The amusement Bev had struggled to contain burst free and she started to giggle. “You should see yourself, Mimi, you look like...like...I don’t know what!”
“This isn’t funny! Why do I have to start worrying about this stuff now?”
“You don’t have to worry about it at all, Mimi, and maybe that’s where you should begin to think about your story: Why do we worry about the most natural event in the universe?”
“So I should do a story that explains why we shouldn’t have to worry about menopause?”
Bev looked at her watch, gave Mimi a tight hug and gentle kiss, and led her to the door. “It’ll be enough if you do a story that just asks why it is we do worry.”
The wind had shifted direction, Mimi noticed as soon as she stepped outside, and was blowing much colder. If it weren’t so early in the season she’d believe that it held moisture, but she preferred to hold to the folklore that D.C. didn’t get snow before Thanksgiving. In fact, D.C. rarely got snow before Christmas, and almost never so early in November. And besides, the globe was supposed to be warming.
She got into her car, turned the ignition on, and while she sat there waiting for the heater to come alive she paged through her notes, not really seeing what was written there. She was thinking about what Beverly had said, and how she was feeling about it: strangely off balance, and she wondered why. Sure, part of it was that business about peri-menopausal symptoms rearing their fuzzy little heads in the next couple or three years, and she’d have to deal with that. How? And when, exactly? When it happened, or before? And if she didn’t deal with it early on, how would she know what was happening until it happened? Is this what Bev meant by asking the questions? She looked down at her notebook again. “The Wisdom of Menopause” by a physician named Christiane Northrup is the book Bev suggested she read.
“Shit,” she muttered, shifting the car into gear and screeching out of the parking space. “Like I already don’t have enough to worry about without adding menopause to the list.” You don’t have to worry at all, she heard Bev say, and she realized that she was Everywoman. Enlightened and knowledgeable about all manner of 21st century techno crap and woefully ignorant about a million-year old phenomenon that was the most natural occurrence in the universe.
It was a short drive from Bev’s Midtown Psychotherapy Associates in the Shaw neighborhood, north on 13th Street and then west on U Street to Sister Space Books. They’d have the Northrup book and other helpful titles as well. But so what? Helpful as the information might be, it wasn’t a story. Was it? Could she make her editor and his editor and his editor—three forty-something men—care why women worried themselves sick over what was natural and normal? Would they care if they thought their wives would be affected? Suppose their wives didn’t get face and breast lifts and liposuctions; suppose they didn’t dye their hair; suppose they lost interest in sex and didn’t know why or what to do about it? Would these men she knew abandon those wives in favor of younger women? And would these women then be susceptible to behavior that could get them killed?
Mimi pulled over to the curb, out of traffic, and shut off the engine. Too many thoughts and ideas were competing for attention, interfering with the one thing she wanted to think of, which was to remember the name of Marianne and Renee’s other bar and where exactly it was. Somewhere between D.C. and Baltimore. Frederick? Columbia! And they’d sold the place, they hadn’t closed it. It was still there, the place where, according to Sue and Kate’s friend, Sarah, Ellie Litton had met her new lover for drinks. Ellie Litton, who’d moved to Columbia to be near her new lover. Happy Landings it was called and it was on the bank of a small lake that froze solid in the winter. Sarah said Ellie had taken the name to be an omen. Had the veterinarian from Georgia, Millicent Cartcher, thought the same thing, that she’d finally made a happy landing? Before both women crash landed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“No computer is ever totally clean, Boss,” Kenny Chang was saying as his fingers danced across the keyboard of Sandra Mitchell’s computer while Linda Lopez and Cassie Ali, seated on either side of him, talked him through an array of unlocking and data restoration programs, most of them known to and available only to law enforcement agencies. Sandy’s computer and a thick sheaf of downloaded, printed e-mails found taped inside a statistical research notebook were with the Hate Crimes team in the Think Tank. All of Sandy Mitchell’s other possessions were being loaded on to Raul Lozano’s truck by Lozano and three new graduates of the police academy for transport and delivery to an address in Galveston, Texas, an address that was a three-story, climate controlled storage facility. So far, all they’d been able to learn was that the same company that had hired Lozano had rented the storage facility in Galveston, but neither the company nor the person who signed Lozano’s contract existed in Galveston or in Poolesville, Maryland, where Lozano’s company was based. Arrangements were made with police in Galveston to detain whoever showed up to claim Sandra Mitchell’s belongings, and Gianna and her team turned their focus to that which they could do something about.
