by Karen Rose
“We were unable to reach the police for comment this evening. We can only assume they are working to uncover clues to the identity of Ramey’s killer.”
“Were the three women able to provide any additional information, Zoe? Anything that might be helpful to the police?” the anchor asked.
“Son of a bitch,” Jack muttered. “Like we need her kind of help.”
“Not the letters,” Mia urged under her breath. “Don’t mention the damn letters.”
Richardson widened her eyes, as if she’d only just remembered something important and Mia smacked her palm against the tabletop. “Dammit.”
Kristen flung her hand up, signaling for quiet and Mia gritted her teeth.
“Yes, Andrea. Each of the three women received an anonymous letter today, saying Ramey was dead and that justice had finally been done.” Zoe’s eyes gleamed. “He signed each letter ‘Your Humble Servant.’ This is Zoe Richardson, reporting.”
The camera flashed back to the serious face of Andrea the Anchor. “Thank you, Zoe. We’ll be anxiously waiting for more details on this exclusive breaking story.” Her face brightened, almost comically. “Now back to our regularly scheduled program.”
Viciously, Kristen turned off the television and for a long moment no one spoke.
“How did she know?” Spinnelli finally asked, his own temper under an obviously tight leash. “How the hell did she know?”
Kristen stood staring at the dark screen, her rigid back to the rest of them. “She was following us.” Her swallow was audible. “Me.” She placed the remote on top of the television with precise care. “I don’t believe this.”
“My mom can smack her for you,” Abe said lightly. “I have it on good authority that she packs a wallop when she’s mad.” He let out a silent breath when Kristen’s back slumped and she turned to him with a tight little smile.
“And just how many times did you make your mom mad, Reagan?” she asked.
Abe forced a grin. “More times than I can count.”
The tight smile relaxed to a wry grimace. “Now, that I can believe.”
Spinnelli dragged his palms down his face. “Well, the cat’s out of the bag, people. I’ll schedule a press conference tomorrow. Abe, you make sure we get whereabouts for all the vics for the times of the murders, as close as you can and find out if any of them are sharpshooters.”
“Besides Stan Dorsey?” Abe asked dryly, and Spinnelli lifted his eyes heavenward.
“God help us. I want to know every step Dorsey took on the days in question. I’ll start checking all the cops and lawyers on the list for anyone with enough skill to make those shots. Mia, see what you can find on the sandblasting angle. Hopefully Julia will come up with something more when she’s done with the autopsies.”
“What about his next victim?” Kristen asked. “Are we going to wait for another crate to appear on my doorstep?”
Spinnelli shook his head. “I’m going to get surveillance cameras installed around your place tomorrow. If he visits you again, we’ll know.”
She shook her head, hard and fast. “No, that’s not what I meant. We know he has a special rage for sex offenders. I can get you a list of all the sex perps I’ve prosecuted. Maybe we can head him off at the pass.”
Spinnelli nodded. “It’s a good start. And Kristen?”
Warily, she eyed him. “What?”
“Do you have a dog?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then I’d advise you to get one.”
“And make it big,” Mia added. “No cute puppies.”
“And make it a barker.” Jack bared his teeth. “With sharp teeth.”
Kristen turned to Abe, one russet brow lifted. “Any more recommendations?”
He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Cerberus would give you a matched set and would get on well with Mephistopheles and Nostradamus.”
To his surprise she laughed. Not a chuckle, but a full, throaty laugh that went all the way up to her eyes. And listening, it was like he’d been slugged in the chest.
Thursday, February 19, 9:00 P.M.
Zoe topped off her wine, her bones finally warm after a soak in the tub. When she hit the big time, she was going someplace warm. To hell with Chicago in the dead of winter.
Dead. Her lips curved. Anthony Ramey was dead and CPD had a vigilante on their hands. And she, Zoe Richardson, had made the scoop.
Mayhew will be furious, she thought gleefully. How very marvelous. Zoe carefully removed the tape from the VCR. This piece was definitely a keeper. She’d neatly printed half the date on the label when she was startled by loud banging on her front door. Eyeing the peephole, she felt the smallest bit alarmed, but quickly dismissed it.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t say a word. She could and would expose him. He was putty in her hands. She opened the door, feigning her surprised doe look. “I wasn’t expecting you. Didn’t you get my message canceling tonight?”
He pushed open the door and closed it hard before grabbing her shoulders even harder. His face was dark and angry, a vein throbbing at his temple. Excitement shivered down to her toes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, shaking her.
She blinked, even as her mouth watered. Who would have guessed he’d had it in him? “What do you mean?”
“This is Zoe Richardson, reporting,” he mimicked nastily. He shook her again. “What the fucking hell are you doing?”
“You’re hurting me.” Instantly he released her, but his chest still heaved like a bellows. She met his eyes, all pretense gone. “I am doing my job. I am a reporter. I report the news.”
“Don’t treat me like one of your imbecilic groupies,” he snarled. “I know you are a reporter. But why follow Mayhew? Do you have any concept of the trouble you’ll cause?”
With a careless shrug she retrieved her wineglass. “That’s not my problem. Would you like some wine? It’s a wonderful Chardonnay.”
