Текст книги "She's Not There"
Автор книги: Marla Madison
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
21
Later that morning, Shannon and Helen Mueller walked into Lisa’s office and sat on the sofa. Shannon had offered to pick Helen up when she’d told Lisa her car was in the garage. Dressed neatly in a pair of jeans and a white-collared sweatshirt with a cardinal on a pine branch embroidered across the front, Helen’s gaze darted about the room, betraying her nervousness.
After offering her coffee and what remained of the morning’s treats, Lisa asked, “Did Shannon tell you why I wanted you to come in?”
Helen looked at Shannon, who smiled encouragingly. “She just told me you wanted to talk to me. I was so looking forward to talking to you about Emma when you came to the house. Steven stopped in right before you came. He saw that I had cookies set out for company and quizzed me about it until I told him. I didn’t want him to stay, but I couldn’t ask him to leave.”
“Why is that, Helen?”
“I wanted to be able to tell you everything. If I asked him to leave, he’d suspect that I’d tell you what I really thought. I know in my heart he had something to do with Emma’s disappearance.”
“Helen, did you tell this to the police?”
“Well, not really. You see, I had no proof.” She twined her fingers together on her lap, her eyes bright with tears.
Not wanting to cause her any more anguish, Lisa said, “You’re right, they couldn’t arrest him on suspicion. But if there’s no proof, why do you think he’d be concerned about anything you would say?”
Helen blinked back tears. “I know it was foolish, but after she’d been gone a few days, I accused him of doing something to her. I was just so upset. He denied it, but since then he watches me like a hawk.”
Lisa nodded, but wondered why Helen tolerated the man. “Helen, did you ever ask Steven to stay away?”
“Oh, no. I know he used to hit my daughter; I saw the bruises. I’m afraid to make him angry, he frightens me. I miss Emma so much! He keeps saying she’ll be back any day. I know he doesn’t really believe it, just like he’s lying about Emma taking her savings and collection with her. She was afraid of him too. She wouldn’t have left without telling me. I talked to her every day.”
A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek. “Now I’m even suspicious he did something to my car. I wasn’t having any problems with it until after he left Saturday.”
Lisa and Shannon exchanged a look. “Helen, I’m afraid we might have provoked Fischer into doing something rash. I’ve spoken with the detective who handled the investigation into Emma’s disappearance. She’d like to talk to you again, try to stimulate your memory.”
Helen’s mouth set into a firm line. “Oh, I don’t know . . .”
Lisa tried another approach. “Helen, we’re concerned for your safety. We think it might be wise for you to go away for a while, at least until the police can prove Steven had something to do with your daughter’s disappearance. Hopefully, with your help, they can put him in jail.”
“You’re right. I don’t trust him. But leaving my home! Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Lisa said, “I do. Maybe if you go over everything with Detective Petersen again, they’ll find something new to go on. There could be something you didn’t consider important at the time. There must be, or your son-in-law wouldn’t be concerned about you talking to us.”
Helen shrank back into the couch. “All right. I’ll talk to her.”
Lisa thought the others should know what had developed. Eric picked up on the second ring.
He said, “If you can convince Helen to leave, I don’t think she should even go back to get her things. One of us can go over there and get them for her.”
“She called her sister in New York and made plans to go for a visit. We can get her on a plane tonight. Maggie’s going to be here any minute now to talk to her.”
“I’m on my way.”
Eric drove back to his office after he and Lisa had picked up suitcases and clothes for Helen, feeling relieved the police were going to work the Emma Fischer case again, and Helen would be safely in New York, out of harm’s way.
At the office he found an urgent message from Jeff. When Jeff answered his phone, he told Eric the police had found his wife’s car.
Eric’s first reaction was concern that Jeff would end up in a jail cell as he had. “Do they want to question you again?”
“No, they only told me they found the car. They didn’t even tell me where they found it.”
“It’s time to get an attorney, my friend. They will question you again. Finding the car makes it look like she didn’t leave on her own. And they won’t tell you anything until the car is processed.”
“I drove around for days looking for her car,” Jeff admitted.
“Yeah, I know. I did the same thing myself. Listen, Jeff, get an attorney on retainer—now.”
22
Although he preferred to think of her death as an accident, five years ago Eddie Wysecki murdered his wife. A diabetic, Rita had been prone to drinking in excess and forgetting to take her insulin. Eddie, who worked as a bartender, often came home in the early morning hours after the bar closed to find her in a drunken, diabetic stupor. The first time it happened he’d rushed her to the emergency room.
During one of their subsequent trips to the ER, the nurses instructed him on how to bring her back by himself. He listened raptly, even took notes. Eddie would have done anything to avoid another endless night in the ER.
