Murder on the Rocks (18 page)

“What makes you think Gary did it?”

“Nothing direct, but it turns out he has a prison record that he didn’t tell me about,
and his cellmate was Ginny Rifkin’s biological son!”

“Ginny has a son?”

“Had. He was killed a few months ago.”

“Wow,” Riley said, looking thoughtful. “I can see why you’re spooked. But I’m sure
the cops will find Gary before too long.”

“I wish I was sure,” I said, settling onto the stool beside him. “To be honest, I
think the cops are looking as closely at me as they are Gary. I can’t provide any
sort of alibi for when Ginny was killed and the cops know I had some animosity toward
her and felt like she was stealing my father away from me. And not only did they find
her body right behind my bar, now they’ve found the knife that killed her. It’s from
my set, the one in the bar kitchen. It has my prints on it. I’m getting scared, Riley.
I think I might get arrested.”

“Mack, don’t get all worked up over this,” he said, patting my hand. “Any evidence
the cops may have found has to be circumstantial, right? Because you didn’t do this.”

“Yeah, but we both know that innocent people get convicted all the time, many of them
on far less evidence than they have on me right now.”

“I know you didn’t do this and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure everyone
else knows it, too. I’ve got your back, Mack, no matter what happens. I promised your
father I’d look out for you if anything ever happened to him, and I intend to keep
that promise. If I have to bail you out of jail, I will. If I have to hire a fancy
private investigator to prove your innocence, I will. And if I need to find you a
good defense lawyer, I’ll do that, too.”

At that point, Joe Signoriello walked up behind Riley, slapped him on the back, and
said, “Hey, Quinn, want to join our little detecting group? Seems most of us are on
the suspect list so we’re working to gather what clues and ideas we can, to see if
we can solve this before the cops do. Want to play along?”

“Sure,” Riley said with a smile. “What have you figured out so far?”

I left to go and help Helmut prepare Riley’s food. By the time I finished, Riley had
joined the growing group at the end of the bar, where he was knee-deep in speculations
and conspiracy theories.

The entire bar had turned into a mini
CSI
show, littered with cocktail napkins that bore lists of motives, weapons, potential
evidence, and drawings of the alley out back, which most people assumed was the murder
scene. I knew that wasn’t the case since Duncan had told me otherwise, but I kept
that knowledge to myself. It wasn’t easy, however. Since the body dump site was still
cordoned off and guarded by police, I was presumed by those who didn’t know Duncan’s
true identity to be the only person present who had any knowledge of the scene where
Ginny’s body was found. As a result I kept fielding questions I wasn’t sure I should
be answering, and I suppose what happened next was inevitable.

“Hey, Mack,” Cora said at one point. “We heard that Ginny was stabbed to death. Do
you think she was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley? Because I heard there
wasn’t much blood at the scene.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked, hoping to dodge an actual answer.

Though Duncan was at the other end of the bar at the time, I saw him shift his attention
our way with Cora’s question. The guy had creepy, Spidey-sense hearing and he quickly
moved down to my end of the bar just in time to see Cora wink and say, “I have connections.”
There was a pause and an odd lull in the conversations going on around us as Duncan
and Cora locked gazes. Finally Cora smiled and turned her attention back to me. “So
was there a lot of blood or not?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her with an apologetic shrug. “The body was hidden beneath
some cardboard so I only saw a small portion of it.”

“You didn’t lift it up to take a peek?” asked Frank Signoriello, sounding skeptical.
“How did you even know she was dead?”

At this point, Duncan turned to look at me. He raised his eyebrows, looking faintly
amused, and said, “Yeah, how
did
you know she was dead?”

“Well . . . I . . . um . . . I just knew. The part of the body I could see looked
so lifeless.”

“How much of it did you actually see?” Tad asked.

Duncan leaned against the back bar area and folded his arms, seeming to enjoy my discomfort
and waiting to see how I was going to answer.

“The only thing I saw clearly was one of her arms,” I told them.

“All you saw was an arm and you didn’t lift the cardboard?” Frank said, his tone rife
with skepticism. “Come on, Mack. You’re holding out on us.”

