by T. E. Woods
“You know they got me riding pine. At least until the docs clear me.”
The smile on Auggie’s face morphed into concern. “Can’t be too careful.” She clicked her tongue. “A bullet in the breadbasket ain’t an ankle that got twisted climbing stairs. Know what I mean?”
“I do. They got me clearing out cobwebs, I guess. Looking into cold cases. Reviewing things. Seeing if anything jumps out at fresh eyes.”
“We got too many of them. Which ones in particular?”
“Just one to start with.” Rick hoped he sounded casual. “Old murder case. McFeeney.”
Auggie nodded. “Susalynne. You know she was only thirteen years old when she was beaten bloody and tossed away like that. Whole town was frozen in fear. Of course, Madison was different back then. More small town than big city. Folks don’t get so worked up when a kid dies anymore.” She shrugged sturdy shoulders. “If that’s what they call progress, you can stick it in your keister for all I have to say.”
Auggie pulled on the key chain attached to her waist by an expandable cord. She unlocked the storage room and led him in. “Let me show you. I got my own system here. Some folks call it haphazard.” She looked over her shoulder at him as she marched down one particular aisle in an oversized room arranged with tall shelves and banks of filing cabinets. “I call it job security.” She laughed at her own joke and came to a stop about ten feet down the aisle. “There it is.” Auggie pointed to an array of five shelves. “Not the top one, the shelf below. I got a step stool around somewhere if you need it.”
Rick looked up and saw the heavy cardboard records box. McFeeney, followed by the case number, was marked on the side in heavy black ink. He reached up and pulled it down. A soft layer of dust coated the lid.
“There’s a table in the front, another in the back.” Auggie looked at her watch. “I gotta lock up. Lunch with my sister. She’s from Belleville. Loves our big-city food trucks. Comes up every now and then to soak up stand-and-eat stuff. So, you want me to lock you in here for an hour or so? Might be longer. Sylvion has a way of making the most of her trips to Madison. You might be better off taking this box down to your desk. Bring it back when you’re done.”
“I’ll do that.” He hoisted the box on one hip and let her lead him out of the room. “Enjoy your lunch. And your sister.”
“Will do.”
Rick left the storage room and walked to the end of the hall. He opened the door to the stairwell, wanting to avoid elevators and anyone who might be on them. He rounded one flight and began another descent when he saw the top of someone’s head on the flight below, climbing his way. Brown hair with a few gray strands starting to lay claim. Ponytail.
She stuttered a step when she rounded the flight and saw him standing on the stairs above her.
“Rick!” Jillian Kohler’s smile was wide and welcoming. “Great to see you back.” She looked back down the empty stairwell before lowering her voice. “How’s Horst?”
Rick debated how to handle Horst’s partner. He opted for vagueness. “He’s doing what he’s been told. Laying low. Hoping this whole thing shakes out sooner rather than later.”
“Don’t we all? You guys still thinking there’s someone inside? Bad cop?”
“I can’t tell you exactly what he’s thinking. I’m back at work. Trying to get strong again. I’ve come to the conclusion that this investigation is best handled with me out of it.”
Jillian held his gaze for a tense moment. “You mean you think Horst did this? Took that money?”
Rick shrugged as much as the heavy box he was carrying would let him. “I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m steering clear.”
She was quiet for another few seconds. Staring at Rick as though she was debating whether or not to say something she very much wanted to. “Tell him to call me, okay?”
“If I see him, I sure will.”
Jillian nodded toward the box. “What do you have there?”
Rick hoisted the box into a more comfortable position. “Desk work. Checking up on outdated paperwork. You know the drill.” He looked past her. “I gotta go. Only working half days now. Gotta make the most of it.” He stepped down past her. “Good to see you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Same here.”
Rick finished his descent and left through the headquarters’ side door. He walked toward his car at an easy pace, hoping not to gain the attention of any number of the officers and civilians he passed. He opened his trunk and deposited the box containing the total sum of information gathered on Susalynne McFeeney’s murder case. Then he closed it and double-checked the lock.
He went back into the station, walked straight to his desk, and logged off his computer.
“I’m out of here,” he called out to whoever in the busy bull pen might want to listen. “See you wage slaves on Monday morning. Remember to be careful out there.”
Chapter 41
Lilac walked to a bench overlooking Olbrich Gardens’ great lawn. The gardens were in full summertime show-off mode and the early evening air was heavy on the skin. A few visitors walked past, but Lilac knew the gardens would be slow this time of day. Tourists would be out on the lakes, avoiding the humidity. Locals would be at work, planning an early escape in order to stand in line at their favorite fish-fry place.
It is Friday, after all. Traditions must be upheld.
Lilac pulled out a cellphone dedicated for use when calling just one person and pressed the only number in the contact list.
Boss answered on the second ring.
“What tales do you bring me?”
Lilac pictured him: jowly and coated with the perpetual sheen of a man who eats way too much pork, smirking as if he’s in on a joke known only to him and God.
“Could be nothing. Could be something.”
