by Karen Rose
Aidan calmly hung up the phone. “Sean has her. She’s all right, Kristen.”
Kristen felt her knees give out and Aidan grabbed her shoulders. “You’re sure?” Her voice shook and she didn’t care. “He said next time they’d go for youth. I thought about Rachel and I—” Her throat closed and her eyes filled and Aidan pulled her against him, patting her back while she shuddered and tried to hold back what felt like a flood of tears.
“You can cry if you want to,” he murmured. “I have two sisters, you know.”
Kristen grabbed his sweatshirt and held on. “I thought they had three brothers,” she said between her teeth and felt his chest move in a huff of silent laughter.
“It’s all in your perspective, honey. Now, from where I’m standing, you’ve had a bad week. If you want to cry, you’re entitled.”
She gritted her teeth. “I won’t cry.”
“Then you won’t be needing this.” He pushed a tissue in her hand and she dabbed at her eyes as surreptitiously as possible.
She pulled back and drew a deep breath. “Thanks. When did you call Sean? You’ve been at my side all this time.”
“I called downstairs when you were talking to the nurse.”
“But I didn’t hear you say anything.”
Aidan held out his phone. “Instant messaged him. I IM’d Abe also, but he’s out of the service area. I was just on the nurses’ phone to Spinnelli, to let him know what had happened. He’s got a team working these threats, Kristen. They’ll catch whoever hurt Dad and your friend.”
“It’s Conti,” she said grimly. “I know it.”
“So do I. But Abe’s right. Until we get hard evidence, knowing it means nothing.”
Kristen looked over her shoulder at Owen, sitting alone. “I need to go back to him.”
“I’ll wait for you over here. We can stay as long as you need to.”
She found a smile and tentatively touched his arm. “Thanks. I mean it.”
Aidan’s cheeks darkened. “It’s okay. Go to your friend.”
“Is the girl all right?” Owen asked when she’d rejoined him.
“Yes.” He slumped back in his chair, relieved.
“Good. She seemed like a nice little girl.”
“Owen, I’m sorry. I should have warned you and Vincent. I feel responsible for this.”
His lips tightened. “You’ve been threatened, too?”
“Sunday night a man broke into my house.” Owen paled and grabbed her hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine. Abe scared him away. But the man said that if I didn’t turn over the vigilante, then everyone I cared about would die. I should have warned you. I’m sorry.”
“You could have been killed,” he said thinly. “Dear God. Who else have they hurt?”
“They threatened my mother.”
Owen’s face registered surprise. “I assumed your parents were dead.”
“My mother’s got Alzheimer’s. She … she doesn’t know me anymore. I visit as often as I can, but my dad won’t let me move her here. They didn’t hurt her. Just a threat.”
“Who else, Kristen? Who else have they hurt?”
“Abe’s dad. They beat him, too, just like Vincent.” Her lips trembled and she pursed them severely. “He was okay, though. Poor Vincent.”
Owen took her chin in his hand. “You didn’t cause this, Kristen.” Kristen said nothing and he rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to be hanging around the hospital. I’ll call you when Vincent comes out of surgery. Go back to your young man. He’s waiting for you.”
Kristen looked at Aidan who stood leaning against the wall, quietly watching. “That’s not Abe. That’s his brother, Aidan. Abe asked him to keep an eye out for me today.”
Owen took a long, measuring look at Aidan before nodding his approval. “The family has accepted you then. Good. Vincent and I have often worried about you, having no family, always hanging around two old men like us.”
Kristen squeezed Owen’s hands. “Don’t be worrying about me. I’m not a minute out of anyone’s sight.” She grimaced, just a little. “It’s starting to do a number on my nerves, never being alone. But it shouldn’t be much longer. Look, I know Aidan has to get to work, so I’m going to have him take me home now. I’ll ask him to get someone to see you home.”
Owen smiled paternally. “That’s not necessary. I’ll see myself home.”
Kristen sighed. “Please think about it, Owen. You could be in as much danger as Vincent.” As one they looked at the doors to surgery, but they remained closed. “You’ll call me as soon as he’s out of surgery?”
