“It’s not a trick. It’s just me. It’s the way I’m wired.”
“And how long have you been able to do this?” Dixon asked.
“All my life. It’s not just the voice thing, either. I can see subtleties others can’t, like I did with your handwriting. I can also pick up on scents that most people can’t, and sometimes I can tell when things have been moved.”
Holland said, “Yes, Duncan told me how you were able to pick up on the fact that other people had been present in an apartment when you were helping him investigate a case a while back where a homicide was made to look like a suicide. He said you also knew that a roll of toilet paper had been changed at the scene, and that was somehow key. I forget how.”
“And after he told you that, you suspended him and told him he wasn’t allowed to spend time with me.”
A prickly silence filled the room. I saw Clay bite back a grin.
Holland cleared his throat and said, “Yes, um, well, that might have been a hasty judgment on my part. I have had time to reconsider. And given what you have done since that case . . . well . . . it seems obvious to me that you have a God-given talent we might find useful. And if you’re willing to use it, we’d like to have you join forces with us.”
“What about my group, the Capone Club?”
“Capone Club?” Dixon said with a sneer. “As in Al Capone?”
“Yes, as in Al Capone,” I said, hearing the irritation in my own voice. “My bar had connections to Capone back in the day, and the group started right around the time we figured that out. So they adopted the name.”
“What does this group do, exactly?” Holland asked.
“They help with figuring out the crimes we look into,” I told him. “It’s an eclectic mix of people from many different walks of life. All of them bring different types of knowledge and expertise to the table. I use my synesthesia to help interpret things and ferret out some truths, but the group has been instrumental in coming up with clues and theories that eventually led us to solving the crimes. I don’t know if I could do any of it without them.”
“Well, we have our own group of people who do the same thing,” Dixon said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “They’re called the police.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I said. “The police have access to a lot of information we laypeople don’t, and they know investigative techniques and have evidence-processing capabilities we don’t have access to. What the police don’t have is the depth and breadth of knowledge and experience the Capone Club has. It’s like having a stable full of experts at your beck and call. I would think that might come in handy for some of your investigations.”
Holland sighed. “I understand and admire your dedication to your group, Ms. Dalton, but we don’t have much use for them. We can consult with any number of experts anytime we want or need to. Your ability is the one unique thing we don’t have access to, and we’d like to change that.”
“I’m sorry,” I told the men. “I’m a package deal. If you want me, you get the Capone Club.”
Dixon let out a sigh of impatience. “Ms. Dalton, you do realize we can shut down this group of yours anytime we want, right?”
I shot him an angry look, my temper forged from both his attitude and the ache in my back, arms, and legs from standing propped up on my damned crutches for so long. “Why would you do that? And how? They aren’t breaking any laws, and they’re meeting in a public establishment with the owner’s approval.”
“Their so-called research doesn’t follow the rules of evidence. Things they learn or obtain are likely to be tainted and unusable in any prosecutorial procedures that might result from their findings. I can hit them with an obstruction of justice charge.”
Holland waved away Dixon’s comment. “But you won’t,” he said, shooting Dixon a chastising look. “We’re not here to threaten you or your group, Mack. We want to find a way to work together. So how about this. You become our consultant, and whatever means you use to obtain any information you give us is up to you. But if you or your group come across any witnesses or evidence that might be pertinent to a case, it needs to be passed on to us and handled appropriately. I don’t want to do anything that might taint evidence we find or invalidate a statement from someone. Catching criminals is only part of the task. We also have to be able to successfully prosecute them. There are rules we need to follow with evidence, and confidences we need to maintain. We can’t have your group running around the city telling everyone about an ongoing investigation. They will have to play by our rules, and those rules will be strict and unbendable. Is that a workable compromise for you?”
I considered it . . . all of it. A proposal for collaboration was not what I’d expected when I’d come here. I had been fully prepared for the men to demand I cease and desist my crime-solving activities immediately. What they were suggesting instead was both unexpected and intriguing. It would allow me to continue to use my synesthesia for something good and would eliminate the need to hide what I was doing. It could pave the way for Duncan and me to have a more open relationship. But there was a fly in this feel-good ointment, two of them in fact: the letter writer and Courtney.
“I don’t like having all these other people involved,” Dixon grumbled. “It’s bad enough we have to work with her. Bringing in these other people is bound to compromise my cases at some point.”
“What if we do criminal background checks on all of them?” Holland offered.
Dixon shook his head. “A clear background doesn’t mean they won’t mess up evidence at some point. It’s too risky.”
They were discussing this like I wasn’t even in the room with them anymore. And I didn’t like the idea at all. Not only did I think several of the Capone Club members would object to the cops digging around in their lives, some of them, like Cora, skirted the edges of the law at times.
“Several of my guys participate in this group,” Holland said. “Tyrese Washington and Nick Kavinsky are frequent flyers. And, of course, there’s Duncan Albright. Between them I think they can manage to keep the group in line and make sure anything they do falls within the safe parameters we establish.”
