“Basically, yes.”
“On what grounds?”
“I don’t know. We’d already moved by then.”
“That’s another question. Why did you drop it?”
“Well, I guess we saw the handwriting on the wall.”
“What do you mean?”
“Feldman did do some cleaning up when the accident first happened. But once Art Newell looked into it, we learned that the site needed long-term treatment. Years of it. Turns out it can take up to thirty years until the toxins are completely gone.”
“Thirty years?” Stone frowned. “The clean-up could take thirty years?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“That’s a pretty stiff—” Stone stopped, squeezing the candy bar so hard that bits of chocolate broke off between his fingers. “Of course,” he said. “He wouldn’t have been able to build Meadow City.”
“Yup.”
If the project had been aborted, Feldman would have taken a huge hit. He might even have been ruined. Instead, he built the houses and made a fortune. Ricki’s words came back to him—Meadow City was what put them on the map. Stone pitched the candy into the trash.
“That’s why we left,” Frannie Yablonski said. “We had to escape the evil. And I mean that in the most fundamental way.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Nine years ago. Our youngest just started second grade.”
“You had another child.”
“Yes.” He heard the joy in her voice. “She’s healthy, thank the Lord.”
“Mrs. Yablonski, I hate to ask, but have you or your husband taken any trips east in the past few months?”
She chuckled. “No, Detective. And you’re welcome to call whoever you need to confirm it.”
“Thank you for understanding.” He took a breath. “What about the Champlain’s? What happened to them?”
“Well, I know Maggie and Greg split up. She was living in Joliet when we left. But that was a long time ago.”
“One more thing. Do you know anyone who might have taken pictures of Meadow City while it was under construction?”
“Pictures?”
“Pictures, photos. The camera kind.”
She didn’t reply.
“Mrs. Yablonski?”
“I—I do seem to remember some pictures in Maggie’s albums.”
“Maggie Champlain?”
“We used to have coffee together, tell each other our life stories, you know? Sometimes we’d look over old pictures— Greg used to fancy himself quite the photographer. He had pictures. Before and after shots.”
***
Stone tracked down Art Newell at the Clean Water Action Project, a non-profit foundation. Now a lobbyist, Newell confirmed Frannie Yablonski’s story.
“Why didn’t the judge allow the witness’s deposition?” Stone asked. “I thought you could do that in civil court.”
“You can, and that’s a good question.” Newell paused. “But he elected not to admit any of it into evidence. Said it was all hearsay. He even tried to close the court records.”
“Why didn’t you appeal? Hire an investigator? Don’t you think someone would have eventually cracked?”
“You don’t know what we were up against. Stuart Feldman has powerful allies.”
Stone remembered the list of investors he’d found in Ricki’s files. Politicians. Judges. Elected officials. All with a piece of Meadow City.
“Who was the judge?”
“Franklin Mattox. He’s retired now.”
Mattox wouldn’t be on the list of Meadow City partners. That would be too obvious. But Stone would lay odds that if he checked the investors of another Feldman deal, he’d find the name of Franklin Mattox. Or his wife. Or a close relative.
“What about the media? They’d salivate over a story like this.”
“Come on, Detective. What do you think?”
“He got to them too?” Stone asked.
“We got some press at the time, but it never caught fire. Feldman hired some PR agency that managed to convince them there was no story. You know how they work. But I gotta tell you, Detective. The truth is we had an even bigger problem.”
Stone had a hard time imagining what else could go wrong.
“We didn’t have enough money to argue the case the right way.”
“You got a grant from some foundation, didn’t you?”
“The one I work for now. But it was only a few grand. It was gone in a few months. After that, my partners told me—repeatedly—they weren’t happy with the cost of the litigation. Or the notoriety. Not good for the bottom line. They showed me the door a few months later.”
“You think Feldman had something to do with that?”
