Working Stiff (22 page)

Then my mind zeroes in on an alternate explanation and I raise my eyes to the others in the room. “Is it possible the hairs could have come from me?” I ask. “David was at my cottage with me for a while last night. Some of his hairs might have transferred to me, and then from me to the crime site.”

No one says anything but after a few seconds, Izzy shrugs. I take that as acknowledgment of the possibility. I expect to feel relief but it doesn't come.

Nothing is resolved. A DNA test will prove whether or not Halverson is related to Karen, but those results could take a week or longer. In the meantime, all I have are suspicions, doubts, and speculations. But I also have some ideas on how to turn my speculations into cold, hard facts.

But first, I need an accomplice.

B
efore leaving the office, I remove my bandage and clean the stitches on my forehead. I think about leaving them uncovered, but they look too much like a hairy mole, so I trade in the big white bandage for a smaller, skin-toned Band-Aid.

I leave the office and drive over to Karen Owenby's house. As I park at the end of the cul-de-sac in front of her house, I happen to glance out my side window and see a burgundy-and-gray van stopped in the middle of the street. In a flash I remember how a gray-and-burgundy van almost rear-ended Izzy and I on the night of the hospital shindig. And how there was one this morning at Lauren's house, too. Now here is another one. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Or am I just being paranoid? I am considering walking up to it to see who is driving when it backs up several feet, makes a U-turn, and disappears back the way it came.

I turn my mind back to the task at hand, although I keep glancing up the street from time to time, half expecting the van to return. I study the other houses in the neighborhood, wondering which of them harbors the mystery caller who claimed to have seen David on the night of the murders. Given that Karen's house is at the end of a cul-de-sac, it doesn't make sense that the witness was simply driving by. And while I suppose it is possible the witness was merely a visitor to one of the other houses on the street, I figure it is far more likely to be someone who lives here.

According to Larry Johnson, my police-officer friend, the eyewitness said she recognized David because she was a patient of his. I jot down the numbers of all the houses, knowing there must be a way to find out who lives where. I'm thinking that if I compare those names to David's patient roster, I might be able to find a connection.

With that done, I head out of town toward the village of Parsons and find the address Susan McNally listed on her ER record for her sister. It is a cozy little home in an older neighborhood: two-story, clapboard, with a small patch of lawn out front and another in back. I pull up to the curb and climb out of the car just in time to see a burgundy-and-gray van turning down a side street about a block behind me.

I freeze, my heart thumping so hard I fear it will leap from my chest. I wait, watching the surrounding streets for another five minutes, but I don't see the van again. I realize I might be acting silly, but that doesn't stop me from looking over my shoulder several times as I walk up to ring the doorbell.

The woman who answers is a freckle-faced, fiery-haired nymph, a tiny woman with a waist about as big around as a pencil. Her hair is a wild mass of curls, her eyes a color of green so vivid it has to come from contacts.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asks.

I have my badge out and show it to her, trying to adopt an official pose. “My name is Mattie Winston and I work in the Medical Examiner's office. I'm looking for Susan McNally and was wondering if she might be staying here. I need to ask her some questions about the death of her roommate, Karen Owenby.”

The smile on the woman's face evaporates. “The police have already questioned her several times. Can't you get your information from them? Susan's pretty upset by all of this. As I'm sure you can imagine.”

“I won't be long, but I really do need to speak with her,” I push. “The focus of our investigation is a bit different from that of the police. They don't always ask the right questions for what we need to know.”

If anything, the woman's expression only grows more determined. “Susan is sleeping right now. Why don't you call and make an appointment to meet with her?”

The implication—that I am rude to show up without calling first—is unmistakable. And hard to argue with. Tiny though she is, the woman before me looks to have a spine of steel and a determination to match. I am about to give in when a figure materializes like a poltergeist behind her. Actually, doppelganger would be a better term, since the two women are virtually identical. Twins.

“It's okay, Shannon,” says the second woman. “I'll talk to her.”

Shannon gives me a disgusted look that makes her opinion of the situation crystal-clear. I ignore her and focus on Susan instead.

“Did you say your name was Winston?” Susan asks me.

“Yes. Mattie Winston. I work with—”

“Yes, I heard you tell Shannon. But your interest in this is more than just professional, I'd wager. David Winston is your husband, isn't he?”

Busted.

“Yes. Almost ex-husband, though.”

