“Nope, no way, Chief—I just caught Lanny Federson slaughtering birch trees on private land up on the Loon River. Right down from Camp Bron Avon.”
“Are you kidding?” Lew turned away from the report she was reading on her computer and jumped to her feet. “I know right where you mean,” she said, coming around the desk and strapping on her holsters. “Are they still there?”
“Think so—if we hurry, we can catch ’em. Woulda called earlier but no cell service around there. By the time I could make a call, it was just as fast to stop here.”
With Ray in the cruiser with her, Lew sped down the county road, lights and siren off. “So this guy Lanny said he works for a ‘Tommy P,’ is that what you said?” asked Lew.
“Yep. Peter said he’s seen sections of birch logged on NFR development land, too. He assumed Chuck or Maxwell had approved it. Could be the same crew working for this Tommy P guy. I did get the number of the license plate of the pickup they were loading.”
“Why didn’t you say so before,” said Lew, irritated. “All right, get Dispatch on your cell. Tell Marlaine you’re with me and ask her to run a check on that license plate.”
Minutes later Lew turned onto the private drive leading to the summer home whose backyard had recently held Lanny Federson, his two sidekicks, and the pickup loaded with four-foot sections of birch trees. None were in sight.
All that Lew and Ray could see were severed sections of dead birch, the treetops and branches scattered like broken limbs across the green swale. What remained of the stands of mature birch trees were jagged stumps—skeletal reminders of proud trees whose leaves had once shimmered under the sun.
* * *
“Wait a moment,” said Lew after Marlaine returned Ray’s call with the pickup owner’s name and address. “Let’s not check out the address until I get a search warrant. This individual may have the stolen birch on his property. I want to go in prepared.”
Lew called the county judge and explained why she was requesting the warrant. “We’ll have it for you shortly,” said the judge, adding, “Somebody has been cutting down birch trees on the land by my hunting shack. Consider me a victim, too, Chief Ferris. Let me know right away what you find.”
In less than an hour, Lew had the warrant in hand, and with Ray following her in his vehicle, she approached the address that Marlaine had given them. She drove under a faded sign reading NORTHWOODS RV HAVEN and along a two-lane dirt road fronting a shabby collection of house trailers. That was when it dawned on her that she had heard the name of the owner of the pickup before: Tom Patterson.
Yes, she thought, that’s the same name as the construction contractor that Peter Bailey had said was the one forging Peter’s name on invoices related to the construction of a bridge and the purchase of pumps for the Partridge Lodge Fishing and Hunting Preserve property.
Could it be the same guy? Probably not. A construction engineer would not be living in a trailer court—not in this run-down trailer court anyway. The Patterson name is pretty common in the northwoods, too. Has to be someone else with the same name.
She pulled into the gravel parking space alongside a well-worn trailer home with the number 3706 on a fire number in what passed for a front yard. A lean-to shed was attached to the trailer. There was no pickup in sight, but she knew from other visits to this trailer park—most often for drug busts—that residents often saved a parking fee by using the Walmart lot across the street. A pot of marigolds in desperate need of watering marked the broken cement pavers leading to the front door.
“Ray, will you please wait here while I go in? Honk if anyone pulls up, okay?”
“Got it, Chief.”
Lew pulled on the handle of an outside screen door holding ripped and sagging screens. The door, squeaking, opened to a wooden door that may have been white once upon a time and that sported a dead bolt above a black hole where a doorknob had lived once upon a time. Lew knocked. Silence. She knocked again.
“Hold your goddamn horses—I’m getting dressed,” shouted a female voice from inside. The dead bolt made a grinding sound and the door was yanked open. A short, pudgy woman with stringy black hair held back by a headband stared at Lew. She was wearing a short gray T-shirt over tight yoga leggings, an outfit that emphasized her plumpness. Her eyes went immediately to the document in Lew’s hand.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “got no drugs here. Tom’s gone. The whole damn bunch are gone. Been gone for weeks. I kicked ’em out.”
