Last Call Page 8

  The next two rooms were the master bedroom, located on the left, and the main bathroom on the right. There was no en suite for the master, but the main bathroom was surprisingly large and did double time as a laundry room.

  It looked as if the two brothers were sharing the master bedroom. Based on the toiletries I saw on a dresser in one of the earlier bedrooms, Colleen was using the sunnier of the two rooms, which left Connor to use the remaining one. I looked around the master bedroom, unsure which clothing belonged to Patrick and Ryan as opposed to Mal. Given that I knew Mal to be a relatively neat person, I gathered that most of the strewn items belonged to the brothers. I didn’t see anything in particular that looked interesting, but when I entered the bathroom across the hall, I immediately smelled Mal, or rather the particular aftershave he liked to use. That scent always triggered a hair-raising sensation for me in the most literal sense. The few times Mal had used my dad’s bathroom in my apartment, the freshly applied smell had made the hairs along my arms raise. As the smell dissipated, so did the sensation, and I knew from past experience that my reaction would fade to nonexistence within an hour or two of Mal having used it unless I got up very close to him.

  I supposed Mal’s brothers might have used his aftershave, but given that they left the house several hours ago, the lingering scent present now suggested that someone—presumably Mal—had been here within the past hour or so. Plus, I recalled seeing a bottle of that aftershave among the toiletries in the basement bedroom Mal had been using. And I couldn’t recall ever detecting the same smell on Connor or either of Mal’s brothers. That didn’t mean they didn’t use it today, and I wondered if there was another bottle of it somewhere here in the house.

  I was distracted from this question by a disquieting sound: the shrill, high-pitched tones of a trumpet. I looked around and saw that there was a hamper in the bathroom. It seemed that the trumpet screech had emanated from that area, and this was confirmed for me as I moved closer and the sound grew louder. Using my elbow, I bent down and flipped the lid open. Just then, Duncan joined me in the bathroom.

  “Anything in here?” he asked.

  I nodded, and told him my thoughts about the aftershave. “I suppose one of the other guys could have used Mal’s aftershave if there’s any of it here,” I said. “And if any of them had been here in the past hour, it would explain my reaction. They haven’t, so I have to assume the lingering smell is from Mal having been here.”

  Duncan nodded, a ponderous expression on his face.

  “There’s something else,” I said, pointing to the open hamper and explaining my reaction to it. Without hesitation, Duncan removed a pair of gloves from his coat pocket—he always carried several pairs on him wherever he went—and put them on. He then began sorting through the clothes in the hamper. After removing a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans, he stopped and stared into the hamper. I stepped up so I could see inside as well. There, buried at the bottom of the hamper, was a hand towel and a T-shirt. Both of them were saturated with blood; not a nick-yourself-shaving amount of blood, but rather a serious-wound amount of blood.

  Neither of us said anything more for a moment, both of us lost in our own thoughts and our concern for Mal’s welfare. Then I delivered more bad news. “The particular note or sound of this blood matches one of the ones I heard, or smelled, in Janssen’s house.”

  “I need to run out to my car and get some evidence bags,” Duncan said. “I’m collecting that towel and shirt.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed downstairs.

  I stayed in the bathroom, standing in the middle of the room with my eyes closed. I let my other senses take over to see if I could pick up on anything else of use. I felt moisture lingering in the air, as if someone had recently used the shower, and even with my eyes closed I saw drops of water like rain.

  Nothing else struck me for the moment, so I opened my eyes. The medicine cabinet door had a mirror in it, and as I looked at its surface, I felt the same sensation I’d felt when I looked at the gun in the condo. I suspected this meant there were fingerprints on the mirror, though how useful that would be remained in question, given the number of people in the house who might have touched it.

  It held the typical over-the-counter pain medications, a generic, over-the-counter antihistamine, a bottle of cough medicine, a box of various-size Band-Aids, toothpaste, floss, and razors. I stared at these items and gave my synesthesia full rein.

  When I was younger, my father enjoyed testing my synesthetic abilities. He would have me step out of the room, and then he would rearrange something in it. He started off with easy items, large things that would be easily noticeable. But as I aced each test, he upped the odds with each subsequent challenge by moving smaller things, or moving them less. Sometimes he would take some small item and hide it somewhere—in his pocket, or in a drawer, or under a piece of furniture—and then ask me what was different.

  I excelled at these little games, and to be honest, I also enjoyed them. Not only was it shared time when I could bond with my father, it allowed me a chance to let my synesthesia out of the box of shame I kept it hidden in most of the time. We discovered through trial and error that my ability to perform this trick waned with time. The longer it was after an item had been moved, removed, or hidden, the harder it was for me to tell what had been done. My father and I debated why this was. One theory was that my brain formed a picture of the room that was exact and precise that I could then compare to the altered room. But this didn’t explain why my ability waned with time, and we more or less ruled it out when my father tested me by not allowing me in the room beforehand. I could still tell that something had been moved and identify where the object had been, even though I couldn’t identify the specific object itself.

