Shots in the Dark (17 page)

Once we were inside Clay's car and heading down the driveway, he said, “Boy, Colin Gallagher sure didn't like the idea of you and his wife going to look at those paintings.”

“I gathered that.”

“How did it go?”

“It was interesting, sad, and a little creepy. And for what it's worth, Kelly doesn't think Ben killed Tiffany.”

“She said that?”

“She didn't deny it.”

“Not the same thing,” Clay said.

“You'll just have to trust me on this one.”

“What was the creepy part?”

“Tiffany's paintings.” I described them to him the best I could, but my words seemed inadequate.

“So Tiffany had some dark thoughts,” he said with a shrug. “Lots of young folks these days do.”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “What were you boys doing while we were downstairs?”

“Aidan and I were catching up on old times. Rory and his dad disappeared for a bit. When they came back, Colin seemed eager to have us leave.”

“Do you think any of them recognized me?” I said. “I caught Rory staring at me a couple of times, and he didn't look happy.”

“If he did, he didn't say anything. And Rory always looks unhappy. That's the price you pay for being the younger sibling of the golden boy.”

“Is Rory older or younger than Tiffany?”

“Tiffany was the baby. According to Aidan, she was the light of Kelly's eye.”

“Kelly recognized me.”

Clay shot me a look, nearly driving off the road. “She did?” he said, struggling to get back on the road. “Was she mad?”

“Surprisingly, no. I think she was desperate for someone to talk to.”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” Clay said. “Colin is a tight-lipped, private, stern sort of guy, if you can believe what Aidan says. And apparently, Rory takes after his father.”

My cell phone rang then, and when I saw it was Duncan calling, I told Clay I had to take the call.

“Hey,” I said, holding the phone tight to my ear so Clay couldn't eavesdrop. “What's up?”

I just woke up,” he said in a bleary voice that made me taste rich, dark chocolate. “It was a long night.”

“Sorry.”

“Where are you? It doesn't sound like the typical bar background noise.”

“I'm in a car with Clay Sanders, the reporter.” I hoped that would refresh his memory and make him understand that I couldn't say much on my end.

“Ah, then I'll be quick. I have something in mind I want you to do. I want to sneak you into our impound lot and let you have a go at Gary's car.”

“Have a go at it?”

“Yeah, have a look at it, smell it . . . like you did on that other case. See if you can pick up any clues. They're done processing it for evidence, so it won't affect anything.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “How?”

“I'm going to involve Isabel again.”

Isabel was a friend of Duncan's who worked in the theater business as a makeup artist. When I went to the police station to see Apostle Mike the first time, Duncan had her come by my bar and fix me up so that anyone watching wouldn't recognize me and figure out I was working with the police and Duncan. She did a stellar job, making me unrecognizable even to myself. But even her magical ministrations couldn't hide my cast and crutches. Or so I thought. But Duncan was anticipating this objection.

“I know you're worried about being recognized because of the crutches, but I have an idea on how to get around that.” He then filled me in on his plan.

“Interesting idea,” I said when he was done.

“I want you to meet Isabel at her house.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Have Mal drive you. He knows how to spot a tail, and he can drive evasively if he has to.”

I thought about what he was suggesting, and though I had some misgivings about the plan, I was eager to do anything I could to help avenge Gary's death and find this damned letter writer. Then I realized I could use Isabel in another way.

I was keenly aware of Clay listening to my end of the conversation and decided that if he asked who had called, and I felt certain he would, I'd tell him it was Isabel. When she'd come to my bar that first time, I'd passed her off as an interior decorator who was going to help me redo my apartment. I figured sticking to that story now would be easiest, and I tried to gear my remarks to Duncan to fit in with that scenario.

“Okay, but don't get your hopes up too high,” I said. “It's been a long time since anything was done there.” I was trying to relay to Duncan how the amount of time that had passed would likely affect my ability to pick up on anything in Gary's car. Not to mention the fact that the evidence technicians had probably added their own brand of contamination, things like fingerprint powder.

“I understand,” Duncan said, “but on the off chance that there is something, I think it's worth a shot.”

“Okay. Where and when?”

“Tonight,” he said. Then he gave me Isabel's address, which I committed to memory. One thing about my synesthesia that comes in handy is it makes it easy for me to memorize things. “She's waiting there for you now,” Duncan went on. “The sooner you can get there, the better.”

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly seven in the evening. “I'd like to include Mal in this, get his input into the plan. But I'm not sure where he is right now.”

It turned out Duncan had this covered, too. “I already called him,” he said. “He'll meet you at the bar. In fact, he might be there already.”

“Okay. I'm about ten minutes from the bar. Once I hook up with Mal, we'll head your way and look over the samples. See you soon.”

I disconnected the call, looked over at Clay with a smile, and decided to beat him to the punch. “That was my interior designer. She's going to be redoing my apartment, and she has some furniture and fabric samples she wants me to look at.”

“On a Sunday night?” he said, the skepticism clear in his voice.

“She works odd hours. And that works well for me since I tend to keep odd hours, too.”

“What furniture stores are open this time on a Sunday night?”

It was a good question, one that made me see what made Clay such a good journalist. He had an analytical—and suspicious—mind.

Thinking quickly, I said, “She has her own warehouse where she stores stuff. She does staging for real estate agents, too, so she keeps a stock of furniture on hand for that.”

This seemed to satisfy Clay, though I half expected him to ask me for her name and trump up some story about how he wanted to have his place redone, too. Fortunately, he didn't.

When we arrived back at the bar, he dropped me off out front. “I have some research I need to do for another story I'm working on,” he said. “I'll come by tomorrow and check in with the group.”

