Dead Jitterbug Read online

  Early the next morning, Osborne had just sat down to a bowl of shredded wheat topped with peach slices when he heard the back door slam. As Ray sauntered in, he threw a thick white envelope, end flap open, on the kitchen table. “Coffee ready?”

  “Help yourself. What’s that?” asked Osborne, scooping up a spoonful of cereal.

  “Those are my photos from ‘Fishing for Girls.’ Assuming you’re recovered from all the excitement, I thought you might enjoy seeing ‘em.”

  “Can I look later? Need to catch up with Lew. You caught me just finishing my breakfast before heading into town.” Osborne checked the clock on the wall. “Oh, heck. I got five, ten minutes. Have a seat.”

  “Oh, yeah, poor Lew,” said Ray, filling a mug. “What a bum week this is, huh. Talk about working overtime. Good thing she’s running for sheriff—make other people do all the work. Y’know, Doc, the way these storm clouds keep moving through—she’s likely to miss a great night for muskie.” Ray raised his mug as if to toast the best weather ever for enticing the old shark of the north.

  “Say, you got my message about your buddy Darryl? We need to find him—he’s the one been helping Hope McDonald all these weeks.”

  “Sure ‘nough.” Ray leaned back against the counter. “Doesn’t surprise me. ?l’ Darryl may be a scary-lookin’ son of a gun, but talk about a good heart. Got a joke for your grandchildren, Doc—how come,” Ray’s eyes twinkled, “there is no mad cauliflower disease?”

  Osborne gave him the dim eye. “I don’t get it.”

  “The kids will. Works better with brussels sprouts. Hey—so who are these jabones?” Glancing sideways, Ray pointed his mug at the lab enlargements of the bank robbers, the set Osborne had brought home from Lew’s office. He had laid them out on the counter under the bright kitchen lights. Ray scooped up the oversized photos, moved them over to the kitchen table, and plunked himself into a chair.

  He sipped his coffee as he studied the photos. “So, Doc, did you hear the one about the jumper cables who stopped by Birchwood Bar the other day?”

  “You’re in fine form this morning,” said Osborne, putting his cereal bowl in the sink and reaching for the coffeepot. He had time for one more cup and one last joke before heading into town to find Lew. If listening meant getting Darryl’s address sooner rather than later, he could manage.

  “The bartender said, ‘I’ll serve you—but don’t start anything.'”

  It was a bad joke, but Osborne chuckled anyway. That was one his grandchildren would like. “Here,” he said as he turned around, pot in hand, “let me give you a warm-up.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Ray, holding out his mug. “Every time you do that—the gates of heaven open.”

  With his left hand, Ray shook his photos out of their envelope. “Just a quick look, Doc. I’ve got a good shot of you here, you handsome dog.

  “And, by the way, think it’s too soon to ask Molly out for fish fry?” Ray spread the photos across the table as he spoke.

  Osborne, still standing behind him with the coffeepot in one hand, didn’t answer. Ray looked up. “What’s wrong, Doc?” Osborne set the pot on its burner and turned back to the kitchen table.

  “Look at this,” he said, sliding one of Ray’s photos away from the others. It was a shot of Carla and Barb standing on the pontoon, arms around one another’s waists. Carla was grinning at the camera, Barb looked tense. Osborrne set the photo alongside the enlargement of the two masked individuals caught by the surveillance cameras.

  “The shape of Carla’s head … see how unusually small it is … and that truncated jaw of hers?” Osborne pointed. “Look how quickly it tapers from cheekbone to chin. You don’t see that very often. Now look how similar it is to the bone structure you see on the head in this enlargement.”

  “I thought you were looking at this,” said Ray, pointing at the other figure. “The set of those shoulders. That could be Barb….” The two men leaned close in to examine the photos. Even the difference in height between the two robbers appeared to be identical to that between Carla and Barb. Osborne put down his coffee mug. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Letting Mike in as he opened the back door, he ran across the yard to the back of his garage, through the fish porch and into the room holding the files from his dental practice. Yanking open a drawer in one of the tall oak file cabinets, he found the years most likely and worked his fingers through the Ws. Took less than two minutes to find a dental record for Carla at the age of sixteen. He opened the file and … yes, he had what he needed. He ran back to the kitchen.