  Our next theory was that I might be able to sense pressure changes in the air, tiny drafts created by the movements that had taken place. But we eventually ruled this one out with logic, given that my and my father’s movements about the room would have created larger drafts than anything else, and that would have confused things. Finally, we surmised that I was able to see or smell stirred particles of dust and could somehow distinguish between them. This explanation seemed too vague and illogical to me, but it was the one my father clung to. To this day, I’m not sure how I do it, and I long ago quit trying to figure it out because there was no real way to know.

  Looking at the contents inside the medicine cabinet, I knew the large container of ibuprofen had been moved recently. So had the wound dressing materials. My heart ached, because I knew this meant Mal had been wounded—probably shot—and judging from the amount of blood on the items in the hamper, it was a serious injury. I said a silent prayer that he was okay.

  Duncan returned and bagged the bloody items from the hamper, sealing and labeling them. I shared with him my perceptions regarding the items in the medicine cabinet, and after looking at them, he bagged and tagged those as well.

  “I don’t understand,” I said to Duncan. “If Mal is hurt . . . shot . . . why didn’t he seek help?”

  Duncan’s brow furrowed. “My guess is he’s hiding out for some reason.”

  “Or maybe he has sought help,” I countered hopefully. “We should check on the area hospitals. If he was injured badly enough, he might have gone to an ER. If he lost consciousness, he might be somewhere we don’t know about.”

  Duncan considered this for a nanosecond and shook his head. “If he was here tending to his wounds, my gut tells me he’s not that serious yet, and he’s hiding out for some reason.”

  This at least gave me some hope. “So where would he go?” I asked.

  Duncan narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment. Then his face lit up. “He’d go to the last place anyone would look for him.”

  Chapter 8

  I had no idea what Duncan meant, but I was willing to follow him. After looking around the rest of the house, we left without gathering any other items. Back in the car, I continued to try to figure out what he
had in mind, determined not to ask. If I was going to search for Mal, where was the last place I’d expect him to be? His house wasn’t safe over the long term. It was too easy, too obvious. The bar was out because that was the first place anyone would look. His family was there. Help was there. I was there, and up until recently everyone thought we were a couple.

  I felt a twinge of guilt, and with it a prickling sensation between my shoulder blades that I knew was a synesthetic response to that emotion. Mal had been honest and open about his feelings for me, but I’d made it clear to him that my allegiance lay with Duncan when it came to things romantic. Still, the façade we’d carried on for so long had to have played hard and fast with his emotions. I was surprised he was willing to spend any time at all with me—with us—given how hurt he must have felt.

  Then it hit me. The hurt, the humiliation, the bad memories. On the heels of a painful breakup—though technically he and I hadn’t broken up because we were never really together—the last place one would want to be is in the company of the person who broke one’s heart.

  “You’re thinking Mal might have gone to see his old girlfriend, the one he moved out here to be with,” I said.

  Duncan looked grudgingly impressed.

  “I don’t recall her name at the moment,” I went on, sensing I was on the right track. “But I recall the story, at least Mal’s version of it. They met while she was in Washington on business and they hit it off well enough that he came here to Milwaukee to be with her. And shortly after that, they realized it was a mistake.”

  “Not bad, Mack,” Duncan said. “Her name is Sabrina Cortland.”

  “Right,” I said with a snap of my fingers. At hearing the name, other details came back to me. “Mal told me she works for a brewery here in town and was in Yakima shopping for a new hops distributor. She went to a hops farmer who was a friend of Mal’s, and that’s how they met. Mal happened to be there.”

  “All true,” Duncan said. “Or at least it’s consistent with what I know of the story.”

  “It makes sense,” I said. “The ex who broke your heart is the perfect person to go to if you’re running or hiding, assuming the parting was on friendly terms.” I looked over at Duncan. “And you know where to find her?”

  “I do.”

  * * *

  It turned out that Sabrina Cortland was more than just a buyer of hops for a brewery; she was the owner of a brewery called Great Lakes Brewhaha. Duncan gave me some background, informing me that unlike the larger and more well-known breweries in Milwaukee, such as Miller, Pabst, and the Milwaukee Brewing Company, Great Lakes Brewhaha was a small microbrewery that over the years had gained in both popularity and sales. They were known for creating some unusual mixes in their brews, and with the modern-day trend toward micro-brewed beers, they had recently enjoyed a surge in growth.

  “Sabrina comes from a wealthy family,” Duncan explained as he drove, “but the family money isn’t in beer. It’s in steel. Sabrina used her trust fund to launch a brewery, something her parents weren’t keen on, given the huge amount of competition in the area. But Sabrina forged on anyway, and launched the company when she was still in college. Over the next seven years it enjoyed some steady growth and a small amount of income, but in the past five years they’ve hit a growth streak.”

  “Good for her,” I said, realizing I’d never tried one of the beers from Sabrina’s company, though I do stock some microbrews at the bar. The fact that Sabrina came from a rich family made me uncomfortable. My recent experiences and history with wealthy people hadn’t been particularly pleasant, and I often found it difficult to relate to them. I wondered if Mal’s blue-collar background had been part of the reason he and Sabrina hadn’t worked out.

