He had his work cut out for him.
I barely had time to inhale two slices of pizza before the detectives arrived. I recognized them both from my last visit to the station, and one of them I knew because he was a patron of my bar. Arthur Cook, who went by Arty, was newly single on the heels of a divorce, and he typically stopped in at the bar one or two times during the week to flirt with any available women he could find. Since he was balding and overweight, and had a tendency to reek of desperation, he never had much luck. As far as I knew, he’d always gone home alone. The second detective, Doug Farrell, was tall and slender, with muscular arms. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but he had a scar on his face that ran from his right eyebrow up to his hairline. His haircut and posture screamed a military background, and I wondered if he acquired the scar while in the service, while working as a cop, or some other way.
Billy escorted the two men upstairs to find me, and as planned, they explained to me why they were there and that they wanted me to come with them to the station. They kept their story somewhat vague, simply saying that they had a potential suspect in Gary’s case whom they wanted to question. They wanted me to observe the man to see if I recognized him as a patron of the bar or anyone who had ever had a run-in with Gary.
I excused myself from the group and hobbled my way to my office to get my coat, then followed the two men out of the bar and into a waiting double-parked car. Once I was inside the vehicle, a task made somewhat difficult by my need to drag along the cursed crutches, Doug Farrell, who was in the front passenger seat, turned to me.
“Thanks for coming with us, Ms. Dalton,” he said. “I’m sure you’d like to see this case solved as much and as quickly as we would.”
He had that right. “No problem,” I told him. “Does this suspect you have look good for it?”
Doug frowned. “I don’t want to say too much, but there are some possible connections. Right now we want to see if we can establish a connection between this guy and Mr. Gunderson. All we need you to do is observe him and tell us if he looks familiar to you. We want to know if you can recall ever seeing him in your bar, or if you can recall him having any dealings of any sort with Mr. Gunderson.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll be in a room where you can see him, but he won’t be able to see you. Detective Albright will be with you. I hope that won’t make you uncomfortable with the process.”
It was a leading question, one no doubt intended to solicit some information about the status of my relationship with Duncan, a relationship that had been mentioned in some of the news articles, though the romantic side of things had only been hinted and guessed at.
“Detective Albright and I will be fine,” I assured him. “There are no hard feelings between us.”
“That’s good,” Doug said, and then he turned back to face front. The remainder of our ride was made in silence, though Arty did sneak a few peeks at me in his rearview mirror.
When we arrived at the police station, Doug and Arty took me in through a back entrance and escorted me to where the interview rooms were located. Duncan was waiting outside the observation room, and I made sure to act curious about the place so as not to let on that I had been there before. I greeted Duncan with polite friendliness.
Doug said, “Detective Albright will take you into the observation room. It’s set up for listening, as well as viewing, but all we want you to do for now is look. A simple look-see might not be enough, so we’ll give you plenty of time to watch him while we talk to him, but you won’t be able to hear what we’re saying. If you’re not sure about his face, maybe some of his mannerisms will strike a familiar chord.”
I nodded my understanding, and with no further ado, I followed Duncan into the observation room. As soon as the door closed behind us, Duncan pulled me into his arms and gave me a very nice kiss.
“I’ve missed you, Mack,” he said.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said. “Though this isn’t the greatest of circumstances, I’m glad to have this chance to see you.”
“Sometimes we have to take what we can get,” he said with a wry smile.
When he finally released me, I looked around at the observation windows and saw that Michael Treat, aka Apostle Mike, was already in one of the interview rooms. He looked much the same as he had the last time I saw him, which was only days ago. Once again I marveled at how ordinary he looked, how little he resembled the crazy-eyed, fervent heathen I had imagined him to be. He was tall, lean, bald, and handsome, and he looked like any other business worker one might pass on the streets of downtown Milwaukee. He was wearing the same gray parka he’d worn the last time, and the same two mismatched knit gloves—one blue, one green—were on the table in front of him, one stacked neatly atop the other.
As I watched him, he shrugged off his parka and hung it on the back of his chair. He spent a moment or two adjusting the coat so that it hung just so, and then he stood back from the chair and eyed it a moment before taking his seat. His clothing was plain but very neat. His shirt, a light blue button-down, was pressed, and though his pants were blue jeans, there was a crease down the front of each leg. He crossed one leg over the other, and I saw that his feet were clad in brown low-top boots over a pair of dark blue socks.
Arty and Doug entered the room, and Treat barely acknowledged their presence.
“Am I really forbidden to hear what they’re saying?” I asked Duncan.
“No, but we need to be very careful. Saturday nights are typically busy around here, and while the other rooms are empty for the moment, someone could come in here at any time. I can’t let anyone see you wearing the headphones.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Just listen through one of the earpieces for now,” he said, handing me a headset. “I’m going to stand guard by the door, and if I see anyone heading this way, I’ll tell you so you can drop them.”
I put one of the earpieces up to my head and listened. Arty was asking Treat about his whereabouts on the night of Gary’s murder. Treat eyed him with weary impatience and said nothing. Arty asked again, and when Treat still didn’t answer, Arty slid a notepad he’d carried into the room across the table, toward Treat.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to write down your answers?” Arty said with a hint of irritation.
