She's Not There

by Marla Madison

  “Did anyone get a look at her?”

  “TJ and Jeff did when they found her. The police showed the rest of us her photo.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  There was no easy way to break the news. “I’m sorry Eric, the woman was Danielle Ventura.”

  Lisa heard him catch his breath. She carried the phone to the laundry room, shutting the door behind her.

  Minutes later, she came back out to find everyone looking at her.

  “So, what did he say about her?” TJ probed, following her into the kitchen.

  “He can’t come back until Sunday morning. That’s the soonest he can get away and leave his manager in charge. He’ll hop a red-eye after the auction tomorrow night—tonight, actually—and get here early Sunday.”

  TJ persisted. “Who is she?”

  Lisa hadn’t shared her suspicions about Eric’s love life with any of the others. “She’s a divorcee he’s been dating. He told me she became very possessive. Whenever he told her he’d call her, she couldn’t wait and would call and pressure him. Before he left he explained to her he wasn’t looking for a relationship, but didn’t think he got through to her. He’d planned on talking to her about it again when he got back.”

  “Crap. Good thing he’s in Texas. It would look bad for him—another woman in his life murdered.”

  Lisa added, “He only dated her the last couple weeks—Not a lot of time to have a motive to murder someone.” Eric would be devastated. He’d feel like he was to blame somehow no matter who was responsible for the woman’s death.

  TJ’s cell phone buzzed. She walked out of the room, speaking in low tones. Lisa wondered if Eric had called TJ to ask for more details.

  When TJ came back in the room, she busied herself picking up the used bowls, rinsing them out and putting them in the dishwasher. She kept her eyes down, arranging dishes on the top shelf. Finally, she turned to face Lisa and Jeff. “Eric called back. He asked me if anyone noticed the dead woman resembled one of us. Told him no. No one noticed.”

  Lisa felt a tightening in her stomach. Her voice at least a pitch too high, she asked, “Who does he think she looks like?”

  “You.”

  Lisa stepped back, her heart pounding, a lizard of fear crawling through her. It hadn’t occurred to her—she and Danielle were about the same height. And Danielle’s hair. She’d had it pinned up when Lisa met her, but she imagined that worn loose, it would look like hers. She moved to the couch and sat down hard with a loud swoosh of its over-stuffed cushions.

  She looked up at TJ. “That would explain it, wouldn’t it? Whoever is killing these abused women knows about us. He thinks getting rid of one of us will stop us from pursuing our inquiries. It’s time to tell the police what we’re doing.”

  54

  Lisa heard a soft knock on her door. She opened it to TJ who walked in wearing a red-plaid nightshirt with worn brown slippers.

  “Got a question for you. Did you know Eric was seeing this chick?”

  Lisa hadn’t really known. “He didn’t say anything about her when we were doing interviews.”

  “I kinda thought maybe you and Eric . . . ”

  Lisa stopped her. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “How come you never told me you have a gun?”

  Lisa didn’t want to talk about it. She’d been hoping that when she did, she could tell them all at the same time, carefully doling out a sanitized version of the truth.

  “I’ll tell you some of it now, but it’s a long story. The rest can wait.”

  She followed Lisa into the living room and sat next to her on the sofa.

  “I bought the gun after my divorce and learned how to use it.”

  “You were scared of the guy?”

  Maybe there was no simple version. “It wasn’t only that.”

  “You were gonna shoot him.”

  “He was threatening to sue for custody of Paige.” The hatred she’d been burdened with for so long ago still boiled within her. “I never knew I could despise anyone that much, even wish him dead.” Her eyes hardened in remembrance.

  TJ shrugged. “Anyone can kill under the right circumstances, especially to protect their kid. I’d keep bugging you to tell me more about it now except we only have a few hours before we hafta go out again.”

  “We do have to keep going, don’t we? This has to end—soon.”

