by Karen Rose
“Annie would show these old appliances the door with no remorse. My mother fought her for years over redoing our kitchen at home, but Annie finally won. Mom complained every day the kitchen was out of her hands, but in the end she loved it.”
Kristen’s mouth curved, a little wistfully, he thought. “Your mom seems like a nice woman. Takes good care of her baby.”
“I’m not the baby,” he corrected. “That would be Rachel.”
She lifted a brow. “Ah, yes. Rachel that wants to be me. She’s thirteen?”
Abe shuddered dramatically. “Apparently so.”
“A bit of a late-life surprise, huh?”
“More like the shock of the century.” He grinned at her. “I remember us all being appalled to find our parents still did it at all.” She chuckled in answer, but said nothing and within a minute the quiet became suffocating once again. “How about you?” he found himself asking. “Family in the area?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He leaned forward slightly, waiting. “And?”
She leaned back, so slightly he was sure she didn’t realize she’d pulled away. She’d maintained her distance, consciously or not. “No, I don’t have any family here in Chicago.”
Abe frowned. Her tone had become flat, her eyes blank. “Where then? Kansas?”
Her eyes flashed at the mention of her home state and her teacup slowly lowered to the table. “No. Thank you for escorting me home, Detective Reagan. It’s been a long day for both of us.” She stood up, and irked, he would have done the same if he hadn’t seen her hands tremble just before she locked them behind her back. Still dressed in her dark suit and heels, he imagined this was how she stood in court, seemingly impervious.
With her hands trembling behind her back. So he kept his seat.
Yesterday she said she had no friends. Today, it was no family. It struck him that in both times he’d made a sweep through her house he’d seen no pictures, not a single personal memento, with the exception of the law school diplomas that hung over her desk. “Sit down, Kristen.” He pulled her chair closer to where she rigidly stood. “Please.”
Her jaw clenched and she looked away. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got to be exhausted.”
She shook her head and her curls bounced. “No, why is it so important to know about my family?”
“Because…it’s family.”
She turned to look at him and her eyes were no longer angry, but weary. “You’re close to your family, Detective?”
Detective. She seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was equally determined to see the wall she’d erected torn down. “I haven’t seen much of them over the past few years because of the job. But yes, we’re close. They’re my family.”
“Then I’m happy for you. Truly. But you should know that the majority of families aren’t close, tight-knit little units. The majority of families have problems.”
“You’re awfully young to be so jaded.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I’m a hell of a lot older than you think.”
He stood up then. “What I think is that you’re tired. Try to get some sleep.”
Her mouth twisted. “Sleep well, Kristen?” she mocked bitterly. “Somehow I don’t think so.” She lifted a hand when he opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“Don’t tell me to go to a hotel. This is my home. I will not let him make me leave.”
He picked up their cups and put them in the sink. “I wasn’t planning to. I was planning to offer to run to the drugstore and get you something to help you sleep.” She closed her eyes, one hand clutching the back of the chair.
“Why are you being so nice to me, Detective?”
It was a damn good question. Because she seemed so alone? Because he’d seen her scared and vulnerable when the face she showed everyone else was confident and brave? Because he wondered why there were no party dresses in her closet and no family pictures on her night-stand? Because he found her fascinating and couldn’t get her out of his mind? Because her laugh was like a sucker punch to his gut?
“I don’t know,” he answered grimly. “Why won’t you call me by my first name?”
Her eyes flew open, suddenly wary. “I…I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled on his coat, conscious of her eyes following the movements of his hands as he buttoned up. When he reached the button at his throat, her eyes rose to meet his and he could see she was still troubled by his question. Good, because he was troubled by hers as well. “I’ll swing by the courthouse tomorrow morning to pick you up. I’d like to visit the rest of the original victims before the families of our five dead guys make a connection with tonight’s report and contact your friend Richardson.”
At the mention of Richardson, her lips thinned. “I’ll be ready.”
Thursday, February 19, 10:30 P.M.
