Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  But no amount of construction renewal could erase the memories this building held for Horst.

  He had hoped to find a clue when he climbed up to Billy’s aerie last night. Something that would explain why the young man had been targeted. Maybe Smoke was right. Maybe it was Billy’s ill-informed habit of sharing his recent financial windfall with others that earned him the quick trip to the morgue. One didn’t have to be a cop with nearly thirty years’ experience to know desperate people do desperate things. But Horst wasn’t buying it. Two bullets. Straight to the brain stem.

  A double tap, Horst thought. That’s not desperate. That’s calculated.

  He’d found nothing beyond a dilapidated lawn chair, folded up and lying on the deck of the perch, three dirty blankets, and two water bottles. He could, though, see the attractiveness of the site to anyone forced to live on the streets. It was secluded. Overgrown shrubbery and vines obscured its location from anyone not specifically aware of it. Its elevation offered some security from those roaming about, looking to prey on the disadvantaged. It was surprisingly roomy. Both Smoke and Gordy had said they’d spent evenings there with Billy, sharing whatever they could and talking the boredom and fear away. But Billy had a motel room. He apparently was preparing to set up his own apartment. Everyone Horst had spoken to about Billy described him as a kind and generous man. Horst wanted to know why, despite his change in station, Billy had insisted on keeping the perch to himself.

  This morning, the ladder was behind the bushes, just where he’d left it the night before. Billy’s chair, blankets, and water bottles were undisturbed. No other homeless person had come by to claim the coveted spot. Billy would have liked the way the vines kept the climbing sun from overheating the perch’s metal decking and rails. Horst brushed aside a long, leafy tendril, and surveyed the scene. Neighborhood streets were choked with cars and bicyclists making their way to work on the isthmus. Off to his left he saw the fenced-in play yard of a local elementary school. A broad asphalt lot, perhaps once the site of numerous daily truck loadings and unloadings, was directly below him. It, too, was corralled by a chain-link fence, with signs posting warnings not to trespass. Two blocks up, past the little-used railroad tracks, tidy houses with small lawns lived among fully matured trees. To his right, at least a half mile away, the capitol dome emerged from the lush, green canopy, gleaming in the morning light.

  A lovely view, to be sure. But not enough to infringe on generous Billy’s ways.

  Horst turned his back to the scene and focused on the wall behind him. The brick façade was interrupted by a set of windowless double doors covered with faded and cracking paint. Flat metal plates covered where doorknobs certainly must have been. Horst pressed on each of the doors. Maybe Billy had found a way to open them. Perhaps there was something inside the warehouse to explain either the source of his sudden wealth or anything else that might point to a motive for why he was murdered. But despite the poorly maintained exterior of the empty warehouse, the doors were rock solid. Horst wondered if they might have been boarded from the inside. He ran his hand around the doors’ trim and came away with nothing but dirty fingers and two splinters. He turned his attention to the perch itself, tracing every railing and spindle of iron. Every square inch of rusty metal decking.

  Nothing.

  He opened each water bottle. Empty.

  He sat in the corner and pulled Billy’s blankets toward him. One by one he manually examined them. Several rips, a couple of burns, and too many stains to count was all he got for his effort.

  Then he heard it.

  Voices coming from the street below. He crawled over to the railing and poked his head up enough to see the source. It was a young woman pushing a stroller. He could see a child inside, covered by a pink blanket. Next to them a boy, no older than four, skipped alongside.

  “This is where the monsters live.” The boy’s lilting voice was as clear as if he’d been sitting on the perch. Horst blinked away his disbelief that the child was actually twelve feet below and nearly a dozen yards away.

  “What kind of monsters, Aiden?” the woman asked. “Candy monsters? Robot monsters?”

  “Booger monsters!” the boy exclaimed. “You better watch out. Booger monsters like girls.”

  “I’m glad,” said the woman. “That means Chloe and I are safe.”

  “No, Mommy! They like to chase girls! They catch ’em and cover ’em in boogers.”

  Horst couldn’t make out the woman’s response as they walked down the block. Then he looked ahead. Two bicyclists were headed his way, one riding close enough behind the other to suggest they were pedaling together. Horst could see the lead rider’s head turn back occasionally, as though calling out to the rider behind. He watched them draw nearer.

  “…son of a bitch tells me it’s not good enough.” Horst was able to pick up male voices clearly once they rode into the same spot the woman with the stroller had been.

  “What will you…” Horst was unable to hear the rest of the response as they biked out of that magical hearing range.

  Horst climbed back down the ladder and stepped out onto the asphalt lot far enough to survey the entire warehouse. His eyes traced the contours of the ivy and brush overwhelming the building. The building, whether by design or decay, curved outward. The heavy overgrowth formed an acoustic cup nestling Billy’s perch. Horst climbed back up, resumed his spot hidden behind the vines, and observed the phenomenon four more times as passersby walked or biked into the auditory hot spot. When he was confident it was no fluke, he stood and took one last look around.

  That’s it. You heard something, didn’t you, Billy? Saw something. Something you thought was your ticket to Easy Street.

  Something that bought you two taps to the back of your head.

