by Karen Rose
Kristen searched her mind. “I’ve never heard the name. Can we talk to her?”
Murphy grimaced. “If we can find her. Her family moved soon after the complaint was filed. I found some neighbors who said the girl had a hard time in school after that. Kids pushed her around because she reported Jenkins. Apparently he was a pretty popular kid back then. I’ve got listings for people with the same names as her parents and I’ll work through them today until I find them. I’ll let you know when I have something.”
“Then we have our direction,” Spinnelli said. “Abe and Mia, find Genny O’Reilly. Murphy, find the Erickson girl. Kristen, you find Paul Worth, but don’t leave the building without one of us. If anybody makes any deliveries to your house regarding Judge Hillman, the officer sitting in front of your house will let us know.”
“And you?” Abe asked.
“I’ll hold off the politicians and reporters that want to tell us how to do our jobs.”
Kristen gave him her latest list. “The Hillman cases with defense attorneys and accused. Assuming there is a connection and this is his revenge, one of these guys will be next.”
Thursday, February 26, 9:30 A.M.
Father Ted Delaney of the Sacred Heart Church fancied himself a bit of a detective, having watched Columbo religiously, as it were. So when Abe told him what they were looking for, the old priest plunged into the task with an enthusiasm that made them smile.
“I wasn’t parish priest then, you understand,” he said, adjusting his glasses on the edge of his nose. “I didn’t arrive until 1965. Father Reed was two generations before me. He was old in 1943. I think he died before the war was over.”
“We figured we wouldn’t find the priest that married them alive,” Abe said. “Do you remember any Barnetts in this parish? His name was Colin and hers was Genny.”
“I can’t say that I do, but the parish was much bigger then.” He looked over his half-glasses with mild reproach. “People don’t go to church like they used to.”
Abe fought the urge to stare at his shoes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “So how about the birth records? The baby would have been born around March 1944.”
Delaney chose a bound volume and slowly flipped the pages, his fingers thick and twisted with age. Finally, he looked up. “A son. Christened Robert Henry Barnett on March 2, 1944.”
One step closer. “Did they have any other children, Father?” Abe asked
“If you can wait, I’ll look.”
After what seemed like hours, Delaney’s old fingers came to a stop again. “A daughter, christened Iris Anne, May 12, 1946.” Again, his fingers crawled from page to page. “Another son christened Colin Patrick, September 30, 1949.”
“Is it possible Genny is still alive?” Mia asked.
“She’d be close to eighty now,” Delaney said. “The death records are in another room. If you wait here, I’ll go check.”
When he was gone, Abe turned to Mia. “They didn’t name their firstborn Colin, Junior,” Abe said, his voice barely a whisper.
Mia lifted a brow. “Seven-month baby. Jig was up. I wonder if Colin Senior knew ahead of time, or if he was surprised by a full-term son two months early.”
“She named her firstborn Robert Henry.”
“Hank is short for Henry.”
Abe nodded. “Either Colin Senior was a most forgiving man, or Genny slid that one in on him. She gave her son his biological father’s name.”
“Let’s hope at least one of the Barnett kids still lives in Chicago.”
“When the good Father comes back, we’ll check it out.”
Thursday, February 26, 10:30 A.M.
Kristen hung up the phone, frustrated with her attempts to reach the final few people on her victim list. Some had moved, some had just disappeared.
Spinnelli approached her, his face grim. “I was waiting until you were off the phone.”
“What’s happened?”
He handed her the list she’d given him that morning. One of the names had been circled in red. “Gerald Simpson didn’t show up for court this morning.”
Kristen pursed her lips. Simpson was a dedicated defense attorney. In his mind, all offenders could be rehabilitated, and prosecutors were vindictive and power-mad, just looking to convict to hasten their promotions. He defended with great zeal, but with little compassion for the victim. “So maintaining our assumption that this is connected to Hillman, we just narrowed the field considerably. I only faced Simpson in Hillman’s courtroom six times. Are we going to put any surveillance on those six defendants?”
