Maggie fidgeted. “Why didn’t anyone tell us about it?”
“Come on, Maggie,” Joan said. “Who’s ‘‘gonna tell you you’ve been living on a toxic waste dump ever since you moved in?”
Maggie stiffened.
“There’s more,” Art said. “Stay with me on this. I told you that the state came out after the accident and discovered the leak, right? Well, it turns out they couldn’t determine exactly when the leak occurred. It might have happened before the accident. Years before. If that was the case, the water supply, which, as you know, comes from wells nearby might have been compromised for decades.”
“So what did they do?” Maggie asked.
“What do they always do?” Art’s laugh was bitter. “They studied it. A feasibility study.”
“That’s it?”
“No. To be fair, after the study, the state mandated the entire site be cleaned up under EPA guidelines.”
“So, they did find problems with the water?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. I can’t find any studies on the water itself, which is kind of strange.”
“What are you telling us, Art?” Maggie said.
“I’m assuming they did find some pollutants, because they brought in Prairie State to clean it up again.”
“They brought in the same company that caused the accident in the first place?” Maggie asked.
Art nodded. “It’s not unusual. There aren’t a lot of companies with the know-how or equipment to do a job like this. Plus, I’m sure Prairie State gave Feldman a good price. It was in their interest. They wanted to see the problem go away as much as Feldman did.”
“So what happened?”
“They cleaned it up. Then the state came in to inspect again. This time they gave the land a clean bill of health.”
Maggie relaxed. “So now everything is OK, right?”
“Well…” Art said slowly, “The truth is it can take as long as thirty years to strip hazardous chemicals out of the ground and water. And that assumes there’s some kind of consistent treatment going on for the whole thirty years.” Art looked at each woman in turn. “You tell me, ladies. Do you see any treatment around here?”
The women shook their heads.
“And our children are seriously ill,” Joan said.
“Which means the crap is still in the ground,” Maggie said.
“And water,” Joan added.
“Tell me something, Art,” Maggie said slowly. “Where was that buried tank? The one they cracked open by accident?”
“Under the playground.”
The women fell silent. Maggie shivered. The developer built houses on land that he knew was contaminated. Her son had become sick because of it. This was supposed to happen in other places. Love Canal. Some third world country. Not Meadow City. Not in her corner of the world.
Finally, Joan spoke. “Art says his firm would be willing to take us on if we want to go ahead with this. But they need seed money.”
Maggie flipped up her hands. “It’s impossible. TJ’s bills nearly wiped us out.”
“Same here,” said Frannie Yablonski. She hadn’t spoken a word up until now.
“I have an idea,” Art said. “I may be able to get some money from the clean water foundation. I can apply for a grant, but it could take as long as six months before we know.”
“And if you do? Get the money, I mean?” Maggie asked.
Joan cut in. “I say we sue everyone connected to this fucking dump. Illinois Edison, Prairie State, SGF Development, everyone.”
Maggie smiled.
Six months went by with no news from Joan’s cousin. By then, though, it didn’t matter. TJ had relapsed, and this time it was fast. Tumors sprouted on his brain, his kidneys, and his heart. He hung on until Christmas; Maggie helped him unwrap his presents. He died two days later.
Chapter Thirty-one
The uniforms roped off the field. Stakes were placed in the reeds to mark the grid pattern they would be using to search the site. Access was restricted to a small path.
“We called for a helicopter so we can get some aerials,” the watch commander said. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
Stone watched his breath swirl in the wind. “What about bringing in some evidence techs from the Crime Lab?”
“You don’t think our guys can handle it?”
“I’d like Jenny Lee to help out.”
“It’s your baby. You want me to call?”
“Thanks.”
The blades of the helicopter whined as Air One, the state police helicopter, circled the site. Stone waited at the edge of the field while someone on the chopper shot aerials. By now, rush hour traffic on Willow Road was backed up for miles.
After Jenny arrived and gave the okay, they pulled the body out of the dumpster. The ME took vitals and started a visual inspection, recording his observations into a pocket recorder. By the time he got to the victim’s feet, his lips thinned to a grim line.
Stone eyeballed the body, a white male with silver hair. The red jacket looked expensive. The pants were navy Dockers, and the shoes Italian style loafers. Good leather. When the ME finished, Stone opened his evidence bag, pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went through the man’s pockets. Drawing out a billfold, he read the name on the driver’s license. He closed his eyes, then stood and peeled off the gloves.
“It’s Paul Landon. The architect for Feldman Development.”
***
Stone, Jenny, and the ME met at the dumpster an hour later. Jenny wiped her face, shiny despite the November chill. She’d organized teams to search for weapons, imprints in the grass, blood drops, or anything that might tell them what happened.
“We think we found the path they used to drag the body over.” She pointed to a strip of the field that was now being roped off. “You can tell by the broken reeds. We also found some imprints on the ground. But they’re faint—not deep enough for a good impression.”
“Any tire tracks?”
“We got pictures, but this is a construction site, right?”
“Not yet.” Stone thought about the Feldman RV that had been parked here. “But there have been heavy vehicles around.”