  Duncan parked on Wisconsin Avenue near a five-story office building and helped me out of the car because there was a large ice patch beside my door—treacherous for anyone, but even more so for me and my crutches. We entered the building and took an elevator to the fourth floor. GLB Enterprises, the business name Sabrina used, was located in a small office Sabrina shared with two other women, one of whom greeted us as we entered. Though Duncan knew a lot about Sabrina from talking with Mal, he had never met her. Introductions were made with Duncan flashing his badge, and I quickly learned that the other two women were Sabrina’s staff members.

  Sabrina herself was an attractive woman, not beautiful in a model or actress sense, but more in a fresh-faced, doe-eyed, pretty kind of way. Her smile was warm, welcoming, and felt genuine. There was nothing intimidating about her, and with her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, relatively little makeup on, and an outfit that consisted of jeans and a sweatshirt, she gave off an aura of relaxed friendliness. I liked her instantly. Despite the warmth emanating from her, I sensed a wariness about her, a distrust of us and our motives for being there.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked, looking at Duncan.

  “I’m trying to get in touch with Malachi O’Reilly,” Duncan said. “I thought you might be able to help us out with that.”

  Sabrina let out a little chuckle. “You thought I could help you track down Mal?” She said this with a strong hint of irony. “I’m not exactly on his Facebook friends list.”

  “It’s imperative that I get in touch with him as soon as possible,” Duncan said. “I’m worried about him. I think he’s in trouble.”

  The three women in the office exchanged glances. I tried to read them but couldn’t. Finally, Sabrina said, “Let’s take a walk and talk.” She went to a nearby coatrack and grabbed a parka from one of the hooks. After shrugging into it, she headed for the door, and then held it until we fell into step behind her. We followed in silence to the elevator, down to the first floor, and out the main door.

  She headed down the sidewalk at a rapid clip, and we continued to follow, saying nothing. I shot Duncan a questioning look at one point, tired of trying to keep up with Sabrina’s pace with my crutches. But Duncan said nothing and kept following her, so I did my best to keep up. After making several turns onto side streets, Sabrina stopped near a large parking structure and spun around to face us.

  “I assume this has something to do with police business?” she said, looking at Duncan.

  Duncan nodded. “He’s been undercover for a while, and this morning we discovered that one of the men who worked with him at this undercover job has been murdered. There was evidence at the scene and elsewhere to suggest that Mal might’ve been shot. And he’s disappeared. He isn’t answering his phone and he hasn’t been in touch with anyone. I think he’s gone to ground, and when I tried to think of somewhere he would go that no one would expect him to be, your name came to mind.”

  “I take it you know my history with Malachi?” Sabrina said.

  “Some,” Duncan admitted. “In addition to being a fellow cop, Mal’s a good friend of mine, and a good friend of Mack’s here, as well. He has shared some of his history with us.”

  “If that’s true, you know Mal and I broke up shortly after he moved here. Things didn’t end on a friendly note.”

  “That’s not what he told me,” I said.

  Sabrina turned toward me sharply, with a who-the-hell-asked-you look on her face.

  “He said he was hurt by the breakup, but that the two of you remained friends,” I went on.

  “I’m afraid he misled you,” Sabrina said with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in nearly a year.”

  Up until this point, Sabrina’s voice had triggered a visual of tiny white puffs, like dandelions gone to seed, floating around in the air. But when she uttered her last line about not seeing or speaking to Mal, all the little puffs turned black and disintegrated.

  “You’re lying,” I said, trying to keep my voice as benign as possible, though there was no getting around the fact that the words themselves were accusatory.

  “I beg your pardon,” Sabrina said, shooting me another perturbed look.

  I glanced over at Duncan
. “She was telling the truth up until she said she hadn’t seen or spoken to Mal recently,” I explained.

  Sabrina didn’t give Duncan a chance to respond. “Look, I don’t know what sort of games you’re playing here, but I don’t appreciate it,” she said irritably. “And I’m done talking to both of you.” She shoved past Duncan and headed back the way we had come.

  She was a dozen or so steps away by the time I turned myself around and said, “If something happens to him, if he dies, it will be on your head.”

  From the periphery of my vision, I saw Duncan shoot me a surprised look. Sabrina halted her retreat, glancing around nervously, taking in who was nearby and who might have overheard. Then, with a look of profound irritation, she backtracked to us, practically stomping with each step. She stopped in front of us, arms folded over her chest, one foot tapping irritably, and glared at us, her gaze bouncing back and forth between me and Duncan. Suddenly, her gaze dropped to the sidewalk.

  “Fine,” she said in a low voice. “I saw him earlier today very briefly. He said he needed to hide out for a while, so I loaned him the keys to my car and the keys to a lakefront home I own up in Whitefish Bay.”

  Duncan gave her a perturbed but grateful look. “Why didn’t you just tell us that in the first place?” he grumbled.