Relative Malice (14 page)

22

The diner, decorated in typical red-checked tablecloth style, had a few patrons sitting at a counter lining the side of the room. The rest of the place was taken up with tables for four, most of them unoccupied. Kendall hadn’t realized she was hungry until she took in the scent of baking meatloaf, a favorite meal when she was growing up. Prepared by her father, of course, since cooking hadn’t been one of her mother’s favorite pastimes.

Kendall and Nash took a table at the window, and over the special of the night, meat loaf and baked potatoes, they discussed the stops they’d made.

“Those pervs—they’re disgusting,” Kendall commented.

“They are. But our goal is to find Philly Glausson, not to get these mopes behind bars, much as we might want that outcome.”

The meatloaf had been divine, but Kendall hoped she wouldn’t have to pay the price of the heavy meal on her sensitive digestive system. Since taking the bullet, her traumatized stomach often objected to heavy meals.

“They had to be in touch with each other,’ she said. “How else would the two we talked to today have known we were coming?”

“Just because they let us look around, it doesn’t prove they knew we would be there—it just tells us they’re careful. Traynor’s wife may not have a clue who he really is. He would have denied the charges against him and kept anything incriminating well hidden. In a surface search like we did at his place, it doesn’t surprise me we didn’t come across anything; the same goes for DeForrest. The guy’s a professor. He wouldn’t risk having anything suspicious in plain sight.”

Kendall started to protest when, as she’d feared, her abdomen began to object. She excused herself and quickly left the table.

When she came back, Nash asked, “Post-GSW problems?”

He was the last person she wanted to discuss it with; she still blamed him for what went down the night she got shot. She turned an acid look in his direction. “Maybe I have my period. Ever think of that?”

Instead of being embarrassed at her comment, Nash reached across the table and grabbed her hand. Quickly conscious it was the same size as his, she pulled away.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said, “because I know a stomach shot can leave you with problems. It’s time we cleared this up. I was in charge that night, but the truth is, the sting went south because of the drug runners, not anything we did. We plan busts as tightly as possible, but we can’t always control everything. Shit happens.”

Shit happens?
Kendall hated the phrase. Like that covered anything that went wrong in the world. “What kind of shit was that, your incompetence?”

Nash sat back and shook his head. “I felt terrible about it—still do—that clusterfuck is why I left the force. And don’t forget, I took a bullet, too.”

Kendall sensed his sincerity. But why hadn’t she been told what happened? It seemed odd at the time that the other detectives were kept from the truth. There was something Nash wasn’t telling her. It was possible he was protecting someone. Maybe one of his people screwed up when the scenario changed unexpectedly.

“My partner lost his life because of that screw-up. You and I are still around to bitch about our wounds,” she reminded him.

“You think his death has been easy for me to live with?” he asked. “I looked in on you a few times when we were both in the hospital, you know.”

Remembering the night she was shot, Kendall felt the onset of tears stinging her eyes as her throat tightened. Her partner, Tom Kaiser, hadn’t been her favorite person, but as officers, they’d complemented each other. She’d taken his death hard. In her nightmares, it had been Kendall lying in the casket.

Nash leaned forward. “I’m sorry it happened. For all of us. You can believe me or not, but I hope you will because I think we work well together and I respect you.”

Kendall wasn’t ready to let it go, but not wanting to discuss it further at the moment, she changed the subject. She opened her notebook.

“One more of them to see tonight, Patricia Clemmons. She’s in the Waukesha area. I have an idea that might save us a trip. How about I get in touch with Detective Conlin from Milwaukee and ask him if he can make a call for us?”

An anonymous tip had come in, informing the Milwaukee police that the Bradley Center, where the Bucks were scheduled to play basketball Saturday night, had an explosive device waiting for a crowd of nineteen thousand. As a result, the bomb squad, along with all available law-enforcement personnel, was called in Saturday afternoon to search the enormous arena and contain the surrounding area, located in downtown Milwaukee. Detective Richard Conlin, one of the detectives called in to duty, left home at three p.m.

