s discovery. He took a seat on the arm of the couch. “Come on, guys, what’s this about?”
“We’re here to talk to you about Michael Cahill,” Bishop said. “But maybe you’d better tell us where you get your drugs, Dave.”
“I don’t know. Weed’s not exactly hard to get. It’s not even that much.”
Bishop held up the bag of pills. “What’s this?”
“Vitamins,” Jacks said, looking anywhere but at the officers.
“Really?” Bishop said. “In a sandwich bag in a box on the coffee table?”
Jacks crossed his arms. “Yep.”
Hackett stepped forward to look at the bag. “What kind?”
“Multivitamins.”
“Great,” Bishop said. “You won’t mind, then, if we take these with us? I could use a multivitamin.”
Hackett grinned. “Me too.”
Jacks rubbed his face, like a dry wash would awaken him to this new reality of police in his smoke-filled living room, planning to take his stash. “I thought this was about Cahill.”
“It is,” Bishop said, as he sat on one of the matching leather couches in the living room, getting comfortable. “Did you know him?”
“Not really.”
“He wasn’t your dealer?” Hackett asked.
“What? No! Why would you ask that?”
Bishop continued. “We found a lot of pot at Michael’s place. We’re trying to piece together his life and contacts. Can you tell us where you were on Saturday, December seventh?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“We’re simply asking questions.”
“I was here.”
“Were you alone?”
“Is this about Grace? She didn’t kill Michael.”
“No one said anything about Grace,” Hackett said as he perused the room, picking up several framed photos. He walked into the kitchen, examining the photos posted on the fridge. Most were printouts of partying twenty-somethings—close-ups, toasting with beers, card games, smoke-filled rooms. A few were taken of the staff at the restaurant. He recognized Sheri Preston and Grace Abbott in several shots.
When he moved toward the bedroom, Jacks got up and followed. “Can I help you find something?”
Hackett peered into his bedroom. A picture of Grace sat perched by the bed.
Jacks followed his gaze. “Hey, guys, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t recall inviting you in. I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable here. And I’ve got to get ready for work.”
Hackett looked back at Jacks and rejoined Bishop in the living room. “Can you answer the question, Dave?”
“What question?”
“Were you alone here, last Saturday?”
“No, I wasn’t alone. I was with Sheri Preston until about eleven in the morning. I threw a little party here on Friday night after our shift. It went pretty late—”
“How late?” Bishop interrupted.
“Like six or seven in the morning. Sheri spent the night. After she left, I watched TV until about two o’clock, and then I went to work.”
“Did Grace and Michael come to your party?”
“Of course not.”
“Why ‘of course not’?” Hackett asked. “I thought Grace often went out with the work crew.”
“That’s true, but her boyfriend never did.”
He could hear the disdain in Jacks’s voice. This guy seemed more and more suspect. “Well, then, did Grace come to your party that night?”
“No.”
“But she worked that night.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t go out with us afterward.”
“Was that normal?” Bishop asked.
“I’d say it was normal for that day. I mean, she’d just gotten engaged.”
“Engaged?” The word caught in Hackett’s throat and he repeated it.
“Yeah. She told us on Friday at work. I guess he proposed on Thursday night.”
“So she looked happy to you?” Bishop asked.
“People are usually pretty happy about getting married,” Jacks said.
“You didn’t know about any breakup?” Hackett asked.
Jacks backpedaled. “Well, if she said they did, I guess they did.”
“You sound like you know something you’re not telling us.”
He retied his robe. “I don’t know anything, man.”
Hackett looked at Bishop. “You see that? I think there was some sort of spark when I said Grace and Michael might have broken up.” Bishop smirked.
“I have no opinion about that,” Jacks said. “Why? Did she say something about me?”
“Why would she do that?” Hackett asked.
“No reason. Listen, if that’s all, I really need to get in the shower.”
Bishop stood and they both followed Jacks to the door. “Just a few more questions,” Hackett said. “How long has Grace worked at your restaurant?”
“Two years.”
“And you’ve been manager all that time?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve regularly gone out together after work—you’ve socialized?”
“So?”
“So you know her pretty well.”
“I know her really well. I care about her a lot.”
“Maybe too much?”
“What does that mean?”
“I see a lot of pictures of Grace in here. You take all these pictures?”
Jacks looked around. “It’s not a big deal. I just take them with my phone.”
“And then print them out and frame them.”
“What’s your point?”
Hackett raised his eyebrows at Bishop. “There’s a picture of Grac
e by your bed,” he said to Jacks. “That doesn’t seem like a normal boss/employee relationship, don’t you agree?”
Bishop smiled. “You’re right about that.”
“It’s no big deal, guys. It was actually of several people, but their eyes were closed so I just cropped it. It’s a good picture of her. We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Hackett said. “I’d say you seem to have some strong feelings for Grace.”
“I’d do anything for Grace, and yeah, I’m worried about her. Her boyfriend’s been murdered, she doesn’t seem to remember anything or anyone, and she must be scared. But I can’t help you, fellas. I don’t know anything. And I need to get to work.”
They wouldn’t get anything more from the guy right now. “No problem, Jacks,” Bishop said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Grace made her way back to the kitchen for some pills and a little coffee before it would be too difficult to stand. Her headaches were becoming predictable, as if every attempt at prolonged concentration set off the ice pick behind her eyes. But after twenty minutes, she had a new wind.
Now an almost frantic energy was aching to break through the closed doors of her mind. She paced the room, mumbling, reviewing the day. There was a gap. She remembered the restaurant, Dave, Cherry Beach, but what about before that? She couldn’t remember driving there. What was before that? “What the hell?” she shouted. Her mind began to speed up, as if she couldn’t process thoughts fast enough. Was this what it was like to be crazy?
What was wrong with her? She’d remembered something today, she knew it, but now she couldn’t remember what it was. She paced the house, looking around, pointing at items on the wall, listing what she knew and what she didn’t. The walls were closing in; the ceiling was coming down. After ten or so laps, she collapsed on the kitchen floor, barely conscious, focusing only on the light fixture above her.
When Lisa walked in the back door an hour later, Grace felt her presence, but it took considerable effort to open her eyes. Lisa dropped her bag and keys and fell to the floor beside her. “Grace,” she shouted, slapping her in the face, “are you okay?”
