Murder with a Twist (7 page)

A
s it turned out, we did get to eat, but only because Duncan ordered the food with his cell phone and we picked it up along the way, right after he called Jimmy to have him invite Will, Theo, Cindy, and Shelly to meet us at Dan's apartment in two hours. He instructed Jimmy to tell the group that we thought some items might have been taken from Dan's apartment, and that since all four of them admitted to being in the place from time to time, we needed their help in determining what, if anything, might be missing. Along the way, I asked Duncan about George Weber, the senior partner, and why we weren't talking to him, too.

“Several reasons,” Duncan said. “First, he's stinking rich already and doesn't need to steal funds from the business. Second, he's in Europe right now, so we know he couldn't have killed Thornton. Jimmy Skyped with Weber earlier today and saw the Eiffel Tower out his hotel-room window, so unless he set up a very elaborate scam, there's no way he could have killed Thornton in the wee hours this morning and made it to Paris a few hours later. Eventually, we'll check his tickets and passport to verify everything, but it's not a high priority.”

Duncan's house was a surprise. For some reason, I had pictured him in one of the many apartment buildings or condos in the area, but he lived in a turn-of-the-century bungalow in an older residential section of town. The place was small and the inside was tidy and definitely lacking any female touch. The curtains were bedsheets strung on rods, the furniture was well used and mismatched—most likely yard sale stuff or rentals—and the kitchen was so bare it looked like whoever lived there had been on vacation for weeks. While Duncan might not have been big on décor, he was, thankfully, clean. The place was neat, the surfaces all shined, and there were no stray whiskers, spilled toothpaste, or funky specks on the mirror in the bathroom. I haven't been in many bachelor-pad bathrooms in my life, but those I have seen were always a mess. Duncan's was both a relief and a delight by comparison . . . a pleasant surprise.

We ate our takeout Chinese on the coffee table in the small living room using mismatched plates. The food was delicious and a welcome change for me. I almost always eat my own bar food and don't get out as often as I should. Hopefully that will change soon, because I've been able to hire on some extra help.

“Do you own this house?” I asked Duncan.

“Sort of,” he said cryptically. “My grandparents bought it years ago when they first migrated here from Scotland. When they died, my parents lived in it for a short time, but then they moved to Chicago. They kept the house and used it as a rental until last year. When I got a job offer here with the Milwaukee PD, my parents said I could live in it rent free in exchange for fixing up what the renters destroyed. I did most of the major fixes in the month before I started working and I've been doing bits and pieces ever since.” He looked around the room as if seeing the place for the first time. “It looks pretty bare, doesn't it?”

“Not bare, so much,” I said. “More like early college student, first apartment, bachelor pad.”

Duncan sighed. “I suppose it could use a bit of a female touch.”

“Not female, necessarily, but maybe a little something to warm it up, make it cozier. At the very least, you might want to hire someone to give you suggestions on décor, paint colors, that sort of thing.” I glanced at my watch and said, “You know, you haven't seen the new section of the bar for several weeks now and it's almost done. All the walls are painted, the woodwork is finished, and other than a few pieces of furniture, everything is ready to go. I'm planning on opening it next weekend if the last stuff arrives like it's supposed to next week. Why don't we go look at it? It might give you some ideas.”

“Okay. We have the time and I have to admit I've been curious about what's going on back there.”

Just under twenty minutes later, we arrived at the bar and headed inside. The place was crowded—a good thing for my bottom line, though it made me feel guilty that I hadn't been there to help. Fortunately, my staff had everything under control and the members of the Capone Club were in their usual spot, with several tables pushed together near one end of the bar. If business stayed at this level through the winter, I'd be looking good.

When I'd discovered that Ginny Rifkin—my father's murdered girlfriend—had listed me as the beneficiary on her life insurance policy, it had come as a total surprise. It also nearly landed me in jail since it gave me a stellar motive for her murder. Lucky for me, that didn't happen. What's more, the money couldn't have come at a better time. I'd been living week to week with my cash flows after some costly problems that had come up, and Ginny's money not only allowed me to get caught up on the bills so I had some breathing room, it was enough for me to expand the bar by buying the recently vacated space next door, something I considered a risky but necessary decision. If I was going to continue to make a living off my profits in the years to come, I needed to invest some money in the place.