“Do you really have to ask?” Newell paused. “It was—how should I put it—a seamless effort. He got to everyone who mattered. The state, the witness, the judge—and never a whisper of impropriety.”
Stone rubbed a fist across his chin. “So, what did you do?”
“You know that saying about walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes, Detective? There are some things you know to stay away from. I have a wife and two kids. They depend on me. I want to dance at my daughter’s wedding. At the same time, though, I couldn’t let the families down. I warned them not to expect much. I’m not Erin Brockovich. Or what’s his name in Massachusetts. I took the case to a verdict. And you know the outcome.”
After he hung up, Stone started pacing. He knew that Stuart Feldman, friend to the rich and powerful, was ambitious. What he hadn’t known was how far the man would go to fulfill those ambitions. But the families did. Which included Maggie Champlain. And she had pictures of Meadow City under construction.
Stone moved to the window. An early dusk cast purple shadows over dark, hulking forms that a few minutes ago had been bushes and shrubbery. He couldn’t tell Ricki about her father. If she didn’t know, and he didn’t think she did, she’d never believe her father was greedy enough to kill. She didn’t trust Stone anyway; she’d probably accuse him of fabricating it just to close the case. And with Feldman barely clinging to life, the timing was all wrong.
He watched the taillights of cars stream ribbons of red and yellow down the street. Matt wouldn’t believe him either. He’d probably think Stone was trying to sabotage him. But Ricki Feldman was in danger, and her father had put her there. It was time to find Maggie Champlain.
***
A search pulled up nothing on Champlain, but Nelson did locate her ex-husband, Greg. He had remarried and was working at a refinery near Houston. He confirmed that he’d received a cashier’s check from Maggie seven or eight years earlier but hadn’t heard from her since. Greg’s boss said he hadn’t missed a day of work in months.
Brewster called the Joliet bank on which the cashier’s check was drawn. Maggie Champlain closed her account a year after writing the check; she left no forwarding address. Stone ran a credit check and discovered she hadn’t filed tax returns in several years. Her driver’s license and credit cards had expired as well. Maggie Champlain—the only person involved in the lawsuit they hadn’t tracked down— was gone.
Chapter Forty-four
Saturday morning Stone sidestepped the press who, like a swarm of killer bees, were massed at the station. Word leaked out that the three North Shore victims were connected and that Stuart Feldman was at the center of it. Television crews and print reporters staked out the patrol room. Doyle promised a briefing later that day.
Stone fled to the conference room, littered with paper, used coffee cups, and fast food wrappers. Nelson was already there with red-rimmed eyes. She dragged deep on a Marlboro.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said.
Brewster came through the door carrying a box of donuts. Hanging his jacket over a chair, he slid the box across the table. Stone grabbed it, pawed through, and picked out a glazed number, finishing it in three bites.
“Who le
aked?” A cloud of smoke billowed out of Nelson’s mouth.
Brewster shrugged.
Stone licked his fingers. “I’d bet on Doyle. In fact, he may be the one who’s been leaking all along.”
“Maybe he thought that would flush them out,” Brewster offered.
“You think our killer’s really ‘gonna make a move knowing we’re onto them?” He scowled. “What happened with the Stewarts?”
“They confirmed what we already know.”
“They know what happened to Champlain?”
Nelson shook her head.
“Anyone call the hospital? Do they have media?”
“Same as here.”
Stone slumped in a chair. “Well, make sure Matt keeps them where they belong. We don’t need extra bodies near Feldman. Or Ricki. No one gets close unless we know him or her. That includes doctors. And—” he added, “especially nurses. Get hospital security to help us out.”
Brewster picked up the phone.
The sense of urgency they’d felt had turned into frustration. They were forced into a waiting game, and as each hour ticked by, the stakes rose. Their killer could strike any time, any place. Stone drummed his fingers on the table. Brewster stared at the ceiling. Nelson played with her pack of cigarettes.
“I have an idea.” Nelson said finally. “I’ll call the ex-husband. Maybe I can get more out of him.” She started dialing.
