Private Lies Page 4

  After Curtis finished his second song, Clay leaned his face close enough that Sydney felt his lips against her ear.

  “Whaddya say we take a walk?”

  She nodded.

  “Francie,” Clay called out. “You’ll see that Curtis always has a fresh beer?”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  Clay took Sydney’s hand and led her out of the Low Down.

  “Which way?” she asked as they climbed the stairs into a perfect summer’s evening.

  Clay nodded toward his left. “Let’s head to the Edgewater. See what colors the setting sun is using to paint the lake. How’s that?”

  “Sounds delicious.” She tucked her arm through his and they walked down the square. The legislative building loomed large against the dusky sky. Families and couples relaxed on the sprawling lawns. People strolled, coming or going from any number of restaurants and shops along the way. Two boys, looking to be no older than fifteen, stood on one corner, playing their trombones with more enthusiasm than talent, with their instrument cases in front of them, available for tips that didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

  Clay tossed in a five-dollar bill as they passed.

  “Gotta encourage the next generation,” he said.

  “Maybe they’ll spend it on lessons,” Sydney offered once they were out of earshot.

  They passed an empty storefront on their way down Wisconsin Avenue.

  “Another eatery didn’t make the grade,” Clay commented.

  Sydney walked up, pressed her face against the glass, and peered inside. “Risky business, these restaurants.”

  “Only a fool would dare to open one,” Clay teased.

  “Ain’t that the truth!” She spun around to face him. “So, what should it be? What does Madison’s Capitol Square need? Something that’s bound to be a giant success.”

  “I’ve heard you can’t go wrong by identifying a need folks have. Fill it and the world is yours.”

  Sydney walked over to a metal bench across from the vacant storefront. She waved him over and snuggled into his shoulder. “So, what is it? What’s the need our new shop is going to fill?”

  Clay was quiet for a while. Sydney was content to feel the strength of his body next to hers while the birds chirped evening songs for the people strolling past.

  “Comfort,” Clay finally answered. “People need comfort.”

  Sydney noted the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Is that what you need?”

  “It’s what we all need. Times are crazy. Stress coming at you from every side. If you believe the news, there’s a terrorist attack looming around every corner. Either that or we’re all going to melt away in a global hothouse. The economy, health care, racial tensions you would have thought we’d have been smart enough to resolve by now. It’s hard to catch a breath.”

  “You could make a case for saying that’s why the Low Down’s such a success,” Sydney reminded him. “You offer people a quiet respite from all that. A nice glass of wine. A set of glorious music. That’s comforting.”

  Clay nodded. “Could say the same thing about Hush Money or The Ten-Ten. But a night on the town once or twice a month isn’t going to erase the never-ending deluge of crap people have thrown at them hour after hour.”

  “And that’s where our comfort store would come in?”

  “Exactly.” She was happy to hear a lilt of whimsy return to his voice. “From the moment you walk in, you’d know you came to the right place.”

  “The air would smell like chocolate chip cookies just pulled from the oven,” Sydney offered.

  “No flooring. Kick your shoes off at the door and walk on soft grass. The lighting would mimic a July sunset every day of the year.”

  “What would we sell?”

  “Comfort! Haven’t you been listening?” he joked. “We’d have a café in one corner. Mashed potatoes…and not the fancy schmancy kind that have been run through a ricer. Sturdy, creamy, mashed potatoes. Confident enough to show a lump every now and then.”

  “With a choice of gravies, of course.”

  “Made from scratch,” he insisted. “Mac-n-cheese, hold the truffles. PB&J sandwiches.”

  “On white bread…no crusts.”

  “Now you’re talking.” He pointed a hand in front of him, describing their imaginary store. “Over here we’d have footwear. Slippers and moccasins. Each pair already broken in.”

  “And across from that we’d have our pajama department,” Sydney added. “No lingerie. PJs! Cotton and flannel only.”

