Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  Roscoe was behind the bar, filling orders. Gitch and Ramona roamed the restaurant, taking orders and delivering meals. Nearly every table was filled.

  Doesn’t matter that it’s a Thursday, she thought. These folks need to blow off steam hot enough to scald the devil.

  But something was different. Despite nearly every table being filled with people whose faces were well familiar to her, there was an unfamiliar aura to the room. It seemed quieter somehow. She trained her eyes on table after table, seeing people smile, nod, chat, and eat. But somehow the overall conviviality she was so accustomed to greeting her whenever she walked into The Ten-Ten wasn’t there. When her gaze went to a table in the corner, back against the far wall, she understood instantly the source of the room’s sobriety.

  She walked over to where Horst Welke sat alone.

  “What’s this?” she said as she pulled out a chair and joined him. “Since when did you stop holding court?”

  Horst looked up from his glass of doppelbock, his eyes signaling a resignation. “Since I developed a bad case of the Internal Affairs cooties.”

  She looked back over her shoulder and saw several heads snap their attention away.

  “Horst, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not.” His tone was harsh. “I got nothing to be afraid of. I’m happy to be here to see who’s in when the going gets tough.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Just ordered a burger.”

  She reached out to lay her hand over his. “You want me to make that to go? Maybe bring it to my office? I’ll sit with you while you eat.”

  His eyes flared. “I’m not being driven away from anyplace, Kitz. This is where I come for burgers.”

  She nodded her understanding, then leaned in. “Have you spoken to him?” She didn’t need to be specific. She knew he would understand she meant Rick. There was no need for anyone who may be eavesdropping to hear his name tied to a conversation Horst was having.

  “He went to work today. I called him. Nothing new. I told him to get some rest.”

  “Good. I might suggest the same thing for you.” She looked up as Gitch brought Horst his burger with fries.

  “What else can I get you, big guy?” Gitch asked with that sass that made her a favorite among The Ten-Ten’s regulars. “You’re nursing that beer pretty slow.”

  “I’m good,” Horst said without looking up. “Thank you.”

  Gitch looked at Sydney with caring, wondering eyes. Sydney, too, thanked her.

  “You have the stomach to eat that?” she asked once Gitch walked away.

  “Gotta fuel the tank.” He grabbed a fry and jammed it in his mouth. “Busy, busy, busy.”

  “Don’t do this, Horst,” she whispered. “Don’t let bitterness get you. These people are being cautious, that’s all. You said it yourself, when Jillian wanted to come by. You said the best thing for everyone is to steer clear of you until this gets sorted out.”

  Horst looked around the restaurant. “It’s hard,” he finally said.

  “I know it is. But this is going to get resolved. You’ve got my word.”

  He looked at her long and hard. “You really believe that? You think anyone desperate enough to frame me for a million-dollar grab isn’t going to do everything necessary to make sure it sticks?”

  “Hang in there, Horst. Hang in there.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  His face softened. He sighed. “For the love of Pete, will you look at me. Having a pity party for all the world to see. And you…my girl, the one I’m supposed to see through the tough times…here you are holding me up. This has got to be even harder on you.”

  She felt the heat of tears sting her eyes. “I’m okay.”

  “How could you be?” Horst leaned forward, his full attention on her. “It’s gotta grab you right in the gut. All those memories of your dad getting churned up and stuff.”

  “It doesn’t eat at you? I mean, you solve crimes for a living. Doesn’t it gnaw at your gut that my father’s death was never solved?”

  “Yet.” Horst poked a finger on the table. “Hasn’t been solved yet.”

  She nodded and swiped away a tear. “That was the worst day.”

  “Does that help at all? Knowing you’ve already done the hardest thing you’ll ever do in life?”

  She thought for a moment. “Is it supposed to? It’s all so real. I mean, I go about my day. I live my life. But it’s like, if I’m not constantly busy…not forever diverting my attention…my mind goes right back to that day. Walking into that ER with Mom. Seeing you standing there, covered in my dad’s blood.”

