Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (19 page)

Through the phone line, she heard Daniels’s voice. It sounded tinny and far away. She realized he was shouting at her, “Jo! Can you hear me?”

She forced the sound out of her mouth, “Yes, I’m here.”

“Jesus, are you all right? I just asked again if you want us to remove the surveillance equipment.”

“No, no. You’re right. Everything should stay where you found it. We don’t want this prick figuring out we are on to him.”

“In that case, I’m going to put a couple of agents outside your house.”

Jo shook her head. “Absolutely not. I already feel like my every move is being watched and you’re just going to scare the guy off.”

Agent Daniels heaved a heavy sigh, but didn’t argue with her.

Jo felt like she was returning to herself. “And have the technicians check my car for tracking devices, while you’re at it.”

Through clenched teeth, she said, “This bastard is going to be sorry he ever thought about messing with us.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Turners Bend

January

Chip concluded when T.S. Eliot wrote “April was the cruelest month of all,” he had never been to Iowa in January. He was waiting for the “January Thaw” the natives told him was coming soon. Winter’s trick of making you think spring was on the way, only to turn around and slam you with three more months of wretched weather.

It was a period of extreme grief for him. His precious Honey had passed. Watching her painfully waste away had ripped his heart to shreds. Her eyes had glazed over and she no longer seemed of this world. Eventually she couldn’t eat and became incontinent. Jane humanely put her down, and her ashes were in a box next to his computer. Jane reminded him Honey’s six daughters and eight sons, one of whom was Runt, were living proof of her greatness.

Runt, too, was grieving. It was breaking Chip’s heart to see him searching bewilderingly for Honey. Although Runt had grown to over eighty pounds, he wanted to be held on Chip’s lap and did so with his head resting on his shoulder. Callie, being an independent feline, was the only household member to continue as if nothing had happened to disturb her realm, although she too was seeking extra lap time with Chip, especially when he was working at his computer. She seemed to sense he needed comforting.

The holidays were over. His mother had returned to Baltimore and Jane and Lance were home. All had resumed their normal routines, including their visits to the Bun and the Bend. As Chip walked into the Bun one frigid morning, he saw Lance at the counter appearing to have Bernice rapt in his spell.

“Bernice, I swear if it weren’t for Chester, I’d be on your doorstep with flowers in my hand. You are one fine-looking woman,” Lance said, as Bernice laughed a girlish twitter and batted her eyelashes.

Much to Chip’s surprise, Jane was sitting at “their table,” the table for two they used to share on a daily basis. He approached her with some weariness. “May I join you?”

“Of course, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit, and tell me how you and Runt are coping.”

Chip sat across from her, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s hell, Jane. Never having had a pet before, I had no idea it would be this hard, and poor Runt …” He signaled Bernice for a cup of coffee.

“Animals grieve just like humans do. Ever read James Herriot? He’s a wonderful veterinarian author from Yorkshire Dales in England. He says when you lose a dog you should go right out and get another one, preferably a mixed-breed rescue animal.”

“I can’t think about that now, Jane. Let’s talk about something else.”

Bernice arrived with his coffee and a warm caramel roll encrusted with pecans and topped with a scoop of whipped butter.

“Sorry to hear about Honey, Chip, damn shame.” She started to tear up, sniffed and said, “Rolls are on the house.”

Jane and Chip sat in silence each picking nuts off the sweet roll and licking caramel off their fingers. Jane finally broke their reverie. “I want to thank you for letting Sven supervise the installation of the marquee. When he comes back in March for the premiere, he’s bringing his whole Film Making 101 class. I have to find lodging for twenty students.”

“Maybe you could house them at First Lutheran. They could camp out in the Fellowship Hall.”

“Good idea, I’ll give Pastor Henderson a call.”

More silence followed until Chip changed the subject again. “Have you seen the theater recently? It’s almost done. We just have to hang the new curtain when it comes and then do some clean-up. We got the projector and sound system working.”