He was looking at her as if she’d gone insane. “You don’t care, do you? You don’t care that you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest that could ruin my career.”
She hoped her smile was sincere. “I simply don’t see the connection between your job and mine.” Of course there was a connection. She was counting on it. She approached him, well aware of the way the silk draped over her skin, scented from her bath. Of the way the silk parted to reveal just enough cleavage to make his eyes drop, flash, and burn. “Don’t pout, darling.” She lifted herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his hard mouth. Felt his shoulders soften, just a little. Felt him harden elsewhere, quite a lot.
Like taking candy from a baby. Men were so wonderfully predictable.
“You knew I was a reporter before you managed to be introduced to me.” She’d been the one to manage an introduction to him, but letting him believe he was the aggressor was part of the charade. She touched her tongue to the corner of his mouth, felt him shudder. “I reported on Mayhew for months before you met me and will continue to do so after you grow tired of me and go back to your wife.” She kissed him, the briefest nibble. “So how is she?”
His hand slipped under her robe, against the bare skin of her back. “Who?” he murmured, lowering his head for more.
“Your wife, darling,” she purred.
“Most likely she’s asleep.” His other hand toyed with the ties between her breasts. “And once she’s asleep, she doesn’t wake until morning.”
Zoe blindly set the wineglass on the lamp table and reached over his shoulder to flip the deadbolt on her front door. “Excellent.”
Chapter Eight
Thursday, February 19, 9:00 P.M.
Adjusting her rearview mirror, Kristen cautiously looked both ways before exiting the parking garage, feeling alone and very vulnerable. Looking over her shoulder, wondering if he was following. And if he wasn’t, where was he, what he was doing? Who was next for his vigilante justice? Her hands gripped the steering wheel and she squinted at the
onslaught of headlights coming in her direction. So many people, most engaged in perfectly legal pursuits. But for every twenty who were honest citizens, there was one who was not.
The sum total of that one in twenty was enough to keep her gainfully employed for the rest of her life. She blew out a breath, watched it turn to vapor, then disappear. He was out there, somewhere, hunting for the one in twenty.
And for some reason, he brought the fruit of his labors to her.
Fruit of his labors. “I’m starting to sound like him,” she murmured. “All pomp and circumstance.” She bit her lip, glanced up to her rearview mirror once again. With teeth. Their humble servant was pomp and circumstance with very sharp teeth.
Which made her think of Jack’s funny face as he’d urged her to get a dog with sharp teeth, and it made her smile. They’d tried so hard to lighten her mood, to lessen her fear. They’d walked her to her rental car, all of them. Mia and Jack and Marc. And Reagan. She couldn’t forget about Reagan. With his intense blue eyes and dry wit. Cerberus. She chuckled out loud. The three-headed guardian of the gates of Hell. How apropos. Maybe she would get a dog at that. This weekend, perhaps. A dog that barked, wasn’t cute, and had big sharp teeth. That didn’t eat cats.
She entertained herself with the notion all the way home, but when she pulled into her driveway, the lighthearted thoughts fled, leaving her staring at her own house with dread.
He could be anywhere. Anger mixed with the dread, fury that her fear had her still sitting in her driveway. She was afraid in her own home. Dammit.
A knock on her car window nearly sent her though the roof. With her hand on her racing heart she turned to find Reagan’s frowning face. He twirled his fingers and she rolled down the window, shuddering from the cold blast of frigid air.
“It’s ten below out here,” he hissed, mindful of the darkened windows up and down the street. “If he doesn’t get you, you’ll die of exposure.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It was warm in the car.”
“Well, I’m freezing my keister off out here. Give me your keys.”
“Excuse me?”
He shoved his gloved hand through the open window, palm up. “Give me your keys and I’ll check your closets. Dammit, Kristen, hurry up.”
She yanked her keys from the ignition and slapped them in his palm. “I didn’t ask you to come.” But she was suddenly, fiercely glad he had. Cursing her unsteady legs, she followed him up the sidewalk.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered. “You should have a spotlight by your door.”
“I did,” she muttered back, wincing as he missed the keyhole and the key skittered across the door she’d so painstakingly painted last fall. “The neighbors complained it was keeping them awake and signed a petition to make me get rid of it.”
He pulled a flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat, shone it on the lock, and unlocked the door to the kitchen. “Your neighbors need to get a life.” He waited for her to follow him inside before closing the door. “Disarm the alarm, then stay here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He threw a lopsided grin over his shoulder at her caustic reply and her heart took off at a canter once again. Not with fear this time. Not the same kind of fear anyway. But just as fast and just as hard. She watched as he drew his weapon and his grin faded. “Stay here,” he repeated, softly this time. “I mean it.”
“I’m not stupid,” she muttered to the empty kitchen. To keep herself occupied she fed the cats, then busied herself with the teapot, willing her hands not to rattle the china.
Her tea was steeped and poured and he still hadn’t returned. She tiptoed to the archway to the dining room and peered out. Just as he had the night before, he’d left every light blazing in his wake. She’d grumbled about her electric bill the night before, but made no move to turn off a single light. She suspected tonight would be much the same.
