“Sarah Dwyer. Martha promised to water Dwyer’s plants
while she was away.”
“How long ago was that?” Jack asked.
“Two weeks,” Noah said. “Officer Pratt said Dwyer got
back today, pissed because her plants were dead. She came to yell at Martha,
but nobody answered the door so she climbed the fire escape to bang on the
bedroom window, and saw her hanging.”
Micki’s brows went up. “She went to all the trouble to
climb the fire escape?”
Jack’s lips twitched. “Three guesses as to the plants
she was so attached to.”
“I thought the same thing,” Noah admitted. “But I bet
she got rid of any pot she was growing on her windowsill before she called 911.
Let’s finish up here. I’ve already searched the bedroom and bath. You take the
kitchen, I’ll take the living room.”
Noah was searching Martha Brisbane’s empty desk
drawers when Jack came in from the kitchen, a can of cat food in his hand. “The
vic had a cat,” he said.
“There weren’t any cats here,” Noah said and Jack
frowned.
“A multiple murderer and a missing cat. Not good. You
finding anything?”
“Nothing, and nobody’s desk is this clean. Let’s see
the neighbor, get a next of kin.”
“You talk to the neighbor,” Jack said. “I’ll go door
to door and find anyone who may have seen her more recently than two weeks
ago.”
Sunday, February 21, 8:20 p.m.
Dell stretched out his hand. “Gimme the zoom.”
Harvey shook his head. “You should have brought your
own tools.”
Dell shifted in the passenger seat. “They’ve been in
there a long time.”
“Means it’s a big case,” Harvey said. “Bigger the
case, harder they fall.”
“Sonsofbitches,” Dell muttered. “That article made
them look like damn Messiahs.”
Harvey heard the hate in his son’s voice. He felt the
same. “Which is why we’ll show the world the truth. Which is why you won’t be
taking that gun out of your pocket.”
Dell’s jaw tightened. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t, not till now. But it seemed like the kind
of damn fool thing you would have done. You shoot, and they become martyrs on
top of being heroes. And you go to prison.” He shot Dell a glare. “I lost one
son. I don’t want to lose another. We’ll be patient. We’ll watch and take
pictures and prove exactly what kind of men they are.”
“They deserve to die,” Dell said.
“Of course they do. But once we show the world what
they really are, they’ll go to prison.” Harvey’s brows lifted. “Do you know
what happens to cops in prison?”
Dell’s smile was a mere baring of teeth. “They’ll wish
they were dead.”
Sunday, February 21, 8:25 p.m.
Noah placed his mini recorder on Sarah Dwyer’s coffee
table. “So I don’t have to take notes,” he said when she eyed the recorder.
“How well did you know Martha?”
“I’d see her occasionally in the laundry room. We
weren’t friends.”
“But you gave her a key to your apartment, so you must
have trusted her.”
“She was a lady in my building,” Dwyer said
impatiently. “Sometimes we talked.”
Noah watched her wring her hands. “You seem agitated,
ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I just flew in from Hong Kong and
haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.” She pointed to a small hothouse on her
dining room table. “I get home, find my prize orchids dead, and my neighbor
deader. And you have the nerve to ac
cuse
me?”
“No one’s accusing you.” Jetlag and shock could
account for her nerves, and fury over dead orchids could have sent her up a
fire escape. “What did Martha do?”
“She was a computer consultant. I’m pretty sure she
worked out of her apartment.”
Noah thought about the empty desk. No papers, no CDs.
Only the computer. Odd that a consultant who’d worked out of her home would
have no evidence of work.
“In any of your conversations, did she seem depressed
or afraid?”
“No. Usually we talked about how much we hated Mrs.
Kobrecki. She’s the building manager. Kobrecki and Martha did not get along.”
He’d paged Mrs. Kobrecki several times, with no
returned call. “Why not?”
“Kobrecki said Martha was a pig. Martha took
exception. That’s all I know. If you want more, you’ll need to talk to Mrs.
