by T. E. Woods
He reached for her hand. “Don’t go there, Kitz. Stay with what is. Rick’s right where he needs to be. Don’t be starting off down Misery Road unless it’s time.” Horst shifted his tone. “That’s some kind of frock you got on, there. Hush Money serving the Grand Pooh-bah of East Shlameel or something?”
Sydney recognized his attempt to distract her. She explained that she and Clay had been out to dinner with friends. “Charles and Leslie Arbeit, actually. That’s how we heard about Rick. Charles got the call.”
“Arbeit? The new chief of police?” Horst asked. “You’re rubbing some pretty powerful elbows, there, aren’t you, kid? I always knew you were too good for the likes of me.”
There you go again, Horst. Making light of a moment when I want to concentrate on the dark. Trying to show me there’s no good to be gained by worry.
“Are you going to be working Rick’s case, then?” she asked.
“Nothing would make me happier than to build an airtight case against these two. But it’s really work that’s done itself. Lots of witnesses. Body camera footage. Shell casings, guns, and fingerprints offering enough physicals to wrap it all up for a jury. Nothing left but the paperwork. I’m happy to leave that to someone else. Besides, I got something else working.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Concern flashed across Horst’s jowly, German face. “Some night watchman called it in while I was on my way over. He was making his rounds. Saw what he thought was a drunk sleeping where he shouldn’t be. Turns out the guy’s dead. Enough blood covering him that it gets bounced to Homicide. I’m on my way over to the scene now. But I had to swing by and check on Rick first.”
“Murder?” What was happening to her safe and easy Madison?
“That’s what we’ll find out. You’ll keep me posted with what’s what here?”
Sydney kissed him on his cheek, smelling the Old Spice that had been his aftershave ever since she bought him a bottle of it for Christmas when she was a teenager. “You know I will.” The image of Rick lying bleeding in the alley of a convenience store flooded back to her. “Be careful. Promise?”
He looked around the ER. “Maybe I’ll wait and let the coroner do her thing. I mean, the guy’s already dead, right? I’ll stay here ’til we have some news.”
Sydney squeezed his hand. “Go, Horst.” She nodded toward cops trying to look interested in burgers and pizza. “Rick’s got plenty of people.”
The look in his eyes telegraphed a knowing. “Including you.”
She was instantly uncomfortable by his allusion. “Rick’s my friend, Horst. Of course I’m here.”
“And you’ll keep me up to date.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m keeping my phone right here. Answering for nobody but you or your mom.”
He squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, and made his way to the group of cops. She watched him greet each one individually. She saw the apprehension in their eyes ease as they engaged with Detective Horst Welke and knew they were experiencing the sense of calm he handed out like jelly beans.
You know how to make things right, Horst.
She wondered if that would be enough this time.
Chapter 5
“You really don’t need me to tell you this was a homicide.” Julia Reschke nimbly pulled herself up from a squatted position and lased her amber eyes onto Horst’s. “Give me an hour in the morgue with this guy and I’ll tell you the exact trajectory of the bullets, but there’s no way these were self-inflicted. Two slugs. Close range.”
“Double tap,” Horst commented. “Gang-related?”
“We’re getting more of that these days,” Jillian Kohler, Horst’s partner for the last three years, added. “It’s enough to make a body a believer in building walls.”
“You seeing anything else that might lead us toward a gang?” Horst asked.
“That’s your job,” Reschke said. “I can tell you the shooter knew what he was doing. Two shots straight into the brain stem. Guy was dead before the second shot.”
Horst appreciated the way Dane County’s coroner always cut straight to the heart of the matter. He’d worked with six different ones over his years on the force; he’d even come to like a couple of them. But there was none that he respected more than Doc Reschke. He remembered thinking the first time he met the trim redheaded woman with the easy smile that she wouldn’t last long in this grisly business. There were too many ways one human could be cruel to another, and she’d just signed up to see the worst of them. But Julia had proven herself to be the most thorough examiner he’d ever worked with. Nothing seemed to get to her. Whether it was standing ankle-deep in blood and body parts or facing a three-hour cross-examination by a hostile defense attorney, she never cracked. He’d asked her once how she maintained her cool.
“Mountains,” she’d answered. “And rivers, and lakes. Nothing like a good hike or a long paddle to keep your head screwed on right.”
Horst figured her way was probably better than the whiskey or prescription narcotics he knew other coroners had used to get through the day.
“Thirty-eight caliber would be my first assumption,” Reschke said.
“The preferred weapon of many a gangster,” Kohler offered. “Or gangster wannabe.”
“No casings?” Horst frowned.
“None so far. Your boys are searching the area, but it looks like whoever did this swept the place clean.”
“Or shot him someplace else.” Jillian Kohler looked around. “This looks like as good a place to dump a body as any.”
Reschke shook her head. “Blood pooling and splatters indicate he went down here. I’ll pull the slugs from him. Get ’em to you as soon as I can.”
Horst pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his jacket pocket. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Have at. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll get him loaded up and down to my shop.” Julia gathered up her tools and headed toward her SUV.
