Girl, Under Oath (Michael Gresham Series)

by John Ellsworth

Marcel lifted an eyebrow. His eyes swept around the room, taking in what might be his next question. He asked, “Did she by any chance live here with you?"

  "She is going to. Since Joseph died, she hasn't had enough money to keep their condo. It's rented, you know."

  "I've been told that she and Joseph owned their condo together. But that isn’t the case? You say it's rented?"

  "It's definitely rented. I signed the rental application with her. Plus, they wouldn’t own together anyway. He didn’t trust her with money.”

  "And what about Çidde, her daughter? As I understand it, she’s very ill?"

  “Ill? Çidde is as healthy as a horse. There's nothing wrong with her except occasional bouts with asthma. Her doctor says she will outgrow that. She goes to hospital now and then for breathing assistance, but that’s all.”

  "Çidde doesn't have HIV?"

  "Çidde definitely does not have HIV. The very thought is ridiculous."

  "Çidde didn't contract HIV from a transfusion that happened?"

  "Çidde definitely did not have a transfusion. I don't know why you even ask that."

  "What about having her tonsils out? Did she have her tonsils out when she was younger?"

  "She's never had her tonsils out, no. I would certainly know because I'm involved in her life every day when her mother goes to work. I'm the one who takes care of her. I would certainly know something like that."

  "What about her medical needs? Did she require a thousand euros per week to pay for the drugs she requires?"

  "Çidde doesn't take any medication. She has no medical needs whatsoever. I would certainly know, as I said. Çidde and I are very close. She might even be closer to me than she is to her mother. I know everything about that child. And she does not have any medical needs."

  "Has Elise talked to you about Jennifer, Joseph's first wife?"

  "I've never heard of anybody named Jennifer. Who is she?"

  "Never mind. You are enormously helpful to me. May I continue?"

  "Please do. Although I must say, you are asking questions about things I've never heard of."

  "Has Elise been living on rue Dumont in Paris?"

  "At one time, she lived there, yes. But now she has moved to Spain as I told you earlier. That address has been abandoned in Paris."

  "Do you know if she is living with anyone in Spain?"

  "Of course, Ignacio would be with her. Ignacio has been with her since forever. She always had him on the side. At least since high school."

  "And who is Ignacio?"

  "Ignacio was her first love. He was always with Elise when Joseph isn't around. I don't know exactly how it works, but I do know they’re together now."

  "What about university? Did Elise attend the university?"

  "Of course not! She would not be working as a turnstile guard if she had attended the university. I begged her after senior school to go to the university, but she refused. Then she got pregnant and couldn't go anyway."

  "You mean she got pregnant with Çidde?"

  "No, she married Ignacio, and they had Wallenda. She's with them now in Spain."

  "What about the London School of Economics? Did Elise attend there?"

  "Of course not. I've never even heard of the London School of Economics. Why, did someone tell you she went there? Whoever told you that is full of it."

  "Is there anything else about Elise that I should know that I haven't ask you?"

  “You did not ask me about Justice Hall. I'm embarrassed to say, but you must know Elise was in prison for five years. Everyone knows that about her."

  "Oh—tell me about prison, please."

  "I don't think I want to go into that. You haven't asked about it, and it isn't pleasant for me. So please, let's talk about something else."

  Marcel lifted his pen from the paper tablet and put it away in his pocket. He rested his head back on the couch cushion and shut his eyes for just a moment without speaking. Then he said, "Mademoiselle Milam, please excuse the indelicacy of my next question. But have you ever been treated for any form of mental condition, senility, or dementia?”

  The woman reached to the coffee table and picked up a folded newspaper. She turned it over and displayed to Marcel a page with a crossword puzzle. Every square was filled in, and there were no mark-throughs. "You tell me. Do people with mental conditions match crossword puzzles like this one without so much as a dictionary?"

  "That’s a perfect point. And that answers my question. Thank you, Mademoiselle."

  The woman swatted her hand through the air as if brushing flies away. She smiled and said, “It's nothing. You can come talk to me anytime you wish. You are a gentleman, and you have your questions, and I understand that. My only hope is that you are not the police and do not want my daughter for another crime. She has been doing her best to stay out of trouble and take care of her daughter. I don't think she has even missed one day of work in the last year. So please, be gentle, if you will."

  "I can assure you I'm not the police. I'm only an investigator trying to get some money to her, as I told you before. And thank you again."

  "It's nothing."

  “Oh, but what was the crime? Why did she go to prison?”

  The woman shook her head and scowled. “They said she hurt someone. That’s all.”

  “Did she hurt someone?”

  “Of course not. He was dying anyway.”

  “Was this someone she was married to?”

  “She was twenties and he was forties, I guess. It was obvious what he wanted. Then he developed lung cancer—no one deserves lung cancer, not even a cradle robber. They said he was going to recover except for what Elise did. I thought he was going to die with or without her help. Water under the bridge.”

  “Thank you again.”

  72

  Michael

  I left the courthouse and felt the beep of my phone. I knew I had a text, but it would just have to wait. I was too tired and still edgy about the court appearance that just finished.

  Certain parties from the hearing just concluded had followed me outside, and eyes were still on me.

