Tradition of Deceit (24 page)

Forty
October 1923

Lidia settled onto a
pew in St. Josaphat's sanctuary, finding comfort in the quiet hush. After her priest in Minneapolis had instructed her to submit to Thomas in all things, Lidia had thought her faith was gone. But since arriving in Milwaukee two years earlier, she'd slowly found it again here. The sacrifices local Poles had made to construct such a place touched her. She liked imagining the immigrants who had provided much of the labor—the men learning to use carpentry tools, the women hauling away dirt in their aprons.

I've done as well as I could hope, Lidia thought. She'd never taken a college class, but she now taught home economics at the Settlement House. She'd learned to make
wycinanki
, and sold them at a nearby shop. She'd rented a tiny house and, best of all, she had beautiful two-year-old daughter.

Her mother had once said
, I'm afraid you might lose your way, up there on the hill.
I did lose my way, Lidia thought. But I managed to find it again.

She missed
Matka
and Grandfather Pawel, and she always would. But her closest friends had found a way to let them know that she was safe and well. Through the same furtive whispers, she'd learned that Thomas had broken an arm when the belt she'd damaged gave way, but he'd survived. Lidia was profoundly grateful that she wasn't guilty of murder. Still, as long as Thomas lived in Minneapolis, she could never return to Bohemian Flats …

A woman with a shawl pulled over her head lit a candle in an alcove. Lidia tipped her head. Wasn't that Anna? The young woman had started a cooking class Lidia taught at the Settlement House, but she hadn't finished the course.

Lidia caught up with her by the door. “Anna?”

Anna whirled with a gasp. Lidia saw the green-and-purple bruise on her cheekbone, the haunted look in her eyes, the exhausted set of her mouth.

Lidia had planned to invite her back to class. Instead she said, “Anna, will you come home with me?”

“Oh, no,” Anna whispered. “I shouldn't have even … I must get home.”

“I don't think you're safe at home.”

Anna's cheeks flushed. “It's my fault. My husband—it doesn't happen often.”

“It shouldn't happen at all,” Lidia said. “I can help you. Do you have children?”

Anna slowly shook her head.

“That makes things much easier.” Lidia smiled gently. “If you choose to come with me, I can hide you and help you travel to a new place. You will be safe.”

Anna's eyes filled with tears. “You don't know—”

“I
do
know.” Lidia held Anna's gaze.

Understanding flickered in her eyes. “
Oh
.” She hesitated, looking fearfully over her shoulder. “If he finds me …”

“He won't. I promise.”

The two women walked to Lidia's small house, just two more Polish women in dark skirts with shawls pulled over their heads. “I live alone with my daughter,” Lidia explained. “She's with a neighbor today. I'll make some tea, and then we can talk.”

An hour later, Lidia knew that her instincts had been good. Anna needed to flee the husband who channeled every frustration and disappointment into punches. “It will take a few days to make arrangements,” Lidia explained. “You must stay inside.”

Anna's fingers twisted together nervously. She glanced at the door as if expecting her husband to kick it in at any moment.

Lidia was part of a spiderweb of people who helped desperate women escape Milwaukee. It wasn't uncommon for terrified women to return to the men who'd left them with bruises, scrapes, burns, and broken bones. Fear of the unknown could be even more powerful. I must keep Anna busy and calm, Lidia thought.

She fetched two pairs of scissors and the box where she kept scraps of paper. What was better than
wycinanki
to keep Anna's hands and mind occupied?

Forty-One

After Bliss went back
to work, Roelke called Jody. “Sorry I haven't come by. I think I'm closing in on this thing.”

“
This thing
? Roelke—”

“I'll explain everything when I can. Listen, did Rick mention anything recently about a domestic violence case?”

“No. He didn't usually talk about work, though.”

“Have the detectives told you anything new?”

“No. They're going through Rick's financial records.”

“That's routine,” he assured her. “Try not to worry. I'll call again as soon as I can.” He hung up before she could protest. The best thing he could do for Jody right now was keep his distance.

Roelke leaned against the phone booth wall, feeling exhaustion pull at his muscles, his bones, his brain. What had Rick discovered? If the detectives knew, they were keeping it quiet.
Think
, he ordered himself. He'd been closer to Rick Almirez than any detective. What did he know about Rick that they didn't?

I'm still digging, buddy,
he told Rick silently.
I'm getting closer. But if there's anything I need to find …

Don't be a dumbass, McKenna.

Roelke drummed his fingers against his thigh, mentally reviewing Rick's habits and routines. …
Oh.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I'll check on that tonight.”

He pulled out more change and called his cousin. He didn't
think his name had been released in connection with the shot fired in Kozy Park, but best be sure. “Hey,” he said when she picked up. “How's Justin doing?”

“Better,” Libby said. “How about you?”

“Okay. Just wanted to check in.”

“Someone's been trying to reach you.” Roelke heard a papery rustle and pictured Libby searching through art projects and mail and drafts of whatever article she was writing. “Here it is,” she said. “Fritz Klinefelter called twice. He'd tried at the EPD, and the clerk gave him my number. He wants you to stop by his house this evening.”