“I don’t need riddles, Lilac.”
“That cop…the one poking around Billy’s killing.”
“That cop’s frozen stiff. Can’t make a move. You focus on plugging up the hole that let my money fall out.”
Lilac didn’t want to be the one not telling Boss something he should have been made aware of and pressed on.
“He’s close to another cop.”
“So, what’s that to me? I read books. I go to the movies. Cops hang together. Probably the only ones who can stand the stench.”
Lilac’s gut tightened at the insult. Boss’s soft chuckle over the phone evoked a wish for hands squeezing the neck until the pompous man’s eyes bulged.
“This cop. Rick Sheffield. He’s the one Vistole shot.”
Lilac could almost see Boss’s attention shifting. “And he’s working with the cop chasing Billy Shakes? What about him?”
“It could be nothing. He’s looking into an old case. A cold case.”
“Again, what’s that to me?”
“He could be digging.”
“For what?”
Lilac wanted to shout How the hell should I know? but thought better of it. “I thought you should know.”
The other end of the line was quiet for several long seconds.
“You know what,” Boss finally said. “I’m getting tired of this shit. Enough with the pussyfooting around. Time to end this. Once and for good.”
Lilac inhaled against the meaning of Boss’s directive. “Which?”
“Which?” Boss mimicked. “Who the fuck cares? One. Both. You’re on the ground. Find the one giving the biggest trouble and take him out. Do both for all the shits I give. Player’s choice.”
“Dead cops. I don’t know about that.”
Boss huffed out his disgust. “Since when did something like that start bothering you?”
“It’s going to bring a lot of heat, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Heat is what I pay you to handle.” Boss took a moment. When he spo
ke again his voice was calmer. “You ready for the next shipment?”
“Yes. Monday. Everything’s fine.”
“Now, see? That’s the kind of answer I like from the people I pay. Question gets asked. Question gets answered.”
Lilac’s jaw tightened against the humiliation.
“And the other thing,” Boss added. “Or things. You gonna take care of it?”
Lilac looked away. Four seagulls rode an air current overhead.
“Yes,” Lilac said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. Player’s choice.”
Chapter 42
“Damn it!” Sydney stared into her phone’s screen. “I missed her!”
“Who?” her mother asked. They were walking out of Marigold Kitchen, having just finished lunch.
“Ronnie.” Sydney flipped her phone around for her mother to see the screen. “She called like, fifteen minutes ago. Where was I?”
“Halfway through a smoked salmon omelet. Is your ringer off?”
Sydney checked. “Ugh! Yes.”
Nancy turned to her left and headed toward the Capitol Square. “Here’s an idea. Call her back.”
“She’s in the middle of a Caribbean jungle, Mom. I can’t just call her back.”
“She called you, didn’t she? Which means she got a signal.”
Sydney realized the flaw in her thinking. “Can we hang on a minute? I want to catch her while the catching’s good.”
They walked over to a bench across from the capitol building and sat. Nancy took in the tableau of workers scurrying about while Sydney dialed.
“Damn it,” Sydney whispered.
“Language, missy.”
“I’m getting her voice mail.” Sydney paused. “Hey, Ronnie. Sorry I missed your call. Mom and I were at lunch. Are you okay? I miss you, girl.” Her voice quivered. “Like crazy I miss you. I got so much going on and no Ronnie to share it with. Try me again, okay? I promise to have my ringer on this time. Love you.”
Nancy formed her hands into a heart, then pointed to the phone.
“Mom sends her love, too. Call me, girl. And don’t get bitten by anything that could do lasting harm.” Sydney ended the call. “She didn’t answer.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Never would have guessed.” She stood, then pulled her daughter up. They walked toward Hush Money. “You miss her, huh?”
“Like nobody’s business.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to talk about.” Nancy butted shoulders with her daughter. “Like maybe why we haven’t seen Clay in more than a week?”
“Don’t start, Mom.” Sydney knew her request would never slow Nancy Richardson down.
“How about your new friend? The police chief’s wife.”
“What about her?”
“Can she fill in while Ronnie’s away? I remember when I was young. There were some things I could share only with a girlfriend.”
Sydney knew she couldn’t explain to her mother the reasons why she needed to hold Leslie at arm’s length. “I like Leslie a lot. Something tells me we’re going to be very close. But not yet.”
“Too personal?”
“Maybe.”
“Ah ha!” Nancy stopped midstep. “This is about Clay! Sydney, have you two broken up? You can tell me.”
“We’re taking a breather.”
“A breather?” Nancy resumed walking. “What’s a breather? You’re with him or you’re not. Which is it?”
Sydney thought about her parents’ love story. An instant attraction followed by a dance followed by more than a quarter century of loving each other.
Until someone shot him. Left him to die on a cold warehouse floor.
“I don’t know what we are. Can you let that be enough right now?”
They’d reached their destination. Nancy put her key in Hush Money’s door and swung it open. “For now. But you know I’m here whenever you want to talk.”
“I know.” She looked at her watch. “I gotta run.”
