Trespass (13 page)

Chapter 28

A
fter leaving Gemma Rosenthal, Haymaker went home for a few hours of sleep and got to the station early the next morning.

He had told Ms. Rosenthal that her break-in was a coincidence but had to admit he no longer felt as certain about it. Gemma had never veered from her certainty that her friend’s death hadn’t been an accident. If someone had deliberately offed Teschler, her hiring a PI could have made her a target. But he couldn’t think of any reason the Teschler case would be related to Sondra Jackson’s murder or the death of Madison Chapman.

Neither his partner nor Lukaszewski were in yet. Not that he expected them to be, especially Lukaszewski, who kept banker’s hours whenever possible. Brian opened his files on Norman Teschler. He wanted to be sure he hadn’t missed something that would indicate the explosion had been deliberate.

After spending an hour poring over every detail, he rubbed his eyes and put away the file. If there was a connection, it wasn’t in the files or in his notes. He had interviewed everyone close to Teschler, including Teschler’s Asian ex-wife, whose snobby demeanor, despite her cool beauty, set his teeth on edge. He could see how she had acquired the name Dragon Lady, and she would have been number one on his suspect list if he actually believed Teschler had been murdered. But she had a solid alibi for the night in question and nothing to gain by her ex-husband’s death. Unless somehow she had known about the will, but her financials painted a picture of an extremely wealthy woman; she didn’t need Teschler’s money.

“You’re here early.” Tasha set a cup of coffee in front of him from the coffee shop in the village. “Any news?”

He thanked her for the coffee. “It’s possible our cum case perps got into Rosenthal’s house last night. She interrupted them before they had been there very long so there probably won’t be any DNA evidence. They might have been in her house in the afternoon too.”

“How do you know it was them?”

“I don’t. She heard noises downstairs, got out of bed, turned on a light over the stairs and dialed 9-1-1. The light must have spooked them. She heard them leaving the house and thought it sounded like there were two or three of them.”

“Three would be just like the Jackson murder.”

Brian sighed. “Possibly. But we only know for sure there were three at the Fink house when Jackson was killed because of the preliminary testing. I don’t want to jump to conclusions with this.” He knew sooner or later he would be under heavy pressure to find a connection between the crimes, and not only from Gemma Rosenthal.

“Sounds like it all might be connected. If it is, that Rosenthal woman’s in the middle of it all. What’s Lukaszewski think?”

“I haven’t seen Lukaszewski since yesterday at the Fink house. He and his partner have been interviewing friends and relatives of the Finks and the Jacksons, the two couples involved in the partner exchange. We’re supposed to be meeting Lukaszewski this morning to go over everything.”

Tasha sat on the edge of Brian’s desk, deep in thought. She looked good for just having had a baby. She wore a tan suit he hadn’t seen on her since she first got pregnant, and she had traded in the cutesy braids for a smooth bob.

“Did he ask Sondra Jackson’s husband if there were any other people lined up for their sex games that night?” she asked.

“I have to assume he did. The guest room at the Fink house did look like the other trespass scenes, but under the circumstances, it’s hard to be sure.”

“I guess.”

Haymaker knew his partner disliked Lukaszewski. She was usually the first to think the worst of anything the man did. Brian didn’t care for him either, but he wasn’t a bad cop; the guy just liked to cherry-pick the best assignments. He wasn’t surprised when, ten minutes later, their lieutenant informed them Lukaszewski had been assigned to a new case. It promised to be a large drug bust, rounding up dealers that had been selling to high school kids, and if it worked, it would get a lot of press. Lukaszewski would love it; he savored the limelight like a seven-course meal.

“Good riddance,” Tasha said. “Maybe now we can figure this thing out. Let’s go interview Sondra Jackson’s husband again, make sure he doesn’t know something about those people in Finks’ house.”

That was just what Haymaker wanted to do, but he had feared repercussions if he duplicated Lukaszewski’s efforts. At least now they wouldn’t have to worry about being perceived as stepping on the big man’s toes. “Good thinking. We can get feedback from Lukaszewski later. Let’s drop in on Craig Jackson and express our condolences.”

The Jacksons’ house, a brick two-story colonial, sat in a neighborhood of like properties near the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee campus. When they pulled up, the unattached garage was open, and a black SUV sat in the driveway adjacent to the house. Brian and Tasha rang the bell next to the side door. A slim gray-haired man answered their ring, a pair of glasses resting on his chest, held by a black cord hanging from his neck. Dressed in jeans and a blue cotton sweater, he wore his hair in a fashionable, preppy style peaking in the middle. Brian, who refused to follow fashion trends he despised, hated the look. He thought Jackson, who was fifty-three, a little old to be mimicking what teenagers were wearing.

