Ashes to Ashes

13

CHAPTER

“WE'RE GOING TO look like asses if we have to release another composite,” Sabin complained, prowling behind his desk. His lower lip jutted out like a sulky two-year-old's, an odd contrast to the sharp sophistication of his image. Ready to deal with the press at a moment's notice, he had decked himself out in a pewter-gray suit with a tie two shades darker and a French-blue shirt. Very dapper.

“I don't see how it reflects badly on your office, Ted,” Kate said. “Chief Greer was the one who jumped the gun.”

He frowned harder and gave her a meaningful look. “I know whose fault this is.”

“You can't blame the witness,” Kate said, knowing full well he meant to blame her.

“I'm told she's not been very cooperative,” Edwyn Noble said with concern, wedging his way into the discussion. He sat in a visitor's chair, his body too long for it, the legs of his dark trousers hiking up above bony ankles and nylon socks.

Kate stared at him, half a dozen stinging remarks on the tip of her tongue, not the least of which was “What the hell are you doing here?” Of course, she knew what he was doing there. His presence skirted the bounds of propriety, but she had already run the argument through her head and knew what the outcome would be. The county attorney's office ran victim/witness services. Peter Bondurant was the immediate family of a victim—if the dead woman proved to be his daughter—and therefore entitled to be kept informed as to the disposition of the case. Edwyn Noble was Bondurant's envoy. Et cetera, et cetera.

She looked at Noble as if he were something she might scrape off her shoe. “Yes, well, there's always some of that going around.”

The insinuation struck the bull's-eye. Noble sat up a little straighter in the too-small chair, his eyes going cold.

Rob Marshall moved between them as peacemaker, the bootlicker's grin stretching across his moon face. “What Kate means is that it's not unusual for a witness to such a brutal crime to become a little reluctant.”

Sabin huffed. “She's not reluctant for the reward money.”

“The reward will go out only upon conviction,” Noble reminded them, as if it would take his client that long to scrape the cash together. As if Bondurant might be half hoping to get out of it altogether.

“This office does not buy witnesses,” Sabin proclaimed. “I told you I wanted her dealt with, Kate.”

He made her sound like a paid assassin. “I am dealing with her.”

“Then why did she not spend Monday night in jail? I told Kovac to treat her like a suspect. Scare her a little.”

“But you—” Kate began, confused.

Rob gave her a warning look. “We still have that option in our pocket, Ted. Trying Phoenix House first might soften her up, give the girl the impression that Kate is on her side. I'm sure that's what you had in mind, isn't it, Kate?”

She glared at her boss, openmouthed.

Sabin was pouting. “Now this sketch fiasco.”

“It's not a fiasco. No one should've seen the sketch yesterday,” Kate argued, turning away from Rob before she could go for his throat. “Ted, you pressure this kid, she'll walk. Get tough with her, she'll develop a real mean case of amnesia. I guarantee it. You and I both know you have nothing to hold her on with relation to the murder. You couldn't even get her arraigned. A judge would bounce it out of the courtroom like a Super Ball, and you'd be left with egg on your face and no witness.”

He rubbed his chin as if he already felt the yoke drying. “She's a vagrant. That's against the law.”

“Oh, yeah, that'll look good in the papers. Teenage Murder Witness Charged for Homelessness. Next time you run for office, you can bill yourself as the Simon Legree candidate.”

“My political life is not an issue here, Ms. Conlan,” he snapped, suddenly stiff and steely-eyed. “Your handling of this witness is.”

Rob looked at Kate with an expression that questioned her sanity. Kate looked to Edwyn Noble. Not an issue. In a pig's eye.

She could have pushed Sabin a little now and gotten herself reassigned. She could have confessed a total inability to deal with this witness and been out from under the burden that was Angie DiMarco. But the second Kate thought it, she saw herself leaving the girl at the mercy of the assembled wolves, and couldn't do it. The memory was too fresh of Angie standing in the ratty den at the Phoenix, sudden tears in her eyes, asking Kate why she couldn't go home with her.