He was cold. Very cold. His hands ached and he glanced longingly at the fur-lined gloves sticking up out of his bag. Soon. For now he’d have to make do with the thin leather gloves. The warm gloves were so thick he couldn’t feel the trigger.
He wriggled a little on his stomach, trying to get comfortable on the hard concrete. Fought the urge to check his watch. No more than an hour could have passed since he arrived. He’d spent three times that long crouched in duck blinds on cold mornings waiting for feathered prey. He could wait a little longer for a prize infinitely more valuable.
He expected his guest to show at any moment. That Trevor Skinner wouldn’t show up hadn’t even entered his mind. The bait was entirely too enticing.
So enticing that even a man like Skinner would risk coming at night, to a place like this. He’d staked out this place weeks and weeks ago. Location, location, location, he thought. This one had it all. Deserted, dark alley. Commercial property. A two-story abandoned building with easy roof access. And a neighborhood bad enough to discourage anyone who actually did hear anything from coming out to investigate.
He heard the car before he saw it pull around the corner, headlights dimmed. He watched, silently waiting as Skinner stepped out of his Cadillac. He dipped his head, checked the sight. Ensured it was the man he sought.
It was.
Quickly he dropped the sight to Skinner’s knees and pumped the trigger—once, twice—and Skinner went down with a scream. Just as King had. He felt the surge of triumph, dismissed it, his eye still on the sight, still on Skinner so when Skinner’s hand moved, he pumped again. Skinner’s hand went flying in an arc to the pavement, empty. He’d been going for something in his coat pocket, but he wasn’t any longer.
He waited another half minute until he was satisfied Skinner wasn’t moving. Quickly he gathered his things, including his shell casings, wincing as they burned his hand. The police were going to catch up to him sooner or later, but he didn’t intend to make it any easier for them than he had to. In another minute he was at street level, stowing his gear in the small hidden compartment in the back of his van. Again, the cops would find it if they looked hard enough, but a passing glance revealed nothing but the hollow inside of a delivery van. Now he did check his watch— so that he could time the rest of the act. Lifting from the back of the van the platform on rolling casters that he’d made just for this purpose. Lowering the ramp. Rolling platform to the mark, sliding the writhing body onto the platform, click, click, buckling him down. Seat belts saved lives, he thought, patently ignoring Skinner’s moaned insistence to know who he was. Skinner’s weak curses of retribution made him smile.
No, if anyone would have retribution this night, it was to be himself. And the young woman whose brutal rape went unpunished a year ago. Renee Dexter.
And, of course, Leah.
He rolled the platform up the ramp into the van on top of the thick plastic he’d laid down. Bloodstains were so difficult to remove from carpet fibers, and the police had ways of detecting trace amounts even after a carpet had been thoroughly cleaned.
As a final step, he patted down Skinner’s pockets, retrieving a set of keys, an electronic organizer, and a gun that looked more like a water pistol than a real firearm.
“Why… why are you… doing this?” Skinner demanded, his face a contorted mask of agony. “Take…my wallet… please… just…let me… go.”
He chuckled, closed the van doors, pocketed the organizer, and tossed Skinner’s keys onto the front seat of the Cadillac. Left with the keys in view, the car would be gone by dawn.
He checked his watch a final time. Less than seven minutes for the whole second act. King had been eight minutes twenty. He was improving.
Thursday, February 19, 10:30 P.M.
From his car Abe stared up at his apartment building, at the dark concrete that seemed to loom into the sky. In reality it was only a twenty-story building. His apartment was on the seventeenth floor. He had a bed, a recliner chair, and a television set. With cable—250 channels. He hadn’t turned the television on in more than six months. It was an empty shell, a place he came to sleep.
He sighed, the sound rife with frustration. He didn’t have pictures of family in his place, either. They were all in boxes, in storage. He’d put them there himself the day before he’d transferred the keys to the house to its new owners. The house he’d bought with Debra, with the swingset in the yard and the nursery Debra had just started to decorate in baby blue.