  I walked to the end of the block and the streetlight. My car was located in attorneys’ parking. I climbed in, pressed the button, and let it idle. My phone chirped again. Text waiting. It would have to wait.

  I pulled through the lot and took California Avenue to the I-290 eastbound ramp. It was about three miles—ten minutes with traffic edging past a state trooper—to the Congress Parkway to South Dearborn street then north. I parked underground and went upstairs to my office—a five-minute walk to the Dirksen Building, the U.S. Federal Courthouse where I most often appeared.

  Then I snuck back into the office and made the first evening coffee. It was now almost six p.m. I filled my silver travel container, leaving enough room for cream, then I fell onto my couch. Tired and upset with judges, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Marcel was returning from Paris, and Verona was probably home by now. I wanted to let the traffic thin out before I headed north to Evanston. It was then that I pulled out my cell phone and read the text.

  Michael, I am at Jennifer Ipswich’s house on East Germaine. Did you know she is my patient? She goes by the name of Jennifer O'Connor. I did not think she was your client. She fooled us both. Come check on me. I’m a little nervous.

  The time of the text was 5:47. I checked my watch—almost 6:30.

  In an instant, I was alert and moving. Verona was the queen of understatement. If she said, “a little nervous,” I knew she was downright frightened. What was worse, she had neglected to include the address where she was.

  But I had a triangulation app that could find a cell phone clear across the country to within six inches.

  Then I was off.

  Within minutes of climbing into my car, I had a complete map on my screen of her location. I pressed the accelerator and kicked up my speed as fast as I dared, heading for Verona's phone. As I drove along, I was planning what I was going to do when I got
there.

  But first, I couldn't believe my eyes when I read that Jennifer Ipswich had become my wife's patient under the name of Jennifer O'Connor. Why would she do that? What could she possibly get out of that?

  I shuddered to think. I wasn't willing to admit she had somehow managed to involve my wife in her problems. But I knew she had done it on purpose, and I knew there had to be some ulterior motive in her mind. She was out of control by now and extremely dangerous. And, dammit, there was no Marcel. He was probably in the air on his way back from Paris. And last but not least, I didn't give a damn about the rest of it. I was going to save my wife and ask questions later.

  Thirty minutes later, coming from Chicago, I was probably within a mile of Verona's phone.

  As I drove, I became more and more pissed off that she hadn't given me a street address. I would much rather have a street address.

  Several blocks away, I slowed almost to a crawl and began the final approach to what my cell phone app said was Verona's phone location. Then I saw her car down the block, and I decided to park this side of it on the wrong side of the street.

  I parked and got out, and began approaching the blond house on foot.

  As I crept along, I was saying a silent prayer that I wasn't being watched.

  When I got even with Verona's car, I felt the hood. It was cold. Now I had a decision to make: should I go up on the porch and boldly knock on the door, or should I assume something was wrong and sneak around the house, trying to get a look inside?

  I decided on the latter, and I slipped around to the side of the house where there were three windows. I crept up to the first window and looked inside. It appeared to be a bedroom, with the kind of afterthought furniture unused rooms often wind up with. Nothing was happening there, so I snuck up to the second window.

  I looked inside, only to find an empty bathroom.

  I then crept up to the third window and slowly moved my head to where I could look inside.

  There, on the other side of a table, was Verona, zip-tied to a chair. I sucked in a lungful of air as I swung around and placed my back against the wall, praying I hadn't been spotted. It was crazier than I had expected. I didn't trust Jennifer one inch. She was operating out of psychosis, and God only knew who she thought Verona was. I swung around and peered inside again.

  Verona's head was lolled to the side as if she might be sleeping or unconscious. I fought down the urge to suddenly go smashing through the window and untie her. My adrenaline was firing. But I restrained myself because it looked like she was in no immediate harm. I forced myself to think.

  Now what? I wished Marcel were there, but he wasn't. This one was on me.

  Then something alerted me when I heard a garage door raising. It must be Jennifer, and she would see my car at any moment. There was no doubt in my mind she knew what I drove if she knew what color shirt I was wearing at home when I was watching TV. She was going to come flying back inside at any moment.

  I bent over and crept past the window. I inched very slowly up to the corner and then peered around to find a large patio with a fire pit in the center and a zigzag path to the back door. The back door was sliders, which was a good thing because those doors are often made of an aluminum frame and give way easily.

  Creeping around the corner of the house, I made it up to the sliding glass door as quietly as possible. Standing at the side, I used my fingers to tug at the door. It was locked.

  I could see that I had no other option except to jimmy the door with my knife, which would be noisy and might result in injury to Verona or in me getting shot on the spot.

  I pulled out my knife and slid the blade down to the locking mechanism. I then went past the bolt part of the lock, inserted my knife, and lifted it. Nothing gave, so I applied even more force. Finally, I felt the bolt of the lock lift and move back inside the frame.

  Then I was inside.

  Verona had heard me coming. She was alert now and watching me. She whispered, “Thank God you came. Jennifer unfastened the hose from behind the oven. I think she's letting gas into the kitchen, so for God’s sake, don't make a spark."