“I’m not here for drugs,” said Lew. “But you know what this is, don’t you. I have a warrant to search the premises for stolen goods. Are you Charlene Patterson? Is your husband at home?”
“He’s not my husband,” said the woman. After thinking things over for a moment and with obvious reluctance she stepped back to let Lew inside.
“Thank you,” said Lew, motioning for Ray to wait by her cruiser until she needed help with the search.
“But according to our records Tom Patterson lives here,” said Lew.
“He lived here,” said the woman. “I’ve filed for divorce and I’m getting my maiden name back. I’m Charlene Rotowski and I kicked Tommy out. He’s gone. G.O.N.E. Gone. And I have no idea where he is—I don’t want to know.”
“I see,” said Lew, raising her eyebrows as she asked, “And when exactly did Tommy leave?”
“For the last time? Yesterday. Only ’cause he stopped in, saying he had to get something he forgot out in the shed.” Her eyes turned sly. “And guess what,” she said. “After that weasel left, I went out to see what he was up to, and found out he’s been hiding money from me again.”
Charlene waved her hands in a gesture of futility. “I mean, goddammit, y’know? Here I am working two jobs, paying childcare for our kid, and he owes me. So yesterday after he leaves, what do I find stuck under an old tire? Twenty thousand bucks. Do you believe it?
“Do you know how much money I owe because of that goombah? I still owe for delivering Benjy and that was three years ago.” She looked ready to cry.
“Where’s the money now?” asked Lew. Charlene’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Why? Because that’s money he may have been paid for stolen goods.”
“I don’t think so,” said Charlene. A crafty look stole through her eyes. “He said he got paid for a special job for that creep he does stuff for. That’s how he said it: a special job.” She sneered as she repeated his words. “Like it was different from any of the other crapola he gets himself into.”
“Really?” asked Lew, walking into the living room of the small trailer. She was surprised at how neat the room was. It held a well-worn sofa, two wooden chairs with cane seats, and a cluster of children’s toys stacked against one wall. The shag carpeting on the floor looked freshly vacuumed.
While Charlene might have appeared unattractive at first, given her weight and poor wardrobe choice—a short shirt over tight leggings—Lew noted that her clothes were as clean as the living room. Lew bet that whatever her two jobs, she was likely a hard worker.
“What kind of special job?” asked Lew. “He isn’t in construction by any chance? Building bridges, that type of work?” Lew made an effort to sound encouraging.
“Are you kidding me? Building bridges? Tommy couldn’t build a fire if he was freezing to death. No, he’s been doing logging for some guys over in Minnesota and then that guy he calls ‘ol Max’ put him on some other project.” She waved a hand and snickered. “Wait, I take back what I just said. You know what pays twenty grand?”
“No idea. That’s a lot of money,” said Lew.
“Meth. I’ll bet you this ‘ol Max’ guy’s got Tommy cooking meth. Like I said, he can’t build a fire but you give that guy a pizza oven and he’s home free.”
“So where is the money now? And where do you think I can find your . . . ex. I mean Tommy. Oh, and about this Max person. Where is he? If these boys are messing with meth, I need to know. I promise I’ll keep you out
of it if you tell me where to find them.”
Charlene stared down at her bare feet. “You know I could get hurt telling you anything.”
“Or you could spend the night in jail for withholding evidence.”
“Right,” said Charlene in a small voice. “If I give you the money and tell you what I know, will . . . um . . .”
“Yes,” said Lew before she could finish. “Anything you say or do will be kept confidential, I promise.”
“I know you keep your promises,” said Charlene. There was nothing snide in how she made the comment.
“And how do you know that?” Lew was curious at the woman’s unexpected words of trust.
“I went to school with your daughter, Suzanne. We were both dancers out at Thunder Bay for a while, too.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Lew.
“Suzanne and I . . . we stay in touch so I know you’re . . . reliable?” She ended her comment with a rise in her voice, questioning.
