Matt and Georgia exchanged glances. “She say anything after Officer Davis showed her the photograph?”
Lines appeared on her forehead as if she was concentrating on something. “You know—now that I think about it, maybe it did bother her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, that night, she was different. Quieter. I thought she was just tired, but maybe it was the picture. Maybe she did know that woman.”
“And she left two days later?”
“That’s right.”
The squeal of rapidly applied brakes blasted through the window. The subsequent crunch of metal on metal and shattered glass made Matt grimace. Cleveland jumped and raced to the window. Pulling up the shade, she hung her head out the window. Then she pulled back and turned around. “Just a fender bender.”
Angry shouts and curses floated through the window.
“What else can you tell us about her? You can get to know someone pretty well in two weeks.”
“Well, like I said, I got the feeling she wasn’t used to being gay. Not that she was day-tripping, you know, but like she’d just discovered it.” She leaned against the open window. “You come across types like that every now and then. You try not to, of course, but it happens.”
“What do you mean, you try not to?”
She kept her eyes on her hands. “Women like that don’t usually settle down the first time out of the gate, you know what I mean? But who knows?” She looked at Georgia. “I might hear from her again one day.” She blinked. “Don’t you think?”
“Of course,” she said.
Matt shifted uneasily. It occurred to him that Donna Cleveland was only looking for the same thing everyone was—someone to laugh with, fight with over the dishes, hold through the dark hours of the night. How could he have considered the possibility she was different? Prejudice runs deep, he realized. Including his own.
“Do you remember what kind of car she drove?” He asked.
“A white Plymouth. A Duster, I think.”
“Plates?”
“I never noticed. Indiana, I guess.”
“Did she like to cook?”
Cleveland eyed him curiously. “She was a great cook.”
Matt’s pulse picked up. He flashed back to the spices in Romano’s kitchen. “Did she use a lot of spices?”
The woman frowned. “Not really. She cooked plain stick-to-your-ribs stuff. Pot roast, potatoes, cabbage. You know.”
“Okay. Thanks. If you do hear from her, let us know.” He handed her a card.
“Of course. By the way…” She looked at Georgia, a smile creasing her lips. “I run into Clark a lot. I’ll tell her I saw you.”
Georgia’s face grew crimson.
***
The ride north was quiet. Back at the station, Matt put out a LEADS on Brenda Hartman, then caught up on paperwork. Procedure required him to make two copies of each report: one for the unit, the other for Records, but Matt kept his own casebook, and made copies for the Detectives working the case with him.
As he fed sheets of paper into the copying machine, he thought about Donna Cleveland. During his ten years on the force, he had talked to everyone from scumbags to VIPs, creeps to royalty. The asshole who killed his wife because she wouldn’t use starch on his shirts; the junkie who quoted Hamlet; the CPA whose ability with numbers netted him a half a million dollars under the table. The confessions of the desperate and sleazy didn’t faze him. But delving into the details of Donna Cleveland’s life today had unnerved him.
He pushed the green copy button. Paper riffled through the machine, releasing an inky scent. There was an odd purity about Cleveland; she wasn’t deceptive. In fact, she seemed remarkably secure. She knew who she was, and she accepted it. Sure, she was upset that Hartman left, but there was serenity about her just the same. She’d stopped struggling. He walked the copies back to his desk.
The trill of the phone broke into his thoughts. He picked it up. “Singer.”
As he listened he tapped his pen against the desk, slowly at first, then picking up speed. “We’ll take it.” He hung up and threw a glance at Pete. “Time for a field trip, Brewski. We got ourselves another body.”
Chapter Seventeen
A barren stretch of land lay along Willow Road. Behind it loomed a five-story hill, which was once a landfill. During its active life, the landfill was a flashpoint for residents who didn’t like working, shopping, or living next to a dump. Its owners, RDM, claimed the facility posed no threat to man or property, and tried to prove it by building a nine-hole golf course on top of the hill. The controversy subsided over time and, like a defect or deformity one learns to live with, the golf course even turned a profit.
