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  Elle bit her lip. Luisa was lucky to have a mother like Maria—doting and complimentary, convinced no one was good enough for her daughter. That must be nice.

  Maria started to pick up the mugs of tea, trying to navigate two in one hand so she could still move her oxygen tank.

  Elle stood. “Please, Señora, can I help you with the tea?”

  The older woman met Elle’s gaze for a moment and then nodded. “Thank you.”

  Once they were settled back at the table together, Elle held up her tea and smiled. “Thank you for this. It’s my husband’s favorite brand.”

  “Your husband is Mexican?” Maria’s eyes lit up. “No wonder your Spanish is good. It’s the language of romance, you know.”

  “It certainly worked on me.” Elle laughed. Maria seemed to be letting her guard down. It was never an easy thing to do with a stranger, but in her experience, between a woman of color and a white woman—even less so. As a Mexican woman in America, Maria would have a million reasons not to trust someone like Elle. She would try not to give her another one.

  A few moments passed in silence. In between sips, Maria stared at the swirling liquid in her mug. Finally, she looked up at Elle again. “You never really explained why you’re looking for Luisa. Is she in trouble?”

  “No, she’s not in trouble, but her ex-husband is . . . was.”

  “Leo? Oh, I love Leo. She should never have left him.” Maria’s eyes glowed, stabbing Elle with guilt. Maybe she should just leave without telling Maria about what happened. Let her find out from police or her daughter when the time was right. But she couldn’t let her go on believing Leo was alive when he wasn’t. That didn’t seem fair.

  “Señora Alvarez, I’m afraid I have some terrible news. Leo was killed a couple days ago. He was shot in his apartment.”

  The old woman’s face froze, and the warmth in her eyes was replaced with a sudden flood of tears. “¿Qué?”

  “I’m so sorry. He’s dead.”

  Suddenly, Maria’s jaw clenched, bringing all her wrinkles into straight lines leading down to her pursed lips. “It was that hijo de puta. That pelado Luisa is with. I am sure of it. He stole her from Leo, but it wasn’t enough. He was always jealous of her marriage to him, to a real man who loved her.” The woman slumped in her chair, resting her elbow on the table and leaning her face into her hand.

  Elle looked down at her lap, trying to give her privacy in her grief. Another possibility to add to the mix. If Leo really was killed by his ex’s jealous new boyfriend on the day he was trying to give Elle a tip about TCK, that was the worst possible timing.

  After a few moments, she tried to speak to Maria again. “Señora, is there anyone I can call to come be with you? I’m so sorry, but I really need to keep looking for your daughter. If you’re right about the man she’s with, then Luisa could be in danger too.”

  Wiping her eyes, Maria stood up and shuffled to one of her kitchen drawers, opened it, and took out a sticky note. She wrote two lines and then handed it to Elle. “This is the address where she stays with that man. I never go there. She knows I do not support.”

  Elle took the note and started to pull away, but Maria clasped her hand, meeting her gaze. “You find him. Find him and keep him away from my daughter. Please.”

  She nodded, bringing her other hand up to squeeze Maria’s. “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  Outside Maria Alvarez’s apartment, Elle turned the car on to warm it up. While she waited, she took out her phone and visited Luisa’s social media profiles again, scrolling through her recent activity. A scan of her pictures revealed no older man that matched her mother’s description; all of her photos were either selfies or the finished product of her clients’ hairstyles. She hadn’t posted or interacted with anything in more than a week. Her last status update simply said, No Matter What, with a prayer-hands emoji. Cryptic, but not exactly ominous. Hopefully Luisa was staying with this guy Maria had pointed her to in Falcon Heights so Elle could at least see what she knew about Leo’s suspicions. Although if she was in a relationship with another man, odds were she wouldn’t have anything helpful to say about her ex. Not to mention the possibility one of them might have had something to do with his murder.

  The air pouring through the vents finally started turning hot, and she shifted her car into gear.

