Hard Truth (15 page)

“The police did interview her, I saw her name on the list.” He popped the tab on the soda can. “She didn’t have much to add, though.”

“I don’t know why she would. She wasn’t around that night.”

“They would have talked to anyone who might have been in contact with Melinda during that time,” T.J. told her. “They’d want to know if Melinda had mentioned any stranger who might have approached her, or if she’d felt someone had been watching her, that sort of thing.”

“I always thought there was something odd about Melinda’s relationship with Danielle.” Lorna got up and went to the counter and returned with two straws, one of which she silently offered to T.J.

“No, thanks,” he declined. “What did you think was odd?”

“I could never figure out how Melinda knew her. Or when she got to know her.”

“She never talked about her?”

“She talked about her, but she never really
said
anything about her.” Lorna appeared pensive. “I can’t explain it.”

“Did she go to Danielle’s house, or did Danielle go to hers?”

“She almost always went to Danielle’s. I can only think of one time when Danielle was at Melinda’s. But Mellie never talked about what they did at Danielle’s. I just remember that she was always excited about going. As a kid, I was probably a little jealous—you know, my best friend had a new friend. I guess I was afraid Melinda would dump me for her and then I wouldn’t have a best friend anymore.”

“Did you know Danielle?”

“I knew who she was. As I said, she went to our school, but she was a couple of years older. The school we attended was a regional elementary, it went up to grade eight. It was odd that a sixth grader would want to be friends with a fourth grader. Especially since they didn’t seem to have much in common.”

“Why would you say that, if you didn’t know Danielle?”

“The girls she hung around with were a little more advanced than Melinda and I were, socially. So it just never struck me as a good fit, that’s all. The one time I remember Danielle stayed at Melinda’s for an overnight, she seemed bored to death.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued,” T.J. said. “I think we’re going to have to find this Danielle person and see what was going on. In the meantime,” he said as he pushed his chair back from the table, “it looks as if our dinner is ready. Let’s continue this conversation back at the house. Maybe we can get Mitch to use his FBI skills to track down Danielle.”

As it turned out, Mitch had already begun to apply his skills to the case.

“First thing in the morning, I’ll be making the acquaintance of your local police force,” Mitch told Lorna.

“Good luck there.” She laughed. “Are you planning on just walking in and introducing yourself?”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.” He grinned. “As the special agent assigned to the case, I’ll be—”

“Whoa, back up.” T.J. twisted the cap off a beer and handed the bottle to Mitch. “The FBI is in on this now?”

Mitch nodded. “As of about three this afternoon.”

“How the hell did that happen?” T.J. joined him at the table.

“I started discussing the case with my boss, and told him about Regan getting involved through Lorna.” He took a swallow of beer. “He’d seen the coverage on the news, of course, and thought by now we’d have had a request from someone to send an agent in to assist. Since this is apparently a serial killer’s work, and they have a small police force here with no experience in this area.”

“So what did . . .” T.J. paused. “You still working for John?”

Mitch nodded.

“How did he manage to get you in?”

“He called the district attorney and asked if he thought the Bureau could be of service. And the DA was happy to get the call, from what I understand. He’s up for reelection next year and the last thing he wants is something like this hanging over his head for the next twelve months.”

“So John graciously offered to send a man down to assist.” T.J. nodded. He knew John Mancini’s MO all too well.

“Who’s John?” Lorna distributed four plates from the stack she’d set on the table.

“John Mancini. He’s the head of the unit I work for,” Mitch told her. He turned to T.J. and said, “He told me to tell you he’d pull the reprimand from my file if you came back in to talk to him.”

“What reprimand?” T.J. asked.

“The one he gave me after I sent that fax to the Callen Police Department asking for the reports on the Eagan case.”

“Who’s he kidding?” T.J. shook his head. “He didn’t put any such thing in your file. Not his style. Not for something like that. And you’re on the case, so you know he’s not even pissed off at you.”

“I told him you’d see through that, but he wanted me to give it a try.” Mitch shrugged. “He would like you to come in for a sit-down, told me to tell you he has a few select openings he needs to fill.”

“I’m not looking to go back to the Bureau, Mitch, but tell John I appreciate the offer.” T.J. got up and grabbed a beer from the six-pack he’d left on the kitchen counter.