  Back in the guestroom, TJ discovered she was out of toothpaste. She went to Eric’s room, intending to look for an extra tube in his bathroom cabinet. When she walked into the spacious bathroom situated between the two master bedrooms, she heard a sound in the adjoining room where Jeff was staying. She moved closer to the door. Was he crying? Seeing Danielle in the woods must have hit him hard—reminded him that Jamie could be dead, too. TJ wanted to turn around, pretend she hadn’t heard anything. Instead, she eased into the room. Damn, I’m getting soft.

  “Hey, everything okay in here?” Knowing it wasn’t, what could she say?

  “Yeah,” he replied, his voice thick.

  She sighed. He was sitting on the end of the bed fully clothed. He sat bent forward, his face in his hands, his glasses on the nightstand next to the bed.

  Tough love, first. “You wanna talk, or should I leave you to wallow?”

  Sitting up straight, he rubbed his face. “I’ve tried not to think about what must have happened to Jamie, but when I saw that woman I couldn’t help but think she’s probably in a woods somewhere—just like her. I keep seeing pictures of it in my mind when I close my eyes.”

  TJ suspected he was right about his wife. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

  She turned to leave the room. Maybe he needed to be alone to grieve. She got as far as the bathroom, then turned around and walked back to the bed. Sitting next to him, she put her arm across his back. Jeff moved into her arms. She held him until it seemed natural for them to lie back on the bed. Later, when he fell asleep in her arms, she eased off the bed, covered him, and slipped out of the room.

  55

  At 7:00 a.m. Saturday, Eddie Wysecki woke with a start when his doorbell buzzed. The half-eaten bowl of greasy popcorn on his lap overturned, landing bottom-up on the floor. He’d fallen asleep in the recliner the night before and as he struggled to get out of the overstuffed chair without stepping on the mess, nausea swept through him. Not sure if his stomach was objecting to the buttered popcorn or all the mugs of beer he’d ingested the night before, he swore as he struggled to get to the door.

  Through the peephole he saw two men wearing clothing ominously formal for a Saturday morning. Fuck, they had to be cops. The contents of his intestines rolled. The dog lady must have given the cops his license number. But, shit! What could she have said to make them show up at his door at this ungodly hour? Parking on the side of the road wasn’t a crime, but he’d have to give a reason for being there. What could he say?

  The doorbell rang again, followed by two sharp knocks. Eddie opened the door.

  “Edward Wysecki?”

  “Yeah.” They flashed their badges and ID’s. Detectives. Everything in his intestines liquefied.

  “We need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?”

  When he nodded, the men barged inside, introducing themselves as Waukesha detectives Greg Zabel and Max Feinstein. Christ, Jewish cops now? Bad enough they’d started letting women into their ranks. His digestive system in turmoil, Eddie clenched and asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?”

  The younger guy, Zabel, said, “Someone reported seeing your car last night on Larkspur Drive outside of Waukesha.”

  His insides churned; his ass was about to spew. He had to get to the john.

  The dick went on, “Sorry. I have that wrong. They saw your car parked there on Thursday night, and last night, at about the same time both nights.”

  Eddie interrupted before the guy could say another word. Without waiting for their approval, he excused himself and bolted down the hall to
the bathroom. In his urgency, he didn’t notice Max Feinstein quietly following him to make sure the bathroom had no windows.

  As Eddie relieved his wringing intestines, he had a few minutes to think about what to say to the cops. The old bat couldn’t prove he was there. He’d just have to deny it, wouldn’t he? But no, she’d given them his license number, so he was seriously fucked. He had to find a way to buy himself time to get out of town. It wouldn’t take long; he had money stashed and a fake ID that had cost him three weeks’ profits.

  He couldn’t deny he’d been there, but what could he tell them that would get them to leave and give him enough time to bolt?

  It came to him. The Peacock woman. She’d be his cover.

