Union Jacked

by Diane Vallere

  “You’re using me.”

  “Sort of. Yes.” I paused a moment. “Is that a problem?”

  “I didn’t expect you to own up to it so quickly.”

  “I’m on an adrenaline high.”

  Loncar crossed his arms over his hospital gown. (They really should make those things out of more sturdy fabric.) I leaned back in my chair and stared off at the window. I could sit here and let him be Cranky Loncar to my I-can-do-this! Samantha, but it felt wrong not to acknowledge everything I’d learned about him.

  “I have to ask you something personal,” I said. “You don’t have to answer me, but it would help my investig—” Loncar shot me a warning look—“it would help me figure something out.”

  “What?”

  “How did your wife deliver your divorce papers?” I held my breath and waited for an answer (or a phone call to the front desk to revoke my visitor privileges).

  Loncar stared at me. He didn’t throw me out, but his silence may have been a preemptive verbal strike against further personal questions.

  “We went to lunch at the Wyomissing Diner,” he finally said. “She brought my granddaughter.” He shrugged, looked at his hands, and then at me. “Maybe it was to soften the blow. I don’t know. I don’t know why she did it that way. But the writing was on the wall. No point trying to force my company on somebody who didn’t want me around.”

  His version varied from his wife’s in anecdotal style, but the facts remained the same. The rumors Detective Madden had relayed at Whiskey Mick’s were just that—rumors. It made me wonder what else I’d heard that had been fabricated for my benefit. Or for someone else’s.

  It also made me realize how well I’d gotten to know Detective Loncar while he lay in this bed. Going through his office, talking to his friends, rifling through the box Ginger had given me for inspiration. He was like a final exam, and I’d studied like a senior with one grade between me and graduation.

  I would never again be able to circumvent the system while trying to figure out a crime myself. Loncar getting shot had done the unthinkable. It had made me understand why we left the criminal investigations to the police.

  “I know about Peggy and John,” I said quietly. “I know about the break-in and affair and the reason you went out after John when he left in the middle of the night.”

  “How?”

  He wasn’t asking who told me or where I’d come across the information. He wanted to know what breadcrumbs I’d followed to obtain that knowledge.

  “Short version or long version?”

  “Long.”

  “I went to your house. I told your wife I was there to pick up some of your personal belongings to use in a display at the party. She let me into your study—”

  “Peggy knows who you are. She wouldn’t have let you into the house.”

  “I may have used a fake name. A real fake name. I mean a fake real name. I mean—”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Taylor,” I said. Loncar raised his eyebrows, and the tiniest smile crept onto his face. “Nick was with me. He packed a box of stuff while I tried to see what I could, um, ascertain from her current living quarters.”

  “You were snooping.”

  “You could say that.”

  “And you found something.”

  “Someone flushed the toilet when we got there, and when I used the same bathroom, the seat was up,” I said. “I knew a man was there. Well, I guess I didn’t know that for sure, but between Peggy and the baby, I doubt there was a need to lift the toilet seat.”

  “Valderama,” he said.

  “You knew?”

  “I asked Madden to have someone on the force keep an eye on her. In case this was about me. He told me Valderama made the visits himself. Is that it?”

  “I climbed onto the sink to listen at the vent but the heater went on, and my ear got hot.” He glared at me. “Oh, you mean did I find out anything else?” He nodded. “There was a notation on the calendar in the kitchen. An appointment at Tradava. Monday at 10. That’s when the shooting took place. I never saw her, and I couldn’t figure out why she’d be there, but then I remembered the story John told me. If John crashed on your sofa, then he crashed on Peggy’s sofa.”

  “Tell me what made you put it together.”

  I dropped my eyes to my hands in my lap. “John said he left that night because he didn’t want to put more pressure on your marriage. He used the word ‘more.’ And the way he said it, I knew. John was the source of the strain. You knew he had an affair with Peggy, and you still let him crash on your sofa.”

  Loncar looked away from me and stared out the window. He didn’t say I was wrong.

  “I went to Tradava tonight to convince John to use the payroll slush fund to pay people to work on your party. Peggy was in his office. She knew I took the planner from her house, and she wanted to warn him that I thought she was a suspect. She knew I’d find out the truth.”

  Loncar’s head whipped back toward me. “You stole the planner from my house?”

  “I was startled and I dropped it.”

  “Where?”

  “Into my handbag.”

  “Ms. Kidd.”

  “Detective Loncar,” I said before he could launch into a lecture. “This isn’t about me trying to ID the shooter. It’s about me planning a retirement party, which you told me to keep planning so I could get into your house. You wanted me to find out where your wife was the morning of the shooting, and to find that out, I had to look at her planner.”

  “There is a difference between looking and taking.”

  “Tomato, tomahto.”

  “We may have reached a point where you need to learn the rules of investigative work.”

  “Are they actual rules? I figured they were more like guidelines.”

  Loncar rubbed his face. “If you quote Pirates of the Caribbean again, I’m going to arrest you.”

  “And then you’ll lose your connection to the case. I got the intel you needed.”

  “Ms. Kidd, you are a private citizen planning a party. You are not a spy.”

