Shots in the Dark (22 page)

My heart skipped a beat.
There it is
, I thought
. A connection to the university.
Surely, it wasn't a coincidence.

“Perhaps so,” I said. Then, eager to get back to the bar and examine the contents of the metal box, I added, “Thank you for your help.”

With that, I turned and left the office as fast as my crutches could take me, with Mal close on my heels.

I thought about calling Duncan right away but decided to wait until we got back to my apartment. I hoped we could get Cora to arrange another videoconference. When we arrived back at the bar, Mal parked, got out, and headed for the trunk. He was at my car door a moment later, holding an empty brown shopping bag.

“Slip the box in here,” he said. “That way it won't attract any undue attention.”

I did as he said, and he carried the bag as we walked the half block to the bar. As soon as we were inside, we headed straight to my apartment. I didn't bother to stop and chat with the staff or remove my coat. Once we were upstairs, with the door safely locked behind us, Mal took the metal box out of the bag and set it on my dining-room table.

I shucked off my coat and took a moment to catch my breath, staring at the box, wondering what sort of message the letter writer had for me this time.

“Coffee?” Mal asked.

I nodded, and he headed into my kitchen. I took out my cell phone and called Cora.

“Hey. What's up?” she answered.

“Mal and I are upstairs, in my apartment. Are you still here at the bar?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Can you come up here with your laptop? We struck gold at the cemetery.”

“I'll be right there.”

I disconnected the call and had Mal go downstairs to unlock the apartment door to let her in. It didn't take long. Despite having to excuse herself from the Capone Club group, negotiate the stairs, and then cross the entire length of the bar, Cora made it to my apartment in under three minutes. She practically ran up the stairs.

“I'm so glad the cemetery thing panned out,” she said when she reached the top, Mal right behind her. “Was it awful?”

“To be honest, it's a nice place, for a cemetery. I think I'd like to go back in the summertime, when all the trees are in bloom. It was quite peaceful and serene. I imagine it's even more so when everything is growing and green.”

Cora blinked several times very fast and stared at me like she thought I was crazy. Then she shrugged it off, set her laptop on the dining-room table, and said, “What did you find?”

I pointed at the metal box. “We opened it and saw an envelope inside but didn't take it out or open it, in case it contains any evidence. I was wondering if you could try to get Duncan on your computer using that video chat thing so he can watch us open it.”

“Can do,” she said. “Let me try to raise him.”

She opened the laptop and started typing. While she did that, I went into the kitchen to grab some Baggies to use for evidence and then went into my father's office to get a sheet of plain white paper. I knew the drill by now.

“Duncan isn't responding,” Cora said. “Can you call him and see if he can get to his computer?”

I nodded, took out my cell phone, and dialed his number. He answered on the third ring.

“Mack, is everything okay?”

“I'm fine,” I told him. “We found something at the cemetery. Mal and Cora are here with me. Cora was trying to videoconference with you so we can open it.”

“I'm not at the station,” he said. “At the moment I'm in my car. Can you hold off for a bit? If you can give me a couple of hours, I can be there at the bar and open it with you.”

I didn't want to wait, but I also didn't want to screw up any evidence that might be in or on the box. Given the deadlines imposed on me in the previous letters, I didn't think a couple of hours would make much difference. And the thought of getting to see Duncan would make the waiting a little easier.

“Okay. How do you want to sneak in this time?”

“Meet me at the back alley door at five.”

“You got it. See you then.”

I disconnected the call and filled Cora and Mal in on the plan. Cora eyed the box on the table the way a starving child might eye a sandwich.

“We have to wait?” she moaned.

I nodded, sympathetic to her angst. To distract her, I filled her in on the details of the person whose grave had been closest to the tree that had held the metal box. “It looks like you might be onto something with this university connection,” I told her, and she seemed both pleased and placated for the moment. “We can kill some time by looking into this Margaret Dunford Green's background.”

“And we can work on the Middleton case,” she said. “Sandra Middleton dropped by and said she talked with Christine, Ben's lawyer. In fact, she was still upstairs in the Capone Club room when I came up here. She said Christine can put us in touch with the guy who supposedly sold Ben the gun used to kill Tiffany. The group thought it might be helpful if you had a chat with him, to see if he's telling the truth about the incident.”

