She's Not There (24 page)

James Wilson sat in his office at MPD, seething. That bitch Rayburn and her cronies were getting too damn close. He had to get a grip—what did they have, really, but speculation? It had taken all the reserve he could muster to sit through their little presentation.

He needed to go home, get out on his sled and fly over Lake Winnebago at top speed. But he dare not do anything Conlin might see as the least bit unusual—not that Conlin had a clue—or paid any attention to James’ comings and goings. He’d play it safe, though, stay in the office the rest of the afternoon and get some work done.

The disappointment he’d felt when he’d taken out Danielle Ventura instead of Rayburn had been offset by his good fortune when bodies were unearthed in Eddie Wysecki’s basement. With a choice suspect like Wysecki, James remained invisible.

He’d thought he was safe—until this.

He had to stay focused. For now, the most prudent course would be staying under the radar as he had been and do nothing. He had some reports to keep himself busy for the moment, but unfortunately they’d need a signature from Marian Bergman. James wasn’t sure he could tolerate her in his present frame of mind. But today she was interviewing for a new position in their unit and playing God would have her in a good mood.

When James entered Marian Bergman’s office to have her sign the finished reports, he noticed Timothy Agazzo sitting across from her. A small, nervous man with no personality, unwashed, thinning hair, and poor personal hygiene—James wondered how he’d ever been hired. His frog-like eyes, and full pouty lips might have been sensual on anyone else, but combined with the other features, gave him the look of a full-lipped, undernourished frog.

James turned to leave, but Bergman said, “Stay for a second, James, we’re done here.”

By the look on the guy’s face, it was news to him. If Agazzo was here to throw his hat in the ring for the position, the interview hadn’t gone well. He slunk out of the office, his normally bent posture even more so. His shoulders, narrow and rounded, looked like they couldn’t support anything heavier than the dandruff that dotted the shoulders of his uniform.

“I take it he won’t be our replacement.”

Bergman snorted. “Like I’d want to look at that face every day.” She shuddered, shuffling some files on her desk. Probably put the poor slob’s application on the bottom of the heap where it would lie untouched until she hired someone else. Without looking up from her papers, she said, “Why doesn’t the man transfer to the evidence morgue in the basement where we wouldn’t have to see him every day?”

Relieved that it was a rhetorical question, James put the reports in front of Bergman for her signature. Even her looks bothered him. Her tightly wound chignon pulled up the ends of her eyebrows, giving them a winged, evil appearance. She might imagine the look fashionable, but with her perpetual expression of anger and disdain, James thought she looked like a witch.

The signed papers in hand, James left the room before his anger became apparent. He had no love for Agazzo, but the bitch had neutered the guy.

It came to him—
she had to be next.

TJ woke up an hour later in Eric’s office, tilted back in the soft leather recliner. She’d gone in the room to sit for a bit in an effort to pacify Jeff. A knit throw covered her although she hadn’t fallen asleep with one. Across the room, engrossed in a leather-bound book from Eric’s collection, sat Mason Orth.

He looked up. “You’re awake. I hope you’re feeling better.”

TJ blinked back to full consciousness. She must have really been out; the whiteboards were back in place and she hadn’t heard a thing. “I thought everyone was gone.”

“They are. I told them I’d stay until you woke up.”

The enormity of what had sent her into a tailspin came back to her.

Orth watched her with narrowed eyes. “I have to admit I had another reason to stay. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

What does that mean?
Orth was too damn intuitive. “I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, told Jeff there was nothin’ to worry about.”

“He cares about you.” It wasn’t a question.

“I should get going.” Part of her wanted to hear what he had to say to her, even though the other part wanted to rabbit. “Thought the morning went pretty good.”

“TJ, I can see you’re bothered by something. I believe it’s about the case. In fact, if I were to make a wild guess, I’d say you had a sudden insight of some sort.”

Is the guy psychic?
TJ was torn. She really needed to bounce this off someone else, and knew it couldn’t be any of the others. Not yet, anyway.

She ran her fingers through her hair. Orth had spun his chair over to her side. He was too close now. She had to either open up or shut him out.

She sighed. “How about a hypothetical?”

“That’s fine. However you want to discuss what’s bothering you.”

“What if I told you I think I know who our perp is, but nailing him will be impossible?”

Orth set down his cup. “I could say what you’d expect me to say—that anyone can be found out and charged, but we both know that’s not always true.” He studied her face, then said softly, “I can see you’re in great pain, TJ.”

She had the bizarre thought that he sounded like a priest. His unexpected sympathy touched her and all the emotions she’d been holding back for so long broke the surface. Quiet tears poured down her face. Orth moved closer, and put his arm across her back.

Geo Turner lived in an apartment above a Laundromat on east North Avenue, not far from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee in distance, but light years away in social strata. The neighborhood, with its high crime rate, was populated with older, two-story duplexes and small businesses.

A computer crime felon, Turner had been brought in by TJ and her partner on his third arrest. They’d staked out his apartment until he emerged, unaware of their presence, coming with them willingly once he realized he was outnumbered. That was more than three years ago.

