Hidden Vices (15 page)

“Slow down, okay? Deep breaths.”

“The driver was wearing a dark helmet. I couldn't see the face.” She looked up at Callie. “Where
were
you?!”

Callie looked confused. “I told you I came back to get more gas. I was in the garage getting the tank.”

“The snowmobile stalled. He was chasing me and I turned too fast and it killed the engine.”

Deep breath.

“The rider pulled up alongside me and pulled out a knife. A big-ass knife.”

Callie ran back to the end of the dock to look around. “I don't see anyone. We were the only ones out there.” He whipped around. “I don't even
hear
a snowmobile.”

Megan held her injured arm. The blood was now dripping down the ripped coat. “I'm telling you, someone was out there and they had a very clear agenda.” Megan went from frenzied to angry. She was more comfortable with angry.

Callie toned down from panic mode into caretaking. “Come
on, you're going to need stitches.” He moved to help her stand.

“I can do it,” she snapped.

Twenty-Nine

Megan sat while the
doctor sutured her arm. Callie stood by, both not speaking. The doctor attempted to make small talk. “Don't I know you?”

Oh fucking hell.

“No, wait, I
do
know you. You came in to check on that teenager the other day.”

Relieved he wasn't going to bring up her time in the news, Megan became more congenial. “Oh, right, yes. I hear she's doing better.” The sting of the suture line made her wince slightly.

“Sorry, we're almost done. Yes, given the fall”—he said
fall
in a way that was extremely unconvincing—“you'll be sore for a while but will make a full recovery. I'm just going to get some Steri-Strips to place over the stitches and wrap it with gauze and you'll be all set. But I do want you to wear a sling for a few days.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Megan replied.

Callie looked confused. “What teenager?”

“A girl who lives on McGregor, down the street from me, was hurt the other night. She's here in this hospital. I came to see her before. I should see her again before we leave, actually.”

“How was she hurt?”

“Domestic violence case. Drunk boyfriend of the mother knocked her around and pushed her down a flight of stairs.”

Callie flinched at the cause of her injuries. “Man, that's awful. Yeah, we should definitely stop by before we go.” He paused. “Are you still up for that lunch? I know this cute restaurant and am good friends with the owner.”

Megan was reluctant but consented. “Only if it comes with a few cocktails. My arm is starting to throb. Oh shit, I just realized something: What if the snowmobile is damaged?”

“You had a man—or woman—chase you at top speed around a frozen lake and then threaten you with a knife. Norden will understand. And I can have Duane at the garage fix whatever might be broken.”

“Oh, I didn't know you knew him.”

“Haven't you figured it out yet, Trouble? This is a small-town area, and almost everyone knows everyone. I don't really
know
him, but I've run into him at Norden's fixing boat engines, quad bikes, stuff like that.”

“He makes Manson seem normal,” Megan responded.

Callie just rolled his eyes.

The doctor returned, applied the Steri-Strips and the gauze and, for extra protection, an Ace bandage. He handed her a sling. “You're good to go. I want you to wear this for the next few days, just to help keep your arm protected while you heal. You can go to the front desk to see what room Isabelle is in.”

They found Billie's room in the small hospital within five minutes, and Megan gave a small knock before popping her head in. “Hey, kiddo, up for a visit?”

Billie gave a big smile, adding a “you bet” through a slight yawn.

“I brought a friend, if that's okay?”

She nodded yes.

“How are you feeling?” Megan asked.

“All right, I guess.” Then Billie saw Megan's arm. “Are
you
okay?”

“Just a small cut, no big deal. Here.” Megan motioned for Callie to come in. “Billie, this is my friend, Callie.”

“Hi. What kind of friend?”

Wiseass teenager has returned.
“You're obviously starting to feel better. He's an old friend from college. He owns Krogh's restaurant.”

“Oh, hey, I've been there. Great nachos.”

Callie laughed. “Thanks.”

“So, are you going to share? What happened to the wing?”

“A small bump and scrape falling off a snowmobile. She's kind of a spaz,” Callie joked, making Billie laugh.

“Do you know when you can get out of here?” Megan asked.

“A few more tests say maybe a week. I'm not sure I'll be able to make it down your driveway right away, though.” Billie laughed, pointing at the soft cast on her leg.

