“No. As I said to the cops at the scene, I didn’t touch a thing.”
A smug smile crossed his face. “Okay. So you made a good educated guess.”
I decided not to tell him about the key that turned up in my vacuum cleaner. It was too hard to explain on too many levels. Not to mention that if the key in my house matched the key to the cuffs at the murder scene, I’d have some impossible explaining to do.
For the umpteenth time, my mind replayed the moment I discovered Wendy’s body. “Sicko,” I muttered.
Baxter’s brows shot up. “You talkin’ to me?”
“No. I’m talking about the person who locked Wendy Woskowicz to that chain and then put the key in the pouch around her neck, taunting her with it.”
“Creepy scenario, but I don’t think that’s what happened. I think she used the key to get the handcuffs open. She put a cuff on one wrist and put the key in the pouch. Then she swam out there, dove down, and locked the other cuff to the chain.”
“Pretty amazing feat for a woman with a 2.1 blood alcohol level.”
“An alcoholic is used to functioning at those levels. I’m telling you, if someone had chained her down there against her will, we’d be seeing some sign of a struggle.”
I imagined how a killer—or killers—might have done it. “Suppose they got her drunk and talked her into a sunrise scuba dive. They took her out, showed her the buoy chain, and before she knew what was happening, they handcuffed her to it. Then put the key in the pouch around her neck, just to torment her.”
“Yeah, okay. So where’s her scuba gear?” Baxter asked.
“They cut it from her body and left her there without oxygen.”
“Without putting a scratch on her,” he said sarcastically.
“She was drunk. The deed was done by the time she caught on.”
Baxter sighed and looked at his watch. I took the hint and got up to leave. “One more question,” I said at the door. “Isn’t it pretty standard to get two keys with a pair of handcuffs?”
“Yeah.”
“If one key was in the pouch around her neck, where do you think the other key is?”
“Moot question, Chase. The case is closed.”
I did my best to push Wendy Woskowicz from my mind and tend to my own work. I was doing an investigation for a high-tech manufacturer, tracking down a disgruntled employee who’d erased the company’s hard drives. The company directors were eager to find the former systems analyst they now called Hell Boy, since his tantrum had caused a $3 million loss in revenue.
But Wendy Woskowicz wouldn’t go away. Granted, she didn’t come to me as a specter in the night, rattling her chains. But every morning I’d see the handcuff key on my dresser and churn with the feeling that her case wasn’t settled. I began to obsess about her suicide note. What had she written? I wanted to read her words for myself, if for no other reason than to come to peace about her death.
I shelled out ten bucks for a copy of the police report on Wendy’s drowning. Her brother, Joseph Woskowicz, was listed as next of kin. He lived in Normal Heights, a mixed neighborhood north of downtown.
The house was a 1920s bungalow, refurbished and neatly landscaped. Like a crafty telemarketer, I picked dinnertime to ring Mr. Woskowicz’s bell. A wholesome-looking man in his mid-thirties answered the door. He wore the classic white-collar uniform: khakis and a button-down shirt. With his conservative demeanor and haircut, he bore only the faintest resemblance to his late sister. The resemblance was there, though, in his wide green eyes.
“Joe Woskowicz?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Elizabeth Chase. Sorry to disturb you at home. I’m the woman who found your sister in La Jolla Cove.”
His eyes got even wider. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes,” I said.
He came out of his daze. “Sure. Come on in.”
He led me into a small but pleasant sitting room—hardwood floors polished to a bright shine—and offered me the comfort of a large leather armchair.
“Please, have a seat.” He lowered himself into the chair facing mine. “It must have been pretty traumatic, finding her that way.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I know the police have closed the case, but I’m having a hard time getting my own closure.”
“Me too, but it’s only been a week. It’ll take time. For both of us.”
“Are you convinced she killed herself?” I watched him closely. He’d passed his interview with the police department, but he hadn’t passed mine.
“Yeah, I guess. Wendy wasn’t a well person. Even as a kid she was difficult.” His shoulders sagged. “She really went downhill after she dropped out of college. Started living on the street. Or the beach, to be more accurate.”
“When was that?”
“About three years ago. I did everything I could for her. Psychologists, psychiatrists, rehabs. Tried to find her jobs, support groups, you name it. A year ago, I pulled away. I had to, for my own sanity.”