Behind her the door opened and slammed shut and Kristen swallowed a shriek just as his deep voice rumbled through her kitchen. “Damn, it’s cold.”
She turned to find Reagan stamping his snow-covered feet. “Don’t scare me like that.”
Abe looked up, his expression grim. She stood still as stone, holding a fragile china teacup so tightly it seemed fused to her hands. She still wore her winter coat, buttoned up to her neck even though her kitchen was warm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He tossed her keys to the countertop and more carefully put her laptop bag beside them. “I closed your car window and locked it up.”
She drew a deep breath. “Thank you. What took you so long?”
He slipped his flashlight in his overcoat pocket. “I used the basement door to get to the backyard and did a lap around the house.”
“And?”
His lips thinned. “Somebody was here. There’s a set of fresh footprints in the snow up by your basement windows. What’s in the little shed out back?”
“It’s the detached garage, but I use it for storage. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just curious. That’s one hell of a padlock for a storage shed. Somebody might think you’ve got valuables in there.”
Her smile was shaky, and totally false. Now that he’d seen the real thing, heard her truly laugh, he recognized all the other smiles for the frauds they’d been. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” she said lightly. Which of course meant she had no intention of telling him what she’d stored in the shed. The realization stung a little. She lifted her cup. “Can I pour you some tea?”
Abe looked down at her for a moment. She was trying. She was uncomfortable having him here in her kitchen, of that he was certain, but she was making an honest attempt at hospitality. He should leave her in peace, allow her to get what would obviously be much needed rest, but somehow he couldn’t make himself leave.
He wanted to hear her laugh again, so much it was almost a palpable ache.
“Sure. Maybe it’ll warm me up.” He sat down at her table and pulled at his gloves and scarf. “Aren’t you going to take off your coat?”
She looked down, as if surprised she was still wearing it. Awkwardly she shrugged out of it, laying it across one of the chairs, but made no move to take off the jacket of her dark charcoal suit. “Thank you for following me home.” She concentrated on pouring tea into a big mug, totally at odds with her fragile little cup. “I was scared to come inside by myself and that made me mad, so I took it out on you.” She looked up, met his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He tilted his head, studying her as she placed his mug on the table in front of him. She didn’t look away while apologizing and he respected that. “It’s okay. I’m used to women getting mad and taking it out on me. I have two sisters. Sit, please.”
She sat self-consciously and he wondered if she was always so ill at ease in her own home, or if being stalked by a homicidal vigilante was a special cause.
“Annie and Rachel, right?”
He nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. “And two brothers. Aidan and Sean.” He blew on his tea, enjoying the feel of the warm mug between his cold hands. “Aidan’s also a cop. So was my dad before he retired. And all of his friends.”
Her eyes sharpened. “I understand now. I’m sorry if you thought I was singling out police as potential suspects. I would have added John’s staff from the beginning, if I’d thought of it, but I’m so accustomed to doing things by myself.” She pressed her fingertips against her nape, massaging her neck. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I was too sensitive.” His lips quirked up. “In some households IA is the postal code for Iowa. In my house ‘Internal Affairs’ was worse than the worst four-letter word.”
She smiled, small, but real. “Well, I’m glad that misunderstanding’s out of the way.” Her eyes sobered. “But you do realize the chances of him being a cop are higher now that we know he’s a marksman.”
Abe nodded. “I know. I think I knew it this morning, but that a cop could go bad isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.” S
he massaged her nape again and he tightened his fingers around the warm mug to keep from taking over the task. “Just let it down.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
He sipped at his tea. “Let your hair down. Those pins are giving you a headache. Besides, it isn’t like I haven’t seen it down before, and you are in your own house now.”
After a moment’s hesitation she did, pulling out a handful of pins, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. Well, fall was the wrong word, he thought. It boinged, like so many springs, sending fiery curls in every which direction. He chuckled into his tea, imagining she’d be none too pleased with his thoughts.
“What?”
Her face relaxed as her fingers threaded through her curls and Abe tightened his fingers around his mug, wondering if her curls were soft or coarse, knowing that the scent of her hair would linger on his hands if he was ever brave enough to find out. Instead he shook his head. “You’ll be mad.”
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “What, little Orphan Annie? Looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket? I’ve heard them all before.”
“I like it.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected him of lying but was too polite to voice it aloud. “Thank you.”
They were quiet for a few minutes, then, sipping their tea in the absolute quiet of her kitchen and Abe wondered if there was ever noise in Kristen Mayhew’s house. His own parents’ house had been so noisy that he’d often yearned for quiet, but the silence in Kristen’s house was oppressive. Despite her efforts to renovate room by room, the house had an empty feeling. “How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“About two years.” She looked around fondly. “It’s been fun making this place over.”
“You do good work,” he said and she smiled in genuine pleasure. “My sister Annie has her own interior design business. She’d love the challenge of an old place like this.”
“It was built in 1903. I uncover hand-carved wood in every room I redo, but I haven’t even contemplated the kitchen yet. I’ve kind of been waiting for one of the appliances to die so I have a good excuse to buy new ones. But I don’t cook often, so the oven’s safe, and the refrigerator seems to be immortal.”