TJ sat at her desk working on her quarterly income tax reports, something she described as shit-work. The baby was visiting his grandparents, so when the dreaded chore was completed, she planned to change into something fleecy, order a movie, and pop some corn.

The ring of the landline phone was a welcome distraction.

She snatched it up. “T & J Security.”

“TJ, hi, this is Detective Halsrud from Eau Claire. Is Detective Conlin in?”

“He won’t be available for a while. Can I help you with somethin’?”

“I’m working that case I told you about yesterday—looking for a missing child. We’re talking to baby-pervs in our area. We had four on our list, and we’ve met with three of them. So far, I haven’t had a problem with any of the local cops, they’ve been more than happy to let us do our thing, but we’ve been in rural areas. The last one is in Waukesha, which might be more complicated. I was hoping Detective Conlin would make a call for us. He isn’t answering his cell.”

TJ took it in. It wasn’t much, but it would break the monotony. “Don’t know when you’ll be able to talk to him, but give me the info and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Her name is Patricia Clemmons. The address is 4851 Brighton, Waukesha.”

TJ recoiled. “A woman?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s revolting. They all are.”

Fucking baby-pervs made TJ’s skin crawl. “I’ll make some calls.”

After she hung up, TJ looked up the name of the detective who’d helped with the case against James Wilson the year before. Tom Zabel had seemed like a good guy.

He picked up on the first ring. “Zabel.”

“Hey. TJ Peacock. Are you on tonight?”

“No, and this better not be a crisis because I have tenth row center tickets for the Bucks game—they’re playing Chicago tonight.”

She couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t heard about the bomb, but didn’t want to burst his bubble by telling him there might not be a game. If the arena weren’t cleared in time, it would be cancelled. She explained why she was calling, told him what Halsrud needed.

“Okay. I’ll pave the way for your friend from the North Country.”

“Uh, thinkin’ about goin’ out there myself. Save her a trip.”

“I’ll get it set up for you. If it goes south, don’t call me. I’ll be drinking beer and cheering for the good guys.”

After notifying Kendall she’d be checking Clemmons out for her, TJ fled Milwaukee, headed for the Waukesha address Kendall had given her. It felt good doing something of substance. The security gigs she’d been working since RJ was born paid the bills, but they were as exciting as a Tupperware party on a Friday night.

The address, a dead-end street on the east side of Waukesha, was a dark brick, aging duplex. No lights were on and the driveway was empty. She pulled the Mini into the driveway and approached the front door. A duplicate door to the right led to the upper flat.

She tried both bells and knocked repeatedly on each door with no response.

Determined to get something, she walked to the neighboring house, which was the last one on the street, and rang the bell.

A dark-haired woman answered the door. “Yes?”

TJ flashed her PI credentials. Something about the woman struck her as familiar. “I’m looking for a woman named Patricia Clemmons. I was given the address next door. Any chance you know her?”

The woman opened the door to TJ after introducing herself as Tanya Porter.

The inside of the house belied the shabbiness of the aged exterior. Shiny hardwood floors gleamed under carefully placed, bright-colored throw rugs, the furniture a tasteful mix of antiques and modern. TJ followed her into a kitchen done in white enamel with silver appliances and the same hardwood flooring. A large pot simmered on the stove. It smelled like chicken soup.

Porter offered, “Would you like some coffee? I just put it on.”

TJ figured the woman had something to tell her and accepted her offer, watching as Porter got up and walked to a wheat-colored, granite countertop to pour. Suddenly, TJ recalled how she knew her—her walk gave her away.

The chick had been a hooker, back when TJ worked vice. It was years ago. No wonder she didn’t recognize her. Gone were the striped stockings, miniskirt, and low-cut, sequined tank tops she’d favored. She was simply dressed in jeans and a crisp, white blouse, sans makeup, with her thick hair pulled back into a ponytail tied with a bright red scarf.