“Yes,” said Lew, “I am reliable.”
* * *
Lew would never forget that difficult year. She was newly divorced, working a secretarial job at the paper mill, and unable to afford to send Suzanne to college. Suzanne, who at eighteen was so desperate to get a degree in accounting that she found the best paying job in the northwoods and worked it for a full year. The job? She danced at a gentlemen’s club, the Thunder Bay Bar.
After a year, she had squirreled away ten thousand dollars, enough in those days to get started at the university. After that, scholarships and on-campus jobs made it possible for her to finish. Today she ran her own accounting firm in Milwaukee.
And where was her mother during that hard year? Every night that Suzanne danced, Lew waited in the parking lot for Thunder Bay to close. She was there to drive her daughter home. She was there to keep her safe.
* * *
“It seems a hundred years ago,” said Charlene with a sad smile. “I envied Suzanne because you were there for her. You understood. My mother thought I was a whore for dancing there. Of course when she found out how much I got paid, then she made me pay rent to live at home.”
Charlene shook her head and Lew felt bad for her. She was one of those souls who could never catch a break.
“Charlene, you’ve said enough that you have to turn over the cash that Tommy hid here. I’m sorry but that’s the law.”
Charlene nodded. “I know. I’ll get it. I hid it in Benjy’s laundry hamper.”
When she walked back into the living room with a soiled dark green backpack and handed it over to Lew, Lew asked, “Does Tommy know you found this?”
“Nope. Like I said, he hasn’t been here since yesterday and I have no idea where he’s living. I’m sure he’ll try to sneak back when I’m not here. If he does, I’ll play stupid: Like ‘What money? What are you talking about?’
“I’ll say a cable TV crew came by to inspect the place. They do that all the time, trying to catch people hooking up illegally. I’ll say maybe one of those guys took it. Or I’ll tell him it’s there somewhere. He was drunk when he hid it so maybe he can’t remember. Yeah, that’s what I’ll tell him.”
“Think you can pull that off okay?” Lew was dubious. And worried. If there was one thing she didn’t want to do, it was to put Charlene in harm’s way.
“Whoa. Just you watch me,” said Charlene with a vengeance.
For one fleeting second, Lew felt pity for Tom Patterson. “One more thing,” said Lew. “Do you have a photo of your husband that I could borrow? Something recent?”
What she didn’t say was “something better-looking than the mug shot we probably have.”
“Sure. I just put our wedding photos away. Let me see what I can find.”
Charlene disappeared into what Lew assumed was her bedroom. “How about this?” she asked, reemerging. She held out a photo of a couple in wedding clothes smiling happily into the camera.
“He’s good-looking,” said Lew, surprised to see a well-groomed, handsome man in his mid-twenties. He had dark hair and pleasant features.
“I’m not so bad, either,” said Charlene, pointing to the picture of her in the photo. “Thirty pounds lighter five years ago. That helps.” She rolled her eyes as if the idea of being young and slender and pretty was a pipe dream long gone.
“You’re right, Chief Ferris. He is a great-looking guy, but that’s his curse, too. Everything came so easy when he was a gorgeous kid that Tommy never learned how to work. That’s my theory anyway. He was married before me, y’know.”
“Oh?” Lew was happy to have her talking, trusting.
“Married a girl from one of the rich summer families over in Minocqua. Her dad gave him a big job in one of his companies and somehow Tommy blew it. Just lazy, I think. I met him right afterward and I thought he was just so cute, y’know.”
She sighed. “I gotta tell ya, only one of us ever held a job. That wasn’t so bad, really. I thought I could work and he could be a househusband. But then he started hitting me. When he pulled a gun and shot through the wall over there”—she pointed to a small hole in the wall of the tiny living room—“shot a bullet that just missed Benjy in his crib. Man, he was outta here. That was it for me.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Lew. “Sorry to hear he has a mean streak.”
