Shots in the Dark (5 page)

“I know it isn't much,” Sandra said, not missing the doubt on some of the faces. “But I know my brother. He didn't do this.”

“Does he have any theories as to who did?” Frank asked.

Sandra shook her head, looking frustrated and sad. “He insists he didn't know the guy with the gun.”

“So they have this money motive and a witness who says your brother bought the gun used in the crime,” Carter said. “That doesn't seem like a lot of evidence. What else do they have?”

“They found Ben's fingerprints on the gun, and gunpowder residue on his hands and sleeves. But Ben said he was holding the gun and struggling with the carjacker both times it fired. Wouldn't that explain the gunpowder residue?”

“It could,” Carter said, and a few others in the room nodded in agreement.

“Ben also said that once the carjacker gave up and let go of the gun, he held it with his hand on the trigger, pointing it out the window as the carjacker ran off, in case he came back. So that explains why his fingerprints were on it.”

“Were his the only ones?” Carter asked.

Sandra nodded. “It was cold and blustery outside, and Ben said the guy with the gun was wearing gloves. Ben's car had a heated steering wheel, so he had taken his off.”

“What about the bullets?” Carter asked. Originally, Carter had been focused on writing novels, but once he joined the Capone Club, he shifted his interest to writing true crime. As part of this newfound career, he'd been doing some forensic homework, and now he was putting some of that newly acquired knowledge to work. “Any prints on those or the spent cartridges?”

“Not that I know of,” Sandra said.

I said, “What proof did they offer that your brother's marriage was on the rocks? If he and Tiffany were celebrating their anniversary and a romantic Valentine's Day, it would seem to imply that their relationship was on good terms.”

“As far as I knew, it was,” Sandra said with a shrug. “They seemed loving, and Ben told me not long before this last trip that they were talking about starting a family.” She frowned and gave us a half smile. “I mean, they fought. All couples do. But they never stayed mad at one another for very long, and overall, they seemed to get along just fine. But . . .” Sandra paused, biting her lip.

“There was something that came out in the trial. During the autopsy, they found seminal fluid in Tiffany's . . . you know.” She blushed, waving a hand in the air, and several people nodded. “Anyway, they said there was no sperm, just the fluid, and apparently, they weren't able to get any DNA. But they were able to determine a blood type or something like that, and they said the blood type ruled out Ben as the donor. So the assumption was that Tiffany was having an affair.”

Looks were exchanged, and Sandra didn't miss them. “Look, I don't blame you for being skeptical,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Clearly, there was evidence that pointed toward my brother. Otherwise he wouldn't be where he is now. But I'm telling you, he didn't do it.” She hesitated, casting that pleading expression around the room yet again. “Ben loved Tiffany so much that even if Tiffany was having an affair and he found out about it, he wouldn't have killed her over it. He would have done everything he could to try to save the marriage.” More looks of skepticism. “Please, all I'm asking is that you look into it.”

I looked around the room at the others and sensed that they, like me, were skeptical but were also touched by Sandra's conviction. I decided to give Sandra a little test. “Sandra, I'm going to ask you to do something that might seem odd and a little unsettling. But I need you to bear with me.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, looking wary.

“I want you to tell me that your brother is guilty.”

Sandra reared back as if I'd slapped her. “But he isn't.”

“Please, just do it.”

Sandra looked hurt and betrayed, and she stared back at me with barely concealed anger. I watched the emotions play over her face, curious to see what would win out. In the end she gave in to common sense or desperation, or maybe both. “My brother did it,” she said with obvious distaste. “He killed Tiffany.”

Her voice made the herbal taste in my mouth turn bitter, almost rancid. This suggested to me that she clearly believed in her cause, but it was no guarantee that her brother was innocent.

“Thank you,” I told her with a warm smile. “I'm sorry I had to ask you to do that, and I know you don't understand why I did, but believe me when I tell you it was helpful. Would you mind giving us some time to discuss the matter among ourselves before we decide if we're going to look into your brother's case? We'll talk about it and see if we can come to some sort of consensus. Can you come back in a couple of days?”

