Текст книги "She's Not There"

Автор книги: Marla Madison

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

69             

TJ had marked a deserted cul-de-sac where she’d made a habit of leaving her car when she watched Wilson. As Lisa drove into it, she saw it would be a perfect spot to leave the truck and trailer; they wouldn’t be visible from any of the nearby roads. Now she had to hope she made it to the trail before Wilson and in position on her snowmobile when he drove by. Her attack had to be a surprise; her sled wouldn’t be able to outrun his. The aerial map indicated a low rise adjacent to the trail not too far in from its inception near his home—an ideal spot to wait and get off a shot without being seen.

Last winter Paige had convinced Lisa to buy a new set of matching sleds to celebrate her graduation. Glad now she’d acquiesced, and grateful for the power of the new machine, Lisa drove one of the snowmobiles off the carrier and sped to the beginning of the trail. About a quarter of a mile in, she found the place where she planned on watching Wilson, a low hill next to the trail where she could wait hidden by a stand of pine trees.

Sitting on her snowmobile in the frigid air, the wait dragged on endlessly although not more than ten or fifteen minutes passed. Light snow showers began a steady fall over the area, icing the exposed areas of her face, sticking to the false beard and mustache she’d glued in place. The fat-man stuffing under the men’s hunting clothes she wore did little to keep her warm. The damp air seeped in, the insulation serving to maintain the cold against her body.

I have to stay focused, forget the discomfort. Lisa did a mental exercise, reviewing and visualizing the steps of a perfect shot. She was ready.

When the black sled with its gold detailing rounded the bend below the rise where Lisa waited, she had a nanosecond’s hesitation. There was no mistaking the custom sled, the rider wearing the coordinating suit he’d had on in TJ’s photos.

Lisa raised the rifle. She had him–James Wilson–in her sights. Like people whose lives flash in front of them the instant before death, the faces of Jeff, Danielle Ventura, and the missing women flickered in Lisa’s vision. She steadied the rifle and planted three shots into Wilson’s chest.

Sixteen-year-old Tommy Rennicke had split only a few sections of oak when he heard the shots. He dropped the ax and looked up, wondering who’d be shooting this time of day. The shots sounded like they came from a powerful gun. He didn’t think there was open season for anything warranting a weapon that size at this time of the year.

He looked toward the snowmobile trail. A sled driven by a big guy wearing a hunting jacket, with what looked like a rifle sticking out of it roared by on the trail, full tilt. Too far off to see much more, he couldn’t even be sure about the rifle. The guy was high-tailing it toward the beginning of the trail.

Tommy turned back to the woodpile and began to stack what he’d chopped when a thought came to him. The only other rider he’d seen on the trail was that asshole on the black, high-powered sled. He usually rode the trail at this time on weekday afternoons.

It’d started to snow, big flakes adding a thicker blanket to the foot or more of snow already on the ground. His mom wouldn’t be home for a while yet; he’d have time to snoop around. Slipping into his snowshoes, he set out for the trail.

70             

Heart pounding, Lisa drove her sled off the hill. Back on the trail, headed for the truck, she accelerated it to top speed. She couldn’t make herself look back. Above the roar of the engine, she didn’t hear the sound of Wilson’s sled crashing through pine trees, its motor buzzing in the quietly falling snow after it overturned.

Driving without lights was risky, but she couldn’t take a chance on being noticed. She’d seen someone chopping wood at a house she’d driven past, but felt confident he’d been too far away to see anything more than a sled speeding past. Within minutes she turned back onto the dead-end street where she’d left the truck.

She’d taken too many chances. But everything had gone as planned. She’d left the ramp down on the carrier and easily drove back up onto it in the falling snow. Securing the snowmobile next to its mate and starting the balky truck went a lot easier than the loading process.

Whatever Lisa imagined she would feel after shooting Wilson, it didn’t come close to the reality. She’d never have believed she’d be experiencing the elation of a job well done. A monster no longer roams free in my world—I’ve made sure of it.

Driving back to Oconomowoc, she felt sure the heady feeling wouldn’t last.

She had to get home quickly and call Eric and Shannon before they became concerned about her. At the moment she had only one concern–the person she’d seen chopping wood.

But what could he have seen? Her face hadn’t been visible under the helmet she’d been wearing. He would have seen nothing but an overweight man in hunting clothes driving a snowmobile. Speeding. Speeding, right after he’d heard shots. But he couldn’t have seen anything that would identify her. She’d had the foresight to smear the plates with paste, making it appear like frozen snow. The numbers on the truck and the sleds were indecipherable even if anyone had been close enough to read them.