I'd had some misgivings about the whole Capone Club, crime-solving thing in the beginning, but it had attracted a lot of new business—customers who came from a variety of knowledgeable backgrounds. While we seemed to have developed a core group of regulars for the Capone Club, other customers in the bar would often join in on the discussions, too. The cops who frequent my bar like the Capone Club because it provides them with a variety of expert consultants for free. On any given night, I might have customers with finance experience, science experience, computer experience, medical experience, psychology experience, and plenty of folks with passels of simple human nature experience.

I led Duncan through an opening along the side where there used to be a shared wall with the neighboring building I bought. Now it was scaffolding with plastic sheeting that hid a metal gate that kept people from entering the new area without permission. I unlocked the gate and led Duncan into the next room, relocking it behind us. It was one big open area with a platform stage at the back.

“I'm thinking I'm going to start bringing in live music on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights,” I told Duncan. “There's a local band I like that does Irish music. And maybe down the road, I'll look at bringing in a DJ on some of the other nights.”

“That ought to liven up the place.”

“That's what I'm hoping.”

“Just tell me you aren't going to do a polka night. I hate the polka and it seems like I hear it everywhere I go up here.”

“Sorry to tell you, but here in Milwaukee it's practically a tradition, particularly given the large German and Polish populations we have. And you might be surprised to learn that Ireland was introduced to the polka in the late 1800s and it's the base for some of the most popular Irish folk dances.”

Duncan looked skeptical but he apparently decided to let the matter drop. “You've done a nice job of blending the new area into the old,” he said. “You've matched up the wood and the general décor really well.”

“Thanks. It cost me a little extra to do it that way, but I wanted the addition to look as seamless as possible, like it had always been there.”

“You have good taste. Maybe I should hire
you
to recommend a décor and paint colors for my house.”

I didn't respond right away because I couldn't think of anything to say. On the one hand, I was flattered that he thought I had good taste. I was also excited about the long-term relationship it hinted at. But a split second later, I was second-guessing myself, wondering if I was reading too much into it. Was he even serious? Or was he just spouting out random thoughts that he would later regret or forget? Finally I said, “I'd be happy to give you some ideas, or help you pick stuff out. That sort of thing is fun. But I think doing one extra job for you is enough for right now.”

Instead of responding to what I said, Duncan came back with a non sequitur. “It's going to get loud down here if you have live music. That will make it harder for your Capone Club members to do their thing.”

“I already thought of that. I've made accommodations for them in the upstairs area. Come and see.”

I led him up to the second floor where I had structured the expanded area by creating smaller rooms, each one with limited seating, a cozy feel, and something of a theme. One of the rooms was set up as a library with wood-paneled walls, bookshelves filled with both novels and nonfiction books that could be swapped out using an honor system, and large, cozy chairs that could be set up in small conversation circles or left alone in a corner. I'd splurged on recessed lighting and lots of lamps to create a cozy feel as well as the ability to see well enough to read, and a gas fireplace for both heat and ambience. While several people told me I was crazy for doing the fireplace, now that the weather was turning colder and winter was just around the corner, those same people were asking me how soon it would be functional. It was this room that I had in mind for the Capone Club.

I also had a room set up to be a sports and gaming spot—my regular customers had already nicknamed it the Man Cave—replete with large-screen TVs, a pool table, a foosball table, a dart board, a putting green, and computers with game systems. I had some large, comfy reclining chairs on order that were supposed to come in next week.

The third room was more ordinary, a smaller version of the bar area downstairs, with several small tables that could be pushed together to form larger ones. This room could be rented out to local companies for meetings or small parties. To service the rooms, I had set aside a spot in the common area for a second bar, which was contained in its own room. It had a garage-style door that could be opened or closed, depending on whether or not it was being used and staffed.

“This all looks very nice,” Duncan said. “Just be careful that you don't overdo it.”

“I will,” I said, hoping this was true. “It just feels like the right thing to do.”

Despite my optimistic posturing, Duncan's words echoed my own fears. I now had enough money to survive even if the business went belly-up, but my entire life was the bar. If it closed, I'd be heartbroken. I'd hoped the expansion would prevent that and provide me with a future nest egg of sorts, but I was leery for a couple of reasons. One was the investment I was making and the gamble it carried with it. Though my business was definitely on the rise at the moment, I worried that the publicity surrounding the recent murders and the whole CSI Bar thing might yet prove to be transitory.

