by Karen Rose
“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sam said briskly. “I’m going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning.”
“Thanks. I will.” He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he’d worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn’t be a know-it-all hotshot.
Monday, November 27, 8:30 A.M.
Mia Mitchell’s feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee. But they’re not, because here I am, she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She’d passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.
Because I froze like a damn rookie. And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe -crumple and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.
“Excuse me.”
Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent be-came clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he’d gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable. Pay attention for God’s sake. She searched her mind for an adequate response.
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m... waiting for someone.” It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn’t move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but... didn’t. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.
He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought. Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.
“Well, if you need a place to warm up, there’s room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It’s cold outside.” He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. “Stay dry.”
Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to set him straight, but he was gone, hurrying across the lobby. He stopped at the desk sergeant’s station and pointed at her. The desk sergeant blinked once, then nodded soberly.
Hell, Tommy Polanski was at the desk this morning. He’d known her since she was a snot-nosed kid tagging behind her dad at the firing range, begging for a turn. But Tommy didn’t say a word, just let the man walk away thinking she was some street person. Rolling her eyes, she followed the path the man had taken, scowling when a broad grin took over Tommy’s face.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t Detective Mia Mitchell, finally come back to do an honest day’s work.”
She took off her hat, shook it dry. “Got tired of the soaps. How’s it going, Tommy?”
He shrugged. “Same old, same old.” But his eyes twinkled.
He was going to make her ask, the old bastard. “So who was that guy?”
Tommy laughed. “He’s a fire marshal. He was worried you were planning to storm the place. I told him you were a regular”—his grin went wicked—“and harmless overall.”
Mia rolled her eyes again. “Gee, thanks, Tommy,” she said dryly.
“Anything for Bobby’s girl.” His grin faded, his eyes -giving her a head-to-toe once-over. “How’s the shoulder, kid?”
She flexed it inside her leather jacket. “Just a graze. Doc says I’m good as new.” Actually it hadn’t been a graze and the doctor had said she needed another week on disability, but at her growl he’d shrugged and signed her release form.
“And Abe?”
“Getting better.” So the night nurse said, every night when Mia called anonymously at three a.m.
Tommy’s jaw stiffened. “We’ll catch the punk that did this, Mia. Don’t worry.”
Two weeks later and the little punk bastard that shot her partner was still on the streets, no doubt boasting how he took down a cop twice his size. A wave of rage hit her hard, but she bit it back. “I know. Thanks.”
“Tell Abe I said hi.”
“I will,” she lied smoothly. “I need to go. I don’t want to be late my first day back.”
“Mia.” Tommy hesitated. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a good cop.”
A good cop. Mia bit the inside of her cheek. Too bad Bobby Mitchell hadn’t been a better man. “Thanks, Tommy. My mom appreciated the basket.” Fruit baskets filled the kitchen table of her mother’s small house, tokens of respect for her father’s long, long career. Three weeks after her father stroked out, the fruit in the baskets was going rotten. A fitting end, many would say. No, many wouldn’t. Because many didn’t know.
But Mia knew. A hard knot filled her throat and she shoved her hat back on her head. “I gotta go.” She passed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time, which -unfortunately brought her all the faster toward the very place she’d been avoiding.
Monday, November 27, 8:40 A.M.
He worked in brisk silence, sliding the razor blade down the straight edge of the ruler, trimming the ragged edges from the article he’d pulled from the Trib. fire destroys home, kills one. It was a small article, with no photograph, but it did mention the home belonged to the Doughertys so it would be a good addition to his scrapbook. He sat back and looked at the account of Saturday night’s fire and his mouth curved.
He’d achieved the effect he’d wanted. There was fear in the words of the neighbors the reporter had interviewed. Why? they’d asked. Who could do such a thing?
Me. That was the answer, all the answer he needed. I could. I would. I did.
The reporter had interviewed old lady Richter. She’d been one of the worst of the geezers, always dropping in on old lady Dougherty for tea, gossiping for hours. She was always looking down her nose at them. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, Laura,” she’d say with a sniff. “Taking in those kind of boys. It’s a wonder you haven’t been murdered in your sleep by now.” Old lady Dougherty would tell her that she was making a difference in her boys’ lives. She’d made a difference, all right. Her difference had sent them straight to hell. Her difference had killed Shane.
Shane had trusted her. And she’d turned on him. She was as guilty of his death as if she’d stabbed him in the back herself. He looked down at his hand. It was fisted, the X-Acto blade clutched like a knife. He carefully put it down, reined in the emotion.
Stick to the facts, the plan. He needed to find old lady Dougherty. He should have waited for her to return. To go ahead without her had been foolish. He’d been too eager to use the means. He’d forgotten about the end.