Dixon’s frown deepened, and he sank back into his chair, arms folded over his chest. He looked like a sulking child. I got a strong sense that he wasn’t in favor of this at all and was being dragged into it for some reason. Not a good omen for our future working relationship. He didn’t offer up any more objections, however, so Holland looked over at me and said, “So what do you say, Mack? Will you do it?”
“I’m willing to consider it,” I said. “But I’d like a little time to think it over.”
I had the letter writer thing to think about, and any working arrangements I set up with the police would have to wait until that issue was resolved. Unless . . . I wondered if bringing them in on it might help us resolve things quicker. Could I trust them to be quiet about it? I wasn’t sure enough at this point to risk it.
“If it’s money that’s holding you back,” Holland said, “we’ll work with you the best we can. We don’t have a lot of discretionary funds, but we can pull from some other areas as needed. I’m sure we can come up with something we’ll both find agreeable if you give us a chance.”
“Money isn’t my concern,” I said.
“Then what is?” Holland asked.
“I can’t say just yet,” I told them. “There are some other things I need to work out. So I’d like some time to do that. What you’re offering sounds tempting, but if you can’t extend me the time, then my answer is no.”
Dixon let out a perturbed sigh.
Holland said, “Fine. How long?”
For some reason, his question annoyed me. It also piqued my curiosity. I had a feeling something else was going on here. “What’s the rush?” I asked. “Why the sudden need to sew this up?”
Holland and Dixon briefly exchanged looks. It was quick and subtle, but I picked up on it and knew there was a hidden agenda of some sort.
>
“No rush,” Dixon said, and while I knew from the taste in his voice that this was a lie, I decided not to call him out on it. He got up from his chair, walked over to the coatrack, retrieved a coat, scarf, and hat, and then said, “I look forward to hearing from you, Ms. Dalton. Have a good day.”
With that, he left. Holland rose from his chair too, but instead of walking past me, he came over and extended his arm in an offer to shake. After a moment’s hesitation, I propped one crutch under my arm and shook his hand.
“Take as much time as you need, Mack,” he said. “I hope you’ll agree to work with us.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at me. “I sense you will. You want to do this, don’t you?”
Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes.
Holland chuckled. “You aren’t the only one who can read people, Mack, though I’ll admit your talents far exceed mine. But after nearly twenty years on the force, I’ve learned a thing or two about how to read people, and I can tell you are interested in this collaboration. I look forward to hearing from you.”
He had rendered me speechless, and I stood and watched him as he walked over and shrugged into his coat. Before leaving, he turned to me once again. “You have a lot of fans and supporters among the police in this city.”
Finally finding my voice, I said, “I think it’s more my coffee than me.”
“Yes, I’ve heard your coffee is quite good. I’ll have to investigate that for myself.” He smiled and donned his hat, a fur-lined, aviator style with earflaps. “Thank you for coming here today to hear us out,” he said once the hat was settled on his head.
“I didn’t come to hear you out,” I told him. “I had no idea who was going to be here. To be honest, if I had known, I don’t think I would have come because I would have been expecting a hand-slapping rather than a handshake.”
“Well, I’m glad we were able to pleasantly surprise you.” He looked over at Clay. “Get better, my friend,” he said. “And don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”
“Will do,” Clay said. And with that, Holland took his leave.
I looked over at Clay, who was grinning at me. I walked over to the chair Holland had vacated, sank into it, and then said, “What the hell were you thinking, Clay?”
Chapter 6
Clay’s smile faded in a flash. He looked both surprised and wounded by my words. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I thought you’d be glad to learn those guys had been swayed over to your side.”
“Well, I’m not. You had no business sandbagging me like this or trying to act as some sort of mediator here. I was doing just fine on my own. The last thing I need right now are a couple of politically motivated muckety-mucks breathing down my neck.”
“No one is going to be breathing down your neck, Mack,” he said, eyeing me curiously. “What’s going on? There’s something you haven’t told me about, isn’t there? Something to do with Gary Gunderson’s death?”
My phone buzzed then, and when I took it out of my coat pocket, I saw there was a text from Mal. Holy crap! Those are some high-powered folks you’re meeting with. Have they reamed you a new one yet?
I sent him back a quick I’m fine and then pocketed the phone. “How do you know Holland?” I asked Clay. “You guys seem like more than business acquaintances.”
Clay conceded my statement with a nod. “Our families have known each other for years,” he said. “Chief Holland used to live next door to us when I was a kid. He and my father were good friends.”
“And how did he react to your skewering of him and the police department in the articles you wrote about me?”
Clay gave me a sheepish smile. “He wasn’t pleased. But we’ve always had an understanding that our friendship will not influence either of us when it comes to doing our jobs. That means I get to say what I want in the paper, and he won’t show me any favors if I break the law, whether it be parking tickets or something more serious. And so far, it’s worked.” He chuckled and added, “I have the parking tickets to prove it.”
“You could have told me about your relationship with him when I first invited you into the Capone Club.”
