They partnered him with the only person in the squad lower in the pecking order—an African American, newbie detective with two kids and one on the way. Tasha Wade was on maternity leave, and when she left, Brian couldn’t help but feel relieved for a break from her ongoing commentary on kids, the cost of groceries, and her husband’s shortcomings. He had assumed the feeling was mutual but had heard from her nearly every day since she left. Whether she called him out of boredom, or the fear of being out of the loop, he wasn’t sure.
Only minutes later, she waddled into the room, her hair in skinny, beaded braids and wearing a bright orange sundress whose hem hiked up eight inches higher in the front under her huge baby bump. Luckily, she had good legs.
He said, “I don’t think you can get more pregnant. What’s the matter, the baby afraid to come out?”
“I’m sick of feeling like I’m ready to pop. James won’t get a vasectomy, so I’m getting my tubes tied before I’m off the delivery table.” She plunked down in the chair next to his desk.
Definitely more detail than he wanted to hear. “How come you’re out and about?”
“I just came from a doctor appointment. He said any day now, but he’s been telling me that since I went on leave. What’s new here?”
“I actually got a new assignment. You must have heard about the house that exploded.”
“Really? We got that one?”
He noticed her use of “we.” The rest of the detectives had a pool going on how many days after her delivery it would be before she called to give notice she wasn’t coming back; he’d been the only one taking odds on her return. “I’m not sure it’s anything to get excited about. The remains of a body haven’t been officially identified, but it’s probably the owner of the house, Norman Teschler. The fire investigators haven’t said whether it was suspicious yet, so we have to cover all bases.”
“Huh. Could be something there. Did you talk to the relatives?”
“No relatives, but Teschler has an ex-wife. She came in from New York with the head of his advertising agency, a Carter Roche. Teschler was seventy and owns a large advertising company in downtown Milwaukee, Cityscapes. They have sister offices in Minneapolis and Singapore. Roche lives in Singapore and happened to be in New York for a meeting. The ex has an apartment in New York and was in town when she heard what happened. Apparently they got in touch after hearing the news and flew in on her company’s jet this morning.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. Roche’s ex-wife still works as an ad hoc for the agency, and she lives across the street from the vic.”
“You talk to her yet?”
“I just got back from interviewing her. We reached a standstill when Roche and Teschler’s ex-wife showed up. The ex is Asian, Leong Tuan, and she and Roche both own a substantial interest in the company.”
“Wow. You think one of them did him in so they could take over?” she asked.
“They were both in New York when it happened, so unless they hired out the job, no, I don’t think so. I’m still checking their financials, but it looks like neither of them needed money. Roche’s ex-wife, Gemma Rosenthal, and Teschler were close; she’s insisting it couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Maybe someone got greedy.” Tasha picked up a file from his desk and began fanning herself with it.
“Possible. But it was probably an accident.”
“What’s the latest on the cum case?” Tasha asked.
Haymaker cringed. “I wish you wouldn’t call it that. Bad enough everyone else does. There’s nothing new on it since you left. Maybe if I can get a thread going on the explosion, find a reason someone wanted to get rid of Teschler, then that one will fall by the wayside. It’s not like anything was taken from the houses. Someone just screwed in their beds.”
“It’s still trespassing, illegal entry. And creepy. I wouldn’t want someone having sex in my bed while I was gone.” Tasha rubbed her sizable belly. “It reminds me of those Manson followers, crawling through people’s houses when they were sleeping.” She shivered in disgust.
“Well, no one was home in any of those houses. I still don’t think there’s anything to it but teenagers getting their kicks.”
“It seemed like we talked to every teenager in town. No one knew anything about it,” she argued. “Or it was some of those creepers, and none of the other kids want to rat them out.”
“Could be, but nothing was taken. The creeping thing requires the kids to take something with them as proof they got in.” He sighed. “There’s not much more we can do unless someone comes forward with information we can use. The case is too minor to submit DNA and there’s no urgency to solve a break-in without a robbery or bodily injury.”
“I guess you could call it vandalism. They did dirty the sheets.” She strained, lifting her bulky shape out of the chair. “I’m out of here.”
Brian woke up his iPad, intending to finish his report, then heard a splash behind him.
“Oh, crap! Not here.”
Tasha’s voice.
Brian turned to see Tasha standing twelve feet from his desk in a puddle of water. He was the oldest of five kids. He knew what it meant; her labor had started, and she might not make it to the hospital.
When Jon returned with JR, the boy couldn’t keep his eyes open. TJ lifted him out of the baby carrier Jon wore and carried him to his crib.
“How’d your day go?” she asked when she returned.
“Nice. We went to the park, popped in to see my folks, and on our way here we stopped by the site of the explosion.”
“You took him out in that shitty air?”
