“I don’t care about things. It’s Susan B. Anthony!” His mother had named her cat after the women’s suffrage champion because she thought they looked alike; they didn’t.
“What about her, Ma?”
Elzbieta Thread sniffled, pointed toward the living room with her left hand, still covering her face with her right. “In there.” She resumed crying.
Nell beat him there and gasped.
Casey hurried down the hall and into the living room. He stopped in front of the couch as if it were the edge of a cliff.
Susan B. lay face down on the couch, dead. Mrs. Van Klooster’s greyhound, Eli Whitney, was dead too. The killer had laid the pets in a sexually suggestive manner. There were no signs of choking, blunt-force trauma, or other apparent causes of death. Had he drugged them?
A police officer snapped pictures of the animals.
Casey figured the pets had been easy prey for the masked man. Casey returned to his mother, shocked by all that had happened. “Ma, I’m so, so sorry.” He half-hugged her while she sobbed for a minute or two. It was the first hug he’d given her in longer than he remembered. Her arms were at her sides, but he squeezed her firmly.
“Who could do this?” Elzbieta said.
“The guy who did this called me from inside your house, just before you arrived home.”
Elzbieta’s eyes widened and she glared at Casey. “Is he still here?”
“I doubt it,” Nell said, “but the police are checking the premises, just to be sure.”
“I’m sorry,” Elzbieta addressed Nell, “who are you?”
“This is Nell,” Casey said. “She’s a friend of Elena’s, the woman who’s missing.”
Nell smiled meekly. “I’m sorry about your cat.”
“Thank you, dear. She gave affection on her own terms, but who wants it all the time anyway? And what do you do?”
“I sell cosmetics.”
“What kind?” Mother said.
“Baciare.”
“Oooh, pretty and successful,” Elzbieta said, elbowing her son. “You wouldn’t want to bring someone like that home to me.”
So much for wanting me to become a priest, Casey thought. Or mourning her cat. Some mothers never miss an opportunity to point out their children’s deficiencies—no matter how happy or sad they happen to be at the moment.
More police officers arrived, as did the Animal Control Unit, which ran tests on the pets’ bodies then bagged and loaded them into the Animal Control truck. Casey was grateful that he didn’t have to carry Eli into the backyard or try to bury him in frozen ground.
Elzbieta wiped tears and shook her head. “Why would the killer call you, Casey?”
“We think it’s because of the story I’m researching for Sports Scene magazine.”
“What?” Elzbieta said.
Casey regretted saying those words the instant they left his mouth. He scratched his head. “He said he’d hurt you if I didn’t stop looking into the disappearance of my friend from the Hail Pro Shop.”
“Well, stop covering it!” Elzbieta snapped.
Mrs. Van Klooster entered the kitchen. She stood about five-foot-five and resembled Betty White with glasses. “I’m back, Elzy, and I have the tissues,” she said. Her makeup had been smeared from crying.
Elzbieta hugged Mrs. Van Klooster and said, “Thank you. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have bought more.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” Mrs. Van Klooster said. “None of us saw this coming.”
That comment tore at Casey’s chest, as he had seen it coming but hadn’t been able to impede it. Nell scribbled something on a pad of paper, ripped it off and handed it to Elzbieta. “I’d really like it if you went to this hotel. Take Mrs. Van Klooster with you. You’ll be safe there.”
Elzbieta looked skeptically at Nell. “Who are you, Harriet Tubman?”
“I’m a federal agent, ma’am. Trust me.”
“CIA,” Mrs. Van Klooster whispered to Casey with a wink and a definitive nod. Casey squinted at her.
“Trust you?” Elzbieta frowned. “You just lied to me about your job.”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Ma, please.”
“I’m FBI Special Agent Nell Jenner.” She produced her ID. “I’m staying at that hotel.”
“Well,” Elzbieta said, “if you’re FBI you’ll catch this bastard, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Nell said.
Casey knew he should feel better knowing he had the feds on his side. But the shock of the information was like splashed water on jeans—the deed had been done, but it was taking a while to saturate.
