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Had he expected to find Am here? Maybe a part of him had. They both seemed to be drawn in by the same things. Shopping. That was what Am had said she’d been doing, and he’d lied as well because he didn’t want her to worry about him or feel as though she had to direct him in any way. What a pair they made. Still lying. Still ignoring the elephant in the room, the damage done. He was stronger than Am gave him credit for. He loved her, but if he was honest, he had to admit that a part of him loathed her self-assuredness. Why had Am gotten everything? Why had he gotten so little?
When he’d seen enough, he left the bridge and walked north, head down, the sounds of the city assaulting his ears, welcome music after the unnerving hush of Westhaven. He could right himself. Tom Morgan didn’t have to be a yoke around his neck. He hoped the man was dead and dust. He hoped he burned. Maybe there’d come a time when he didn’t see him in every face he passed in the street. Evil men couldn’t last forever, could they?
CHAPTER 12
Foster stared out the window as Lonergan drove them north, watching the city pass by, noting the faces, checking to see that all was as it should be, as though crime were all the city’s streets had to offer. It was what happened when you’d been at the job awhile. Your eyes slid right over the good and locked onto the problematic.
“What’s with the paper clip?” Lonergan said out of the blue. “I noticed you dropped one in your pocket back at the office. It was a deliberate drop, too, not some absentminded thing. You collect ’em or something?”
Lonergan wasn’t as dull a blade as she’d thought, but she wasn’t up for sharing confidences with him. “It’s just a clip, Lonergan.” She said the words but knew the truth. Tomorrow she’d slip another clip into her pocket. The day after that, there’d be another. It was a way of marking time, getting through one day, one clip, at a time. Not his business.
“Hmm. Don’t think so,” he said.
She glanced out the passenger window, unwilling to go a single step further. “Hmm. Well, chew on it then.”
Foster had assured Peggy’s mother with all sincerity that she could survive the loss of her daughter. But there was more to living than surviving. Clocks continued to tick even though they didn’t keep accurate time. Sometimes people walked, talked, breathed, and ate and could still be gone.
It was well into the afternoon, and the news of Peggy Birch’s murder had well and truly broken. Woman’s Body Found along Riverwalk was the startling headline over the radio, on newspaper sites. The news at noon had even had footage of the crime scene, choppers and all.
“It’s out.” Foster read the initial reports on her phone, then angled for Lonergan to take a peek. “Won’t be long before they release her name.”
The report didn’t mention Peggy’s manner of death, thankfully, but when that made the front pages, she could just imagine what the headlines would be. Media wasn’t known for its subtlety. Woman Ripped Apart on Riverwalk . . . Where’s the Riverwalk Slasher? . . . CPD Stumped by Thrill Killer. The city would take notice, and they would get the heat.
Foster closed the website’s window and called the ME’s office. “I’ll check on the time for the autopsy.” Chicago had a population of 2.7 million people. Violent death was a common occurrence. But this killing was different: it had been brutal, shocking, even to her, and Birch had been dumped right on the city’s front step. Everybody from the mayor and the police superintendent on down would be on the detectives’ backs to find who’d done it before fingers started pointing their way, and the ME knew that as well as she did.
Lonergan pulled into the campus lot just as Foster got the information she needed. “Autopsy’s tomorrow morning, at nine.” She dropped her phone into her pocket, jotted the time down in her notebook, then checked her watch. It was a little after 2:00 p.m. “Eighteen hours from now.” She grabbed her bag and her files and slid out of the car. She was always laden down with paper and notes and files, never knowing what bit of information she’d need or when she’d need it. Already, after only a few short hours, it felt like she’d been on the Birch case forever.
Lonergan lifted out on the driver’s side with a grunt and watched her over the roof of the car. “You write down everything in that little book of yours?”
“The important things.”
“Like?”
“Details. Statements. Important things.” She grew defensive as she tucked the files into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Work.”
He turned to watch students hustle past, none of them bothering to pay them a bit of attention. They had classes to get to, stuff to do. “I guess you got books on top of books filed away somewhere.”
