“No. Just the letter and the envelope. Why?”
Kristen slid the letter in the envelope and handed it to Mia. “The detectives will need you to verify your whereabouts at the time of Ramey’s death, Mrs. Whitman.”
Mia bagged the letter. “We’d be grateful if you and your husband would come down to the station and provide us with fingerprints. Then we can separate yours from the letter writer’s.”
“I’ll save you the trouble, Detectives,” Whitman said entirely too softly. “If Ramey was killed at night, I was here alone. I’ve no one to corroborate my alibi. I didn’t kill him, but I salute the man who did.”
“And Mr. Whitman?” Kristen asked.
“He’s gone.” For a moment Abe thought Whitman’s composure might crack, but with a deep breath she held it together. “He filed for divorce a year after the trial.”
“We’ll need his address, ma’am,” he said. Whitman’s eyes flashed with pain and anger and humiliation, and Abe felt a stirring of pity. “I’m sorry.”
Thursday, February 19, 6:00 P.M.
If the interviews with Sylvia Whitman and Janet Briggs had been stiff and formal, the conversation with Eileen Dorsey and her husband had been anything but. Kristen’s ears still rang from the shouting. Her heart still raced like a wild thing in her chest.
“Well, that was pleasant,” Mia said, rubbing her forehead wearily.
Kristen leaned back against her rental car, barely controlling her trembling.
Reagan’s voice came rumbling from just behind her. “Are you going to be all right, Kristen?” She let the sound of his voice, his very nearness, seep in. Felt the trembling begin to subside. Didn’t let herself think about how or why he made her feel so safe. For now she’d just take what he offered and leave it at that.
She threw Reagan a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. But I’m grateful you were there. Having two armed detectives certainly helped diffuse them. At least we know they own a gun.”
Mia whistled. “Or fifty. Man, I’ve never seen a personal arsenal so well equipped.”
Reagan moved to lean one hip against the hood of Mia’s car. “ ‘Yes, I have a gun, Detective,’ ” he mimicked and Kristen snickered as the adrenaline high started to subside. He sounded just like the outraged Stan Dorsey as the man had slapped an enormous revolver on his dining room table, followed by two semi-automatics, a hunting rifle covered in camouflage paint, and an AK-47. Then he’d opened his custom-made oversized gun cabinet, revealing another forty weapons, his eyes angry and wild.
“And yes, they’d all been fired lately,” Kristen added lightly. She could still taste the fear she’d felt when Dorsey advanced, standing toe-to-toe, icily declaring that he dreamed every night of filling Ramey’s body full of holes. That he hadn’t killed the bastard, but if he had, he could only hope he landed her as his prosecutor. That her ineptitude would ensure he made it home for supper. Then Dorsey had leaned in close and lobbed the final verbal grenade. That he wished Ramey had picked her parking garage that night. Then she’d know what it was like to be a victim.
Then there had been heat at her back as Reagan moved behind her. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t said a word, but something in his face caught Dorsey’s attention and in a slow, measured movement, the man took a step back, fists at his sides. Reagan handed Dorsey his card over her shoulder, instructing them to call if they had more information.
Mia shook her head. “I wonder if their neighbors know they’re living next door to a fucking armory. He’s a ‘collector.’ How clever.”
Reagan shrugged. “They’re all registered. They aren’t breaking the law.”
“They got a letter, too.” Kristen tried to put Dorsey’s wild eyes from her mind. He was angry enough to have killed, but probably too passionate to have done it so methodically.
“As did Janet Briggs,” Mia said.
“Our humble servant either used one hell of a discreet delivery service or he was out last night himself,” Abe said. “Assuming the other victims received letters, he made eleven deliveries. Somebody must have seen something somewhere. We’ll do a canvass of the neighborhoods to see if anybody remembers a car or a person lurking.”
“Good idea.” Mia’s cell phone rang, a simple non-musical beep. “Yeah.” Her eyes narrowed. “When?… Fine, we’ll be there.” She pocketed her phone and looked up. “Spinnelli says the ME has news. We’re meeting back at the office ASAP. You coming, Kristen?”
