Murder with a Twist (20 page)

There was some more discussion about the figures, and guesses were put forth that they represented an address of some type, or a shipping container, or an identification number of some sort. The Signoriello brothers promptly shot each proposed solution down.

I was about to give up and go back to working the bar when I remembered Joe saying that the answer had a tie-in with the Cooper case. That's when it hit me. In my mind, the numbers changed and the colors suddenly worked. “I got it!” I said. Not wanting to spoil it for the rest of the group, I walked over and whispered my answer in Joe's ear.

Joe gave me a respectful look and said, “She figured it out.”

There was a chorus of moans from the others. “I'm not going to tell you,” I said. “I'll let the rest of you figure it out so someone can win a free meal.”

“Can you at least give us a hint?” Holly said.

I looked at the brothers and they shrugged in unison. “Okay, here's a clue. Think about who came up with this riddle and where they're from.”

There were several seconds of silence, and then Carter said, “You guys are Italian, right?”

The brothers nodded.

More silence followed as the group tried to figure out how the brothers' ethnicity tied into it—everyone except Cora, who was still occupied by whatever she was doing on her computer. Then Allen snapped his fingers and said, “I got it. The numbers are Roman numerals.”

As soon as he said this, the group grabbed another napkin and started interpreting the riddle using this idea. It took some discussion to agree on what the Roman numeral for five hundred was because some in the group thought it was a
C
, and others thought it was an
M
or an
L
. Eventually, they all agreed on
D
, and after a few seconds of rearranging things, they came up with the answer: DAVID.

Since Allen was the one who figured out the hint, I awarded him a free meal. Everyone congratulated the brothers on coming up with such a clever riddle, and it did my heart good to see them both basking in the praise.

That was when Cora finally looked up from whatever she was doing and said, “I have something. I need to call Duncan right away.”

I
led Cora, carrying her laptop, into my office and we used the bar phone to call Duncan. I was dying to ask Cora what it was she had found, but I held back, figuring I'd get clued in when she told Duncan.

After a brief greeting, she said, “I found the death certificate for Valeria Barnes and it listed Milwaukee Memorial as the hospital where she was born and where she died. That got me to thinking that whoever used her identity might have had access to her medical records. So I started searching for other people who had died at that same hospital at a very young age and then I started researching the names. Some of them were too common to be of much use, but I remembered you saying that Valeria looked and sounded Hispanic, so I focused on any names that sounded like they were of Mexican or Spanish origin and I found something interesting. Several names of babies and children who died young during the seventies and eighties came up as names with current IDs. And they didn't exist anywhere that I could find up until the past two or three years, when they suddenly appeared in utility billing records, welfare applications, and with DMV.”

She paused and listened for a minute or two, and then said, “Do you really want me to answer that, Duncan? We've been down this road before. You know that what I do isn't one hundred percent legal, so it might be better if you don't know. Plausible deniability and all that, remember?”

She listened again and then said, “Yes, I realize it's an issue for you from an evidence standpoint, but at least it gives you a lead. I'm thinking that the person who created Valeria Barnes, or perhaps even Valeria herself, might have access to those old hospital and death records. It's worth a look.”

Over the next few minutes, I sat and listened as Cora read off the names she had found. When she was done, she said, “Yes, she's sitting right here across from me. Do you want to talk to her?” She then handed me the phone.

“Hi,” I said. “This is good news, isn't it?”

“It might be,” Duncan said. “Unfortunately, I can't use the information she gave me to search the hospital records. No one will give me a search warrant based on some coincidental name similarities.”

“My mother was in Milwaukee Memorial Hospital when she died,” I told him. “It's also where I was born. What if I went there and asked for a copy of her death certificate? The accident that resulted in my mother's coma was a hit and run. The driver of the car was never found, so you could even say you were investigating it as a cold case or something, couldn't you?”

“I suppose, but what good will that do?”

“It might get us into the medical records area at least,” I said. “We can get a look at how they do things and find out who has access.”

“I guess it's worth a try,” Duncan said, though he didn't sound hopeful. “And it's all we have for now, so let's do it. I can come by and pick you up in fifteen.”

“I'll be waiting.”

 

 

Milwaukee Memorial Hospital was a sprawling affair that covered several city blocks. By the time we figured out which building we had to go to for medical records, it was nearing five o'clock and Duncan was afraid they would be closed.

