GD00 - ToxiCity (24 page)

Chapter Fifty

Afterwards they fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until midnight. Matt was ravenous.

“I’ll make some eggs after I shower,” she said.

Matt nodded and fell back on the bed. Lulled by the spatter from the shower, he dozed, images from the past few days drifting through his mind: Sheila flirting with Stone; Georgia at the police station; Brandon hugging his mother’s legs. The little boy had faith his mother would take care of him. So did TJ Champlain. The people who lived in Meadow City had faith too. They’d invested their futures with Feldman. They’d believed in the system, trusted in a happy ending.

Stone was right. He should have seen it. A massive injustice had been perpetrated at Meadow City. And Stuart Feldman was at the center of it. But Feldman was lying in a hospital bed, half-dead himself. It was too late for him. Matt heard the spray of the shower. But his daughter still had a chance. They would atone, make amends together. The killings would end. He swung his legs over the bed and reached for his glasses.

He opened the door to the bathroom Clouds of steam fogged his glasses. He could just make out the contours of Ricki’s body behind the beveled glass of the shower stall. Dark wet hair plastered against pale skin.

“Ricki, let’s talk.”

“Sure,” she said cheerfully, sliding back the door. “Come on in.”

“What would you do if you found out someone you loved very much had done something wrong? Something very wrong?”

“Punish them ruthlessly. Show them no mercy.” She held out her arms and grinned. The dimple in her chin deepened. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

“I’m serious.”

She ran a hand over her wet head. “If you’re trying to tell me you had a girlfriend before me, I already know.” She smiled. “It’s okay—I’m not a virgin either.”

“That’s not it.”

She peered at him curiously and turned off the water. Reaching for a towel, she slowly dried one leg, then the other, then her arms, letting the towel drop beneath her breasts. Fighting the urge to grab the towel, he launched into a summary of Stuart Feldman’s bribes. How they caused the death of witnesses. Gutted the parents’ lawsuit. Doomed the children.

“I think this happened for a reason,” he finished. “I think we’re supposed to make restitution. To make amends for your father.”

The towel stopped moving over her skin. She stood as still as a statue. Then she spoke. “Let me get this straight. You think my father bribed his way out of Meadow City,” she said evenly. “Then people died. And you think we should atone for it.” She looked at him. “Do I have that right?”

He nodded.

She fell silent.

“Ricki?”

Her eyes turned dark and angry. “Who the fuck are you, Matt Singer?”

He froze.

“How dare you come into my life, into my bed, damn you, and then dishonor my father?”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” She wrapped the towel around her like a shield. “You want to pin these murders on him, because you can’t solve them. You and the rest of your buddies have to paper over your incompetence so you’re going to blame him. Make sure someone is held accountable.” Her voice was steel. “You’re all the same. Low-level bureaucrats in uniforms who can’t make it in the real world, so you attack the rich and powerful.”

Her eyes grew as icy as her voice. “He was your target all along, wasn’t he? You couldn’t wait to make it his fault so you could proclaim how the system works for the little guy.” She balled her hands into fists. “You know something? My father was right. He told me never to trust anyone in a uniform. The more fool me for not believing him.”

“Ricki. You don’t understand.”

But she wasn’t listening. “Tell you what,” she hissed. “Why don’t you pin a medal on the killer when you find him? Give them the key to the city. But make sure you never mention that the courts vindicated us. That we had the law on our side.”

“The law was wrong.” He knew an edge had crept into his voice. “Your father manipulated it. Got himself special dispensation.”

Her eyes were on fire. “He protected himself. Anybody with half a brain would have done the same thing. And the courts agreed. They said he wasn’t liable.”

“That doesn’t excuse his crimes.”

“Crimes? What crimes? You show me evidence, we’ll talk about crimes. All you’ve got is theories.” She flung open the bathroom door.

Matt stiffened. How did she know that? She’d been away when it happened. “I thought you didn’t know anything about it. You weren’t here.”

She halted, her shoulders hunched over the towel. “I—I wasn’t. After you and Stone told me about it, I read up on it.”

Matt gazed at her, unsure whether to believe her. “Then you know what a sin it was.”

She drew back her hand, and slapped him across the face. The blow landed on his left cheek. His hand flew up to shield it. She did it again.

He staggered back.

“Search your own soul, Matt Singer. You think God’s going to welcome you through the gates of heaven because you’re bringing Him a fresh sinner to work over? Fuck you. You’re manipulating just as much as you claim my father did. Except you’re playing with God’s law.”

He braced himself against the towel rack.

“And to think I almost fell for it. Your faith. I could actually see myself at your side. Lighting candles. Praying with you. Feeling gratitude. Both of us bathed in the warm light of God.” A shadow skipped across her face. “My father says every mistake in life begins with a bad decision. He’s right. I almost made the worst decision of my life.” She stomped out.

