Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [60]
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Shortly before eleven that night, Roelke parked a patrol car down the street from Stanley Colontuono’s house. He’d not yet been able to identify the bookie who’d taken Ginger Herschorn’s nephew for seven hundred dollars at The Eagle’s Nest. Officer Voegler, one of the new part-timers, had gone to the bar in civvies, tried to strike up a conversation with the bartender, hinted that he was looking for action. Zilch. Maybe the bookie had left town. Maybe the barkeep had been wise to Voegler.
Roelke thought back to the night he’d seen Stanley burst into The Eagle’s Nest. Who had he been looking for? The bookie? Or someone who owed him money? If Stanley was the one taking bets, he might have moved the operation to his house, where it would be harder for the cops to nail him—
A flash of headlights in the mirror caught Roelke’s attention. He’d taken the clean flat-top that night because it had a more innocuous profile than a squad car with roof lights. He waited as the car drew even, went on by. A dark Mustang. The driver parked in front of Colontuono’s house. A streetlight illuminated a young man—dark hair, jeans—when he got out of the car. At least it wasn’t the Herschorn kid.
The radio squawked. There’d been an accident in the township. Multiple vehicles, injuries reported. As Roelke responded, the young man disappeared into Colontuono’s house.
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Roelke didn’t get back to the station until almost one in the morning. He emerged from the can just in time to take a phone call. “Officer McKenna, Eagle Police Department.”
“McKenna? This is Marv Tenally, chief of security at Old World Wisconsin. We’ve had an odd thing happen at one of the Norwegian farms. I didn’t want to put it over the wire, and I don’t think I need to get the site director out of bed, but can you meet me at the Norwegian gate?”
Roelke reached the Norwegian gate in about eight minutes, and rolled his window down. “Hey, Marv. What’s up?”
Marv ran a hand over a white thatch of hair. He was a tall man, scarecrow-thin, a retired accountant from Waukesha. “Something seemed funny at the Kvaale farm. I already checked it out, but I’d like you to take a look.”
Roelke gestured. “Hop in.”
Marv locked the gate behind them, slid into the squad, and pointed the way to a log home with several outbuildings arrayed behind it. The high beams of Roelke’s car caught a raccoon in a moment of shocked stillness before it scuttled into the underbrush. “Stop in the drive,” Marv told him. “The interpreters are real particular about modern tire tracks in the farmyards.”
Roelke parked as instructed, and grabbed his flashlight before following Marv to the house.
“You know we’re in the process of replacing the old security system,” Marv said, mounting the front steps. “The old system here monitors noise. Everything looked good when I made rounds this evening—all the buildings locked up, microphones out. But about half an hour ago, I got a buzz from this place.” He unlocked the front door.
An open porch and an enclosed storeroom fronted the house. Two rooms comprised the back, a sitting room and a kitchen. Roelke played his light around the sitting room. The guides—no, Chloe called them interpreters—had left an incongruous series of large microphones planted on the floor, with heavy gray cords snaking back to the security box hidden from public view. The building’s ceiling was low, the doorways even lower. The combination of wires to trip over, lintels to bang into, and antiques to knock over made Roelke feel large and clumsy.
He planted his feet carefully as he turned to Marv. “So, you had an intruder?”
“Hard to say.” Marv rubbed his chin pensively. “A mouse’ll trigger the sensor, sometimes. But this … this didn’t feel right. First that mike tripped—” he pointed—“and then that one. By the time I’d grabbed my car keys …” he circled through the little house, leading Roelke into the storeroom, “this one buzzed.”
Roelke considered. The third mike to buzz