“You worked for this John Mancini?” Lorna asked.

“With Mitch,” T.J. told her. “We went through training together, actually.”

Lorna stepped aside to permit Regan to place both pizza boxes on the table.

“You’ve been out now for what, six years?” Regan asked.

T.J. nodded. “Something like that.”

Lorna handed out napkins, then took the seat across from T.J. She opened the lids of both boxes and told her guests, “Pepperoni on the left, the works on the right. Please help yourselves.”

“So, you left the FBI to start your private investigation business?” Lorna asked T.J.

“My cousin and I started one, yes.” The slice of pizza he’d just slid onto his plate appeared to have garnered an inordinate amount of his attention.

Lorna didn’t have to be hit over the head. His leaving the Bureau was off-limits. Okay by her.

She turned to Mitch. “So, what’s your plan to aid and assist the Callen Police Department?”

“The first thing I want to do is see if we can start putting together a list of young men who went missing over the past twenty-five to thirty years from the Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and New Jersey area.” He drew an imaginary circle on the table, encompassing the points where those states came together. “Then we’ll see what evidence we have that will enable us to start matching up the remains with the missing. At least, that’s the goal. Once we’re able to start identifying victims, we’ll try to find some commonality among them.”

“Meaning?” Lorna asked.

“There has to be a reason why each of these victims was chosen. Once we figure out what that reason was, we’ll be closer to figuring out who we’re looking for,” Mitch explained.

“After all these years, isn’t it likely that the killer is gone from here? All of these victims were killed a long time ago,” Lorna pointed out. “What are the chances the killer stayed in Callen?”

“That’s a good question,” Mitch told her. “Right now, we have no way of knowing if he moved on, or if he simply found another means of relieving whatever it was that compelled him to kill in the first place.”

“So he could still be here,” Regan said, “but he might not be feeling any pressure to kill.”

“Swell.” Lorna put her pizza on her plate. “What happens if he starts feeling the pressure again?”

Mitch looked at T.J.

“This is really your area of expertise, Dawson. I defer to you.”

T.J. shook his head. “Not anymore, pal. I hung up that hat a long time ago.”

“Hey, you know what they say around the Bureau.” Mitch took a sip of beer, then set the bottle back down quietly on the table. “Once a profiler, always a profiler.”

“You were a profiler?” Lorna tried to keep her jaw from dropping.

“Long ago and far away,” T.J. said, as if to dismiss it as having no importance.

There were other questions she could have asked, questions she wanted to ask, but he’d clearly closed that door. She glanced beside her and met Regan’s eyes.

Later,
Regan told her silently.

“So, Regan,” Mitch turned his attention to her. “What’s the latest on your search for Eddie Kroll?”

“Who’s Eddie Kroll?” Lorna asked.

“I don’t know who he is. I know a little about him, but I don’t know who he is,” Regan told her. “I found his name in a file in a box of things that belonged to my father.”

“What kind of things?” T.J. appeared relieved to have the topic of conversation shift from his former occupation.

“Old report cards, mostly. All from a Catholic grade school in Illinois from back in the forties. I did try to contact the school, but it closed about fifteen years ago.” She smiled. “I tried tracking the name through the diocese schools, but the trail seems to end in ninth grade. There was no record of him after early March of his freshman year at St. Ambrose High.”

“You’re not giving up, are you?” Mitch asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m hot on this guy’s trail.” She grinned. “I’ll be in Chicago at the end of the week, Saturday, to do a TV show. If Eddie Kroll is out there, I’m going to find him.”

“He probably changed schools—maybe his family moved out of the city—and is happily retired in Florida by now,” Lorna said. “And what’s the big deal with him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“My dad kept all kinds of things, newspaper clippings, letters, postcards, you name it, that related to specific incidents. But in this case, he kept this guy’s report cards. Why?” She put down her glass. “Why have them? Why keep them? What significance could they have had to my father, who wrote true crime books?”

“Then what you really want to know is, who is Eddie Kroll, and what was he to Josh Landry,” Lorna summed it up.

“Exactly.” Regan nodded. “And one way or another, I’m going to find out. However long it takes, I’m going to find Eddie Kroll.”