She did. Every case. For seventeen years. “That a problem?”
He shook his head. “Just curious.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “I keep my notes in here. Don’t have to carry a thing.” He cocked his head. “What happens if we get into a foot pursuit—you carryin’ all that?”
She glowered at him, not sure he wasn’t questioning her competency or her readiness if, God forbid, they got into a tough spot. “I drop the bag,” she said. Foster looked around, spotted the building they needed, and started walking. “Or not,” she muttered low, sure Lonergan missed it.
They waited for Wendy Stroman and Stella Dean in a small study room on the ground floor of Barnwell Hall, a five-story residence building overlooking a square, leafy courtyard. A round table with two chairs sat in the middle of the space. A saggy couch had been pushed into a corner, swooshes of blue and scarlet running the length of the wall above—the school colors proudly displayed.
They’d gotten a student escort from the registrar’s office, and now the RA had gone to track down the two young women they needed to talk to. Media reports on Peggy’s death were coming in fast and furious. The Birch family wouldn’t get a lot of privacy from here on out.
Lonergan’s judgy eyes scanned the room. “Not much to write home about, to tell the truth.” He wandered over to the window overlooking the lawn and ran a finger across the dusty sill. “You’d think they’d dust the place for what they charge. And it smells like feet.” He turned to face her. “You go to college, Foster?”
She flipped open her notebook as she leaned against the wall. The couch looked germy and uncomfortable, so she decided to bypass it. “Yes.”
“Graduate and everything?”
“With honors.”
“Why be a copper, then? You could be runnin’ Google or somethin’ instead of pickin’ through bodies. Not sayin’ we’re all slouches—we got some Einsteins on the job—but you had easier options is what I’m sayin’.”
Foster couldn’t tell if Lonergan was being sincere or setting her up for some snide remark or patronizing condemnation. He was . . . a puzzle.
“I joined because I didn’t see enough cops on the street who looked like me . . . and there needed to be,” she said. “Also, because I thought I might be good at it.”
“And you think you’re good at it?”
“I am good.” The look she gave Lonergan dared him to challenge her words.
He leaned against the sill, studying her, his arms folded across his chest. “You know what I learned, Foster? Most killers are dumb as cheese. You don’t have to be Sherlock friggin’ Holmes to catch one of ’em. Sometimes the idiots run home and hide under their mommy’s bed . . . sometimes they take naps under a bridge. When we find where Ainsley hid that knife, you can write that down in your book there.”
It was over. The momentary thaw in the ice between them had frozen over again, and she and Lonergan were back where they’d been. “We’ll see,” she said.
The door opened on Foster and Lonergan standing at opposite ends of the tight room, their physical distance a visual cue to their philosophical one. Two young white women eased in—Stroman and Dean, presumably. Foster lifted off the wall and pointed them to the couch, watching as they eased down, sitting far from one another. Lonergan stayed near the window, his arms crossed. One of the women had been crying; her face was red and puffy, her eyes too. They’d explained their purpose in the office, given the RA a heads-up, so Stroman and Dean already knew Peggy was gone.
“Who’s Wendy Stroman?” Lonergan asked.
The petite brunette in the T-shirt with Mozart’s image on the front raised her hand, her brown eyes peeking out from behind severe horn-rimmed glasses. By contrast, the woman next to her, Stella Dean, was blonde and less birdlike, dressed in a white T-shirt and scarlet sweatpants with the school’s name down the leg.
Wendy concentrated on her hands, which lay in her lap as she picked nervously at the dry cuticles on her right thumb. Stella sniffled in a ragged breath and covered her eyes, grinding her fingertips into the sockets as though trying to erase an unpleasant image. Two different reactions to tragic news. Their body language alone, Foster thought, was a lot to think about.
She glanced over at Lonergan, but it didn’t look like he was going to start. He appeared more than willing to let her deal with the emotional women, like her sergeant long ago. She turned one of the chairs around to sit facing them.
“I know how hard this is, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about Peggy.” Her eyes met Wendy’s. “You were her roommate?”
