Текст книги "She's Not There"

Автор книги: Marla Madison

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

57             

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 make him pay 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 the police unearthed the bodies in Eddie Wysecki’s basement. With a choice suspect like Wysecki, James remained invisible.

He’d been 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 protruding eyes and full, pouty lips gave him the look of an 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, he hadn’t expected the brush-off. 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 dotting 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 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 surfaced. He had no love for Agazzo, but the bitch had neutered the guy.

It came to him—she had to be next.

58             

 

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 it. 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 left.”

“They did. I said 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 one 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—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 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, more than three years ago. They’d staked out his apartment until he emerged, unaware of their presence, coming with them willingly once he realized they outnumbered him.

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 must be the dining room, was stocked with computers and related equipment probably worth more than the run-down building housing it. “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. “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. “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.

59             

 

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. Three days before Christmas he would leave and come back after the beginning of the New Year. He had no work scheduled over the holidays. 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 and selected the photo—James Wilson, aka Ronald Rommelfanger. The picture 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 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 hint of her turmoil 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 he understood.

“Do you believe your 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 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 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.”

60             

Happy to be back in her own home, Lisa kept 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’d invited TJ over for dinner and gotten a lukewarm acceptance. Something felt wrong. Lisa realized once more she had a strange sense of foreboding. What was it? Or did she even want to know?

She had a ham and noodle casserole baking in the oven when TJ arrived. 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 comfortable room with an open floor plan, the farmer’s table in front of a low counter 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.”

You 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 and tasted wonderful—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 is 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 got upset the other 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. Your professional expertise is piqued.

When Lisa finished reading, she looked up at TJ, who was watching expectantly, her body swaddled in the fur throw as if protecting herself from an unknown presence. “Amazin’, isn’t it?

“He fits our profile.”

When TJ remained mute, Lisa said, “Are you going to tell Richard about this?”

TJ expressed a dry, mirthless laugh. “Yeah right. What do you think?”

Lisa swallowed the last of her drink, oblivious to the fact it was warm and diluted. “I think we need a lot more alcohol.” Then it came to her—the reason for TJ’s silence. “Dammit! There’s nothing concrete here, is there?” Lisa threw down the file.

TJ shook her head, pulling the throw tighter around her small body.

Lisa sputtered. “But what about circumstantial evidence—the preponderance of evidence? Wouldn’t the totality of everything be enough?”

“Nah. Might be if it was anyone else. I thought about telling Richard, but don’t think it’s a good idea. He wouldn’t have an open mind being as how the beast is one of them.”

Unable to turn off her psychologist’s fascination with the man, Lisa picked up the photo of Ronnie. God, he’d been so ugly before his accident. And that name. Ronald Rommelfanger. His classmates must have been on him incessantly. What are the chances after his ”rebirth” as the handsome James Wilson, he’d act out his pent-up rage against women? Orth had been right; Wilson, as their killer, was fascinating.

TJ lifted her glass, tilting the last few drops of the drink into her mouth. “I can hear the wheels turning over there. What are you thinkin’?”

Lisa took a deep breath. The new information felt like a bad dream. “We have to tell—”

“No,” TJ interrupted furiously, abandoning the throw as she jumped up. “We can’t tell anyone!”

“Why?”

“We can’t tell anyone,” TJ repeated.

“What do we do? Wait it out while he kills more women and hope the police come up with him as a suspect?”

TJ stood, walked into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She poured two, and handed one to Lisa. “Didn’t see any limes in your fridge, so bottoms up.” She raised the glass to her lips and gulped down the tequila.

Lisa picked up the shot glass and followed suit.

TJ sat down with her elbows on her knees. “Got a story to tell you. About me. And Janeen.”

This must be serious. “All right.”

“Everyone loved Janeen’s husband, Mario. I did, too; he was a great guy. And talented. He sang with a group of jazz musicians who made it pretty big in town. When they broke up, he couldn’t get another gig. He started drinking—turned ugly when he had too much. Started roughing Janeen up if she complained when he came home late, drunk. She didn’t tell anybody about it for a long time. She even tried to hide it from me, but I noticed a nasty bruise on her neck one night. She tried to blame it on playing with the kids. I knew better, seen too many women like her, too many bruises just like hers. After a while, you can spot them a block away.”

Lisa sighed. “I know. I’ve worked with many of those women.” As Lisa listened to the unfolding drama of TJ, Janeen, and Mario, Janeen’s abusive husband, she wanted to go to TJ and put her arm around her. But she knew the story had to flow without interruption, without any reaction, and most importantly, without judgment.

