Murder with a Twist (17 page)

“Another suspect present at the dinner party is a single woman named Christa who paints landscapes in oils,” Tad went on. “The police learn she was having an affair with Harvey up until a week ago when he reportedly dumped her. This happened very publicly in a local restaurant, and Christa vowed in front of several people that she would make Harvey pay. When asked where she was at the time the shot was heard, she says she was in the bathroom that is located just off the foyer, but no one can verify that.

“Another attendee and suspect is a single, thirty-something gentleman named Paul, a part-time mechanical engineer, who minored in chemistry. He puts his knowledge to use in his art by creating metal sculptures. He says he was alone in the kitchen at the time of the shot, refilling both his glass and Christa's with wine. At first, Paul doesn't appear to have any motive, but the cops later catch him and Patricia sharing a very intimate moment that gives credence to the rumor about Patricia having an affair. Realizing Paul might want Harvey out of the way so he and Patricia can be together, the cops add him to the suspect list.

“Next we have Harvey's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Dona, from a previous marriage, who was in the house at the time of the incident but who swears she was in her bedroom watching TV. The cops learn that she recently had a big argument with her father about money, a fight that resulted in her father cutting her off from her usual allowance. The daughter is dating Freddie, a man in his early thirties who was recently discharged from the military where he was an expert marksman. He is currently unemployed, and he is also the basis of the argument Dona had with her father, since she was using her allowance to support Freddie.

“Finally, we have Freddie, who was in the house when the police got there, but who swears he must have entered the house after the gunshot because he never heard it. None of the other suspects can recall seeing Freddie come in or head upstairs to Dona's bedroom, which is where he was found when the police arrived. Freddie says Dona called him on his cell to tell him that the front door was unlocked and that her father and stepmother were both busy elsewhere, so to just come on in and head upstairs. Freddie swears that's what he did.”

Tad set down the papers he was holding, removed his glasses, and looked out at the group. “That's it, folks. You have seven potential suspects. Now figure out who killed Harvey and how it was done.”

N
ot surprisingly, Carter was the first one to start putting forth questions and scenarios. “Is it possible that the sound of the shot wasn't the actual shot? Could it have been a recording and the actual shot was fired before the guests arrived?”

“Interesting idea,” Tad said. “But even if that was true, how did the killer then get Harvey inside his study and lock the door and all the windows from the inside without getting trapped in there his- or herself? There is no key access to the lock from the other side of the door.”

“Hmm, I don't know,” Carter said, frowning and studying his notes some more.

“What about heat vents or air ducts?” Billy asked. He had been eavesdropping on the story while he was making drinks. “Could the bullet have been fired that way somehow? Like from the daughter's bedroom?”

“Another interesting idea,” Tad said. “But then, how could the person firing the gun have aimed?”

“Was the daughter's bedroom located above the study, with a shared vent between the two, one in the bedroom floor and one in the study ceiling?” Billy posed.

“Good idea, but no,” Tad told him.

“What about an air duct in the walls that was big enough for someone to have fit into?” Billy tried, not yet willing to give up on his theory.

Tad shook his head, making Billy frown. “Nope. Anyone else?”

The group pondered the situation for another ten minutes or so, sharing notes about the individual suspects. Joe, Frank, Holly, Billy, and Carter all liked a different suspect for different reasons, and I watched Sam watch them with an inquisitive expression. I wondered if he was analyzing them in his mind, trying to decipher what psychological aspect or quirk led each of them to the suspect they picked.

I was stumped and offered nothing in the way of assistance. Eventually, I got up and started helping out around the bar, occasionally coming by the group to check on their progress.

Over the next couple of hours, they debated and discussed, posing different theories and then shooting them down. The discussion pulled in several other customers, some of whom were new to me and to the bar, others who were semiregulars. Among the semiregulars was Dr. Karen Tannenbaum, an ER doctor who worked at a nearby hospital, and who had heard about the Capone Club both via the news and through some of her coworkers who came in to the bar regularly. She had stopped by after her shifts several times to join the group, stating that she liked the puzzle aspect of the game because it was much like approaching a patient with mysterious symptoms and trying to come up with a viable diagnosis. During one of her first visits, she explained to us how med school teaches its students an old adage that when you hear the sound of hoof beats, think of horses, not zebras.

