"Well, you betcha. It's okay for Brad to see her, you think?"
She looked at the boy. "You want to see your auntie, don't you?" He damn well better not say that he didn't have an auntie. She held his eyes as she took the soda from his tiny hand and sipped it.
He nodded.
"I thought you did. Good."
BRYNN MCKENZIE GATHERED
up her backpack and pitched out her second cocoa cup of the day. Thought again about Graham and their first date. Then about the last time they'd been out together alone--at a woodsy club on Route 32, dancing until midnight. It was one week before she'd found out he was "cheating."
Why didn't you ask me to go with you?...
And why hadn't he invited her to a therapy session?
"Hey, B?" a woman's voice interrupted. "How 'bout Bennigan's later?" Jane Styles, another senior deputy, continued, "I'm meeting Reggie. Oh, and that cute guy from State Farm's going to be there. One I told you about."
Brynn whispered, "I'm not divorced, Jane."
The words "not yet" tagged along at the end of the sentence.
"I just said he was cute. That's only information. I'm not calling the caterer."
"He sells insurance."
"We need insurance. Nothing wrong with that."
"Thanks, but I've got something going on. Buy a policy for me."
"Funny."
Thinking of Hart, thinking of the Harborside Inn in Milwaukee, Brynn McKenzie walked down a corridor she'd been up and down so often that she tended not even to see it. On the walls were pictures of deputies killed in the line of duty. There were four over the past eighty-seven years, though Eric Munce's portrait wasn't up yet. The county had the photos mounted in expensive frames. The first fatality was a deputy with a handlebar mustache. He'd been shot by a man involved in the Northfield, Minnesota, train robbery.
She passed a map of the county too, a big one, pausing and glancing at the azure blemish of Lake Mondac. She asked herself, So, is what I'm about to do now a good idea, or a bad idea?
Then she laughed. Why bother to ask the question? It doesn't matter. I've already made the decision.
She fished the keys out of her pocket and pushed outside into a beautiful, clear afternoon.
Is it true he's a killer?
That's our understanding.
DRIVING THROUGH A
gritty neighborhood of Milwaukee toward Lake Michigan, Michelle Kepler was saying to her son, "What you're going to do is go up to this woman and say you're lost. She'll be parked and when she gets out of her car you go up to her and say, 'I'm lost.' Say it." "I'm lost."
"Good. I'll point her out to you. And make sure you look, you know, upset. Can you do that? You know how to look upset?"
"Uh-huh," said Brad.
She snapped, "Don't say you know something when you don't. Now, do you know how to look upset?"
"No."
"Upset is what I look like when you've done something wrong and you disappoint me. You understand?"
He nodded quickly. This, he got.
"Good." She smiled.
In downtown Milwaukee, Michelle drove past the Harborside Inn then around the block. Returned to the hotel. The parking lot was half full. It was 5 P.M. Brynn McKenzie wasn't due for another half hour.
"Better work."
"What, Mommy?"
"Shhh."
She circled once more, then pulled into a space on the street, twenty feet from the parking lot. "What we're going to do is when the woman drives in, she'll park somewhere there. See?...Good. And then you and me both get out. I'm going to go around that way, behind. You go up to her and knock on the window closest to her. Tell her you're lost. And scared. She'll get out of the car. What are you going to tell her?"
"I'm lost."
"And?"
"Scared."
"And what do you look like?"
"Upset."
"Good." She rewarded him with another big smile, tousling his hair. "Then Mommy's going to come up and...talk to her for a minute, then we both run back to the car and drive home and see Sam. Do you like Sam?"
"Yeah, he's fun."
"You like him more than you like Mommy?"
The hesitation was like a hot iron against her skin. "No."
She pushed the jealousy away as best she could. Time to concentrate.
Michelle studied the area. Cars passed occasionally, a customer would come out of a tavern across the street or an elderly local would amble along the sidewalk. But other than that the neighborhood was deserted.
"Now. Be quiet. And shut the radio off."
