The Silenced Women

by Frederick Weisel

  At Twelve, he approached a woman in a green vest demonstrating a power drill to a young couple. “Have you seen Irwin Partridge?”

  She shrugged. “Break room an hour ago. He’s around.”

  “You all wear the green vests?”

  “We kind of have to.” The clerk stared at Coyle. “Why do you want to know?”

  Coyle showed his badge.

  The woman turned away from the couple. “Irwin wears his vest over one of those insulated jackets. He works out in the storage shed and gets cold.”

  Coyle ran to the next aisle and the one after that, scanning the length. On aisle Seven, he saw a green vest at the far end, partially covering a black insulated jacket. Coyle watched the clerk stack PVC pipe on a shelf. He imagined walking down the aisle, taking out his gun halfway, waiting until he was behind the clerk to say Partridge’s name. Should he call Dietz?

  Suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder. Coyle jumped. Turning, he found an elderly shopper. “I’m looking for clocks.”

  Coyle shook his head. When he looked back down the aisle, the green vest was gone. He ran the length of the aisle, a sprinter in a maze, past shoppers and carts. At the intersection of a crossing aisle, he slammed into a customer, knocking the man backward into a display of spray paint, cans clattering to the floor.

  By the time Coyle recovered, the green vest was gone. Coyle looked toward the dark storage shed. He moved slowly, until he saw the green vest facing a rack of metal fence posts. When he was ten feet away, Coyle raised his gun and shouted, “Police. Put your hands where I can see them.”

  The green vest continued pulling metal posts down from the rack. When Coyle moved closer, he saw the earbuds the clerk wore. He pulled the man around. It wasn’t Irwin Partridge.

  “The fuck you do that for?” the clerk shouted. Then he saw Coyle’s gun. “Who are you?”

  Coyle held up his badge. “I’m looking for Irwin Partridge.”

  “He’s not here. He left.” The clerk’s eyes stayed on Coyle’s gun.

  “What do you mean, he left?”

  “What do you think I mean? He drove away. Here, I’ll show you.”

  The clerk led Coyle to the shed’s loading dock, which had a view of the parking lot. “Irwin goes to his car to smoke. Nissan 240Z. Puke green. Always in the last space, first row. See. It’s not there now.”

  “When’d he leave?”

  “I don’t know. Few minutes ago, I guess. What’d you want him for?”

  Coyle ignored him.

  “We done?” the clerk asked, louder.

  Coyle nodded. He holstered his gun and called Dietz, giving him a description of the Nissan. Then he called Mahler. “I’m at the store. Partridge’s gone, and I can’t find Woodhouse. He’s not picking up.”

  “Send a unit to Partridge’s apartment,” Mahler said. “I doubt he’ll go there, but he might. If he tried to call his girlfriend and she didn’t answer, he’ll be suspicious.”

  “Where’re you?”

  “On my way to Thackrey’s place in Dry Creek. The two guys in the park photo, Banerjee and Tao, gave him up. Frames called me.”

  “Steve’s there?” Coyle asked.

  “Long story. Look, if Woodhouse isn’t at the store, he must be with Partridge.”

  “So what do I do now?” Coyle asked.

  “Put out a BOLO, and keep trying to reach Woodhouse.”

  For a moment neither man spoke. Then Mahler said, “You better call Eden. Partridge’s girlfriend said he’s got a thing for her.”

  “She’s not with you?”

  “No. I…told her to go home. Just call her.” Mahler hung up.

  Coyle dialed Eden’s cell. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Coyle stared at his phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  (i)

  (FRIDAY, 12:45 P.M.)

  Driving up the hillside to Thackrey’s house, Mahler saw two patrol cars near the front door. As he neared, he noticed a pair of officers standing in front of the vehicles—Ted Bursick and Brian Hoenig.

  Bursick, a tall man with close-cropped hair and wraparound sunglasses, stepped forward. “No answer on the door. No car in the garage.”

  Mahler climbed out of his car and walked to the door. He rang the bell and waited. No response, so he turned the doorknob. The door opened. He turned to the other officers. “I’ve got warrants.”