The snow thickened, coming down faster. She’d take the back roads in order to miss the evening traffic on I-94. It was sure to be a mess in the heavy snow. She’d be home, showered and ready to leave for Eric’s before ten.

When Lisa pulled into Eric’s garage it was nearly ten. He stood waiting for her when she got out of the car with Phanny at her side. Tail wagging, the dog ran for him. Eric bent down and patted Phanny, rubbing her ears as she wriggled in delight at seeing him.

“How’s your headache?”

“The worst is over. Taking a nap really helped. Did you bring TJ here?”

“Yes, she’s here and down for the count; I gave her something to keep her sleeping through the night. And I called her sister—let her know what’s going on. There’s a pot of chicken soup on the stove if you’re hungry, or would you like something stronger?”

Chicken soup sounded surprisingly good. “Let’s start with the soup. I’m famished.” Lisa hadn’t eaten since her morning granola.

After she unpacked, she joined Eric, who’d put out two bowls of steaming soup and a plate of biscuits. Eric was a perceptive man; she’d have to be careful not to give him any cause for concern other than the headache she’d lied about.

“You waited for me. Thanks.”

He smiled, but she saw the pain in his dark eyes. “Sure.”

Eric and Jeff had become close. He probably didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any more than she did.

Lisa sat next to him at the counter rather than across from him where he could observe her. “Did Maggie tell you and TJ anything?”

“Not really, but things got interesting after you left. Conlin showed up.”

“TJ said she’d called him.”

“Yeah. He was good with her. The Brookfield police wanted to write this off as a suicide. Richard reminded them about your investigation and got them to agree to have the whole place gone over. They even gave in when TJ insisted they check his computer keyboard for prints and possible residue from rubber gloves.”

“His computer?”

“Sorry. Forgot to mention they found a suicide note on his computer screen. The usual ‘I’m so sorry’ thing.”

Distracted, Lisa said, “I can understand why TJ would insist on them checking. Jeff never would have left a note on his computer. He didn’t even use email.”

It suddenly occurred to her none of it mattered anymore. They were safe; she’d ended the nightmare. But she couldn’t share it with Eric. Not now—maybe never.

When Eric suggested they put on an old movie, Lisa was relieved to have an excuse not to go to bed. Even her prescription sleeping meds wouldn’t put her out tonight. A movie might not turn off her thoughts, but at least she wouldn’t have to talk. Or try to sleep. And best of all—she wouldn’t be alone.

71             

The next morning, TJ staggered out of bed, woozy from the powerful sedative Eric had given her. She pulled on a robe and walked out to the kitchen.

Lisa looked up and rose from her chair. “TJ, how are you? Let me get you something to eat.”

“Nah, just coffee. Still a little foggy. Anything from Maggie yet?”

“She told us the forensic unit went over Jeff’s house, but we won’t know anything for a few days.”

TJ looked around to make sure Teresa and Tina weren’t anywhere nearby and took a chair at the island. “I’m gonna kill Wilson, the son-of-a-bitch!”

Lisa poured her a cup of coffee.

Listlessly, TJ clicked on the TV, wondering if Jeff’s death would be on the news. It opened on a local station where the weather girl, wearing a fur-trimmed parka, stood in front of a giant drift of snow, describing what they were in for during the week—more snow, alternating with sub-zero temperatures.

TJ couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff: his smile, his affectionate nature, and his warm embrace. Tears welled in her eyes, remembering their night together. In the middle of a moronic commercial portraying diapered toddlers discussing the stock market, the station broke in with a special announcement.

A second newswoman stood in a setting of new-fallen snow, stiff tendrils of her auburn hair fluttering in the frigid breeze, an upended black snowmobile in the background. She gripped a microphone in her mittened hands.

“Early this morning, on a snowmobile trail in Calumet County, the body of a man identified as James Wilson was discovered shot, his body lying near this overturned snowmobile believed to belong to the victim.” She stepped further aside and let the camera pan in.  “Mr. Wilson was employed as a computer crimes consultant for the Milwaukee Police Department.”

Dazed, TJ turned up the volume and shuffled from the island into the living room where she stood, mouth agape, in front of the giant screen.

The reporter continued. “An early snowmobiler discovered the scene and dialed 911. Calumet County Sherriff’s Department is examining the area and has not made a statement. The Milwaukee Police Department will issue a press release later this morning and it will be covered by this station.” They broke to an interview with the man who’d found the body, a young man with a nervous facial tic and two days’ growth of stubble.

