Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  Nancy’s raised eyebrow suggested her daughter didn’t understand that there was no such thing as simple in a gourmet restaurant. “And who’s going to serve this? If your friend’s mother was impressed with Hush Money, she knows the food is only part of the experience. It’s Anita and her wine. It’s the servers who never miss a beat. You think food delivered in thermos-packs is going to do the trick? Not with some hotshot New Yorker, it’s not. Especially a hotshot New Yorker priest!”

  “Since when have you become so hostile to the clergy?” Sydney asked.

  Nancy shrugged off the question.

  “I’ll call in two servers,” Sydney suggested. “Anita can recommend the wine. And for that extra Hush Money touch, I’ll go along, too. Make sure everything is handled as if you were there overseeing things yourself. After all, it’s on a Tuesday. You can handle things here, right?”

  “I can handle things here any night.”

  “Good.” Sydney stood and nodded toward the kitchen. “Now that that’s settled, what do you say you and I check on making sure we get through this one?”

  * * *

  —

  It was nearly nine o’clock before Sydney got her first opportunity to check on The Ten-Ten. She walked into a scene far more animated than previous evenings. As she waved to Roscoe, she wondered if it was simply the inherent spirit of Saturday night that had the crowd so buoyant, or if the luscious summer weather was working its charms. A glance toward the right side of the place offered yet another reason for the throng’s exuberance. Rick Sheffield sat at the end of one long and crowded table, a glass of beer in front of him and Jocko sitting shotgun.

  “What’s this?” she asked after greeting the group. “I thought you were on strict orders to rest.”

  “He’s resting, all right,” one of the off-duty officers at the table joked. “I haven’t seen his hand make a move toward his wallet since he’s been here.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Rick answered. “Next time you take a slug to the gut, I’ll buy all night long.”

  The gathering’s laughter rang with relief that one of their own was back with them.

  “And how many has our wounded warrior had?” Sydney held Rick’s gaze as she asked the question.

  “This is my first, Mother.” Rick hoisted his glass. “Been here nearly an hour and, as you can see, I’ve still got more than half left.”

  “Pacing himself, he is,” offered another cop. “Like a good patient should.”

  Sydney made her way to the head of the table, rubbed Jocko’s neck, then bent over to whisper in Rick’s ear. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “I don’t need a nurse, Sydney.” The smile on his face didn’t erase the coolness in his tone. He raised his voice and spoke to the people at the table. “These faces are all the medicine I need.”

  Sydney recognized that this was a party to which she was not invited. She shared a few good-hearted comments with the revelers as she backed away. She was halfway to the bar when she felt the vibration of her cellphone in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw Horst’s name on her screen. She picked up her pace to scurry into the hallway connecting her two establishments. She closed the door behind her and the noise of The Ten-Ten subsided.

  “Hello, Horst. How’s tricks?”

  “I’m looking for Rick.” Horst offered no pleasantries. “He’s not at his house and he’s not answering his phone. Have you seen him?”

  “Just now. He’s probably breaking every rule the doctors gave him when he was released, but he’s here at The Ten-Ten. Jocko, too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were holding court. He probably didn’t even hear your call.”

  “I need to talk to him. Now.”

  Sydney’s internal radar went off. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Go tell Rick I need to see him ASAP. I’m parked outside his place. Tell him to meet me here in ten minutes.”

  A knot tightened in her gut. “And if he asks what’s up?”

  “Tell him ten minutes, Kitz. Can you do that for me?”

  It was unlike Horst to bark orders to her. “What’s going on? Don’t hide things from me, okay?”

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the call. When Horst spoke, she detected a mixture of anger and sorrow in his tone. “I’ve been suspended. Tell Rick I’m waiting outside his place.”

  Chapter 25

  “He can’t seriously believe this!” Sydney paced across Rick’s living room floor. “If he knows anything about you at all, he’d know there’s no way in hell you’d do anything like this.”

  She had insisted on coming with Rick. He’d tried to stop her when she delivered Horst’s message that he’d been suspended, but she was determined.

  “Listen,” she’d told him back at Hush Money. “You’ve got three choices. One, I go with you. Two, I show up at your place two minutes after you get there. Three, we waste time arguing while Horst sits in front of your place. Pick whichever option you’d like, but if you choose to keep arguing, you’ll do it alone.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the chief believes, Sydney.” Horst held the glass of scotch Rick had given him but didn’t take a sip. “It’s procedure. Until this is investigated, and things get figured out, I’m off duty.”

  “How could anyone think you’d walk off with a million dollars?” Sydney retorted.

  “One and a quarter million,” Rick corrected mildly. “And I’d urge you to calm down. You’re upsetting Jocko.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do! Clearly you don’t understand the gravity of the situation Horst finds himself in. He’s been accused of stealing a million—excuse me, more than a million—dollars.”

  “Easy there, Kitz.” Horst patted the seat next to him on the sofa. “Rick’s right. Emotion isn’t going to do us any good right now.”