“Well, you’ve got your mystery man, I’ve got my serial killer,” Mitch said. “Sounds like we’re both going to have our hands full for a while.”

He looked at T.J., who was working on another slice of pizza.

“Would you at least be willing to take a look at whatever information I get, once we start compiling data on the victims? Sort of a thank you for me getting those reports for you this weekend?”

T.J. looked distracted, as if chewing on Mitch’s question along with the pepperoni.

Finally, he nodded slowly. “Your paybacks are a bitch, Peyton, you know that? But, okay, I’ll take a look. As a thank you. Then we’re even.”

“Sure.” Mitch looked pleased with himself. “Then we’re even.”

F
ourteen

The early-morning air was steamy and dense. Summer was reasserting itself, and it wasn’t pretty. Lorna rolled out of bed and into the shower. Thirty minutes later, she felt as if she could use a second one. She’d dried her hair with the blow dryer, but by the time she reached the first floor, the strands around her face were already coils of light brown frizz. She turned on the air conditioner and her computer in the dining room, then followed the smell of brewing coffee into the kitchen.

“I was just debating with myself, whether it was too hot to make coffee,” Lorna said, taking two cups from the cupboard and setting them on the counter. “But you beat me to it, and it smells too good to pass up.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Regan said from her seat near the window. “I’m such an early riser and it never seems too hot for me to drink coffee. It’s my addiction.”

“I don’t mind at all. I appreciate it. Nice to have it waiting for me.” She got out the half-and-half and a bowl of sweeteners, real and artificial, and placed it all on the table in front of Regan. “I feel like making breakfast this morning.”

She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “Are you up for eggs? I bought some the other day at the Amish farm about a mile down the road.”

“I could always eat,” Regan replied.

“Scrambled all right?”

“Perfect.”

Lorna set about preparing the eggs while Regan poured two cups of coffee.

“So,” Lorna said as she added butter to the frying pan, “what’s the story with T.J.? Why’d he quit the FBI, do you know?”

“It has something to do with a case he worked on in Georgia, that’s all I know. All Mitch would tell me was that T.J. and his cousin, who was also an agent, both quit at the same time and started up their own business. He said they were really successful, apparently got a lot of work out of the DC area. Politicos and socialites. I guess they had a lot of contacts from being in the FBI. Anyway, the cousin got married last year and moved to some small beach town in Maryland with his wife. They sold off the business and now T.J.’s trying to decide what to do with the rest of his life. The only other thing I know is that the Bureau wants him back—bad. He was apparently very good at what he did.”

“Well, that’s more than I expected you to know.” Lorna smiled as she whipped the eggs in the bowl, then slid them into the pan on the stove.

“I ask a lot of questions.”

“Do you want toast?” Lorna walked to the bread box, passing the dining room door as she did so. She glanced at the computer on the table, and noticed the large reminder message on the screen. She went closer to take a look, then grimaced. “Damn.
Damn.
”

“What’s wrong?” Regan appeared in the doorway.

“I forgot I had a meeting today.
Damn it.
” She closed the reminder screen and quickly opened a file, then turned on the printer. “I can’t believe I forgot about this meeting. It’s with one of my oldest clients.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“At my client’s office, back in Woodboro.” Lorna bent over the computer, selected several pages, and hit
Print.

“Can you make it?”

“Yeah, if I leave within the next ten minutes.” She grabbed the coffee off the counter. “I’ll have to stop at my town house and change, all my business clothes are there. God, I completely forgot what day it was.”

“Well, you’ve had plenty to think about, these past few days,” Regan reminded her. “You go on and get yourself ready to leave. I’ll finish up the eggs and you can grab a few bites on your way out the door.”

“I’ll have plenty to think about on that long ride back to Woodboro,” Lorna told her as she raced up the steps. “Like how to tell my client he’s operating at a loss.”

She grabbed her handbag, stuffed in the little travel case containing her makeup, and found her shoes. She raced back downstairs, apologizing to Regan as she flew through the kitchen. Regan held a plate out to her and she grabbed it on the fly.

“Stand still for twenty seconds and chew,” Regan said, laughing.

Lorna took a bite. “Thank you. I wish I had time to sit and eat with you. I’m so sorry.”

