Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got it covered. Can you imagine if Roland was here while this is going on?”

  The intercom buzzed before Sydney had the chance to answer. She crossed her living room and saw Rick Sheffield’s face on the screen.

  With Horst standing beside him.

  Sydney glanced back to the kitchen, where her mother sat at the island drinking her iced tea. She positioned herself to hide the security monitor’s screen and pressed the answering button.

  “Hi, Rick!” She hoped her mother heard her tone as relaxed. “I’m up here with Mom.” Sydney watched the look on Horst’s face change as he shook his head.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Rick said, obviously catching her warning. “Thought I’d drop by and take a look at the brochures you had for those bikes you were bragging about.”

  “Ask Rick if he knows where Horst is,” Nancy called out.

  “My mother wants to know if you’ve heard from Horst,” Sydney relayed.

  “He’s been in Milwaukee,” Rick lied. “Something about something. I don’t have all the details.”

  “He’s out of town,” Sydney called out. “Rick says Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee!” Nancy cried. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I’m a little busy here.” She turned back to the intercom. “I’m buzzing you in, Rick. My mom’s just leaving.”

  Sydney pressed the button that would open the door eight stories below and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Rick’s coming for a visit?” her mother asked. “Where’s Clay?”

  “Clay’s doing whatever it is he’s doing today. Rick and I are friends. You know that.”

  “I haven’t seen Clay in a while.” Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Is he in Milwaukee, too?”

  “Can we talk about this later, Mom? I’ll see what Rick wants. Then I’ve got to get going on the party.” She took the near-empty glass out of her mother’s hand and set it on the counter. Then she led her to the door.

  “I’m getting the bum’s rush,” Nancy observed. “Sydney Richardson, what’s going on here?”

  “I’m up to my eyes, that’s all.” Sydney opened her front door. “I’ll have my phone. Don’t hesitate to call me if something comes up tonight, okay?”

  “And what? You’ll give me the same attention I’m getting now? Are you ashamed of me, Sydney? You don’t want Rick to see me? Is that it?”

  “Mom, please.” Sydney kissed her mother’s cheek. “I love you. Now can I please get on with my chores?”

  Nancy shot her a we’ll-talk-about-this-later look, wished her good luck tonight, and left.

  Eleven minutes later there was a knock at her door. Sydney opened it to see Rick standing in the hall.

  “Coast clear?” he asked.

  “She’s gone. Where’s Horst?”

  “I’ll be right back.” Rick hobble-jogged the length of the hall to the exit stairway. He opened the door and Horst entered the hall.

  “You two climbed eight flights of stairs?” she asked as they entered her condo. “Is that on your authorized list of activities, Rick?”

  He patted his chest. “I seem to be holding my own.”

  Sydney turned to Horst. “Mom’s caught the scent.”

  “I know.” Horst took a seat on her sofa. “Jillian’s back in town. Told me she ran into Nancy.”

  “She knows about your suspension?”

  “Yeah. Said the chief told her himself when he explained she’d be working solo for a while. Told her to steer clear of me. It was nice of her to call.”

  Jillian and Horst had been partners for three years now, ever since she transferred up from the Chicago PD. Six years on Chicago’s gang-activity task force had her looking for calmer pastures. Sydney hoped those years working closely with Horst had allowed Jillian enough time to know the man was innocent of what he was being accused of.

  Sydney waved Rick into the room, urging him to sit next to Horst. She asked them if they wanted anything.

  “I’ll take some water, if it’s handy,” Rick said.

  “Make it two,” Horst added.

  Sydney got them their beverages and sat across from them.

  “How’d it go?”

  They brought her up to speed regarding the night at the abandoned warehouse.

  “Which one is it, exactly?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Horst answered. “East side.”

  “Do you have enough to know for sure that this Billy guy’s murder is linked to the creep who shot Rick?”

