Jimmy stared solemnly at Hilton, wondering what he could do that hadn’t already been done. Several detectives had worked the case besides himself.
“The police ran a thorough investigation and didn’t find a trace of her,” Jimmy said slowly, carefully, not wanting to rekindle bad memories, but needing to make himself clear. “What is it you think I can do? If I remember right, all they found were her car and a pair of broken glasses.” This wasn’t going the way he wanted. He didn’t want a case that would give him such a superb chance of stepping on toes at the very place he wanted to be hired back to. Toe trouncing wasn’t especially redeeming, and, in his opinion, would probably prove a definite liability.
Of course, being in this type of situation was nothing new for Jimmy. Over his years on the force, he hadn’t been known for being subtle, another not particularly helpful facet of his personality. Stubborn, bull-headed, sometimes suspected of being ‘thick’ because of his one-track mind, he’d plowed his way along, solving a high percentage of cases on the way. He just hadn’t made an abundance of friends along the route.
With a sigh, he pushed thick, unruly brown hair back off his forehead, exasperated that he’d wasted part of the morning on an interview to a case that was going nowhere. The case he was looking for was something easy that wouldn’t put him on law enforcement’s radar. Like a cheating husband, or a wife with a credit card who couldn’t stay away from the casinos. He desperately needed a paycheck, but not something that would ruffle feathers, like pushing his way into a cold case that was still open and chafing away at the reputation of a whole precinct. The Cincinnati precinct didn’t want him, or anyone else not associated with law enforcement, involved. And remembering his years on the force, he knew PI’s were rarely welcomed with open arms.
“That is correct,” Ed said sadly. “But I know there’s got to be something they missed. I’ve talked to the police until I’m blue in the face. They just give me the run around. In fact, I think they hide when they see me coming. Especially that young detective, Paul Lewinski. I suppose he’s done all he could, but Sarah and I have to know.”
An uncomfortable pause filled the room until Ed continued, his voice jagged with emotion. “Understand me well, Sarah and I don’t hold out much hope that our daughter is alive. But we still have to know. We have to… bury her.”
Jimmy’s heart went out to the man. What he’d lived with the last five years was not something that should be wished on your worst enemy. But what could he do? He’d worked on the case back at the beginning, when he was a lead detective. He’d uncovered nothing. Detective Lewinski had found the only real evidence, linking the young woman to accused serial killer, Grant Mason. That had been a terrific piece of investigative skill.
He mutely shook his head, as he fingered the crude, sacrilegious initials carved into the top of his desk, JK on one corner and DLW in the center over the middle drawer. It was good wood, just needed refinishing. Dark, it could be mahogany. He wasn’t expecting it when Ed Hilton placed his cold hand on his, as if to capture his wandering thoughts. Not wanting to meet the other man’s eyes, he didn’t look up, but stared at the long, icy fingers, oddly blue as if the man’s circulation was impaired. Possibly it was. It was obvious his heart was broken.
“Please. You’re our last chance.”
A second hand came into his line of vision, sliding a piece of paper forward. Jimmy stared in amazement. It was a personal check, with the word Retainer printed on the ‘memo’ line. The amount, in tight, concise handwriting was for ten thousand dollars.
Chapter 3
“Not so pretty now, is he?” Izzy taunted.
“What are you talking about? Who do you mean?” Abby asked, frustration evident in her voice.
“That detective that somehow, some way, managed to move in here, even though we both knew that wasn’t a good idea. I mean, what if he starts snooping around? You know what he’d find. Not good. No, not good at all.”
“Paul wouldn’t hurt me.” But he might, Abby thought, as a memory came unbidden causing her hands to travel protectively to her throat where Grant had once held her in an iron-like death grip. When her husband had tried to strangle her.
But, that time at least, she hadn’t been the victim. She had won at Grant’s wicked little game. The roses out back proved it, that healthy bed with roots that went deep into the ground. Another memory overwhelmed her.