Since then, he’d been effectively staying out of sight of the law. When he opened his door and saw TJ standing there, he growled, “Fuck! Can’t you cops leave me the fuck alone?”

She pushed past him into the ratty apartment. His office, located in what was meant to be the dining room, was stocked with computers and related equipment probably worth more than the run-down building in which it was housed. “Chill, asshole. I’m a private citizen now.”

Turner slammed the door behind her. “Then what the fuck you doing here?”

She jabbed him in the shoulder. “A little respect, fucker, I still have contacts in the department. Could get your scrawny ass hauled in like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Just happens I have a job for you.”

“Yeah, right. And I suppose its pro-fucking-bono,” he snarled.

“I can pay. But the price better be right.”

He snickered nervously, clearly worried it was some kind of set up.

“I need background on a guy. Everything from the day he was born. Detailed. Very detailed.”

“Sounds too fucking easy. What’s the catch?”

TJ took an envelope from her pocket, pulled out a photo of James Wilson, and slapped it on the table.

“Holy crap! You gotta be kidding me!”

Sneering, TJ got in his face. “Well, if you’re so fucking good at what you do, I guess who this is shouldn’t be a problem. All you have to do is make sure your ‘inquiries’ are rock-solid undetectable. Got it?”

“Oh, I get it all right. You want me to fucking jeopardize my new life.”

“Like you’re one-hundred percent straight these days.”

Turner stiffened. “It’s going to cost you.”

She reached into the envelope and took out ten, one-hundred-dollar bills, laying the money next to the photo. “This is what it’s going to cost me.”

He picked up the money, turning up his nose like it was a six-day old dog-turd. “I suppose you want it yesterday.”

“Nope, tomorrow works for me.”

“Two days.”

“Deal.” 

A deal with the devil, but worth the risk.

Mason Orth hated winter. And Christmas. He often wondered what kept him in the Midwest, but Chicago was where he’d worked. His job had been his one great accomplishment in life. Staying in the place where he’d been successful made him feel grounded.

A round trip ticket to the Bahamas sat on his desk. He was leaving three days before Christmas and coming back after the beginning of the New Year. His work was never predictable, and right now he had nothing scheduled. The balmy weather of Freeport, the beaches, and the casinos, beckoned.

When the doorbell rang, he set down a glass of wine along with the novel he’d been reading. He rarely had visitors and hoped it wasn’t another neighbor child selling their latest, useless fundraising item. When he opened the door and saw TJ standing there, he was peculiarly unsurprised. Without a word, she walked in as if she’d been invited.

She took a seat on one of the matching sofas positioned in front of a fireplace aglow with a cedar-scented blaze. He poured her a glass of wine, then left the room, returning with a plate of cheeses, crackers, and crusty bread, and placed them on the coffee table between the couches.

TJ passed him the envelope containing the report from Geo Turner. He pulled out the contents. It was all there—James Wilson, aka Ronald Rommelfanger. The photo was grainy, but still revealed the misshapen features of his face, the rough complexion, and the gross obesity. “Imagine a child growing up with such a face. And name. It’s no wonder food was his only friend.”

TJ sneered. “My heart bleeds.”

After reading through it, Orth looked up from the file. “The accident that nearly killed him destroyed his face; a plastic surgeon transformed him into James Wilson. It’s understandable that the man would have adopted a new name.

“It’s strange. I didn’t get any bad vibes from the man, but then I didn’t really talk to him one-to-one. This information certainly supports your suspicions. What are you going to do with it?”

TJ looked at him quizzically, her brow wrinkled. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here. Couldn’t keep this to myself and not sure I want to tell the others.”

Mason noticed how lovely she looked, her short hair tousled, her skin glowing a dusky, amber-gold in the firelight. The only hints of her turmoil were the dark shadows under her deep-blue eyes. “I’m glad you came to me. I’m afraid it’s not unusual in my profession—knowing who’s responsible for an ugly crime, yet knowing you may never be able to bring that person to justice.”

“So you agree, there’s no real evidence here.”

“You’ll need more for a conviction even though he fits the profile of your killer.”

TJ sipped her drink. “Everything fits. There’s no doubt really. Least not for me.” Her face hardened. “He has to be stopped. Stopped before he can keep on killing women.”

“You don’t think the police would act on this?”

“They’ve said over and over there’s no evidence—no bodies. Fuck, he’s one of them; no way they’ll listen!” She poured herself another glass of wine, appearing to fight for composure. “No, tellin’ them will just tip him off. He’d take off just like Wysecki did. Someone has to stop him.”

With no doubt where she was headed, Orth took a deep breath, searching for the right words—if there were right words for a situation like this. “TJ, you’re putting an impossible burden on yourself. Why?”

TJ squirmed under his gaze. She stood up, stoked the fire, and added another log. “There’s something you don’t know about me.”

“I make it a habit to gather background on everyone I work with. I know you shot your brother-in-law.”