Matt and Brewster drove through the open gate and up a hill to two small buildings. A sign on the wall of one of the buildings identified it as the RDM Landfill Office. Matt opened the door to a room the size of a trailer. A woman, a phone glued to her ear, chattered breathlessly. He flashed his badge. She covered the phone with one hand, waved him back out with the other, and replaced the phone in her ear, all without skipping a word.
Rounding the building, he glimpsed two men in blue RDM shirts and a uniformed officer huddled next to what appeared to be two pits. One of the pits was covered with a white Fiberglas lid, but the other was open. Matt walked over. “What have we got?”
“Something that gives new meaning to a watery grave,” the officer said.
Matt peered down. Curled up in a tight ball and partly submerged in water was the body of a man.
***
Matt called the ME, Jenny Lee, and Doyle. While he waited for them to arrive, he canvassed the RDM employees. He learned that the valve for the pipes that sucked methane from the western part of the landfill was inside the pit. Though it wasn’t a good idea to tamper with the crime scene before the techs had at it, free-flowing methane was dangerous. Matt told them to shut it off. One of the men grabbed a long silver pole and maneuvered the valve from one side to the other.
Most of the victim’s torso was submerged, but the head and neck weren’t. Matt saw a full head of hair, matted and wet, and the collar of a black jacket. He got his camera from the squad car and took as many shots as he could. Then he called the Fire Department. The pit was too narrow to get the body out with a gurney, but Fire had wire baskets and rescue harnesses.
“Who found the body?” Brewster asked one of the men.
“I did,” a red-faced man said. “I was working on a new shut-off mechanism for the valve.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. Noon, a little after.”
“Who was the first man on site today?” Pete looked around.
“I was,” a burly man with a gray windbreaker said. “I get in at six.”
“You notice anything different when you got here?”
“Yeah. The gate was open. That was weird.”
“Why?”
“It’s supposed to be locked at night. We have keys. So do the guys at the golf course. But they don’t come in until nine-thirty or ten. Sometimes not at all, now that it’s getting cold.”
Matt packed up his camera, leaving several sticky shots to dry on his evidence bag. Some of the forensic teams were using digital now, but Glenbrook hadn’t made the switch yet. He made a note to talk to the manager of the golf course.
The ME pulled up, followed by two fire trucks, a black and white, and a red Cherokee. As Jenny Lee jumped out of the Jeep, Matt’s cell phone rang. Doyle was on his way.
Matt went over to Jenny, who was making a quick tour of the scene.
“Two bodies in two weeks. Both on RDM property.” She grimaced. “A serial who leaves his victims in garbage. All sorts of symbolism in that.”
“That’s why I called you. Trash tech of the month.”
She stared him down, then cracked a smile. She turned to one of the officers who’d arrived. “Start checking the perimeter.”
“I’ll start at the gate.”
She shook her head. “Too many vehicles in and out. You won’t find anything.” She pointed. “Try the fence.”
She and Matt headed back to the pit where the firemen were discussing how to get the body out.
“We can try to lower the stoke on a rope,” a firemen said.
“Someone still has to be down there to roll him up and strap him in,” said another.
“I can get in there without too much trouble,” the first one said. He looked well over six feet.
“I’ll do it,” Matt said. “I have to examine the body.”
“Hold on, guys. No one touches anything until we drain the water and I check it out.” Jenny’s eyes flashed. “You got something we can drain it with?” she asked a fireman.
“There’s a portable pump in the truck.”
“Any chance of filtering the water?”
“Don’t know.”
They couldn’t filter the water, but twenty minutes later, the pit was dry. Jenny pulled on plastic gloves and boots. With a fireman holding one end of a rope and the other tied around her waist, she slowly lowered herself into the pit. Matt watched as she collected samples of sludge and scrapings from the sides and put each in a separate bag, all the while trying to avoid touching the body. At her command the techs lowered a bucket, in which she carefully placed the samples. She motioned, and the fireman started reeling her in. She climbed out, looking grim.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.
