Pivoting in her chair, Mia faced Westphalen. “He knows details that he shouldn’t.”
“Details? Such as?”
“Ramey had evidence of strangulation with a chain,” Mia said. “That was his M.O. It also wasn’t public knowledge.”
Westphalen leaned back in his chair and looked at Abe. “And this troubles you.”
Abe’s brows bunched. “Of course it does. It’s a security breach.”
“Or he could be one of us.” Mia used the same words she’d used this morning standing over Ramey’s makeshift grave. One of us. It irritated Abe now as much as it had then. The thought that a cop could take the law into his own hands, could stalk a woman in her own home. It was repugnant. What was more unsettling, though, was that he wasn’t sure which crime bothered him more, stalking Kristen or the murder of five people.
“Why did he give us their clothing?” Abe asked, changing the subject.
Westphalen steepled his fingertips. “What else should he have done with it?”
“Thrown it away,” Mia said. “Why didn’t he destroy it?”
Abe paced. “If he’d thrown it away, somebody might have seen it. A dog might have pulled it from the trash. If he burned it, we might look for ashes if we ever caught up to him.” He looked at Mia with a wry smile. “Where safer to leave it than with the cops?”
Mia returned the smile, grimly. “He is smart. Why the grave marker?”
“Now that I consider truly fascinating,” Westphalen commented. “Such symbolism, and he went to so much trouble. He used real marble?”
Abe stopped pacing and took the chair next to Mia’s. “The lab will know for sure. We made some calls, looking for anybody that makes headstones. There weren’t that many.”
“We’re trying to find someone to see if they recognize the work,” Mia explained. “So what about the symbolism?”
“The day of their assault is the second date,” Westphalen said, “as if it’s the day they died. To him, the lives of the victims ended the day they were raped, even though they lived. He says he’s watched the guilty go free for too long. He could mean from afar, like on television, or he might even live where people die every day.” His shrugged. “Or he could mean from up close, like a cop. Regardless, he’s had a trauma of his own, and recently. This is all so very personal. I’d look for someone who’s recently suffered a terrible loss.”
“A recent victim,” Mia mused.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Westphalen frowned. “The passion is sporadic, like beating King’s face and blasting the pelvis of the two sex offenders. It’s almost like he gets them in his grasp and just can’t help it. But hunting them and disposing of them after they’re dead and the letters … very calculated. I doubt you’ll find anything of use at the crime scene. Not at first anyway. Maybe later, after he’s gotten careless, but that could take a long time.”
“Wonderful,” Abe muttered.
“Sorry, Detective. I save my ESP for the track. No, I think that even though the loss or trauma that triggered this killing spree is recent, I don’t think the crime he’s suffered is recent at all. It takes a long time to build up such anger.”
“Any guess on our guy’s age?” Mia asked and Westphalen shrugged.
“Don’t know. He writes like an aged scholar, but he had to have physical strength to move the bodies. I’d have to say he’s younger versus older.”
“Why did he target Kristen?” Mia asked and Westphalen’s face became grim.
“I don’t know that either. It could be no more than the fact she’s a pretty face that the reporters like to put on television. But this man is obsessive. Does Kristen have protection?”
Mia slid Abe a slow look. “Do you think she needs it?” she asked.
“Perhaps. If the other state’s attorneys start getting little gifts, I’d say no.”
“But you don’t think that’s going to happen,” Abe said. Westphalen’s expression of disturbance expanded to worry. “No, I don’t.”
“Wonderful,” Abe muttered.
Chapter Six
Thursday, February 19, 1:30 P.M.
“Next time I pick lunch,” Mia grumbled, taking the stairs to their office two at a time.
Abe followed her up. “It was good. Best Indian curry I’ve had in a long time.”
Mia turned to him with a frown. “It was vegetarian.” Ray would never have—She stopped herself midthought. Ray wasn’t here. She had a new partner now. A new partner whose file she’d finally taken the time to read before going to bed the night before.
“It was one meal, Mitchell, not a disease. What’s this?”