A moment later Nelson slammed down the phone. Stone snapped his head around. “Maggie had another son,” she said triumphantly. “Ten years older than TJ. His name’s Dusty, and he lived in Joliet. And Champlain used to work at Al’s Steak House on Jefferson Street.”
The Detectives got to work. They tracked Dusty to a junior college in the area where he was studying graphic arts. But they lost him when he didn’t enroll for the last semester. Brewster ran another credit check. No driver’s license, no credit cards, no bank account. Dusty had disappeared along with his mother.
Chapter Forty-five
Six months Earlier
Back in civilization for over a year, Maggie found a place to live and a job with lots of flexibility. Dusty wasn’t living with her, but he was close. When she was settled, she called Prairie State, pretending to be a prospective client. They gave her the locations of several projects she could check out and told her the principals of the company. A few days later she drove to Peoria and rented a room.
She stalked the chief contractor for a couple of days, tracking him to a bar where he hung out. She showed up on a Thursday, claiming to be a travel agent passing through. She was still a looker when she wanted to be, and she made sure she wanted to be. She let him buy her a few drinks, made sure he drank more, and listened to a bad country band. By the time she invited him back to her room, he was already pawing her. As they stumbled toward her door, she stopped and dug into her purse. Drawing out a small vial with an aerosol nozzle, she spritzed him in the face, yelped, and ran in the opposite direction.
“Hey, what the hell was that?” he called out, wiping his sleeve across his face.
“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly from the hotel parking lot. “I was trying to fix my hair, and I thought I saw a mouse. I hate them.”
“Oh, honey. Come here. If there was a mouse it’s gone now. And your hair is the last thing I’m interested in right now.”
Her smile widened and she led him into the room. She fucked him good. After all, it would be his last.
It didn’t take long. A few hours later, the convulsions started. By the next morning, his breathing was harsh and labored, and his face had turned blue. He struggled to call an ambulance, but she tied him down to the bed. When his face started to show recognition of what was happening, she started to talk.
It was too bad, she told him. His only mistake was working the clean up at Meadow City years ago. She asked if he knew the poison was still in the ground, eating away at the water and soil. If he knew the developer paid off the state. And the judge. Settled with the utility. She told him the whole story and watched his eyes bug out.
By nightfall, he lost all control. It was over soon after that. She took a shower and changed her clothes. Dusty showed up right on schedule. Together they cleaned up the room, carried the body out to the pick-up and dumped the body at one of his own sites. Then they headed back north.
The son of Prairie State’s owner was a different story. He liked to go fishing on weekends, she learned, so two weeks later, she drove downstate again. This time she hid in the bushes outside his house, wearing a warm-up suit and running shoes. When he came out of his house at dawn on Friday, fishing gear in hand, she emerged from the bushes and bumped into him, making sure to prick his thigh with the pin of a brooch. Apologizing for her clumsiness, she jogged around the corner, jumped into her car, and followed him to the lake.
By nightfall, he was so sick, with fever, chills, and hallucinations that he didn’t resist when she showed up at his lodge and offered him a lift to the hospital. She took him to a motel instead, and by evening the following day, it was over. Once again, she and Dusty wiped down the scene, then dumped the body.
Maggie was ecstatic. She hadn’t expected it to be so easy. The carnality of it was exhilarating. Shadowing her victims, luring them, seducing them. Drinking in hours of pleasure as the poison snaked through their bodies. Seeing their anguish build and deepen. Monitoring their last moments, in which the final spurts of life struggled against the relentless advance of death.
She and Dusty celebrated at dinner. They’d done a good job, she said as they lingered over dessert. But there were some refinements she wanted to make. She wasn’t a psycho serial killer; the victims should know why they were being killed. But she didn’t want to explain it, as she had to the contractor. In fact, she didn’t want to talk to them much at all. Just watch.
