Текст книги "She's Not There"
Автор книги: Marla Madison
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She’s Not There
by
Marla Madison
She's Not There
Copyright © 2011 by Marla Madison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely accidental.
Published by Marla Madison.
Copyright 2011 Marla Madison
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Aric Zabel.
Edited by Red Pen Proofreading and Editing
ISBN 13: 978-1-4681-9595-8
ISBN 10: 1-4681-9595-6
This novel in no way attempts to duplicate the police procedures or actual police departments in the cities of Milwaukee, Brookfield, Oconomowoc, Pewaukee and Waukesha. Any discrepancies in procedure, locations, or fact, may be attributed to the author's creativity.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the members of my writer’s group for taking this journey with me and encouraging me to keep writing even when I believed an outcome would be impossible; their support and instruction have been invaluable. Donna Glaser, Helen Block, Marjorie Doering, April Solberg, Gail Francis, Darren Kirby, and the dearly departed Bob Stokes you’ve each helped me in your own individual way.
Thanks to Terry Lee, my significant other, and my dear pets, Skygge and Poncho, for staying away when I was in the middle of an important chapter and encouraging me when I wasn’t.
She’s Not There
No one told me about her, the way she lied.
Well, no one told me about her, how many people cried.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Ooh, nobody told me about her. What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her though they all knew.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Well, let me tell you ‘bout the way she looks,
the way she acts and the color of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool,
her eyes were clear and bright but she’s no there.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Well, let me tell you ‘bout the way she looks,
the way she acted, the color of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool,
her eyes were clear and bright, but she’s not there.
Words and music by Rod Argent
(c) 1965 Marquis Songs USA BMI (Marquis Music LTD PRS)
Books by Marla Madison
The TJ Peacock & Lisa Rayburn Series
She’s Not There
Trespass
The Detective Kendall Halsrud Series
Relative Malice
Iced Malice
Prologue
Eight years earlier
A black pickup raced along a narrow road that twisted sharply left, crossing a bridge over a deep ravine. The river below marked the division between adjoining counties. Lit by the oncoming headlights, four pine crosses stood out in the ground fog shrouding the opposite riverbank. Faded to weather-beaten gray, they served as a reminder of young lives foolishly lost.
Years back, four varsity football players from a nearby high school were killed when the car they rode in left the road at an impossibly high speed in a mad attempt to cross the narrow river without traveling the bridge. The vehicle didn’t make it over the river. Airborne, the car wedged into the opposite bank, leaving no survivors. It was rumored that the same car successfully completed the daredevil crossing many times before the deadly impact.
Imagining the impact of his vehicle against the riverbank, the driver of the pickup pressed hard on the accelerator as the truck approached the bridge. After tonight there would be five crosses on the riverbank. It was unlikely anyone would cover the fifth with sentimental memorabilia.
The driver’s last thoughts—and he was certain in the split second before the truck sailed over the river they would be his last—were not of his life flashing before him. Instead, gratitude for a life ended.
1
Autumn Leaves, Women’s Getaway Weekend
UWM Campus, Milwaukee
Friday 7 p.m.
Lisa Rayburn had hardly been able to focus on her class. She and Tyler didn’t get together often, but when they did, the magic she found in his arms kept her smiling for days. Knowing she’d be with him soon, her senses tingled as she stuffed the leftover handouts into her briefcase. She’d had one eye on the clock since she’d walked into the room.
The annual Autumn Leaves event for women offered classes on everything from money management to how to handle a divorce. For the third year running, Lisa Rayburn’s class on How To Prevent Domestic Abuse was well received by her audience. The class, one of many things Lisa did in an effort to get her message out to women, warned women not to stay in an abusive relationship. Better yet, avoid beginning one. The early signs weren’t difficult to spot. The hard part came in walking away.
Lisa looked up to see a young woman standing in front of her. A brown dress covered her thin body to the ankles. She held a manila file-folder against her chest as if afraid someone would snatch it from her.
In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, ”My name is Jennifer Hansen. I’m gathering statistics for my thesis on abused women. I need to talk to you.”
Lisa motioned her to the student desks. The girl appeared upset, frightened even, her pale hands tightly clenching the folder. Once seated, Jennifer handed Lisa a sheet of paper. “I wanted you to see this.”