“Don’t you have a big FBI team to hunt him down?” Elzbieta asked.
“There are multitudes of ongoing cases,” Nell said. “Most situations don’t get the resources dedicated to them like you might see on TV.”
“Won’t he be able to find us if he checks all the hotels?” Elzbieta said.
“It’s on my credit card under my name,” Nell said.
A female cop told Elzbieta that there were no suspects on the premises, and no sign of forced entry. “Is it possible you left your door open, Mrs. Thread?”
“I suppose it’s possible…”
“Ma, how many times have I reminded you—”
“Oh, nobody’s perfect,” she said with a scowl.
“Leaving your door open doesn’t make what he did legal,” the officer said.
“We’ll get through this,” Casey said to Elzbieta. “We’ll find the jerk-off who did this.”
Elzbieta scoffed. “Such language. He didn’t steal the dish soap, you know.” It wouldn’t be the first time she had “washed” her son’s mouth out, although it had been twenty-four years, two months, and a week since the last time. Not that Casey kept count.
She turned to Mrs. Van Klooster and said, “Come on, dear, let’s go.”
Casey wiped his palm over his face. Mother had hang-ups that he knew might never change. So when her tidal wave washed toward him, he tried to surf on top of it. He and Nell left the house, returned to the Z4, got in and closed the doors. Nell exhaled. “Your mother can be a challenge.”
“A challenge is riding a bike uphill.” Casey gave her a grave look, letting his hand flop to his thigh in exhaustion. They stared at each other a moment, then chuckled. “She’s a piece of work, but I love her.”
“I know you do.” Nell started the car.
Casey scratched his temple. “If you hadn’t had to, would you have ever told me your were a federal agent?”
Nell answered the question she thought he was really asking. “Casey, I really am Elena’s friend. We want the same thing.”
He raised his hands to his head as if to fend off a migraine. “I never questioned your commitment to find her. I asked if you’d planned to level with me.”
“Does it matter?” Nell said, exasperated. “Or is the real question whether your chest swelled when you thought you could heroically lead the cosmetics princess to the damsel in distress, Sir Thread the Gallant?”
He took a deep breath and looked out the front windshield. “Look, we both want to find Elena. It’s time to hail her cab.”
16
MONDAY, JANUARY 24
When Hailangelo returned to his studio, he set his briefcase on the antique desk, grabbed a tall glass and mixed another Black Russian on the rocks. He drank half of it, the ice slipping to his lips, and then approached Galatea from behind and kissed her on the shoulder. He removed an ice cube from the drink and ran it down her back. He held her closely and became aroused. “It is done, my amor.” The alcohol and homicides combined to stimulate his mesolimbic dopamine system, flooding his brain with pleasure. He had become addicted to such stimuli and knew it wouldn’t last, so he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and savored it.
Urges beckoned him to place Galatea in public, to showcase his greatness again to the world. He imagined the news reports on it, and a museum buying it for display. He wouldn’t be credited
by name, of course, but would bask in the glory of the attention from the safety of his hiding spot, right under their noses. But that would require giving her away. He couldn’t do that—he loved her far too much.
While stalking the woman who would become Galatea, Hailangelo had spotted LeRoy “Skeeto” DeWillis and Todd Narziss with her. This had infuriated Hailangelo, who’d contemplated for days how to deal with it.
Eventually, he’d spoken to Narziss about it before a political rally at East High School. Narziss had been scheduled to introduce the governor to the audience in the school auditorium, and Hailangelo had pulled him aside backstage:
“But she’s a good time,” Narziss had whispered to Hailangelo.
“I don’t care if she’s the concubine of the century, you’ll stop seeing her.”
Hailangelo stood six feet tall, but Narziss still hulked in comparison. “What are you, my father?”
Hailangelo pointed a finger at Narziss’s neck as if it were a needle. “I launder the payments for your drugs. If you want that to continue, you’ll do as I say.”
