Private Lies Page 9

  Sydney just stood there.

  “What? You didn’t know? You want me to have Gitch run it over to him?”

  She thought about Clay and the blues-playing dentist.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll take it over myself.”

  Chapter 16

  “You don’t expect me to buy that, do ya, Ossie?” Horst leaned back in his chair. “Take a look around. The locks? The bars? We got ya, man. Insulting us with whatever fairy tale you’re cooking isn’t doing you any good.”

  Ossie MacDonald had looked tired from the moment he limped into the interview room. Horst figured five nights in lockup were enough to keep anyone from sleeping.

  “I been telling you straight.” Ossie swiped a hand through his greasy hair. “I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout the details. Frankie’s my man. Comes to me and says what am I doin’ tonight? He’s got a job up in Madison. Says it wouldn’t take long and we’d hit the bars after. Maybe get lucky with them college girls.”

  Horst studied the twenty-four-year-old street punk and wondered what in God’s name made him think some coed would find him attractive.

  “He offered me a hundred.”

  Horst nodded. “A hundred dollars to chat with him on the ride up from Beloit. And you didn’t think there’d be anything shady going on?”

  “Oh, hell no. I told you. I know Frankie! He’s up to something every single day. I figure he’s moving some dope’s all. He been muling for Chicago for years now.”

  Horst knew Frankie’s boast out on the streets: that he was connected to Chicago crime. Every cop who ever crossed paths with Frankie Vistole knew he was blowing smoke about that. Two-bit hustles and a keen eye for cars that should be locked but aren’t was Frankie’s game. But if Ossie wanted to believe his friend’s brag, Horst figured there was nothing to be gained from disabusing him of the fantasy.

  “So, you’re admitting to abetting a drug delivery.”

  “Man, I’m not admitting to bettin’ on nothin’! I was along for the ride. That’s all. What Frankie does for Chicago got no business bein’ in my head. Know what I’m sayin’? I’m riding with my boy. That’s all. Nobody said nothin’ to me about any cops gettin’ shot. Hell. I didn’t even know Frankie was packin’. I rode with him before. Sure, he got hisself a piece. But I never seen him bring it along on business rides. Ain’t nothin’ like this ever gone down!”

  “And again, you’re saying you’ve been involved with Frankie Vistole’s criminal enterprise in the past.”

  “Enterprise?” Ossie’s eyes widened. “We talkin’ ’bout Star Trek now? Frankie’s got his business and I don’t ask questions.”

  “Not even when he told you to carry the bag into the store? That didn’t strike you as being a part of his business?”

  “You question when your friends ask you to do something as nothin’ as totin’ a bag for ’em?”

  “What was in the bag?”

  “I told you! I figure it’s a bag full of happy come up from Chicago.”

  “Would you care to be more specific?”

  “From the weight of it, I made the bag to be holding a whole heck of a lot of weed. That what you wanna hear? Didn’t hear no telltale jangle of prescription bottles. No slosh of anything liquid. I figure it’s Chicago gearing up for the weekend needs of Madison customers.”

  “And that didn’t strike you as something the police might want to stop?”

  Ossie looked away for a moment. When he faced Horst again, his fear was evident on his face. “Like I said. I rode with Frankie before.” He shook his head. “I was shocked as them policemen when they grabbed that bag from me and opened it up.”

  “And?”

  “And now I get it.”

  “What do you get?”

  Ossie looked away again, like he was wrestling in his mind with how much to say. “I get why Frankie was packin’ that night. Man, that was a lot of money in that bag.”

  “How much, you think?”

  “More than I ever seen in one place, that’s for damned sure.”

  “One million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” Horst watched Ossie shrink back at the size of the number. “And you were the one holding on to it. Where’d you get all that money, Ossie?”

  “Are you deaf?” Ossie’s voice was choked with panic. “I was lookin’ to get a hundred from keeping Frankie company. I don’t know nothin’ about the cop gettin’ shot. I don’t know nothin’ about that Chicago money. And I don’t know nothin’ about Frankie gettin’ popped. He’s dead, ain’t he? Frankie’s dead and you’re lookin’ to pin this whole thing on me.”