She recalled the pictures Greg shot so many years ago. Pictures of Meadow City under construction. They were still stashed somewhere. She would send the intended victims one or two pictures in advance. They might not know why the pictures were showing up in their mailbox, but they’d figure it out soon enough. In a way, she rationalized, she’d be doing what no one did for TJ. He never knew why he’d been made to writhe in pain, feeling the life drain out of him. These people would.
But she wouldn’t send them to everyone. That was too predictable. The trick was to establish a pattern, then deviate from it at times. It would keep them guessing.
She giggled at the paradox. “The perfect plan is the imperfect pattern,” she said to Dusty. “Right, sweetheart?”
He smiled weakly. She glanced at his plate; he hadn’t eaten his coconut cake, just moved it around with his fork. Now that she was thinking, he hadn’t eaten much dinner either. Her spirits faded. “What’s the matter, son?”
“Nothing.”
Maggie stared at her son, now in his thirties. He was a tall, strapping man, with her blond hair and Richie’s blue eyes. She remembered how gorgeous Richie once was, how his eyes twinkled even when they made love. Dusty was handsomer than Richie, but his expression, even in repose, was serious.
“Hey, you can’t fool your mother.”
Dusty stopped toying with the fork and gazed at her, then looked away.
Maggie felt a twinge of guilt. An image of Dusty as a young boy flashed across her mind. How, shy but proud, he used to show her his sketchbooks. How he waited for her praise, though she was sucked dry, incapable of anything but the most superficial approval. How he’d walked her home from the playground, got them food to eat, even did laundry. He’d asked for so little, and he’d given so much. She reached for his hand.
“Dusty, I realize I’ve asked a lot of you. And you’ve never let me down. You took care of me when it should have been the other way around.”
She looked at him.
“I want you to know it’s almost finished. We’re almost there. When this is over, I want you to do what you want. You want to go back to that girl in Joliet? You want to be an artist
? You do it. It’s your turn.”
She didn’t tell him the Family would never accept it. That they’d rather see him dead than lose someone in whom they’d invested so much. “Just hang in for a few more months. I promise, it’ll be over.” She squeezed his hand.
He scanned her face, then gave her a nod. She relaxed. He had always been a good son.
***
Maggie waited before striking again. The Family had been right. Prairie State had been a cakewalk; there wasn’t a lot of cop power down there. But Chicago would be different. She needed to plan. Protect herself.
When everything was in place, she’d go after the bookkeeper. The one who demanded money when she didn’t have it, then tried to barter it for sex. After that, the self-consumed investors she and Dusty met so long ago. Maggie wondered if the wife knew how much her husband played around. He would be a slam-dunk. Then the architect who wouldn’t listen to Greg, but whose real sin was covering up Feldman’s crimes with bricks and mortar. And finally, Stuart Feldman’s child. Not a child anymore, but that didn’t matter. Feldman had killed her child. She would return the favor.
Chapter Forty-six
Heavy droplets of sleet splattered on the windshield of the unmarked, leaving ridges of ice that dribbled sideways and then up as Stone and Matt drove southwest. In the three years Stone had lived in Chicago, he’d never been to Joliet. Home to Statesville, the largest penitentiary in the state, there used to be a perverse cachet to the place. He remembered countless movies in which the bad guys were sent up to Joliet, usually threatening to come back bigger and badder.
Over the past decade, though, the city fathers had tried to revitalize the city, no doubt to offset its gritty image. They’d succeeded too. They closed the prison, replacing one house of vice with others. Riverboat casinos now floated down the Des Plaines river, and the Route Sixty-Six raceway was nearby. Gamblers flocked to the area, generating new tax revenues, with which the city rebuilt its downtown. Joliet was now the third fastest growing city in Illinois.
Stone drove past a brand new theater, walkway, and restaurant on the Riverfront. They could preen about progress, pretend a newfound respectability, but Joliet still attracted the seedy underbelly of society.
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