Puzzled, she scanned the busy street looking for him. But it was as if he had vanished into thin air. Did she recognize him, after all? Something niggled at the back of her mind. She continued rifling through her mental Rolodex until her cell phone rang. She dug it from her purse and answered, expecting it to be Sophie.
“Caitlyn, it’s Reid. I was just calling to check on you. Is everything all right?”
Several days had passed since the ruckus at the stables involving Manny Ruiz.
“I’m fine.” She pushed away a few strands of hair the cool breeze had blown across her face. “I’m actually in the District for a couple of days on business. I’m staying at the Montier.”
“Where are you now?”
Caitlyn squinted against the bright sunlight. “On Seventeenth Street at the Habersham Building, getting ready to go into a long and probably boring meeting.”
There was a pause over the airwaves and for a second Caitlyn thought they had been disconnected. But then Reid spoke. “Have dinner with me tonight, Caitlyn? I’m sorry about how everything happened the other day. I can come by the hotel and pick you up.”
The invitation surprised her. Caitlyn watched as a young couple strolled past, laughing and holding hands. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Once they’d agreed to a time, Caitlyn closed the phone. It’s not a date, she told herself. He’s only worried about me. Still, Reid was under no obligation to take her to dinner. For all she knew he just wanted to show her more crime scene photos or discuss Manny again. But it hadn’t sounded like a business arrangement.
It had sounded like a man asking a woman out.
“You saw Joshua?” Caitlyn placed her dinner fork on the edge of her plate. They were seated at Agava, a cozy Greek restaurant just off K Street that was within walking distance from the Montier Hotel. Reid had met her in the hotel lobby, dressed in a sports coat, khaki slacks and a deep blue dress shirt.
“Agent Tierney wanted to interview him about anything he might know about the copycat,” he explained. “I went with him to analyze Joshua’s reactions.”
A small knot formed in her stomach. “What did you find out?”
“Not much. Tierney goaded him, trying to get him to brag about a mentoring role with the killer. He wasn’t biting.”
Caitlyn couldn’t help but wonder how Joshua was faring in a maximum-security prison—whether the psychiatrists or medication were helping to control his violent, impulsive thoughts. “I imagine Agent Tierney can be rather…intimidating.”
“That’s an understatement.” Reid smiled faintly and took a sip from his water goblet before finishing the last of his paidakia, or grilled lamb chops. Although their conversation had shifted toward the investigation, until now they had talked mostly about other things—the urban nonprofit for which Caitlyn was in town, and the Rambling Rose equine therapy program. She’d expressed concern that losing Manny would be a disruption to what had become a pretty smooth operation. Manny had overseen the operational aspects of the stables and farm, leaving a large gap she feared wouldn’t be easily filled. Already, she had placed an ad in the Middleburg newspaper.
“Do you ride?” Caitlyn asked after the waiter had removed their dinner dishes and given them a rundown on the evening’s desserts.
“My uncle had a farm in East Tennessee,” Reid told her. “Megan and I used to spend several weeks there every summer. We’d fish, ride horses and just generally goof around. It was a chance for the city kids to live in the country for a while.” He shook his head in fond remembrance. “I really loved it there. But no, I haven’t ridden competitively like you.”
Caitlyn had taken an interest in horses from an early age and become an accomplished equestrienne. As a teen, her bedroom in her parents’ Georgetown home had been filled with ribbons and trophies won for equitation and jumping. She’d even competed on the collegiate level for Sarah Lawrence, her alma mater.
“How’d you know about that?” she asked, surprised.
Reid didn’t answer for several seconds. “When your brother was under investigation, it was my job to learn as much about him as possible, including his acquaintances and family. Your background came…up.”
“Oh,” Caitlyn said softly, embarrassed by her naïveté. She should have realized he’d been privy to such information. He’d no doubt kept some dossier that held the minute details of herself and her family. She wondered if that was how he had selected the restaurant—Agava was one of her favorites.
Her thoughts must have been reflected in her expression, because he said, “I didn’t mean for tonight to be awkward, Caitlyn. I didn’t even intend to talk about the case.”
His gray eyes appeared intense in the table’s soft candlelight, the dancing flame illuminating his handsome face.
“Then why did you ask me?”
“The truth is, I didn’t plan to.” He shrugged a little, his voice low. “But when you told me you were here in the District, I realized that I really wanted to see you. It was an impulse move.”
His gaze held hers until the waiter’s return. He carried a tray with their ordered desserts—baklava and a molten chocolate cake with fig ice cream.
“Yours looks delicious,” Caitlyn noted, looking at the dense cake set in a brûlée dish.
“Would you like a bite?”
When she nodded, Reid dug his fork into the cake. Leaning across the small table, he held it out to her. Her fingers curled around his wrist as she helped him guide it into her mouth. The sensation of being fed by him caused a slow, disconcerting heat to unfurl in her stomach, mingling with the sensation of the rich chocolate melting on her tongue.
“Good?”
She nodded, swallowing and touching her napkin to her lips. Needing a distraction, she sipped from her cup of espresso.