  “You said Chicago money. Sounds like a detail the DA could use to prick a hole in your I-know-nothing story.”

  Ossie slapped his legs so hard the handcuffs on his wrists jangled. “It’s not me! I keep tellin’ you that but you won’t listen! It’s Frankie who’s in with Chicago. Not me! Ain’t no way Frankie’s ever got his hands on that much cash lessen it comes from his boys in Shy Town. I’m puttin’ two and two together, man. That’s all!”

  “Tell me what you know about Billy Tremble.”

  Confusion interlaced with fear in Ossie’s eyes. “Who’s that, now?”

  “Billy Tremble. You might know him as Billy Shakes.”

  “That his street name? He the Chicago contact? If he’s tellin’ you I was part of this deal, then he’s tellin’ you shit. You can keep askin’, but I’m gonna keep answerin’ the same. I don’t know about the money. I don’t know about Frankie packing a gun or shippin’ money to Madison. I don’t know who or what this Shakes dude is.”

  Horst sat silently.

  “Don’t believe me?” Ossie’s voice climbed another octave. “Put me in front of this guy. Put me in a lineup. Have him pick me out. He won’t be able to because I never met him. He know Frankie’s dead? If you told him that, you got your connection.”

  “How’s that, now?”

  Ossie tried to raise his hands in frustration, but the cuffs stopped him. “I gotta do your whole job for you, man? I gotta connect all the dots? Listen. If this Shakes knows Frankie’s dead, and he’s tellin’ you I’m his guy, he’s lookin’ to pin something on me that belongs in Frankie’s column. You got that?”

  “You’re telling me you have no idea who Billy Shakes is.”

  Ossie exhaled loud and long. “Finally! I know nothin’ about him. I know nothin’ about nothin’.”

  “He’s not dead, by the way.”

  “Of course he’s not dead! He’s talkin’ shit about me!” Ossie’s face indicated he couldn’t believe anyone as stupid as Horst ever made it onto the force.

  “Frankie’s not dead. Not Billy Shakes. As a matter of fact, Billy’s as dead as a fella can get. Double tap in the back of his head.”

  Ossie shook his head so fast Horst was afraid the man was going to pop a muscle in his neck. “No! No! No! No! I know you ain’t lookin’ to pin this guy on me!”

  Horst shrugged. “Like you suggested, I’m just connecting the dots. Billy Shakes gets popped on Friday. Same day you and Frankie blow into town. Billy Shakes is holdin’ a lot of cash. You were holdin’ a lot of cash. Looks like a pretty straight line to me.”

  “Straight line? Straight line?” Ossie strained against the harness holding him in the interview chair. “Ain’t no straight line here! You tell me Frankie’s alive! Go talk to the man! He’s gonna tell you the same thing I am if he’s in the mood to tell it true.”

  Horst hated to admit it, but he believed Ossie. Still, the man offered him the only link he had to Frankie Vistole. And something in his gut told Horst there was no coincidence between the financial windfall Billy bragged about to his friends and the duffel bag filled with cash that Vistole planned to deliver to his contacts in Madison. Horst stood, crossed to open the door, and called out to the uniformed officer standing in t
he hall.

  “You can escort Mr. MacDonald back to his cell. I’m done with him for now.” Then he turned. “I’m going to talk to Frankie, Ossie. What I want you to dream about tonight is just how much you think he’s going to be in that truth-telling mood you talked about.”

  Chapter 17

  “A couple more weeks of this and I’ll be able to keep up with you.” Sydney brought her bicycle to a stop. “How long have you been here?”

  Clay unhooked his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. “A minute or two. But I was going all out since our last pit stop. How do your legs feel?”

  Sydney climbed off her bike and took off her own helmet. “Like rubber. No. Check that. They’re burning. Yeah, that’s what they feel like. Burning rubber.”

