The next morning, as Jane stood waiting for Nolan in the parking lot, her thoughts drifted to how serendipitous it had been that she’d met him, and how much her friendship with him meant to her. She’d spent her entire working life as a restaurateur, and yet during those eighteen years, she’d often been drawn to matters of crime and crime solving. For a time she decided that it was because her father was a defense attorney. As a child, she remembered sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to her mother and father talk in the living room. Her dad used her mother as a sounding board, taking cases apart, searching for a way to prove his client’s innocence. The justice system wasn’t supposed to work like that. People were innocent until proven guilty. But a lawyer was a storyteller, her father always said, and the best storyteller usually won.
Jane had grown up in a world peopled with criminals and victims. She knew that reality was often brutal, ugly, and final. She understood ambiguity, and yet she craved reassurance that she lived in a comprehensible moral universe. It was that need, she’d come to believe, that was at the heart of what always seemed to pull her toward issues of crime and punishment.
What Nolan offered her was something new: a legitimate entree
into the world of the criminal. Jane wasn’t a professional, nor was it likely she’d ever become one, but working with Nolan on a periodic basis would satisfy what she now saw was a fundamental need in her life and at the same time would allow her to keep one foot firmly planted in her everyday world—the world of restaurants that she loved so much. Jane felt certain that she could separate the two and still manage both of them successfully.
Nolan drove up in his black Toyota Highlander about ten after nine.
Getting settled in the front seat, Jane noticed that he’d bought them each a large cup of coffee.
“All the comforts of home,” he said, backing out of the lot.
“Thanks. This is great. How far is it to Winneconne?” she asked, rolling her window down.
“Change of plans. After I left the loft yesterday, I stopped by the BCA in St. Paul to look Luberman up on the NCIC.”
“You still have access to that?” The NCIC was the FBI’s criminal information system. It was a computerized index of criminal justice information—records, criminal history, stolen property, missing persons. Jane was under the impression that it was available only to federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies. When Nolan was a cop, he no doubt used it daily. But as a civilian?
“Anyone can do a simple criminal background check at the BCA. All you need is the person’s name and date of birth. Costs four bucks. A real deal, if you ask me.”
“What did you find out?”
“Looks like a year or so after Joanna’s PI stopped tailing him, he sold the family home and moved to Eagle Ridge, where he got a job at a lumberyard. He wasn’t working while he was living with his mother.”
“Yeah, I learned that from reading the file.”
“Good. You can fill me in on that in a second. Here’s what you didn’t learn: Two years ago, he moved to Chamberlain—that’s about ten miles south of Eagle Ridge. He started his own landscape company. Bought a cabin on Whitefish Lake. With all the new construction around Eagle Ridge, he’s probably making a mint.”
The Eagle Ridge section of Wisconsin was a popular tourist area.
The circle of seven lakes was covered with fishing lodges, old cabins, and an increasing array of vacation resorts. In the last dozen or so years, the land around the lakes had also become prime property for building new summer homes.
“What about his criminal history?” asked Jane, taking a sip of coffee.
“He’s clean. Although, knowing what we know, a guy like that could easily operate under the radar.”
“You think he’s still stalking?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it. Stalking is generally considered a serial crime.”
As they merged onto I-94, Nolan adjusted the rearview mirror. “Stalkers are fairly predictable. I mean, psychologically, they follow a pattern.”
“I’ve never read much about them.”
“You should.” He grabbed for his coffee. “Stalking is legally defined as willful, malicious, and repeated following and harassment combined with a credible threat intended to make the victim fear death or serious injury. Believe it or not, there weren’t any stalking laws on the books until 1990. That seems incredible to me. One in twenty women will become a target of stalking at some point in her life. It’s a devastating crime, with huge ramifications for the victim.”
“Go on,” said Jane, looking down at the river as they crossed over the Mississippi.
