by Ana Barrons
Numbly she went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Predictably, all the plates and glasses were smashed. Thank God Violetta had picked up Bruno. Thinking about her dog gave her the first actual pang of regret that her life in this house was effectively over. Bruno had loved the yard and the pool. As soon as she knew for sure where she was going, she’d pick him up. Of course, by the time she got him back Violetta’s three children would have spoiled him rotten.
“You’ll cut your feet up if you go in there,” Mancuso said.
She ignored him and stepped around the worst of the mess. Stuck to the refrigerator were photos of Jeremy at various ages, starting from when he was an infant. She pulled them down and stuck them in her purse, then picked her way out of the room, down the hallway to the foyer, and pulled open the front door.
“Wait. Where are you going?” Mancuso asked.
“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving town.”
“You need to be in a safe house where we can protect you.”
She snorted. “Please, Agent Mancuso. With friends like you who needs enemies? I’ll be safer away from you people.” Gabe’s face popped into her head. “All of you.”
“We have to be able to reach you,” he said.
“You have my cell number,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yes, but—”
“I’m going to a hotel,” she said, then waved a hand at him. “Feel free to follow my credit card trail.”
Kate clicked the door opener for her Prius, got in and pulled away quickly. She was headed to Philly, and she wouldn’t be using her credit card.
* * *
Gabe gazed down at the torn off photo in the plastic bag and felt a surge of regret so strong he wanted to weep with it. Mancuso had been jubilant when he’d handed him the bag, describing in detail how Kate had torn the photo and let that piece fall to the floor. He let the guilt wash over him—guilt that he’d agreed to use her, even though that wasn’t what their lovemaking had been about. And worse, guilt that she had loved him more than she had loved Steve.
It killed him to ask the question, but he had no choice. “Where did she go?”
“Said she was going to a hotel,” Mancuso said. “Told me we could follow her credit card trail. Then again, maybe she’s got someone joining her there.”
Gabe refused to give him the satisfaction of glaring. “I presume you had someone follow her?”
Mancuso spread his fingers over his chest. “Do I look like a rookie to you?”
No, you look like an asshole to me. “And?”
“And, she hasn’t landed anywhere yet.”
“Well, the last time you heard from the tail, where was she?” Gabe asked, unable to hide his exasperation.
“Relax, Detective. I’ll let you know the minute I hear.”
“Please do. Whoever did this may also be following her.”
Gabe stuck the bag in his pocket and swept the room with his eyes. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this look like an act of rage. Another woman or a furious lover would have torn Kate’s clothes to shreds, not simply stopped at dousing them with a mix of chemicals. He’d thought all along that Kate’s attacker had been looking for something, and this unholy mess fit his theory.
“The computer in the den was taken,” Scott Bailey said from the doorway. “Not destroyed. Can’t tell whether there are more books missing from the study. Kate will have to help us with that.”
Drew Franklin’s computer was taken. Now that was interesting. Probably the only useful part of this whole frustrating investigation. Whoever had broken in and trashed Kate’s house had known how to avoid detection. Or, at least, immediate detection. Something would turn up if they were patient.
“What about Kate’s laptop?” Gabe asked.
“We took it with us,” Mancuso said. “We didn’t find anything on it.”
Gabe didn’t bother to point out that he had already gone through Kate’s laptop and come to the same conclusion, which he had shared with Parker. Clearly the FBI didn’t trust him any more than he trusted them. Some things never changed.
Scott was leaning against his car when Gabe emerged from Kate’s house. “Hey,” he said. “Got a minute?”
Gabe checked his watch. 4:30 a.m. Jesus. “Make it fast,” he said.
Scott scratched his blond head, a habit he had when he had a hunch or felt uneasy about something. “Looks like I might’ve been wrong about her.”
Gabe cocked his head back at the house. “Oh, you mean because while Michael Clark was supposedly offing himself and confessing to murder and other vague crimes someone else was trashing her house? Would’ve been hard for her to orchestrate both events while she was in FBI custody.”
