Every Breath You Take

by Judith McNaught

  Wyatt quirked a brow at him and said nothing.

  “Can you explain this for me?” MacNeil said, and casually tossed the photograph on the table.

  Wyatt leaned slightly forward, looked at it, and then at MacNeil. “Aren’t you a little old to need an explanation?”

  MacNeil slapped another, similar photograph on the table, but this one was taken the night before at the villa, and Wyatt’s hand was on Donovan’s breast. “Explain this.”

  Wyatt barely flicked a glance at it. “What part of it don’t you understand?”

  “That’s interesting,” Gray said. “I didn’t think it would be this easy to get a reaction out of him.”

  “He looks completely unperturbed,” Lily argued.

  “No, he clenched his jaw, but just for an instant there. He’s angry, and he’s also very adept at hiding it. Remember that at trial.”

  MacNeil took his time putting the photos back into the right folder, letting Wyatt see that there were many folders of photographs in the stack of files. “Maybe we should start from the beginning, instead,” MacNeil announced. “Where were you on the day William Wyatt disappeared?”

  “I don’t know what day that was,” Wyatt replied calmly. “He was gone for several days before his wife and son realized he wasn’t at the farm and reported him missing.”

  “Have you ever been to the Wyatt farm?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  Detective Torello took over. Reaching into an envelope, he removed a clear plastic evidence bag containing a leather button with a pattern and insignia on the front. “Do you recognize this?” Torello asked.

  Pearson and Levinson tensed. “You don’t have to answer that,” Levinson said quickly.

  Wyatt ignored the warning. “It looks like the missing button from one of my overcoats.”

  “Do you know where we found this button, Mr. Wyatt?” When Wyatt didn’t reply, Torello said, “We found it wedged under the cover on the well where your brother’s body was found. That well is located a few feet from the property line of the Wyatt farm, which you say you’ve never been near. Do you want to rethink that answer?”

  “No, it was right the first time.”

  “Can you explain, then, how this button from your coat turned up at that farm?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  Torello perched a hip on the corner of the table. “How do you suppose a button that you admit came from a coat of yours got snagged on a well cover on a farm you’ve never been to?”

  “I repeat—” Wyatt said patiently, “I can’t explain it.”

  Lily shot a pleased look at Gray and was surprised to see that he was frowning, his hands shoved into his pockets. “He’s not our man,” Gray said in answer to her puzzled stare. “And he’s sure he can prove it.”

  “What do you mean? How?”

  “I don’t know, but I have a hunch he’s getting ready to tell us. He’s glanced at his watch twice and he’s getting fed up.”

  In the interrogation room, Torello regarded Wyatt steadily, and when he said nothing more, Torello put pressure on him. “Let me tell you how we think your coat button got snagged on that well cover—”

  “I’m sure it would be a very entertaining, imaginative story, but I’m a little short of time. Do you have anything else you want to discuss other than this button?” When Torello frowned at him and said nothing, Wyatt said, “I’ll take that to mean you don’t. In that case, here’s what you need to know: William disappeared in November. The coat that button came off of was made for me in London and delivered to me in Chicago at the end of December.”

  MacNeil stepped forward and said in a conciliatory “good cop” tone, “Where was the coat purchased and can anyone there verify the date it was delivered?”

  “I’ll give you my London tailor’s name. He can also tell you where the buttons came from, and verify that I have no other clothing with identical buttons.”

  “Where is the coat now?”

  “I sent it back to him so that he could order a new button and mend the hole left by the last one. Is there anything else, or are we finished?”

  “Not quite,” MacNeil said. “When did you first discover that the button was missing from your coat?”

  “In mid-January. I took the coat out of the closet and realized that the button was gone. I don’t know where I lost it.”

  Gray Elliott stared through the window. “Either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to believe it.” Without shifting his gaze, he said, “Tell MacNeil to come out here.”