  Clay’s smile dazzled in the midmorning sun. “And how’s the rest of you feel?”

  “Let me catch my breath and I’ll tell you.” She pulled her water bottle free of its holder and used it to point toward the canopy of a sprawling magnolia tree. “Whaddya say we sit a spell before heading back?”

  Clay picked up their bikes, one in each hand, and followed her across the broad arboretum lawn to the tree she first declared to be her favorite when she was four years old and her parents brought her here to run through the magnificent urban forest. It never mattered the season. She’d made the annual springtime pilgrimage as long as she could remember. “Follow your nose,” her father would tell her when the magnolias and lilacs were in full bloom. In winter, her tree stood as an ebony sentry guarding a magical kingdom carpeted in snow and decorated with icy crystals. Autumn transformed the boughs into a riot of reds and golds. But now, in the full blush of summer, her tree spread its arms wide and heavy, offering shady solace to an overheated body.

  She took a long swig of water as Clay settled next to her. “I think my lungs are catching up with me.”

  “You’re doing fine.” He looked at his wrist-mounted meter. “Fourteen miles since we left your place. That was a little more than an hour ago. Would you have thought you could do that back in May?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought I’d do it ever. Huh. Get me. Turning into a jock. You’re a terrible influence on me, Clay Hawthorne.”

  “In more ways than one, I hope.” He wiped a damp lock of hair from her cheek.

  “Oh! We’re talking dirty, are we?” She snuggled against his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we be in a more private setting?”

  He did his best Humphrey Bogart impression. “I don’t give one care who sees us, kid. It’s you and me and I don’t care who knows it, see?”

  She smiled and gave herself over to the warm comfort she always felt with Clay.

  “How’d last night go?” he asked. “Did Hush Money manage on the great Roland Delmardo’s last night?”

  “It did, indeed. Windy’s got all the makings of a great chef. It’s going to be good for her to be out from Roland’s shadow, I think.”

  “I’m sure Roland would disagree with that.”

  “Or take all the credit for teaching her everything she knows.”

  “So, no glitches at all? No late-night catastrophes that could only be averted by your saving presence?”

  “No. Not a one. We’ve got a great team.” She huffed out a chuckle. “Between Roland’s decision to behave himself and Mom riding herd, it was a smooth-running gig, I’d have to say.”

  But she regretted her casual assessment the moment she felt his arm stiffen against hers. “How’d it go at the Low Down? Was your blues-singing dentist a hit?”

  “He was.” All the playfulness was gone from his voice. “Customers loved him. Even Francie was impressed.”

  “And she’s seen the greats.” Sydney hesitated. “Clay, I’m sorry I didn’t make it over. I know it meant a lot to you.”

  “If you couldn’t get away, you couldn’t. What held you back?”

  She inhaled deeply and held it for a moment before answering. “I went to the hospital. Rick had ordered some dinner and I wanted to make sure he got it.”

  “He’s eating solid food now?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, he’s amazing the doctors with how rapidly he’s progressing. He’s actually hoping they’ll discharge him today.”

  “Wow.” Clay did not sound impressed. “Less than a week from the shooting.”

  “Well, you know Rick.”

  “No. No I don’t. It’s you who knows Rick.”

  She squirmed around to face him head-on. “I’m sorry, Clay. I should have been at the Low Down. I should have been there with you.”

  He said nothing.

  “Rick was shot, Clay. Shot.”

  “I know that. I’m the one who dropped you off at the ER, remember? We were on a date.”

  “Can you at least be glad he survived? That he’s on the mend?”

  Clay pulled himself upright. “I’m wanting to get more of a workout in. You look like you’ve had enough for one morning. I’m going to take off, maybe loop the arboretum a couple more times. You okay resting here? You could pedal home at your own pace when you’re ready.”

  “Or I could wait for you and we could bike back to my place together.” She stood and touched his hand. “Wear yourself out, buddy. Then I’ll race you home.”