Kobrecki.” She grimaced. “Or her grandson.”
“Why don’t you like her grandson?” Noah asked.
“He’s a creep. Once I caught him taking my lingerie
out of the dryer and sniffing it. I made sure never to do laundry at night
again. He only seems to come around at night.”
“What’s his name?”
“Taylor Kobrecki. Why?”
“Just gathering the facts, ma’am. Do you know Martha’s
next of kin?”
“Her mom. She’s in a nursing home, in St. Paul.”
Noah stood, giving her his card. “Thanks. If you
remember anything, please call me.”
“What is this?” she asked suspiciously. “
Did
Martha kill herself?” Noah smiled vaguely. “We’re just following procedure,
Miss Dwyer.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’ll have my gun loaded and next
to my bed tonight.”
“Anything?” Jack asked, meeting him as he left Dwyer’s
apartment.
“Maybe. You?”
“Bupkiss. You get a next of kin?”
“Nursing home, St. Paul. You get any calls back from
the building manager?”
“Nope. I couldn’t find any tenants who seemed to care
for her.”
“She has a grandson.” Noah’s brows went up. “Panty
fetish.” “Interesting. I wonder if Mr. Panty Fetish has a record.”
“I’ll run the grandson, you find the mom. Call and
I’ll meet you at the nursing home.”
“What about Gus Dixon’s case reports?”
“Records said they’d have everything pulled when we
got back to the station.”
Jack checked his watch with a sigh. “No dessert for me
tonight.” Noah gritted his teeth. “You get too much dessert,
partner
.”
Jack snorted. “This from the man who hasn’t had
dessert in how long?”
Noah shook his head. Everyone saw that Jack was a
train wreck. Everyone but Jack. “Just find Brisbane’s mother. I’ll meet you
there.”
“I’ll call Abbott,” Jack said, “and give him a heads
up.”
Abbott was their boss. “I already did, while you were
having your ‘quickie dessert.’ ” Jack’s eyes flashed, his lie called out. “And
no, I didn’t tell him you weren’t there.”
Jack let out a careful breath. “I owe you one.”
Noah met Jack’s eyes, held them. “Don’t make me sorry,
Jack. Please.”
Jack looked away. “I’ll call you when I find
Brisbane’s mother.”
Sunday, February 21, 8:45 p.m.
The crowd was cheering at the largest of Sal’s
flat-screen TVs. It was college hoops and home team star Tom Hunter had the
ball. Not much more needed to be said.
Eve watched her oldest friend fly across the screen,
dropping the ball through the hoop like it was nothing. A cheer shook the room
and Eve rocked back on her heels.
“Yes,” she whispered, then jumped when a stream of
cold beer ran up her sleeve. She jerked the overflowing pitcher out from under
the tap and shook her sleeve with a grimace.
Careless
. She’d have to let
it dry, as there was no time to change.
Tonight’s other bartender hadn’t shown. The line at
the bar had been unending, but so far, no one was complaining. As long as the
home team kept winning, that shouldn’t change. As long as the team kept passing
to Tom Hunter, winning was assured.
“Your friend’s got a real gift,” Sal said behind her,
quiet approval in his voice.
Eve jumped. For a man with a bad leg, Sal moved with
surprising stealth. Then again, the bar was so noisy that she couldn’t hear
herself think. Tonight, that was good.
“I know,” she said. She’d known Tom was gifted the
first time she’d seen him play on a crumbling blacktop in a poor Chicago
neighborhood. She’d been fourteen, Tom ten, both older than their years. She’d
been a runaway, and in a different way, so had he.
They’d become friends, raised under the sheltering
wings of three amazing Chicago women who had become Eve’s family. But her bond
with Tom went far deeper.
Tom was one of the few who truly understood Eve’s
nightmares, because the same monster haunted his. Both of them bore scars
inflicted by Tom’s biological father, Rob Winters. But now they were both past
all that. Reinvented.