Susan flashes me an ironic smile. “I would imagine so.” She steps around her sister and onto the porch. “Let's walk,” she says. “Shannon's kids have big ears and I don't want them to hear what I have to say.”

I can feel Shannon's eyes burning little holes into my back as I step off the porch with Susan. Since I'm not sure just how much Susan knows about Karen at this point, I decide to start with a general question and see what she offers before getting specific. “How long were you and Karen roommates?”

“Not long. Six months. There was someone else before me but I gather that she and Karen didn't get along too well.”

“How did you know Karen?”

“I didn't. I answered an ad she placed in the paper. We met, seemed to hit it off, and I moved in a week later. Frankly, I was desperate. I had to move out of my old apartment because the owner had sold the building and I had nowhere to go. What Karen proposed was the perfect solution, one I could afford. I sensed early on that something wasn't quite right with the woman, but I wasn't in any position to be picky.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that whole impostor thing.”

So she did know.

“I don't get it,” she goes on. “I mean, I always thought Karen was a bit strange, but I never suspected anything like that.”

“I'm not sure anyone did. Do you know if she owned the house?”

Susan shakes her head. “I assumed so at first, but it turns out she was just renting the place. The owner is willing to let me stay there, though I'm not sure I want to at this point. And I don't know how long it will be closed off for the police investigation.”

“You work at a bank, right?”

She nods, shooting me a wary glance before looking away again. I notice that her eyes are a more natural shade of green than her sister's.

“Did you have a feel for Karen's financial situation at all? Was there anything unusual you were aware of?”

She hesitates, as if unsure of her answer. “Funny you should ask that,” she says finally. “Money was a subject Karen didn't like to discuss. There were times when I saw her counting wads of it—tens, twenties, even hundreds. Yet she always seemed broke and the balance in her checkbook was always low.”

She pauses, giving me a sidelong glance. “I'm not usually a nosy person. I try to respect other people's privacy,” she says. “But I knew something was going on with Karen and was worried that she might be dealing drugs or something like that. I work at Community Bank and Karen is a customer there. So I sort of peeked at her account activity one day while I was at work.”

“And?”

“And all she ever deposited were her paychecks. Every two weeks. No unexpected withdrawals, no savings, no investments that I know of. So where did all that cash come from? And where did it go?”

“You have an idea, don't you?”

We have reached a corner and stop there by some unspoken agreement. Susan looks at me and nods, then drops her gaze to her feet. “I think she was blackmailing someone.”

“Any idea who?”

“I thought at one time that it might have been your husband,” she says, giving me a quick, guilty look. “I overheard her on the phone one night threatening to squeal to the wife of whoever she was talking to about his fooling around.”

“Did you tell all of this to the cops?”

“Not all of it. I told them that she'd been seeing your hus–David. But I didn't think of the money thing until recently, the past day or so. I've been so…upset by the murder that I haven't been thinking straight. Besides, I knew they'd look at her financial stuff as a matter of course anyway, and if anyone found out I'd looked at Karen's account the way I did, I could get fired.” She gives me a fearful, pleading look.

“I won't tell anyone,” I assure her. “In fact, our entire conversation is just between the two of us.”

“Thanks.”

“The police said there was an anonymous caller, a woman, who claims to have seen David at your and Karen's house the night of the murder. Was that you by any chance?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “No. I was gone all night. I wasn't even in town. My boyfriend lives in Madison. I went there to stay with him for a few days. I had Monday and Tuesday off but I was scheduled to return to work on Wednesday. Rather than fight the rush hour traffic in the morning, I decided to come home Tuesday night. I'd just gotten home when I found Karen.”

If Susan isn't the eyewitness, I feel certain it must be one of Karen's neighbors.

“You said you thought at one time that it might have been David she was blackmailing. Does that mean you don't think that now?”

“I haven't thought that for a while, though that's based on a hunch rather than any facts,” she says. “Thing is, I think she genuinely cared for David. I don't think she would have done that to him. To anyone else? Yeah. But not to him.”

How sweet,
I think with no small amount of sarcasm. If what Susan is telling me is true, Karen and David were probably an item much longer than I originally suspected. The realization that the two of them were meeting and conspiring behind my back while they smiled and talked directly to my face every day is galling. Right now I hate them both passionately, particularly Karen. And hating a dead person is a wholly unsatisfactory state of being. It's hard to imagine what sort of revenge you can wreak on someone who's already dead.