“Most victims know their stalkers. If they’ve slept with them, violence is significantly more likely to occur. These guys aren’t typically psychotic, but if they’re sociopaths, watch out. The motivation for stalking isn’t primarily sexual. It develops more out of anger and hostility, usually because of a perceived or all too real rejection. These guys want control, and when they don’t get it, they slowly begin to exchange reality for an imaginary world that’s more empowering. It usually works like this. The guy thinks if he can just prove to her—whoever she is—that he loves her, then everything will be okay. They’ll ride off into the sunset. When that doesn’t work out, he moves on to, ‘I can make her love me.’ And when that fails, which it always does, he moves on to, ‘If I can’t have her, nobody can.’ That’s
when things often get violent. We may not like to hear this, but a high percentage of stalkers who threaten their victims eventually act on their stated intentions.”
Jane had not only never read much about stalkers, she’d never thought much about them—or their victims. Joanna always skirted the subject when it was brought up, though she never made light of it.
“Your turn,” said Nolan. “What did you learn from that file?”
“Not as much as I’d hoped.” She spent the next fifteen minutes going over every piece of information she thought might be significant. In the end, Nolan agreed that the most important fact had to do with the woman who’d been murdered not far from where Luberman had been living. But because there was no record of the 1990 trial, no psych evaluation from the prison doctors, and no information from the PI past 2002, there were too many holes to begin to form a clear picture.
“A little piece of luck did drop into our laps,” said Nolan.
“Give.”
“Happens that I know the sheriff of Eagle Ridge County. He’s the first stop on our morning agenda.”
Just after eleven-thirty, Nolan pulled into the parking lot of a two-story brick building in downtown Eagle Ridge. He gave his name to the deputy at the front desk. The man pointed them to an office just off the main reception area.
“Believe it or not, the sheriff’s name is Al Hitchcock,” said Nolan, as they walked down a short hallway. “Great guy. I used to play poker with his dad.”
“His dad must have had a bizarre sense of humor.”
“Yeah. That about covers it.”
Nolan knocked on the open door.
The man inside, a thirty-something with thinning brown hair and a heavy mustache, looked up from a stack of papers. “Hey.” He stood. “Great to see you.”
They shook hands across the desk.
“How’s that old man of yours?” asked Nolan, nodding for Jane to sit down in one of two empty chairs.
“Terrific. He’s in Florida at the moment, but he said to say hi. Says he wants in on a game the next time he’s in the Twin Cities.”
“You tell him I’m always happy to take his money.”
Hitchcock laughed.
Nolan introduced Jane as his assistant.
“Lawless,” repeated Hitchcock, mulling it over as he sat back down. “Don’t suppose you’re any relation to—”
“He’s my father,” said Jane. Law enforcement people often recognized her last name. Raymond Lawless was well-known in the Midwest.
“How’d you hook up with this character?” he asked, grinning at Nolan.
“Long story,” said Nolan. Again, he was all business. “So what do you know about Gordon Luberman?”
“Lots. Most of it unofficial. Before we get started, I want to thank you for giving me that information about Joanna Kasimir. That was totally off our radar screen. We knew he’d served time in prison but didn’t have any of the details.”
“My pleasure,” said Nolan. He pulled out his pad, ready to take notes.
“Okay, Luberman lived up north in Winneconne for several years before moving down here. I assume you already know that. But what you don’t know is that he’d been stalking a woman up there—”
“Mandy Kiskanen,” said Jane.
“Who?”
Nolan filled him in as Hitchcock took notes.
“I’ll check it out. If it was our boy, it may be just the break we need.”
“So he was stalking someone else?” asked Jane.
“A woman who did the weather on a local TV channel in Appleton. They met when Luberman ‘accidentally’ scraped the side of her car with his truck. She said he was very charming, offered to pay for the entire thing himself so that neither of them would have to file with their insurance companies.”
“Did he follow through with that promise?” asked Jane.