When would she return? How the hell would he find her now? His eyes settled on the article once more. Old lady Richter had been a gossip then. Some things didn’t change. When the Doughertys came back, she’d know. He smiled, a plan starting to form. He was clever enough to get the information without Richter susp
ecting a thing.
He studied the article, pride bubbling deep within him. The fire investigators had ruled it arson. Duh. But they had no leads, no suspects. They didn’t even know the identity of the girl yet. They claimed they were withholding her identity pending notification of her family, but they couldn’t know who she was. She’d been burned to a crisp. He’d seen to that. No body could have survived that fire.
His hands went still. He’d said those same words the day Shane died. Nobody could have survived. And Shane had not. That the girl had not was... fair.
He gave a hard nod to the newspaper clipping he held in his hands. Nice, straight edges. Suitable for framing. Instead, he slid it between the pages of the book on his desk along with the article he’d cut just as carefully from the -Springdale, Indiana Gazette. thanksgiving night fire leaves two dead. As they should be. Again, it was fair. More than fair. Again, no suspects. No leads. As it should be.
Later, he’d put both articles with the souvenir he’d taken, Caitlin’s blue denim purse. Well, it had been blue. Now it was red, splattered with her blood.
He’d been splattered, too. Luckily he’d been able to shower and change before anyone saw the blood on his clothes. Next time, he’d have to take better precautions. Next time he’d need to cover his own clothes before drawing blood.
He stood up. Because he would draw blood again, very soon. He knew exactly where to find Miss Penny Hill. -People thought their addresses were secret because their telephone numbers were unlisted. Not so. If a person knew how, they could find out anything about anybody. Of course the person searching had to be smart.
And I am. He was already starting to feel the excitement of the next kill. Penny Hill would not die easily. He would not be so merciful this time. Time. Damn. He’d lost track of time. He gathered his things. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late. He needed to make it through the day, then tonight... He’d walked through his plan last night, made sure it was foolproof. Tonight... he smiled.
She would suffer. And she’d know why. Then she’d count to ten, one for each miserable year of his brother’s life. Then he’d send her to hell where she belonged.
Monday, November 27, 8:50 A.M.
Mia rounded the corner to the Homicide bullpen. It looked the same—pairs of desks back-to-back, piled with papers and coffee cups. Except for two. Hers and Abe’s. She frowned. Their desks were clean, their folders in neat stacks. Everything else was arranged with an eerie symmetry—coffee cups, telephones, staplers, even their pens were placed in identical mirror-image locations.
“The Stepford wives cleaned my desk,” Mia muttered and heard a chuckle behind her. Todd Murphy leaned against the wall, coffee cup in his hand, a smile bending his mouth. With his rumpled suit and loosened tie, he was a most welcome sight.
“Stacy,” he said quietly, indicating their office clerk. “She went through what you’d been working on when Spinnelli reassigned your cases. Stacy got a little carried away.”
“He reassigned all of them?” Mia hadn’t expected their lieutenant to allow their cases to go untouched for two weeks, but hearing that he’d reassigned them all left her a little rocked. It was as if Spinnelli hadn’t expected her back for a long while. Well, I am back. She had work to do. First and foremost was catching the sorry piece of shit who’d shot Abe. “Who took Abe’s case?”
“Howard and Brooks. They worked it hard the first week, but the trail was ice cold.”
“So Melvin Getts shoots a cop and gets away with it,” she said bitterly.
“They haven’t given up,” Murphy said softly. “Everybody wants to see Getts pay.”
The thought of Getts calmly lifting his gun and shooting her partner twisted her gut and she felt herself freezing up as she had outside. Fighting it, she strode to her desk with a belligerence she had to fake. “I bet Stacy even washed my cup.”
Murphy followed her and slumped in his chair two desks down. “It was really gross, Mitchell. Your cup was growing... things.” He shuddered. “Vile, unspeakable things.”
Mia set the umbrella against her desk and shrugged out of her wet jacket, biting her lip against the twinge in her -shoulder as she adjusted the holster under her blazer. “Good old-fashioned mold. Never hurt anybody.” She pulled the worn fedora from her head and winced. No wonder the guy downstairs thought she was a street person. Both the coat and the hat looked like they’d been pulled from a Salvation Army bin. On the other hand, what did she care what he thought? You have to stop caring what people think. She sighed quietly. And she’d stop breathing while she was at it.
She turned her frustration to her perfect desk. “Hell, I can’t work like this.” Deliberately she toppled the stack of folders and rearranged the contents of her desk haphazardly. “There. If Stacy touched the Pop-Tarts in my drawer, she’s dead meat.” But her emergency stash was intact. “She can live.”
