It had to be true. Someone had killed Frank and was now trying to scare me. I had asked questions. I’d gone to the doctor, then Podeski, Vera, and Neal. Was Frank’s killer really afraid I’d find the truth? Because if that was the case, the killer had greater faith in my investigative skills than I did.

  Or maybe it was someone connected to Theresa’s disappearance. Maybe I’d asked a question that made it look like I knew something I didn’t. But that was even more absurd. A few days from now, I could be working on a three-part documentary about the origins of man or an hour-long salute to cheese, and Theresa would just be one more entry on my IMDb Web page.

  Besides, we were done shooting the episode. If I had spent any part of the last week with her killer, then so be it. The good news for that person, and me, was we would never have to see each other again.

  I left my plate barely touched, paid my check, and walked a few blocks. I didn’t feel like going home. It wasn’t that I felt too afraid to enter my own house, though that was certainly part of it. I just felt restless. I’d been putting off a phone call. I was even more reluctant to make it now, but I was running out of excuses. Besides, if I were making a list of people who might want to keep me from uncovering a killer, one name seemed obvious.

  “Vera? You mentioned something about going through the rest of Frank’s stuff. Is today okay?”

  I heard dogs barking in the background. “Sure,” she said. “Come over now if you like. I’m home all day. Do you like dogs?”

  “Love them.”

  I don’t really. They drool, and they sniff inappropriate places. They assume you want to spend time with them, even when you don’t, so they push their way in and demand your attention. I suppose they’re nice enough, but whatever you give them they want more. They remind me of producers, so maybe that’s the problem.

  Vera lived in a gray stone building a few blocks from Lake Michigan. A lot of these wonderful old houses have been converted to condos, but it was clear from the single name on the mailbox that this one wasn’t. And why should it be? She was a Knutson Foods heiress.

  I was greeted at her door by two enormous but harmless-looking greyhounds. They must have found me equally inoffensive because neither went for my throat.

  “This is Daisy and this is Jay.” Vera petted the heads of each dog as she spoke.

  “Like characters from The Great Gatsby?”

  She smiled. “Do you know most people don’t get that reference? I loved that book and I figured it would be sweet if the two lovebirds got together in the end.”

  “But they don’t. Daisy stays with her husband, and Jay Gatsby ends up dead in his swimming pool.”

  Vera shrugged. “Well, my Jay and Daisy are having a happy ending.” She led me from the entryway through a hall that led to a large kitchen with modern appliances surrounded by solid, expensive woodwork.

  “This is a beautiful place,” I said, which hardly did it justice. It was filled with the details of hundred-year-old houses: carved wood moldings, stained glass, and inlaid tile. Outside was a decent-size backyard for a city lot. Except for the neglected garden it would be a nice place to spend a summer evening. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost twenty years. My father gave it to me as a wedding present, but smart man that he is, he stipulated that it would go to me alone in the event of a divorce.”

  “Why did you get divorced?”

  She blushed. “He cheated on me.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I know. It’s ironic. Except my husband didn’t just cheat on me, he turned it into something of a mission to bed every woman in the Chicago phone book.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Probably on the Ms.”

  I laughed. I was, unfortunately, beginning to see what Frank saw in Vera.

  “You have more of Frank’s stuff to sort through,” I said.

  “Yes, upstairs. But there’s no hurry. Have some coffee first. Tell me about your week.”

  She got us both coffee and then directed me to a small table near the back window. I sipped my third coffee of the morning and just enjoyed the view for a while before speaking.

  “Nothing to tell,” I said eventually. “I’ve been working on a show called Missing Persons. We’re doing an episode on a twenty-two-year-old woman from Bridgeport.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. She walked out of her mother’s house a year ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

  Vera rested her hand on the head of one of the greyhounds, who was in turn resting its head on Vera’s lap. “That sounds like such exciting work.”

  “It can be,” I said.

  “I envy you having a career like that. I find the days just run together because I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

  “I thought you started businesses with friends.”

  She shrugged. “I help people who need start-up capital. I’m not sure they’re friends. I’m not very good at making friends.” She laughed, a self-conscious, embarrassed laugh.

  “You have that woman who came to the wake with you.”

  “Susan.”

  “That can’t have been a fun evening for her, but she went because she’s your friend.”

  Vera stared at me a moment, as if considering what to say next. “I guess so,” she said. “How are you doing? Are you sleeping? I’m not sleeping through the night yet.”

  “Slept like a baby last night,” I lied.

  I looked for signs of surprise but couldn’t find any. If Vera was a nut job who broke into my house and left dead birds on my porch, she was hiding it well.

  Sitting with her it was hard to imagine her that way. She didn’t seem like a nut job. Or a home wrecker, for that matter. Maybe I was just looking to blame her for everything. Maybe she was just a nice woman who turned out to be the final straw in a marriage already about to collapse. Besides, the dogs liked her. I may not be a dog lover myself, but I do think they’re a pretty good judge of character.

  “Are you okay?” Vera asked. “You look a little sick.”

