Private Lies Read online

  “Shall we go to my office?” Leslie asked.

  Horst followed the three of them across the stone-floored reception area, up an open staircase, and down a short hallway to the corner office. He was impressed. Two walls were solid glass, lending a feeling of the office being suspended in midair. Leslie pointed toward a conference table at one end of the space and all three men took a seat.

  “Would you like coffee, Detective Welke?” she asked. “Water? Soda?”

  “I’m good.” He pulled a notepad and pen out of his pocket while she settled herself gracefully at the head of the table. “What is it you folks are building over on Fordham? Looks like nothing but a big hole to me.”

  Doug Brenschwagger looked toward the lawyer.

  “None of that.” Leslie’s tone was sharp. “Like I said, we’re going to cooperate with this investigation, Detective. Fully and openly. No need to get Legal’s nod of approval before answering any question the police have. Am I clear?”

  Brenschwagger nodded. “It’s a multiuse. We’ll have eleven retail units on the ground level. Apartments on the upper three floors. That hole is underground parking. Nothing much to see right now but give me six weeks. It’ll start to take shape then.”

  “Was Billy Tremble an employee?”

  The two men looked at each other before turning toward their boss.

  “I’m assuming Billy Tremble was the man who was killed,” Leslie said.

  “That’s right. Folks on the street know him as Billy Shakes,” Horst explained. “Was he working for you?”

  “We hire union workers,” Brenschwagger replied. “Even for manual labor. Nobody off the streets.”

  “So that’s a no,” Horst said. “Tremble wasn’t an employee.”

  “That’s a no, Detective.” Findley Austin answered in a lawyerly tone. “This is the first I’m hearing Tremble’s name. I’m sure it’s the same for Mrs. Arbeit and Doug.”

  “Folks say Billy recently was talking about coming into some money,” Horst explained. “Thought maybe he’d picked up a job.”

  “Not with us,” Brenschwagger assured him.

  “What kind of access to your site is available after hours?” Horst asked.

  “We try to keep security as tight as we can,” Brenschwagger answered. “Chain-link fence, hoisting our equipment on cranes after hours, that sort of thing.”

  “Security service? Maybe a dog or two?”

  “Not at this point of the project. Like you said, right now the site’s pretty much a muddy hole in the ground. We’ll bring in night patrol after we’re further along. Copper piping and steel beams tend to attract an element we need to protect against.”

  “Security cameras?”

  Brenschwagger looked like a kid who’d spilled his milk as he shook his head. “Again, not at this juncture. They’re scheduled to go up in three weeks.”

  Horst mentally cursed his bad luck. “Any idea what might have attracted Tremble to your location? At this juncture?”

  Both men shook their heads. It was Leslie Arbeit who offered her opinion.

  “It’s dark,” she said. “Before any lighting goes in, a construction site is just a big area of black once the crew goes home. And it’s been my experience that kind of dark often attracts bad behavior.”

  Chapter 11

  “This is heaven!” Sydney nestled back on the padded chaise longue and sipped the gin and tonic Leslie handed her. “I had no idea you had so much property back here.”

  “We should have had you over long before this.” Leslie handed Clay a drink before sitting on the low stone wall surrounding the massive slate deck behind the giant house on Farwell Drive. “But between the four of us, who has the time?”

  “Well, we’re all here now,” Charles Arbeit called out from where he threw three dried logs into the belly of a grill in the stone outdoor kitchen. “Give this baby a few minutes to fire up and we’ll be ready to throw on our steaks.”

  “Let’s not hurry, darling,” Leslie said. “It’s been a helluva Monday. Let’s finish it off with relaxed time with friends.”

  “You’ll get no resistance from me,” Clay said. “Did your firm build this house, Leslie?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Back when my father was starting the company. Family legend has it he took the profit from his first major project and bought the land. Back in those days Maple Bluff was nearly an hour’s drive from Madison. Now it’s a little donut hole surrounded by the big city. My mother tells the story of how they’d camp on the property. Father would lull her to sleep with promises of the house he’d build for her one day.”

