by Leslie Wolfe
She stood there, frozen in place, long after he’d left her house. She kept thinking what to do next; should she go tell Jasmine, her so-called best friend, what she thought of her friendship? Good thing Jasmine was so vain she had to wear the perfume that bore her name every day, and gallons of it. That lying bitch in heat had left a scent trail so thick on Beau it was impossible not to catch it. Melissa was happy she did, better sooner than later, but who knows how long the cheating had been going on. The scent might have been on him before, but Jasmine was her friend; her scent was everywhere. She wished she could somehow destroy Jasmine with her bitter words.
She did nothing of the kind; her heart was broken. That day she’d lost her first love, her best friend, and her ability to ever trust a man again. Soon thereafter she graduated from high school and moved to Florida for nursing school. That chapter of her life had closed forever. The smell of jasmine perfume though, she would never forget.
There it was again, almost eleven years later, clinging like the smoke signal of betrayal to her husband’s collar. Was he having an affair? Was that why he’d been so distant, so cold lately?
She remembered how she stood there the night before, unable to move, frozen in place next to the couch where her husband lay. Panic riveted her feet to the floor in that particular spot, and all she could do was breathe and feel her heart thumping against her chest, beat after shattering beat. Now, a million thoughts flooded her brain, unsettling, horrifying thoughts. If he was having an affair, what could she do? How could she find out? Should she confront him? If she did, would he turn violent? He wasn’t a violent man, or so she’d believed, up until he hit his own son.
What if she were wrong? What if it were all in her mind? No, the smell of jasmine was there, undisputable, but maybe there was some other explanation for it. Maybe he was working all those long hours because tax season had started, which was his season to work the longest hours. Maybe a new coworker wore gallons of jasmine perfume, and it somehow clung to his clothes, without him ever touching her. Maybe he and that colleague hung their jackets on the same coat rack in the office. That must be it.
Her weary mind grabbed hold of that idea, hugged it, built visuals around it. She could see it now; the coworker was an overweight, menopausal, unattractive woman who’d lost her sense of smell and didn’t realize how much perfume she poured on herself. In their office, there was this wooden coat rack, where all of them hung their jackets so they could roll up their sleeves and work hard the entire day. After all, tax season was just starting.
Or was he, in fact, cheating on her?
The sound of broken glass gave her a start. She looked at her feet and realized she’d dropped a handful of test vials. She mouthed, “Sorry,” and promptly cleaned everything, then thoroughly washed her hands.
“Are you all right?” Cat asked.
She hid her tears. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.”
Melissa pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and took another set of test vials, then approached Tess. Cat watched every move she made with intense eyes.
“She’ll be okay,” she said, speaking softly.
He frowned a little. He didn’t seem to believe her, or want her anywhere near her patient.
She wondered who he was. He was old enough to be her father, possibly even grandfather. Whatever their relationship, they shared a special bond. He cared for her deeply, and she trusted him more than anyone else. When people talk under anesthesia, they speak only the ultimate truth, and Tess Winnett had called his name.
“Her vitals are improving,” she added, gesturing at the monitors. “She’ll wake up in a little while.”
House Call
Gary pulled over at the curb and gave the Pembroke Pines house a thorough look. He’d somehow expected more show of status from a family who’d been so offended with their daughter marrying a Hispanic man. Apparently, it was a simple case of racism, rather than the typical entitled attitude encountered with wealthy families when it comes to their daughters.
“Ready?” Fradella prompted him.
“Yep,” he muttered, a little embarrassed to be nudged like that by his junior partner. He was more thoughtful about things, he liked to believe; he wasn’t slower, just more careful. He liked to prepare himself, organize his thoughts, especially before interviewing grieving parents. He could rush through everything, just like Fradella did, but that wouldn’t make him a better cop. He wouldn’t solve more cases, or make fewer mistakes. Lately, all he could think of were his mistakes, the ones he’d made throughout the years, and the unexpected consequences they carried.
He pressed the doorbell and heard the chime through the colorful, oval, glass insert. A man in his seventies opened the door widely, inviting them in before they’d showed any ID. The detective knew better and remained outside, then presented his badge.
“Mr. Trask?” Michowsky asked. “Detectives Michowsky and Fradella, Palm Beach County.”
The man nodded and invited them in with a hand gesture. They followed his lead and took a seat in the living room. A woman, also in her golden years, sat in an armchair, knitting.
“Ah, we have guests,” she said, smiling. “Get a pot of coffee going, dear.”
Michowsky’s puzzled eyes shifted from the man’s distraught face, to the woman’s blissful demeanor.
“She’s… not like she used to be,” Mr. Trask said. “It’s Alzheimer’s. This is the first time I’m actually glad about it. She won’t feel the pain of losing Lisa. She won’t know.”
His shoulders hung and his eyes remained riveted to the floor. He covered his mouth with a wrinkled hand, covered in bluish veins and liver spots.
“Mr. Trask, we’re very sorry for your loss,” Michowsky said. “We have a few questions.”
The man continued to stare at the floor, but invited him to speak with another hand gesture.