  People seemed to get hung up on that.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m planning a party. Everybody knows that. And that party has opened doors. And you can’t tell me to stop anymore because we’re past that. It may seem like the party is for you, but it’s also for the community. It’s for the people who stood vigil outside Tradava after the shooting. It’s for Frank Mazurkiewicz, the sports reporter for the Ribbon Eagle/Times who has been covering this investigation while Carl Collins is on vacation. It’s for Harvey and Taryn Monahan, who unionized the support staff at the store because they believed those workers deserved something better. It’s for Detective Madden, who needs to make some friends if he’s going to stay in Ribbon. And it’s for your daughter Ginger, who told me who she was named after.”

  Loncar blushed. “She didn’t.”

  “She did. And the idea that your daughter is named after a Spice Girl says more about you than I’ve learned since I moved back to Ribbon.”

  I stood up and buttoned my jacket. There was one more thing I needed to find out, and it would save me a lot of time if I could ask. But it involved Loncar’s affair with Bridget MacDugal, and that was dangerously close to asking him about his sex life. I tried to act nonchalant while I worked up my nerve. There was no easy way to ask so I finally just blurted it out.

  “What made you think it was a good idea to cheat on your wife with someone from the force?”

  29

  I Could Do This All Day

  Whatever Loncar had expected me to ask, that wasn’t it. His eyes flashed dark and angry, and the machine behind his bed beeped in double time.

  “Who told you that?” he asked.

  “Is it true?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?” (I could do this all day.)

  “Who told you that?” (Apparently he could too.)

  “Detective Madden told
me. He said your wife had your divorce papers sent to the precinct. I assumed it was because she found out about your affair with Bridget and wanted to make a point, but then I found out the rumors were just that. Rumors. Peggy wanted out, and your divorce was civilized. Why do the cops all believe something else?”

  “This is about Bridget?” he asked. Something passed over his expression. It was a flash that shifted his features from annoyance to surprise. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the foot of his bed, and then his expression morphed into understanding. He grabbed the bars on the side of the bed and tapped his open left hand against the plastic, making a tap tap tap sound with his wedding ring.

  Loncar did this. He spun his ring or tapped his desk or clicked the ends of pens or bounced his thumb against his space bar. It meant he was thinking. It was one of his more annoying habits, but while he’d been lying in this hospital bed, I’d wondered if he was ever going to start doing it again.

  I stared at his hand while it made the tap tap tap sound, and a surge of emotions rose within me. Detective Loncar—the detective Loncar I knew—was back. All he needed was his old, poorly fitting wardrobe and his orthopedic shoes. I never thought I’d miss his orthopedic shoes.

  The detective’s eyes opened wide, and he sat up. His hand went still on the metal bar next to the bed. The machine behind his bed let out a piercing alarm, and he clutched his chest. He collapsed against the pillows. Four doctors came into the room and pushed me out of the way. I stood back while they lowered his bed and pushed buttons on the machine and checked the medication flowing into the stent in his arm. I stepped backward once, then twice, then turned and left. Whatever I’d said to trigger that response was the key to everything. It was the reason there’d been a shooting at Tradava, and Detective Loncar knew it. He’d solved the case.

  And if he slipped back into his coma, he’d be the only one to know the truth.

  I called Nick from the car. “I just left the hospital,” I said. “Everything Peggy Loncar told us was true. Somebody wants Loncar’s colleagues to think he was sleeping with Bridget, the dispatch officer, but he wasn’t. And when I asked Loncar about it, he had a relapse.”

  I could hear noise in the background, the result of having a house filled with out-of-work employees who’d been given a chance to make the monthly mortgage payment before the reality of unemployment settled in. “Hold on, Kidd,” Nick said. The noise faded from the background. “Where are you?”

  “I’m driving home. I should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll be here. You should see how engaged people are. You’re a hero, Kidd.”

  That was part of the problem. Everybody acted like I’d done some big thing by getting Tradava to pay them, but what if we were all wrong? What if I was sending a group of innocent people back to a crime scene where a shooter had unfinished business? What if this wasn’t about Loncar? What if Loncar wasn’t the intended target and somebody else was still being stalked?

  What if what if what if?

  I slowed for a yellow light at the end of my street and waited impatiently at the intersection. All these efforts for the party were either bringing a community together or tearing it apart. I accidentally missed my exit while trying to come to terms with the idea that it was fifty-fifty on which way it would go.

  I looped around at the end of the block and drove back to the light and turned left. I couldn’t risk making this big of a mistake with potentially fatal consequences. I had to talk to someone, and I knew exactly who to call.

  I pulled into the empty Tradava lot and parked in a space in the middle, cut the engine, and turned off my lights. I picked my phone up from the floorboards where it had fallen when I turned around and called Get PoPT!

  “The power of positive thinking is within your reach. Get popped,” answered a bored voice.

  “Hi. Long-time listener, first-time caller. I was hoping for some on-air coaching?”

  “Name?”

  “Samantha. Samantha Kidd.”

  “Samantha! It’s Riley. How are you?”