She rose, discreetly smoothing the wrinkles from the front of her skirt. “I'm doing my best to get the truth out of this girl. I know that's everyone's goal. Give me a chance to work her my way, Ted. Please.” She wasn't above giving him the hopeful, wide-eyed look if it would sway his mood. He didn't have to fall for it if he didn't want to. The word mercenary crawled through her mind, leaving a small trail of slime.

“She's not the kid next door,” she went on. “She's had a tough life and it's made her a tough person, but I think she wants to do the right thing here. It won't do anyone any good to get impatient at this stage of the game. If you want corroboration of my opinion, ask Quinn. He knows as much about dealing with witnesses in this kind of case as I do,” Kate said, thinking turnabout was fair play. John owed her one. At least.

Noble cleared his throat politely. “What about hypnosis? Will you try that?”

Kate shook her head. “She'll never go for it. Hypnosis requires trust. This kid hasn't got any. Oscar's as mystical as she's going to sit still for.”

“I hate to play devil's advocate,” the attorney said, unfolding himself from the chair, “but how are we to know the girl saw anything at all? It sounds to me as if she's the type to do anything for money. Perhaps the reward is her only goal.”

“And she set her sights on that goal before she knew it would even exist?” Kate said. “If that's the case, then she's worth more than she ever was to this case because she'd have to be psychic. No reward was offered after the first two murders.”

She glanced at her watch and swore under her breath. “I'm afraid you gentlemen will have to excuse me. I have to be at a hearing in a few minutes and my victim's probably already panicking because I'm not there.”

Sabin had come around the desk to lean back against it with his arms crossed and his stern face on. Kate recognized the pose from the profile Minnesota Monthly had done on him a year earlier. Not that she discounted his power or his willingness to use it. Ted Sabin hadn't gotten where he was by being anybody's fool or pretty boy.

“I'll give you more time with this girl, Kate.” He made it sound as if he were doing so grudgingly, even though the whole arrangement had been his idea. “But we need results, and we need them quickly. I thought you of all the advocates in your office would understand that.”

“She's working with Oscar again this afternoon,” she said, moving toward the door.

Sabin came away from his desk and walked with her, resting his hand between her shoulder blades. “You'll be through in court in time to be there with her?”

“Yes.”

“Because I'm sure Rob can juggle something and have someone else take care of this hearing.”

“No, sir. The hearing won't take long,” she promised with a pained smile. “Besides, I wouldn't wish this particular client on any of my colleagues. They know where I live.”

“Maybe we should have Agent Quinn sit in on this session with Oscar and the girl,” he suggested.

The hand on her back had a knife in it suddenly.

“I don't see how that would be helpful.”

“No, you were right, Kate,” he argued. “This witness isn't ordinary. And as you said, Quinn has a great deal of experience. He might be able to pick up on something, suggest a strategy. I'll call him.”

Kate stepped out the door and stood there as it closed behind her. “Me and my big mouth.”

“Kate—” Rob Marshall began in a low voice. Kate wheeled on him as he slipped out into the hall.

“You weasel,” she accused in a harsh whisper. It was all she could do to keep from grabbing him by the ears and shaking him. “You gave me the go-ahead to take Angie to the Phoenix. Now you stand in there and give Sabin the impression it was all my doing! I thought you'd cleared it with him. That's what I told Kovac. And I accused Kovac of being paranoid for not trusting it.”

“I broached the subject of the Phoenix with him—”

“But he didn't go for it.”

“He didn't say no.”

“Well, he sure as hell didn't say yes.”

“He had his mind on other things. I knew taking her there was how you would want to play it, Kate.”

“Don't try to put this off on me. You took some initiative for a change. Can't you at least own up to it?”

He breathed heavily through his too-short nose and his face turned a dull red. “Kate, does it ever cross your mind that I'm your superior?”