“I’m sure she’s been quaking in her boots,” Murphy said dryly. He eyed the umbrella. “Since when did you start carrying one of those?”
“It’s not mine. I’m going to have to find the owner and give it back.” Mia eased herself into her chair, her eyes flitting across the unoccupied desk that butted against -Murphy’s. “Where’s your partner?” she asked. Murphy’s partner was Abe’s brother Aidan. Mia wasn’t looking forward to the -censure she knew she’d see in his eyes.
“At the morgue. We pulled a double homicide last night. He won the toss, so I’m calling next of kin.” Murphy’s eyes abruptly narrowed. “You have company.”
Mia turned, a groan catching in her throat when her -shoulder burned. Then she forgot all about her shoulder. Striding across the bullpen with a look that would terrify most serial killers was the assistant state’s attorney. Abe’s wife. Guilt had Mia avoiding Abe’s family for two weeks. Now it was time to face the music. Unsteadily she rose and prepared to take what she had coming. “Kristen.”
Kristen Reagan raised her brows, her lips tightly pursed. “So you live after all.”
The woman had every right to her anger. Kristen could have been a widow had the bullet hit Abe’s gut just an inch lower. Mia braced herself. “Just say it.”
Kristen said nothing, instead studying her in a way that made Mia want to squirm, bringing back memories of frowning nuns and stinging palms. Finally Kristen sighed. “You dumb ass,” she murmured. “What did you think I was going to say?”
Mia’s spine straightened at the soft tone. She would have preferred the harsh words she deserved. “I wasn’t paying attention. Abe paid the price.”
“He said you were ambushed. He didn’t see them at first, either.”
“My angle was different. I should have seen them. I was...” Preoccupied. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she repeated stiffly. “I’m sorry.”
Kristen’s eyes flashed. “You think he blames you? That I blame you?”
“You should. I would.” She lifted a shoulder. “I do.”
“Then you’re an idiot,” Kristen snapped. “We were worried, Mia. You disappeared after they sewed you up. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find you. We thought you’d been hurt, or killed. Abe’s been out of his mind worrying about you. And all this time you’ve been off somewhere sulking, feeling sorry for yourself?”
Mia blinked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” She shut her eyes. “Shit.”
“You didn’t mean for us to worry.” Kristen’s voice was flat. “Well, we did. Even Spinnelli didn’t know where you were until you called last week to say you’d be back this morning. I went by your apartment six times.”
Mia opened her eyes, remembering three of those times. “I know.”
Kristen’s eyes widened. “You know? You were there?”
“Kind of. Yeah.” Sitting in the dark sulking. Feeling sorry for herself.
Kristen’s brows furrowed. “‘Kind of’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The room had quieted and everyone watched them. “Can you keep your voice down?”
; “No. I can’t. I’ve sat by Abe’s side for two weeks while he waited for you to call. In between morphine drips and surgery, he worried that you’d gone after Getts yourself and were dead in an alley somewhere. So if I’m a little short on patience or sympathy or discretion, then so be it.” She stood, her cheeks flushed. “You better show up at his hospital room after your shift. Explain to him what ‘kind of’ means. You owe him that much.” She took two steps, then stopped. Slowly she turned, her eyes no longer flashing, but filled with sorrow. “Dammit, Mia. You hurt him. When he found out you were okay and that you just hadn’t come to see him, he was so hurt.”
Mia swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
Kristen cocked her jaw. “You should be. He cares about you.”
Mia dropped her gaze to her desk. “I’ll be there after my shift.”
“See that you are.” She paused, then cleared her throat. “Mia, look at me, please.”
Mia raised her eyes. The anger was gone, concern taking its place. “What?”
Kristen lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “You’ve had a hard time the last few weeks, what with your dad and all. Mistakes happen. You’re human. And you’re still the partner I want watching my husband’s back.”
Mia watched until Kristen was gone, then sank down into her chair. They thought she was upset about her father’s death. If only it were that easy. “Shit.”
Murphy’s voice was mild. “You’re white as a sheet. You should have taken a few more days.”
“Looks like I should have done a lot of things,” she shot back, then closed her eyes. “Have you seen him?”
“Yeah. He was a mess for the first week or so. Aidan says they’re letting him out tomorrow or the next day, so unless you want him to hold it over your head that you didn’t visit him, you’d better go tonight. What the hell were you thinking, Mia?”
Mia stared into her very clean coffee cup. “That I fucked up and nearly got my partner killed. Again.” Murphy said nothing and Mia looked up, sardonic. “You’re not going to tell me it wasn’t my fault? This time or last time?”