  Hoenig shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  They stepped inside, guns drawn. “Santa Rosa Police,” Mahler called. “Benjamin Thackrey, we have warrants for your arrest and to search the premises.” He led Bursick and Hoenig down the corridor, weapons extended. In the living room, they split up to search different rooms—no sign of Thackrey. Three minutes later, they gathered in the living room and holstered their guns.

  “Now what?” Bursick asked.

  Mahler watched the officer check out the large painting and wondered what he made of the bright red gash slicing down the white canvas. “Let’s have a look around.”

  Hoenig reached into a pocket for latex gloves. “What’re we looking for, Eddie?”

  “Any evidence of where he went and whether he’s coming back.”

  Bursick headed for the guest bedrooms; Hoenig, the office.

  Mahler entered the master bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling windows faced the vineyard. The bed was made, the room clean. He checked the two bedside cabinets—both empty. A walk-in closet was only half-filled.

  In the marble-tiled bathroom, Mahler caught a glimpse of his face in the brightly lit mirror. His eyes were still dark, an echo of his afternoon migraine.

  Back in the bedroom, Mahler could imagine Thackrey emptying and wiping down the room. In a day or two, the techs might find whatever the cleaning had overlooked—chemical traces, fibers. But for now, the room had been stripped of both crime-scene evidence and all traces of Elise Durand’s life. It was as if the victim had been literally erased from the space.

  Who is this guy? If he’s so smart, why’d he kill someone? Why didn’t he run before this? More important—where’s he gone? What am I missing?

  Mahler shook free of his thoughts. He went back to the walk-in closet, facing a rack of dark shirts and black suit jackets, and ran a hand across the top of the hangers. As the clothes turned to his touch, he spotted a bright color. He flipped back and saw a tiny bit of yellow rising above a jacket pocket. He squeezed it between two fingers and pulled.

  A woman’s yellow silk scarf.

  The scarf had a border of tiny flowers and smelled of perfume. Mahler imagined Elise Durand tying a knot in front, turning before a mirror, her fingertips tracing along its border close to her neck. He smiled.

  I’m still here.

  Mahler dropped the scarf into an evidence bag and went back to the living room.

  Bursick was waiting for him. “Quite a house. Three guest bedrooms, home theater, pool house, wine cellar. Must have five hundred bottles. But nothing to say where this guy is. What’d you find?”

  Mahler raised the evidence bag. “Scarf—might be the victim’s. The room’s cleaned out.”

  “You know something, Eddie?” Bursick asked. “You do this often enough, you get a sixth sense. You ever feel that? My gut says this guy’s in the wind.”

  Mahler checked the empty spot on the cabinet top where earlier in the day Thackrey had pointed out the expensive sculpture. “Yeah. He’s gone.”

  Hoenig came from the office, holding a small box. “I didn’t find a map of downtown Buenos Aires like they do on TV. But I did find something else. These guys were in a desk drawer. Nine-millimeter hollow points. Two more boxes in the drawer. Weapon’s not there, so our boy probably has it with him.”

  “Okay. I get he’s gone,” Bursick said. “But why doesn’t he lock the door?”

  Mahler shrugged. “Because he’s not com
ing back.”

  The three men stood silent for a moment.

  “Put out a BOLO on his car,” Mahler said. “2018 Jaguar, silver, plates are in the system. And notify the airports. He’s been on the move for at least an hour.”

  Mahler called Frames. “Steve, see if the two suspects there received any texts or calls from him in the last hour or so. I’ll wait.”

  He walked to the glass walls overlooking the vineyard. Rows of grapevines ran straight across the valley. He remembered reading how vineyard managers use GPS technology to map out fields for perfect alignment. His thoughts followed the trellis rows to a vanishing point at the base of the low hills to the east. Little about this case had gone as he’d expected. There’s something here. What am I missing?

  “Eddie?” Frames’s voice sounded on his cell. “No calls or texts in the past hour. But Thackrey called Russell Tao two hours ago. Said he was meeting someone.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “According to Tao, Thackrey didn’t say, and neither of these guys knows. Something else, though. These guys just told me Thackrey killed Elise because she knew he murdered a woman named Reggie Semple in San Francisco two years ago.”

