“Yeah. Just tell them to be ready. Tell Myers I’ll see them in five minutes. I want to finish this first.” Hell, she just wanted to finish something today. Her phone had been ringing off the hook since the press conference, every reporter in town wanting a comment.
“Okay, Kristen. Oh, here.” Lois dropped a thick stack of paper bound with a big black clip on her desk. “E-mails from all over. Some want information, most are rooting for him.” She sighed. “Don’t leave by yourself tonight. Call Security to walk you down to your car. I’m going home soon. I have a headache.”
Join the club, Kristen thought, staring at the bound stack of paper. There wasn’t a news service that hadn’t picked up the story since the press conference this afternoon. They’d been on CNN every half hour, and even the Yahoo! home page had a photo of Spinnelli and Alden at the podium. She massaged her temples wearily.
She’d see Myers and then she’d go home. After all, who needed an overworked prosecutor when they had a humble servant? Maybe she should just let him mop up the cases she lost, she thought sarcastically. She could work fewer hours.
Hell, she might even take a vacation.
Her mouth twisted at the image of herself on a sandy beach in a bathing suit, sunglasses on her eyes and an unread book on her lap. Like she’d ever take a vacation. Alden was always urging her to take one, but the few times she’d asked he’d always found a reason she had to stay in the office. She’d covered for him enough times when he’d gone on vacation, she thought, resentment making her head throb harder. So she drew a deep breath and let her mind drift, trying to let the image of crashing waves and crying seagulls relax her. It’s what the therapists recommended. She ought to know, she’d seen it on late-night cable when she was refinishing the hardwood floor a few months back. Find your happy place and all your worries will just slip away…
So she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Then in her imagination opened them and rolled her head to one side to the lounge chair beside her.
Where Reagan lay, his body tanned, muscled…and perfect. As if sensing her stare, he turned those intense blue eyes her way and flashed a white smile. And covered her hand with his.
Kristen sat back up with a hard jerk that sent new waves of pain coursing from her head down her neck. Dammit. The man wouldn’t leave her alone, checking her closets, buying her dinner, ruining a perfectly good autopsy viewing. Now he was invading her mind. She rubbed her hand hard, trying to still the tingles caused even by an imagined touch. She cursed the hard beating of her heart and pushed away the feelings she’d be foolish to label anything but futile longing.
It wouldn’t do to long for things she’d never have. If she ever let Reagan close enough, he’d run so fast…He would.
But damn, he looked good lying there on the beach.
She frowned at her own idiocy. Face it, Kristen, you’ll never have anyone. You’ll never even get to a vacation on the beach.
Resolutely she picked up the phone. “Lois, send in the Myers girl now.”
Friday, February 20, 4:30 P.M.
The hat with the earflaps hid his face, and given the wind chill, nobody would think twice about it. Now, if he was able to evade the police and keep his work going until spring, he’d have to get a little more creative if he wanted to walk around undetected.
The thought made him smile, as did the brown box left neatly on Kristen’s front porch. The boy had done well. He imagined the surveillance cameras around Kristen’s house would capture the boy’s face clearly. Tracking him would give Reagan and Mitchell something to do for a day or two, but when they found him, the boy wouldn’t be able to give anything more than the most basic of descriptions. Any police artist sketch they got would be able to pass for 10 percent of the men in Chicago, at least.
The news would pick it up and the boy would be linked to, in the hire of, a serial killer. He’d chosen the boy carefully. If there were any negative repercussions to being involved with the “Vigilante Killer” as the news was calling him, this kid deserved them. If nothing came of it, no harm, no foul. But if the kid got into some trouble, it would be a good thing.
Without slowing, he continued down Kristen’s street and obediently stopped at a stop sign, left blinker flashing. No bad behavior to make him memorable to anyone that happened to notice his white van, which today sported a sign for an electrical contractor. He thought the happy face on the cartoon electrical plug was a cute touch.
Leah would have been amused.
Friday, February 20, 6:50 P.M.