“Yeah, I think Frank’s right,” Kevin chimed in. “You had to have looked beneath the
cardboard.”

“I did lift it a little,” I admitted. “But I really couldn’t see things all that clearly.”

“Why not?” Kevin asked. By now everyone at the bar was cued in to our conversation—as
were several of the nearby tables—and everyone leaned forward eagerly, awaiting my
reply.

“Yeah, why not?” Cora echoed. “It was broad daylight and the alley gets a reasonable
amount of sunlight even early in the morning.”

I chewed my lip, unsure how to answer. I struggled to think of something I could say
that would satisfy them and help the conversation move forward, but nothing came to
mind. Nothing, that is, except the truth. With a sigh I figured what the hell, and
decided to out myself.

“I couldn’t see clearly because I have a condition that sometimes interferes with
my ability to experience things. It gets worse when I’m stressed, which I obviously
was.” I paused, waiting for the inevitable questions I knew were coming.

“What kind of condition?” Frank asked. “Like a cataract or something?”

“No, it’s a neurological disorder that interferes with my senses, all of them, not
just my vision. My senses are cross-wired. I may hear smells, or see sounds, or taste
certain tactile sensations, stuff like that.”

“Wow,” Cora said. “So is it kind of like those media players on computers that have
visual imagery that changes with the tone and tempo of the music?”

“Something like that,” I said, “but much more involved.”

“Interesting,” Tad said, looking intrigued. “So if I clap my hands really loud like
this”—he then did so loudly enough that half of us jumped and everyone in the bar
turned to look—“that makes you see or smell something?”

“Actually, it made me taste something,” I said. I licked my lips. “It triggered a
burst of sour flavor in my mouth, kind of like biting into a lemon.”

“That’s whacked,” Kevin said.

“Apparently you’re not the only one who thinks so,” I told him. “When I was younger,
there was a time when the doctors thought I might be schizophrenic, or worse. I almost
ended up in an institution because of it.”

This tidbit of information had an interesting effect on several people. Cora looked
sympathetic. Kevin leaned back in his seat, as if to distance himself from my craziness.
Tad looked even more intrigued. And the Signoriello brothers exchanged a look that
suggested I might not be the sane, innocent person they once thought me to be.

“It’s called synesthesia,” I told them. “It comes in various forms and lots of people
have some variation of it, though mine seems to be a unique type, probably because
it was brought on by trauma, or a lack of oxygen, or some other problem that occurred
before I was born when my mother was in a coma. It’s not a big deal. In fact, there
are some relatively famous people who are known to be synesthetes. A lot of musicians
have it, people like Billy Joel, Tori Amos, Duke Ellington, and Itzhak Perlman. It
has something to do with the way music appears to them, with different sounds and
tones having certain colors, shapes, or textures.”

There were a few seconds of silence while my audience digested this information, then
three people tossed out questions all at once.

“So you couldn’t see Ginny’s body when you found it because you were seeing other
things?” Tad asked.

“Your mother was in a coma?” Kevin said.

“What did you see instead of Ginny’s body?” Cora asked.

I held up my hands in a halt gesture and shook my head. “Enough for now. I need to
start getting ready for the dinner crowd.” I turned and headed for the kitchen, leaving
the group behind. Though I half expected Duncan to follow me, he didn’t. He hung back
and listened to the conversations that followed. I couldn’t hear any of what was being
said, but I’d been in this position often enough over the years to have a pretty good
idea. Cora and the Signoriellos, all of whom knew about my history with my mother,
would fill in Kevin and anyone else who was in the dark about that part of my past.
Then they would all start speculating on how severe my little condition really was.
Included in that discussion would be some questions and suggestions about what I might
have experienced when I found Ginny’s body, and then someone in the group would mention
some quirk I have and in a eureka moment would attribute it and perhaps some other
behaviors to my condition. At some point someone would make a joke about it. I had
my money on Cora for this, because I knew the woman had a humorous but skewed way
of looking at things, though Kevin was a close second.