  His gray eyes signaled a sorrow as he looked at her. “No. I think I’m going to go on my own. You should, too.”

  “Oh, Clay. Look. I blew it, okay? I should have been there last night.”

  “This isn’t about just last night, Syd.” His tone was gentle. “I think I’m just now getting the backbone to accept what I’ve known was coming for a while now.”

  She felt her defenses rise. “And what is that, exactly?”

  He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You’re chasing something, Sydney.”

  “I love you, Clay.”

  Clay looked away. Then he turned back toward her. “I believe you want to love me. I really do. And I think a part of you actually does. But it’s not enough, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at—”

  “It seems like you’re always grasping,” he interrupted. “The next adventure. The next new friend. The next drama with Roland. The next new award for Hush Money. And, yes, there’s some of Rick in the mix, too.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be jealous of Rick.” Even as she spoke them she wondered if those words were true.

  “You’re searching for something,” he persisted. “I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe from wanting so desperately to know who your birth parents are—”

  “Don’t!” she interrupted. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me. I’m doing just fine. Joe and Nancy Richardson were as fine a set of adoptive parents as anyone could ask for.”

  “So, you’re telling me those Internet searches you do every time someone says you look like someone famous are all in my head? You’re suddenly no longer curious about that package that lawyer delivered on your thirtieth birthday. The letter from your birth mother…her allusion to the scandal your birth would have caused…hell, the fifteen-million-dollar check tucked inside the envelope? That doesn’t tease your curiosity anymore? Or what about that woman who occasionally comes into Hush Money? What did you say her name was? Elaina?”

  Sydney’s heartbeat accelerated at his mention of the elegant woman who always seemed so interested in her. The one she sensed wanted to tell her something but was somehow bound against it.

  “My curiosity doesn’t mean I’m grasping. Or chasing. Or whatever the hell else it is you’ve decided about me,” Sydney insisted. “And you’re in no position to judge how someone like me would feel about the circumstances of their birth.”

  “True that.” Clay didn’t respond to the growing irritation in her voice. “I’m just wondering what might keep you always looking…searching…never being satisfied with wha
t you have.”

  “Never is a strong word, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But what I’m beginning to see is this is your path, not mine.” He pulled her toward him and kissed the top of her head. “As much as I love you—and let me tell you, it’s a considerable amount—I can’t bring you comfort. I think the best I can do is offer you a soft place to land when you’ve hit a wall.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I deserve more. You do, too. Sydney, when I’m with you, I feel like there’s no place I’d rather be. I’m home. But I realize, I feel the same way when I’m at the Low Down. Or fishing with my boy. Or playing the piano. I’m lucky enough to have found my comfort in a whole lot of places.”

  “Well, pin a medal on you!” She instantly regretted the harshness in her tone.

  “It’s not a contest, Syd. It’s a realization. I like the feeling. I wish it for everyone. Especially you. But I deserve someone who does more than want to love me. I deserve someone who’s flat-out good simply hanging around with me. I don’t want to be a resting place in between curiosity missions.”

  “Do you have any idea how condescending you sound right now?”

  “I can see how you might hear it that way. I’m asking you to believe me when I say it’s not how I mean it. I love you, Syd. And I’ve got a hunch that’s not going to change for a long, long time.”

  “I’m hearing a but.”

  He nodded. “Go find your comfort, Sydney. Go find what you’re looking for. If it’s Sheffield, fine. Birth parents? I wish you every bit of luck. But I can’t be your Plan B anymore.”

  “You’re not my Plan B!”

  “I’ll say it again. I believe you believe that. Do yourself a favor. When you’re finished being pissed at me for the way this bike ride turned out, calm down. Think about what I’m saying. Think about it hard. Then go find what you need.”

  She recalled their conversation in front of the vacant storefront. “My own comfort store.”

  Clay nodded sorrowfully. He pulled his bike away from where it rested by her tree. “Let me know what kind of music you hear playing. I’d love to know.”