“That's a great idea,” I said, nodding and thinking. “Any idea when she wants to do this?”

“I think she needs to know when you can do it, and then she'll set it up. Sandra also said that her parents are willing to talk to you if you want.”

I thought about it and shook my head. “Maybe later. I'm not sure what good it will do at this point. I'd rather use my time talking to people who are more directly involved.”

For the next half hour, we sat at the table while Cora dug up what she could find on Margaret Dunford Green. She found the obituary that Emma had consulted, and verified that Ms. Green's parents and brother had died in a plane crash. Cora dug up a news article on the crash, and it helped answer the question of why the great-aunt had opted to bury Margaret in Milwaukee. The plane carrying the rest of the Green family had burst into flames after hitting the side of a mountain. The occupants had to be identified through DNA extracted from bits of bone and teeth. There was nothing left of them to bury. It saddened me to think that this young woman, with her entire life ahead of her and a devastating past behind her, had come to such an untimely—and lonely—end. Then I realized that her life circumstances hadn't been that much different from mine. It was a sobering thought.

Cora found some of Margaret Green's social media entries, and I was happy to hear that hundreds of friends and classmates had posted on an Internet memorial page erected in her memory. As was the case with me, Margaret Green's family consisted of the people who were closest to her and a regular part of her life. She hadn't been alone, and she wouldn't be forgotten.

I hoped I would be so lucky.

Once Cora had exhausted her research on Margaret Green, the three of us headed down to the bar and up to the Capone Club room. Thanks to the upcoming holiday, the bar was doing a brisk business, but the Capone Club room was surprisingly empty. It was mid-afternoon, and the lunch crowd regulars had all returned to work. That meant that Holly and Alicia were at the bank, Tad was in his office, Sam was doing a shift with his psych internship, and Clay was off doing whatever Clay did. Frank and Joe were present; since they were retired, the two men were practically fixtures at this point, always hugging up next to the fireplace. Nick was sitting off to one side, once again sipping what looked like plain old coffee, a scowl on his face. Carter was there, too. He'd cut back significantly on his waiter job hours recently so he could focus more on his writing. And, of course, Cora was with me. She, like the Signoriello brothers, was practically a permanent fixture these days.

Also present were Sonja West, Greg Nash, and Sandra Middleton. Sandra was chatting with Carter when we walked in, while the others listened in. Whatever they were discussing was dropped as soon as we entered the room.

“Hey, Mack,” the brothers said almost simultaneously.

The others all nodded at me, except for Sandra Middleton. She turned an eager, hopeful eye on me and rose out of her chair.

“Ms. Dalton,” she said, “thank you so much for looking into my brother's case.”

“No need to thank me,” I said. “And please call me Mack.”

Sandra nodded, still staring at me with that eager expression, like a dog waiting for a treat.

“I understand you can arrange for me to meet with this Harrington fellow who supposedly sold your brother the gun that was used to kill Tiffany,” I remarked.

“Yes,” she said, but her expression turned a bit more tentative. “Well, sort of. I can tell you how to find him, but if he knows why you want to talk to him, I doubt he'll say anything. I know because I've tried. If you can figure out a way to get him talking without him thinking you're connected to the case in any way, I'm sure you can get him to tell you what happened, or at least his version of what happened.”

I frowned at this. From what Cora had said, I'd thought the man was going to be a willing participant. “Any idea how I'm supposed to broach the subject without making him suspicious?”

“He frequents a bar on the south side of the city. A friend of mine has a brother who works there, and he says John Harrington comes in there every day and talks about the trial, telling anyone who will listen how he helped crack the case.” She shook her head in disgust. “Anyway, if you were to visit that bar when he was there, sit close enough to him, and start discussing the case, I'm betting he'd jump right in.”

Her plan wasn't a bad one, sort of a surreptitious questioning of the man. It might be enough for me to tell if he was being honest about his version of the events, but getting any additional info out of him if I felt he was lying would be another story. Still, I figured there was little to lose in trying.

“Okay,” I said.

Sandra clapped her hands together. “Great! Let me make some calls and see if he's at the bar now.” With that, she got up and left the room, cell phone in hand.

Frank said, “Mack, Sonja has something to tell you.”

I looked over at the woman and smiled. “What did you find out?”

