Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  There was a brief tick of awkward silence. “We considered that option,” I said. “But Duncan felt the bar was safer, and I didn’t want to have to travel back and forth with my hours being the way they are.” Eager to change the subject, I said, “I need to take another look at your wounds and change those dressings.” I got up and fetched the necessary materials while Mal dutifully removed his shirt.

  To ensure we didn’t go back to the subject of sleeping arrangements, I asked Mal about his ex, Sabrina. “I like her,” I said. “I like her a lot. She seems nice, down-to-earth, and friendly. Not to mention protective. It’s a shame the two of you couldn’t make it work.”

  Mal sighed. “Bad timing, I think.”

  “Maybe you two should give it another try,” I suggested. “She seems to care about you a lot. I mean, look what she did for you, letting you stay here in this house.”

  “She’s a good egg,” Mal said, nodding in agreement. “But we’re very different people. I’m just glad that despite what happened between us, we parted on friendly terms and she isn’t the kind to hold a grudge.”

  “She was fiercely protective of you,” Duncan said. “I agree with Mack. There are some feelings there still. It might be worth another shot, once all this is resolved.”

  We left Mal with that thought to ponder, and promised we would be back in a day or two. “If you need anything before then, anything at all, just call on that burner I gave you,” Duncan instructed.

  Mal looked morose as we prepared to leave, and I wondered if he was lonely out here in this house by himself. He was used to a large family and lots of people around, so I imagined the isolation of this place, and being cut off from everyone he knew, must be hard for him.

  Duncan must have sensed Mal’s mood, too, because as we were leaving he gave Mal a light, friendly punch on one arm. “Buck up, my friend,” Duncan said. “I’m going to get you out of this mess. I owe you for what you did for me and Mack, and I intend to pay you back.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Mal said, giving me a hangdog look. “I enjoyed every minute of it.”

  I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then whispered in his ear, “I enjoyed it, too.”

  When Duncan and I were settled back in the car, he asked me what I had said to Mal when we were leaving.

  “I just gave him a bit of encouragement,” I said vaguely. “He looked so dejected and lonely. It breaks my heart to see him like that.”

  Our return drive was comfortably quiet, and at one point, Duncan reached over to hold my hand again. When we arrived at the bar, he parked the car, and as he turned off the engine, he turned to me and said, “Is it okay if I spend the night?”

  “I was hoping you would. But you’re going to have to share the inflatable bed in the basement with me because Mal’s family has taken over my apartment.”

  “That’s fine,” Duncan said. “As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter where we sleep.”

  His words made my heart squeeze, or at least that’s how it felt in my chest.

  “I know you’ve got some free time tomorrow because it’s Sunday,” he went on, “but I’m going to have to get up early and head into the office. I want to try to hunt down this Chandler guy Mal mentioned to see if he can add any insight into Janssen for us, and also to see if he recognizes the woman in the picture.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Resolving this case is as important to me as it is to you. Not only is it my first official case as a consultant with the police department, but there’s this whole business with Mal. We need to clear him as soon as we can.”

  “Agreed.”

  Once we were inside, we hunted down Mal’s family. They had quit work for the day and were seated at a table enjoying food and drink. We joined them, and, in a low, quiet voice, Duncan updated them on Mal’s status. Then he gave them the letter Mal had written.

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” Connor asked.

  “He’s fine,” Duncan answered. “We have a bit of a mess to resolve, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “We’re about done with the elevator project,” Connor said. “We’re going to take tomorrow off and do a little bit of sightseeing here in Milwaukee. Perhaps you could suggest some sights?”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said.

  “We appreciate it,” Connor said. “We should be able to tie up the elevator project on Monday, and I’ve arranged for us to head back to Washington on Tuesday. Do you think Mal will be able to come out of hiding before then?”

  Duncan and I exchanged looks. “I honestly don’t know,” Duncan said. “I’ll do my very best to make that happen, but I can’t make any promises. If it doesn’t happen, we can probably arrange for you to see him before you go.”

  “That would be nice,” Connor said.

  After providing them with a list of sightseeing options to choose from, Duncan and I excused ourselves from the group. I went to check in with Billy and the rest of my staff, while Duncan disappeared into my office, no doubt to take care of some business. The remainder of the night up to closing time was uneventful. I let my staff leave early, telling them I would take care of all the closing duties. Now that I was no longer encumbered by my cast and crutches, I felt the need to repay all of them for the extra time and effort they put in to help me when I did have them.

  Duncan emerged from my office just before closing, and he assisted me in my efforts. As soon as we had things taken care of, we retired to the basement and settled in Mal’s makeshift bedroom. I was exhausted from the day’s efforts—both physically and mentally—but Duncan managed to reawaken some energy in me, and trigger a host of wonderful synesthetic reactions in my body.

  Chapter 15

  Despite the fact that I’m normally able to sleep in on Sunday mornings, it wasn’t to be on this particular one. Not only did the unfamiliar sleeping area interfere, Duncan received a phone call a little after eight. I listened to his end of the conversation, but it didn’t reveal any details to me. I had no idea who was on the other end of the line. As soon as he disconnected the call, I asked him.

