“Besides,” he added, “I don’t believe that anyone on my staff would have the ability to commit murder. They are all good people.”
“Well, begging your pardon, Senator,” Mary said, “but one of those good people, either someone from your staff or one of your supporters, did murder Renee Peterson on the night of your party.”
Joseph was taken aback for a moment. He nodded. “You’re right, of course, it’s just hard to believe.”
“Can you tell me anything about Renee before she came to work for you?” Mary asked. “Anything about her family life or her previous work experience?”
An hour later Mary had more data, but she knew she was no closer to finding Renee’s murderer than she was that morning. She hadn’t ruled out the senator, he had plenty of motive, especially if he had, indeed, known about the pregnancy. She hadn’t ruled out Susan either—she could have worked with her husband to murder Renee in order to clear the way for their political careers. No one was in the clear yet and Mary was not going to stop until she found out who killed Renee Peterson.
EIGHTEEN
Mary wondered if the Freeport Republic had issued a restraining order against her, but she figured that if she hadn’t seen it, it didn’t exist. Ignorance is bliss. She took a deep breath and strolled through the newsroom with false bravado, tapped on Jerry’s glass wall and walked in.
“Hi, Jerry,” she said, making herself comfortable in the chair in front of his desk.
“What’cha want, O’Reilly?” he growled, his head studying the computer screen. “I’m on deadline.”
Mary smiled. That was Jerry’s usual greeting, so perhaps he didn’t know about the warrant.
“I need to talk to you about Renee Peterson,” she said, scooting the chair forward. Jerry didn’t budge.
“Never heard of her,” was his curt reply.
“Aw, come on, Jerry,” Mary said, “you worked with her on Senator Ryerson’s campaign. Remember?”
Jerry looked up from the screen and at Mary.
“The gal who drowned?” he asked. “Little Renee?”
Mary nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Sure, I remember her. Cute gal. She was from around here wasn’t she?” Jerry said, leaning back in his chair. “I always thought she had a crush on the senator. Too bad about the drowning.”
“So, do you think that she and the senator…?” Mary asked, lifting one eyebrow suggestively. “You know…?”
“Are you kidding?” Jerry asked. “Have you seen the doll he’s married to? No, didn’t happen. Besides, he wasn’t that kind of guy.”
So much for reporter’s intuition, Mary thought.
“So, what was your job during the campaign?” Mary asked.
“Why are you asking so many questions?” Jerry asked, his beefy hands placed flat on his desk as he leaned toward her. “Is there some sleazy rag paying you money to dig something up on the senator just before he goes for the big run?”
“More like someone is paying me to make sure there’s nothing to dig up,” she said.
“Oh, so you’re one of the good guys?”
Mary smiled. “Always, Jerry. Always.”
“Okay, well, then I’ll answer your question,” Jerry replied, sitting back in his chair. “I did all of the media stuff—press releases, setting up press conferences, schmoozing with the reporters—that kind of stuff.”
“So, did you go to all of his press conferences?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, I just set them up,” he said. “The senator could handle the press when he was on the road. Besides, someone needed to handle stuff at headquarters in case something came up.”
“Do you remember the night Renee died?” Mary asked.
Jerry paused for a moment, remembering back. “Yeah, I remember, although, I was a little buzzed,” he laughed regretfully. “Some people celebrate with champagne. For me…”
He mimicked taking a drag and smiled. “It was my relaxant of choice.”
Mary could not picture Jerry—slightly obese, fiftyish and balding—as a stoner. She shook her head to get rid of the mental image.
“Okay, so you were flying a little,” Mary said. “What do you remember?”
“I remember the senator’s speech,” he said. “I remember Renee, Mike and me standing at the back of the ballroom, near the patio doors, giving the senator the thumbs up on his speech.
“Then Renee says she’s gonna take a walk,” he said, shaking his head. “You know, maybe if I hadn’t been high, I could have saved her.”
“So Renee goes outside,” Mary prompted.
“Yeah, and I follow her out,” Jerry said. “We talk for a minute on the patio and then she walks out by the gardens and I go the other way, behind the garage to celebrate a little more.”
“Did anyone celebrate with you?” Mary asked.
“No, I kept that stuff to myself,” he said. “I didn’t want it to reflect badly on the senator.”
“How long were you away from the party?”
Jerry shrugged. “The next thing I remember is the senator running through the gardens, he’s got Renee in his arms and he’s yelling for an ambulance.
“A real shame,” he added. “She was such a nice girl.”
“Sounds like she was. Thanks, Jerry,” Mary said, “this is going to help.”
“Hey, anytime,” he said cordially.
Just then, a reporter walked past his office and his smile became the usual growl. “Yeah, O’Reilly, next time remember that some of us have deadlines,” he yelled. “Next time make an appointment.”
Mary smiled and winked. “Yes, sir, I’ll remember. I promise.”
Jerry looked around first, and when the coast was clear winked back.
NINETEEN
He felt like a stalker. There was no reason for him to be sitting in his cruiser outside Mary’s house. No reason except a thinly veiled threat from his boss.