  His sigh was long and low. “For me it’s the moment I saw him.”

  “I’ll always be grateful you were there.”

  “But I wasn’t. Not when it counted. I keep thinking if only I’d have gone in with him. If only I was there when it went down. At least your dad would have had backup.”

  Sydney blinked twice. “What are you talking about? You were there. Dad didn’t die alone. You held him.”

  “I mean before.” His look was quizzical. “You don’t know this?”

  “Know what?” Sydney was bewildered.

  Horst pushed his plate of uneaten food to the side. “You were just a kid, Kitz. A teenager. My God! I’ve never talked to you about this.”

  “Tell me now.”

  “I was a wet-behind-the-ears smart-ass. Your dad was a legend. How I was lucky enough to get assigned as his partner, I’ll never know. Guess the captain thought your dad could teach me a thing or two. Anyway, he was working this case before I got hooked up with him.”

  “Susalynne McFeeney.”

  “That’s right. But it had gone colder than a February morning. Powers that be assigned him—us—new cases. We were good together, your old man and me. I learned. He was making me a better cop. That day we were at the station. We get this call that some yahoo wants to give up the name of the guy who broke into the Taco Loco stand and took all the hot sauce and meat.”

  “You and Dad were working a fast-food robbery?”

  “It was a different time. Murders were few and far between back then. Manpower got assigned where needed. Your dad asks me to take the call on my own. Says he’s got somewhere he needs to be. I tell him I’m happy to hear he thinks I can handle things on my own, but my car’s in the shop. He tells me take a squad. That tells me then and there he’s got something big going down. I told him no way in hell am I taking a squad.” Horst huffed out an empty laugh. “We actually got into a bit of a lover’s spat over that. Finally, Joe says okay. We’ll go together. But he’s got to make one stop first.”

  “The warehouse.”

  Horst nodded, all humor gone from him. “We pull up. Joe tells me to stay in the car. He’ll be right back, he says. But he wants me in the car, watching the door in case anything goes bad.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  “I don’t know. But he told me if anything seemed fishy while he was inside, I should call for backup. I pressed him for details, but he shook me off. You remember how Joe could be. He was a guy who when he said no, buddy, that was it.”

  Sydney could have named thirty examples of how she knew that was true.

  “So,” Horst continued. “I cool my jets in the car. I got my window rolled down. My eyes trained on the door.” He hesitated. “That’s when I heard the shots.” He shook his head against the memory. “I didn’t call for backup. I ran into that warehouse with everything I had. My gun was out. I was ready.”

  “What happened?” Sydney forced herself to breathe. She had never heard these details before.

  “Your dad was down. Bleeding something crazy. I look up, down, over…nothing. Nobody. I scramble to your dad. Lift him up. I call officer down into my shoulder radio.”

  “Did he
say anything? Maybe tell you who shot him?”

  Horst shook his head. “I think he knew it was bad. First thing he said was Susalynne McFeeney. That was my first clue that his secret mission that day had to do with that case. Your dad was a pit bull. Nothing was going to stop him working that case until it was closed.” His eyes took on a faraway look, as though reseeing the entire event.

  “What else did he say?”

  Horst blinked his attention back. “What?”

  “You said the first thing he said was Susalynne’s name. What else did my father say?”

  His chest heaved. He wiped a hand over his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was choked.

  “He said Tend Sydney. He pointed a finger toward me and said it again. Then he closed his eyes and said it one last time. Tend Sydney.” Horst bowed his head.

  She reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “And you’ve been doing that ever since, haven’t you?”

