“Well, you won’t be a writer for long, anyway,” Elzbieta said. “You never finish anything. You’re always falling asleep before you can.”
Typical mother. Casey figured her beefs with her kids stemmed from her own insecurity. She’d convinced herself she was the All-American Mother. To Elzbieta, that jibed neither with her daughter’s rape nor her son’s mediocre accomplishments in all parts of life, so she’d decided the problem had to be her children’s attitudes, and that it was her task to fix them.
“Actually, Ma, I think I might be on to something with the disappearance of a Pro Shop worker who was having an affair with the team’s best player.”
“An affair?” Elzbieta exclaimed. “That’s worse than murder!”
Here we go. “Actually, I think murder is far worse.”
Elzbieta crossed herself. “I was just telling my neighbor about the violent wave of crime.”
“Mom, this would be the first murder in Green Bay in eight months. And don’t be scaring Mrs. Van Klooster like that.”
“What about that rape and murder a week ago?”
Unbelievable. “You mean the one in Milwaukee, two hours away?”
“Maybe the killer’s got a car. Don’t be a dummkopf.” She nodded her head as if to say, So there. “A lot of girls have been disappearing around here.”
They’re probably all hiding from their mothers, he thought. “Doesn’t mean that’s what happened to Elena.”
“You, of all people, should know about women being attacked.”
“Really, Mother?” His fingers tightened into a fist. She had to go there. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed.
The cab turned into the parking lot at the Sunset Shores Recreation Center. The cab driver glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “We’re here, ma’am.”
Elzbieta learned forward. “Thanks. You want a cookie?”
The cabbie frowned. “Payment will do.”
Casey apologized for her and asked the driver to wait and keep the meter running.
“Oh, it’s running,” the cabbie said.
Elzbieta got out of the car.
Casey followed and tried not to show his displeasure. “Mrs. Peterson is hosting tonight?”
“Yes,” Elzbieta said. “She always cheats.”
They walked toward the door of the recreation center. “Cheats? How?”
“She passes her dish of mints to distract us while she corners the cards. I may be going blind, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Casey thought, Can’t get anything past my mother. In your face! “Have a good time, Ma.”
“I’ll try.” She took a step inside the doorway and turned back to her son. “See you, kid.”
The curve on her face looked strangely like a smile. The front door shut and he pivoted, smacked his lips, and walked back to the cab.
“Where to?” the taxi driver said.
Casey wanted to ask him to drive fast off the Tower Bridge. Between Elena, Narziss, his mother, and narcolepsy, he had just about had it. Instead, he gave the cabbie the address for his apartment. The Virgen statue in Quito had been constructed from more than seven thousand pieces of aluminum. He hoped Elena was still in one piece.
8
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 19
Hailangelo sat in his house in Green Bay, using his laptop to log onto the website for ABC 27 News in Columbia, Missouri. The site had been streaming a video of the mysterious Madame X statue that had caused quite a stir, and the reactions of those who saw it. Students had discovered it on their way to early morning classes. “I thought she was some kind of performer,” a coed said. “But like, then she didn’t move.” The coed said frat boys sent cat calls toward Madame X before they realized it was “just a statue.” They wrote it off as funny at first.
This drew the sculptor’s ire. Just a statue?
On video, a school administrator told News 27 she noticed stitching along the back of the statue’s foot. It was then she reported the incident to campus police, who eventually realized that the statue was the work of a taxidermist. The reporter appeared on camera in front of the columns, police snapping pictures of the statue behind her. “Police have not identified the victim, and would not confirm a connection to similar bodies left in Colorado, Iowa, and Illinois during the last year. However, News 27 has identified a pattern of precisely three months between the appearances of each of the four human statues.”
A tanned male news anchor asked, “What does the FBI have to say about it?”
The reporter, a young woman, answered, “The Bureau is in fact assisting police in determining whether the statues are connected. If they are, the FBI would surely take over this case, since it crosses state lines and involves more than two homicides.”