There were two hundred and sixty-two email messages between Sandy Mitchell and somebody named Spice, email address “NICENSPICE.” More than half of them were copies of the messages Sandy had sent to Spice, printed out after she’d sent them and saved neatly and meticulously by date. The others were from Spice to Sandy and downloaded after she’d received them, in direct violation of Spice’s order to delete them immediately. “Until I’m free to be with you, to be fully and truly yours, I must conceal my love...my lust for you. Do not save these messages. Delete them immediately, and carry my love in your heart.” Seven times over five months Spice had directed Sandy Mitchell to delete the messages. Sandy had disobeyed and for that Gianna was grateful, though she wasn’t certain that Sandy’s disobedience would benefit their investigation. Every one of Spice’s messages had been sent from a public location—a library or a cyber cafe or an airport or a hotel—with no way to trace the transmission back to her.
“Somebody who knew what they were doing has been in this computer, Boss,” Kenny said, not looking up from the screen, his fingers not ceasing their tap-tap- tapping. “They left evidence that they’ve been in here but they did a good job of deleting anything that could help us and a good job covering their tracks. Good thing we found those emails.”
Gianna didn’t bother to point out that the emails hadn’t helped bring them a single step closer to identifying the killer; that in fact the emails would be of no use unless and until they identified the killer by other means, and could tie her—or him—to the victim. Kenny knew this, as did they all, but it felt better to cling to any little bit of evidence in a case like this, no matter now flimsy, than to admit the truth. And the truth was, unless the killer of Sandra Mitchell and the other women made a big mistake, she most likely would go unpunished. And it was a she, Gianna thought. The more she studied the victims and the circumstances of their lives and the paths that led to their deaths, the more convinced she was that a woman was responsible.
Three investigators from the Missing Persons Bureau were in the field, feeding back information daily on the past lives of Ellie Litton, Millicent Cartcher, Sandy Mitchell and Mabel Gunther. Gianna couldn’t wait for the investigators to return to D.C. and file their written reports; she had to talk to them every day, to latch on to any and every detail and piece of information that helped fill in the blank spaces of the women’s lives. And while the information she was amassing wouldn’t amount to much in terms of evidence in a trial, it spoke volumes about the women and how they came to be victims. That information, in aggregate, was what helped Gianna conclude that the killer was a woman. Now, if only she’d make a mistake...
“If you’re not getting anything useful, Kenny, give it up. Don’t waste any more time looking for something that’s not there. You and Cassie and Linda get back to the victim files. We’ll have photographs of each victim by late tomorrow.”
“Then can I get back outside, Bo
ss?”
“You can continue to do what you’re doing, which is to make certain you know everything there is to know about Ellie Litton and how she lived her life. And when her photo comes, certainly you can canvass her neighborhood and job site. Ditto for you, Kenny and Linda, with the photos of Millie Cartcher and Mable Gunther. Maybe there’s a piece of luck for us out there.”
Had she been in a better mood Gianna would have added that she hoped and prayed for a piece of luck; such an admission of humanity would have taken the sting out of her reproach of Cassie. But she wasn’t feeling especially benevolent, and she wasn’t feeling like admitting out loud that luck was what they’d need to find Spice.
