She left the conclusion hanging out there and it was all I could do not to look at Duncan for a reaction.
“It’s not totally the fault of the investigators,” Cora went on. “They are often hamstringed by protocols and legal hoops they’re required to jump through. I, on the other hand, operate well under the radar. My methods may not be strictly legal, but I get the job done. Anything you need, just ask, okay?”
I nodded. “Thanks, Cora,” I said.
“Happy to help,” she said. And with one last flirtatious look at Duncan, she got up and left the room.
“Interesting woman,” Duncan said.
“That she is. I suppose you’ll have to check out her alibi and rule her out officially, but I don’t see her as a killer.” From the expression on Duncan’s face, I wasn’t sure if the idea of verifying Cora’s nighttime dalliances intrigued or frightened him.
“I hope not,” Duncan said. “Because if she’s as good as she says she is, I might be able to use her.”
“I’ll bet,” I said with a smirk.
“I meant with the computer stuff.”
“Sure you did.” He looked as if he wanted to explain more, but after a second or two of opening his mouth like a fish out of water, he just smiled and said nothing. “So where do we go from here? I really need to get back out on the floor and tend to my customers.”
“I think we’re done with the questions for now,” Duncan said. “And I have a shift to finish out.” He smiled at me and waved his hand toward the door. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” I said, both excited and wary about the hours to come that I’d be spending in his presence. Was he hanging out until closing to keep up his façade, or to keep an eye on me?
Chapter 13
After Cora’s interrogation, she returned to her table, where the brothers and the others were still gathering info, creating data sheets, and drawing charts of things I couldn’t quite figure out. Sometime later, a couple of guys I pegged as off-duty cops came in and Duncan quickly claimed the table, splitting off from me to wait on them. He visited their table a number of times under the guise of taking orders and delivering drinks, but I felt certain there was also an exchange of information going on. Half an hour or so later, four more off-duty cops came in and hung around the small table until another one nearby emptied. Then the newcomers grabbed some chairs and pushed the two tables together.
Judging from the tidbits of conversation I overheard as I made my rounds, many of my other customers pegged the guys as cops pretty quickly. If their presence bothered any of them, it didn’t show. If anything, the cops’ presence seemed to add to the whole CSI mystique that had been building in the bar all night.
Business remained brisk and it kept me and the other employees running steadily. At one point Duncan met me in my office and handed me a printed list of names he said the cops had retrieved from Ginny’s work files, asking me to look it over to see if I knew anyone on the list other than the ones we’d already discussed. It took me a while because Ginny had been a very successful Realtor in the Milwaukee area for nearly twenty years and her client list was several pages long. I’d heard of her long before my father hooked up with her, so the length of her client list came as no surprise. Her name could always be seen on any number of residential and commercial properties listed around the city. Based on what I knew about her general lifestyle, the clothing and jewelry she wore, and the car she drove, she’d made a very nice living as a Realtor.
I recognized a number of names on the list, most because they were customers of mine. There were some I knew through other means, such as Anita Wallace, a teller at my bank and a recovering alcoholic who never went into bars, and Brian Branson, a barista at the coffee shop where I buy my beans and someone who probably would have been a customer of mine had he been old enough to drink.
Amusingly, I found my own name on the list along with Riley Quinn’s. I wondered if Ginny had been the Realtor who sold him the bookstore ten years ago, or if his name was simply on her list because she knew him from the bar.
Not long after finishing with the list, Riley came in. His arrival made me glance at my watch in surprise, thinking it couldn’t possibly be that late. I thought he must have closed the bookstore early because of the murder, but no, it was just shy of eleven already. The night was flying by. I gestured toward Riley and leaned over to tell Duncan who he was, but before I uttered a word, he said, “Riley Quinn, owner of the bookstore next door. My guys have talked to him.”
“Does he know who you are?” I asked Duncan.
“I don’t think so. I wasn’t one of the ones who talked to him, but he might have seen me when I first arrived this morning. We’ll just have to play it by ear and see.”
Riley sidled up to the bar and I walked over to him while Duncan delivered some drinks. Riley was wearing his usual fall outfit—khaki pants, a solid-colored, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a vest with two pockets, from one of which hung a chain for a watch—a uniform of sorts that he thought made him look more “bookish.” Come wintertime, he’d change the pants to corduroy and add a matching jacket with the obligatory leather elbow patches.
“Hello, Riley,” I said.
“Mack, honey, are you okay?” He draped an arm over my shoulders and gave me a sideways hug. His touch made me see round drops of silver spinning in the air. “I heard who the victim was,” he went on. “I can only imagine how awful this has been for you, especially on the heels of what happened with your father.”
Duncan came up as he said this and jumped in with a question. “How did you hear who it was?”