Grant lay on the floor at her feet, his breathing ragged, his eyes open in shock, the pupils huge and black; his face a pale mask of horror. He stared up at her, as his mouth opened and closed, gasping for air like a fish out of water. His fingers tightened into claws, while his hands twitched and jerked in involuntary spasms and shudders traveled up and down his body.
“Sure.. he.. won’t,” Izzy drug the words out sarcastically, interrupting her thoughts. “Because you and I know men would never hurt you.” She laughed a little, which sounded cruel even to her own ears. “Of course, he could be out doing his thing and too busy to pay any attention to you and your little garden. And that brings to mind the fact that he’s a pretty bad boy. You don’t deny that the feather and thong weren’t there before he brought the warrant and did his search on the house, do you? ‘Cause we both know better than that. He planted those things in Grant’s jewelry box to frame him… And to get him out of the way so he could move in on his wife,” she added slyly.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Abby turned away, angry and hurt. There may have been a little hint of fear showing in her defiant green eyes. But she didn’t want Izzy to see.
“Well, you better toughen up, sister. Face the facts. If you don’t, you could be just like one of those poor girls, making the front page of the paper for a few weeks and then fading away like they’d never existed. I couldn’t handle that. I need you.”
Abby felt her anger dissolve. She couldn’t live without Izzy, either. They’d been best friends forever and gone through some pretty tough times together. The rose garden, with its first curling red-green leaves of spring proved that. Together, they were capable of handling anything. In point of fact, they already had.
“I couldn’t take it if he hurt you like Grant did. Promise me you’ll never put up with that again.”
“I promise. But Paul would never hit me.” She denied again, but couldn’t help the twinge of fear she felt.
Izzy felt sadness overwhelm her. When would Abby ever learn? She was so trusting, so loving. The world to her was wholly painted with her favorite colored crayons. Izzy had so such disillusion; she knew that all men were the same. Just because Paul had never struck Abby didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Especially with what they both suspected about him. And it was only a matter of time. If he had murdered those two prostitutes, then she was in serious danger of a lot more than a few bruises. To her sister, this was terrifying.
Love. Was that what it was? Was that what caused Abby to lose her head, and not to use the smarts the good Lord had given her? Was that what made her put herself into danger over and over? Or was it just habit? After all, her track record was pretty bad. When she’d stated that she was marrying Grant, Izzy had tried to talk her out of it. She’d only been eighteen then. She could be forgiven for being so irrational at that age. But now she was twenty-seven. Too old to be this reckless.
Izzy prided herself that she’d never fell in love, that love was for fools. Oh, she loved Abby, but that was different, although all she had to compare it to. She wasn’t inexperienced with sex, and occasionally went out on the town, specifically with that in mind. Just to relieve the need. There were men who caught her eye, but she always left them wondering where she’d gone. And that was just sex. But love. What was that like? It had to really be something for you to risk your life like Abby was doing. Izzy knew there was no way it could be worth it.
***
Daisy Wilson, heir app
arent to Wilson Steel Corporation, idly massaged her throat as she studied the printout. She’d buckled down at her classes during the winter and brought all of her grades back up to straight 4.0’s. Her teachers were impressed and her father was proud. He didn’t know what had caused this turn around, but hadn’t questioned it. He loved her and her brother Lee unconditionally. Although the younger of the two and female, Daisy was the one being groomed for management of the company. Lee wasn’t angry or jealous. He had his own interests. He owned a little shop in downtown Dayton selling handbags and shoes that he designed himself. Mitch, their father, had backed him in the enterprise, just as he had when Lee had come out while still in middle school. Daisy hadn’t cared either. Lee was still Lee. The fact that he was gay meant nothing to her. She didn’t resent that the family’s business and major responsibilities would fall to her. She was up to it and looked forward to proving herself. Her only antipathy was Bruce. He was still around. Lee’s other half had been a permanent fixture for three years. She still didn’t like the cocky s.o.b. And she sure didn’t trust him. But they say ‘Love goes where it’s sent’.