The discussion would eventually shift back to the murder, but I knew the effects of
my revelation would linger for days to come. No doubt word would spread among the
customers and staff, though a couple of my employees already knew about it. Over the
next few days I would catch people looking at me strangely as they wondered just how
brain damaged I really was and what sorts of experiences I might be having whenever
I was talking or listening to them. Eventually most people would simply shrug it off
as an odd quirk and some would even forget I had it. All of this I knew because I’d
experienced it before. It was why I kept my condition to myself most of the time.
What I didn’t know was whether or not anyone would start to wonder if there was any
connection between the experiences I had with Ginny’s body and the experiences I had
with them. Might I become a target of the killer because of it, assuming I wasn’t
one already?

T
he thought of being a target for whoever killed Ginny made me shiver and I shoved
the idea out of my mind, focusing instead on helping Helmut with the food prep for
the dinner rush. I started chopping up more fresh veggies but my thoughts during this
mindless task eventually wandered back to Ginny and her murder. I thought about Cora’s
question and realized that as far as I knew, the actual murder scene had yet to be
found. So why had Ginny’s body been left where it was? Surely it had to have been
a risk for someone to move it. Had dumping her body behind my bar been intended as
a message to me? Or was it simple coincidence?

Like Duncan, I had a hard time believing it was coincidence, mainly because of my
personal connection to the woman and the fact that my father was murdered in that
same alley ten months ago.

Helmut, being his usual taciturn self, eyed me curiously a few times but said nothing.
His watchfulness made me edgy so a few minutes before five I said, “Why don’t you
call it a day, Helmut. Go home to your wife. I got this.���

He tossed a handful of cheese atop a pizza and said, “Are you sure? I know you are
short with Gary gone. Inga doesn’t like me working at all, much less extra, but I
can ask her if I can work later tonight if you want.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, Helmut, but that won’t be necessary. Pete said he could
work over tonight and he wants the money. We’ll be fine. Honest. Go home.”

He shrugged and made a dismissive face. “Whatever,” he said, shoving the pizza into
the oven. He set the timer, took off his apron, and went to the sink to wash his hands.
When he was done he walked over to me and said, “Anything you need, you call, okay?”

“Thanks, Helmut. I will.”

He looked like he was about to say something else, but in the end he just sighed,
turned away, and walked out of the kitchen.

Debra poked her head in a moment later with several orders for fries and one for a
BLT. I had dropped the fries into the oil and was working on the sandwich when Duncan
came into the kitchen looking concerned.

“You’ve abandoned your post?” I said. “Who’s watching the bar?”

“Pete’s back there for now,” he said. “I told him I needed to take a short break so
I could talk to you.”

“Well, here I am, so talk.”

“We tracked down that insurance agent the Signoriello brothers mentioned and he confirmed
putting together a life insurance policy for Ginny.”

“I’m guessing Mike Levy was the beneficiary,” I said, finishing off the sandwich and
placing it on a plate.

“He was initially,” Duncan said. “But Ginny named someone else after Levy was killed.”

The fryer dinged and I walked over and took the basket out, letting it hang to drain.
I turned back to look at Duncan, curious. “So who inherits her money now?” I asked,
wondering if the answer might provide a clue to who her killer was. “Is it someone
we know?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, tell me, for heaven’s sake. Don’t keep me in suspense.” I grabbed the basket
of fries and walked over to dump them into their paper-lined baskets. “Who gets Ginny’s
money?” I repeated as I started to shake the fries loose.

Duncan’s answer made me drop fries all over the counter and the floor.

“Interestingly enough,” he said, “you do.”

I stood there gaping at Duncan until the hot burn of a waffle fry that had landed
on top of my foot made itself known. Shaking the fry off, I set the basket down and
said, “Is this some kind of joke?”

Duncan shook his head, looking sad. “No, it’s not a joke. I got a call from Jimmy
just a bit ago and he sent me a photo of the actual document.” He took out his cell
phone, fingered the screen for a few seconds, and then held it out for me to see.

I squinted at the picture. There it was, in black and white, the page of an insurance
policy with my name typed in the line for beneficiary. I stared at it for a long time
and then looked up at Duncan. “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said. “Why would
Ginny leave any money to me?”

