The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [90]
Alarm flickered in Libby’s eyes. “Did you do something you shouldn’t have done?”
Maybe I am like Patrick, Roelke thought. Scary thought. Even worse? That he was like Sabatola. Sabatola, who believed he deserved a promotion. Sabatola, who believed he was justified in—Roelke suspected—playing without rules.
“Roelke?” Libby demanded.
“I haven’t punched anyone,” he said carefully.
“I’m making coffee.” Libby got up and filled the coffeemaker. “When was the last time you saw Patrick?”
“Before he went to prison.”
“Roelke …” Libby came around behind him, and wrapped him in a hug. “Go see your brother. Talk to him. See how he’s doing. Maybe you can help him somehow. I know you hate to talk about him—to even think about him—but I can also tell that makes you crazy sometimes.”
“I don’t want to talk to Patrick.”
“One visit. Just one.” Libby squeezed a little tighter. “Make peace with him.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Promise me you’ll give it a try.”
The coffee machine started to burble. Libby didn’t move.
“I’ll try,” Roelke finally mumbled. He had no idea if he was lying or not. What he did know was that he needed to pull his shit together. He was very close to screwing up—not just the Eagle job, but his entire career in law enforcement.
_____
Midnight found Roelke alone in his apartment, pacing, trying hard not to think. He didn’t want to think about the Police Committee. And he sure as hell didn’t want to think about Markus Meili, who may have already told Chloe that Roelke—while on duty—had threatened him. What I really need, Roelke thought, is a few hours of shut-eye. The combination of whiskey and caffeine had left him sleepy but wired, like the wide-awake drunks he saw guzzling Irish coffee every St. Patrick’s Day.
Dammit. Patrick. Roelke didn’t want to think about his brother, either.
He remembered the stricken look on Libby’s face when she’d realized that pouring Roelke a drink had been a mistake. She’d even admitted her error—something so rare it deserved notation on a calendar. He’d have to reassure her on that score. None of his problems were her fault.
Roelke put his kettle on the stove to boil. He didn’t know what herbal tea would do to his head, but it couldn’t hurt.
Once the tea was steeping, Roelke sat down at the kitchen table. The index cards were still there, neatly stacked. He put the Alex card aside, and the Simon card too. Instead, he took a blank card and wrote Bonnie across the top. He’d focused primarily on how Simon Sabatola had treated Bonnie ever since Libby had told him to stop obsessing about the logistics of Bonnie’s last moments.
But maybe Libby had been wrong about that, too.
Right this moment, with his brain too fuzzy-jittery to function well, something in Roelke’s gut insisted that he needed to return to the scene he’d found on the White Oak Trail that day.
He drained his mug and shoved to his feet. Maybe he could grab a couple hours of sleep. He was off the next day, and he needed to make good use of it. He set his clock for 4:30 AM.
A few hours later the alarm’s buzzer woke him from a deep sleep. Once he’d grabbed a quick shower, he felt ready to face the day.
The EPD was locked and dark when Roelke arrived. He washed out the coffeepot and made a strong, new batch. He cleared some counter space and spread out the photos he’d taken the morning Bonnie Sabatola committed suicide. Before sitting down he went to his locker to retrieve his water bottle. He picked up Erin Litkowski’s photo too, and set it beside the photographs.
Roelke studied each shot slowly. Made some notes on index cards. Thought. Rearranged cards. Wrote some more.
Finally he leaned back in the chair. A single column of index cards now neatly bisected the counter. These cards had questions written on them. Questions he should have started asking days ago. He’d wasted time. And now, he was almost out of it.
He rummaged in the cupboard until he found a half-eaten package of Fig Newtons. Sounds like a Chloe-style breakfast, he thought,