“Already ordered. We’ve got a bulletin posted for Simpson’s car. I’m going to go interview his wife since Abe and Mia are still in the field. Maybe Mrs. Simpson will know something.” But his expression clearly said he expected she would not.
“I’ll call the six victims.”
Spinnelli ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Anything on Paul Worth, the son?”
“Records is checking. They said they’d call me back when they found anything.”
Thursday, February 26, 2:30 P.M.
No Barnetts still lived in the parish, but Father Delaney had given them a list of his oldest parishioners. Viola Keene had been a member of Sacred Heart parish all her life. Church membership had done nothing to sweeten her disposition. “Sure, I remember the Barnetts. Why do you want to know?” Viola Keene frowned at their feet. “I just mopped in here. Can you shake the snow off your feet?”
“We’re sorry, ma’am.” Abe made an honest effort to clean his shoes and Mia did the same. “It’s slushy out there.”
“Maybe we’re gonna have a thaw,” the old woman said irritably. She really wasn’t that old, Abe thought. She wasn’t even sixty, but she seemed older. It was the way her mouth bent in a perpetual frown. The severe hairstyle and black wardrobe didn’t help.
“One can only hope,” Mia murmured and Abe bit back his smile.
“Well, what do you want to know?” Keene snapped. “I got a business to run.”
She owned a small hat shop, but it appeared their privacy was assured. The layer of dust on the hats indicated Keene hadn’t had customers in quite a while. Go figure.
“The Barnett family,” Abe said. “How did you know them?”
“I went to school with Iris Anne. Foolish girl she was.”
They approached the long counter where Miss Keene was bent over what looked like a big bow. “How so, ma’am?” Mia asked.
“Always worrying about boys and such. Never one much for her studies. Now her brother, he was a different tale.”
Mia leaned closer to see the woman’s face. “Which brother, Miss Keene?”
Keene looked affronted. “The older one, of course. Robert worked hard at his studies. He helped his father in their store, like a good son should.” Impossibly, her face softened and she looked ten years younger. “He took good care of Iris and the other one.” She frowned again. “The youngest …” She paused, trying to remember. “Colin. He was a spoiled one. Always gettin’ into trouble, pickin’ on kids in the neighborhood.” She sniffed. “He got his.”
Mia glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, then back to Keene. “How so?”
“Colin picked on the wrong kid.” Keene picked up the bow and began fussing with the ribbon. “Kid beat him up, put him in the hospital. It was quite the neighborhood event.”
“So what happened?”
“Colin died.”
Mia blinked. “Wow. That was some neighborhood event.”
Keene fluffed the bow. “The kid had a knife in his boot. Colin never saw it comin’.”
Abe hid his surprise at the old woman’s casual rendition of the tale. “What happened to Robert?”
Again her face softened, became almost wistful. “It got even worse for him at home after that. Finally, he ran away. Broke Iris Anne’s heart.”
Miss Keene’s, too, he suspected. “What do you mean, it got worse? Was it bad before?”
Keene looked
up, angry. “Mr. Barnett was hard on Robert. Iris and Colin could do whatever they liked, but Robert had to work hard. If he didn’t breathe right, his father would take a cane to him. Like I said, he finally ran away. I never saw him again.”
“Miss Keene,” Mia said softly, “what happened to the kid who killed Colin?”
Keene dropped her eyes back to the bow. “He went to jail. One of those reform schools. But when he got out, he got in a bar fight and ended up stabbed, just like Colin.” She held the bow up to the light. “Poetic justice, the papers called it. Never caught the guy who did it. Most people figured he’d made some enemies along the way, but me and Iris, we used to wonder if Robert came back.” She sighed. “Of course it was just girlish wishing. I thought I saw him once, a few years later, but I was wrong.”
“Where was that?”
“At the funeral. His parents and Iris Anne were killed in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” Mia murmured and Keene shrugged.
“It was almost twenty-five years ago.” Then she surprised them both by smiling at Mia. “But thank you. She was my dearest friend.”