“We'll figure something out.” Megan smiled, adding, “You get some rest. I'll see you soon.”

Billie smiled. “Okay. Take care of that wing, and your ‘college friend.'”

Thirty

Krogh's was quite busy
when they arrived, which made Callie happy. “Good crowd today.” They walked through the kitchen. Callie asked one of the waitresses to show Megan to a table, give her a menu, and set them up with drinks. “Trouble, I'm just going to check on what's going on in here and see how things have been running. I'll be out in a few minutes.”

“No problem.” Megan followed the waitress to a booth and made herself comfortable, as much as she could. Her arm felt like it had its own thumping pulse, so she popped a few ibuprofen, knowing a cocktail would ease the slight discomfort faster. While she waited for Callie, she thought of the person on the snowmobile.

Definitely had to be male. Body type rugged, even with winter gear on. Broad shouldered. Big winter gloves means big hands. It was difficult to discern his height because he was seated, but he was possibly six foot, maybe more. What did the knife look like? Think. Think. The knife had a long silver blade with a black handle. Like pretty much every other knife in the universe. But there was something different. Think harder.

“That's all I've got,” Megan whispered to herself in frustration.

Callie sat down. “Sorry about that. I needed to check up on things.”

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Running smooth. You looked deep in thought. About earlier?”

“Yeah, something just crossed my mind.” Megan was interrupted by a waitress delivering a pitcher of beer and an appetizer of hot wings Callie had ordered. To her surprise, she was suddenly ravenous. “Do you remember what the knife that was found in Vivian's car looked like?”

He shook his head. “We weren't standing close enough. I didn't get a good look at it. Did you?”

“No, but I got a good look at the one today.” Megan thought again before adding, “Wait, there was a dip in the side.” She got frustrated with herself. “I don't know. Let's eat.”

I'm sitting in my gatehouse wondering what might happen to me. In most ways, I now regret what I did that night. I read the captioning on the news and look at all the faces and think, am I the only person who knew the Judge was a monster? Then I think, he's been murdered so I wasn't the only one to feel his wrath. Since this has started, I pray to Momma, wondering if she hears me from heaven, hoping she's watching out for me. I think of the afternoon I found her. We'd gone jogging together, as we had every morning. She was a fit, healthy woman. She'd just had an excellent annual check up one month earlier. I can still hear, even though I can't actually hear. I would hear through looking into her eyes, and through sign language. “I will never leave you Vivian. Never,” my mother said to me.

They wouldn't let me see her before they cremated her. I know the Judge had something to do with her death, and eventually he would have gotten to me too. So when I pray to Momma and tell her how much I love and miss her, I also pray to whoever killed the Judge. I say thank you.

Thirty-One

“The restaurant is getting
busy. We shouldn't hold a customer's table,” Megan said after finishing her cheeseburger. “The owner might get upset.” She smiled—with hot sauce on the corners of her mouth.

Callie pointed at Megan's mouth before handing her a napkin. “The owner might need the money too.” He looked around for his manager to give him instructions for the rest of the day. “I was thinking of stopping by Vivian's to check on her. Are you up for that?”

“Of course. She's probably feeling confused and lonely.”

“I'll send her a text that we're coming over.” Callie asked one of his waitresses to put together three appetizers and meals to go. “I doubt Vivian was able to get out much over the last few days.”

After the takeout was ready, they walked through the kitchen to go to the car parked behind the restaurant. Megan eyes were drawn to all the kitchen knives hanging above the cutting boards. The prep chefs chopped away and the moment turned into a slow motion walk with her observational detective skills kicking in.

No not that one, not that one
, she thought to herself analyzing each knife as she passed by.

Callie noticed Megan staring at the cutlery. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It's like being on one of those chef shows. I'm just looking at what they're cooking.”

And what they were cooking it with.

Vivian greeted them at her door. When she noticed Megan's wrapped arm, she signed to Callie, asking what happened. He told her about the snowmobile accident but not about the knife incident. Vivian asked Megan, via Callie, if she was okay, and Megan smiled and nodded that she was. Callie gave Vivian the bag of food from Krogh's and told her to eat, keep her strength up. She smiled and gave him a hug.

Then they began signing, but this time Callie wasn't translating.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm just asking how she's holding up. If she needs anything.”