I thanked him for his help and staggered out of the car on my crutches. When I got inside, I saw Mal seated at the bar, chatting with Billy. The place was busy for a Sunday night; all the tables in the main area were full.

“Hey, Mal,” I said, crutching up behind him. I would have put a hand on his arm if I'd had one free, but the crutches prevented that.

“There's my girl,” he said with a warm smile. He snaked an arm around my waist and nudged me toward him, nearly making me lose my balance. I fell into him, and he kissed me briefly on the lips. It was what anyone watching us would expect him to do.

I looked over at Billy. “How's everything going?”

“It's been a good night,” he said. “Busier than usual.”

“Are you managing everything okay?”

He cocked his head to one side and flashed me a cheesy grin. “Of course, boss. When do I not?”

“Never,” I said with a grateful smile. “And since you've got it all under control, I'm going to steal Mal here and head out for another appointment. I have to meet with my interior designer to look at some stuff for the apartment.”

“I got it covered,” Billy said, waving me away.

“I imagine I'll be back before closing, but if I'm not . . .” I winked at Billy, implying that Mal and I might stop somewhere for a little romantic fun.

“I'll close up,” Billy said. “You kids go and have a good time.” He winked back at me and then walked down the bar to tend to a customer.

Mal donned his coat and gloves, and we headed out. Once we were outside, Mal looked around to make sure no one was within hearing distance, and said, “I'm not sure what it is we're doing, but Duncan gave me Isabel's address and said to take you there, making sure no one tails us.”

“I'll explain it to you once we're under way.”

This satisfied him for the time being, and we walked the rest of the way to his car in silence. As soon as we were under way, he headed the wrong way initially and made several unnecessary turns. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror, and after ten minutes of this maneuvering, he declared us tail free and got back on track.

During the drive, I filled Mal in on the previous case I'd worked with Duncan, explaining how sitting inside the victim's car had led me to some helpful insights. Despite my newfound pride in my ability—or disability, depending on one's perspective—I still felt uncomfortable talking about my synesthesia. I'd spent so many years hiding it that it was hard for me to talk about it now, so I glossed over some of the details.

When I was done, he said, “With all that sensory input, how do you keep from getting overwhelmed? How do you know what's real and what's a secondary reaction?”

“I'm not sure,” I said with a shrug. “Most of the time, I just know. My synesthetic reactions are often fleeting, and I learned when I was a kid how to shut out a lot of the extraneous stuff. I listened hard to what other people said about their experiences and figured out pretty quickly which of my experiences were primary senses and which ones were secondary. Then I just tuned out the extra stuff, the same way people tune out white noise.”

“Things must be very busy inside your head. It's a wonder you're not crazy.”

“Who says I'm not?” I said with a sly smile. “But I'm not sure it will help this time,” I added, my smile fading. “A lot of time has passed since Gary . . . since it happened. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to pick up this late in the game. Plus, I'm sure I'll have some contamination to deal with, since the evidence techs probably messed with stuff inside the car.”

“All you can do is try. You never know.”

Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Isabel's house, a cute Craftsman in a suburban neighborhood on the southern outskirts of the city. A tall, thin man who looked to be in his fifties answered the door.

“Hi,” he said with a warm smile. “I'm Eddie, Isabel's husband. And you must be Mack. Come on in. Isabel is waiting for you.”

We stepped inside and followed him to a room at the back of the house that had windows on two sides. One look told me it was a studio of sorts for Isabel; it reminded me of Tiffany's workshop. There was a collage of pictures covering one of the windowless walls, some of them photos, others drawings. A half dozen mannequin heads on stands were atop a large center island, each one made up differently. Isabel was sitting on a stool in front of one of these, her back to the window, facing us.

“Mack, Mal,” she said with a smile. “Come on in and have a seat.”

She patted a stool next to her, and I crutched my way over there and settled in, leaning my crutches up against the island. Mal chose to remain standing across from me. Isabel got up, went over to a corner of the room, and dragged out a wheelchair.

“You won't be needing those crutches for a while tonight. This is your new mode of transportation.”

“You want her to ride in a wheelchair?” Mal said.

“It was Duncan's idea. If anyone is watching for her, they'll be looking for the crutches.” Her gaze moved toward my head. “And that signature red hair, so let's start with that.”

Over the next hour, Isabel fitted me with a gray wig that was cut short, and then she made up my face, using pieces of latex and a variety of colors. Mal stood across the table from us, watching her work. Eddie had disappeared somewhere in the house.

When Isabel was done, she leaned back and looked at me with a critical eye. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself. What do you think, Mal?”

I turned and faced Mal, whose eyebrows shot up with surprise. “Wow,” he said. “I've seen you do your magic before, but this is even better.”

Isabel handed me a mirror and let me look. An old, wrinkled woman stared back at me, with sagging jowls, gray hair, and a timeworn face. “This is a bit disturbing,” I said with a smile. “I hope this isn't a sign of things to come.”

“Now we need to hide that cast,” Isabel said. She walked over to a closet, and after rummaging around for a bit, she came out with a gray coat and a plaid blanket. She handed me the coat, which I donned, and then said, “Have a seat in the wheelchair.”

I dutifully hobbled over and sat, and once I was settled, she spread the blanket over my legs and tucked it in around my feet. The cast was out of sight.

“I think we're good,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Now you need to go meet Duncan.” She looked over at Mal. “If you wheel her right up to the passenger-side door of your car and tuck the blanket around her once she's inside, no one will see that cast. Do the same thing getting out of the car.”

Mal nodded his understanding, got behind the wheelchair, and steered it to the front door, Isabel trailing behind us.