“He went to rehab after I took him aside and explained what I’d do to him if it happened again. But he was only there a week when they sent him home. Said he could work with them as an outpatient. What a joke. He started drinkin’ again when he was still going for his supposed counseling. I told Janeen to leave him, get a divorce. But she loved him, still believed he would change. You know how that goes.

“Next thing, I get a hysterical call from her one night when I’m on shift. She told me she called 911. He had her trapped in the bathroom, bangin’ on the door, yellin’ at her to let him in. We just happened to be in the neighborhood at the time. I got there before the emergency responders, ran in before my partner could get out of the car. When I found them, he’d just busted down the door and was goin’ for her with a knife. He lunged for me when I told him to drop it.” Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the shot glass she held. “I shot him.”

Lisa poured TJ another inch of tequila. “TJ, you did what you had to do. You saved your sister’s life.”

“I didn’t have to shoot to kill. Had time to disable him. My gut took over—I wanted the bastard dead.”

“That’s understandable. She’s your sister.”

TJ snorted. “Yeah. Understandable. Only good thing happened that night is she got the kids the hell out before he went wild.”

Lisa said softly, “That’s a terrible secret to carry around all these years.” The time had come—she had to tell TJ about her own past. She’d never told anyone the whole story, had carried it like a hidden birthmark all these years. “You aren’t the only one with a secret in her past.”

Looking a little less glum, TJ raised her eyebrows.

Lisa rose from the couch. “I have something to show you.”

She led TJ to a room in the basement. In a dark corner behind the furnace, stood a tall, locked cabinet. She pulled out a key ring and opened it. Lined up inside were a dozen rifles.

TJ gaped. “These are yours?”

“They were my grandfather’s. I inherited them with the house. I grew up with guns. All the men in my family hunted, and as soon as I was old enough to hold a rifle, my grandfather taught me to shoot.”

“You hunted?”

“No. I never could do it. But I was fascinated with guns and loved to go to target practice with him.” She picked up a rifle, holding it almost lovingly.

“That one’s quite the cannon.”

“It’s a 30.06. He used it for deer hunting, but it’s a bit of overkill for deer, although it’s a popular weapon for the sport.”

Lisa handed it to her. TJ held the rifle, admiring its heft. She passed it back, looking like she was wondering where Lisa was going with all this.

Lisa put the gun back, locked the cabinet, and gestured for TJ to follow her. They went upstairs, and Lisa handed her a coat. They walked across the driveway to a large shed where a motion-sensored light went on at their approach. Lisa unlocked the doors. In the middle of the shed sat a matched pair of shiny, dark blue snowmobiles.

TJ’s face brightened. “We’re going for a ride? Never been on one, might be fun.”

“Not with all the tequila we drank. Some other time.”

Lisa walked over to a large wooden box once used for firewood. She fumbled with a key, opened the padlocked box and lifted out a rifle identical to the one she’d shown TJ in the house. TJ took it from her and looked it over.

“Same rifle. No?”

“Same rifle, yes.” Lisa said. “But what’s different?”

“This baby has a special sight on it—like on a sniper’s rifle.” She looked up at Lisa. “Bet you were good. Must be a story behind this cannon.”

Lisa took the gun back and reversed the process she’d gone through getting it out.

“There is. But it’s going to take a lot more tequila to tell it.”

Another shot of tequila later, Lisa and TJ sat across the table from each other. TJ couldn’t imagine what Lisa would reveal about her past. How bad could it be? Lisa—all white bread and wasp—how bad could it be?

Lisa’s hands gripped the bottle of tequila, her nails peeling the label. “I told you the short version of this, but there’s a lot more to it. After we separated and my ex threatened to sue me for custody of Paige, I nearly lost my mind.”

TJ reached over, took the bottle from Lisa, and poured them another drink.

“I talked to an attorney. He said nothing could prevent Lawrence from trying to get custody, even though it was unlikely he’d win. I couldn’t live with ‘unlikely.’ Lawrence was a tyrant, a total control freak. He started disciplining her harshly before she was even two-years-old, I didn’t want him raising Paige, and I couldn’t imagine living without her.”

She looked at TJ. “You must have some idea of what I was going through. You probably had similar feelings when your brother-in-law was alive.”

TJ nodded.

Lisa said, “One night I dreamt I shot the bastard. The dream stayed with me for days. He threatened me again and warned me he’d contacted the best attorney in family law and said I wouldn’t have a chance of getting custody of my daughter.

