Tradition of Deceit Read Free

infamous murder trial last year, Chloe had seen photographs of a few cops partying with wild abandon. Cops needed to let off steam, she got that, but—geez Louise, there were grandparents and little kids present.
    Jody cocked her head at a woman wearing black silk trousers and a silver top who was making her way to the stage. “Lucia Bliss. She’s a cop.”
    â€œThat’s her name? Seriously?”
    â€œSeriously.”
    Lucia Bliss huddled with the musicians before taking the microphone. The band swung into a Pointer Sisters song. Bliss smiled lazily and began to sing of the midnight moon.
    The woman had a good voice, Chloe had to give her that. She wasn’t beautiful in a traditional way—big-boned, oval face, plain features, shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She didn’t prance about, but she exuded a unexpected sultry grace.
    Jody leaned closer. “She’s a sergeant, actually.”
    â€œReally? There can’t be many women sergeants in Milwaukee.”
    â€œHer dad’s the chief of the MPD, so she grew up in a cop family. That couldn’t have hurt.”
    Somebody turned on a disco ball—Chloe hadn’t seen one of those for a while—and spots of light twirled over the room. She reached for her wine goblet, then decided she’d had enough. On the dance floor, young people clung to their partners like limpets. The bride and groom looked ready to get down on the floor and go at it, right here, right now.
    Chloe glanced back at the stage. Watching the man she’d made love with that morning, she felt disoriented. Roelke’s bass was slung low on his hips. He moved to the beat, a lascivious grin on his face.
    Bliss crooned about wanting a man’s slow hands. She glanced over her shoulder. Had she grinned at Roelke? It really looked like she did. He definitely grinned back.
    The smoke-filled room crackled with repressed electricity. Chloe squirmed as some of that tension tingled through her. She couldn’t tell if she was ill at ease or turned on.

    â€œSo,” Roelke said later, as they settled into his truck. “Are you glad you came?”
    â€œSure!” Chloe held her hands toward the heater vent with anticipation. The February night was clear and cold. A few glittering stars reminded Chloe of the disco ball.
    â€œI couldn’t tell. If you were enjoying yourself, I mean.” He backed out of the parking space.
    Chloe tugged her skirt down over her knees. She wasn’t used to wearing nylons, and her best dress—a lacy Laura Ashley number that must have amused the young women in their tight minis—was not designed for a Wisconsin winter.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI loved hearing the band,” Chloe said again. “And watching you play. And it was good to meet more of your friends.”
    â€œBut?”
    Chloe frowned. “What’s up with you?”
    â€œYou just didn’t look like you were having a good time.”
    It wasn’t like Roelke to be argumentative. She shifted on the seat, trying to figure out this unexpected mood. “Well … I felt a little out of my element. It’s a very different crowd than I’m used to.” Many of the guests at the last wedding she’d attended had worn historic attire. The musicians played waltzes and reels. The guests had received handmade boutonnieres and information about the Victorian era’s “language of flowers.” Quite a stretch from the chocolate handcuffs guests had received tonight, prettily gilded with the date stamped on the side: February 4, 1983 .
    â€œI’ve tried really hard to get to know your family and friends,” Roelke reminded her.
    â€œI know you have.” He’d gone above and beyond on that one, actually, especially in the family arena. “And as I said , I enjoyed meeting your friends. I already liked Rick, and Jody’s really nice.”
    Roelke turned onto the