“Are you aware of any issues in your daughter’s marriage?”
“Other than marrying a good-for-nothing border bunny?” the man asked with a dry scoff. His sadness had vanished, replaced by anger.
Fradella and Michowsky exchanged a quick glance.
“Mr. Ramos is a civil engineer,” Fradella asked, “is he not?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Mr. Trask replied. “That didn’t give him the right, you know.”
Fradella looked Trask in the eye. “Right to what?”
“To marry my only daughter.”
Michowsky shot Fradella a quick glance. There was no point in aggravating a mourning father, regardless of how ridiculous his views were.
“Did they ever argue?”
Mr. Trask shrugged. “Don’t know if they did. They weren’t speaking with us that often. He took our daughter away from us, and then he took her son too.”
Michowsky frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Dylan’s not Enrique’s kid. She was seeing someone else before, a nice, young man with a good, steady job. Dylan is his son.”
“How did Enrique take Dylan? You lost me there,” Fradella asked.
“He adopted Dylan. Now I can’t get custody, with Lisa gone. He’s probably not even going to let me see him.”
“How about Dylan’s biological father?” Fradella pressed on. “Was he unhappy with the adoption?”
“Nah… he renounced his parental rights, unfortunately. He got himself another girl, had a career ahead of him to focus on. I don’t blame him. It was Lisa’s fault, not his. She left him, for that awful man.”
“What kind of career? What does he do?”
“Dylan’s real father? He’s a store manager at the local Whole Foods. That’s a real job, you know, with lots of responsibilities.”
Michowsky and Fradella exchanged another quick glance, then stood and thanked Mr. Trask. There was nothing more to be gained from the interview.
Back in the car, Fradella whistled. “A grocery store manager is a more desirable and noteworthy suitor than a civil engineer? Since when?”
Michows
ky laughed bitterly, as he started his engine and pulled away. “Since some people are struck with color blindness. If your skin’s a certain color, these people become blinded by hate.”
“Hmm… so we got nothing,” Fradella summarized. “Where to next?”
“Lisa Trask’s last credit card charge was at a hair salon on Coral, the day she disappeared. She dumped almost three hundred bucks in there; she must’ve had plenty of time to chat.”
“Didn’t Buchanan interview the hairdresser?”
“Do I need to explain the difference between a missing person’s interview and a murder case interview? This hairdresser, um, Justina,” he added, reading off his notepad with a furtive glance, “might have been the last person to see Lisa Trask alive.”
“Okay,” Fradella conceded. “I think the husband looks good for this, though.”
“Why?” Michowsky said, keeping his eyes on the dense traffic.
“Lisa could have been in that house the entire time, drugged, or tied up. Then the husband reports her missing, goes through all the circus while the missus is conveniently locked in a room somewhere, then when the heat’s gone, bang! He finds her, in his own backyard!”
Michowsky laughed. “That’s why you can’t rush through an investigation, Todd. You have no motive, no forensics in the home, nothing. She saw the man with the rope while her husband was inside the home, so it wasn’t him. You got nothing.”
“Statistically, you know I’m right though. Most of the time it’s the husband.”
Michowsky let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Let’s see what Doc Rizza finds on the body. Until then, humor me. Treat this case as if we’re sure the husband didn’t do it. I’m willing to bet you this nice, crisp twenty,” he added, grinning widely while extracting a bill from his wallet with one hand, “that Doc will find us some trace evidence on Lisa’s body. Maybe even DNA, if we’re lucky.”
Fradella studied Michowsky for a second. “All right, it’s a bet. But why are you saying that? What makes you so sure?”
“Call it my gut,” he replied cryptically. “Twenty-five years of doing this job, and something Tess Winnett once said.”
“Spill it.”
“She said strangulation is personal; the most personal way of killing there is. The more heated and personal the act of killing gets, the more likely the killer made a mistake.”
10
The Stylist
They pulled into the small parking lot allocated to Waves and Shine, the hair salon Lisa Trask had visited right before she vanished. The salon shared the parking lot with a bank and a posh restaurant, marking the one-stop-shop for well-off women running errands in the exclusive neighborhood.
Michowsky entered first and was immediately greeted by a young, beautiful woman with a dazzling smile, who gave his buzz-cut hair a slightly confused look.
“You’ll look fabulous today,” she recited the habitual greeting with enthusiasm. “Just give us some time. Who’s your miracle worker?”
“Oh, so I need a miracle to look fabulous today?” Michowsky couldn’t help it, but sweetened the quip with a smile.
The greeter’s jaw dropped.
“We’re looking for Justina,” he continued, and showed his badge.
“Over there,” the young woman replied. “I’ll take you.” She stopped next to a tall, thin blonde dressed in black, and whispered in her ear.
“All right, get someone to fill in here,” Justina told the greeter, then turned to them. “Detectives?”
“Michowsky and Fradella,” Gary replied. “We have a few questions for you. Can we talk somewhere more private?”
She turned and led the way to the back of the salon, then exited through an emergency door. They followed her into the alley behind the building, where Justina immediately lit up a Marlboro.
