by Beverly Long
She never wore linen. It was a ridiculous material. It wrinkled when you looked at it crossways. And she’d never paid more than fifty dollars for a purse. It was silly to spend more. Save your pennies and the dollars will save themselves. Her grandparents had said that so often that she should have put that on their tombstones.
She drove back to the police station. On her way past the coffee machine, she poured herself a cup. Spied a box of doughnuts on the break room table and thought she might be in luck.
Opened the lid. Empty.
Sort of how she felt right now.
“Ready to go, Morgan?” A.L. asked, coming up behind her.
“Yeah,” she said.
When she turned, he was looking at her closely. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Swell,” she said. “It’s meeting time.”
Five
Rena was upset. Hiding it well enough that those who didn’t know her like he did probably didn’t think it was anything but a fourth victim that was making her grind her teeth. But something had happened at her doctor’s appointment. He didn’t know what to say to a woman who couldn’t get pregnant. He and Jacqui had had the opposite problem.
When he and Rena entered, he saw that Ferguson and Blithe were already in their chairs. Even the mayor had arrived, and he generally liked to make an entrance. Calvin Grant, from the state police, who never went anywhere without his laptop, was tapping away. The guy didn’t have much personality, but he’d been very helpful in analyzing data. Clarice Wright, who was the communications contact, was in her chair, busy with her phone.
A.L. was about to get up and shut the door when Christian Faster breezed in. “Morning,” the man said. “Sorry, got caught up in a call.”
Whatever. Probably his manicurist. A.L. didn’t trust any man who got his nails buffed. “Should I start?” he asked.
“Yes,” Faster said. “I think I’m up to speed. I spent some time with Toby on this.”
“Our fourth victim is Jane Picus. Age forty-four. Married to Terry Picus. No prior marriages. Resided at 429 Kingway for more than ten years. One daughter, age nineteen, at school in Milwaukee. Employed at Petal Poof for approximately the last five years. Coroner Stack has confirmed cause of death as the same as our other three murders, asphyxiation due to smothering. Pillow from master bedroom is missing.”
“Any connection to the other three victims?” Mayor Johnson asked, leaning forward, his forearms braced on the table.
“Not that we’ve identified,” A.L. said. “We’re meeting again with her husband after this.”
“No witnesses?” Faster asked.
“Neighbor reported seeing a dark sedan in the area two nights ago. Ferguson, Blithe and I reviewed available street cameras, but we don’t have anything.”
“I don’t need to tell you that this is a very serious situation,” Faster said, censure in his tone.
A.L. said nothing. Faster was an idiot. Did he think they didn’t realize that?
“Do we need more resources?” Mayor Johnson asked.
“Right now, it’s not a matter of resources,” A.L. said. “The state’s help with data requests has been huge, and we’ve been able to follow up on everything that needed attention.” He looked around the room. “Unfortunately, the problem is, we haven’t found the thread that connects all these women.”
“Maybe there is no thread,” Faster said. “Maybe it’s random victims.”
A.L. shrugged. “That’s possible, but I don’t think so. We just have to keep looking.”
Clarice had put her phone down. “I’ll provide the press with a statement, and we’ve got a press conference scheduled for one this afternoon. I’ve worked with both of your assistants,” she said, looking at Christian Faster and Kenwood Johnson, “to clear your calendars.”
“I can take the lead,” Faster said.
The mayor nodded. “I’m okay with that.”
A.L. was going to make sure he was busy. Nothing ever got accomplished at a press conference, but if they didn’t do it, the press would crucify them.
He pushed his chair back. “If that’s all,” he said, “we’re going to go see Terry Picus.”
* * *
When they arrived, A.L. saw Terry Picus standing next to his car, staring at the yellow police tape strung across his yard. A big X of it blocked his front door, a uniformed officer standing right next to it. A.L. knew he would have replaced the one who’d gone off the clock at seven this morning. Until A.L. released the scene, it was under twenty-four-hour watch.
A.L. approached the porch first, greeted the officer. “Can I see the log?” Anyone coming and going from the scene would have been logged in and out accordingly.
The young officer showed him. “Okay, this looks good,” he said. “I’ll take it. I’m releasing the scene.”
“Sounds good to me,” the officer said.
A.L. turned and waved at Terry Picus. Then he started gathering up the yellow police tape.
“Morning, Mr. Picus,” Rena said.
“Good morning,” the man replied.
Once A.L. was finished, they walked inside. Standing in the foyer, Terry Picus looked around, almost as if he’d never seen the place before. A.L. figured the guy would spend the afternoon sitting on the floor of his wife’s closet, sniffing her clothes, trying to hold his wife’s scent in his lungs.
Now Picus stared at the small desk in the corner of the kitchen. It did look strangely off balance with the desktop computer missing.
“We removed the computer and your wife’s cell phone yesterday. Did she have any other devices?”
He shook his head. “She paid most of the bills online. I don’t even know the passwords.”