They were signing back and forth, and Megan felt like someone traveling alone in a foreign country, not knowing the language.

“Ask her if any press or police have been bothering her.”

“She said only a few reporters, but police come around more often now to check on the judge's house. There are always two guards in front of the house. ”

Megan hadn't noticed anyone when they pulled into Vivian's driveway. There were no police cars outside, but sure enough, when she looked through the window, two policemen were up on the hill near the front door. “They're worried about the backlash because of the latest news,” she said.

Callie stopped signing for a moment. “You mean looters?”

“I don't think so, although the judge had some pretty nice-looking firearms in there, and some expensive-looking bottles of wine. I'm sure future evidence is a bigger concern, though. They don't want any tampering. They missed a lot the first time through the house.” Megan was edgy, so she took the bags of food to the kitchen. “I'll go put a plate together for her.”

She found the cabinet holding the dishes and unpacked an entree of chicken piccata. It was large enough to feed a family of four. The silverware drawer was extremely organized, unlike in Megan's apartment in the city and now in the lake house. Everything here had its place. What caught her eye were the knives. The image of the snowmobiler waving the knife flashed through her brain again. He could have killed her right then.

Why didn't he?

“This isn't making sense,” she said.

“I didn't hear you, what did you say?” Callie called.

Megan hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. “I'm just reheating it a bit in the microwave.”

Megan poured a glass of water for Vivian and brought the warm food out for her. Vivian made a sign.

“She said thank you.”

“Oh, you're welcome.”

Callie told Vivian to enjoy the food and he'd be in touch later—at least, that's what he said along with the hand motions.

“You ready to go home?” he asked Megan.

“Sure. Ask her if she still has my number in her cell, just in case she can't reach you for some reason.”

He asked Vivian and she made her best attempt verbally: “Yes, I do.”

It was very muffled, but Megan was able to understand her perfectly.

As Callie unlocked the car door, he hunched over the hood. “I have a question for you.”

Megan quipped, “No, you're not staying over.”

Callie smiled. “That wasn't what I was going to ask even though it's a great thought. You'll probably change your mind later.”

“Doubt it,” she said as she raised her bandaged arm.

“The question I want to ask is: Why didn't you pull your gun on him, the guy with the knife today? You wear an ankle holster.”

Megan stared at Callie, thinking of the best answer she could give him. “Look how far apart we are. I'm here and you're, what? Four or five feet away? Picture us in your restaurant at the booth. The snowmobile guy was closer than the space we shared at lunch. On top of that, the winter gear was covering my holster. In the time it would have taken me to reach for the gun, he could have slashed my throat.”

Callie nodded in agreement and then asked, “Why didn't he kill you?”

“You keep putting your foot in it, Callie,” she said, looking away in annoyance at his poor choice of words. She climbed into the passenger seat and slammed her door.

Callie scrambled in the driver's seat, cringing. “That came out wrong. Of course I'm happy you're okay, but why go to all that trouble if he hadn't planned on hurting you?”

“I have a better question: How many people knew we were going snowmobiling today? It was impromptu. Answer me that.”

“You, me, and Norden,” Callie answered, confused as to where she was going with the conversation. He paused. “And Duane.”

“Duane? From the garage? Why would he know?”

“When I called Norden while you were walking Clyde, he said he'd call Duane to make a quick run over to confirm the sleds were ready to go.”

Megan nodded her head. “Well, isn't that an interesting fact. And when I was at the garage, Duane was smoking cigarettes that looked similar to the ones left on my dock the day someone pulled a burlap sack over my head and threw me into the water.”

“That's a bit of a leap. I mean, Duane is very dark, the brooding type, but I don't think he honestly gives a damn about anyone enough to hurt them.”

Megan strongly disagreed with Callie's opinion, but for now she'd keep the rest to herself. She'd seen Duane's type countless times on the job, and she'd arrested his sort more times than she could count. So Callie's opinion on what someone like Duane was capable of held no water as far as she was concerned.

“What's Duane's last name?”

“Why?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Just curious is all.”

“Baker.”

Megan planned on doing some research on Mr. Duane Baker when she returned home. Depending on what she found or didn't find, she'd make a few phone calls.