After she’d poured the coffee, she sat across from TJ at a low counter. “You remember me, don’t you?”

TJ smiled. “Yeah. Took me a while. You look different.”

“My street name was Mia, but I go by real name now, Tanya Porter. It took me a long time to stash enough money to quit the life. It was a real bitch, hiding the cash, staying clean. But I’d had enough: too many STDs, cut lips, all-nighters. Bought this place, then bought the place next door a year later. I’ve got a decent job in town selling fancy bedding. How ironic is that?”

Porter owned the building Clemmons had lived in. Now she was getting somewhere. “That’s great. Not many women pull that off. So, you must know Clemmons.”

“Yeah. I rented to her for about a year, but she’s been gone for months. I’m getting the place fixed up before I rent it again.”

Shit. This is going to be a dead end.
“Any chance she left a forwarding address?”

“Sorry. She didn’t want to leave one. She wanted me to do a walk through the day she moved out so she could get her security deposit back. She asked for cash since that’s how she always paid me. I checked the place out and gave her the money.”

“Didn’t you think it was strange? Paying you with cash?”

Porter folded her arms across her chest. “Two important things I’ve learned in life are to always cover my ass and to ask as few questions as possible. I hire ex-cons to do my remodeling, and pay them in cash, too. Keeps things simple.”

“Mind if I look around the place?”

“Why are you looking for her?”

TJ wondered if she should tell her about Clemmons. The woman would have been on the perv registry; it would have been no secret. “You aware she was on the Sexual Offenders List?”

“Yeah. She told me up front. This neighborhood is mostly old folks, so since there’s no kids around, I figured it wouldn’t be a problem. I agreed to rent to her and she agreed to a three-month security deposit. She didn’t cause any problems for me, and the neighbors never bitched about it.”

Tanya handed TJ the key. “I’m leaving soon, so just drop the key in my mailbox when you’re finished.”

23

Kendall and Nash were on the road back to Eau Claire when TJ called. Kendall was driving and handed her phone to Nash.

“Adam Nashlund here. I’m with Detective Halsrud. “

If TJ was surprised Kendall had a partner, she kept it to herself. “I took a drive out to Waukesha myself. Your lady chickenhawk flew the coop about six months ago. I’m in her place now, lower flat in a duplex. The landlady let me in. It hasn’t been rented yet, so thought I’d take a look around. Place is spotless, an’ she didn’t’ leave no forwarding address. Sorry I couldn’t get more for you.”

“That’s too bad, but thanks, you’ve saved us another four hours on the road.”

“Went through the brother’s place, too. Nothing there, either.”

Nash straightened in his seat. “Her brother?”

“Landlady forgot to mention him. I talked to a neighbor on my way out and she told me about him. He lived in the upper. Said she thought he was handicapped, hardly ever left the house an’ never talked to anyone.”

When Nash started swearing, Kendall asked, “What?” He raised a hand to quiet her.

“TJ, can you get a description of this pair and call me back?”

“I’m on it.”

Muttering to himself, he closed the phone.

“What’s happening?” Kendall asked.

He repeated what TJ had told him. “I have a bad feeling this Clemmons and her so-called ‘brother’ might be Jennemen and Iseroth, the old bat I talked to in Cameron and her renter. It’s not unusual for these sickos to move around like nomads, trying to escape the registry.”

TJ called back minutes later.

After he closed the phone, he slammed a hand on the dashboard. “Fuck!”

“Tell me.”

“I should have figured it out. The descriptions fit. Jennemen must have been claiming Iseroth as her brother when she lived in Waukesha as Clemmons. She totally duped me. Did a great job of acting like a wacky old lady.”

Kendall felt her intestines roiling again. She didn’t ask if he was sure; it made an ugly kind of sense. “We can be in Cameron by nine.”

“It’ll be too fucking late. They’ll be gone.”

“Quit beating up on yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

“Damn. I should have asked the mail guy how long they’d been there. We can’t have them picked up without solid evidence. We’re screwed.”

