by Karen Rose
Watching Skinner’s eyes, so horrified. The way Skinner tried to struggle, gasping and gurgling at the very end. And he’d felt pleasure.
Was it wrong? Would God be displeased?
No, he told himself. God’s people often were commanded to kill and afterward, celebrated. There was precedent. Even Skinner would have appreciated precedent.
He stood up to go to the computer when the flickering television caught his eye. He’d been watching it all day, off and on. Watching for mention of himself, gauging public response. He was ahead in the polls if the public demonstration at the courthouse had been any indication, he thought, then stilled when Zoe Richardson filled the screen.
He hated that woman. She was vile also, prancing around, portraying Kristen as an incompetent. He was glad Reagan had taken her videotape earlier this evening. If Reagan hadn’t, he would have done it himself. He sat down, grabbing for the remote and turned up the sound. Richardson was interviewing that murderer, Angelo Conti. “So what was your reaction when you learned of the ‘Humble Servant’?” Richardson asked and Conti swaggered in place.
“I wasn’t too surprised,” Conti replied.
Richardson tilted her platinum blonde head. “Why were you not surprised, Angelo?”
“The way she went after me, like she was crazy or something. I was innocent.”
“Actually, the jury was undecided, Angelo. ASA Mayhew could try you again.”
Angelo’s face flushed dark red. “Yeah, and she’ll lose again. She’s incompetent, you know? That’s why she hired this guy. She can’t win, so she takes the fight outside.”
Richardson looked taken aback. “Are you suggesting that ASA Mayhew somehow hired this vigilante to kill the people she was unable to convict? Like a hit man?”
His stomach roiled as Richardson’s accusation rolled from the television. “No,” he whispered, his hand clenching the medallion around his neck. “It wasn’t like that.”
Angelo Conti shrugged. “Call it what you like. I’d just like to see somebody checking her financial records the way she’s checked mine.”
“An interesting perspective.” Richardson turned back to the camera. “This is Zoe Richardson in Chicago.”
He switched off the television, trembling. He looked at the name on the paper he’d drawn from the fishbowl. It would have to wait. He had another target to eliminate first.
Friday, February 20, 10:30 P.M.
“Where’s Spinnelli?” Jack grumbled. “I wanna open the box.”
Abe’s smile was wry. Jack sounded like a little kid on Christmas morning. “He’ll be here soon. You’ll have all day tomorrow to analyze what he’s left this time.”
Jack grunted. “Where’s Mia? I would have thought she’d want front-row tickets to this.”
“She had a date. I called her to tell her Kristen was all right, but when I called her a half hour later, her phone was turned off.”
Jack huffed. “Well, at least one of us will be smiling tomorrow.”
Kristen looked up from her seat at the end of the kitchen table. She’d changed into a sweat suit, but her hair was still fiercely pinned to her head and Abe fought the urge to release her curls, knowing it was likely the last semblance of control she possessed.
“Why should Mia be any happier than the rest of us?” she asked. Then her eyes widened as she caught Jack’s meaning, and her face blushed a pretty pink. “Never mind.”
Jack grinned. “Sorry, Kristen.” Then sobered. “You know there won’t be a hell of a lot to analyze tomorrow. He wasn’t even here, we know that.”
They did. The bastard must have seen the cameras because the surveillance tape showed only a young boy delivering the box. They had a good picture of the kid’s face and of the name of his high school on his letter jacket, so they could find him pretty easily.
Nevertheless, Jack’s team was currently dusting Kristen’s front porch for prints and combing every square inch of her front yard for anything that might have been left behind. A call to her neighbors revealed the box had been there when they got home from work at five o’clock, and beyond that, nobody had seen anybody.
Jack pointed at the box. “Let’s just open it, okay?”
Abe sighed. “Okay. Go for it.”
Jack had already covered Kristen’s kitchen table with white paper. “I don’t expect to find any prints on this box either, but you never know. Here goes.” He sliced open the box and pulled out an envelope. And sat down hard in his chair. “Dear God.”