Wendy nodded, then looked at Stella, who now had her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “How did they? Kill her, I mean.”
It wasn’t information Foster would share, though she could see how not knowing pained Peggy’s friend. Besides, everyone would know soon enough once the media had its way. “Let’s focus on helping her now, all right? When’s the last time you saw Peggy?”
“Early yesterday.” Wendy flicked her head up and let her mangled cuticles go. “She was going to the march. A lot of kids were. It was a big thing. I couldn’t go. I spend Sundays with the family. My mom expects it.”
“If you’re local,” Lonergan asked, “why’re you livin’ here?”
“I wanted to be on my own. Sundays are a lot better than twenty-four seven at home.”
“Why’s any of this important?” Stella barked. “Some nut out there just killed Peg. What does it matter that she went home for mostaccioli night?”
“We didn’t have mostaccioli,” Wendy shot back. “It was pot roast.”
Stella threw her hands up dramatically. “Thanks for the much-needed clarification, Wendy.”
Foster turned to Stella. She knew nothing about her but didn’t appreciate the overbearing vibe she gave off or the insensitivity. “Stop the nonsense.” The look she gave Stella told her that she meant it. “What about you?”
“I saw her before she left,” Stella said. “Around ten, maybe?”
“You askin’ or tellin’?” Lonergan said.
Stella looked over at Lonergan like she’d just noticed he was there as a person and not as furniture. “It was around ten.”
“So yesterday Peggy left for the march,” Foster said. “Wendy didn’t go. Did you go, Stella?”
“I was supposed to,” she said, “but I’m seriously in the hole in econ. I had to study, so I begged off, told her to go ahead. She took the bus down with some other kids going. If I’d gone with her, maybe . . .” She began to sob. Foster could sense Lonergan fidgeting at the window.
“Peggy have a problem with anybody here?” he asked. “Dorm rivals. Mashers?”
Both women looked up at him, the confused looks on their faces indicating that they didn’t understand the term. Foster clarified. “Anyone harassing or pressuring her,” she said. “Paying her unwanted attention.”
Stella wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “No way. Peg was cool with everybody.”
Wendy glanced over at Stella, the flick out of the corner of her eye unfriendly, which Foster caught. Whatever the look meant, it was there only for a second, then gone, but she was sure it was significant. “Wendy? That true?”
Wendy startled, seemingly uncomfortable with the direct question or the solo attention. “Yeah. Peg was so great.”
“Anybody she might have met off campus, online?” Foster asked.
Both shook their heads. Foster opened her file and slid out a photo array with Keith Ainsley’s driver’s license photo included. “Have you ever seen any of these young men with Peggy?”
Both stared down at the images and shook their heads again. Foster tucked the sheet away, relieved that they hadn’t pointed out Keith Ainsley. No ID, then. It was one more element in the young man’s favor. “So to be clear, the last time either of you saw Peggy, she was heading out for the march on Sunday. Wendy, you were with your parents. Stella, you were studying. You never heard from her during the day?”
“Nothing,” Wendy said. Stella nodded in agreement.
“When’d you get back from your parents’?” Lonergan asked.
“Around seven,” Wendy said. “My dad drove me back. I studied until about ten, then went to bed. I didn’t even know Peg’s bed hadn’t been slept in until I woke up this morning, but I wasn’t worried. I figured she maybe spent the night at her house with her folks. Sometimes she did that.”
Lonergan turned to Stella. “What time were you done studyin’? And who saw you doin’ it?”
“Five, maybe? I studied with Ashley. Ashley Tighe. When we were done, I ordered a pizza, then went to bed early. I was fried. Econ’s not my thing.”
Foster jotted the name down in her book, then waited for Lonergan to continue.
“Pizza from where?” he asked.
Stella hesitated. “Zippy’s.”
“Got a receipt?” he asked.
Foster knew Lonergan was looking for Stella’s tells to see if she was lying. She was doing the same with both girls. She had to remember they were kids, despite Stella’s forcefulness, so a certain amount of care and handling needed to be taken. Foster couldn’t overlook how intimidating her and Lonergan’s badges could be or how guarded people became when they spoke to the police.