Sandra smiled with obvious relief and a hint of hope. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Don't thank us yet,” I told her. “We haven't agreed to do anything.”

“I know, but the simple fact that you're willing to even consider it gives me hope.” She then reached into the messenger bag she'd brought with her, removed a folder, and held it out to me. “These are my notes regarding the trial. I quit my job and moved back home with my parents so I could attend every day.”

We certainly couldn't fault her dedication to her brother.

“What kind of work did you do?” Carter asked.

“I was in pharmaceutical sales.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “To be honest, I hated the job, so I was more than happy to give it up.” While her altruism sank a notch with that confession, she clearly believed in her brother and was hurting over his fate. I figured the least we could do was give the case consideration.

Sandra donned her coat, grabbed her bag, and headed out, thanking us three more times as she left. Once she was gone, the group sat in silence for a minute or two. I scanned their faces, seeing doubt, skepticism, curiosity and, in Carter's case, eagerness. No doubt he was hoping the case might provide him with yet another true crime for one of his books. He was already working on a book about Tiny's sister's case and had even secured an agent who was willing to take him on and look at the work once it was done.

“What do you guys think?” I asked the group.

Carter spoke first. “She certainly seems convinced of her brother's innocence.”

Everyone nodded, and then Sam offered up the first counterpoint. “But conviction from a loved one doesn't count for much.”

This, too, generated several nods, and then Joe offered up a suggestion. “Mack, maybe you should talk with her brother, do that lie detector thing you do. See if his side of the story rings true.”

My lie detector thing, which is just my synesthetic reaction to the subtle changes in people's voices, isn't 100 percent foolproof—I've run across some people who lie so well or mask their emotions to such an extent that there is no change for me to detect. But most people aren't good enough liars to fool me. Some of the members of the group had been skeptical of my ability at first, and they'd tested me with some games. One by one each person in the room would utter a statement that was either true or false, some tidbit about themselves or their lives. Then they would ask me to determine if it was a truth or a falsehood. I knew the members of the group and the taste of their voices well by then so the tests had been relatively easy for me. I'd been right every time, a detail that made some of them eye me nervously. I couldn't blame them for being a bit uncomfortable. I often picked up on lies among customers and with my staff, too. There were times when I'd overhear part of a conversation and know someone was fabricating a lie. As a result, my staff learned over time that if they called in sick and weren't, I'd be able to tell. So the quirk did come with some perks.

“I'm not crazy about the idea of making another prison visit,” I told the group. I'd gone to the Waupun Correctional Institution recently, when we were looking into the Gruber-Hermann case, and it had been a disquieting experience. “But I suppose that's as good a place as any to start.” I looked over at Cora, who had been tapping away on her keyboard ever since Sandra left. “Do you know where he is?”

She nodded. “Just found it,” she said. “He's at Waupun. Just like Lonnie Carlisle.” Carlisle had been a suspect in the Gruber investigation.

Resigned, I said, “I'll get in touch with Tyrese and see if he can arrange for me to visit him tomorrow.” Tyrese was one of the local police officers who worked with the Capone Club, and he had arranged the prior visit to the prison. I handed the folder Sandra had given me to Cora. “Make copies of this for the others in the group so everyone can look through it. Look it over and research what you can to see if you come up with anything.”

Cora nodded and took the file. “Can I use the copier in your office?”

I nodded and slid my keys over to her. She gathered up her laptop, which was as much a part of her as her clothing, and headed downstairs.

Frank Signoriello said, “Mack, you made that woman tell you her brother was guilty so you could do your lie detector thing with her, didn't you?”

I nodded.

“What did you determine?”

“She seemed sincere. I can't say if her brother is innocent or not, but she definitely believes he is.”