Kristen jumped to her feet, wincing. “What?”
Jack looked up, every ounce of color drained from his face. “It’s Trevor Skinner.”
“Oh, no.” Kristen sank back down, her face white as the paper on the table. “I was afraid of this,” she whispered. “He’s added defense attorneys to his target list.”
Abe reached for the envelope in Jack’s trembling hand. He’d heard of the man by reputation only. A real piece of work. “Did you know him well?”
She nodded, stunned. “We butted heads quite a few times. He was ruthless. I hated being in the same courtroom with him. He was merciless to the victims, pounding away until they were… nothing.” She pressed her fingertips against her lips. “I can’t believe this.”
Abe shook the envelope’s contents on the table, found the letter. “ ‘My dearest Kristen, I am so glad the proverbial cat is now out of the bag. I hope you’ve taken comfort knowing these monsters are dead. I’ll continue for as long as I’m able. By now you’re probably wondering why I’m doing this, why I’ve set out on this mission to rid the city of the festering filth that roams its streets. Suffice it to say that I have my reasons. I’ve watched Mr. Trevor Skinner at work in the courtroom, the way he so skillfully turned opinion away from the victim, often rendering them incapable of speaking on their own behalf.’ ” Abe paused and looked up at Kristen.
“Yes, that’s very true. I would object and object, but he never stopped. He’s a favorite among the defendants with money. He could make a victim look worse than the accused. The rape cases were so painful.” Her lips quivered and she pursed them. “He made those women feel so worthless and dirty,” she finished on a whisper, met his eyes, hers shiny and wet. “I’m sorry he’s murdered, Abe, but I’m glad he can never do that to a woman again.” She blinked, sending two fat tears down her cheeks and Jack reached out to take her hand.
“We should have done this in my lab,” Jack said softly. “This is too much for you, after what happened tonight.”
She drew a steadying breath, gently pulling her hand away. “I’m okay, just shaken up. Let’s hear the rest of it.”
“ ‘So in the spirit of an eye for an eye, I devised a punishment that was fitting. Sleep well, Kristen, knowing Mr. Trevor Skinner died unable to say a word in his own defense. Please ensure the criminals of Chicago know that I am watching, I am angry, and I am not bound by the laws of man. I am as always, Your Humble Servant.’ ” Abe sighed. “ ‘P.S. You really should finish one job before you start another.’ ”
“What new job did you start?” Jack asked.
Kristen’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “Last night I started making curtains for my damn windows.”
Jack’s lips twitched. Then he began to laugh and after a moment she joined him. She had a wonderful laugh, Abe thought, once again feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut. His face must have shown it, because she quickly sobered, looking guilty.
“I’m sorry, really. It’s just… been a really long day.”
“It’s about to get longer,” Spinnelli said from the doorway. “You catch the news?”
“We’ve been a little busy, Marc,” Kristen said wryly. “We were at the press conference. What more harm could she have done since then?”
Spinnelli pulled a tape from his coat pocket. “Where’s your VCR?”
“It’s in the living room,” she said, worried now.
Spinnelli looked at the box. “Who was it this time?”
“Trevor Skinner,” Abe sa
id and Spinnelli’s face went as pale as everyone else’s.
“And I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”
Saturday, February 21, 2:00 A.M.
“You should be sleeping.”
Startled by the sound of Reagan’s rumbly voice on the basement stairs, Kristen jerked her attention from the mantel she was sanding, putting a pause on the delightful fantasy of Zoe Richardson dipped in honey and tied to a thriving anthill. Vicious red ants that bit hard. She was still angry, hours later. Angry that Richardson had insinuated she’d hired a killer. Angry that the bleached blonde bitch had given the criminal community yet another reason to come after her with knives. Angry that Angelo Conti got another chance to posture in front of a camera. And at this very moment, angry that just the sound of Reagan’s voice could make her pulse race.
