by Beverly Long
His own daughter was usually a good student, but lately, As and Bs had turned into Bs and Cs with an occasional D. It pissed him off and worried the hell out of him. He’d told her she was going to have to quit the job if her grades didn’t improve. “Any new or unusual customers in recent weeks?”
The three of them looked at one another. “I don’t think so,” Sharon Plow said. “I mean, we’re gearing up for the high school prom that’s next week, so orders are starting to come in for that. That means a few new customers. But nothing out of the ordinary.”
He hated prom night. Always a potentially dangerous night for kids. Especially hated that Traci was going this year. He’d gladly forked over some extra dough for the limo for her and her friends—that took some of the worry away.
“How do you keep track of your sales?” Rena asked.
“If it’s an over-the-counter sale and the customer pays cash, we wouldn’t have any record. If they use a credit card, we’d have something. And if they place an order—say, for prom or a wedding or a funeral—we keep a log of those types of requests just to make sure nothing slips through the cracks.”
“We’d like to have the names and any other information you have on any customers in the last three months,” he said.
“Of course,” Sharon said. “You...you don’t really think it was one of our customers, do you?”
He could hear the fear in her voice. A death like this shook people up, made them suddenly not trust people they’d trusted for years. “We just don’t want to overlook anything,” he said. It was the most comfort he could offer.
He and Rena gave their business cards to all three of them and left, closing the door softly behind them. “What do you think?” he asked Rena as they got back into the car.
“I think Jane Picus had a nice job working with nice people,” she said. “Can you imagine going to work every day and getting to make pretty flower arrangements?”
It sounded boring as hell to him. “You’d hate it.”
Rena sighed. “I probably would. Which says something about me.”
“Let’s go talk to a few more neighbors,” he said.
Three
This time, when they knocked on the neighbor’s house to the right of Jane Picus’s house, the door was answered. The guy was young, maybe just thirty, and was wearing pajama pants and a tight white T-shirt. He had big biceps and washboard abs.
They did introductions. Paul Scorci had heard about Jane’s death. The neighbor on the other side, the blonde they’d spoken to earlier, had sent him a text.
“We tried your door earlier, Mr. Scorci, but there was no answer. Where were you?” Rena asked.
“At my parents’ house. I, like, watch my little sister until my parents get home from, like, work.”
Like this. Like that. Scorci was a thirtysomething trapped in a thirteen-year-old’s vocabulary.
“What do you do for work, Mr. Scorci?”
“I watch my sister. Like, every day for a couple hours.”
“No other work?” A.L. clarified.
“No. My parents pay me, you know, pay the rent here and stuff. Like, it’s important to them that somebody be with Amy.”
“Were you and Mrs. Picus friends?”
“Friendly. She was nice. Would always bring my garbage cans in on windy days so they didn’t blow around.”
The guy was home all day and couldn’t be bothered to get his own garbage cans. A.L. swallowed hard. “Did she ever mention any trouble that she might be having with anybody?”
“We weren’t that kind of friends. Like, she’s quite a bit older than me.”
And maybe thought you were a self-indulgent leech that made her even more grateful for her straight-A daughter. “See anything unusual at her house lately?” A.L. asked.
“Not at her house,” he said. “I did see a strange car, like, in the neighborhood two nights ago. I exercise every night right before bed. It was about eleven, and I came around that corner,” he said, pointing up the block, “and I saw a car. I thought it was in front of my, like, house. And usually nobody in this neighborhood parks on the street. We’ve all got driveways and garages. So I was watching it. But, like, as I got close, it pulled away.”
“Can you describe this vehicle? Make, model?” Rena asked.
He shook his head. “I know guys are supposed to love cars, but I really don’t pay a lot of attention to them. It was a four-door.”
“Sedan, SUV, crossover?” Rena asked.
“Sedan.”
“Color?”
“Dark. I mean, maybe black or blue. Like, hard to tell at night from a distance.”
“Wisconsin license plate?” A.L. jumped in.
Paul Scorci closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I...guess I’m not very good at seeing a lot of details quickly.”
“It’s fine,” Rena assured him. “You’re confident that you’d never seen this car before two nights ago?”
Scorci nodded.
“And did you get a look at the driver?” A.L. asked.
“No. Like, I was pretty focused on my heart rate. I wear a monitor on my arm. Like, you know, got to get it to a certain point for the workout to do much good.”
They both handed over cards. “If you think of anything else,” Rena said, “can you please call us?”
“Of course. Like, this is really terrible. How’s her husband, like, doing?”
“He’s upset,” A.L. said. Dumb shit. “Have a good night.”
* * *
“If that was my kid, I’d want to shoot myself,” A.L. said as they got back into the car.
Rena shrugged. “You’ve got a good kid. Not everybody gets as lucky.”