She closed her mouth on the rejoinder that came to mind, and scraped together what respect she could. “I'm sorry. I'm angry.”

“And I'm your boss. I'm in charge,” he said. She could hear the frustration in his voice.

“I don't envy you that job,” she said dryly. “I ought to really antagonize you. You could take me off this powder keg. But I don't want off it,” she admitted. “Must be the Swedish masochist in me.”

“You're exactly who I want with this witness, Kate,” he said. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled like a man with a toothache. “Now who's the masochist?”

“I'm sorry. I don't like being made to feel like a pawn, that's all.”

“Focus on the outcome. We got what we wanted.”

His relationship with Sabin was intact. Her apparent overstepping of boundaries would be written off to her well-known arrogance, Sabin would forgive her because he had the hots for her, and Rob came off looking like a diplomat, if not a leader. Once again the end justified the means. Nothing hurt but her pride.

“I'm not averse to conspiracy, you know,” she said, still miffed. She'd had every intention of stealing Angie away from Sabin's clutches, and she would never in a million years have let Rob Marshall in on the plan. That was what was really grating on her—that Rob had one-upped her. She never wanted to think he was more clever than her or more shrewd or her superior in any way. A hell of an attitude to have toward her boss.

“Have you heard anything back from your friends in Wisconsin yet?” she asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“It'd be nice to know who the hell this kid is. I feel like I'm working with a blindfold on.”

“I've got the videotape of Angie's interviews,” he said, setting his hands at his middle. “I thought it might be helpful to sit down together and go over it. Maybe we could bring Quinn into that too. I'd like to hear his opinion.”

“Yeah, why not?” Kate said, resigning herself. “Let me know when you set it up. I have to get to court.”

Some days it just seemed the better option to stay home and hit her thumb with a hammer. At least that was a pain from which she could easily recover. John Quinn was another matter altogether.

“I WAS AFRAID you weren't coming,” David Willis said with no small amount of accusation. He rushed up to Kate as she made her way around the knots of lawyers in the hall outside the criminal courtrooms.

“I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Willis. I was in a meeting with the county attorney.”

“About my case?”

“No. Everything is ready to go for your case.”

“I'm not going to have to testify, right?”

“Not today, Mr. Willis.” Kate steered her client toward the courtroom. “This is just a hearing. The prosecutor, Mr. Merced, will be presenting just enough evidence to have the court bind Mr. Zubek over for trial.”

“But he won't call me as a surprise witness or anything?” He looked half terrified, half hopeful at the prospect.

Somehow, Kate knew this was just how David Willis had looked in his high school yearbook back in the seventies: out-of-date crew cut and nerd glasses, pants that were an odd shade of green and an inch too high-waisted. People had probably assaulted him regularly all his life.

For the occasion of the hearing, he had worn the black horn-rimmed glasses that had been broken in the course of his assault. They were held together in two places by adhesive tape. His left wrist was encased in a molded plastic cast, and he wore a cervical collar like a thick turtleneck.

“Surprise witnesses happen only on Matlock,” Kate said.

“Because I'm just not ready for that. I'm going to have to work myself up to that, you know.”

“Yes, I think we're all aware of that, Mr. Willis.” Because he had called every day for the last week to remind them: Kate, Ken Merced, Ken's secretary, the legal services receptionist.

“I won't be in any physical danger, will I? He'll be in handcuffs and leg irons, right?”

“You'll be perfectly safe.”

“Because, you know, situational stress can push people over the edge. I've been reading up on it. I've been religiously attending the victims' group you set me up with, Ms. Conlan, and I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about the criminal mind, and the psychology of victims, and post-traumatic stress disorder—just the way you told me to do.”

Kate often recommended her clients educate themselves as to what to expect of their own reactions and emotions following a crime. It gave them a sense of understanding and a small feeling of control. She didn't recommend it as an all-consuming hobby.

