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

TJ squirmed under his gaze. She stood up, stoked the fire, and added another log. “There’s something you don’t know about me.”

“I make it a habit to gather background on everyone I work with. I know you shot your brother-in-law.”

She sat, hugging herself, then looked up at him. “There’s somethin’ that’s not in anything you could have found.”

“You don’t have to put it into words, TJ. I understand. There are times when we’re forced to make life-changing decisions in a split second.”

She sat back, obviously relieved he understood.

“Do you believe your experience puts the burden on you now?”

She sighed. “Somethin’ like that.”

He spoke softly. “How do you think your friends would react if they knew about Mr. Wilson?”

She smiled for the first time since she’d come into his house. “They’d all want to waste his ass. But they’d have more confidence than me that the police would catch the bastard.”

TJ’s smile faded, her hands kneading a small pillow she held in her lap. “Maybe not Eric. The system screwed him, so he’d want to make sure the animal was stopped. I think he’d do it with his bare hands if he could. I can’t let that happen; the cops still think he’s guilty of killing his wife. It has to be me. I have to make sure he don’t kill any more women. Or one of us.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want to unload this on the others, but what about Detective Conlin? Wouldn’t he listen to you?”

“He’d listen. But his nose is out of joint over all this. He couldn’t be objective. He sided with Wilson in the beginning and would have a hard time backing off, even though I know he isn’t the creep’s biggest fan.”

Orth considered everything she’d said. There were no simple answers, no easy advice.

“TJ, while I admire your concern for the others, I believe you need to take at least one of them into your confidence. Vigilante justice is never morally right. You need their feedback. Your intentions are noble, but too dangerous alone, for many reasons. If you decide together you really want to do this, you’ll have help carrying it out. And, more importantly, with the emotional impact of your actions.”

TJ took the last sip of wine and the last bite of cheese. She looked over at him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll talk to Lisa.”

60             

Happy to be back in her own home, Lisa kept busy getting things ready for the holiday: decorating, cleaning, cooking, writing cards, and making the requisite calls to relatives around the country. She missed the others, but knew they’d all needed a break. She’d invited TJ over for dinner and gotten a lukewarm acceptance. Something felt wrong. Lisa realized once more she had a strange sense of foreboding. What was it? Or did she even want to know?

She had a ham and noodle casserole baking in the oven when TJ arrived. She handed Lisa a bottle in a brown paper bag.

Lisa pulled out a bottle of tequila. “Thanks!”

“For margaritas.”

“They do go with anything.”

TJ took in the open room and the antique furniture. “Nice place.” The colors were peaceful: soft blue, off-white, and cocoa brown. It comfortable room with an open floor plan, the farmer’s table in front of a low counter divided the kitchen area from the dining area.

“Only two place settings. No Shannon tonight?”

“She had other plans. It’ll just be the two of us. We need to talk.”

You don’t know the half of it. TJ decided to wait until after dinner to drop the bomb. Following Orth’s advice made sense, but she still felt guilty involving Lisa.

Lisa took the steaming casserole out of the oven. The meal smelled and tasted wonderful—cheesy and hot, salty with the taste of ham. TJ mixed the margaritas—extra potent—while Lisa arranged the salad.

After dinner they finished their drinks sitting on the long plaid sofa in front of a big stone fireplace and covered themselves with furry throws. TJ broached the topic. “You ever wonder about the timing of your office break-in and Charles’ mugging?”

“Sure. But even though Roland believed it was related to us, I always thought there could be another explanation, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, for a while. And the office thing didn’t seem to be a big deal at the time either, did it?”

“Now you think they’re both related to our search?” When TJ didn’t answer, she said, “But we didn’t start the interviews until almost two weeks later.”

TJ liked tequila. It gave her the push she needed to tell Lisa what she’d come here to say. “Someone knew.”

“Good God! You don’t think Richard has something to do with this!”

“No. I don’t.”

She watched as Lisa’s face shifted with realization. “James Wilson is the only other person who knew early on.” Lisa gasped. “Him—a murderer? How did you come up with that?”

TJ explained about the day of their meeting with the police, how something had been nagging at her. When she saw Wilson sitting with Shannon on the hearth, the firelight changing his unusual taupe-brown hair to glistening silver, she realized what it was. If the earlier events were connected—and thinking they weren’t was too far beyond coincidence for TJ—then the killer had to be either Conlin or Wilson. And she knew Richard, knew it couldn’t be him. And he didn’t fit the profile.

“That’s why you got upset the other day!”

TJ reached into the leather bag she’d brought, took out the file, and handed it to Lisa.

She glanced inside. “Where did you get this?”

TJ looked her in the eye. “You don’t wanna know.”

TJ watched Lisa read, her expression becoming one of absorbed interest. Good. Your professional expertise is piqued.

When Lisa finished reading, she looked up at TJ, who was watching expectantly, her body swaddled in the fur throw as if protecting herself from an unknown presence. “Amazin’, isn’t it?

“He fits our profile.”

When TJ remained mute, Lisa said, “Are you going to tell Richard about this?”

TJ expressed a dry, mirthless laugh. “Yeah right. What do you think?”

Lisa swallowed the last of her drink, oblivious to the fact it was warm and diluted. “I think we need a lot more alcohol.” Then it came to her—the reason for TJ’s silence. “Dammit! There’s nothing concrete here, is there?” Lisa threw down the file.

TJ shook her head, pulling the throw tighter around her small body.

Lisa sputtered. “But what about circumstantial evidence—the preponderance of evidence? Wouldn’t the totality of everything be enough?”

“Nah. Might be if it was anyone else. I thought about telling Richard, but don’t think it’s a good idea. He wouldn’t have an open mind being as how the beast is one of them.”

Unable to turn off her psychologist’s fascination with the man, Lisa picked up the photo of Ronnie. God, he’d been so ugly before his accident. And that name. Ronald Rommelfanger. His classmates must have been on him incessantly. What are the chances after his ”rebirth” as the handsome James Wilson, he’d act out his pent-up rage against women? Orth had been right; Wilson, as their killer, was fascinating.

TJ lifted her glass, tilting the last few drops of the drink into her mouth. “I can hear the wheels turning over there. What are you thinkin’?”

Lisa took a deep breath. The new information felt like a bad dream. “We have to tell—”

“No,” TJ interrupted furiously, abandoning the throw as she jumped up. “We can’t tell anyone!”

“Why?”

“We can’t tell anyone,” TJ repeated.

“What do we do? Wait it out while he kills more women and hope the police come up with him as a suspect?”

TJ stood, walked into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She poured two, and handed one to Lisa. “Didn’t see any limes in your fridge, so bottoms up.” She raised the glass to her lips and gulped down the tequila.