She's Not There (10 page)

Later that morning, Shannon and Helen Mueller walked into Lisa’s office and sat on the sofa. Shannon had offered to pick Helen up when she’d told Lisa her car was in the garage. Dressed neatly in a pair of jeans and a white-collared sweatshirt with a cardinal on a pine branch embroidered across the front, Helen’s gaze darted about the room, betraying her nervousness.

After offering her coffee and what remained of the morning’s treats, Lisa asked, “Did Shannon tell you why I wanted you to come in?”

Helen looked at Shannon who smiled encouragingly. “She just told me you wanted to talk to me. I was so looking forward to talking to you about Emma when you came to the house. Stephen stopped in right before you came. He saw that I had cookies set out for company, and quizzed me about it until I told him. I didn’t want him to stay, but I couldn’t ask him to leave.”

“Why is that, Helen?”

“I wanted to be able to tell you everything. If I asked him to leave, he’d suspect that I’d tell you what I really thought. I know in my heart he had something to do with Emma’s disappearance.”

“Helen, did you tell this to the police?”

“Well, not really. You see; I had no proof.” Her hands were twining on her lap, her eyes bright with tears.

Not wanting to cause her any more anguish, Lisa said, “You’re right, they couldn’t arrest him on suspicion. But if there’s no proof, why do you think he’d be concerned about anything you would say?”

Helen blinked back tears. “I know it was foolish, but after she’d been gone a few days, I accused him of doing something to her. I was just so upset. He denied it, but since then he watches me like a hawk.”

Lisa nodded, but wondered why Helen tolerated the man. “Helen, did you ever ask Stephen to stay away?”

“Oh, no. I know he used to hit my daughter; I saw the bruises. I’m afraid to make him angry, he frightens me. I miss Emma so much! He keeps saying she’ll be back any day. I know he doesn’t really believe that, just like he’s lying about Emma taking her savings and collection with her. She was afraid of him too. She wouldn’t have left without telling me. I talked to her every day.”

A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek. “Now I’m even suspicious that he did something to my car. I wasn’t having any problems with it until after he left Saturday.”

Lisa and Shannon exchanged a look. “Helen I’m worried that our interest in your daughter’s disappearance might provoke Fischer into doing something rash. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve spoken with the detective who handled the investigation into Emma’s disappearance. She’d like to talk to you again, try to stimulate your memory.”

Helen’s mouth set into a firm line of stubbornness. “Oh, I don’t know . . . “

Lisa tried another approach. “Helen, I know this is a lot to absorb. We’re concerned for your safety. We think it might be wise for you to go away for a while, at least until the police can prove that Stephen had something to do with your daughter’s disappearance. Hopefully, with your help, they can put him in jail.”

“You’re right. I don’t trust him. But leaving my home! I’m not sure I could do that. Do you really think that’s necessary?”

Lisa said, “I do. And Helen, maybe if you go over everything with Detective Petersen again, it might give them something new to go on. There could be something you know that will help, something you didn’t think was important at the time. There must be, or your son-in-law wouldn’t be so concerned about you talking to us.”

Helen shrank back into the couch. “All right. I’ll talk to her.”

Maggie promised to be there soon. Things were happening quickly; Lisa thought the others should know what had developed. Eric picked up on the second ring.

He said, “If you can convince Helen to leave, we’ll have to make certain that she isn’t followed. I don’t think she should even go back to get her things. One of us can go over there and get them for her.”

“She called her sister in New York and made plans to go for a visit. We can get her on a plane tonight. Maggie’s going to be here any minute now to talk to her.”

“I’m on my way.”

Eric drove back to his office after he and Lisa had picked up suitcases and clothes for Helen, feeling relieved that the police were going to work the Emma Fischer case again, and even more relieved that Helen would be safely in New York, out of harm’s way.

At the office he found an urgent message from Jeff. When Jeff answered his phone, he told Eric the police had found his wife’s car.

Eric’s first reaction was concern that Jeff would end up in a jail cell as he had. “Do they want to question you again?”

“No, all they told me was that they found the car. They didn’t even tell me where they found it.”

“It’s time to get an attorney on retainer, my friend. They
will
question you again. Finding the car makes it look like she didn’t leave on her own. And they won’t tell you anything until the car is processed.”

“I drove around for days looking for her car,” Jeff admitted.

“Yeah, I know. I did some of that myself. Listen, Jeff, get an attorney on retainer—now.” 

Although he preferred to think of her death as an accident, five years ago Eddie Wysecki murdered his wife. A diabetic, Rita had been prone to drinking in excess and forgetting to take her insulin. Eddie, who worked as a bartender, came home in the early morning hours after the bar closed and often found her in a drunken, diabetic stupor. The first time it happened he’d rushed her to the emergency room.

During one of their subsequent trips to the ER, the nurses instructed him on how to bring her back by himself. He listened raptly, even took notes. Eddie would have done anything to avoid another endless night in the ER.

As a young man, Eddie had been in and out of trouble, culminating in a two-year jail stint after a botched robbery. In prison, he’d had a lot of time to dwell on his life, coming to the realization that being a criminal wasn’t paying off. He didn’t have the necessary attributes for a successful life of crime—balls and intelligence. After prison, he worked dozens of crappy jobs, proving himself a good employee, then moving on to one a little less subservient. When he finally landed a job as a bartender in the corner bar near his apartment, he knew he’d found his niche. Both the hours and the atmosphere suited him.

Rita Claussen, a regular at the bar, was five years older than Eddie. A petite woman, she’d put on a few pounds over the years and wore her bleached blonde hair in a high concoction on top of her head, reminiscent of something from the ‘60s. He liked her bubbly personality, which became even more so as she drank. She often hung around till everyone else left, leaving with him after the bar closed for the night. An alcoholic, she nevertheless managed to get to work every day, where she held down a good job at one of the local breweries.