Susan reaches over and touches my arm, letting her hand rest lightly near my elbow. “There's something else I should tell you, and I can't think of a way to broach the subject delicately so I'm just going to ask. Besides, if you work in the coroner's office, you must know already.”

“That Karen was pregnant?”

“Yes.” She breathes a sigh of relief, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, she studies me closely for a few seconds and then pulls her hand back. I guess she figures it is safe to let go since I'm not about to launch myself into the stratosphere. As if a featherweight like her could hold down a heavyweight like me if I did.

“Did she tell you who the father was?” It pains me to ask and I fear the answer will hurt even more.

“Hell, she didn't even tell me she was pregnant. I found out when I emptied the trash. I saw the home pregnancy test in her bathroom garbage. Later that night I asked her about it. I expected her to be mad at me for finding out, but she seemed quite happy and unbothered by it all.”

She pauses and gives me an apologetic look that tells me something more is coming. “I overheard her telling someone about the baby on the phone. She said she hoped it would be a boy and that he would grow up to be a doctor as talented as his father.”

I swallow hard, then grasp at a straw. “That still leaves the list of suspects pretty wide open.”

“Perhaps,” Susan says, grimacing now. And then she gives the knife she's unwittingly plunged in my back a wicked twist. “But it gets pretty narrow when you consider that I also heard her say she wanted to name the baby David. After his father.”

I
drive home in a deep funk, mourning the death of my marriage. At first I simply feel depressed, but by the time I pull into the driveway, my emotions have transformed themselves into a quiet but intense rage. Dead or not, I hate Karen more than ever and I am determined to get to the truth about her, whatever it takes. I sense that Halverson is tied to it all somehow and target him as the next focus of my attention.

I get home just in time to see Izzy off on his trip to Chicago. He won't be back until late Sunday night, which works just fine with my plans since I sense he might not approve of what I am about to do. Dom and I wave as Izzy drives away, and as soon as the car is out of sight, I turn to Dom and link my arm through his.

“Want to do the town tonight?” I ask him.

“Do the town?”

“Well, how about if we do The Cellar?” The Cellar is a small, nicely kept bar owned by two gay men. Located just beyond the town limits, it has a reputation for good music, affordable drinks that aren't watered down, and a liberal atmosphere that generally attracts like-minded people.

“The Cellar,” Dom says. “Man, it's been a long time since I've been there. Izzy doesn't much care for the place.”

“I know. It's not the sort of place he wants to be seen in, given his job. Though ironically, the job is precisely why I want to go there tonight.” I then tell Dom what we know about Mike Halverson and what I want to try to find out. “The Cellar seems like the logical place to start,” I conclude, and Dom agrees. But he still looks pensive and hesitant.

“Don't worry about Izzy,” I tell him. “I'll say that I made you come along and that it was strictly business. Besides, you'll have me along as a chaperone to keep you out of trouble.”

“Keep
me
out of trouble? What's that cliché about the pot and the kettle?”

“You game or not? I'm going regardless. I just thought you might be able to make things a little easier for me, pave the way, and save me some time, being that you know folks there.”

“I used to, but it's been several years since the last time I was in the place. Who knows if any of them are still there?”

“Where else would they be?”

He considers that, shrugs, and says, “You have a point.”

The bars in Wisconsin are kind of like the cheese—there are lots of them and most of them smell funny. Many towns have more bars than gas stations, and even in the tiniest villages, where the life expectancy of the average retail business is about six months due to a lack of customers, disposable income, or both, half a dozen bars will coexist in relative harmony and financial comfort.

In every town there is always one place designated as the official football bar. It's typically decorated in classic Packer colors—green and gold—and whenever the Packers play, every square inch of the place will be occupied by rabid fans, some of whom don't think twice about wearing a giant foam cheddar cheese wedge on their heads.

In Sorenson, the official Packer bar is The End Zone, the closest thing to a men's club the town has ever had. It's a hotbed of out-of-control testosterone located on Main Street between a deli and a pet store. Consequently, it is pretty much guaranteed that talk at the bar will include an assortment of pussy jokes, a remark or two about doing it doggy-style, and the ever-ubiquitous salami comments. Most of the women who dare to venture inside The End Zone generally come back out rather quickly looking pale, appalled, and frightened.

Given the crowd that typically holds down the bar stools in The End Zone, it is hardly surprising that the gay clientele—at least those who are out of the closet—went elsewhere and established a bar of their own. That this bar is located outside of town doesn't hurt any. Homophobia is alive and well in Sorenson, and while tolerance reigns most of the time, it is often maintained only because most of the gays keep a low profile.

