“Have you had more than the one you told me about?”
I described the latest incident, how I had felt my body rising from the floor. “It scared me more than anything else has; I was afraid I was dying.”
Lisa tented her fingers. “You’re aware there are two schools of thought on out-of-body experiences, aren’t you?”
“Yes, mavens of the paranormal believe they’re real, yet modern science can explain them away. I imagine you’re one of the second group.”
Lisa grinned. “You’re wrong about that. I would love them to be real; anything to do with the occult fascinates me. I’m just trying to make sure you understand that nothing about them is certain. Do you want to believe they’re real?”
I flushed as I admitted, “I’m trying to test them, actually. I’ve designed numbered posters that I’m placing in my rooms at night. It’s kind of tricky to position them without being tempted to look at the numbers. And I have to rearrange them differently every night.”
“And? Have you ‘seen’ them during your astral projections?”
I didn’t comment on her use of the term, astral projection. I had seen it in my studies of the topic and knew it was a professional’s term for OBEs. “Not yet,” I had to admit. “I’ve only been doing it for a few nights now.”
“If you do see one of your signs in an out-of-body experience and the number is accurate, then what?”
Her question washed over me like a pail of cold water. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought beyond wanting to prove to myself if they’re real.”
“There have been many studies on the subject; have you read any of them?”
“Some. But those aren’t real to me. I think part of me hopes that if I can prove to myself they aren’t real, then the episodes will be less frightening.”
“Gemma, I want you to try thinking about why you’re having these experiences. You told me you haven’t had sleep paralysis all your life. At least, the kind you’ve been having lately. Often when it comes on suddenly, it’s caused by a major life change and the stress that change imposes on you. It is definitely exacerbated by the insomnia that stress produces. I still believe your paralysis experiences represent a link to your past and that part of your past is painful to talk about. Any thoughts on that?”
I had thought about it more than once. And whenever I did, it led me to dwell on how badly I have screwed up my life. I was thirty-seven, with no children, no husband, no job at the moment, and just lost my best friend. At least the last one hadn’t been my fault.
“Maybe you should tell me how things ended with Taylor,” Lisa said after a few moments had passed.
Taylor. Thinking about him always brought about conflicting feelings. Remembering how it ended still stabbed at my heart like an ice pick in spite of the warmth of remembering how much I loved him.
“There isn’t a lot to tell,” I said. I still couldn’t talk about it without reliving the pain of our last day together. “We spent a lot of weekends together that summer and not all of them were through the escort service. Toward the end of summer, none of them were. It felt like we were a couple, even though I knew it couldn’t last. Taylor’s fiancée was coming home after Labor Day.”
“Were you hoping he’d changed his mind about her?” Lisa asked.
“I knew from the beginning Taylor’s life, even his marriage, had been mapped out for him by his parents. Unfortunately for me, his ambition held him prisoner in their plans for him. I didn’t want to admit to myself he might have genuine feelings for his fiancée. I was so in love with him that I couldn’t help but hope he’d give it all up and stay with me, yet I didn’t want to hold him back. It was terribly painful.”
“How did you leave things?”
I shrugged. “I did what I had to do. I said good-bye.”
“That must have been difficult.”
Difficult didn’t begin to describe the pain I felt that last evening, how I barely managed to smile at him without crying. The worst of the tears came later and lasted for weeks. I quit the escort service and immersed myself in school that semester, staying too busy to think, too busy to feel sorry for myself.
“It was the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do,” I whispered.
“And you never heard from him after that?”
“Not really.”
Lisa raised her brows.
“I graduated from college the following June. I even finished summa cum laude. Not only that, I landed a job on the ground floor of the best advertising agency in town, Cityscapes, Inc. The month of June made my successes bittersweet—it had been a year before that I’d met Taylor—even the similarity of the weather brought all the memories back.
“I managed to set them aside and enjoy my graduation, the ceremonies, and the people who came to help me celebrate. The next day, a deliveryman showed up at my door with a package. It was a graduation gift, a gift with no card and no signature. After I saw what it was, I knew, of course, who sent it.”
“What was it?” Lisa asked.
I reached inside the light cotton sweater I wore and lifted out a slim gold chain to show her the pendant suspended from it. She leaned closer and held it in her fingertips, moving it to reflect the light from the magnificent yellow stone.
“It’s beautiful. Did you have any idea how valuable the stone was?”
Of course, I did. I was the jeweler’s daughter. I hadn’t needed a loupe to prove it was a yellow diamond and not a citrine or a yellow topaz.
“I did,” I answered. “And Taylor was the only person I knew who could afford such a thing. I didn’t start wearing it for years, not until I was making enough money to explain owning such a treasure.”
“And you’ve heard nothing from him since?”
“No.” My throat was thick with emotion. Lisa had said more than once my sleep problems could be linked to something in my past. Was it my refusal to give up on a hopeless love that made my evenings hell?
Chapter 19
When TJ dropped JR off at her sister Janeen’s the next day, the new mother was with Janeen, discussing details of her baby’s schedule with her so she could go back to work.