  “Yeah. We knew SFPD questioned him about the murder. The connection to Elise Durand explains why Thackrey acted surprised when Eden mentioned it to him this morning. Look, if Thackrey tries to contact his friends, call me.”

  Mahler called Coyle. “Where are we on Partridge?”

  “No word on his car, and I still can’t get through to Tom. I just got a call from the unit that went to Partridge’s apartment. He’s not there. You think Partridge spotted Tom and ran?”

  “I don’t know. Why isn’t Tom calling us? I told him to let us know if Partridge moved.”

  “You get Thackrey?”

  “He’s not here. The house’s empty.”

  “Eddie, Eden’s not answering her cell either. I tried three times. If Partridge is going anywhere, it might be to Eden. He knows she worked the evidence on his girlfriend. You want me to go over to her place?”

  A new wave of pain pounded behind Mahler’s eyes. Was this slipping away? Both killers were gone. The evidence and leads were fading. Was it happening again?

  “Eddie, you there?” Coyle asked.

  “Yeah. Look, I have an idea. Go to the park. Partridge’ll be there.”

  “Spring Lake? Why?”

  “He’ll go back. Eden said his pattern is to kill in the same kind of place every time. If he’s pressured, he’ll go back to the park. Drive to the west parking lot, below the campground. If you see his car, take Fisherman’s Trail, down near the boat ramp.”

  “What about Eden? Partridge’s a stone killer. He kills girls like Eden, and you said he’s got a thing for her.”

  “No. Go to the park. Partridge’ll be there.”

  “You want to take him, Eddie? He’s your guy. You’ve been after him for two years.”

  Mahler heard the words “your guy” and felt them register. A few hours earlier he might have jumped at the chance of personally arresting Partridge. But something had shifted. Maybe it was Susan Hart telling him that Partridge’s arrest would not change her death and her not wanting to be stuck saying the same things over and over. Maybe it was already done between Partridge and him.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You go.”

  “You’re sure he’ll be at the park? If we’re wrong—”

  “Just do it.” Mahler tapped the screen to end the call.

  Coyle’s voice hung in the air. If we’re wrong—

  (ii)

  (FRIDAY, 1:00 P.M.)

  Eden unlocked the back door of her condo and entered the kitchen. Except for a brief shower two days earlier, she hadn’t been home since Tuesday morning. With the shades drawn, the room was dark and smelled of something rotten. She flipped on the light to look around. After the events of the last three days, she was surprised at the normalcy of her home.

  Driving home, she’d thought of the cases’ ending. How was she supposed to feel? How did the rest of the VCI team feel? She should have a sense of accomplishment. They identified the killer of Elise Durand and found evidence to convict Irwin Partridge. So why did she have a sense of something left unfinished?

  Eden kicked off her shoes without unlacing them and walked across the kitchen in her socks. She turned on the countertop TV. When she pulled out the tie, her hair felt dirty and greasy. She removed the holster and gun and put them on the kitchen table. Emptying pockets, she found her cell phone and saw a missed call from Coyle. She hadn’t heard it while she was driving. She reached to call him back but stopped to watch a breaking news story on the TV about a bank robbery in southeast Santa Rosa.

  She opened the refrigerator door to investigate the source of the room’s rank odor. In front of her, prominently on the middle shelf, sat an opened bottle of pinot grigio. The culprit for the smell was probably beside the wine—a milk carton past its due date. Or, the yellowing celery stalks, jammed in a glass of water in a forlorn attempt at restoration. Or, the brown-topped guacamole on the shelf below. She would deal with them later.

  For now, she took out the pinot, found clean stemware in the cabinet, and poured herself a glass. The wine was cold and brought back memories of the first time she had drunk pinot grigio. It was the summer between junior and senior years in college when she and her friend Leslie spent three weeks in the Umbrian hill towns of Italy. One warm night they stayed outside Spoleto and bought bottles of chilled wine at a market. As they sat in the hotel’s stone courtyard, two Italian boys rode past on motorbikes. A few minutes later the boys returned. They were shy and spoke little English. They offered to take the girls for a ride. When Leslie declined, Eden invited the boys to share their wine.