As a young man, Eddie had been in and out of trouble, culminating in a two-year jail stint after a botched robbery. In prison, he’d had a lot of time to dwell on his life, coming to the realization that being a criminal wasn’t paying off. He didn’t have the necessary attributes for a successful life of crime—balls and intelligence. After prison, he worked dozens of crappy jobs, proving himself a good employee, then moving on to one a little less subservient. When he finally landed a job as a bartender in the corner bar near his apartment, he knew he’d found his niche. Both the hours and the atmosphere suited him.
Rita Claussen, a regular at the bar, was five years older than him. A petite woman, she’d put on a few pounds over the years and wore her bleached blonde hair in a high concoction on top of her head, reminiscent of something from the ‘60s. He liked her bubbly personality, which became even more so as she drank. She often hung around till everyone else left, leaving with him after the bar closed for the night. An alcoholic, she nevertheless managed to get to work every day, where she held down a good job at one of the local breweries.
When they got married and moved into the lower flat of a nice duplex in West Allis, Eddie knew he had turned his life around. He wasn’t exactly sure when things started to go south, but thought it began on that first night he came home and found Rita passed out. She knew she had to take her insulin regularly and shouldn’t be drinking so much, but despite the many promises she made, her good intentions were short-lived. The frequent “revivals” Eddie performed wore on him.
After a couple years with no change in the pattern of their lives, Eddie wanted out, but felt like a real ass for thinking about divorcing Rita. He felt sorry for her and being married still had its advantages. Two paychecks ensured he could save part of his wages every week, and Rita, a union employee, had good benefits and carried him on her healthcare plan.
He got over the idea of divorcing her, but then the owner of the bar he worked in decided to retire and move to Florida, telling Eddie he’d give him first crack at buying the place. Eddie had worked there long enough to know the bar provided a decent income. He’d been hoping for the opportunity for a long time. But with only a little over ten grand saved, he’d need at least another twenty-five to swing it.
Rita, as part of her benefit package at work, had the exact amount as her life insurance payoff. The money it offered started niggling at him. Their marriage had become joyless, but she’d joined AA and was making an effort to take better care of herself.
A few weeks later the bar went up for sale. Then Eddie came home on a Friday night and found Rita passed out on the couch. Again. His first thought was pity—she’d really been trying this time. Then he remembered the life insurance. It occurred to him this could be his out. He didn’t have to divorce her—just not revive her.
23
Jeff had just returned to his desk after a long, trying meeting with the other engineers when his cell phone vibrated.
“Jeff, it’s Lisa. Is this a good time?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Helen left for New York this morning. She’ll be staying there indefinitely, while Maggie and her partner are working Emma’s case again. Maggie and Helen went through Emma’s things, and they think they found something incriminating Fischer. Maggie couldn’t tell us what it was. They’re trying to get a search warrant for his place.”
Jeff looked up to see two detectives from Brookfield PD standing at the door to his office. He cut Lisa off. “Sorry, someone’s here to see me. I’ll get back to you.”
He motioned them in and they seated themselves in front of his desk. Jeff knew this would be bad.
“Mr. Denison, we’re here to talk to you about your wife’s car.”
Jeff dreaded what was coming next, wishing he had taken Eric’s advice and called an attorney. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Attorneys always advised their clients not to. Or at least they did on TV. But it was too late; he’d talked to them already, multiple times. He had nothing more to add.
“Your wife’s car was discovered behind some deserted warehouses in the inner city, totally stripped.”
He handed Jeff photos of the car, which looked like a mere shell of the flashy car it had been. The car, sans wheels, had been wedged between an old loading dock and a decrepit storage shed. Jeff felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Jamie never would have left her beloved car behind.
“Please don’t bother trying to find her—she’s not there . . .”
Christ, that song again. Lines from it ran through his mind at the worst times. Fighting back tears he didn’t want the detectives to see, Jeff put the photos down. “Do you believe me now? Jamie didn’t just leave. She never would have given up her car.”
“It is looking like she was abducted. Have you thought of anything else that could shine some light on this? Something she said? Did?”
It wasn’t paranoia—they were looking at him like he was a suspect.
“No, nothing.”
When they left Jeff had no doubt he’d been put on a very short list of suspects—probably their only one. He had a quick flash of gratitude for his role in the group and their work to identify what was happening to abused women. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he opened his phone to call the attorney Eric had recommended.
Early Friday morning, TJ got a call from Jeff Denison. He told her he’d finally called a friend he’d been avoiding since Jamie disappeared, and they were going to play a round of golf the next morning if the mild weather held. Worried the police were trying to find enough evidence to arrest him, golf would be a pleasant diversion. He hoped she wouldn’t mind if they scheduled their interviews later on Saturday. “We could do some of them tonight if you have time.”