  I whispered back, asking where Jennifer was.

  "I have no idea," Verona whispered. "Please, take off these plastic cuffs. My arms and legs are throbbing from no movement. And my butt is killing me."

  That would have to wait for a moment. Right then, I needed a weapon because Jennifer was on her way inside. Frantic, I looked around.

  73

  Michael

  Seeing nothing that resembled a weapon, I crept into the front room and peered out the front door window. Sure enough, Jennifer's vehicle was roaring back up the driveway.

  As soon as the car came to a halt, she leaped out and ran for the front door. As she was coming through, I stood to the side, my back scrunched against the wall. She was two steps inside when I took a breath and almost revealed myself, but she pulled back and didn't enter inside.

  I could out-wait her because I knew she was impatient, and she was probably out of control. But then another thought came to mind: I had a relationship with her, and she had some feelings of trust toward me.

  So, I decided to try to talk her down. I was going to try to get her to come to her senses and understand that I was not there to hurt her but only wanted to take my wife and leave. I would tell her that if she allowed that, I would not bother her anymore.

  I pulled open the front door and stepped back. But as I did, Jennifer came charging through, waving a gun, and immediately pointed it at me.

  "So here we are," she said calmly. "You're everywhere at once, Michael. And now there are two of you. What's a girl to do?"

  I raised my hands. The last thing I wanted to do was startle her, give her some reason to fire her gun. And I still believed I could talk to her.

  "All I want to do is take my wife. I don't know what you're doing, Jennifer, but if you just let us go, I promise I will tell no one what happened here. You know you can trust me, and you know I'm a man of my word."

  "I know that at one time I trusted you—as much as I ever trusted anybody. But no more. You broke into my house, and since you're here, and since you're trying to take away my shrink, I know for sure I don't trust you anymore."

  She then swept the muzzle of the gun back and forth at me. “Into the kitchen. I'm going to tie you up with your wife. I don't trust you right now, Michael. Maybe once you're bound, we can talk."

  When I moved toward the kitchen, I felt Jennifer fall in right behind me. It wasn't the right moment to act, so I kept moving. I knew about her and her diagnosis, and that went a long way with me. She was unstable and unpredictable and maybe much worse. I would not make any sudden moves or say anything other than “yes” and “no.” But then I also knew I was not going to allow her to tie me up. She might get a shot off, and she might even hit me, but I was not going under the cuffs without a fight.

  We went into the kitchen, where she directed me to sit down in a captain’s chair at the table. She pulled out my chair while I remained standing with my hands in the air. As I started to sit, I brought my elbow up suddenly and caught the side of her head.

  The blow threw her backward, and she fell across the stove just long enough for me to turn and bring my fist around and connect with her chin. It was a satisfying blow, and she lost consciousness. I immediately wrenched the gun from her limp hand.

  As she began to come to, she moaned and turned onto her side. I stepped back and slipped the gun into my jacket pocket. I pulled her off the floor and forced her into a chair. There were no plastic ties or rope, or I would have bound her up then and there, but she was still groggy, still incoherent, so I went to Verona and cut away the ties binding her to the chair. She stood and threw her arms around me and began weeping.

  "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Thank God you're here!"

  I turned to Jennifer and shook my head. "What were you even thinking?"

  She shook her head from side to side without speaking.


  "I have a world of questions for you," I told Jennifer. "Are you going to talk to me?"

  "We have nothing to talk about. But I am going to ask you to leave my house. I won't bother you again, and you'll never hear from me again."

  "It's not that easy. I need to know what happened to Elise. I need that answer before I leave."

  "Elise is in the basement, tied up," Verona said breathlessly. "Jennifer told me she was going to explode the house with Elise inside it, too. She unfastened the gas line behind the stove.”

  I walked around to where I could watch Jennifer's face. Then I said to her, “What have you done to the back of the stove? Is the coupling back there unscrewed?"

  She wasn't going to talk.

  “Verona, take this gun and point it at Jennifer. If she tries to stand up, shoot her.”

  Verona did as she was told. She had her own Glock at home and was familiar with guns. We had been shooting dozens of times.

  "It works just like your Glock at home. There's no safety. If you need to fire it, pull the trigger. I'll be right back."

  She held it calmly and levelly pointed it at Jennifer. Jennifer didn’t move.

  I walked over to the stove and felt behind for the coupling. Sure enough, the nut was loose to any hard twisting. I finger tightened it and then looked around for a wrench. Finding none, I began opening drawers. The cupboard beside the sink contained what I was looking for—a crescent wrench. I headed back for the stove. I reached around and tightened the coupling until I was satisfied that it was cinched up. Then I came back around in front of Jennifer again.

  "All right, tell me about Elise. She's really in the basement?"

  Jennifer looked up at me. "You have everything I'm ever going to tell you, Michael.” She sullenly tossed her head. “You hurt me, Michael! You can go to hell for all I care!”

  Verona spoke up, “She fixed a plate of food and said it was for Elise.” She warned me, “If you go down there, please be very careful, Michael.”

  "I know. I'm going to go down and see if there's someone in trouble down there. I want you to wait here with this gun and keep it on Jennifer.”