The anchor asked, “Do police have any idea who could pull off this display?”
“They wouldn’t say, but News 27 has learned that campus police officers have already interviewed art professors and students on campus, and have taken DNA samples they hope to compare to any found on the body. Forensics experts swabbed the body this morning for further analysis. Reporting from campus, Wendy Lee, ABC 27 News.”
Hailangelo giggled as he cleared his internet browser’s history. He knew he couldn’t have pulled off this stunt back when he was an art student in college. Perhaps he could have used polyvinyl replica statues, but not the real thing. He had used surgeon’s gloves throughout the process of creating Madame X. He had kept her dress in a sealed plastic bag until the trip to Columbia. Neither would carry his DNA.
Three months ago, he had been questioned in Green Bay shortly after the third human statue, a lifelike rendering of Mona Lisa, appeared in Galesburg. The FBI had originally sought out hyperrealist sculptors and talented taxidermists living in Colorado, Iowa, and Illinois, but had since expanded the search nationwide. Hailangelo, known for his polyvinyl exhibits in Manhattan, Chicago, and Hail Stadium, had drawn the interest of Special Agent Antonio Torres from the Milwaukee FBI Field Office, who one day knocked on Hailangelo’s door in Green Bay and asked if he would answer a few questions.
Took them long enough, Hailangelo thought, but invited him in anyway and cooperated completely.
When Agent Torres, a dapper Latino in his thirties, asked if Hailangelo had any experience in taxidermy, he paused and admitted he did. After all, his shop had been no secret. “Surely, if taxidermy automatically made someone a serial killer, the FBI would be awfully busy,” he said. Hailangelo had prepared for this day by studying FBI journals, videos, and podcasts.
Agent Torres asked to see Hailangelo’s shop, and got the full tour of the one-room store on Green Bay’s east side. The agent thanked him for his compliance, left his business card and asked Hailangelo to call him if he thought of anyone else who might be behind the creation of these statues. After all, he probably knew most of the people capable of such a feat.
“Will do, Agent,” Hailangelo promised. After Torres left, Hailangelo thought about how Milwaukee police had stood at the door of serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, even returning to Dahmer a delirious victim who had escaped from his apartment. Left free in society, Dahmer killed a total of 17 victims before his capture.
Hailangelo knew he had passed a major milestone—his first encounter with authorities. It was time to bring his Galatea to life.
9
TUESDAY, JANUARY 18
Nell dropped off Casey at NorthStar Taxi on the way to a Baciare Cosmetics party with wives of Hail players—her best customers. The lot had been plowed, brushed, and salted to the point that he could see the pavement.
Casey wrapped his red scarf around his neck to protect himself from the chill and counted the NorthStar parking stalls, twelve in all. There were taxis in all but four spaces.
An African-American gentleman in his sixties came out to meet him. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Casey Thread, a reporter with Sports Scene magazine investigating the disappearance of a Hail Pro Shop employee.” Casey han
ded him a business card.
The gentleman took the card, glanced at it, placed it in his pocket and said, “I’m Tyrese.”
Casey shook his hand. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise.”
“You work here?”
“Yes, I’m the manager.” Tyrese wore a plaid wool skicap. “Do you need a ride?”
“Not at the moment. The missing young woman is a friend of mine, Elena Ortega.”
“A friend of yours? How so?”
“I dated her for, oh, a night.”
Tyrese grinned. “Well, take it from an old-timer: you were a lucky man for a night.”
Casey raised his brows.
“What?” Tyrese said. “I may be old, but I’m still breathing.”
Casey nodded and smiled. He could hardly blame the man. “Do you know Elena?”
“I do. She is a regular customer.”
Wait a second. Tyrese had access to the taxis and he knew Elena. “Do you ever drive a cab?”
“Haven’t in years. I’m like air-traffic control, but for our ground units. Do you work with her?”
Casey shook his head. “No, why?”
