“Miz Rayburn, the police ain’t gonna do nothin’ about this unless they get some solid info. I figure together, we do some snoopin’ around, get them something to go on, then they’ll have to open an investigation.”

Lisa nearly slid off the leather chair. “Together? I’m a clinical psychologist, not a detective. And even if I was willing to help, I really don‘t see how I could. And you can call me Lisa.” Her feet getting cold in more ways than one, Lisa got up to retrieve her discarded shoes. She wanted to find out what was happening to the women, but this was way out of her league.

TJ followed, still talking. “What if I told you I know something the police don’t? This secret group Wilson’s so proud of finding out about is only one person, and I’m pretty sure there’s only been about two women in the past two years who went that route.”

Lisa stopped where she stood. “Have you told Detective Conlin about this?”

“Can’t. Technically, it’s illegal ‘cause most of the women take their kids with them against child custody mandates. He’d feel obligated to report it. Wouldn’t put Richard on the spot or risk giving these ladies one less chance to get out.”

“I still don’t see what you or I can possibly find that would change the minds of the police.”

TJ grinned. “I have a plan. Can’t do it alone, though; I’m gonna need your help.”

Lisa paused, intrigued but unsure of the wisdom of getting involved. “Let’s say I am willing to help. What do you think I can do?”

“Most important part of the plan is to get a list of names from the Women’s Center. Names of abused women who’ve gone missing in the last few years. Then we start crossin’ off names. Exclude any helped by this ‘source,’ any who’ve shown up, any who’ve contacted someone, and most important–any who we’re pretty sure weren’t offed by their abuser. Once we narrow the list, we look at what the rest have in common.”

Lisa frowned, thinking of all the time it would require to gather so much information.

“Can also throw into the mix the Doc’s wife and your gal that’s gone missin.’ Maybe this gets us something, maybe it doesn’t. It’s a place to start. Be a lot of people to interview, that’s where you come in. Not trying to suck up here, but you must have damn good skills at siphoning through B.S.”

As concerned as she was—and Lisa had been even more so since talking to Jeff Denison—part of her felt like she’d done what she could with her less-than-fulfilling trip to the MPD and agreeing to take Denison on as a patient. And Amanda was meeting with the heads of the area centers this week to go over the statistics in question.

“Wouldn’t the police object to outside interference?”

TJ started pacing again, gesturing wildly with her hands. “Interference with what? They ain’t investigating anything! If we piss someone off with our questions, the police can’t do a freakin’ thing about it. We aren’t police. And don’t forget, lots of folks will be real glad to see some interest in their missin’ women.” TJ took a deep breath, appearing to rein in her emotions.

Lisa realized TJ’s initial coolness had been a cover-up. She wondered if the woman had told her everything. Maybe she had more personal reasons for wanting to get an investigation started.

For years Lisa’s entire focus had been on raising Paige and building her practice. The textbook she’d begun writing had been her first outside interest in a long time other than fixing up her house. Her fleeting affairs didn’t take up much time. Her head shouted at her not to do this, but her heart remembered her own troubled marriage, and begged her to do everything she possibly could for these women. Pandora’s Box creaked open. “All right. What do we do first?”

TJ looked triumphant, her smile radiant. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“And that person is?”

“The guy who helps women disappear.”

Finally slipping into her shoes, Lisa stopped, dumbfounded. Balanced on one heel, she asked, “You really know this person?”

“Yep. What are you doin’ Saturday?”

Lisa managed to get both shoes on her feet. “I‘m . . . not sure yet.”

TJ moved toward the door. “I’ll meet you in town on Sixty-Second and North Avenue at the Coffee Cup Café. Four o’clock, Saturday. An’ don’t wear what you’re wearin’ now. Turn it down a notch; don’t look so shrinkish, you know?”

8             

Saturday afternoon Lisa drove into Milwaukee to meet TJ Peacock. A crisp autumn day, the trees proudly displayed their vivid, warm hues. Giant white and steel blue clouds moved lazily across the sky.

Feeling good, but with reservations about the meeting, Lisa arrived on North Avenue and found a parking spot a few doors down from the coffee shop. The neighborhood, caught between the inner city and Wauwatosa, bustled with a diverse blend of people, interesting shops and every kind of ethnic restaurant.

Lisa didn’t see TJ when she walked into the coffee shop, so she slid into a booth near the back to watch for her. Two Asian women, who looked like mother and daughter, were the only patrons, sitting by the window sipping coffee and having a serious conversation in their native tongue. An adolescent boy entered the store wearing a blue logo cap sideways, making most of his face invisible. Pants with legs wider than his shoulders and a sweatshirt hanging nearly to his knees completed the look. He crossed the room and sat down in the booth across from her.

Startled, Lisa asked, “Are you looking for someone?”

His face crinkled up with laughter. “Yeah, you!”

“TJ? Is it really you in there?”

“Great disguise, huh? Still do some security work for an outfit downtown on weekends. Thought I’d try to fit in with the crowd. See you dressed down, too, but I still recognize you.”

Lisa had worn her Saturday uniform of jeans, sweatshirt, and walking shoes, her hair tied back in a hasty ponytail. “Do you wear disguises often?”

“Sometimes, when I wanna blend in. Like when I went to Pewaukee to see you the other night.”

“You thought that outfit made you blend in?”

“Yeah, guess it was a little overkill. All them rich soccer moms out there wear snooty casual stuff from L.L. Bean and Eddie Bauer.”

“They do. People don’t dress up much anymore.”

“Bring your wallet?” TJ asked.

“My wallet?”

“You’re gettin’ your hair done. Made an appointment for you next door.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Person you need to talk to works there. If he’s gonna give us what we need, he’ll need to trust you, too. Get to know you.”

So the mysterious person who could help women disappear was a hairdresser. Lisa did her own hair, even the highlights, because she hated to spend her precious off time sitting in a salon. “Well, I suppose my hair could use some attention.”

A young receptionist with hair gelled to defy gravity and colored to challenge a rainbow, told them to have a seat, Roland would be ready for Lisa, “in a wink.”

Roland, one of the handsomest men Lisa had ever seen, looked a little under six feet tall and wore slim pants with a silk T-shirt that exposed every bit of his buff body. His hair looked like a natural dark blond, the top frozen into hundreds of tiny, platinum-hued, one-inch spikes. Golden brown eyes lit up when he talked, and his bright, wide smile belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

As he hot-ironed the long, nut-brown tresses of a teenager, she beamed as he appeared to be complimenting her on her look.

When she left, he invited Lisa to sit in his chair with a “Hello, lovely lady,” that didn’t sound like empty flattery.

He ran his fingers through her hair. “Looks like you aren’t ready for color yet, but come back to see me in a few weeks. I think the new multi-tones would soften your look. For today, I’d suggest a shaping and texture cut. This length flatters you so I won’t take much off. And a ten-minute honey and aloe conditioner would make your hair very happy.”