Spinnelli leaned his head back, weariness etched in his face. None of them had had a great day, but Spinnelli’s had been the most publicly bad. “So you’ve got lists of sharpshooters, hunters—duck and deer, florists and tombstone makers.” He dragged his hands down his face. “Sounds like some kind of rabid children’s rhyme.”
Totally frustrated, Abe stared at the lists covering the conference room table. There were a hell of a lot of hunters in the Chicago area, and they’d only tapped a handful of the ammunition stores. “It will take days to get through all this, even if we had more people. Can the guys in IT help us out? Maybe scan the names in, look for connections?”
Mia stared at Spinnelli. “I heard somebody say today that we have the resources of CPD at our disposal.”
Spinnelli shrugged. “I’ll ask them. They should be able to do something with all those fancy computers up there.”
Abe pushed away from the table and walked to the whiteboard where they continued to note evidence that continued to be unconnected. “We’ve accounted for the whereabouts of all the original victims on the nights our new victims disappeared. The only ones with shakable alibis are Sylvia Whitman and Paulo Siempres, the step-father of one of the murdered children.”
“Do you think either of them was involved?”
Abe shook her head. “Not Siempres. He wouldn’t have had the strength to strangle Ramey. His right arm is withered. Polio as a kid.”
“And Mrs. Whitman?”
“Nope.” Mia crossed her ankles on the table’s edge. “She talks a big talk, but I don’t think she’s capable either. She might have paid somebody to off Ramey, but if she did, it was from a source nobody knows about. I’ve checked all their finances. Nobody’s made any large contract-killingsized payments lately.”
“Besides,” Abe said, “somebody had to know the names of King’s six victims to sandblast them into the marker, and there’s no reason to suspect Whitman or Siempres had access to that information.”
Spinnelli sighed. “I’ve got Kristen’s list of lawyers and cops associated with all three cases. Here’s the list of marksmen.”
“Poor Marc,” Mia said sympathetically. “The press and IA.”
“I prefer the damn press,” Spinnelli muttered. “Anyway, take a look at this list and see if you can find any ties to your florists, hunters, and tombstone makers.”
Abe scanned the list and let out a low whistle. “Check this out, Mia.”
Mia’s eyes widened. “John Alden.”
“Kristen’s boss was in the military, qualifying as a marksman.” Abe looked up at Spinnelli. “You want us to check this out, or do you want to?”
Spinnelli shrugged. “Get whereabouts for everyone just as a matter of course. I’ll talk to Alden myself.
“We’ll start first thing Monday,” Mia said.
Spinnelli frowned. “What’s wrong with now?”
Mia threw a pointed gaze at the clock. “It’s Friday. I have a date.”
“So?” Spinnelli retorted. “I haven’t even seen my wife and kids for a week.”
“Then you should go home, too,” Mia snapped. “Just because—”
Abe’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and one look at the caller ID had him waving his hand for silence. “What’s wrong?” He listened as Spinnelli and Mia abruptly quieted. “Just stay there with the windows rolled up and the doors locked. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He snapped his cell phone closed. “Kriste
n just got attacked. Somebody ran her car off the road into a pole. Two guys with knives wanted to know the identity of her humble servant.”
Mia paled. “Shit. Sounds like Blades. Damn that Richardson.”
Spinnelli jumped to his feet. “Is she hurt?”
“Where are they now?” Mia demanded.
“I don’t think she’s hurt,” Abe said grimly, “but she’s scared.” And for that some punk would pay. “She pepper-sprayed their faces and locked herself in her car, then leaned on the horn until other drivers started slowing down and the assholes ran away.” He grabbed his coat. “I’ll take care of it and call you.”
Friday, February 20, 7:10 P.M.
Now that it was over Kristen wanted to scream.