  Chapter 40

  Rick knew better than to believe coming in a couple hours early would give him some alone time. The police station was always busy. Even at 5:00 on a Friday morning. Still, he hoped that by arriving before the folks who shared his shift, he might have a bit more flexibility in his movements. He waved as he passed the desk sergeant, who seemed too engrossed in the stack of reports in front of her to make any comment about his arriving with the dawn’s early light. He made his way through the corridors, nodding to the occasional officer he passed. He went to his desk, started a pot of coffee, and fired up his computer.

  Jillian had already given them all the data she could find on Prairie Construction and T. F. Properties, as well as the arrest records for Ossie MacDonald and Frank Vistole. There had been a couple of overlaps, but no smoking gun pointing them toward who might be behind the money drops. But both drop sites were owned by T. F. Properties: the convenience store where Rick was shot and the warehouse where Billy Tremble had his hiding place. Which, in a haunting coincidence, was the same warehouse where Joe Richardson had been killed nearly two decades earlier.

  He looked over his shoulder. The bull pen surrounding his desk was empty. With no better direction in mind, Rick entered a search for Billy Tremble. He surveyed the area again while the computer whirled its indication that it was searching. Less than a minute later, Rick had his results.

  Tremble’s murder case led the list. Rick saw the last two reports had been filed by Jillian Kohler, who was now working the case solo. Four earlier reports were filed by Horst. Both the coroner’s preliminary and final reports were there, too. Beyond that, the only entries for Billy Tremble, aka Billy Shakes, were two citations for public loitering. Both still outstanding. Rick shook his head at the ridiculousness of handing out a citation for being homeless. Did anyone think that if Billy had an extra thirty bucks he would clear the citation as opposed to renting a motel room for a night? But he understood. When the politicians got enough complaints from their constituents, they pressured the cops to “do something.” The police responded by handing out citations that everyone knew would change nothing.

  Good for you, Billy, Rick thought. You came across some money and handed it out to your friends. Let these citations ride.

  He wondered what became of Billy. Did he have family who claimed his body? Did he have anyone who knew he was homeless here in Madison?

  Rest easy, buddy. We’re going to find who did this to you.

  Rick entered Theodore Fitzgerald into the computer. To his surprise, a long list of case numbers popped up, the most recent dated six years earlier. Rick called them up, scrolling through the details of each record, one by one. Most were complaints Fitzgerald himself filed regarding break-ins and thefts at his various construction sites. One, dating back nine years, involved a dispute between Fitzgerald and his neighbor in Maple Bluff. Apparently, the neighbor’s dog, identified in the report as “a fuzzy white poodle kind of thing,” had developed a habit of using Fitzgerald’s yard as his personal toilet. The report stated officers were called to intervene in “a heated argument” between the dog owner and Fitzgerald. No citations were issued. No arrests were made. Rick damned his luck at hitting another dead end and poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  He glanced at the clock. 5:58. The room would begin to fill in another hour. He poised his fingers over the keyboard. With no other direction in which to step, he entered Ian Moran.

  Only four reports came up. The most recent, dated eleven years earlier, had Moran as a witness to a high-injury motor vehicle accident on the beltline. Moran’s name and New York address, as well as a recap of his observations were noted. The second, two years older than the first and obviously made while Moran still lived in town, listed the priest as filing a report of stolen office supplies and equipment from the offices of Madison’s bishop. That report was closed out four days after it was made, stating Moran had decided to not pursue any charges against the thief.

  Good man of the cloth, Father? Caught the guy yourself, did you? Decided confession and a few Hail Marys were enough?

  Rick set his coffee cup aside when he reviewed the third report. It was filed by Detective Joe Richardson and dated eighteen years earlier. It detailed an interview Joe had with Moran concerning the death of Susalynne McFeeney. Joe’s report stated it was a follow-up interview. The detective wrote that Moran had been cooperative and forthcoming, stating he was “devastated” at the loss of one of Blessed Sacrament’s students. Moran said he knew both Susalynne and her mother and asked Richardson to contact him directly should he require further assistance from the diocese. Rick clicked out of that report and read the oldest report in Moran’s file. It was dated three days earlier than the follow-up interview and was the first encounter Joe Richardson had with the man who, at the time, was the right hand of the bishop. Rick thought it seemed straightforward and routine. A girl had been beaten and strangled. Joe, being the thorough detective he was, was interviewing any and all who knew her. His report was nearly clinical in its sparseness.

