Текст книги "She's Not There"
Автор книги: Marla Madison
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
4
Seven years earlier
The Grotto, one of the newer nightspots in the Third Ward, a tony area south of downtown Milwaukee, had a waiting line in front of its door by 10:00 any night of the week.
After waiting in line an hour for the privilege, a man sat at the bar ordering a drink and thought it had better be worth it. Reflected in the mirror behind a bar running the length of the room, a face looked back at him—a face he’d yet to accept as his own. Sometimes it morphed into the old face—repulsively ugly.
He’d barely taken a sip of his drink when a red-haired woman leaned in and asked if he would call the bartender over for her. With no encouragement, she stayed glued to his side, boring him with idle chatter. Nauseated by the floral scent of her overpowering perfume, he had a mental flash of the bouncer tossing her out into the street where she’d land in front of a speeding truck. They should kick people out for being boring—or wearing tacky cologne.
Then he spotted her. At the far end of the bar, clutching a martini and swaying to the beat of the music, stood a woman he’d known in graduate school. And despised. The bitch had been one of the reasons for his intended life-ending plunge across the riverbank in the truck.
Nicole—hot, curvaceous and leggy in a shimmery blue dress. The dress and her long auburn hair lit up in flashes of color from the lightshow accompanying the band. He remembered the small bouquet of freckles adorning the bridge of her nose, delightful when she laughed. But she’d never laughed with him. Always at him.
Suddenly, she looked his way, smiling. He realized she had no way of knowing who she flirted with—would never recognize the man he’d become. An image flicked through his mind—a picture of her lying in the street next to the redhead—both of their bodies crushed, their lovely faces obliterated.
An urge to get her alone crept through him. He wanted to tell her things, show her things, do things to her. He wanted to fuck her so hard she’d scream for mercy. He watched as she went out on the dance floor, merging with the steamy mass of writhing bodies.
He ditched the redhead. And waited. He didn’t have to wait long before she approached. It had been so easy. Before he had time to buy her another martini she suggested they go to her place, only a short distance from the club.
Inside her apartment she put on music and poured them a glass of wine. As soon as he set down his wine glass, she was all over him. Within seconds, he’d grown hard, his breathing rapid. When she rose from the couch, leading him to her bedroom, he followed, practically panting. They had their clothes off in an instant. With none of the niceties of foreplay, they fell onto the bed and he pushed inside of her, thrusting with a frenzy of pent-up sexuality.
When he rolled off of her, he knew she hadn’t been satisfied. But before he’d caught his breath, she climbed on top of him, her breath hot on his chest as she nibbled downward. He gasped with exquisite pleasure when she reached her target. In the dim rays from a tiny nightlight, he saw her wild tresses drifting across his abdomen, her full lips making love to his cock.
Without warning, a hot, bubbling hatred invaded his ecstasy, curiously spiking his enjoyment. This woman would never have even spoken to his former, hideously ugly self, much less sucked his dick. She was a bitch who’d laughed at him behind his back—how could he have ignored that?
He reached down as if to caress her face. His increasing wrath nearly took on a life of its own as he pulled her off of him. She rolled onto her back, smiling wantonly as he pinned her to the bed. His hands reached for her throat, encircled it and began to tighten while her beautiful features became a mask of wild terror. She struggled against him, gasping for air as his fingers continued their vise-like grasp on her slender neck. His hands wrung her tender flesh until she no longer struggled beneath him.
He studied her as she laid there: a picture of serenity, hair a sunburst of curls on the pillow, her makeup worn off, the tiny freckles on her nose exposed. Death suited her; her beauty displayed in front of him like an opened rose.
He savored the memory of his hands on her throat, the feeling of ultimate power over her, and became aware of the huge erection jutting from his groin. Still gasping for breath, he took it in his hand.
5
Wednesday morning after Lisa finished with her early clients, she listened to a message from a troubled Jeff Denison. How had he managed to find her? The center wouldn’t have given out that information. Unsure how she wanted to handle his call, she left the office, confident that a noon-hour walk would give her direction. She’d enjoy the beautiful fall day, the trees brilliant in a full palette of gorgeous colors.
The mystery of the statistical increase in missing women and Jamie Denison’s disappearance weighed heavily in Lisa’s thoughts. She’d been trying to decide what to do about it. Amanda Hawkins, though alarmed, had only been able to tell Lisa she’d check into the numbers and get back to her.
The dilemma, though, had given her a welcome diversion from the breakup with Tyler. She’d arranged to talk with Richard Conlin, a homicide detective in Milwaukee. Maybe talking to the police would stir things up.
Her walk ended at a small deli, where she picked up a turkey sandwich and carried it back to the office. She decided to return Denison’s call. However he’d managed to get it, he had her name; she couldn’t un-ring that bell.
