Shots in the Dark (6 page)

“Hey, Duncan,” I said, trying to sound chipper, though I feared I fell short.

“Hey, gorgeous. What's up? Your message said you had some news for me.”

“I do. Plus, I wanted to check in with you to see what's going on at your end of the world. I went to the Public Market this morning, and I found the person who got that last letter.”

“You did? Who was it?”

“A lady named Trudy who runs the spice shop.”

“I talked to her on Thursday. She told me she didn't get anything.”

“I think you scared her. You're a cop, and you went there in an official capacity. That can be intimidating. I tried a friendlier approach. She lied to me at first, but eventually, she admitted to receiving it. She said she didn't open the inside letter, and she swore she destroyed it the way the instructions told her to.”

“Which was?”

“She burned it in her fireplace.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I do. I could tell from her body language and her voice that she was lying to me about getting anything, but eventually, she came clean. I just wish she'd been more curious or more of a procrastinator.”

“You feel certain she disposed of it? Normal human curiosity would make most people either sneak a peek or hang on to it for a while.”

“She seemed sincere. But it got me to thinking about something. She said the envelope was delivered to her house and left on her front porch. That's the second one that went to someone's home, and the one at the Miller brewery was at the guy's place of employment. How does the letter writer know where these people live and work? They must have something in common, some connection. Either that or the letter writer has access to such information. Couldn't that be a clue?”

“Good point,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “It's something worth looking into. Any idea what the common factor might be?”

“Not yet, but give me some time to ponder it. Have you guys found any evidence related to Gary's murder that might be helpful?”

“Not much. We know the type of gun used to kill him, but we haven't been able to match the bullet to any specific weapon. The only prints we found in the car were Gary's, and we haven't come up with any other trace evidence. We looked around Gary's apartment, but nothing turned up there, either. And we also talked to his parole officer, but he said he wasn't aware of anything or anyone in Gary's life that would have set him up for this. Gary did do time, so we have to look into his prison connections to see if anything develops there, but I doubt this had anything to do with Gary personally.”

“It was very personal,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed. “Gary died because of me, because he knew me, because he worked for me, because he saved my life.”

Duncan sighed, and the sound of his breath over the phone made me see a turbulent mix of red, orange, and yellow colors. “Mack, this is not your fault. You've got to stop thinking that any of this is your fault.”

“Kind of hard to do when his death is clearly connected to this damned letter writer who's been taunting me. Why else would the killer have stuffed one of my bar napkins in his mouth? That seems like a clear message to me.”

“You and I know what that napkin likely meant, but so far the rest of the investigative team is leaning toward its presence being coincidental.”

“If that's true, then why were the detectives who were here asking my customers and employees if any of them had had an argument of any sort with Gary recently?”

“It's a standard line of questioning we'd do in any case like this, Mack. And so far they've come up with nothing. No one at the bar is under suspicion. The team's working theory at this point is that Gary probably had the napkin in his car, and the killer grabbed it and shoved it in his mouth to shut him up. But they haven't ruled out the idea that the killer was in your bar at some point and had the napkin on him. So they're looking into the possibility of a revenge killing, a payback from someone who might have been reprimanded, tossed out, or turned away when Gary was functioning in his bouncer role. You and I know that likely isn't the case, but given the circumstances, I'm willing to let the rest of the team think that for now.”

“I don't suppose you've come up with anything new on Lewis's case?”

“Unfortunately, no. Whoever is doing this knows how to cover their tracks well.”

“Perhaps that's a clue as to who it is,” I suggested. “Maybe it's someone who works with evidence or in police work.” I had to tread carefully on this topic because I had my own suspicions about Duncan's partner, Jimmy. The man didn't like me, didn't like what I did, and had made it clear he thought I was a charlatan leading Duncan astray. Plus, the letter writer's insistence that I wasn't to have any help from Duncan jibed with Jimmy's general opinion of me. But Duncan clearly trusted the guy, so rather than suggest Jimmy as a suspect, I was hoping to ease Duncan down the same path my own thoughts had followed.

“It doesn't take anyone with any day-to-day knowledge of investigative techniques and forensics these days,” Duncan said. “All you need is someone who watches all the crime shows on TV. Much of the general public is as well educated, if not better educated, on this stuff as most of us cops are.”

Not wanting to push the Jimmy idea too hard, I switched topics, though I feared my next one was just as likely to leave me discouraged. “When am I going to see you again?”

“I can't come by tonight, but tomorrow evening is looking good. Do you have any plans?”

“I have plans during the day, but the evening should be open. The Capone Club has a new case we might be looking into.”

I filled him in on Sandra's visit with the group, and when I was done, he said, “I'm not very familiar with the case, though I do remember hearing about the trial on the news. The actual crime happened before I came to town. Do you have any reason to think the guy might be innocent?”

“Nothing yet, other than his sister's conviction that he didn't do it. But I'm hoping that if I talk to Ben Middleton, it will give me a better sense.”

“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.