The second reason I was leery was because I wanted to keep a neighborhood feel to the bar. Wisconsin is third in the country in the number of taverns and bars it has per capita, falling behind only Montana and North Dakota. And Iron County, Wisconsin, has the highest per capita bar rate of anywhere, with one bar for every 240 people. Small watering holes are a way of life for Wisconsinites, and people in many places treat them like a home away from home. That's fine if you live in a small town, but here in Milwaukee, where more than a million other people share your air, achieving that small, cozy neighborhood feel can be a bit of a challenge. Plus, my location means that I frequently pull in tourists or visitors to the downtown area who are here on business, or I might pull in some distant locals, folks who come into town for the night to see a show or a game at the Bradley Center, which is walking distance away.

My hope was to find a happy medium between expanding the business enough to keep my revenues flowing while still keeping that home-away-from-home feel. That was easy enough for me since it really was my home. And now, with both of my parents dead and no other relatives I knew of, many of my regular customers were my family.

We finished the tour and after checking in with my staff, Duncan and I headed back to Thornton's place to meet up with Dan's coworkers.

“Will it be okay for them to go into the apartment?” I asked.

“Sure, as long as we're with them and control where they go, what they do, and what they touch. The techs are done processing the place.”

“I had some reactions earlier that I couldn't identify, one of which was Cindy Whitaker's perfume. So I'm curious to see what the apartment is like for me without them in there first.”

“We can do that. You and I will go in first and once you've absorbed it all, we'll bring the others in.”

I was skeptical of this idea but also curious. Knowing the dead body was no longer there made it easier for me to face the idea of going back. And what Duncan was suggesting was more along the lines of the sort of games he—and my father—would play with me from time to time.

“Okay,” I said. “Let the games begin.”

W
e beat Jimmy and the others to Dan Thornton's apartment. There was a uniformed police officer sitting in a chair in the hallway and the door was now sealed with crime scene tape. Duncan greeted the officer and then sliced through the tape so we could go inside.

I felt a definite difference when we entered that I suspect was because of the time that had elapsed between my first visit and now. Many, if not most, of the smells and sounds that I experienced before were either diminished or absent, but I also experienced some new reactions to things like the fingerprint dust. I recognized this one because the cops had dusted my bar with the stuff when both my father and Ginny were murdered, and I knew from my previous exposure that it triggered a chalky, slightly bitter taste if I came into contact with it. And the sight of it—at least the black powder kind, though I learned that it comes in a multitude of colors—made me taste dirt. I think it was the color that triggered this last reaction because black in general always triggers a dirt taste to some degree, often overlaid with other tastes. And I also noticed some lighter-colored fingerprint dust—white and pink—on the dark wood credenza and the tabletop, and those spots didn't trigger the dirt taste.

I realized right away that things were missing. I could sense some of the voids and figured out what some of them were—the chair Dan Thornton had supposedly stood on, the laptop, the suicide note, the glasses and other dishes that had been in the dish rack—by using a combination of my memory and my synesthesia. I wandered into the half bathroom and could tell things were missing here, too: the trash, the hand soap, the towel. Every surface appeared to have been dusted for prints: the countertop, the light switch, the sink surfaces, the mirror, the toilet handle . . . even the underside of the toilet seat, which was now in the up position. That struck me as clever, as I might never have thought to look there for prints, given that we women typically only lift the seat if we are cleaning the bowl. I logged this fact away, thinking that it might help in my deductive training.

The techs had left behind the toilet paper, however, which looked to be a nearly full roll. At first I thought this was so the crew could use the bathroom if they needed to. Then I realized that would most likely be considered scene contamination and would therefore be forbidden. Yet something about that toilet paper bothered me. I thought back to earlier in the day and recalled the irregular sensation I had felt on the back of my neck when looking at the bathroom. Such sensations are typically a response to something that has been moved or removed. Occasionally smells will register as a physical reaction, but most of the time they come across as sounds. That irritating tag feeling on my neck was gone now, though other sensations had occurred as the result of the stuff that was missing. As I stared at the toilet paper and thought about that nagging tag reaction, I finally realized what it related to.

I called Duncan over to the bathroom doorway. “Why didn't the techs collect the toilet paper in here along with everything else?”

He looked over at the roll. “It's that quilted stuff with the patterns in it. It's pretty much useless for getting any usable prints. We would have to spray it with ninhydrin and the tissue is so absorbent and textured that the end result would be an unusable mess. I suppose there is a faint possibility of DNA being on it, but most of what gets touched gets used and flushed. So there isn't much evidentiary value to it.”

“What about the cardboard tube inside the roll, or the little roller thingy that goes through that cardboard tube? How would they be for prints?”