  “I’d say we have enough to say the cases are linked,” Rick explained. “Same duffel bags. Same stash of money. Hundred-dollar bills in both cases. Timing’s right. The cases are tied, that’s for sure.”

  Horst explained his theory that Billy found out about the drops and dipped his hand in the cookie jar.

  “That was enough to get him killed,” he said.

  “You think the same guy who shot Rick killed Billy?” she asked.

  The two men exchanged looks.

  “No,” Rick said. “For one thing, Vistole—Frank Vistole, he’s the one who shot me—he’s strictly a bottom-feeder. Good for the occasional errand, but nowhere near high enough to be making the calls regarding this much money or putting out a hit on someone.”

  Sydney nodded. “What’s the other thing?”

  “What?” Rick asked.

  “You said you didn’t think it was Vistole for one thing…What’s the other?”

  Horst heaved a heavy sigh. “Jillian’s not the only call I got. Julia Reschke called me this morning.”

  “Who’s that?” Sydney asked.

  “Coroner.” Horst’s face softened. “She’s good people. Time’s like this, I guess you find out who’s really in your corner.”

  “Why was she calling you?” Sydney asked, frowning. “She wouldn’t be involved with an Internal Affairs investigation, would she?”

  “No. In fact, she didn’t have any idea I’d been suspended. She was calling to ask me why I wasn’t driving lead on this new body she had down at her shop.”

  “She thought you should be investigating a death? Are you saying there’s been another murder?”

  “Julia’s tied into the station pretty well. She knows what we’re working on. When this body shows up this morning, she wonders why I’m not on scene. Particularly given that he gets his the exact same way Billy Tremble did. Two shots in the back of the head. Same MO, same caliber bullets. I ask her if she’s got ID.” Horst turned toward Rick. “She tells me it’s Frank Vistole.”

  “The man who shot Rick?”

  “That’s the one,” Rick answered.

  “Leaving no doubt the two cases are connected.” Sydney was connecting the dots. “As well as framing Horst. Am I right?”

  “We think so,” Rick answered. “Question is, who’s behind it all?”

  “It must be the person who picked up the money,” Sydney offered. “Who was that?”

  Once again, Horst and Rick exchanged an uncertain look.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t stick around to see who came by to pick up those sacks of cash,” Sydney demanded.

  “We did not.” Rick leaned forward and set his water glass on the coffee table. “Sydney, neither Horst nor I are authorized to be investigating anything. We’re both on official leave.”

  “So? Nab the people with the cash. Catch ’em red-handed. Make a citizen’s arrest or something.”

  “If we did that, we’d catch another errand-runner. Someone like Frank Vistole who’d know nothing more than pickup and drop-off points.” Rick’s eyes were locked on hers. “We can’t take what we know to the police until we figure out who on the force is involved with this.”

  “How about Jillian?” Horst offered. “A man
has to trust his partner.”

  Rick shook his head. “But I’m not pointing fingers at anyone in particular.”

  “No,” Sydney challenged. “You’re pointing fingers at everyone.”

  “Until we resolve this, I think that’s the safest way.” Rick looked at both of them. “Right now, a little paranoia will serve us all well.”

  “He’s right,” Horst offered.

  “We can’t be satisfied with low levels. We need to figure out what the money’s buying and who’s paying for it.”

  “Then we’ll know if any cops are involved?” Sydney asked.

  “Then we’ll know which cops are involved,” Rick asserted. “No way Horst’s setup goes as smoothly as it did without inside help.”

  “They why didn’t you wait to see who picked up the money. You could have followed them.”

  “I never said we didn’t follow them,” Rick said. “We just couldn’t risk being up close and personal.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I put a tracker in one of the duffel bags.” Rick pulled out his phone. “Those bags sat in that warehouse until 6:43 this morning.”

  “Thank God for all these apps,” Horst grumbled. “I don’t know if my bones could have taken any more time hiding at that warehouse.”