The man didn’t answer. Curious. What did he know about Elena’s co-workers? Did he suspect someone at the Pro Shop?
Tyrese hiked up his pants, nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll help you.”
“Do you have anything against the Pro Shop workers?”
“Pro Shop? No, of course not.”
Strange. “Are all your cabs accounted for?”
“Well, funny you should say that.” Tyrese looked toward the office, probably to confirm that his boss couldn’t hear him.
Casey knew from his research that Oscar Oleysniak owned the place. “Why is that funny?”
Tyrese turned back toward the row of cabs and lowered his voice. “Units one, four, and five are serving customers right now. But there should be a cab in slot twelve.” Tyrese peered over his silver reading glasses, a flat toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
“How long has Cab Twelve been missing?” Casey said.
“Since Friday night.” He firmed his lips and nodded.
“That’s the same day she disappeared,” Casey said, looking at stall number twelve. “What about the driver?”
Tyrese leaned in and muttered, “Haven’t heard from him since.”
A pit formed in Casey’s stomach. He glanced at the parking stall marked “12,” then back to Tyrese. “Did the cabbie report picking up a woman near the stadium Friday night?”
“No,” Tyrese said. “But we have a GPS tracking device in the trunk of every taxi. Our computer displays the location of the cabs in real time as they move, for security of course, but really more so I know which cab to send where.”
“And where was Number Twelve?”
Tyrese exhaled, as if he had expected that question from the moment Casey arrived. “I was working Friday night. By watching the electronic command board, I could tell Cab Twelve idled about a block from Hail Stadium for twenty minutes, waiting for the next assignment.”
“Are the trips recorded?”
“Not by us.” Tyrese blew out his hot breath, which materialized in the cold air between them. “It’s expensive and not necessary.”
“Are you recorded in the office?”
Tyrese gave him a look of surprise mixed with humor. “Actually, yes. Surveillance is on in the office twenty-four seven in the event of a break-in. I can assure you I was not driving that cab, Mr. Thread.”
Casey swallowed and raised his chin a bit. “Just…covering all bases.”
Tyrese cleared his throat. “Anyway, most of our traffic goes to and from either the airport or Hail Stadium. So, that much was normal.”
“What wasn’t normal?” Casey said.
“Well, at one point Friday night, he turned onto Edge Road and stopped.”
“For how long?”
“A minute, two maybe,” Tyrese said. “Getting gas, I thought. Though…it was weird.”
“What?”
Tyrese grabbed his toothpick and worked it between his teeth. “Ed usually calls in his gas stops. I have to remind some drivers, but never Eddie. He was by-the-book.”
“He didn’t call in?”
“Nope. Just took off.” Tyrese shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible he might have forgotten to call in about the stop. But he wouldn’t have just taken off and never called.”
Adrenaline pulsed through Casey. “Do you know where he went?”
“Yes, he took Mancinni Avenue to Highway 41,” Tyrese said, pointing in the direction of the stadium, as if they could see it. “Headed north, stopped along the shoulder of the highway, about a mile up, from what I could tell. Then the GPS tracking went dead. Hasn’t come back online since.”
Casey scribbled notes as he said, “The cabbies know where the GPS box is located?”
“The veteran drivers do, yeah.”
“How long has that driver—”
“Ten years,” Tyrese said.
Casey paused a moment. Had that driver dislocated the GPS so he could take Elena somewhere nobody would find them? Goosebumps covered Casey’s skin. “What did the police say?”
“We haven’t contacted them. The boss didn’t want to.”
“Doesn’t your boss want his cab back?”
Tyrese grinned. “My boss doesn’t like cops.”
“That’s right, police have been leaning on him for drug trafficking, right?” It had been in the news.
“Yep. Haven’t found anything, though. The boss simply said Cab Twelve was out on duty. Which, I suppose, could be true.”
“But you don’t buy that.”