Narziss laughed at him and folded his python-sized arms. “I’ll just get them from Elena. Pay cash and cut out the middle man.”
“Not if you want your affair to stay a secret from your adoring fans, deluded into thinking you’re the football man of the year and a wholesome candidate for office.”
The smile evaporated from Narziss’s face. “You wouldn’t.”
Hailangelo raised a brow and said, “Oh Todd, you know I gladly would.”
Narziss held out his hands as if to clutch Hailangelo’s neck. “I’ll strangle you.”
“Tut-tut. Not in the same room as the governor and a packed auditorium. Besides, we wouldn’t want Elena to disappear, would we?”
Narziss glowered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you don’t stop seeing her, you’ll never see her again.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Either way, I won’t see her.”
Hailangelo smiled. “Now you’re catching up.” The sound of the crowd in the auditorium swelled. “I think you’d better get on stage, Todd.”
The master of ceremonies announced over the auditorium speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, all-star tight end for the Green Bay Hail, Todd Narziss!” Without hesitation, the athlete ducked through the curtains and went onstage. Hailangelo listened from behind the curtains.
The crowd chanted, “Go Hail, go! Go Hail, go!”
Todd Narziss waved to his fans and waited for them to calm down. “This year, our team has proven we’re winners. We have home-field advantage, we’ve advanced to the conference championship, but our job isn’t done yet, right?”
The audience burst into ecstatic applause.
“It won’t be until we win the championship,” he said. “Everyone loves a winner. If you want to be an all-star, you’ll make sure he gets four more years.”
“Four more years!” the crowd chanted. “Four more years!”
Narziss grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen: the Governor of Wisconsin, Lance Moeller!”
Now, in the safety of his studio, Hailangelo snapped out of his reverie and smiled at his statue of Galatea. “They’ll never mess with you again, love.” He guzzled the rest of the Black Russian and kissed her hand.
17
MONDAY, JANUARY 24
Casey ran an online search for addresses on Blue Lake Road, then used those to search for the phone numbers registered to those addresses, and quickly had a phone list to call to see if the property owners knew Ed Plasky, the cab driver. Casey claimed to be Ed’s fishing buddy, and that he had accidentally deleted Ed’s address from his phone. After five rejections, Casey found an old lady who gave him Plasky’s location. When soliciting anything, Casey turned to multiplicity: if he had confidence and asked enough people, eventually someone would say yes. The key was not to care that a dozen or a hundred-dozen would say “no” before getting that “yes.” After all, why would he care about the opinions of strangers who turned him down? If he didn’t ask, it would be guaranteed he wouldn’t get what he wanted. He had nothing to lose.
Even though he had an address for the cabin, he couldn’t leave right away. First, he needed a ride from Nell and she had other FBI commitments. Second, he had promised his mother that he’d meet her at Leila’s apartment. He knew he had to find Elena, but he also couldn’t blow off his mother all week, especially after the home invasion. Elzbieta was now staying with Leila until things settled—she preferred that to the hotel. Casey helped Elzbieta bring in groceries. They took a few bags into the complex while Leila remained at the car. In the elevator for the apartment complex, Casey said, “How are you holding up, Ma?”
“Oh, I’m still here,” Elzbieta said. “I wish my Susan B. was, too.”
“I’m really sorry that happened, Ma.”
“I know, kid.”
Back in Leila’s apartment, it took Elzbieta about three seconds to light a cigarette.
He hesitated at first to say anything, but then remembered Leila could lose her apartment if she allowed smoking. “Ma, you can’t smoke in here.”
Elzbieta glared at him in disbelief. “What, are you the Board of Health now? You’re a smoker!”
“I quit, Ma.”
“Eh.” She waved at him. “You never finish anything.”
Casey swallowed. Mother had said similar things before but this hit him below the belt. “Yeah? Well, I am finishing this. I’m on this new pill, and it zaps my cravings.”