When he answered, Lisa introduced herself, and without giving him time to interrupt, launched into a speech about confidentiality, explaining to him she couldn’t discuss anything Jamie had told her in therapy.
As soon as she’d finished, he said, “I’d like to make an appointment with you—as a client.”
Before she could protest, he added, “I’m not asking you to tell me anything Jamie said to you. I know you can’t. I think therapy might make it easier for me to deal with this, especially if I can talk to someone who understands our situation. Whenever you have an opening, I’ll make time.”
Lisa, sympathetic to his anguish, knew seeing him wouldn’t be an ideal circumstance for counseling. But the man’s pain had come through during the obviously memorized speech he’d recited.
She wanted to help him. “How about tonight?”
Jeff Denison arrived at Lisa’s office promptly at seven. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He looked exactly how she’d pictured him—a serious young man in his late twenties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a well-pressed denim shirt and khakis. If it were possible for someone to look like an engineer, Jeff Denison represented the profession perfectly.
“Mr. Denison, after I talked to you this afternoon I double-checked your wife’s paperwork. Because Jamie felt confident you’d eventually be joining her in therapy, she signed a waiver giving me permission to talk to you. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to discuss anything she told me.”
Seeing his eager look she quickly added, “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be any help in finding her. She never told me she planned on leaving. I’m sorry.”
Jeff paled. “If she didn’t leave, what happened to her?”
“It’s possible she made an impulsive decision to leave, and didn’t plan it out at all.” She knew if she were to be of any help to him, it would be to ease him through his pain. His wife may or may not have met with foul play, but Lisa’s function would be to guide him through the aftermath of Jamie’s disappearance.
6
Enjoying a rare morning at his desk, Richard Conlin worked on an overdue accumulation of paperwork, although as a Milwaukee homicide detective he preferred action to sitting in the office. He’d been sipping coffee while he worked, and regretting his promise to meet with some shrink coming in to talk to him. Maybe he could finesse her over to someone else.
Lisa Rayburn worked as a psychologist and part-time counselor at the Women’s Center in Oconomowoc. Probably writing a freaking book. Two days ago he’d gotten a call from Patty Barkley asking him to talk to Rayburn. Patty, from special crimes, acted as liaison between the department and the Women’s Center. Refusing to see Rayburn would have made him seem unsympathetic to women’s issues.
He looked up to see a woman with dark blonde hair standing in front of his desk. She held out her hand. “Hi, my name is Lisa Rayburn. Sorry to interrupt, but the woman at the desk told me I could come back.”
Richard rose, accepting her proffered hand. “No problem. I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.”
He took in her dark blue pantsuit—he hated pantsuits on women. A legman, they hid his favorite part of a woman’s anatomy. Attractive, about forty, give or take, she wore her hair pulled back on her neck and used little, if any, makeup. Everything about her looked conservative; she reminded him of the female attorneys he saw in the courthouse—unapproachable. He preferred his women colorful, flashy even. Good thing his partner wasn’t around, she was definitely his type. With her even features and generous figure she’d be right up Justin’s alley–not fat, but voluptuous by today’s bony standards.
Lisa felt Conlin appraising her. She got right to the point of her visit.
“I’m sorry to take up your time, but I’ve come across something I believe you should look at. I’ll try to outline it as simply as possible. Then you can tell me whether it’s something that needs your attention.”
“That works for me. Would you like some coffee? It’s not Starbucks, but it’s always strong and hot.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.
“Okay, give me the crux of it.”
“I’m a clinical psychologist. I have an office in Pewaukee and volunteer one afternoon a week at the Women’s Center of Oconomowoc. I’m writing a textbook for clinicians on the treatment of abused women. Most of the prep work for this kind of book deals with finding appropriate case studies and then gathering statistics relevant to them.“
Lisa had decided he didn’t need to know she hadn’t gotten that far with her book yet—or that the statistic in question had come from a graduate student. He’d winced when she mentioned the book, so she’d have to be brief.
“About a week ago, I received the results of the current stats on abused women in Milwaukee and the surrounding counties.”
When he said nothing, she continued. “What I found alarming, and the reason I’m here today, is to show you this.” She opened a folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers, clipped together except for a top page on which several lines were highlighted.
“One of the statistics is way beyond the norm.” She passed him the top sheet. “The highlighted section shows the number of women who have gone missing following the reporting of one or more instances of domestic violence. The percentage is at least seventeen percent above the norm and is based on numbers for the last three years. Statistical variation has been taken into account. You’ll see references on that sheet explaining how the data was handled and the number arrived at. It is definitely too high to be put off as a statistical aberration.”
Conlin looked at the sheet she’d handed him, his brow furrowed.
She said, “I find this very disturbing. That’s why I’m here.”
