by Karen Rose
He followed her to the side door and waited as she stepped inside and disabled the alarm. She turned on the light and he let his eyes wander around, taking in the goldenrod appliances, the garish foil wallpaper, the cabinets of chipped fiberboard. It appeared she hadn’t had insomnia enough times to have started renovations on this room. His gaze came back to where she stood, ramrod straight with her coat still on. Even in the dim light he could see her swallow hard. The need to protect again welled, but even after only a few hours he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t welcome his touch, no matter how reassuring it was intended to be. So he made himself stay where he was, his hands in his pockets.
“You want the lights on or off?” she murmured.
“I’ll turn them on as I go,” he answered, wishing she’d agreed to go to a hotel. He didn’t know if she was in danger, but she was still clearly frightened and it unsettled him.
He made his way through her house, flipping on the living room light, noting the blue-striped wallpaper. She had done a good job. His sister Annie was a professional decorator and she couldn’t have done any better. He found both spare bedrooms devoid of vigilante murdering peeping Toms, as was the bathroom with its neat stacks of makeup and hairspray. She’d left it so neat, almost as if she expected company. He instantly wondered who, irritation pricking at the thought of shaving cream and a razor littering the neat vanity top. But there was none. No sign of a man. He laughed at himself. Harshly. If there existed such a person, she would have called him to pick her up instead of trying to take a cab.
And even if there existed such a person, it was none of his damn business.
Abe pushed open the door to her bedroom, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. There was none. He hadn’t expected there to be. He flipped the light switch and saw Kristen’s skill lent itself to picking furniture as well. Art deco pieces filled the room, giving it a solid feel. There was no lace, no trace of ribbon, but still there was a feminine air. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned quilt on her bed. Or maybe the scent of her perfume, still hanging in the air. A sleek black cat sat on her pillow, watching him with eyes as green and cautious as Kristen’s.
Abe swept his flashlight under her bed and around the closet filled with black suits, dark navy suits, charcoal gray suits. Her knack for color didn’t extend to her wardrobe, or maybe there was an unwritten dress code for officers of the court. Still he wondered at the absence of party dresses, evening gowns, shiny shoes. He paused long enough to scratch the cat behind the ears before making his way back to the kitchen where Kristen stood spooning loose tea into a china teapot with big pink roses. She still wore her winter coat and he wondered if she planned to stay after all.
“This floor is clear,” he said and she nodded mutely. “Basement door?”
She pointed to the wall behind him. “Be careful. It’s a bit of a mess down there.”
Kristen Mayhew’s mess was cleaner than any of his siblings’ houses, he thought. The fireplace mantel was scraped and sanded down to its natural wood. A set of stained wood samples rested on the top, propped against the wall. Abe sighed. Their humble servant was indeed correct. The cherry was the best choice.
Kristen jumped when his footsteps sent the stairs from the basement creaking. She wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the knowledge that a killer routinely stalked her movements in her own home, or that there was a man in the house for the very first time ever. She drew a breath, the aroma of the brewing tea settling her nerves enough that she didn’t appear insane. Abe Reagan reappeared, sliding his pistol into his shoulder holster.
His pistol. He’d drawn his weapon. A shiver raced down her spine. “All clear?”
He nodded. “No one’s here except for you, me, and the black cat on your pillow.”
Kristen smiled, just a little. “Nostradamus. He lets me sleep in his bed.”
Reagan choked on a laugh and her heart did a little trip that had nothing to do with vigilante psychos. He was an incredible-looking man. And he seemed kind. But he was still a man. “You named your cat Nostradamus?” he asked with a grin.
She nodded. “Mephistopheles hasn’t come home yet. He’s out chasing mice.”
His grin widened. “Nostradamus and Mephistopheles. The Prophet of Doom and the Devil Himself. Whatever happened to Fluffy or Snowflake?”
“I never could bring myself to name them something cute,” she said dryly. “It just wasn’t in their nature. The first week after I adopted them they destroyed the carpet in three rooms.”
“So if you ever got a dog, you could name him Cerberus and have a full set.”
Her lips twitched as he’d meant them to and she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for his effort to lighten her mood. “The three-headed guardian of Hades. I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Would you like some tea? I drink it at night when I’m all wound up. I’m hoping it will settle my nerves so I can sleep tonight.”
“No thanks. I have to get home and catch a few hours’ shut-eye. I have to meet Mia and Jack at dawn at the first site.”
Kristen’s hands stilled on the teapot. “Which one will you do first?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Ramey. We’ll do them in the order he did.”
Kristen made herself pour the tea, grimacing when her hands shook, sending tea over the cup’s edge and onto the old countertop. “That makes sense.” She looked up at him to find him watching her with the same intense expression he’d worn in Spinnelli’s office. It was concern, she realized and her back went straight. She wasn’t weak. She might be many things, but weak was not one of them. “I’d like to be there as well.”
He considered it. “That makes sense,” he echoed her words. “Wear sensible shoes.”
She looked down into her tea, then back up at him. “I don’t have a car.”
“I’ll be by to pick you up at six A.M.”
The volley was over and it was her serve. “Thanks. I’ll get a rental car tomorrow, but—”
“It’s all right, Kristen. I don’t mind.”
He really didn’t, it was clear to see. And that bothered her. “Then…”
He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d leaned. “I’ll be going.” He stopped at the kitchen door. “You’ve done a wonderful job on your house.”
Her hands cradled the steaming cup, absorbing the warmth. She was so cold. “Thank you. And thank you for driving me home. And for the gyro.”
