Murder on the Rocks (10 page)

He usually came in alone, but sometimes he came in with other young professionals
who, judging from talk I overheard or the clothing they wore, also worked at the hospital.
That was the case tonight. He arrived with two women, and all three of them were wearing
scrubs. There were no empty seats when they arrived, so Lewis bellied up to the bar
and ordered a round of beers from Gary. Then the three of them stood against the wall
waiting for a table to open up, talking and eyeing the police tape at the end of the
hall that led to the alley door. When a table finally opened up, Lewis and his lady
friends swooped in and started perusing a menu.

Normally I have Missy or Debra wait on Lewis, but because of Duncan’s objective, I
decided to do it. Lewis seemed surprised to see me, but after I went through the introduction
of Duncan, Lewis turned to me like we were old friends.

“Mack, I heard about the body in the alley,” he said. “How awful that must have been
for you, after what happened to your father.”

The two girls stared wide-eyed and expectant at me, waiting for me to dish the goods.
When I didn’t say anything, Lewis prompted me some more.

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes, unfortunately. It was Ginny Rifkin, my father’s girlfriend when he died.”

Lewis arched his brows and sat back in his chair. He looked worried for a moment and
then he said, “Wow, that can’t be a coincidence. Makes you wonder if the two murders
are connected. Did they ever figure out who shot your father?”

“No,” I said.

“I heard she was stabbed, not shot?” Lewis asked.

“I don’t know,” I lied, shooting a look at Duncan.

Lewis turned to the girls and said, “I was working the night Mack’s father was shot.
He was my patient. We tried to save him, but . . .”

The girls looked suitably impressed. I, on the other hand, wanted to knock Lewis out
of his chair. Duncan seemed to sense my discomfort and took over the conversation.

“Where did you hear that the victim was stabbed?” he asked.

Lewis took a swig of his beer before he answered, taking his time. “The cops,” he
said finally. “They hang out in the ER a lot. And they talk.”

I imagined a few of them would be getting talked to, and maybe worse, once Duncan
got ahold of them.

Duncan continued chatting with the trio, trying to determine what else they knew,
while I stood by squirming. I’m not sure if it was Lewis or the women he was with
who triggered the synesthetic reaction I had as they talked, but I kept hearing a
sound like the twang of an out-of-tune guitar. And once again it was a sound I was
certain I’d heard this morning when I found Ginny’s body.

Eventually the trio got around to placing food orders, and as Duncan and I retreated
to the kitchen, he didn’t waste any time getting down to business.

“So much for keeping the details under wraps,” he grumbled in my ear. “When I find
out who the cops were who talked, heads are going to roll.”

Since Helmut had a number of sandwich orders he was working on, I got to work building
pizzas and said nothing.

“I take it the male nurse is a regular of yours?” Duncan said, his voice low as he
watched me. We were only six feet or so from Helmut, but there was enough ambient
kitchen noise between the bubbling of the fryer and the clatter of dishes that I didn’t
think Helmut could hear.

I nodded. “He comes in two or three times a week, usually at the end of his shift.”

“He makes you uncomfortable.” It was a statement, not a question.

I gave him a wan smile. “He brings back a lot of painful memories. As I’m sure you
heard, he was on duty the night my father was shot.”

“I guess we can rule him out as a suspect in that death then,” Duncan said. “But I
sensed him tensing up when he learned who the recent victim was. Did he know Ginny?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ve never really talked to him much. I never saw the two
of them together. . . .” I trailed off, remembering my synesthetic reaction and wondering
if I should mention it. Duncan picked up on my hesitation right away.

“I sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“Promise you won’t laugh or declare me crazy?” I said after glancing back at Helmut
to be sure his attention was still occupied elsewhere.

“For now, though I reserve the right to re-judge you later.” His comment riled me
for a second, but then he winked at me.

“I kept hearing a certain sound when we were talking with Lewis and his group. It
was a grating, twangy sound, like someone plucking at an out-of-tune guitar. And I’m
pretty certain that was one of the sounds I heard this morning when I found Ginny’s
body.”

“Any idea what triggered it?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure what or who triggered it this last time. As for this
morning, there were several sounds and several smells, and a whole array of visual
things. I had such a synesthetic overload that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to figure
all of it out.”