The notepad knocked Treat’s gloves askew, and the man calmly gathered them up and laid one atop the other again, aligning them perfectly. Then he squared the notepad with the edge of the table, the pen with the edge of the notepad, and sat back, giving Arty a smug smile.
Something about this scene bothered me, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. I studied Treat, his clothing, his jacket, the items on the table . . . and then it hit me.
“Duncan,” I said, setting the headset down, “Treat strikes me as being a very organized and orderly person, to the point of compulsiveness. Look at how neatly he arranged those gloves and that notepad, and look at how sharp his clothing is, even though it’s casual wear.”
Duncan glanced at Treat, then back at me. “Yeah. So?”
“So why would a man that obsessed with his appearance and the items around him wear two different-colored gloves?”
Duncan looked back at the room, presumably at the gloves, with a quizzical expression. “I don’t follow,” he said after a few seconds.
“Can you talk to Arty or Doug?”
He nodded. “Arty is wearing an earpiece.”
“Tell him to ask Treat what color his gloves are.”
“What’s that going to accomplish? Besides, Treat doesn’t seem to want to talk.”
He had a point. “Okay, have Arty talk about those gloves.... Have him admire them or say he likes them or something like that. And then have him point out that the gloves are two different colors and ask Treat if he did that on purpose to match his two different-colored socks.”
Duncan looked through the window at Treat’s legs. “His socks are both blue,” he said in a confused tone.
>
“I know. Trust me on this one.”
Duncan gave me a puzzled look for a few seconds, shrugged, and walked over to pick up a headset. After turning some dials on one of the wall knobs, he talked into the headset, saying what I’d told him to.
Arty looked as puzzled as Duncan had, but after a bit of a pause, he did what was asked of him.
I picked up my headset and again held an earpiece to my ear, listening.
“Those gloves you have are nice,” Arty said. He reached across the table and pulled the gloves toward him. “I’ll bet they’re real warm. They look handmade. Someone make them for you?”
Treat stayed silent, staring at Arty with a whimsical expression.
“I’m curious as to why you wear two different colors, though,” Arty then said. “One blue one and one green one. Why is that? Is it so they will match your socks?”
Treat’s expression morphed into one of confusion, then doubt, and finally irritation. He leaned forward and pulled both of his pant legs up and stared at his socks. His gaze shifted from one sock to the other, his expression a mix of irritation and befuddlement.
Arty, sensing that he’d somehow hit a nerve, though I suspected he didn’t fully understand why, pushed on. “A guy like you, dressed all natty and pressed and neat . . . It seems odd that you’d wear mismatched gloves and socks,” he said.
Treat let go of his pant legs and glared at Arty. “Give me back my gloves,” he said, tight-lipped. He stood up, pushed his chair back, and held out a hand. “Now please. I’m done here. If you have something to hold me on, do it. Otherwise I’m leaving.”
Arty handed him back the gloves, and after Treat put his parka back on, he started to do the same with the gloves. But after getting the first one halfway on, he pulled it off and stuffed both of the gloves into a pocket of his coat. He spun around and headed for the door, with Arty and Doug on his tail.
I set down my headset and looked at Duncan. “Treat is not the letter writer,” I told him.
“How do you know?”
“He’s color blind. Didn’t you see how upset he was when Arty pointed out the two different colors to him? The most common type of color blindness is red-green, meaning that the people who have it can’t distinguish those two colors. Treat had no idea that his gloves didn’t match, and he couldn’t tell that Arty was lying about the socks. Once he found out the gloves didn’t match, he couldn’t wear them. It was too incongruent for him. So he stuffed them in his pocket instead.”
“How does that rule him out?”
“Think about the most recent letter, Duncan. The ink was green. And except for the color, it was the same homemade ink that was used in that earlier letter, the very first one. There’s no way Treat could mix up green ink.”
A dawning came over Duncan’s face. “I see what you’re getting at, but it doesn’t rule him out completely. He could have had someone else make the ink. Or maybe the green color was a mistake.”
I shook my head. “Treat is all about control. He wouldn’t hand that job off to someone else, and he’d be precise with his ink recipe. It’s not him.”
Duncan sighed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Believe me, I want this thing solved as much as you do. But Treat isn’t our guy.”
Duncan nodded, and I could tell from the expression on his face how disappointed he was.
“At least we managed to rattle him,” I said. “He’s a little less smug now. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Duncan gave me a weak smile. “I suppose it is.” He leaned down, gave me a quick kiss, and then said, “Thanks for coming down here. I’ll have the guys drive you back to the bar.”
“You can’t get away for a bit?”
“Wish I could, but I can’t. Not tonight. I’m working several cases, and like I said before, Saturdays are busy around here. But I promise we’ll do something tomorrow evening.”
The door to the room opened, and both Arty and Doug walked in. Arty looked at Duncan as if he was crazy.
“What the hell was that thing with the gloves all about?” he asked, sounding a little miffed.