Mia picked up the thick stack of papers on her desk, identical to the one he held in his hand. “Kristen’s new lists. She keeps her promises.”
She thumbed to a page marked with a little neon green Post-it and had to chuckle. At the head of the list was Kristen’s own name, bolded and italicized, followed in normal type by the names of her secretary, three other prosecutors, and her boss, John Alden himself.
“It’ll take us hours to go through this,” Abe said, flipping through the pages. Mia could tell when he reached the green neon Post-it because his face turned red. “I didn’t mean to insult her. I was just surprised.”
“I think she understood.” Mia looked up to see an unfamiliar face crossing the bullpen. Unfamiliar in and of itself, but there was too much resemblance to Abe’s to belong to a stranger. “Looks like you’ve got company.”
Abe looked up and a smile lit up his features. Mia sucked in an involuntary breath. Abe Reagan with a smile was enough to make her forget all her own rules about not dating cops. Except that she’d seen the look in his eye every time he looked at Kristen. The boy had some serious work to do there. Kristen Mayhew would be a hard nut to crack.
“Sean,” Abe said. The two men embraced in an awkward hug, Abe shooting her a don’t-get-this-wrong grin. “My brother, Sean.”
“I figured that out for myself,” Mia said dryly. Abe’s brother had the same dark good looks, but, unfortunately, a wedding ring on his finger.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Sean said and Abe snorted.
“Since when do you slum in this neighborhood? He’s a stockbroker,” Abe explained.
“Since Mom told me to come down and check on you. She wanted to be sure you were getting treated right. Dad wouldn’t let her come herself.”
Abe’s lips twitched. “I’ll just bet. It’s good to see you. How’s Ruth?”
“Better now since the baby’s sleeping through the night.”
A shadow passed over Abe’s face, and then it was gone, replaced with a smile that was strained, but sincere. “Good.”
Sean’s smile faded. “Abe… About the christening next Saturday.”
Again, the fleeting shadow and another strained smile. “I’ll be there. I promise.”
“I know. It’s just… Ruth feels just terrible, but her parents invited Jim and Sharon.”
The strained smile disappeared and Abe’s jaw clenched. Mia knew she shouldn’t be listening, but figured if they really wanted privacy, they’d go somewhere else. Jim and Sharon weren’t names she’d read in Abe’s file, but they seemed pretty damn important.
“Tell Ruth it’s all right,” Abe said. “I’ll still come and there won’t be any trouble from me. Surely the church is big enough for the three of us.”
Sean sighed. “I’m sorry, Abe.”
“It’s okay.” Abe forced a cardboard smile. “Really.”
“But on the upside, Mom’s making a ham for Sunday. She wanted me to tell you.”
“I’ll call her tonight and tell her I’ll be there.” There was another short silence in which Sean’s face became pained.
“Ruth and I were out at Willowdale last weekend. The roses were nice.”
Abe’s throat worked, and this Mia understood. Willowdale was a cemetery and according to Abe’s file, he was a recent widower. “It’s the first time I’ve dared go.”
What
must it have been like, she wondered, being so deep undercover that you couldn’t risk visiting your wife’s grave? She felt a stirring of compassion, of respect. Abe Reagan had given up a great deal to bring some very dangerous drug traffickers to justice.
Sean clasped Abe’s arm, his knuckles going white. “I know. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Abe said, subdued. When his brother had left the bullpen, he sank into his chair and picked up Kristen’s new list.
Mia studied him unabashed. “So he’s the moneymaking black sheep of the family?” she asked, and made Abe huff a good-natured chuckle.
“Go figure. Whole damn family of cops and he has to go play with money all day.”
“Blue genes, huh?”
“Yeah. My dad’s a cop. Retired. Beat cop his whole career. My grandfather, too. And one of my brothers.” He raised a brow. “Aidan’s single.”
“I don’t do cops,” Mia said with a smile.
“Smart lady.”
She lifted her brows. “Smart enough to figure out that Ruth is Sean’s wife, and that Debra who was your wife is buried at Willowdale. But who are Jim and Sharon?”