Regan waved away the apology as unnecessary. “Do you need your laptop?”

“I do.” Lorna rolled her eyes. “Haste does indeed make waste.”

She started toward the dining room and Regan stopped her. “Finish your eggs. I’ll get your computer.”

“I am so sorry to bail on you like this,” Lorna said as Regan came back into the room with the white laptop in one hand and its carrying case in the other. “I should be back tonight. I’m so sorry . . .”

“Stop apologizing, and just go.” Regan slid the computer into the case and handed it to Lorna, who had just finished rinsing her plate in the sink. “I can lock up the house when I leave.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Lorna told her from the front door. “I know you’re really getting into this case, and I’d expect Mitch to be by later. There’s no reason for you to go, unless you have something else to do. You know where everything is in the house, so please feel free to stay. Besides, I’m just as happy to have someone here, frankly, what with all that’s going on. You don’t know what will turn up next. It might be better if someone is in the house.”

“Then I’m more than willing to stay.” Regan walked out onto the porch with Lorna. “You go take care of your business. The house will be fine, I’ll be here when you get back. Go do what you have to do.”

Lorna tossed her briefcase holding the files she’d hastily printed out onto the passenger seat along with the laptop. She’d never forgotten a meeting before, never let down a client, and she wasn’t going to start now. She hit the highway, determined to make it to Woodboro in record time. She listened to a book on tape for a while, then turned it off to make phone calls. One to another client who liked a touch-base call every few weeks, another to her friend Bonnie, to see if she was available for a quick bite after work. Since the meeting was at three, it made sense for her to grab dinner before she left to drive back to Callen. Bonnie, a criminal lawyer, was in court, so she left voice mail suggesting they meet at a favorite restaurant at five-thirty, if Bonnie was free.

She made it to her town house in just under five hours, which was a record. Plenty of time to change and to prepare for the meeting.

She parked in her garage and went through the door that led to the kitchen. She’d never been quite so aware of how still an unoccupied house could feel. It was as if all the energy had left with her last Sunday. She walked from room to room, each one marred by the memory of her mother’s pain. She opened the guest room closet and looked at the clothes. Her mother’s shoes were still on the floor next to the chair she’d last sat in; the last book she’d started reading was still on the bedside table. Lorna sat on the side of the bed and held her face in her hands.

“I miss you, Mom. I hate it that you’re not here anymore.” She spoke the words out loud, as if her mother could hear. “I hate that you had to die.”

She stared at the closet’s contents. Mary Beth had wanted her clothes to go to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. “Whichever is most convenient for you, sweetie. Either would be fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s never going to be fine,” Lorna had replied.

“Well, I just hate the thought of clothes hanging here, when someone else could be wearing them,” Mary Beth had said softly. “Would it make it easier for you if I were to write things out, things I’d like you to do after, rather than discuss it with you?”

“Whatever is best for you, Mom,” Lorna had said, regretting the show of anger.

“No, honey. I’ve already accepted what is. You’re still fighting it. I need to do whatever is best for you now. Whatever will make it easiest for you when I’m gone.”

“I’ll never accept it. Nothing could make it easier. I don’t want you to die.”

“Well, nobody wants to die. But when you know how short the time is, you can’t cheat yourself out of what little you have left by pretending that things are other than what they are.” Mary Beth had struggled to sit. “I hate it, too, sweetie, but that’s what is. I don’t want to leave my children. I don’t want to leave my friends or the places I love. But the choice isn’t mine.” She had reached for Lorna’s hand and held it. “If I use my energy fighting against it, I lose what strength I have to enjoy what I still have. Understand?”

Lorna had nodded, unable to speak. Her mother had been so much braver than she had been.

She got up and left the room, closing the door behind her. It hurt to be here, more than she’d expected. If anything, she’d have expected to have felt the loss more at the farmhouse, where her mother had lived for most of her life, rather than here, in these small rooms where Mary Beth had lived for less than two years.

The message light was blinking on the answering machine, and Lorna paused to listen. The only one of the seven messages she listened to more than once was the message from Jack Corey. She’d dated Jack for six months before she brought her mother out to stay with her, but he wasn’t inclined to continue the relationship once she had Mary Beth’s illness to contend with. She’d barely seen him over the past year and a half.