Gianna stood, stretched her back, and walked over to the blackboard where they hung all of the crime scene photos and the cause of death page from each of the post mortem exams. She knew exactly what she’d see, but she looked again anyway. No doubt the murders had been committed by the same person, but when she looked closely at the photos she had doubts. All the psychological evidence pointed to a female perp; but when it came to the physical evidence—the piano wire slicing through the esophagi of the victims—she had to admit that she had trouble envisioning a woman performing such an act more than once. Certainly there were women physically capable. She probably was physically capable herself. And certainly there were evil women, enough that major metropolises didn’t have enough cells in the women’s wings of their jails to house them all. But Gianna couldn’t help thinking that something else fueled these crimes, and though she wasn’t sure exactly what it was, it wasn’t something that was common to women. A broken heart might kill once, but not six times.
“Money,” she said. “Talk to the personnel people at Ellie Litton’s job again and find out if she had direct deposit to a bank. Find out what happened to Millie Cartcher’s Reston condo. Talk to the field reps and have them check on hometown bank accounts. And Linda, the banks here, the big ones, see if there are or were accounts in any of the vics’ names.” All that new stuff, Gianna thought, and the homes completely cleaned out. New clothes, new furniture. Greed. Not hatred, perhaps, but just plain old garden variety greed.
She withdrew from her reverie and turned around when the door flew open and crashed against the wall. Eric Ashby rushed in, Bobby Gilliam, Tim McCreedy and Tony Watkins hard on his heels. “You’ve got ‘em.”
“Good as got ‘em,” Eric said nodding. “The truck’s northbound on I-85 in North Carolina. If they don’t stop, they’ll be in Virginia before sundown and given the forecast, I’d guess they’ll keep on driving, keep trying to eat up as much highway as possible.”
“What forecast?”
“Rain, freezing rain, sleet.”
“Oh bloody hell!” Gianna, hoping she didn’t look as frazzled as she felt, looked at her watch, then at Cassie, Kenny and Linda, who were watching her carefully and expectantly. “In case you hadn’t guessed, our Irish gun runners are in the cross-hairs. I’m going to be out of pocket I hope for no longer than it takes to drive down to the North Carolina line and back. Alice is on the bar angle. I want you three to keep doing what you’re doing, and keep Alice in the loop. I don’t want this office left unattended for a single moment. You all can decide among yourselves how to handle that.” She looked at her watch again, more out of habit than in any expectation that it had gotten later. “Freezing rain and sleet,” she muttered. “Let me get my boots out of my office and I’m ready.”
*****
Mimi scowled at the enormous television set mounted on the wall above the mirror at the far end of the Happy Landings bar. She didn’t know whether she was more irritated at what she’d seen on the screen in the last half hour or by the fact that she actually was spending her time staring at the thing, trying to make sense of the dialogue and the action. The movie was as stupid as anything she’d ever seen and she’d seen a lot of television in recent days, following Bev’s suggestion that she give herself a dose of popular culture. Erin, the bartender, had proclaimed herself a fan of the movie’s star, a stranger to Mimi and who couldn’t act to save her life. Which could account for the fact that she was about to be raped for the second time. Why would anybody want to watch this crap? Why would anybody spend the money to make it? And this was supposed to be television for women. “Wonder what television for men would be like?” she muttered, using all her will power to resist the urge to get up and leave. She obviously hadn’t missed much by tuning out popular culture. But then there were those commercials for products to relieve the symptoms of menopause. She especially liked the one with Lauren Hutton, who didn’t look as if she’d gained a single pound or lost a single hair.
She gave up on the movie and turned her attention to her surroundings. She hadn’t been to this bar in at least four years, but clearly things had changed. It was not a large place and it was longer than it was wide, but Mimi thought that it was not quite so dark and gloomy as before. Her glance circled the room again. There now were mirrors and track lighting and a living room-like grouping of furniture at the far, narrow end of the room opposite the bar in front of a gas fireplace which burned as cheerily as if it were the real thing. The place was cozy now; so much so that Mimi almost picked up her drink and moved to the fireplace. She had to remind herself that just because it was raw and cold and windy outside didn’t mean that she was free to seek the comfort of a fire. She was here to work; to chat up the bartender; to learn whether there existed a connection between Ellie Litton’s presence here and her murder. Which meant striking up a conversation with Erin who, upon closer inspection, bore a strong resemblance to the actress, Michelle Pfeiffer.