  After swinging through a Dunn Bros. drive-through for a mocha, Elle drove toward Falcon Heights, taking sips of strong, sweet coffee at the stoplights. The afternoon light was fading into evening, giving her a twist of longing for the days when the sun didn’t start giving up at half past three. Even though Elle had lived in Minnesota her whole life, she’d never been able to reconcile herself to the cold, dark winters.

  Just before the exit off I-694, a familiar logo caught Elle’s eye. It had been over a year since her podcast network started putting up billboards promoting Justice Delayed, but she still wasn’t used to seeing her silver-on-black branding blown up on a roadside advertisement. The marketing team had mercifully let her reject their original request to feature a picture of her on the ads. People knew what her face looked like from the local news shows she occasionally dialed in to for commentary on a case, but she didn’t need to be splashed all over the Twin Cities billboards. Having her name out there was risky enough. She took the exit and let out a breath.

  The address Señora Alvarez gave her was a modest two-story brick house with an attached double garage and a neatly shoveled driveway. On closer inspection, it had to be a heated drive—even the best shoveling job wouldn’t get rid of every scrap of snow and ice, but the pavement was wet and completely clean. She left her half-drunk coffee in the car and braced herself for the cold wind before she got out.

  As she walked up the path, Elle examined the house: slate-gray bricks and white trim with a series of spotless cottage windows, darkened from the inside by heavy drapes. A flower garden sat beneath the windows next to the path, every part covered in snow except for a few dry branches of a large shrub peeking through the powder.

  Remembering that Maria was convinced this guy killed Leo, Elle rested her hand on the Ruger strapped under her coat. Using her free hand, she pressed and held the doorbell until it chimed inside.

  There was no answer. She stepped back and looked at the closed garage door. No way to tell if someone was actually home. The windows carved into the front door were frosted, and there was no light behind them, but she rang the bell again anyway.

  After a moment, Elle heard footsteps inside. It sounded like someone coming down the stairs. She shuffled in place and breathed into her cupped hands. Finally, the front door opened into the house, just a few inches until a chain stopped it. Appearing above the chain was the face of a man in his fifties. He wore blue-tinted glasses like Bono, and his graying stubble met up with the thinning hair around the bottom of his faded Twins cap. The creased skin around his mouth had the texture of dried-out leather. For a moment, his expression went from confused to tense, but then he pasted on a polite, Minnesota Nice smile. He was probably expecting someone he knew.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Hello, Mr.—” Elle waited for him to finish her sentence, but he just stood there, examining her. She cleared her throat when the silence stretched on, then finally gave in and continued speaking. “I’m looking for a young woman named Luisa. I’ve been told she lives here.”

  He shifted his weight. “You must have the wrong house,” he said, starting to shut the door.

  “No, wait.” On instinct, Elle reached out and put her hand against the door. He paused. “Please, I really need to find this woman. Are you sure you don’t know anyone by that name? Luisa’s mom, Maria Alvarez, gave me this address. She seems to think Luisa is living with you, or at least staying with you most nights.”

  The man’s eyebrows drew together. “Maria Alvarez? That old bat?” With a laugh, he shook his head. “Oh, that Luisa. Maria’s daughter. I don’t believe this. Maria Alvarez used to live acro
ss the road from me, and I saw her daughter come around a couple times. I flirted with her, sure, but we never even went on a date. She said she had a boyfriend.”

  At last, he took the chain off the door and opened it wide enough to point past her shoulder at a little white house on the other side of the road, kitty-corner from the man’s house. In contrast to his place, Señora Alvarez’s old house was in desperate need of a coat of paint and probably a new roof. The driveway was lost in snow the same height as what blanketed the yard, which was high enough to nearly cover the sad brown FOR SALE sign.

  “I don’t mean to be cruel, but Maria isn’t all right in the head, you know? I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did think I ‘stole her daughter’ from her or whatever. She already thinks I stole her house.”