“Like I told you guys last night, my client who came in this morning used to work with Tiffany at the animal shelter. So I brought up the subject and asked her if Tiffany had ever intimated that she was having an affair. She said no, and she also said that Tiffany was a very quiet, private kind of person. But Tiffany did share a story with this woman a couple of years back, after Tiffany arrived at the shelter one day all teary-eyed and sad. When my client asked Tiffany what was wrong, Tiffany told her that her dog had died. She said her father shot the dog because it had bit Tiffany's brother Rory. Apparently, it was a bad bite, and afterward, the dog got overly protective of Tiffany, growling at anyone who came near her, including all the family members. So her father put the animal down.”

I reflected back on Rory Gallagher and his quiet, pensive demeanor, the way he had watched me from beneath hooded eyes, as if he was trying to hide something. I wondered if he had done something to the dog to make it bite him.

“Interesting story,” Mal observed, “but I don't see how it impacts our case.”

Sandra Middleton came back into the room then, her face flushed with excitement. “Harrington is at the bar now,” she told us. “Any chance you can head over there?”

I didn't see why not. I still had time to kill before Duncan would arrive. “Sure,” I said.

Sandra clapped her hands like she had before. “Great! He's easy to recognize because he always wears a Brewers baseball cap and he has a large scar on his left cheek, a half-moon-shaped thing.”

I looked at Carter and said, “Want to come along? Your book would be the perfect cover story for our conversation.”

“I'd love to.” He got up from his table, flung on his coat, and grabbed his laptop, almost as ubiquitous an item for him as it was for Cora.

I leaned over and whispered in Mal's ear. “Do you mind waiting here, in case I get hung up and can't get back in time?” I didn't elaborate on what it was I had to get back for, knowing Mal would figure it out.

“No problem,” he said.

“Thanks. And see if you can find out anything more about this dog story. Maybe Ben Middleton's lawyer can call him and ask him if Tiffany ever mentioned it.”

Mal nodded.

Sandra then told us the name of the bar. I knew it and the owner—a cranky old guy in his sixties—and realized my familiarity with the place and the man could be a problem. I said as much to Carter. “Given all the publicity I've gotten lately, if this Harrington guy figures out who I am, he might clam up.”

“Maybe the bar owner won't recognize you,” Carter said. “Do you have a knit cap of some sort that you can wear to cover your hair? It's your most distinctive feature.”

“I do, but I don't know if that will be enough.”

“Even if it's not, I don't think it will be a problem,” he said. “If this Harrington guy is as much of a publicity hound as Sandra says, he won't be able to resist puffing himself up and making himself the center of attention. I know the type well.”

I didn't know if he was right, but since I had no better plan, I shrugged my acquiescence. Carter said he would get his car and pick me up out front. After stopping long enough to tell Debra and Pete that I was heading out again and that it would be okay to let Mal into my office if he asked, I went upstairs to my apartment. There I found a blue wool scarf and a matching knit hat that sufficiently hid my hair. By the time I made it back downstairs and out the front door, Carter was waiting for me.

“Think it's good enough?” I said, patting my hat once I had settled in the car.

He smiled and nodded. “But to be safe, I'm thinking we should come up with a different name for you. If I refer to you as Mackenzie or Mack, it might clue Harrington or the bar owner in to who you are.”

I thought about it a moment, deciding that on this occasion an alternate name might be smart, since the bar owner knew me. “How about Rachel?” I said finally. “It was my mother's name.”

“Works for me,” Carter said.

The bar was twenty minutes away, and during the drive, Carter and I chatted about how we would play it once we got there. He dropped me off in front of the place, and I waited, propped up on my crutches, by the front door until he could find a parking spot and join me.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the bar after the bright snow-lit day outside. As soon as they did, I noticed two things. One, the bar was nearly empty, with only a handful of patrons besides us. The location was one that didn't have the advantage of the holiday shopper traffic. Two, I saw that Sandra Middleton was right. Harrington was easy to recognize by his ball cap and the half-moon-shaped scar on his cheek. Unfortunately, he was seated at the bar, and manning that bar was Oskar Weber, the owner. I tugged my hat down low on my forehead and kept my face down as I followed Carter in.