Tyrese shook his head. “Hell no. Eddie, the driver of Cab Twelve, is the bossman’s go-to guy for delivering packages.”
“Is it normal to have a go-to guy?”
“Well, we’ve got some drivers who are better than others. But the odd part was Ed delivered all of the boss’s packages. Mr. Oleysniak never uses the mail, and he never delivers them himself. Elena would talk to the boss often.”
“Elena? About what?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell you she was responsible for a boom in our business.”
Couldn’t be. Not Elena. “What are you implying, sir?”
Tyrese shrugged. “We delivered a lot of packages on her behalf, multiple times a day. She’d call us from random locations and we’d send the cabs there to pick up her boxes and deliver them to whomever.”
“Listen, Elena wasn’t a vestal virgin, but she’s my friend, and I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Thread. You wanted the facts. I’m giving them.”
Casey sighed and wrote on his pad. “She have a problem with the post office?”
“Unlike the post office,” Tyrese said with a sly smile, “we don’t scan packages or ask what’s inside.” He raised his brows at Casey.
“Her shipping costs must have been through the roof.” Of course, if she made enough off the packages, shipping wouldn’t be a big deal. “You don’t think…”
Tyrese tilted his head. “Drugs? I have never seen the inside of those packages, but it’s possible. She’d drop off larger boxes when she’d visit Mr. Oleysniak.”
Sleeping with Narziss was one thing. But dealing drugs? “No, no. She was seeing a rich guy. Didn’t need the money. Why take the risk?”
“Well I don’t know for sure, Mr. Thread. But consider who could afford to buy the drugs.”
Professional athletes. Could that be how Elena met Narziss? Selling him drugs?
“When Elena scheduled deliveries, did she call you, or go through your boss?”
“Lately, she would call Ed directly on his cell.”
Casey’s hand quivered. “Did she order any pickups the day she disappeared?”
Tyrese thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, she did. She told our cabbie to pick it up from her at the stadium.”
Casey had almos
t had sex with Narziss’s drug-dealing mistress. Nausea swelled. He placed a fist to his mouth until it subsided. “Who was assigned to pick it up?”
Tyrese cleared his throat and glanced back at the office. “Oleysniak personally assigned Ed to Cab Twelve.”
Through the glass front wall of the building, Casey saw Oleysniak stick his head in Tyrese’s office, turn around, spot them and raise an eyebrow. Casey’s flight instinct was aroused, but he couldn’t leave now. Not this close to getting a real lead on finding Elena.
Casey wondered if Elena had for some reason changed the drop spot to the gas station. “Why do you think Elena didn’t drop the packages herself?”
“She didn’t have a car. No driver’s license. She was a foreigner without a green card. More importantly, she also wanted to keep herself removed from the actual exchange of money.”
“If she didn’t have a car, what was she doing at the gas station last Friday?”
Tyrese shrugged. “Buying something to drink?”
That jibed with Sandy’s recollection of Elena buying tea. “Is it possible Cab Twelve was loitering in the area, waiting for either a call to come in or for Elena’s pickup?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Any idea where Ed could be now?”
Tyrese turned his back toward his boss, who neared. Tyrese whispered, “He always talked about how much he loved fishing and hunting at his cottage up north.”
“How could he afford a cottage?”
“Inherited it, if memory serves,” Tyrese mumbled.
Oleysniak came closer.
“Eddie’s last name?” Casey whispered.
“Plasky,” Tyrese answered. “With a y.”
“Any idea where this cottage is?”
Tyrese leaned in and whispered. “It’s on Blue Lake Road in Minocqua. I remember because it was the same name as the lake.”
Casey scribbled.
Oleysniak’s shoes crunched on snow. His hair was white, his neck thick, and his skin looked like raw ham. Oleysniak said, “Can I help you?”
Casey shook Tyrese’s hand and said, “Thanks for your help.”
Tyrese glanced at Oleysniak. “He didn’t know we already had a vendor for a tracking system.”
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