Her shoulder burned from where they’d grabbed her out of the car. Her whole face throbbed from the impact of the deployed airbag and she knew she was lucky not to have a broken nose. The rest of her body ached from holding herself rigid since she’d gotten away and locked herself in the car, but she knew if she let go, she’d start to cry, and that wasn’t an option. Not with Richardson perched outside with her toady cameraman. Rage simmered. If she ever found out Richardson had seen the whole thing and just let the camera roll as she screamed for help… There wouldn’t be a pit deep enough for that bitch to climb out of.
Someone tapped at the window and she muffled a yelp. A uniformed officer stood by her locked door. “Are you all right, Miss Mayhew?” he said loud enough to be heard through the glass. He was the response to her 9-1-1. The call she’d made after the one to Reagan. She refused to consider the significance of the order of her phone calls for help, instead jerking a nod that made her want to whimper in pain. She kept it in, still in control. “Yes.”
“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Wouldn’t that look just great on the ten o’clock news? “No. Did you find them?”
He shook his head. “We’ll keep looking, but I think they took off on foot through the business park across the street.” He straightened abruptly and Kristen knew without looking that Reagan had arrived. Seven and a half minutes. He must have run a few stop signs along the way. She couldn’t help but be grateful.
His face appeared in her window, anxious and worried. “Open the door, Kristen.”
She did, willing her hand not to shake, biting back the wince at the burning pain in her shoulder. He pulled open the door, frowning at the loud creak it made.
“They hit me on this side,” she murmured. “I think they bent the frame.”
He crouched down, his face level with hers, his expression grim. “Your airbag deployed.” He bit out the words, as if somehow that made it worse.
“That normally happens when you hit a telephone pole going forty.” She lifted a brow, still in control. “I pepper-sprayed them, right in the eyes.”
His mouth curved, and she was suddenly so glad he was there. “Good for you.”
“They ran away.” She pointed to a spread of bright lights and concrete. “Through the business park. I guess the car they used was stolen.” They’d abandoned it, its front fender still hooked with hers. “They were Blades. They wanted to know who killed their brothers. When I said I didn’t know, they said it didn’t matter, that they’d keep me until he came for me.”
Reagan’s eyes searched her face. “They didn’t hurt you.”
She shook her head. “Just a little soreness in my shoulder and knee. A few ibuprofen and a hot bath and I’ll be fine in the morning. Please …” Her voice started to wobble and she swallowed hard. “Please, just take me home.”
He offered his hand and let her pull herself out of the car. For a split second she teetered, held by his eyes, then it was out of her hands. She gave in to a need she couldn’t admit and leaned into him, into the hard strength of his body. She felt him stiffen, then a half beat later his arms were around her, pulling her in, holding her. She shuddered at the sensation of it, of feeling so utterly safe before allowing the sharp pain in her shoulder to intrude. She couldn’t hold back the small moan and his body tightened.
“You are hurt. You’re going to the ER.”
“No. Please.” She dragged in a breath and pulled away, the brief respite over. He reached for her face, but she shook her head. “Not here. She’s here.”
His eyes took on an unholy light, and she saw no further explanation was necessary. “Where?”
Kristen gestured to a small unmarked minivan. “Her minion has us in his sights.”
“Her minion will turn over that goddamned tape,” Reagan snarled. “Can you stand on your own for a minute?”
“Do I get to see you rough up Richardson?” Kristen asked with a quirk of her lips, and as Reagan bared his teeth in response Kristen couldn’t help but think of him on the beach. Somehow, he looked a great deal more appealing right now than in her daydream.
“Only if she makes me mad.”
“Then I can stand on my own.” She watched Reagan take the distance between her car and Richardson’s van in great, ground-eating strides. He threw open the sliding side door and blocked the camera’s shot with his big body. Richardson scrambled out, her hands on her hips, but Reagan didn’t move, and a minute later Kristen saw a black cassette in his hand.
Then he was back, helping Kristen up into his SUV.
“I need a statement, sir.”
Reagan drew a deep breath, visibly restraining himself before he turned to the hapless young uniform who had responded to her 9-1-1.
“Do you know who this is?”
The officer met her eyes over Reagan’s shoulder. “Yes, I do.”