“You have my word.”
Wednesday, February 25, 3:55 P.M.
Abe crouched behind the cruiser. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” They’d found the old Worth property and on it a small shack. A stovepipe came through the roof, but there was no smoke. They’d been watching for twenty minutes and had seen not a hint of movement.
“Let’s go in,” Mia said evenly and Abe realized it was their first ‘going in’ together.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “You take my back.”
“There’s less of me to be a target,” Mia protested. “With Ray I always went first.”
Abe glanced down at her, mildly perturbed. “I’m not Ray.”
“Flip a damn coin, people,” Jack said irritably from his position behind a second cruiser. “I’d love to have some daylight to search the place since I’m sure this humble abode doesn’t have any electricity.”
“He’s right,” Abe said. “Watch my back. Please.” Abe moved out from behind the cruiser, weapon drawn, conscious that a sniper might be hiding anywhere on the property. He was wearing full tactical gear, but there was vulnerability on any initial approach, this one more than others with its thick tree growth to provide cover to a shooter. He edged toward the front porch, gingerly testing the floor-boards before putting his weight on the first step.
“Watch my back,” Mia muttered behind him, but she did as he asked. Nimbly she followed him up the stairs and they each took position on either side of the wooden door.
“Police!” Abe said loudly. “Open up.”
Dead silence. He tried the doorknob and it easily twisted.
“Unlocked,” Mia murmured, following him in. “Nobody’s been here in a long time.”
“You’re right.” He moved to the doorway and motioned Jack and the others to come. “We’re clear!” he shouted, then turned back to survey the shack’s single-room interior. “He doesn’t live here, that’s for damn certain.”
“And there’s no cement floor like in the Polaroids, so he did his killing somewhere else.” Mia opened a cabinet over a dry sink. “No running water, but here’s a few cans of beans and a bar of soap.” She took out a bar of soap and held it up to the light. “My grandmother had soap like this. It’s an antique.”
“What’s an antique?” Jack asked from the doorway.
“Everything.” Mia blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was so sure we had something.”
“Patience isn’t one of her virtues, is it?” Abe asked Jack. Jack grinned. “Took you this long to figure that out? Hell of a detective you are.”
Grinning back, Abe walked around the interior perimeter of the shack. “Somebody was here recently,” he said and held up a newspaper. “It’s dated December 28 of this past year.”
“And lookee here.” Mia bent over, then straightened, holding a bullet in her gloved hand. “It’s clean as a whistle. Two intertwined W’s, just like the others. W for Worth.”
“Then it couldn’t have been here long.” Jack nudged a chair with his toe. “The cobwebs have cobwebs.”
“He didn’t use this place as a resort.” Abe opened the back door and looked at the grounds beyond. “You were right, Mia. He’s got himself a regular target range.” He set out in the snow, still looking side to side, watching for any movement. He reached the makeshift moving target, a wire strung between two trees on which was suspended a piec
e of plywood the size of a door, covered with the familiar paper cutout of a man. Holes were clustered in the forehead and over the heart. Not a stray shot could be seen. “There’s a battery-operated clip to move the target, watertight. Four speeds.”
Mia walked around the target. “No bullets or footprints visible. Last time we had snow was a week ago, so he hasn’t been here since then.”
“Mia! Abe!” Jack stood in the back doorway waving. “Come and see.” He held two picture frames in his hand. “We found these in that box beside the cot.”
One was a family portrait—a father, a mother, and two sons. “Looks like early 1930’s by the clothing,” Mia said. “Could be the Worths.”
“We’ll take the photos out of the frames back at the lab,” Jack said. “Maybe there’s something written on the back. Look at this snapshot. It’s the oldest son, ten years or so later, in uniform, with a girl on his arm.”
“He’s Navy,” Abe said. “Genny O’Reilly and Hank Worth just before he went to war?”
“Could be. I’m also wondering about the younger son. Mr. James didn’t mention him.” Mia looked around. “You guys find anything else?”
