by Karen Rose
Kristen had said nothing since during the questioning. Now she bent over and touched the man’s shoulder. “What time did you get home, Mr. Littleton?”
He looked up, narrowed his red eyes. “What are you talking about?”
His wife sighed wearily. “You know what she’s talking about, Les. He got home about one-thirty.” She glanced up at Abe. “Les and Nadine Littleton.”
“Was the note there then, Mr. Littleton?” Kristen asked.
“Yes.” Littleton turned away. There was more, Abe knew it.
“Did you see anyone deliver it?” Kristen pressed, but gently.
Littleton hesitated, then nodded. “He slid the envelope through the mail slot.”
Abe waited, but the man said nothing more. “And? What did he look like?”
Littleton shrugged tightly. “Dressed in black. Average height. Nothing else.”
“A car?” Kristen touched his shoulder again. “Please, Mr. Littleton.”
“White van. That’s all I know.”
Kristen straightened. “Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Mrs. Littleton? You can start on whereabouts,” she murmured to Abe. “We’ll be right back.”
As she led Mrs. Littleton into the kitchen, he turned back to the group. To a couple they all swore they were at home with each other on the night in question. Kristen returned with Mrs. Littleton and pulled on her gloves.
“I have the Littletons’ whereabouts, Detective Reagan.”
He shot her a puzzled glance, then closed his notepad and bagged the five envelopes on the table. “I’d like to ask you all not to speak to the press.”
“And if we do?” Reston asked.
Abe sighed. “It’s your right, of course. But Zoe Richardson isn’t interested in anything more than a sound bite. You kept your kids’ names out of this the first time. I hope your priorities are still in the right place.” He left them with that and he and Kristen walked back to the SUV in silence. When they were both buckled in, he started the engine. “I’m waiting.”
She sighed. “Mr. Littleton has developed a drinking problem since the trial. He was arrested a few months ago for a bar fight. Mrs. Littleton came to me and asked me to help.”
“That must have been hard for her to do.”
One russet brow lifted wryly. “You have no idea. Anyway, I worked with the ASA on the case to plead Littleton down to a lesser misdemeanor with probation and participation in a sobriety program. I just guessed he was out drinking last night. Mrs. Littleton gave me the name of the bar and the cab service that brought him home. Maybe the cab driver saw something. Mr. Littleton was also out the night of King’s disappearance. He was at the bar until the cab brought him home.” She looked away, back up at the Restons’ house. “I didn’t see the need to make him air his problems in front of the others.”
Abe put the SUV in gear. “Well, I’ve learned a few things here.”
Her face was still turned to the window. “Such as?”
“Our boy drives a white van, goes for the trite statement in black evening wear, delivered the notes sometime between one-thirty and three A.M., and …” He waited until she met his eyes. Warily.
“And?”
“And you are a very kind person, Kristen Mayhew.”
Her eyes widened in undisguised surprise and her cheeks reddened, but she didn’t look away and the moment stretched on, Abe suddenly aware of the quickening of her breath. It matched the beating of his own heart. She swallowed hard, her whisper coming out husky. Incredibly sexy. “Thank you, Abe.”
His eyes dropped to her slightly parted lips, then lower to where her pulse fluttered at the hollow of her throat. And because the air was undeniably charged and because she pulled her full lower lip between her teeth and especially because getting back to work was absolutely the last thing on his mind, Abe resolutely turned in his seat and pulled the SUV away from the curb. “You’re welcome.”
Friday, February 20, 1:00 P.M.
Zoe was seething, even the information she’d managed to pull from a technician inside the ME’s office a bitter victory. Here they sat, in front of the courthouse waiting for the queen to emerge from hiding. Dammit. “I can’t believe you lost them.”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “I said I was sorry every one of the ten times you said that. You think you can keep up with a cop who doesn’t want to be followed, fine. You drive next time and I’ll shove a mike down some poor bastard’s throat.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. At least she had the name of the cop from the license plates on his SUV. Detective Abe Reagan. A call into Records revealed he was career CPD with a cop family and a dead wife. He’d look good on tape. Great profile, and those linebacker’s shoulders. Mmm. Made her envious of Mayhew sitting in his passenger seat. “Well, she’s got to come back sometime.”
