Chapter Twelve
Before turning in his report, Stone went back to the Feldman site just to make sure the dog shit was gone. As he drove down the shoulder of Willow Road, he noticed a white RV parked at the edge of the field. Figures were moving around inside. He climbed out of the unmarked. A dirty overcast grayed the air, and a damp, earthy scent recalled last night’s rain. He buttoned his jacket and started for the RV, but he’d only gone a few feet when his cell phone chirped.
“Stone, it’s Matt.”
He heard the hiss from another cell phone. “Hey, Singer. How goes it?”
“Could be better.”
“Yeah I hear. The word around town is you have some ‘esplaining’ to do.”
“What?”
Stone bit his lip. Not everyone in the world had been weaned on
I Love Lucy
. “How you holding up?”
“Not good.” Matt’s voice was tight. “Doyle convinced the brass not to convene the task force. I’m head dick on the case.”
“Congratulations?”
“Nothing like pressure, you know? I feel like I’m supposed to come up with the pot of gold.”
“Not if Doyle can do it first,” Stone cracked. “Or have you do it and take the credit.”
“You got it.”
“So, how can I help?”
“I’d like to run some ideas past you.”
“No problem. I’m just finishing up at the Feldman construction site. Meet me here in five minutes.”
“Where?”
“Willow and Waukegan.”
“Be there in two.”
Stone dumped the phone back in his pocket. With almost ten years on the force, Matt was starting to mature as a cop. He was smart, careful, and fearless. But the guy had only worked one homicide, and from what he’d heard through the grapevine, this one looked grim. Add the fact that Doyle had shit for brains and an ego to match, and this would be tough even for a seasoned dick.
By the time he got to the door of the RV, mud caked the soles of his shoes. He picked up a stick and was scraping it off when a woman swung the door open.
“Hello.”
He hardly recognized Ricki Feldman. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and plaid lumber jacket, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had a Cubs hat pulled low on her forehead.
“Detective John Stone.” He held out his hand. She returned a firm grasp.
“We saw you pull up.” She yanked a finger towards the interior of the RV. Two men sat at a table.
Stone explained why he’d come.
She smiled. “Thanks. We don’t get many visitors over here. At least the kind who identify themselves.”
“So I hear.”
“In fact, we have been feeling like the badass strangers in town—you know—the ones everybody hopes will leave on the next train.”
“You’re not strangers. Not with those condos down the road.”
“True. And the village survived. In fact, they’re selling well. I had hoped they would pave the way for a warmer reception.”
Stone noticed a tiny dimple on her chin. It made her look vulnerable. “Things will settle down.” As soon as he said it, he realized how trite he sounded. He cleared his throat. “Have there been any more incidents?”
“You mean since the dog shit?” She smiled again. “You have to admit—it was kind of clever—in a scatological sort of way. I wanted to call it into Howard Stern.”
The lady had a sense of humor. She led him inside and introduced him to the men with her. One was Paul Landon, the architect he’d seen at the hearings. The other was the general contractor. Stone shook hands.
“I saw you the other night,” he said to Landon.
“So, what did you think?” Landon asked.
Stone considered it. “I think that if dog shit is as bad as it gets, you’ll be okay.”
“Can you guarantee that in writing?”
Stone laughed. “I never put anything in writing.”
“Then I won’t stop worrying until you do.”
Stone was about to reply when Ricki fastened her gaze on something behind him. Stone turned around. Matt stood at the door to the RV.
“Detective Singer,” Ricki said, a curious smile creeping across her face.
Matt’s eyes widened. “It’s you. From the synagogue.”
Stone looked from Ricki to Matt. “You know each other?”
Matt looked at Stone, then back at Ricki. He nodded.
“It is
bashert
,” she said quietly.
Matt’s cheeks reddened.
For some reason Stone felt like an intruder.
***
“It did occur to me,” Matt tore open a packet of sugar. Parked in the Starbucks lot, Stone cracked the lid of his cup and blew on his latte. “I just don’t see the sister as the killer. They’re too different.”
“Since when does that mean anything?”
Matt produced the family picture of the Romano family. “Take a look. Hard to confuse the two, don’t you think?”
Stone peered at the photo. Matt was right. The two girls had the same face, but that was it.
“There’s something else,” Matt said. “Romano was gay. The sister isn’t.”
Stone tried his drink. Still too hot. “You keeping it quiet?”
“For now. She was still in the closet. Her parents didn’t know.”