Knowing Willis would want to be close to the action, she chose the first row in the gallery behind the prosecution's table, where Ken Merced was going over some notes. Willis bumped into her as she stopped to indicate the row, then tripped over his own feet trying to move aside and gallantly motion Kate in ahead of him.

Kate shook her head as she stepped into the row and took a seat. Willis fumbled with the cheap briefcase he'd brought with him. Filled with news clippings about his case, Polaroids taken of him in the ER after the attack, brochures on victims' groups and therapists, and a hardcover copy of Coping After the Crime. He pulled out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes of the proceedings—as he had at every meeting Kate had had with him.

Merced turned to them with a pleasant poker face. “We're all set, Mr. Willis. This won't take long.”

“You're certain you won't need me to testify?”

“Not today.”

He gave a shuddering sigh. “Because I'm not ready for that.”

“No.” Merced turned back toward the table. “None of us are.”

Kate sat back and tried to will the tension out of her jaw as Willis became engrossed in making his preliminary notes.

“You always were a secret soft touch.”

The low whisper rumbled over her right shoulder, the breath caressing the delicate skin of her neck. Kate jerked around, scowling. Quinn leaned ahead on his chair, elbows braced on his knees, dark eyes gleaming, that little-boy-caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar smile firmly and calculatingly in place.

“I need to talk to you,” he murmured.

“You have my office number.”

“I do,” he admitted. “However, you seem not to want to answer my messages.”

“I'm a very busy person.”

“I can see that.”

“Don't mock me,” she snapped.

David Willis grabbed hold of her forearm and she turned back around. The side door had opened, and O. T. Zubek entered the courtroom with his lawyer, a deputy trailing after them. Zubek was a human fireplug, squat with thick limbs and a protruding belly. He wore a cheap navy-blue suit that showed a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders, and a baby-blue knit shirt underneath, untucked and too snug around the middle. He looked right at Willis and scowled, his face the doughy caricature of a cartoon tough guy with a blue-shadowed jaw.

Willis stared at him, bug-eyed for a second, then twisted toward Kate. “Did you see that? He threatened me! That was threatening eye contact. I perceived that as a threat. Why isn't he in handcuffs?”

“Try to stay calm, Mr. Willis, or the judge will have you removed from the courtroom.”

“I'm not the criminal here!”

“Everyone knows that.”

The judge entered from chambers and everyone rose, then sat again. The docket number and charges were read, the prosecution and defense attorneys stated their names for the record, and the probable-cause hearing was under way.

Merced called his first witness, a pear-shaped man who serviced Slurpee machines at 7-Eleven stores in the greater Twin Cities metropolitan area. He testified he had heard Willis arguing with Zubek about the condition of a delivery of Hostess Twinkies and assorted snack cakes in the store Willis managed, and that he had seen the two come tumbling down the chips aisle, Zubek striking Willis repeatedly.

“And did you hear who started this alleged argument?” the defense attorney questioned on cross-examination.

“No.”

“So for all you know, Mr. Willis may have provoked the argument?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Withdrawn. And did you see who threw the first punch in this so-called attack?”

“No.”

“Might it have been Mr. Willis?”

Willis trembled and twitched beside Kate. “I didn't!”

“Shhh!”

Merced sighed. “Your honor . . .”

The judge frowned at the defense attorney, who had come costumed as a bad used-car salesman. He looked seedy enough that he might have been Zubek's cousin. “Mr. Krupke, this is a hearing, not a trial. The court is more concerned with what the witnesses saw than with what they did not see.”

“Not exactly the Richmond Ripper case, is it?” Quinn murmured in Kate's ear. She gave him the evil eye over her shoulder. The stiffness in her jaw began radiating down into her neck.

Merced's second witness corroborated the testimony of the Slurpee mechanic. Krupke went through the same cross, with Merced voicing the same objections, and the judge getting crankier and crankier. Willis fidgeted and recorded copious notes in tiny bold print that said frightening things about the inner workings of his mind. Merced entered into evidence the security surveillance tape showing much of the fight, then rested his case.