  After they left Eddie’s apartment, the detectives didn’t speak until they got to the car. Greg Zabel had sensed Wysecki’s nervousness. When he’d gotten a whiff of the man’s disgusting breath and seen the popcorn on the floor, it hadn’t taken any great detection skill to see that the guy had slept in the stained brown recliner. The scene didn’t seem to fit a guy who’d committed murder the night before, but he’d seen stranger things in his ten years as a homicide detective. The guy had definitely been edgy.

  Greg started the car. “That guy looked green.”

  “Shit, did you get a whiff of his breath?” Max settled his wide girth into the stiff seat of the unmarked. “We have to talk to this Peacock chick. Name like that, must be a spade.”

  After three years partnering with the man, Greg was immune to his partner’s racial slurs. “If she backs up his story, it doesn’t necessarily get him off hook.”

  56

  When Maggie’s phone rang Saturday morning, she rolled over. But she’d awakened enough to remember the events of the night before. She and David had words on the way home last night—they weren’t in agreement on withholding the group’s activities from the Waukesha detectives. David, willing to stick his neck out because of the abuse in his family history, insisted on giving the group their twenty-four hours, unlike Maggie, who regretted giving them any time.

  When the phone stopped ringing, then immediately repeated its wailing, Maggie picked up. It was her boss, and she could tell by his raised voice, he wasn’t happy.

  “I hear you were in on that murder in Waukesha last night.”

  Already a reprimand? “I can explain that.”

  “Forget that! You know a Teal Peacock? One of those ‘guests’ staying at the Schindler place?”

  “Not well, but yes, I know her.”

  “Thought you might,” he said sarcastically. “A neighbor of Schindler’s gave Waukesha the license number of a car with a guy in it that happened to be parked across from the place about the same time this woman bought it. Turns out he’s some barkeep from West Allis, Eddie Wysecki. He told them the reason he was there is he suspects his girlfriend—this Peacock woman—of cheating on him and was keeping tabs on her. Waukesha hasn’t been able to get in touch with her to confirm his story. Anyway, I know this is your day off but they’re shorthanded, so I’m sending you over there for the day. After you get in touch with Peacock.”

  “You want me to work Waukesha?” It was unheard of—they never crossed boundaries. She decided not to question it further since at least he wasn’t reaming her out about being at Schindler’s the night before.

  “They’re in a bind because two detectives were in an accident yesterday, and are still in the hospital. Find this Peacock broad and get over there.”

  Maggie told him she would report to Waukesha right away and would call David too if he wanted. He wanted.

  She knew exactly why TJ’s cell phone was off but had no clue about a boyfriend from West Allis. Lisa had told her TJ was seeing an MPD detective, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a few wannabes hanging around.

  She called David, and told him she’d pick him up on her way to Waukesha, then tried Jeff’s phone as she pulled on her clothes. “Jeff, is TJ with you? Her phone’s not on.”

  “Yeah, she’s right here. You caught us between meetings; we’re at Dunkin Doughnuts having coffee.” She heard him say, “Maggie,” followed by the sound of the phone changing hands.

  TJ asked, “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Waukesha got a report of a suspicious car with a man sitting it, parked across the street from Eric’s last night and Thursday night. The guy’s name is Eddie Wysecki; he owns a bar in West Allis. They talked to him this morning and he claims he’s been seeing you. Says he was worried you were cheating on him, so he was trying to find out what you were doing. Do you know him?”

  “Shit, no, I never heard of the asshole. Never been in a bar in West Allis—that place is a shithole.”

  “That’s what I thought—about Wysecki, not West Allis. Damn. He had to know his story wouldn’t check out, so he must have wanted to stall us. He’s probably in the wind by now.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake, why did they leave the guy alone?”

  “I guess because they really didn’t have anything on him. And remember what day this is?”

  “Well, it ain’t my fuckin’ birthday!” TJ’s language grew increasingly colorful as her anger escalated.

  Maggie was in too big a hurry to pacify TJ. “David and I are assigned to the investigation. For today, anyway, because it’s the first weekend of deer hunting season. You must remember what that was like when you were a cop.”

  “Yeah right. Ten long days of cluster-fuck.”