“Mabel has decided we should all wear ball gowns and tuxes to the premiere. She’s sewing dresses like crazy, and Sylvia has ordered tiaras for all the women.”

Bernice returned to refill their coffee cups.

“Hey Bernice, is Lance regaling you with stories of his Christmas visit to New York City? He told me all about it yesterday when we had lunch,” said Jane.

“Yes, did he tell you about shopping with Lucinda? He bought her a Versace knock-off to wear for the premiere. Damn lucky woman, if you ask me.”

Chip was in no mood to talk about Lance or formal wear. He was relieved to see Chief Fredrickson open the door and motion for him to leave the café.

“Sorry to depart. This conversation about dresses and tiaras is too much for me,” said Chip, rolling his eyes. He followed the chief out of the café.

As they walked to the police station, the chief said, “Your Christmas wish has come true. I got another message from our killer. This one’s from Waterloo.”

In the inner office, the chief took out another delivery form, identical to the first one. On the back was a message composed of letters cut from a newspaper. It read:

StaRtinG 5 DEad. TiMe TO get NEW recruiTs.

Chip stared at the message, and he felt snakes slithering up and down his spine. “Have you notified the FBI yet?”

“Masterson is on her way as we speak”

The chief leaned back in his chair. “Here’s what I think. This has something to do with basketball. The starting five could be five dead girls from a basketball team. So, maybe now this monster is moving on to other girls, girls who play basketball, looking for recruits. Those pieces of fabric could be from basketball jerseys. It’s all coming together. I think we’re looking for a coach or an ex-coach or maybe a disgruntled player or fan. Basketball is the key. I feel it in my gut.”

“Interesting theory, Chief; you may have something there. If Tracy Trent was on a basketball team at some time, the FBI can track down her teammates. Let’s hope they are alive and well. I have a feeling we’re closing in on this guy.”

* * *

Within hours Angela Masterson, two male agents and a van loaded with equipment had arrived in Turners Bend. They took over a vacant space above Harriet’s House of Hair and set up a temporary field operations office. Chip and the chief were summoned to her office.

“When I heard the message and your thoughts about what it might mean, I tracked down Trent’s high school yearbook. She did play basketball, but the uniforms were red and black not light blue, and the coach has been dead for years. She didn’t play on the University of Minnesota’s team, but we’re looking into other teams she may have played on. We’re also checking to see if there are any milk delivery guys who are or have been basketball coaches. Right now we’re only working on hunches, so no leaks to the press. We don’t want every girl’s basketball team in Iowa in a frenzy.”

“Oh, my God.” Chief Fredrickson had turned ashen and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“What is it, Chief?” asked Masterson.

“Our high school … the Prairie Dogs wear blue and white uniforms.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mind Games

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Early August

Jo Schwann sat in her SUV inside the detached garage of her house, long after she had turned off the engine. The thought of going inside made the bile rise in the back of her throat. Some stranger had been in and out of her home, probably on more than one occasion. He had watched and listened. For God knows how long. It felt like a heavy hand was pushing down on her shoulders, holding her in her seat.

She felt depressed and angry, all at the same time. Her privacy had been invaded. Worst of all, the man she loved was missing. Just because he had been in her home at the wrong time. Jo didn’t believe in coincidences. John’s disappearance and her house being bugged had to be related. She slammed her bunched up fist against the steering wheel, impotent rage coursing through her.

After a while, she rubbed at the ache in her hand and gathered her belongings. Out loud, she muttered, “Showtime.” Before she stepped out of the vehicle, she double-checked that she had easy access to the side pocket of her purse, where she had slipped her loaded Glock before leaving the office. Part of her longed for an excuse to use it on whoever was responsible for this.

Jo unlocked the side door by the kitchen and let herself in, flipping the light switch with her elbow. Cleo immediately rubbed against her, meowing for dinner and companionship. Jo bent down to rub her behind the ears and said, “Hi, Sweetie. You are getting tired of these late nights, aren’t you? Me too.”