Something else to stress the guy out in the coming months. “For the things that didn’t get paid online or perhaps were paid for in cash, is there a place you would have kept the receipts?”
Terry opened the cupboard door just to the left of the desk. Inside was a plastic bin of paid bills and odd receipts. A.L. pulled the container out and gave half of the contents to Rena. “Can you give us a few minutes to look at these?” he said to Terry Picus.
“Of course. I...uh...think I’ll fill the bird feeders. Jane didn’t like it when they were empty.”
A.L. understood. It was an inane task at a time like this, but it was something concrete that Terry Picus could do. Something he could fix. Some tribute he could make to his dead wife. See, honey, I’m taking care of the birds for you.
He and Rena took chairs at the dining room table. He was two-thirds of the way through his stack when he saw something that interested him. He set it aside and kept looking. Ten minutes later, Rena stood up and motioned for him to take a closer look at something. He scooted his chair in her direction, and she handed him a five-by-seven piece of yellow paper.
“Take a look at this,” she said.
It was a receipt showing a contribution to the Downtown Association. “Yeah?”
“I remember that Leshia Fowler had also written a check there.”
“But not Marsha Knight or LeAnn Jacobs?”
“Not that I recall. But two of the four...”
“Makes it worth looking at,” he said, finishing her sentence.
“Did you find anything?”
“A year-end tax statement from the Lutheran church.”
She nodded. “LeAnn Jacobs went to the Lutheran church. We already talked to the pastor there once.”
True. “I know. Let’s go check on Mr. Picus.”
They found him staring at a chalkboard in the corner of the kitchen. A.L. had seen it yesterday. It was a grocery list. “Jane always took care of all this stuff,” the man said, his tone weary.
The man was going to be buying his own grapes and smoked turkey from now on. When A.L. had first moved out of the house on Franklin Av
enue and into his apartment, his damn refrigerator had been empty most of the time. It had taken six months before he’d gotten into a routine and started buying food.
“Mr. Picus, I found a tax statement from the Lutheran church. Were you and Jane members?”
He nodded. “Jane went more often than I did. I did Christmas and Easter and an occasional Sunday. She...was better. I spoke to Pastor Rife last night. He’ll do the service. One day next week. Probably,” he added.
The details of death were a tedious affair. But Terry Picus would get help from Pastor Rife, who was a good guy. He’d baptized and confirmed Traci. A.L. had been in attendance for both those occasions, but rarely at other times.
“Mr. Picus, did Jane keep a diary or a journal of any type?” Rena asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you tell us about Jane’s friends, what they liked to do?”
“We did things mostly as couples, like most married people, I guess. Her best friend is Marie Wallace. You might want to talk to her.”
Marie Wallace. A.L. knew that name. Shit. He’d been to her house. To pick up Traci. From a birthday party. It had been years ago, but still, any connection of this to his family was unacceptable. “She lives in the big colonial just as you’re coming into town from the north?”
Terry Picus nodded. “She used to. She and her husband got divorced a couple years ago, and I think the house had to be sold. She and her daughter live in the Eagle’s Edge apartments. She works at the Lutheran church. That’s why we started going there.”
“Okay,” said A.L. “I want you to know that there’s a press conference happening right about now. I can’t tell you what to do, but it’s very important that we keep the details of the scene and any other information confidential. I would encourage you not to talk to the press.”
As if on cue, the man’s cell phone rang. He looked at it. “It’s my daughter.”
A.L. let out a breath. “Go ahead and take it. And maybe share that same advice with her.” The press would not hesitate to contact the daughter. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
The man nodded. “I hope she didn’t suffer too much.” His eyes filled with tears.
She had to have been terrified. “It was probably pretty quick,” A.L. said. Sometimes a lie was just the right thing.
Terry looked at his still-ringing phone. “That’s what I told our daughter.”
See, everybody did it.
* * *
“How do you know Marie Wallace?” Rena asked as they walked down the sidewalk.
“I don’t know her. But she has a daughter close to Traci’s age. They used to be in tumbling together. I picked Traci up at her house once. I stayed in the car.”
“Still, six degrees of separation,” she said. “Everything ties in somewhere.”
“Two of our victims attended the same church. Which just happens to be the church where Marie Wallace works. Which just happens to be the same church that my daughter and ex-wife attend.”
“Ugh.”
“I’m going to call Jacqui,” he said.
“Want some privacy?” she asked.
“No need.” He pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button. Jacqui answered on the third ring. She would be at work and probably had to put her scissors down.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey, are you busy?” he asked.
“No. My last appointment of the day canceled, so I got out early. I’m in my car.”
Perfect. Jacqui did hair at Gigi’s, and he hadn’t wanted her to have this conversation in front of ten curious women.
“What’s up?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t unfriendly but not really friendly, either. She’d never forgiven him for not being the husband she’d hoped for. If she found out that he’d hidden the fact that Traci had been picked up for skipping school and drinking, she’d probably poke out his eye with her scissors.