“It means we should first look for the more common, obvious diseases and disorders that fit the symptoms as opposed to the rarer, more exotic ones,” she had explained. “But I like looking for zebras. That's why I like this group. It gives me a chance to find them.” She had been coming in several times a week since then, and her knowledge of medicine and the human body had proven key in figuring out solutions to some of the cases.

As the night wore on, the group struggled to come up with a solution. The Signoriello brothers eventually got tired and went home, after soliciting a promise from the others that they would be told the solution the next time they came in. The brothers were quickly replaced by other customers who were listening in and wanted to participate. But, despite the changing and growing crowd, it was looking as if this one wasn't going to be solved. That's when Dr. Tannenbaum—or Dr. T, as she had become known to the group—threw up her hands and jokingly said, “This case is too complicated. I need a consult.”

Carter said, “Dr. T, that's brilliant! Two heads are better than one. So far, we've been looking at this more from the perspective of there being one culprit, but what if it was more than one? Maybe two or more of the suspects put their heads and talents together and figured out a way to get the deed done.”

“You're on the right track,” Tad said.

“So who would logically be paired up?” Sam asked.

“The daughter and her boyfriend,” Dr. T offered.

“Or Patricia and Paul,” Holly added.

Tad, most likely realizing the hour was late and the bar would be closing soon, said, “If you want, I'll tell you who the culprits were and then you guys can figure out how they did it.”

“No, don't do that yet,” Carter said. “Let's think this through. In addition to the
who
, we need to figure out the
how
. And I think the how rules out the daughter and her boyfriend. I can't see any way they could have done it. Yes, Freddie is an expert marksman, but there was no way for him to see his target. In fact,” he said, his voice growing more excited, “no one could see the target. Therefore, the culprits had to leave part of this up to chance.”

“How so?” Sam asked, looking confused, as did all the others at the table.

“Think about it,” Carter said. “Where was Harvey most likely to be while he was locked away in his study?”

“At his desk,” I said.

“Right!” Carter said. “And the culprits had to hope that was the case.”

I was seeing the light now. “And assuming he was seated behind his desk, the shot had to have come from directly in front of him,” I said.

“The fireplace,” Holly offered, and the others at the table all nodded and murmured their agreement.

Carter continued, “Patricia's artistic talent was sculpting . . . wood and clay. What is the fireplace full of?”

“Wood,” came a chorus of voices around the table.

“And Paul was also a sculptor,” Carter said.

“With metal,” Holly said with a frown. She looked back at her notes for a few seconds and then her face lit up. “But he was also a mechanical engineer!” she added excitedly.

“Yes!” Carter agreed. The excitement around the table became palpable, and for me that meant quite literally. “I think I have it figured out,” Carter said. “Patricia and Paul put their heads and their talents together. Patricia cored out part of the center of a log, using wood that is slow burning. They then placed a bullet inside the resultant tunnel, with the tapered end pointing out. Using Paul's engineering skills, they calculated how to aim their special log so that the bullet would fire in the right trajectory to hit Harvey. They would have had to lay the fire ahead of time, which Patricia had told the police that she did, and they might have stacked the wood in a special way to create the right type of burn on the altered log. But once Harvey lit the fire and the bullet was heated enough, it would have fired.”

“You got it!” Tad said.

“Bravo!” Cora said, clapping her hands.

“Well done,” I said to Carter. “For winning tonight's game, you get a drink and your meal of choice from my menu for free. But since we're closing in about ten minutes, I'll let you have it the next time you come in, okay?”

“Works for me,” Carter said. “Free beer and pizza tomorrow night.”

With that, the crowd began to disperse as everyone headed home. My employees and I began the clean-up work and by a little after three, the place was locked up for the night and I was upstairs preparing to go to bed. When I went to brush my teeth, I got all fumble fingered and dropped my toothbrush into the toilet. Cursing under my breath, I fished it out, tossed it, and washed my hands. Fortunately, I had a spare, one I had bought the last time I traveled, intending to take it with me. But I had forgotten it and it had been sitting in a drawer in the bathroom ever since. As I took the new toothbrush out and opened it, I remembered the trip I'd bought it for, a bartenders' convention that had been held in Boston. The night I returned from that trip was the night my father was murdered.

