Tradition of Deceit (28 page)

Forty-Five

It was almost eleven
when Roelke left the district station and made his way to Kozy Park. He walked around the statue again, leaned one forearm against the cold marble, bowed his head.

The past few hours felt surreal. Cops and EMTs had descended on the cemetery. Bliss went to the hospital. Fritz Klinefelter and Roelke had given statements at the station.

Sergeant Malloy had met Roelke in the hall. “Officer McKenna, I told you not to interfere with the official investigation.”

“Yeah. I didn't listen.”

The older man slowly saluted. “You're a good cop. A good friend. And I'm proud to know you.”

When the formalities were done, Fritz and Roelke huddled in an empty interview room with Malloy and Dobry, piecing together Lucia's story. “Growing up with her dad can't have been easy,” Sergeant Malloy allowed gruffly. “And I admit, life ain't always easy for women on the force. But to shoot a fellow officer in the back of the head? Unforgivable.”

“Damn straight,” Roelke muttered.

“I thought we were looking for a military man,” Fritz said, “but I expect Chief Bliss gave his daughter firearms training that far exceeded that of the recruit academy. She had the skills of a sniper. Not quite the nerve, though. After killing Rick, she did a sloppy job of ditching the gun.”

Roelke said, “I called her on Tuesday—asked if she'd thought of any reason a cop might have it in for Rick. That must have made her nervous. My truck is easy enough to tail, and I presented the perfect opportunity when I stopped by the statue. I lingered long enough to let her park back on Becher. It was simple enough to creep through the trees and find a dark spot with perfect line of sight, but I don't think she expected me to charge
at
her. She had the presence of mind to retreat in a straight line, but she must have had the handgun as backup. When she fell in the snow, she may not have even realized she'd lost the .38.”

Fritz rubbed his chin. “She might have used the gun from Evidence on Rick because she didn't want any weapon she owned to be linked to the killing. Or maybe she just got the idea, grabbed it, and went after him. But we still don't know how she got into Evidence in the first place.”

“Um … I have an idea,” Dobry said. “She was having an affair with Captain Heikinen.”

“Bleeding Christ on the cross,” Sergeant Malloy muttered. “You know that for a fact?”

“I saw them in his office one night.” Dobry's face was so pale that every freckle stood in sharp relief.

Roelke glared. “You tell the world you think you saw Rick drinking at the Rusty Nail, but you keep quiet about Bliss boffing the captain?”

“But—it never occurred to me—I had no way of knowing that—”

“Are you even sure Rick was drinking alcohol that night?” Roelke demanded. “Is it possible he was drinking soda while trying to chat up a truly bad guy?”

“Knock it off,” Malloy barked, sergeant-style. “It's done. All the secrets will come out. Maybe Bliss thought she was in love with the captain. Maybe she was trying to get ahead. Either way, an affair could have given her the opportunity to pinch Heikinen's keys.”

Fritz looked at Roelke. “Maybe she didn't have to pinch them.”

Roelke nodded. If Bliss had told Heikinen that she was worried that Rick might have reported something that might get linked back to her, the captain could have pulled the Field Investigation cards. The captain might have been able to claim ignorance of the gun being taken from Evidence, but if he'd been the one to pull the FI cards, it would come out. Roelke remembered how the captain's wedding ring had glowed red and blue in the squad car's lights. The next few days were going to be very difficult for Captain Heikinen.

And he remembered the look on Lucia Bliss's face when he'd told her that a cop had been charged with domestic abuse. She'd looked sick. Now he understood that she was sick with fear, not disgust at his revelation. The coming days were going to be very difficult for Chief Bliss, too. Fortunately, Roelke had thought, not my problem.

Now, here by the statue, he breathed in the cold night air and focused on what
was
his problem. Namely, taking care of the people he cared about.

His best friend, for one.
Rick
, he said silently.
I DID it. I found your killer.

Roelke had botched an investigation back in December, and some part of him now felt redeemed. Arresting Bliss hadn't provided any sense of that “closure” people yammered about, but his universe did hitch in a better direction. He was a good cop. And he'd proved that Rick was a good cop, too.

Roelke thought a moment before telling his friend,
I don't understand everything that happened with you and Erin, but I forgive you for keeping secrets.

That felt good, and Roelke was glad he'd come to that place. He didn't want to carry anger or resentment around.

Just one more thing to say.
Rick, I am going to be okay. I will make sure that Jody is okay. I will do my best to take care of Chloe, and Libby and the kids. And I will always try to be the kind of man that you were.

He thought he heard a whisper—
Well, of COURSE
you will, dumbass!—
although it may have just been wind rattling through the trees. He swiped his eyes, blew his nose, and got back into his truck. Time to go.

He'd cracked the windows by the time he hit Eagle, using frigid air to help stay alert. As he drove Highway 59 toward Palmyra, he spotted a county sheriff's car by the side of the road, flashers throbbing in the dark. Deputy Marge Bandacek was dragging a board to the shoulder. It looked like some numbnut had lost a load of lumber and kept right on driving. Roelke pulled over and got out.

“Hey, McKenna,” Marge said. “No need to stop. I got this.”

“I know you do.” Roelke grabbed a plank, wondering just how hard it had been for Marge to find a place in the sheriff's department. “But I'd like to give you a hand.”

“You have company,” Ariel announced. Owen and Jay followed her into the living room.

“We came to sign your cast,” Owen said.

Jay presented Chloe a bouquet of roses. “Actually, we came to give you these.”

Ariel intercepted them. “I'll find a vase.”

“I'll help,” Owen said, with bogus nonchalance.

Chloe and Jay exchanged a glance. “I think that's a good thing,
there,” Jay murmured, as the sound of a hushed conversation
drifted from the kitchen.