  “What’d you find?” asked Ray.

  “Took measurements of her jaw when she was a teenager,” said Osborne. “I thought I might have. So remarkable to see bone structure like that and not have a kid need orthodonture. Who knows, this might be enough for the Wausau boys to work from—see if they can prove a match. Can I take that photo?”

  As Ray handed it over, Osborne tried Lew’s direct number at the office. Marlene answered. “She remembered something important she’d forgotten to ask Bunny DeLoye. We tried to reach her by phone, but she was on her morning walk, so Chief Ferris headed out to catch up with her about a half-hour ago,” said Marlene. “I’m sure she’s still there. Need me to page her?”

  “Please,” said Osborne. “Have her call me at the house right away.”

  Within a minute the phone rang. “Doc,” said Lew, “what’s up?”

  He spoke quickly, giving a brief description of the matching photos. As he talked, his eyes caught Ray’s. The morning’s good humor had given way to an expression of intense concentration.

  When he finished, Lew said, “Looks like the day’s got Wolniewicz all over it, Doc. I want to find Darryl first. Bunny just told me the only person besides herself who has a key to the McDonald’s main gate is the garbage man: Darryl Wolniewicz. I feel like such a dumbyak, Doc—it never occurred to me that the garbage collectors have keys to all these private estates. Ask Ray what’s the quickest way out to his place.”

  “Ray,” said Osborae, holding the phone aside, “she needs to find Darryl—now.”

  “His place is back in off Spider Lake Road. No fire number, no running water. I’ll have to show you guys. Hard to find if you don’t know where you’re going. But no use rushing. He’s on the garbage run until eleven. You’d be hard pressed to find him before then. First you have to track down the town chairman, then hope he’s got the pick-up schedule somewhere. By the time you do all that, you’re better off just waiting for him at his place later this morning. I’ve done this; I know.”

  “I heard,” said Lew. “Meet you two back at my office as soon as you can get there.”

  thirty-two

  All fish are not caught with flies.

  —John Lyly

  “The weak link is Barb,” said Ray, once Lew had had a chance to examine the photos. “I would start there.”

  “You think she’ll cave?” asked Lew, looking at him from across her desk.

  “She gets shook pretty easy,” said Ray. “Based on what Doc and I saw when Carla got the message that the IRS was doing an audit—I’d say Carla beats up on her.”

  “She likes Ray,” said Osborne. “Don’t know if that helps.”

  “Here’s a thought,” said Ray. “Ask Barb why Carla stopped by my place with nine-thousand-nine in hundred dollar bills and is insisting on separate payments for that pontoon. She wants the receipt made out to the realty office, so we can assume Barb knows about it. Ask her why it’s so important to stay under the Feds’ radar.”

  “What are we talking about here?” asked Osborne.

  “Cash payments of ten thousand dollars or more have to be reported,” said Lew.

  When they got to the realty office, Carla’s red SUV was nowhere in sight. A forest-green Lincoln Town Car was parked near the front door. Osborne and Ray, in Osborne’s station wagon, pulled up alongside Lew’s cruiser.

  The half-log building was so new, the interior smelled of fres
h paint. They entered through a narrow foyer, devoid of furniture, into a carpeted “great room” that featured a wide, rock fireplace at one end and a vaulted ceiling. The room was sparsely furnished. Two large desks, one across from the other, anchored the far end of the room. A scattering of chairs faced each desk.

  Barb sat at one of the desks, head bowed over a laptop computer. She hadn’t heard them come in. When she did look up, it was obvious she was expecting someone else: someone she feared.

  “Well, hey, hello,” she said, struggling to her feet as a smile broke through the anxiety on her face. “Ray, Doc, what brings you out here? Carla just left, if you’re looking—” Her expression turned serious at the sight of Lew in her uniform.

  “Nope, it’s all about you, Barb,” said Ray, his voice relaxed and genial. “Got a minute?”