Scott gave a wry smile. “You thinking it wasn’t really a suicide?”
“Forensics will be able to tell us that very soon,” Gabe said.
“Meanwhile, whoever did this—”
“—may still be after Kate,” Gabe said. “Believe me, I’m well aware of that.”
“More likely they’re after whatever they think she has in her house.”
As far as Gabe was concerned Joy was not off the hook. Granted, the note Michael left took all the blame for everything. I loved him, it said. He betrayed me. Tell Kate I’m sorry for everything I did to her, but now she is free to love again. I am the one who can’t live without him.
Gabe wasn’t buying it. Not the suicide or the note. If Michael had written that note it stood to reason he had broken in and had torn apart Kate’s house in a fit of jealousy and grief. But someone in that state would have killed himself on the spot. He wouldn’t have gone back to the office—having stopped off to shower, since his body held no trace of the perfume or cleaning fluids that were all over Kate’s house—written her a heartfelt apology, and then shot himself.
“Clark wouldn’t have known she was in custody,” Scott said, his thoughts obviously running along the same lines. “Even the press didn’t find out until she was released.”
Gabe nodded and ran his hands back through his hair. “Yeah. But until the feds figure out Michael was murdered—”
“They won’t be looking for our guy,” Scott said.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was almost seven o’clock in the morning when Kate climbed the steps to the house she’d grown up in. Easter and Christmas dinners had moved to Jennifer’s house several years ago, leaving little reason to come here—and she’d long since stopped carrying a key. She rang the bell. Her mother opened the door and took a step back when she saw Kate. Her hand flew to her throat, as though she were looking at a ghost. “My God. Kate.”
“Hi, Mom,” Kate said, stepping inside. “Sorry for not calling. It was an impulse thing.”
“But...but...” her mother stuttered. “We heard on the radio that you had been in custody and they were releasing you this morning.”
Kate looked closely at the woman who had raised her. Dressed in loose black pants and a matching top, her blond shoulder-length hair as nicely styled as ever, Valerie Callahan looked far younger than her sixty-five years.
“I put up such a fuss that they released me sooner,” Kate said. “And thanks for the moral support.”
Her mother flushed. “Your father didn’t think we should go,” she said, then rushed to add, “But he’s been very concerned. We both have. And Alison said she would let us know what was going on. I’m sorry, Kate, I—”
Kate held up a hand. “Please, don’t bother apologizing. I need a place to sleep and I want to pick up some of my old things if you haven’t thrown them away.”
“Of course I haven’t.” Her mother finally stepped back and closed the door behind Kate. “Are you all right? Are you hungry? I’m making pancakes.”
“No thanks,” Kate said. She brushed past her mother and took the steps up to the bedrooms. She didn’t want to talk to either one of them. Her father would be interested long enough to know everything was under control—and that he didn’t have to exe
rt himself—and then drift back into the living room and work on his crossword puzzles, or whatever it was that held his interest. And her mother would make excuses for him. Been there, done that.
Thankfully, her room was still mostly intact. It made sense, considering that she’d paid for them to add several rooms on to the back and sides of the house. She closed the door and locked it, then let out a sigh of relief. At least the FBI hadn’t busted her when she crossed the state line. She had no illusions that she was off their radar, but given the fact that Drew had stolen all her money, she couldn’t go far. Besides, they said Michael had taken the blame for all of it.
Michael. Dead. Jesus Christ.
She couldn’t believe Michael was capable of murder, or of sending someone to her house to hurt her. A shudder rippled through her at the thought. She had to get in touch with Archer. She didn’t know anything about their relationship other than they were friends, but he had to be hurting. Problem was, she didn’t even have a last name for him, or a phone number.