  Sydney ignored Horst’s invitation to sit next to him. “I’ll call Charles right now. Let him know how ridiculous this whole thing is.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Rick’s tone left no room for discussion. “He’s not Charles when it comes to this. He’s not the guy you and your sweetheart double-date with. He’s the chief of police. The brand-new chief of police. He’s following the rules, just like he should.” Rick turned toward Horst. “Tell me again. Details are important.”

  Horst leaned forward and set his drink on the coffee table. “Pretty simple. It was early this afternoon. I’d just been to the Y. Stopped by EVP for a cup of coffee. Drove home. Not ten minutes later, three cars pull up. One squad, one sedan, and the chief’s SUV. Two uniforms get out of the squad; Chief gets out of his car.” Horst nodded toward Sydney. “First thought that comes to my mind when I see ’em through the window is something’s happened to you or your mother. Then I see Jennifer Fisher get out of the sedan.”

  “Who’s Jennifer Fisher?” Sydney asked.

  “Assistant district attorney,” Rick answered. “Dane County.”

  “She wouldn’t be coming on a notification call,” Horst explained. “I open the door, Chief walks in first and tells me have a seat. First uniform hands me a search warrant. I ask what this is about, and Chief tells me to sit down and let them do their thing.” Horst shook his head. “Almost an hour it took those bozos. My place is a wreck from their tossing. Anytime I tried to ask what was going on, the chief tells me to be quiet.”

  “You had no idea what they were looking for?” Rick asked.

  “They asked me if I had a storage unit or locker. Any other addresses. I told them I didn’t. Chief warns me they’ll find out if I’m holding anything back. Then, after they’ve trashed my place six ways to sundown, they tell me to come down to the station. Not drive myself down there, mind you. They put me in the back of the cruiser and off we go.”

  “I’m sure your neighbors appreciated that,” Sydney said.

 
“Screw the neighbors.” Rick shifted in his chair. Sydney noticed a slight wince when he did. “Then what happened?”

  “We all troop off to the chief’s office. That’s when I saw the video.”

  Rick nodded. “It was time-stamped? You saw it?”

  “I did. Chief asked me what was I doing coming out of the evidence room at 5:42 last night.”

  “And had you been there?” Rick asked. “The video was legit?”

  “I was there, all right. I’d gotten a text from Svenson.”

  “Who’s that?” Sydney asked.

  “Gerhart Svenson,” Rick answered. “He’s part of the team that manages the evidence room.”

  “His text said to get down there. Said I’d forgotten to initial one of the bags I’d brought in from the Tremble shooting scene. Said come after 5:30.”

  “But he leaves at 5:00 on Fridays.” Rick frowned.

  “On the dot,” Horst agreed. “That man hasn’t missed a happy hour in all the years I’ve known him. But he says he’s doing me a solid by waiting thirty minutes. I should come thirty minutes after his shift, to make sure nobody would be around. He’d let me in to sign the bag, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “And when you got there?”

  “He wasn’t anywhere to be found,” Horst answered. “I went in—”

  “The room was unlocked?” Rick interrupted.

  Horst nodded. “I figured he’s in the back. I go in, take a look around, call out his name…nothing. I wait a minute or two, then figure I’ll catch him on Monday. Then I left. Locked the door behind me.”

  “How long you figure you were in the room?”

  “Three, maybe five minutes. Not long.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Sydney said. “The video shows you walking in…empty-handed, I assume. Then it shows you walking out five minutes later…again empty-handed. I’ve never seen a million dollars in cash, but I would imagine it would be bulky enough to be noticed if someone tried to stash it in their pockets.”

  The men ignored her observation.

  “And the text?” Rick asked.

  “Svenson said he never sent it. Says he doesn’t know anything about any uninitialed bag. Source of the text showed up as a precinct number. Phone that sits behind the shift commander’s desk.”

  Rick and Horst exchanged a look.

  “What am I missing?” Sydney demanded.

  “Let me guess,” Rick said to Horst. “There’s no record of you walking into the evidence room. Some technical difficulty?”

  “Not even that sophisticated. Sheet of paper taped over the lens. You can see it slide in front of the camera at time mark 5:07. Falls free at 5:32.”

  “And they’re saying that it’s you who did the masking,” Rick guessed. “And that you hadn’t realized the paper slipped when you left.”

  “They’re not saying it, but I can imagine their thoughts run along those lines.” Horst shook his head. “Next thing I know, Chief is telling me to stay away from the building…stop all work on any cases I’ve got cooking…don’t talk to any cop about what’s happening until they get this sorted out. Takes my access key, badge, and service revolver.”

  The three of them were silent for a full minute.

  “What now?” Sydney finally asked.

  Horst looked at Rick. “My partner’s away. Sister’s wedding. Arizona.” He shrugged. “I know I got no right to ask.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Rick held Horst’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have my shield if it wasn’t for you pushing me. Don’t make me list the dozen other ways you’ve had my back. At least not in front of Sydney. I’d prefer she thought of me as a self-made man.” He smiled. “Lucky for both of us, I find myself with plenty of time on my hands. Let me grab some paper. I need to take notes.”

  “On what?” Sydney asked as Rick headed toward the desk against the far wall.

  “On every case Horst is working,” he replied as he pulled a pad and pen from a drawer.