Scott squirmed, impatient from the waiting. “You got the names of the bodies they pulled up yesterday. Why don’t you get film of that?”
It was true. One small indiscretion after an office holiday party had given her an eternal fountain of information inside the ME’s office. It was amazing what men would do to keep their wives from learning about their flings. She figured she’d earned it. She still shuddered at the thought of being touched by hands that routinely cut up dead people. So now she knew there were three crimes vindicated by Kristen’s vigilante and five dead bodies in the morgue and their names. She could have gotten film of the families of the children killed by the Blade Trio, but she didn’t want to miss getting film of Mayhew’s face when she popped the question of the day.
“Well?” Scott demanded. “We going to the house with the dead little kids or not?”
“Not,” Zoe snapped. Then she straightened in her seat as Detective Reagan’s SUV pulled up in front of the courthouse. “Showtime, Scott. Let’s go.”
She waited until Kristen was out of the SUV and halfway up the courthouse steps before jumping from the car, Scott at her heels, tape rolling. She stepped into Kristen’s path and took great pleasure in the way the woman’s eyes flashed in anger.
“No comment, Richardson,” she ground out. She moved up a step, but Zoe headed her off smoothly while making it look as graceful as a dance step. It was a gift.
“I haven’t asked the question yet, Counselor.”
“But you will.”
“I will. How about now?” she pulled the mike close to her own mouth. “Can you confirm you now have five murders, ASA Mayhew?”
Mayhew’s eyes widened in momentary shock, then narrowed. “No comment.” She started walking, Zoe keeping up step for step, Scott catching the whole dance on film.
“Is it true that the killer has sent you personal letters, offering the murders as a gift?”
Mayhew stopped abruptly, her mouth drawn in a tight line. “No comment.” But the abrupt halt had said it all. She darted up the steps and Zoe let her go with one last jab, shouting her final question at Mayhew’s retreating back.
“He signed the notes to Ramey’s victims ‘Your Humble Servant.’ Is that how your letters were signed, ASA Mayhew?”
Kristen stopped and turned, now completely composed. “Perhaps you didn’t comprehend me the first three times. No comment, Miss Richardson.”
“Keep rolling,” Zoe commanded, and Scott kept rolling until Kristen had disappeared inside the courthouse.
Scott lowered the camera. “How did you know she personally got letters?”
Zoe smiled serenely. “I’m good, Scottie. And don’t you forget it.”
Friday, February 20, 1:30 P.M.
The words on the pages in front of her blurred. She hadn’t read a single word.
It just wasn’t fair.
Kristen bit her lip. How many times had she heard that phrase in the five years since she’d joined the State’s Attorney’s Office? Too many times from too many victims, which most of the time didn’t make it any less true. How many times had she said it herself? Not recently, she had to admit. At least not when it came to
her own life.
Which right now well and truly sucked.
But her life had been worse. A couple of times. Seriously worse. Even so, she wasn’t one to complain. She kept her personal life personal. So why today? Damn. She clenched her teeth, dabbing at her lip with the tissue. Whatever possessed her to say that to Reagan? They never, ever forget. Am I freaking insane? She closed her eyes, looked away from her desk as if that would erase the image of Reagan’s shocked eyes from her mind. Of the sound of his voice when he called her name. Like he knew. Or the look later, after the Restons’ house. He’d looked at her with those blue eyes, bright as the center of a gas flame.
He’d called her a nice person.
God. If he only knew. Really, truly knew.
He’d wanted more. The way his gaze had heated, the way the air had grown so charged it chased goosebumps up and down her arms, shivers up and down her back.
She’d been called a number of things, but naive generally wasn’t one of them. Frigid, yes. Ice Queen, yes. Naive, not lately. Reagan had considered kissing her. Right there in front of the Restons’ house.