“Mr. Jackson?”

When Jackson nodded, he said, “I’m Detective Haymaker and this is my partner, Tasha Wade. I’m sorry for your loss. If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“That other guy already did that. I told him what I knew, which is nothing.” Jackson’s eyes were red-rimmed, the whites veined with crimson.

“I’m sorry, but Detective Lukaszewski is on another case today so I wanted to do a quick follow-up with you. We won’t take a lot of your time.”

Jackson invited them into a kitchen that revealed the absence of a female attendant. Dishes were piled in the sink despite the dishwasher just to the right of it and the table strewn with two days of papers and mail. He led them to the living room, which was comfortably decorated with tasteful antiques and covered with a chocolate-brown shag carpet.

“I can’t talk long,” Jackson said, “I have to pick up Sondra’s parents at the airport.”

“No problem,” Brian replied as he opened a small notebook, trying to give the impression he was referring to the other detective’s notes. “How long did you and your wife know the Fink couple?”

Craig Jackson shrugged. “Maybe a year. That’s when they joined the local duplicate bridge group. They’d just moved here from Iowa.”

“Then you played bridge with them?”

“Not exactly with them, but in the same group. They were usually at the Thursday night game.”

“When did you start getting together with just the two of them?”

“A few months ago. May or June, maybe.”

Brian was having a hard time deciding how to approach the subject of swinging.

Tasha saved him. “That’s when you guys found out you had more in common than playing bridge?”

Jackson said, “Sondra and I had an open marriage for a long time. It worked for us. We got into the whole exchanging-partners thing through a couple we met on a bridge cruise. We told Keith and Debra about it after they said they had always wanted to do one of those cruises.”

“So you recruited them,” Tasha said.

“It wasn’t like that. We’d all been drinking the night we told them about the swinging. It was a few weeks later they expressed an interest. That night was our first time with them.”

Interesting. The Jacksons were nearly twenty years older than the Finks, although both of the Jacksons looked great for their age. He’d seen photos of Sondra and, like her husband, she had aged well. Brian glanced at his notes: the Finks were in their late twenties, the Jacksons, early fifties. Brian thought Jackson had gotten a good deal, bedding the younger woman, but it would have been unprofessional to comment on the age difference. He wanted information from Jackson, information that wouldn’t be forthcoming if he alienated the guy by making a snarky remark about May-December sexual escapades.

“You were here with Debra Fink the entire night?”

“Yes.” Jackson blinked back tears.

“Were some of your other swinger friends on standby to participate?”

“We aren’t into orgies, Detective.”

Tasha rescued him again. “We apologize for upsetting you at a time like this, sir, but we have to ask these questions so we can move on and find out who did this to your wife.”

“If you have any doubts about where I was the night my wife was murdered, talk to Debra. She would have heard me if I’d left. We hit it off, but she was nervous about it. I don’t think she slept at all that night.”

Brian confirmed, “Then you have no idea who the other people were who were in the Fink’s house that night?”

“Detective, my answer won’t change no matter how you phrase the question or who asks me. None of us invited anyone else that night. It’s damn bizarre, those people showing up in Fink’s house. We heard about the break-ins in Wauwatosa, everyone had, but they only happened to people who didn’t lock their houses, right?” His eyes teared, beseeching them to understand.

“Mr. Jackson,” Tasha asked, “can you think of anyone who would want to harm your wife? Maybe someone from another time you exchanged partners, maybe a couple who didn’t ‘work out?’”

He rubbed his face on the sleeve of his shirt. “Of course not. Everyone liked Sondra. I’m sure you don’t know anything about swinging; it is has nothing to do with violence of any kind.”

“Not the point, sir. Maybe when things didn’t work out with another couple they might have held a grudge?”

“Listen. My wife and I were very cautious about who we got together with and never hooked up with another couple unless we got to know them first. I know there are some couples that connect through things like the Internet or newspaper ads, but Sondra and I never even considered that. It’s too risky. And before you ask, no, Sondra would not have had those people come in without telling me.”

They needed to talk to the other woman, Debra Fink. Brian handed Jackson his notebook. “We’ll need a list of your wife’s friends and anyone else who might know her habits. And the names of any of your other recent ‘exchanges.’”

Jackson opened his mouth to argue, then took the notebook and began to write. He handed them the list and then walked them to the door. “Sondra’s parents will want to plan her funeral. Can you tell me when her body will be released?”

