I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  “We’ll be right there,” Abe said grimly, then turned to Mia. “Call Jack and tell him to meet us at Kristen’s. I’ll give Spinnelli the heads up. Our humble servant’s hit again.”

  Sunday, February 22, 10:00 A.M.

  “Oh, my God.” Kristen’s face drained of color as Jack slid the contents of the envelope onto her kitchen table. “It’s Angelo Conti.”

  Mia put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don’t faint on us now.”

  “I never faint.”

  Abe remembered she’d said the same thing the night they met at the elevator, after he’d scared her nearly senseless. But she’d shown them she was made of sterner stuff and Abe felt pride at her strength. Keeping his distance was costing him, but he knew she wanted to maintain her professional persona. Her hair was neatly tucked and pinned, although the pins he’d removed the night before were still scattered on the countertop where he’d left them.

  “There aren’t any Polaroids,” Jack commented. “Just Conti’s student ID card from Northwestern University. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Abe reached for the letter. “ ‘My dearest Kristen. Angelo Conti is dead. His crime was initially one of depraved indifference, crashing into Paula Garcia’s car while intoxicated. But his blatant disregard for human life led him to beat the poor woman to death. His father’s blatant disregard for the United States legal system caused Jacob Conti to taint the jury. Angelo Conti walked away a free man, at least until you would have tried him again. But if his original crimes weren’t enough, he compounded them by publicly assassinating your character, and that could not be allowed. I hope his death is a signal to all who would make a mockery of the judicial system and its servants. As always, I remain Your Humble Servant.’ ”

  Abe looked up to find Kristen gingerly lowering herself into a chair. “What’s the P.S.?”

  “It’s a license plate number.” Abe passed her the letter and her brows knit in confusion.

  “It’s not mine,” she said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I think we need to talk to the delivery boy,” Mia said and Abe nodded.

  He and Mia went out to McIntyre’s cruiser where the boy waited in the backseat.

  “His name is Tyrone Yates,” McIntyre offered. “His parents are on their way.”

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” Yates growled.

  “We didn’t say you did,” Mia growled back. Yates provided a story almost identical to the one told by Aaron Jenkins. Except this time the white van bore the name of a carpet store. By the time the boy was done, his parents had arrived to take him home.

  Kristen was making tea when Abe and Mia came back in, followed by McIntyre. Mia dropped into a chair while Abe paced to the one window that looked out over the frozen backyard. McIntyre just stood in the kitchen doorway, his young face troubled.

  “What did you find?” Kristen asked.

  Abe tossed a frustrated look over his shoulder. “Not a whole hell of a lot.”

  McIntyre shifted uneasily. “About the white van—”

  “The florist van?” Kristen asked and Mia shook her head.

  “We think he uses different magnetic signs,” she said. “The kid from King High swears it was an electrical contractor’s van. This last kid says it was a carpet installer.”

  “That’s why I didn’t find any evidence of flowers or pollen on the crates,” Jack said angrily, smacking the table. “Dammit. He can change the van at will.”

  Abe turned from the window, his face sober. “What about the white van, McIntyre?”

  “The night Miss Mayhew was run off the road, I was moving traffic along. People stop to gawk, you know. One of the vehicles was a white van with an electrical contractor’s sign.”

  Kristen’s stomach churned. She knew what the P.S. meant now. She grabbed the letter on the table and showed it to McIntyre. “Do you recognize this number, Officer?”

  McIntyre nodded. “That’s the car that hit you. It had been stolen earlier that day.”

  Kristen set the letter on the table, her hands surprisingly steady. “I thought so.”

  Jack hissed a curse. “He was there.”

  Abe chuckled mirthlessly. “I was probably close enough to touch him. Do you remember what he looked like, McIntyre?”

  McIntyre shook his head. “He had on one of those hats with the earflaps. Covered up most of his face. It was so cold that night, I didn’t think anything about it. He was very polite, I remember that.”

  “Age?” Mia asked sharply.

  McIntyre shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe forty? He didn’t say much of anything, just nodded when I asked him to move along. I just figured he was embarrassed to be caught staring.”