But none of her anger was his fault. He’d been more than kind, refusing to leave after Spinnelli and Jack left, worried that the men who had accosted her would be back. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I was trying to be quiet.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” She watched as he descended the stairs in a slow, deliberate way. He still wore his hard shoes, as if he expected to go chasing after an intruder any moment. His trousers were still creased, despite all the hours he’d worn them. The only sign he’d relaxed at all was the absence of his tie and the shirt he’d pulled out of his pants, unbuttoned just past the hollow of his throat. Her eyes lingered there, probably longer than they should have. She lifted her eyes to his face where dark stubble shadowed his cheeks, then to his eyes which were shadowed with concern. For me, she thought, and tried not to let it mean too much. “Doesn’t that hurt your shoulder?” he asked and she looked down at her sandpaper.
“It’s okay. It’s my left shoulder, and I’m right-handed.”
“Oh. I thought you were sewing curtains,” he said.
“The sewing machine makes too much noise, and I—
“You were trying not to wake me. Got it.” He walked over to the little windows that lined her basement wall. Unlike herself, Reagan was tall enough to look through the glass without standing on a chair. There was something settling in his size and strength. “Where’s your sewing machine?”
“Up in my spare bedroom.”
“Then he could have seen you from the street.”
Kristen dropped her sandpaper, her palms suddenly clammy. She wiped her hands on her sweatpants. “Yeah.” She stood up, wincing at the soreness in her knee. “Look, I know this sounds weak and lame, but could we not talk about him right now? It’s driving me insane, wondering if he’s out there, looking at me.” She rubbed her upper arms, suddenly cold. “Watching me. God, it’s like some kind of Hitchcock movie. I’ve been afraid to get in the damn shower.”
His mouth quirked up, and it wasn’t the first time she noticed how nice a mouth he had. It suited his face which at the moment he was turning her way. “Well, if you want to take one tonight, I’ll stand guard outside your door and I promise I won’t look.”
She went still, every muscle in her body going taut. He’d meant it as a silly tease, intended to make her smile, but she could see his words had affected him as well. His only movement was the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as his blue eyes flared and held her. The very air between them was suddenly charged. She could almost feel the sparks.
Sparks. Her chin came up as her mind clicked into gear. “You were working the Sparks case, weren’t you? That’s where I saw you before. It was two years ago, in the summer. You were undercover and got arrested with everybody else they’d picked up for possession. I saw you in the holding area.” She’d heard him before she’d seen him, as she recalled. It would have been impossible not to.
That mouth of his curved in a smile that was almost smug. “I was wondering if you’d remember. Took you long enough.”
She advanced a limping step. “No fair.” She chuckled, remembering. “You were something else. You had a pony-tail, a beard, a shiner, and a really big mouth.”
He grinned and her breath caught at the sight. “I was in character that day. You should have heard what I said about you after you’d gone.”
She was alone with a man she’d known only three days, who made her feel safe and who, if she was not mistaken, was flirting with her. She’d been flirted with before, but had always been left with cold nerves. She now felt the nerves, but she was definitely not cold. “I’m almost afraid to ask.” How true.
He lifted a dark brow, making him look devilish and to her mortification, her mouth watered and the warmth in her face spread down. Don’t wish, Kristen. It won’t happen.
“Let’s just say my cover was very heterosexual and leave it at that,” he said dryly, but his eyes never left hers.
Kristen swallowed hard and looked away. She picked up the sandpaper and began working a small section of mantel carving where decades of paint stubbornly clung. “I was bringing some papers to the precinct that day,” she said. “I heard you, then saw you. You were watching me.” With those piercing blue eyes she’d never truly forgotten. “Why?”
She heard him approach, felt his heat at her back. And wondered how she ever could have been cold. “I don’t know,” he answered seriously. “I just looked up and there you were in your black suit with your hair pinned up. I was… stunned.”