“If you believe in her, that's enough for me to commit to at least looking into it,” Frank said.

“Me too,” his brother said, chiming in. This was followed by a chorus of other agreements from around the room.

I looked over at the newcomers, Greg Nash and Sonja West. Normally, we tried to avoid discussing actual cases in front of new arrivals, but in this case it had been unavoidable. I could see the puzzled looks on their faces and guessed their confusion was related to the discussion of me and my lie detector abilities rather than to the case itself.

“Greg, Sonja, do the two of you have an interest in being a part of this?” I asked.

Greg nodded eagerly, but Sonja hesitated.

“You're probably wondering what this talk about my lie detector ability is all about,” I said, and they both nodded. “I have a neurological disorder called synesthesia,” I began, and then I explained it to them, with an occasional assist from one of the other members of the group. When I was done, I said, “Any questions?”

Greg and Sonja both shook their heads.

“Good. If the others agree, the two of you are welcome to assist us through this process.” I looked around the room as the other members of the group either nodded or mumbled their assents. “Okay then. Here's how it works. We often solicit input from everyone when we discuss potential scenarios, motives, suspects, and such. Please feel free to offer up an opinion. And if you have any connections or areas of expertise that you think might be of use to us during the investigatory process, we'd appreciate any help you can provide.”

Neither of them said anything, but they nodded in unison.

“One other thing,” I said. “Keep in mind that anything we do needs to stay under the radar. The press has been hounding me ever since we solved our first case, and I don't want any of them to get a whiff of what we're up to. Be careful about who you talk to and who might be within earshot when you do it.”

“No problem,” Greg said.

“Understood,” Sonja offered.

“Thanks, guys. And to show my appreciation for all the hard work you're about to do, I'm buying a round of drinks on the house.” That brought smiles to everyone's faces. “In honor of the upcoming holiday, I'm treating everyone to a Santa Claus shot. I'll send someone up with them shortly.” I rose from my chair and grabbed my crutches. “I've got some other business to tend to for a while, but I'll come back later.”

With that, I hobbled out of the room and headed downstairs to see if the mail had come yet, because the other business I had to tend to was the letter writer. I had to make sure my little group of crime solvers stayed alive long enough to help Sandra Middleton, if her claims seemed warranted.

I found Cora in my office, finishing up the copies of Sandra's file. I closed the door behind me and locked it to keep out any unwanted, spontaneous intruders. I'd spied Clay Sanders, who was one of the more persistent reporters, seated at the bar. His omnipresence of late was annoying, but I'd been rethinking things recently.

“Clay is here,” I said on the off chance Cora hadn't noticed him or he hadn't been there when she came through.

“I saw him,” she said with a wan smile. “He seems very determined.”

“That he is.”

Cora shot me a look. “I know that tone of voice, Mack,” she said. “You're plotting something.”

“I'm just wondering if maybe we should abide by that rule to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

She looked at me, aghast. “You're not seriously thinking of inviting Clay to the group, are you?”

I shrugged.

“These reporters have done nothing but poke fun at you, and Clay has been among the most persistent of them. I think it would be a big mistake.”

“Let's think about it for a minute, Cora. Clay is an investigative reporter, and as such, he has a lot of resources at hand, resources we could make good use of. What if we worked out a deal with him?”

“It would be a deal with the devil.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But if we offer him something in return, something that would buy his loyalty, maybe we could turn him from the dark side.”

“What have we got to offer him?” Her copies were finished, and she scooped them from the tray and tamped them into a pile. “And how do we know we can trust him?”

“How do we know we can trust anyone in the group?”

Cora contemplated this and acceded my point with an equivocal look and a shrug.

“What is his primary motivation?” Before she could answer, I continued. “He wants a scoop. He wants to get to the meat of a good story before anyone else does. Doing that gives him prestige, maybe even a promotion. So what if we offered him limited access, asked him to help us with some of our research, and let him participate on a trial basis, with the promise of getting that scoop?”