Clay shrugged. “I didn’t see any reason to. It wouldn’t have influenced my assessment of you or the group in any way. I remained objective. Besides, when it comes to revelations, I’m not the only one who held back, am I?”
I ignored his taunt. “Why the sudden desire to bring us together? What do you get out of it?”
“The satisfaction of seeing two dynamic forces come together to fight crime in our lovely city?”
“Come on, Clay. Quit reciting superhero rhetoric. There has to be something in this for you.”
He studied me for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah, okay, there is something in it for me. What you can do is phenomenal, and it has the potential to lead to some killer stories—pun intended. And I want the exclusive on it all. I want to be part of what you do, to witness it, and write about it.”
“I don’t want to be in the news, Clay. I thought you’d figured that out by now.”
“I can tell you aren’t doing what you do for the notoriety or any type of recognition. But you have to realize that what you’re doing is groundbreaking and newsworthy.”
“No!” I said, a bit more harshly than I meant to. Clay narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s going on, Mack? I know there’s something else you’re involved with that you haven’t told me about. Why are you and Malachi so intent on visiting odd places around town? And why is Duncan Albright sneaking into your place at all hours of the day and night?”
I opened my mouth to deny this, but before I could utter a word, Clay held up a hand and said, “Don’t even try to deny it or to convince me that you and Mal are an item. You may be fond of Mal, but you’re not really dating him. You don’t look at him the right way or touch him as often as you should. It’s unfortunate for him, because I suspect his feelings for you are real and run deep. But clearly you and Duncan are still an item. I get why the two of you might have been carrying on a secretive affair in the beginning in order to hide it from his superiors. But clearly Holland is okay with the two of you at this point, so why the continued subterfuge?”
I stared at him, mouth agape. “Have you been spying on me?”
“I’ve been doing my job, Mack. I’m good at assessing situations and reading people. It’s crucial to what I do for a living. And when you invited me to become a part of your group, I wanted to know what I was getting into. I’m fairly good at sniffing things out myself, just not in the same way you do. And I knew from the get-go that you were hiding something from me, holding something back. It’s my job to get to the truth of the matter, to dig down past all the superficial stuff on the surface to the real dirt beneath. I haven’t found out what that dirt is with you yet, but I know it’s there. I figured out that you and Mal aren’t really a couple, and that you and Duncan still are. What I don’t get is the need for Mal. Given that he’s an undercover cop, I suspect he’s pretending to be your boyfriend so he can protect you. What I haven’t figured out is what he’s protecting you from or why Duncan can’t do it at this point. But I’m betting Gary Gunderson’s death has a place in this story.”
I glared at Clay, too angry to say anything, my mind spinning as I tried to figure out what to do next. Clearly, I’d underestimated the man. He was far smarter and more astute than I’d given him credit for. Up until that moment, he hadn’t given me a reason not to trust him, but discovering that he had been sneaking around behind my back didn’t exactly help his case. What was his endgame?
He must have sensed my suspicions because he next said, “Mack, look, I admit I was skeptical about you in the beginning. But I’ve been won over. I’m not your enemy. I think you could be instrumental in making some great things happen in this city if you work with Holland and Dixon. And I’m willing to help you out in any way I can to make that happen. But only if you’re honest with me. If you’re going to continue to lie and hide things from me, the
n I’m going to have to do things my own way and do whatever I need to do to get to the truth.”
“Are you threatening me?” I asked him angrily.
He sighed, and doing so made him wince and place a hand over his belly near where he’d been shot. “I suppose it does sound that way,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “That’s not my intent. But I need to get to the truth. I’m driven that way.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “I can’t stop myself from digging any more than you can stop your synesthetic reactions.”
Despite my irritation with him, I sensed from his voice that his concern for me and his desire to help were genuine. I also sensed that he was being truthful when he said he wouldn’t be able to control his impulse to dig. “If I tell you everything, what do you intend to do with it?” I asked him.
He gave it a moment’s thought and then shrugged. “I guess it would depend on what it is you tell me.”
My phone buzzed, and I took it out and saw another text from Mal. You okay? Need me to come in? Are there more visitors?
“Is that Mal?” Clay asked.
I nodded. “He’s waiting outside. He’s worried about what’s going on in here.”
“Bring him in,” Clay said, surprising me. “Let’s lay the options out before him, too, and see what he thinks you should do.”
I liked this idea. “Okay. I will.”
I hit the speed-dial number for Mal’s cell, and he answered before the first ring had finished. “You need me?” he said.
“I’m okay, but I would like you to come inside. Clay has something he wants to discuss, and I’d really like to get your input on it.”
“Be right there.”
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and then shrugged out of my coat. By the time I had it off, Mal was knocking at Clay’s front door.
“Come on in,” Clay yelled. The effort made him wince and rub his stomach again.
Mal opened the door and stepped inside.
“Have a seat,” Clay said, gesturing toward the one empty chair. “Mack and I were just discussing our future together and how it’s going to work.”
A Toast to Murder Page 6
