“And you thought I needed to know this, why?”

Her attraction to him downshifted to ire. “I believe when I talked to you at the station, I mentioned I would be taking this up with the centers, and I wanted you to know I’d followed through.”

He shrugged. “Ms. Rayburn, I shouldn’t have to tell you that as far as the Milwaukee Police Department is concerned, that changes nothing. There still is no hard evidence of a crime—not enough for us to employ our scant resources to it considering the budgetary problems we’re facing.”

Lisa fought back her frustration. “Mr. Wilson, you alluded to knowing about a group that assists abused women in relocating. It would be helpful for the centers to know if one does exist and is affecting the statistics. Anything you can tell us could make a difference.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any more today than I did when we talked. We heard about it from a reliable source, which of course I cannot reveal.”

Lisa studied him carefully as he talked, undecided whether he was lying or just not telling her the whole story. The fact she couldn’t tell made her uncomfortable; her inner radar for deception rarely let her down.

She got nothing helpful from the rest of the stilted conversation and when he walked out the door, she expelled a rush of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in during his visit.

After dinner, Lisa left the house with Phanny, keeping their walk restricted to well-lit areas. She hadn’t admitted it to Shannon, but the break-in rattled her.

Eric Schindler and James Wilson were on her mind—both exasperating men. No wonder she preferred younger men; they hadn’t lived long enough to develop any kind of high-and-mighty attitude.

Lisa considered Eric Schindler. She remembered TJ saying he was still hung up on his wife even though it had been years since the woman disappeared. She had only TJ’s instincts to substantiate he wasn’t a murderer. But what did a murderer look like? Or act like? Would a guilty man be working this hard to find out what happened to his wife?

Lisa had agreed to work with him, so she’d have to set aside any reservations. Put up with his irksome manner and disgusting cigar smell.

16             

Saturday morning, Lisa arrived at the diner to meet Eric. She’d spent more time than usual on her appearance. Her hair, newly shaded by Roland to a soft ash-blonde with pale platinum and golden blonde highlights, fell to her shoulders in loosely curved layers. The gray slacks and white Irish knit sweater she wore complemented her figure. She donned a pair of mid-heeled boots, high enough to be fashionable but not too difficult to walk in.

She looked damn good. She’d seen a photo of Eric’s wife, the woman’s beauty startling. Lisa suspected it’s what had intimidated her into fussing over her appearance.

Waiting for her at a table near the back, Eric had a newspaper opened in front of him. He wore jeans and a white shirt with thin blue stripes covered by a pale blue sweater that contrasted with his dark hair. When she joined him, she noticed the scent of his pleasant, woodsy cologne—must not have had his first cigar of the day. A waitress hurried over to pour her coffee, asking if they wanted breakfast. They ordered omelets with side orders of pancakes.

Lisa brought out their list and told him she’d made three appointments for the day and explained she planned on using her book on abused women as a cover story for interviewing the friends and relatives of the missing women. The book, a textbook for clinicians on treating abused women, had been in the planning stages for nearly a year.

“I’ve enlisted Shannon’s help. She’s the assistant to the attorney in the office next to mine. She’s good at computer research and is going to look up the women’s spouses and boyfriends to see if any of them are currently in jail.”

“I suppose if any of them are, they’ll need to be interviewed, too.” He sipped his coffee. “I should probably be the one to do it. I think they’d open up to me because of my background.”

He’d started making decisions already. “That may be true, but we’ll need to discuss it with the others when we meet tomorrow.”

“You’re right. I already irritated TJ when I insisted the two of you not do interviews without Jeff or me. She thinks of this as her project, you know. I do like to humor her. Although I can’t deny it’ll be hard for me to sit back and act like a worker-bee.”

Lisa had to respect his openness. “You’re right about TJ, but I’m sympathetic to her resistance regarding our agreement of never going out alone. I made these appointments Thursday night. One of the women I called lives close to me in Oconomowoc. She’s eager to talk. It’s hard not to just run over there and meet with her right away. We have an appointment with her at one.”

“Good. That’ll give us time to devour all this food we ordered.”

As if on cue, the food arrived, and they tucked into it with no more talk of missing women, jailed spouses, or interviews.

Lisa rode with Eric in the old fifty-two Cadillac that had been his father’s.

“I try to take it out at least once a week,” he explained.

The car looked like new. Riding in it, Lisa felt like she’d drifted back in time and should have been wearing a full skirt fluffed with crinolines, topped by a perky, ducktail hairdo a la Doris Day.

They drove to the first address, located in an old section of Waukesha. It turned out to be an aging apartment building on a street lined with mature elm trees which had somehow escaped the Dutch Elm scourge.

After a jerky ride to the fourth floor in a tinny old elevator, they entered a dim corridor reeking of bacon, coffee and used diapers. The muffled sounds of voices, cartoons, and laughing children emanated from the thin walls.

Elaine Blume appeared hastily dressed in tan slacks and a white blouse. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, hung in a ponytail, and her sockless feet were shod in a pair of red moccasins. Her daughter, Colleen Hamill, had been missing for nearly three years.

“You must be Lisa,” she said, and asked them to have a seat. Like the rest of the apartment, the brown velveteen sofa they sat on appeared clean, but worn. The well-used furnishings looked like they had come with the apartment and barely survived all the years of tenant turnover.

Lisa introduced Eric and explained why they needed the information about her daughter. “What I have to ask you first is whether you’ve heard from your daughter since she went missing or if you know whether anyone else has.”

Eyes shiny with unshed tears, Elaine said, “It’s still hard to talk about. She and I were so close, and my life fell apart after she disappeared. Her father left me about a year later. Not that I blame him; I was depressed for a long time. But then he hired an expert divorce lawyer who made sure I ended up with nothing. I never saw it coming. Now I work second shift at the plastics plant down the street for ten dollars an hour and can barely pay the rent on this crummy apartment.” She pulled out a rumpled tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, you didn’t come here to listen to me go on about my problems. No, I haven’t heard from Colleen, and . . .” she stopped for a few seconds to wipe her nose, “I know I would have if she was still alive.”

Feeling terrible about adding to the woman’s pain, Lisa asked, “Do you have any idea what could have happened to her?”

Elaine sniffed, drying her eyes. “Well, her husband was a horrid man, but I never thought he did anything to her like the police suggested. I knew he hit her sometimes, and she always forgave him. I don’t think he would have caused her any serious injuries, at least none bad enough to keep her from working. Colleen was his meal ticket. She worked as a dental hygienist and made good money. Joe worked construction and he always seemed happiest when he got laid off. I suspected he chose jobs that would be as temporary as possible. I never understood what she saw in him, but he could be charming when he wanted to be.”