She stripped off the gloves. “There’s not much down there. No prints on the Fiberglas. Or the rim of the pit. Probably nothing on the walls either.”
“What about trace?” Matt asked.
She gathered her hair at the back of her neck. “We’ll find something. We always do. But what it means is anybody’s guess.”
She slipped off the rope. Matt looped it around his waist. The pit was only about three feet in diameter, and the fire department’s stoke wouldn’t fit. But they had also brought a rescue harness, and the lieutenant gave Matt quick instructions on how to use it.
Matt lowered himself down. Cramped and dank, it smelled of effluent. He braced himself against the walls and draped a white cloth over the corpse.
“Throw me the harness.” He called up. A rescue harness was lowered. Again anchoring himself against the walls, he managed to clumsily roll the corpse into the harness and strap it in. He checked the D-ring to make sure it was securely attached then pulled on it. The body slowly rose, like a miniature gondola that had broken off the ski lift. Matt pulled on the rope again, and the men hauled him up. The lieutenant disengaged the harness; the body slumped.
Matt squatted down to examine the corpse. The skin around the victim’s wrists and ankles was pasty, and there was a blue tinge to his hands and feet. The ME joined him as the fire department packed up.
“Thanks, guys,” Matt said.
The lieutenant saluted. “We had the easy part.” He glanced at the corpse.
The ME bent over the victim and took his temperature. “Looks like the water slowed down decomp. I’m guessing our friend’s been in there overnight.” He studied the body, slowly running his eyes from head to toe. Straightening up, he shook his head. “I’m not seeing much. No wounds, contusions, or visible blows. No blood either. But there are signs of cyanosis.”
“Cyanosis?”
“Blue skin. Respiratory failure.”
Matt went through the dead man’s pockets. Inside a leather billfold were a few wet hundred-dollar bills, credit cards, and a driver’s license. The name on the license was Louis Simon. With a Deerfield address. Deerfield was the next village over.
They bagged the body, and Brewster made arrangements to go to the autopsy, which the ME said he’d try to squeeze in tomorrow. Matt didn’t mind. He avoided them whenever he could. A body belonged to God; it was supposed to be beyond the reach of human hands—literally. He picked up his photos and left.
***
Doyle activated the Task Force two hours later.
Chapter Eighteen
Parts of Deerfield are rustic by design. In any other location, the large homes with big picture windows and redwood decks would overwhelm the landscape. But here, sequestered behind acres of forest preserve, they blended in.
Matt pulled into the driveway of a large house overlooking a woodsy setting. A crisp, sunny afternoon, he caught the distant scent of burning leaves. The door to a three-car garage was open, and he saw a Mercedes sport utility and a Beemer inside. Trudging up to the house, he spotted an unmarked at the curb across the street. He remembered he was supposed to meet a Detective from Deerfield.
As he pushed the buzzer, Matt noticed a silver mezuzah on the doorframe. The woman who opened the door looked to be in her mid to late forties. Dressed in slacks and a blazer, she had straight brown hair clipped to her ears, giving her a waifish, young appearance. She wasn’t a looker, but there was something clean and attractive about her.
“Mrs. Simon?” Matt flashed his shield. “I ‘m Detective Matt Singer from Glenbrook. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Save it, Singer. I’m Carrie Nelson. Deerfield.”
Matt stuffed the badge in his jeans pocket. “Where’s the wife?”
“In the kitchen. She asked me to chase away any rubberneckers. But don’t worry. I waited for you.” She turned and started down the hall.
“When’d you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. I pulled the missing persons report before I came. Thought you’d want it.” She handed it over.
“Thanks.” He yanked a thumb toward the end of the hall. “She okay?”
