Hidden Vices

by C. J. Carpenter

  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 go
ne 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.”

  Thirty-Two

  Megan had her morning coffee outside while Clyde played in the snow in the lower level. She stared out at the area where the snowmobiler had attempted to force her into the open water in front of the boathouses. She knew exactly where he confronted her and wondered not just who it was but why he hadn’t followed through with his plan. If his goal was to intimidate her, his success only lasted moments until she was able to get away. She didn’t hear the gate open on the side of the house but heard Leigh call for her.

  She turned and saw Leigh bundled up like Randy in A Christmas Story, the younger brother to Ralphie whose mother would dress him as if he were walking in the Arctic.

  Leigh took a look at Megan’s arm. “What happened to you?”

  Megan glossed over it. “Oh, it’s nothing. I took a spill yesterday. I needed a few stitches, but it’s not a big deal. Hey, luckily I didn’t break anything. Do you want some coffee?”

  Leigh seemed a bit puzzled by how blasé Megan was about her accident. “Um, sure, I’d love a cup. And if you need any bandages changed, Jo would be more than happy to do it.”

  Megan nodded. “Thanks. Let’s go in. Clyde! C’mon, we’re heading in.”

  “I see you’ve taken a real shine to Clyde.” Leigh smiled.

  Megan laughed through her answer. “Oh he’s a pain in the ass, but then again I’ve heard I am too. So I guess we’re a good fit.”

  Megan poured Leigh a cup of coffee, turned the fireplace on, and asked, “How are you doing today?”

  “It’s a good day. That’s two in a row, so I can’t complain. I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this. I saw you from the top of the driveway, but you didn’t hear me call out your name so I thought I’d stop in.”

  “No, no, that’s fine.”

  The night before Megan had brought the photo of her parents into the living room. It was a moment to reminisce, mourn. She’d left it on the coffee table before heading to bed. The Murphys’ visit, as wonderful as it was, brought up holiday memories of her parents. Her dad and Uncle Mike would sit outside deep-frying two turkeys, drinking beers while her mom and Aunt Maureen attempted to keep all the kids under control and cook at the same time. Until Megan was old enough to know better, her dad would say, “Meggie, come over here and have a sip of my beer, just the foam on top, it’s the best part.” Rose would catch a glimpse every now and then and yell out the door, “Patrick McGinn, do not give our daughter alcohol!” Megan’s father would wave his wife off, knowing it wasn’t alcohol really, just the head of the beer.

  Leigh noticed the framed picture and couldn’t help but comment. “Oh, wow, are these your parents?”

  Megan nodded. “Yes. My dad, Pat, and my mom, Rose.”

  Leigh studied the photo, looking back and forth from Megan to the picture. “You get your red hair from your dad, but your face is identical to your mom’s.”

  It wasn’t the first time Megan heard that. It was, however, the first time she was proud of it. “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely,” Leigh answered, holding the photo near Megan’s face. “You could be sisters instead of mother-daughter.”

  “My brother Brendan got mom’s blond hair and I guess I should say her more refined tastes. He would go to plays and the opera with Mom while I would go to baseball and hockey game
s with Dad. Brendan isn’t a momma’s boy or anything like that, but he’s a lot more cultured.”

  “Is he in Manhattan as well?”

  “No, he and his wife and kids live out in Ohio.”

  Leigh laughed. “So much for being cultured!” She sat back and sipped her coffee, releasing more of a groan than a sigh before stating the obvious: “Well, things have gotten quite interesting around here, but that seems tasteless given the latest news.”

  “Controversial?” Megan suggested.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  Megan pulled her hair into a ponytail and put her feet up on the coffee table. She was curious to hear Leigh’s response and asked, “Were you surprised at the news of sexual assaults that has come out?” As soon as she asked, Megan realized she may have let it be known she was more aware of certain aspects of the case than what the papers and evening news had reported.

  Leigh was not a dumb woman and caught on right away. She stared at Megan with a wry smile, knowing Megan had more information than most, but unwilling to insult her by pressing her for it. “Well, I can’t say much has been made known to the public, but, surprised? Somewhat. I think the whole town knew Judge Campbell was up to something—not as sick as this, but some sort of corruption. Taking bribes, perhaps, or peddling influence or money laundering or something more on the business side of things. But this? Accused of harming young boys? I guess anyone would be shocked at such malevolent acts. Especially from someone we trust to uphold the law—one who is part of the legal system.” She looked up at the ceiling in contemplation. “I mean, I teach philosophy, so it’s about the fundamental nature of knowledge, of existence. If I had chosen to teach psychology or ethics, perhaps I’d have a firmer grasp on how a person could do something like this.” She paused before adding, “But then again, I’m glad I don’t because I can be honest and say I would never want to wrap my head around the conscience—or lack thereof—of people who are capable of this. And not only that, but who can maintain an upstanding public persona as a pillar of the community. He must have been a real psychopath. Or is that sociopath? I can never keep them straight.”