  Cervantes knocked on the door and poked his head into the interrogation room. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Detective MacNeil, could I have a word with you?”

  MacNeil strolled out, closed the door, and looked at Gray. “Are you buying Wyatt’s story?”

  Gray nodded. “For now, yes. Get Wyatt’s passport, and tell him not to leave Chicago until we’ve checked with the tailor and had a look at that coat ourselves.”

  Wyatt took one look at MacNeil’s face when he walked back into the interrogation room and stood up. Wordlessly, he pulled his passport out of his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table; then he picked up the coffee, took a swallow, and put the cup down. “There’s your DNA, voluntarily given. Try not to mix it up with anyone else’s while you’re finishing your investigation. Anything else?” he clipped, while his attorneys rose to their feet and picked up their briefcases.

  “Yes, don’t leave Chicago until you hear from us.”

  “I’ll heed that warning,” he said shortly. “And now you’d better heed mine: If I ever see any of those photographs anywhere, I will bury Gray Elliott—and you—under a mountain of lawsuits filed against both of you personally, along with the City of Chicago and the State of Illinois. And while I’m at it, I’ll make sure the media learns about your voyeuristic ‘hobby,’ and your expensive trips to Caribbean islands in pursuit of that hobby—all at government expense. In short, I will smear your names all over the press.”

  “Are you threatening me?” MacNeil said stiffly.

  “Didn’t I just make that clear?” Wyatt snapped. “Nice tan, by the way,” he added. He started for the door, followed by his smirking attorneys; then he turned back and aimed his next threat toward the two-way mirror. “I’ll give you the rest of the afternoon to get in touch with Caroline Wyatt and explain that I had nothing to do with William’s death. If you fail to convince her, I’ll bring her to your office in the morning and you can do it in front of me.”

  After Wyatt left, Elliott opened the door and walked into the interrogation room. “That’s the second time in one day I’ve been called a voyeur,” he remarked idly, gazing at the open door. Transferring his gaze to MacNeil, he said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow at ten and bring all the files with you. I know who murdered William, but we’re going to have to go slowly and build our case very carefully.”

  “I’ll be there,” MacNeil said. When he glanced up, Elliott was studying MacNeil’s thinning hair.

  “Your hair looks different.”

  “Different how?” MacNeil asked, then quickly looked away.

  “I don’t know exactly. It’s … fluffy.”

  “New shampoo,” MacNeil mumbled.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  UNLIKE LARGE FUND-RAISERS, THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL benefit was an elite annual affair with an invitation list containing only 350 names, each name chosen based on the individual’s exceptional charitablespending habits. An elaborate dinner was served and a silent auction took place during the evening, with items that included fabulous artwork, museum-quality jewelry, and an occasional priceless antique. Opening bids for the least of the auction items began at $50,000, and tables for ten began at $100,000 each.

  Each year, a philanthropist was honored during the dinner portion of the evening, with the mayor of Chicago making the presentation. This year, the honoree, for the fifth time, was Cecil
Wyatt.

  The location chosen for this year’s benefit was the Founders Club, which occupied the top two floors of Endicott Tower, a spectacular eighty-story octagon made of stone and glass, located in downtown Chicago.

  Membership in the Founders Club was originally limited to wealthy descendants of Chicago’s founding families, but since many of those descendants had failed to maintain the wealth of their forebears—or had committed crimes even more horrendous than that—the Founders Club had loosened its membership restrictions. Currently, in order to be considered for membership, the candidate had only to have had “a significant presence in the Chicago area” for the past one hundred years and to be able to afford annual dues of $50,000. However, as a safeguard, membership was “by invitation only from the board of directors,” which prevented the “wrong sort of persons” who otherwise qualified for membership from applying and becoming a nuisance when they were rejected.

  Once a coveted membership was granted, the new member was entitled to enjoy the club’s spectacular views, its sumptuous luncheon and dinner menus, and, of course, bragging rights.

