Shots in the Dark (8 page)

“The cemetery is quite large, isn't it?” I asked.

Cora nodded. “Nearly two hundred acres just for Forest Home. I don't know how much of that comprises the Prairie Rest area.”

I frowned. “I can't imagine the letter writer expecting me to search the whole place. And since the time parameters give me until Tuesday, I think I'm supposed to meet with someone, like I have the other times. So I say we wait until Monday.”

Mal said, “The green hint could refer to a name rather than the burial type.”

“Good point,” I said, looking over at him. “Any chance you can be free on Monday to go to the cemetery with me?”

“As luck would have it, I can. The boss shuts down for two weeks between Christmas and New Year's.”

“Then it's a date,” I said with a wan smile.

“Boy, you sure know how to show a guy a good time,” he joked.

“Hey,” I said with a shrug. “At least you can't say my dates are boring.”

“There is nothing boring about you, Mackenzie Dalton,” he said with a warm smile.

Duncan cleared his throat. I suspected that for a second there, Mal had forgotten Duncan was more or less in the room with us, because he blushed and started to squirm.

Duncan said, “I'll call you tomorrow, Mack, and let you know what time I can come by.”

I got the sense he was staking his claim on me with that comment. To put his mind at ease, I said, “I'm looking forward to it.”

“See you then. You guys take care.” And with that, Duncan was gone.

With nothing we could do about the letter until Monday, I shifted my focus back to Sandra Middleton and her brother's case. “Did you guys have any time to look over the information Sandra gave us?” I asked Cora.

“A little,” she said. “But I left soon after we started looking at it, because of your text.”

“Then I think we should head back to the group and see if they have come up with anything.”

Mal and Cora both nodded, and after placing the letter and its contents in plastic Baggies for safekeeping, I put them in my father's office so they'd be out of sight. I doubted we'd find any prints or trace evidence on any of it; the letter writer had been much too careful so far. But I felt it was better to be safe than sorry.

Once the evidence was taken care of, we headed down to the bar. I told Cora she should go on ahead to the Capone Club room, and that Mal and I would be there shortly to join her and the others. Cora eyed me warily—I suspected she knew I was up to something— but she didn't ask any questions. As soon as she was gone, I hobbled my way around the bar to where Clay Sanders was sitting, Mal close on my heels. As I approached, Clay looked at me, smiled, and gave me an acknowledging nod before then looking away. Clearly, he didn't think I was coming over to him but rather merely walking by. As I sidled up beside him at the bar, he turned and gave me a quizzical look.

“Mr. Sanders,” I said, balancing on my crutches, “I wonder if I might have a chat with you.”

Clay looked wary and a little guilty, not surprising given that he had written several articles about me in the local paper that weren't exactly flattering. “May I ask what about?”

“I have a proposition for you.” I gave him an enigmatic smile, hoping his natural curiosity would overcome any misgivings or doubts he might have about my invitation. “It's one I think you'll like,” I added, further baiting the offer.

Clay narrowed his eyes at me, weighing my offer. Then he shrugged and said, “Where would you like to chat?”

“My office?”

“Lead the way.”

Mal had been standing right behind me, and he moved aside so I could turn and head back the way I'd come. Clay eyed Mal with curiosity but said nothing to him. Once inside my office, I gestured toward the couch, and Clay went to it and sat. Mal remained standing by the door, a frown on his face. I settled in the chair on the back side of my desk, the one that visitors or employees typically used. I didn't want the barrier of my desk to come between me and Clay.

“Mr. Sanders, I've noticed you've been hanging out in my bar a lot lately.”

“Yeah. So?” he said with a shrug of indifference. “I like your food. And it
is
a public establishment.”

“True,” I said with a smile. “My food is better than most bar fare. But I know you hang here for reasons other than that. You're a reporter. You're here because you're hoping to find more stories.”

Clay said nothing, his expression impassive. This disappointed me. I was hoping he would deny my statement so I could see how his voice changed, assuming it did. So I decided to prompt him a bit more. “What?” I said with a questioning look. “No denials?”

“You're right,” Clay said. “I'm a reporter, and I'm always looking for a new angle or a new story. But that's not the only reason I come here.”