“If that’s the case, how can you be sure the sound you heard tonight is one of the
same sounds you heard this morning?”

“It stood out to me. It was so discordant and annoying. And it stood in stark contrast
to the sound of the bells chiming.”

“And you don’t have any idea what either of them might mean?”

“I only know that whatever triggered the sounds has something to do with both Ginny’s
body and the people we’ve talked to.”

Duncan frowned, and as I put the pizzas in the oven, he stepped away from me to make
another call on his cell phone. I heard him mention Lewis’s name and when he hung
up, his grim expression said it all.

“Well, we may know Lewis had nothing to do with your father’s murder since he was
on duty at the time, but we can’t rule him out with Ginny. His name is also on her
list of clients.”

W
hen we went back out to the bar to deliver the food to Lewis’s table, I kept looking
over my shoulder, examining the faces around me. Many of them were dearly familiar,
customers I’d known for months or years, people who I considered friends or even family.
The thought that one of them might be a killer chilled me even as I denied the possibilities
in my mind. I studied each person carefully, searching for hints of guilt, or evil,
or even just subterfuge in their expressions. Several times I had synesthetic reactions
with certain people, but I couldn’t make any specific connections between these and
Ginny. Half the time I didn’t even understand what triggered them. I’ve spent so much
time trying to ignore my synesthetic responses over the years that it proved to be
a struggle for me now to try to isolate and interpret them. After describing the first
few to Duncan and watching the skepticism in his expression, I thought maybe I should
keep future ones to myself. I couldn’t help but wonder if he thought I was making
them up, manufacturing clever red herrings that were designed to cast suspicion on
anyone other than me.

As we continued our rounds, Duncan met and eventually dismissed several of my regular
customers based on alibis they provided—often unknowingly—as Duncan cleverly steered
conversations and elicited details that his men later checked out.

One person who couldn’t be dismissed and who piqued Duncan’s interest was Kevin Baldwin,
a single, thirty-something trash collector whose regular route included my bar. Kevin
was a frequent customer who liked to stop in after work, sometimes with coworkers,
but more often alone. Though he would announce to anyone who showed the slightest
interest in him that he was, “on the hunt for a good woman,” I was pretty sure Kevin
was gay. I based that assumption on the fact that he ogled men in the bar more than
women, and when he hung out by the TV with the sports types, he paid more attention
to the guys watching than he did to the games. When a woman did try to hook up with
him, it never led anywhere.

I found it amusing that Kevin worked for a garbage company because he was immaculate
when it came to his clothing and hygiene. He was a nice-looking man, a bit on the
short side, but with a decent build, his brown hair always shiny clean and perfectly
styled. When he was working he wore a jumpsuit over his clothes, but he always changed
and cleaned up before coming into the bar. Tonight’s outfit was typical: a pale green
button-down shirt and khakis with a crease in them sharp enough to cut my limes. On
this particular night Kevin was alone and he walked up to the bar and placed an order
with Billy. When it arrived he got all wide-eyed and said, “Man, I heard about that
woman they found out back. If my truck hadn’t broken down this morning, I might have
been the one who found her.”

Duncan and I were standing right behind him serving drinks to a table and Duncan’s
ears perked up immediately. He turned around and said, “What do you mean?”

Kevin looked at him and smiled. “Hey, you’re new here, aren’t you?” He gave Duncan
a quick head-to-toe assessment and smiled.

“First night,” Duncan said.

I introduced the two men to one another, using the established story for Duncan. “Kevin
is our garbageman,” I explained.

“Your sanitation engineer,” Kevin corrected with a whimsical wink. Then he got back
to the business at hand. “So about this body they found, they haven’t released an
identity yet. Do you know who it was?”

“It was Ginny Rifkin,” I told him. I watched to see if Kevin showed any recognition.
I didn’t think he’d ever met Ginny and he was a relative newcomer to the bar, only
coming in for the past few months. As far as I knew, he didn’t know my dad either.
But at the mention of Ginny’s name, he flinched almost imperceptibly.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said a little too quickly. I felt certain he was lying,
and judging from the narrow-eyed way Duncan was looking at him, I suspected he thought
so too.