I held the toothbrush a moment, feeling a tightening in my throat as I flashed back to that night and the horror of finding my father shot and dying in the alley behind the bar. The pain was still relatively fresh, and I made a mental effort to push the memories aside, shoving them into a deep, dark corner of my mind where I could lock them away. It was a trick I'd learned over the ten months since his death, my way of getting through the day—or night—without breaking down.

I focused on the fate of Davey Cooper instead, giving myself something else to think about. As I tossed the wrapper from the toothbrush into the trash, I realized my throat still had that odd tight feeling. And something in my mind clicked. I raised the toothbrush up closer to my face, sniffed, and the tight sensation increased. Just to be sure, I opened the drawer I had taken it from and tossed it back in there. As soon as I closed the drawer, the tight sensation dissipated. I opened the drawer and picked up the toothbrush again, and as soon as I did, that tight sensation returned.

At first I wasn't sure what significance my little test had, but then I remembered Duncan's remarks from earlier and a thought jelled in my mind. Excited, I went to the phone and dialed Duncan's number.

D
uncan's voice was all sleepy and sexy when he answered and I felt both guilty for waking him and disappointed that he wasn't by my side.

“Duncan, it's Mack.”

“What's wrong? Are you okay?” His voice had quickly become more alert.

“I'm fine, but I had a bit of an epiphany just now about the Cooper case.” I then told him about my experiment with the toothbrush. He listened in silence and I tried to imagine what his expression was as I relayed my tale. I concluded by saying, “I'm fairly certain that the tightness in my throat was a reaction to the smell of the brand-new toothbrush, maybe the plastic it comes in or something used to make it. When I think back to other times I've bought a new one, I can remember having that same tightening sensation. It's one of those reactions that was subtle enough and seemed meaningless enough that I basically ignored it all those times. But I had the same tightening thing happen when we were looking at Davey Cooper's toothbrush.”

Either Duncan was more tired than I realized or I hadn't clued him in well enough to where my thoughts had led me. “So Davey's toothbrush was new. What of it?”

“There was no package for a toothbrush in the trash anywhere,” I said. “And I remember you saying that the toothbrush would be a good source of DNA. Even
I
know that from watching crime shows on TV from time to time. I think it's safe to assume that whoever took Davey might have realized that, too. So they took his old toothbrush and replaced it with a new, unused one so there wouldn't be any DNA to test in case anyone wanted to match it against a child.”

“But there was DNA on the toothbrush,” Duncan said, and for a moment, my hopes were dashed. Then I had another epiphany.

“How can you be sure that the DNA on that brush is Davey's?”

My question was met with silence and I could tell Duncan was thinking through the ramifications. I took advantage of the moment to extend my theory. “And that hairbrush that was there by the sink, it had one short brown hair in it . . . just one. Don't you think that's odd? The assumption, of course, is that it's Davey's hair, since Belinda's was blond. But what if it was placed there knowing that anyone investigating his disappearance would make that assumption?”

“Interesting,” Duncan said, and I could hear sounds that told me he was now out of bed and moving around. “We did collect both the hair and the toothbrush. And you're right. Normally we would have assumed any DNA we could extract would be Davey's.”

“How can you know for sure if you don't have him to get a sample from?”

“We can't match it to him directly, but we could do a mitochondrial DNA comparison, and, given what you've just told me, I think I'll get the lab on it right away.”

“What will that tell you?”

“Mitochondrial DNA is found outside the nucleus of a cell and it's DNA that comes solely from the mother. So we can determine if any DNA we find is Davey's by matching it to Belinda's DNA.” He paused, and sighed. “This is very helpful, Mack. Nice work.”

“Thanks.”

“Now try to get some rest. I'll call you in the morning.”

I mumbled some agreement to this directive, knowing that sleep wasn't going to come easily. And I was right. It was nearly five in the morning before I finally drifted off, and then my sleep was plagued with images of that little boy, crying and hollering in terror for his mommy while some vague human shape carried him away. I had the same dream several times and each time it woke me just as Davey was being carried out the door of his house. And each time I awoke, I had a foul taste in my mouth. I was too sleepy to make the connection the first few times, but eventually I recognized the taste as the same one that had come to me when I was walking through the Cooper house.