Kristen nodded, just as her stomach growled. “I am, but first I’ll stop and grab some dinner to go. You bought the gyros last night, Detective Reagan. I’ll pick up something from Owen’s and bring it to Spinnelli’s. Don’t let the ME start until I get there.”
“What’s Owen’s?” Mia asked. “Please tell me it has meat.”
Reagan rolled his eyes. “The Indian curry was good.”
“I gotta have meat, Reagan, or I’ll get anemic.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you look real anemic to me, Mitchell.”
Mia turned toward Kristen, ignoring him. “If Owen’s has meat, I’m in.”
Kristen smiled. “Owen’s is the diner where I eat. You want to try his fried chicken?”
Mia sighed. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
Thursday, February 19, 6:15 P.M.
Zoe snapped her cell phone closed. “Bingo.”
Scott yawned. “I have a date tonight, Richardson.”
“So did I.” Zoe made a mental note to cancel it. If she hurried, she might have a story ready for the ten o’clock slot. She watched two cars pass, the first with Detective Mitchell at the wheel, accompanied by a man she didn’t recognize but fully intended to get to know much better. The other car was manned by Kristen Mayhew, driving solo. “That’s not her car.”
Scott yawned again. “So maybe she got a new one.”
“Are you kidding? That woman plans to drive her old Toyota into the ground and it still has a few good years on it.” She shrugged when Scott’s head turned, his brows scrunched in a frown. “I know her mechanic. He tells me stuff.”
“Pillow talk,” Scott said with a sneer and Zoe bit her tongue. Like it or not, she needed him to make the damn film.
Ignoring him, she pulled her mirror from her purse. Her makeup was still flawless. “Besides, the car had an Avis sticker in the window. Come on, we’re doing an interview.”
“With who? Your hero just drove away.”
Again Zoe bit back the retort. The day Mayhew was her hero… Meal ticket, maybe. Hero, never. “Haven’t you been paying attention? She visits three houses with Detective Mitchell. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Scott drawled, and the tips of her nails bit into her palms.
“Records says that this house belongs to Eileen Dorsey. The last house was Janet Briggs, the one before that Sylvia Whitman. Three victims of Anthony Ramey,” she said and watched his eyes widen. Scott wasn’t stupid, just a man who foolishly believed a single night of sex months ago should become an ongoing relationship and was mad because it hadn’t. “So you do watch the news,” she said, swallowing a smirk.
Scott straightened. “Ramey never went to jail. He’s either reoffended or he’s dead.”
Zoe slid out of the van and tugged at her skirt. “Well, let’s go find out which.”
Thursday, February 19, 6:30 P.M.
“Kristen, so good to see you.” Vincent pulled a brown bag from behind the counter. “You’re order’s ready.” Vincent had worked for Owen for as long as she’d been coming to the diner. A sweet, unassuming man. Everybody loved Vincent.
A loud crash had them both wincing. “Another new cook?” Kristen asked.
Vincent sighed. “I give this one two days. Tops.”
Owen had hired so many cooks in the last month, Kristen stopped trying to remember their names. “Any news from Timothy?”
“Nope. Wish his grandma would get better, though. Owen’s been fit to be tied lately, dealing with all those ne
w fry cooks.”
“Maybe we could get Timothy some help for his grandma and he could come back.”
Vincent shrugged. “We asked, but Owen says Timothy doesn’t want the help. You know how Tim is about accepting help anyway.”
Kristen nodded. “I know.” A highly functional adult with Down’s syndrome, Timothy had a great deal of pride and independence. She could see him refusing Owen’s help.
“You know what?” Owen came out of the back, drying his hands on the towel he kept tied around his thickening middle. He was solid and dependable and he made a hell of a chicken potpie. A smile creased his face when he saw her. “I missed you at lunch today.”
She made a face. “Peanut butter crackers.”
He scowled. “You’ll get sick if you don’t eat right.”
She crossed her heart. “I promise. I called in a take-out order.”