TJ turned around to see if Lisa had seen the announcement. She stood at the stove facing TJ, a wooden spatula gripped in her hand.

Outraged, TJ asked, “Did you fucking hear that? The fucker couldn’t even wait for me to destroy his ugly freakin’ ass!” She puzzled over an odd look on Lisa’s face, one she couldn’t read. If TJ hadn’t known the rest of them had been gathered here at Eric’s the night before, she would have suspected they’d gotten rid of the bastard themselves. She mumbled, “At least the son-of-a-bitch is dead—can’t hurt anybody no more.” TJ stepped in front of Lisa, who hadn’t spoken. “Leaves us off the hook—that what you’re thinking?”

“It may not be as satisfying, but I’m relieved we didn’t have to go through with it. Aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” But TJ felt like she’d been robbed. Brimming with hate, she wasn’t ready to share Lisa’s relief.

The doorbell rang as Shannon entered the room, her eyes squinty from sleep and dressed in a navy blue sweat suit over bunny slippers. She looked from TJ to Lisa. “What’s going on? Feels kind of intense in here.” When neither of them answered, she said, “I’ll get the door.”

When Shannon returned with Richard Conlin, Lisa was making more coffee, while TJ sat at the island, scowling.

Richard looked at TJ. “Are you okay?”

TJ snarled, “What do you think?”

Lisa broke the ensuing silence. “Do you want some breakfast? Teresa always makes enough for a crowd.”

Richard asked for coffee and sat across from TJ. “I’m glad the three of you are here. I have a question for you.”

TJ looked over at him with an eyebrow raised, her dark look replaced with curiosity. What was he doing here?

“Have you heard the news about James Wilson being shot?”

TJ snorted. “Was just on the TV. Who’da thought?”

Shannon dropped a dish. “What?”

Richard brought her up to speed on James Wilson’s death. “I’ve been assigned to investigate his murder. I’m a skeptic when it comes to coincidence. His murder, added to your suspicions about Jeff’s suicide and what happened out here to Danielle Ventura, seems like too many deaths not to be related. We’re even reopening Marian Bergman’s suicide.”

“Well, maybe if you and the rest of the MPD would have gotten off your lazy asses, some of these folks would still be kickin’.”

Richard sipped his coffee, ignoring TJ’s insult. “I’m thinking maybe after we met here last month, James might have started some inquiries of his own into the disappearances. He could have stirred something up and someone decided to stop him.

“So what I’d like to know is if he contacted any of you to discuss the case after we met with the profiler.”

TJ sniped, “You gotta be kidding me. Like that asshole would discuss anything with us.”

Lisa broke in. “No, we never heard from him.”

Richard stood to leave. “Thanks, ladies. I’m going up to Fond du Lac from here. I’ll be back if I need to talk to you again.” He stopped to kiss TJ on the cheek and moved toward the door.

After Shannon left the room, TJ said, “Shee-it. He thinks the ‘killer’ did Wilson? How off-base is that?” She snickered and looked at Lisa, watching as she tidied up the kitchen. Lisa seemed different this morning; maybe just relieved it was over. “So what do you think? Who beat us to him?”

Lisa kept stacking the dishwasher. “Didn’t you say he also did private consulting? He might have had some shady business dealings that caught up with him.”

TJ wasn’t sure what to make of it. Lisa still wasn’t looking her in the eye. But then things were so seriously fucked up it was hard to tell what anyone was thinking. “Never heard any of his business dealings being on the dark side. But with him, anything’s possible.”

Lisa sat down. “Think about it. Any one of his victims’ relatives could have found out about him—decided to take the law into their own hands.”

“I s’pose. Still wish we coulda’ offed the bastard.”

Lisa winced.

TJ didn’t miss Lisa’s expression. What was she avoiding—and why?

TJ put her head in her hands. She couldn’t worry about Lisa. If the pain of losing Jeff weren’t bad enough, now she’d have to worry about the cops coming after them. Richard had an agenda—and it wasn’t just Wilson.

72             

Lisa sat at her desk doodling, feeling at loose ends. Maybe she shouldn’t have cancelled her appointments. Her group met tonight; that should take her mind off things for a couple hours. Catching up on paperwork did little to squelch the distractions in her head. She was about to go across the street for a sandwich when the door from the parking lot flew open.

TJ burst into the room wearing faded jeans under a stressed, gray hoodie, her dark curls matted. Despite the cold, a navy pea coat hung unbuttoned from her thin shoulders. Her blue eyes, streaked with tiny red threads of pain, were circled by dark shadows. She snarled, “You did it.”