Lisa scanned the page, her gaze stopping on a line highlighted in fluorescent yellow. It revealed a dramatic rise in the percentage of abused women who’d gone missing in Milwaukee and its neighboring counties.
The line practically levitated toward her from the paper—the number far too high to be a statistical aberration. If accurate, what could explain it? A predator—targeting abused women? There had to be another explanation.
She kept staring at the number. Lisa whispered, “Abused women were the topic of my dissertation too.”
“I know. I read it. I thought you’d know what I should do.” Jennifer’s honey-brown eyes looked to Lisa for guidance. “What’s happening to them?”
Lisa reviewed the testing method for accuracy. Everything appeared to be in order. “There has to be a mistake somewhere. I’d recommend you recount your data and run the numbers again.”
When she looked up, the girl had vanished from the room as silently as she’d arrived. Lisa squirmed in her seat. She’d dressed in anticipation of meeting Tyler. The new, yellow lace lingerie she wore under her sedate, gray pantsuit wasn’t meant for sitting in plastic classroom chairs. What she’d just learned had her heart racing but no longer with anticipatory lust. Jennifer Hansen had just dumped the matter into Lisa’s hands.
Pewaukee Lake
10:00 p.m.
A Dodge Magnum purred into a dark parking lot, its lowered chassis and tinted windows giving it a hearse-like appearance. A few yards downhill, Pewaukee Lake shimmered in the rays from the moon.
Across the parking lot, Jamie Denison eased out of her sleek, red sports car, trying not to disturb a painful broken rib. She moved toward the door of the Sombrero Club, a popular bar and restaurant on the southwestern shore of Pewaukee Lake. Circled with expensive homes, it was the largest lake in Waukesha County. The few remaining businesses clung to the edges of the small town of Pewaukee, located about twenty miles west of Milwaukee.
Jamie entered a large, noisy room with a country rock band playing behind a crowded dance floor. Squeezing between a couple seated at the bar, Jamie ordered a glass of wine. While she sipped at the tart, yet fruity liquid, she watched the couples on the dance floor, remembering a time when she would have rejected every dance offer before she managed to entice the most attractive man in the place to her side.
The lights went down as the raspy-voiced lead singer began a slow, mournful version of “House of the Rising Sun,” a song she loved, but its soulful sounds stoked her unease. Part of her wanted to bolt.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of her stomach growling; maybe that nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach had been hunger. She’d skipped supper to feel trim in her smallest jeans.
When a waitress passed near the bar hefting a huge tray piled with orders of quesadillas, burritos and nacho chips, the scent of the spicy food convinced Jamie she wanted to eat. She walked into the adjoining restaurant, and after placing a takeout order, took a seat in the waiting area.
Through a set of glass doors opening to a deck surrounding the building, she saw a sliver of moon sending a beam of light down to the lake, breaking into tiny, sparkling crescents dancing on its surface. Lured by the beauty of the scene, Jamie stepped out onto the deck. She felt the unseasonably, warm night air caress her skin like a lover’s touch. Wineglass in hand, she lowered herself into one of the Adirondack chairs facing the water. A couple sitting on the far side of the deck held hands and talked softly. A few young children, bored with the dining process, ran back and forth, giggling.
Jamie didn’t notice the man approaching her until he stood in front of her chair. In a warm, intimate voice, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”
She motioned to the chair beside her.
“You looked deep in thought. Problems?”
When she didn’t reply, he added, “I’m a good listener.”
At three the next morning, long after closing, a lone busboy rolled a squeaky cart out onto the deck. He picked up empty glassware and trash, giving no thought to the two unopened containers of food he tossed into the plastic bag lining his cart.
Or to the red sports car sitting deserted in the dark parking lot.
2
As a volunteer counselor on Monday afternoons, Lisa Rayburn had a schedule typically full, downtime a rare occurrence. She stared at the clock, wondering why her 5:00 appointment hadn’t arrived. During the five weeks she’d been seeing Jamie Denison at the Oconomowoc Women’s Center, she’d never known her to be late. She’d liked Jamie, a lovely young woman unsure whether to stay in a marriage no longer fulfilling.