Tom was the reason she was here, in Minneapolis. When
he’d been awarded a basketball scholarship to one of the country’s top schools,
he’d challenged her to come with him, to take her life back. To come out of the
dark and start anew.
And she had. Now Tom was on his way to becoming a
basketball legend, like his adopted father, Max Hunter.
And I’m finally out
of the darkness and into the light.
“Tom makes it look easy,” she said.
“Size fourteen feet should not be able to move like that.”
“I’m not talking about his game,” Sal said. “I’m
talking about his talk to Josie’s kids.”
Eve glanced up at him, puzzled. Sal’s wife, Josie, was
a high school guidance counselor in one of Minneapolis’s tougher neighborhoods.
“When was this?”
“Last week. He said he planned to go to all the high
schools, to tell kids to stay in school. Promised Josie’s kids he’d be back to
play a game with their team, for the ones that stuck it out. The kids are still
talking about him,” he said and Eve smiled, touched.
“It’s like Tom to do something like that without
bragging. He comes from good stock.”
Sal lightly knocked his shoulder against hers. “You
come from the same place.”
“Not exactly.” Tom’s mother, Caroline, was one of the
amazing women who’d raised her. Eve had no idea where her own mother was,
doubted she was still alive. “But I’ve been lucky enough to be taken in by good
folks everywhere I go.”
She finished filling a second pitcher, lifting both
into the customer’s hands. She’d stopped gritting her teeth against the pain.
It was a constant throb now, but she thought she’d been hiding it pretty well.
Until Sal nudged her aside.
“Ice your hand,” he said, then shot down her protest
with a warning look. “Do it.”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly and filled a bag with ice,
wincing as she placed it on her hand. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Rich was
supposed to be on with me tonight.”
“He called in sick.” Sal’s hands made quick work of
the waiting orders. “Why are you here? Callie was on tonight.”
“She had a date.” Who’d finally shown up with a dozen
roses and a story of a client who’d gotten himself arrested in an afternoon
hockey brawl.
Sal frowned. “You worked every day last week.”
“I need the money. The leak in my roof is worse,” she
said, but he shook his head.
“No, you need to go out on your own dates. You’re too
pretty to hide in this bar.”
Being called “pretty” still startled her. Being
accused of hiding, however, could not be borne. “I don’t hide,” she said more
sharply than she’d intended. “Not anymore.”
She knew Sal studied her face even though she kept her
eyes averted. For years people had stared at her face when they thought she
didn’t see, but she’d always been aware of the horrified stares and the
whispers. At least people didn’t do
that
anymore and for that reason
alone her plastic surgeon should be a nominee for sainthood.
“I’m sorry,” Sal said. “It’s just that you work so
hard here, then you go home and study, then go to school. And any moment you
have free you spend in that Fantasy Island computer game of yours, what with
its aviators and orgies. It’s not natural.”
That “Fantasy Island” computer game was really called
Shadow-land, an online virtual playground. There was no Mr. Roarke in a crisp
white suit, but like the old TV show, it was a place where adults could pretend
to be anyone they wanted to be, interacting with millions of players all over
the world while pursuing virtual fantasies.
Eve discovered Shadowland’s lure after the assault
that had taken her life, literally and figuratively. The virtual world had been
more than a game. It was a vital link to the outside world from which Eve,
scarred and ashamed, had hidden for too many years.
Thankfully those dark years were gone. Like Tom
Hunter, she’d reinvented herself. Shadowland was no longer an escape, but a
tool for her graduate research.
At least it had started out that way. But the tool of
her research had become a glitzy, gaping black hole, sucking her subjects into
its virtual world of fantasy faster than she could grab them. The research that
started out with such therapeutic potential had somehow become a trap, luring
and endangering the very people she’d sought to help.
“It’s not ‘aviators,’ ” she said to Sal, irritated.
“It’s ‘avatars.’ The characters are
avatars
. And where are you getting
this orgy stuff?”