Bradley wondered how much digging the mayor had done and who he had spoken to. He knew that his old boss would not have offered anything but praise for the work Bradley had done while he worked for him. But that had been seven years ago and during the last year Bradley had worked on the force, he had taken so many personal days, he might as well have been AWOL.
He could recall that summer day over eight years ago with perfect clarity. He was driving his patrol unit on his usual route when the call came in. Forced entry. Shots fired. He was on alert immediately, but when dispatch listed his address, he was like a man possessed.
All of those years of training had him automatically calling in to the operator, letting her know that he was responding to the crime scene. He didn’t even remember driving to his house. He only remembered pulling up to the curb and dashing from his unit through the open front door.
His chief had beat him to the scene and had to physically restrain him in the front hall. “You go rushing through there, messing things up, you ain’t helping no one,” he had whispered harshly. “Now, you tell me when you got yourself together and then we can proceed.”
It took Bradley only a few moments to gain control. “Where’s Jeannine?” he asked.
The chief shook his head. “She ain’t here,” he said. “We got an APB out on her already. No blood. No specific sign of struggle, but the place has been tossed.”
Bradley looked around. Really looked for the first time. It was as if a tornado had ripped through the inside of his house. Furniture was upturned, pictures were off the walls, books and knickknacks strewn across the room and drawers pulled out and dumped.
“You working undercover on anything right now?” his chief asked. “Someone mad at you?”
Bradley shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing that I can think of.”
“Yeah, well, you probably ain’t thinking too straight right now anyway,” his chief said. “Give us a minute, then I’ll have one of the guys walk you through the house and you can tell us if anything’s missing.”
“Other than my wife,
” Bradley said through clenched teeth.
The chief nodded. “Yeah, other than Jeannine.”
Bradley couldn’t believe she was gone. She had to be in the house. She had to be fine. This had to be a big mistake. They just weren’t looking in the right places.
“Chief, I can’t stand here,” he said. “I’ve got to…”
“Williams,” the chief called to another officer. “I want you to let Alden search through the house. Give him any assistance he needs.”
Bradley nodded to the chief. “Thanks.”
Each room was more damaged than the last. Whoever had done this to his house went about it in a systematic and purely destructive manner. He checked all of the places he thought she might have hidden—closets, crawl spaces, attic and even the garage and the shed. There was no sign of his wife. Then he went back and checked them all a second time.
“Alden, come here,” the chief had called when Bradley was going back a third time. “I gotta talk to you for a moment.”
Fearing the worst, Bradley rushed to his side. “Have you heard…?”
The chief shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “I got a question for you. You and Jeannine, was everything, you know, okay between the two of you?”
Bradley was astonished. “You think that I…”
“No, no,” the chief stopped him at once. “You know, sometimes wives get tired of being married to the job. You know. Could Jeannine have just decided that it was time for her to just disappear? Could she have done this?”
He immediately remembered just a week prior looking at the monitor at the doctor’s office, watching the baby that was growing inside Jeannine. She was beaming as she lovingly stroked her expanding belly. “She’s gorgeous,” she’d whispered tearfully.
He had leaned over and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Looks just like her mom,” he had said softly, awed by the image on the screen. “She’s so active.”
Jeannine had laughed. “Yeah, just wait until she’s two.”
Overcome with joy, he’d felt like he was going to burst.
Bradley shook his head. “No. No way,” he said firmly. “She is, we both are, excited about the baby. We found out last week we’re having a girl. Jeannine bought pink paint. I’m supposed to paint the nursery this weekend. No, no way did she leave me.”
In the months and years that followed, Bradley wondered about his answer time and time again. Was he wrong? Was she tired of him? Was there another man? Was she living somewhere else, raising their daughter with another man?
The chief allowed him to participate in the investigation. But after a year, when all of the leads had dried up, Bradley had taken a leave of absence and followed up every insignificant piece of data. He traveled all across the country, checking morgues and hospitals for any pregnant Jane Does, searching vital statistic records for baby girls born at the time that his daughter would have been born, reading newspapers, interviewing other police forces, and spending hours online looking for something, anything that could help him find his wife and his daughter.
Eighteen months ago, he finally stopped and took a good look at his life. He had lost his home, his savings, his job, his friends and very nearly lost his mind. And he was no closer to solving the mystery than he had been six and a half years ago. One thing he knew for sure: he needed a new start. He couldn’t go back and live in the town where it all had happened.
One call to his old chief had opened doors for him; he had been interviewed and got the job as Chief of Police in Freeport.
“So now, here I am,” he muttered with disgust, “stalking someone to keep the boss happy. You’ve come a long way, baby.”
The back porch light of Mary’s house clicked on. Bradley sat up straight and peered out the side window. He caught a quick glimpse of Mary leaving her house, dressed in black once again.
“Well, if nothing else, it won’t be a boring night,” he said as he turned the engine on and slowly drove down the street.
TWENTY
Mary figured she owed Earl. Bradley hadn’t bothered her all day. And he’d probably think twice before he called her a kook again. So even though she was close to exhausted, she found herself lying in bed that night dressed in her black jeans, a black turtleneck and black running shoes, with her black leather jacket thrown over the banister for easy access.