Fritz? After what he'd said in the Records office, that was a surprise. “Thanks, Libby. I'm sorry that you ended up playing receptionist for me.”

“I don't mind. Listen, Roelke, I … um … I also talked to Chloe earlier.” An odd note crept into Libby's voice. “And …”

“And what? Did she have a message too?”

The line was silent. Then, “No. No message.”

“I'll call her when I get a chance,” Roelke promised.

He hung up wondering what had been on Libby's mind. The conversation summoned Chloe from the mental box where he was trying to keep her until he finished up this mess with Rick's death. He put a steadying hand against the cold glass, overwhelmed with the missing of her.

Chloe was in the kitchen when the front door slammed. Ariel shrugged out of her coat and settled at the breakfast bar. She looked inexpressibly weary.

“I baked some Old-Time Cinnamon Jumbles.” Chloe put out a plate. “We need to talk.”

Ariel looked wary. “What's up? Simone told me you came by.”

“Some things started bothering me this afternoon.” Chloe slid onto a stool and regarded her friend. “It took a while, but I finally figured out what they were.”

“Oh?”

“Simone referred to your former advisor as ‘Whyte' this afternoon. Not Dr. Whyte, or Professor Whyte. It seemed odd. Everyone at the wake spoke of him in deferential terms.”

Ariel picked up a cookie. “Just a slip of the tongue.”

“I don't think so. I've only heard one other person use just his surname. The night Toby called about the cause of death, you said something like ‘How in the world could Whyte have drowned?' Pretty disrespectful, under the circumstances. Then I realized that all the people singing Everett Whyte's praises at the wake were guys.”

Ariel studied the cookie.

“And speaking of Toby, I was under the impression that he'd made a quick trip down from Duluth just to help haul your antique hutch. But when I was at the mill yesterday, Owen mentioned meeting Toby last Friday.”

Ariel placed both palms on the counter as if needing support.

“I am trying really hard not to be furious with you,” Chloe admitted, “because you still haven't told me the whole story. Ariel, was Everett Whyte abusive to women? Did he take advantage of his female students?”

“He … I …” A tear spilled down one cheek. “
Yes
. He offered me a small modeling fee—fifty bucks—to pose in a tutu at the mill. That's
all
, and I'm so broke that I agreed. But once we got in there, and he'd taken a bunch of pictures …” She shuddered. “He didn't attack me or anything—”

With relief, Chloe released her most visceral fear.

“—but he asked me to pose in ways that made me uncomfortable. Finally he asked me to slide one strap down over my shoulder. When I didn't do it he walked over and pulled it down himself.”

“You should have told him where to stick his camera, and gotten the hell out of there.”

“How?” Ariel demanded. “I was afraid to make my way back out of the mill alone, especially in pointe shoes and a tutu. We'd come in his car, so I had no way to get home. And he told me that if I didn't ‘participate,' he just might not be able to support my thesis. Do you have any idea how much time and money I've invested into my Ph.D. program? He had the power to take it all away.”

Chloe wished that Everett Whyte was still alive so she could knee him in the nuts, really
really
hard. But that satisfying mental picture evoked her second biggest fear. “Did you tell your brother what happened? Did Toby go to the mill last Friday to confront Whyte?”

“I did tell Toby, and he did go to the mill, but he didn't kill Whyte! I swear, Chloe. Toby found Whyte up by the distributor, and he
did
end up punching him. Whyte fell, and Toby left him there. But he was alive.”

“Which is why you freaked out when we found the body stuffed into the distributor,” Chloe mused grimly.

“I didn't know what to think! I was afraid Whyte died from his head wound, which would mean that Toby
did
kill him. That's why I got a bit giddy when the police announced that Whyte had actually drowned. I was so relieved …” Her gaze implored Chloe to under-
stand.

“Right,” Chloe said curtly. Ariel had kept a whopping big secret. Discovering that so soon after learning that Roelke had also kept a whopping big secret didn't help. Chloe remembered what Sister Mary Jude had said that morning:
You must feel a little betrayed by that. And angry. And hurt.

Right on all counts, Chloe thought, wondering if she was ever going to be able to trust anyone again.

“You probably don't trust anyone right now,” Fritz Klinefelter told Roelke, “so thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” Roelke followed as Fritz wheeled himself into a den. A calico cat opened one eye to inspect the newcomer, then closed it again. Family pictures on the walls and a brightly-colored mug that said
I love Grandpa
on the coffee table made the room cheerful. Roel­ke took a seat on the sofa. “I didn't expect to hear from you.”

Fritz's eyes were grim. “I had good reason for telling you that I couldn't help investigate whatever is going on. But honest to God, knowing that somebody in the department messed with my records and had something to do with Rick Almirez getting shot … it makes me sick. I talked it over with my wife, and she said I need to do what I think is right. She said she and our daughter would be okay as long as I did that.”

Roelke swallowed hard. That sounded like something Chloe might say. “You married a good woman.”

