64
TJ left Richard’s apartment the next morning knowing she had to move fast. If she didn’t report in to Lisa and Jeff about Richard’s advice concerning the child, her phone would be ringing.
She hadn’t said a word about it to Richard. She’d bought the kid some time by convincing the others she’d have Richard handle it. The more she’d thought about group homes and foster parents, she knew it was up to her to act. Richard would have had no choice; he’d have to turn the kid over to DHHS and they would find her somewhere to stay. Not that there weren’t places that actually improved a child’s circumstances, but the kind that could fit a kid in the week of Thanksgiving wasn’t likely to be one of them.
Playing within the lines wasn’t TJ’s style and she’d been living by the group’s rules far too long.
Red lights were the only traffic signs she honored—and some of them just barely—as she pushed the Mini to the south side of Milwaukee. Luckily, she had a good memory for directions and easily found the old duplex they’d rescued the child from Saturday night. The place looked even crappier in daylight, the siding splitting off in places and the windows badly in need of repair.
She drove past and parked in a lot behind a run-down apartment building at the end of the street. At the duplex, she crept up the steps to the upper flat, finding the door still unlocked. Didn’t these idiots ever learn?
She entered the apartment where she heard faint snoring from the direction of the bedroom. Peering into the room she saw a form in the bed, a dark-haired man, sleeping with his back to her. Had to be Raoul. She cased the room for a weapon. The snoring remained steady.
TJ walked to the foot of the bed and gave the bed frame a sharp kick. A second passed before he rolled over, face scrunched from sleep, eyes narrow slits. He did a violent double take when he saw TJ standing at the foot of the bed. He reached over, his hand fumbling on the nightstand.
“It ain’t there, asshole.” Baring her teeth in a wicked grin, TJ held up his gun—in her other hand she held her own, pointed toward the bed.
He growled, “You gotta’ death wish, bitch?”
“I just might.” She held her gun higher, directed at his face. “What were you doing with that kid Friday night?”
“The kid?” His face darkened with anger. “You took her? You almost got me killed, you cunt!”
“Listen, asswipe, you really don’t want to piss me off. Answer my questions and I’m outta here.” She felt him plotting his options, certain that grinding her into dust was one of them.
He started to get up from the bed. His naked butt was not a sight she wanted to see. “Whoa! Keep your bony ass right where it is.”
He flopped back onto the bed. “She ain’t my kid. She belongs to a friend of mine, okay?”
“Not okay. Who’s this friend and why were you keeping the kid here?”
The guy looked pale and hung over. Probably coming off a big weekend high. He had narrow shoulders, greasy hair, and tats she recognized as designed by a prison ‘artist’. “He asked me to.”
TJ sneered. “You know what, you piece of shit? I haven’t shot anyone in a while, and I’m gettin’ the urge. And you know what else? I think the cops might be interested in this piece you’re using.” She waved his gun in the air.
His pallor turned an ugly mottled puce. “No cops! I’ll tell you—she’s Julio Mandela’s kid. His bitchin’ wife left him, and he took the kid to get her to take him back.”
“What’s the wife’s name and where can I find her? If you lie about it, I’ll be back and I won’t be smilin’. Get my drift?”
“Yeah, yeah. Her name is Teresa. I don’t know where she’s living, but she works at the Red Roof on twenty-seventh.”
With a last threat of returning if his information wasn’t accurate, TJ backed out of the room, checking to be sure no one else had arrived.
Raoul sat up, reaching for his pants. “Hey, bitch! Leave my gun!”
At the Red Roof Inn, TJ parked in the back just in case the lowlife called Mandela. Rather than waste time with a nosy manager, she walked the halls looking for the woman named Teresa. After questioning three maids in various stages of cleaning the stale-smelling rooms, she found her.
Teresa was shorter than TJ, Hispanic, with dainty, feminine features. Her long hair, held back by a red plastic headband, fell nearly to her plump waist. She practically hid behind her cart when TJ asked if she was Teresa. She whispered, “Yes, I’m Teresa.”
“Listen,” TJ said, keeping her voice low. “You have to come with me. My friends have your little girl and I want to bring you to her.”
“Tina! You have Tina! Mother-of-God, is she all right?” She dropped the feather duster she’d been holding, her cleaning forgotten.
“Keep your voice down. She’s fine now, but the creep that was keeping her from you knows I’m here. Let’s go.” TJ towed her out to the car and jumped behind the wheel. She’d just turned into the street when she said harshly to Teresa, “Quick, duck down.” A rusty old Camero moved slowly across the parking lot. Had the asshole called the girl’s father? TJ wasn’t taking any chances. The Mini took off like a rabbit.
When TJ’s little car turned into Eric’s driveway, she heard Teresa muttering in Spanish, her eyes wide with wonder at the magnificence of the grounds and the huge log home.
“Who lives here, a movie star?” she asked, in heavily accented English.
“Nah, a real nice guy.”
When they walked through the door, opened by a very curious Lisa, Teresa gaped at the house’s spacious, well-appointed interior.