Brian explained about the necessity for an autopsy. “It’ll be at least a week. I’ll call you as soon as we know when you can plan the funeral.”

They caught up with Debra Fink at her place of employment. A buyer for a large department store chain, they met her at the food court in Mayfair Shopping Mall. She joined them at a table in an uninhabited section, carrying a tall cup of soda and a salad in a see-through plastic box.

“Sorry. This is my lunch break. I’m afraid you’ll have to watch me eat.”

“No problem,” Brian said and introduced himself and Tasha. “We won’t keep you long.”

She sat and opened her food, a short woman wearing a peach-colored ensemble he suspected would have cost a week’s salary. A cop’s salary, anyway. Surprisingly plain, Debra’s makeup was understated, her jewelry minimal, and her soft brown hair fell simply to her shoulders.

“Mrs. Fink, can you say for certain Mr. Jackson never left the house the night of his wife’s murder?”

“Yes, I can.” Her face reddened and she put down her fork. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I already told the other detective. . . I didn’t sleep much that night. I would have known if Craig had left the bed.”

“Was there anything about his behavior that may have indicated he knew about his wife’s murder?”

“No,” she answered, her face still pinched with embarrassment. “He fell asleep right after we had—well, you know—he only woke up once during the night, and we didn’t talk.” She stabbed at her salad, but didn’t raise the greens to her mouth.

They left Debra Fink minutes later after surmising she had little to add to what they already knew. They had little doubt Craig Jackson had any foreknowledge of what happened to his wife while she was in the house of Keith Fink.

Chapter 29

T
J left Gemma after briefly scanning the box of Norman’s things Gemma had brought home from Cityscapes. They agreed there wasn’t anything in the boxes that revealed anything about the explosion. Her next stop was the neighbors, the Brauns.

Mrs. Braun opened the door, her dark hair pulled back in an efficient bun, the white streak startling against her temple. Her distaste was visible when TJ introduced herself. “I know our rights. We don’t have to talk to you.”

So that’s how it was gonna be, TJ thought. Before she tried to reason with the woman, a tall, rather heavy-set-but-fit man of about sixty took her arm and said, “Honey, let me handle this. Go back to what you were doing. I’ll only be a minute.”

Smiling like a used car salesman ready to make his pitch, he stepped out on the porch and introduced himself to TJ as Donald Braun. He surprised her when he reached into the pocket of his suit coat and handed her some papers.

“No matter what anyone might have told you, Norman was a good friend of ours. The night his house blew up, I was in New York on business. These are copies of my airline tickets and my hotel bill. There are also names of business associates who will vouch for my whereabouts for the entire week.” He handed her another sheet of paper. “These are names of our friends up in Manitowish Waters. They’ll verify that Vicky was at our cabin the week of the explosion.”

Dumbfounded, TJ thanked him for the information.

He stepped into the doorway. “I’m sure that’s all you’ll need, Ms. Peacock. I gave you everything I gave the police. My wife and I want to cooperate in any way we can.”

TJ stood there after he closed the door, feeling like she’d been had despite being given what she needed. She immediately went back to her office and confirmed the Brauns’ alibis. Unless someone had either lied for them or done the deed for them, the couple couldn’t have been responsible for the explosion.

Donald Braun left for work shortly after the private detective left the house. Victoria Braun sat in the kitchen for two hours, ruminating over everything that had taken place in the last few weeks. The three cups of coffee she ingested and the pack of cigarettes she chain-smoked weren’t having the desired effect. For once, she wished she could lose herself in a bottle of whiskey, anything to numb her mind, but she had always hated the taste of alcohol and rarely imbibed.

Donald wouldn’t listen and belittled her fears with harsh words. “For God’s sake, Vicky,” he’d said, “if you think these murders have anything to do with us, you’re crazy. You need to get a hobby or something. You have too much time to spend dwelling on your fears. The things you worry about the most are those least likely to happen.”

Remembering his words, Victoria scoffed inwardly. Plenty of the things she worried about had come true: the kids had moved away and were rarely heard from, even with a facelift she hadn’t aged well, and her marriage—if you could even call it that—no longer brought her any joy.

She should have left Donald long ago, before everything went to hell, before she let him convince her swinging was the way to enrich their marriage. When he found out that two of the couples they played bridge with were trading spouses to keep their marriages exciting, he had talked her into trying it. He always had been able to get her to come around to his way of thinking. Sixteen years had passed—she still couldn’t think about what happened without feeling guilty—and now it was all coming back to haunt them.