“Hey, Lorna. Jack here. Say, just heard about your mother. So sorry, I know how close you were.” After what she thought he’d have imagined to be a respectful pause, he continued, “So, I just thought I’d give you a call and see if you were free for dinner one night next week, maybe we can pick up where we—”

She hit the
Delete
button.

What a colossal ass. Whatever had she seen in him?

She went into her bedroom and took another quick shower, tried to tame her unruly hair, then pulled on a dark blue skirt and a white cotton shirt, dark heels, and a red belt. She found earrings and put on simple makeup, then left for her meeting. She closed the door of the town house behind her and headed off to meet with Larry Myers to give him the bad news.

“Ugh.” Lorna shivered and took a sip of wine. “Remind me again why I dated Jack Corey in the first place.”

“Tall, good-looking, successful tax attorney.” Bonnie Jacobs rested her arms on the edge of the table and grinned. “And considering that the pickin’s out here in the badlands of western Pennsylvania are so damned slim, it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I should have saved the message to play it for you. You could hear the swagger in his voice. I’m sure he must think I’ve been praying he’d call.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to call him back?”

Lorna rolled her eyes, and her friend laughed.

“I’m sure I’ll hear about it in the coffee shop someday soon,” Bonnie said. “You seem to have forgotten, I work in the same building. Sooner or later, he’s bound to corner me.”

“Well, if he does, tell him I won’t be around for a while, I have family business to take care of. Tell him I’m . . .” Lorna swirled the wine around in the glass, then grinned. “Tell him I’m starting a winery.”

Bonnie laughed. “A winery? Where did that come from?”

“It just popped out,” Lorna said, taking a sip of her wine. “But there are the vestiges of an old vineyard on the farm. My great-uncle started it sixty years ago but it’s fallen into ruin.”

“The vines are all still there and everything?”

“A few random plants may have survived, but for the most part, I think the weeds choked them out. Most of the trellises are still standing, but there are trees and all sorts of things springing up among them. It probably would be really difficult to clear it all out. Not that I have any interest in doing that.” She grinned again. “But it does make a fun story for Jack.”

“Consider it told.” Bonnie stabbed at her salad and asked, “So, can you tell me what the hell is going on down there in Southern Bumfuck, for Christ’s sake? It seems as if every time I turn on the news, there’s another body being dug up.”

“There have been four at last count. And I’ll be damned if I know where they came from. It’s pretty horrific. Those remains have been there for years.”

“Well, it’s a farm, right? How come the tractors didn’t plow them up before this?”

“Until that parcel of land was sold off to a developer, it was all wooded. So it was never plowed. It’s only been recently, when they took out the trees to start building the houses, that the graves were discovered.”

“God, that is creepy.” Bonnie shook her blond head. “How are you making out with your plans to sell it?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not selling?”

“I’m not making out well right now, but yes, I’m still planning on selling. Things have been so hectic this week. Plus, there are other factors involved right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like the police—and as of yesterday, the FBI—are investigating multiple murders and could probably block the sale of the property while the investigation is ongoing. I know they’re still looking for other graves. And like the fact that we’re not likely to get as good a price for it at the moment, since there’s so much notoriety attached to the farm. I’m afraid if we put it on the market right now, we’ll attract the curious and the morbid, but no serious buyers.” Lorna leaned back to permit the waitress to serve her entrée.

“You really think real estate developers care about that sort of thing?” Bonnie snorted.

“We—my sister and I—were hoping to not have to sell to a developer. We’d hate to see the family home be demolished and replaced with a row of town houses.”

“Maybe you should put it on the market and see what happens. You never know who might be interested. Though I suppose there are fewer and fewer people going into farming today.”

“True enough, though you’d be amazed at how many working farms there are in the area.”

“A good thing.” Bonnie speared a piece of yellow summer squash with her fork and held it up. “Someone has to feed us. I for one am happy someone is still in the business of raising veggies.”

“You, being a vegetarian, would be in heaven in Callen. You can go right to the farms and buy whatever is in that week. There are also several dairy farms, a few that raise organic meats, and, of course, the mushroom farms. And the vineyards. There are at least half a dozen within twenty miles of our farm.”