Murder with a Twist (19 page)

“It doesn't sound promising,” Cora said, tapping away on her laptop. “I'll see what I can do. Give me a name.”

I gave her Valeria Barnes's name, and then we spent a few minutes adding my reactions to Jamie Cooper into the database she was keeping for me. It wasn't a lot, and none of it seemed particularly helpful.

When we were done, Cora stared at me for a moment and then said, “Are you doing okay with all of this?”

“I guess so.” Even I could tell I didn't sound very convincing. “I think it's just going to take me a little while to get used to all this sadness and death.”

“How are things going with you and Duncan?”

“Pretty good, I think,” I said with a smile. “I was hoping we would get to spend some time together tonight, but he needs to work on the case. It was a bit of an eyeopener for me. I realize that if I hope to have a relationship with him, I'm going to have to share him with his job.”

“He pretty much has to share you with your job, too,” Cora pointed out.

“I suppose so. But I just spent all this money to expand the bar, and I set things up so I could have more free time and some semblance of a life outside the bar. And then I go and hook myself up with someone who has even less spare time than I did before I made the changes. I have this sinking feeling that I'm going to end up spending a lot of my newfound free time alone.”

“You'll never be alone, Mack,” Cora said, closing her laptop and preparing to leave the office. “You've got us. Besides, I'm a pretty good judge of men, if I do say so myself, and I'm betting Duncan Albright will find a way to spend as much time with you as he can.”

“I hope you're right, although I'm afraid that most of that time will be spent helping him investigate cases. And I don't know if I want a relationship that revolves around so much death and despair.”

Cora was at the door to my office and had her hand on the knob, ready to leave. She turned to me and said, “If I recall correctly, the death and despair found you before Duncan did, when your father and Ginny were both murdered. In fact, it was that very death and despair that brought him to you. It was fate.”

With that she left the office, leaving me alone with my somber thoughts. I couldn't deny that I was enjoying my relationship with Duncan, but on some level it bothered me. For one, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that it was a relationship of convenience for him, that my ability to help him solve these cases had a lot to do with his interest in me. I realized that my life prior to my father's murder had been a very insular and protected one. Maybe Cora was right. Maybe everything had happened for a reason. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was fate's way of telling me it was time to step out of my shell, to be a little less safe, to take some risks with the hope of a happy outcome.

If Davey Cooper was never found—or worse yet, was found dead—I wasn't sure I could continue helping Duncan. But I also knew that until this case was resolved, whatever its outcome, I would feel obligated to help. Little Davey Cooper's picture was too firmly planted in my mind.

I
t snowed again during the night, an inch or so of light, powdery stuff that dusted the city. Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny, but the weather forecast was calling for clouds to move in later in the day, bringing with it three to five inches of lake effect snow. It was the week before Thanksgiving, and I knew this first major snowfall of the season would be welcomed by most. Unlike the snows in January and February, the snows of November and December often put people in a holiday mood.

I woke just before my alarm was set to go off at nine-thirty, and had only been up for a few minutes when my phone rang. When I saw from the caller ID that it was Duncan, hope surged that he was calling with some good news about Davey Cooper.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Duncan greeted when I answered. “I have a deal for you.”

“What's that?”

“I've got some bagels and cream cheese that I'm willing to share in exchange for some of your wonderful coffee.”

“Sounds yummy. I think we can work something out. Any news on Davey Cooper?”

“Some,” Duncan said. “I'll tell you when I see you.”

“And when will that be?”

“That depends on how long it takes you to come downstairs and let me in the door.”

“You mean you're here already?”

“I am. And it's cold out here. How long are you going to keep me waiting?”

“I'm on my way.” I disconnected the call and headed downstairs to let him in through the bar's front door. He came in along with a blast of frigid, cold air that made me shiver. As soon as I closed and locked the door, he grabbed me by one of my arms, spun me around, and gave me a very nice good-morning kiss.

When he finally released me, I laughed and said, “If you keep that up we won't have time to eat.”

“That's okay with me,” he said, his voice laced with the taste of dark chocolate. And then he led me up the stairs to my apartment.

Twenty minutes later, I said, “That was a very nice appetizer, but I still want my bagel and cream cheese.”

He laughed and said, “And I still want my coffee.”

When we were both dressed and sitting at my table, I finally broached the subject uppermost in my mind. “What's the latest on the Cooper case?”

“Well, we got lucky with the camera footage from the Target parking lot. Not only were we able to get a good look at the camper, we were also able to get a license plate number. We got a shot of the mysterious Valeria Barnes, too, but it's from too far away and it's too fuzzy to be of much use.”