He made his way to a table not far from where Harrington sat, and I followed and took a chair that put my back to the bar. As I shrugged off my coat and felt along the edges of my hat to make sure my hair was securely tucked inside, Carter asked me what I wanted to drink. I decided to take a cue from the Signoriello brothers and go for an Irish coffee. I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but Carter waved the gesture away.

“Let me treat you for once,” he said.

I listened as he walked up to the bar and placed the order with Oskar.

“Coming right up.” I knew the voice belonged to Oskar, because I'd heard—and tasted—it before. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made my mouth burst with a taste like salty popcorn.

Silence followed, and it took all my willpower not to turn around to see what was happening.

Finally, I heard Oskar say, “What brings you out on a cold day like today?”

“Doing a little research,” Carter said, and I gave Oskar a mental kiss for providing us with the perfect opening. “I'm a writer, true crime stuff.”

“Oh, yeah?” Oskar said. “Good for you.”

Another brief silence followed, and I wondered why Carter wasn't offering up more information, like the fact that he was working on the Middleton case.

Then I heard a different male voice say, “What kind of true crime stuff are you working on? I know a little bit about a big one that you might be interested in.”

Judging from the fact that the voice came from directly behind me and tasted like a marshmallow, I guessed that it was Harrington who asked the question. I realized then that Carter had been smart to wait and play it cool. His judgment of Harrington was correct. The guy was a publicity hound who couldn't resist a chance to interject himself into the topic of conversation.

Before Carter could respond, Oskar scoffed a laugh and said, “Yeah, John here fancies himself as some sort of antihero. He thinks he brought down one of Milwaukee's most infamous all by himself.”

“How's that?” Carter asked.

“I'm sure you've heard of that Ben Middleton guy,” Harrington said in a self-important voice that had me envisioning him puffing out his chest. “You know, the one who offed his rich wife and tried to make like it was a carjacking?”

“Of course,” Carter said. “But that kind of story is as old as the hills. One spouse kills off another for money. I'm looking for the kind of stories that are a bit more off the beaten path or for something with a big twist.”

I wanted to turn around and give Carter a chastising look, convinced he was blowing our opportunity. Several more seconds of pensive silence ticked by while I steamed with impatience.

Then Harrington said, “What if there was a twist to the Middleton story?”

I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Carter's response. “What kind of twist?” he asked finally.

“Buy me a drink and I'll tell you,” Harrington said cagily.

I heard a little
tsk
, which I was fairly certain came from Oskar, followed by the sound of drinks being slid across the bar.

“Okay,” Carter said with a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I'll buy one for my new friend here, too.”

Oskar mumbled, “You're wasting your money.”

“Well, if nothing else, maybe I can get a plot idea for a novel out of it,” Carter said cheerfully. The sound of another drink sliding followed.

Then Oskar said, “That'll be eleven-fifty.”

I listened as Carter handed over his money, said, “Keep a fin for yourself,” and then got his change. “What's your name?” Carter asked.

“John. John Harrington.” He said his full name with a voice laced with innuendo. Clearly, he thought it would mean something to Carter.

“Well, John Harrington, why don't you come over to my table and tell me about your twist.”

Harrington needed no more encouragement. Seconds later he was settling into the chair on my right with his drink, and I got my first good look at him. He was rail thin, buggy-eyed, and had long, shaggy brown hair. His nose looked like it had been broken a time or two, and his fingernails had dirt caked beneath them. He reeked of booze. He took a big swig of his drink—the smell and the subsequent sound I heard told me it was scotch on the rocks—before setting his glass on the table. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “You look familiar,” he said, scrutinizing my face. “Do I know you?”

Before I could answer, Carter said, “This is Rachel, my assistant.” He set my Irish coffee down in front of me and put his own drink, a screwdriver, in front of his seat. Then he slid his laptop across the table toward me. “She keeps my notes.” Carter was good at distracting Harrington, because he quickly followed this with, “So tell me your story, Mr. John Harrington.”

I opened the laptop, turned it on, and launched the word processing software that was on it as Harrington said, “Don't you recognize my name?”

Carter squinted and slowly shook his head. “Can't say that I do.”

“I was the key witness in that Middleton case. I testified to the fact that I was the guy who sold Ben Middleton the gun he used.”

Carter gave him a skeptical look. “Can't say I followed that case all that closely,” he said. “But if what you're telling me is true, why aren't you in jail?”