She's Not There (18 page)

It was after eleven when Maggie and David left the Waukesha station. Too wired for sleep, they had a beer in front of the TV, neither of them paying much attention to the old movie that was playing.

David was still angry that Waukesha had let Wysecki out of their sight long enough to run. “We don’t have enough manpower to be sure every possible route out of town is covered. Crap, that’s impossible, anyway. If Wysecki has an alternate ID, we’re screwed.”

Maggie sighed. “They didn’t have anything to hold Wysecki on. At the time, he didn’t seem important enough to put on a tail.”

She leaned back, her head on David’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. She should get some sleep, close down her mind for a few hours. She heard David flipping through the channels, finding the usual late night drivel, stopping at a poker tournament.

He said, “Wysecki doesn’t have much of a life outside of that bar. He’s a gambler. If he gets his ass to Vegas, he might as well be on the moon; any idiot could disappear in that town.”

Maggie opened her eyes and sat up. “Didn’t someone say he liked to play the horses? Wouldn’t a guy like that head somewhere with a track?”

“Might be a place to look. Most of the tracks in the Midwest close for winter, but isn’t there a track in Florida that’s open all year?”

“Florida and California, I think. It’s worth a shot. We could call the tracks and get his picture circulated, have them keep an eye out for the guy.” Excited, Maggie had a burst of renewed energy and went for her computer.

David groaned. “Not now.”

“It’ll only take a minute. I’ll find out which tracks are open this time of year, and we can alert them in the morning.” Maggie already had her computer open, quickly tapping keys.

“You do that. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”

After fifteen minutes online, Maggie discovered there were a lot of racetracks open during the winter months. She thought it best to go with the big ones and decided on Hialeah in Florida and Aqueduct in New York. She didn’t think the smaller tracks would be as attractive to a gambler, but she liked Arizona and New Mexico for their proximity to the border, and selected three from those states. She settled on a list of five to contact first thing in the morning.

At 7:00 a.m., they got a call from their boss to report back to Oconomowoc. When Maggie told him she had something on the Wysecki case that might be a promising lead, he told them to go ahead and check in with Waukesha, but be back by afternoon.

Zabel and Feinstein seemed grateful to have help, if only for the morning. Maggie showed them the printouts of the racetracks she’d pinpointed as places to which Eddie might gravitate and suggested they get in touch with track security at each of them; fax them a photo, and ask them to watch out for Wysecki.

“I like it,” said Zabel. “But we were just going over to the medical examiner’s office to find out how close they are to identifying the bodies. Then we have meetings set up with some of the bar regulars and Wysecki’s girlfriend.”

Feinstein’s brow wrinkled all the way up his bald head. He looked at Maggie. “Why don’t you two stay here and do the track thing and we’ll cover these appointments. I think you both know your way around pretty well.”

Maggie felt David’s irritation. He hated phone work, preferred to be out on the streets. But she wanted to make sure her idea was in place, and ignored his negative body language. “Sure, we can do that.”

Feinstein looked them both over, and folded his arms atop his round stomach. “On second thought, I’ve never been real fond of autopsies. If one of you would rather go out with Greg here, I’ll stay and help with the racetrack angle.”

David jumped on it. “Bodies don’t bother me, I’d be glad to go out with Greg. That is, if Greg doesn’t mind.”

Zabel nodded toward David and stood up to leave. They left the station, headed for the medical examiner’s office.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Max Feinstein turned to Maggie. “I hate seeing stiffs getting cut up, and my bad knee is bothering me. So anything that’ll keep me out of the morgue and on my butt is what I’d rather be doing.”

The temperature was in the low seventies in Hialeah, overcast but warm. Hardly a breeze ruffled the palm trees decorating the racetrack.

Unless there was a big race scheduled, Mondays at the track were small-crowd days. Despite the low attendance, no one was looking for Eddie Wysecki. At least half of the photos handed out to the security guards were resting in the bottom of freshly lined trash bins. Except for Fitz Herrera’s. He’d memorized the photo, pulling it out from time to time to compare it with a face in the crowd.

Herrera’s job was important to him. His goal was to become a police officer, but openings were hard to come by. The gig at the track had taken him years to get and could lead to a coveted position with HPD. He’d figured with security experience, he’d have a shot.

As he moved through the stands, he thought about Wysecki and wondered if he’d really killed all those women. Fitz loved women. He couldn’t imagine anyone hurting one of them, but in Miami it happened all the time. Sometimes even here in Hialeah.