  “Stole her house?” When Elle looked back at him, his arms were folded across his chest. The gray hoodie he wore made him look soft, warm; he could be her dad, a man she’d interrupted in the middle of a Monday night football pregame show.

  “You see the state of it? Last year, I complained to the council that she wasn’t taking care of it. The grass was overgrown, there were more weeds in her garden than flowers, the front of the house looked like it was going to slide right off. Still does, don’t you think?” Redness rose in his cheeks. Something about his rage sparked a hint of familiarity, but men’s anger wasn’t unique—all red, contorted faces and spluttering, affronted tones.

  He continued: “Anyway, I registered a couple complaints with the council, like I said. Finally, someone went to check on her and realized she wasn’t living well. She was sick, and her house was apparently an even bigger disaster inside than it was outside, so I guess her daughter was called and she took the old broad to live with her.”

  “You got an old lady kicked out of her home?” she asked, trying to keep the judgment out of her voice.

  “I got an old lady the help she needed but was too damn stubborn to ask for.” He met her gaze through his tinted lenses. “Why are you looking for her, anyway? You a friend of Luisa’s?”

  “You could say that.” Elle tapped her fingers against her thigh. The guy was being nice enough, but he had nothing for her and this was now officially a waste of time. “So, when you flirted with Luisa, you said she turned you down because she had a boyfriend?”

  The man’s smile grew. “She didn’t turn me down.”

  “But you said—”

  “If I’d wanted her, I could have gotten her. She was obviously interested. I chatted with her outside her mother’s house, gave her a few compliments. Turned out to be a bit of a waste.” The man stared past Elle at the house across the street, as if remembering the conversation. Then he looked back at Elle. “She was a hairdresser. I’m looking for a little more in a woman, you know?”

  Elle kept her expression neutral. She didn’t even know Luisa; for all she knew, the other woman was a nightmare—maybe even Leo’s killer. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to elbow this guy in the throat.

  The man tipped his chin up in a smug nod, eyes gleaming. “Right. Okay then, thanks for stopping by. Gotta get back to the game.”

  When he closed the door, Elle turned to walk toward her car, studying the broken-down house that was apparently still on the market. The man’s plan of getting Maria Alvarez kicked out so the place would be better taken care of seemed to have backfired, and she couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pleasure in that.

  10

  Justice Delayed podcast

  December 19, 2019

  Transcript: Season 5, Episode 3

  [SOUND BREAK: Bell chiming as door opens; indistinct radio music playing.]

  Elle:

  Hi, are you Simeon Schmidt?

  Simeon:

  That’s me.

  Elle:

  Hi, my name is Elle Castillo. I spoke to you on the phone.

  Simeon:

  Ah, right. Hey, Lily! Lil. Can you come take over for a minute?

  Elle voice-over:

  I’m at the gas station off I-94, outside Lakeland, Minnesota. I can see the St. Croix River from where I’m standing, just shy of the Interstate Bridge that would take me over to Wisconsin. After a few minutes of wrangling with his wife, the owner, Simeon, brings me to his cramped office in the back of the building. Once we’re situated, I remind him why I’m here.

  Elle:

  So, I’m investigating the murders of the Countdown Killer from the late nineties, and I understand you have a connection to the case. You helped TCK’s last victim escape, is that right?

  Simeon:

  I don’t know about that. By the time she came to me, that little girl had run half a mile in the snow, barefoot. I think she gets full credit for her escape. I just gave her a warm place to wait for the police to arrive.

  Elle:

  That’s a fair point, but I’m sure she would still be grateful to you for providing a warm refuge and a place to call the police.

  Simeon:

  Anyone would have done the same.

  Elle:

  You may be right. Now, can you describe what happened that night?