“Ms. Rayburn—“
“Please. Call me Lisa,” she interrupted.
“Okay. Lisa. Isn’t this something that should be taken up by the women’s centers? Why homicide?”
Lisa had expected his reaction, but it didn’t make his attitude any less irritating.
“Let me guess,” he said with a wry half-smile, “you think there is a serial killer out there murdering abused women.”
“You know, Detective, I’m not sure what is behind this increase, but I find it alarming. I was hoping you’d share my concern.”
Lisa, regretting that she’d volunteered to come here, began to put her papers back in the folder, preparing to leave.
Conlin handed her the sheet of paper she’d given him. “Give me a minute to explain the realities of this situation.”
Lisa took a deep breath, her ire rising. “The realities?” She fought for patience. “All right, tell me what you think is responsible for this number.”
“The thing is, there could be more than one reason for this statistic to be so high.” He sat back in his chair, offering no additional information.
Lisa, recognizing she would get nowhere with the boor, stood to leave. “Detective, I’m extremely troubled by these disappearances, and have no intention of letting this go. Since I haven’t succeeded in capturing your interest, you leave me no choice but to meet with the heads of all the women’s centers. I’m sure once all of them get behind the issue, your department may have a different opinion.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, Ms. Rayburn, let me see if I can put you in touch with someone who can explain our position to you.”
Lisa followed Conlin into an elevator, taking a moment to admire his athletic build. She guessed him to be in his mid-forties and thought he might be attractive to a certain segment of women—a segment that did not include her. He wasn’t really handsome, but detectives always had a certain appeal. Must be the shoulder holsters they wore. Lisa liked men softer, a little less worn than the hardened detective—and younger.
She asked, “Who is this mystery person we’re going to see?”
“No mystery—there’s just someone you need to talk to.”
“Someone who will set me straight, you mean.”
“That isn’t what I meant at all. I’m taking you to see James Wilson. He likes to be called a consultant, but he’s actually a full-time employee here. He doesn’t have a formal job title.”
“Then what exactly does he do here?” she asked as they stepped out of the elevator.
“Wilson is the unspoken head of the Computer Crimes department, but officially it’s run by Lt. Marian Bergman. Wilson’s a technical genius and also our stats person. He coordinates computer crime investigations and oversees computerized forensics.”
“Impressive.”
They entered an office sparsely equipped with basic office furniture. No photos, plants, diplomas, awards, or other personal items offered visitors any hint of the person the office belonged to. A man sat with his back to them, concentrating on a large monitor, quietly typing. He looked tall and broad-shouldered, his hair an unusual shade of silvery brown that, seen from a distance, made him appear to be in his forties.
He turned to face them. James Wilson looked nothing like the stereotypical computer nerd and appeared to be in his early thirties. Casually well dressed, he could be described as ruggedly handsome.
Conlin made the necessary introductions.
Wilson rose from his chair, extending his hand. She took his hand, warmed by his firm touch. He had the long slender fingers of a piano player.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Rayburn?”
He had eyes the same silvery brown as his hair—or were they gray? She doubted the faint growth of stubble on his face was a fashion statement. He probably had a thick beard and been at the job since early morning. Before she could respond, Conlin suggested they use the conference room.
Once they’d settled at a long table in the adjoining room, the detective began, “James, Lisa was referred to me by Patty Barkley. She’s writing a book and came across some information she felt we should look at.”
As soon as he mentioned writing a book, Lisa’s experienced radar detected a barely perceptible shift in Wilson’s features. Clearly, police perceived writers as an irritating distraction. Lisa repeated her story as she told it earlier, once more abbreviating it as much as possible. Somewhere in the middle of her narrative, Conlin excused himself and left the room, stating he’d be at his desk if she needed him for anything. He’d pawned her off.
Alone with James Wilson, she made her point, concluding, “Detective Conlin said you could explain why this figure is so high.”
Wilson looked thoughtful. Before he could answer, a woman wearing a stern expression pushed into the conference room.
“James, as soon as you are done here I need to go over something with you,” she announced, with no acknowledgement of Lisa’s presence.
Lisa took an immediate dislike to the woman whose photo on a badge read, Lt. Marian Bergman. It hung from a cord around her neck, centered on the front of a double-breasted gray dress with two rows of metallic buttons down the front. She wore her black hair in a braided knot, polished and slick as a cue ball.
Remembering how Conlin had described the unusual pecking order in the department, Lisa wondered how Wilson would respond to the rude attitude of the woman supposedly his superior.
Unflustered, he looked at his watch. “When I finish up here I’m meeting Russo from the FBI. I won’t be back until about 3:00, but I can meet with you then if that works.”