  Sydney reached for Rick’s phone. She scrolled through the map showing the bag’s travels. “It looks like the bag isn’t moving anymore.”

  Rick pulled back his phone. “Correct. It stopped moving at seven minutes past seven this morning. It came to a dead stop at the corner of Washington and Baldwin.”

  Sydney called up a mental map of Madison. “East side. What’s there?”

  “A lot of small businesses. A few apartments.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Rick shook his head. “When the tracker stopped moving for a while, Horst and I took a drive by. We found it.”

  “In a lot,” Horst said. “Lucky for us it didn’t go down some gutter.”

  “So,” Sydney said. “We’ve got nothing.”

  Rick flashed the first smile she’d seen from him that day. “I didn’t say that. For the tracker to have fallen out of the bag, the bag needed to be opened. Since the tracker was in good shape, I’m betting it fell out of the bag during transfer. Bad guys didn’t know it was there.”

  “They were already at their destination!” Sydney exclaimed.

  “That’s our thinking. Maybe they were at their final destination; maybe the bags were transported somewhere else.”

  “Then what’s got you smiling?” Sydney puzzled. “It still sounds to me like we don’t know where those bags ended up.”

  “Right,” he agreed. “But we’ve got an amazing coincidence.”

  “What?”

  “After Rick and I left the stakeout last night,” Horst explained, “we did some looking into who owned that warehouse where the money was dropped off. Took a while. Some holding company owned by a leasing group nested within a limited partnership. Somebody was trying hard to mask the real owner.”

  “Which is?”

  “T. F. Properties. It’s owned by one Ted Fitzgerald.”

  Sydney thought. “That name’s familiar…”

  Rick nodded. “Should be. Ted Fitzgerald started Prairie Construction forty years ago.”

  Sydney gasped. “Leslie’s father? He owns the warehouse where the money was dropped?”

  “His company does,” Horst said. “And when we found the tracker? Sure, there’s lots of addresses around that corner, but one caught our eye.”

  “A new development. Takes up about a third of the block,” Rick told her.

  “Don’t tell me Leslie’s company is doing the building?”

  Rick smiled for the second time that day. “Big trucks everywhere.”

  Chapter 31

  “I can’t thank you enough for doing this.” Leslie Arbeit hugged Sydney as she entered the foyer of Leslie’s home. “I hate the thought of my new friend catering a dinner party. But my mother insisted on having Hush Money provide her dinner for Father Moran. I owe you big-time.”

  Sydney hoped her smile was casual when she assured Leslie it was a pleasure. Horst and Rick had impressed upon her that any involvement of Prairie Construction with either the mysterious bags filled with money or the murders of Billy Tremble and Frank Vistole was probably nonexistent.

  “Abandoned buildings are notorious for attracting people doing bad deeds,” Rick had reminded her. “And Prairie just happens to own a lot of them. They could be innocent victims of circumstance here.”

  “And Prairie’s the biggest construction firm around,” Horst added. “That tracker? Found near a Prairie Construction site? Could be those bags went to the copy center or the nail salon or any of those other businesses in the area. All it is so far is a coincidence.”

  She’d nodded her agreement. Still, she was a detective’s daughter. Coincidences were a hard sell.

  “Servers and food should be here in a few minutes. Let’s see how the terrace looks.”

  Leslie asked about Clay as they headed toward the back of the house.

  “Haven’t heard from him,” Sydney answered. “He’s leaving it up to me.”

  “Has it been difficult for you?”

  Sydney gave herself a moment to assess how she’d been feeling since Clay announced his desire to step back until she was able to fully commit to a relationship with him.

  “Sometimes,” she answered honestly. “I hear this warning calling out in my mind that I’m blowing the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Clay’s great.”

  Sydney agreed. “But when I think about what he said about how I’m looking for—or chasing after—something, I have to admit he’s right. And until I figure out what that is, he’s right about another thing, too: He deserves better.”