  “Riley?” It took a moment to place the name of the receptionist who had just bought her first pair of Nick’s shoes on eBay. “Why are you answering the Get PoPT! hotline?”

  “Dr. Emma is tonight’s expert.”

  That’s why Dr. Emma’s voice sounded familiar. I knew her from the podcast!

  “Is she broadcasting from the hospital?”

  “Yes. Her producer is stuck in traffic. I’m trying to help. What’s wrong? Did you—are you—does this have to do with you and Nick?” Riley paused.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I should say, I wasn’t. When I saw you. You were right. But I might be now because Nick and I—never mind.”

  Riley giggled. “Samantha, if I were married to Nick Taylor, every day would be a ‘might be preggers’ situation. But that’s not why you called. You want to go on the air? Are you sure? This show goes out live to two million listeners and lives on the podcast indefinitely.”

  Did I want millions of people to know I couldn’t make a decision?

  Did I honestly believe Dr. Emma, who’d been flummoxed by the choice between mauve, dusty rose, and puce was the person to help me navigate my indecision?

  We could go two ways from here: I could cancel the party in fear of a repeat act of violence or I could go forward, reclaim the store and our agenda. Too many good things were on the side of going ahead with the party. Loncar deserved this celebration, and the employees of Tradava deserved this last job.

  It was the right thing.

  Before I could tell Riley what I’d figured out on my own, my phone buzzed with a text. “Hold on,” I said. I looked at the screen and saw a message from Frank Mazurkiewicz. Need help transcribing audio. Sent file via Dropbox. Deadline 1 hour.

  I deleted the text and returned to the phone call. “You’re right,” I said to Riley. “I’m going to trust my gut feeling. Would you do me a favor?” I added. “Can you call Nick and tell him I’m on my way home? I’ll give you his number.”

  “Sure!” she said, this time with much more enthusiasm.

  I could have made the phone call myself, but the girl deserved something for helping me navigate my crisis.

  I hung up and found two files from Frank in my Dropbox. The attached email explained. Video and audio from today. Can’t understand end of conversation. Need quote.

  I remembered him aiming the camera at me, and since I suspected the sight of me on video would distract me from what it was he wanted to know, I opened the audio file instead.

  Frank sent a few questions, and I shot back my responses while the audio played. The conversation was interrupted by a knock and then John talking to the security guard about outside security on Tradava. Their voices got low, and I remembered glancing at Frank to see if he was still recording. He’d been playing a video game.

  It seemed the VoiceMemo app had been recording in the background.

  I fished a pair of earbuds out from the bottom of my handbag and cranked the volume up as high as it would go. I pressed the earbuds deep into my ear canals and closed my eyes and listened. What had Bob asked John after he noticed me?

  It was a series of mumbled words. I jumped back fifteen seconds and listened again. And again. And again. I was one hundred percent focused—like Gene Hackman in The Conversation—so when someone pounded on my window, I jumped.

  Taryn Monahan glared at me.

  Tonight, she wore a black parka, black leggings, and black UGG boots. Her hat and mittens were pale pink knit. I rolled down the window far enough to hear her but not enough for her to reach in and possibly strangle me. (I figured I could take her if she tried, but those high kicks I’d seen the first day of the strike suggested she was in better shape than I was.)

  “Taryn. Hi. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  “Nobody else cares anymore. We were doing a good thing, and then you came along and messed everything up.”

  “But I talked to John
. He agreed to pay the support staff to work on the retirement party for Loncar. Didn’t Xavier tell you when he called?”

  “He said he needed help with a private event and asked me for the phone tree. Is he working for you? For Tradava? They’re all working for the store?” Her face turned beet red, and her nose started to run.

  Taryn Monahan was not supposed to cry. She was supposed to become a mean girl, make a snarky comment about me, turn on her heel, and leave. Or possibly try to strangle me through the narrow opening in the window. “Why don’t they like me?” she asked. “I’ve been here every single day and for what? I don’t even work for Tradava. My brother said they needed more people, so I showed up to help. I even brought cupcakes with little British flags!” She buried her face in her hands and cried.

  I couldn’t just let her stand there.

  I got out of the truck and put my arms around her. “People like you,” I said. “This has been a stressful situation, and it’s taken a toll on everybody. Why don’t you follow me back to my house and join the team? We could use another set of hands, and I bet you’d be surprised how welcome you’d be.”

  “I can’t,” she sobbed. “My son gave me a ride, and I need to be here when he shows up.”

  “Can’t you call him?”

  “I dropped my phone in his car!” she wailed. “I’m such a mess! I can’t get my life together. What am I going to doooooo?”

  Taryn didn’t need friends—she needed an appointment with Dr. Emma. “Get in the truck, Taryn. I’ll take you to my house and bring you back when your son is scheduled to pick you up.”

  “For real?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I unlocked the passenger-side door. “Get in.”

  She held up her index finger. “Give me a minute. I left my backpack by the front doors.”

  She jogged away. In the dark, I kept track of her pink knit hat. The hat disappeared behind the bushes to the left of the front doors and then reappeared as she stood back up. She pulled the backpack on one shoulder sling at a time and then held up her hand and waved at me.