Duncan smiled at that. “Little roller thingy?” he teased. Then his smile froze and his eyes narrowed, I suspect because he saw where I was headed. “I imagine either one of those would be a good surface for prints,” he said slowly.

“Well, that's a brand-new roll, or close to it,” I said. “And if my hunch is right about my earlier reaction to looking at it and the lack of any similar reaction now, I'd venture to guess that it was changed pretty close to the time that we were all here earlier. Maybe the victim changed it before he was killed, but given how much time I imagine it must have taken to stage his supposed suicide, and how long we know my reactions typically last for something like this, I doubt it.”

Duncan gaped at me like I'd just said the most inane thing he'd ever heard. For a moment, I thought I'd made a fool of myself somehow, but then he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Mack, you're a bloody genius!”

We heard voices then, and Duncan went over to the door to meet with Jimmy, who had arrived with Theo, Will, and Cindy. I stayed inside the apartment while they talked outside in the hallway and, after a few minutes, Duncan came back inside with the threesome in tow.

“Where is Shelly?” I asked Duncan.

“She said she couldn't do it. She didn't want to come back here. She's gone to stay at her mother's place in Wauwatosa.”

Theo looked scared; his eyes darted back and forth nervously. Will and Cindy, on the other hand, appeared cool, calm, and indifferent.

Duncan turned to Cindy first. “When was the last time you were here?”

Cindy scrunched her face in thought for a few seconds and then said, “I don't know . . . a week or two, maybe.” She turned and looked at Will. “When did Dan invite us over for that pizza thing?”

“Two weeks ago Friday,” Will said.

Cindy turned to Duncan with a smug smile and said, “There you go, detective.”

I couldn't tell if she was lying. Her flame flared for a few seconds before settling back down. The only thing I was sure of was that she was a smooth operator who didn't rattle easily.

Duncan turned to Will. “How about you, Will, when were you last here?”

Will thought a moment and said, “Monday, I think. Yeah, Monday. I gave Dan a ride home because his car was in the shop. He invited me in for a beer. I didn't stay long . . . maybe an hour or so.”

I had a strong sense that Will was telling the truth. The taste of his voice stayed consistently sweet, no more bitterness.

“How about you, Theo?” Duncan asked. “When were you here last?”

His facial muscles started to twitch and he hesitated for a second or two. “Um . . . I think . . . it was last week some time.” The sweet cream taste of his voice, and consequently his credibility, became spoiled.

“Have you ever used this bathroom?” Duncan asked, pointing toward the room.

Theo's eyes shifted even faster and I could tell he was trying to analyze his answer before he gave it. Was that because he was afraid? Guilty? Both? I'd been feeling a bubbly, watery sensation on my arms and legs, as if they were immersed in carbonated water. At first it was very faint, but it had gotten progressively stronger as the amount of sweat dripping off Theo's face increased. At the moment it felt like a spa tub jet.

“Yeah, I've used it,” Theo said, trying unsuccessfully to not look rattled by the question. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“We just want to know where we might expect to find your fingerprints,” Duncan explained in a calm, relaxed voice. The bubbly sensation eased as I saw Theo sigh with relief, but it was a short-lived reprieve. “Ever take a dump in there?” Duncan asked. He was still using his buddy tone and he smiled and tried to look abashed, I assumed to put Theo at ease. But it had the exact opposite effect.

“That's very personal,” Theo said.

Will scoffed a laugh, but Cindy was staring at Theo with a laser-sharp focus and a very intense expression.

“Sometimes we have to get personal,” Duncan said. “So, I'm sorry for the intrusion, but have you?”

Sweat was running down the sides of Theo's face now and he was shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “No, I haven't,” he said, and I knew instantly he was lying because his taste grew rancid. “I don't like to do that anywhere but my own place, you know?”

Cindy let out a snort of derision that made Theo blush.

“I do know,” Duncan said, smiling at Theo and ignoring Cindy. “In fact, I'm the same way. I'll do anything to be on my own pot. There has been a time or two when I had an emergency and had to do it somewhere else and, let me tell you, I hate that! Did that ever happen to you?”

Duncan's voice was relaxed and jovial, and for a split second it worked; Theo looked relaxed and the glimmer of a smile started to form. He gave a half nod and started to say something, but stopped himself. The frightened look returned and the bubbles were coming fast and furious.

“Did that ever happen to you here?” Duncan asked. Cindy's expression morphed into something scary as she stared at Theo. “Because if that's never happened to you here,” Duncan pressed on, “we wouldn't find your fingerprints inside that roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, or on the spindle it's sitting on, right?”