“Why did you think you were wrong about seeing him, Miss Keene?” Abe asked.
“I called to him, but he didn’t answer. My Robert never would have been so rude.”
“One more question, Miss Keene,” Mia said, “then we’ll be on our way. Do you have any pictures, maybe a picture of Robert?”
“Oh, mercy. I may have an old annual or two from high school, but I’d have no clue where they’d be.”
Mia gave her a business card. “It’s really important we find a picture. My name and number’s on here. If you find something, can you call us?”
Thursday, February 26, 3:00 P.M.
“Mr. Conti will see you now.”
Zoe fidgeted nervously. Now that she was here, she was wondering how wise an idea this request for an interview had really been, especially since they’d refused to allow Scott to accompany her. He hadn’t even been allowed to drive her here in the station van. She followed the butler, clad in a black pin-striped suit with a crisp white shirt and a black tie. Shades of Al Capone, she thought, glad she’d left word with the station on where she’d gone.
“Miss Richardson,” the butler announced, gesturing her into Jacob Conti’s private office. Conti himself sat behind his desk, staring at her through narrowed eyes. Drake Edwards stood to one side. She supposed Edwards intended to look casual, but the man exuded such coiled power that anything remotely resembling casual was an impossibility. For a moment she stared at him in fascination, then turned to Jacob Conti.
“Thank you for seeing me. Please accept my condolences on the death of your son.”
Conti said nothing, but Edwards gestured toward the only other chair in the room. “Have a seat, Miss Richardson,” Edwards said smoothly. “Stay a while.”
His words had a distinctly ominous ring, but Zoe refused to be cowed. She sat, making sure she showed just enough leg. “I wanted to request a formal interview.”
Edwards lifted a brow. “Why would Mr. Conti be interested in an interview?”
“There have been several attempts on the lives of Kristen Mayhew and her inner circle this week,” Zoe said.
Conti’s face remained impassive, while Edwards’s grew amused. “And this concerns us how?” Edwards asked and Zoe knew she was being mocked.
“There are allegations that you are involved, Mr. Conti. The police were here to visit you just this morning.”
“The police discussed no such allegations with us, Miss Richardson,” Edwards said, again mocking her. “Perhaps your newest source is… incorrect.” His eyes brazenly traveled the length of her body.
Zoe turned back to the silent Conti. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to address the allegations in a public forum,” she said, as earnestly as she could muster while ignoring Edwards’s blatant leer. Conti said not a single word. His expression had not changed once in the entire time she’d been in the room. If she hadn’t seen his chest rise and fall, she might have believed he was dead. But he was very much alive.
And very much a threat. She stood up. “If you decide you’re interested, please contact me.” She placed one of her cards on the corner of his desk. “Again, my condolences.”
She’d reached the door when Conti finally spoke. “Miss Richardson, I hold you as accountable for the death of my son as I do Miss Mayhew and his killer.”
Unable to control the sudden tremble of her body, she turned to look at him. “Is that a threat, Mr. Conti?”
“Why would you think a thing like that?” Conti asked, his mouth curving in a truly horrible smile and she knew the true taste of fear. “Now leave before I have you forcibly removed.”
On shaking legs she obeyed. Edwards followed her to the mansion’s front entrance and opened the door. In his hand he held her card and a second later he’d deftly slid it down the neckline of her dress, between her breasts. “We know many things, Miss Richardson. Including how to reach you should we need to.”
How she managed to start her car she didn’t know. All she knew is she didn’t draw a breath until she’d cleared the front gate. A mile away the nausea passed and fury swept in to take its place. She’d lost the upper hand. She’d just have to get it back.
Jacob didn’t look up from his work when Drake reentered the room. “Kill her.”
Thursday, February 26, 5:00 P.M.
Kristen laughed when a singularly atrocious hat landed on the desk in front of her. She looked up to find Mia wearing a grin. “What is this?”
“It’s a gift for you.”
Abe came up behind Mia, smirking. “She made friends with a hatmaker.”