“The media ‘ll have a field day when they find out.” Stone said. “But you still ‘gotta focus on the family. You pick up any anger or jealousy from the sister?”
“Her parents thought Julie was an angel.”
“Uh-huh.”
Matt took off his glasses and wiped them with a napkin. “But what’s Joanne got to be jealous of? A gay school-teacher, who stays home and tapes movies?”
“That don’t matter, if she grew up thinking she’s a piece of shit and her sister’s don’t stink.”
“She seemed pretty broken up. I don’t think it was an act.”
“What does she do, the sister?”
“Office manager. For a paving contractor.”
“Which one?”
“Palmoro. It’s in Niles.”
“So she’d know some muscle.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“What about the parents?”
“They’re frail. They can barely walk.”
“What else do you have?”
“She was probably killed before she was dumped.” Matt recapped what he knew. “The problem is the ME can’t rule on homicide. She died of massive shock.”
“Shock?” Stone turned a puzzled face to Matt. “From what?”
“Her GI system collapsed.”
“What caused it?”
“We don’t know yet. Bad food, a virus, poison.”
Stone sipped his coffee. A woman dies of massive organ failure and infection. Then she’s thrown into a dumpster. Of the thousands of pathogens out there, hundreds could cause those symptoms. The problem was identifying it. In order to test for toxins, you had to know what you were looking for, and if you didn’t, you could spend forever trying to narrow it down. “Have you started running through possibilities?”
“The screen came back clean. The ME’s doing some cultures. He’s hoping that might narrow it down. They do think it took a couple of days to work through her system, but there’s no indication she tried to get medical help.”
“Nothing from any ER?”
“No. Brewster checked.” Matt stretched his arm over the back of the driver’s seat. “And except for a blanket with a couple of fibers on it, we don’t have much physical evidence. Or motive. Or suspects.”
“You put it out on the system?”
“VICAP and LEADS.”
“Get anything back?”
Matt shook his head.
“You pick up any trace or scratch marks on her skin? That didn’t come from the truck, I mean?”
“No.”
“What about under her nails?”
“What nails?”
Stone raised the coffee cup to his mouth and took a sip. “What about her apartment?”
“I had techs go over it. Some bowls in the kitchen with her prints on them. Otherwise, nothing.”
“Anything that sticks out on her profile?”
“Aside from being gay?” Matt worked his fingers back and forth on the car’s upholstery. “Nada.”
“You track down anyone who was intimate with her?”
“Georgia’s looking into it.”
Stone chewed on a swizzle stick. “I might have an idea.”
Matt looked over.
“VICAP’s profile will be basically worthless, right?” Matt nodded. “You might get a consult from a shrink. Someone who deals with crazies all the time. If it was a case of poison, you may get something more specific.”
Matt looked over. “You know anyone?”
“Well, there’s this guy in the city. Helps out a dick from Area Three from time to time. Supposed to be good.”
“You get his name, I’ll give him a call.” Matt slipped his glasses back on. “So. What were you doing at the Feldman site?”
“Checking on some vandalism. You know this place. They trash everyone who wants to bring in development.”
“You’re on trash patrol, now?”
Stone laughed. “Gimme a break, pal. I’ve seen enough action for a while.”
Matt stared down at his cup. “So that was Ricki Feldman.” A smile played around his mouth.
“How do you know her?”
“I ran into her yesterday. Saying
Yarzeit
for her mother.”
“Is that so?” Stone drained his cup. He didn’t know what a
Yarzeit
was, but something in Matt’s eyes told him not to ask. “How’s Georgia?”
Matt’s smile faded. “I can’t complain.”
Stone pitched his cup through the window. “No, you can’t.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nine Years Earlier
It was going to be her second chance, and Maggie jumped at it.
She’d lived in the neighborhood all her life. The plant was down the street, the track around the corner. Everyone worked at one place and spent their cash at the other. She’d worked on the line too, during the summer, next to her best friend Patsy and her cousin Edna. They’d get home with just enough time to clean up, primp, and make it to the last race. Security looked the other way when they camped at the two-dollar windows. Later, when they started to pair up, they’d watch the ponies high up in the stands, letting their boyfriends accidentally-on-purpose fondle their breasts.
But now the neighborhood was slowly dying, like a patient with terminal cancer. After she’d married Richie and had Dusty, the plant pulled up stakes. Cheaper labor and better facilities down south, they said. Richie was out of a job. Just like that.