  “I’m fine. I was looking at the dog. Greyhounds are an unusual choice.”

  “They’re rescue dogs. From the racetrack. When they retire from that, there are organizations that find them homes where they’ll be loved and allowed to enjoy the rest of their lives.”

  “You take in retired race dogs and help your friends start businesses. You need to be needed,” I said.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. I actually don’t like being needed,” I admitted. “Was Frank a project? Someone who needed you?”

  She smiled. She should have been insulted and maybe she was, but her smile was warm and open. “I hope he needed me. I needed him. I think that’s what brought us together.”

  Even though I’d asked the question, that was as much insight into their relationship as I wanted for one day.

  “We should go through Frank’s stuff,” I said.

  We went upstairs to her bedroom, a smallish room by modern standards, but beautifully decorated, with a Matisse hanging over the bed. Must be nice.

  We sorted his jeans, T-shirts, dress shirts, belts, and shoes in less than an hour. Vera held on to a couple of shirts they must have bought together. I took two T-shirts, one from a Bruce Springsteen concert we’d attended, the other from a long-ago trip to Bermuda. The rest we boxed up for a Goodwill store in my neighborhood and I promised to drop them there during the week.

  Vera gave me Frank’s watch, the tie clips, and his father’s dog tags, as well as his wallet and a box of souvenirs from his high school basketball days.

  “I’ll give all of this stuff to his parents,” I told her.

  “I also have some of his sketches they might like. I think they’re downstairs.”

  She left me in the room alone, and as I’m inclined to do, I snooped. Nothing too intense, I just peeked into her closet and the top drawer of her dresser. There was nothing special until I looked at the nightstand. In a simple silver frame was a photo of Frank and Vera, holding each other and smiling.

  When Vera came back into the room, she caught me staring at it.

  “He looks so happy,” I said. “He looks like he’s in love with you.” I could feel my face flush from the realization that it was the same beaming expression I’d seen in the photos of our wedding reception.

  “I think he was in love with you too,” she said quietly.

  I took a breath. “Maybe.”

  I had a feeling Vera was on the verge of crying, but thankfully my cell phone rang and interrupted the moment. I didn’t recognize the number but I picked up anyway.

  “Kate? This is Yvette Rosenthal,” the woman said. “Is this a good time?”

  “Of course, Detective, but we’re done shooting the episode so—”

  “You might want to change your mind. We found a lead on Theresa. Her purse was discovered in a forest preserve near Brookfield. We’re setting up a grid search now.”

  “I’ll see if I can get the crew together,” I said, “if it’s okay to shoot it.”

  “Are you kidding me? I think you must be my lucky charm. I had pretty much given up on this case until you came along, and now”—she paused—“we may actually be close to finding her.”

  Thirty-nine

  As soon as I hung up with Detective Rosenthal, I called Mike.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” I said. “They found Theresa’s purse in a forest preserve just west of Chicago.”

  “Who’s Theresa?”

  “Missing Persons, episode one.”

  “Shit!” Mike yelled. “They found something. That’s amazing. Call Andres. Get him to meet you there. Get lots of stuff of dogs sniffing things, cops looking concerned. You know the drill. Is the family going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call them. Call everyone. Get statements. They’re hopeful, they’re excited. Man, we can end the show with stuff about how the family is so close to knowing the truth. All we need now is the public’s help. Great work, Kate.”

  “I didn’t actually find the purse.”

  “Yeah, but the detective liked you enough to call. That’s great work.”

  I’d never heard Mike so excited. And I was a little excited too. It was rare for us actually to be there while a story was unfolding. It made me feel a little like I was working in news again.

  “Listen, Kate.” Mike’s voice sounded more serious. “One full day, no overtime. Okay?”

  I called Andres, who promised to call Victor and meet me at the scene. I tried Linda Moretti but didn’t get an answer. Same for Julia and Wyatt. All that was left was the half-hour drive to Brookfield, but when I stood up, I felt a little dizzy.

  “Are you okay?” Vera asked. “You’ve seemed out of it all day.”

  “I haven’t eaten anything yet,” I said. “And maybe I didn’t get as much sleep as I needed.”

  “I’ll drive. I’m not doing anything and it sounds kind of fun.”

  Before I had a chance to protest, she had me downstairs and into the passenger seat of her hybrid Mercedes, three boxes of Frank’s things in the backseat. I grabbed a burger at a fast-food place hoping some food would make me feel better, but it only made me feel worse.

  By the time we got to Brookfield, a nice little town most famous for its world-class zoo, I was feeling the effects of heat, bad food, and no sleep. The thing I’d done right—put the image of the dead bird out of my mind—came back when we passed a dead deer lying on the side of the road.

  “Rest in peace, little deer,” Vera called to it.

  “You’re a big animal lover, aren’t you?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, I guess.”

  Nut job or nice person. I stared at the unassuming woman who had given up her afternoon to drive her lover’s widow to work. The evidence might be tipping in her favor, but as far as I was concerned the jury was still out.

