Free Tradition of Deceit by Kathleen Ernst Page A

made no sense. Five minutes before his mark? No cop in his right mind would settle down for a Policeman’s Coke five minutes before he was due to call in.
    â€œYou done here, officer?”
    Roelke was getting very tired of this asshole’s tone. “No, I am not. Did Officer Ramirez often come in and drink?”
    â€œThere’s a first time for everything.”
    â€œWho did Officer Ramirez talk to while he was here?”
    The bartender shrugged. “I have no idea.”
    Yeah, Roelke thought, and I’m the Pope. He’d never met a bartender who didn’t know exactly what was going on in his or her tavern.
    â€œI’ll be back,” Roelke said. He liked having the last word.
    Outside, he leaned against the wall, feeling the cold creep through his parka. Rick had been drinking in that grubby bar while on duty, just moments before he should have been at the call box; just hours before he was shot in the head. Why? Why?
    There were seven other bars in Rick’s beat area. Roelke visited every one. Most were largely indistinguishable from any other Milwaukee tavern, where locals gathered for a cold brew or a fish fry or a game of darts. Some of the bartenders remembered him, some didn’t, a couple were new. One of the old-timers glared when Roelke asked if Rick had ever ordered a drink. “I oughta punch you in the mouth. Rick Almirez was a good cop. You were his friend. You should know better than to ask a question like that.”
    The man’s anger was a comfort. “I’m still Rick’s friend,” Roelke said. “And I had to ask.”
    Rick had hit several taverns after his shift started at midnight. He’d been called to one to break up a fight between two brothers. He’d been called to another to handle a young couple’s screaming match. At another he’d escorted a few underage drinkers to the door. Each situation had been resolved without evident complication. No one remembered seeing Rick between one and two in the morning. No one told Roelke anything that would explain where Rick had gone after he called Jody.
    Okay, Roelke thought, Plan B.
    He drove back to the district office and parked where he could see people coming and going. Eight minutes later an orange AMC Gremlin pulled in. The woman who emerged was heavyset, with a helmet of gray hair and a purse the size of Rhode Island.
    Roelke got out and went to meet her. “Olivette? It’s Roelke Mc—”
    â€œOh, hon .” Olivette put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about Officer Almirez.”
    â€œYeah.” Roelke swallowed, cleared his throat. Olivette was a former prison matron who’d transferred to the district after an inmate threw her against a wall, and her husband insisted that the MPD find something else for her to do. When it came to Olivette, no-nonsense and straightforward worked best. “Did you work graveyard shift last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat was Rick’s last call?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWill you get a list of his calls for me?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “You should leave this to the detectives. They know what they’re doing.”
    â€œI know they do. But Rick was my friend, and I’ve got to …” He spread his hands, out of words. The com center was staffed mostly by old guys easing toward retirement, plus any female cop temporarily benched for being pregnant, but there wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t want to help if Olivette snapped her fingers. She knew all the cops at the district—their quirks, their habits. When rookies screwed up on the radio, she quietly explained the problem instead of scolding or complaining to a sergeant. She’d helped Roelke out of his share of bungles in his early days with the MPD. Either she’d help him now or she wouldn’t.
    After a moment she opened her purse and pulled out a notepad and pen. “Write down your