Her phone buzzed. She read the text message, frowned. It was from a friend in Milwaukee. The words were sobering. The man had just heard, about twenty minutes ago, that Gordon Potts had been killed in Eau Claire. freek accd't, it reported.
Michelle's face tightened. Bullshit about the accident. It was Hart's work. But it was good news for Michelle. She'd been uneasy being out in public here in Milwaukee with Hart still loose. Now at least she knew he wasn't in town at the moment.
God or Fate, smiling on her.
Then right on the dot she saw the Kennesha County Sheriff's Department car pull into the parking lot of the Harborside Inn. Her palms began sweating.
God or Fate...
"Okay, Brad." Michelle popped the locks and stepped out. Her son got out of the other side. "Mommy's going to go around there," she whispered. "And I'll walk up behind that woman. Don't look at me. Pretend I'm not there. You understand that?"
He nodded.
"Do not look at me when I come up to the car. Say it."
"I won't look at you."
"Because if you look at me, that woman will take you away and put you in jail. She's that kind of woman. I love you so much that I don't want that to happen. That's why I'm doing this for you. You know all the trouble I go to for you and your sister?"
"Yes."
She hugged him. "Okay, now go tell her what I said. And remember 'upset.'"
As the boy walked toward the car, Michelle, crouching, slipped around a row of parked cars. She pulled the Glock from the pocket of her leather jacket, a new one, bought by Sam Rolfe to replace her favorite, a really beautiful number from Neiman Marcus, which had been totally ruined on their walk through the woods that cold night in April.
AS HE DROVE
along the road in Humboldt, toward Brynn McKenzie's house, Sheriff Tom Dahl was thinking about her years in the department. The job had been tough on her, especially taking on the worst assignments, the hurt kids, the domestics. Been tough too thanks to her fellow deputies' attitudes because she was the overachiever, always had been. The girl in the front row, raising her hand because she knew every answer. Nobody liked that.
But, hell, she'd gotten results. Look at what she'd done that night at Lake Mondac. He didn't know another deputy who would've pushed as hard as she had.
He didn't know another deputy who would have survived.
Dahl massaged his game leg.
He parked in front of the small house; they all were on Kendall Road. Brynn's was a neat place, trim and well kept up. And, thanks to Graham, it had the hell landscaped out of it. A lot different from the others here.
He got out of the car. Stood and stretched. A joint snapped somewhere. He'd given up worrying where such sounds originated or what they meant.
Tugging on his hat, a habit, Dahl walked slowly through the gate and then up the serpentine sidewalk, bordered by more kinds of plants than he knew existed.
At the door he hesitated only a moment and then rang the bell. A double chime sounded.
The door opened.
"Hey, Sheriff."
Brynn's son stood there. Seemed he'd grown another eight inches since they'd been together last, a department Christmas party.
"Hi, Joey." Beyond him, in the living room, Anna McKenzie was moving toward the kitchen with a cane. "Anna."
She nodded cautiously.
And behind her, in the kitchen, Brynn
was taking the temperature of a roasting chicken as she stood beside the stove. He thought she didn't cook. Or even knew how. The chicken looked pretty good.
She turned and lifted an eyebrow.
"We got her, Brynn. We got her."
THEY SAT IN
the family room, sheriff and deputy. Iced tea, courtesy of Anna, sat between them.
Brynn said, "Took longer than I thought. Been on pins and needles."
Which didn't begin to describe her anxiety, waiting for the news.
Sheriff Dahl explained, "There was a complication. The teams were in place around Rolfe's house. But when she came outside she had her son with her. She took her boy to the Harborside Inn."
"She what?"
"She even sent him up to the car the decoy was in while she moved around back to shoot you, well, her, from behind."
"Oh, my God."
"The tactical team didn't want to move in while Michelle and the kid were together. They were afraid she'd use him as a hostage. They waited till they separated at the parking lot. The boy's fine. He's in CPS with his sister."
Thank you, Brynn prayed silently. Thank you. "She was going to use her own child as a diversion and then shoot me right in front of him?" Brynn could hardly believe it.
