Deeper Than the Dead

15

“Miss Thomas, does the name Julie Paulson mean anything to you?” Mendez asked.

They had gone into a private family room in the funeral home. The drapes were heavy and the room reeked of stargazer lilies and gladi olas. Jane Thomas had sunk down into a corner of a velvet couch the color of a good cabernet. She was as pale as death, still shaken by the discovery of Lisa Warwick’s body.

Mendez had gone into overdrive at the realization that they had both a dead woman and a woman missing, and that both women had ties to the Thomas Center for Women. He had a million questions and wanted to fire them off like rounds from a machine gun, but Jane Thomas was fragile, and he had to be patient. Not one of his stronger virtues.

Jane looked at him, confused. “No. Who is she? Is there some reason I should know her?”

“She was never a client at your facility? She never worked at your facility?”

“Not that I remember. What does she have to do with . . . ?” She turned her head in the direction of the embalming room, unable to say the victim’s name.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, shaking. “Karly. You think she’s with the—the animal that did that to Lisa, don’t you?”

Cal Dixon put a reassuring hand on her knee. Mendez mentally raised an eyebrow.

“Jane,” Dixon spoke quietly, as if he were talking to a nervous horse. “Chances are Karly is with someone she knows. She probably just went—”

Jane Thomas steeled herself, sitting up a little taller. “Don’t you dare patronize me. We’ve been over this. Karly did not just anything.”

“Miss Thomas?” Mendez tried to bring her attention back to him, a little irritated at his boss for bringing an obviously personal note into the proceedings. “Julie Paulson was a woman found murdered outside of town in April last year. I’m wondering if she might have had a connection to the center.”

“April ’84? I was in Europe for several months. My parents own horses. Their top horse was competing in Germany and Holland. I went with them . . .”

Mendez knew why people in this situation rambled and digressed. If Jane Thomas was thinking of her parents’ show horses, she couldn’t be thinking about the horror she had seen in the room down the hall.

“Have there been any threats against the center recently?” Dixon asked.

“The usual kooks and religious fanatics.”

“What does ‘usual’ mean?” Mendez asked.

“The a-woman’s-place-is-barefoot-and-pregnant crowd. The whores-should-turn-to-Jesus-or-burn-in-hell crowd. The right-to-lifers, though I’ll never figure that one out. We provide our women with access to medical care. We don’t advocate abortion.”

“Do you keep hate mail?”

“Yes. In a file at the office.”

“We’ll need to see it.”

“Of course.”

“You said the victim—Lisa Warwick—used to work for you. When was that?”

“A few years ago. She was an administrative secretary and she volunteered as a victim’s advocate in her spare time, hand-holding clients who had to deal with the court system. She still does—did—that from time to time.”

“Any cases lately?”

“A few months ago. A client with a drug history was trying to get visitation rights to her children.”

“Was there an angry father involved?”

“No. Actually, in the end the father was so impressed with the progress his ex-wife had made, he withdrew his objection.”

“Why did Ms. Warwick leave the center?” Mendez asked.

“She went back to college to finish her degree in nursing.”

“She left on good terms with everyone?”

“Yes. Absolutely. You can’t think someone at the center could have done this.”

“We have to explore all possibilities,” Mendez said.

“It’s standard investigative procedure, Jane,” Dixon said. “We never know where leads might come from.”

“We’ll need to interview the staff,” Mendez said. “And the women—your clients.”

He could see that was the last thing Jane Thomas wanted.

“These women are fragile,” she said. “They’ll be scared to death.”

“They may have a right to be,” Mendez said bluntly.

“That’s a little premature, Detective,” Dixon said, giving him a steely look. “But we have to err on the side of caution.

“What do you know about Lisa Warwick’s background?”

“She’s from Kansas originally. I probably have a contact number for her in the old personnel files.”

“Ex-husbands? Bad boyfriends?” Mendez asked.

“None that I remember. Lisa was a very private person.”

“Did she engage in any risky behavior? Frequent bars? Drinking? Drugs?”

“I can’t imagine that she did. She liked to knit.”

“When was the last time you had any contact with her?”

“We spoke on the phone from time to time. She dropped in at the center a few weeks ago to say hi.”

“Do you know where she was working?”

“The ER at Mercy General, here in town.”

She put a hand over her eyes as she started to cry. Dixon got up from the couch and tipped his head toward the door. Mendez followed him out into the hall.

“I’ll go to the hospital and see what I can find out about Warwick,” Mendez said, still scribbling in his notebook. “I figure I’ll send Hamilton and Hicks to the Thomas Center.”

“What did your connection at Quantico say?”

“He’s coming out.”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not the usual protocol.”

Mendez shrugged.

Dixon didn’t look happy. “I don’t want a circus here, Tony. I don’t want this guy talking to the media. I don’t want anybody talking to the media.”

“That doesn’t need to be an issue.”

“That includes you,” Dixon said, thrusting a finger at him. “Dial it down. I know this is a big case for you, and you’re excited about it. That’ll make you sharp. But I don’t want you running off the rails. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Mendez said, falling back on tried-and-true marine respect for rank.

“I don’t want anything said about there being a possible connection between these victims.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ve seen a couple of those BSU guys grandstand and shoot their mouths off. I won’t have it.”

“No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

Dixon stepped back, sighed, looked around. “Go radio for a uniform to pick you up. I’m going to take Jane home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dixon looked a little sheepish. “We’re friends.”

“Not my business, sir,” Mendez said.

“No, it isn’t.”