They weren't, but the receptionist who greeted us—who, according to her ID badge, was named Lisa—said that even though the department was open twenty-four hours a day, access for the general public did stop at five, a mere eight minutes from our arrival time.

“What is it you need?” Lisa asked.

“I want a copy of my mother's ER report,” I told her. “She died here on June eighth of 1980.”

“Nineteen-eighty?” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “That's not going to be easy to find. It's probably been sent to storage on microfiche. Can you come back tomorrow?” she asked with a pointed glance at her watch.

“I'm afraid this is a very urgent matter,” Duncan said, flashing his badge. If he hoped it would intimidate the woman, he was sorely disappointed.

“Why is an ER report from thirty-some years ago so urgent?”

Duncan started to say something, but I beat him to it. “My mother died as a result of a car accident. She was hit by someone who fled the scene and was never caught. She was pregnant with me at the time and the doctors kept her alive long enough for her to deliver me. Then they removed the life support.”

Lisa's expression finally softened, so I surged onward, not wanting to lose any momentum I had gained from my sob story. I never knew my mother, but that didn't mean I didn't grieve for her. I summoned up all the emotion I could and managed to get a few tears to well up in my eyes.

“Someone has come forth and said they know who the driver was,” I told her, letting my voice break. “So the cops are reopening the case. But if the person who hit her knows the cops are looking into it again, he or she might try to disappear. Please,” I pleaded, swiping at my eyes, “can't you help me?”

Lisa frowned, and sighed. “Even if I can find the record, I can only release it to the cops if I have a release signed by the next of kin.”

“That would be me,” I said. “My father died nearly a year ago and I'm the only one left. Maybe you heard about his death? He was shot in the alley behind the bar we owned.”

Dawning spread across her face. “You mean Mack Dalton?” she said, and I nodded. “I remember hearing about that. I used to go to his bar when I was in college. There was something in the paper about it a few weeks back, wasn't there? You finally caught the guy who did it?”

I nodded.

Lisa took one more look at my tear-stained face and her shoulders sagged. That's when I knew I had her. “Okay, I'll take a look,” she said. She shoved a clipboard at me. “Fill out this form and then sign it at the bottom. I assume you have some proof that you're next of kin?”

“I have a driver's license,” I said.

“That will do. Give me her name and date of birth and I'll go see what I can find while you fill out the form.”

I gave her the information she needed and, after instructing us to wait where we were, she disappeared through a door off to one side after swiping her badge in front of a security-card reader. As she disappeared through the door, we got a brief glimpse of a cubicle-filled back office area.

“This isn't going to get us anywhere,” Duncan grumbled. “We need to get into that back area and have a look around.”

No sooner had he said this than the door opened. I expected to see Lisa, and was about to object at how quickly she had returned, thinking she had given up on the search. But instead it was a group of four women who came out, all of them carrying coats and purses that told me they had just finished their shift and were headed home.

Both Duncan and I watched the group as they left, chattering among themselves. One person in the group in particular caught my eye: a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who looked to be around thirty years old. She looked a lot like the sketch Duncan had shown me, but then I felt certain there were dozens of other women in Milwaukee who would also fit the bill.

It wasn't her looks, per se, that had snagged my attention. As she walked by us, I heard a distinctive squeaking sound, as if someone was rubbing a finger on a piece of glass. “Did you see that woman?” I said to Duncan as soon as the group had left.

“I did.”

“She smells like bleach. It's faint, but it's there. I heard the same squeaky sound when she walked by that I heard when we were in Belinda Cooper's car.”

Duncan stared for several seconds at the door the women had just gone out. Then he said, “Come on. Let's see where she goes.”

We left the office—I could only imagine how puzzled Lisa would be when she returned to her desk and found us gone—and trailed behind the group of women through the halls and out of the hospital, eventually entering a parking garage. I cursed under my breath and said, “Dang it, we won't be able to follow her out of here because you parked several blocks away on the street.”

“Perhaps not, but we can at least get a make and model of car, and a license plate number.”

We continued trailing behind the women, up a flight of stairs in the garage. Then they began to say their good-byes and gradually split off. Finally, the dark-haired woman was walking alone. We stayed a good ways behind her and when she took her car keys out, Duncan grabbed me and pulled me in between two parked cars.