“You’re not coming in? Sydney, we have an interview. We have to fill that server’s position.”
Sydney leaned in and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Got a one o’clock appointment, Mom. You take the interview on your own. You know I’m going to hire the person you want, anyway, so why bother having me there? See you around 4:30.”
She turned and walked toward her car before her mother could offer a protest.
* * *
—
Sydney knocked on the door of Rick’s apartment at 12:58. He answered. Jocko and Horst were already seated around the wooden table in his kitchen.
“Come on in, Syd. Things are getting interesting.”
She crossed the room to give Horst a hug. “What’s this?” she asked as she pulled up a chair.
“This,” Rick explained, “is the sum total of all we know about the Susalynne McFeeney murder.”
“I thought Jillian had already brought you the records.”
“She was nice enough to bring us everything she could download off the computer,” Horst said. “Reports get distilled. What’s here is the raw material.” He nodded toward Rick. “Dick Tracy here pulled it out of the evidence room.”
“That’s allowed?” Sydney asked.
“Not exactly,” Rick offered.
“Which means it’s not,” Sydney said. “Why risk a rules violation? What’s this case have to do with what’s going on now?”
“I got into the station early today,” Rick said. “I started trawling through the records based on what we’ve learned from the stuff Jillian gave us.”
“And?”
“And I came up with plenty of nothing. Until I started a search on your new friend Father Ian Moran.”
“He’s hardly a friend. As a matter of fact, I find him kind of…I don’t know…off-putting. Doesn’t matter how handsome he is.”
“You find him attractive?” Rick asked. “A bit long in the tooth for you, don’t you think?”
Sydney gave him a dismissive glance. “What did you find?”
“Your dad interviewed him during the McFeeney investigation. His name came up in two separate reports.”
A chill swept down Sydney’s spine. “My dad knew Ian Moran?”
Horst shrugged. “McFeeney was a student at Blessed Sacrament. He talked to your dad on behalf of the diocese.”
Sydney’s brow wrinkled. “The Fitzgerald kids went to Blessed Sacrament. Moran got his start teaching there. Leslie told me how all the girls had crushes on him.” She paused. “The coincidences keep piling up, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t make too much of that,” Horst answered. “Catholic kids go to Catholic schools. Susalynne would have been too young to have overlapped with any of the Fitzgeralds.”
“That’s not why I pulled the case,” Rick added.
“Why did you, then?”
Horst and Rick exchanged a questioning look.
“Will you two stop that?” Sydney snapped. “Either I’m in this or I’m not. And I think Moran’s interest in me more than qualifies me to be in. So, no more looks. No secrets.”
“I didn’t know your dad,” Rick told her. “But from the size of the shadow he left, he was one hell of a cop.”
“That he was,” Horst added. “I wish I’d had more time with him.”
Me, too, Horst. Sydney thought. Me, too.
“I’m still not following,” she said.
“It makes sense your dad would talk to the people at Susalynne’s school. Her church. Also, any friends she might have had. I get why Moran’s name came up.”
A realization dawned on her. “But Dad interviewed him twice.”
Horst slapped a hand across his knee. “You’ve got your father’s instincts, Kitz! Even without the DNA between y
ou.”
“And you’re thinking something in this case box is going to tell you why Dad saw fit to reinterview Ian Moran.”
“That’s my hope.” Rick pulled off the dusty top. “Shall we start?”
* * *
—
Each of them took a piece. Rick started with a file filled with crime scene photographs. Horst culled through interview lists. Sydney reached first for one of three spiral-bound, palm-sized notepads.
A wave of memories washed over her. She knew these notebooks. Her mother would buy them by the dozen, always keeping a few stacked on her father’s bureau. Joe Richardson always carried one in his pocket, even when he was off duty. She smiled as his voice came back to her.
Always write it down, Syd. If it’s an errand, you won’t forget it. If it’s a memory, you’ll cherish it each time you read it. And if it’s a puzzle, it gives you a new way of looking at it.
He always wrote two dates on the notebook cover. The first would be when he made his initial entry in the fresh pad. It would be followed by the date when there was no more room and another pad needed to be started.
“They had to be black,” she said as she set the earliest notebook in front of her. “I remember Mom teasing about what difference did it make. But if the notepads weren’t black, he wouldn’t use them.”
“Your father could be a stubborn old mule when he wanted to be,” Horst noted with kindness.
She thought about how she’d begged to have her ears pierced when she was nine years old. Her father had insisted she wait until she was sixteen. You’ve got enough holes in your head, he’d say. No need to rush into poking a couple more in. He’d held his ground, no matter how she pleaded, pouted, or threatened.
Her hand reflexively went to her left ear. She touched one of the half-carat diamond studs she wore every day. I waited, Dad. Mom took me to the jewelry store on my sixteenth birthday. Wish you could have been there.
Sydney opened the notebook while the men set to their own assignments. She hoped they didn’t notice the double take when she saw her father’s handwriting. She allowed herself a few moments to linger in his presence before settling into her task.