While I don't want to be presumptuous, I am pretty certain Mike Halverson was gay. It isn't just the fact that he had AIDS, which, as Izzy has been so careful to remind me, he could have gotten several other ways. There is something about the way he carried himself and the way he spoke that makes me certain. It's a gut instinct, nothing more, but it is a strong enough instinct for me to act on. If Mike Halverson was indeed gay, chances are he would have found his way to The Cellar. Maybe someone there will recognize him and be able to clue me in as to his friends, lifestyle, or anything else that might be of help.

Dom and I arrive at The Cellar a little after eight and the place is already hopping. It's Disco Night, one of the many theme nights the bar periodically holds. There is one of those hideous, spinning light balls in the ceiling, lots of Bee Gees music, and a dozen or so John Travolta look-alikes on the dance floor, not all of whom are guys. In fact, I suddenly realize just how effeminate Travolta is when I see that most of the women imitators look more like the real thing than the men do.

On the flip side, most of the Travolta knockoffs have dancing partners who are decked out in flared skirts, tight blouses, bright red lipstick, and lots of mascara…and not all of them are women. Half the fun of going to The Cellar is trying to figure out the gender of the patrons, a task made even more challenging because the hip atmosphere of the place attracts a fair number of heterosexual patrons as well.

We find a table where two women are paying their tab and hover nearby, swooping down on their seats the second they are vacated. Once we are settled, Dom signals to one of the bartenders, a guy named George who is an old friend.

Dom introduces me, and after shaking George's hand, I get right down to business by showing him a picture of Mike Halverson. It's a blowup of the shot from his driver's license, which unlike most such photos, is actually a good picture, though it bears only a vague resemblance to the man I saw earlier today. Although the license was renewed last September—a little over a year ago—the Mike Halverson pictured on it is far healthier-looking and more robust than the man I met.

“Have you seen this guy in here before?” I ask George.

George barely glances at the picture before nodding. “Oh, yeah. Plenty of times. Not recently, though. Not for about…oh…two, maybe three months. Name is Mike something, I think.”

“Mike Halverson,” I offer.

“Sounds right,” George muses. “Heard he picked himself up a sugar daddy and that's why he doesn't come around here anymore.”

“Well, he won't be in again,” I say. “Somebody killed him.”

George looks appropriately shocked. “Killed him? How?”

“Shot him. In the head. Very messy.”

George swallows hard a couple of times and winces. “Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet. That's why I'm here. I was hoping you might be able to give me a lead on the guy—who he saw, who he knew, if he had any enemies, that sort of thing.”

George seems to consider this for a few minutes. “I don't think it was anyone from here he hooked up with. But there were some folks he talked to pretty regularly. Maybe one of them knows something.” He points to a tall, attractive blond woman with a knockout figure who is out on the dance floor. “Chris used to talk to Mike a lot. You might start with him.”

Him?

The pronoun makes me whip my head back around toward the dance floor so fast I feel like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
I stare at the person in question, looking for a clue, but all I see are long, shapely legs, gorgeous hair, great-looking skin, and perky little breasts—all in all, one fine-looking woman. If she is actually a man, you couldn't prove it by me. The one reliable characteristic (other than the obvious ones that nurses may get to see but the average public doesn't) is the presence of an Adam's apple. But Chris is wearing a wide choker of some sort that hides that part of his neck.

As far as my eyes can tell, Chris is all woman, and a hellacious-looking one at that, so much so that I sink down a little lower in my chair. There's nothing quite as humbling as realizing that a man in drag makes a better-looking woman than you do.

George walks up to the dance floor and whispers in Chris's ear, pointing toward our table. Chris nods, gives his dance partner a quick buss on the cheek, and sashays his way toward us.

“Hi there,” he says, and I notice that though his voice is deep, it is not distinctly masculine. He settles into an empty chair, crosses his shapely legs, leans back, and lights a cigarette. He gives Dom a thorough once-over that should be intimidating, maybe even insulting. Yet instead it seems strongly sensual, enough so that Dom begins to squirm. Smiling at Dom's obvious discomfort, Chris then turns that sensuous gaze toward me, giving me the same deep perusal.

“Love that lipstick you're wearing,” he says, his gaze settling on my lips. “Sort of a cross between mocha and coral.”

“It's called Sandy Sunset,” I tell him. “Part of a new color scheme my stylist turned me on to.”