Jenny shrugged.
“What kind of trace did you pick up?”
“Some red fibers. From his jacket, maybe. And some dark threads. It could be his pants. Or someone else’s. Don’t know yet.”
“That sounds good.”
“No. It’s not, Detective.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s what I didn’t find that’s the problem.”
Stone cocked his head.
“No weapon. No blood drops, no smears.”
“She’s right,” the ME interrupted. “It’s a remarkably clean corpse.”
“What are you saying?” Stone shoved his hands in his pockets.
“From his body temp and the rigor, I’d have to say he’s been dead at least eight hours, maybe more. But there are no contusions, wounds, or other obvious signs of trauma. “
“Cause of death?”
The ME raised his hands. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
The ME’s assistant bagged the body and loaded it into a van. He would take the body to the hospital for a formal pronouncement of death. Then he would head downtown to the morgue. “This is the third body we’ve found in the past few weeks with the same MO, Stone,” he said. “It’s sure looking like we have a serial killer.”
Stone told the uniforms to start canvassing the area. There were no private homes on this stretch of Willow Road, but an order of nuns lived in a convent around the corner. He dispatched officers there, as well as Kraft Foods. Then he called Chief of Police Phillips.
“You want to call Feldman, or should I?” Hank asked.
“I’ll do it,” Stone said. “May as well take the heat.”
“What, because of that dog?”
“Yeah.”
“You think it was some kind of warning?”
“Monday morning quarterbacking will drive you crazy. You did more than you needed to. I’ll back you.”
“Thanks, Hank. I appreciate it.” He snapped off the phone, noticing that clouds had thickened the already dark sky. He made his way across the field, his head bowed against the wind. Ricki Feldman was probably right. The dog had been a warning, and now someone was dead. He had screwed up. What had he missed?
He punched in her office number but got her voice mail. He started to call up to Feldman’s Lake Forest home, but his cell trilled before he finished dialing.
“Stone, it’s Phillips. I’ve been on the phone with Glenbrook. I want you to meet me over there for a meeting.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Ricki Feldman called back before Stone got to Glenbrook. When Stone filled her in, she was restrained. “How did it happen?”
He told her what he knew.
“Where is he now?”
“The Medical Examiner has the body. They’ll do the autopsy tomorrow.”
There was no response.
“What about his family? Next of kin? Who do we need to call?”
She hesitated. “He’s divorced. His ex-wife lives in Florida. They haven’t spoken in years.”
“I need her number.”
“I’ll call her,” Ricki said.
“That’s fine, but I’ll need to talk to her. What about kids?”
“None.”
“What about siblings?”
“I think he had a brother somewhere. Maureen—that’s his ex-wife—would know. But Paul was pretty much of a loner, Detective. He ate, slept, and breathed for us— I mean— his work. He is—was—irreplaceable.” Her voice cracked. “My father will be devastated. They were best friends.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll handle the funeral arrangements.”
Typically, a deceased’s family members, however distant or estranged, made the decisions about a loved one’s burial. But Ricki was already taking control. Why, Stone wondered.
The Feldmans had a way of courting people to do their bidding. Flattering you, persuading you that you, and no one else, could do the job. But what happened after they dangled opportunities in front of you and wooed you with their charm? In Landon’s case, they had apparently taken over his life, sucked him into their vortex. Maybe that was why his marriage failed.
Stone recalled how Ricki had called Deanna and him “my Detective,” “my publicist.” People were just fungible commodities to the Feldmans, resources to be used up and thrown away. He switched the phone from one ear to the other. “We’ll need to search his place.”
“I’ll arrange it. He lived in one of our buildings.”
“Thanks.” Stone cleared his throat. “Listen. I want you to know we will find out what happened to Paul Landon.”
Silence. Then, “If you don’t, my father and I will make sure someone else does. This has gone on long enough.”
***
“The similarities aren’t that strong,” Doyle’s face was pinched. He and Matt sat on one side of a conference table, Stone and Phillips on the other. “The only thing you’ve got is the absence of trauma, and the fact they were all found in dumpsters or pits.”
“Close enough, Sean,” Phillips said, “And you’ve already activated the Task Force. It makes sense to handle them together.”
“Hold on, Hank,” Stone said. “We don’t have confirmation about Landon yet.”
“Of course you don’t,” Phillips glared. “But you can’t chalk it up to coincidence, can you?”
Stone drew a line down the middle of a piece of paper. At the top of one column he wrote the word “Glenbrook”, on the other “Landon”. He aimed his pencil at the Landon side. “Logic dictates that Landon’s death, if it is a homicide, had to be related to the Feldman Development project. The others aren’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Doyle said.
Stone looked from Phillips to Doyle. “You know something I don’t?” He didn’t want to work with Doyle any more than Doyle wanted to with him.
“Look, guys.” Phillips said. “If we’re going to join forces, we need to be clear on the facts. Matt, why don’t you run down the highlights?”