Jon pointed meaningfully to the cuss-words piggy bank that sat on a shelf over the sink. Richard had bought the pig for TJ in an effort to encourage her to clean up her language now that she had an impressionable child in the house. Jon said, “The air wasn’t too bad. We were only there for about ten minutes while I took photos of your friend’s yard and house to get her claim started. I made a few calls this morning and got her case switched to my office.” He offered TJ the piggy bank.
“Shit ain’t a swear word.”
“Maybe not, but would you want that to be your son’s first word?”
“He’s sleepin’.” She opened her purse and inserted a quarter into the pig’s round back. “Ms. Rosenthal’s not my friend; I hardly know the woman. Did you talk to her?”
“She came out when she saw me taking pictures. She really liked JR.”
“What’d you think of her?” TJ asked.
“There wasn’t much time to make a judgment of the woman. Her house is going to need a lot of work, but it’s stone, so it won’t need to be resided. She’ll need a new roof, though.”
“She’s pretty good lookin’, no?”
“I didn’t notice.” When TJ laughed, he added, “I hope you’re not matchmaking. Why is everyone so concerned about my love life, or lack of?” Jon’s long-term girlfriend had broken up with him six months ago.
“Just sayin’ she looked pretty freaked out night of the explosion; that’s why I helped her out.”
“She looked okay today,” he said.
TJ berated herself for referring him to her. Gemma was the kind of woman men flocked to. She probably didn’t have to worry about Rosenthal, though. Jon wouldn’t be her type.
Chapter 6
Madison Chapman left the crowded, makeshift dance floor in Jared Kellar’s family room and headed for the bathroom. From her sixteen-year-old perspective, the evening had turned into a flop when Rodney hadn’t shown up. To add to her misery, she felt like she was coming down with the flu or something. When she shut the bathroom door behind her, she held back her long blond hair and pressed a cold cloth to her forehead, careful not to smear her makeup; if she stayed, she would need to look presentable. She sat down to pee and when she stood, her head reeled. She wasn
’t drunk, hadn’t had anything to drink but soda. She needed to leave—now—before she embarrassed herself. Back among the partygoers, she found Cassie in the kitchen, arranging trays of snacks.
“You look like hell.” Cassie stepped closer to Madison. “Are you okay?”
“I really feel crappy. I think I should go home.”
“But you’re staying with me tonight.” Cassie whined, “I don’t want to leave now. Take a cab to my house. Then we can talk when I get home.”
“No, you stay. I can walk home from here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You sure you should stay alone?” Cassie frowned, obviously torn between the party and concern for her friend.
“Yeah, no problem. I’ve stayed by myself before. The fresh air will be good for me. I’ll call you.” Madison left the back way, hoping no one would notice her exit.
She covered the few blocks home quickly, shivering despite the warmth of the early fall evening. Her bones were aching. If she had the flu, it was taking over her body quickly. Madison couldn’t wait to be in her bed. When she let herself into the kitchen from the patio, she thought she heard a noise coming from her parents’ room and wondered if they might have come home early.
A sudden wave of nausea overcame her. Madison rushed up the stairs to her bathroom where she dropped to her knees in front of the stool and gave in to violent heaves. When the spasms passed, she wiped her face, brushed her teeth, and dropped her clothes in a trail behind her as she hurried to her bed. Stripped to her underwear, she crawled between the cool sheets, thinking there was nothing like being in your own bed when you’re sick.
Still cold, she thought about getting a flannel nightgown from her dresser, but she hated to move for fear of the nausea returning. Then she remembered the noises she had heard downstairs. She got out of bed, pulled on a warm nightgown and walked to the head of the stairs where she listened for her parents’ voices. Was her head messed up from being sick or had she really heard something?
Before she could decide whether to force her tortured body down the stairs to find out, a blow from behind sent her careening to the first floor.
Chapter 7
TJ looked up when a woman entered her office. It took a minute before she recognized Gemma Rosenthal. Dressed simply in brown cargo pants and a coral sweater, she still looked stunning. With makeup and a shiny, well-groomed mane of auburn hair, she appeared nothing like she had the night of the explosion. The casual clothes did nothing to hide her exceptional body.
She approached the desk and placed a tall, narrow gift bag in front of TJ. “I’d like to thank you for helping me out. It was a rough night.”
“No thanks necessary,” TJ replied. She reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Don Pilar tequila. Top-shelf stuff. “That’s a lot of thanks.”
“There is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
TJ picked up the baby monitor and led Gemma to the other side of the room, where they sat across from each other on matching leather chairs.
“I’d like to hire you,” Gemma said without preamble.
TJ felt butterflies rising in her stomach. This job could mean the end of her recent boredom with her work.
“To do what?” she asked, and hoped she already knew the answer.
“I told you that Norman Teschler was a good friend of mine. I called the fire inspector. He wasn’t very helpful, but he did tell me that so far they believe the explosion was caused by a gas leak. The house was old and one of the gas connections was the kind that was relatively easy to turn. It had been removed from its place on the end of the pipe, either intentionally or because it hadn’t been fastened properly. They didn’t find it in the rubble, but he said that doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t there; it could have landed two blocks away. He said sometimes they work their own way off and that people need to have their connections checked every year by the gas company.”
