Free A Winsome Murder by James DeVita Page B

Dad.”
    â€œHey, what’s up?” she said. “Hold on a sec. Shit. Sorry. Okay. Hi. How are you?”
    â€œWhat are you, exercising or something? You sound out of breath.”
    â€œNo, just trying to get out of here. Working late tonight. What’s up with you?”
    â€œNothing, just calling.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œHow’s the job?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWork, how’s it going?”
    â€œOh, good. Crazy, but good.”
    â€œYou still liking it there?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    Mangan heard something fall on the other end. “You okay?”
    â€œSorry. Yeah, fine. What did you say?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou just asked me something.”
    â€œNothing. Look, I’ll call later. You’re busy.”
    â€œNo, no, I’m fine, Dad, really. I’m just—hold on a second. Okay, I’m good now. I’m sitting. Go ahead.”
    Mangan could hear the preoccupation in her voice. When she was little and didn’t want to talk to him on the phone because she was watching TV, she used to do the same thing. She sounded just the same now at twenty-nine.
    Mangan lied, “Katie, honey, I forgot, I can’t talk right now. I have to make a another call. It’s work. Sorry.”
    â€œSure. That’s okay, Dad. Call me later.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œLove you.”
    â€œLove you too.”
    â€œBye.”
    Mangan listened into the quiet cell phone for a moment, then flipped it closed.
    He took up the copy of Titus Andronicus he’d started reading the night before. Most of the words that had been coming to him lately were from that play. He hadn’t read it in years. He took a slow sip of his drink and started reading. The Lachlan/Ellison case was off his hands now, but he thought he’d finish Titus anyway.
    I’ll find a day to massacre them all,
    And raze their faction and their family,
    The cruel father and his—
    His cell phone buzzed. It was Brian Rhys from forensics. The Wisconsin M.E. had faxed down the Ellison girl’s fingerprints.
    â€œHey, Jimbo,” Rhys said. “Got a little hitch. The prints don’t match. It’s not Debbie Ellison’s hand.”
    J illian McClay was driving home after her interview with Wesley Faber. She was less than satisfied with the results. She was almost to the interstate when she passed the Bar Nun Tavern on the edge of town. Parked in front were two pickup trucks and a police cruiser.
    She checked the time.
    Made a U-turn.
    As Jillian opened the door to the tavern, two feed-capped heads sitting at the bar turned toward her. They lingered on her for longer than was comfortable, then went back to their drinks. The barmaid, tapping at a video poker machine, barely looked up. On the opposite side of the bar was a small back room with a pool table, a few men corralled around it in a haze of smoke. The dark carpeted floors smelled faintly of stale beer and urine. Sitting at a table near the back of the bar was officer Michele Schaefer. Jillian was sure it was her. She had seen the woman’s photo on the wall of the police station while interviewing Wesley Faber. Schaefer was out of uniform and sitting with three other people. They appeared to be close in age, late twenties, maybe, early thirties, huddled around a table crowded with beer bottles, their conversation hushed.
    Michele Schaefer was the officer who had identified Deborah Ellison’s body.
    Jillian sat at the end of the bar. She didn’t want to approach Schaefer too quickly, didn’t want her to shut down the way Faber had. She ordered a drink and texted her son. Might be late, make a pizza. She called Mara, but again she didn’t answer. She left a long message and then lit a cigarette. The two men in feed caps stared over at her between their swallows of beer and fistfuls of popcorn, and the barmaid paid attention to no one.
    The sound of cue balls cracked occasionally from the