“I never keep them,” Stella said.
“How early did you go to bed?” Foster asked.
“About nine. A little after.”
A college kid in bed at nine. Foster narrowed her eyes but let it go. For now.
“And this Ashley?” Lonergan asked. “She wasn’t in on the pizza?”
“I didn’t ask her,” Stella said. “I just wanted to kick back alone.”
Foster had been a cop a long time. She knew when someone was lying to her, and Stella was lying. She glanced over at Wendy, who sat perfectly still, her face showing no emotion. Foster was sure she knew Stella was lying too.
Birch had likely been killed, according to Rosales, around midnight. Wendy was claiming to have been in bed by ten, Stella by nine. Of the two, Foster thought, Stella seemed less truthful. “In bed by nine. Here? In the dorm?” she pressed. “And before you answer, know that we will check.”
Stella slid back on the couch. She tried doing it subtly, like she wasn’t uncomfortable with the pointed questions, but Foster hadn’t missed the slide. Stella played with the hem of her shirt, twisting it, picking at it. “I was asleep in my room.”
Foster gave Stella one last long, unwavering look, then let up and made a note in her book. “Joe Rimmer.” She said his name and then let it sit there for a moment. “Let’s talk about him.”
“He’s an idiot,” Stella blurted out. “Peg dumped him.”
“He says it was mutual,” Lonergan said, “and you had a part in it.”
Stella smiled. “You have a problem with that?”
Lonergan lifted off the windowsill. “Look, kid . . .”
Foster interrupted him. “Rimmer seemed a bit raw over the breakup.”
“He was mad, sure,” Wendy said. “Called her like twenty times a day trying to get her to take him back, but she wouldn’t.”
Stella nodded in agreement. “All he wanted was a groupie. He thinks he’s going to be the next Dave Grohl.” She rolled her eyes. “Fat chance.”
“He been hangin’ around?” Lonergan asked.
“Too big of a wuss for that,” Stella said. “He’s all talk, believe me.”
Wendy pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose, and her mouth clamped shut. She was definitely not saying something. She obviously found Stella intimidating. Foster could see how she would. Wendy was meek, a shy little mouse. Stella looked to be the kind of person who sucked up all the oxygen in a room, the kind you noticed and shied away from for fear of being swept into her vortex.
Foster stood, sliding the chair back under the table. “Wendy, would you mind showing me your room?” She looked over at Lonergan, whose mouth was hanging open in shock. “Maybe Stella can continue with Detective Lonergan.” She smiled. “We won’t be long.” She looked down at Stella. “We’ll talk again.”
Lonergan walked over and pulled Foster gently by the arm away from the girls, out of earshot, both turning their backs to them for privacy. “Ah, what gives?” he whispered.
“I think Wendy has more to add,” Foster whispered back. “But she’s not going to talk with Stella sitting next to her.”
“But I get the snippy bulldozer?”
Foster peeked behind him, noting that Stella had composed herself. “She’s a kid. You can’t handle a kid?” She could tell Lonergan wanted to say more, and loudly, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I’ll be back.”
Lonergan turned around to face his misery. “I’ll count the friggin’ minutes.”
CHAPTER 13
Wendy and Peggy’s room wasn’t much to write home about. It was small, crammed with personal things, and barely big enough to fit everything Peggy and Wendy had brought from home, let alone themselves. The space was stuffed with clothes, shoes, bags, makeup, hair dryers, and styling irons. The posters taped to the walls were for bands Foster had never heard of, and they held pride of place beside a collage of personal photos, presumably of the girls’ families and friends. She identified Peggy’s side by her wall of photos. Foster spotted several of Peggy and her parents taken at Christmas and birthdays and family vacations. Many of the photos were of Peggy with her friends—a lot of friends. It was true, then, that she’d been friendly, well liked. Looking, Foster could find no photos of Joe Rimmer. Either Peggy didn’t have any, or she’d taken them all down after the break. There were no photos of Keith Ainsley either.