TJ couldn’t believe her good luck—Detective Tasha Wade was Haymaker’s partner. With only a small amount of encouragement, Tasha spilled what was happening in the department: the cum case, the suspicious death of the teenaged girl in one of the houses entered, and now a woman strangled by intruders in the same neighborhood. She figured Janeen hadn’t shared with Wade that TJ was a PI or she wouldn’t be discussing police business so openly.
“That damn cum case,” Tasha laughed. “It was a crappy case; everybody laughed when we got it, but now it’s blown sky high with the murders thrown in. I can’t wait to get back and get in on it.”
TJ had never been a believer in coincidence. All these things and Norman Teschler’s home explosion on happening in the same time frame meant there was a good chance that they were connected.
She left and drove to the scene of the murder, pulling up as close as she dared, certain Haymaker would spurn any of her efforts to get information. If she got lucky, someone on the scene would recognize her from her former life as a police officer. After only a few minutes, a dark unmarked pulled up next to the Mini.
“What’re you doing here?”
Richard sat at the wheel of the car and his partner, Justin, had posed the question to TJ through an open window.
TJ got out of her car. “I just got here. Heard there was a murder that might be connected to what I’m workin’.”
“Get in the car.”
TJ leapt into the backseat. “TJ, you know I can’t tell you anything about this, right?” Richard asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill. But I already know what’s goin’ on here. A woman’s been murdered. Strangled. An’ there’s a connection between it and a ser
ies of home invasions where nothing’s taken, but an empty bed is used for sex. That about cover it? Question remains, what are you two doin’ here when Tosa ain’t your territory?”
TJ saw Richard’s face in the rearview mirror and could tell he looked annoyed, his lips in a thin line, an expression she knew well. Before he could snarl an answer her way, Justin turned to the back and explained, “The victim lives in our jurisdiction. Technically this is Wauwatosa’s case, but they notified us about it, so we’re making an appearance. There would be a big pissing match if we try to take over, so we’re only going to be offering our services.”
That answered her question. It was time to back off and get what she wanted from him later—or at least all he’d be able to tell her.
TJ slid out of the car, leaned into Richard’s open window, and kissed him on the cheek. “See you later, hon.”
Inside the house, Detective Brian Haymaker and his temporary partner, Detective Franco Lukaszewski, hovered over a medical examiner who was kneeling beside the victim’s body.
“Okay, Doc, what can you tell us?” Lukaszewski asked.
Marvin Westphal, a short, bespectacled troll of a man rumored to be approaching eighty, looked up at the big detective. “I can’t give you anything certain until I get her back to the lab. It looks like the cause of death is strangulation. I’d guesstimate the time of death somewhere around midnight.” He bagged her hands and replaced them delicately with a gentleness not always shown to the dead. “I’ll know more by the end of the day.”
Haymaker, impatient with Lukaszewski’s gruff demeanor, left him arguing with Westphal and went back to the kitchen where Keith Fink, the owner of the house, sat with his head buried in his hands, a uniformed officer at his side. Fink had found the body early that morning. One of the techs was putting a DNA sample into an evidence bag. Brian waited while the tech took Fink’s arm and drew a few tubes of blood for a tox screen. At least the guy was cooperating.
Fink had fallen apart after Lukaszewski began questioning him and asked if he needed an attorney. Lukaszewski, visibly irritated by the question, had left the room and taken Brian with him.
Now without Lukaszewski, Haymaker would try to put the pieces back together and get a coherent statement from Fink. All they knew for sure right now was that the dead woman, whose name was Sondra, wasn’t Fink’s wife.
“Mr. Fink,” he began, keeping his voice low and friendly, “I’m Detective Brian Haymaker. Do you think you could answer a few questions for me now?”
Fink sat up in the chair. “Am I a suspect?”
“We’re just trying to find out what happened. No one is a suspect yet.” This wasn’t entirely truthful since, as the only person in the house, Fink would be the main person of interest. “Can you tell me exactly what happened when you woke up this morning?” Brian took a seat across from Fink.
Fink ran his hands through his disheveled hair, his gaze everywhere but on Haymaker. The guy either knew something, didn’t want to share, or felt guilty, and not necessarily about Sondra Jackson’s murder.
“How many people were in the house with you last night?” Haymaker asked, thinking the right question would provoke Fink to start talking. Fink hadn’t requested an attorney again; if he’d called one while they’d been with the ME, the lawyer was taking his time getting there.
Fink blew out a lungful of air and met Haymaker’s eyes. Brian knew the look; he had decided to talk.
“Just the two of us were here, Sondra and me. Her husband, Craig Jackson, and my wife Debra are still at the Jacksons’ house.” He stopped. “Are they all right? No one’s telling me anything.”
“They’re fine, Mr. Fink. Someone’s talking to them now.”
Fink groaned. “The whole world’s gonna know.”
“Know what?” Haymaker asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer—the two couples were swingers.
“Debra and I played bridge with them, Sondra and Craig. We all play duplicate and were getting ready for a bridge tournament coming up next month in Oconomowoc. We didn’t know they were swingers. They told us about it one night when we’d been playing bridge and had a little too much to drink. It intrigued Debra right away. When they started hinting that we should join them sometime and give it a try, she said yes without ever considering that we should talk about it first.”