“Mean and not so bright. Great-looking and dumb as a rock. I need to shut up,” said Charlene. “Some days I think I was the dumb one. Gotta tell ya, though. Now, when I date a guy, I wait a long, long time before I let him in my life. Wait till I know, really know, who the hell he is.”
“Do you mind if I borrow this photo? I’d like to show it to someone,” said Lew. “I’ll return it soon.”
“I don’t think I’ll need that real soon,” said Charlene. “Someday, maybe. To show Benjy what his papa looked like.” She gave a sad smile.
* * *
As Lew pulled the cruiser into her parking space back at the department, she asked Ray to follow her to her office. Once there, she reached into a drawer in her desk for an envelope. She slipped five twenty-dollar bills into the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to Ray.
“All the mailboxes for the trailers are located at the entrance to the trailer court. Will you please check for the one belonging to Charlene Rotowski, maybe Patterson in case she hasn’t changed it on her box, which might say number three-seven-oh-six, and slip this inside? She’s an old friend of Suzanne’s and she loaned her some money years ago. I remembered that while we were talking . . . and keep this between us, will you, please?”
“You don’t have to ask, you know that.”
“Thank you.”
“You are as welcome as the flowers,” said Ray, tucking the envelope into his back pocket as he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
That afternoon, Lew gathered four people around the coffee table under the big window, the sitting area she liked to use for casual meetings. Sunlight through the leaves of the oak trees guarding the courthouse dappled across the long wooden table.
Sitting in the comfortable chairs were Bruce Peters, the forensic accountant from the Wausau Crime Lab, Peter Bailey, and Osborne. The accountant’s report of what he had found in his review of financial documents and expense reports from Chuck Pelletier and Peter Bailey had just begun when the office phone on Lew’s desk rang.
“Chief,” said the receptionist at the front desk, “Molly Pelletier is here. She would like to talk to you for just a few minutes. Okay to send her back?”
A moment later Lew’s door opened and a tear-stained Molly walked in. At the sight of everyone sitting around the table, she started to back out. “Sorry, I thought you would be alone.” Her voice broke and she started to cry.
Osborne was the first person to stand up, and he gathered Molly into his arms. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly, in an effort to comfort her. “Were you able to see your father?” He spoke softly, assuming the sight of her father’s body—silent in death—had put her over the edge.<
br />
“No, that’s not it,” she sobbed. Lew stood up, motioning for the others to leave the room. “No, no, I don’t mind if they hear this,” Molly said in a quavering voice. “Maybe it’ll help with your investigation.”
“Are you sure?” asked Lew. Molly nodded.
“Jessie and I just met with our dad’s lawyer. He said Dad was ready to sign a new will that he decided to make after he married Patti . . . but he never did. He was supposed to meet with the lawyer today.”
Molly took a deep breath. “But because he didn’t sign it before he died, state law says that because Patti is his wife, she gets half of everything. Everything.” Her angry eyes raked the room. “That includes the money and antiques from my mom and dad’s marriage, too.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Osborne.
“Yes. Because there is no will. So that woman gets half of what my mom wanted me and Jessie to have and half of everything my dad made over all the years of that marriage, too. The lawyer told me that the will he was going to sign protected everything he had from before the marriage to Patti—all of which, including my mom’s wonderful antiques, was supposed to be Jessie’s and mine. It’s not fair.”
“Sweetie, sweetie,” said Osborne, pulling her in again. He knew better than to mention life is never fair. “On a less disturbing note—have you been able to make the arrangements for your father? Are those working out okay?”
“Yes.” She dabbed at her face with a Kleenex that Lew had walked over to hand her. “That very kind priest at St. Mary’s is going to let us have the Blessed Virgin chapel. He’s arranging for the ladies of the church to put flowers around the casket and . . . it’ll be nice. We’ve invited about ten people including all the staff that his secretary said worked with him. Peter”—she looked at Peter Bailey—“you’re included, too, you know.”
“Thank you,” said Peter, standing up. “May I take you and your sister to lunch afterward?”
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