“And?” I urged, spreading a thick layer of cream cheese on a garlic-encrusted bagel that smelled wonderful and made my neck feel hot and prickly. I made a mental note to have Cora add this sensation to our database, though I had my doubts as to how useful my synesthetic reaction to garlic would be. Biting into the slathered bagel turned that hot, prickly sensation into something much more satisfying, like a just-scratched itch.

“I'm afraid the license plate number was a bit of a dead end. The plates were stolen. We canvassed the bars that Jamie Cooper mentioned, and they verified his story, including the one that he was in on Friday night when Valeria ditched him. But we can't find the friend Jamie supposedly stayed with for a couple of days, because Jamie can't seem to recall a name or an address. We were able to get a sketch done up of our Ms. Barnes, however.”

He showed me the sketch, which looked like a generic late-twenties or thirty-something Hispanic woman. “It's not very specific,” I said, feeling depressed. “I know at least two women who resemble this sketch.”

“Still, it's progress,” Duncan countered, dabbing at some cream cheese at the corner of his mouth and then licking it off his finger. “It seems pretty clear to me that this Valeria woman is involved somehow. Her timely appearance in Jamie's life, all of her questions to him about Belinda and Davey and their day-to-day lives, and her unfortunately successful attempts to remain under the radar all point to someone who's complicit in this whole thing. So at least now we have a better idea of what direction to take, whereas before we were sort of floundering.”

I didn't comment, partly because it didn't sound like much progress to me, and partly because Duncan's phone rang just as he finished talking. I sat quietly, eating my bagel and watching him as he took the call, trying to guess from his facial expression if the news was good or bad. But despite my supposed abilities and my best attempts to eavesdrop, I couldn't discern if the call was even relevant to the Cooper case. Turned out it was.

“Well, this is an interesting development,” Duncan said when he disconnected the call. “We've found Valeria Barnes's camper.” He punctuated the news with a bite of bagel.

“That's great!”

“Not really,” Duncan said with a mouthful of cream cheese and bagel. I waited impatiently for him to swallow so he could continue. “The only thing that's left of it is a burned-out hull. Someone called in a fire in an abandoned lot in West Allis and by the time the fire department responded, the thing was totally engulfed.”

“Sheesh, it's like you can't catch a break with this case.”

“It seems that way, I know, but you never know when some seemingly unhelpful evidence will suddenly provide a valuable clue. We're going to air the Amber Alert again this evening and include a sketch of this Valeria woman this time. Maybe someone will recognize her. In the meantime, can I talk you into coming with me to look at what's left of the camper?”

“Why? If the thing is burned up, I don't think I'll be much help.”

“You won't know if you don't try.”

I caved to his request but with a caveat. I insisted on staying at the bar long enough to greet my morning staff and ask them to prep for opening. Duncan agreed—it wasn't like he had much choice, short of dragging me along with him—and we headed downstairs. Pete and Debra showed up minutes later and I told them I was leaving for a while. Then Duncan headed the two of us to the West Allis site where they'd found the burned-out camper.

The air outside tasted like white bread and I told Duncan the snow that was coming would be the light, fluffy stuff. He gave me an amused look but said nothing. It took us nearly twenty minutes to get to the abandoned lot where the camper was. The entire thing was cordoned off, along with fifty feet or so of ground in either direction, and there was a team of evidence techs along with some arson investigators scouring over the area and what was left of the truck and camper. Duncan made some introductions and then walked me over closer to the camper.

The stench of burnt plastic and other materials filled the air. There was a coat of white foam on top of the camper's remains and the sight of it made my hands and arms feel sticky. I had a host of other reactions to the smells, the sounds of the crew working, and the various things I looked at, but none of them offered up anything unusual or different that I thought would be of any help.

Duncan spent some time talking to the detectives and arson investigators, leaving me alone in a far corner of the taped-off area around the scene. When he came back to me, he said, “The arson boys said it looks like she used—”

“Gasoline,” I said. “I can tell from the sound. The smell of gasoline sounds like rustling leaves.”

Duncan smiled. “I'm not going to tell them you knew that. They've spent a lot of time and money perfecting their ability to examine and analyze fire scenes, only to come up with the same conclusion. Your nose could put them all out of a job.”

I shrugged. “It's not like it's very useful information,” I said. “I imagine gasoline is a pretty common thing used to set fires, and anyone can buy it at any one of dozens of gas stations.”

“At least it doesn't appear that there are any bodies in the camper or the truck,” Duncan said. “We were able to get a VIN number off the truck, but when the guys traced it, they found out that the last registered owner is an older gentleman who lives in Waukesha. He says he sold the camper a little over a month ago to a woman named Carlotta Solis. But we can't find a Carlotta Solis anywhere and the truck was never registered after the sale.”

“Do you think this Carlotta woman is Valeria Barnes?”