No change in his voice with this comment, I noticed.

“I really do like your food.”

Again, no change.

“And frankly, you're old news,” he concluded.

With this statement, I got what I wanted. Up until now, Clay's voice had tasted like a ripe, juicy orange. But as soon as he told me I was old news, the taste turned tartly bitter, as if I had bitten into the peel.

“That last statement was a lie,” I said to him. “I know this because the taste of your voice changed.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mal shift nervously where he was standing by the door. “Mack, are you sure you—”

I shushed him by holding up a hand.

Clay looked from me to Mal and back at me again, his expression curious but wary. “The
taste
of my voice changed?” he said.

I nodded. “You see, I have a disorder known as synesthesia. It's a situation where one's senses get cross-wired, mixed up in a way. And my senses are . . . well . . . hypersensitive. I can often see, smell, taste, hear, or feel things others can't. And I experience each sense in multiple ways. For instance, everything I see triggers a smell or a physical sensation of some sort. Smells have an accompanying sound or physical sensation. Many of these secondary senses are minimal and brief, but they're there. Sounds always trigger tastes or visual manifestations, and voices, at least men's voices, always have a taste to them. When people lie, it changes their voice in subtle ways that most people can't detect. But I can because the taste of the voice changes. Do you get what I'm saying?”

Clay nodded, but he looked skeptical.

“I see you have your doubts. Perhaps a small test would help convince you?”

Now he looked intrigued. “What sort of test?”

I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers together, my hands in my lap. “I'd like you to make a series of statements to me. Let's start with three of them at a time. Say three things to me, but have only one of them be a lie, an untruth, if you like. And then I will tell you which of the statements are true and which one is false.”

“Okay,” Clay said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands fisted, chin on his hands. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “My name isn't really Clay Sanders. I'm thirty-six years old. I have two brothers and three sisters.”

I looked back at him and smiled. “You're not playing fair, Mr. Sanders. I specifically said that two statements should be true and only one should be false. Everything you just told me is a lie.”

Clay's eyes narrowed at me, and he cocked his head to the side.

“Therefore,” I continued, “your name really is Clay Sanders, you are not thirty-six years old, and while I can't tell you how many siblings you have, you don't have two brothers and three sisters.”

“Okay,” Clay said with a grudging smile. “Let's try it again.” He paused, looking as if he was thinking. “Give me a second,” he said. “I'm trying to think of things you wouldn't have been able to find out about me by doing some basic research.”

“Take your time,” I said, my smile still in place.

He did. Whether he was stalling to try to unnerve me or because he really was thinking hard, I couldn't tell. After a minute or two of silence, he said, “I hate the taste of mushrooms. When I was a kid, I saw a dead body and never told anyone about it. The name of my first dog was Sunny.”

“Interesting,” I said with an arch of my brows. “You'll have to tell me the story about the body one of these days. And I promise never to put any mushrooms in your food. What
was
the name of your first dog?”

Clay leaned back into the couch, one hand in front of his mouth, as if to hold back whatever he was about to say next. After a few seconds he said, “Okay. I'll admit that's a cute little parlor trick.”

“It's not a parlor trick,” I told him. “I can do it with almost anyone.”

“Almost?”

“There have been some rare exceptions.”

Clay digested this, nodding slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Is this what you were doing for the cops? Acting as some sort of human lie detector?”

“In part, yes. But all my senses are affected. I can do other things.”

“Other things?”

My smile switched to a cautionary one. “Not so fast,” I said. “I'm sharing this information with you because I have a deal for you. I'm trusting you to keep my . . . abilities to yourself for now.”

“And why should I?”

“Because I think they can be of some use to you.”

Again, Clay narrowed his eyes and studied me, contemplating. “How?”

“You are aware of the group that has formed here at my bar called the Capone Club?”

Clay nodded.

“The group has an interest in solving crimes that have already been adjudicated or are unsolved. That was how we got involved with the Gruber-Hermann case.”

“You got involved with that one because the brother of one of the victims is a member of this club,” Clay said.