“Squat down,” he said, and I did so alongside him. We heard the sound of the woman getting into her car and shutting the door, then the sound of the engine roaring to life. In a low voice, Duncan said, “She'll have to drive right by us in order to exit the garage. Stay down until I say so.”

A moment later, the car went past us. Duncan stood then and looked from behind as it drove away. “Got it!” he said. He took out his little notebook and wrote. Then he grabbed me again and we hurried back to his car.

W
hen we got back to Duncan's car, he drove straight to the police station. I followed him inside and into an office where he sat behind one of four desks. He then woke up the computer on the desk and started typing. I pulled up a nearby vacant chair and scooted in beside him to watch.

After a few seconds he said, “Bingo!” and typed in some more information. Then he turned around and kissed me on the nose. “I love your nose,” he said.

It wasn't a declaration of love, but for now I supposed it was as close as I was going to get. I took it and smiled.

Once again he took me by the hand and led me back outside. “Come on, let's go visit Alberto Alvarez.”

“Is that who the car is registered to?”

“It is.”

We headed into the south side of Milwaukee, fighting the rush hour traffic as we went. Eventually, we pulled up in front of a red brick bungalow in the Layton Park neighborhood on Thirtieth Street. It was a quaint neighborhood with older model bungalows set close together, all of them with small but well-manicured front lawns leading out to a sidewalk.

Duncan parked behind an older model blue sedan; then he nodded toward it and said, “That's the car.”

He turned off the engine and we got out. As I looked at the house, I saw a curtain move in a front window and knew our arrival had not gone unnoticed. I followed Duncan up a sidewalk that divided the postage stamp–size front yard in two. Duncan rang the doorbell and knocked on the door.

At first I thought no one was going to answer, but just as Duncan was about to knock again, the wooden front door swung open, revealing the same woman we had seen at the hospital.

“Can I help you?” she said, looking puzzled but wearing a smile.

She had a distinct Latina accent and a scent wafted toward me that made me hear that squeaking noise again. I felt my heart begin to race, though I couldn't tell for sure if it was a reaction to some sensory input, or a physical response to the excitement I felt.

“Mrs. Alvarez? I'm Detective Albright with the Milwaukee Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.”

“What about?” Her voice remained calm and curious, but I caught the tiniest flinch of a muscle above her left eye that made me think she was nervous. I also noticed that she didn't correct Duncan when he referred to her as Mrs. Alvarez.

“What is your first name?”

She hesitated a second and I could tell she didn't want to reveal it. “Juanita,” she said finally.

“I'm looking into the abduction of a little boy named Davey Cooper. Does the name ring a bell with you?”

“No,” she said much too quickly. She seemed to realize her denial had been abrupt because she added, “I mean, I've seen the TV reports and all, so I heard of him that way, but I don't know the child.”

“Is your husband home?”

Her smile faded and she seemed to bristle at the question. She came back with one of her own. “No, he is not. Can I ask why you are here at my house?”

“I'm just following up on a lead,” Duncan said.

“And what lead is that, exactly?” Any hint of welcome and cooperation was now gone.

“I'm not at liberty to say,” Duncan responded, continuing the game of cat and mouse.

“Then neither am I,” she said, with a decidedly unfriendly smile. She started to close the door but Duncan stopped her.

“What about the name Valeria Barnes? Does that sound familiar to you at all?”

The woman paled noticeably, answering the question without intending to. “I do not have to speak to you,” she said. “I know how you cops can be. I've had too many friends who were arrested for no reason. You think just because our skin is darker than that lily white color you have, that we all must be crooks. So if you want to speak to me, you can do it through my lawyer.”

At that point, a little girl with dark brown hair, who looked to be around four years old, appeared behind Mrs. Alvarez. “Who is it, Mommy?” she asked.

“Go back inside, Sofia,” Mrs. Alvarez commanded. The little girl pouted but retreated.

Once again, Mrs. Alvarez tried to close the door and Duncan again stopped her. “Mrs. Alvarez, if you are involved in any way with the murder of Belinda Cooper and the disappearance of her son, I can promise you that I will see you put away for the rest of your life.”

This time she succeeded in closing the door; actually, she slammed it.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” he said.

“She knows something,” I told him.

“Yeah, even I know that and I don't have your superpowers. Did you hear the squeaking sound again?”