Maggie went to work as a waitress. Luckily, it didn’t take long before her boss promoted her. Daytime hostess was only a few dollars more, but at least Dusty would eat three square meals every day. Richie was supposed to be looking for a job, but mostly he’d just lie on the couch, smoke dope, and whine about how unfair life was.
She knew the end was near when they started to talk about closing the track. They’d threatened to close down before, but this time it was different. The papers were full of stories about off-track-betting and the lottery and riverboat casinos. How they were cutting into the track’s profits. How they couldn’t make enough to keep it open. No one talked about it much, but everyone knew it was coming. Like that movie Maggie saw a long time ago: “On the Beach”. About a nuclear war that spread radiation sickness all over the world. Everyone had already died except the people in Australia. They would too, once the winds brought it down under. It was just a matter of time.
It cast a pall over everything. Neighbors decided to forego a new coat of paint or repairs on the driveway. She did too. Her house was just too small, too dingy, too hopeless. Then crime started to go up. Nothing heavy, just petty break-ins. But everyone knew the rest would start up when the gangs moved in. And Dusty was almost old enough to understand it all.
So when Greg Champlain walked into the coffee shop, with dark stubble on his chin and a bright smile in his eyes, Maggie took his table and poured his coffee herself. He’d parked his eighteen-wheeler down the street. Tired of truck stops, he said. He wanted a place where they actually set the table for him beforehand. He was rolling through from Pittsburgh to Des Moines—not a long haul, but he wanted to make it home by tomorrow. Maggie asked where home was. Southern Illinois, he said. Carbondale.
She smiled. She’d spent a year there herself, in the late sixties. When she still thought she had a future. Before she got knocked up. She asked Greg if he’d ever eaten at the Moo and Cackle. Laughing, he said it was his second home. He paused, studying her face. Recognition lit his eyes.
“You worked there. At the register.”
Maggie felt the flush on her cheeks. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Three till eleven.”
They talked all afternoon.
***
Maggie and Richie separated. Frankly, Richie seemed relieved when she told him it was over, especially when she said not to bother with child support. Greg had promised to take care of Dusty as if he was his own.
She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Greg was kind, good-looking, and he made good money. The only problem was that he wasn’t around much. The road kept him away the better part of the week. But when he was home, it was a nonstop party. She’d never felt so young, or beautiful, or safe.
The first thing Greg did was look for a new house. He refused to consider the neighborhood, or anywhere in the city. They would live someplace where the air was clean, and the people were too. So he wasn’t the most liberal guy in the world. He didn’t like people who were different. White bread was good enough for him. Maggie could handle that. Look at what was happening in the neighborhood anyway. They had started to move in, and property values were dropping like a rock.
Whenever they could, mostly Sunday afternoons, they’d take a six-pack and some sandwiches and go exploring. One day they were out near Joliet, cruising down a newly paved road, when they came across an empty field. It was a big one, probably twenty-five acres, with a grove of trees in the back. A church steeple was barely visible through them. A bold-lettered sign announced a housing development would soon be built on the site. “If you’d like to live here, call this number.”
Greg braked and jotted down the number. Then he got out his camera and took pictures of the field. He was always shooting pictures. Of Maggie, Dusty, the dog. Said it was his way of documenting his life. Maggie didn’t think much about it. He was a dreamer.
The night Greg got back from a cross-country haul, he took her to Vincent’s, the only decent restaurant left in the neighborhood. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You just win the lottery?” Maggie asked.
“Better.”
He dug something out of his pocket, wrapped in white tissue paper with a red ribbon. When she opened it, several pictures tumbled out. Pictures of the empty field.
“What’s this?”
“Our future home, sweetie.”
What the hell was he talking about?
“You remember when we passed that place?” He pointed to the sign in one of the pictures.
She glanced at it. Nodded uncertainly.
“Well, I called the number. They’re making loans—practically interest free—if you buy a lot. It’s an incredible deal.”
“We don’t have enough for a down payment.”
“I think we do. If you sell the house, and I take a few extra loads, we could get close to thirty grand. That’s all we need.”
“No way,” Maggie said, but the corners of her mouth lifted.
“We can do it. I’m sure of it.” He folded her hand into his. “As sure as I am that I’m ‘gonna spend the rest of my life with you and Dusty.”
It was that kind of stuff that melted her heart. She felt a smile creep across her face, a smile that said she’d believe him.
Three months later she sold the house, and they got married. A week after that, they put down a payment on the lot.