Krupke had no witnesses and put on no defense.

“We don't dispute that an altercation took place, your honor.”

“Then why are you wasting my time with this hearing, Mr. Krupke?”

“We wanted to establish that events may not have taken place exactly as Mr. Willis claims.”

“That's a lie!” Willis shouted.

The judge cracked his gavel. The bailiff frowned at Willis but didn't move from his post. Kate put a vise grip on her client's arm and whispered furiously, “Mr. Willis, be quiet!”

“I suggest you listen to your advocate, Mr. Willis,” the judge said. “You'll have your turn to speak.”

“Today?”

“No!” the judge snorted, turning his glare on Merced, who spread his hands and shrugged. He turned back to the defense. “Mr. Krupke, write me a check for two hundred dollars for wasting my time. If you had no intention of disputing the charges, you should have waived rights and asked for a trial date at the arraignment.”

The date for the trial was set and the proceedings were over. Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Merced got up from the table and collected his papers. Kate leaned across the bar and whispered, “Can't you get this guy to cop, Ken? I'd rather gouge my eyes out than sit through a trial with this man.”

“Christ, I'd pay Zubek to take a plea if it wouldn't get me disbarred.”

Krupke asked someone to lend him a pen so he could write out the check for contempt of court. Willis looked around like he had just awakened from a nap and had no idea where he was.

“That's it?”

“That's it, Mr. Willis,” Kate said, standing. “I told you it wouldn't take long.”

“But—but—” He swung his blue-casted arm in the direction of Zubek. “They called me a liar! Don't I get to defend myself?”

Zubek leaned over the rail, sneering. “Everyone can see what a shitty job you do of that, Willis.”

“We should leave now,” Kate suggested, handing Willis his briefcase. The thing weighed a ton.

He fumbled with the case and his notepad and pen as she herded him toward the aisle. Kate was more concerned with what she was going to do about Quinn. He had already moved into the aisle and was backing toward the door, his gaze on her, trying to get her to look at him. Sabin must have called him the second she was out of the office.

“But I don't understand,” Willis whined. “There should have been more. He hurt me! He hurt me and he called me a liar!”

Zubek twitched his shoulders like a boxer and made a Bluto face. “Weenie wuss.”

Kate saw Quinn's reaction the second the war cry curdled up out of David Willis. She spun around as Willis launched himself at Zubek, swinging. The briefcase hit Zubek in the side of the head like a frying pan and knocked him backward across the defense table. The locks sprung and the contents exploded out of the briefcase.

Kate hurled herself at Willis as he drew his arm back to swing again. She grabbed both his shoulders, and the two of them tumbled headfirst over the bar and into a sea of table legs and chairs and scrambling people. Zubek was squealing like a stuck pig. The judge was shouting at the bailiff, the bailiff was shouting at Krupke, who was screaming at Willis and trying to kick him. His wingtip connected with Kate's thigh, and she swore and kicked back, nailing Willis.

It seemed to take forever for order to be restored and for Willis to be hauled off her. Kate sat up slowly, muttering a string of obscenities under her breath.

Quinn squatted down in front of her, reached out, and brushed a rope of red-gold hair back behind her ear. “You really ought to come back to the FBI, Kate. This job's going to be the death of you.”

“DON'T YOU DARE be amused at me,” Kate snapped, surveying the damage to herself and her clothes. Quinn leaned back against her desk, watching as she plucked at a hole in her stockings that was big enough to put her fist through. “This is my second pair of good tights this week. That's it: I'm giving up skirts.”

“The men in the building will have to wear black armbands,” Quinn said. He held his hands up in surrender as she shot him another deadly glare. “Hey, you always had a nice set of pegs on you, Kate. You can't argue.”

“The subject is inappropriate and irrelevant.”

He gave her innocence. “Political correctness prohibits one old friend from complimenting another?”

