She's Not There - Madison Marla (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗

“I kinda thought maybe you and Eric . . . ”

Lisa stopped her. “Not in this lifetime.”

“How come you never told me you have a gun?”

Lisa didn’t want to talk about it. She’d been hoping she could tell them all at the same time, carefully doling out a sanitized version of the truth.

“I’ll tell you some of it now, but it’s a long story. The rest can wait.”

She followed Lisa into the living room and sat next to her on the sofa.

“I bought the gun after my divorce and learned how to use it.”

“You were afraid of him?”

Maybe there was no simple version. “Not really.”

TJ persisted. “But you wanted to shoot him.”

“He threatened to sue for custody of Paige.” The hatred she’d been burdened with for so long ago still boiled within her. “I never knew I could despise anyone so much, even wish him dead.” Her eyes hardened in remembrance.

TJ shrugged. “Anyone can kill under the right circumstances, especially to protect their kid. I’d keep bugging you to tell me more about it now except we only have a few hours before we hafta go out again.”

“We do have to keep going, don’t we? This has to end—soon.”

Back in the guestroom, TJ discovered she was out of toothpaste. She went to Eric’s room, intending to look for an extra tube in his bathroom cabinet. When she walked into the spacious bathroom situated between the two master bedrooms, she heard a sound in the adjoining room where Jeff slept. She moved closer to the door. Was he crying? Seeing Danielle in the woods must have hit him hard—reminded him Jamie could be dead, too. TJ wanted to turn around, pretend she hadn’t heard anything. Instead, she eased into the room. Damn, I’m getting soft.

“Hey, everything okay in here?” Knowing it wasn’t, what could she say?

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice thick.

She sighed. He’d settled on the end of the bed fully clothed. He sat bent forward, his face in his hands, his glasses on the nightstand next to the bed.

Tough love, first. “You wanna talk, or should I leave you to wallow?”

Sitting up straight, he rubbed his face. “I’ve tried not to think about what must have happened to Jamie, but when I saw that woman I couldn’t help but think she’s probably in a woods somewhere—just like her. I keep seeing pictures of it in my mind when I close my eyes.”

TJ suspected he was right about his wife. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

She turned to leave the room. Maybe he needed to be alone to grieve. She got as far as the bathroom, then turned around and walked back to the bed. Sitting next to him, she put her arm across his back. Jeff moved into her arms. She held him until it became natural for them to lie back on the bed. Later, when he fell asleep in her arms, she eased off the bed, covered him, and slipped out of the room.

37             

At 7:00 a.m. Saturday, Eddie Wysecki woke with a start when his doorbell buzzed. The half-eaten bowl of greasy popcorn on his lap overturned, landing bottom-up on the floor. He’d fallen asleep in the recliner the night before and as he struggled to get out of the overstuffed chair without stepping on the mess, nausea swept through him. Not sure if his stomach objected to the buttered popcorn or all the mugs of beer he’d ingested the night before, he swore as he struggled to get to the door.

Through the peephole he saw two men wearing clothing ominously formal for a Saturday morning. Fuck, cops. The contents of his intestines rolled. The dog lady must have given the cops his license number. But, shit! What could she have said to make them show up at his door at this ungodly hour? Parking on the side of the road wasn’t a crime, but he’d have to give a reason for being there. What could he say?

The doorbell rang again, followed by two sharp knocks. Eddie opened the door.

“Edward Wysecki?”

“Yeah.” They flashed their badges and IDs. Detectives. Everything in his intestines liquefied.

“We need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?”

When he nodded, the men barged inside, introducing themselves as Waukesha detectives Greg Zabel and Max Feinstein. Christ, Jewish cops now? Bad enough they’d started letting women into their ranks. His digestive system in turmoil, Eddie clenched and asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?”

The younger guy, Zabel, said, “Someone reported seeing your car last night on Larkspur Drive outside of Waukesha.”

His insides churned; his ass was about to spew. He had to get to the john.

The dick went on, “Sorry. I have that wrong. They saw your car parked there on Thursday night, and last night, at about the same time both nights.”

Eddie interrupted before the guy could say another word. Without waiting for their approval, he excused himself and bolted down the hall to the bathroom. In his urgency, he didn’t notice Max Feinstein quietly following him to make sure the bathroom had no windows.

As Eddie relieved his wringing intestines, he had a few minutes to think about what to say to the cops. The old bat couldn’t prove he was there. He’d just have to deny it, wouldn’t he? But no, she’d given them his license number, so he was seriously fucked. He had to find a way to buy himself time to get out of town. It wouldn’t take long; he had money stashed and a fake ID that had cost him three weeks’ profits.

He couldn’t deny he’d been there, but what could he tell them to get them to leave and give him enough time to bolt?

It came to him. The Peacock woman. She’d be his cover.

After they left Eddie’s apartment, the detectives didn’t speak until they got to the car. Greg Zabel had sensed Wysecki’s nervousness. When he’d gotten a whiff of the man’s disgusting breath and seen the popcorn on the floor, it hadn’t taken any great detection skill to see the guy had slept in the stained recliner. The scene didn’t seem to fit a guy who’d committed murder the night before, but he’d seen stranger things in his ten years as a homicide detective. The guy had definitely been edgy.

Greg started the car. “That guy looked green.”

“Shit, did you get a whiff of his breath?” Max settled his wide girth into the stiff seat of the unmarked. “We have to talk to this Peacock chick. Name like that, must be a spade.”

After three years partnering with the man, Greg had grown immune to his partner’s racial slurs. “If she backs up his story, it doesn’t necessarily get him off hook.”

38             

When Maggie’s phone rang Saturday morning, she rolled over. But she’d awakened enough to remember the events of the night before. She and David had words on the way home last night—they weren’t in agreement about withholding the group’s activities from the Waukesha detectives. David, willing to stick his neck out because of the abuse in his family history, insisted on giving the group their twenty-four hours, unlike Maggie, who regretted giving them any time. Their relationship, still in its early stages, had yet to be tested by a difference of opinion on the job, at least one causing a rift. They hadn’t parted on the friendliest of terms.

When the phone stopped ringing, then immediately repeated its wailing, Maggie picked up. It was her boss, and she could tell by his raised voice, he wasn’t happy.

“I hear you barged in on that murder in Waukesha last night.”

Already a reprimand? “I can explain.”

“Forget it! You know a Teal Peacock? One of those ‘guests’ staying at the Schindler place?”

“Not well, but yes, I know her.”

“Thought you might,” he said sarcastically. “Schindler’s neighbor gave Waukesha the license number of a car with a guy in it that happened to be parked across from the place about the same time this woman bought it. Turns out he’s some barkeep from West Allis, Eddie Wysecki. He told them the reason he’d been there is he suspects his girlfriend—this Peacock woman—of cheating on him and was keeping tabs on her. Waukesha hasn’t been able to get in touch with her to confirm his story. Anyway, I know this is your day off, but they’re shorthanded, so I’m sending you over there for the day. After you get in touch with Peacock.”