When they got married and moved into the lower flat of a nice duplex in West Allis, Eddie knew he had turned his life around. He wasn’t exactly sure when things started to go south, but thought it began on that first night he came home and found Rita passed out. She knew she had to take her insulin regularly and shouldn’t be drinking so much, but despite the many promises she made, her good intentions were short-lived. The frequent “revivals” Eddie performed wore on him.

After a couple years with no change in the pattern of their lives, Eddie wanted out, but felt like a real ass for thinking about divorcing Rita. He felt sorry for her and being married still had its advantages. Two paychecks ensured that he was able to save part of his wages every week, and Rita, a union employee, had good benefits and carried him on her health care plan.

He got over the idea of divorcing her, but then the owner of the bar he worked in decided to retire and move to Florida, telling Eddie he’d give him first crack at buying the place. Eddie had worked there long enough to know the bar provided a decent income. He’d been hoping for the opportunity for a long time. But with only a little over ten grand saved, he’d need at least another twenty-five to swing it.

Rita, as part of her benefit package at work, had that 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 that this could be his out. He didn’t have to divorce her—just not revive her.

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 that incriminates Fischer. Maggie couldn’t tell us what it was. They’re trying to get a search warrant for his place.”

Lisa was still talking when Jeff looked up to see two detectives from Brookfield PD standing at the door to his office.

He cut her 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 was going to 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. It was too late anyway; 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, was 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 i
s
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 was 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.

When Eddie got the money from Rita’s life insurance, the bar was still on the market. He hadn’t told anyone about the money and acted surprised when he found out he was getting it. He even got another few thousand from her 401K that he hadn’t planned on. Her death had been ruled accidental, Eddie’s negligence undetected. Things were going his way.

The purchase of the business went through and provided him with a comfortable income. Life was good again. He had enough money to drive a decent car, do a little gambling, and was even thinking of buying the duplex he lived in.

Then his gambling got out of control. He racked up some serious debt and had to take out a second mortgage on the bar. Life wasn’t as much fun with money worries thrown into the mix and his business jeopardized. Desperately trying to get out of the hole, Eddie let one of his bartenders go and began working longer hours.

One night at closing everyone had left except a man sitting at the end of the bar, staring into his beer. Eddie thought he’d seen the guy now and then, but didn’t remember ever talking to him. Eddie reminded him it was past closing and asked him to leave.

The man looked around nervously, making sure they were alone. “Do you know someone who could take care of my wife?”

Take care of his wife? Was she sick? It took a few seconds before it dawned on Eddie that the guy wasn’t interested in health care. As a bartender, he heard and was asked just about everything—but this?

“You’re puttin’ me on, right?”

The guy stared at Eddie and shook his head. Before Eddie could tell the creep to leave, he leaned across the bar and whispered, “It’s worth seven grand to me.”

Christ, seven-fucking-grand! Here was an opportunity dropping into his lap but did he have the stones to take advantage of it? He had to stall the guy, give himself time to think, make sure the asshole was on the level.

“I may know someone,” Eddie replied cautiously, “but it’ll cost you ten.”
Fuck, had he really said that?
Eddie broke out in a cold sweat, hoping the guy didn’t notice his shaking hands. He quickly picked up a damp rag, wiping the already spotless bar. Ten grand would take care of his problem.

 At first the guy just nodded at the price, then leaned across the bar again. In a loud voice, droplets of spittle landing on the gleaming bar, he raised his voice for the first time. “For ten, she’d better fucking disappear—and on a weekend I’m in Green Bay at the fucking bowling tournament!”

Eddie discovered not only could he do the deed, over the next few years he performed it repeatedly. Solicitation hadn’t been necessary. Each time, the opportunity just sort of happened. He thought it was amazing how many morons wanted their women out of their lives, overlooking the fact that he’d been one of them.

Forty grand later, the bar was solid again. Eddie contained his gambling to an occasional poker game and weekly lottery ticket. Comfortable again, he started seeing the woman who delivered snacks to the bar every week. Doreen Wade was a good woman. Tall, with red hair and a wide grin, she was divorced and had two kids, both over eighteen and living on their own.

On a Tuesday night, busy with the after-bowling crowd, Eddie went into the back room for a case of beer when he became aware that someone had walked in behind him; a short, thin, weasely looking guy with patchy hair and beady eyes. Eddie recognized him as one of the losers he’d referred to the imaginary hit man. Shit, now what?

“What the fuck is going on?” the guy demanded. “Some bitch detective is nosing around asking questions about my wife’s disappearance!”

“I told you I have nothing to do with that,” Eddie snarled.

“But you know this guy, right?”

“Listen, asshole, I was just the middle-man. The best thing you can do right now is shut the fuck up. Nothing goes back to you as far as I’m concerned. You need to keep your yap shut and forget about it.”

The guy looked doubtful, his lips curling. “I guess you’re right. But can you tell the guy someone’s asking questions?”

“I told you before I don’t even know the guy. I haven’t heard anything from him in a long time and there’s no fuckin’ way to contact him. He’s probably long gone.”

The little man didn’t question Eddie about how he’d contacted the guy in the first place. His face set in a dark scowl, he shoved a white business card at Eddie. “It’s on you now, pal.” He turned and stepped back out into the bar.

Edgy, but feeling like he’d dodged a bullet, Eddie went back to the task of restocking beer. Late that night, when the drinkers had all left for home, he pulled out the card the guy had thrust at him. On it was the name of the detective that had been asking questions.

Teal J. Peacock.
What the hell kind of name is that?