  “The entire back half of the store would be available for people to just come sit. Rockers, porch swings, beanbag chairs. Strike up a conversation with a stranger if you want to, or simply close your eyes and doze for an hour.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” she said. “We’d have ’em lined up around the corner.”

  “We’d be bankrupt in six months.”

  “No! I can’t accept that! I’m not ready to let financial reality intrude on our dream.” She nudged his rib with her elbow. “We’ll need music! What kind of tunes offer the most comfort to people?”

  Clay didn’t answer.

  “I’m sure you’ll say the blues, of course, but does that really calm folks down?”

  He remained silent.

  “Clay?”

  He shrugged. “Reality has to come knocking on dream’s door sooner or later.”

  “Meaning?”

  He shifted his position to face her. She saw a somberness in his eyes, darkened with sadness. “What brings you comfort, Sydney?”

  She was surprised by his question. “Lots of things. My mom. My work. Ronnie…that is whenever my best friend can pull herself away from her patients long enough to sip a glass of something with me. I got a text from her today, by the way.” Sydney referred to Dr. Veronica Pernod, the woman who’d been her best friend since kindergarten.

  “She make it okay?” Clay asked.

  “She did. Arrived in the Dominican Republic this morning. And of course, she’s wasting no time. Her text said she was headed into the village as soon as she cleared customs.”

  “Most folks would go to the DR and head straight for the beach.”

  “Not my Ronnie. She looks forward to this trip every year. Says she probably sees more women and babies in her two weeks down there than she does in two months at her Madison clinic.”

  “More power to her.”

  Sydney knew he meant that. Clay’s genuine appreciation for the needs of others was yet another thing she loved about him.

  That list is long, she thought. So why isn’t it enough?

  “She’ll contact me when she can but told me not to expect too much. Apparently, the country still hasn’t fully recovered from last hurricane season. Communication infrastructure is spotty at best.” Sydney let out a sigh. “I know it sounds selfish, but I wish she was here. Talk about comfort! Our store should have rack upon rack of Ronnies.”

  “We’ll have to check with our suppliers to see what we can do about that.”

  She inhaled sharply when she realized she’d overlooked the one thing he probably wanted to hear. “And you! Of course! I find great comfort when I’m with you.”

  His weak smile signaled he hadn’t missed her delay in putting him on her list. “Is it enough? All those things…is there enough inventory in your comfort store?”

  “Where’s this coming from, Clay?”

  “I love you, Syd. I hope you know that.”

  “I do. And I love you, too.”

  He paused. “I believe you think you do. I even believe you want to.”

  “But you don’t believe I do?” A defensive cloak wrapped itself around her. “Is this about Rick? I told you, Clay. I was stunned to learn he’d been shot. He’s a friend. Of course I’d want to know how he was doing.” />
  “And there’s nothing more to it?” Clay brought a gentle hand to her cheek.

  She didn’t have an answer to that…at least not one Clay would be interested in hearing.

  “I love you, Clay.” She stood and pulled him to his feet. “Can’t we let that be enough?”

  He held her gaze for several long seconds before looping her arm through his and leading her down the walk. They chatted about how quiet the town was when the university students were gone for the summer. He told her about a phone call he’d gotten from his son that afternoon. They stopped to pet an adorable labradoodle puppy trying her best to learn how to walk on a leash. By the time they reached the Edgewater’s wide stone stairway leading to their lake deck, Sydney decided she would have to accept the fact that Clay hadn’t answered her question.

  Chapter 7

  Detectives Horst Welke and Jillian Kohler hit pay dirt at the fourth motel. The Imperial Highway was one of those relics left over from the days when families would fill station wagons with kids and suitcases and hit the road looking to see as many world’s largest, state’s tallest, or universe’s weirdest as they could cram into a two-week road trip. Back then, the concrete decking around the pool would have been filled with harried mothers and fathers trying to relax while their offspring held breath-holding contests at the shallow end. The picnic tables next to the jungle gym and slides would have been covered in oilcloths and coolers dispensing Twinkies and Tang.