“I was trying to think of a way to get Treat to talk,” Duncan said. He shot me a quick glance. “Mack here picked up on the fact that, despite the man’s otherwise neat, orderly appearance, he was wearing two different-colored gloves. She wondered if maybe he’s color blind. Given what seems to be an OCD type of personality, I thought pointing that faux pas out to him might rattle him enough to get him talking. Apparently, it rattled him enough to make him leave instead. Sorry.”
Arty’s expression softened a bit. “Don’t think it mattered. He wasn’t going to talk to us, anyway. And it did rattle him.” He looked over at me with an expression of grudging admiration. “Nice observation,” he said. “Any chance you recognized the guy?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m certain he’s never been in my bar before, at least not when I’ve been there. I’m really good at remembering faces, and I’ve never seen his.”
Arty looked at Duncan. “I guess we’re back to square one,” he said. “Do you want us to try to take a different run at this Apostle Mike guy?”
Duncan shook his head. “No. Let it go for now. I suspect it’s a dead end. Let’s go back and take another look at the evidence.”
That was my cue to do the same. Back to the latest letter and a pending trip to a cemetery. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Chapter 12
Arty and Doug drove me back to the bar, and our return trip was as silent as the first one. Arty muttered a “Sorry, Mack,” as they pulled up in front of the bar.
“Me too,” I said. “I had hoped we might finally have a resolution to this thing.”
“We’ll keep at it,” Doug said. “Have faith.”
His words struck a chord with me. It was a similar expression uttered by an Episcopalian minister, and a bit of intuition, that had led to the solving of the last case, albeit a little too late. As I dragged myself and my crutches from the car and made my way back into the bar, I felt defeated and exhausted. I had no faith in my ability to figure this thing out, and I prayed—while I’m not a religious person per se, I’m not above hedging my bets—that an answer would come soon.
Back inside, I headed up to the Capone Club room. Navigating the steps with my crutches made me feel even more tired than I had before, and I cursed myself for not putting in an elevator when I did the new construction. By the time I got upstairs, I knew I would be of little use to anyone for the rest of the night. The group greeted me with expectant looks and enthusiasm, no doubt hoping I’d be delivering news of a break in Gary’s case. Cora, Joe, Frank, and Mal knew just how involved that case was, but the others simply thought Gary’s death had been a bad bit of luck. At least I thought they did.
“Any news?” Cora asked as I settled into a chair next to Mal. He laid a hand on my arm and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. His touch was reassuring.
“I’m afraid not,” I told them. “They had a suspect who they thought might have had a connection to the bar or to Gary, but I didn’t recognize him at all.”
“Just because he hasn’t been in the bar doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” Carter said.
“I suppose,” I said with a shrug. “But I don’t think they have any other connections between this man and Gary. Sorry, guys, but it looks like it’s a no go.”
The disappointment on their faces made me want to cry. For the hundredth time, I debated telling them all the truth about the case, letting them know that their lives might be in danger. Was I doing the right thing by keeping it to myself? Every time I considered revealing all, I imagined what the group would do. They’d tackle the case with everything they had, and I feared that would only escalate the letter writer’s actions. But didn’t they have a right to know? I looked over at Clay Sanders and wondered what he would do with the information if he knew about it. Could I trust him not to print a story about it? Not yet, I decided. But then Carter threw m
e a curveball.
“We were discussing Gary’s case while you were gone,” he said. “His and Lewis’s. And we all agreed that it’s too much of a coincidence that two people from your bar, from this group, have been killed by someone. We’re starting to wonder if we’re the target.”
I felt Mal’s grip on my arm tighten ever so slightly. “Why would you be a target?” I said, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt.
“Well, we have solved several crimes recently,” Carter said, “although the main impetus behind those solutions was you.” He paused and gave me an apologetic look. “We also considered that you alone may be the target.”
I looked around the room at the faces of everyone, their concern for me ramping up my guilt over my seeming lack of concern for them.
I pointed toward my crutches, which I had leaned against the side of my chair. “Well, if I’m a target, I’m an easy one,” I said lightheartedly. “But your theory about the group being a target is an interesting one. Maybe we should disband.”
“Or maybe we should just be extra alert,” Holly said.
Several people nodded their agreement with this sentiment.
“That’s always a good idea,” I said. “But just in case you’re onto something with this theory of yours, any of you who want to drop out of the group for now would be perfectly justified to do so.”
Everyone in the room exchanged looks, waiting for someone to be the first to speak up. It was Sam who finally did.
“I’m staying put,” he said. “I agree that we should perhaps be more alert and wary of who and what’s around us, but this work we’re doing here is too important to me to drop it.” He paused and gave everyone a sheepish smile. “Besides, I rather enjoy it.”
“Me too,” Holly said, and Alicia echoed the sentiment.
“I’m in,” Carter said.
Tad, Frank, and Joe echoed his remark. The newcomers—Greg Nash, Sonja West, and Stephen McGregor—nodded, too, but they looked less determined.
Clay Sanders said, “If the police thought any of us were in danger, they’d say something, wouldn’t they?”
Shots in the Dark Page 10