  Nobody said anything for a long moment, then Jack stood up. “I’ve got to call my team to the spot on this map. And I’ll call Julia to meet us there. You guys coming?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Abe said grimly. “Let’s go.”

  Kristen started to follow, but Abe stopped her. “Stay here. Please.”

  “I want to be there,” she said in a low voice, conscious of the others watching.

  Abe looked at Jack, Mia, and McIntyre. “Give us a minute, okay?”

  McIntyre bowed out instantly. “Got to get back on watch.”

  Mia raised her brows, eyeing them with open curiosity. “Okay.”

  Kristen felt her cheeks burn. “Reagan, please.”

  Jack gave her a hard look. “He’s right. You’ve already had one accident this weekend. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Then he followed Mia from the kitchen, leaving them alone.

  Abe looked down at her with conviction. “Stay here.”

  Kristen felt frustration simmer. “Don’t shut me out. Please. I need to be there.”

  His hands rose to cover her shoulders, kneading convulsively. “Do you know what will happen when Jacob Conti finds out his son has been murdered?” His blue eyes flashed. “Do you, Kristen? If you’re at the site and the press shows up, your face will be all over the news, especially if it comes out that Angelo was killed because he verbally attacked you. Conti will strike out at you, and he isn’t someone you want after you. Please, stay here for me.”

  His eyes were compelling, but in the end it was the emotion in his voice that won her acquiescence. “All right. I’ll stay here.”

  His relief tangible, his hands loosened their grip. “I’ll be back to get you for dinner.”

  “At four.”

  He leaned down and covered her lips with his in a hard kiss that left her mind reeling. “Call me if you need me.”

  Kristen sighed at the sound of her front door slamming. She’d become accustomed to doing just that. Calling him when she needed him. And in a flash of clarity his sister-inlaw’s words made sense. Ruth said Abe needed to take care of her. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to pull the pieces together. Abe Reagan had watched his wife shot and had been able to do nothing. He, a man paid to keep the public safe, had not been able to keep his own wife alive.

  Now he’s keeping me safe. And even as the thought brought comfort, she wondered what would happen when this whole nightmare was over and she no longer needed to be kept safe any more. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, still tender from his hard kiss.

  I’ll take what I can get and be grateful while it lasts. But for right now, there was a pile of half-sewn curtains she needed to finish.

  Sunday, February 22, 11:30 A.M.

  The spot that “x” marked was a patch of ground fifty yards from the spot Angelo Conti’s car had struck Paula Garcia’s. Appropriate. They found a marble marker inscribed with the names of Paula Garcia and her unborn son. Abe’s eyes stung as he looked at the names, feeling an empathy for Thomas Garcia that the others couldn’t possibly understand. Heavy silence hung over the grave, broken only by the clang of shovels and an occasional word from one of Jack’s men.

  “Ugh.” Mia’s face twisted in disgust as Jack’s team brushed the dirt away from Conti�
�s face. What was left of it, anyway.

  Julia grimaced. “Your boy lost it this time.”

  The body was brought out of the shallow hole with care. Abe turned it gently, displaying a pattern of bruises across the lower back. “Tire iron?”

  Julia knelt beside him. “Probably. I’ll have a better idea once I’ve cleaned him up.”

  “Conti used a tire iron on Garcia,” Mia said. “That part wasn’t made public.”

  “More insider information,” Abe muttered. “Wonderful.”

  Julia was looking over the body, her brow furrowed in concern. “He went off on Conti, Abe. I haven’t seen a beating like this in a long time. Is he still watching Kristen?”

  Abe’s lips thinned. “Yeah. And we still have nothing.”

  Julia shrugged, her sigh vaporizing in the cold air. “Look on the bright side. He lost control. Maybe he wasn’t so careful about physical evidence he left behind.” She gave a nod to her assistant who efficiently loaded the body into a bag and zipped it closed. “I finished the autopsy on Skinner last night. I found blood in his lungs.”

  Mia huffed in frustration. “So it was like we thought.”