Abe’s eyes widened in mild amazement, more than likely at her cheek than at her powers of deductive reasoning. “Debra’s parents,” he answered anyway. “We don’t exactly get along. Are you always so nosy?”
“You’re my partner now,” she said. “How long ago did Debra die?”
“Depends on your philosophy of life,” he said, then sighed when she frowned. “Debra was injured six years ago. Technically, she was brain-dead from the moment they wheeled her into the ER. She never woke up.”
That hadn’t been in the file. “How was she injured?”
Abe’s face went carefully blank. “A bullet meant for someone else hit her by mistake.”
“Meant for who?” As if it wasn’t written all over his face. Poor guy.
“Me. It was some punk bent on cheap revenge because I arrested his brother.” He swallowed impatiently. “Damn punk was a lousy shot.”
Her eyes softened in sympathy. “So when did she die? Technically.”
“Technically? A year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Abe nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“How much time did the kid do?”
Gritting his teeth, he looked away. “Six fucking months.”
Mia sighed. “The piece of shit that got Ray? Plead down. Good behavior’ll have him walking the street again in two years.”
Abe lifted his eyes. “Then I guess we’ll be waiting for him in two years, Mitchell.”
Ray would have liked you, Abe Reagan, she thought. Despite your tendency to play the cowboy and take stupid risks. But now she understood why Abe had taken so many chances. Grief sometimes made a man do things he might never otherwise do. “You planning on doing any more stupid stunts like you did in Narcotics?”
His lips quirked up. “No.”
“Good.”
Thursday, February 19, 2:30 P.M.
From his van he watched as an old woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door and took the box he’d left on the doorstep after ringing the bell.
He started the van’s engine with a satisfied smile. He rounded the corner and pulled into an alley, hopped out, and pulled the magnetic sign from the side of the van, revealing the painted sign beneath. Crossed to the other side and did the same, then rolled both signs and stored them in the van before climbing back in.
He had to get back to work. To his day job, anyway. The real work would commence when the sun went down.
Thursday, February 19, 3:30 P.M.
Kristen sat in her car, dreading what she was about to do. Mitchell and Reagan would be here soon. Then she’d have to face the accusing eyes of Sylvia Whitman once again.
She remembered the day of the Ramey trial. It had been a cold day, like this one. The three women, dressed in the conservative clothes they wore every day to work, looking petrified and nauseous. Their husbands, boyfriends barely containing their fury at the sight of Ramey sitting next to his defense attorney. The way each woman took the stand, retold her story, her hands clenched together so tightly. The look of shame none could hide. The way they couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Except for me, Kristen thought. Each woman had fastened her gaze on Kristen’s face, as if she was the only anchor in the courtroom.
How brave they’d been. Even as the defense attorney battered and chipped at their esteem, at their composure. Not one of the three cracked. Until the jury read the verdict and Ramey walked away a free man. They’d cracked then.
Kristen drew an unsteady breath. So had she. The crack had widened this morning when she looked down at the body of Anthony Ramey, his pelvis blown away.
What she’d felt had not been outrage for Ramey the victim nor a sense of loss for his family. She’d denied the feeling standing there with Mitchell and Reagan, but later, alone she could admit it to herself. It was quite simply… satisfaction. And gratitude.
Their humble servant killed a man who didn’t deserve to live, whose death she refused to mourn. It was wrong, but human. And she was still human, after all. After everything.
Mitchell’s dark sedan pulled up in front of her, parking along the curb and Kristen watched the passenger door open and Reagan step out, straighten his body, then his tie. Her throat thickened as her eyes noted his wide shoulders, trim body, the faintest shadow of a beard on his cheeks and she swallowed hard. Yes, she was still human.
Reagan glanced up the hill at the house, then without warning turned his eyes on her. Her heart stuttered and skipped a beat as the tips of his dark hair lifted and the hem of his unbuttoned overcoat tossed in the wind. He made quite a picture, she was forced to admit.