“She’s a charmer.”
Matt skimmed the report. On Sunday morning, Charlene Simon reported her husband Louis, a dentist, had been missing since Friday afternoon. That was highly unusual, she claimed. He was never gone more than a few hours without her knowing his whereabouts. Officer John Barrymore took the call. Matt scratched his cheek. Barrymore had talked to the woman, made a few calls, then fed the information into NCIC, the national crime database. Nelson was scheduled to follow up Monday if the husband didn’t show up. Today was Tuesday.
“What happened yesterday?” Matt looked up. “There’s no paper.”
“When I found out Simon didn’t come home, I called around. Hospitals, the guy’s office, his gym, the bank. I was just gearing up when you found him.”
Matt followed Nelson into the kitchen, a huge room paneled in bleached oak with a quarry-tile floor. There was a fireplace at one end and a large bay window at the other. In the middle was a huge island, also oak. Along the walls were a six-burner stove, a commercial-sized grill and two ovens, sinks, and refrigerators. An impressive array of gadgets sat on marble counters, all of them so chrome-clean he wondered if the tags were still attached.
A tall, slender woman in a white turtleneck and navy pants poured coffee at the island, a portable phone in her ear. With sunken cheeks, a pronounced chin, and taut skin that plastic surgery must have stretched at least once, she looked like an anorexic Mary Tyler Moore. Matt listened as she repeated a flight number and arrival time and scribbled on a scrap of paper.
When she put the phone down, Matt extended his hand. “I’m Matt Singer from the village of Glenbrook. I’m sorry for intruding at such a sad time.”
She stared at his hand as if it was covered in scabies. “Where were you when my husband needed you?”
He looked into a face that said she’d seen it all, and it wasn’t enough.
Nelson cut in. “Mrs. Simon is upset that we couldn’t do more when she first reported her husband missing.”
“If you were doing your job, my husband might still be alive.” Her dark eyes scorched with anger.
“I understand how you must feel, ma’am,” Matt said. “But I read the report. Officer Barrymore handled it well. He —”
“You stick up for each other, don’t you?” She shot him a look. “I’ve heard the stories.”
Matt glanced over at Nelson, but her ey
es roved the room. He looked back at the widow. “We’ve convened the Violent Crimes Task Force, ma’am, which means that your husband’s death is the highest priority investigation on the North Shore. We’re assembling people and resources on a large scale, and we won’t stop until we find out who was responsible.”
She lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a tiny sip. “Just like Jon Benet.”
Matt looked around. A small blue label on the front of a cabinet caught his eye. He was just able to make out five letters. D-A-I-R-Y.
“You know Mrs. Simon, there’s an old saying in the Torah. ‘Justice and only justice shall you follow.’ I guarantee you that I will do everything possible to make sure you get justice.”
She froze, her coffee cup in mid-air, and inspected him as if he was a curious but unusual species. Then she set her cup down and moved to the cabinets. Opening a door, she pulled out two mugs, walked back to the island, and poured coffee into both.
Matt watched. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of cream and non-dairy creamer. She offered the non-dairy creamer to Matt, a question on her face.
Matt shook his head. “Milk is fine.”
Mrs. Simon nodded and put the creamer back. Nelson, who’d been watching them both, frowned. While the woman’s back was turned, Matt motioned that he’d explain later.
Mrs. Simon took her coffee to a polished oak table near the bay window overlooking the woods. A few patches of yellow, orange and red still clung to the trees, in vivid contrast to the dark greens of pine and spruce. She sat with her back to the window. Matt and Nelson took seats facing her.
“Tell me what happened, Mrs. Simon.” Matt stirred his coffee.
“I knew there was a problem when I didn’t hear from Louis on Saturday. It’s just not like him. He always calls—” She stopped.
“Always calls?” Matt repeated.
“Yes.”
“So he was away from the house Friday night?” He pulled out a notepad and starting writing. “Was he traveling?”
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