Daisy turned the television on after checking each room to be sure she was alone. She wanted no uninvited visitors. Normally getting home just before the news, she watched it religiously for another prostitute murder. This might appear unusual to anyone not knowing the circumstances, but Daisy didn’t care. It was as if she was in limbo, always waiting, always scared. She couldn’t not watch. And almost every night the reporters gave an account of one, or more, murders. Southern Ohio, between Dayton and Cincinnati and the many connecting cities and towns in between, seemed to her to be a hotbed of homicides. And several of these had been prostitutes. But none had been attributed to the Bathtub Girls’ killer lately. That infamous criminal had his own style, his own methods. And there had been none like it in the two years since her attack.
She still felt the steel vise of his hands clamping around her neck; still saw the terrible, savage eyes that had locked ferociously onto hers. She shuddered as her fingers involuntarily traced the invisible scars the man had left. The dreadful, raw memory made her feel so small and alone. No one knew her secret except her best friend, Melinda. Not her boyfriend, Roland. Not her brother. Nor her father. She had gone to the police post in Cincinnati to report it, even though the attack had happened in Dayton. Actually, she’d gone there simply because it wasn’t Dayton. She had no intention of running the risk of someone recognizing her and she sure didn’t want the news organizations to find out. Her face and name headlining the news with what she’d been doing for a lark wasn’t something she wanted her family, friends, or the board to find out. She’d left the post before meeting with the detective and before the sketch artist arrived. Even though Melinda had pleaded with her to tell her story, she just hadn’t been able to go through with it. She just hadn’t had the courage.
Daisy had seen the article on Grant Mason and how the authorities thought he was the killer, how they had indisputable evidence against him. But his picture, the one that was on the TV and carried on the front page of the paper for weeks, only generically looked like the man she remembered. Both were tall, dark hair and eyes, good-looking in a rugged way. But there were differences that disturbed her. Not that she could pinpoint what they were. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t remember the man’s face. Only his eyes.
Yes, she’d walked out of the police post and hadn’t been back. Now she wondered if that had been a mistake.
Chapter 4
Private Investigator Jimmy Warren knocked on the door, noticing the name written in simple script. “W. Paul Lewinski”. Funny, he’d never noticed the ‘W’ before, had always just known him as Paul. Possibly the younger man thought it gave him an air of importance. Most likely it stood for something simple like Wayne or Walter. Not much mystery there. He half considered asking, but decided he really wasn’t curious enough to put in the effort, and he didn’t want to aggravate the man in case it was something like Winifred or Waldo.
Hopefully, Paul still harbored good feelings for him. After all, Jimmy had been the one who had encouraged him to become detective in the first place. And a good one he was, no doubt about that, from what he’d heard through the grapevine. With the favor he needed, he needed Paul’s friendship. With a sinking feeling he remembered the irritation he’d always felt toward private dicks. And times hadn’t changed much, the only difference was that now the shoe was on the other foot.
“Come in. Come in. I heard you were back in town,” Paul greeted him warmly, clasping his hand. He stared curiously at Jimmy’s swollen, bruised cheek and black eye, but was kind enough not to mention it. It was the day after Jimmy’s sucker-punch and, if anything, he looked worse. The swelling might have gone down a little, but the color palette the bruise goblins used was darker and richly hued.
“Yeah, been back a few months,” Jimmy admitted, reminded again of why he’d moved back to Ohio. That crazy wife of his. She’d always had a screw loose. Beautiful, with that gorgeous black hair, purple eyes, and hot salsa ways. But he’d long suspected she was bi-polar. And, if he wanted to be completely honest, she was too much woman for him. Still, it had been fun while it lasted. Beautiful, hot, electrifying Ada. It had been fun and he wouldn’t trade it, but he was more relieved than upset that it was over.
“How’s the wife?” Paul asked, as Jimmy had known he would. Why did everyone always ask? Did some morbid curiosity make them want to intrude? To know all the acrimonious details? Or did Paul really not know and was merely making polite conversation? He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it was the latter.