Lisa’s pulse stopped. “Did what?”

TJ chuckled as she moved closer to Lisa’s desk. “You’re good. Anyone but me might believe you.”

“What’s this about? I thought you were spending the day with Janeen.”

“Cut the crap. I’m not in the mood for screwing around. You didn’t show up at Eric’s until ten last night—it wasn’t too hard to put together.”

TJ had talked to someone. Shannon? Eric? No use avoiding it, it didn’t matter how she’d heard it. “I was going to tell you.”

“When? When it fucking snows in hell? I thought we had a deal.”

Lisa walked out from behind the desk. “We did. But things changed with Jeff. You know that. I didn’t want to tell you yet—you were so upset. I wanted you to have an alibi and I believed it would be simpler if you didn’t have anything to hide.”

“An alibi? No one knows we had a reason to take out the creep. We’re the only ones who know he killed Jeff.”

Lisa rested her hands on TJ’s arms. “They will—it’s only a matter of time.”

TJ walked over to a chair and flopped into it. “Yeah. Seems like it has to come out, but I dunno, the bastard covered his tracks pretty good. They won’t believe he was our killer unless the bodies turn up.” She shifted in her seat. “Now what? Do we need to be worried about anything?”

“You mean did anyone see me? I don’t think so. But there was someone chopping wood near the trail—it looked like a kid. He might have seen me driving away.”

She relayed everything about her afternoon, including what Bernstein had told her, that in his opinion, Jeff hadn’t been suicidal. Under the circumstances, a breach of confidentiality involving a person already deceased, didn’t seem important.

TJ agreed the kid couldn’t have seen anything linking them to the shooting. She looked at Lisa. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had the cajones.”

“I just got lucky nothing went wrong. It had been so long since I shot a rifle, I wasn’t sure my aim was still on.”

“You know this is gonna catch up with you, right? Now you’re all full of yourself for gettin’ it done. You’ll feel like crap when the high wears off.”

Lisa swallowed. “I know. I have an appointment next week with Bernstein.”

“You can’t see a shrink! He’d have to turn you in.”

“No. Not unless he thought I’d be a danger to others—or to myself.” Lisa rubbed her face. “I feel bad we can’t tell Eric and Shannon. I hate pretending we still have to worry about our safety.”

“We don’t have to pretend. Think about it. We could tell them—no, I’d tell them—I suspected Wilson. Then after Geo Turner got me the report on him I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t have hard proof it meant anything.”

“They might buy it. There’s so much to think about. And we haven’t even had to face Jeff’s funeral yet. Do you think they’ll ever have conclusive proof he didn’t commit suicide?”

“He didn’t. We know that.”

“Is Janeen waiting for you?”

“Nah. She took me to get my car. Had to get away from her. You know how it goes—she’d smother me with good intentions and all that warm, fuzzy shit.”

Lisa smiled. TJ was sounding better.

73             

The medical examiner’s report pronounced Jeff Denison’s cause of death asphyxia by hanging, manner undetermined.

Positive in her own mind Jeff had been murdered, TJ had mixed feelings about its revelation. Except for the fact the missing women’s bodies might never be found, it would be in her and Lisa’s best interest if Wilson’s career as a murderer never came to light. It wouldn’t be fair to the families of the women though, if their bodies were never found—or to Eric if he could never prove his innocence.

TJ knew if the asshole had left even the tiniest clue linking him to the missing women, Richard would find it. But now she had something else to deal with—Jeff’s funeral.

The service was held in a tiny church just outside of West Bend, a small town northwest of Milwaukee where Jeff had grown up.

Jeff’s face remained etched in TJ’s thoughts, but at least he wasn’t on display, a ritual she detested. She wouldn’t have wanted to see a funeral director’s attempt to make him appear asleep, postured in a coffin, his hands crossed on his chest. He would have been nothing like the real Jeff, who tossed about in his sleep, hogged the bed, and clung to her during the night.

Jon Engel stood by her side along with the members of the group. Eric, their protector, was experiencing Jeff’s death as a personal failure. He stood on her left, devoid of emotion, but TJ knew he was grieving. She knew better than to try and convince him it wasn’t his fault.

After the service, a gargantuan selection of food was on display at Jeff’s parents’ house, another custom TJ abhorred. There must be a lot of people comforted by food when they were sad, but TJ, who normally had a nonstop appetite, thought it barbaric. The sight of all that food made her queasy.

Jon appeared at her side. “Nothing appeal to you?”