Matt slid to the floor, letting his head drop between his knees. He heard steps, rustles, the slam of a door. Then silence. He thought she’d gone until he heard the muted trill of his cell phone. The phone was in his jacket pocket, and his jacket was in the kitchen. She picked up on the third ring.

“Yes?” There was a determined pause. Then, “I’ll tell him.”

He heard the snap of the phone being shut. Footsteps approaching the bedroom.

“It was Stone,” Ricki said, her voice flat. “He said to tell you Georgia’s been in an accident. She’s in critical condition.”

Chapter Fifty-one

“That’s a problem,” the dispatcher said when he called in to arrange back up for Ricki. “You’re signed up for the next two shifts, Singer. How the fuck am I supposed to find anyone this time of night?”

“You’ve got to,” Matt said, hearing the desperation in his own voice. “I’ve got to get downtown.”

The dispatcher said he’d do what he could.

“Call me as soon as you know something.” Hanging up, Matt rubbed his jaw. “Ricki?” There was no answer. “Ricki?”

He threw on his clothes and walked into the living room. It was empty. He stepped into the kitchen. No Ricki. He ran to the window and raised the shade overlooking the parking lot. The Mercedes was gone. He raced back to the kitchen and grabbed his jacket, his eyes going to the counter where he left his gun. Except for a used coffee mug, the counter was bare. He searched the kitchen. The Beretta was gone.

His cell phone buzzed. Dispatch said an officer would be there in half an hour. It was after two. “Tell him to meet me at the Lake Forest home.”

“I thought you said your place, Singer.”

“No. Have him drive up to Lake Forest.”

“Jesus, man, make up your mind.”

A clear, cold night with no traffic, Matt pulled up to the house ten minutes later. When he saw her car in the driveway and a light inside the house, relief swept through him. He leaned back against the seat.

He had a key. All the men guarding her did—but she was angry. She needed time to work things through. He wouldn’t impose. Just make sure she was okay.

Climbing out of his car, he rang the buzzer at the side of the gate. No response. He lifted his head to the security camera. He knew she could see him through the camera; evidently, she was still too angry to talk. He debated whether to go in, then turned around. She needed time.

He was back in his car when he remembered the Beretta. She couldn’t keep it; it was against regulations. If anyone found out, he would be suspended. Or worse. Then he cursed himself for being so self-consumed. Georgia had been suspended because of him. Now she was fighting for her life. What did it matter if he was suspended? The gun was the least of his problems.

In the middle of the circular driveway was a marble fountain surrounded by a clipped hedge. A porcelain swan was poised on top, its wing extended as if deciding whether to take a dip. He peered around the sculpture, saw one of the lights inside the house blink off. Ricki had taken his Beretta because it made her feel secure. She knew how to use it. She was safe. He’d get it back tomorrow. He climbed back in his car to wait for the officer.

***

It took Matt less than thirty minutes to get to Northwestern Memorial, but it felt longer. He turned east past the white Christmas tree lights flanking Michigan Avenue, wishing he could turn the corner and head in any other direction; north, south, anyplace he wouldn’t have to face reality. But he found a spot just opposite the ER and pushed through the sliding door. Inside he flashed his shield at the intake nurse, who beeped the admitting physician. A woman, somewhere in her thirties with dark smudges under her eyes and yellow stains on her coat came out.

“You family?” She asked.

“No.”

“You know how to get to her family?”

Matt swallowed hard. “It’s that bad?”

“There’s a lot of internal bleeding, and her lungs are filling up. She’s in surgery.”

“Was she conscious when they found her?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“They say she wrapped herself around a concrete barrier on Halsted. The car’s totaled.” She gestured to a couple of uniformed cops in the waiting room. “They brought her in.” She hurried away through a door.

Matt introduced himself to the uniforms, young cops on the graveyard shift cutting their teeth on the violence and danger of the city. At one forty, one of them said, Nine-one-one took an anonymous call from someone’s cell. They got there by one fifty, the paramedics soon after. She was in the ER fifteen minutes later.

“Best we can tell,” one of them said, “she was going like a bat out of hell under the viaduct, tried to stop, but couldn’t.”

“No witnesses?” Matt asked.

“Only the cell call. And that was after it happened.”

“You write up a report?”

The cop nodded. “You want a copy, call over to the Twelfth District.”

He slumped in a molded plastic chair next to a shabby Christmas tree. Why had Georgia driven downtown in the first place? What drew her into the city? He flashed back to the apparition in his apartment earlier. It seemed so long ago. He was wondering whether that had been a warning when his cell phone beeped. It was the officer who’d come to Lake Forest

“Everything okay up there?”

“No, Singer, it isn’t. Ricki isn’t here.”

“What are you talking about? Of course she is.”

“I searched the house. She’s not here.”

