Shots in the Dark (26 page)

I hit the button for the umpteenth time, and the machine started clanging away, triggering a metallic taste in my mouth. “What happened?” I said, staring at the screen. Strobes were flashing, highlighting card faces, cartoonish wolves and eagles, and lines that crisscrossed the screen.

“You just won two hundred bucks, that's what happened,” Mal said with a smile.

The woman on my left glowered at my machine and muttered a cussword under her breath. Then she hit a button, took the paper receipt the machine spat out, and got up. “Come on, Fred,” she said to the man beside her. “These machines are a waste of time.” The man cashed out, as well, and followed her.

Mal quickly moved in on the machines, settled in the farthest seat, and patted the one next to me. “Cash out and switch over here,” he said.

“Cash out?” I stared at the machine's flashing screen. Mal stood and hit a button in front of me. A paper receipt spat out.

“Grab that and move over here to play. Slide it in the same slot where you put the twenty earlier.”

I did what he said, and as soon as I was settled in front of the new machine, I slid my paper receipt in the appropriate slot and started hitting the
MAX BET
button Mal had shown me before. Mal, in the meantime, checked out the hidden space on the left side of my machine and on both sides of the one he sat at. I knew from the look on his face that he'd struck out. Now I was the one cursing under my breath. I'd hoped my little win on the other machine was a sign of good luck for us. Maybe it was, and I'd used it all up.

Undaunted, Mal got up, turned to the woman on his left, and started chatting with her about how the machines were rigged and what terrible luck he had. As he talked, his hand ran around the back side of the flange on her machine. When I saw his hand stop near the top, I held my breath. A moment later he turned to me, his right hand cupped around something. He slid it into his pocket.

“Let's get out of here while you're ahead,” he said. “Cash out.”

I pushed the button I had watched him push when he cashed me out on the first machine, and a moment later the machine spat out a paper receipt. I glanced at it, shocked to see that it was for just over 230 dollars. I handed it to Mal and then followed him to a cash machine so we could redeem it. Ten minutes later I was standing out in front of the casino, propped on my crutches, waiting for Mal to bring the car around to pick me up. My curiosity was killing me. When he finally pulled up, I nearly leapt into the front seat and almost hit Mal with my crutches as I tried to toss them behind me.

“Show me,” I said.

He stuck his hand in his pocket, and when he pulled it out and opened it, I saw a small black envelope—the size a hotel keycard would come in—sitting in his palm. Its flap was sealed, and stuck to the outside of it was a small piece of Velcro.

“It was stuck to another piece of Velcro, which was glued to the back side of the front flange on the machine,” he said. “I tried to peel that other piece off, thinking it might contain some DNA evidence, but it must have been applied using some sort of industrial-strength glue, rather than the adhesive these things typically come with, because it wouldn't budge.”

I eyed the tiny envelope and then gave Mal a questioning look.

He smiled at me but shook his head. “We should take it back to your place to open it.” He ran his thumb over the top surface of it and added, “Though I can tell you there's a key in it.”

“A key? You mean like a house key or a car key?”

“Smaller than that. We'll get a better idea once we open it.” He raised his hand closer to his face and scrutinized the tiny envelope. “Smart,” he said. “I was thinking that a black envelope this small might be hard to find and therefore easy to trace. But the envelope was white to start with. It looks like it's been colored over with a felt-tipped marker.”

“Maybe not so smart,” I said, and Mal shot me a curious look. “Let's get back to the bar and open this thing. Then I'll tell you why you're wrong.”

I wasn't going to wait on Duncan this time and told Mal so as we drove back to the bar.

“Give him a call. See if he's free. If not, we'll go ahead and open it,” Mal said.

I took out my cell phone and dialed Duncan's number. It rang several times, and just when I thought the call was going to flip over to voice mail, he finally answered.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded tired, and the chocolate taste I got was both fizzy from hearing it over the phone and diluted, like weak chocolate milk.

“Duncan, it's Mack. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but that's okay. I need to get up and moving, anyway. What's up?”

“Mal and I found another clue at the casino.” I described it for him—what it looked like, how we'd found it, and what Mal thought it contained. “I don't want to wait to open it. We were wondering if you could meet us somewhere.”

“I can spare an hour, give or take,” he said. “Give me fifteen minutes to get showered, and another fifteen to get to the bar. Can you have a cup of coffee ready for me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I'll be at the back door, as usual. Three knocks, a pause, and then one knock.”

“Got it.”

I disconnected the call, glanced at my watch, and calculated the time of his arrival. It was nearly two thirty, which should put him at the bar around three, and I filled Mal in on the plan.

“What? No packages?” Debra said when we arrived back at the bar ten minutes later.

Thinking fast, I said, “I'm having some stuff wrapped. I have to go pick it up later.”

The place was crowded with mid-afternoon, last-minute holiday shoppers. Every table in the main area was full, and shopping bags littered the floor.

“You guys managing okay?” I asked.