Traci played the flute in the high school band and was a star on the girls’ volleyball team. Jacqui sometimes bitched that her ass was tired of sitting on wooden bleachers, but they both agreed that it was good for a kid to be busy—kept them out of trouble.
He’d put a board up his ass if it meant that she’d get through high school and college without getting pregnant, overdosing on heroin or running up against any other thing that could derail a good kid’s chances at a nice life.
“What do you think about the car?” Rena asked.
“I don’t know. Dark-colored sedan. Doesn’t give us much. But if Brain-Boy was right and the car hadn’t been there before, it does make it seem as if Jane Picus was watched, for at least a little bit.”
“Consistent with our theory that it’s not a random victim,” Rena said.
“Definitely.” Once the pattern of ten days had been established, he and Rena had agreed that any killer tied to a specific date wasn’t likely to leave the victim to chance. God forbid if he didn’t happen to stumble upon somebody.
“Now all we have to do is find something that Jane has in common with our three other victims,” Rena said.
Which shouldn’t be so damn hard. The town had a lousy fifty thousand people. Seemed as if he was always running into the same people all the time. He’d see them at the football game, at the band car wash, at the... He looked at Rena. “Jane Picus had a daughter at college. All of our other victims also had kids, right?”
“Yeah. All of them had kids.” She pulled out the small notebook that she always carried. Flipped pages. “Different ages, though. Leshia Fowler had two kids. A thirteen-year-old boy and a sixteen-year-old girl. Marsha Knight had a twenty-six-year-old daughter. LeAnn Jacobs had a twelve-year-old daughter and twin boys who were ten. And, of course, Jane Picus had a nineteen-year-old daughter.”
“Not all of them had sons, but all of them had daughters,” he said.
“Yes. But such disparate ages.”
“I don’t care. Let’s look at it again. Focus on the kids. Where they went to school. Who their teachers were. Were they all in band? Did they all play sports? We fucking look at
everything.”
“Okay,” she said. “Stop yelling.”
“I’m not yelling. I’m talking,” A.L. said.
“If this is the way you talked to your wife, it’s no wonder you’re divorced,” Rena said. She looked at her watch. “Speaking of divorce and trying to avoid one, I’ve got to go. I told Gabe that we’d have dinner together.”
“Since you haven’t for the last month?” he asked.
“Yes, that, and it’s our third anniversary. But once we’re done, I’ll pull the electronic files on all the victims, start looking for anything that’s similar for the daughters.”
Nobody was taking more than a few hours of personal time before they were back at it. “Okay. I’m going to work the car angle. Make sure that nothing has been reported missing lately that matches the description. Also, see if we can pick up any street video. We’ve got a pretty good departure time. Brain-Boy said he was coming back around eleven. If the driver took any of the main streets, we might have him.”
“Good luck,” she said as he pulled into the lot where they kept their personal vehicles.
“Yeah. You, too. What did you get Gabe for your anniversary?”
“A tie,” she said. “I know, lame.”
A.L. shrugged. “I was always bad at the gifts. That’s probably another reason why I’m divorced.”
Rena opened her car door. “Not making me feel any better here,” she said.
* * *
Rena drove home and let out a sigh of relief when she didn’t see Gabe’s car already in the driveway. That meant that she might have time to grab a fifteen-minute nap before jumping into the shower. She was so damn tired all the time. Wanted nothing more than to put on her pajamas and eat a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup while she watched a little television. But Gabe was probably tired, too. After traveling. And if he was going to make the effort to do something special for their anniversary, she could, too.
He’d always been the romantic one. Always remembered her birthday, always had a gift for her, always did something nice on Valentine’s Day. She, on the other hand, was generally buying a card on the day of and, more often than not, didn’t get him a gift.
“You’re my gift,” he would say when she’d awkwardly apologize that she’d come up short. And she’d silently vow to do better the next time. And sometimes she would.
She walked into the house and didn’t bother to turn on any lights. There was a small one burning over the kitchen sink, and it was plenty to keep her from crashing into anything. Not that there was generally anything to stumble over. The house was pretty neat. Both she and Gabe picked up after themselves, and because they were gone so much, there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to mess up the place.
That would all change when they had a baby.
When, not if.
She walked upstairs, kicked off her shoes and sat on the bed. Then, without bothering to undress further, she lay back and closed her eyes.
When she awoke, she immediately felt disoriented. Picked up her phone and realized that she’d been sleeping for over an hour. There was a text message from Gabe.
Back in Wisconsin but have an unexpected meeting in Madison. Won’t be home until late. We’ll do dinner tomorrow night. Love ya.
She lay back down. Gabe rarely had unexpected meetings. He was an account representative for Witzer Foe. The company sold financial products and services to small employers, generally those with less than two hundred employees. He didn’t do front-end sales, but rather back-end education, once the employer had signed on the dotted line. His territory included Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa, which required travel, but at the end of the workday, he was generally free.