  No expense had been spared on the interior decor of the club; it was designed to impress, and it did. To assist in that goal, the private elevator’s lobby was on the second floor of the club, and was an eight-sided rotunda with an elaborate wrought-iron railing around it that guided new arrivals toward a sweeping staircase that curved gracefully downward to the first floor. A grand chandelier, one story in height, was suspended from the center of the second-floor ceiling, its many-tiered gold frame dripping with magnificent crystals.

  At the front of the room, standing near their table, Matt Farrell watched his wife walking slowly through the crowd on the first floor, and he excused himself to the people around him.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked, walking up behind her as she stood gazing up at the second-floor rotunda, where the silent-auction items were displayed.

  “Just checking to make sure everything is going well.” She was in charge of this year’s benefit, and she’d been working on it for months, dealing with the various committees and the endless details, as well as handling her demanding job as Bancroft & Company’s CEO.

  Matt looked up at the people on the second floor, moving from table to table with glasses of champagne in their hands, writing down bids, talking and laughing, while a string quartet played in the curve of the staircase On the main floor, the candlelit tables were laid with sparkling crystal and china, and decorated with spectacular sprays of cream-and-red bicolor roses from South America, blooms the size of softballs.

  “More than half of the people are upstairs with pens in their hands, and an army of waiters is passing out drinks to make sure they stay loose. You’re a guaranteed success. And,” he whispered tenderly, “you are also very beautiful.”

  She sent him a beaming smile, tucked her hand through his arm, gave it a squeeze, and then she nodded toward the head table, where the guest of honor was talking to the mayor.

  Matt suppressed a grimace. “Leave it to Cecil Wyatt to check himself out of the hospital so he can walk up to another podium and accept another award.” As if to wash away a bad taste, he swallowed the last of the champagne in his glass. A waiter arrived instantly with a tray of refills. “How much,” he teased her, “did you budget for liquor?”

  “A lot,” she admitted. “Look, there’s Mitchell,” she added a moment later. She watched him smiling politely as group after group of his new “family friends” stopped to say hello to him or introduce themselves for the first time.

  When Cecil arrived at Mitchell’s elbow and drew him aside a moment later, Meredith shook her head a little as if to clear it. “I still can’t get used to seeing Mitchell with Cecil. We’ve known Mitchell for so long, and he’s stayed with us so many times, that I can’t believe he waited six months to tell us he was Cecil’s grandson. If we hadn’t seen him at Cecil’s birthday party, I’m not sure we’d know it now.”

  “How thrilled would you be to find out you’re related to a domineering, egocentric old man? Oh, wait … you’re already related to one of those,” Matt teased, and Meredith burst out laughing; then she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Shhh,” she whispered, “my father is right behind you.”

  “That’s not good. Change places with me,” he joked. “I don’t like having my back turned to him.”

  He was half serious about the last part, Meredith knew, and for good reason. Her father had destroyed their marriage when they were young, and when Matt strode back into her life ten years later, her father tried to interfere again and almost lost Meredith in the process. For her sake, Matt tolerated her father, but he’d never forgiven him, and he never would.

  “I’m indebted to him tonight for persuading the Founders Club to let us use this place for our benefit,” she said. “It was a real feather in our cap.”

  “He didn’t do it for you,” Matt teased. “He did it to show me that he could still do something for you that I can’t do. Former steelworkers from Gary, Indiana, can’t be members here, no matter how successful they become. Do you know how I know that?”

  Meredith’s shoulders shook with laughter, because she had a pretty good idea what the answer was. “How do you know that, darling?”

  “Your father told me. Fifty times. This week alone.”

  Meredith smiled, but her attention had reverted to Mitchell. “Oh, look, Olivia Hebert has him by the arm. It’s so funny to see him squiring a little old lady, instead of some gorgeous woman with an exotic name, and he does it with such patience and élan.”

