Orth’s report would be their final coup.
85
Richard had tried to call TJ since the botched weekend, but she’d chosen to be unavailable. He was seeing someone else; she knew the signs. But she needed to see him. It was after nine when she called him. When he answered she asked him to meet her at Vinnie’s.
She got there before Richard and sat in a booth on the back wall. When he sat down across from her, she realized the usual sexual tension between them was absent. He wore a new sweater with jeans and a leather jacket, the red of the sweater emphasizing his gray-sprinkled hair. Funny, but he looked different to her now—older, tired. If he was seeing another woman, she wasn’t perking him up any.
“Been a while,” TJ opened.
“Sorry about our weekend.”
She smirked. “No you’re not, but I didn’t ask you here to bitch about it. There’s somethin’ I need to talk to you about.”
“About time.”
“Remember that Lisa Rayburn who came to see you about the missing women stats?”
Richard fumbled his drink. “Huh?”
Interesting. This wasn’t going to be what he’d expected. Must have thought she was going to talk about their relationship and he was the one seeing someone else. He’d be back eventually, expecting things to go on as always. But this wasn’t the time to tell him it wouldn’t ever be the same.
“Lisa and me have been collecting evidence for you.”
Now she had his attention. He was angry. She knew him well enough to know it even though his expression hadn’t changed. The little vein that travelled from the middle of his left eyebrow to his temple grew as his blood pressure rose, and it looked about to burst.
She began, “Patty Barkley told me about Lisa goin’ to see you . . .”
As she talked, Richard listened without interrupting, but the vein in his forehead throbbed throughout her speech, his eyes ablaze with anger when she concluded by telling him they’d hired a profiler.
“You did all this behind my back? I expected more of you, TJ. Of us.”
“What us? The ‘us’ that were going to go away for a weekend? You think I don’t know you’ve met some chick you’re spending time with?”
Richard shifted in his seat. “Okay. We’ll leave out ‘us’ out of this conversation. You knew how I felt about your sticking your nose into police business.”
She’d noticed he hadn’t risen to the bait either time she mentioned another woman.
“What police business? You and that dickwad Wilson just blew it off.”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “I told you before—there was nothing concrete to investigate.”
Gotcha! “My point exactly. We’re going to give you something concrete. Tomorrow at Eric Schindler’s place—10:00 a. m.”
Smiling smugly, she sat back and sipped her drink.
Richard threw back his scotch and stormed out.
86
The next morning the group, along with Orth, Maggie, and David were gathered in Eric’s living room. They were joined by the two cops from Waukesha, Brookfield, Pewaukee and New Berlin; all areas that had victims on the whiteboards.
Eric had sent Teresa out with Tina for the morning, but she’d refused to leave until she’d prepared two huge urns of coffee and put out juice, bagels, and Kringle from a nearby bakery. Shannon had come out to take over for Teresa during the meeting. A fire was roaring in the hearth, ready to welcome anyone coming in from the frigid weather; the temperature had dipped to below zero the night before.
TJ wondered if Richard would arrive as promised. When she saw him the night before, she hadn’t meant it to be personal—though, of course, it was. Maybe he’d send someone else. She doubted it though; he’d be too curious to stay away.
When the doorbell rang Eric went to answer the door. TJ heard Richard’s voice as it opened and felt a sense of satisfaction that he’d shown up. For her, it gave more credence to their work than anything else that had taken place since they started. Her gratification was short-lived when he walked in accompanied by that arrogant prick, James Wilson. It was her turn to be pissed.
Swallowing her anger, TJ introduced them to the group. She’d deal with Richard later.
“Just so it’s clear to all of you,” Richard announced, “we are here as a courtesy only. Our presence doesn’t mean we condone police work being done by civilians, or that we are committed to move forward with an investigation based on evidence presented to us here. It’s our understanding that two departments from Waukesha County are going to begin an investigation based on today’s information. If it turns out there is any solid evidence that impels us to move forward on this, we’ll work with the other departments.”
The room went quiet after his speech. TJ was livid. Not that she’d expected anything more from MPD, but combined with Wilson’s unwelcome presence, it really burned.
Maggie stepped forward and introduced herself and her partner. “Detective Conlin, the reason we’ve committed to this is because four of the missing women, two of whom are Jamie Denison and Kayla Schilling, lived in Waukesha County. Quite a few are from Milwaukee. It makes sense to join forces if there is a pattern here that crosses county lines.”
Richard said nothing. He and Wilson moved toward the coffee displayed at the side of the room.
The whiteboards were displayed in a semi-circle in the living room, incongruous next to the plush, leather furniture and warm fire. Zabel and Feinstein from Waukesha were poring over them, careful to stay far from a developing pissing match between MPD and OPD.
After everyone had their coffee, TJ and Lisa made the presentation on what the group had collected, explaining their conviction that the disappearances pointed to the work of one abductor.
Greg Zabel raised his hand and asked, “What about Danielle Ventura? Is she one of your purported victims? Or is she connected to your research in some other way since she was killed right here in your backyard?”