  They sat around the hotel’s shaky metal table—the taller boy, Giovanni, next to Leslie, and the other one, Ludo, beside Eden. At first, they spoke using hand gestures and Eden’s untested sophomore Italian. Then they broke off into two separate couple conversations.

  Ludo had long black hair and dark eyes. He was twenty, studying to be an engineer. Eden had struggled to keep up with his Italian. He spoke with a lilting accent and called her E-den.

  They drank glasses of the cold wine. The name, pinot grigio, Ludo said, meant gray pinecone. He demonstrated how to hold the glass under her nose and smell the flowers and citrus. Eden loved the wine’s cold, green flavor. After the third glass, she stopped trying to translate what the boy said and imagined his words to be an ancient lyrical poem.

  Giovanni took out his phone and played Italian pop songs. He stood and gestured with his arms, inviting the girls to dance. Ballare, he said, taking Leslie’s hand. Ballare.

  Ludo and Eden danced with one arm around each other, their right hands holding a glass of wine. Ludo taught her to raise the glass, so he could see her beautiful face. Bel viso. He leaned close so she felt his soft hair on her cheek. He gently kissed her neck. She laughed and felt herself in a wonderful familiar dream.

  Ludo paused in their dance. He kissed one ear and whispered the only English words he knew, taught by a visiting nun. “Mon-tan-a,” he said. “Col-or-a-do.” Eden giggled at the boy’s silliness. But she heard the earnestness in his voice as he spoke the words slowly, musically, syllable by syllable. Intoxication wrapped her in a cloud. His words became a happy dizziness.

  Then Ludo drank from his glass and kissed her slowly on the lips, and she tasted the wonderful cold wine in his kiss.

  Now in her kitchen, Eden remembered the music and the dance. It was a time, maybe the last time, when she could remember herself as a person without regrets. Holding the glass above her head, she closed her eyes and began to sway, alone, in front of the refrigerator. She moved in a small circle in her socks, round and round, humming one of the Italian songs to herself and remembering Ludo’s hair softly brushing her cheek.


  Suddenly an image played across her mind—something wrong in the last few minutes. What was it?

  She stopped dancing and opened her eyes. She went back over everything in order: unlocking the back door, the empty kitchen, her shoes, the TV, her cell phone, the message from Coyle. She had forgotten to call him back. But that wasn’t what was wrong. Her mind raced on: the TV screen, the wine bottle, the milk carton, the celery, the rotten guacamole—

  Wait—the wine bottle. When she had last seen it on Tuesday, the bottle was two-thirds full, above the label. Now it was just a quarter full, below the label. She remembered this clearly, remembered telling herself how much she had to enjoy when the investigation was finished. How could the level be lower? She had been gone for three days. No one else had a key to the apartment.

  Eden looked up at her right hand, still holding the wineglass above her head. Past that, across the kitchen, she saw her gun lying on the kitchen table.

  Then she heard a faint sound in the living room. Cloth rustling? She turned toward it.

  With the blinds closed, the room was dark, but she heard something. A glass? She stared wonderingly through the doorway to the living room. The light switch on the reading lamp clicked on.

  A man sat there, watching her.

  His legs were crossed, a clog on the right foot dangling from his toes. A wineglass stood on the table. One hand held a gun.

  Benjamin Thackrey.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  (i)

  (FRIDAY, 1:05 P.M.)

  Coyle drove through the entrance to Spring Lake Park, tires skidding on the loose gravel. Was it only four days since they had been here to discover the body of Elise Durand? He waved his badge at the guard hut and accelerated down the park road and across the west parking lot. Near the bottom of the lot, he saw Partridge’s Nissan and Woodhouse’s Honda and, farther on, Tom Woodhouse standing beside Fisherman’s Trail. Coyle jumped out, leaving his car door open.

  “Where’s Partridge?”

  “Already on the trail. I was going after him.”

  “Jesus, Eddie was right.” Coyle pulled out his Glock.