Cora frowned and shook her head slowly. “I don't know, Mack. It seems risky to me. Have you run this idea by Duncan?”

“I haven't run it by anyone but you,” I admitted.

“I'm flattered, but I think you should run it by Duncan first to see what he thinks. There are other things at stake here. What about Mal?”

Malachi O'Reilly was a transplant to the Milwaukee area from the state of Washington, and he worked undercover. His current assignment was with a construction company whose boss and owner was suspected of fraud. Mal's family ran a construction company back in Washington, so he had the necessary knowledge and skill set to pull off the job. He had managed to get hired by the suspect company and had been working with them for a while when he and I were set up as a blind date. We pretended he was a friend of Cora's, and ever since a couple of trial “dates,” we'd been acting like a couple. Unfortunately, Duncan's plan to use Mal as a form of incognito protection for me backfired. Mal and I shared a strong attraction to one another, and our deception had trickled over into reality. The fact that my relationship with Duncan was a bit up in the air at the time hadn't helped the situation.

“I'll run it by Mal, too,” I told Cora. “I don't see why he can't continue to function in his undercover role even if Clay is involved. None of the other group members know the truth about him except for you, Joe, and Frank. We can dupe Clay just as easily.”

Cora's frown deepened, and I could tell she wasn't convinced. “See what Duncan and Mal have to say on the matter,” she said. “I'll keep an open mind in the meantime. Speaking of which, when are you supposed to see Duncan again?”

This was a prickly question. “I'm not sure,” I said. “He called yesterday and said he'd be in touch sometime this weekend. Mal is coming by later today, and we're supposed to go out to a movie and dinner. But now that we have this new case to look into, I'm not sure I want to do that.”

“Is that the only reason you don't want to do it?” Cora asked cagily. “You two are hitting it off quite well, it seems. You have feelings for him, don't you?”

I sighed and sank down onto the couch in my office, propping my crutches alongside of me. “I like him a lot,” I admitted. “We get along well. I'm comfortable around him.”

“And he's pretty easy on the eyes,” Cora added with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Does Duncan know?”

“He knows Mal has feelings for me, but I'm not sure if he realizes they're reciprocated to some extent. We've circled around the topic a time or two, but Duncan has avoided coming out and asking directly, and I've avoided making any claims. My feelings for Duncan are strong, stronger than what I feel for Mal at this point, but I'm not sure our relationship is going anywhere. He's not being very committal.”

“You haven't known either one of them for all that long,” Cora said. “Give yourself time with both of them. There's no need to rush into anything.”

“No, I suppose there isn't.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“It's just that ever since my dad died, I feel so alone and adrift. In the past I always had him here to share things with and to talk to about stuff. Now I don't have that.”

“You have me. Anytime you want to talk, you know I'm here for you.”

I gave her a grateful smile. “I know that, and I appreciate it, Cora. Believe me, I do. But there are times, like late at night, after the bar closes down, or early in the morning, when I'm having my breakfast, when I feel the loss and the loneliness so strongly. Those are the times when I can put work and crimes and all this other crap behind me. Those
were
the times when my father and I would chew the fat and discuss news stories, our futures, current events, philosophical ideas . . . whatever struck our fancy. They were relaxing, normal moments in my life, and I miss them. I miss him,” I said, tears welling in my eyes.

Cora walked over and sat down beside me. She took me in her arms and gave me a hug, rocking us both gently. When she finally let me go, she sandwiched my face between her hands and looked me in the eye. “It will come with time, Mack, I promise. Of course you miss your father. He was the primary influence in your life, the one constant that was always there. And he was your only family. Now you have a temporary, makeshift family, an eclectic group of crime-solving misfits who love what they do and love you. Use us as much as you need to until you figure out where your head is at and which direction you want to go in. Once you know that, you'll be able to start your own family. Until then, I and the others are here for you.”

My throat was tight with emotion, making me unable to speak. So I simply nodded instead.