“True,” I acknowledged. “And I'm glad to see you do your homework. However, there are other cases on our radar, one in particular that we are looking at now. The group is interested in pursuing this case, and it may or may not turn out to be a case in which someone was wrongly convicted. But either way, we are going to look into it. And it occurs to me that you are a valuable resource we can take advantage of.”

“You want me to help your group investigate old crimes?” His skepticism came through loud and clear, and with the tiniest hint of that bitterness. The flavor change made me think he was interested, despite his tone of indifference.

“Yes, I do. And in exchange for your help, you will get an exclusive on anything we uncover.”

Clay steepled his hands and tapped at his chin. “You're saying I'd be a member of this Capone Club and privy to any information they dig up?”

I nodded. “And you'll also be privy to some more of my secrets. But those can't be printed.”

“You're referring to this disorder you have?”

“More or less. There are other things, too, but first you'll need to earn my trust.”

Clay seemed amused by this. “Anything to do with the recent death of your employee?”

“I'm not going to discuss that with you, at least not yet. I can't. It's an ongoing investigation, and I don't want to color it or interfere with it by giving you any information I might have.”

That was it. I had successfully dangled all the bait I had, and now it was up to Clay to bite on it. I hoped I wasn't making a big mistake by bringing him in. I figured the others would be wary enough of him, at least in the beginning, to keep him on a leash. But I would have to be extra careful around him, watching everything I did and everything I said.

Clay glanced over at Mal with a scrutinizing look. “I know about you,” he said.

Mal and I exchanged looks.

“I know you're a cop,” Clay went on, eliminating my hope that he had meant something else. “You're working undercover. My guess is that you're investigating that construction company boss you work for.”

“How did you—” I began.

Clay looked back at me. “I
am
an investigative reporter, and I'm damned good at my job. I got interested in your boy here when you started parading him around as your new boyfriend, and I did a little digging. I thought he looked familiar, and sure enough, when I looked at some old case photos from a drug bust that happened a few months back, I saw your guy here lurking in the background. The hair was longer, and he looked like a druggie, but I could tell the face was the same.”

Mal sighed loudly and raked a hand through his hair. “Mr. Sanders, you can't—”

This time it was Clay's turn to do the shushing. He held up a hand and said, “Your secret is safe with me. I'm all in favor of beating crime, and in general, I support the police.”

“I never would have guessed that based on the articles you've written so far,” I said. “You were a bit harsh with the department.”

“I was just rattling their cage a little, curious to see what might fall out.”

“What fell out was Duncan Albright. You nearly cost him his job.”

Clay shook his head. “He did that to himself by dragging you into it.”

“He didn't drag me. I went willingly. And your stories didn't make
my
life any easier, either.”

He waved away my complaint. “You have to admit, my stories have been good for your business.”

He had me there. What he didn't know was that his stories had also been the impetus that brought me to the attention of the letter writer. And I wasn't about to tell him. Not yet, anyway.

“Look, I'm interested in your proposal,” Clay said, leaning forward again, arms on his thighs, hands interlaced. “But I can't let you dictate what I do or don't write about.”

I shook my head. “My disorder and I are off the table for now. And Mal's identity has to remain a secret.”

“If I wanted to out your new boyfriend here, I would have done it already,” Clay grumbled.

“What about my part in it?”

Clay chewed on his lip, thinking. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “I'll give you a week to show me what you and the group can do. Consider it a freebie. I won't write about any of it unless you come up with something juicy. But if this Middleton case you're looking at doesn't pan out, then all bets are off.”

The shock hit me too fast, and I knew it showed on my face. “How did you know that was the case?” I asked him. “I haven't mentioned it.”

“I sat in on the entire trial. And I recognized his sister when she came into the bar earlier and headed upstairs to your group. It didn't take a rocket scientist to make the connection.” He paused and flashed a guileful smile. “Plus, I happen to know the Gallagher family. I went to Penn State with one of Tiffany Gallagher's brothers.”

I realized how crafty and clever Clay Sanders was, how he had manipulated me by withholding information, even as I'd thought I was manipulating him. My reservations resurfaced, and once again I wondered if I was making a huge mistake. But his revelation about his connection to the Gallagher family convinced me to continue.