He tried to think where someone like Eddie Wysecki would hang out if he were here. Probably in the grandstand where it was most crowded. The mutt would most likely stay outside and only go in to place a wager. For sure he’d use one of the new automated machines so he wouldn’t have to face a teller. Fitz’s eyes scanned the crowd.

On his third pass through the grandstand, he noticed a man sitting on a bench about three up from the space in front of the fence outlining the racetrack. He was wearing large mirrored sunglasses, a goofy-looking hat like a guy might wear to go fishing, and a jacket with the collar turned up even though the afternoon was getting warmer as the sun started to break through the clouds. He held a racing program in his lap, and a copy of every tip sheet sold by the vendors—a serious player. That fit with the guy’s profile and his size was about right. Fitz decided to keep an eye on him from a distance. 

Eddie hated the automatic wager machines. Working the damn machines while wearing the fucking reflector glasses was a pain in the ass, although hiding his face would be worth it until he could make the right connections for his escape to Mexico. He was enjoying the easy life: gambling, hanging at the track, frequenting the dozens of tittie-bars in the area, the endless, balmy weather. But his money wouldn’t last long here; he had to get to Mexico where he’d be considered a wealthy guy.

He was on a winning streak and finding it tough to stay low-key. Without sitting with a track buddy, the wins weren’t quite as savory. Throwing a fist in the air and pantomiming “Yes!” had to suffice.

He’d overheard what he considered a hot tip in the eighth race. His plan for the day was to scoot out after its finish. When the bell for the eighth race went off, Eddie hung on the rail. He’d bet some serious change. It turned out to be an exciting race, the horses bunched up coming around the final turn, with the favorite beginning to lose ground. Eddie was ecstatic as his horse, at 15-1, approached the frontrunner. Forgetting his cool, he shouted, “Come on six, come on six!”

When the three lead horses thundered over the finish line they were synchronized like a Swiss watch and Eddie’s number six was one of them. Even with a photo, the decision would be a tough call. Eddie went to a bench, sat for a minute, then came back and paced in front of the rail. When the photo finish of the race went up on the giant monitor the crowd went wild. Number six, Perry’s Pride, had won the race with only one, well-bred nostril nipping ahead of the other two horses.

Eddie went wild. He pulled off his hat and performed a frantic dance, looking like some kind of mystic tribal chief without the feathers. Halfway through his wild performance, the silver shades flew off his face.

His mania ended abruptly when two iron fists grabbed his arms, snapping on a pair of cuffs.

Later, interviewed by the press, Fitz was quoted as saying he acted on automatic pilot when he recognized Eddie Wysecki. In real time, however, as Fitz grabbed the guy, all that was going through his mind was, “This is my shot!”

TJ opened her phone.

Maggie said, “TJ, I wanted to talk to you about this first because I know you understand how the system works. We just got word that they’ve picked up Wysecki in Florida, but it’ll take a while to get him transferred here, maybe a few days. And he’s not talking. He asked for an attorney right away.”

“Fast work.”

“We haven’t turned up anything in his financials or from interviews that would give us any indication he had another place where he could be stashing bodies.”

“Never thought it was him doing the missing women.”

“Well, he may have disposed of the bodies someplace we haven’t discovered yet. You can tell the others that he’s in custody, but it’s not for publication.

“I know you don’t think he did the Ventura woman, but you know the blame is going to swing his way. You folks will be under the microscope if they start trying to find a connection between Eddie and Danielle.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

TJ closed the phone, deciding that after she shared the news with the group, she was going to forget about all this shit and have some fun. Jeff’s suggestion that they go out for a while after dinner would be a welcome relief from murder and mayhem. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a bright orange sweater, and boots with spiked heels. A good time was in order.

Jeff drove them to the Sombrero Club, a bar and restaurant on Pewaukee Lake, not far from Lisa’s office.

“They have great margaritas,” he promised.

“You ever been to this place?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it.”

TJ laughed. “Figured.”

They sipped margaritas, sitting at the bar listening to the band play music from the sixties and seventies. Jeff surprised her when he asked her to dance. While he wasn’t what she would call a good dancer, he managed himself well on the dance floor, a feat few men were able to accomplish. As she moved her body with the beat of the music, TJ realized she’d really needed to unwind.

When the final notes died out, the music continued with one of her favorites, “You Are So Beautiful to Me.” Jeff put his arms around her waist, and they began to dance to the slow, molten sounds of the love song. They weren’t exactly pressed together, but she put her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder, while reminding herself they weren’t on a date. But he felt good.