  Julia nodded. “I got pictures of the depressions in Skinner’s skull to Jack this morning. He’s trying to match them up with the particular model of the vise. Skinner’s knees were shattered just like King’s, and the bullet hole to the head was postmortem.” She pulled off her rubber gloves and pulled on warm leather ones. “Oh, and I was able to make a plaster cast of the ligature marks on Ramey’s throat. Jack’s got that, too.”

  “Good work, Julia,” Abe praised.

  “Thanks. Just find this guy before he can send me any more business. I’ve got a date tonight with a three-year-old who doesn’t understand why Mommy has to cancel to cut up dead people.” With a little wave she headed off.

  Abe turned to Mia. “She’s got a kid?”

  “A real cutie. Her husband left and she’s been a struggling single mom ever since.”

  “That’s tough.” Abe looked over at Jack, who was watching Julia giving instructions to her assistants as they loaded the body bag into the ME’s van. “And how does Jack factor in?”

  “He doesn’t.” Mia rolled her eyes. “It’s totally one-sided.” Her expression went sly. “Although I can’t say the same for someone else.”

  To his own consternation, Abe felt his cheeks burn. “That’s enough, Mia. Let’s get some pictures of this scene. I—”

  He was interrupted by a cry of alarm and spun around to see Julia being shoved against her car by a man with silver hair. “Shit,” he hissed, taking off at a run. “It’s Jacob Conti.”

  Jack was faster and was pulling Conti off Julia as Abe reached the car, Mia at his heels. “Get your hands off her,” Jack snarled and Abe stepped between them.

  “Cool it, Jack,” Abe muttered and Jack stepped back, rage still making him shake. Abe turned to Conti, who stared at him with wild eyes. “This is a crime scene, Mr. Conti. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step back.”

  “It’s his son, dammit.” Another man stepped up, large and menacing.

  Mia pulled out her notepad. “And you are, sir?”

  “Drake Edwards. I’m Mr. Conti’s head of security. We want to see Angelo.”

  Mia drew a breath. “We planned to inform you of your son’s death under other circumstances, Mr. Conti. Right now, I think it’s best that you don’t see him.”

  Conti closed his eyes, his body sagging, and Drake Edwards put an arm around his shoulders for support. “Then it’s true?” Edwards murmured. “It is Angelo?”

  Mia nodded. “Yes, sir. We believe so.”

  Conti’s eyes flew open. “You believe so? Why don’t you know so? You—” His eyes widened further as the horror of reality struck him. “He did something to his face. You didn’t even recognize him.” He lunged for the door of the ME van, but Edwards held him back, murmuring something in his ear that made Conti stop and visibly fight for control. It was a fascinating transformation. A moment later, a composed Conti turned to a still-ashen Julia and asked coolly, “When can we have his body? His mother will want to bury him.”

  “When the ME is finished,” Jack snapped, but Julia put a hand on his arm.

  “I’ll do my best to complete my investigation with all speed, Mr. Conti,” she said, her voice slightly trembling. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Conti nodded stiffly and turned away, still supported by his head of security.

  “How did he know?” Julia asked shakily. “How did he know it was Angelo?”

  As Conti’s limo rolled away, Abe’s gaze fell on Zoe Richardson and her cameraman standing in the background, catching it all on tape. Without a moment’s hesitation she approached, her damn microphone in her hand.

  “Our own little bird,” Julia said quietly.

  “Our bird’s a vulture,” Abe responded caustically.

  “Bitch,” Jack snarled.

  “God, she’s cold,” Mia marveled.

  Abe stepped forward, his gut churning with rage he knew he had to suppress. This woman had systematically moved events from bad to worse. “Miss Richardson, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to move along. This is a crime scene and you’re not allowed here.”

  She ignored him. “Dr. VanderBeck, were you hurt by Mr. Conti’s attack?”

  Julia gaped at Richardson as if she had three heads.

  “No comment,” Mia snapped and stepped in front of the camera. “You’ll leave now, Miss Richardson, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with our investigation.”

  “But—”

  “Now.” Mia reached for her cuffs and the cameraman lowered his camera.