She straightened slowly in her chair, forgetting about the ruined tights. “Is that what we are?” she asked quietly. “Old friends?”

He sobered at that. He couldn't look her in the eye and be glib about the past that lay behind them and between them. The awkwardness was a palpable entity.

“That's not exactly the way we parted company,” she said.

“No.” He moved away from the desk, sticking his hands in his pants pockets, pretending an interest in the notices and cartoons she had tacked up on her bulletin board. “That was a long time ago.”

Which meant what, she wondered. That it was all water under the bridge? While a part of her wanted to say yes, there was another part of her that held those bitter memories in a fist. For her, nothing was forgotten. The idea that it might be for him upset her in a way she wished weren't so. It made her feel weak, a word she never wanted associated with her.

Quinn looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Five years is a long time to stay mad.”

“I'm not mad at you.”

He laughed. “The hell you're not. You won't return my phone calls. You don't want to have a conversation with me. Your back goes up every time you see me.”

“I've seen you what—twice since you got here? The first time you used me to get your way, and the second time you made fun of my job—”

“I did not make fun of your job,” he protested. “I made fun of your client.”

“Oh, that makes all the difference,” she said with sarcasm, conveniently forgetting that everyone made fun of David Willis, including her. She stood, not wanting him looking down on her any more than their height difference allowed. “What I do here is important, John. Maybe not in the same way as what you do, but it is important.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you, Kate.”

“No? As I recall, when I decided to leave the Bureau, you told me I was throwing my life away.”

The reminder struck a spark, and old frustration came alive in his dark eyes. “You threw away a solid career. You had what? Fourteen, fifteen years in? You were a tremendous asset to the BSU. You were a good agent, Kate, and—”

“And I'm a better advocate. I get to deal with people while they're still alive. I get to make a difference for them one-on-one, help them through a hard time, help them empower themselves, help them take steps to make a difference in their own lives. How is that not valuable?”

“I'm not against you being an advocate,” Quinn argued. “I was against you leaving the Bureau. Those are two separate issues. You let Steven push you out—”

“I did not!”

“The hell you didn't! He wanted to punish you—”

“And I didn't let him.”

“You cut and ran. You let him win.”

“He didn't win,” Kate returned. “His victory would have been in crushing the life out of my career one drop of blood at a time. I was supposed to stick around for that just to show him how tough I was? What was I supposed to do? Transfer and transfer until he ran out of cronies in his ol' boy network? Until I ended up at the resident agency in Gallup, New Mexico, with nothing to do but count the snakes and tarantulas crossing the road?”

“You could have fought him, Kate,” he insisted. “I would have helped you.”

She crossed her arms and arched a brow. “Oh, really? As I remember it, you didn't want much to do with me after your little run-in with the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

“That had nothing to do with it,” he said angrily. “The OPR never scared me. Steven and his petty little bureaucratic bullshit games didn't scare me. I was tied up. I was juggling maybe seventy-five cases including the Cleveland Cannibal—”

“Oh, I know all about it, John,” she said caustically. “The Mighty Quinn, bearing the weight of the criminal world on your shoulders.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I've got a job and I do it.”

And to hell with the rest of the world, thought Kate, including me. But she didn't say it. What good would it do now? It wouldn't change history as she remembered it. And it wouldn't help to argue that he surely did give a damn what the OPR put in his file. There was no sense arguing that to Quinn the job was everything.

Long story short: She'd had an affair that had delivered the death blows to a marriage already battered beyond recognition. Her husband's retaliation had forced her out of her career. And Quinn had walked away from the wreck and lost himself in his first love—his work. When push had come to shove, he stepped back and let her fall. When she turned to go, he hadn't asked her not to.

In five years he hadn't called her once.

Not that she'd wanted him to.

The argument had drawn them closer together one step at a time. He was near enough now that she could smell the faint hint of a subtle aftershave. She could sense the tension in his body. And fragments of a thousand memories she'd locked away came rushing to the surface. The strength of his arms, the warmth of his body, the comfort he had offered that she had soaked up like a dry sponge.