“I did. It's faint, but it's there. ”

We turned away and walked back to the car. Once we were seated inside, Duncan started the engine and we drove down the street and around the corner. He cruised around the block and then parked on a cross street, out of immediate sight but in a spot where we could see the blue sedan.

“Now we wait,” Duncan said.

“For what?”

“If we get lucky, maybe the husband will come home. But I'm betting not. I think Mrs. Alvarez will call him and head him off. And I wouldn't be surprised if she tries to leave here and hook up with him somewhere else.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, staring at the car. I tried to will Mrs. Alvarez out of her house, but there was no action other than a neighbor who pulled up and parked in the spot we had just vacated, and then entered the house next door. At one point, Duncan got on his phone and asked someone to look into the name Juanita Alvarez and call him back. He also asked to have a DMV photo of her pulled and have it shown to Jamie Cooper, to see if he recognized her as Valeria Barnes.

“I didn't know that your mother's accident was never solved,” Duncan said after he disconnected his call.

“I didn't know myself until I was a teenager. That's when my dad told me.”

“It must have been hard for you growing up without a mother.”

I shrugged. “There were times in school when the other kids teased me about it, and I suppose if I'd ever known my mother, the loss might have had more of an effect. But my dad did a great job of raising me and whenever he needed a female point of view on things, he would hit up one of our regular customers. There was a lady named Genevieve who used to come in all the time and she taught me what to do once I started my periods. And whenever I had boy troubles, I would sometimes confide in the women who came into the bar. I had a lot of temporary aunts and uncles, people who were regulars for a number of years and then moved on for whatever reason. Some of them moved away, some of them got a life that cut down on their bar and drinking time, some of them died. So, while I realized that I was different from all the kids who had a mother, and I grieved over the fact that I never knew her, it was a different kind of grief, I think. Sometimes I felt guilty that I didn't feel more, especially when I would find my dad all red eyed and sad, looking at the old pictures of the two of them.”

“Do you still have those pictures?”

“I do. They're in an album stuffed in a closet.”

“Do you ever look at them?”

“Occasionally, but I haven't for a long time. My dad used to sit with me and go through the pictures often when I was little. He said he wanted me to know my mother as much as I could even though I never got to spend any time with her. I think the sessions were as much for him as they were for me. Sometimes he would talk to her as if she were in the room with us. It was sweet but also kind of creepy.”

“Don't you have any real aunts and uncles, or cousins, or grandparents?”

“My mother had a brother and a sister, but her brother died when he was little and the sister lives over in France. I never hear from her. Apparently, she thought my dad wasn't a good match for my mother and she was angry that she married him. Then she blamed him for her death. My mother's parents died in a plane crash about two years before I was born. My grandfather was the pilot and they think he had a stroke or something. My dad was an only child and his mom was a single parent who died of cancer years ago. So I suppose I might have a grandfather out there somewhere, but my grandmother never told anyone his name and no one has ever come forward. I'm not sure the guy even knew he was a father.”

“I'm sorry,” Duncan said.

I shrugged again. “I'll manage. I miss my dad something fierce but, in a way, I have a family with some of my employees and the customers who come in to the bar all the time. The Signoriello brothers are like uncles to me, and Debra has been like a sister. Cora has been a good friend, too.”

Duncan straightened up suddenly and stared out the window. “It looks like Mrs. Alvarez is on the move.” He started up the car and we waited as the woman got the little girl situated and then slid behind the wheel. When she pulled out, so did Duncan, trying to keep a discreet distance behind her. He let a couple of cars get between us but kept the blue sedan in sight.

“Well, either Davey Cooper isn't in the Alvarez house or she left him there alone,” I said.

“I don't think he's there. But, with any luck, Mrs. Alvarez will take us to him.”

We tailed her car through city streets for five minutes or so, Duncan deftly dodging in and out of traffic. She got onto Interstate 94, and exited from there onto Interstate 43 heading north a few miles later.

“Do you think she's making a run for it?” I asked Duncan.

“I don't know what the hell she's doing. But she's playing it smart, staying just under the speed limit and driving carefully. I don't even have a reason to pull her over. So I guess we'll have to see where she takes us.”

We followed her past the communities of Shorewood and Whitefish Bay, bastions of the rich and well-to-do. After about seven miles, she exited and followed several more roads, making a couple of turns. When she finally reached her destination, it was a place neither of us had anticipated and it brought our pursuit to a grinding halt.