Which forced her to admit something else. Her blood really could still rush, her pulse could still pound from something other than fear. Which was ridiculous. Especially ridiculous was the way she could never seem to look away from his eyes, she thought, so she did just that, opening her door just as he arrived to open it for her. She climbed out on her own, shaking her head politely at his outstretched hand. “I’m fine,” she said aloud. “What’s new?”
Mia waited by the sidewalk. “We’ve informed the next of kin. They’ll be coming to identify the bodies over the next few hours. King’s mother wailed loud enough to break my eardrums and Ramey’s girlfriend nearly ripped Abe’s pretty face with her finger-claws.”
Abe rolled his eyes at the reference to his pretty face. Which it was.
“And our Blade friends?” Kristen asked.
“We found next of kin of two of the three. Nobody seems to know anything about the third.” Mia frowned. “The girlfriend of one swears she was with him on January 12, but that he was missing the next day. The second one’s brother swears he was home January 20, but that he was missing the next day. A full week apart.”
Abe shrugged. “Hopefully the ME can give us a reasonable estimate of time of death.” He looked up the hill. “Are we ready?”
“What are you going to ask Mrs. Whitman?” Kristen asked. “You don’t have a time of death on any of them yet, so we’re not asking her to provide an alibi.”
“Yet,” Reagan answered. “I’m more interested in her reaction to the news.”
“I wouldn’t expect tears,” Kristen said flatly.
“Of sorrow?”
“Of any kind. Sylvia Whitman’s not the tears type.” Kristen squared her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.” Mia and Reagan stood back, allowing Kristen to ring the bell. Sylvia Whitman opened the door, her expression one of contempt, but not of surprise.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me, Mrs. Whitman,” Kristen said quietly.
“Because I am not.” The older woman stepped back. “Come in, if you must.”
As welcomes went, that one left a lot to be desired, Abe thought, but at least Whitman hadn’t ordered them to go. In the car on the way over, Mia had filled him in on the
aftereffects of the trial, of the scathing letters Mr. Whitman had written to Kristen’s boss demanding she be fired for incompetence.
That Kristen still felt guilty for not convicting Ramey had been clear as she’d stood on the street, her dread almost palpable as she’d stared up at the house. But once inside, she was composed, her face as still as Whitman’s, and Abe had to give her credit for that.
“Forgive me if I don’t offer you tea,” Mrs. Whitman said, leading them into the living room, and Abe chose a chair that gave him a good view of Whitman’s face. He’d been serious last night when he’d said one of the original victims could have killed all the men. Original was how he now thought of the eleven names inscribed in marble. That the five dead men deserved their fate didn’t change the fact they’d been murdered. One of the originals could have masterminded the whole plot, taking out a few other deserving accused felons on the way. What an ironic dilemma for the prosecution.
Sitting, Kristen folded her hands together in her lap. “These are Detectives Reagan and Mitchell. Mrs. Whitman, why aren’t you surprised to see me?” she asked levelly and Abe felt a spurt of pride on her behalf.
Pursing her lips, Mrs. Whitman rose to her feet and retrieved an envelope from a desk. More envelopes, Abe thought. Without a word she handed the envelope to Kristen, who slid the letter out and, holding it by one corner, scanned it, and sighed.
“ ‘My dear Mrs. Whitman,’ ” she read, “ ‘what you have suffered defies articulation, so I will make no attempts to do so. I want you to know your tormentor has received justice at long last. He is dead. This doesn’t begin to restore what you’ve lost, but I hope you can now go on with your life.’ ” She looked up. “ ‘Your Humble Servant’.”
“So it’s true?” Whitman asked. “Ramey is dead?”
Kristen nodded. “Yes. When did you receive this letter, Mrs. Whitman? And how?”
“It was on the welcome mat under my newspaper this morning.”
After Kristen had found the offerings in her trunk, Abe thought. The timing was interesting, the method of delivery conveniently untraceable. He’d bet they’d find no prints on the letter or its envelope, but they could get delivery time from the paperboy. “Was there anything else with the letter?” Abe asked and Whitman met his eyes unflinchingly.