“Then can you meet us at her house in half an hour? She’ll give you her statement then. And, Officer? Can you keep that viper from following us?”
The young man looked over at Richardson’s van with contempt. “It’ll be a pleasure, Detective. Miss Mayhew, are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
She smiled down at him, relief sinking in. “I’m sure. But thank you.”
He walked away and Reagan looked up and Kristen’s heart caught in her throat at the raw caring she saw in his face. It was so difficult to resist. “My brother Sean’s wife is a pediatrician. You’re bigger than her normal patient, but I bet she’d make a house call.”
“No, but thank you, really. Please, just take me home.”
He slammed her door and swung up into the seat next to her, and for a long moment neither said anything. Then, very gently, “Why didn’t you call me before you left the office? I would have kept you safe.”
To her horror tears burned at her eyes. He saw them, but said nothing, just sat there waiting for her answer.
“Remember the new case I mentioned this morning?” she finally answered unsteadily, but Reagan’s gaze never flickered.
“The sexual assault who didn’t want to testify but whose father was insisting?”
She nodded. “Yeah. That one. They came to see me this afternoon and the father said …” Her voice broke and sucking in a panicked breath, she pushed the tears back. “For a minute I thought he wanted a different prosecutor, because of all the media attention his daughter would get right now. But he didn’t.”
Reagan pulled a pack of tissues from the console between their seats and offered it silently. She took the whole pack and clutched it in her hand. “He said that he hoped I lost because then the ‘humble servant’ would take care of the bastard that raped his daughter. Three days ago I was the prosecutor. Now I’m a surrogate gun for a vigilante.” She released her hold on the poor pack of tissues and tried to restore it to its original shape. “I needed to be alone.” She looked away from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He started the car. “You’re all right and that’s all that’s important now.” He pulled away from the curb. “I’m going to sleep on your sofa.”
She understood he wasn’t making a request. She watched the mangled rental car disappear from her side mirror and for the first time let it sink in how truly close she’d
come to serious harm.
They could have done anything. They could have … Would have …
It was like the lid lifting from Pandora’s box, releasing memories she’d kept locked away for so long. She shuddered. Hard.
“It folds out,” she murmured, closed her eyes, and tried to dream about beaches and sun and waves. But once released, only one image filled her mind, replaying over and over like a horrific video of someone else’s life. But it wasn’t someone else’s. It was hers.
Friday, February 20, 7:30 P.M.
As Reagan’s vehicle drove away he let out an angry breath. She was safe now, but she might not have been. He’d almost stepped in, but then she’d taken care of the matter herself, spraying their eyes, making them run, tails between their legs like the curs they were.
She wasn’t hurt. But she could have been. Despicable worms. Forcing a woman off the road, planning God-knows-what.
He jumped at the sound of tapping at his window. A police officer stood outside.
“We’re trying to clear this area, sir. Could you please move along?”
He smiled. Just nice and easy, and no suspicions would be aroused. He nodded, saying nothing. He pulled the van away and slipped into traffic. He couldn’t be caught, not yet. He still had work to do. He wasn’t even close to emptying the fishbowl.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, February 20, 8:00 P.M.
“Give me your keys.”
Kristen said nothing, moved not a muscle, just sat staring out the window as she’d done the entire way to her house. She was in shock, Abe realized and cursed himself for not following his gut and driving her straight to the ER.
He crossed around to her side of the SUV and gently grasped her chin. “Kristen.” He snapped his fingers and she blinked. “Let’s go inside. Can you walk?”
She nodded dully and slid down, her face contorting in pain as her foot touched the ground. Ignoring her muted protests, he swung her up into his arms and carried her as if she were one of Sean’s kids.
He eased her in through her kitchen door, careful not to jar the knee he’d seen her favoring as he’d stalked off to relieve that bitch Richardson of her ill-gotten gains. He couldn’t stop Richardson at the press conference, but he’d be damned if he allowed her to portray Kristen scared and hurt for all Chicago to see.