Matt felt his head buzz. “Her car was in the driveway. The lights were on.”

“Her car’s here, but—hold on, Singer. You mean you weren’t inside with her?”

Matt felt a cold fear pass over him. The buzz in his head intensified. “No.”

“I see.” The officer cleared his throat. “I called over to the hospital. She’s not there, either. Hospital security says no one’s been in to see Feldman all night.”

The stark blue white light of the fluorescent overheads hummed. Matt’s head grew light and spongy, as if it might disconnect and float away from his body.

“Singer…” The officer’s voice came at him from a distance, scratchy and raw. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

He punched in Stone’s home number. A groggy voice picked up. “Yeah?”

“Ricki’s gone.” Matt explained. “I’m heading back north now.”

Stone’s voice was instantly awake. “No. Stay where you are. I’ll call you back.”

Matt started pacing the ER. He’d tried to do the right thing. He wanted to respect Ricki’s feelings, give her some space. He thought she was safe. But something went wrong. And he’d been outside her house while it was happening. If anything happened to Ricki, while Georgia was struggling to stay alive—

“She’s out of surgery.”

Matt whipped around, saw Robby Parker coming toward him. He blew out a breath, grateful to see a familiar face, but Robby’s expression was ice.

“They’ve got her in the ICU.” His voice was flat. “You coming?”

Parker didn’t wait for an answer. Matt followed him through a serpentine path of linoleum-tiled corridors with blue stripes on the floor. Everything in this hospital was blue. Blue light, blue walls, blue lines.

On the way his cell phone buzzed. Stone.

“Where are you?” Matt asked.

“On my way to the station. Brewster and Nelson went to the house. She wasn’t there.” Stone’s voice was grim. “But something else was.”

“What?”

“The mail, Matt. Piled on the hall table. There was an envelope with her name on it. Inside was a picture of the goddamned field.”

Chapter Fifty-two

Stone found FBI Agent Cecil Vaughan with his feet up on the conference room table at the police station. After their conversation, Vaughan had set up a parallel operation alongside the Task Force in Glenbrook. The type of Feeb who seemed more comfortable in a corporate boardroom than a police station, Vaughan was wearing a crisp pinstriped suit and silk tie at three in the morning.

Stone was terse. “Ricki Feldman disappeared about an hour ago from her home in Lake Forest. When we went in, we found a photo of the Meadow City field in her mail— the same shot that was sent to the other victims. By Maggie Champlain.”

“You’re sure she’s the one?”

Stone went over what they’d discovered. That her child died as a result of Meadow City; that she got screwed during the lawsuit; that she hooked up with a Separatists’ group up north; that her ex-husband had photos of Meadow City construction. “She’s the only one we haven’t talked to. At the very least we have strong suspicions.”

Vaughan considered it for a moment, then swung his legs down. “What about Feldman—the father?”

“He’s surrounded by armed guards at the hospital. But she’s not anywhere. Doesn’t answer a page or cell.”

Vaughan hunched forward, elbows on knees. “Where are your men?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere.” Stone motioned to the map. “I got no idea where the fuck to deploy them.”

Vaughan stood and moved to the map. “Run down the other vics for me. Where you found them.” He coughed, a smoker’s hack, and pulled out a pack of Camels.

“Romano was in a dumpster behind the high school. Simon was in a pit at the landfill. Landon was in a dumpster on the Feldman site.”

Striking a match, Vaughan studied the map. “So, if it’s her, she’s local. At least now.”

“That’s the good news.”

“What’s the bad?”

“They were all dead when we found them.”

Vaughan dragged on his cigarette. “You’re sure Feldman’s daughter is next?”

“There’s a pattern. Champlain deviates from it sometimes, but generally she’s consistent.”

“Elaborate.”

Stone explained how the killer went after the contractor at Prairie State, then the owner’s son. Employee, then owner. Romano and Landon were employees. Simon wasn’t, but he was sandwiched between the others. He described the photos that were sent to most of the victims.

“Looks like we have an exhibitionist,” Vaughan said. “Theatrical. Scripting the scene. Wants the world to know what she’s doing.”

“It varies once in a while.”

“Close enough. So if this goes to pattern, you think they’ll toss the body near some garbage or toxic waste site?”

Stone nodded.

“What if they don’t?”

“I hope to hell that’s the case. I want the Feldman woman alive.”

Vaughan started picking up phones. “I’ll get men over to the spots she’s already dumped.”

Stone noted his use of “she.” “She doesn’t dump in the same place twice.”

Vaughan punched in a number. “What about those pictures? You think she’d take her out to Meadow City?”

“Too obvious.”

“Probably. But I’ll put men there anyway.” Stone watched as Vaughan made calls. With virtually unlimited resources, massive deployment was something the Bureau did well. There was only one problem. They were still one step behind the killer.