“Might as well enjoy it, right?” she explained, holding the cigarette with thin, long fingers. Her fingernails were manicured, her eyebrows waxed to perfection, her lipstick intact. She was a poster girl for a salon like that.
Michowsky noticed the tattoo of a pair of scissors on her inner left forearm and smiled. “Your personal brand?” he asked.
“You might say that,” Justina smiled. “I love doing hair.”
Michowsky took out his phone and showed her Lisa’s picture. “She was in here last week, on the tenth. Her name is Lisa Trask. You might recall talking about her with a Detective Buchanan?”
Justina blew out a lungful of smoke. “Yes, I remember Miss Buchanan, and, as I told her, I have no idea where Lisa went after leaving the salon. We don’t ask.”
“But you had her in your chair for quite some time, right?”
“It must have been more than two hours, yes. She always gets her hair straightened, then we put in those large curlers, to get the wavy appearance rather than the curly. She also does a few highlights and lowlights for depth and volume, and a cut and style at the end. She’s a regular.”
Fradella whistled, the second time that morning. “She did so much stuff to her hair, when she looked good the way she was?”
She chuckled lightly. “The way she was, Detective, was the result of hours of work and hundreds of dollars spent. There’s no natural beauty; not one that matters, anyway.”
“Is it true that you chat with your clients about all kinds of personal stuff?” Michowsky asked. “My wife tells me she doesn’t need a shrink, because she’s got a great hairdresser.”
Justina’s eyes flared briefly. “If she has a good relationship with her stylist, yes, I can understand how that could be true,” she replied a little dryly, emphasizing the word “stylist.”
Michowsky took a mental note to be mindful of what she liked to be called. “And did you? With Lisa Trask?”
“Talk about personal stuff? Yeah, we did.”
“Where was her mind at? What do you recall?”
Justina frowned and searched Michowsky’s eyes. “It’s the second time you used past tense. What’s the deal, Detective? What happened to Lisa?” She nervously flicked away her cigarette butt.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Lisa was killed.”
Justina gasped and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. Then she lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“All right, what do you want to know?” she asked in a lower, more forthcoming voice. There was no need to keep secrets anymore.
“Anything you can tell us,” Fradella encouraged her.
“She was sad and concerned about family issues; from what she shared, her father and her husband didn’t see eye to eye, and she suffered to see her son deprived of a healthy relationship with his grandparents. She didn’t want her son’s mind to be poisoned by what she called, ‘my father’s ludicrous hate.’ So, she just managed to keep them apart, but was sad she couldn’t have a real family life like that.”
“Any arguments or fights with the husband? Or the father?”
“None that she shared; this was more of her internal angst.”
“What kind of person was she?”
Justina smiled. “She was… young at heart. Her eyes still wandered, you know, even if she was married and had a young child. She was in my chair, getting her foils in, when a courier came to deliver a package. Her eyes escorted the guy’s tight butt all the way in, then all the way out. I remember she chuckled and said, ‘There’s no harm in looking, is there?’ I laughed out loud.”
“How about an affair? Any other men in her life?” Michowsky asked.
“None that she mentioned. She seemed happily married, but not buried alive, how some people believe women should be, once they’ve tied the knot. We’re still alive, Detectives, you know? We can still crave attention and appreciate male beauty.”
“Anything else you recall?”
Justine hesitated, thinking. Her second cigarette was almost finished, and she gave it a frustrated look. “She mentioned in passing some weirdo had creeped her out at her house. You guys must know about it; she said she’d filed
a police report.”
“Uh-huh,” Michowsky replied, then handed her his business card. “Call me if you remember anything else.”
“I will,” she replied, and leaned against the wall. They walked around the building toward the parking lot, and before turning the corner, Michowsky saw Justina light up a third cigarette. He couldn’t help but wonder if Justina had shared all there was to share about her client’s confidences.
“I’ll drive,” Fradella offered, and reached out for the keys.
Michowsky gave him a good stare, but handed him the keys anyway. “Dare I ask why?”
“No reason,” he replied, “just for fun. And sharing the job responsibilities, of course.”
Michowsky didn’t reply, deep in thought. An enduring crease still wrinkled his brow. “I wonder, if she was a regular here, isn’t this place a little above her pay grade? Seems rather high end to me.”
“Huh… Lisa was an analyst at a national bank, twenty-four, married to a civil engineer. Maybe it was too expensive for her,” Fradella acknowledged. “Worth keeping in mind. But if she didn’t have any other vices, it might have been okay for her to spend three hundred bucks on herself every now and then.”
“Yep, you’re right, we got nothing,” Michowsky admitted with a long sigh.
11
In the Dark
He sat in the dark, watching the two women. They weren’t talking anymore. One was curled up in the armchair, with her legs tucked underneath her. The other one feigned sleep under the bed covers, but her shivering breaths gave her away. She was proud, the new one. She reminded him of his mother like none other before her. The way she threw her hair over her shoulder when she was angry. The sparks of rage in her eyes, when she banged against the window with both fists, yelling and screaming profanities in endless fits that left her breathless, wounded, but unbroken. Just like his mother.