Erin had washed glasses and dumped cherries from a huge plastic tub into a smaller container and now was cutting lemons and limes, and ignoring the gigantic tin of peanuts that Mimi was waiting for her to open. One eye on the television screen, the other on the lemons and limes—not much chance that she’d see Mimi pretending to be dying for another vodka and tonic and a bowl of peanuts. Maybe if she went to the bathroom and came back, Erin would notice her. Maybe if she spilled her drink...no, not a good idea, since what was in her glass was water and not the vodka and tonic Erin had poured half an hour ago. That concoction was down the toilet, replaced by water from the bottle in Mimi’s purse. She slurped up the remainder, tilted her head and glass back to get the ice bits, and lightly plopped the empty glass down on the bar. Erin heard that, like the good barkeep she was.
“Be right with you,” she called out.
“Bring some nuts with you?” Mimi queried.
In answer, Erin grabbed several bowls from a shelf beneath the bar and deftly poured nuts from the can into the bowls. Then she mixed Mimi’s drink and brought glass and bowl to her.
“You’ve got this bartending business down to a science,” Mimi said with real appreciation as she placed a bill on the counter and waved away Erin’s move to make change from the pockets of her apron. “You must have been at it for a while.”
“Thanks,” Erin said with the kind of head movement that signaled her appreciation for both the tip and the acknowledgement of her professionalism. She was a fairly tall woman, taller than Mimi, with a head full of the kind of thick, red-brown hair that less blessed women pay good money for—and which was prettier by far than Michelle’s limp blonde locks. When she smiled, her eyes literally sparkled, and the laugh lines around them suggested that was a regular habit.
“I hope it’s not rude to say so, but you don’t look old enough to have been legal in bars long enough to pick up those skills.” That earned Mimi a full grin from Erin, whose baby blues twinkled.
“My Dad and my uncles owned a bar in Reisterstown, back when it was a working mill town, and since I couldn’t go to work at the mills I went to work in the bar when I was fifteen and I’ve been at it ever since. It’s my kinda work.”
“You knew when you were that young?”
Erin nodded and smiled the smile that lit her face. “And I knew I wanted my own place one day. W
hen this came up for sale, me and Jackie snatched it up before Marianne and Renee could even hang the For Sale sign in the window.”
“Is Jackie your lover?”
Erin’s good mood evaporated. “Why do you ask?” The question was a challenge and Mimi knew she had to rise to the occasion without knowing why.
“It takes a lot of work to create a good place, and this is a good place. It looks good, it feels good. You both should be proud,” Mimi said.
“We are,” Erin said, “though I don’t have a clue why you’d care. What are you doing out in this neck of the woods anyway?” She shifted gears so smoothly that Mimi missed a beat and actually had to take a sip of the vodka and tonic to recover her wits.
“Going through some changes.” The lie rolled out smoothly. “I used to come out here years ago, though not in the winter,” she said with a grimace. “It’s a good place to come to get out of the city.”
Erin rolled her eyes. “You married or is your lover married?” And at the look on Mimi’s face, her expression changed. “You all think nobody knows what you’re up to? Being gay’s not a game you play when you’re bored with your life, you know. Have a fling with a woman and then run back to some man.”
“I....I...I’m not playing any kind of game,” Mimi sputtered. She was so completely surprised by Erin’s assessment of the reason for her presence that she couldn’t talk. Sure, she was here under false pretenses, but not those false pretenses. “I just wanted to get away from the city, like I said. I was at the opening of Marianne and Renee’s new place, and that made me think of this place, and I just thought I’d see what was happening out here. Just a change of pace, you know?”
“Sure,” Erin said, pulling a towel from her waist band and wiping down the bar in front of Mimi where her glass had left a wet spot. “And I suppose you got some swampland in Arizona you’d like me to take a look at.”
Love Notes Page 12