  Then why did you interview Moran three days later? What itch were you scratching?

  Rick clicked out of Moran’s file. He thought about entering Leslie Arbeit. She was, after all, the current honcho-in-charge of Prairie Construction. But he pulled his fingers away from the keyboard.

  She’s also the wife of the chief of police. No need to risk sending up any red flags.

  Instead, he entered Bernard Fitzgerald. The computer whirled again, this time disappointing him by showing no records on file. He entered Barney Fitzgerald. Fifteen seconds later the computer gave him the same disappointing message.

  How’s that work? he wondered. Guy’s got to be closing in on fifty years old. How does someone live that long and not have so much as a speeding ticket?

  “Well, will you look who’s bright and at ’em already?” a male voice called out from behind him. Rick shut down his computer and turned. It was Wally Draftmeister, a nearly thirty-year veteran of the force. Rick knew him to be a career-long patrol officer, never wanting any position other than neighborhood cop. “Don’t tell me you’re falling in love with that desk.”

  Rick hoisted his mug in greeting. “Beats lying around the apartment. Even Jocko’s getting a little tired of my sorry ass taking his spot on the sofa.”

  Draftmeister dropped his lunch cooler on the counter holding the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “Hey! Be thankful he’s a dog. You can walk away from that. Me? I got a wife who nags me if I so much as watch two straight innings of the Brewers. Get up, she says. Start moving.”

  The room started filling. By 7:15 every desk was occupied. Detectives wrote their reports. Officers filtered through, sometimes stopping to talk, sometimes hurrying by on their way to a call. Administrative personnel came in later: secretaries, records clerks, and budget folks. By 9:30 any early-morning quiet Rick had enjoyed was gone. Another day at the headquarters of
the Madison Police Department was in full swing.

  Rick planned to keep to his half-day schedule. He’d texted Horst earlier and the two of them agreed to meet back at his apartment at 1:00. He went about his routine duties while a constant ache pulled on him whenever a member of Madison’s finest entered his view.

  Is it you? Are you the one behind Horst’s setup? Are you the one tied to duffel bags filled with money?

  At 11:15 Rick stood and stretched, making a show of arching his back, even groaning a bit. He wanted to make it clear to any who might be interested that his day was coming to an end. He was, after all, still the guy on light duty. He took his mug to the sink, rinsed it, and returned it to his desk. Then, without announcement, he walked down the hall, up two flights of stairs, and back down a long hall to the room where records of inactive cases were stored.

  “Hey, Auggie,” he greeted the woman seated at the desk in the anteroom.

  The woman, whose sixty-fifth birthday party had been properly celebrated at The Ten-Ten six months earlier, rose from her chair. Augusta Sven was a treasured fixture in the department. While never officially a part of the force, she had seemingly held every administrative position open to civilians. She wore her thick, steel-gray hair short, and always came to work wearing black slacks and a white blouse. Rick assumed it was her way of inventing her own uniform. He’d asked her about it once. Auggie told him she remembered a time when office protocol dictated she wear skirts or dresses. “I still have two skirts. Both black. Haven’t worn ’em in years. This black-white gig I got going makes it easier in the morning.”

  “Rick! I heard you were back. How ya feelin’ there?”

  “Glad to be seeing you. How’s that?”

  Auggie smiled and the room brightened. Augusta Sven was born to work with cops. And no one in the department seemed eager to ask her to retire.

  “Sounds like you have more to live for,” she answered. “What brings you my way?”

  Rick hesitated, but after another glance toward the matronly woman who’d made a career protecting and serving those who were sworn to do the same, he decided to take a calculated risk.