TJ knew where Gemma was headed. It wouldn’t be the first time a suicide or an accident was faked. She had first-hand experience with that. The cause of the explosion could be reported as accidental or undetermined in spite of the fact there were clues suggesting foul play.
“So there are other ways it could have come off—other than intentional,” TJ clarified.
“Yes, but none that would convince me it wasn’t a deliberate act. Like I told you, Norman was a fanatic about his house.”
“Are you sayin’ there were people that might have wanted him dead?”
Gemma whisked her hair off her forehead. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anyone who would have done such a thing. I do know that if the connection had been faulty or even loose, Norman would have noticed.”
“Well, people get busy, forget things.”
“Not Norman. And especially not since he started cutting his time at the business. He was writing a book and spending more time at home in front of his computer.”
TJ wanted the case so badly she could taste it, but wasn’t sure there would be much to go on. “What about valuables? Could he have been robbed, then the house set off to cover it up?”
“I doubt it. He didn’t believe in having money around the house. And I can’t think of anything he owned that anyone would want bad enough to kill him. He didn’t collect coins or other valuables. If Norman had anything of value, it would have been in his safe deposit box.”
“How about the book?” TJ asked.
“I don’t think the book could have anything to do with it. He wasn’t even halfway finished with it. Norman was a first-time author and planned on self-publishing.” She grinned. “He said he was too old to go the other route. Getting traditionally published can take a new writer decades.”
TJ started taking notes. “So the only reason you think this wasn’t an accident is because he was careful?”
Gemma said, “No, there is another reason. Norman gave up smoking a few years ago. He was practically a chain smoker, and since then he had a habit of allowing himself one cigar at the end of the day. He smoked it before he went to bed at night. He’d relax in his favorite chair with a glass of wine, his cigar, and a good book.”
“You’re sayin’ anyone would have known he’d light up and ignite the leaking gas. But wouldn’t he have smelled the gas if there was enough to blow up the house?”
“See, that’s the thing,” Gemma said, “Most people would smell that much gas, but Norman had serious allergy and sinus problems that eventually left him with no sense of smell. He told me the few things he could smell were probably only sensory memories. Anything he couldn’t see, he couldn’t smell.”
TJ knew an opposite argument could easily be made that his lack of smell and cigar habit made an accident more likely. But Gemma seemed convinced the man checked his gas connections religiously.
“Did everyone know about those things, the cigar at night, and his sense of smell?” TJ asked.
“Sure. He often joked about it.”
TJ’s forehead wrinkled. “Did you tell the cops all this?”
“To be honest, I don’t remember what I told them; so much was happening that day.”
“Haven’t they been back to talk to you again?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me do some preliminary checking, and I’ll get back to you.”
Gemma handed her a check with a lot of zeroes on it. “Take this now so you can get started. Do whatever it takes to find out what really happened.”
Chapter 8
I fell asleep without incident after taking two over-the-counter PM pills recommended by the local pharmacist. I felt better knowing TJ Peacock was investigating Norman’s death, and after getting a full night of much-needed sleep, I felt ready to tackle the other things waiting for my attention.
I hadn’t expected to be invited to the reading of Norman’s will. Touched to be one of his heirs,
attending would mean facing Carter, my ex-husband. The last time I saw him had been at our divorce hearing more than two years ago. At the time, I felt like my world had ended, even though I had been the one to initiate the divorce. But time passed without him, and eventually I looked back on our marriage objectively and couldn’t deny a certain sense of relief at our parting, probably because I’d always preferred living alone.
In the attorney’s offices, I was shown to an opulent conference room. Carter stood at the coffee station at the side of the room, looking fit and distinguished in one of his custom pin-striped suits. He was talking to Leong, Norman’s former wife. He left her side when he saw me and took me in his arms for a hug. “Gemma, it’s wonderful to see you. I’m so sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
I broke away from the embrace and felt my throat thicken and my eyes sting with our common grief. I wondered at my lack of feeling for this man who used to be my husband. We had parted amicably enough, although he never stopped trying to change my mind about the divorce. I was relieved when Norman’s attorney, Jacob Sanderson, made his grand entrance and announced it was time to get started. I moved away from Carter and took a seat at the end of a long conference table on the side nearest the door.
Norman owned controlling interest of Cityscapes. Leong won stock in the company as part of their divorce settlement, and Carter owned the remaining shares. Carter offered me some shares as part of our divorce settlement, but I had refused. I hadn’t wanted anything from Carter, and despite my attorney’s objections, I agreed to settle for whatever Carter thought was fair. His guilt made him generous, and the lump-sum settlement turned out to be a substantial sum of money.
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