  “And he surely did,” Sydney said. “It’s lovely.”

  “It came in phases.” Leslie pointed toward the southern end of the house. “That came first. As Prairie Construction grew, so did the house. Mother said each new kid needed their space. I’m the youngest. By the time I came along the house was to here.” Leslie pointed to the sliding glass doors leading onto the deck. “When Father decided to try his hand at retirement, I took over day-to-day operations of the company as well as this house. He moved Mother to Fox Point.”

  “Near Milwaukee?” Clay asked.

  “That’s right. He likes to say he’s far enough away to give me my space, but close enough to save the company in case I do anything stupid. Charles and I added the rest of the house. When did we finish the addition, honey?” she called over to her husband.

  Charles looked up from stoking the fire and thought. “Hard to believe, but it’s been six years already.” He offered a broad smile to his guests. “My wife does nice work, don’t you think?”

  “I do, indeed.” Sydney gazed off at the silver sequins glittering on the lake. “Not just here, but all around Madison. You should be proud, Leslie. Prairie Construction really has made Madison’s skyline.”

  “Father left me with the company on solid ground.”

  “You’re being too modest,” Sydney insisted. “So, you were raised in this home. You said you were the youngest. I’m ashamed to say we’ve never talked about our families.”

  “My parents had three children,” Leslie said. “Cecilia is the eldest. Ten years older than I am. Then came Bernard—Barney to friends and family. He has always been the light in my father’s eye. He’s a physician here in town. I know Father hoped he would take over the business, but I guess Barney had other ideas.”

  “My best friend in all the world is a doctor,” Sydney said. “I’ve known her all my life. If Ronnie’s any indication, when someone has the calling for medicine, there’s no stopping them.”

  “I think that’s how it is with Barney. He’s a surgeon. Works ungodly hours. Always on call, it seems.”

  “Does he have a family?” Sydney asked.

  “Does your friend?” Leslie smiled. “Like you said, it’s a profession that leaves little room for anything else.”

  “How about Cecilia? Does she have kids?”

  The smile disappeared from Leslie’s face. “No. I don’t know her that well, actually. I was only four years old when Cecilia went to boarding school in Ireland. We still have family in county Clare. She evidently fell in love with the Emerald Isle. Decided that’s where she wanted to build her life.”

  “Do you visit?”

  Leslie shook her head. “I was just a kid when she left. I have no actual memory of her. It was sort of like she was a name I memorized, but as for being part of the family, well…in actuality, it always seemed to me that I was the younger of two, not the youngest of three. Mother keeps in touch with her. From all I gather she’s content with life. It’s odd, though. Having a relative somewhere and not really knowing them.”

  Clay rose from where he sat and took a seat at the foot of Sydney’s chaise. He rested a reassuring hand on her leg.

  “I know what you mean,” Sydney told Leslie.
“I’m adopted.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Leslie said.

  Sydney nodded. “From birth. I realize I have a set of birth parents out there somewhere. And like you with your sister, I have this sense of disconnection: knowing they exist, but not knowing a thing about them.”

  “It’s tough,” Leslie agreed softly. “And kind of weird, when you think of it. I mean, I could cross paths with my sister tomorrow and not even know who she is. My own sister. I have no idea what she even looks like.”

  “She doesn’t send photos? Maybe Facebook posts?”

  Leslie hesitated, as though she wanted to say something but thought better of it. “No. No, she doesn’t.”

  “Do you think of her?”

  Again, Leslie was slow to answer. “Probably not as much as I should. How about you? Do you think of your birth parents?”

  Only to the point of obsession, Sydney thought. But Leslie was a new friend. There was no need to show all her frailties at once.

  “Sometimes I fantasize,” she offered instead. “Like when people tell me I look like this famous person or that celebrity. I did it more when I was a kid. I’d imagine I was the daughter that some movie star was searching for.”