TJ reviewed the evidence she had accumulated. Only the Krause family showed promise so far. The weird kid, the standoffish sister, and even the mother gave her bad vibes. She needed to find out more about them. The boy wasn’t in school, so he had no classmates she could talk to, but the girl might be in a university system. TJ picked up the phone and called Billie Jean Jennings who answered on the first ring.

“Hi. TJ Peacock. Got a few more questions for you. If you got a minute, could I drop by?”

“Sorry, I have to leave soon. What do you need?”

“Wanted to ask you about that Krause family. Anything you can tell me about them.”

“Sure, I can do that. They’ve lived here as long as we have, so that would be more than thirty years. Anna’s husband was killed in a car crash right after Lucian was born, so that would have been about sixteen years ago. Apparently the house was paid for by their insurance when Frank, Anna’s husband, died, but she still works as a nurse to make ends meet. I don’t know them personally, but I heard she became rather obsessed with her religion after she lost her husband. She homeschooled both of her children and they’re very active in the church.

Billie Jean went on, “I looked up the name of their church for you. They call themselves The New Followers of Christ, and the church is in a strip mall on west Burleigh.”

“Does Drucilla go to school?”

“Yes, she’s in a nursing program with the technical college. The downtown campus, I believe.”

“Anybody else I should talk to that knows them real well?”

Jennings clucked her tongue a few times as she thought. “Not really. I don’t think anyone in the neighborhood is close to them. The church would be your best bet.”

“Okay, thanks. If you think of anything else, gimme a call.”

The New Followers of Christ wasn’t just in a strip mall. It was the entire strip mall. The building, old and probably one of the first of its kind, was in a neighborhood of modest brick homes dating back to the sixties. Burleigh Street ran east and west. The church building sat on the northwest corner across from a busy gas station/convenience store that also held two fast-food places and a car wash.

There were only two cars in the lot at the front of the church. TJ parked the Mini and entered a door at the far end of the building, which appeared to be the office. A small waiting area, the walls ensconced with colorful biblical scenes, held a Formica-topped desk, a few oak filing cabinets, and six cushioned folding chairs. An elderly woman in a lace-edged sweatshirt looked up from behind the desk.

“Can I help you?”

TJ figured she would go right to the top of the totem pole. “Yeah. I’d like to talk to your minister.” The woman looked behind TJ as a man entered the room. TJ turned and had a difficult time not gawking. It was the guy from the music store, Kane, the guitar teacher and Krause cousin. He had adopted a short haircut and a preppie look, wearing perfectly creased khakis and a crisp white shirt.

He held his hand out to her. “Welcome to our church. Our minister, Harold Zimmerman, isn’t in this week. I’m Martin Krause, the assistant minister.”

TJ took his hand. His grip was strong and dry. “Saw you last week at the music store in Tosa. This a sideline?” She didn’t mention the name change.

“You must have met Kane Diermeyer. Everyone thinks we’re related, but we aren’t. We actually don’t look that much alike if you see us together. Not that we are very often. Kane doesn’t subscribe to the ways of the Lord.”

The Krause family got more interesting by the hour. TJ explained who she was and handed him one of her cards. “If you got a minute, I’d like to talk to you about Norman Teschler.”

Krause wrinkled his brow as he studied the card. “Right. I remember hearing about the explosion, but I didn’t know Mr. Teschler.”

He led her into a small room that held a crucifix, a podium, and a dozen chairs matching the ones in the waiting room. The congregation didn’t appear to be a wealthy one. He pulled two chairs out of a row and offered her one.

“I’d like to ask you about some members of your congregation,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “In particular, your relatives, the Krause family. They live across the street from the home explosion in Tosa.” TJ didn’t expect to find out anything since her interviewee was a member of the family, but she would for watch his reactions.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss our members, Ms. Peacock. So if there’s nothing else?”

“Then let’s talk about your relatives. That work for you?”

Krause shifted in the chair. “I’m not sure there’s a difference, Detective, but go ahead and ask me your questions. I’ll answer what I can.”

“Your cousin, Lucian. Does he have any close friends who would be able to tell me more about him?”

“Lucian keeps to himself. He’s unhappy about how he looks and is convinced he’s the victim of a rare disease. The boy needs to find his way to Jesus for help in understanding God’s plan for him.”

Find his way to Jesus? The kid had a genetic problem, and this asshat had actually given her that Jesus spiel with a straight face. This guy wasn’t going to give her diddly about the Krauses. She would ask a few more questions and move on. He was right—as she studied him, he didn’t look as much like Kane as she first thought. Martin was taller, more slender, and had a reddish tint to his hair.

“What about Drucilla? She come around here much?”

