She's Not There - Madison Marla - Страница 20
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Rita, as part of her benefit package at work, had the exact amount as her life insurance payoff. The money it offered started niggling at him. Their marriage had become joyless, but she’d joined AA and was making an effort to take better care of herself.
A few weeks later the bar went up for sale. Then Eddie came home on a Friday night and found Rita passed out on the couch. Again. His first thought was pity—she’d really been trying this time. Then he remembered the life insurance. It occurred to him this could be his out. He didn’t have to divorce her—just not revive her.
23
Jeff had just returned to his desk after a long, trying meeting with the other engineers when his cell phone vibrated.
“Jeff, it’s Lisa. Is this a good time?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Helen left for New York this morning. She’ll be staying there indefinitely, while Maggie and her partner are working Emma’s case again. Maggie and Helen went through Emma’s things, and they think they found something incriminating Fischer. Maggie couldn’t tell us what it was. They’re trying to get a search warrant for his place.”
Jeff looked up to see two detectives from Brookfield PD standing at the door to his office. He cut Lisa off. “Sorry, someone’s here to see me. I’ll get back to you.”
He motioned them in and they seated themselves in front of his desk. Jeff knew this would be bad.
“Mr. Denison, we’re here to talk to you about your wife’s car.”
Jeff dreaded what was coming next, wishing he had taken Eric’s advice and called an attorney. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Attorneys always advised their clients not to. Or at least they did on TV. But it was too late; he’d talked to them already, multiple times. He had nothing more to add.
“Your wife’s car was discovered behind some deserted warehouses in the inner city, totally stripped.”
He handed Jeff photos of the car, which looked like a mere shell of the flashy car it had been. The car, sans wheels, had been wedged between an old loading dock and a decrepit storage shed. Jeff felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Jamie never would have left her beloved car behind.
“Please don’t bother trying to find her—she’s not there . . .”
Christ, that song again. Lines from it ran through his mind at the worst times. Fighting back tears he didn’t want the detectives to see, Jeff put the photos down. “Do you believe me now? Jamie didn’t just leave. She never would have given up her car.”
“It is looking like she was abducted. Have you thought of anything else that could shine some light on this? Something she said? Did?”
It wasn’t paranoia—they were looking at him like he was a suspect.
“No, nothing.”
When they left Jeff had no doubt he’d been put on a very short list of suspects—probably their only one. He had a quick flash of gratitude for his role in the group and their work to identify what was happening to abused women. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he opened his phone to call the attorney Eric had recommended.
Early Friday morning, TJ got a call from Jeff Denison. He told her he’d finally called a friend he’d been avoiding since Jamie disappeared, and they were going to play a round of golf the next morning if the mild weather held. Worried the police were trying to find enough evidence to arrest him, golf would be a pleasant diversion. He hoped she wouldn’t mind if they scheduled their interviews later on Saturday. “We could do some of them tonight if you have time.”
TJ knew how devastated he’d been since they’d found his wife’s car. “I’ll see what I can get lined up and call you later.”
She spent the rest of the day checking with her sources at MPD, begging information on the domestic calls described by their interviewees. She managed to get two interviews scheduled for that night. It had taken a few calls to find someone to talk to about a missing woman named Shirley Moran. When she finally reached the woman’s brother, it turned out he lived in a building right across the street from her. Since he was nearly a neighbor, she decided to break the “rules” and trot over there by herself.
TJ felt like cruising on her own. Maybe drop in over at Vinnie’s and see what was happening after she met the brother, since he lived right around the corner. The next appointment would take her to the south side in a popular Mexican restaurant off of Mitchell Street. She wouldn’t need a sidekick; there’d be a lot of people around.
That night when she crossed the street for her appointment—it was actually on the side street around the corner from Vinnie’s—TJ got a prickly neck feeling; it usually came on when she was being watched. She probably was—the come-get-me outfit she wore invited attention: tight black velveteen jeans with a black cami, black ankle boots, and a new geranium-red sweater-jacket, knit of fluffy angora, made her look like she was wearing a tiny red cloud. The jacket had the added advantage of hiding her sleek, custom-made leather shoulder holster.
The area, always busy, tended to be even more so on weekends. She scanned the street, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Broad oak trees lined the dark side street. An occasional car drove by slowly, looking for a parking place. Just when she found the apartment building, a big three-story, old brick affair, her cell phone buzzed. She checked the number. Jeff. Grumbling, she opened the phone. “Hey.”
“TJ, it’s Jeff. I thought we might be getting together tonight.”
Now she was on the spot. Damn, she hated the fucking rules. And how this guy always made her feel sorry for him. Finding out about his wife’s car had to be painful.
“Turned out one of the folks I found lives right across the street from me, so I’m there. Meeting him in a minute.”
“Tell me this isn’t one of the husbands.”
At least he hadn’t lectured her about going alone. “Nope, her brother. Listen, I thought I’d stop in at Vinnie’s when I’m done here. Do you want to meet me there? Got another appointment at 9:00.” Maybe he’ll say no.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
TJ sighed and put the phone back in her pocket. She walked up the small flight of steps to the vestibule of the building. The feeling of being watched tweaked her again, and she turned quickly to see if someone had come up behind her. A few buildings from where she stood, a young couple walked toward the busy street. Nothing.
Shirley Moran’s brother was a tall, thin, gawky guy in his late twenties, visibly put off by TJ. She obviously wasn’t what he’d been expecting.
The apartment looked like a typical single-guy place, short on furniture, but packed with the latest in video and sound equipment. She turned down his offer of a beer, and sat at the dining room table, piled with mail, old newspapers, and magazines.
When she asked about his sister, he said, “No one thought she had any reason to take off. And her husband’s a great guy. We still do stuff together, you know? We play on the same softball team and hang at the same bar. We even go hunting sometimes.”
“If he’s such a great guy, how come the cops had to come out to their place?”
He shifted in his chair. “Hey, she wasn’t perfect. Shirley had a real bad temper, you know?”
“Yeah, so?”
“She liked to pick fights with him. Throw things. Sometimes, sharp things.”
TJ knew about such women. As a cop, she’d been on more than one call where the abuser turned out to be a female. It had nothing to do with size; most men shied away from hitting back.
“She was hurting him?”
“That night she came at him with his baseball bat. She was pissed because he went out drinking with the guys after a game.”
She asked for the husband’s phone number, names of his sister’s friends, and a photo he could part with. She gave him one of her cards and went out into the night.
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