She huffed an empty, mirthless chuckle. If he only knew. He’d run so fast—
He’d thought about kissing her. And for one insane moment, she’d wondered how it would feel having him touch her, wondered if his lips were hard or soft, wondered how it would feel to put her arms around his strong neck and hold on. Tight.
For that one insane moment, she’d considered kissing him back. Perhaps that was what had her so shaken.
“Kristen, you have a visitor.”
She jerked around to find Lois standing in her doorway, looking concerned. Kristen drew a careful breath and glanced down at her Day Timer. Her calendar was free for another fifteen minutes.
“Can you have them come back later this afternoon?” After the press conference. After Richardson blew the roof off their case in front of every microphone in Chicago. I should’ve told Reagan, she thought. I should’ve prepared him. It was the least she could do for the man who thought she was a nice person. Hah. “I’m kind of busy now.”
“No, it can’t wait.” Owen stepped around Lois holding a large paper bag. “You didn’t come by for lunch.”
Kristen sat back in her chair in weary relief. She gestured to the stack of folders on her desk. “Too much paperwork.”
Owen frowned his displeasure. “Paperwork is no reason to skip lunch, Kristen. I brought you some beef stew.” He put the bag on her desk and lifted his bushy brows. “With some cherry pie for dessert.”
She looked up at him with a smile. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
He looked stern. “What trouble? I dished some stew in a plastic bowl and walked a few blocks. Besides, I had a few other orders here in the building.” From the bag he pulled a plastic bowl, placing it in front of her. “I saw that Richardson woman on the news last night.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I caught the end of it.”
Owen frowned. “Is it true, what she said? That there’s a vigilante killer out there?”
Kristen pulled the lid from the bowl. It smelled wonderful. “Now, Owen, you know I couldn’t tell you anything whether I knew anything or not.” She looked up, tried for a grin that fell miserably flat. “Can I still eat the stew?”
He didn’t smile back. “I’ve been watching the news all morning, Kristen. There’s been a lot of talk about vigilantes because of that Richardson woman’s account last night.”
Terrific. “So what’s the word on the street?”
His lips thinned. “That finally somebody’s taking a stand against crime in this town.”
Kristen winced. “So much for all this.” She gestured at the pile of reports. “I’ll have to remember that when ten o’clock rolls around tonight and I’m still here.”
“Things could get ugly, Kristen.” Owen zipped up his coat. “Me and Vincent are worried. We just want you to be careful.”
Just wait until Zoe airs her next report, Kristen thought. Ugly will take on a whole new meaning. “I always am, Owen. Thanks for lunch.”
Friday, February 20, 1:50 P.M.
Abe set a bag on his desk. “You hungry?”
Mia looked up, sniffing deeply. “Depends. What is it?”
“Gyros and burgers.” He peered into the bag. “And baklava.”
Mia licked her lips. “I take back every bad thing I said about you.”
Abe chuckled. “I doubt that.”
She chose a burger. “Did you get anything from the cabbie?”
“He said he saw a white van with a big flower on the side right after he dropped off Littleton early yesterday morning.”
Mia’s brows jumped. “A florist delivery van? Any name?”
“Said it had ‘flowers’ in the name,” Abe said dryly, unwrapping his gyro. He took a deep appreciative breath. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Well, that oughta narrow it down.”
“To 460 places in Greater Chicago. I already checked.”
“Did Jack find anything floral on the stuff from Kristen’s car?”
“Nope, and it bothered him. Jack thought that if the killer used a flower delivery van to transport the bodies or the crates, we would have found something on the clothes at least. Pollen or something.” He pointed to the faxed lists of Chicago area customers who’d purchased sandblasting equipment. “How’s it coming?”
Irritably, she pushed the papers away. “It would help if I knew what the hell I was looking for. There are hundreds of names here. I’ve got Todd Murphy helping run names for priors, but somehow I don’t think our guy’s been in trouble before.”
