Then she smiled slightly. So he wasn’t married after all. Interesting. Not that she was going to do anything about it, but still…it was interesting.
“I’m divorced,” he said. “Three years now. I have three kids, two girls and a boy. Christina just turned six, Michael’s eight, and Lisa’s twelve going on twenty. Gloria’s remarried to a pretty nice guy who treats my kids great. In fact, they just live about an hour from here, over in Indiana.”
Jen’s curiosity was piqued in spite of her resolve to appear disinterested.
“You actually like your wife’s new husband?”
“Ex-wife,” he corrected. “And, yes, I do like Joe. Gloria and I parted as friends, so there were no hard feelings to pin on somebody else.”
“I didn’t know there were such things as friendly divorces.”
He laughed.
“I don’t think they’re too common. But in our case, it’s true. Gloria and I have known each other since we were kids. Somehow we started dating in high school and just drifted into marriage. There was never any wild passion—just two friends who were comfortable with each other. Not that that’s all bad.”
He looked at her, his eyes warm with desire.
“Of course, sometimes a man doesn’t know what he’s been missing until he finds it.”
Jen looked away quickly, angry with herself for feeling pleased at what he was hinting. He’s smooth, she told herself, practiced with his lines. That was all it was. It was to be expected from a man who looked like he looked.
Will saw her expression and mentally cursed himself. He’d meant what he said, but he knew it sounded phony.
“So, do you have any ideas about the murders?” Better change tack before he chased her further away. Besides, he really did want to know what she thought. “I mean, about how he selects the victims.”
Jen shook her head, relieved at the change of subject.
“No,” she said. “That’s our biggest problem. If we could figure that out, maybe we could get one step ahead of him.”
She looked at his handsome profile.
“What about his father? How did he choose his victims?”
“You’d better watch yourself.” He smiled, still looking at the road. “You’re already accepting that your killer is Arthur Kelty.”
“For the sake of argument only. I assure you I’ll keep an open mind till we get some proof one way or another.”
“Wayne was a jack-of-all-trades,” Will said. “He could do just about anything—carpentry, plumbing, roofing, electrical work, you name it. He was even a first-rate mechanic. That was how he met his victims. If they lived alone or the men in their lives were gone for long periods of time, like in the service or for their job, they made it to his list.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t the police in Minneapolis—or all those other cities, for that matter—tumble to him? I mean, if all the victims had the same guy doing work for them, I would think somebody would get suspicious.”
“It wasn’t that simple.” Will shook his head. “In Minneapolis, for example, he worked for a roofing company the first victim used and repaired the second one’s car. The third one had gotten an estimate from him for some cabinetry work. He gave each one a different name. The fourth and fifth ones were simply unfortunate enough to live next to people who had hired him to do various jobs.”
“What about the one with the great dog?”
He laughed
“That is a good story, isn’t it? It’s a shame it doesn’t happen more often. She worked for a plumbing supply store where he did business.
“It had been the same in other cities. I’m sure eventually a department would have discovered the connection if he’d stayed in one place long enough. But the most killings he’d done in any one city was six. If the lady hadn’t been dog-sitting that night, he would have killed her and moved on from Minneapolis.”
Jen couldn’t recall any mention of either Sams or Edwards having used any tradesmen recently, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t.
“We’ll have to check out our vics again,” she said. “We don’t know of them having had a car repaired or work done on their homes, but it could be the people we interviewed didn’t think it was important. And we didn’t know the right questions to ask.”
They were approaching Larry Kaufmann’s street.
“Just because Wayne did it that way doesn’t mean Artie does—if it is Artie we’re looking for,” he added. “For one thing, I don’t remember the boy sharing his father’s skills at fixing things. It could be he makes his living some other way.”
“It’s a place to start. Oh, turn here,” she directed, as she saw the address they were looking for.
Will slowed and turned into a small apartment complex, stopping in front of the end building.
“This is it,” he said, peering at the number above the door.
Only if we’re incredibly lucky, she thought.
CHAPTER 8
The small two-bedroom apartment was a pigsty. Jen had seen plenty of filthy homes when she’d worked the street, and this one ranked right up there with the worst of them. The only saving grace was the aroma of marijuana that partially masked the odors of rotting garbage and dirty cat litter.
Karen Kaufmann sat in pregnant glory in the middle of the stained couch, wearing a blue cotton robe and dingy slippers. She looked ready to deliver at any time. She’d just finished a TV dinner when Larry led them into the living room. She set the aluminum tray on the coffee table atop two dirty saucers, disturbing a roach that scurried from under the bottom plate and disappeared over the edge of the table. She started to get up as Larry introduced her.
“No, no, please don’t get up. You stay where you are, and stay comfortable.”
Jen waved her back down, and Karen