She sat, hugging herself, then looked up at him. “There’s somethin’ that’s not in anything you could have found.”

“You don’t have to put it into words, TJ. I understand. There are times when we’re forced to make life-changing decisions in a split second.”

She sat back, obviously relieved that he understood.

“Do you believe that experience puts the burden on you now?”

She sighed. “Somethin’ like that.”

He spoke softly. “How do you think your friends would react if they knew about Mr. Wilson?”

She smiled for the first time since she’d come into his house. “They’d all want to waste his ass. But they’d have more confidence than me that the police would catch the bastard.”

TJ’s smile faded, her hands kneading a small pillow she held in her lap. “Maybe not Eric. The system screwed him, so he’d want to make sure that the animal was stopped. I think he’d do it with his bare hands if he could. I can’t let that happen; the cops still think he’s guilty of killing his wife. It has to be me. I have to make sure he don’t kill any more women. Or one of us.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to unload this on the others, but what about Detective Conlin? Wouldn’t he listen to you?”

“He’d listen. But his nose is out of joint over all this. He couldn’t be objective. He sided with Wilson in the beginning and would have a hard time backing off, even though I know he isn’t the creep’s biggest fan.”

Orth considered everything she’d said. There were no simple answers, no easy advice.

“TJ, while I admire your concern for the others, I believe you need to take at least one of them into your confidence. Vigilante justice is never morally right. You need their feedback. Your intentions are noble, but too dangerous alone, for many reasons. If you decide together that you really want to do this, you’ll have help carrying it out. And, more importantly, with the emotional impact of your actions.”

TJ took the last sip of wine and the last bite of cheese. She looked over at him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll talk to Lisa.”

Happy to be back in her own home, Lisa was busy getting things ready for the holiday: decorating, cleaning, cooking, writing cards, and making the requisite calls to relatives around the country. She missed the others, but knew they’d all needed a break. She wanted to talk to TJ and picked up the phone.

“Hi, I was thinking about you and decided to call and see how you were doing.”

“I’m good.”

“Are you spending Christmas with Janeen and the kids?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Did I get you at a bad time?”

“Just getting ready to go out.”

“Well, I won’t keep you then. But I’d like to invite you over for dinner tomorrow. We can catch up.”

The pause was too long; Lisa suspected something was wrong.

“Yeah, I guess that’ll be okay. See you then.”

After she hung up Lisa realized that again, she had a strange sense of foreboding. What was it? Or did she even want to know?

A ham and noodle casserole was baking in the oven when TJ arrived at Lisa’s the following afternoon. She handed Lisa a bottle in a brown paper bag.

Lisa pulled out a bottle of tequila. “Thanks!”

“For margaritas.”

“They do go with anything.”

TJ took in the open room and the antique furniture. “Nice place.” The colors were peaceful: soft blue, off-white, and cocoa brown. It was a comfortable room, not stiff and formal. She looked at the table in front of a counter that divided the kitchen area from the dining area.

“Only two place-settings. No Shannon tonight?”

“She had other plans. It’ll just be the two of us. We need to talk.”

She don’t know the half of it
. TJ decided to wait until after dinner to drop the bomb. Following Orth’s advice made sense, but she still felt guilty involving Lisa.

Lisa took the steaming casserole out of the oven. The meal smelled wonderful, and it was—cheesy and hot, salty with the taste of ham. TJ mixed the margaritas—extra potent—while Lisa arranged the salad.

After dinner they finished their drinks sitting on the long plaid sofa in front of a big stone fireplace and covered themselves with furry throws.

TJ broached the topic. “You ever wonder about the timing of your office break-in and Charles’ mugging?”

“Sure. But even though Roland believed it was related to us, I always thought there could be another explanation, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, for a while. And the office thing didn’t seem to be a big deal at the time either, did it?”

“Now you think they’re
both
related to our search?” When TJ didn’t answer, she said, “But we didn’t start the interviews until almost two weeks later.”

TJ liked tequila. It gave her the push she needed to tell Lisa what she’d come here to say.
“Someone
knew.”

“Good God! You don’t think Richard has something to do with this!”

“No. I don’t.”

She watched as Lisa’s face shifted with realization. “James Wilson was the only other person who knew early on.” Lisa gasped. “Him—a murderer? How did you come up with that?”

 TJ explained about the day of their meeting with the police, how something had been nagging at her. When she saw Wilson sitting with Shannon on the hearth, the firelight changing his unusual taupe-brown hair to glistening silver, she realized what it was. If the earlier events were connected—and thinking they weren’t was too far beyond coincidence for TJ—then the killer had to be either Conlin or Wilson. And she knew Richard, knew it couldn’t be him. And he didn’t fit the profile.

“That’s why you were upset that day!”

TJ reached into the leather bag she’d brought, took out the file, and handed it to Lisa.

She glanced inside. “Where did you get this?”

TJ looked her in the eye. “You don’t wanna know.”

TJ watched Lisa read, her expression becoming one of absorbed interest.
Good. Her professional expertise is piqued.