"Looks that way."
"What's the boyfriend's story?"
"Rolfe? They're questioning him now but looks like he was in the dark. If he should be arrested for anything it's bad judgment in women." His cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. "Better take this. S'the mayor. We're holding a press conference about the whole thing. Gotta get some notes."
He rose and stepped outside, walking stiffly to his car.
Brynn sat back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, silently thanking Stanley Mankewitz and his slim assistant--James Jasons, she'd learned--for leading her to Michelle Kepler.
Maybe you're looking for the wrong who.
After their get-together in the bad-coffee restaurant, Brynn had looked into other motives for murdering Emma Feldman, specifically the ones suggested by Mankewitz: suicidal state politicians and the Kenosha company making dangerous hybrid car parts. Some of her other cases too. But none of them had panned out.
She then considered Jasons's comment and wondered: What if "the wrong who" could mean not who wanted to kill her--but who was the intended victim?
As soon as Brynn began to consider that Michelle had wanted Steven Feldman dead, not Emma, the case fell into place. Feldman was a caseworker for the city's Social Services Department, part of whose job function was checking out child abuse complaints and, in extreme cases, placing victims in foster homes.
Recalling how the young woman had silenced poor Amy that night in Marquette State Park, Brynn had wondered if he'd been investigating Michelle, with an eye toward placing children she might have.
There was no record of a file involving anyone named Michelle but Brynn had recalled that at the lake house that night Steven's backpack was empty, while a number of Emma's files were scattered on the floor. Had Michelle thrown his files, including the one about her own children, into the fireplace?
When she'd returned to Lake Mondac, Brynn had taken samples of ash from the fireplace. She intimidated the state lab in Gardener into analyzing it ASAP and learned that it was identical to ash produced by burning the manila folders issued to city workers. She also found the coiled bindings of steno pads, which Feldman had used to take notes during field interviews.
Eventually, by talking to his colleagues and friends and reviewing scraps of notes and logs of phone calls, Brynn had discovered that some neighbors of a businessman named Samuel Rolfe had complained about his new girlfriend's treatment of her young children.
The girlfriend's name was Michelle Kepler.
Bingo.
The Milwaukee police had set up surveillance around Rolfe's house but before they could get a warrant to move in, Brynn had gotten the phone call from the purported manager of the Harborside Inn. It struck her as suspicious and, after hanging up, she'd checked the incoming number. A prepaid mobile.
She was sure the "clerk" was Michelle, setting her up to be shot.
Tom Dahl called Milwaukee PD and they put together a tactical team to collar the woman as soon as she left Rolfe's elegant house.
Only one question remained. Did Brynn want to arrest Michelle in person?
The debate raged--oh, how badly she wanted to. But she finally decided no.
A detective from the Milwaukee Police Department dressed in a Kennesha County Sheriff's Department uniform and using a department squad car drove to the rendezvous at the Harborside Inn.
Brynn McKenzie went home.
The bell rang again--Tom Dahl, ever proper--and Joey let the sheriff back into the house. He was grinning as he stood in the doorway to the family room. "Get this. They've got reporters everywhere!" He laughed. "Fox, CBS and I'm not talking the local affiliates. Even CNN. The mayor's wondering if everybody who works there's blond."
Brynn laughed. "That's the way they grow 'em in Atlanta."
The sheriff continued, "Michelle's being transported to our lockup tonight. You'll want to interview her, I assume."
"You bet. But not tonight. I told you. I have plans."
So, is what I'm about to do now a good idea, or a bad idea?...Why even bother to ask the question? It doesn't matter. I've already made the decision.
She'd done what she needed to capture the Feldmans' killers; now it was time to begin reassembling her life. Or trying to.
She rose and walked him to the front door. Stepping outside, he said, "So what's going on that's so important?"
"I'm making dinner for Anna and Joey. And then we're watching American Idol."
Dahl chuckled. "It's a rerun. I can tell you who wins."
"'Night, Tom. See you in the office bright and early."