“Doing fine the last I saw her. She’s enjoying the good life down in Miami Beach. We have “irreconcilable differences” according to her.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Jimmy shrugged. What else was there to say?
After a short, uncomfortable pause he said, “I came to ask you a favor.”
“Sure. Anything,” Paul answered, probably trying to make up for his embarrassing inquiry by volunteering too quickly, or maybe he just felt sorry for anyone who could lose so horrendously in a fight. Jimmy wasn’t against using either excuse. He would use anything that worked, having learned this years ago. Another reason why he didn’t have many friends.
“I’ve put my shingle out as a P.I. At least until the hiring freeze is over.”
Paul stiffened a fraction, but his expression didn’t change. Jimmy thought that a good sign. At least he hadn’t thrown him out on his ear. Yet.
“I’ve got a client who wants me to look into an old case of yours. Janet Hilton, the girl who went missing back in 2008.”
“That’s pretty well solved,” Paul said, his face curiously blank. It was as if he’d pulled a generic Halloween mask on. Jimmy noticed that his eyes had lost the warmth and friendliness of earlier, and was confused as to the cause.
“Grant Mason murdered her,” the detective continued. “We have irrefutable proof. We haven’t found him yet, but it’s not from lack of trying.”
“I’m sure,” Jimmy said, attempting a grin, hoping his lopsided features managed to assume a vaguely agreeable expression. He added, “There’s no dispute over him being the murderer. What the Hiltons want is for me to find their daughter’s body. I told them that if the detectives working the case couldn’t find her, then not to hold out much hope that I could. But they’re determined. I just wanted to give you a heads up that I would be poking around.”
“Oh, no problem,” Paul said, his tone now amicable. “In fact, I’ll print out some addresses for you of places to start. Mason’s grandparents’, a few leads – people to talk to at the bowling alley he was alleged to be at that night, and the bartender at the bar where Hilton was last seen.” He stopped talking as he carried the file to the copy machine, which was soon humming and clicking as it printed out paper.
It was odd that Paul hadn’t said anything about the suspect’s wife. Jimmy had heard scuttlebutt that Paul was tapping that bit of fluff. Dangerous. Especially for someone in his position. First rule: Keep witnesses and potential suspects at arm’s length. But the boy was young. He’d learn. Jimmy just hoped it wouldn’t be the hard way.
“I’d like to interview Mason’s wife, too; if you don’t mind. She may know something she isn’t even aware of,” Jimmy said cautiously. “Sometimes fresh eyes can pick up something someone closer to the case doesn’t see,” he added, hoping he wasn’t further antagonizing his old friend. He could hear a whisper in the back of his mind saying, “Beware of toe trouncing”, but was there really a choice?
Paul remained silent for several minutes as he collected paper from the copier. Jimmy knew he’d hit a nerve, but there remained a job to do. And if that job involved speaking with the wife of a possible suspect, even if she was Paul’s current squeeze, it still had to be done.
“Of course. I’ll call and let her know you’ll be coming over,” Paul said finally, his voice and face still unreadable. “When would you like to talk to Abby?”
“Abby?” Jimmy thought. The rumors must be true. At least Paul wasn’t being a prick and refusing to allow him to talk to her, without him around. Which would make it look like she had something to hide and that he was protecting her. Or at the least, that he was a jealous boyfriend. The pause before Paul replied had sparked his curiosity and he wondered what had occasioned it. But there was no time to think about it now.
“Today would be good, if it’s okay for her,” Jimmy replied. “The sooner the better, actually. It’s a long shot that she knows anything, but I have to rule out any involvement on her part. You know how it is. Just doing my job. The Hiltons have a right to know. And they desperately need closure and to bury their daughter.”
When Paul opened a file on his desk, Jimmy took the hint, said goodbye, and left the room, closing the detective’s door behind him. He was relieved that the interview had gone so well, actually better than he’d hoped. As he entered the hall, he had to sidestep to avoid bumping into a bear of a man who had planted himself in his way.
A Cincinnati Cold Case Page 2