Her mistake had been in needing. She didn't need him now.

She turned away from him and sat back on the desk, trying to convince herself that it wasn't a sign of anything that they'd fallen so readily into this argument.

“I've got a job to do too,” she said, looking pointedly at her watch. “I suppose that's why you showed up. Sabin called you?”

Quinn let out the air he'd held in his lungs. His shoulders dropped three inches. He hadn't expected the emotions to erupt so easily. It wasn't like him to let that happen. Nor was it like him to abandon a fight until he won. The relief he felt in doing so was strong enough to induce embarrassment.

He retreated a step. “He wants me to sit in with you and your witness when she comes back to work on the sketch.”

“I don't care what he wants,” Kate said stubbornly. “I won't have you there. This girl is hanging with me by a thread. Somebody whispers the letters FBI and she'll bolt.”

“Then we won't mention those letters.”

“She can smell a lie a mile off.”

“She'll never have to know I'm there. I'll be a mouse in the corner.”

Kate almost laughed. Yeah, who would notice Quinn? Six feet of dark, handsome masculinity in an Italian suit. Naw, a girl like Angie wouldn't notice him at all.

“I'd like to get a sense of this girl,” he said. “What's your take on her? Is she a credible witness?”

“She's a foul-mouthed, lying, scheming little bitch,” Kate said bluntly. “She's probably a runaway. She's maybe sixteen going on forty-two. She's had some hard knocks, she's alone, and she's scared spitless.”

“The well-rounded American child,” Quinn said dryly. “So, did she see Smokey Joe?”

Kate considered for a moment, weighing all that Angie was and was not. Whatever the girl hoped to gain in terms of a reward, whatever lies she may have told, seeing the face of evil was for real. Kate could feel the truth in that. The tension in the girl every time she had to retell the story was something virtually impossible to fake convincingly. “Yes. I believe she did.”

Quinn nodded. “But she's holding back?”

“She's afraid of retaliation by the killer—and maybe by the cops too. She won't tell us what she was doing in that park at midnight.”

“Guesses?”

“Maybe scoring drugs. Or she might have turned a trick somewhere nearby and was cutting across the park to get back to whatever alley she'd been sleeping in.”

“But she doesn't have a record?”

“None that anyone's been able to find. We're flashing her picture around sex crimes, narcotics, and the juvie division. No bites yet.”

“A woman of mystery.”

“Pollyanna she ain't.”

“Too bad you can't get her prints.”

Kate made a face. “We'd have them now if I'd let Sabin get his way. He wanted Kovac to arrest her Monday and let her sit in jail overnight to put the fear of God in her.”

“Might have worked.”

“Over my dead body.”

Quinn couldn't help but smile at the steel in her voice, the fire in her eyes. Clearly, she felt protective of her client, lying, scheming little bitch or not. Kovac had commented to him that while Kate was the consummate professional, she protected her victims and witnesses as if they were family. An interesting choice of words.

In five years she hadn't remarried. There was no snapshot of a boyfriend on the shelves above her desk. But inside a delicate silver filigree frame was a tiny photo of the daughter she had lost. Tucked back in the corner, away from the paperwork, away from the casual glance of visitors, almost hidden even from her own gaze, the cherubic face of the child whose death she carried on her conscience like a stone.

The pain of Emily's death had nearly crushed her. No-nonsense, unflappable Kate Conlan. Grief and guilt had struck her with the force of a Mack truck, shattering her, stunning her. She'd had no idea how to cope. Turning to her husband hadn't been an option because Steven Waterston had readily shoveled his own sense of guilt and blame onto Kate. And so she had turned to a friend. . . .

“And if you tell Sabin it might have worked,” she continued, “the dead body in question will be yours. I told him you'd back me up on this, John, and you'd damn well better. You owe me one.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, the old memories still too close to the surface. “At least.”