  “Mitchell does everything with élan,” Matt replied, drily, “and it’s easy for him to be patient tonight, because he knows he’s leaving for Europe tomorrow. He told me he can’t wait to put an ocean between himself and Chicago.”

  Meredith’s expression clouded. “Something’s been bothering him.”

  “Something other than being accused of murdering his brother, having to surrender his passport, and being forced to remain in the city until Gray Elliott checked out his story, you mean?”

  Meredith ignored the irony in his tone and nodded emphatically. “Something besides that. Those problems are over, and since Caroline is with him tonight, she’s obviously accepted that he had nothing to do with William’s death. Whatever is on his mind isn’t related to any of that.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything different about him.”

  “Men don’t notice subtleties about other men,” she said with a sigh. “Has it occurred to you that he’s never mentioned Kate to us? She was so important to him that he was going to fly back and forth to the Caribbean to see her every night, but he hasn’t mentioned her once. I tried to work around to the subject a few days ago by asking him if there was anyone special in his life. He said no.”

  “Mitchell doesn’t talk about the women in his life.”

  “Mitchell called Zack in Rome to talk about Kate,” Meredith argued. “I wonder what happened to her.”

  “She never went aboard the yacht. When Zack asked him what happened, Mitchell said ‘things got complicated,’” Matt reminded her, as a waiter with a tray of canapés stopped at his side.

  “I know. Oh, well, I guess that leaves the way clear for Marissa.”

  Matt paused, his arm outstretched toward the tray. “Our daughter Marissa?”

  “When I kissed her good night, she told me she’s decided to marry Mitchell when she’s old enough.”

  “I’m not ready for this,” he declared, finally selecting a canapé from the tray.

  Meredith grinned. “Your future son-in-law appears to be making his way in our direction.”

  “Kate,” Holly said sympathetically, “we can’t spend the night in the ladies’ lounge. Drink this and let’s go.” As she spoke, Holly removed Kate’s empty champagne glass from her trembling hand and substituted her own glass for it. “Bottoms up,” she coaxed.

  “Mitchell is down there,” Kate said, her voice shaking with nerves. “I
saw him from the balcony.”

  “I know that. Now, let’s make sure he sees you.”

  “I’m not ready to go out there.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Mindlessly, Kate sipped her glass of champagne, the second one in ten minutes. “How do I look?”

  Holly strolled around her for a final inspection. Reminiscent of the slinky, glamorous gowns worn in 1930s movies, Kate’s pewter satin gown was bias cut, with a heart-shaped bodice and a narrow halter strap that made a V between her breasts. To complement the gown’s retro look, her hair had been styled into smooth waves and swept back on one side, held in place with an antique amethyst-and-diamond comb borrowed from Evan’s mother. “I love that Veronica Lake hairstyle on you,” Holly decreed. “That antique comb will make everyone think your earrings are real instead of costume jewelry,” she added, admiring the mock amethyst-and-diamond earrings dangling from Kate’s ears partway to her shoulders.

  They both hesitated while two women who’d been using the adjoining bathroom walked through the mirrored lounge area. The women smiled and nodded as they strolled past, then they opened the door to leave and a blast of laughter and music filled the lounge.

  Holly waited until the door closed again; then she removed the empty champagne glass from Kate’s fingers, and took Kate’s hands in hers. “I promised you that I’d coach you and tell you how to get through this,” she said, looking solemnly into Kate’s wide, overbright green eyes. “And I deliberately waited until now, when the moment is at hand.”

  Turning Kate toward the mirror, she said, “Look at yourself. You are absolutely stunning. This is your night, Kate. It’s your debut as Evan’s future wife, and tonight you’re going to find that even the biggest snobs here will welcome you as one of their own. They already know you’re not a trashy gold digger; you’re the daughter of a Chicago restaurateur who was something of a celebrity in his own right. You’re his successor. You also have a natural elegance and poise that people notice, and you have a warm heart that makes you infinitely appealing. Are you following me so far?”