With a long sigh she went to her closet and was pleased to find all the clothes she had left behind after college still on their shelves or on hangers. Given how much weight she’d lost, her old Levi’s would still fit, and most of the T-shirts, all of the shoes. Okay, good. No immediate need to go shopping. The less contact she had to make with people the better. If the news hadn’t gone out already, soon everyone would hear that she had been released, and it would be beat the press time all over again.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet to pull out some shoes, and spotted a stack of her old sketch pads. Even as her gut twisted, some perverse need had her reaching for them. She swallowed and flipped over the cover of the first one, to find herself confronted by an early study of Steve’s profile. Tears welled, and she ran her fingers over the boyish features. God, why had he died so young?
She closed the pad, knowing her heart would break if she forced herself to remember her time with Steve. Not now. She wasn’t strong enough. Most of the pads in the stack were filled with sketches of him, years of sketches she’d made while he worked at his computer. She put them back where she’d gotten them...and then remembered. The other sketch pad. The private one. Was it still there?
She got down on her belly and crawled to the far end of the closet, beneath the shelves and rack of long dresses and coats, where no one ever looked, and lifted up the edge of the carpet. Her fingers found the spiral edge of the sketch pad, and she pulled it out, then sat with it on her lap for a long, long time, trying to get her mind to go blank, her heart to stop pounding. She should toss the thing in the Dumpster. Should have done it years ago. Why had she saved it?
Finally, after who knew how long, she flipped up the top sheet to her study of Gabe’s eyes and nose. Her breath caught in her throat. He’d been much younger, less troubled, but she’d captured the shape, even the intensity of his eyes. She reached out to touch it but stopped herself and flipped to the next page. His ear and neck, the back of his head. The accuracy and detail was beyond anything she’d achieved in her studies of Steve.
She flipped through more pages, fascinated by the variations in Gabe’s expressions from morose to angry to silly to contented. Just like he’d looked in her bed the morning the FBI came for her.
White-hot fury rose in her chest. “You rotten, no good son of a bitch,” she spat at the drawing on her lap. “You filthy, scumsucking, lying bastard. Dirty, filthy, rotten, disgusting, lying n-no good, lying...” Tears clogged her throat and her nose, making it hard to breathe or speak. The fact that she was crying over him again stoked her rage and she began to shout. “I hate you. I hate the ground you walk on. I hate the filthy sight of you, you s-sucking, slimy...”
Somehow she got to her feet and left the closet and started slapping the sketch pad at walls, at furniture, at lamps, at pictures, all the while shouting and crying and finally just shrieking in frustration and pain. A wounded, bleeding beast had exploded out of her chest and taken over her body, and God help anyone who got in her way.
When her energy was spent and her voice was hoarse she sank to the floor and curled into a ball, shaking and hiccupping sobs and asking herself over and over what she was going to do. She didn’t hear her mother enter the room, but she smelled her flowery perfume and felt warm hands pulling her hair off her face, stroking her cheek, lifting her head and laying it on her lap.
“It’s okay, Katie,” her mother crooned. “You’ve been through hell and back with no one there to help you. And I’m so, so sorry, baby. I’ve never been so sorry in my life.”
She heard the catch in her mother’s voice and cried even harder, but this time there were arms around her, holding her together, telling her everything was going to be okay.
Her life wasn’t over.
* * *
When Gabe showed up at his mother’s house that evening it was closer to seven o’clock than six. His mother was stirring spaghetti sauce in the pot and Carolyn was reading the paper at the table. He gave his mother a quick peck on the cheek, which brought a smile, and sat across from his sister.
Carolyn had called him at work that morning, saying his presence was requested at dinner because Sylvia was going to call to tell them all something very important. Gabe had made her laugh by speculating that she must be pregnant, despite the fact that she was forty and divorced.
“So,” he said. “Did I miss Sylvia’s call?”
“No,” Carolyn said. “I told her we’d call her after dinner and put her on speakerphone.”