  Chapter 15

  Sydney waved to the man wiping the glasses behind the bar as she entered Hush Money’s elegant dining room.

  “Looking sharp, Syd!” he called out. He was new. Hired about six weeks ago. But Sydney had heard nothing but good reports about the bartender’s skills and discretion.

  “Thanks, Carl,” she answered as she headed toward her office. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I always feel a bit silly being in evening wear at three in the afternoon.”

  She entered the hall separating her office from the kitchen. Roland was holding court, overexplaining the evening’s menu and his expectations for each one of the staff. She lifted a hand, caught his attention, and pointed to her office. “When you have a moment, Chef.”

  Sydney took a seat behind her desk, pulled out her phone, and spoke into the receiver.

  “Call Clay.”

  “Calling Clay,” the too-real-to-be-mechanical female voice responded. Three seconds later she heard the ringing on the line.

  “You’re there already?” Clay’s voice sounded like it was coming from a smile.

  “I have to see what’s up with Roland.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to a two-week hiatus from the diva.”

  Clay laughed. “And if his prediction comes true and he becomes the next star of televised cooking?”

  “Then I’ll miss him.” She paused. “At least I think so. Where are you?”

  “Just got home from a ride.”

  “How many miles?” Sydney knew there were few things Clay enjoyed more than getting his bicycle out on a sunny day.

  “Paoli and back. So that’s what? Maybe fifty round-trip?”

  “Oh, my God! My butt’s hurting even thinking about it. Are you exhausted?”

  “Invigorated! And stinky. Come on over here and share a shower, why don’t you?”

  She glanced down at the beige chiffon sheath she wore. “No can do. Already in my work clothes. When will you be at the Low Down?”

  “Probably around seven-thirty. Trying someone new tonight. Local g
uy. Dentist out of Middleton. Brad Randall. Know him?”

  Sydney thought for a moment. “Can’t say I do. You’re giving a dentist the stage of your blues club?”

  “I know. He knocked on our door a couple months ago. Around three in the afternoon. Francie and I were doing inventory. I opened the door and in Randall walked. Looking for all the world like a dentist out of Middleton. Polo shirt, pleated khakis, the whole nine yards. Asks if I’d ever consider using him.”

  “As a dentist?”

  Clay laughed. “No. As a performer. I told him we didn’t do open mic nights and suggested the names of a couple of places that do. He thanked me, turned, and walked up to the stage. He proceeds to sit down, open his guitar case, pull out his ax, and wails—I mean absolutely wails—on a couple of Delbert McClinton covers. Francie and I were left with our jaws dusting the floor.”

  “Wow! A dentist, you say. Middleton, Wisconsin.”

  “Named Brad. That’s what I’m saying. I told him I’d think about it.”

  “But it’s Tuesday. You usually play on Tuesday nights. Won’t your customers be expecting to hear you?”

  “I’ll play a song or two,” Clay explained. “Then I’ll introduce him. See how he does. If he falls flat on his face, I’ll be there to step in. But I’ve got a feeling he’s going to be great. Come by, why don’t you? His first set should start about eight-thirty.”

  Sydney glanced out her window and saw Roland rub an anxious hand over his bald head. “I’ll try my best. But something tells me my chef is going to need a lot of hand-holding tonight.”

  “I’ll save a spot for you. How’d you spend your day?”

  She hesitated for only a moment, but his response was enough to show her just how well Clay knew her.

  “You went to the hospital, didn’t you?” he asked when she didn’t answer. “How’s Rick doing?”

  “Fine…great, actually. He was awake, at least for part of the time. Alert…or as alert as one can be while heavily medicated against pain. Said he’d be coming home no later than Thursday. Of course, that could just be Rick’s wishful thinking.”

  This time the silent moment was on Clay’s end. “I’m glad,” he finally said. “That must be a load off your mind.”

  “He’s going to need time to fully relax and recover.”

  “And do you plan to play a role in that?”

  “I don’t think I’m the one to teach anyone how to relax.”

  Clay was quiet for another moment. “I don’t know. I’m pretty relaxed when you’re around. Listen, I’ll leave you to your demanding chef. Think about coming to hear the dentist, okay?”

  “I will. Have a great evening.”

  He promised he’d try.

  “Oh, and Clay…”

  He’d hung up before she had a chance to tell him she loved him.

  * * *

  —

  “How’s the new guy working out?” Sydney tried to get a read on her chef’s demeanor as he entered her office.

  “Sands? Sands Cortell? What kind of name is that?”

  “What kind of name is Roland Delmardo?”

  Her chef lifted his hand to his throat and gasped. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying Roland Delmardo is a lovely name. Probably chosen with great care by a young man who wanted to make his mark in the world.”

  “Are you accusing me of faking my own name?”

  Sydney raised one eyebrow. “How many African Americans, raised in Gary, Indiana, with the ability to switch from highbrow English to down-home southern drawl do I think got named Roland Delmardo by his birth parents?”

  Roland put a hand to his hip and, for a second, looked like he was about to launch into yet another of his legendary rants about how the world misunderstands his genius. But in a heartbeat, his face changed. He grinned, pulled a chair free, and sat down. “You have to admit, it’s great. I must have tried out thirty or more before I settled on it. It’s a name born for the bright lights.”