He studied her face, his expression uncertain. “You’re sure you want to stay here?”
She smiled with a hell of a lot more confidence than she felt. “Positive. You should get some sleep. Six A.M. is only a few hours away.”
Abe took a last uncertain look before backing out the door and into the carport. Through the gauzy curtains on her kitchen door he watched her lock the door and set the alarm. For a moment he debated going back inside and dragging her to the relative safety of a hotel, but knew it was none of his business. Kristen Mayhew was a grown woman and entirely capable of making her own decisions.
He started his car and had pulled into the street before he realized she hadn’t called him Detective. Nor had she called him Abe. They’d talked for almost an hour and she hadn’t called him anything at all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. He shouldn’t let her bother him. She was pretty, that was true, but he’d meet many pretty women now that he was no longer working undercover. For five years he’d held no attachments, stealing time to see his own family, his brothers, sisters, his parents, Debra, all the while worrying that he’d been followed, that just by visiting he’d place them in jeopardy.
Now he was out from under the burden of constant secrecy and isolation, working in an environment where people developed social and professional relationships. It was natural to be tempted on his first day out. And it would be unnatural not to find Kristen Mayhew tempting. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the first time he’d seen her.
And unlike the first time he’d seen her, he was now free
to feel the lust that clutched at his gut like a slippery fist without the shadow of guilt. Debra was gone now. Truly gone. After five years of existing in hellish limbo, Debra was finally at peace. It was time to get on with his life. Step one would be getting Kristen Mayhew to call him by his first name. Then he’d take it from there.
From her living room window, Kristen watched as Reagan’s taillights disappeared around the corner, troubled. I should be, she thought and uneasily glanced up the street, wondering if the man who’d killed five people was watching her at that moment. But the street was empty, all her neighbors’ windows dark. The troubled feeling persisted and Kristen wasn’t sure how much she could attribute to a man who called himself her humble servant versus a man who was unwilling to leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.
Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.
She’d heard the whispers. They called her “Ice Queen.”
It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.
She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.
From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six A.M. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.
She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.
Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.
She ought to know.
Thursday, February 19, 12:30 A.M.
Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.
But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.
Ahh, she thought. Here we go. Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe, she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.
“Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?”
Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. “I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.”
“Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.” His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.
“The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,” he said. “I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.”
She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. “Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?”
She’d caught him by surprise with that one. Hah. But he covered his temper quickly and with admirable aplomb lifted a brow. “I choose not to give credence to rumor, Miss Richardson. Especially rumor as preposterous as that one.” He tilted his head in a half nod, a smooth and graceful exit move. “Now I must be getting back to my family.”
Her image turned back to the camera. “That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.”
Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.
Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.
Thursday, February 19, 12:30 A.M.
The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.
He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.
He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.
Chapter Five
Thursday, February 19, 6:30 A.M.
CSU had the site prepped and ready when Reagan pulled his SUV up to the Arboretum. Inside the building, tropical plants flowered. Outside, what little grass could be seen was brown and shriveled. A light rain fell. Jack had erected a tarp beyond the parking lot, over a narrow span of grass in the shadow of the El tracks above. CSU must have found something.
Bracing herself against the cold, Kristen slid down from the high seat of the SUV and picked her way across the icy sludge in her sensible shoes, Reagan’s big body beside her. He slowed his pace to match hers and she was grateful, for he acted as a windbreak. He’d pulled up to her house at one minute ’till six this morning, a bag of bagels and lox on the front passenger’s seat of his SUV. So she was treated to yet another ethnic delicacy and found she liked the lox nearly as well as the gyro the night before.
Jack was pacing outside the yellow tape when they approached, his face grim. “Come and see,” was all he said. One of Jack’s men knelt, shining a flashlight at the ground.
No, not the ground. What the light illuminated was not snow-covered dirt. Horrified, Kristen could only stare as her blood ran cold. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit.
“I’ll be damned,” Abe muttered under his breath. “Who are Sylvia Whitman, Janet Briggs, and Eileen Dorsey
?”
“Ramey’s three rape victims,” Kristen heard herself reply, still staring at the beam of the flashlight. At the marble marker bearing the three names. And dates.
It was a grave marker.
Her eyes jumped up to meet Reagan’s. “The dates are their birth dates to the day of their assault. He …” She swallowed back bile.
Reagan shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Mia jogged up behind them, her breath turning to fog in the air. “What doesn’t make sense?” Then a quiet, “Oh, God.”
Kristen shook herself. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Besides, if something had happened to even one of these three women, I’d have been informed.” By one of their irate boyfriends or husbands who had so bitterly blamed her for dragging their women through the hell of testifying only to suffer again when Ramey was acquitted. She still felt the sting of their anger, of the accusations she hadn’t tried to defend. She pushed back the guilt and stared at the marker at her feet. “It’s for remembrance,” she said. “For the victims.”
Abe nodded to Jack. “Let’s start digging. Be careful with the marker. The dirt under it might have retained some trace evidence. Are there markers at the other sites?”
“I’ll find out.” Jack gestured them back, out of the way of the team. “This is going to take a little while. The ground is pretty frozen.”
They backed up, still standing under the tarp which provided shelter from the light rain. And they watched as the team carefully dug.
“I made a list of the victims, their families, anyone associated with the three cases,” Kristen said as a shovelful of frozen earth landed in the growing mound close to her feet.
“Another bad night?” Mia murmured, her eyes trained on the diggers.