Mia sat behind her own desk and sighed. “I felt bad for her, all alone in that hat shop.”
“She’s alone because she’s mean.” Abe pulled up a chair and straddled it. He was almost close enough to touch and the sight of him straddling a chair brought back the memories in a flood. Kristen’s fingers reached, then clenched and resolutely she focused on the ugly hat, but from the corner of her eye she saw him grin, enjoying knowing how much he affected her. “Except to you, Mia. You just charm everyone.”
Mia made a face. “Shut up. You want to tell her or should I?”
Abe gestured broadly. “Be my guest.”
Kristen listened as Mia recounted the conversation with Keene. “So Robert started early,” she said, “assuming he really did come back to off the guy who’d killed his brother.”
“The junior vigilante squad. Kind of like Boy Scouts, but not,” Mia said.
Kristen shook her head with a rueful smile. “Mia. So what do you two think? Could Robert Barnett be our guy? That name’s not on any of my lists but…”
Abe nodded. “I say he could be, but we hit a brick wall. Couldn’t track Robert Barnett any farther than Keene. How did you do today?”
“I called everyone who was involved in a case Simpson defended and Hillman presided over. No obvious traumas, two invitations to celebration dinners, one nomination of the vigilante for the Nobel peace prize, and three I couldn’t reach. I’ll try them again tomorrow. Oh, and I found Paul Worth. I guess he’d be Robert Barnett’s uncle through Hank.”
Abe raised a brow. “And?”
“He’s alive, but we can’t talk to him. He’s in a nursing home up by Lincoln Park. Not lucid. I did talk to his accountant, who’s the executor of the estate. Paul Worth has no children and on his death that piece of land you found yesterday goes back to the state.”
“I wonder how our guy found out about the property,” Abe mused.
“I don’t know. Maybe he knew the Worths.” She handed him the sheet of paper on which she’d taken notes. “I asked the nursing home if you could see him. They said you were welcome to try. I wasn’t going up there by myself and Spinnelli’s gone.”
Abe looked over at Spinnelli’s empty office. “Where is he?”
Kristen sighed. “Mayor’s office.”
“Yeah. He’s got a press conference scheduled for seven. It’s not going to be pretty.”
They were quiet for a moment, then Abe’s cell phone trilled. Kristen’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been on edge all day, worrying about the Reagans, about Owen, about her mother, but everyone was accounted for. She’d warned Lois and Greg and knew she’d done her best to protect the people she cared about.
“Reagan.” His face hardened and Kristen grabbed his arm.
“Rachel?”
He shook his head, covered her hand with his and gave a brief squeeze. “No, they’re all fine. This is something else.” He stood up and walked a few feet away. “This isn’t a good time,” he muttered, then, “No, I’m not free for dinner…Or drinks. Dammit, Jim, just say what’s on your mind and be done with it.”
Jim. Debra’s father. Poor Abe.
“I’ll try.” Abe snapped his phone shut and stood there for a moment, all alone, and her heart cracked. Not caring who saw, she got up and smoothed her hand over his broad back. His muscles tensed under her palm and he turned to look at her, saw she understood. “They’re in town for the christening. They want to meet me for dinner.”
“Why?”
He moved his powerful shoulders restlessly. “I don’t know. To talk, they said.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not.” She leaned her forehead against his upper arm. “Just worried about you.”
From behind them Mia cleared her throat meaningfully. “Hi, Marc.”
As one, Kristen and Abe turned to meet Spinnelli’s beleaguered stare. For a long awkward moment nobody said anything, then Spinnelli sighed. “At least there’ll be one happy ending out of all this.”
Kristen dropped her hand from Abe’s back. “Mayor’s not happy, huh?”
Spinnelli sank into a chair. “Well, let’s see. We’re incompetent, laughingstocks, the butt of jokes, an embarrassment. There was more, but those were the high points. Mia, call Murphy. Find out if he’s gotten any closer to finding that girl.” He snapped his fingers, his brow puckered. “Whatever her name was.”