  Simeon:

  Sure, well, I’ve owned this gas station for over twenty-five years, and I work seven days a week, open to close. My wife and I, we live in the little apartment above here, so when I close up, going home is as simple as climbing the stairs. That night was the same as any other. I was about to lock up, I think, turn in for the night, when I seen this little girl running toward the station. She burst through the door, and I knew right away something was wrong. Her hair was a rat’s nest, it looked like she hadn’t eaten in days, and she was only wearing a nightgown.

  It took a few minutes to get her to talk. She seemed terrified, eyes wild, always looking behind her like a monster was chasing her. My wife finally woke up after I yelled for her a few times, and once the girl saw a woman in the room, her shoulders came down from her ears and she talked. While my wife called the police, the girl told me she’d run away from a cabin where a man was keeping her and forcing her to clean his house. She said she climbed out of the window and down a drainpipe and ran to my station in the snow. I wouldn’t have believed her, except you could tell she’d been through hell, you know? Plus, we’d seen the stories on the news about that psycho killer who was kidnapping girls. Anyway, she calmed down enough to drink some hot water and put on the pair of sweats my wife got her, and by then the police and ambulance were there. I never saw her again, except for her picture on the news a couple times.

  Elle:

  I imagine the police asked you some questions.

  Simeon:

  Oh yeah, they were here for an hour or two after, and I had to come into the station one other time, I think. Some detective from the Cities was here, the lead investigator on the TCK case, if I recall correctly. He wanted to ask me some questions about it, but I can’t really remember what they were, to be honest with you.

  Elle:

  And you got some media attention afterward, too, is that right?

  Simeon:

  Ah, I don’t know, I guess. The news cameras were around for a few days. I suppose it was a big story. We did good sales for a couple months, I remember that. Wife and I were able to spend a week at the Wisconsin Dells.

  Elle voice-over:

  In the days following Nora’s escape, the public and the police were on tenterhooks. On the one hand, everyone was relieved she had survived and would be returned to her parents after recovering in the hospital. On the other, for the first time, everyone was at a complete loss over what TCK would do. His second victim in a triad had escaped. Would he replace her with another one? Would he move on to the third, the ten-year-old, as if nothing had happened? Would he do the unthinkable and try to recapture Nora? The last, at least, they did everything in their power to prevent. Police put her and her family under twenty-four-hour watch for a month after she escaped. Her father, a moderately wealthy bank manager, hired security for several more months when the la
w enforcement detail was removed. By July, no new victims that matched TCK’s pattern had been taken, and Nora turned twelve years old.

  But by that time, most people believed all of those precautions had been unnecessary.

  [SOUND BREAK: Snow crunching underfoot; a crow cawing.]

  Elle voice-over:

  I’m here at the site of the two-story cabin where police say Nora Watson was kept. To avoid retraumatizing her, police never brought her back here. But based on pictures of the area and distance from the gas station, it’s the most likely location. And there is one other reason to think this is where Nora was held captive. When police found it, it was a pile of ashes and charred wood, still smoldering in the frigid winter air.

  There is nothing left of the cabin now, just a small empty clearing in the middle of the woods. Forests don’t come thick in these parts, but this cabin is surrounded by about as many trees as you can find here. It’s set back a mile from any major highway, accessible only by a narrow gravel road that passes by an even narrower gravel driveway. This land is owned now by the same people who owned it then, a wealthy couple who spent their summers in the five-bedroom cabin near the river and their winters on the beach in Florida. At the time of Nora’s escape, they were both confirmed to be at their townhouse in Florida, having escaped the north like they did every year—as soon as the leaves turned.

  The place looks equally abandoned now. Drifts of snow gather up against trees, blown by blizzard winds. Wet, dead leaves form patches of brown where the ground peeks through. It should be peaceful, but I get no comfort here. It’s a foreboding place. Police were never able to determine how many of TCK’s victims were brought here, but it’s a place where at least two young girls were held captive—where at least one was killed. And it’s a place where Jessica’s body, along with those of two adults, was found among the ashes.