  “What was that all about?”

  “That was the detective covering the Knutson case. Apparently, the night shift at the medical examiner’s office tackled Mr. Knutson’s autopsy.”

  “Do tell,” I said, feeling a little trill of excitement.

  “First, I need to hit up the bathroom,” he said, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and sitting upright.

  “You’ll have to go upstairs,” I said. “That’s one of the downsides to this little bedroom setup. There’s no bathroom down here.” I, too, swung myself out of bed and threw on a robe. “I’ll come with you. I need to go myself, and I want to throw on a pot of coffee.”

  Some ten minutes later, the two of us had taken care of our morning ablutions and we were settled in at a table in the bar with two steaming-hot mugs of coffee.

  “Want me to fix you something to eat for breakfast?” Duncan offered.

  I shook my head. “We can eat later. I want to hear about the Knutson case.”

  Duncan smiled and shook his head wryly. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” he teased.

  “If you don’t hurry up and tell me, I’m going to kill you,” I countered.

  “Okay, okay.” Duncan held both of his hands in front of him, warding me off. “According to Detective Bobby Dillon—that’s who’s handling the case—the medical examiner said there were signs of ischemia, meaning tissue death due to a lack of oxygen, in Knutson’s heart. He said that’s something commonly seen when someone has a heart attack.”

  “So it probably was a death from natural causes,” I said, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.

  “Not so fast,” Duncan said with a crafty smile. “Despite the evidence of a lack of oxygen to the tissues, and the fact that the man was overweight, his arteries were in surprisingly good shape. According to the medical examiner’s findings, there was no blockage of any sort that wo
uld have caused a heart attack. Typically, a heart attack causes damage to a portion of the heart muscle, the area served by the arteries that are blocked. But in this case, the entire heart showed signs of tissue death, as did other parts of the body. Basically, Oliver Knutson suffered a general lack of oxygen to his entire system.”

  “You mean like suffocation?”

  “That’s one way,” Duncan said, looking troubled. “But there wasn’t any evidence of suffocation. Typically, there are some signs of strangulation, or pressure applied to the face with a pillow . . . something like that. People don’t realize it, but those things do leave marks that are identifiable. There weren’t any in this case, though.”

  “That seems odd,” I said. Duncan nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. “Were there other health problems Knutson had that might’ve caused his death?”

  “Some minor things,” Duncan said. “He was diabetic, but apparently, it wasn’t bad enough for him to have to take any medication for it. He controlled it with diet. And speaking of diet, he was on one to try to lose some weight, so the medical examiner thought there might have been some electrolyte imbalances that caused an arrhythmia. But once he got the bloodwork back, there was no evidence to support that theory. Knutson also suffered from sleep apnea related to his weight, and he used one of those CPAP machines at night. The medical examiner thought the machine might have malfunctioned somehow, but it was tested and appeared to be working fine. Plus, there was no evidence of any struggling on Knutson’s part. In general, when someone feels like they’re not breathing properly and the oxygen level drops, it triggers anxiety and agitation. But Knutson was found in bed on his back, the bedcovers in place, cold, blue, and not breathing. According to his wife, his CPAP machine was turned on and working when she found him that morning, but he didn’t have his mask on. By the time the police got there, the wife had turned the machine off.”

  “I’m not familiar with these CPAP machines,” I said.

  “Basically, it’s a breathing mechanism that provides air under pressure to the person using it. It’s meant to help people who have sleep apnea and other respiratory ailments. According to what the ME said, these people often have floppy tissue in their airways. The CPAP machine’s pressure helps prevent that floppy tissue from blocking the airway. The pressure it delivers keeps things open, kind of like an inflated balloon.”

  The mention of balloons made me briefly flash on Felicity. I wondered how the night had gone with her and the Varners. “So it involves wearing some sort of mask?” I asked, getting back on track. Duncan nodded. “Is it possible the mask somehow suffocated him?”

  “No,” Duncan said with a shake of his head. “The ME said this particular mask had an anti-asphyxiation valve in it to prevent something like that from happening.”

  “So even if the power went out while the person was sleeping with the mask on, they’d still be able to breathe?”

  “They would. But it’s more likely the person would simply wake up, aware of the sudden loss of pressure and air. Of course, that’s assuming the person was able to wake up. If he was sedated in some way, he might not have been able to remove the mask, or perhaps he managed to take it off but lacked the wherewithal to put it back on.”

  “Any evidence of sedation?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Duncan said. “The preliminary tests for the presence of any sort of sedating drugs or paralyzing agents were negative. The ME told Dillon there are other, less common drugs he can test for, but that will take a while.”

  “So Sonja may have been right after all,” I said.

  “Perhaps so,” Duncan said with a sobering nod. “Though Detective Dillon had already decided to take a closer look at the scene, and have another chat with Knutson’s wife for some reason. My interest in the case came as something of a surprise, but Bobby is willing to let me work on the investigation, and even let you participate.”

  “You make it sound like such a burden to have me involved.”