TJ knew how devastated he’d been since they’d found his wife’s car. “I’ll see what I can get lined up and call you later.”
She spent the rest of the day checking with her sources at MPD, begging information on the domestic calls described by their interviewees. She managed to get two interviews scheduled for that night. It had taken a few calls to find someone to talk to about a missing woman named Shirley Moran. When she finally reached the woman’s brother, it turned out he lived in a building right across the street from her. Since he was nearly a neighbor, she decided to break the “rules” and trot over there by herself.
TJ felt like cruising on her own. Maybe drop in over at Vinnie’s and see what was happening after she met the brother, since he lived right around the corner. The next appointment would take her to the south side in a popular Mexican restaurant off of Mitchell Street. She wouldn’t need a sidekick; there’d be a lot of people around.
That night when she crossed the street for her appointment—it was actually on the side street around the corner from Vinnie’s—TJ got a prickly neck feeling; it usually came on when she was being watched. She probably was—the come-get-me outfit she wore invited attention: tight black velveteen jeans with a black cami, black ankle boots, and a new geranium-red sweater-jacket, knit of fluffy angora, made her look like she was wearing a tiny red cloud. The jacket had the added advantage of hiding her sleek, custom-made leather shoulder holster.
The area, always busy, tended to be even more so on weekends. She scanned the street, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Broad oak trees lined the dark side street. An occasional car drove by slowly, looking for a parking place. Just when she found the apartment building, a big three-story, old brick affair, her cell phone buzzed. She checked the number. Jeff. Grumbling, she opened the phone. “Hey.”
“TJ, it’s Jeff. I thought we might be getting together tonight.”
Now she was on the spot. Damn, she hated the fucking rules. And how this guy always made her feel sorry for him. Finding out about his wife’s car had to be painful.
“Turned out one of the folks I found lives right across the street from me, so I’m there. Meeting him in a minute.”
“Tell me this isn’t one of the husbands.”
At least he hadn’t lectured her about going alone. “Nope, her brother. Listen, I thought I’d stop in at Vinnie’s when I’m done here. Do you want to meet me there? Got another appointment at 9:00.” Maybe he’ll say no.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
TJ sighed and put the phone back in her pocket. She walked up the small flight of steps to the vestibule of the building. The feeling of being watched tweaked her again, and she turned quickly to see if someone had come up behind her. A few buildings from where she stood, a young couple walked toward the busy street. Nothing.
Shirley Moran’s brother was a tall, thin, gawky guy in his late twenties, visibly put off by TJ. She obviously wasn’t what he’d been expecting.
The apartment looked like a typical single-guy place, short on furniture, but packed with the latest in video and sound equipment. She turned down his offer of a beer, and sat at the dining room table, piled with mail, old newspapers, and magazines.
When she asked about his sister, he said, “No one thought she had any reason to take off. And her husband’s a great guy. We still do stuff together, you know? We play on the same softball team and hang at the same bar. We even go hunting sometimes.”
“If he’s such a great guy, how come the cops had to come out to their place?”
He shifted in his chair. “Hey, she wasn’t perfect. Shirley had a real bad temper, you know?”
“Yeah, so?”
“She liked to pick fights with him. Throw things. Sometimes, sharp things.”
TJ knew about such women. As a cop, she’d been on more than one call where the abuser turned out to be a female. It had nothing to do with size; most men shied away from hitting back.
“She was hurting him?”
“That night she came at him with his baseball bat. She was pissed because he went out drinking with the guys after a game.”
She asked for the husband’s phone number, names of his sister’s friends, and a photo he could part with. She gave him one of her cards and went out into the night.
Hurrying around the block to Vinnie’s, she was glad to be back on a busy street. She didn’t think she’d been followed, but the sensation of being watched remained. Uneasy, she looked forward to meeting Jeff.
In Vinnie’s, the after-work crowd was starting to stagger home and the buffet table had been picked clean. TJ took a seat at the bar. Minutes later, Jeff walked in looking engineer-like in jeans and a dark-brown leather jacket over a white shirt open at the neck.
He sat down beside her. “How did the interview go?”
“The guy said no way the husband did it. Turns out the wife went at him with his own baseball bat, which explains the 911 call. The brother said he still hangs with the husband. Says the guy hasn’t even had a date since the wife disappeared, ‘cause he’s still waiting for her to come back. Chatted him up for a while. Didn’t get any lyin’ vibe from the guy. Have to talk to the husband, too, but he’s out of town now.”