It was odd that he’d texted. He usually called. But maybe he’d been in a hurry, and he knew she had the kind of job where she couldn’t always answer the phone. A text was better for ensuring that the communication was received.
It dawned on her that she’d gotten her wish. She could have a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.
Maybe later. She closed her eyes.
And didn’t wake up until she felt the other side of the bed sink in. “Hey,” she said softly. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight,” he said. “Sorry I bailed,” he added.
She sat up in bed. It was very dark in the room, the only light coming from a small night-light in the adjoining bath. “No problem. How was the meeting?”
“Good, good,” he said.
She could smell the whiskey he favored on his breath. “Who was the meeting with?” she asked.
“Richard.”
“Richard?”
He rolled over, giving her his back. “Richard Jones,” he said, sounding irritated. “I don’t think you’ve met him. Can we talk about this in the morning? I’m beat.”
“Sure. Of course.” She lay back, her eyes wide open.
Fifteen minutes later, irritated beyond measure by Gabe’s light snore, she gave up. She might as well be up, accomplishing something. And she had promised A.L. that she’d look for anything that tied together the daughters of the victims.
She went down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and peanut butter toast. Then opened her laptop. Two hours later, when she was so tired that she couldn’t keep her eyes open, she went back to sleep. On the couch.
She woke up when she heard the clinking of two coffee cups. Gabe, already showered and dressed for the day, had two cups in his right hand, a wrapped package in his left.
“Morning,” he said.
She nodded and reached for one of the cups. “Thank you.”
He said nothing. But he took a seat on the chair opposite the couch. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I missed dinner. I...just couldn’t help it.”
Once upon a time, she’d have bet her last nickel that he’d have figured out a way to postpone the business meeting so that he could be home for their anniversary dinner. “It’s fine,” she said. “I got home sort of late, anyway.”
She had a habit of doing that. Saying things that made it less of a big deal. A holdover from childhood when she’d perfected the art of pretending that she wasn’t disappointed.
“I got you a little something,” he said, handing her the wrapped box.
She set her coffee cup on the lamp table. Took her time untying the bow that he’d obviously had help with. She suspected this was from Lander’s Jewelry, where they advertised that the outside lived up to what was inside.
Sure enough. She opened the box. It was a lovely strand of pearls. Simple. Elegant.
Where the hell was she going to wear these?
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
“I didn’t think you had anything similar.”
Of course not. Christ, she was such a bitch. “I don’t.” She unfolded her legs from the couch. Walked over to the dining room table, where she’d dumped her shoulder bag the night before. Pulled out the tie box.
That she hadn’t even bothered to wrap. She returned to the couch, handing it to him on the way.
“Let me guess,” he said, pretending to be puzzled.
She smiled.
He opened the box. “Nice,” he said.
It was a pretty tie. A bright blue that would bring out the color of his eyes. He was very handsome, always had been. But now, with forty in the rearview mirror, he had to wear his glasses, which had at one time only been for reading, all the time.
It only made him look better, which was so damn unfair when she rocked the haggard-witch look most days.
They sat in silence for another minute. Then he stood. “I should get going. Big day today.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“I’ll catch something at the office,” he said. He leaned down and brushed a kiss across her forehead. This morning he was minty-
fresh, but the whiskey smell lingered in her head. “See you tonight,” he said.
And then he was out the door.
She listened for the garage door to open, then close. Poured herself another cup of coffee. Tried to enjoy the silence of her house, knowing that as soon as she got to work, any hope for quiet would generally be blown to hell.
But this morning, quiet and lonely were all mixed up, making it hard for her to separate one from the other. Finally, she gave up and walked upstairs to stick her head under the shower.
Four
Wednesday, May 11, Day 1
A.L. looked up when Rena hung her jacket over the back of the chair. Their desks faced each other. She kept her space neater, and in her drawer, nicely labeled, color-coded folders spoke to her efficiency. He believed in straight manila and that out of sight meant out of mind. Looked bad, but he was able to find things when he needed to, and there was no such thing as a cold case.
“How was dinner?” he asked.
“Gabe had a meeting.”
Shit. “These things happen.”
“I guess.” She picked up a file. Held it for a minute, then set it down. “He got me pearls.”
He probably should have given Jacqui some pearls. “Nice.”
She stared at him, her dark eyes heating up. “Do I look like a pearls kind of girl?”
“I have no idea,” he said honestly. He sucked at this kind of thing. “Take ’em back if you don’t like them.”
“I would never do that,” she said.
“Did he like the tie?”
“He said he did.” She started clicking keys on her computer. “I struck out trying to connect the victims’ kids. Some similarities in schools, of course, given that there are just three middle schools and two public high schools.”
“I spent a couple hours looking at street video. There’s a whole lot of dark sedans in this town. I got Ferguson and Blithe to help.” Both of the other detectives had been employed by the Baywood Police Department for years and were as solid as they came. They were also part of the task force and information could be shared freely with them.