  “What do his cases have to do with anything?”

  “Think, Syd.” Rick sat back down across from Horst. “A text from the shop comes to Horst’s phone. Nobody else’s. Just Horst’s phone.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That means Horst was targeted specifically.”

  “Bingo. Now do the math. Svenson leaves at 5:00 on the dot. Everyone knows that. Tape covers the camera a few minutes later. It falls off once Horst is in the evidence room, allowing Horst to be filmed leaving.” Rick paused. “What do you come up with?”

  An image of The Ten-Ten rushed to her mind. All those faces. All those men and women who dedicated their careers to serving and protecting the citizens of Madison. The same career her father had lost his life doing. She didn’t want to believe what she was thinking.

  “We have a dirty cop,” she whispered.

  Chapter 26

  “Medallions of beef with shiitake mushrooms.” Barney looked up from the menu. “If good Father Ian has gone vegetarian since the last time I dined with him, it’s his fault for failing to notify anyone.”

  Sydney looked across her desk and willed herself to focus. Her mind had been consumed with what she’d learned about Horst’s suspension the evening before. Both Horst and Rick had stressed the necessity for her to say nothing about the investigation to anyone.

  “Not even your mother,” Horst had insisted. “Last thing I need is for her worry meter to start working. She wouldn’t let me out of her sight, and Rick and I have work to do.”

  “It’ll be tough.” Rick recognized. “You’ll have to keep a smile on that pretty mug of yours each time you walk into The Ten-Ten.”

  It chilled her to think one of her patrons was the cop—or cops—involved with setting up Horst.

  “Remember, everything’s back to normal,” Rick warned her as he returned her to Hush Money the night before. “You know nothing. My hunch is the missing money is only the tip of this iceberg. Whoever is behind whatever this turns out to be has no reason to stop with setting up Horst. We don’t want their desperation piqued. If he…or she…or they…thought you knew something that could expose them…Well, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen. Are we clear?”

  Sydney had assured him they were. She managed to make it through closing up Hush Money. Steering clear of her mother and staying out of The Ten-Ten helped. But she’d spent a restless night churning who-could-it-be and what-does-it-mean. She was grateful when Barney called her to see if they could meet to discuss the plans for Tuesday’s dinner with Father Ian Moran.

  “Chef uses filets for the medallions. We serve them on the rare side,” she told Barney. “I assume that’s all right.”

  “Moran makes deals worth billions of dollars every single day. One would think the bloodier the better.”

  “It’s hard to think of a priest as a hard-edge businessman.”

  “Think again. When you’re talking the kind of zeros and commas Moran handles—not to mention the Wall Streeters he has to deal with—my guess is there is very little godliness in his day-to-day. Think more tycoon and less servant of Christ and you’ll be on the right track as you plan this soiree.”

  She recommended two appetizers, to which Barney readily agreed.

  “But we need to serve some sort of potato,” he insisted. “Moran’s Irish, after all. As are the Fitzgeralds. We’re not allowed to let two straight hours pass without ingesting some sort of spud. You’d understand if you were a child of the old sod.” He studied her face. “Richardson. That’s English, right? You know, with your pale skin, black hair, and blue eyes, you could pass for Irish. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  She didn’t feel the need to explain that she’d been told she could be any of at least a dozen different heritages. Just as she didn’t feel compelled to tell him she had no idea what her true lineage was.


  “I’ll have Chef come up with a suitable potato. Asparagus as well?”

  “This late in summer?”

  Sydney offered him a smile. “We have our sources. Steamed. With salt and a bit of lemon.”

  “Perfect. No need to take away from the meat with some heavy hollandaise.”

  “Precisely,” Sydney agreed. “You’re quite the gourmand.”

  Barney shrugged. “I have no time for hobbies. But I have to eat. And God knows I need something wonderful from time to time to offset the swill I’m forced to endure at the hospital.”

  “May I recommend an assortment of cheeses before dessert?” Sydney listed four local cheese makers. “All award-winning. Guaranteed to make your guest regret ever leaving Wisconsin.”

  “I love it.” Barney leaned forward to lay the menu on Sydney’s desk. “I had a magnificent pâte à choux with custard here one evening. Floated on the memory of it for days.”

  “I’ll let our pastry chef know.” Sydney made another entry on her notepad. “All we need is wine, and I think we’re set. I’ll show our menu to our sommelier. She’ll select perfect pairings, I’m sure.”

  “She’s not disappointed me yet,” he agreed. “Thank you for doing this, Sydney. I know you don’t offer catering services. I want you to know how much I…and my family…appreciate it.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  “And you’ll come, of course. I’m sure Leslie would be thrilled to have you there.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did indeed plan on coming. Your mother was gracious enough to want to host the dinner here, I hope having Hush Money’s owner assist in the serving will make up for our lack of private dining space.”

  Barney stood and smoothed a hand over his raw-silk shirt. Sydney was impressed that even on Sunday morning, the man took the time to dress as elegantly as he did.

  “I’m thrilled you’ll be there,” he told her. “But we’ll have none of this business about assisting with service. You’ll be at the table. Our guest.”