Filled with a plethora of emotions, her mind wandered. She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to the director of the center about the statistics on the missing women. And Tyler’s face, with its wide smile and rakish features, kept intruding in her thoughts. Their night together had been wondrously passionate. But over coffee the next morning, he’d broken the news he’d gotten engaged, finishing with, “I’m sorry. But we can still get together sometimes.”
Lisa had wanted to throw something at him. She wondered what the fiancé would say if she knew about her. Lisa had never expected their relationship to be exclusive, but the engagement had taken her by surprise. One of these days she’d have to do something about the cycle of self-destruction she tolerated in her relationships.
At 5:30 she picked up the phone and dialed Jamie’s cell number. When she got no answer, she tried calling her work number—Jamie hadn’t been in. Worried, Lisa’s last resort was her home phone.
A male voice picked up. “Jamie? Jamie?”
Now she had a problem; confidentiality rules prevented her from revealing Jamie Denison as a client. “I’m sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”
Something had to be wrong if Jamie wasn’t at work and her husband, assuming that was who’d answered the phone, sounded that worried.
Lisa gathered her things and checked out at the front desk before heading to her car for the short trip home.
The next morning Lisa rolled over in bed, intending to sleep in. Her first client wasn’t scheduled to come in until eleven, giving her the luxury of a morning at home. A part-time insomniac, Lisa treasured nights she got a full seven or eight hours sleep. This morning sleep eluded her. Maybe it had something to do with the phone call she’d gotten when she came in the night before. It had been after ten because she had group therapy in her office on Monday nights. Tyler’s words kept playing back in her brain.
“Hey. I didn’t like the way we left things. You okay?”
Tired, she hadn’t felt like hashing over the abrupt demise of their affair, and dating a man fifteen years her junior had to be considered an affair, not a serious relationship. “It’s late. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Did I say I’m hurt?” She heard him exhale.
“We agreed to keep things casual.”
Lisa broke the connection.
There’d been nothing remotely stable about their relationship. Exciting, yes. Predictable, no. She had to put him out of her mind. His pathetic attempt to smooth things over angered her. No wonder she hadn’t slept well.
She saw Phanny, her mixed-breed dog, sitting patiently next to the bed, her dark eyes hopeful. She looked at the pet fondly, reached over and stroked her silky head. Lisa couldn’t imagine life without her.
Last autumn, on a day much like today, Lisa had stopped to sit on a bench during one of her walks along the lake. She’d been nervous when a black dog appeared in front of her out of nowhere. But the animal had simply sat and stared at her sadly. After a minute it came closer and leaned against her leg.
Concerned about the animal, she’d taken time out of her schedule to drop it off at the county animal shelter. A day later, Lisa bought a crate, dog bed, food, and a leash. By the end of the next day, the dog, which Lisa’s daughter Paige named Phantom because of her shiny black coat, became a happy resident in Lisa’s home. Her name quickly evolved to Phanny and she became Lisa’s best friend.
Through the window, she saw pink rays of sun seeping out from behind a low stretch of steel-blue clouds, promising a pleasant morning. She had time to walk into town with Phanny and pick up a cup of steamy, hazelnut coffee.
When she arrived back home an hour later, Lisa showered, dressed for the office, and settled in at her desk to answer calls and go over her schedule. A message from Amanda Hawkins, director of the Women’s Center, had been tagged as urgent.
Amanda picked up her phone on the first ring. “Lisa, have you seen yesterday’s paper?”
“No, why?”
“It’s in a small column in the ‘surrounding counties’ section of the Journal. A client has gone missing. Jamie Denison.”
Lisa’s nerves coiled. “Are you aware she didn’t show up for her appointment yesterday?”
“Yes. Donna said you filed a Missed Appointment notice.”
Lisa leaned back in her chair, attempting calm as a sense of foreboding overcame her. “Jamie’s always been reliable. When she didn’t show up, I tried her cell, but she didn’t pick up. She wasn’t at her job, either. When I tried her home phone, someone answered and asked if I was Jamie. I couldn’t say who I was, of course, and apologized for dialing a wrong number. I’ve been worried about her.”
“I wasn’t sure if you knew, and I wanted you to hear it from me in case you hadn’t.”