“You got any other ideas?” Vaughan said.

“What about this militia group—the Family?”

The lines on Vaughan’s forehead deepened. “We’re still waiting for intel. There’s a shitload of separatist groups in Minnesota, hunkered down in the backwoods and the lakes. Ex-Vietnam vets, disaffected hippies, cults. Impossible to find, some of ‘em. This could be some splinter group.” He tapped his fingers on the number pad of his phone. “Where’s Singer? He was bonking her, wasn’t he?”

Stone explained about Georgia’s accident.

“Man, some guys have all the luck.”

Stone bit back a reply.

Vaughan checked his watch. “It’s after three. I’m ‘gonna head over to the construction site. You coming?”

“Not yet.”

Vaughan waved his cell. “Let me know where you are, pal.”

Alone in the conference room, Stone sagged into a chair. He knew he would track the killer to her lair. He’d even take her out if he had to. But he couldn’t summon up much hatred for Maggie Champlain—despite what she’d done. She was as much a victim as her prey.

***

Outside the ICU Matt stared at the floor. Ricki was in the clutches of a serial killer, and it was his fault. Georgia was hanging onto life by a thread, and it was his fault. He’d failed to protect the two people he cared most about. Like Sisyphus, no matter what he did, his wheel would never make it to the top of the hill.

He went into the ICU, a cluster of rooms arranged like the spokes of a wheel around a nurse’s station. He asked to see Georgia. The nurse looked up from the bank of monitors and cocked her head.

“She’s not conscious.”

“I know.”

She looked at his shield. “Five minutes. That’s it.”

He tiptoed into the small room, no bigger than a closet. A monitor at the side of the bed emitted regular beeps. That was good. But her skin, at least the portion not swathed in bandages, looked paper thin and chalky, and the rise and fall of her chest was so shallow he wasn’t sure air was flowing through the oxygen mask. Her hand lay on top of the sheet, fingers curled like the paw of a small animal. He remembered how she’d admitted in a moment of intimacy her compulsive need to tap her fingers an equal number of times on each hand. He grasped her hand.

He stayed until the nurse came in and whispered it was time to go. Reluctantly, he retraced his path down the corridor. Halfway down the hall was a yellow and black “Caution” sign. A bucket with a wet mop sat beside it.

As he veered around it, the strong scent of antiseptic stung his nostrils. He stopped. There was something about this smell. He sniffed, allowing the acrid odor to penetrate. This wasn’t a new smell. He’d smelled it before. He stared at sudsy water for a full minute, struggling to bring it to consciousness.

Julie Romano’s apartment. He’d smelled disinfectant the night he found Brenda Hartman. He forced himself to concentrate. Slowly, like a mosaic emerging from bits of colored stone, the image came to him. Romano’s place was clean the night he’d found Brenda Hartman. The bathroom was spotless. Yellow towels on the rack.

He took a step forward. Disinfectant. Yellow towels. Something was wrong. The first time he’d been there, just after he’d found Romano, the towels were blue. He squeezed his eyes shut. Yes. The towels had been blue. But the night he found Hartman, they were yellow. Somebody had changed them.

He called Brenda Hartman, who was back in Indiana, and woke her up. She wasn’t pleased, her husband even less so. She said she hadn’t changed the towels. The only thing she’d done was look for her letters. Which meant someone else—someone besides Hartman—had been inside Romano’s apartment since her death.

Matt sprinted to the elevator and slammed his palm on the call button. His gaze fixed on the red exit sign above the door to the stairs. There was a set of stairs outside Romano’s door. The stairs led to the back door. If someone had a key, they could get in and out of Romano’s apartment easily, without being seen. And the only other apartment on Romano’s floor belonged to an old woman who was practically deaf.

The elevator doors opened. Three people were inside. He pressed the lobby button even though it was already lit. The doors were agonizingly slow to close. What if Champlain used Romano’s place to murder her victims? Then cleaned up, transported the bodies, and dumped them someplace else?

The elevator stopped one floor down. A man and a little girl got on. Matt rocked on his heels. If that was the case, how did Champlain get a key? Brenda Hartman didn’t have one—she’d come in through the fire escape.

The elevator stopped at the next floor. The realty office had keys. Joanne Romano had a key. But Joanne didn’t kill her sister, and the realty office employees were a stretch. Someone else had a key to Julie Romano’s apartment.

Finally the elevator opened, and he shoved past the people and raced to his car. Champlain was cunning. What if she’d pretended to be a friend to Romano? Moved in slowly, gained her trust? He unlocked his car and slid in, trying to recall Romano’s apartment the first time he’d gone there. The clutter. The spices. The movies. He keyed the engine.

The movies. A borrowed cassette. “Klute.” As it fell into place, his stomach flipped. He knew who Maggie Champlain was. She’d been there from the start.