“Are you sure you want to get involved with this, Mack? You’ve been complaining about all the press you and the others have been getting, and this is only likely to make that worse.”
“Are you worried about my reputation or your job?”
“I’m worried about you, silly. My bosses aren’t happy about the ribbing they’ve gotten in the media because of what you’ve done, but they’ll get over it. And as long as they don’t know I’m still working with you in any way, I should be fine.”
“If it turns out this Middleton guy is innocent and we can prove that, it’s not going to make the police department look any better.”
“True, but maybe it will make them stand up and look at you and the group in a different light. I still think your synesthesia can be useful in helping us investigate crimes, and if you continue to show them that, maybe they’ll come around.”
“Or maybe they’ll make life more difficult for me . . . and for you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. And you seem to have weathered all the press quite well so far. It’s even upped your business at the bar.”
“That it has,” I admitted. “And speaking of the press, I had an idea.” I then told him my thoughts regarding Clay and the idea of bringing him into the group on a limited, need-to-know basis. “He’s one of the more persistent reporters. Hell, he practically lives in my bar these days. I’m thinking if we can’t beat him, we might as well join him . . . or rather invite him to join us. He could be a useful resource.”
“But if he gets wind of this letter writer case, it could all blow up in our faces.”
“Then we won’t let him in on it. No one knows about it now except for you, Mal, Cora, and the brothers. None of them will say anything to him.”
“I don’t know, Mack. It’s risky. We don’t know if we can trust the guy.”
“I’ll feel him out first, see if he seems forthright. And we can test him by letting him in on the cases the Capone Club is working on and seeing if he follows the rules. I’ll play it by ear.”
“Is that a synesthetic thing, playing it by ear?”
“It just might be,” I said, smiling.
There was a long silence, long enough that I thought our call had been dropped.
“Duncan, are you still there?”
“I’m here. I was just thinking about all this crime stuff you’ve gotten involved in. Maybe the bosses and Jimmy are right. Maybe it was wrong for me to bring you into it.”
“It’s a done deal, Duncan. No use crying over spilt vodka, as my father used to say. If I hadn’t wanted to help you, I wouldn’t have.”
“I get that, but that was then and this is now. Maybe you should go back to being a simple bar owner. You said before that spending time dealing with the dark underbelly of the city was depressing, and I don’t want you to get all melancholy again.”
His use of the word melancholy both tickled and annoyed me. It was a quaint term to use, and that amused me, but the idea that Duncan viewed me as some emotionally handicapped woman was irritating. “The dark side of all this crime stuff is a little depressing to someone like me,” I said, “someone who hasn’t been exposed to it much until this past year. But if I can use my synesthesia to prove the innocence of someone who’s been wrongly convicted, or to help put away someone who needs to be off the streets, then the upside outweighs the downside.”
“You’re going to continue with these cases whether I object or not, aren’t you?”
“For now I am. It’s a form of validation for me, Duncan. It’s the first time in my life that my synesthesia has been useful in some way. I’ve spent all my life trying to hide it, feeling ashamed and weird because of it. This gives me a way to put it to good use.”
“It also puts you in some dangerous situations. You almost got yourself killed looking into Tiny’s sister’s case.”
“I’ll be extra careful from now on. And I’ve got you and Mal to keep an eye on me.”
“Speaking of Mal, are you seeing him anytime soon?”
“He’s supposed to come by later today so we can do something together. Have to keep up appearances, you know.”
“I’ll give him a call and talk to him about this new case you have. I want him to stay with you as much as he can. If I can’t be there with you all the time, I’ll feel better knowing he’s there.”
I wondered if he would still feel that way if he knew that Mal’s feelings for me were, to some degree, reciprocated. “Maybe it’s time for Mal and me to fake a breakup,” I suggested.
“Not until we get this letter writer thing figured out. Give it a little more time.”
“I’m spending way more time with him than I am with you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. It won’t always be that way, Mack.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that, but what’s going to change? This thing with Mal and me, it’s starting to feel real.”
“What are you saying?”
“I mean, I really like the guy, Duncan. He’s funny, smart, and easy to be with.”
Another silence ensued. “I know Mal is a bit sweet on you, Mack,” Duncan said finally. “I can’t say I blame him. But are you telling me you’re developing feelings for him?”
I bit my lip, hesitating. Then I decided to take the plunge. “Yes, I think I am.”
“Damn,” he said. I heard an exasperated sigh and again saw a colorful maelstrom, but this time the colors were green and blue. “Mack, I know these past few weeks have been hard on us, and heaven knows our relationship hasn’t gotten off to a great start. But I really care for you. Please, give us a little more time to work things out before you give up on me.”
It was the most emotional thing I’d ever heard from him, and it made my heart swell, almost literally. I felt this odd heavy sensation in my chest, a pressure . . . an ache. “I haven’t given up on you or on us, Duncan. But let’s face it. Our relationship is on a fast ship to nowhere at the moment.”
“Give it a bit longer,” he pleaded. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around at times, and I’ll admit I’m a little gun shy when it comes to relationships, because of my past.”