“I did.” Fritz nodded. “So. I've put in over thirty years with the Milwaukee Police Department. I've worked with lots of good men who put their lives on the line every single day trying to help people and get assholes off the street. And I will
not
let one bad cop undo the work of a thousand good ones. I don't know how I might help, but I can't leave you out there on your own.”

Roelke's world suddenly felt a whole lot less lonely. “Thanks.”

“So, what have you learned since Monday?”

Roelke filled him in about Erin, about what he'd heard at Eve's House, about Lobo. “Bliss checked for me,” he said. “He was originally arrested in another district, but he was seen talking to Rick the night Rick died.”

Klinefelter rubbed his chin.

Roelke wasn't ready to admit his no-hard-evidence suspicion that Dobry Banik might have been involved with Rick's death, but he did describe getting shot at in Kozy Park. “So I go back out to the park before dawn next morning,” he concluded. “And in the woods where the shooter was, I find something.” He got the evidence bag holding the gun from his coat and handed it over.

Fritz studied the gun through the plastic. “You show this to anyone else?”

“No.”

“The idea of a sniper shot makes me think ex-military.”

“Yeah,” Roelke agreed. “But a military sniper—or a professional SOB like Lobo—doesn't seem the type to accidentally drop a handgun. So maybe this gun has nothing to do with me or Rick.”

“I assume you checked for prints?”

“Nothing. Either the shooter wore gloves or the gun was wiped clean.”

Fritz studied the gun with narrowed eyes. “I don't think that grip is original.”

“No?” It had never crossed Roelke's mind that the grip might not be original. He'd known a couple of guys with big hands who replaced the originals on their service revolvers with thick rubber grips for ease of handling. Those were easy to spot, but the grip on this .38 wasn't rubber.

“Do you carry a fingerprint kit with you?”

Roelke fetched his investigation kit from the truck. Fifteen minutes later, Fritz had removed the grip and dusted the stub for prints. Roelke watched, knee firing up and down.

“Oh, yeah.” Fritz gave Roelke a look of satisfaction. “We got a couple of nice ones here.”

“Holy toboggans.” Roelke felt like a child who'd just been handed a prize. “But … I can't just waltz into the station and ask to check personnel records.”

“I'll take care of that,” Fritz told him. “Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you if we've got a match. But remember, even if we can match these prints to somebody on the force, we have no reason to believe this gun was used in a crime. A different gun was used to kill Rick Almirez, and a different gun was fired at you.”

“You just see if you can find a match,” Roelke told him. “I'll take it from there.”

Roelke waited until well after midnight to drive by Rick's apartment. No sign of his car. Roelke circled back to Rick's parents' house. The familiar Chevy was in the driveway.

After parking around the corner, Roelke walked back, quietly used his EPD-issued door opener tool on the Chevy, and slid inside. With luck the dome light's brief flash hadn't caught anyone's attention, but he only needed a moment. Rick's car was immaculate, so maybe the detectives had given it only a cursory inspection.

He eased down the visor over the passenger's seat. How many times had he watched Rick stash something important here, out of sight but accessible? Roelke felt for the seam made when Rick had added a thin oversleeve behind the visor.
Bingo
. The tip of Roelke's index finger met a corner of cardstock. He pulled it free and made sure nothing else was hidden away before ghosting out of the car again.

He made it down the street and around the corner without prompting even a sleepy yip from anyone's dog. He thought he knew what he had, and he was eager to—

Something pale lay against his truck's windshield, where nothing pale should be.

Roelke dropped to a crouch beside the cab, heart pounding, waiting for another rifle shot to explode the night, cursing. He'd been so careful! Whoever had tailed him here was damn good.

A minute ticked silently by. Another. The SOB wouldn't have left a calling card if he wanted to shoot me tonight, Roelke thought. He took a deep breath before standing, snatching the paper left beneath a windshield wiper, and diving into the cab. His fingers shook as he started the ignition. He pulled out from the curb and screeched away.

He drove in circles for a long time before finally parking in front of another police district office. Only then, in the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, did he read the note.

Officer McKenna—Please meet me at the entrance to the old chapel at Forest Home Cemetery Thursday evening at 6 p.m. I have to leave Milwaukee again before Steve finds me, but I must talk to you first. —Erin

Roelke knew three seconds of joy—
Yes!
Then his cop brain kicked in—
Too good to be true!
How had Erin found his truck in the Almirez neighborhood in the middle of the night? Was another cop helping her, as Rick had tried to do? Or was someone setting up a trap? Forest Home was a huge old cemetery just down Lincoln Avenue from the Basilica of St. Josaphat. It was the kind of place a woman on the run might choose to meet, convenient but private. It was also the kind of place to make a sniper giddy with glee.

Well, he had fifteen hours to think about the proposed rendez-
vous.

Roelke pulled out the little card he'd found in Rick's car and
held it toward the light. As he'd suspected, it was another one of
those
wycinanki
things, featuring the familiar flower bouquet flanked by chickens. He flipped the card over and saw another name written in pencil on the back:
Erin
.