“After that I started thinking about it, about actually killing him. Whenever Paige was with him, I spent my time refreshing my skills with the 30.06. I had an elaborate plan in place, but the gist of it was I’d follow him when he went hunting. I’d find just the right spot, take him down, and then pray it would look like a hunting accident. Now when I think about it, I realize how naïve it was.” She downed the shot TJ poured. Her words, while not slurred, had lost their usual crispness. “But you know what? It was a pretty damn good plan.”

“What happened? The jerk is still alive and you got custody, right?”

“Yes, he’s still breathing and I got custody of Paige. But it wasn’t because I won a big legal battle or because Lawrence had a change of heart. Ironically, I was saved from my madness when he met someone else. He fell head-over-heels with a nineteen-year-old, and all of a sudden he couldn’t wait to finalize the divorce. She wanted a big wedding, and a life with no encumbrances from his previous marriage.”

TJ sifted through it, amazed at Lisa’s story.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I would have gone through with it?”

“Figured you’d get around to it if you wanted to tell me.”

“I believe I would have. I would have shot him.”

“You sound pretty sure.”

“I have to tell you everything I planned in preparation.” Lisa put on a pot of coffee. When it was ready, Lisa cradled a mug of steaming coffee, and began, ““My plan to get rid of Lawrence began with the rifle. I started refreshing my shooting skills at a remote spot near Beaver Dam. I was good with it, even won a few matches when I was a kid. I bought its twin, the one I have locked in the shed, from a dealer at a gun show—a parking lot deal. Scary, really, how easy it was to get as long as I had enough money to grease his palm. I’d dressed like a man for the occasion, mustache and all.”

TJ couldn’t help but chuckle as she pictured Lisa in disguise.

“I knew you’d get a kick out of that. I drove to Chicago one weekend to pick up the props and paid cash. Too bad I didn’t know you then—I could have used some help with it. It took a lot of practice to get it right.”

TJ grinned. “It’s an art.”

Lisa continued with her narrative. “I had the advantage of knowing exactly where Lawrence hunted, because he dragged me along once so they’d have an extra license just in case they had a good bounty. Lawrence liked to slip out after he and his buddies came back in for the day and do his own thing. It was an ego thing; he thought he could do something on his own the trio couldn’t.”

TJ’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Your alibi?”

“That’s where a stroke of luck came in. The opening weekend of deer hunting, when he and his buddies always went, coincided with a conference in the cities I happened to be registered to attend. It’s a huge affair; no one would have been the wiser if I slipped out for a day. Not the perfect alibi, but rational.

“I found a little rent-a-heap lot in St. Paul. For a big enough cash deposit, they said I could rent a pickup with no questions asked. I planned on wearing the disguise when I picked it up.”

TJ poured more coffee, feeling her senses slowly returning to a pre-alcohol stage. Lisa hadn’t exaggerated. It had been a good plan. “Sounds like you thought of everything.”

“Well, I knew I’d be the first one the police would question if they suspected his death wasn’t a hunting-related incident. They’d take the 30.06, test it, and when it turned out not to be a match, hopefully I’d be off the hook.”

TJ ran over it in her mind. “One question. Why didn’t you dump the knock-off rifle?

“If I’d used it, it would be in the bottom of the Mississippi river gathering sand.” Lisa paused for a sip of coffee. “It felt good to tell somebody. But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been burdened with.”

TJ snorted. “Now you sound like Orth.”

“Orth?”

She’d wanted to tell Lisa about her trip to his house and started by telling her how he’d come to her after the meeting with the police at Eric’s—how he’d practically read her mind. She watched Lisa’s face for a reaction when she got to the part about stopping Wilson herself, but Lisa’s demeanor remained impassive.

Lisa pondered. “So you trusted him with this. I suppose I would have, too.” She got up from the couch. “I think we need more coffee. And some sugar. How about dessert?”

“On top of all that tequila?”

Lisa set a plate of brownies on the table in front of the sofa. TJ picked one up but didn’t take a bite. “We have to do something—hafta’ get rid of the guy.”

Lisa said, “I was afraid that’s where we were headed. I think we have to give the police some time to put it together. Maybe they’ll work it out.”

Does that mean you’re on board with it? TJ took a deep breath. “Yeah, in a perfect world. ‘Fraid Wilson’ll take off if he knows the department is working it.”

“I’m not so sure. He’ll believe there’s nothing the police can find. But you’re right, with his skills it would be easy for him to change his name and head for places unknown. But I think he’ll revel in watching them spin their wheels for a while and do some gloating, enjoy feeling omnipotent. He doesn’t know we’re on to him, so he won’t have a sense of urgency.”