“We're doing fine,” Debra said. “It got a little crazy an hour or so ago, but we got through it.”

Mal and I headed for my office, where I took off my coat and gloves. Mal did the same. Then I walked over and turned off the alarm to the back door. By now, this process was old hat to us.

“Tell me what I said that was wrong,” Mal said.

“Let's wait until Duncan gets here, so I can tell you both at the same time. I'm going to go upstairs and get a pot of coffee brewing. Would you mind staying down here and manning the door? I'll leave the apartment entrance unlocked.”

He nodded, and I headed upstairs. I started a pot of coffee brewing and then went into the bathroom to fix myself up a little. I was putting on a touch of mascara when I heard my cell phone ring. I reached into my pocket, fearing it would be Duncan calling to say he couldn't make it, after all, but I never found out who the caller was. As I pulled the phone from my pocket, it fell out of my hand and landed in the toilet.

I reached down and grabbed it, uttering a cussword or two. It had stopped ringing. As I looked at it, I realized it had stopped doing everything. The face of it was dark. I tried turning it on, but nothing happened.

I heard male voices coming from beyond the bathroom door, so I grabbed a hand towel, wrapped the phone in it, gave my hands a quick washing, and headed out to greet them. I headed straight for Duncan, who was wearing the same bulky parka and knit cap pulled down low, but this time he had a scarf draped over his shoulders. I gave him a kiss. It wasn't a long one—with Mal standing there watching the two of us, that would have been too awkward—but it was enough to get my innards sparking.

“We can do this quick, and I can leave so you two can have some time alone,” Mal said.

Duncan smiled at him. “Thanks, pal. I'd take you up on it if I could, but I can't stay long. I have to get back to the station.” He looked at me then and added, “I can come back later tonight, though.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“It might be kind of late. I'll call you when I know.”

That reminded me of what I held in my hand. “You might not be able to. I just dropped my phone in the toilet, and now it's not working. Did either of you just try to call me?”

They both shook their heads.

Duncan said, “Stick it in a bowl with some uncooked rice and leave it there for a while. The rice will suck the moisture out of it. It might work after that, or it might not.”

“In the meantime, I have a burner phone you can borrow,” Mal said. “I keep a couple in my car all the time. They come in handy with the undercover work.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That would be helpful.”

“I'll run back to my car and grab it now, while you put that one on rice.”

As Mal headed downstairs, Duncan slipped off his coat and hat, while I went into my kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards in search of some rice. I found some and dumped the bag into a bowl. It was just enough for me to fit my phone in and cover it. As I scooped the rice over the phone, Duncan came up behind me, snaked an arm around my waist, and pulled me back against him.

“No beard or mustache disguise today?” I said.

“I didn't have time to put them on. I wrapped the scarf around my face instead. Besides, they itch and make it hard to do this.” I felt his breath warm on my ear, then his lips soft on my neck.

I stopped what I was doing, closed my eyes, and leaned back against him, relishing the sensations, both real and synesthetic.

“We ought to do this more often, Mack,” he whispered against my neck.

“Wish we could.” I abandoned the rice, pivoted on my good foot, threw my arms over his shoulders, and gave him the kiss I'd wanted to give him earlier.

By the time we heard Mal returning with the burner phone, both of our faces were flushed. So was most of my body. Reluctantly, I released my hold on Duncan, grabbed my crutches from where they were propped up against the kitchen counter, and headed for the dining room. “The coffee is ready,” I said over my shoulder. “Help yourself.”

I met Mal in the dining room, and he showed me the basics of using the phone. Duncan joined us after a couple of minutes, and both he and Mal entered the number for the burner phone into their own phones. As they were doing so, I thought about who might have been calling when I dropped the phone in the toilet. Had it been Melanie Smithson? I wondered if I should try to call her again, to give her a different cell number, but then I thought that might make her suspicious. Besides, I no longer had her number. I'd tossed the cocktail napkin Clay had written it on, burying it deep in the bar trash so no one else could find it. I knew Cora could get it for me again, and made a mental note to ask her later. Besides, if Melanie was trying to hide from someone, chances were she had ditched the cell I'd called her on earlier and replaced it with a new burner phone.

Once we had the swapping of phone numbers done, we turned our attention to the envelope. It sat on the dining-room table, looking innocuous, but I could feel the weight of it bearing down on me, nonetheless. What ill-conceived surprises did the letter writer have in store for me now?

We went through the usual routine of donning gloves and fetching a clean piece of white paper to place on the table. Then Duncan picked up the tiny envelope and studied it.

“It's been colored black with something,” he said.

“Felt marker?” Mal suggested.

“That's where you were wrong,” I told him. “That's the same black ink that was used to write the letters. I can tell from the way it smells.”

Mal gave me a grudging nod.

“Think that means anything?” Duncan asked.

“That it came from the letter writer,” I said. “Other than that . . .” I shrugged.

He slid the point of the letter opener under one edge of the flap and then sliced the envelope open. He squeezed the edges of it together and peered inside. Then he tipped it over above the paper.