“Do you remember when Traci hung around with the Wallace girl? Her mom is Marie Wallace.”
“Yeah. That was years ago, though.”
“Right. Did you know that Marie Wallace is a secretary at your church?”
“No. I haven’t talked to her in years. I think I heard that she’s divorced. I don’t think she’s Marie Wallace anymore. She took her maiden name back.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. I may have heard it, but I don’t remember. Did you call me just to ask me about Marie Wallace?”
“No. I called you because I think it would be a good idea if you and Traci slept in on Sundays for a while.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I know. And I can’t tell you much. But just trust me on this and give me the benefit of the doubt that I’ve got yours and Traci’s best interest at heart.”
“Fine,” she said. “Traci’s been working Sunday mornings at Pancake Magic, anyway.”
“Good. Thank you. Just keep this between the two of us, okay?” Whatever bad attributes Jacqui had, she understood the importance of keeping her mouth shut when he told her it was important.
She sighed. “Of course.”
The call dropped off, and he realized that she’d hung up on him. Didn’t matter. He’d gotten what he wanted.
“Are we going back to the church?” Rena asked.
“Yeah. But let’s go to the Downtown Association first.”
It was a fifteen-minute drive. The Downtown Association was on the first floor of what had been a furniture manufacturing facility in the late 1900s. The building had sat empty for fifty years, had been a tenement for the next fifty, but for the last fifteen years or so, it had been remodeled into offices and small shops. The exterior was brick, the interior was lots of honey-colored wood.
Sarah Waxell, the director, was midthirties and had nice legs that she took pains to show off with her high-heeled shoes. “What can I do for you, Detectives?” she asked once they had the introductions out of the way.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Jane Picus,” Rena said.
“Picus,” Sarah repeated. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
He leaned forward. “She wrote a check to the Downtown Association for fifty dollars about two months ago.”
“That helps,” she said. She opened the laptop on her desk and fiddled around for a few minutes. “First-time donor in March. It was a special push to raise money for a downtown park. That particular initiative brought in several new donors.” She looked up. “Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, we have a list of regular donors—it seems like there are certain people in the community that you can count on to support everything. But beyond that core group, support drops off fast. Our goal is always to grow those fervent and committed donors. Hopefully, Jane will become one of those.”
A.L. shook his head. “She’s dead.” The Bulletin had an afternoon edition. Everybody would know the name by dinnertime.
“Shit,” Sarah said. “She’s the one from yesterday? I heard about it on the radio, but they weren’t yet releasing the name.”
“Yes. If she was a first-time donor, do you happen to have any information about how she found out about the Downtown Association?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Sarah said. Her face had gotten pale, and she was tapping her nails against the desk. “You know, the first woman who was killed, Leshia Fowler, she was one of those core donors that I was just talking about. There was hardly a community cause that she wasn’t part of. Let me tell you, her murder shook us all. When the other two women were murdered, I checked their names against our database and was relieved when I couldn’t find them anywhere. Imagine that, right? Being happy that somebody wasn’t a donor.” She licked her lips. “I’d have done the same for Jane Picus. I guess I’m glad that I wasn’t alone when I made that connection,” she finished
softly.
A.L. figured Sarah would be locking her doors extra tight from now on. He stood up, as did Rena. He handed over a business card. “If you think of anything else about either Leshia Fowler or Jane Picus, I’d appreciate a call.”
“Of course.” She laughed, somewhat nervously. “No offense, Detectives, but I’m hoping that I never see you again. Unless, of course, you want to make a donation.”
Neither he nor Rena responded. Once outside, Rena took a few deep breaths of the warm May air.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
All was not right in Whoville. “Do you think she’s hiding something?”
She waved a hand. “It’s not that. I...guess my head is elsewhere.”
He studied her. Was this about Gabe missing dinner? “Husbands screw up. It’s what we do.”
“You’re not a husband anymore,” she said.
“Because I was excellent at screwing up,” he said. “Let it go. You and Gabe are great together.”
“Supercop and her handsome husband. That’s us,” she said, sounding resigned. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
Ten minutes later, A.L. tried the door of the church office, but the knob would not turn. He knocked.
“Who’s there?” he heard from within.
And just that quick, the old knock-knock jokes flooded his brain. Which was some indication that late nights and early mornings were catching up to him. “Detectives McKittridge and Morgan. Baywood Police Department.”
There was no response. Then, finally, “Please slip your identification under the door.”
He looked up and around to try to find a camera. Something to wave at. But there was nothing. So he and Rena did as requested. And then he started to count.
The door opened on four, which was good, since he intended to get to only five. A woman, late fifties, but still pretty in a washed-out fragile kind of way, handed them their badges. Her shoulder-length hair was a light brown, and bangs that seemed like they’d be a pain in the ass hung in her eyes. “Marie Wallace?” he said.