I thought it an odd question given that the cops had talked to Riley earlier and must have revealed her identity to him then. But a few seconds later I realized why Duncan asked what he did when Riley turned and gave him a questioning look. “Who are you?” Riley asked.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, knowing Duncan’s disguise was safe for now. “Riley, this is Duncan Albright, the son of an old friend of my father’s from years ago. Duncan’s new here in town and he needed a job so I’m letting him help out here for a while. Duncan, this is Riley Quinn, owner of the bookstore next door and a very dear friend.”
Riley released me and the two men shook hands and eyed one another for a few seconds, mumbling something I took for a greeting of some sort. A sparkle of light caught my eye on Riley’s arm and I noticed specks of dust there, caught in his hairs.
Riley said, “I found out who it was when the cops showed up and questioned me. But I also heard it on the news just a bit ago. They must have just found out because the only thing the news reports said earlier was that the victim was a woman and someone local.”
Riley must have noticed the dust too, because he started brushing at it. “That blasted basement of mine,” he said. “This water thing forced me to clean parts of it that haven’t seen a dust rag in years.”
“You have some on your back, too,” I said, brushing at specks of dust on his shoulders. I caught a whiff of something musty on him and it triggered a cloying, sticky sensation on my neck and shoulders. In a flash, I recalled feeling the same exact thing this morning when I first found Ginny’s body. At the time I likely had dismissed it as real, a sensation created by the humid heat. Now I wasn’t so sure and the doubt made me tense. Riley released his hug but held my shoulders at arm’s length, eyeing me with concern.
Duncan didn’t miss my reaction either and I could tell from the way he was staring at me that questions would be coming as soon as he got me alone again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back to see how things were going,” Riley said. “But the store was wildly busy today.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t. It’s been really busy here, too. Who knew murder would be so good for business?” I said with an awkward chuckle.
Riley didn’t laugh. Instead his expression grew more concerned. “I’m worried about you, Mack. This has to be traumatic for you. Do you think it wise to be ope
n for business like this?”
“It’s certainly been emotional,” I admitted. “But I need the money, and I’m doing fine, considering. I like staying busy. It helps me keep my mind off of things. And as you can see, I’ve been packing them in tonight.”
“Yeah, me too,” Riley said. “The store filled up with customers early this morning and stayed full all day, but unfortunately I didn’t see a huge uptick in sales. I think most people came in simply because they were curious. Some felt guilty enough to buy something to justify hanging around so long, but there were plenty of others who didn’t buy a thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
Riley shrugged. “Nature of the beast,” he said with a smile. His gaze shifted over my shoulder toward Duncan. “So when’s the last time you saw our Little Mack here?” he asked, draping an arm over my shoulders as he spoke. I caught another whiff of that musty, wet basement smell and suddenly the sticky, cloying feeling made sense.
Duncan said, “Not since she was a tyke. My father knew her father a long time ago, before Big Mack came to Milwaukee.” This was part of the story we had set up earlier, one that would eliminate his need to know anything more recent about me or my father.
Riley opened his mouth to continue his inquisition, but I derailed him before he could. “I take it you got your plumbing problem fixed?”
“I did. It cost me seven hundred bucks, and that was just for the plumber. I had to toss out nearly fifty books because of water damage. Thanks goodness the first editions I had down there were on a high shelf that stayed dry.”
I looked over at Duncan and explained. “Riley had a water pipe break in his basement yesterday and it caused some flooding. Since he keeps some of his more valuable rare books down there, it could have been a far more devastating loss than it was.”
“Lucky for you,” Duncan said.
“Yes, yes it was.” Riley switched his attention back to me and said, “Can I bother you for a vodka martini, extra dirty?”
“You certainly can. One extra dirty, vodka martini coming right up.” I shrugged from beneath his arm and went behind the bar, Duncan hot on my heels.
“So does extra dirty mean I can sweep something up from the floor and drop it in his glass?” Duncan whispered in my ear.
I laughed. “No, it means we add extra olive juice to his martini.”
I showed Duncan how to make the martini, and when we delivered it, Riley ordered a sandwich to go with it.
“Have you had any more of your experiences?” Duncan asked once we were in the kitchen. He couched the last word in little finger quotes, which annoyed me.
“Not really, at least nothing significant.” I handed Helmut my order and headed back out to the bar. But Duncan altered my route by gently grabbing my arm and steering me into my office.
Once inside, Duncan eyed me suspiciously. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding out on me? I’m learning to recognize your reactions when something bothers you and I’m pretty sure you had one when we were with Riley.”
I busied myself straightening things on my desk that didn’t need straightening while I avoided looking at Duncan. “You have to understand that these experiences, as you call them, happen to me all the time, all day long, every day. They are as much a part of my life as breathing. So I don’t necessarily notice all of them or attach any significance to them.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
I shrugged, and continued what I was doing for a few seconds. Then I offered up an explanation. “The problem for me is trying to sort out what matters and what doesn’t. For instance, I felt a sticky, cloying sensation on my neck and shoulders when Riley hugged me, and I felt that same thing this morning when I stumbled upon Ginny’s body. For a second or two, that worried me. But then I realized that it was likely a damp, musty smell that triggered the feeling, and since Riley had to toss out a bunch of his water-damaged books, it explains why I felt the same thing when I found Ginny next to the Dumpster. That same smell was there. So you see, not all of my experiences are significant.”