In the living room, Jeff and the girl were on the floor playing cards. She looked up from the game when TJ and Teresa walked in and jumped off the floor, crying, “Mama!” She ran to Teresa, practically climbing the stunned woman.
Jeff looked on in amazement while mother and child embraced. He shook his head in wonder at the sight and got up off the floor. TJ, wanting to give Teresa some privacy, grabbed his arm and led him into the laundry room.
As soon as the door shut behind them, he asked, “How did you find her?”
TJ hadn’t planned to reveal what had actually gone down. “While all of you were stewing about DHHS, I was thinkin’ you were going about it wrong. Had to go back to the source—the dump where we found her and go from there.”
When she’d finished telling him what happened, he put his hands on her shoulders and said, “You took a big risk for her. But I’m so glad we have her mother here. You’re amazing.”
TJ found praise and criticism equally difficult to accept. “No thanks necessary.”
65
Lisa called Eric and told him the news about the girl.
“We’ll just have to add them to our little commune until we know it’s safe to send them home.” He didn’t ask her how TJ managed to pull it off. Or maybe he didn’t want to know.
“How about if I put them in the guest room where TJ’s been staying and have TJ move downstairs?”
“I’ll let you handle it. Is the mother willing to stay?”
“We haven’t asked her yet, but I’m sure she will be. She’s terrified of her husband and that he might try to take Tina again. Are you coming home right after you close?”
“I’m planning on it, why?”
“I’m making a pot roast. I thought we could all use some comfort food.”
After dinner that night Eric drove Lisa home to pick up some things she wanted for the preparation of their Thanksgiving dinner.
Lisa had lost much of her enthusiasm for the event. Maggie had called earlier to let them know the police had no bead on Wysecki and that it would be at least a few days before the bodies would be identified. Maggie admitted she couldn’t see Wysecki as being able to carry out the complex plot hatched by the person the group sought. With TJ still insisting that Eddie Wysecki probably didn’t know how to do anything more complex than mix a dry martini or read a racing form, Lisa finally had to admit Wysecki wasn’t their kil
ler.
Eddie was, however, being sought as Danielle’s murderer, and Maggie warned them it wouldn’t be long before the police would be around again to interview the group, especially TJ. She reminded them that they would have to be open with the police about their investigation into the missing women.
Eric interrupted Lisa’s thoughts. “You’re awfully quiet. Problems other than the obvious?”
“Other than the fact that someone wants to kill me?” Lisa was terrified that Danielle’s murderer would try to find her and finish the job. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re right; there are other things I’m wrestling with.”
When they arrived at her house, Eric opened the car door for her. At Eric’s insistence, she’d added timers to her outdoor lights, and the place was lit up like a going-out-of-business sale. At the entrance to her house, a plastic bag containing a gift-wrapped package hung suspended from the doorknob. Its unexpected appearance stopped them where they stood.
“Maybe we should call Maggie,” said Eric, stepping protectively in front of Lisa.
“No. Let’s take it in first and see if I can tell where it’s from. Paige could have arranged to have something sent.”
Carefully, they carried the package into the house and set it on the kitchen table. As they edged the box from the plastic, the logo of a local florist became visible next to a large, red bow. Eric handed Lisa a card that had been attached to the bow.
Lisa, I’m feeling terrible about the way we left things. Please, let’s meet for a drink and talk. Love, Tyler
Lisa hadn’t heard from Tyler since the night he called to tell her his engagement was off. She’d told him it was over between them and knew she’d done the right thing. But at this moment, she’d have given anything to be with him, wrapped in the sanctuary of his embrace if only for one night.
“I assume we don’t have to call the bomb squad?”
Lisa shook her head, mortified to find that she couldn’t speak around the lump rising in her throat.
Eric placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She reached into the box and lifted out a small crystal bowl filled with a bouquet of pink tea roses and babies’ breath.
Eric gave her a handkerchief to catch the tear that ran down her cheek at the sight of the flowers. He led her to the sofa, and after locating a bottle of wine, poured her a drink. Lisa cradled the glass in her hands, wishing she were alone to have a good cry.
He sat down across from her. “All right, I’ll play the shrink, you can be the patient.”
Confiding in Eric was the last thing she wanted to do, but absent the opportunity to be alone for a good cry, he was all she had.
“It’s everything. All of this couldn’t have come at a worse time for me. My daughter’s not coming home for the holiday, and a relationship I enjoyed just ended, and even though the parting was inevitable, it’s left a void in my life. And this fear—it’s almost more than I can handle.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you show any sign of weakness. But I know you’re a strong woman.”
“I’m a strong person in a lot of ways, but there’s been too much all at once. Maybe it’s time for me to have some therapy of my own. I’ve been putting it off since my therapist cut me loose.”
Eric leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “A therapist would do that?”
“Therapy only works if the patient is willing to make the changes necessary to improve their life—I wasn’t.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m also feeling a little guilty talking about me when you’re feeling bad about Danielle.”