“Yes, and in the process, they began dating. She said she was on the rebound from a recent breakup. When she worked things out with the old boyfriend, she dumped Luberman—but he wasn’t about to be dumped. At first she thought it was just stubbornness. But when he started following her, sending her red roses, calling her at all hours of the day and night, she got scared. Talked to a police officer. He told her to get a restraining order and start documenting the harassment.”
“Obviously he was never arrested,” said Jane.
“No. Seems his mother died right around then and he moved away. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
“She got lucky,” said Nolan. “What else?”
Hitchcock leaned back in his chair, threaded his fingers over his stomach. “Well, as you can imagine, we don’t have many people go missing around here. But a year ago, a woman who lived on Kenabig Lake disappeared.”
“You think Luberman had something to do with it?”
“That’s exactly what we think. Problem is, we can’t prove it. We know he dated her, and we know from friends and relatives that she was scared to death of him.”
“Anybody able to give details?” asked Nolan.
“Her cousin told us that Darlene—Darlene Schultz, that’s her name—tried to break it off with Luberman, but that he kept showing up at her work. Or she’d go to the grocery store and he’d be waiting for her when she came out. He’d been calling her for weeks late at night, telling her she had to give him another chance. Professing his undying devotion.”
“Sounds like his MO,” said Nolan.
“Her dad said he was about ready to take a shotgun over to Luberman’s place and have a little Come-to-Jesus meeting with him. But then she disappeared. The dad’s positive Luberman’s behind it. A female friend of hers told the father that, before she went missing, Luberman had phoned her, saying that if she didn’t take him back, she’d be sorry.”
Nolan shook his head. “That’s a threat.”
“Yeah, but the woman’s scared and won’t go on the record, so we can’t get a warrant to search his property. And because it’s hearsay,
it’s nothing we can arrest him on. You find anything I can use, you let me know.”
“Sure,” said Nolan.
“You got his address?”
Nolan flipped a few pages back in his notebook. “Fourteen Little Turtle Road.”
“Follow Main Street out of town until you hit the turnoff for Chamberlain. Take a left at Fittman Road and follow it around the lake about a three miles. When you come to Mortonson Trail, turn left. Go about three-quarters of a mile until you see Little Turtle Road. It veers off to the right. You’ll see a fourteen on his mailbox but no name. The cabin sits on a hill above the lake. Real pretty spot. But if you drive in, there’s no real good place to park to surveil. If you want to brave the mosquitoes and the ticks in the woods above the property, you can do that.”
“Where’s his landscape company located?” asked Jane.
“In Chamberlain.”
“I’ve got the address,” said Nolan.
Jane felt like someone had just dumped a pail of raw sewage all over her. “I guess our guy isn’t living the quiet life that it looked like on paper.”
“Anything but,” said Hitchcock.
“He dating anybody right now?” asked Nolan.
“Unfortunately, yes. Name’s Brandy Becker. She’s a waitress at the IHOP on Reindeer Lake. She’s in her early forties. Husband died less than a year ago.”
“Have you talked to her?” asked Nolan.
“Legally, I can’t. You know the drill. I had someone approach her unofficially, but she’s very timid and skittish. She wouldn’t even talk to him. Luberman’s aware that we’re watching him, though. Sometimes, that can make a guy think twice.”
“But Luberman’s lost his fear,” said Nolan. “If he ever had any to begin with.”
“If he’s after Joanna,” said Jane, “maybe he’ll leave this new woman alone.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Hitchcock. “I’ve met some cold SOBs in my time, but he’s by far the coldest.”
“You’ve talked to him?” said Nolan.
“Sure. I’ve had him in here at least half a dozen times. He never gives up a thing. The arrogant prick doesn’t even ask for a lawyer. He thinks he’s smarter than everybody else. It’s like a game to him.”
“I have to say,” said Nolan, “that I expected he might still be stalking.” Standing, he reached to shake Hitchcock’s hand again.
“I hope we can help each other,” said Hitchcock. “This is one dude I intend to put away for good.”