The CSU man with the spotlight shook his head and switched off the light. “No. I’ve got the soap and the cans. We’ll print them back at the lab. We can set up some spotlights and try for some more prints on the walls and furniture, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Mia puckered her lips thoughtfully. “It’s not a total waste. If that’s Genny, that is.”
Jack bagged the picture frames. “Let’s cross our fingers because we got nothin’ else.”
“Detective Reagan?” A uniform appeared at the front door. “There’s a call on the radio for you. It’s Spinnelli. He says you need to call him when you’re done here. It’s important.”
Kristen. Abe’s heart dropped in his chest and he forced himself to take a calming breath. “Did he say important or urgent?”
“He said ‘important.’ ”
Kristen was all right, he thought. If she’d been in trouble, Spinnelli would have said “urgent.” Abe looked at Mia. “Are we done here?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s call Spinnelli.”
Wednesday, February 25, 6:15 P.M.
He’d been late and missed the judge going into the hotel. He glanced up at the wall of windows. But it wouldn’t matter. According to Skinner’s notes, Hillman never stayed the night.
He’d used the waiting time productively, rerunning through his mind the transcripts of the trial that should have guaranteed Leah her justice. But there had been no justice. The jury had done their job, returning a guilty verdict. But in a rarely seen move, Hillman rejected the verdict, citing a technicality. The monster that raped Leah walked out of the court a free man.
He hadn’t known Leah then. He’d met her after the trial, when she was just a shadow of the woman she’d been. He’d read the transcripts, felt the clawing anger of helplessness as he turned each page.
He wasn’t helpless now. Now, it would be Hillman who would be helpless.
He waited patiently until Hillman came strolling out, a distinctive spring to his step. Hillman stopped next to an old Dodge. A pathetic attempt at subterfuge that fooled no one. Especially me. He started the van and pulled up next to where Hillman had parked. His head ached, but he pushed the pain away and focused on his quarry.
He saw the alarm in Hillman’s eyes in the instant he stepped from the van, his revolver in plain view, its silencer gleaming in the parking lot lights. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he said evenly. Hillman reached for his pockets and he poked the gun in the judge’s gut, with much more force than necessary, but then again, he was angry both at the judge and the events of the day. “I said where I can see them. If I pull the trigger right now, you die. Right here in this parking lot next to a car you wouldn’t be caught dead driving if it weren’t so important to keep your wife from suspecting your affair.”
Hillman’s eyes widened. “If it’s money you want—”
“I’m no mugger, Judge Hillman.” He slid the side door open and watched Hillman pale as his eyes registered recognition of what was to come. “Take off your coat.” He nudged the gun deeper into Hillman’s gut when the judge just stood there. “Now, please.”
Hillman tugged at the buttons on his expensive wool coat with shaking hands. “You won’t get away with this,” he said unevenly.
This made him smile. “I got away with Skinner. Of course it was a shame that Carson’s bodyguard had to die instead of Carson, but one must break a few eggs to make an omelet. So I will most likely get away with this. And even if I don’t, you’ll still die.”
Hillman went even more pale. “Oh, my God.”
“I sincerely hope you’re prepared to meet your Maker, Judge Hillman, because meet Him you shall. Climb in and have a seat.”
Hillman looked around frantically, but of course there was no one around. It was as Hillman designed, week after week. A deserted parking lot where no one would see him meeting his mistress. “I’ll scream,” Hillman promised, his voice cracking.
“No one will hear you and you’ll die just the same. Too bad you were so concerned with anonymity when meeting your Miss Quincy.” He smiled cruelly. “Rather ironic, don’t you think?” He shoved the gun harder. “If I squeeze the trigger, you’re dead.”
“If I go with you, I’m dead.”
He raised his brows. “But you’re a coward and you’ll hope up until the end that someone will come and save you. On the count of three, Judge Hillman. One, two—”
The judge pulled himself into the van as he’d known he would. With practiced efficiency, he reached to fasten the handcuffs that would trap Hillman on the floor of his van. He fastened a second wrist cuff, then moved to Hillman’s feet. Hillman kicked, sending an unexpected shudder of pain through his body.