I was excited and eager to tell Duncan about it, but when he called me a little before ten, I soon learned that he had bigger news.

“We dug up some information on Jamie Cooper.” Duncan sounded as tired as I felt. “We found an old DUI arrest from five years ago and a woman by the name of Peggy Smith posted Jamie's bail in cash. She was working as an attorney at the time but there's no record of her on file as an attorney for the past four years. We're trying to find her, but it's a common name and, aside from the DUI, we haven't been able to establish any other connections between her and either Jamie or Belinda.

“I also had the lab expedite the mitochondrial DNA comparison between Belinda Cooper and the hair we found in the brush at her house. I don't have a full report yet, but they were able to tell me enough to show that you were absolutely right, Mack. Either Davey Cooper isn't Belinda's natural child or someone substituted a hair in the brush to mislead us.”

“What about the toothbrush?”

“It's still being processed. We'll be able to get a full profile from that sample, but it takes longer. I hope to have something in the next day or so.”

“It sounds like you're up against someone who is smarter than the average criminal,” I said, thinking Duncan must have been up most of the night if he had the DNA info already. “That's kind of scary.”

“Yeah, and it also confirms the theory that taking the kid was the primary goal here. I don't know if killing Belinda was part of the original plan or not, but clearly whoever did this put some serious thought into it. Fortunately, I have a secret weapon they don't know about.”

“What's that?”

Duncan chuckled. “You, silly. You're my secret weapon.”

While his words made me feel good, my feelings on the matter remained mixed. There was a part of me that knew I couldn't turn my back on someone like Davey Cooper if I was able to help in any way. But the danger—not to mention the type of people and environments—it exposed me to still left me feeling reluctant. And that made the praise a bit uncomfortable for me.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

“Not now,” he said, and, as I felt my spirits sink, I realized I was hoping he would say yes. “If we manage to track down the ex-husband or this mystery girlfriend of his, I'd like you to listen in on any interviews we do, like you did on Saturday with that group from Stratford and Weber. Or if we find any new evidence, I might want you to take a look at it. Otherwise, you're free to return to your life as a bar owner for today.”

“Gee, thanks for the permission,” I said, knowing my disappointment could be heard in my tone.

“I didn't mean it to sound that way,” Duncan said, his voice all apologetic.

“I know. I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well last night and that's left me tired and cranky this morning.”

“Don't worry, something will turn up. I'm manning the call lines and fielding any leads from those right now, and we've got officers and detectives out canvassing still. I'll stop by later to update you on things, okay? I'm going to need a cup of your marvelous coffee before too long. This cop-house stuff tastes like battery acid.”

“Do you know that because you've tasted battery acid, or is there a little bit of the synesthete in you, too?”

“Neither. I'm just exercising some poetic license. Out of curiosity, how does coffee taste to you?”

“Happy,” I told him, “assuming it's the right kind of blend. Otherwise, it might taste irritable, or angry, or indifferent, or obstinate.”

Duncan laughed. “I'm sorry I asked. Now, I'll probably be haunted by nightmares where coffee beans with deviant personalities chase me down.”

That made me laugh, too, and when I hung up a moment later, I felt better than I had before he called. By the time I dressed and headed downstairs to start prepping for the bar to open, I was in a good mood. Debra and Pete came in to help, and I enjoyed having a little time to partake in something as simple as good friends and easy conversation. No mention of death or missing children or murder had come up by the time we unlocked the doors, and I had to admit that I found the respite refreshing.

It didn't last long. Cora came in at eleven-fifteen to order lunch and she was followed a short while later by the Signoriello brothers and Carter, all of whom joined her. At noon, Holly and Alicia came in for their lunch break and pushed a table over to join the others. A few minutes after that, Dr. T came in to grab a bite to eat before she went on duty at three.

Of course, the talk of the table was the Cooper case and I was barraged with requests for new information. I didn't share any, not knowing if Duncan would want me to. The newscasts on TV kept showing that same picture of little Davey that I'd seen in the house, asking viewers to call if they had any knowledge of his whereabouts. Added to the plea was a picture of Jamie Cooper, Davey's father, and a request to call the police if anyone had any knowledge of the whereabouts of this “person of interest” in the case.