A tiny silver key fell out. Duncan once again looked inside the envelope, this time reaching in with two fingers. He pulled out a small piece of folded paper, and holding it over the paper on the table, he unfolded it.

Like two of the letters before it, this one contained no cryptic words, no prophetic warnings. All that was written on it, in tiny calligraphic letters, was a date and a time:
December 26, 4:00 p.m.

Duncan held it up for me. “Anything about it jump out at you?”

I examined the individual letters carefully. They were consistent in color, and the ink used to create them smelled the same as the other inks had, but there was an underlying additional smell, too. I shifted my focus to the paper. At first glance it appeared to be the same ubiquitous white printer paper used for all the other letters, but then I sensed something different: the texture and the color had both been altered slightly.

“The paper is off,” I said. “I think it might have been sprayed with or soaked in something, like that previous letter we got.” I wiggled my fingers in a “give it to me” gesture, and Duncan handed it over. I held it up closer to my face and breathed in through my nose. I heard the deep bass notes of a cello and recognized the smell instantly. “It's beer,” I said. “I can't tell you what brand of beer, but I'm certain this paper had beer on it at one time.”

I handed the paper back to Duncan and picked up the key. “Look,” I said, showing them the side of the key that had been down on the table. The two men stared at the key, then at me with questioning looks. “You don't see it?” I said.

The two of them looked again.

Finally, Duncan said, “I'm not sure what you're seeing, Mack.”

I rubbed my gloved hand over the broad, round end of the key, the part one would hold. There was a hole at the end of it, but in the middle of that roundness there was something else, a slight rise in the surface. “There's something on here,” I said, setting the key down and pointing. “Something clear.”

Duncan bent down until he was eye level with the key. “Wow,” he said. “I'll have to take your word for it. I don't see it.”

Mal picked the key up and brought it close to his face, turning it first one way, then the other in the light overhead. “I can see a faint shine,” he said. He put the key back on the table and looked at me. “Any idea what it is?”

“I think it's nail polish,” I said. “Clear nail polish, like you'd use for a top coat. I recognize the faint smell of it and a sound like rustling taffeta.”

“Interesting,” Duncan said. “So does the polish itself mean something, or is there some sort of design drawn on the key?”

“It might be both,” I said. The nail polish made me think of our idea that the letter writer might be a woman, and that prompted the thought that had been niggling at the back of my mind since last night. “There's something else I need to tell you guys. I was talking to Tad last evening, and he happened to mention as he was leaving that he had to go shopping for some perfume for his wife, Suzanne. Want to guess what kind she wears?”

“Opium,” they said in unison.

I nodded. “I didn't put too much stock in it at first, because there must be hundreds of women who wear that perfume. But it's been nagging at me. And Tad told me Suzanne has been giving him a lot of grief about all the time he spends here at the bar with the Capone Club. She seems to feel that his association with the group could cast both him and her in a negative light. You don't suppose she would go so far as to kill people to stop him, do you?”

I waited, breath held, expecting them both to dismiss the idea immediately. But neither of them did.

“She certainly has the money to do something like that,” Duncan said, frowning. “And I've heard rumors about her, that she's a ruthless, cunning businesswoman who has no compunctions about leaving figurative bodies in her wake. It may not be a big leap from that to the literal version.”

Mal said, “We should look into her connections to the university.”

I nodded and took out my cell to call Cora and tell her to start investigating that line of thought, but then I remembered that I didn't have her number. “Can one of you call Cora and ask her to come up here? I don't know her number, and I'd like to get her to start looking into Suzanne Collier a little deeper.”

“I got it,” Duncan said, taking out his phone. “I'll try to do a little digging myself when I get back to the station, see what I can find without raising any alarms.”

Mal and I stood by, listening as Duncan placed the call and asked Cora to come up to the apartment with her laptop.

When he was done, Mal went down to the bottom of the stairs to let Cora in. I picked up the key again and studied the shiny area.

“I think there is something drawn on here with the nail polish. It doesn't cover the whole surface.” I looked over at Duncan. “You don't still have that fingerprint powder with you, do you?”

Duncan's eyes grew wide. “That's bloody brilliant!” he said. “And no, I don't. But we can make some right here.”

“Make some?” Now it was my turn to look puzzled.

“All I need is a pencil and a makeup brush. Have you got those? In fact, if you have some facial powder or powdered eye shadow, we can use that instead of the pencil.”

I went into the bathroom and brought out my makeup bag, which contained what little I used: some mascara, some facial powder, and a tube of lipstick. “Will this do?” I said, handing Duncan the powder and the brush I used to apply it.

“It will.” He took both items, then set the brush down. Then he opened the powder compact and scraped along its surface with his thumbnail until he had accumulated a small pile of fine powder in the center. After picking up the brush, he dipped it in the powder and then held it over the key. He didn't touch the brush to the key; instead, he spun the brush between his fingers, letting the powder drift down.