“Fair enough. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Seems to me you’ve asked plenty of them already today, but I doubt that will stop you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Are you sure Riley doesn’t have a romantic interest in you?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I picked up on a bit of a proprietary attitude on his part.”
“He’s just being protective. Riley is like a second father or an older brother to me. He told me my father once made him promise he’d look out for me if anything happened, so that’s what he does. But there’s no romance there. He’s more than fifteen years older than me.”
“To some men that sort of age difference doesn’t matter. In fact, they like it.”
I laughed. “I assure you there is nothing going on between me and Riley. Frankly I’ve got all I can do to keep up with Zach. But even if there was something going on, what difference would it make? I don’t see how it’s relevant to your case, so why all the questions? Are you jealous, Detective?”
I felt several beats of my heart go by before he answered.
“To be honest, yeah, I am a little.”
I looked up at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of his comment. “Are you using one of your detective school techniques on me by trying to flatter me into letting my guard down?”
He arched his eyebrows at me. “Is there a reason for your guard to be up?”
“You mean a reason other than the fact that two murders have occurred in or by my bar in the past ten months, both of them involving people who were close to me?”
“So now you’re saying you were close to Ginny?”
Damn! The way he switched gears so quickly, sliding into interrogation mode, told me I was right. He simply wanted me to let my guard down, to make me slip and say something I shouldn’t.
“You know what I mean,” I said irritably. I stepped past him and opened the office door. “Come on. We have tables waiting.”
We spent the next hour running at a pretty good clip, delivering drinks, fixing food, and clearing tables. Many of my regulars came in, but the crowd had more unknowns than usual, most likely because word of the murder had spread and curiosity was driving them in. Everywhere I went I overheard customers discussing the case, spouting theories of the crime, possible motives, and speculation about what evidence might or might not have been found, information the cops had thus far kept tightly under wraps.
Helmut left at midnight—food orders typically tapered off later in the night and my menu during the late hours was limited—leaving me with kitchen duty for a couple of hours. Three times over the next two hours Duncan got phone calls on his cell and stepped aside to talk. With the murmur of voices in the place hanging in at a dull roar, my attempts to eavesdrop didn’t go well. But I didn’t have to overhear anything to know that whatever information he got during the third call wasn’t going to be good. He glanced toward me with a pained expression before shifting his attention to the bar, where Billy and Gary were busy waiting on customers.
As soon as the call ended, Duncan made a sideways nod of his head toward the kitchen and we rendezvoused there a few minutes later.
“I’m afraid I have some more bad news for you, Mack. We looked into Gary’s prison records, and as a matter of routine inquiry, we also looked into his cellmate, a man named Mike Levy.”
I ran the name through my memory banks and came up empty. “I don’t know him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The name doesn’t ring any bells for me.”
Duncan smiled. “I’m curious. Are you saying that as a cliché, or do you mean it literally?”
I stared back at him, confused.
“You know, a bell ringing? I thought maybe that was one of your synthesizer things.”
“Synesthesia,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “And while some situations do trigger the sound of ri
nging bells, this isn’t one of them.”
“So the name Mike Levy doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“How many more times do I have to say no before you’ll believe me?” I asked. “Should it mean something?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why? Is he out of prison now? Has he been in my bar? I know a lot of my customers by name but certainly not all of them and new people come in here all the time.”
“I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been in here anytime recently. He was killed a few months ago by another inmate.”
I backed up a step, as if to distance myself from the news. “How horrible,” I said, though I couldn’t summon up any serious emotion for the fact. “Why on earth would you think I know him?”
“When my guys dug up the death certificate and talked to Levy’s parents, they discovered he was adopted. Turns out his biological mother was involved in his life, too, though that fact was kept on the down-low. Want to guess who his birth mother was?”
I didn’t, in part because I don’t like guessing games, but also because I was pretty sure the answer would be one I didn’t like. I got a sudden, sickening feeling in my gut that might have been real or synesthetic. I couldn’t tell.
“Mike Levy was Ginny Rifkin’s son,” Duncan said.
And with those words, it felt as if my world tipped upside down.
Chapter 14
Duncan explained that Ginny got pregnant as a teenager and gave the baby—a boy—up for adoption. The Levys adopted and raised him, and Mike went looking for his birth mother when he turned eighteen. He found Ginny fifteen years ago, right before he landed in prison. Ginny visited Mike regularly with his adopted parents’ blessings, and over time they built up something of a relationship. But it was a secret one, because Ginny didn’t want her real estate clients knowing she had a convicted felon for a son. Apparently she did a good job of it because the fact that she had a son at all was a complete surprise to me. It did, however, explain what the Signoriello brothers had said about their conversations with her. Had my father known?
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