  She sat back down and pushed the computer aside. “Ray,” she said, “for you—all day.” As they pulled chairs up to her desk, Osborne could see the strain in her face. She looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping. An open bag of corn chips sat next to her laptop.

  “Do you know Chief Ferris?”

  “I know who you are,” said Barb, extending a hand across the table. Lew gave her a friendly smile.

  “This is quite a nice place,” said Ray, glancing around the room

  “Yeah?” Barb’s voice was apologetic. “We got furniture on order. Takes forever to get stuff done in this town.”

  “What’s a building like this cost anyway?” asked Ray.

  “With the site, which is commercial, and we used a Wausau Home plan, you know—not too bad. Carla has had her dad doing the painting for us so that keeps the costs down. Maybe, oh, little over a million?”

  “You girls are doing great.”

  “I guess we are,” Barb said, her voice flat.

  Ray smiled at her, his eyes kind. Lew and Osborne sat quietly beside him. A faint humming from a refrigerator somewhere could be heard. Barb shifted in her chair, then fidgeted with her pen. The three visitors watched her. No one said anything.

  “Barb … we know,” said Ray.

  Barb looked away from him, fluttered her hands, then pressed the fingers of her right hand to her temple as if she had a headache. After a long, silent moment, she met Ray’s gaze. She looked at Osborne and at Lew, then she said, “I’m glad. I can’t live this way anymore.”

  She covered her face with both hands for moment, then heaved a breath. “Okay, where do we start?”

  “Where’s the money?” asked Ray.

  “Carla keeps it in a locker at the casino. She has the key.”

  “Did you and Carla work together at the credit union?” asked Lew.

  “Yes. That’s how we became friends. And this whole bank scheme was an accident, really. Carla decided we’d play a trick on a girlfriend of ours who was a teller at First National in Crandon. We knew she was the only one who worked the lunch hour, so we dressed up, walked in wearing masks, handed her a note that Carla wrote, and expected her to start laughing.

  “But she didn’t. She handed us everything in her drawer. So … we walked out, got in our car, and drove away. No cops, no sirens. No one ever even reported the bank was robbed. We had seventy-five hundred dollars in cash.

  “And your friend never knew it was you?”

  “No. After that, Carla made the plans. I did what I was told. But—I know … I’m going to jail aren’t I?”

  “Prison,” said Lew. “Robbing banks is a federal offense. But the more you tell us, the better it’ll be for you. Do you want to call a lawyer?”

  “I don’t have a lawyer.” Barb’s face collapsed.

  “I can suggest someone who’s very good,” said Osborne. “Lillie Wright.”

  Barb looked at Ray for confirmation. He nodded. “I’ll call her later,” said Barb. “I’ll feel better if I get this off my chest before anything else happens.”

  “You mean the IRS thing?” asked Ray.

  “Kinda, yeah.” From the way her eyes moved, Osborne knew there was something else worrying her.

  As if the confession could cleanse her soul, Barb was more than ready to talk. According to her, it was at Carla’s insistence that she had kept a ledger detailing each heist: Every bank robbed, the date and time, the take.

  They planned carefully, choosing small banks with limited staff and hitting late in the morning—in time for the previous day’s deposits but before the noon rush. And always happy with modest takes ranging from a few thousand dollars to eighteen or twenty thousand at the most.

  “We never did more than one a month,” said Barb. “It had to be at least a hundred miles away from our last bank. We made sure to choose a different day of the week, and we had one rule: we had to be able to park our car around a corner so we could drive off without being seen.

  “The last bank surprised us,” said Barb. “We couldn’t believe how much money we got. That’s when Carla came up with the idea of opening this realty company—we needed an excuse for why we had so much money.”

  “Where and how does Ed Kelly figure into this?” asked Osborne. “Didn’t I hear that you’re the brokers for some land he’s selling?”

  “Carla met Ed and his girlfriend up at the casino. They were sitting at a blackjack table together, and Carla mentioned she was in real estate. Ed said he had been looking to work with a firm that didn’t buy for itself. We had no plans to do that—we just wanted to look like we did something. So one thing led to another, y’know. The strange thing is, he brought us more customers, and now we really are making a lot of money.”