  “Indeed, it is. Care to tell me the name your parents gave you?”

  “Not on your life, sugar miss. That little secret is going with me to the grave.”

  “Maybe you can ask Sands how many names he tried out before he landed on his.”

  Roland waved away any concern. “Where did you find him?”

  “At the Waverly in Green Lake. He’s been head chef there for a couple of years. I’d heard good things about him.”

  “Head chef? Certainly, he doesn’t see himself as my replacement! Not even Windy has designs on that and she’s substituting for me while I’m in New York.”

  Sydney knew the best way to placate her temperamental chef was to play to his ego. “Green Lake is a resort. Diners come and go.”

  “And it’s in the middle of nowhere,” Roland added.

  She let the insult slide. “This is his opportunity to see how a city establishment with repeat clientele operates. He’s willing to spend his vacation as Windy’s sous-chef, if I promised him he could work two days with you. He knows your legend, Roland. He’s eager to learn.”

  Sydney decided that, like Roland’s birth name, she’d take that fabrication to her own grave. She’d actually offered him two months’ wages for two weeks’ work.

  “He said that?”

  She nodded. “But you know how prideful head chefs can be. I know you’re man enough not to rub his nose in it.”

  “Roland Delmardo? Never! I’m a man of great class and bearing.”

  “As we all have experienced firsthand.” She paused. “So, how’s he doing? Knife skills? Prep? How’s his pacing?”

  Roland hesitated with his answer. Sydney wondered if he was working out the calculus. Praise Sands too much and it might suggest Roland could be replaced. Discount Sands’s abilities and it might jeopardize his freedom to fly to New York and appear on national television.

  “He’s adequate,” Roland decided upon. “He’s also Windy’s to deal with. I’ll let him watch me in action tonight. Then I’m on the 7:15 to NYC tomorrow morning.” His voice rose an octave. “Oh, Sydney! This must be so thrilling for you to be sitting ringside as the next bright chapter in my career unfolds! The stories you’ll be able to tell!”

  “I can already think of a few.”

  * * *

  —

  The evening proceeded smoothly, with an uncharacteristic lack of drama from the kitchen. Roland had prepared a special of lamb chops with a sherry reduction served with minted potatoes. The guests raved. Roland made sure to tell each table that offered their compliments that he wanted to do something extraordinary before he departed for New York.

  “They’re demanding I come film, you know.”

  Sydney made sure each customer who heard his boast was reassured that Hush Money’s quality would remain high during her head chef’s temporary absence.

  She approached her mother around 8:15. “This is humming along, don’t you think?”

  Nancy Richardson kept her eyes on the dining room as she answered her daughter. “I do, indeed. Would have lost a wad of cash had I bet on how Roland would behave his last night before hitting the bright lights of the big city. I gotta hand it to him, he’s swirled on his big boy boa and is stepping up to being replaced.”

  “Oh, God, Mom! Please don’t let him hear you phrase it that way. This is a two-week absence. Nobody’s being replaced. Nothing’s going to change.”

  Nancy turned and looked at her daughter with shock. She crooked her thumb toward the kitchen. “You think that guy is going to have two weeks in the spotlight and come home unchanged?” She huffed out a brief laugh. “Give me a pint of whatever it is you’re drinking, will ya?”

  Sydney reached an arm around her mother’s shoulders and squeezed. “Whatever happens, we’ll manage, right?”

  “You got that
right, girly girl.”

  “You mind if I leave for a bit?”

  Nancy gave her a knowing smile. “Off to the Low Down? How is Clay? Tell him it’s been too long. We ought to schedule a dinner or something. Maybe a picnic. That would be fun, right?”

  “He’s got an experiment going on tonight. I’d like to be there to offer support if it all blows up.”

  “Go. Have fun.”

  “I’ll be back for closing, okay?”

  “Like I can’t see to it myself?” Nancy asked. “Go! I’ve got this.”

  Sydney decided to make a pass through The Ten-Ten and let Roscoe know she’d be off premises for a while. She walked down the hall connecting her two restaurants and opened the door to step into an environment completely different from the quiet tones of Hush Money. The Ten-Ten was jovial, with a sound machine blasting classic rock-and-roll while folks in jeans and T-shirts enjoyed burgers, pizza, and beer. She imagined news of Rick’s recovery had gotten out.

  “Roscoe.” She waved her manager to the end of the bar where she stood. “I’m heading out for a bit.”

  Roscoe Donovan, retired from the Madison police force when a stray bullet caught him in the hip, had been her best asset since she opened the place. In the same way she couldn’t run Hush Money without her mother, Sydney would have had no success with The Ten-Ten without Roscoe Donovan.

  “I figured as much.” Roscoe winked. “When I got the call, I knew it was going to be you doin’ the delivery.”

  “Delivery?”

  “Burger should be up any second now. I’m having the kitchen wrap it up extra special. Put it in a thermo carrier to keep it hot all the way to the hospital.”

  “Rick? Rick ordered a burger?”

  “Double order of fries, too. I guess that’s proof enough he’s on the mend, eh?”