“You’ll pay for that, Hillman,” he vowed. “Just like you’ll pay for everything else.”
Hillman’s brow glistened. “But what have I done?”
He cut a piece of duct tape to cover Hillman’s mouth. “Leah Broderick.”
Hillman’s eyes registered no recognition and that made him even more coldly furious. “You don’t remember her, but you will. Before this is all over, you all will.” He pressed the tape to Hillman’s mouth, making sure to cover his pencil-thin mustache. It would hurt when he yanked the tape later. Such a small thing, some might call it petty.
But it had just been that kind of day.
Wednesday, February 25, 6:30 P.M.
Abe heard the pounding as soon as he got out of his SUV. He parked on the street as Aidan’s Camaro filled Kristen’s driveway. Abe stopped at the cruiser, back in position at the curb, and McIntyre rolled down the window.
“Anything new?” Abe asked and McIntyre shrugged.
“Nobody came close with any boxes. She had a visit from the man who lives two doors down, but she didn’t let him inside. Your brother brought her home from the hospital a few hours ago. I did check on her when the pounding started, but your brother said she’s all right, just working out some stress. I guess she’s got a right.”
Abe agreed. Spinnelli had told him about her friends, the men who ran the diner. He could only imagine what she was going through. “Thanks.” Abe jogged up the driveway, slowing when he came to the carport. Behind the rental car was a pile of smashed cabinets and her ancient oven, turned on its side. Cautiously, he opened the kitchen door and saw Aidan pulling on her equally ancient refrigerator. Aidan caught his eye, breathing heavily.
“Damn thing doesn’t have casters,” Aidan grumbled. “Weighs a fucking ton. Close the door. You’re going to give us pneumonia.”
Abe obeyed, then blinked as the pounding stilled. A layer of white dust covered the kitchen and everything in it, including Aidan and Kristen, who stood at the far wall with a hammer in her hand. He could see part of the old parlor through the major hole in the wall.
Kristen turned around, h
er pinned-up hair no longer red, but white. Streams of sweat streaked her face, red from exertion, and her breasts rose and fell under a thin tank top. Under a very thin tank top. And a sports bra. And very tight biker shorts. In the space of two heartbeats the very thin tank top revealed how glad she was to see him. With an effort he jerked his eyes from her clearly visible nipples back up to her face. Her eyes were clear, green, and hot. Slowly she lowered the hammer, holding it limply at her side.
Aidan cleared his throat. “I’ll be going to work now. Bye.”
Abe just looked at Aidan as he backed out the kitchen door, noticing Aidan carefully averting his eyes from Kristen’s very thin tank top. “See you. Call me if you need… anything.” The last was uttered on a cough that Abe was quite certain muffled a laugh. The door closed behind Aidan and he and Kristen were alone in the wreck of her kitchen.
Abe wasn’t sure what to say. He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave up and let his eyes drop back to her breasts.
“What did you find?” she asked, huskily.
Again he jerked his eyes back up to her face. “We found his target range, but he wasn’t there.” She absorbed this in silence, not moving a muscle. Awkwardly he gestured to the mess. “What is this?”
He watched her lips tremble, then she firmly controlled them, pursing them hard. Without answering she turned back to the wall, raised her hammer and the pounding began again. For a minute he watched her, then shrugged out of his overcoat, his suit jacket. He let them fall to the floor since they were destined to be covered in white plaster dust wherever he put them. He took off his tie, then his shirt. A crow-bar lay on the table and he picked it up and began pulling the drywall from the hole she’d already started.
For ten minutes they worked together without speaking. She pounded and he cleared away the debris. Then she stopped and once again there was silence.
“Vincent’s in ICU,” she whispered, and the hammer slid out of her hand to the floor. “Conti’s men beat him up.”
Abe blindly put the crowbar on the table behind him and reached for her. She came willingly, clenching her fists against his chest. He closed his arms around her and laid his cheek against the top of her head. “I know, honey. I’m so sorry.”