“As far as we can tell, she didn’t have any other family besides the son she gave
up for adoption. With both him and your father gone, I’m guessing she figured you
were the closest thing to family she had left.”

His news rocked me to my core. All the mean, jealous thoughts I’d had about Ginny
when she came into my dad’s life now seemed so wrong, so uncharitable, so petty, and
selfish. I felt horrible and ashamed for the way I’d treated her, the animosity I’d
shown her, especially after my father died. For one insane instant, I felt angry that
she had left me this money, thinking surely she had done it as a spiteful, I’ll-show-you
sort of thing, but that was gone in a flash, replaced by remorse and sadness.

“I can’t believe she did something like that,” I mumbled. Then it hit me and I turned
to look at Duncan. “Oh,” I said. “Now I understand why you’re looking at me that way.”

Duncan didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting and staring at me.

“How much money are we talking?”

“The life insurance policy is for two-hundred and fifty thousand. If there’s a will
somewhere and you’re the beneficiary of that, too, it could be much more.”

For a few delirious seconds I let myself imagine what it would be like to have that
sort of money. It would mean no more living day to day, wondering if I’d have enough
to pay the mortgage, the utilities, my employees, my beer vendors. It would mean I
could do some long overdue improvements to the bar. It would mean I could afford to
hire someone to take my place, giving me more time off during the week to have some
semblance of a life.

But those pie-in-the-sky ideas disappeared like popped balloons when the real implications
of Ginny’s generosity registered. I gave Duncan a wan smile. “So now you not only
have me in possession of the murder weapon, which has my prints on it, and the body
behind my home and place of business, and a history of jealousy and animosity between
me and the victim, you now also have a stellar motive for me.”

“So it would seem.” He was still staring at me with that weird expression, which I
now determined to be a mix of suspicion and disappointment. It made me want to cry.

“Do you think I did this?”

It was a long time before he answered. “I honestly don’t know what I think. There
is definitely evidence pointing to you. A lot of it is circumstantial, but it’s still
strong evidence. You have the magic triad: means, motive, and opportunity.”

His words frightened me and I stepped back away from him, swallowing hard.

“But so do several other people,” he went on, “and that means reasonable doubt. Based
on the blood evidence where the body was found, Ginny was killed elsewhere and dumped
in the alley. The fact that we didn’t find any blood evidence in your apartment or
the bar makes it unlikely she was killed here, nor could we find a site out in the
alley. Ginny wasn’t a huge woman, but she wasn’t tiny either. I’ve seen you haul around
those crates of beer like they weighed nothing so I know you’re strong, but I have
doubts about whether you’re strong enough to have hauled Ginny’s body into the alley
. . . or stupid enough for that matter. If you did kill her, you would have dumped
the body as far from here as possible.

“Plus there’s the issue of your father. I don’t believe you had anything to do with
his death, and I can’t shake the feeling that his murder and Ginny’s are somehow connected.
It’s simply too coincidental and I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

“So you’re not going to arrest me now?” I asked him, bracing myself for the answer.

He cocked his head to one side and gave me a tired, half-smile. “No, I’m not going
to arrest you now. The evidence isn’t convincing enough. But I can’t promise you someone
else won’t.”

“Someone else?” I said, confused. “I thought you were in charge of this case. Doesn’t
that mean you get to make those decisions?”

“It’s always a team effort with these things, Mack. Jimmy is my partner and as such
he’s as much in charge of this investigation as I am. I took the lead initially but
I’ve been handing more and more of the decision making off to Jimmy.”

“Why?”

Duncan sighed and flashed me a wan smile. “Because I like you, Mack. I like you a
lot. And I don’t want that fact to cloud my judgment.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I turned away and went about redoing the waffle
fries. After tossing fresh fries into the basket and dropping it in the oil, I set
the timer.

“There’s something I want you to do,” Duncan said as I grabbed a broom and started
sweeping up the spilled fries. “Come find me when you can spare about ten minutes.”
With that he headed back out front to the main bar area.