Owen scanned the order slip. “Three fried chickens and three chicken potpies?”
Kristen licked her lips. “Plus potatoes and gravy.”
“It’s all here. What’s going on tonight?” Owen gathered the bag in his arms and started for the front door.
“Meeting. I offered to bring dinner.” She held open the door and shivered while Owen stood in his shirtsleeves with hardly a tremble for the cold, looking around with a frown.
“My car.” She pointed to the rental and his face changed to a beaming smile.
“You finally listened to me and got rid of that old thing.”
“It was not old. It was just well used.” She opened the rear passenger door and he put the bag on the seat.
“It was a bucket of bolts that Vincent prayed for daily. We worried about you driving around at night in that rust heap.”
“This is just a rental. Mine’s in the shop.” Kristen bit her lip over the little white lie.
The scowl returned. “Bucket of bolts, Kristen. It’s going to leave you stranded on the side of the road some night and …” He shook his head, disgusted. “Stubborn girl.”
“With no monthly car payment. Go in out of the cold, Owen. You’ll get sick.”
Chapter Seven
Thursday, February 19, 7:00 P.M.
“Where’s Spinnelli?” Mia tossed her jacket onto a chair at the same table they’d used the night before. Abe saw that someone had set up a whiteboard for their use as they cataloged evidence. A young woman in a white lab coat already sat at the table, and Jack’s coat hung on the back of the chair next to her although Jack was nowhere to be seen. The woman rose and extended her hand.
“I’m Julia VanderBeck,” she said as she shook his hand. “I’m the ME.”
She was thirty-five or so with wide brown eyes and hair the color of coffee with heavy cream. She was pretty, he thought. He should be interested, he thought. But all he could think about was ivory skin and green eyes and wild, curling hair.
“I’m Abe Reagan,” he said. “Do you have all five bodies in your office?”
“Yes, I do, but if you don’t mind, let’s wait until everyone gets here so I don’t have to say it twice.” The request was made politely, but wearily.
Mia dropped into her chair. “Where’s Spinnelli?” she repeated. “And Jack?”
“We’re here,” Spinnelli said, coming through the door, holding a casserole dish. “We have a visitor.” His eyes were amused.
“Who’s welcome anytime,” Jack added, his arms laden with Tupperware bowls.
Abe recognized the dishes and bowls even before he heard his mother’s voice, before she bustled into the room. “Abe!” She pulled his head down for a loud smacking kiss on his cheek and ignoring the grins of his co-workers, he let her do it.
“Mom.” She smiled up at him, so happily that he didn’t have the heart to tell her she shouldn’t have. He smiled back. He’d wondered when she was going to show up. Sean said their father had told her not to come, but Becca Reagan generally followed her own mind. “What have you done?”
“Now don’t you be telling me I shouldn’t have,” she clucked. “I called your Lieutenant Spinnelli to get your telephone extension and he kindly informed me that you all would be working late tonight so that I wouldn’t worry.”
Spinnelli lifted the cover from the casserole dish and Abe could smell his mother’s cabbage casserole from across the room. It was one of his favorites.
Spinnelli took a deep breath of appreciation. “Your mother offered to bring supper.” He grinned. “How could I refuse?”
Abe leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Thanks, Mom.” Her cheeks blushed, and he thought she looked as beautiful today as she had when he was a first-grader and she’d arrived at school with chocolate cupcakes on his birthday. “This is so sweet of you.”
“Sweet, my eye.” She swept away to retrieve paper plates and plastic cutlery from the enormous handbag she was never without. “Couldn’t let you go hungry, now could I?”
Mia was leaning over the dish, sniffing. “Does it have meat?”
His mother looked affronted, then concerned. “Of course it does. You’re not a vegetarian are you, dear?”
Mia laughed. “No, ma’am. I’m Detective Mia Mitchell, Abe’s new partner.”
His mother looked even more worried. “You’re his partner?”
Mia chuckled, apparently taking no offense. “Don’t worry. He’s safe with me.”
