Read Online Tradition of Deceit by Kathleen Ernst - Free Book Online

Minneapolis the flour-milling capital of the world.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” Chloe said. “If you throw together a salad, I’ll bake something.”
    While Ariel rummaged in the crispers, Chloe began shuffling through the cookbooks. Halfway through she paused. “Oh my . Look at this.” She held up a booklet featuring the 1966 champions of the Pillsbury Busy Lady Bake-Off. A color photograph of a chocolate Bundt cake, cut to show gooey chocolate oozing from the center, graced the cover.
    Ariel emerged from the fridge with a glorious purple cabbage in hand. “That’s the Tunnel of Fudge Cake. It’s probably the most famous Bake-Off recipe of all time.”
    â€œThis is the one, then.”
    â€œI actually bought all of the ingredients a while ago. I thought it would be fun to serve at a planning meeting. But I don’t really bake.”
    â€œI do.” Chloe skimmed the instructions, glanced at the clock, and nodded. She had just enough time. Since Ariel had the nutrition end of things covered, she’d take charge of comfort food.

    Daylight was fading when Roelke parked on Lincoln Avenue. A news van from the local ABC affiliate was parked near the Kosciuszko monument. A young man talked into a microphone while a cameraman panned from reporter to an impromptu memorial. Roelke didn’t move until the reporter had finished his standup and the van pulled away.
    Something cold squeezed Roelke’s chest as he got out of his truck. The statue, depicting General Tadeusz Kosciuszko seated on a prancing horse, had long been a place for Polish-Americans to congregate on festival days. A place for the more recently arrived Mexican and South American parents to rendezvous with their kids after playtime. A place for friends and romantics to meet. Now, this was where Officer Rick Almirez had been murdered.
    Bouquets of flowers lay against the statue. Candles flickered in luminarias and glass holders. Someone had thrust a simple cross into the hard pile of snow left by the last plow. The flowers were good. And maybe the cross would comfort Rick’s family. Roelke stared at it, trying to find some drop of solace for himself. Nothing, nada, zip. Although he’d lapsed years ago, he too had been raised in the Catholic Church. So, he thought, where was God when somebody executed Rick? He looked at the basilica, kitty-corner down the street. The golden dome, which towered over the working-class houses surrounding it, glowed on sunny days. Now, at twilight, even the dome looked bleak. Cars whizzed past, the drivers uncaring.
    Finally Roelke turned away, trying to figure out why he was here. Seriously, what could he accomplish that the detectives, with all their resources, could not? Well, maybe keeping busy would keep him from going nuts. Maybe getting a complete picture of his friend’s last moments would make him feel better. I just need to understand what happened, he thought.
    He stared at the street. As soon as Rick had been found, all hell would have broken loose. The first responder would have made that most dreaded call: Officer down . With an ambulance on the way, everybody within phone or handy-talkie or blue light range would descend—patrolmen, detectives, sergeants, captains. Somebody would establish a staging area for the press. Somebody would set a perimeter and organize officers for yard searches, because bad guys were often too panicked or too dumb to hide incriminating evidence well. With any luck …
    A gray sedan pulled over and parked nearby. Two people were in the car but only one emerged—Dobry. He added a bouquet of flowers to the shrine, stood for a moment with head bowed, and crossed himself. Only then did he acknowledge Roelke’s presence. “Hey.”
    â€œHey. Didn’t expect to see you again today.”
    â€œTina bought the flowers. She thought we should … you know.” Dobry pulled out his cigarettes and