Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [36]
Roelke realized that it was too late to chase the driver who’d just blitzed past the speed trap. Second one, too. His bad mood was distracting him.
He should have been in a good mood. He’d spent the previous night in Milwaukee with some of his old buddies, drinking beer and playing poker. Roelke didn’t care about poker. Spending time with other cops, though—that was good. He had a standing reservation on Rick Almirez’s sofa in Wauwatosa. Rick and Roelke had gone through the academy together.
“Next time bring more salsa,” Rick had said that morning, as they lingered over store-bought cherry kringle and bad coffee in Rick’s cramped apartment kitchen.
“Yeah, I will,” Roelke had agreed. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he made kick-butt salsa.
Rick Almirez was smart, a fast thinker, and even faster on his feet. He also smoked like a stovepipe. “You coming back out for practice?” he asked, reaching for a pack of cigarettes.
Rick, Roelke, and two of their friends from the force played in a bad garage band called The Blue Tones. “If I can get somebody to switch shifts with me,” Roelke said. “I’ll stop at the PD and check the schedule.”
“For Chrissake, do not go in this afternoon just to check the schedule.” Rick glanced at the ceiling as if searching for divine counseling: Lord, what am I to do with this guy? “You got to get out of that two-bit town. When are you going to transfer back out here?”
Roelke shrugged.
“You said when you left MPD that it was temporary. Helping out your cousin. How long can you drive in circles around that village before you go nuts?” Rick blew a plume of smoke over one shoulder. “You’re not even full-time.”
“The only full-time guy is out on medical with a bad back. He’ll probably take early retirement. I might be in line for that.” Or Skeet might. One or the other.
“You’re gonna lose your edge, man.” Rick got up to get a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “When I went on shift on Friday night there were seventy-nine calls waiting. God, what a night! The only way I could grab a bite was to swing through George Webb’s before calling back in service.”
“Small towns do have crime too,” Roelke said irritably. Although it would probably take the EPD several weeks to rack up seventy-nine calls.
Rick had eaten another piece of kringle, and licked his fingers. Then he’d said, “You’re screwing your career out there, Roelke. But I guess we’ll let you hang out with us anyway. The band needs you.”
Now, Rick’s observations echoed in Roelke’s ears. He shifted grumpily in the seat. All right, that was it. Next speeder he clocked was getting pulled over, and no amenities given.
Then dispatch came on the radio. “Possible break-in and entry at Old World Wisconsin restoration area, off County S.”
Roelke grabbed the radio. “George 220. I’ve got this one.”
He drove a bit faster than usual as he headed out of Eagle. The historic site’s security vehicle pulled out of the main entrance and turned onto Highway 67 in front of him. Roelke followed it to the restoration area.
Chloe was sitting on a picnic table near the trailers. “I guess the cavalry is here,” she said, getting up to greet the two men.
Hank DiCapo cast a sidelong glance at Roelke. “Hello, McKenna. Didn’t realize you’d gotten a call too. I could’ve saved you a trip.”
Roelke made a no big deal gesture. Old World’s three security guards worked for a private security company—all conscientious men, as far as he could tell. But DiCapo was possessive about his turf.
“What’s this about a break-in?” Hank asked Chloe.
She held up a padlock. “I found this on the ground, there by the step. Someone broke in.”
“You sure you didn’t drop it when you left last time?” Hank asked.
Her face tightened. “Quite sure. And when I looked inside, I could tell that someone had been going through my things.”
She looked? Roelke felt the muscles in his jaw tense. Before he could respond