Caitlyn chastised herself for her response to him. Was it really that long since she’d been with a man? Her feelings about Reid Novak were confusing…and becoming deeper despite the rational part of her mind warning her to stay unattached.
At the Montier Hotel, Reid escorted Caitlyn to her room. The elegant suite was decorated in shades of russet and gold. A Queen Anne sofa and love seat were arranged in front of a marble fireplace, and soaring Palladian windows gave views of the twinkling cityscape.
“I have a feeling this place definitely wouldn’t be on the FBI’s approved expenditure list,” Reid commented wryly.
“It shouldn’t be on mine these days, either, but I couldn’t resist staying here again.” Caitlyn placed her clutch purse on the coffee table and removed her pashmina wrap, draping it over the sofa’s back. “When I was little, before we moved permanently to D.C., my family used to stay here. I was about six and I fell in love with the horse-drawn carriages and uniformed valets outside. It always seemed so magical to me, like staying in a palace.”
At her wistful statement, Reid studied her, causing her to run a hand self-consciously through her hair. “I probably sound really spoiled to you, not to mention silly.”
“You sound like someone who misses her family.” His expression was sincere. “You’ve been through a lot, Caitlyn. You’re very resilient. Most people wouldn’t have the strength to start over like you have.”
“I didn’t have much choice. It was sink or swim, as they say.” She smiled and tried to make the statement sound lighthearted, but realized she hadn’t quite pulled it off.
“Caitlyn…” He shook his head in the pale glow of the table lamp. “You don’t have to always act so brave. Not on my account.”
“I do it for me, actually,” she replied with honesty. “It’s how I got through Joshua’s arrest and the trial. All those reporters and their horrible newspaper articles. My father’s death.”
Sympathy reflected in his eyes. Reid stepped closer, until they stood just inches apart. Caitlyn realized her breathing had grown shallower. Gazing up into his face, she lightly touched his chest. Little goose bumps rose on her skin as his
fingers skimmed her bare arms in response. She thought he might kiss her, but after several long moments he instead released a breath that sounded like regret and slowly dropped his hands. Caitlyn felt disappointment spread through her.
“I should get going,” he said, voice hoarse.
She nodded. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”
As he reached the door, she stopped him. “Reid? Just a minute…”
She went to the bedroom and returned with his prescription medication. Caitlyn handed it to him. “I was planning to drop it off before I left town.”
“Thanks.” He accepted the vial and dropped it into his coat pocket, not meeting her eyes. Caitlyn touched his sleeve, halting his retreat. She had to know—the prescription had been on her mind since finding it in her guest bathroom. She’d considered bringing it up during dinner, but had decided to let it wait until they were alone.
“Are you ill?”
He shook his head. “No. Not anymore.”
“I know Dr. Isrelsen. He’s a neurologist. A neurosurgeon, actually—”
“I had a brain tumor. A glioma,” he confessed quietly. He touched his forehead with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. “In my frontal lobe.”
His revelation shocked her. “Reid. I’m…so sorry—”
“I’m fine now,” he assured her. “It was benign, but in a tricky location. I had surgery to remove it six months ago.”
She searched his eyes. His mysterious absence from the FBI now made sense. “You must have been terrified.”
“I got through it. We did, actually. My family and I.”
“I’m glad.” Caitlyn reached up, her fingers lightly caressing his temple. Reid briefly closed his eyes at her touch.
“Bolt your door behind me, Caitlyn,” he said when she lowered her hand. He took a reluctant step back.
She nodded. With a final look at him, she closed the door and slid the bolt into place. Caitlyn remained in the suite’s vestibule until she heard the chime that signaled the arrival of the elevator to take him downstairs. Then, walking to one of the windows, she stared out at the city lights. The realization that someone as strong and vital as Reid could also be vulnerable was deeply troubling to her…as were her unsteady emotions. There was little point in denying to herself that she wanted him. But who she was—and who he was—meant the cards were stacked so very high against them.
Caitlyn believed Reid understood that, too.
12
The man stood on the hotel plaza, gazing up at the illuminated exterior. He scanned each window, wondering which room was hers.
She was a honey-blonde, too. Just like his wife had been. He had gotten a good look at her today, at least until she noticed him and he had been forced to retreat back into the pulsating crowd.
The night had gotten colder, the relative warmth of the sunny fall afternoon disappearing as blue sky faded to evening. Pulling the thin jacket more tightly around his chest, he tried to ignore his feet that hurt from hours of following her around the District.
Seeking a distraction, he closed his eyes and concentrated on her cool beauty, thinking of her oval face with its delicate features and graceful ballerina’s neck. But her image distorted until it became someone else entirely. Someone who was even more beautiful to him. He saw his wife—laughing at the beach on a summer weekend, helping their daughters wrap presents at Christmas. Cooing over the West Highland puppy he’d given her on their tenth anniversary. The memories wrapped around him until he felt dizzy with anger and need.
I’m so tired, he thought, grinding the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t been home in two days.
When he looked again, the valet under the hotel portico was holding open the glass doors, revealing the posh lobby and its sparkling chandeliers.
Reid Novak walked outside.