Abe was inclined to agree with her. “Well, let’s see if any of these people work in one of the florists in Chicago with ‘flower’ in the name. Give me a couple pages.”
She handed him a handful of paper, wincing when a loud shout came from Spinnelli’s office. “He’s not happy.”
Abe glanced over, saw Spinnelli pacing, holding a telephone to his ear and gesturing wildly. “What, stage fright over his press conference?” It was scheduled for three o’clock.
“Hell, no. He’s trying to explain to the captain how Richardson got the scoop.” She tilted her head, frowning when he just looked at her. “Oh, boy. I thought you knew.”
He felt a spear of sharp heat in his neck, a sure sign of stress. “Knew what?”
“Richardson knows that Kristen got letters, too, and that we’ve got five bodies in the morgue and their names. Apparently Richardson ambushed her going into the courthouse. Kristen called Spinnelli right after that. I thought she’d told you, too.”
His appetite disappeared. “No, she didn’t.” In fact, she hadn’t been able to get out of the SUV fast enough. The hours after they’d driven away from the Restons’ house had been awkward, to say the least. She’d pulled back into herself, saying nothing until they reached the house of the first child killed by the gang’s gunfire. Then it was all business. And not once did she call him Abe. They talked to the families of the slain children, endured more anger and accusation, retrieved two more letters from their humble servant, then he’d driven her back to the courthouse in silence, thick and heavy.
She hadn’t called him about Richardson, hadn’t trusted him. It hurt. But it had been interest he’d seen in her eyes, sitting there in front of the Restons’ house. Interest and heat. He’d been a heartbeat away from kissing her, right there in front of the Restons’ house, which would have been completely unacceptable. Unprofessional. Probably wonderful.
But she’d pulled away. She was afraid, he knew. So am I, he thought. But Kristen’s fear ran deeper and he was afraid to contemplate its source, because he thought he knew. And if he was right, they had one hell of a long row to hoe.
I have to be insane to even consider hoeing any rows with Kristen Mayhew, he thought. So why am I? Because she had pluck and courage. Green eyes and subtle curves. A quick mind and quiet grace. And a laugh that made him catch his breath.<
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Maybe it was just because she was a nice person. Maybe it didn’t have to be any more complicated than that Kristen Mayhew was a beautiful woman and a nice person.
Bullshit. It was way more complicated than that.
Mia finished her burger in thoughtful silence. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, then folded it into a tiny square. “I’ve known Kristen for a long time, probably about as well as anyone knows her,” she finally said. He looked up and saw understanding in Mia’s blue eyes and felt his cheeks heat. “But nobody really knows her that well,” she went on. “She’s always been a bit of a loner.” She frowned. “They call her the Ice Queen in the locker room, which is so totally unfair.”
Abe remembered the anguish in her eyes when the mother broke down in the Restons’ living room, how Kristen had never uttered a word in her own defense when the parents’ words had been cruelly accusing. The way she’d said the victims “never, ever forget” just before they’d gone in. No one who had seen what he’d seen could ever conceivably call her icy and cold.
“Yes, that is very unfair.” His voice was calm. Much calmer than he felt. Kristen Mayhew brought out something in him that he hadn’t felt in years, the fierce desire to protect, to take care of anyone that hurt her.
The killer felt the same way. The realization was sudden and clear. That’s why he’d targeted her for his gifts, why he watched her in her own home.
“The killer knows her,” he said.
Mia looked puzzled. “We know that.”
“No, he knows her. He’s seen her interact with the people, the victims.” The compassion, the anguish. “And he doesn’t hate her.”
“What do you mean?”
Abe leaned forward, intense. “I watched her with all these victims and their families for the last two days. They’re aloof at a minimum, hostile at the most extreme.”
“Like Stan Dorsey.”
“Yeah. But no one was warm, certainly not admiring.” Not even Les Littleton, who she’d gone out of her way to help and who still damned her in his pathetic misery.