Gabe scratched his head. “Mom, do you know what this is about?”
“I’ll throw the spaghetti in now,” his mother said, and Gabe wondered why she didn’t answer the question. Not that she was particularly interested in anything they did. It was as though all her curiosity, all her enthusiasm and vivacity had died with Steve. A familiar ache filled his chest. Damn, he was tired of living with that guilt.
He and Carolyn made small talk while they ate, and his mother tuned into and out of the conversation. When they were finished, Gabe opted to wait for dessert in favor of getting the phone call over with. He had to talk to Kate tonight or he’d never rest. Damn it, he had to explain what he’d done and why, and somehow make her understand how he felt about her.
And what the hell was Kate doing at her parents’ house? Of all the unlikely places for her to go...
The doorbell rang, and Miriam went to answer it. “Who can this be?” Carolyn said. “Bad timing.”
A loud exclamation told them whoever was at the door was a very welcome guest. Gabe checked his watch and rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t have time to talk to some family friend. He had to get out there and find Kate’s attacker.
The CSI team had worked tirelessly to find prints or any evidence that could point to a suspect, but they’d found nothing. Both the police and the FBI were investigating Michael Clark’s death, which they hadn’t yet ruled a homicide. They knew Michael had arrived at the Cannon House Office Building alone at six o’clock that evening. Coincidentally or not, the Capitol Police, in checking their logs, discovered they were missing a visitor named Jamal Jones who had come in with a group from New Orleans that day to talk to the representatives from Louisiana. They were probably still going through surveillance tapes trying to put a face to the name.
When Sylvia walked into the kitchen with her arm around his mother Carolyn jumped up with a squeal of surprise and went to her. So much for the phone call—and getting away quickly. Sylvia let go of Carolyn and came around the table to him. He stood up and hugged her, and was surprised by how tightly she squeezed him. Her dark hair was streaked with gray strands, and her clothes were rumpled, no doubt from the flight from Chicago.
“Well, this is unexpected,” he said, fixing Carolyn with a questioning look. Had she known Sylvia was coming or was she as surprised as she appeared to be? “How are you doing?”
Sylvia leaned back but held on to Gabe’s shoulders. “I thought this was
important enough to show up in the flesh.” To her mother and Carolyn she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming, but I thought it would be kind of fun to surprise you.”
Gabe put his hand on his sister’s belly. “So, are you actually pregnant?”
Sylvia slapped his hand away and snorted. “Is that what Carolyn told you?”
“No,” Carolyn said. “I said you had something important to tell us all.”
Gabe pulled out his chair and sat back down, forearms crossed on the table. “Whatever it is, if you could tell us sooner rather than later I’d appreciate it. I have to go back to work after this.”
“Mom, can you make us all some tea?” Carolyn asked, and it felt as though she was trying to keep her out of the conversation. Then she turned to Gabe and cleared her throat. “Guess who I heard from today?”
For a hopeful moment Gabe thought she was talking about Kate, but then he realized how unlikely that was. “Please, don’t keep me in suspense.”
Carolyn turned to Sylvia, who sat beside her across the table from Gabe, and they exchanged a knowing look. “Lindsay,” she said.
Gabe glanced between them. “Okay,” he said. “What did she want?”
Both women leaned toward him. “Promise you won’t shoot the messenger,” Sylvia said.
Gabe frowned. “You know about this?”
“That’s why I’m here, Gabe,” Sylvia said. “Lindsay called me too.”
Fuck. “About what?”
“About you and Kate.”
Gabe stared at his sisters, who wore almost identical expressions of concern, except that Sylvia’s lips were pressed together in disapproval. He immediately understood what had happened—Lindsay had pumped Jeremy for information and pressured the poor kid to tell her about the sleepover two nights ago. Jeremy must have woken up and seen that he was gone, then found him in Kate’s bed. That information would have pissed Lindsay off royally. So she had followed her instincts and called in the big guns.