  “I did that, too!” Leslie laughed. “I think every kid goes through a period when they become convinced their parents aren’t really theirs.” She brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Sydney. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…of course, your parents are…I mean…”

  “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Sydney exchanged glances with Clay, looking for direction as to how much to share. His eyes signaled he’d be there for her no matter what.

  “I still fantasize, I guess,” Sydney ventured.

  “How so?” Leslie asked.

  “There’s this woman. Elegant. Carries herself with incredible class.”

  “Does she come into Hush Money?”

  “Yes,” Sydney answered. “Not regularly, but often enough that it stokes my wondering. She always comes alone. And, I don’t know, her eyes seem to follow me.”

  “Like a stalker?”

  “No. Nothing like that.” Sydney was suddenly embarrassed at how much she was divulging. “It’s more like she wants to talk to me.”

  “So, talk to her,” Leslie suggested. “An elegant woman, dining alone. I’m sure she’d welcome a visit from the woman who owns such a chichi eatery.”

  I have, Sydney thought. Her name’s Elaina. She once told me how very proud my parents must be.

  Sydney shook the thought out of her mind. “Stories, huh? I guess we tell ourselves tall tales all the time.”

  Charles crossed the deck to join them. “I knew your father. I guess I was on the force about five years when he was killed. Joe Richardson still is a legend around the department. He left shoes no one will be able to fill.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” Sydney looked toward Clay, whose eyes offered her all the support she needed. “But as good a cop as he was, he was an even better father.”

  “And I’ve met your mother,” Leslie chimed in. “She reminds me of a mama bear. You can tell that her first, last, and only mission in life is to make sure you’re okay.”

  Sydney chuckled, glad to have a lightening of the conversation. “I’m afraid you’ve got her pegged.”

  “Is she bugging you for grandchildren?”

  “She hasn’t yet. At least not anything overt.” Sydney nudged a gentle toe against Clay’s leg. “She’s awfully interested in how things are going with this one here. I have a feeling it’s more about bouncing a baby on her knee than what a terrific guy he is.”

  “And I am, aren’t I?” Clay joked.

  “You certainly are,” Leslie answered promptly. “You’re only thirty-five, Sydney. You’ve got plenty of time. I’m going to be forty in a few months. My baby factory is about to shut down.”

  Sydney raised her glass in salute. “You’re wearing every year well.”

  “She’s a looker all right.” Charles’s eyes glowed with teasing pride. “Frankly, I was hoping she’d hold up well when we married. She seems to be doing just fine.”

  Leslie pawed a playful slap across her husband’s arm. “Just keep going to the gym, buddy. I’m setting the bar high.”

  The evening proceeded with warm conviviality. Charles proved himself to be a master of the grill as he served up fire-charred steaks done to a perfect medium rare. They went well with a tossed salad and chilled asparagus. Leslie had offered a wine that would have made Anita Saxon eager to add it to her collection. The sun had just set, casting rose-colored shimmers to low-hanging clouds as the four of them enjoyed a simple dessert of vanilla ice cream and almond macaroons, when a voice called out from the side of the house.

  “Back here,” Charles answered. He gave a questioning look to his wife. “Were we expecting him?”

  “No, we were not.” Leslie’s voice was tinged with irritation. Clay and Sydney exchanged their own anticipatory glances as a man came around the house to join them on the deck. He was middle-aged, dressed in a navy sport coat and expensive-looking camel trousers. His hair, as little as there was, was dark blond. It encircled his skull in a crescent extending from ear to ear. His jaw was wide, but the shape of his lips and the straight line of his nose left no doubt that he was related to Leslie Arbeit.

  “Well, what’s this?” the man demanded. “A party? Dear sister, where are your manners to leave me excluded?”

  Charles stood and offered the man a handshake. “A spontaneous cookout with new friends. No snub intended, mate.” He turned toward where Clay now stood and Sydney remained seated. “Clay, Sydney. Please meet Barney Fitzgerald. Best brother-in-law a man could want.”