  “We’re going,” he said, glancing at Richardson from the corner of his eye.

  Richardson looked furious. “We’re staying. You’re the ones interfering with my First Amendment rights. The people have a right to the news.”

  “I said we’re going,” said the cameraman and Zoe slowly turned, shock slackening her normally perfect features.

  “I think you’re going,” Abe said dryly.

  Richardson looked at him, venom in her eyes. “By the way, where is Mayhew?”

  “Out of your reach. Unless you’d like to surrender another tape, you should follow your cameraman’s direction.” He watched her stomp away. “I really hate that woman.”

  Julia straightened her coat. “I can see why. I’m going to the morgue where it’s quiet. I’ll call you if I find anything.” She looked up at Jack. “Thank you,” she said softly and drove away, leaving Jack red-faced.

  “Maybe not so one-sided after all,” Mia muttered with a grin. “When it rains it pours.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday, February 22, 5:30 P.M.

  Sunday dinner at the Reagans’ was like being in the middle of a Kansas twister. Two televisions competed for mastery, a set in the living room tuned to some sport that had all the men present groaning in disgust. The second set was located in Mrs. Reagan’s kitchen and was tuned to QVC where their stock of pearl strands was almost gone. Mrs. Reagan herself bustled around the kitchen, mashing potatoes and checking her ham. Every peek into the oven sent a whiff of incredible aroma through the kitchen and Kristen’s stomach growled.

  “It smells so good,” Kristen said, sitting next to Rachel at the kitchen table where Rachel had laid a set of books and a small tape recorder in a semicircle.

  “Mom is the best cook. All my friends think so.” She flipped her notebook to a blank sheet. “Thanks for doing this interview with me. My mom says I shouldn’t be bothering you. What with all the goings-on and everything.”

  “It’s okay. I was going crazy sitting all by myself in my house anyway.” A loud roar erupted from the living room. “I thought football season was over.”

  Rachel leaned back in her chair far enough to see around the corner into the living room. “It is. Right now they have a hockey game and a college basketball game going. Sean bought Dad one
of those picture-in-a-picture TVs last Christmas.” Her lips quirked up in adolescent amusement. “Mom was so pissed. So, do you mind if I tape this?”

  “You really think you’ll be able to hear anything you record?”

  “Sure. I grew up in this house. I’ve developed excellent listening and not-listening skills.” Rachel flipped on the recorder. “This is an interview with Assistant State’s Attorney Kristen Mayhew. Can you start by telling us why you chose the law as your profession?”

  Kristen opened her mouth, prepared to spout the response she always used. The one that wasn’t nearly the truth. But something in Rachel Reagan’s blue eyes stopped her. “I didn’t, not at first,” she said honestly. “I’d planned to study art. I even had an art scholarship. But in my sophomore year someone I was very close to was the victim of a serious crime.”

  Rachel’s eyes grew wide. “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say. She has the expectation of privacy, you know? Anyway, the person who perpetrated the crime was never punished and I didn’t think that was fair.”

  “So you became a lawyer to make a difference?”

  Kristen focused on the girl’s earnest expression. Rachel Reagan reminded her of herself, so many years ago. “I’d like to think so.”

  Rachel had a whole list of questions. Kristen answered each one, following Becca’s movements around the kitchen, remembering her own mother doing the same, the memories bittersweet. Becca was rolling dough when the back door opened and a man wearing a Bears sweatshirt and faded jeans walked in, as tall and dark as Abe. Fondly, he dropped a kiss on Becca’s cheek and Kristen knew without asking that this was Abe’s other brother. She’d met Sean when they’d arrived, so this could be none other than—

  “Aidan!” Rachel dropped her pen. “We thought you weren’t coming.”

  Aidan had a CPD uniform on a hanger slung over his shoulder. “I had to switch some shifts, but I didn’t want to miss ham.” He plopped his hat on Rachel’s head and gave the brim a tug so that it covered her eyes. “What’s new, squirt?”

  Rachel adjusted the hat so she could see. “I’m doing my homework.”