  But on this Saturday, the motel’s roof sagged. The pool was empty, the deck surrounding it cracked and weed-veined. The playground had one rusty swing remaining, and the picnic tables sat on hard-packed dirt littered with cigarettes, condoms, and liquor bottles. Horst showed the man behind the check-in counter the key he’d retrieved from the dead guy’s jeans.

  “This belong to you?”

  The middle-aged man, freckle-faced with thinning blond hair and a nervous twitch at his left eye, held out his hand for the plastic bag holding the key. His bushy eyebrows shot up as though he was discovering a long-forgotten Boy Scout merit badge instead of holding a simple tool of the trade.

  “Yeah. Sure.” The man handed the bag back to Horst. He alternated his excited gaze between the two detectives. “You can tell by the color. Paid extra for that two-tone swirl. Green and gold. Go, Pack! Replaced all the keys, I did. First thing when I bought the place a few months ago. Makes ’em easy to identify. Get it?”

  “Might be even easier if you had your place’s name stamped on it,” Jillian suggested.

  “That’s no good. This place has been the Imperial Highway since I was a kid, you could say. And that was too long ago for even my mother to remember. I’m gonna change the name. Something more family-friendly. Let folks know there’s a new sheriff in town. ’Til I land on the perfect name, I ain’t about to waste money on a whole new reorder of keys. Get it?”

  Horst thought a rake and a broom might have made a better first investment.

  “That why you’re not replacing the burnt-out bulbs?” He jerked a thumb toward the motel’s sign, which flashed The Imp H gh y in orange neon. “I can’t imagine that would draw many families off the beltline.”

  The man shrugged. “I’m a businessman. Gotta prioritize, you know. Besides, right now we’re more of a word-of-mouth operation. Saves advertising dollars.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Arnold Greer. Arnie to my friends. Didn’t catch yours.”

  Horst pulled out his badge. “Horst Welke. Madison PD.” He shook the man’s hand. “This is Detective Kohler. We come as a package.”

  “Nice to meet ya. Say, am I allowed to ask what one of my keys is doing in the possession of the cops? Don’t tell me it has something to do with them drug boys. Because I been making it my business to keep them types away from here.” Arnie lowered his voice. “Last fella owned this joint used to let ’em rent by the hour. I told Greta…that’s my wife…she grew up over in Shawano…country girl, ya know? Knows nothin’ about what goes on in the city. Anyways, I tell Greta first thing we do is stop renting this place out by the hour. Told her no good deed happens in one hour in a motel. Get it?”

  “Key says it’s to room number six,” Jillian observed.

  “That’s right. Printed in black, them numbers are. Had to pay extra for that, but the plain white was hard to read next to the green and gold.”

  “Who’s in room number six, Arnie?” Horst asked.

  The innkeeper sucked in his lower lip and knit his bushy brows. “Hold on there a minute. Like I said, I just bought this place wasn’t six months ago. I’m tryin’ to remember if this is one of those privacy violation things. Like against the law or some such.”

  “Arnie, we are the law.” Horst reached for his cellphone and pulled up the close-up photo of the dead man’s face. “You recognize this guy? Maybe he’s the one renting out unit six?”

  Arnie looked at the phone. Then he smiled. “Sure. Sure. That’s Billy Tremble. Folks call him Billy Shakes. He comes around every week, ten days. Homeless, you know. But a good kid. Rents a room for the night. Probably after he’s gathered enough aluminum cans or panhandled enough for the rate. Always polite. Never any trouble. Looks a little rode hard in that picture, though. You ain’t got him down in the drunk tank now, do you? I can’t say as I ever seen Billy take a drink myself. But I figure some sort of something got him in that homeless fix he’s in. Was in, I should say.”

  “Oh, why’s that?” Horst decided informing him Billy was far more than drunk would have derailed the conversation.