Stunned. Kristen made herself laugh. “Oh, please, Reagan. ‘Stunned’ is a bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
“You asked, I told you,” he answered tersely. “I wasn’t happy about it myself.”
He sounded positively grim and her stomach gave a nasty twist. That hurt. She renewed her efforts on the stubborn paint until she was sure her voice would be steady. “That’s good to know. I think I’m ready to talk about vigilante stalkers now.”
“My wife was alive then.” The words cracked out, seemed to hover between them.
His wife. Slowly she turned around. He was standing too close, and she pressed back against the mantel to put a few more inches of distance between them. He’d noticed her when he was still married. She hadn’t believed him to be that kind of man. And that hurt even more. “Your wife?” Her voice came out a whisper.
He was staring at her, his eyes intense. Challenging. “Yeah. Debra, my wife.”
Debra, whose parents’ coming to the christening on Saturday made him angry. She moistened her suddenly dry lips. “She’s no longer alive, I take it?”
“She died a year ago.”
Kristen waited a moment, but he said no more. “Of?”
His expression became angry. “I guess the official cause of death was heart failure, but after five years in a vegetative state, any failure would have been sufficient.”
Her breath caught in her throat as the enormity of his admission hit home. Five years. Five years of painful limbo. Her heart ached for him, for what he’d endured. Her first impression had been an accurate one, she thought, thinking of that night in the elevator. Desperate desolation. “You loved her, then.”
His eyes flashed. “Yes.” He bit it out, the one little word that said volumes. She knew that if she wanted to know more, she’d have to ask. She wondered if she did want to know more. She had enough troubles of her own without taking on those of another. But he took on yours, Kristen, without a second breath. And in a flash of insight she realized what he was offering. The opportunity to share burdens.
A relationship. Something she’d longed for over the years. Something that terrified every bit as much as it beckoned.
He was watching her think, which was unsettling, as if he knew her thoughts. Maybe he did. Maybe he won’t care. The thought came, childish and hopeful, and she dashed it immediately. No, he’d care. It would make a difference. Later, it would. But now, he needed to talk and she wanted to listen. They would be friends.
But no more than friends. It would be his choice, not hers. He would be the one to walk away, not her. She knew it, even as she stared into his eyes. They’d be hurt, bo
th of them. But not tonight. She tore her sandpaper into halves and offered him one.
“Tell me about her. Debra.”
He took the bit of sandpaper that looked pathetically small in his large hand. He stepped away, moving down to the other end of the mantel and she took in a deep breath, filling her lungs. Then turned back to her stubborn paint.
“She was …” His voice roughened, broke. “She was everything.”
Kristen’s heart cracked as she wondered what it would be like to be “everything” to someone. Someone like him. She sanded harder. “What happened?”
“She and I were going to the store. She got out of the car, and she was shot.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He just stood there, staring at the sandpaper in his hand. “Was it a mugging?”
His jaw clenched. “No. Just some punk retaliating against the just-promoted detective who arrested his brother.”
She closed her eyes briefly. He’d only been doing his job and somebody ruined his life. There was a parallel here, his past experience with her current situation, but she wasn’t going to touch it now. “Tell me about her.”
“She had brown hair and brown eyes.” He was quiet for a moment, and she could almost feel him grappling for the memory of the woman who’d been his “everything.” “She was tall,” he continued, his voice steadier. “She was a pre-school teacher, loved little kids.”
“She sounds like a very nice woman.”
“She was.” She heard the rueful smile in his voice and turned to find it reflected on his face. Still he stood, just holding the sandpaper. “She put up with me.”
Kristen made her own lips curve. “A hardship, I’m sure.”
His smile dimmed, draining her energy with it. “You have no idea.”
Suddenly too weary to stand, Kristen abandoned the mantel. “I’m tired, Abe. I think I’m going to call it a night. You should sleep, too. Please.”
He turned only his head, studying her from her head to her toes and back again, his eyes hot and her weariness evaporated, replaced by tingling awareness. He’d been stunned, he said. So was she, she admitted.