“But you said their places were too small to hide a baby,” Kendall said.

“I know. But there’s a vacant cottage next to Iseroth. Like a moron, I didn’t ask her to show it to me.”

“Maybe we can get enough on this group to interest the Feds,” she said. “With Traynor in Minnesota, our pervs are in two states—it does become their jurisdiction.”

“I hate giving the fucking Feds anything.”

Kendall called the Cameron police. The officer on duty agreed to cover Jennemen’s place until they got there.

They stopped at Kendall’s apartment for coffee on their way to Cameron. Kendall found a note from Brynn next to her computer.

“It says she went on a group astronomy walk and won’t be back until about eleven. And she needs a better computer.” Kendall snorted. “I knew that was coming.”

Nash settled on the couch. “So, what have we got? Traynor and DeForrest seemed suspiciously prepared for our visit. Are they all in touch with each other? Some of them could be, and it’s possible they all are. If we’re right, Iseroth and his so-called sister have been alerted by now. I’m not sure about calling the Feds, although Tarkowski’s pretty trustworthy. You might want to ask him if they’re looking at any of them right now.”

Kendall felt weariness overcome her. “I still want to go to Cameron and see the setup they have. Maybe we can get into that outbuilding.”

“Maybe we should wait and get a warrant.”

“Assuming we could get one. You know what they say—it’s easier to apologize than ask for permission. I’ll take my chances. Let’s go to Cameron.” She yawned. “Although, I’d rather stay here, take a hot shower and a get good night’s sleep for a change.”

“Sounds good to me. Call me when the shower’s hot.”

Kendall chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like Alverson.”

“You think? Nah, he’d probably run the other way if you took him up on one of his suggestions.”

And you wouldn’t?
She thought better of asking him. It had been an offhand comment. Men didn’t invite her into the shower with them. Instead, she said, “I’ll make us a thermos of coffee to take along.”

Attorney Lucille Bellamy entered her townhome bone tired but smug with satisfaction. One of her researchers had discovered the search of Travis Jordan’s car hadn’t been exactly kosher, and Lucille had been all over it in a heartbeat. She’d waited until late Friday to file the Motion to Suppress, thinking that with the holiday weekend beginning, the reaction wouldn’t hit the fan until Monday morning. Everyone would come in to work on Monday bloated and weary from the weekend, and it would hit them in the face like a whipped cream pie.

Travis Jordan could be back on the street in a matter of days. Any regrets Lucille had about her hand in his release were outweighed by her belief that the cops had to hold up their end of the system with a clean arrest. They should have known better than to give her an edge. What was nagging at her, though, was what Jordan let slip when she’d gone to the jail to give him the good news.

She decided her conscience wasn’t going to keep her from preparing the chicken breast she had marinating or cooking some pasta to go with it. A glass of wine would be called for, too, although she wasn’t supposed to be drinking anything alcoholic because of the anti-viral meds she still took. The doctor had advised her it was unlikely they would help at this stage of her palsy, but she’d insisted. She was too damn young to keep walking around looking like a stroke victim lolling in a wheelchair along the hallway of a nursing home. Lucille’s strong sense of self wouldn’t let her give up—the meds gave her hope.

Sitting in her formal dining room accompanied by her favorite music, a light piece by Mozart, she enjoyed her dinner, complete with two glasses of the forbidden wine. The buffet next to the table, covered by a lacy scarf under dozens of framed photos, supported a pink enameled frame holding a photo of her new granddaughter. The happy, youthful face pricked at Lucille’s conscience; little Amy was about the same age as Philly Glausson.

Nash and Kendall were ten miles south of Cameron when Kendall’s phone buzzed.

She opened it, expecting it to be Brynn. The number was blocked.

“Halsrud.”

“I have some information for you.”

Kendall didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “Who is this?”

“I’m only going to say this once—Travis Jordan didn’t kill the Glausson baby.”