She's Not There - Madison Marla (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗
Richard said nothing. He and Wilson moved toward the coffee displayed at the side of the room.
The whiteboards sat in a semi-circle in the living room, incongruous next to the plush, leather furniture and bright fire. Greg Zabel and Max Feinstein from Waukesha pored 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 the disappearances pointed to the work of one abductor.
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 his question. Lisa answered, “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 she came here to find out who was staying 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 came up, 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 act 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 interactions in the room. Wilson stood 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 beamed. He was definitely 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, leaning 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.”
He said, “Maybe you should rest for a while before you go to work.”
Rest didn’t seem possible in her present state. She pacified him. “Sure. I’ll grab a nap.”
57
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 make him pay 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 the police unearthed the bodies in Eddie Wysecki’s basement. With a choice suspect like Wysecki, James remained invisible.
He’d been 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 protruding eyes and full, pouty lips gave him the look of an 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, he hadn’t expected the brush-off. 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 dotting 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 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 surfaced. He had no love for Agazzo, but the bitch had neutered the guy.
It came to him—she had to be next.
58
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 it. Across the room, engrossed in a leather-bound book from Eric’s collection, sat Mason Orth.