AT 9 A.M.
on a stormy Friday, Michelle Alison Kepler sat in one of the two interrogation rooms in the Kennesha County Sheriff's Office. Originally for storage, the rooms had been stripped of shelves and boxes and set up with fiberboard tables and plastic chairs, along with a Sony video recorder from Best Buy. One of the deputies had installed a mirror he'd bought at Home Depot but it was for effect only. Any experienced perp could see it wasn't two-way. But in Kennesha County pinching pennies was part of law enforcing. Minus her gun, armed only with pen and paper, Brynn sat down across from Michelle. She looked over at the woman who had lied to her so ruthlessly. Yet Brynn was oddly calm. Sure, she'd felt some sting of betrayal at the deception, thinking that they'd begun that night as survivors, then become allies, and finally friends.
But Kristen Brynn McKenzie was a cop, of course. She was used to being lied to. She had a goal here, information to gather, and it was time to get to work.
Michelle, confident as ever, demanded, "Where's my son and daughter?"
"They're being well taken care of."
"Brynn, please...They need me. They'll go crazy without me. Really, this is a problem."
"You took your son to Milwaukee to help kill me?" Brynn's voice couldn't quite hide astonishment.
Michelle's face blossomed in horror. "No, no. We were just going to talk to you. I wanted to apologize."
"He's seven. And you took him with you. With a gun."
"It's for protection. Milwaukee's a dangerous town. I have a permit but I lost it."
Brynn nodded, her face neutral. "Okay."
"Can I see Brad? He's miserable without me. He could get sick. He inherited my low blood sugar."
"Wasn't he adopted?"
Michelle blinked. Then said, "He needs me."
"He's being well taken care of. He's fine.... Now, you've been arrested for murder and attempted murder and assault. You've been advised of your rights. You can withdraw from this interview at any time and speak to an attorney. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Michelle glanced at the red light on the video recorder and said, "Yes."
"Do you wish to hav
e an attorney present?"
"No, I'll talk to you, Brynn." She gave a laugh. "After all we've been through...why, we're sisters, don't you feel that? I shared with you, you told me about your problems at home." She glanced at the camera with a sympathetic wince. "Your son, your husband.... We're like soul mates. That's pretty rare, Brynn. Really."
"So, you're waiving your right to an attorney?"
"Absolutely. This is all a misunderstanding. I can explain everything." Her voice was soft, reflecting the burden of the injustice that had befallen her.
"Now, why we're here," Brynn began. "We'd like a statement from you, telling the truth about what happened that night. It'll be much easier on you, on your family--"
"What about my family?" she snapped. "You didn't talk to them, did you? My parents?"
"Yes."
"You didn't have any right to do that." Then she calmed and gave a hurt smile. "Why'd you do that? They hate me. They lied to you, whatever they said. They're jealous of me. I was on my own from day one. I made a success of my life. They're losers."
Brynn's research had revealed that this was a woman whose background appeared normal and stable but whose personality was not. She'd grown up in a middle-class family in Madison, Wisconsin. Her parents still lived there, mother fifty-seven, father ten years older. According to them, they'd tried hard but had thrown up their hands at what Michelle's mother called the "vindictive little thing." Her father called her "dangerous."
The couple, horrified at what their daughter was accused of, though not completely surprised, explained how Michelle had made a career out of jumping from man to man--and in two cases a woman--living off them, then picking fights and scaring the hell out of her lovers with her enraged, vengeful behavior; ultimately they were grateful to see her go. Then she'd be onto someone else--but only if she had that someone else all lined up ahead of time. She'd been arrested for assault twice--attacking boyfriends who'd dumped her. She'd stalked several men and had three restraining orders in force.
Michelle now said, "You can't trust anything my family says. I was abused, you know."
"There's no record of that."
"How's there going to be a record? You think my father would admit it? And they threw out my complaint. My father and the local police chief, they were in on it together. All I could do was get away. I had to fend for myself. It was hard for me, so hard. Nobody ever helped me."
The Bodies Left Behind Page 35