“Look, your father died on me with two kids.” She held up two fingers, as if he didn’t know what she meant. “That left me to raise a five-year-old and an infant on my own.” She puffed on the cancer stick. “Did you expect me to be Mother Teresa? So I need a little pick-me-up once in a while. Sue me.” She took a long drag, opened the window, and held her cigarette near it. Strange, he thought, how smoke rising from the end of such a lethal product could be so beautiful as it drifts.
“Look, Ma, the landlord will evict Leila if the smoke alarms go off.”
Mother grunted. “I haven’t been this oppressed since Hitler.”
“Ma, we’ve been over this: you didn’t live in Poland during the war.”
“The hell I didn’t. I was born in Kraków.” She closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her chest. “I am a child of the War Era.”
“You were born after the Germans surrendered.”
“By eight months. Technically, I was conceived during the war! My poor Jewish neighbors.”
Casey put the milk in the fridge. “With all due respect, you were an infant, Ma—you had no idea what was going on.” When she resorted to revisionist history, he felt a responsibility to anthropology and humanity to correct her.
“There you go with the manipulating.” Mother gesticulated. “Like I can’t read the history books or see the documentaries and feel a connection or a…a…kindred spirit with those who suffered next door?” She hastily inhaled nicotine. “Whether I was a month or a hundred years old, I was living right down the street. Now I’m just a widow who worked her dupa off to provide for two kids, and you want to flush it all down the toilet. Woo-kiish!”
Casey sighed.
Leila entered through the front door, holding a paper bag of groceries up to her chin.
“Oh thank God.” Elzbieta crossed herself as she approached Leila, arms outstretched.
Casey took the groceries off Leila’s hands and set them on the kitchen counter.
Elzbieta dramatically embraced her daughter.
Casey rolled his eyes. “It has been a whole two minutes since you last saw her.”
“What?” Elzbieta said. “Can’t a mother thank the Divine Savior for returning her daughter safely? The world is a dangerous place, Casey Jerome Thread, even when you’re just walking to your car. You of all people should know that.”
Leila intervened. “Ma, lay off him.”
That surprised Casey. Leila hadn’t done that since, when, tenth grade?
Elzbieta waved again, as if shooing a fly. “Eh. Casey, you should be helping your sister.”
He squinted. “Excuse me? I’m the one who’s been unloading the groceries while you—”
“I love my dear Leila, but all the self-loathing.” Elzbieta waved the cigarette in a circle, the smoke trailing. “Her hate for her attacker consumes her, holds her back, which depresses her further.”
Leila folded her arms. “Um, I’m right here.”
Elzbieta glanced at Casey and held out her palm toward Leila, as if her daughter was Exhibit A. “See? She lets it out on her mother. They talked all about this on Dr. Phil.”
Leila’s face crumpled. “What?”
Elzbieta looked at both her kids and blew smoke. “It’s a vicious cycle, really. And what do you do, Casey? Nothing.”
“Stop it, Ma,” Leila said, leaning against the door as if her mother had physically pushed her.
Casey folded his arms. “No, it’s okay, Lei. What am I supposed to do about it, Ma?”
Elzbieta started sniffling. “You were supposed to watch her! She was fifteen when it happened! Fif-teen!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
His stomach churned.
Elzbieta covered her face with her hands. “Oh! Oh, dear Lord.” She crossed herself again. “That terrible event.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Mom,” Leila said. “I was raped. R-a-p-e-d. You can say it.”
Her mother howled, covering her ears with her hands, her voice climbing in pitch like a choral warm-up: “We’re not doing this…”
“Whatever.” Leila said. “Gawd! This is Groundhog Day.” She stormed into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Casey glowered at his mother.
She took another drag on her cigarette. “What?”
Casey checked on his sister. “You okay?” Leila’s tears made black streamers from her eyeliner. She looked in the mirror. “I’m a hot mess.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Casey said nothing.
Leila sniffed. “For months, maybe years, I wondered what people would do if I killed myself. I never took physical steps to do it; just pictured hanging from black pantyhose. If I stopped showing up to Fixate Factory, would my boss notice? Care?”
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