I finished the food orders and took them to Debra so she could deliver them. Duncan
was at the far end of the bar, chatting with Cora and the others, his back to me.
My cell phone rang and when I took it out of my pocket I saw that it was Zach calling.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s your day going?”

“Hell on wheels, and I mean that literally,” he said. “I swear half the city is trying
to get fall-down drunk today and succeeding, and it’s not much fun when you have a
raving, bloody drunk fighting you in the back of an ambulance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault. It’s just the way this job goes sometimes. How are things
there at Murder Central?”

“Busy. The place has been hopping all day. And it’s like a giant crime lab here with
everyone discussing, analyzing, and dissecting Ginny’s murder.”

“Have the cops been there?”

“Heck, yeah, they’ve been in and out of here all day long, but mostly just for food
and drink. And this morning we had a TV crew staked out in front of the bar. It’s
getting crazy.” I debated telling him about the knife and the insurance thing, but
decided to hold off. Those were things I wanted to say face to face, so I could gauge
his reaction. It’s not every day a guy discovers there is strong evidence indicating
his girlfriend might be a cold-blooded killer.

“I’m just going to have to find a way to strike it rich so you and I can retire and
travel the world together,” Zach said. “I’ll stop by for a bite to eat when I get
off at seven and we can start plotting out our plan for great riches.”

I winced at that and then smiled at the irony of the comment on the heels of Duncan’s
most recent revelation. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

I disconnected the call, stuck the phone back in my pocket, and stood there looking
around the room and thinking about what Zach had said. I loved my bar and had no desire
to leave it, but I had to admit that a little more time off would be nice. I didn’t
have much of a social life beyond these walls. I’d always believed there was one special
someone out there for me, and that somehow, somewhere, fate would bring the two of
us together.

And then a month or so ago, Debra suggested that fate had done just that with Zach,
that my life’s love was there under my nose, but I was too preoccupied with running
the bar and hanging on to some movie romance version of love to realize it.

“Shouldn’t there be some kind of spark?” I’d asked her. “Some sort of big moment when
everything clicks together and I realize he’s the one for me?”

“That gushy love stuff is usually just your hormones talking,” Debra said. “It wears
off. What matters in the long run is how much friendship and caring the two of you
have between you. And you two seem to have that. The guy obviously cares about you,
Mack. Why else would he be hanging around here so patiently, waiting for what little
alone time the two of you manage to get together? Have you kissed him yet?”

After recovering from the shock of her intrusive question, I shook my head.

“Then how the heck would you know if the spark is there? You need to give it a chance.”

I took Debra’s advice and opened myself up more to Zach. We went on a couple of dates
and kissed several times. Eventually we progressed to heavy petting and while it was
enjoyable, I didn’t feel the fireworks I’d always imagined. The relationship hadn’t
moved on from there yet and I wondered if Debra was right. Were my expectations set
too high?

I again considered Zach’s scenario, and while retirement didn’t seem like something
on my near horizon, the travel part sounded like fun. I closed my eyes and imagined
the places we could go. A montage of images flitted through my mind . . . the Eiffel
Tower, the Egyptian Pyramids, London’s Tower Bridge, the ruins of the Acropolis....

And then I sighed wearily because, oddly enough, the two people I saw in my little
mini movie were me and Duncan.

And then: “Are you sleeping standing up?”

It was Duncan’s voice behind me. I opened my eyes and whirled around to face him,
hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. “No, just indulging in a little imaginary
R&R,” I said.

“The real thing is much better.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said. Then, hoping to steer him off that course I quickly added,
“Did you need something?”

“I’d like to try a little experiment with you if I may.”

“I need to man the kitchen.”

“Billy’s here and Pete said he was staying over late tonight to help cover the kitchen
and the bar. He can cover the food orders for you until we’re done.”

I arched my eyebrows at him. “Sounds dicey.”

“It might be,” he said. “Come on. Follow me.” He headed down the hall toward the back
of the building and stopped in front of the alleyway door. Then he pulled the crime
tape loose, undid the locks, and opened the door.