“Yes, Dru is a dedicated member of our congregation. She plays guitar for our Sunday services.”

TJ ended the terse discussion as quickly as possible and headed back to her car where she took a moment to add to her notes and check for messages. She had just started the car when she noticed the woman from the front desk hurrying in her direction. Had she left something behind? TJ let the window down.

“Excuse me. I overheard you asking Martin about the Krause family.”

Overheard? The old bat had to have been standing with a glass to the door to pick up the conversation. She handed TJ a pink message slip with an address printed neatly on it. “My name is Irene Abendoth. I can’t talk to you here, but I’m home every day after five. I’ve been with the church since it started, and I’d be happy to talk with you.”

TJ wondered why a lifelong member would be willing to drop the dime on any of her fellow congregants, but what the hell—a source was a source. She grabbed the slip and drove off, only going a short way when her cell phone rang. It was Richard. She pulled over to take his call.

“Hi,” he said. “I suppose you’re practically to Manitowish Waters by now.”

“Nah. Change of plans. Still in Tosa and not leaving town after all.”

“Good. Why don’t we leave JR with Janeen and go out to eat for a change?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

“I’ve got something for you about the Jackson murder, but I’m warning you it’s not for publication or repetition.”

“Got it. Tell all.”

“Sondra Jackson was at the Fink house that night because the two couples were swingers.”

“What the fuck? Swingers?”

“Yes. Apparently, the Fink house was broken into that night and the intruders were there when Sondra Jackson was killed. The thinking is the intruders were the same ones who’ve been entering houses for the last year or so. I’m assuming Tosa’s looking at the perps who broke in for doing the killing, but that’s about all I can tell you. Keith Fink was asleep upstairs when it happened and he isn’t a suspect at this time. The other couple was down by UWM in the Jackson house the entire night. Pretty sure they aren’t on the suspect list, either. That’s all I’ve got.”

No wonder Haymaker had advised Gemma to get a security system. TJ had heard about the weird break-ins months ago, but hadn’t thought too much about it since her own place had a top-notch system. Now the Tosa cops were taking the case seriously. No way all this wasn’t tied together. Why would they go after Gemma unless the Teschler explosion had something to do with Sondra Jackson’s murder?

“Thanks,” she told Richard. “We gotta talk. I want to run some stuff by you. I’ll see you later.

TJ stopped at a local deli and treated herself to a ham on rye and a cup of potato salad. Since giving birth, her appetite had reached a new dimension and, for the first time in her life she had to keep an eye on her weight. She thought it sucked as she eyed the wide variety of cheesecake slices in the refrigerated display near the cashier.

She made a note of stops she could make before visiting the woman from the church: Teschler’s tequila-loving neighbor, Detective Haymaker, and if time permitted, her favorite hairdresser. She wanted to talk to the hairdresser, her friend Rollie, not about his services, but as someone who worked with women, he might be able to dish on local swingers.

Rosemary Haynes’s place would be her first stop. Hopefully she would find the woman before she commenced her cocktail hour. Haynes answered the door wearing jeans and a green shirt, its hem dipping longer on the sides, coming to deep points above the sides of her knees. In one hand, nestled against her bosom, she held a dog not much bigger than a Beanie Baby.

“Well, hello,” she greeted TJ, who had been wondering if the woman would even remember her. Haynes had been seriously hammered the last time TJ talked to her. “I was just going to take Precious for a walk. Is there something else you wanted to ask me about Norman?” Luckily, the woman seemed sober today.

“It won’t take long,” TJ answered. “I’ll walk with you and we can talk.” Haynes leashed the dog, which pranced along ahead of them. He was so tiny that he reminded TJ of those empty leashes with no dog attached that they sold at carnivals.

“Anyone else in the neighborhood belong to the same church as the Krauses?”

“Not that I know of. I certainly don’t. Why?”

“Can you tell me anything more about the Krauses?” TJ asked, ignoring the woman’s question.

“They were some of the original members of that church and part of a group from our area, not just this neighborhood necessarily, that were Jehovah’s Witnesses. They had a rift with the Witnesses; then they broke off and formed their own church. I don’t know what the issue was. After Anna’s husband was killed in a car crash, her kids and the new church became her entire life. I don’t think she does anything except homeschool her kids, work, and take part in church activities.”

Nothing new there. “You said you knew Lucian. He ever do any work for you?”

“Occasionally, but I have a regular service.”

“Ever talk to him?” It seemed to TJ like Haynes hastened her pace when she brought up Lucian.

“Not about anything personal, just whatever chores I hired him to do.”