Gary, still scowling, brought our drinks and practically slammed them down on my tray.
As I turned to carry them to the tables, Duncan pulled me aside and asked me for Kevin’s
full name. After I gave it to him, he got on his cell phone and had another one of
those hushed conversations with someone. When he hung up, his interest in Kevin seemed
even keener and I knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

“Our sanitation engineer is lying,” Duncan told me a few minutes later. “His name
is on Ginny’s client list, too. Did you have one of your experiences with him?”

“Nothing significant,” I said, though even if I had, I’m not sure I would have admitted
to it. “Are you going to question him?”

Duncan nodded. “Someone will. I want to keep my cover for now. People are more inclined
to open up if they don’t know I’m a cop so I think I’ll have another detective come
in here and talk to some of these people tonight while I observe the reactions.”

“You’re going to interrogate people in my bar?” I said. “That won’t be good for business.
You’ll chase my customers away.”

“It won’t be an official interrogation, just a fact-finding mission to feel people
out. If we have a reason to go beyond that, we’ll invite that person to the station
for further questioning. We’ll be as discreet as possible. The other detective will
be dressed in ordinary street clothes and he’ll talk to each suspect in an unobtrusive
way.”

The term suspect sent a small chill down my back. “Look at this place. It’s packed.
How unobtrusive can you possibly be? People will talk. And they’ll think I set them
up.”

“We’ll be subtle and do the questioning in your office to provide some privacy. It
will be strictly voluntary.”

“I don’t want you using my bar as some kind of interrogation room,” I said. “I want
my customers to feel comfortable coming here. Many of them are my friends, almost
like family. They trust me. And I don’t want to violate that trust.”

“I’m trying to do this as easily as I can,” Duncan said. “You said you needed to have
the bar open and running and I’m trying to compromise and help you out here while
also trying to solve a murder and catch a killer.” He sighed and ran a hand through
his hair. “What would you have me do, Mack?”

The threat of closing down the bar was a good one, but I still didn’t like the idea
of police interrogations going on in my bar. Then I had an idea.

“What if I question my customers? I’ll invite them into my office one at a time and
ask them what they know.”

Duncan gave me a quizzical look. “You? You don’t even know what to ask them. Or how
to do it.”

“Then tell me. Though I’m not sure you’ll have to. I think my customers will open
up to me in a way they wouldn’t to a cop. And you can be in the room with me when
I talk to them. I’ll tell them you’re my protection, or my witness, something.”

Duncan stared at me for several long seconds, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Tell
you what,” he said finally. “I’ll let you do the questioning if you agree to certain
circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“One, I need to be present at all times.”

“Can the people I talk to know you’re a detective?”

“No.” I started to object but he held up his hand. “Anything that gets said won’t
be usable as evidence.”

I considered this, and nodded. “What else?”

“I want you to share with me any of your reactions to the people we talk to.”

“My reactions?”

“You know, this special talent you have.”

“You want to know if I have any synesthetic responses?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell you now that I will. I have them all the time.”

“But I want you to interpret them.”

I sighed. He had no idea what he was asking of me. “I can try, but I’ve spent so many
years trying to ignore my reactions that I’m not sure I can. I often have no idea
what is triggering a particular reaction and sometimes I don’t even know if something
I experience is a synesthetic interpretation or something real.”

He shrugged. “Do what you can.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed, mainly because I didn’t have a choice unless
I wanted to close the place down. “Anything else?”

“Can you wait a few minutes before you start? Another detective, my partner, is due
here any minute. He has something I think you should see.”

The second detective, whose name was Jimmy Patterson, arrived ten minutes later. I
didn’t peg him for who he was until Duncan pointed him out to me. When we went to
wait on him, he was careful to treat Duncan as someone he didn’t know. They shook
hands and Jimmy ordered a plain club soda with a lime, a drink that can look alcoholic
but isn’t.

When we brought Jimmy his drink, he slid a photograph across the table toward me.
It was a picture of a pair of broken eyeglasses with a tortoiseshell frame. “Do these
look like the ones Tad wore?” he asked me in a low voice.