I wondered if they would try to put together a sketch of the mystery girlfriend, Valeria, and get that out to the public, too. After what Duncan had told me earlier, I got curious and switched over to a Chicago-based channel. Sure enough, the same Amber Alert was showing on that station at the top of every hour.

Since there was little in the way of new information on the case, the group decided to do another one of their own cases. In honor of Fraud Monday, it was half price for the drink of the day, a Sneaky Pete. Since Holly, Alicia, and Dr. T all had to report to work upon leaving the bar, I made them a virgin version by using a shot of chilled espresso, an ounce of simple syrup, a teaspoon of vanilla flavoring, and a few drops of maple flavoring.

Carter had a case he wanted to present, so he told it to all of us with the caveat that we pass it along as the day went on and others came into the bar. We agreed and he started his tale.

“For this one we're going back to the sixties . . . the 1860s that is. It's August of 1863, the early days of the Gold Rush, and one day, this prospector comes walking into a saloon in Arizona. His face, arms, neck, and hands are deeply tanned and his hair is sun bleached nearly white. He claims he has just struck it rich and found the mother lode. He tells the others he's been out in the desert looking for gold and went out with a burro laden with barrels of water and some satchels packed with hardtack and jerky. After about two months, he found a cave whose walls were filled with veins of gold. But he didn't have the necessary equipment to mine it so he chipped out a few surface nuggets with his hammer and knife, and then decided to head back to town. But, by then, his food and water were nearly gone. With his water rations running low, he had to quit sharing it with the burro, so it died a few days later. He tells the men in the saloon how he had to eat some of the meat from the burro to survive, and when his water ran out, he managed to get enough liquid to keep going by cutting open some barrel cacti and squeezing the moisture out of the inside pulp by twisting it inside his bandana. He thought he was a goner, he tells them, but he finally managed to make it back to town.

“To celebrate, he booked himself a hotel room, took a much-needed bath, and then visited the local barber shop. It was a challenge, he says, because no one wanted to feed him or house him looking the way he did when he first got to town, all filthy and smelly, with a big bushy beard and hair grown well below his collar. ‘But I convinced them when I showed them these,' he says, and then he takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it, and drops two small gold nuggets onto the bar. He tells the others, ‘I cashed one nugget in already—the biggest one—to pay for my room and all, and these may not look like much, but that vein I found has enough gold in it to make twenty men filthy rich. Problem is, it will require some blasting and hauling work to get the rest loose, and I'm flat broke. All I have left for money is these gold nuggets right here. So I'm willing to share my good fortune with anyone who wants a part of it, because I can't get the gold out alone. And, believe me, there's plenty to go around. Would any of you good fellows be interested in a stake?' ”

Carter paused to take a sip of his drink and I looked around the table at the others. He had their undivided attention and had he paused much longer, I'm sure there would have been a loud protest.

“So that's the guy's story,” Carter continued. “After he is done with it, several of the men in the saloon walk over and examine the nuggets the prospector has dropped onto the bar. One of the men suggests they might be fool's gold, but another fellow, one who knows how to tell real gold from the fake stuff, assures them the nuggets are real. With that assurance, several men take money out in preparation for buying a stake in the prospector's mine. But the barmaid, who happens to be the bartender's wife, tells them to put their money away because it's obvious the prospector is lying. How does she know?”

With that, Carter leaned back in his chair and took another swig from his drink, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Dr. T was the first person to venture a guess. “Was the guy who said the gold was real in on it with the prospector?”

“Nope,” Carter said. “No consults this time, Dr. T. The prospector is alone.”

No one else said anything for a minute or so, and then Holly snapped her fingers and said, “I got it! You said his face was tanned . . . the whole thing?”

Carter smiled and nodded.

“Then clearly the man was lying. If he'd been out in the desert for months and had to shave when he got to town, the lower part of his face that was covered by the beard wouldn't have been tanned.”

“Excellent!” Carter said.

“Just in time for me to head back to work,” Holly said, beaming.

“Good work, Holly,” I said. “Since you've already had and paid for your lunch, the next time you come in, you can have a meal on the house.”

“I'll be back tonight after work,” she said. “I want to know what's going on with that poor little boy.”