“What exactly happened to you, anyway? You said you were left standing at the altar, but you never gave me any details.”
“It’s complicated,” he said, and I knew he was going to frustrate me yet again. “Please be patient. I don’t want to lose you, Mack.”
Irritated by his vague reply, I let out an exasperated, “Fine. I need to go tend to some bar stuff. Let me know what’s what tomorrow, if you actually do come by.”
“Mack, I—”
“Gotta go,” I said, cutting him off. And then, before I could say something I might later regret, I disconnected the call and stuffed the phone into my pocket. I sat on my office couch and stewed for a few minutes, cursing men in general and this emotionally distant one in particular.
When I felt I had vented enough, I staggered up and crutched my way to the office door. Just as I was about to open it, there was a knock. I opened it and found Missy, one of my daytime waitresses, on the other side. Missy was in her twenties, the single mother of two young children, and living with her parents. She was blessed with dynamite good looks and a killer body, but she was overlooked in the brains department, all of which had likely led to her current living situation. But she was a hardworking and motivated employee who was good at her job and had an uncanny ability to connect a face with a drink.
“Here’s today’s mail,” she said, handing me a thick stack of envelopes and catalogs. The holiday mail was always twice what I normally got, making me feel sorry for the mail carriers who had to hoof all that extra stuff through the cold and slush.
The stack was a large one, filled with the usual holiday catalogs and flyers, as well as my standard bunch of bills. I waded through them, tossing the catalogs and sorting the bills into a pile.
The letter was tucked in between my electric bill and a Lands’
End catalog. I recognized the neat block printing right away and froze as I stared at it. After a minute or so of feeling my heart pound, which triggered a tiny pulsing red light in the periphery of my vision, I threw the catalogs in the trash and hobbled with the letter back to the couch. I stared at it for the longest time, turning it over and examining every inch of it, every nuance in the printing, the postage stamp . . . all of it. It looked so innocuous and ordinary, but I knew it wasn’t. I wanted to open it but knew I shouldn’t, at least not yet. I needed to preserve any evidence that might be in it, and thought about waiting until Duncan came by tomorrow. But I had no idea what deadline might be waiting for me, so time was of the essence. I thought about calling Duncan back, but he’d already said he couldn’t come by tonight.
And then providence called.
Chapter 7
Providence literally called . . . on my cell phone. I dug it out of my pocket, and when I saw Mal’s name come up on the screen, I felt an instant sense of relief.
“Mal, your timing is perfect.”
“That’s not what my last girlfriend used to say,” he said with a little chuckle. There was a pause and then silence. “You didn’t laugh,” he said eventually. “Not a funny joke, or is something going on?”
“I just got another letter.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
“Have you opened it?”
“Not yet. I’m in my office and thought I should probably carry it upstairs to my apartment.” I envisioned doing just that in my mind, knowing it would be trickier than usual, thanks to my crutches and my broken leg.
“I’m on my way over there,” Mal said. “I can give you a hand if you want.”
“That would be great.”
“How’s the leg doing? Is it still pretty painful?”
“It’s not bad today,” I said, realizing then that Duncan hadn’t bothered to inquire about my condition. I put a mental check mark in Mal’s column on the little scorecard I was keeping in my head. It wasn’t something I was proud of, but my mixed feelings regarding Duncan and Mal of late had me doing some oddball things.
“I’ll be there in five. Meet you in your office?”
“That will work,” I said with a smile. I disconnected the call and sat there, marveling at the relief I felt knowing that Mal was only minutes away. The letter sat on my lap, the block-printed address facing up, mocking me.
Time seemed to drag as I waited, but eventually, there was a knock at the door. I hobbled up and went over to open it. These days I kept it locked all the time, even when I was in the office, to prevent any nosy reporters or other thrill seekers from making an unexpected and unwanted entrance. As soon as I saw Mal on the other side, I tucked one crutch into my armpit and used that arm to give him a big hug. The return hug he gave me felt wonderful, comforting, reassuring. My eyes were closed initially, as I was relishing all the other synesthetic reactions I had to Mal’s presence, but I eventually opened them and saw Clay Sanders standing about ten feet behind Mal, watching us.
“Come in,” I said, finally letting Mal go. I finagled my crutch back into place and managed an awkward turn so I could head back to the couch. Mal followed me inside and shut the door behind him, blocking Clay’s view.
“That reporter is certainly persistent with his nosiness,” he said.
I maneuvered myself through another turn, put both crutches on one side of me, and eased myself down onto the couch. “Yes, he is,” I said, tucking the crutches off to the side. “I’m thinking about bringing him on board with the Capone Club.”
Mal stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “You’re not serious.”
“As a heart attack,” I said. Then I shared my thought processes with him on the matter. He listened, settling in next to me on the couch.
When I was done, Mal shrugged and said, “I have to admit, you’re making some sense with the idea. But you’re going to have to be very careful about what information he gets access to.”
“I thought we could test him with some tidbits,” I told him. “We have another case to look into, and we could use it to feed him information and see if he’ll stick to an agreement to wait until we have something concrete, assuming we ever do, before he prints anything in the paper. If he plays fair with the test stuff, maybe I’ll consider bringing him in on this case.”