  Duncan gave me a tolerant smile. “Mack, you have to understand, there are still a few people out there who are skeptical about you and your ability. The fact that Chief Holland and Tony Dixon both agreed to use you as a consultant doesn’t mean everyone on the force is convinced it’s a good idea. But it does mean they have to let you work with them if the boss says so. And in this case, the boss will say so. It’s a high-profile case with a wealthy and well-known victim. It’s bound to garner a lot of press. The chief will want to hedge all his bets the best he can, and assure the DA’s office has all the necessary information and evidence to properly prosecute.”

  I let out a weary sigh. “Right,” I said tiredly. “I forgot that it’s an election year.”

  “You don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” Duncan said.

  “No, I won’t back out. I admit I’m not excited about the attention it’s likely to draw to me, but in fairness, Holland and Dixon did warn me. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to work with them.”

  “Does that mean you’re ready to go to work?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Soon,” Duncan said. “Dillon is waiting on a search warrant for the Knutson house and said we can come along. I don’t know if his wife will be there or not, but if she is, we can have a chat with her, and you can do your lie-detector thing. Or perhaps Dillon will want to bring her in to the station to talk. Either way, you’re welcome to listen in and provide whatever feedback you can.”

  “Do I have enough time to take a shower?”

  “Make it a quick one. I’m expecting to hear from Bobby about the search warrant any minute.”

  “Will do.” I picked up my coffee cup and headed for the stairs to my apartment. I managed all of four steps when I remembered the O’Reilly’s were camped out up there and, because they intended to take the day off, they were likely hoping to sleep in.

  I turned back to Duncan. “On second thought, I think I’ll grab some bar towels and do a spit bath in the ladies’ room down here,” I told him. “I don’t want to disturb Mal’s family.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I looked reasonably presentable. I’d managed to do a quick wash-up at the sink, fix my hair, and get dressed. I even put on a touch of eyeliner and some lipstick. I wanted to make something of a good impression in my new role as a consultant. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, Duncan was ready to roll.

  “We’re on with the search warrant,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the home of Oliver and Caroline Knutson. I expected, given Oliver Knutson’s purported wealth, that we might end up in a home in one of the ritzy neighborhoods bordering Lake Michigan. It was a well-to-do neighborhood all right, but not one on the lake.

  Duncan parked on the street and waved at someone once we were out of the car. To my surprise, the person who waved back was a woman with blond hair and a tall, slender figure. She had just emerged from a car—an older-model Toyota sedan—and she headed toward us with a curious but friendly smile.

  “So, Albright, this is the infamous secret weapon I’ve heard so much about,” she said, giving me a quick once-over. There was a hint of skepticism in her tone, and her voice tasted like buttery cheese with just a hint of sharpness to it.

  “Bobby Dillon, meet Mack Dalton,” Duncan said.

  “Please, call me Roberta,” Bobby said, extending a hand.

  I smiled and made a face at Duncan. “Duncan neglected to tell me that you were a woman,” I said, shaking her hand.

  “Well, that’s because I’m just one of the guys to all the cops in town. Ever since my coworkers heard one of my brothers call me Bobby, it’s been my nickname on the force ever since. I suppose it makes sense given that I have three older brothers, and I’m the only girl in the family. My mom passed away shortly after I was born, so I was raised in a house full of testosterone.”

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” I said. “My mother died right after I was born, too, and I was raised by my father. So
we have something in common, although I never had any siblings, and my house had more alcohol than testosterone.”

  This triggered a bemused and slightly worried look from Roberta.

  Duncan explained. “Her father owned the bar Mack now owns, and they lived in an apartment above it. Mack still lives there.”

  “Ah,” Roberta said with a look of understanding. “You grew up in a bar. How fun that must have been.”

  “It was never boring.”

  “I’ll bet not.” Roberta shifted her attention to two marked police cars that were pulling onto the street. “Ah, here comes our backup,” she said.

  The marked vehicles jockeyed into parking spaces, and then two uniformed cops and two people in plainclothes got out and walked over to join us. The people in plainclothes were each carrying two large tackle-type boxes. Roberta did the introductions.

  “Officers Barrow and Vasquez, this is Detective Duncan Albright and his assistant, Mack Dalton.” I nodded at the two uniformed men. Barrow was tall and slender, pale skinned with a blond buzz cut, a large hawk nose, and almost no lips. He looked to be somewhere in his early thirties. Vasquez was short—I guessed him at around five-foot-eight or -nine—and tended toward the stocky side, though I suspected some of that width beneath his uniform was due to muscle—he looked like a weight lifter. His dark-complected skin, black hair, and brown eyes were a direct contrast to Barrow. That, combined with the differences in their heights and physiques, made these two guys look like the opposite ends of a spectrum.

  Roberta moved on to the two people in plainclothes, one woman and one man. “This is Amelia and Brian,” she said. “They are two of our best evidence technicians.”

  With the introductions done, Roberta gave me one last assessing look before shifting her attention to the stately homes on our side of the street. She reached into her coat pocket, removed a wad of latex gloves, and peeled off a pair, which she handed to me. Then she did the same for Duncan and the two uniformed officers. Amelia and Brian were already wearing some.