  TJ closed the phone and handed it back to Jeff. He’d been admiring the way her kelly-green sweater hugged her body—and how her amazing blue-violet eyes flashed when she was angry. She’d been so good to him last night. It was hard to meld the woman who’d held him until he fell asleep with this person next to him slinging smut. “You eat with that mouth?”

  She gave him a dark look and ordered two more doughnuts.

  57

  Just starting to break a sweat, he fought to keep from dropping the seventy-five pound weight he was pressing when he heard the announcement on the morning news. The woman in the woods—she wasn’t Lisa Rayburn. He’d fucked up. Who the hell was Danielle Ventura and what was she doing in the woods?

  He hated it when he failed to accomplish something he’d set out to do, but he dared not act again so soon. Schindler’s house would be as secure as Fort Knox now. It would be impossible to get to Rayburn. If he was lucky, she and her band of followers would figure out she was the real target and back the hell off.

  The scene in the woods had stoked his urge to resume his hobby. He needed an outlet, but it couldn’t be Rayburn.

  He’d have to choose carefully.

  58

  Maggie and David met Zabel and Feinstein at the Waukesha station where the four of them went over the details of the case while they drank charred, police-station coffee out of Styrofoam cups and waited for the search warrants on Wysecki’s bar and apartment. Wysecki was still nowhere to be found.

  When the warrants came in, the other officers asked which one they wanted. Surprised at being given a choice, Maggie and David ended up at Wysecki’s bar.

  The bar, located off of Greenfield Avenue near the state fairgrounds, was in a blue-collar neighborhood of aging, two-family duplexes and had taverns on nearly every corner. Two uniforms from West Allis stood sentry, informing them that Wysecki hadn’t shown.

  Wysecki’s bartender pulled up a moment later. A tall, stoop-shouldered man in his seventies, he hurried to the door and held it open for them.

  The place smelled overwhelmingly of stale beer, but the floors and the surface of the bar were spotless. A typical, Milwaukee corner tavern, it had a long mahogany bar flanking the entire right side of the room, a few booths and tables on the other side, and a lone pool table and jukebox in the back. An ancient manual cash register behind the bar stood open and empty. The bartender explained that he’d taken the receipts the night before and dropped them in the night deposit after closing.

  In the back of the building was a tiny, unise
x bathroom across a short hallway from a combination office and storeroom. The office was a mess, the desk piled high with papers, receipts, advertisements, mail, old coffee cups, and an overflowing ashtray. The rest of the room was piled to the ceiling with cases of beer, soda, and kegs. On the wall behind the desk, the ubiquitous girlie-calendar.

  A door at the back of the room, nearly hidden by a stack of old signs, opened to a cellar reeking of mildew. David called the bartender in and asked what they used the cellar for.

  “Not much. The vendors don’t like hauling deliveries downstairs for a small account. Just a buncha’ old junk down there.”

  After moving the signs aside, Maggie and David made their way down sagging wooden steps lit by a single light bulb hanging suspended from the cobwebbed ceiling.

  Maggie wrinkled her nose at the musty odor. “Probably hasn’t been used in years. Should I go to the car for flashlights?”

  “No, I think there’s another light. Let’s see if it works.” David turned on a hanging bulb in the middle of the room. The bartender was right—the place was filled with junk. Mostly old bar stools, their stuffing oozing out like hernias. And enough beer signs to be a collector’s dream except for the rust and mold marring their surfaces.

  Maggie hated old basements; they were full of disgusting things like spiders and rats. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No, we’d better go through everything. I’ll finish here if you’d rather wait upstairs.” He poked through a stack of old cardboard boxes filled with ancient, yellowing papers from the business.

  “Man, it’s stuffy down here,” complained Maggie. She couldn’t wait to get out of the cave-like cellar. “David, stop a minute. Do you smell that?”

  “Smell what?”

  “Your nose must be plugged. I’m getting a whiff of a really nasty odor. Something died and it smells like it’s still here.”