  “Like I said. Billy comes ’round every now and then. Loyal customer and all, but always stays just the one night. This time, I see him walking across the parking lot…see, the bus stops about two blocks down…I get a lot of them homeless looking to clean up. Anyways, I sees him coming, this time he’s holding two big bags. Like Greta looks when she’s been to the mall spending too much of my money. Women! Get it?”

  “When was it you saw Billy carrying those bags?” Jillian pressed.

  “Now, let me think here.” Arnie slapped a hand to his forehead. “What am I sayin’? Why think when ya got a ledger sitting right here?” He pulled a heavy register from beneath the counter and flipped through the pages. “Here ya go. Billy checked in Tuesday before last. Huh. Been over a week already. But like I say, Billy’s never any trouble. Easy for the days to roll by when a guest is as tidy as Billy.”

  “First time he’s stayed this long?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure. Like I said, he’s usually good for a night. Cleans himself up and off he goes. This time he tells me things are different for him. I’m running with the big dogs now is what he tells me. Cash money every week, he says. I don’t pay it much mind. Folks comin’ here always have a story to tell. But Billy pays on time. That’s the only story I care to listen to. Get it?”

  “Billy tell you anything more about this good luck of his? Maybe introduce you to a friend or two?” Horst asked.

  Arnie shook his head. “Billy seemed the loner type to me. Never any noise coming from his room. No women. Uses the bus, but I couldn’t tell ya where he goes to. Oh! I don’t know if this is any help, but he likes to eat at Perkins.” Arnie lowered his voice. “Maybe if you tell me what ya got him locked up for, I could be of more help. Don’t tell me it’s thievin’. Nice guy like that. I’d hate to think of him as walkin’ that road.”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid.” Horst tucked the plastic bag holding the key back in his jacket. “Billy’s body was found Friday night.”

  Arnie drew in a stunned intake of air. “Dead? Billy’s dead?”

  Horst nodded.

  “Heart attack? Ain’t that the way? Billy was floatin’ on a cloud this past week. Up with the birds. Light on his feet. Smile on his face. That’s just the time the old grim reaper comes knockin’.”

  “You have any idea who may have wanted Billy dead?” Jillian
asked.

  Arnie’s face froze. “Killed? You’re tellin’ me Billy Shakes was murdered?” He let out a low whistle. “Don’t that beat it all? Greta gets ahold of this she’ll have us packed up and headin’ back to Shawano before sundown.” He shook his head slowly. “Life in the big city. Get it?”

  Chapter 8

  That old song sailed through Lilac’s mind. The one about how the South Side of Chicago was the baddest part of town. But Lilac didn’t think so. There was nothing but everything to love down here. No amount of urban renewal or city whitewashing could wipe away the authenticity of the place. The air was thicker here. Like the wind Chicago was so famous for was heavier with the promise of action. Lilac parked the car on the corner of 83rd and Homan, not bothering to check if the wheels cleared the yellow line. Any cop cruising this area had bigger things on the to-do list than to write parking tickets.

  Time to face the music, Lilac thought about the non sequiturs Boss used for his team. God, how I hate the way he calls me Lilac. What kind of game is this guy playing, anyway? Does he think he’s being original? Like, what? He’s the only person on the planet who’s seen Reservoir Dogs?

  But Boss called the tune. If you had to dance, you needed to understand that. If Boss wanted to dub his people with names of flowers or colors, so be it.

  Still. Lilac? If I have to be a flower, how about Rose? Roses know how to protect themselves. Roses have thorns.

  Lilac shook away any notion of dissent, got out of the Escalade, stood, and felt a little more badass while scanning right and left. This was the heart of Vatican City. Lilac knew the Insane Popes were the gang of record but felt no fear. Lilac was coming to meet The Man. No little banger would dare touch the body or the ride.

  Lilac walked toward the joint down the block, mindful to thank Boss for choosing this spot. It had been too long since this particular flower was down in the mix.