Horst and Jillian took their time staring down at the body. The dead guy was young. Probably no older than thirty. Hair, sharply trimmed to suggest he’d recently had it cut, looked to be light brown in the glare of the investigational floodlights. Clean-shaven. Navy windbreaker spattered with what Horst knew was blood. Could be a plain white T-shirt underneath.
“It’s hotter than hell tonight. Not a breeze blowing,” Horst noted. “What’s a guy doing with a windbreaker?”
“His jeans have the starched look of brand-new,” Jillian observed. “No belt. Hiking boots look new, too.”
“Dark socks. No watch. No jewelry.”
Then he knelt beside the body.
The man’s fingernails were cracked. Dirty. Horst inhaled deeply but failed to catch any scent of alcohol or tobacco. He patted down the pockets of the windbreaker and found nothing. Front pockets of his jeans provided no form of identification. He rolled the dead man onto his right hip and reached inside the back pocket. He pulled out a folded stack of receipts. One was for $249.88 from Kohl’s department store. Time-stamped yesterday and listing several items of clothing. Another was from REI showing he bought an expensive pair of hiking boots and received a 35 percent clearance discount.
He rolled the victim over to allow access to his other back pocket, reached in with two gloved fingers, caught something firm, and pulled out a motel room key. He returned the body to its original position, placed the key and receipts in evidence bags, and handed them to his partner. Then he took out his phone and snapped three photos of the dead man’s face before standing and taking two more of the corpse’s entire body.
He gave the young man one last, long look and made the same mental vow he made every time he stood over a murdered body.
I’m going to find who did this to you. That, my friend, is a promise.
Then he called out to where the coroner stood next to two men
waiting with a gurney.
“He’s all yours, Doc. Call me when you have something.”
Chapter 6
“Have you gotten any sleep at all?” Nancy Richardson put her hands on each side of her daughter’s face. “You don’t feel feverish.”
“I’m not sick, Mom.” Sydney brushed her mother’s hands away.
“You were at the hospital all night?”
“No.” Sydney crossed over to Hush Money’s bar and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I stayed until just after midnight. Rick was still in surgery. The doctors said he’d be in ICU after that. No chance for visitors for at least a couple of days. So, I went home.”
“And didn’t sleep a wink, did you?”
Sydney knew her irritation was born of fatigue. Her mother, like always, simply had her maternal protective shields up and armed. Still, Sydney wasn’t in the mood for answering questions about how she was handling Rick’s close brush with death.
“How’s the reservation list?”
“Booked solid. Just like every Saturday since we’ve opened.” Nancy raised an eyebrow to signal she’d drop the subject for now but wasn’t about to stop monitoring the situation. “Roland’s been raving about his special for tonight. Swordfish à la something or other. Said we should get ready for an embarrassing number of compliments.”
Sydney released a breathy giggle despite her fatigue. “And I’m sure he’ll insist on being called to each and every table offering one.”
“You know our chef.” Nancy craned her neck to look around the dining room. A dozen servers scurried about, seeing to last-minute preparations before Hush Money’s doors opened at five o’clock. “I saw Anita not a minute ago. She seemed to have been on the hunt for something.”
“She’s probably down in the cellar, looking for the perfect match for Roland’s swordfish.”
As though on cue, a statuesque woman with skin as dark as a moonless night entered the dining room, cradling four bottles of wine. The sommelier’s medallion Anita Saxon wore glistened against the bright orange silk of her gown.
“Good evening, Sydney.” Anita set the bottles on the shelf in front of the wine case. Her Kenyan accent made the simplest greeting sound like a song. “We hadn’t expected to see you tonight. So sorry about your friend.” She crossed the room and gave Sydney a brief air-kiss. “Wouldn’t you rather be at hospital?”
More than you’d guess, Sydney thought. More than I should.
“Rick’s in good hands. But not ready to receive visitors.” Sydney touched her hand to her earlobe. “I’ll check in with him tomorrow.”
Anita gave her a slow appraisal. “What’s bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You just tugged on your ear. I’ve known you long enough to know that’s a habit you have when you’re uncomfortable. What’s up?”
Sydney stopped for a moment and worked to steady the whirling cyclone of emotions that threatened to sweep her away ever since she heard Rick was shot in the line of duty.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Anita didn’t look convinced. “You must be exhausted. You finally take an evening off and you’re rewarded with disaster. I think the best place for you to be is home. Feet up. Fuzzy slippers on. Popcorn and chilled chardonnay keeping you company while you binge-watch romantic comedies.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,” Nancy said. “If you have better luck, I salute you.”
Sydney knew her staff was more than capable of handling a Saturday night without her. No one would dare ease their standards while Nancy Richardson stood watch. She thought about The Ten-Ten and had no doubt the joint she loved so much would feel more like a monthly support group meeting than the typical rowdy gathering of cops, firefighters, and EMTs blowing off steam after a long week. Everyone would be suspended in apprehension, waiting for news about Rick.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Ladies, I leave you to it. You know how to reach me if it’s necessary. But please, unless someone’s bleeding or something’s on fire, don’t find it necessary.”