It was intriguing to watch the emotions play over Theo's face and experience the kaleidoscope of sensations it triggered in me. Cindy was glaring at Theo; Will kept shifting his gaze from one person to another, looking utterly confused.

Theo, whose eyes were bugging, looked like he was about to drown in his own sweat. Suddenly he blurted out, “I didn't take the money and I didn't kill him, either! It was Cindy.”

“Shut up, you lying little—” Cindy spat out, her voice a veritable conflagration of anger.

“I'm going to stop you both right there,” Duncan said. He then recited the Miranda Warning and when he was done, he focused on Theo. “What do you want to tell me?”

“Shut the hell up, Theo,” Cindy warned. Her fists were opening and closing, as if she wanted nothing more than to cold cock Theo. Despite the disparity in their sizes, I had a feeling she could do it with ease.

“She made me help her,” Theo said, casting a nervous eye at Cindy, who was standing with both hands clenched, giving Theo a death stare. “But I didn't steal the money and I didn't kill him. Cindy did. I just helped her cover it up by faking the hanging thing.”

“You lying bastard!” Cindy seethed. “I'm not going to stand here and listen to this.” She shifted her angry gaze at Duncan. “I don't know what Theo is trying to do, but he's obviously not right in the head.”

“She told me that if I helped her, she'd be my girlfriend,” Theo said.

Will, whose look of confusion had only grown, gaped at Cindy. “Cindy, is he telling the truth?”

“Of course not!” Cindy insisted irritably. “He's obviously deluded. He must have a crush on me or something and he thinks we stand a chance as a couple.” She shot a glance at Theo and sneered. “As if I'd sleep with someone like him.”

“But she did,” Theo said. “She did sleep with me, and I can prove it.”

“This is ridiculous.
You
are ridiculous,” Cindy said, and she turned as if to leave.

“I videotaped the whole thing,” Theo said.

Cindy stopped dead in her tracks.

Duncan said, “You're not going anywhere, Cindy. There is another detective and a uniformed officer outside that door who will see to it.”

Cindy turned around and glared at him, her lips pursed, her face pinched.

Will said, “Jesus, Cindy . . . you slept with him?” The look of horror and disgust on his face left no doubt as to his feelings on the matter.

“Get over yourself,” Cindy snapped at Will. Then she shifted her glare back to Theo. “I should have known you couldn't be trusted.”

Duncan walked over, opened the apartment door, and ushered the uniformed cop and Jimmy inside. “Place all three of them under arrest,” he said.

“I want a lawyer,” Cindy said. Now her flame guttered, like a lit candle caught in a crosswind.

“Fine,” Duncan said. “Take them down to the station and book them. If they don't want to talk, they can sit in jail and stew for a while.”

Theo, who looked utterly petrified, said, “I'll tell you anything you want. I didn't kill Dan and I didn't take the money. Cindy did it. She told me she went over to Dan's late last night, doped up his drinks with some Xanax she had, and when he passed out, she sat on his chest and held that rope that was around his neck until he quit breathing. She's the one who killed him. She's the one who typed up that suicide note. And she's the one who's been stealing the money. She called me around four this morning after it was all done to come over to Dan's place and help her string him up because she wasn't strong enough to do it herself. She said she'd share the money with me if I helped her.” Theo's voice was sweet, cool cream again and I believed every word he said.

“You're still an accessory,” Duncan said. “However, if you're willing to talk, maybe you can work out a deal.”

Cindy, who was being cuffed by the officer, shot a look of pure venom at Theo. “Shut your damned mouth, you cretin,” she hissed. “If you don't, I swear I'll make you pay.” She then looked at Duncan before fixing her glare on me. “I'll make you all pay. Every one of you . . . you bastards!” Her flame was at a roar again, and fire-licked bits, like drops of lit gasoline, fell to the ground.

The look on her face made me step back, away from her. I believed her threat of revenge and, knowing what I did about her now, it scared me. The fact that she was handcuffed and being hauled away to jail did little to lessen my fear.

Jimmy and Duncan helped cuff the boys and then escorted them down to the cars. Theo and Will were placed together in Jimmy's car and I could only imagine what their conversation would be on the way to the police station. I knew it would be interesting and almost wished I could ride along and listen in.

Despite my lingering fears regarding Cindy's threat, I felt good that the case had been solved so quickly, and that I'd had some small part in it. As I watched the cop cars drive away, I thought that, all in all, it had been a very satisfying day.