They’d anticipated this. Lisa addressed the questions. “We believe her death was intended to be one of us.”
Their audience, silent at Lisa’s revelation, watched as Eric brought out a poster he’d assembled presenting a photo of Danielle next to one of Lisa. The room hushed as the resemblance between the two women became apparent—Eric had been sure to find photos emphasizing their similarities.
Eric addressed the assembled officers. “As you can see, there is a striking resemblance between Lisa Rayburn and Danielle Ventura. As most of you know, I’d dated Danielle a few times before the night she died. Our best guess is that she was here to find out who was staying here at the house. In doing so, she took a short cut through the woods in order to be unobserved. Our killer, waiting for one of us to leave the house, mistook her for Lisa.”
When no further questions were raised, David introduced Mason Orth. Orth described the unsub as he had for the group. If his support of the group’s theory made a difference to Richard Conlin and James Wilson, it wasn’t evident in their stoic expressions.
After Orth concluded and answered questions, everyone broke into cliques, discussing just what the information meant to the various departments, and whether they would be acting on it. Richard headed for the coffee urn with TJ following.
She had to ask. “So what do you think?”
“I have to admit you people did a great job. But it doesn’t change anything. There’s no hard evidence. No bodies have been found; no one has identified your mystery man. You aren’t even sure there isn’t more than one perp.”
TJ turned away from him and leaned on the island, staring sullenly out into the living room. “Why’d you bring Wilson?”
Richard poured his coffee and pointed at her with a slice of Kringle. “You know he’s the one who did all the research on this when the stats showed up so high. And you of all people should know we don’t have the staff to open an investigation when there’s no hard evidence.”
TJ tuned him out as she watched the interaction
s in the room. Wilson was admiring the antique tools mounted over the fireplace. She saw Shannon making a move toward him, engaging him in conversation. They sat down on the stone apron of the fireplace.
Shannon was beaming. He definitely was a hot-looking guy. Backlit by the fire, his taupe hair gleamed silver and his handsome features glowed.
TJ had been ready to give Richard a sharp retort when it happened. Pieces of the puzzle came together, hitting her like a physical blow—the silver hair, Wilson’s computer skills, the attack on Charles when no one else knew what they were planning. Turning away from Richard, she fled from the room, leaving him waiting for a comeback.
With the bathroom door locked behind her, TJ stood in front of the mirror, hands on the vanity, collecting her thoughts. She wanted to run out and tell the others, but knew she had to hold back until she had time to think it through. After a few deep breaths, she opened the door and saw Jeff standing in the hall waiting for her.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m fine.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You want to go somewhere after this—maybe for a drink?”
It was unlike Jeff to suggest a drink this early in the day; he had to be worried about her. She couldn’t be with him now; she needed to be alone.
“No, thanks. My stomach’s a little queasy.” That much was true.
He said, “Maybe you should rest for a while before you go to work.”
87
James Wilson sat in his office at MPD, seething. That bitch Rayburn and her cronies were getting too damn close. He had to get a grip—what did they have, really, but speculation? It had taken all the reserve he could muster to sit through their little presentation.
He needed to go home, get out on his sled and fly over Lake Winnebago at top speed. But he dare not do anything Conlin might see as the least bit unusual—not that Conlin had a clue—or paid any attention to James’ comings and goings. He’d play it safe, though, stay in the office the rest of the afternoon and get some work done.
The disappointment he’d felt when he’d taken out Danielle Ventura instead of Rayburn had been offset by his good fortune when bodies were unearthed in Eddie Wysecki’s basement. With a choice suspect like Wysecki, James remained invisible.
He’d thought he was safe—until this.
He had to stay focused. For now, the most prudent course would be staying under the radar as he had been and do nothing. He had some reports to keep himself busy for the moment, but unfortunately they’d need a signature from Marian Bergman. James wasn’t sure he could tolerate her in his present frame of mind. But today she was interviewing for a new position in their unit and playing God would have her in a good mood.
When James entered Marian Bergman’s office to have her sign the finished reports, he noticed Timothy Agazzo sitting across from her. A small, nervous man with no personality, unwashed, thinning hair, and poor personal hygiene—James wondered how he’d ever been hired. His frog-like eyes, and full pouty lips might have been sensual on anyone else, but combined with the other features, gave him the look of a full-lipped, undernourished frog.
James turned to leave, but Bergman said, “Stay for a second, James, we’re done here.”
By the look on the guy’s face, it was news to him. If Agazzo was here to throw his hat in the ring for the position, the interview hadn’t gone well. He slunk out of the office, his normally bent posture even more so. His shoulders, narrow and rounded, looked like they couldn’t support anything heavier than the dandruff that dotted the shoulders of his uniform.
“I take it he won’t be our replacement.”
Bergman snorted. “Like I’d want to look at that face every day.” She shuddered, shuffling some files on her desk. Probably put the poor slob’s application on the bottom of the heap where it would lie untouched until she hired someone else. Without looking up from her papers, she said, “Why doesn’t the man transfer to the evidence morgue in the basement where we wouldn’t have to see him every day?”