“Finally!” Nancy raised her hands in hallelujah. “Get yourself home and sleep until you wake up. Horst will call me if there’s any news about Rick. If he does, I’ll let you know.”
Sydney gave each woman a quick hug and hurried out of the building before she had time to second-guess her decision.
* * *
—
Two hours later Sydney dragged herself out of a tub filled with hot water and bubbles, pulled on a terry cloth robe, and stumbled to her bed. It was just seven o’clock, but her body was as drained as if it were long past midnight. She stretched across the damask bedspread, closed her eyes, took deep long breaths, and waited for sleep.
But the only thing that came to her was Clay’s face. Salt-and-pepper hair, curling in just the way she liked. Pale skin, tight against the bone. Gray eyes twinkling with a promise that if she came up with a dare, she’d not have to ask him twice.
She blinked, trying to get the image out of her mind. If she was going to take the night off, the least she could do was something healthy, like sleep. Twenty minutes later she accepted that sleep was an option currently unavailable to her. She had unfinished business. She got up, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, brushed her ebony hair into a high ponytail, closed her condo door behind her, and set off for where that undone business was waiting.
* * *
—
The first set at the Low Down Blues wouldn’t start until eight, but when Sydney walked into Clay’s place, most of the tables were already filled. Curtis Honeycutt was the headliner that night, and every blues lover in three counties would be there to hear his special brand of Mississippi magic. Sydney made her way to the bar. Francie, Clay’s right hand, smiled at her and pointed out an empty stool.
“You’re looking mighty casual tonight.” Francie placed a glass of pinot grigio in front of Sydney. “Hush Money running solo?”
“It is, indeed.” Sydney thanked her for the wine. “Feels a little strange having a Saturday night off. You can relate to that.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Probably come down here to listen to a set or two, anyway. Might as well get paid for it. Clay expecting you?”
Sydney took a sip of her wine. “Thought I’d surprise him. Is he in his office?”
Francie nodded behind her. “Here he comes. And from the grin on his face, I’m guessing he’s seen you.”
Sydney turned on her barstool and opened her arms. Clay walked right into them and gave her a long hug.
“Look at you! Isn’t Saturday night for glitter and sparkle?”
“I’m taking the night off,” Sydney told him. “Mind if I spend it here?”
Clay rested a warm hand on her shoulder as his eyes held hers. “You’re always welcome here, lady. Never any need to ask. I’ve got a bit of business to take care of, but I’ll be right back.”
She told him to take his time and watched him walk away. She liked the confident ease in his stride. Clay Hawthorne was a man supremely comfortable with who he was. It was one of the things she found so attractive about him. Could she ever fit as easily in her own skin? She sipped wine and soaked in the laid-back atmosphere Clay had created. The Low Down was one story below the street. Brick walls, copper light fixtures, and polished wood surfaces gave his patrons an intimate setting. Clay’s lifelong devotion to music had allowed him to build connections that brought the best performers from around the country to the venue. The Low Down’s roster rivaled any club in Chicago, and Madison blues aficionados showed their appreciation for Clay’s efforts by keeping the tables filled.
At eight o’clock sharp, Clay took to the raised platform serving as stage. He sat down at a sleek baby grand piano and, without a word, began to play. The low murmuring from the crowd ceased as everyone in the p
lace turned their attention toward him. Clay began a casual selection from the American songbook. “Time After Time.” Within seconds, Sydney saw the audience sway along with his tranquil interpretation of the Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne classic. By the time he brought his hands down on the final chord, Clay had his customers as relaxed as Sydney knew he wanted them. He nodded acceptance of their applause and turned to face them.
“Thanks for coming. And thanks for letting this piano man indulge himself for a minute or two. Much appreciated.” Clay waited until a renewed round of applause died out. “I’m a sucker for these old standards. The kind of words and melodies that let us all forget about our troubles for a bit and remind us there’s beauty and wonder and love still in this world.” He paused. “But there’s another type of music that gets my juices flowing, too. The uniquely American brand of everyday pathos and grit we call the blues. And tonight, we’re going to hear from a master. I’m sure Curtis Honeycutt needs no introduction to the people in this room, but I’m not classy enough to skip bragging about my buddy. Up from the mud and the muck of the Delta, Curtis was playing two-bit honky-tonks before he was old enough to drive. His fingers are so calloused from strumming the blues I doubt he’s got a fingerprint left. But his kind of talent will always rise. He’s done playing for tips in juke joints and roadside dives. Man got himself invited to the White House! I guess that’s a place that knows a thing or two about heavy burdens. Curtis is here tonight to share with you his take on things and you’ll leave here wondering if you ever heard a note of music before you heard him sing his songs. So, I’m going to stop talking. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Low Down Blues. And get ready for Mr. Curtis Honeycutt.”
The room echoed with applause as a tall black man, thin as a rail, shoulders stooped from decades hunched over a guitar, stepped up on the stage and wrapped Clay in an extended embrace. Clay hopped off the platform. By the time he made his way back to Sydney, Curtis already had the room throbbing with the dramatic downbeats of bayou blues. Clay stood next to Sydney’s barstool. She welcomed the warmth of his arm across her shoulders. She leaned into him and let the music carry her away.
