She's Not There - Madison Marla (книги без сокращений .txt) 📗

At 7:00 a.m., they got a call from their boss to report back to Oconomowoc. When Maggie told him she had something on the Wysecki case that might be a promising lead, he told them to go ahead and check in with Waukesha, but be back by afternoon.

Zabel and Feinstein acted grateful to have help, even if only for the morning. Maggie showed them the printouts of the racetracks she’d pinpointed as places Eddie might gravitate to and suggested they get in touch with track security at each of them, fax them a photo, and ask them to watch out for Wysecki.

“I like it,” said Zabel. “But we were just going over to the Medical Examiner’s office to find out how close they are to identifying the bodies. Then we have meetings set up with some of the bar regulars and Wysecki’s girlfriend.”

Feinstein’s brow wrinkled all the way up his bald head. He looked at Maggie. “Why don’t you two stay here and do the track thing and we’ll cover these appointments. I think you both know your way around pretty well.”

Maggie felt David’s irritation. He hated phone work, preferred to be out on the streets. But she wanted to make sure her idea was in place, and ignored his negative body language. “Sure, we can do that.”

Feinstein looked them both over, and folded his arms atop his round stomach. “On second thought, I’ve never been real fond of autopsies. If one of you would rather go out with Greg, I’ll stay and help with the racetrack angle.”

David jumped on it. “Bodies don’t bother me, I’d be glad to go out with Greg. That is, if Greg doesn’t mind.”

Zabel nodded toward David and stood up to leave. They left the station, headed for the medical examiner’s office.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Max Feinstein turned to Maggie. “I hate seeing stiffs getting cut up, and my bad knee is bothering me. So anything that’ll keep me out of the morgue and on my butt is what I’d rather be doing.”

45             

The temperature hovered in the low seventies in Hialeah, overcast but warm. Hardly a breeze ruffled the palm trees decorating the racetrack.

Unless the track had a big race scheduled, Mondays brought a small crowd. Despite the low attendance, no one was looking for Eddie Wysecki. At least half of the photos handed out to the security guards rested in the bottom of freshly lined trash bins. Except for Fitz Herrera’s. He’d memorized the photo, pulling it out from time to time to compare it with a face in the crowd.

Herrera’s job mattered to him. His goal was to become a police officer, but openings were hard to come by. The gig at the track had taken him years to get and could lead to a coveted position with HPD. He’d figured with security experience, he’d have a shot.

As he moved through the stands, he thought about Wysecki and wondered if he’d really killed all those women. Fitz loved women. He couldn’t imagine anyone hurting one of them, but in Miami it happened all the time. Sometimes even here in Hialeah.

He tried to think where someone like Eddie Wysecki would hang out if he were here. Probably in the grandstand where it was most crowded. The mutt would most likely stay outside and only go in to place a wager. For sure he’d use one of the new automated machines so he wouldn’t have to face a teller. Fitz’s eyes scanned the crowd. On his third pass through the grandstand, he noticed a man sitting on a bench about three up from the space in front of the fence outlining the racetrack. He wore large mirrored sunglasses, a goofy-looking hat like a guy might wear to go fishing, and a jacket with the collar turned up even though the temperature had hit eighty degrees. He held a racing program in his lap, and a copy of every tip sheet sold by the vendors—a serious player. Fitz decided to keep an eye on him from a distance.

Eddie hated the automatic wager machines. Working the damn machines while wearing the fucking reflector glasses was a pain in the ass, although hiding his face would be worth it until he could make the right connections for his escape to Mexico. He sure liked the easy life: gambling, hanging at the track, frequenting the dozens of titty-bars in the area, the endless, balmy weather. But his money wouldn’t last long here; he had to get to Mexico where he’d be considered a wealthy guy.

He was on a winning streak and finding it tough to stay low-key. Without sitting with a track buddy, the wins weren’t quite as savory. Throwing a fist in the air and pantomiming “Yes!” had to suffice.

He’d overheard what he considered a hot tip in the eighth race. He planned to scoot out after its finish. When the bell for the eighth race went off, Eddie hung on the rail. He’d bet some serious change. It turned out to be an exciting race, the horses bunched up coming around the final turn, with the favorite beginning to lose ground. Eddie was ecstatic as his horse, at 15-1, approached the frontrunner. Forgetting his cool, he shouted, “Come on six, come on six!”

When the three lead horses thundered over the finish line, they were synchronized like a Swiss watch and Eddie’s number six was one of them. Even with a photo, the decision would be a tough call. Eddie went to a bench, sat for a minute, then came back and paced in front of the rail. When the photo finish of the race went up on the giant monitor the crowd went wild. Number six, Perry’s Pride, had won the race with only one, well-bred nostril nipping ahead of the other two horses.

Eddie went wild. He pulled off his hat and performed a frantic dance, looking like some kind of mystic tribal chief without the feathers. Halfway through his wild performance, the silver shades flew off his face.

His mania ended abruptly when two iron fists grabbed his arms, snapping on a pair of cuffs.

The press quoted Fitz as saying he acted on automatic pilot when he recognized Eddie Wysecki. In real time, however, as Fitz grabbed the guy, all that went through his mind was, “This is my shot!”

46             

TJ opened her phone.

Maggie said, “TJ, I wanted to talk to you about this first because I know you understand how the system works. We just got word they’ve picked up Wysecki in Florida, but it’ll take a while to get him transferred here, maybe a few days. And he’s not talking. He asked for an attorney right away.”

“Fast work.”

“We haven’t turned up anything in his financials or from interviews to give us any indication he had another place where he could be stashing bodies.”

“Never thought it was him doing the missing women.”

“Well, he may have disposed of the bodies someplace we haven’t discovered yet. You can tell the others he’s in custody, but it’s not for publication.

“I know you don’t think he did the Ventura woman, but you know the blame is going to swing his way. You folks will be under the microscope if they start trying to find a connection between Eddie and Danielle.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

TJ closed the phone. After she shared the news with the group, she would need to forget about all this shit and have some fun. Jeff’s suggestion that they go out for a while after dinner would be a welcome relief from murder and mayhem. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a bright orange sweater, and boots with spiked heels. A good time was in order.

Jeff drove them to the Sombrero Club, a bar and restaurant on Pewaukee Lake, not far from Lisa’s office.

“They have great margaritas,” he promised.

“You ever been to this place?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it.”

“Figured.”

They sipped margaritas, sitting at the bar listening to the band play music from the sixties and seventies. Jeff surprised her when he asked her to dance. While he wasn’t what she would call a good dancer, he managed himself well on the dance floor, a feat few men could pull off. As she moved her body with the beat of the music, TJ realized she’d really needed to unwind.