“I appreciate that, Amanda. Did the article say what happened?”
“No. It was only a small piece. It did say her car hasn’t been found, so I would imagine they think she left of her own volition.”
“Hopefully, Jamie just needed to get away by herself to do some serious thinking. On another subject, someone informed me there’s been a dramatic increase in the number of abused women who’ve gone missing. The numbers were based on figures accumulated by the women’s centers.”
Lisa heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. They made an appointment to talk and Lisa hung up the phone, noticing the clouds she’d seen dispersing earlier had regrouped, taking over the sky. A chill traveled through her as the two events, the missing women and Jamie’s disappearance, merged in her mind like a bad omen.
3
A coworker advised Jeff Denison to hire an attorney. A disturbing suggestion, but Jeff knew without being told if it turned out his wife’s disappearance was not of her own design, he would be the prime suspect. But this wasn’t about him. Where the hell was Jamie?
He’d left the police station in the morning with no more knowledge of what had happened to her than when he arrived. And he didn’t have to be a detective himself to see what they were thinking—she’d left him.
He arrived back at their townhouse at noon to meet Jamie’s parents. They’d been in constant touch since Saturday morning when he’d gotten home after being in Appleton for three days and found his wife gone.
Sitting at a table with an untouched plate of sandwiches in its center, Jeff and Jamie’s parents faced each other’s panic.
Jamie’s mother wiped her eyes. “Are they even looking for her?”
Jeff had already laid out every word of his meeting with the Brookfield Police Department. He felt his patience with them dwindling. It killed him to be sitting here doing nothing but talking about it. “Yes, of course they are. There’s a statewide notice out for her car, and they’re questioning all her friends. I imagine they’ll talk to you soon.”
He couldn’t help but wonder what they’d have to say. Her parents shared his frantic concern about their daughter, but their eyes looked glazed with suspicion. Or maybe it was just his imagination, lack of sleep, and too much coffee making him paranoid.
They admitted having an appointment with the police after lunch. Jeff felt a twinge of guilt at his relief that they would be leaving soon. He had to do something. Drive around and look for her car? Anything but sit here and endlessly discuss her absence, while the 911 call, with its subtle accusations, lay huddled in the corner like an evil presence.
He said, “They seem to think she’s just gone somewhere to be alone.” He didn’t add, “to get away from me,” but the thought crossed his mind.
Her mother sniffled. “She would never go away without letting us know.”
Jeff didn’t think so either, but he had to keep hoping that’s what she’d done. Struggling not to think about the alternative, he told himself any moment now she’d come walking through the door.
After Jamie’s parents left, Jeff drove around the area, searching for Jamie’s car. A senseless pursuit, he returned home to spend the evening searching through Jamie’s things, looking for any clue to where she might have gone. At first surprised to find her checkbook mixed in with the clutter in one of the drawers, he recalled Jamie as an avid credit card user, and only wrote checks if she had to. Flipping through the duplicates of the checks she’d written in the last few months, a name caught his eye. Each week for the five weeks before her disappearance, she’d made out a check to the Women’s Center of Oconomowoc.
Jeff knew what that meant. She’d tried to get him to go to counseling with her, but he’d put her off more than once. Jamie must have decided to go by herself; the fact she hadn’t told him about it added to his torment.
He lost himself in his work the next day, grateful the others were leaving him alone. When he’d arrived, they had been supportive and sympathetic. He hadn’t seen anything in their eyes like he had in Jamie’s parents. Not yet anyway.
Jeff, an electrical engineer, worked as a chip and circuit designer. Jobs in the field were rare, and when he’d gotten the offer to work at Durand Systems, a company manufacturing state-of-the-art defense equipment, he’d been thrilled to find work in his desired field and still be able to stay in the Milwaukee area.
Later that morning, thoughts of Jamie overwhelmed him. Trying to force his thoughts back to the project he was working on, the piped-in music caught his attention. Someone had put on an oldies station. His stomach knotted as he recalled the lyrics from a haunting song he’d never given any thought to. But now . . .
“Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright—but she’s not there . . .”
He put his work aside and took out the slip of paper with the phone number he’d written down the night before. In the stark light of day, the numbers stood out as if they had something to tell him. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of the Women’s Center.