They had crossed paths before in the federal court-rooms—on business and on another more intensely personal matter. He stepped back into the shadows, watching as the FBI agent tipped the valet and drove off in an SUV. By all accounts, Novak was a good officer, fiercely intelligent and possessing a high moral character. Which made his involvement with her even more confusing.
He of all people had to understand she was tainted by evil, didn’t he?
But when the man had trailed them from the restaurant back to the hotel, he’d noticed the way Novak’s hand lingered against the small of her back. He felt a wave of hurt and betrayal.
Peering up again at the hotel facade, his eyes were drawn to a corner room on the third floor. Golden light emanated from its arched window, silhouetting the slender figure of a woman who looked out. He couldn’t make out her face at this distance, but her hair was long and blond. His fingers curled tightly against his palms, his unkempt nails pressing half moons into his flesh. The unfairness of it nearly choked him.
“I want my wife back,” he whispered into the darkness.
13
“Agent Novak.” Hal Feingold tipped his pilsner glass toward Reid, who had entered the wood-paneled Ambassador Bar near Capitol Hill. “You saved me a trip.”
“And how’s that?” Reid took a stool at the bar next to the former reporter. He’d already been by Feingold’s house and was told by his wife where to find him. Judging by the cell phone on the bar top and the fact that Feingold didn’t seem surprised by his appearance, Reid guessed he’d been forewarned of his arrival.
“I’m working on a book about the Cahill family. As lead investigator on the Capital Killer case, you’re on my interview list. You want a drink?” Feingold lifted his hand to signal the bartender.
“Not for me,” Reid said.
“Suit yourself.” Feingold shrugged thick shoulders under a tweed blazer. His balding pate reflected light from a wall-mounted television turned to C-SPAN. Accepting a refill from the bartender, he took a drink and wiped the foam from his mouth. “So how’ve you been, Novak? I contacted the VCU offices a few weeks back and was told you were on medical leave. You’ve been ill?”
“I’m better now.”
“But you’re not on the job yet, are you? You’re missing your firearm.”
Feingold had hangdog eyes and the heavy jowls of a chronic drinker, but Reid knew his mind was sharp as a scalpel. He’d covered the crime beat for the Washington Post for nearly three decades before leaving to pursue a career as a true crime author.
Reid redirected the conversation. “I understand you’ve been trying to make contact with Caitlyn Cahill?”
“Having her cooperation on the book would be a bonus.”
“She’s not interested.”
Feingold grinned. “What did she do? Make an official complaint? The Cahill name must still carry some weight if they’re letting her use FBI agents as messenger boys. Or is that just what they have you doing until SAC Johnston lets you off the porch?”
Reaching for a dish of salted peanuts, he popped a handful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “But as long as you’re bringing it up, I’ll tell you. I’m writing the book with or without Ms. Cahill’s permission. I covered the Capital Killer investigation and her brother’s trial, and I have five cardboard boxes full of notes that I don’t plan to let go to waste.”
“Caitlyn’s been through enough. She doesn’t need to see a book about the worst part of her life on store shelves.”
“And that’s precisely what will make it a bestseller. The Cahills were Washington royalty before one of them turned into a hot, psychotic mess. But Ms. Cahill can relax—she’s going to come out looking like the only sane one in the family. The only moral one, too.” He crunched more peanuts, studying Reid with curiosity. “Why do you give a damn about Caitlyn Cahill, anyway? Her daddy nearly got you busted down to the Omaha field office, if I recall. There’s nothing in Nebraska to investigate but cow wrangling, Agent.”
Reid made no comment. Instead he said, “Caitlyn had a break-in at her home outside Middleburg a few nights ago. Nothing was stolen, altho
ugh some files in her home office appeared to have been disturbed—”
“You think I’m breaking into homes now?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Feingold snorted. “Get back to me when you have some actual proof to back up that screwball theory.”
“It’s not unreasonable. You’re the one writing a book about the Cahills.”
“I’ll use one of your phrases, Agent. No comment.”
Reid massaged the back of his neck. He’d figured talking to Feingold wouldn’t glean much information, but at least he could apply some subtle pressure about leaving Caitlyn alone. Slapping the flat of his hand on the bar to signal his intention to leave, he stood.
“So Ms. Cahill won’t deign to give me an interview, and she sent in the Feds to make her point. Message received.” Feingold stifled a belch with a closed fist. “But what about you, Novak? I’ve got my digital recorder right here if you want to tell me a little about your infamous run-ins with Braden Cahill. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go with my third-party accounts—”
“See you, Feingold.”
“You don’t want to talk about the copycat?”
Reid looked at him. Feingold gave a knowing wink. “I heard the Bureau got an ID on the second vic this morning. Too bad I’m not in the newspaper business anymore. I’d give my left nut to be the reporter who breaks that story wide-open. Regardless, it’s going to make a nice epilogue for my book. A new killer on the loose and all that.”
Feingold still had contacts within law enforcement, apparently. Although the media had reported both murders, they hadn’t yet been publicly connected, nor had the possibility of a copycat killer been released. Reid knew it would now only be a matter of time.
“How about if I keep my mouth shut in exchange for an interview?” Feingold suggested. “I hear Braden was a real son of a bitch. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to unload? Tell your side of the story?”
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