The clock struck midnight and the familiar shuffling began. Mary waited for Earl to make his way through the kitchen and up the stairs. His bloodied uniformed figure stood in the doorway of her room. Mary sat up in her bed. “Okay Lieutenant, why don’t you show me what has kept you up for so long.”
Earl turned and started back down the hall, with Mary following. The raw stump where his head used to be was pretty gross, so Mary turned her eyes to his feet scuffling across the carpet.
“Remember Earl, I’m not like you—so no going through walls,” Mary said, as she grabbed her jacket. “Instead of the basement, maybe we could use the back door.”
Earl paused and shrugged.
“Shrugs are weird when you don’t have a head,” Mary decided.
Earl reached the first floor and, instead of turning toward the basement, he headed to the back door. When he reached it he began to knock against it with his whole body. “Wait. Wait. WAIT!” Mary yelled, moving around Earl. “I’ll open it, okay? You don’t have to knock down my door.”
She reached for the doorknob and found it covered with Earl’s blood. “Oh, gross!” she exclaimed. “Really, did you have to do that?”
She turned the knob and pulled the door open. The cold air rushed in and brought with it a blast of Earl’s rotting smell. “You know, nothing personal, but I’m going to be really glad when you’re on the other side.”
Earl moved slowly down the stairs, out into the backyard and then down the street. Once on the street his gait increased to a quick clip. “I can tell you were a soldier,” Mary said and jogged down the street behind him, trying to stay upwind if at all possible.
An obese tabby sat on the front banister of a colonial style house, lazily watching moths flutter around a porch light. It slowly turned its head as they approached, ready to send them a disdainful cat “I’m ignoring you” look. But when it got a good look at Earl, its reaction was immediate—back arched and hair standing on end—it dove off the porch and climbed up the nearest tree.
“Sorry,” Mary called. “If you’re not down by morning, I’ll call the fire department.”
They had traveled about a mile and a half when Earl started to slow. He turned right on Carroll Street and headed for the large estate that was now the Stephenson County Historical Museum.
The Taylor House, a beautiful limestone mansion, sat in the midst of the lovingly tended arboretum. The Taylor Gardeners, a group of devoted volunteers, had dedicated hours creating the small gardens and park-like setting throughout the three acres.
Mary followed the winding driveway that led to the front of the home. Large trees bordered the drive, their bare branches illuminated against the full moon. Mary glanced toward the house and saw the familiar shadows of the former residents flit past the tall windows. This was a place filled with contented ghosts who occasionally visited a place they loved when they were still alive. Those ghosts were always a joy to encounter.
Mary glanced around and saw a sweet elderly woman kneeling in the midst of a small English garden. She was methodically pulling up weeds. Mary moved closer and the woman turned. She smiled up at Mary and faded into the night.
She noted that Earl hadn’t stopped at the front, but had drifted along the south side of the house, past the sunroom. Mary hurried forward, careful not to do anything that would trigger an alarm; she didn’t need another incident with the police department. She bypassed the kitchen entrance to the house and continued to the back of the property.
In one corner, far behind the mansion was a modern carriage-house that accommodated the Museum Director’s office and meeting rooms. Adjacent to the little
house was an ancient ornamental wrought-iron fence that housed the family cemetery.
Earl stopped at the wrought-iron gate and motioned to Mary. She opened the gate for him, he glided through and stopped. He paused for a moment and waited for Mary to join him. “Almost there, Earl, we’re almost at the end of the journey.”
He moved to the northwest corner of the graveyard, turned back to Mary and pointed. The limestone grave marker was nearly worn smooth. Mary knelt next to it and took out her penlight. She shone it against the engraving. UNKNOWN UNION SOLDIER—APRIL 1864.
That made sense. The Taylors often hosted Union Soldiers before they left for war. It was just like them to honor the death of an unknown soldier.
Mary took out an index card that she had prepared that evening, it read, “Lieutenant Earl Belvidere.” She taped it to the headstone and looked up at Earl. “That’s the best I can do for now,” she explained. “As soon as I get the other information, I’ll get you a new stone. You won’t be unknown anymore.”
Earl straightened, turned to Mary, saluted her and slowly faded into the darkness of the night. Mary rubbed a hand over the headstone and her eyes filled with tears. “Goodbye Earl, happy travels.”
“So, Earl won’t be breaking into your house anymore?”
Mary nearly screamed. “You scared the hell out of me!”
Bradley chuckled and stooped down next to her. “I didn’t think anything scared you,” he said.
“Very funny,” Mary replied, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. “How long have you been following me?”
Bradley shrugged. “Since you left your house.”
“My house,” she paused for a moment. “Am I under surveillance?”
He shook his head, guilt weighing heavy on his conscience. “No, of course not, but the bomb incident has left me feeling a little uneasy.”
“Bradley, I swear, I didn’t plant a bomb,” she said.
He stood and then offered his hand to help her up. “I don’t think you did,” he explained. “But someone did. So that means that someone is trying to frame you. Why?”
Crimes of Passion Page 94