Relieved that it was a rhetorical question, James put the reports in front of Bergman for her signature. Even her looks bothered him. Her tightly wound chignon pulled up the ends of her eyebrows, giving them a winged, evil appearance. She might imagine the look fashionable, but with her perpetual expression of anger and disdain, James thought she looked like a witch.
The signed papers in hand, James left the room before his anger became apparent. He had no love for Agazzo, but the bitch had neutered the guy.
It came to him—she had to be next.
88
TJ woke up an hour later in Eric’s office, tilted back in the soft leather recliner. She’d gone in the room to sit for a bit in an effort to pacify Jeff. A knit throw covered her although she hadn’t fallen asleep with one. Across the room, engrossed in a leather-bound book from Eric’s collection, sat Mason Orth.
He looked up. “You’re awake. I hope you’re feeling better.”
TJ blinked back to full consciousness. She must have really been out; the whiteboards were back in place and she hadn’t heard a thing. “I thought everyone was gone.”
“They are. I told them I’d stay until you woke up.”
The enormity of what had sent her into a tailspin came back to her.
Orth watched her with narrowed eyes. “I have to admit I had another reason to stay. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”
What does that mean? Orth was too damn intuitive. “I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, told Jeff there was nothin’ to worry about.”
“He cares about you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I should get going.” Part of her wanted to hear what he had to say to her, even though the other part wanted to rabbit. “Thought the morning went pretty good.”
“TJ, I can see you’re bothered by something. I believe it’s about the case. In fact, if I were to make a wild guess, I’d say you had a sudden insight of some sort.”
Is the guy psychic? TJ was torn. She really needed to bounce this off someone else, and knew it couldn’t be any of the others. Not yet, anyway.
She ran her fingers through her hair. Orth had spun his chair over to her side. He was too close now. She had to either open up or shut him out.
She sighed. “How about a hypothetical?”
“That’s fine. However you want to discuss what’s bothering you.”
“What if I told you I think I know who our perp is, but nailing him will be impossible?”
Orth set down his cup. “I could say what you’d expect me to say—that anyone can be found out and charged, but we both know that’s not always true.” He studied her face, then said softly, “I can see you’re in great pain, TJ.”
She had the bizarre thought that he sounded like a priest. His unexpected sympathy touched her and all the emotions she’d been holding back for so long broke the surface. Quiet tears poured down her face. Orth moved closer, and put his arm across her back.
89
Geo Turner lived in an apartment above a Laundromat on east North Avenue, not far from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee in distance, but light years away in social strata. The neighborhood, with its high crime rate, was populated with older, two-story duplexes and small businesses.
A computer crime felon, Turner had been brought in by TJ and her partner on his third arrest. They’d staked out his apartment until he emerged, unaware of their presence, coming with them willingly once he realized he was outnumbered. That was more than three years ago.
Since then, he’d been effectively staying out of sight of the law. When he opened his door and saw TJ standing there, he growled, “Fuck! Can’t you cops leave me the fuck alone?”
She pushed past him into the ratty apartment. His office, located in what was meant to be the dining room, was stocked with computers and related equipment probably worth more than the run-down building in which it was housed. “Chill, asshole. I’m a private citizen now.”
Turner slammed the
door behind her. “Then what the fuck you doing here?”
She jabbed him in the shoulder. “A little respect, fucker, I still have contacts in the department. Could get your scrawny ass hauled in like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Just happens I have a job for you.”
“Yeah, right. And I suppose its pro-fucking-bono,” he snarled.
“I can pay. But the price better be right.”
He snickered nervously, clearly worried it was some kind of set up.
“I need background on a guy. Everything from the day he was born. Detailed. Very detailed.”
“Sounds too fucking easy. What’s the catch?”
TJ took an envelope from her pocket, pulled out a photo of James Wilson, and slapped it on the table.
“Holy crap! You gotta be kidding me!”
Sneering, TJ got in his face. “Well, if you’re so fucking good at what you do, I guess who this is shouldn’t be a problem. All you have to do is make sure your ‘inquiries’ are rock-solid undetectable. Got it?”
“Oh, I get it all right. You want me to fucking jeopardize my new life.”
“Like you’re one-hundred percent straight these days.”
Turner stiffened. “It’s going to cost you.”
She reached into the envelope and took out ten, one-hundred-dollar bills, laying the money next to the photo. “This is what it’s going to cost me.”
He picked up the money, turning up his nose like it was a six-day old dog-turd. “I suppose you want it yesterday.”
“Nope, tomorrow works for me.”
“Two days.”
“Deal.”
A deal with the devil, but worth the risk.
90
Mason Orth hated winter. And Christmas. He often wondered what kept him in the Midwest, but Chicago was where he’d worked. His job had been his one great accomplishment in life. Staying in the place where he’d been successful made him feel grounded.
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