“Me, too. Owen's recovered, I take it?”

“It would take more than a knock in the head to slow Owen down. He's already got the roller stand belt repaired, ready to demonstrate at the reception tonight.” Jay gave her a piercing look. “How are you?”

“One broken wrist, a few pulled muscles, too many scrapes and bruises to count. I'll be fine.”

“When I think about—”

“After going over what happened in microscopic detail with the police, I'm trying
not
to think about it. Listen, Jay … I've got a question. Did a woman ever get killed in the mill when it was func-
tioning?”

“In an accident, you mean? Oh, no. Other than during World War II, men did all the heavy work. If a woman had died in the building, we'd certainly know about it.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” She waved a hand:
It's of no matter
. But I know what I know, Chloe thought. She'd felt a female presence while she was trapped in the bin and freaking out. Just when she needed help, help came.

Owen and Ariel emerged from the kitchen. “Ariel let me try one of your
pączki
,” Owen said. “Oh—my—
God
. The guests will love them.”

“In honor of the Polish immigrants who worked at the mill,” Chloe explained. “They're a nice complement to Gold Medal muffins and Pillsbury Bake-Off cake.”

With the reception looming, the men couldn't stay long. After seeing them out, Ariel approached Chloe with a flat, square, tissue-wrapped package. “This is a peace offering, of sorts. And an apology. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything right from the beginning.”

“I am too,” Chloe said. “But you didn't have to give me a gift.” When she tore the paper away, her eyes went wide. She held a glorious example of
wycinanki
. The circular border contained two intricate roosters and a profusion of flowers. “Is this the piece your grandmother gave you? I can't accept this!”

“I want you to have it,” Ariel insisted. “My grandmother went to Milwaukee once to see the Polish Basilica, and she got it at a shop near there.”

Chloe squinted at the artist's signature. “It says … Lidia. No last name.”

“I'm sorry I don't have provenance information.”

“It doesn't matter,” Chloe said. “I love it.” She placed her gift on the coffee table beside the
wycinanka
found in No Man's Land
.
Both were amazing examples of folk art, but the strutting roosters brought Officer Crandall to mind. Eternally cock-sure of himself, she thought. Just like Everett Whyte must have been. She couldn't help thinking that if
she'd
been the Polish woman snipping away, she'd have skipped the rooster motif.

Forty-Six

Helen cut through the
alley and let herself into the back door of Rose Cottage. “Grandma?” she called. “I'm home.”

No answer. Helen walked through the kitchen and looked out the window. Yep, there was Grandma, bending over a dormant rosebush in her teensy yard. It didn't matter that the forecast called for snow. The old woman checked her gardens every day, murmuring to the plants, encouraging them to hang on until spring.

Helen hung up her coat and put the teakettle on. Gardens outside, she thought, and gardens inside. She regarded the framed
wycinanki
gracing the walls. No one did more delicate paper cuttings than her grandma.

Not that
she
was a slouch with the scissors, either. Helen's earliest memories of this house centered on the old Polish folk art. There had been more women coming and going in those days, long before Eve's House and other social groups emerged to provide refuge for battered women. As a child, Helen had watched the women creep inside, often in the middle of the night. “You're safe here,” Grandma told them, but the women had nothing but fear to fill time while Grandma and a few trusted friends figured out how to spirit them out of Milwaukee.

So Grandma set them to paper cutting. Although she made traditional motifs to sell in a shop near the basilica, she set new rules for the women starting new lives. “No roosters,” she'd say, and their tradition of cutting hens and flowers had begun. The design had become Grandma's secret calling card. Her trusted allies carried small cards made by the women in hiding, and if they managed to convince a threatened woman to flee, they gave her one to present upon arrival at Rose Cottage.

Years later, after Helen had become director at Eve's House, they'd modernized by having the cards printed. Now, most of the women she counseled sought help through restraining orders, housing assistance, job-training programs, subsidized childcare. But when that wasn't enough … Helen took one of the cards, wrote her name and the desperate woman's name on the back, and sent her to Rose Cottage. The few allies Helen trusted to help with their feminine underground railroad did the same …

The back door opened. “Oh, Linka!” Grandma said. “I didn't know you were home.”

Helen kissed the old woman on the cheek. To the outside world she was Helen. In Rose Cottage, she was Halinka—Linka for short. “I saw you in the garden.”

“I'm going to plant a rose for Officer Almirez, as soon as spring comes.”

Helen nodded. “That's a lovely idea.” Officer Almirez had stopped by their house shortly before the shooting. She and Grandma would always be haunted with the knowledge that he had died helping them.

She searched for something more uplifting to say. “I was just admiring your art.”

Grandma flapped a dismissive hand. “No, no. You should have seen my Grandmother Magdalena's fine paper cuttings.”

“Grandma Lidia,” Helen said firmly, “you do fine work yourself. In many ways.” Even in the old days, after Helen's mother died young, Grandma had managed to teach at the Settlement House, raise her granddaughter, and help the women who had nowhere else to turn.

The kettle whistled, and they sat down at the table. “I got a letter from Erin today,” Grandma said.

“You did?” Helen's eyebrows rose. Communicating by postal mail was against the rules.

“She said she asked someone getting on a plane to mail it.” Grandma squeezed her teabag against the spoon. “She wanted us to know that she'd left the state safely. And she included a letter for Officer McKenna.”

“Really?” Helen leaned over the table. “Grandma, I don't think it would be wise to pass that on. We made an exception when Officer Almirez wanted to help our network, even let him come to the house once, and … he ended up dead.”

“I
know
,” Grandma said sharply. “But this is an unusual situation. I hated lying to Officer McKenna that day he came looking for Erin. The least I can do is pass along her letter. After losing his best friend, Officer McKenna deserves whatever peace of mind he can find.”