Kristen Mayhew had her little shed in the backyard.
He had the Chicagoland U-Store-It in Melrose Park. I am a first-class hypocrite.
He glanced at the clock on his dash, then at the empty bowls on his passenger seat. His mom stayed up late sometimes, usually when Aidan or his dad were pulling night patrols. Or me, he thought, remembering all the times he’d dropped by for breakfast after his shift to find her dozing in her favorite chair, the movie she’d started watching long since over.
Without another glance up, he backed out of his space. Twenty minutes later he pulled into his parents’ driveway. Sure enough, the light was still on and his key still worked in the front door. It had been a long time since he’d let himself in after midnight, before he and Debra were married. Sure enough, his mom was dozing in her favorite chair. Some things truly didn’t change. He put the empty bowls in the kitchen sink, then covered his mother up with an afghan. She stirred, then jerked awake, her eyes widening at the sight of him.
“What’s wrong?”
He crouched down. “Nothing. I needed to bring back the bowls.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It could have waited till Sunday. What’s wrong?”
He took her hand, linked his fingers through hers. “Nothing. I just missed you.”
She smiled, squeezed his hand. “I missed you, too. How was your meeting?”
“Busy. Your cabbage casserole was a big hit.”
“Good. Nobody teased you about your mommy bringing dinner?”
He grinned. “Hell, no. They want you to join the team.”
She grinned back, then her expression went sly. “So… what about Miss Mayhew?”
Abe went for obtuse even though he knew exactly what she meant. “She got there too late to try the casserole. Mia had eaten everything but the vegetables.”
His mother shook her head. “Not what I meant. She’s pretty. Smart, too.”
He should have known her sharp eyes had missed none of his and Kristen’s exchange. “Yes, she is, Mom.”
“You didn’t like it when she ignored you.”
She knew him so well. “No, I didn’t.”
Her face settled to serene. “Do you want me to fix you a snack?”
He pulled her to her feet. “No, I want you to go to bed.”
She grimaced. “Your father snores.”
“I do not.” Kyle Reagan appeared, scratching his broadening belly.
“He does, too!” The scornful shout came from behind Rachel’s closed bedroom door.
“What’re you doing awake this time of night, young lady?” his father demanded.
Rachel stuck her head out the door and Abe blinked at the sight of his baby sister in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. She had grown up. My God. She’s only thirteen and she looks seventeen. He wondered if his father had cleaned his gun recently. She’d done something different with her dark hair and there were traces of smudged mascara around her blue eyes, which were rolling in a display of great patience. “Like I could sleep with all this noise,” she said. “Not.” She eyed Abe carefully. “Hiya, Abe. Good to have you back.”
She wanted something. That much hadn’t changed in the last year. “Hi, Rach.”
“So can you get me an interview or not?”
Abe blinked again. “With who?”
“Whom,” Rachel corrected archly, and it was Abe’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Whatever. With whom?”
“With Kristen Mayhew. Mom says the two of you are tight.”
Abe winced at the idea. “You want to interview Kristen Mayhew, like with a camera?”
“No, not like with a camera. Like with a pencil. We have to do a project on the career we want and interview somebody who’s doing it. I want to be a lawyer. Miss Mayhew is a lawyer.”
“Damn lawyers,” Kyle grumbled. “Cops arrest ’em, lawyers in suits let ’em go.”
Rachel shook her head. “Not this lawyer, Daddy. She has the highest conviction rate in her office.” She lifted eyebrows that Abe sworn hadn’t been that severely tweezed last time he’d been home. “So? Can you get me an interview or not?”
I can’t even get her to call me by my first name, Abe thought. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I can ask.”
“She spoke last year at the University of Chicago Law Commencement,” Rachel said and Kyle disappeared into the kitchen, still grumbling about lawyers.
Abe had trouble picturing that. “She did?”
Rachel nodded vigorously, her dangling earrings dancing wildly. “I did an Internet search and found her speech in one of the university’s newsletters. She said that mentoring young people was one of the greatest things the graduating class could do to keep the pipeline full of diverse talent.”