  Though it was a large wooded area, it was hard to miss the right spot for the search. There were several Brookfield police cars, two patrol cars with the Illinois State Police logo, and half a dozen other vehicles all parked haphazardly. The parking area looked down on a clearing where the cops and several others had gathered.

  Andres and Victor were standing by the van, waiting.

  “What do we do?” Andres asked.

  “Start by following Rosenthal, wherever she is,” I said. “We’ll get statements later.”

  Detective Rosenthal, as it turned out, was consulting with the Moretti family. Linda, Tom, and a dozen others were huddled together about a hundred feet from the cars.

  “There’s your boyfriend,” Victor said as we approached the Morettis.

  I looked where he was pointing and saw Gray Meyer approaching the group. In jeans and a light-blue T-shirt, he looked even more handsome than he had in his suit. But he also looked serious and slightly angry.

  “You know Gray?” Vera asked.

  “You know Gray?” I asked back.

  “We went to school together.”

  Once Gray saw us, and particularly Vera, the serious expression transformed to a bright, friendly smile. He and Vera hugged and chatted. I left them to their reunion and approached Detective Rosenthal, who was walking away from Theresa’s family.

  “Can you show us the purse?” I asked.

  “It’s being taken into evidence.”

  “If it’s bagged already we’ll shoot it through the bag.”

  She nodded. Within minutes, Andres was getting close-up shots of Theresa’s driver’s license, her debit card, a lipstick, and a torn piece of paper with the numbers 4, 3, and 7 written on it in ink. All the items were remarkably well preserved, having been inside Theresa’s purse the whole time. And now these small items from her everyday life were sealed in plastic bags with bright red evidence tape across them.

  The purse itself was not in good shape. It was dirty and wet and the handles were torn. Her mother had said that Theresa’s purse was tan, but this purse looked more gray than tan. Still, Linda had identified it as belonging to Theresa. The ravages of Chicago weather were likely the cause of the color change, Rosenthal explained. It made me wonder what Chicago weather had done to Theresa’s body, assuming she was somewhere in these woods. One look at Rosenthal, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  Forty

  “The state police received a call this morning from a man who was out taking photographs. He found the purse,” Detective Rosenthal said. “They checked their database, found that there was a missing persons report on Theresa Moretti, and called me.”

  We were standing away from the others, with the police cars and activity in the background. There wasn’t time, or the need, for a proper interview. We just set up the camera while Victor held a boom mic and I started asking questions.

  “Why did it take so long for her purse to be found?”

  “It might have been buried, probably under less than a foot of dirt. During the winter the ice and snow would have displaced some of the soil. And, of course, animals would have too. A deer or even a raccoon could have dragged it a dozen yards or more from its original spot, which is why we have to create a wide search area.”

  “How important is this?”

  “It’s the first piece of evidence we’ve had that even suggested Theresa’s whereabouts. We know her purse was here, and judging by the condition, it looks like it’s been here awhile.”

  “That would suggest Theresa might be here too,” I said. “Her body might be in these woods. The weather and animals might have displaced some of the soil over her body.”

  “We’re setting up a grid search right now. We’ll go through the area searching for evidence, see what we can find. If Theresa is here, we’re going to do everything we can to find her.”

  With that Rosenthal headed back to the rest of the growing police presence. Crime scene tape had been put up around the trees on the perimeter, leaving us with little to do but sweat. The temperature closed in on ninety degrees, making my headache worse. I leaned against Andres’s van and tried to close my eyes, but there was too much activity and I didn’t want to miss a good shot.

  Julia and David arrived about twenty minutes after I did, and they were sitting on the grass with the Moretti family, waiting for news. Whatever their differences, the possibility of finding Theresa had left them seeking comfort from each other. Sort of like Vera and me the night in the hospital. A few minutes later Wyatt came, waved hello to me, and sat next to Linda, who rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” I said to the group.

  “Then don’t,” Tom replied.

  “Tom,” Linda said. “I’m sorry, Kate. As you can imagine . . .”

  “That’s the thing, I can’t imagine. I can’t even begin to know what you’re going through. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been in your situation can.” I reached out for her hand, which she took and held tight. “I’m just wondering if any of you would like something to drink. I can get water or some food.”

  “Maybe some water,” Linda said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all.”

  I went back to the car and sent Victor to the nearest convenience store to buy three cases of water, whatever snacks he could get for no more than fifty bucks, and some aspirin for me. When he returned, we distributed the water and food to the police and growing number of friends and family members that had begun to arrive. Everyone was, naturally, grateful for the act of agenda-free generosity. Victor and I accepted the thanks, while Andres hung back, shaking his head.

  After a few minutes, I returned to the group. “I hate to do this.” I crouched down between Linda and Wyatt. “My boss just called and he insists on getting a statement from the family. I told him I didn’t want to disturb you, but, well, you know bosses. I think Wyatt will do if you aren’t up for it, Linda. I feel so bad . . .”

 

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