Spinnelli nodded his reassurance. “Mia takes care of her own.”
Still doubtful, she moved to the door. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to your meeting, now.”
Abe watched Mia heaping casserole on a dangerously full paper plate and growling at Jack, who backed away, hands held up in surrender. “I’ll walk you downstairs, Mom.”
His mother waited until she got to the bottom of the stairs. “So who was the other one, the one with the white coat?”
“She’s the medical examiner.” Abe had to chuckle at the look on his mother’s face. “I’m sure she washed her hands before she left the morgue.”
“Oh, my.” She shrugged. “Well, I suppose someone has to do it. So what about your new partner?” She looked up at him through her lashes. “She’s cute.”
Abe laughed. “Cut it out, Mom. You don’t want her thinking about me that way. She’ll get all befuddled and won’t be watching for the bad guys.”
His mom grinned. “You’ve got a point there. You’ll bring back all the dishes?”
“On Sunday when I come for ham, if not sooner.”
“Ah, you’ve talked to Sean.” Her smile dimmed. “Then you know.”
He knew. He’d managed to push it to the back of his mind, but the thought had nagged him all day. Now the thought of seeing Jim and Sharon slid to the front of his mind and his stomach twisted. He and Debra’s parents had never been on friendly terms, but their relationship had deteriorated to litigiously hostile by the end of his wife’s life. He squeezed his mom’s arm. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t ruin the christening for Sean and Ruth.”
“I didn’t think you would, Abe. I just didn’t want you blindsided.”
No, she wouldn’t. Faithful to her children to the bitter end was his mother. And he loved her for it. “Consider me warned.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. I’ll drop by as soon as I can.”
She pressed her palms against his face, keeping him in the slight bow that put him in her reach. “I’m so glad you’re in a new job,” she whispered fiercely.
“I know.”
“I worried about you every day.”
She was the wife of a career cop, the mother of two cops. She knew the danger and lived with it, but the undercover work had taken a toll on his family, and he knew it. Early in his undercover career, he’d chanced visits home once a month, but the deeper under he went, the further apart his visits became. The last time he’d risked a trip home had been the night Debra died. A full year ago. In secret, under cover of darkness. But all that was over now. As of this week, he could go home whenever he chose. “I know, Mom
. But I’m fine. Really.”
Her hands didn’t budge, and his neck started to develop a cramp from bending so awkwardly, but he made no move to straighten. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much by coming down tonight. I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”
“I love you, Mom. You did a wonderful thing.” Her eyes glinted and he grinned to break the solemnity. “But you probably don’t want to make it a habit. It’ll be like feeding a stray—you’ll never get rid of them.”
She laughed shakily and released him, then pointed at the window to the street. “Abe, help that woman. She’s too small to be carrying such a load.”
Kristen was trying to open the door with one hand, the other grasping at a large paper bag, and he remembered her errand. Dinner from the diner. He hoped she wouldn’t mind refrigerating it. He doubted anyone would be hungry after finishing his mother’s food. That anyone would choose diner food over his mom’s home cooking never even entered his mind. Quickly opening the door, he plucked the bag from her hands. “I’ll take that.”
Kristen rolled her shoulders. “Thanks. It didn’t seem that heavy when Owen was carrying it out to my car.” She glanced over to where his mother waited expectantly for an introduction, then glanced back, her brows lifted in question.
“Kristen, this is my mother, Becca Reagan. Mom, this is Kristen Mayhew. She works in the prosecutor’s office.”
His mother eyed Kristen up and down. “You look taller on television,” she said.
Kristen smiled politely. “You’re the first person to ever say that. Thank you.”
“Some days I’d like to smack that woman reporter, teach her some manners.”
Kristen’s smile warmed from polite to sincere. “What a kind thing to say, Mrs. Reagan. Most days I want to do the same.”
“My daughter wants to be a lawyer,” she said thoughtfully.
“Annie?” Abe asked in surprise.
“No, not Annie,” his mother returned with a frown. “Annie’s got a career. Rachel. Keep up, Abe.”