“She did?”
Rachel rolled her eyes again and Abe caught his mother smothering a grin. “What, is there an echo in here?” Rachel asked, sounding just like their father. “Yes, she did. So I’ll bet she’d just love to help a young person like me.” Her face softened into a winsome smile that he’d never been able to deny. “Please, Abe, pretty please?”
Abe exhaled helplessly. “I’ll ask her, Rach. But don’t be disappointed if she says no. She’s a busy lady.”
Rachel tilted her head forward conspiratorially. “I bet you could invite her over for Sunday dinner. Mom’s making a great big ham. Everybody’s got to eat.”
“No. No. No.” Abe scowled, but not at the thought of looking at Kristen’s face across his mother’s table. That would be no hardship at all. His scowl was for the withering look of disdain she’d give him when she rejected his invitation. “Did I say no?”
Rachel’s face fell. “Well, ask her about the interview. I’d get an A for sure.”
“I’ll ask.”
“I think it’s way past time you were in bed, sweetie,” Becca said and Rachel frowned, but obeyed, first lifting on her tiptoes to kiss Abe’s cheek.
“I’m glad you came,” she whispered. “Even if you can’t get me an interview.”
He kissed her forehead. She was a good kid, all in all. “Me too, squirt. Now go to bed. You’re going to fall asleep in school tomorrow.”
His mother slipped her arm around his waist as Rachel’s door closed. “She was so excited to hear you knew Miss Mayhew. I told her to wait to ask you, but you know how she is. The bed in your old room is made up, Abe. If you want to sleep here, I’ll make you waffles for breakfast. From scratch, not those disgusting frozen things.”
“You never make me waffles from scratch,” Kyle complained from the kitchen.
; “You don’t need waffles from scratch,” his mother shot back. “You’re on a diet.”
Abe had to grin at his father’s muffled muttering. “No, Mom, I need to be in the office early tomorrow. I just wanted to see you tonight.”
With a sigh she walked him to the door. “You’re still coming over on Sunday?”
“Unless something really important comes up on this case, I’ll be here.”
Friday, February 20, 1:00 A.M.
“Why?”
It was an agonized cry, and no less than the bastard deserved. He spared a cool glance. “Renee Dexter.”
Skinner twisted his head to follow him as he gathered his tools, eyes widening in terror. “Who?”
He stopped. Turned his full attention on Skinner’s pathetic form, still strapped down. His bleeding had slowed, his Armani suit was soaked. It would be the most expensive clothing he’d packed into a crate up until now. Skinner hovered on the brink of consciousness, holding on with an effort. “You truly don’t remember her, do you?”
“No. Dammit. Where…am I?” Skinner gasped. “Who are you?”
He turned away, ignoring Skinner’s line of questioning. “Renee Dexter was a college student, driving home from her part-time job at the campus library.” He opened a drawer, studied its contents. “She had car trouble, and no cell phone to call for help.” He made his choice and held it up for Skinner to see before placing it on the table next to him, gratified when Skinner’s eyes went glassy with fear. “Do you remember her yet?”
“Oh, God,” Skinner moaned, twisting, trying to escape. “You’re insane. Insane.”
He considered it. “Perhaps. God will be the judge of that, I suppose.” He rolled a cart holding a vise across the room, positioning it at Skinner’s head. Adjusted the grips of the vise on either side of Skinner’s skull and twisted the knobs. Skinner moaned.
“Renee Dexter was terrified.” His voice hardened. “Nineteen years old and terrified. A car stopped and two clean-cut young men got out and she drew an easier breath. She’d been afraid of thugs, of criminals, but fate had been kind and sent two nice young men her way.” He twisted the knobs once more and Skinner began to sob. “Unfortunately, they were not nice young men, Mr. Skinner. When the police found Renee Dexter the next morning, she was weaving through traffic on foot, her clothes torn. They thought she was drunk, but she wasn’t. Is your memory improving now, Mr. Skinner?”