“Probably, but it's likely another false identity. The man who sold the truck said the woman paid in cash so he didn't ask any questions.”

“So we're still no closer to finding the kid.”

“Nope.” He paused and looked at me hopefully. “Unless you have some great revelation to share.”

I shook my head and gave him an apologetic look. His phone rang then, and when he glanced at the caller ID, he said, “It's Cora. Maybe she's found something.”

In typical Duncan fashion, he answered the call and then spent most of his time just listening. He didn't say much beyond an occasional grunt or other noise of acknowledgment. When he was done, he thanked Cora, disconnected the call, and said, “Cora went searching through some genealogy sites and found a Valeria Barnes.”

“That's great!”

“Not really. This Valeria Barnes was born in Milwaukee thirty-two years ago and she died six months later of pneumonia.”

I pondered this information for a moment. “Do you think our Valeria stole the identity of that one?”

“More than likely.”

“Bummer.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, looking disappointed. “Another dead end.”

“No pun intended, I take it?”

Duncan smiled, but there was no real humor to it. “This doesn't seem to be helping, so if you want, I'll take you back to the bar.”

“That would be great.”

Twenty minutes later, I was back home. Duncan came inside with me for a few minutes to grab a cup of coffee to go. There was a good-sized lunch crowd by the time we got back, and once again we had to field questions about any updates on the Cooper case. Unfortunately, we left the group disappointed.

I worked for a couple of hours behind the bar, and during the late afternoon the predicted snow started to fall. The crime-solving group waxed and waned. Holly and Alicia came in for lunch just after one o'clock. Sam hadn't come in at all, but Carter showed up around noon and joined Cora and the Signoriello brothers, all of whom had been parked in the bar since it opened, according to Debra. Dr. T was there, too, though she said she once again had to be at work by three. The group also had a couple of newcomers, two male students from nearby Marquette University—Rob and Allen—who said they were business majors. Everyone was trying to solve today's riddle, which came from Frank and Joe Signoriello. And it was literally that—a riddle.

I wasn't in the mood for games—little Davey Cooper had consumed all my thoughts and interest—so I wasn't going to get involved. But when the Signoriello brothers urged me to play and told me that the answer to the riddle had a tie-in with the Cooper case, my interest was piqued. Besides, the brothers were so excited over their contribution to the group, I didn't have the heart to snub them.

“It's Tuesday, which means it's Vandalism Day,” Joe said.

“That means Bad Attitudes are half price,” I said. “Who wants one?”

The Signoriellos took me up on the offer, as did Carter, Rob, and Allen. Dr. T, Alicia, and Holly all opted for a virgin version of the drink, which was made using coconut-flavored coffee syrup, some rum flavoring mixed with a little simple syrup, and then equal portions of ginger ale and pineapple juice, topped off with a touch of cloves in place of the spiced rum.

Cora, who seemed distracted by something she was doing on her laptop, had her usual glass of Chardonnay.

When everyone had their drinks and food, Joe said, “In honor of Vandalism Day, we came up with a bit of graffiti in the form of a riddle. In order to solve the case and find the perpetrator, or at least get a lead on him, you'll have to solve the riddle.”

“Listen carefully,” Frank said. “Five hundred begins it, five hundred ends it, five in the middle is seen. First of all figures and the first of all letters take up their stations between. Join all together, and you bring before you the name of an eminent king.”

The group got busy with Allen writing on a napkin, and they started by jotting down the number five hundred twice with the number five in the middle: 5005500.

“Is it a phone number?” Allen asked.

The Signoriello brothers, both of whom were looking smug, shook their heads in unison.

“You have to add the rest of the riddle in,” Carter said. Then he wrote down the numbers on a different napkin. “The first of all figures is one, right?” he said.

“What about zero?” Rob posed.

“Hmm, good point,” Carter said. He then wrote down 50050500 and the group stared at it for a minute or so without anyone offering up a guess.

“If the fives were ones, I'd think it was some kind of binary code,” Allen said.

“We still need to add in the rest of the riddle,” Carter reminded the group. “The first of all letters is the letter
A
.” A new napkin appeared and this time he wrote down two lines of figures. The first one was 50050A500 and the second one was 50051A500.

Once again the group stared at the figures in silence, occasionally turning the napkin around and staring at the answer sideways and upside down. I did so as well and told the group, “The colors are all wrong.” They all looked at me as if I'd said the sky was pink, so I tried to explain. “Numbers and letters all have colors when I see them, and these don't work. The letter is blue, but the numbers are red and yellow.”

I could tell from the looks I was getting that the entire group was confused by my comment. Allen and Rob probably thought I was off my rocker totally, since they were new to the bar and didn't know about my synesthesia. I shrugged and said, “Welcome to my world.”