  Barb’s eyes brimmed with tears. “You know,” she said, starting to cry, “I have my real estate license, I enjoy doing this. Why … why couldn’t all this,” she swept her arm around the room, “have happened sooner?”

  “Why couldn’t you have said no to Carla way back when?” asked Lew, her voice quiet. “That’s the tough question, Barb. You’re a nice person in a bad situation.”

  “I know.” Barb wiped at her face. “I guess—I was afraid. That first robbery was supposed to be a fake, and then it was real, and then she told me I was as guilty as her. I was in too deep. You’re gonna put in me jail today, right?”

  “Yes,” said Lew. “I’m afraid I will. And I’m not sure about bail.”

  Barb leaned forward, her face frightened. “Please don’t put me in the same cell with Carla. She went after her dad this morning; I don’t need her coming after me next.”

  “Her father—you mean Darryl?”

  “Yeah. Poor guy. She treats him so bad. He was doing a lot of the work here—painting and stuff. Man, is she mean to him. Well, he got her back a hundred times over—he’s the one sicced the IRS on us.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ray. “He never said any such thing to me.”

  “A friend of mine heard him bragging at a bar the other night. He was drunk and shooting off his mouth. I told Carla about it this morning—she was furious. Left for his place about an hour ago.”

  thirty-three

  Who hears the fishes when they cry?

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Ray was right. The road in to Darryl’s place was unmarked and hard to spot. If you were headed west, you had less than two seconds to spot the ruts that cut back and east off the road—then a lurching, twisting mile down a grassy lane more logging trail than driveway.

  The man lived in a sagging old shack whose logs were so black and its chinking so crumbling that it had to date from the early 1900s. Those were the glory days of the northwoods, when loggers by the thousands built one-room homesteads deep in the woods where they worked. But what might have once been a haven for a hardworking man was today’s squatter’s paradise: rundown and ramshackle.

  “Does he even have running water?” asked Lew, eyeing the shack from a distance, as the police cruiser heaved its way over ruts and rocks.

  “No water, wood heat, root cellar,” said Ray. “And electricity—he’s got electricity. Place is really not all t
hat bad.”

  “Does he own all this land?” asked Osborne, thinking

  Darryl could log a few acres and make enough to pay for indoor plumbing.

  “Belongs to a guy from Chicago,” said Ray. “He lets Darryl live here so long as he keeps hunters and snowmobiles off the property.”

  The shack appeared deserted until they crested a rise fronting the building. Only then did they spot the red SUV parked alongside a huge, black satellite dish.

  “Wouldn’t you know,” said Lew. “Can’t afford a faucet but he’s got sixty thousand channels on his goddam TV set.” She tipped her head at Osborne. “So ask your daughter. Is this what she has in mind when she tells me I need to get out and shake hands? Track down all these razzbonyas with no fire numbers and big honking satellite dishes?”

  “Hey, easy on the insults,” said Ray. “So the man’s got HBO—lucky dog. Talked him into a cell phone a while back, too. Got tired of trying to reach him by carrier pigeon.”

  “That’s no carrier pigeon driving that SUV,” said Osborne. “Most likely one angry woman.”

  Lew reached for her Sig Sauer, pulling it from its holster. “Carla used a gun during the robberies,” she said. “I wouldn’t put it past her to be armed or have a weapon in her car.”

  “Lewelleyn …” Osborne placed a hand on her arm. “Be careful.”

  “Planning on it,” she said with a quick pat on his knee. “Same goes for you—both of you.”

  “I can tell you right now something’s wrong,” said Ray, leaning in from the backseat and keeping his voice low. “Darryl always comes to that window on the right when he hears a vehicle—and where the hell is his van? I don’t see it. We didn’t pass it on our way out here. Something’s up.”

  “Where does this road end? Do you know, Ray?” asked Lew. The lane on which they had been driving appeared to continue past the shack.

  “At the swamp. There’s a heron rookery back in there. Enough water for Darryl to keep minnows and leeches. He loves it back in there.”