“They do,” I said warily. “Where did you find them?”

“In the pile of debris around Ginny’s body.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Jimmy echoed.

Duncan said, “I’d appreciate it if you could find a way to work these glasses into
your talk with Tad.”

I nodded and, resigned to my fate, I headed for Tad, who was sitting with a group
of people who were, ironically, discussing Ginny’s murder and speculating on what
evidence the cops might or might not have.

I approached Tad on the side away from the group and leaned in close to his ear, speaking
at just above a whisper so nearby patrons wouldn’t overhear. “Tad, I want to talk
to you about Ginny’s murder. Would you mind coming into my office?”

Tad looked both baffled and nervous. “Why do you want to talk to me? I don’t know
anything.”

“I’m going to talk to a lot of people, mostly to see if anyone saw anything last night,
or has any ideas or knowledge about Ginny or any of the people in her life. But I
also have information I gleaned after being questioned by the police.”

“So it will be just you and me talking?” Tad asked.

Guilt raced through me, making my back prickle. “Duncan is going to assist me and
stay the whole time as a witness and an impartial third party.”

Tad narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you think you need protection from me?” he asked.

“No, Tad. I promise you that Duncan is just along for the ride and to help keep me
in perspective. There are some things the cops told me that I want to clear up. I’m
sure it’s nothing but I need to do this for my own peace of mind.”

“Okay, fine.” He grabbed his drink from the bar and hopped off his stool.

I led the way into my office with Tad behind me and Duncan bringing up the rear. Once
inside, I settled into my chair behind the desk and told Tad to take the chair across
from me. He sat where I indicated while Duncan stood off to the side of us.

Tad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared straight at me. “Okay, I’m here,”
he said. “Ask what you want.”

“How well did you know Ginny?”

“I didn’t,” Tad said, and I winced. Tad’s voice often triggered a constant line of
floating bubbles, as if someone had an automatic bubble gun they were firing. But
when he answered my question about knowing Ginny, the bubbles began to pop and there
were spaces in the line, as if the gun had faltered. My mind was picking up something
different in Tad’s tone and I felt certain it was because he was lying.

Tad seemed to sense my hesitation and he quickly amended his answer. “I mean, I knew
who she was because I saw her here a time or two and we might have exchanged some
pleasantries, but other than that . . .” He shrugged and the bubbles became regular
again, confirming my suspicion.

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Because the cops said they have a list of Ginny Rifkin’s
clients and your name is on it. Why would that be?”

Tad shifted uncomfortably in his seat before he answered. “I’m sure she put the name
of anyone she ever met on her list. That’s what business people do. It’s all about
building up your customer base. You know how Ginny was always rooting around for new
clients whenever she came into the bar. She gave a business card to everyone she met,
and she used to leave them lying around all over the place here, even in the bathrooms.”
As he said this, the bubbles stayed regular and orderly but I noticed their shapes
were off slightly, not the perfect round orb they had been.

Duncan jumped in at this point. “I heard the cops say you had a real estate deal that
didn’t go so well. Is that true?”

I saw Tad stiffen and he shot me a look of betrayal. “I bought a piece of property
that didn’t turn out to be quite the investment I’d hoped it would be,” Tad said.
“But I’d wager half this city is upside down on one mortgage or another right now
with the real estate market being in the toilet like it is. What of it?”

“Did Ginny have anything to do with that deal?” I asked.

Tad’s muscles tensed.

“Yeah,” he snapped. “It was Ginny. She put me on to this commercial property over
near Brewer’s Hill that I eventually bought. I’d mentioned to her once that I was
looking for something that would make a good short-term investment. The property was
a small dry cleaning shop in a run-down section of town bordering on one of those
transitional neighborhoods where the yuppies start buying homes and fixing them up,
you know? Ginny said the shop was a steal of a deal because the owner had died suddenly,
leaving behind his wife, three kids, a stack of bills, and no life insurance. The
wife wanted to sell fast, pack herself and the kids up, and head for Arizona to be
near her parents. Plus Ginny had heard through some city council connection she had
that there was a developer interested in buying up everything in that area for some
upscale condo project he wanted to do. So it seemed like a good investment at the
time.”