He eyes my face and hair for a moment, then gives a nod of approval. “The colors are interesting. Darker than I might have guessed for your complexion, yet it works. And your hair! It's to dye for. Get it? To d-y-e for?” He laughs and tosses his own blond locks before taking another drag on his cigarette.

“Your stylist is obviously talented,” he says through a haze of exhaled smoke. “Who is it? Will you share? Or is it a big secret?” He sighs and takes another drag. “It's so hard to find anyone good these days.”

“I'll share. But you might not like her. She's a bit…different.”

“Oh, I don't care about that,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I mean, come on. Look at me.”

He has a point.

“Her name is Barbara Moyer. She works at the Keller Funeral Home in Sorenson. I don't know the number but you can reach her if you call the funeral home. That's where her, um, salon is.”

“A funeral home? How twisted,” Chris says with a wicked grin. “I like it. I'll definitely have to check it out. Thanks, girlfriend.”

“Sure. Tell Barbara I sent you.”

“I will. Now, let me return the favor. I understand from Georgie Porgie that you want to know something about Mike Halverson.”

I nod and wait as Chris takes another drag off his cigarette and surveys the room. I sense he is someone who won't be rushed, who will dish on his own time and on his own terms. So I wait. In the interim, I watch him closely, enthralled with the way he oozes sensuality without being blatantly sexual. I study his mannerisms, his gestures, the subtle shifts of his legs, and his overall body language. I try to memorize it all, figuring if I can learn to be half as seductive as he is, my social life will improve by leaps and bounds.

“Well, Mikey was a character, I'll tell ya that,” Chris says finally, exhaling a long, curling plume of smoke that spirals lazily toward the ceiling. “He was a real sucker for the GQs.”

“GQs?”

“Yeah, you know the type. Three-piece suit, Yuppie airs, money to burn. Problem is, a lot of those guys spend their lives in the closet.”

“George said he thought Mike had hooked up with someone a few months back. And that's why he stopped coming in here.”

“He did meet someone,” Chris says, looking off across the room again and taking another drag on his cigarette. “I don't think they ever came in here together, though. Mike generally came in alone. But he sure did talk about the guy. Let me think….” His eyes squint with the effort. “I can't remember Mikey ever mentioning a name, but he said the guy was a big shot of some sort. Lots of money, very handsome.”

“Any idea how long they were seeing one another?” I ask.

Chris shrugs. “Last time I saw Mikey was probably two months ago or more. And I think he'd been seeing this GQ for a while at that point.”

“Did you know that Mike had AIDS?”

Chris makes a cute little pout. “Ooh, no, I didn't. Not sure anyone else did either.” He shakes his pretty head and I again find myself amazed that there is a man somewhere inside that body. “Usually word of something like that gets out rather quickly. So I suspect Mikey wasn't telling. That's bad. Very bad.” He pauses a second, cocking his head to one side and staring off into space. Then he looks at me and says, “Do you think that's why he was killed?”

“I don't know,” I tell him. “Right now I'm just trying to get a handle on who he was and who he knew.”

“Well, I'll tell you this,” Chris says, stabbing out his cigarette and leaning across the table to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. “I've never seen Mikey like he was the last few times he was in here. He was all goggle-eyed and couldn't stop blabbering on about this new boyfriend and their future together. He had that look—you know the one—the look that says this one is different. I think Mikey was genuinely in love. And if what he said was true, the two of them were meeting several times a week at the Grizzly.”

“The Grizzly?”

“That's a little motel over near Fond du Lac. It's a popular stopping-off point, if you know what I mean,” he says, wiggling his perfectly tweezed eyebrows suggestively. “It's owned by a brother and sister who have set up one whole section to cater to the”—he pauses and makes little quote marks in the air—“fast-food crowd. It might be worth asking them if they know who Mikey was seeing. They're generally pretty tight-lipped about who their customers are, but Calvin's here tonight and I do believe he has a bit of an in with the owners. They might tell you something if you were to take Cal along.”

He pauses and fans his face with one hand. “Calvin,” he says with a tone of reverence. “Don't you think that sounds terribly masculine?” He says the name again, more breathily this time, as he glances around the room. Finally his gaze settles on the dance floor.

“That's him out there,” he says. “The bald guy in the leather jacket.” I look and see a well-built man of medium height dressed from head to toe in leather. He is dancing—quite well, I notice—with a thin, freckle-faced guy who has an unruly mop of curly red hair.