Bergman didn’t argue, her body language speaking for her as she turned on a spiky heel and left the room. “I suppose it will have to.” Her mannerisms, clipped speech and rigid posture—like her appearance—contributed to her air of military composure.
Wilson studied the sheet Lisa had handed him as if there’d been no interruption. “I see your figures come from records kept by the Women’s Center. Our statistics on missing persons don’t break people down into defined categories. And abused women going missing? Our detectives would deal with those on a case-by-case basis.
“If you’re only looking at abused women, I don’t see how you could expect to gather accurate data. Many of these women leave of their own volition and come back just as readily.
“Assuming the figure is accurate, there could be multiple causes for the rise in numbers.”
Lisa couldn’t speak for the accuracy of the figures. She’d talked to Amanda but had yet to discuss them in detail with the centers, hoping to have feedback from the police when she did. Certain with this short discourse, James Wilson thought she’d go back to suburbia and forget all about it, she asked, “Do you mind sharing some of these multiple causes with me?”
He reached over to a table next to the wall and yanked over a wireless keyboard. As his fingers started tapping on it, a large computer screen hummed down from the ceiling at the end of the conference table.
He said, “I’m bringing up a website we were watching about a year ago.”
A colorful website with a black background popped onto the screen. “This is the home page of something called ’The Vanishing Wife,’ subtitled, ’How It Could Be Done.’” As he scrolled through the site, Lisa realized it was a how-to for anyone wanting to get rid of a spouse, the pictures explicit.
“Our Computer Crimes Division tried to locate the origin of the site and its operator. While not exactly illegal, we felt it worth our time to track down the source, and discovered it had already been dismantled—still there but no longer functional. After a while it popped up again at a different web address with a new look but in a watered-down format, and again, by the time we located it, it was defunct. On the third go-round, they wrote it in a way that would almost convince the viewer it was satirical.”
Lisa, sickened, remained silent.
He brought up another website, again with a black background, titled, ”The Men’s Club.”
The paragraph below the title described it as a place for The gathering of men who find it difficult to control errant and disobedient women. Connections on the site sold various tools used for punishment and bondage. Lisa flinched at the long list of handcuffs, whips, poisons, lightweight aluminum clubs and chains. One page gave a blueprint and instructions for installing an escape-proof room.
“We’ve checked into many of these websites. Some of these investigations led to the person or persons behind them and some didn’t. Again, even when we had a real person to interview, their sites were cause for suspicion, not arrest. Without a link to a crime, there is little we can do to stop this kind of thing.” The screen went dark, and Lisa watched as it disappeared back into its housing.
“My personal opinion? Since no bodies have turned up, the most likely explanation is an underground organization assisting women in changing their identities and leaving the area.”
Lisa rebutted, “But in all my years of working with abused women, I’ve heard no hint of any secret organization of the kind in Milwaukee. I’ve heard about them in general, but it seems to me there would at least be rumors floating around if there was one here.”
“We have a credible source claiming it does exist but no real leads as far as where or how it operates.”
He tossed the keyboard back to the side table and faced her, crossing his arms. Annoying as he was, Lisa couldn’t help admiring him; the man reeked of masculinity. God, she missed Tyler.
Wilson said, “It is very possible this statistical increase may be innocuous. With the advent of the Internet, it is becoming easier for these women to disappear on their own.”
Before he could dismiss her, Lisa said, “A woman, a patient of mine, went missing recently. So my concern isn’t based on statistics alone. I don’t believe this woman left of her own accord or that her husband had anything to do with her disappearance. My concern for her safety, coupled with these statistics, has me very worried about her and others like her.”
He stood. “While I understand your interest, I have to tell you I see no reason to believe these disappearances are related. As I said earlier, missing person reports are handled on a case-by-case basis, and that’s how your client’s disappearance will be investigated.” He took a step toward the door.
Lisa rose from her chair, fighting her annoyance. “Well, I thank you for your time and the information you’ve given me, frightening though it may be. Maybe the women’s centers should be giving these women warning pamphlets. They seem to be an endangered species, for more reasons than one.”
Wilson smiled for the first time since she arrived in his office, a fleeting smile bearing no pleasantries. “We appreciate your coming in with your concerns. If anything more conclusive develops, please contact us.” He handed her a card with his name and phone number. No title.
On the drive home, Lisa stewed about her visit to MPD. It had turned out to be a dead end. She had to do something. If there were someone or some group preying on abused women, it had to end. They’d be easy prey, vulnerable to assault from another front. As if abused women didn’t have enough problems.
Lisa was all too familiar with it. She’d left her obsessively controlling husband when he’d begun to terrorize their daughter Paige, who at eighteen months couldn’t get the hang of potty training. Lisa had put up with his rigid dominance when applied to her, but once he moved on to their daughter, she left him. He’d never been violent, but she’d been sure it would only have been a matter of time.