I picked up the letter from the arm of the couch, where I’d left it, and handed it to Mal. He hesitated, unwilling to touch it. “I don’t think it makes a difference if you touch the envelope,” I said. “It came through the mail, so it’s been handled by any number of people already.”
The cop in Mal wasn’t so easily convinced. “You’re probably right, but all the same, I’d rather have some gloves on before I handle it.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, and then I nodded toward the boxes of gloves I had on the bookshelf behind my desk. Mal got up, grabbed a pair from one of the boxes, and donned them. Then he took the letter and looked it over.
“Does Duncan know yet?”
I shook my head. “I finished talking to him on the phone right before the mail came. And you called a few minutes after that.”
“We should call him and see if he can come over so we can open it.”
“Don’t bother. He told me he was tied up for the rest of today and wouldn’t be able to come by until tomorrow.”
Mal considered this, frowning. Then he said, “Let’s take it upstairs so we can have some privacy, and we’ll open it there. Maybe we can get Cora to come with us, and she can arrange another video hookup with Duncan on her computer.”
“Good idea.”
A couple of text messages and one awkward trek upstairs later, Cora, Mal, and I were settled around the dining-room table in my apartment. I had Cora go into my father’s old office and grab a single sheet of white paper to put on the table, with the idea of opening the envelope above it. That way we would hopefully catch any minute trace evidence that might be inside the letter.
Mal called Duncan and was able to reach him, but we had to wait a bit for Duncan to get somewhere private before we could arrange the video chat. While we waited, Cora and I filled Mal in on the most recent case the Capone Club was considering.
“I’m hoping to make another visit to Waupun tomorrow,” I told Mal. “I figure it makes sense to talk to this Middleton guy to see if I can get a feel for his innocence or lack thereof.”
Mal smiled. “Do you mean that literally? When you say ‘get a feel for,’ do you mean you actually get a sensation or a feeling about whether or not someone is being honest?”
“Sort of, though voices trigger tastes for me rather than a feeling. Men’s voices do, anyway. Sometimes women’s voices manifest as a visual sensation.”
Mal gave me a funny look and shook his head. “It must be very busy up there,” he said, reaching over and tapping my head.
“You have no idea,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
Cora’s computer chimed, and she said, “There’s Duncan.” She tapped a key, and Duncan’s face appeared on the screen.
“Hello, everyone,” Duncan said. “I don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick if we can. Is everyone wearing gloves?”
“Mack and I are,” Mal said. I had donned a pair from the boxes I’d kept on my dining-room table ever since the letters started arriving. “Cora is manning the computer.”
“Then let’s do it.”
I let Mal have the honors this time. He picked up the letter opener I had brought to the table, and slid it beneath the flap on the envelope. Then he carefully sliced it open. He pried the two sides apart and peered inside before turning the envelope upside down over the sheet of paper. A single folded sheet of paper slid out—one that looked identical to the sheet on the table—and he gave the envelope a couple of taps to make sure it was empty. Nothing else fell out, so he set the envelope aside and picked up the letter. Carefully, he unfolded it, still holding it over the paper on the table. As he unfolded the let
ter, a long, narrow leaf and a single dried flower fell out.
“There’s a leaf and a flower inside here,” Mal said to no one in particular, though given that Cora and I could easily see them, I assumed his remark was addressed to Duncan. Mal gingerly picked up the flower and held it in front of the computer screen for Duncan to see. It was blue in color, though faded, with a circle of yellow in the middle, dozens of tiny narrow petals emanating from the center.
“That’s an aster,” Cora said. “It’s a relatively common wildflower that blooms in the fall.”
A moment of silence followed as we all contemplated the flower and tried to discern what meaning, if any, it might have.
When no one offered anything, Duncan said, “What about the leaf?”
Mal did the same thing with the leaf. “I think it’s a weeping willow leaf,” he said. “I have one in my yard.”
Duncan said, “Let’s have a look at that letter.”
Mal set the leaf down and picked up the letter. I leaned in close so I could read it along with him. It was written in a calligraphic style with green ink, and I stuck my nose close to the page and took a whiff. The ink on this letter smelled essentially the same to me as that on the previous calligraphic letters, but with one subtle difference. I assumed the difference was due to whatever had been added to the ink to color it green. I said as much to the others, reminding them that the previous inks had been homemade.
Cora craned her neck, trying to read the letter, and Mal obligingly tilted it her way just enough so she could see it. For Duncan’s benefit, he read the letter aloud.
Dear Ms. Dalton,
It is a shame that you, with your supposed abilities, failed to interpret my last clues in a timely enough manner to save your friend Gary. Perhaps now you understand how deadly serious I am about these challenges.
The scorecard is currently marked in my favor, and clearly, I was right in my assumption that you are a fraud. But I am willing to give you another chance. You have until 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday, December 22. I am sure you realize by now that my deadlines are carved in stone, and I sincerely hope you will be more successful than last time, before another of your friends ends up six feet under.
Shots in the Dark Page 6