She's Not There, стр. 49
He looked up. “You’re awake. I hope you’re feeling better.”
TJ blinked back to full consciousness. She must have really been out; the whiteboards were back in place and she hadn’t heard a thing. “I thought everyone left.”
“They did. I said I’d stay until you woke up.”
The enormity of what had sent her into a tailspin came back to her.
Orth watched her with narrowed eyes. “I have to admit I had another reason to stay. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”
What does that mean? Orth was too damn intuitive. “I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, told Jeff there was nothin’ to worry about.”
“He cares about you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I should get going.” Part of her wanted to hear what he had to say to her, even though the other part wanted to rabbit. “Thought the morning went pretty good.”
“TJ, I can see you’re bothered by something. I believe it’s about the case. In fact, if I were to make a wild guess, I’d say you had a sudden insight of some sort.”
Is the guy psychic? TJ was torn. She really needed to bounce this off someone else, and knew it couldn’t be one of the others. Not yet, anyway.
She ran her fingers through her hair. Orth had spun his chair over to her side. He was too close now. She had to either open up or shut him out.
She sighed. “How about a hypothetical?”
“That’s fine. However you want to discuss what’s bothering you.”
“What if I told you I think I know who our perp is, but nailing him will be impossible?”
Orth set down his cup. “I could say what you’d expect me to say—anyone can be found out and charged, but we both know that’s not always true.” He studied her face, then said softly, “I can see you’re in great pain, TJ.”
She had the bizarre thought he sounded like a priest. His unexpected sympathy touched her and all the emotions she’d been holding back for so long broke the surface. Quiet tears poured down her face. Orth moved closer, and put his arm across her back.
Geo Turner lived in an apartment above a Laundromat on east North Avenue, not far from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee in distance, but light years away in social strata. The neighborhood, with its high crime rate, was populated with older, two-story duplexes and small businesses.
A computer crime felon, Turner had been brought in by TJ and her partner on his third arrest, more than three years ago. They’d staked out his apartment until he emerged, unaware of their presence, coming with them willingly once he realized they outnumbered him.
Since then, he’d been effectively staying out of sight of the law. When he opened his door and saw TJ standing there, he growled, “Fuck! Can’t you cops leave me the fuck alone?”
She pushed past him into the ratty apartment. His office, located in what must be the dining room, was stocked with computers and related equipment probably worth more than the run-down building housing it. “Chill, asshole. I’m a private citizen now.”
Turner slammed the door behind her. “Then what the fuck you doing here?”
She jabbed him in the shoulder. “A little respect, fucker, I still have contacts in the department. Could get your scrawny ass hauled in like that!” She snapped her fingers. “I have a job for you.”
“Yeah, right. And I suppose its pro-fucking-bono,” he snarled.
“I can pay. But the price better be right.”
He snickered nervously, clearly worried it was some kind of set up.
“I need background on a guy. Everything from the day he was born. Detailed. Very detailed.”
“Sounds too fucking easy. What’s the catch?”
TJ took an envelope from her pocket, pulled out a photo of James Wilson, and slapped it on the table.
“Holy crap! You gotta be kidding me!”
Sneering, TJ got in his face. “If you’re so fucking good at what you do, I guess who this is shouldn’t be a problem. All you have to do is make sure your ‘inquiries’ are rock-solid undetectable. Got it?”
“Oh, I get it all right. You want me to fucking jeopardize my new life.”
“Like you’re one-hundred percent straight these days.”
Turner stiffened. “It’s going to cost you.”
She reached into the envelope and took out ten, one-hundred-dollar bills, laying the money next to the photo. “This is what it’s going to cost me.”
He picked up the money, turning up his nose like it was a six-day old dog turd. “I suppose you want it yesterday.”
“Nope, tomorrow works for me.”
“Two days.”
“Deal.”
A deal with the devil, but worth the risk.
59
Mason Orth hated winter. And Christmas. He often wondered what kept him in the Midwest, but Chicago was where he’d worked. His job had been his one great accomplishment in life. Staying in the place where he’d been successful made him feel grounded.
A round trip ticket to the Bahamas sat on his desk. Three days before Christmas he would leave and come back after the beginning of the New Year. He had no work scheduled over the holidays. The balmy weather of Freeport, the beaches, and the casinos beckoned.
When the doorbell rang, he set down a glass of wine along with the novel he’d been reading. He rarely had visitors and hoped it wasn’t another neighbor child selling their latest, useless fundraising item. When he opened the door and saw TJ standing there, he was peculiarly unsurprised. Without a word, she walked in as if she’d been invited.
She took a seat on one of the matching sofas positioned in front of a fireplace aglow with a cedar-scented blaze. He poured her a glass of wine, then left the room, returning with a plate of cheeses, crackers, and crusty bread, and placed them on the coffee table between the couches.
TJ passed him the envelope containing the report from Geo Turner. He pulled out the contents and selected the photo—James Wilson, aka Ronald Rommelfanger. The picture was grainy, but still revealed the misshapen features of his face, the rough complexion, and the gross obesity. “Imagine a child growing up with such a face. And name. It’s no wonder food was his only friend.”
TJ sneered. “My heart bleeds.”
After reading through it, Orth looked up from the file. “The accident that nearly killed him destroyed his face; a plastic surgeon transformed him into James Wilson. It’s understandable the man would have adopted a new name.
“It’s strange. I didn’t get any bad vibes from the man, but then I didn’t really talk to him one-to-one. This information certainly supports your suspicions. What are you going to do with it?”
TJ looked at him quizzically, her brow wrinkled. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here. Couldn’t keep this to myself and not sure I want to tell the others.”
Mason noticed how lovely she looked, her short hair tousled, her skin glowing a dusky, amber gold in the firelight; the only hint of her turmoil the dark shadows under her deep blue eyes. “I’m glad you came to me. I’m afraid it’s not unusual in my profession—knowing who’s responsible for an ugly crime, yet knowing you may never be able to bring that person to justice.”
“So you agree, there’s no real evidence here.”
“You’ll need more for a conviction even though he fits the profile of your killer.”
TJ sipped her drink. “Everything fits. There’s no doubt really. Least not for me.” Her face hardened. “He has to be stopped. Stopped before he can keep on killing women.”
“You don’t think the police would act on this?”
“They’ve said over and over there’s no evidence—no bodies. Fuck, he’s one of them; no way they’ll listen!” She poured herself another glass of wine, appearing to fight for composure. “No, tellin’ them will just tip him off. He’d take off just like Wysecki did. Someone has to stop him.”
With no doubt where she was headed, Orth took a deep breath, searching for the right words—if there were right words for a situation like this. “TJ, you’re putting an impossible burden on yourself. Why?”