She shrugged. “Just don’t get the food after the funeral thing.”

“I never have either, but I suppose bringing food is something people can do for the family other than just ask, ‘Is there anything we can do?’”

“I guess.”

“TJ, I have to tell you something.  Let’s go out in the sunroom for a minute.”

Unlike its name, the sunroom’s atmosphere was chilly from its expanse of windows facing the frigid, January wind.

Jon turned to her. “I know this is going to be unexpected, so I’ll come right out and tell you. Jeff made you beneficiary of his life insurance.”

“What?”

“I advised him to change his will after Jamie disappeared. Jeff was too upset to think about practical matters. Since I drafted his will and handled his legal concerns, I reminded him to do it. Most people aren’t aware how complicated an estate can get if everything isn’t in order. So we changed his will and his life insurance. He left everything else to his parents on the off chance Jamie ever reappeared.”

Speechless, TJ stared at him, her eyes wide.

“Jeff had deep feelings for you, TJ. You saved him from himself when he was overcome with grief. He said if anything happened to him, he’d want you to be able to start that business you told him about.”

TJ didn’t know what to say. Jeff had thought enough of her to arrange this gift even before the night they’d made love.

“This is so . . .”

Jon smiled. “Of course it is.”

“Can I turn it down?”

“He wanted you to have it, TJ. The insurance company will automatically send it to you. It’ll take a few weeks, so you’ll have time to decide what you want to do with it.”

When she started to sob, Jon reached out and took her in his arms, his large body dwarfing her. Lisa appeared at her side followed by Eric and Shannon. The group—ever protective. What would happen to their camaraderie if everyone knew what had really happened to James Wilson?

Richard Conlin sat in a back booth of the cops’ favorite watering hole, nursing a beer and wondering why Jerry Chang, the newly appointed head of computer crimes, had left him a message to meet here at the bar.

When Chang sat down across from him, he turned down Richard’s offer of a drink. Must be serious.

“What’s going on?” Richard asked.

Chang shrugged out of his heavy winter coat. “Maybe I will have a drink—something strong—a shot and a beer.”

When Richard came back with the drinks, Chang had a brown file folder sitting in front of him.

He raised the shot glass. “Bottoms up.” The shot disappeared, followed by large gulps of the beer.

Richard frowned. “All right. What gives?”

Chang opened the folder and pushed a photo across the table. Richard glanced at it. “That’s an ugly guy.”

The face in the photo was that of a young man with a lumpy, bulbous nose, complexion scattered with blemishes and scars from pimples past, sagging eyelids, and receding chin. Even the stubble of his beard looked patchy as a mole-infested lawn. The guy was hideous. “So who is this mope, and why should I give a crap?”

Chang produced a blue, legal document.

Richard scanned the pages. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“Don’t I wish. No, I dug this up today, unfortunately.”

The document recorded a name change awarded by the court over ten years ago in Ashland County.

“I assume the freak show in the pic is Rommelfanger.”

“You assume right.”

The chief would be livid when he found out the personnel department hadn’t found this. Or that his former “future son-in-law” had been a sideshow candidate.

“Are you sure this is news, this wasn’t in his file?”

“I’m sure on both counts.”

Richard chugged down the rest of his beer. “It’s not illegal to change your name. Or your face.”

Chang snorted. “Yeah, like it’ll make a difference to the chief.”

He handed Richard a newspaper article from a small town in northern Wisconsin, detailing an accident on a remote highway and the injuries suffered by Rommelfanger ten years ago.

Chang waited while Richard read, then said, “He wasn’t expected to make it and while he was still out, an intern took it upon himself to work on Rommelfanger’s face. I hunted him down. He told me he had Tyrone Power in mind, whoever the hell that is.”

When Chang left the bar, Richard sat in the booth staring at the photo, amazed a face could be changed so dramatically. It didn’t seem possible, but there it was.

Sipping his third beer, he realized something was twitching at him. What was it? He sat staring at Wilson’s before photo, when it came to him, something the profiler had said. The killer, assuming you believed he existed, had a grudge against women for rejecting him, most likely because of a handicap. With a face like that, he’d have a grudge all right; women would have run from him. But he couldn’t see Wilson as a serial killer—an asshole, maybe, but a murderer?

It occurred to him what the revelation could mean—TJ and her friends—this put them on the top of the suspect list. If they’d uncovered this information, despite a lack of proof, they’d have thought he was their killer.

How could he find out if they’d had suspicions? He’d start by calling Chang in the morning. Ask him just how difficult it had been to unearth the dope on Wilson.