Haymaker wanted to ask Fink for the short version of his story, but knew he had to let him play it out.
Fink took a long drink from a water bottle. “My wife talked me into trying it. So last night we played bridge, and later I came here with Sondra and Debra stayed at their house with Craig. I wasn’t feeling good about it, but Sondra is a sexy woman, you know? When we got here, it didn’t take her long to make me forget my reservations or my jealousy about Debra being with Craig.”
Fink was giving him the real deal now. “Then what happened, Mr. Fink?” Fink flushed. Haymaker added, “I don’t need any details about what happened with you and Sondra.”
“I had drunk quite a bit in order to get on board with the whole thing. After Sondra and I had sex, I passed out. I woke up about six-thirty, I think, and Sondra was gone. I thought maybe she went to get some sleep somewhere by herself, so I went looking for her.”
He started coughing. Brian was afraid he was going to retch. “I found her… I found her right there in the guest bedroom. She was dead.”
“Did you touch her? Feel for a pulse?”
His voice came out in a pathetic squeak. “I didn’t have to. Her eyes were open and she never blinked. She had these horrible purple marks on her throat. I dialed 9-1-1 right away. That’s it. Now they won’t even let me call my wife.”
“Mr. Fink, are you sure no one else was in the house last night?”
“Not that I knew. But someone else had to have been here to kill Sondra. I’m not thinking straight, sorry. I didn’t see or hear anyone else. Drinking really knocks me out.”
“That’s understandable.” Brian sensed Fink was telling the truth. “Do you and your wife usually keep the doors locked?”
“Yes. I always check the doors before we go to bed at night.” He looked at the back door. “I never thought about it last night; I was in too big a hurry to get in bed with Sondra.” He gasped. “Oh, God. If I remembered to lock up, she’d still be alive—this is all my fault.”
Chapter 20
I had little to say to Carter when he called. I hadn’t spoken to my ex-husband since the day he asked me to take a temporary leave from Cityscapes. He must have noticed my reticence, because he dropped the small talk attempts.
“I’d like to apologize, Gemma. I acted too impulsively when I asked you to take a leave. I’ve come to regret that decision, and I’d like you to come back.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I replied.
Carter didn’t apologize often. Like many men, he believed firmly in his own judgment, so there was always more to his apologies than what one could see on the surface. I suspected he had a client that refused to work with anyone but me.
His breath, audible in short bursts, betrayed his nervousness. He wanted something.
“Why the sudden change of heart? You seemed quite determined when you told me to take a leave.”
“Why do you always think I have hidden motives? I’ve appointed Barb Carmona director. I need to get everyone together and discuss how the business will operate without Norman before I return to Singapore. You’re an important part of Cityscapes even if you aren’t full-time anymore.”
I sighed loudly enough to be heard through the phone connection. “All right. When do you want me to be there?”
“The staff meeting is tomorrow morning at eleven. But I have a favor to ask you.”
I knew he had called about something more than the staff meeting.
“I’m going let Barb have Norman’s office. Now that the police
have been through it, his attorney told me you were to have any of his personal things that you wanted. I would like you to come in and pack up anything you want to keep, and we’ll throw out whatever you don’t want. I’d like his photos that are on the wall and the awards if you don’t.”
“I can be there. I’m not sure what I want, but I might take some of the photos,” I said, still feeling annoyed with him.
Rifling through Norman’s office was the last thing I felt like doing today; I missed my friend. I brightened a little when I realized his things could provide some of the answers I had been looking for. There might even be a copy of his novel.
When I arrived at the office, Barb met me, smiling and holding out her hand. Pure deceit. I’d never cared for the woman, and her attitude toward me had always assured me the feeling was mutual. I restrained my dislike and took her hand. Her yardstick-slim body was covered by a gray pantsuit with a neckline unbuttoned just enough to show off what little cleavage nestled inside, probably created with plus-sized push-up pads.
While I long ago accepted the fact that many of the other employees resented my role as Norman’s rising star, I couldn’t be faulted for how I treated the others. I went out of my way to be cordial without any fake friendliness. Barb, however, was another matter. She’d never hidden her dislike of me or her jealousy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to maintain my employment here with her at the helm. The woman would do whatever she could to undermine my role in the agency.
“Congratulations.” That one word was the best I could do.
“Thank you,” she said. “Carter told me to have you go right ahead and check out Norman’s things. We’ve put some empty cartons in there for you. Let me know if you need anything else. The staff meeting’s been changed to one.”
She turned abruptly and walked away, leaving behind a cloud of the latest designer perfume. The woman must not believe in wearing a signature scent, hers changed every month.
It could have been my imagination, but Norman’s office seemed to harbor his scent, his cologne with its faint note of eucalyptus and the Cuban cigars he kept hidden in a humidor behind his desk. With a heavy heart, I sat in his chair, remembering all those times I had sat across from him discussing campaign strategies. The walls held all the usual brag photos: Norman with the mayor, the head of a local manufacturer we worked with, and even one with a famous singer who had introduced her own line of jewelry. The one of Norman and me at a fundraiser, toasting the camera, nearly brought me to tears again.
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