  Leslie weaved an arm through Sydney’s as they stepped outside. “You’re going to have to work pretty hard to convince me there’s anybody better than you.” She gestured to indicate the terrace. “Et voilà! How’s this? It can’t compare to Hush Money’s elegance, but I tried.”

  Sydney surveyed the long wooden farm table Leslie had positioned in the center of her stone patio. Cream damask place mats and sparkling crystal stemware struck an elegant contrast to the pale gray pottery plates and rough-hewn pine tabletop. Low clusters of blue hydrangeas ran down the center of the table. “Excellent. Really, Leslie. It’s perfect.” She nodded across the sweeping lawn to where Lake Mendota sparkled with silver and blue. “And the background couldn’t be lovelier.”

  “I’m glad the weather’s cooperating. It’s always a big deal when Ian Moran comes by for a visit.”

  “He’s a close family friend,” Sydney observed.

  Leslie nodded. “None of this would have been possible without Ian.”

  “And from what I understand, your father’s success helped fuel Father Moran’s career as well.”

  Leslie gave her a sidelong look. “Did Barney tell you anything different?”

  “He filled me in with a bit more background when we were planning for tonight. By the way, you didn’t tell me your sister was a nun! Your family has closer ties to the church than mere brick and mortar.”

  Leslie focused on a sailboat gliding across the lake as she spoke. “Yeah, well. It’s kind of an awkward thing to lead with.”

  “Your sister the sister.” Sydney’s voice softened. “Must have been a tough act to follow. I mean, following in the shoes of someone who’s married to Jesus Christ. Yikes!”

  Leslie laughed. “Don’t think I didn’t hear about it whenever I snitched a cookie or got caught in a childhood fib.”

  “I can’t imagine you being anything but your parents’ favorite.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.” Leslie paused. �
�But Cecilia was always my mother’s ideal.”

  “That’s an easy task when the kid’s not around,” Sydney offered. “Didn’t you say she was young when she left for Ireland?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Your mother may have fantasized that Cecilia would never have brought her the adolescent sass and challenge that we all brought our mothers.”

  “You ought to be a shrink, Syd.” Leslie paused. “Do you imagine your birth mother feels the same way about you? I mean, if she had another daughter. Do you think she privately imagined you as the perfect child every time her daughter broke curfew or got caught smoking under the bleachers?”

  A memory came to Sydney. A letter delivered by an attorney on her thirtieth birthday. Beautiful penmanship. Blue ink on creamy vellum. Handwritten assurance from her birth mother that she’d been conceived in love. That she’d been offered for adoption solely to avoid scandal.

  “I don’t know what my birth mother thinks of me.”

  Impulsively, Leslie reached for her hand. “Look at us, Syd. A couple of wounded puppies trying to pretend our childhood didn’t hurt.”

  Sydney nodded toward the house. “You seem to be doing all right.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. In my father’s mind, this was to be Barney’s house. Barney was meant to take over the company. I’m his reluctant second choice.”

  “He’s proud of you, I’m sure. Look at how you’ve expanded Prairie. Not to mention the house.”

  Leslie again turned her gaze to the lake. “My father likes winners, Sydney. And the way he keeps score is money. Possessions. Titles. He has no real feeling about the connection of family. When Barney announced he planned a career in medicine—something my father still refers to as the Great Betrayal—my father began working with the board of directors to search for a suitable successor. Even though I had an MBA and had worked at Prairie since I was fifteen years old. I had to beg him to give me a chance.” Her eyes squinted in a way that had nothing to do with the bright sunshine. “I showed him. I brought in quarter after quarter of increased earnings. Delivered profits even the great Ted Fitzgerald had been unable to achieve. In the end, it was the board who named me chief operations officer. Not my father.” She turned to Sydney with a weary smile. “And he’s always quick to remind me that he still owns the firm. And that he’s ready to step in if ever I disappoint.”