  “Is that so?” Barney asked. He crossed over to shake both their hands before bending down to give Leslie a quick peck on the cheek.

  “What brings you by?” Leslie asked.

  “Do I need a reason?” He picked up her spoon and scooped a bite of ice cream out of her bowl. “Just finished a long day at the body shop and thought I’d swing by to see if there might be any scraps from your dinner you’d like to share with a weary sawbones.”

  “There’s salad left,” Charles offered. “I can grill you a steak if you’ve got the time.”

  Barney sat beside his sister and slid her bowl toward him. “I’m good with this.” He turned toward Sydney. “I know you. You’re the woman who owns Hush Money, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” Sydney noted Leslie’s pursed lips. “Have you been?”

  “I have,” Barney answered. “I don’t get out much, but your place is the talk of the town. Been there twice.”

  “I hope we didn’t disappoint.”

  “You certainly did not. The food was exquisite each time. And the wine”—he brought his fingertips to his lips—“Ooh-la-la! And may I say the same for your sommelier? Quite the looker, that one.”

  “Barney, don’t be crass!” Leslie turned toward Sydney. “Forgive my brother, please. Too many years spent in laboratories and surgical suites have left him ill-suited for pleasant company.”

  “Don’t get airs with me, sister.” Sydney wondered if the playfulness in his voice truly telegraphed his emotions. “Word on the street is you had a visit from the local constabulary today.” He tilted his head toward Charles. “Good thing you’ve got this guy on the payroll, huh?”

  “How about a drink, Barney?” Charles asked, ignoring his question.

  “I’d love a glass of wine, Chief.” Barney leaned over to bump his shoulder to Leslie’s. “Give it up, sis. What were the coppers looking for?”

  “You read the papers, Barney, don’t you?” Leslie scooted away. “There was a shooting. Some poor fellow got himself killed. His body was dumped at one of our construction sites.”

  Barney’s eyes went wide with feigned shock. “Living with the
top cop isn’t enough for you anymore? You need to be closer to the action? My God, Leslie. Your life is turning into a reality show.” He turned to Charles. “And what’s this I read about one of your officers being shot? Madison’s become quite the Wild West town since you’ve taken over.”

  Sydney shot Clay a pleading look. He responded by taking an exaggerated glance at his watch. “My goodness. I had no idea it was this late. Sydney, I promised Francie I’d be back by the second set.” He stood, giving his hand to help Sydney from her chair.

  “It is getting late,” she agreed. “Leslie, Charles, thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “Oh, dear,” Barney said. “You’re not leaving on my account?”

  “No, no,” Sydney protested. “Clay and I each have places that demand our attention. We should have left hours ago.”

  “Of course they’re leaving on your account, Barney.” Leslie shook her head. “You’ve always been able to clear a room faster than an angry skunk.”

  “Please don’t get up,” Clay said. “We can see ourselves out. Thanks to you both. This was great. Next time it’s at the Low Down. Charles, does that sound okay for you?”

  Charles seemed relieved to have been offered a gracious out of the pending brother-sister fray. “Count on it, Clay.”

  Chapter 12

  “How long have you known Billy Tremble?” Horst asked the two men sitting at a table in the basement of Grace Episcopal Church. He’d shown Billy’s photo to at least two dozen homeless men and women gathered there for the evening meal. These two were the only ones who said they knew him.

  “I knowed him ’bout, let’s see, coupla years at least.” The too-thin man rubbed a hand over a scruffy beard. “Yeah. Least that long. He dead, ain’t he? He that guy the papers been talking about, ain’t he? Got hisself shot. Am I right?”

  “Billy’s dead?” The second man, cleaner looking than the other, looked stunned. “Billy Shakes is dead?” This man had an open anxiety about him, like he had shown up for an algebra class and just heard there’d be a pop quiz. Horst guessed he was new to the life-without-an-address way of existing. “I just talked to him.”