She kicked off her shoes and did a quick, surreptitious peek around the room. Jo didn’t think the creep would be in her house, but she couldn’t take any chances. Nevertheless, she had to be careful not to let whoever was watching know she was on to him. It was a fine, delicate dance between caution and nonchalance.

The opening act of the play had begun.

Jo fed Cleo and then opened a bottle of cabernet. She poured herself a full glass, and padded into the den. Settling into her chair, she trailed her finger through the dusting of silvery-gray fingerprint powder on the table next to her. The techs had conducted the search for evidence and had done their best to clean up, she knew, but the residue settled in after they left, like a fine mist. Her stomach clenched as she pictured her house being examined by the crime lab people just hours before. It was another sort of invasion of her private space, even though she was the one who had set it in motion.

Jo put her feet up on the ottoman.
I need to relax. I have to look like I’m just coming home from a regular day at the office.
She wondered what the bastard was thinking as he watched her. Jo was convinced he was looking at her right now and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Which pissed her off.

How dare this asshole invade my life. How dare he take John.
She could feel an ache in her jaw where she had clenched her teeth.

Enough!
Abruptly, she stood up and strode into the kitchen. She pulled out her work files and set up her laptop on the pine table. In her haste, she knocked over her glass and the blood-red wine spilled over her papers.

“Shit.” She jumped up to grab a towel and sopped up the mess, the papers stained purple. She poured another glass and then sat down in front of her laptop. Working the Freemont/McDonald cases were the closest thing she had to having something to control. Because everything else definitely felt out of control.

She spent the next couple of hours reviewing every data base at her fingertips, trying to locate any information on Bishop’s siblings. Thomas, the stockbroker and Sarah, the director of a runaway shelter, had spotless records. The big unknown was still the missing youngest sister, Michelle. The only thing she discovered was an old DMV photo, issued when she was still in her teens.

Jo printed out the photo for her files and then studied the girl’s picture. Michelle had a small, shy smile, her eyes bright. According to the record, Michelle was five-foot-three, had brown hair, hazel eyes and weighed 110 pounds. She looked vaguely familiar, but Jo realized that it must be the resemblance to the girl’s older brother.

Jo thought the girl looked happy, hopeful.
What happened to you, Michelle?

Which only brought up the question Jo had been carefully avoiding all night.
What’s happened to you, John?

Jo stood up, restless once more. She poured herself another glass of wine, noting the bottle she had just opened was nearly empty. Still, the wine had no relaxing effect on her. If possible, she was even more wired than before.

She walked through the den and over to the sidelight next to her front door and stared out into the road lit by the streetlights. John had been missing for twenty-four hours now, the point when the FBI assumes that kidnapping victims had been taken across state lines.

The rational part of her brain said it was likely he was still somewhere in the Twin Cities. If her stalker spent so much time shadowing her every move, then he probably wouldn’t go far.

Jo couldn’t get it out of her head that John was out there, somewhere. Likely hurt; quite possibly dead. It was the first time she had consciously allowed the last thought to fill her head and it felt as if someone had reached inside to squeeze her heart. She rubbed the spot on her chest and huffed out a puff of air.
Damn it! I’m sick of not doing anything to find him.

She felt like she wouldn’t be able to draw another breath if she stayed in her house a minute longer. Somewhere, eyes were watching her every move and she needed to get out. Jo snatched the black hoodie she kept on the coat rack and opened the front door. The cooler night air rushed in. Hearing the throaty croaks of frogs coming from the direction of Minnehaha Creek a couple of blocks away, she slipped on the sweatshirt and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

She looked toward Stephen’s house. The windows were dark and there was no sign of him. Agent Daniels had mentioned they were still looking for her neighbor, but since he was only a witness, not a suspect, Jo knew there would be no one watching Stephen’s house.

As she stood on her front stoop, she mentally argued with herself, trying to decide if she should take her gun with her. Releasing a grunt, she muttered, “So, now I am so friggin’ paranoid that I need my friggin’ gun in my own friggin’ neighborhood.” She dashed back inside to grab it.