Having received some frantic phone calls from the new night manager at Krogh's, Callie needed to turn around and go back. He dropped Megan off at the house, which was fine with her. Clyde practically leapt on top of her but then just sniffed at her wounded arm until Megan opened up a can of wet dog food. “Thanks for the concern, big guy.”

She turned on the Macks' stereo in the living room, and the classical music that came forth washed a sense of calm over her. Then she had the oddest thought. Megan's mother, Rose, was responsible for instilling the refined tastes of classical music within her brother, Brendan; as hard as she tried, she was never able to get Megan to appreciate it. Now she was gone and Megan sat there enjoying it.

Funny how things turn around
, Megan thought.

“Well, Momma, never too late to start.”

She opened her laptop to do research on Duane Baker. Clyde finished his meal, then jumped on the couch and continuously nudged at Megan's arm to be petted. He was smart enough to go for the arm that hadn't collided with the marina's dock. Megan plugged in Duane's full name and waited for responses. Nothing relevant showed up besides the name of the garage and his mother's name as owner.

Guess I shouldn't be surprised that he's not on Facebook or Linked­In.

“Damn it. I hoped I wasn't going to have to do this.” She'd left her cell on the mantel when she turned the fireplace on. The letter Nappa brought her remained behind the vase of roses where she'd placed it. She glanced at it and thought for a moment about opening it. She just wasn't ready, and the pangs of guilt swept over her just as they did when she worked her last case. She was unsure if she'd ever be able to face that time in her life, and she worked very hard to push it to the back of her mind; but that rarely worked. Sometimes ignoring things, situations, or even people was the only way to get through it. At least that's what Megan told herself. Most people referred to that as denial; Megan deemed it survival.

She dialed Nappa on his private cell. She didn't want to use his work cell or call on the station's landline. This call was to remain under the radar. There was no surprise when he picked up at the start of the second ring.

“McGinn, is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes,” she said as she stared down at her arm in a sling. “Things are fine.”

“It was fun the other night, everyone being together.”

She wasn't even going to try to deny it. “It
was
a good night. Really nice to see everyone.”

“I wasn't sure how you were going to react with the entire Murphy clan arriving without notice.”

“Oh, they're family. Not that I wasn't surprised, mind you, but it was a good surprise.”

“Now, being I'm your partner—and don't start in with ‘not anymore', both you and I know it will happen again—I have this psychic feeling that you have called because you need me to help you with something. How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad. Can you use your psychic powers to look someone up for me? On the down-low, of course.”

“Aha! This has to do with the events in your temporary little lake town, I'm sure.” Nappa started to turn his upbeat voice to a more concerned tone.

Megan never got upset when Nappa showed this side of himself—that's what partners do for one another. There were many moments she'd shown the same toward him, so she wasn't offended.

“Yes, it does, Nappa. I want you to look up a man named Duane Baker. He lives in Mount Arlington. His mother, Lynn, owns a gas station and car repair shop on Howard Boulevard. He works as the mechanic.”

“What do you want to know about him?” Nappa was getting a bit curious.

“I want to see if he has a record.” Megan thought about her few minutes talking with Duane Baker in the garage. “Actually, I'm sure he has a record; I want to know what for and how far it goes back.”

“Hmm, what makes you so sure he has a record?”

“Oh, you should see this guy. I'm not talking about because of his tattoos or stuff like that. We know better. His
way
. You know what I mean.”

Nappa knew exactly what Megan meant. “A bad seed?”

“Maybe. I know this is a lot to ask, Nappa, and I really do appreciate it.”

Megan had on occasion taken the back door in her work. For instance, calling people who weren't directly within her department for one thing or another. She'd developed a rapport with a handful of other detectives, technicians, and operators in different divisions. They'd helped her, and when they needed help, she returned the favor.

“I'll run him through NCIC and see what I can find. If he's like you say he is, which I'm sure he is, I'm willing to bet there'll be a rap sheet on him.”

“You're the best, Nappa.”

“Yeah. Don't be a stranger.” He paused. “May I say something?”

Megan rolled her eyes. “As if my saying no would mean anything. You're doing me a favor. Go ahead.”

“You're out there for a reason, McGinn. Don't get all wrapped up in this. I want you back rested and ready to go again. Soon.”

Wrapped up? You should see my arm
, she thought to herself. “I know. Call me when you get something.”