When the song ended, the band took a break.

Back at the bar, TJ picked up her drink. “You were right—they make a great margarita.”

Jeff frowned. “TJ, I think you put yourself at risk too often.”

TJ had forgotten they were out to celebrate her discovery of Tina’s mother, but hadn’t expected a lecture on her methods. “That’s how I live my life. Used to be a cop, you know. That’s when I really lived on the edge.”

Wisely, Jeff let the subject drop. When the band resumed, a tall, well-dressed black man approached them and asked TJ to dance. She looked at Jeff.

“Go ahead.”

Jeff watched her leave, thinking he’d never known anyone remotely like TJ. But he and TJ were just friends, weren’t they? A twinge of disloyalty struck him as he realized it had only been two months since his wife disappeared.

He watched them dance; they looked awesome together. It didn’t take long before the rest of the dancers circled TJ and her partner, watching their performance. Maybe this guy was someone TJ should get to know. Jeff hadn’t liked what he’d heard about Richard, her detective boyfriend.

When the song ended, TJ’s partner grabbed her to dance with him to the next song. Jeff downed his drink, trying not to watch her every move. Overcome with guilt, he ordered another drink.

After TJ finished the second wild dance with the other guy, the lights went down, signaling a slow dance. The song began.

“
No one told me about her, the way she lied
.”

Jeff nearly dropped his drink. He should have been prepared—they
were
playing old songs. Before he could react, TJ appeared at his side, asking him to dance. He knew she was probably just worried about him because of the damn song, but he wanted to feel her in his arms again. Hell with the damn song. On the dance floor, when she rested her head on his shoulder and he felt her warm breath on his neck, he knew—she felt the attraction too. The song ended all too quickly—it had lost its hold on him.

When they returned to their seats at the bar, Jeff felt like he needed to say something, but what?

“So,” he asked, “are you having a good time?” Lame. He should have kept his mouth shut.

She smiled at him. As she started to speak, a woman approached them. “Jeff? Jeff Denison?”

“Yes,” he said, not recognizing the woman. About his age, she was short with long, reddish hair.

“I thought that was you. I’m Susan Jaster. You probably don’t remember me, but I met you last year at our Christmas party.” Jeff looked at her blankly.

“You know, Lifetime Insurance, the place where Jamie worked.” Jeff still didn’t remember her, although his memory of the party was not a fond one. He’d never felt like he fit in with Jamie’s friends. “Sure, I remember that party.”

“You know, when I saw you I remembered something from that night.” She moved closer to him. Her breasts, loose under a thin, satiny top, grazed his arm.

“Something about the Christmas party?”

“About the night Jamie went missing.”

She had his attention. Jeff could feel TJ leaning forward, waiting to hear what Susan had to say. He asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, it was kinda weird. We were all drinking a lot and dancing, and I wasn’t even sure it was her.”

They were listening raptly for more. Jeff asked, “Are you saying you saw Jamie that night?”

“Yeah. I think I did. We were sitting at that booth over there.” She pointed to a booth across the room. “It was real crowded that night. I thought I saw her standing at the bar. “

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it? You
think
you saw her?” Jeff wished she’d get to the point if she had one. He didn’t think there was much chance Jamie had been at the Sombrero Club the night she disappeared.

“I’m pretty sure I saw her. But it was more than that. I met this guy, you know? We decided to go somewhere else for a while. When we left I thought I saw her car in the parking lot. It like—stood out, you know?”

Jeff did know. When Jamie bought the expensive little sports car, he’d said nothing even though he’d disapproved of the purchase. 

“Are you sure of any of this?”

“Well . . . pretty much.”

“Did anyone else see her?”

“No, just me.”

Jeff wanted to shake her. “Did you tell this to the police?”

“I wasn’t there the day the cops came around at work. No one believed that I saw her that night—we were always asking her to come with us and she never did. I had a lot to drink so I figured the cops wouldn’t believe me either.”

Jeff could understand that; she didn’t come across as very credible. She’d been looking questioningly at TJ. Jeff finally introduced her as a friend.

TJ helped wrap things up. “We need to get going. Gotta be at work early tomorrow.“

Jeff rose from his seat, tossing bills on the bar.

“Well, I just thought I’d tell you,” Susan hissed, obviously irritated that Jeff hadn’t been more interested in what she had to tell him. She stalked back to her table, her short suede skirt barely covering her narrow hips.

When the door closed behind them, TJ stopped, her eyes gleaming. “We got a lead!”