Jeff turned to her. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Eric. You shouldn’t go on these interviews by yourself.”
“I hate it when someone starts out sayin’ for what it’s worth. Can always figure it’s gonna be something that’ll piss me off.”
“And did it?”
“Sorta. But right now I’m glad to see you.”
“Then I’ll try not to do it again.”
“Got the creeps walkin’ over to his apartment. Had a feeling someone was watching me.”
Jeff pondered for a minute. “Let’s forget the drink and go for a walk. See if anyone follows us.”
“You crazy? I don’t go looking for trouble. We’ll see what happens when we leave.”
24
When Eddie got the money from Rita’s life insurance, the bar was still on the market. He hadn’t told anyone about the money and acted surprised when he found out about it. He even got another few thousand from her 401K he hadn’t planned on. Her death had been ruled accidental, Eddie’s negligence undetected. Things were going his way.
The purchase of the business went through and provided him with a comfortable income. Life was good again. He had enough money to drive a decent car, do a little gambling, and even thought about buying the duplex he lived in.
Then his gambling got out of control. He racked up some serious debt and had to take out a second mortgage on the bar. Life wasn’t as much fun with money worries thrown into the mix and his business jeopardized. Desperately trying to get out of the hole, Eddie let one of his bartenders go and began working longer hours.
One night at closing everyone had left except a man sitting at the end of the bar, staring into his beer. Eddie thought he’d seen the guy now and then, but didn’t remember ever talking to him. Eddie reminded him it was past closing and asked him to leave.
The man looked around nervously, making sure they were alone. “Do you know someone who could take care of my wife?”
Take care of his wife? Was she sick? It took a few seconds before it dawned on Eddie the guy wasn’t interested in healthcare. As a bartender, he heard and got asked just about everything—but this?
“You’re puttin’ me on, right?”
The guy stared at Eddie and shook his head. Before Eddie could tell the creep to leave, he leaned across the bar and whispered, “It’s worth seven grand to me.”
Christ, seven-fucking-grand! Here was an opportunity dropping into his lap but did he have the stones to take advantage of it? He had to stall the guy, give himself time to think, make sure the asshole was on the level.
“I may know someone,” Eddie replied cautiously, “but it’ll cost you ten.” Fuck, did I really say that? Eddie broke out in a cold sweat, hoping the guy didn’t notice his shaking hands. He quickly picked up a damp rag, wiping the already spotless bar. Ten grand would take care of his problem.
At first the guy just nodded at the price, then leaned across the bar again. In a loud voice, droplets of spittle landing on the gleaming bar, he raised his voice for the first time. “For ten, she’d better fucking disappear—and on the weekend I’m in Green Bay at the fucking bowling tournament!”
Eddie discovered not only could he do the deed, over the next few years he performed it repeatedly. Solicitation hadn’t been necessary. Each time, the opportunity just sort of happened. He found it amazing how many morons wanted their women out of their lives, overlooking the fact he’d been one of them.
Forty grand later, the bar was solid again. Eddie contained his gambling to an occasional poker game and weekly lottery ticket. Comfortable again, he started seeing the woman who delivered snacks to the bar every week. Doreen Wade was a good woman. A tall divorcee, with red hair and a wide grin, she had two kids, both over eighteen and living on their own.
On a Tuesday night, busy with the after-bowling crowd, Eddie went into the back room for a case of beer when he became aware someone had walked in behind him; a short, thin, weasely looking guy with patchy hair and beady eyes. Eddie recognized him as one of the losers he’d referred to the imaginary hit man. Shit, now what?
“What the fuck is going on?” the guy demanded. “Some bitch detective is nosing around asking questions about my wife’s disappearance!”
“I told you I have nothing to do with it,” Eddie snarled.
“But you know this guy, right?”
“Listen, asshole, I’m just the middle-man. The best thing you can do right now is shut the fuck up. Nothing goes back to you as far as I’m concerned. You need to keep your yap shut and forget about it.”
The guy looked doubtful, his lips curling. “I guess you’re right. But can you tell the guy someone’s asking questions?”
“I told you before I don’t even know the guy. I haven’t heard anything from him in a long time, and there’s no fuckin’ way to contact him. He’s probably long gone.”
The little man didn’t question Eddie about how he’d contacted the guy in the first place. His face set in a dark scowl, he shoved a white business card at Eddie. “It’s on you now, pal.” He turned and stepped back out into the bar.
Edgy, but feeling like he’d dodged a bullet, Eddie went back to the task of restocking beer. Later, when the drinkers had all left for home, he pulled out the card the guy had thrust at him. On it was the name of the detective who had been asking questions.
Teal J. Peacock. What the hell kind of name is that?