Matt summarized his investigations, starting with the discovery of Romano in the dumpster. How they’d eliminated RDM, Romano’s family, even Brenda Hartman as suspects. How they hadn’t found whatever caused her to go into shock and die. Moving on to Simon, he told them about the pulmonary edema, noted his extra-marital activities, and except for the woman at the bar of the East Bank Club who had disappeared, the absence of suspects. “We could use a fresh set of eyes,” he finished up. “Joining forces will give us that.” He turned his gaze to Stone.
“Not to mention the budget considerations,” added Phillips.
“Not necessarily,” Doyle countered. “They’re still essentially three cases.”
“Commander Doyle may be right,” Stone said. Doyle sat straighter. Stone cleared his throat, irritated to find himself on the same side as Doyle. “I think we’re jumping the gun. I don’t see the connections between Romano, Simon, and Landon. We have to consider the possibility that there is no pattern. That these deaths are tragic but ultimately random events.”
“Except for the fact that Feldman showed up at Simon’s funeral,” Matt said.
All eyes turned to Matt. Stone drew a double line under the word “Feldman”.
“We had no reason to connect them—until today,” Matt said. “Now, of course, Feldman’s not taking calls. And Simon’s wife isn’t home.”
“What about Romano? Any connection to Feldman?”
Matt shook his head.
“You can bet that when the press gets on it, they’ll find something,” Doyle said. “They’ll probably have them sleeping together before this is over. And hang us out to dry for not finding it.”
“The press is not running these investigations, Sean,” Phillips said firmly.
“But they are a factor,” Phillips said. “Look Stone, I know how you feel. I’m not anxious to make the leap either, but it may be immaterial. We have a bigger problem. Cecil Vaughan called yesterday. The Bureau’s starting to make noise.”
“Why? Because we’ve had the cases for a couple of weeks and haven’t solved them?” Doyle sounded whiney.
Stone remembered his conversation with Vaughan.
“You can understand their curiosity,” Phillips said. “Maybe they should step in.” Doyle shot Phillips a withering look.
“What about it, Sean?” Phillips said. “You mentioned some internal problems anyway.”
“No trouble here,” Doyle said, glancing pointedly at Matt. Matt’s face turned stony.
Stone jumped to his friend’s defense. “Hold on. Matt has put in a lot of hours. It would be a waste of time to start all over again. Even for the Feebs.”
“I’m glad you both agree.” A small formed on Phillips’ face. “That’s why the only sensible option is to join forces and handle all the homicides together. You don’t really have a choice, if you want to run with the Landon case. We have three bodies, three unexplained deaths, all with a similar MO. And now there seems to be a connection between two of the three cases. The task force gives us a lot more arms and legs to throw at these cases.”
Stone tapped his pen against his paper.
“Vaughan trusts you, Stone,” Phillips added. “If you’re in charge, he may back off. And of course, you and Singer have worked together before.”
Stone didn’t answer.
“So, it’s settled. Stone and Singer are leads. You both report to Doyle.”
Matt cut in. “There’s a Detective from Deerfield who’s been running down the case on Simon. I want to keep her in the loop. Brewster too.”
Doyle nodded.
Tearing his sheet of paper into shreds, Stone turned to Matt. “So, partner. You got my desk ready?”
Chapter Thirty-three
Georgia opened her eyes. The room was dark, but a thin border of light flared around the shade. She rolled over and checked the clock. Ten AM. Over a week since she’d been suspended. Nine days of enforced idleness. Dragging herself out of bed, she raised the shade. Rays of sun so bright and brittle they seemed to have substance and form.
She shuffled into the kitchen. The only evidence Matt had come home last night was the red light on the coffee pot. A box of sugar cubes sat next to it. She picked one up and sucked on it. Matt liked cubes better than loose sugar – he claimed it helped him control how much he used. As the sugar dissolved in her mouth, it left a tiny glaze on her gums. She opened the refrigerator, full of milk, eggs, fruit, and cold cuts. It ought to be; she’d been to the grocery store yesterday. And the day before.
In the living room she turned on the TV, then quickly snapped it off. The talk shows were boring; the old movies in black and white melodramatic; the commercials relentless.
Throwing on a pair of sweats, she clambered down the stairs and outside. Her breath rose in little puffs as she stretched in the frigid air. She jogged to the corner and turned south. Sliding her tongue over her teeth, she felt the smooth, slightly itchy residue from the sugar cube.
She ran past manicured lawns, cleanly swept streets, and gardens put to bed for the winter. Everything looked so clean in the suburbs. Even the landfill, neatly graded with layers of dirt, masked its garbage from sight. It was all a charade. Behind the white picket fences and newly paved roads the same violence seethed; invisible, perhaps, but still ready to reclaim chaos from order.
Jogging down a tree-lined street, her shadow bobbed in front of her. Clawlike branches arched toward the sky. She’d ended up in the suburbs by chance. Raised in a lace-curtain Irish Chicago neighborhood, she’d planned to be a Chicago cop, but by the time she graduated from the Academy, they already had their quota of women. The sleepy suburban forces were just waking up to diversity, and she’d been at the top of her class.
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