Cora leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. Then she released my face. I swiped at the tears on my cheeks and smiled at her.

“You know,” she said, “I don't have any family close by, either. I have a brother who lives out in California that I haven't seen in eight years. I get one of those Christmas newsletter things every year to keep me up to date on how he and his family are doing, but otherwise I never hear from him. My father died fifteen years ago, and my mother remarried a few years later and moved to Florida. We talk on the phone from time to time, but when it comes to day-to-day stuff, I don't have anyone. I'm forty-three years old, I've never married, never had any kids, and for the most part, my business has been my life. That's probably why it's been so successful. Aside from a dozen or so romantic entanglements, I've never had anything to distract my focus. All my time and energy have gone into my business.”

“Do you ever regret not marrying and having a family of your own?”

“At times,” she said. “But deep down inside I know I'd make a lousy mother or wife. I bore too easily, and I value my freedom too much. And over the years I've learned that the definition of
family
stretches a lot. Between my friends and my lovers, my emotional needs are met just fine.” She paused and smiled. “You've been a key part of that.”

“Me? How?”

“My brother and I never got along very well, even as kids. We were so different in every way, and the five years of age difference was just enough to keep us from ever bonding well. I used to wish I had a sister, and I did what I could to fill that need with female friends. But I never got that close to any of them. I've always related better to men than women, and not just on a sexual basis. My personality just tends to mesh better with men. But you're different. With you, I feel like I've finally found the sister I never had.”

“That feeling is mutual,” I said, flashing a grateful smile. We hugged again, and when we were done, I changed the subject. “I went down to the Public Market earlier today. I found the vendor who got that last letter from the letter writer.”

Cora's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I thought Duncan had already talked to the vendors down there.”

“He did, but he did it as part of the official investigation into Gary's murder. Since Gary's body was found in the Public Market parking lot, it allowed Duncan to talk to folks there without appearing to be involved with me or my interests in the place. He said he asked if anyone had received any unusual notes, mail, or packages, and everyone said no. But I think the fact that his inquiries were official and attached to a murder investigation made people afraid to fess up.”

“Who was it? And are you going to tell the cops about it? Do you think you'll get into trouble if they find out you went down there and questioned people on your own? The cops have been giving all of us the third degree regarding Gary's murder, and it's been made pretty clear to us that we aren't supposed to try to investigate it on our own.”

“It was a lady named Trudy who got the letter. She works at the spice shop. And she's petrified of getting involved with the police and the case. I promised her I wouldn't involve the authorities. As for me getting into trouble, I went to the Public Market before Gary was killed, and I'll continue to go there. Who's to say I'm not just shopping? I did buy some stuff while I was there.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing helpful,” I said with a frown. “She got the same nondescript package the others did, and she swears she didn't open or read the contents of the inside envelope. She said she destroyed it by burning it in her fireplace.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I do.”

“So we're back to square one.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“Are you still okay with your decision not to tell the others in the group about the letters?”

“For now. I don't want to make them paranoid. And I've got Mal and Duncan working on it with me. Hopefully, we'll come up with some answers soon.”

“Okay, but be careful, Mack. Whoever this letter writer is, they are clearly not in their right mind. You need to keep a watchful eye, in case he or she is stalking you.”

“I might be being watched, but I don't think I'm being stalked. I'm not sure what the endgame is, but I don't get the sense that I'm in danger, at least not yet. I think it's more about the game for now.”

“You haven't gotten any new letters?”

“No, but today's mail hasn't arrived yet.”

My cell phone rang then, and when I looked, I saw it was Duncan calling. “It's Duncan,” I told Cora. “Hopefully, he'll have some good news.”

She nodded, picked up the stack of copies, took the originals from the copier, and said, “Let me know. I'm going to head upstairs and hand these out.” She dropped the originals on my desk and left the room.

With a hope and a prayer, I answered Duncan's call, eager for some good news.