“Forget about me. I’m intrigued—tell me the rest.“
Pandora’s box was open; she might as well tell him everything. “I don’t do well with relationships—mature ones, anyway. I like the excitement of meeting someone new, the challenge of the hunt, the highs. If it starts resembling stability, I leave. I gravitate toward men that are unattainable. The latest, the one who sent the roses, is fifteen years younger than I am. We ended when he became engaged. Then, after his engagement didn’t work out he called and said he’d like to pick up where we left off. I turned him down. The flowers are an attempt to change my mind.”
He chuckled softly. “I think we actually have something in common.”
66
It was after eleven when Maggie and David left the Waukesha station. Too wired for sleep, they had a beer in front of the TV, neither of them paying much attention to the old movie that was playing.
David was still angry that Waukesha had let Wysecki out of their sight long enough to run. “We don’t have enough manpower to be sure every possible route out of town is covered. Crap, that’s impossible, anyway. If Wysecki has an alternate ID, we’re screwed.”
Maggie sighed. “They didn’t have anything to hold Wysecki on. At the time, he didn’t seem important enough to put on a tail.”
She leaned back, her head on David’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. She should get some sleep, close down her mind for a few hours. She heard David flipping through the channels, finding the usual late night drivel, stopping at a poker tournament.
He said, “Wysecki doesn’t have much of a life outside of that bar. He’s a gambler. If he gets his ass to Vegas, he might as well be on the moon; any idiot could disappear in that town.”
Maggie opened her eyes and sat up. “Didn’t someone say he liked to play the horses? Wouldn’t a guy like that head somewhere with a track?”
“Might be a place to look. Most of the tracks in the Midwest close for winter, but isn’t there a track in Florida that’s open all year?”
“Florida and California, I think. It’s worth a shot. We could call the tracks and get his picture circulated, have them keep an eye out for the guy.” Excited, Maggie had a burst of renewed energy and went for her computer.
David groaned. “Not now.”
“It’ll only take a minute. I’ll find out which tracks are open this time of year, and we can alert them in the morning.” Maggie already had her computer open, quickly tapping keys.
“You do that. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”
After fifteen minutes online, Maggie discovered there were a lot of racetracks open during the winter months. She thought it best to go with the big ones and decided on Hialeah in Florida and Aqueduct in New York. She didn’t think the smaller tracks would be as attractive to a gambler, but she liked Arizona and New Mexico for their proximity to the border, and selected three from those states. She settled on a list of five to contact first thing in the morning.
At 7:00 a.m., they got a call from their boss to report back to Oconomowoc. When Maggie told him she had something on the Wysecki case that might be a promising lead, he told them to go ahead and check in with Waukesha, but be back by afternoon.
Zabel and Feinstein seemed grateful to have help, if only for the morning. Maggie showed them the printouts of the racetracks she’d pinpointed as places to which Eddie might gravitate and suggested they get in touch with track security at each of them; fax them a photo, and ask them to watch out for Wysecki.
“I like it,” said Zabel. “But we were just going over to the medical examiner’s office to find out how close they are to identifying the bodies. Then we have meetings set up with some of the bar regulars and Wysecki’s girlfriend.”
Feinstein’s brow wrinkled all the way up his bald head. He looked at Maggie. “Why don’t you two stay here and do the track thing and we’ll cover these appointments. I think you both know your way around pretty well.”
Maggie felt David’s irritation. He hated phone work, preferred to be out on the streets. But she wanted to make sure her idea was in place, and ignored his negative body language. “Sure, we can do that.”
Feinstein looked them both over, and folded his arms atop his round stomach. “On second thought, I’ve never been real fond of autopsies. If one of you would rather go out with Greg here, I’ll stay and help
with the racetrack angle.”
David jumped on it. “Bodies don’t bother me, I’d be glad to go out with Greg. That is, if Greg doesn’t mind.”
Zabel nodded toward David and stood up to leave. They left the station, headed for the medical examiner’s office.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Max Feinstein turned to Maggie. “I hate seeing stiffs getting cut up, and my bad knee is bothering me. So anything that’ll keep me out of the morgue and on my butt is what I’d rather be doing.”
67
The temperature was in the low seventies in Hialeah, overcast but warm. Hardly a breeze ruffled the palm trees decorating the racetrack.
Unless there was a big race scheduled, Mondays at the track were small-crowd days. Despite the low attendance, no one was looking for Eddie Wysecki. At least half of the photos handed out to the security guards were resting in the bottom of freshly lined trash bins. Except for Fitz Herrera’s. He’d memorized the photo, pulling it out from time to time to compare it with a face in the crowd.
Herrera’s job was important to him. His goal was to become a police officer, but openings were hard to come by. The gig at the track had taken him years to get and could lead to a coveted position with HPD. He’d figured with security experience, he’d have a shot.
As he moved through the stands, he thought about Wysecki and wondered if he’d really killed all those women. Fitz loved women. He couldn’t imagine anyone hurting one of them, but in Miami it happened all the time. Sometimes even here in Hialeah.
He tried to think where someone like Eddie Wysecki would hang out if he were here. Probably in the grandstand where it was most crowded. The mutt would most likely stay outside and only go in to place a wager. For sure he’d use one of the new automated machines so he wouldn’t have to face a teller. Fitz’s eyes scanned the crowd.
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