I’m Watching You

Chapter Four

Wednesday, February 18,

11:00 p.m.

Abe stopped short at the base of the stairs. There she was, once again. Standing at the glass doors that led to the street, nearly swallowed up in her bulky coat, her rich red hair still in the tight twist that made his head ache just looking at it. Her profile could have been hewn from stone, she was so still. He was surprised to see her. He thought she would have left half an hour before, when the meeting had disbanded and they’d all gone their separate ways. Spinnelli had gone back to his office to order uniformed watch over the three sites indicated by the maps. Mia disappeared with a large box filled with Ray Rawlston’s personal effects.

His new partner was efficient, eradicating all traces of the man who’d owned that desk for twenty years. He didn’t envy her the task of taking personal effects to the widow of a fallen officer. He’d done it himself, once, before making detective. It was his partner’s baseball cap, and he’d held the woman left behind, awkwardly patting her back as she sobbed, clutching the baseball cap to her breast. His partner’s wife hadn’t cried at the hospital or the funeral, but it was somehow holding that damn cap that lowered her floodgates. He’d gone home and pounded the punching bag in the garage until Debra had come to find him, worried. She’d kissed his sore knuckles, then held him, murmured in his ear the comforting things that only a wife can. Could. Past tense. Debra was gone, truly gone.

God, he missed her. He let himself yearn for just a moment, to wish for what might have been, to wonder what if. Then realized he still stood in the same spot. Still stared at Kristen Mayhew’s profile as she stared out onto the darkened street. And he wondered what went through her mind. He assumed she was scared. She had every right to be. Even though Spinnelli had ordered a unit drive by her house every hour and even though she had every one of their personal cell phone numbers, she had every right to be afraid.

He approached slowly and cleared his throat. „Am I out of pepper spray range?“ In the window’s reflection he saw her lips quirk in rueful amusement.

„You’re safe, Detective,“ she said quietly. „I thought you’d be gone by now.“

He stopped a few inches from her right shoulder, closer than he’d intended. But he caught the scent of her fragrance and his feet refused to move. When she’d clutched his arm in the garage she’d been this close, but his head had been filled with the odor of stale oil and exhaust. She smelled good, he thought. Pretty. And he wished he hadn’t noticed. „I’m on my way home. I thought you’d have been out of here a half hour ago.“

„I’m waiting for a cab.“

„A cab? Why?“

„Because you have my car at Impound and the rental car place is closed.“

Abe shook his head. Of course. He couldn’t believe one of them hadn’t thought about that before going their separate ways. „Don’t you have a friend you can call?“

„No.“ It wasn’t a bitter retort, just no. No, you don’t have a friend you can call, or no you don’t have a friend? The thought hit him out of nowhere, accompanied by a profound need to protect. From a vigilante murdering peeping Tom? From having no friends? From me?

„I’ll take you home. It’s on my way.“ It was a lie, of course, but she didn’t have to know.

She smiled. „How do you know? You don’t even know where I live.“

He recited her address, then shrugged a little sheepishly. „I was listening when you told Spinnelli your address for the patrol drive-bys. Let me drive you home, Kristen. I’ll check out your house and make sure no vigilante peeping Toms are hiding in the closets.“

„I was worried about that,“ she admitted. „Are you sure it’s no trouble?“

„I’m sure. But I do have two favors to ask.“

Instantly her green eyes went wary and he wondered why. Or who. A woman that looked like Kristen Mayhew would find it impossible to escape opportunists who wanted special favors. „What?“ she asked sharply.

„First, stop calling me Detective Reagan,“ Abe said simply. „Please call me Abe.“

He could see her shoulders relax through the heavy winter coat. „And the second?“

„I’m starving. I’d planned to stop someplace for a quick bite. Join me?“

She hesitated, then nodded. „I never ate dinner, either.“

„Good. My SUV is parked across the street.“

Wednesday, February 18,

11:00 P.M.

He was ready. He ran a soft cloth down the matte barrel of his rifle. It was like new. It should be. A wise man cared well for his tools. It had served him well these past few weeks.

He pulled the photo in its cheap silver frame just a little closer. „Six down, Leah. Who will be next?“ Carefully he laid the rifle on the table and stuck his hand in the fishbowl. Once the bowl held Leah’s goldfish. Ever since he’d known her, Leah had a goldfish. Cleo had always been its name. When one died, a new one would miraculously show up in the bowl the next day and it would be named Cleo. Leah never acknowledged one fish was dead, never made a fuss. She just went out and bought a new fish. He’d found a dead Cleo in Leah’s fishbowl the day he’d identified her body. He hadn’t the heart to buy a new one.

Now the fishbowl held the names of every person who had escaped justice under Kristen Mayhew’s watch. Murderers, rapists, child molesters, all out walking the streets because some morally bankrupt defense attorney found a loophole. The defense attorneys were no better than the criminals themselves. They just wore better suits.

He riffled his hand through the little slips of paper, searching, pausing when his finger caught a dog-eared edge. He’d worried over whom to target first. Over which crime was more serious than the rest, which victims deserved justice before the others. He’d only have so much time, especially now that the police were involved. He’d known that Kristen would involve the police before he’d tipped his hand, but it seemed a justifiable risk for the satisfaction he’d receive just by knowing she knew. So he’d put all the names in the fishbowl and let God guide his hand. He pulled out the folded piece. Looked at the corner he himself had turned down. He’d given God a little help, that’s all.

What was the punishment for that dog-ear? he wondered. There were crimes that were worse than others. Rape and child molestation had a premeditation, a wickedness that must be punished, eliminated. So he’d gone back and dog-eared all the sexual crimes.

He stared at the folded paper for another long minute. The last pick had yielded a prime target. Ross King deserved to die. There wasn’t a decent person that would disagree with that. He hadn’t died easily, or quickly. And in the end he’d begged so piteously. He’d often wondered, in the past, if he could beat a man who begged for mercy. He now knew he could.

He’d done well that night, ridding the world of a parasite too dangerous to live with decent people. God would be pleased. The innocents were just a little safer today. So his decision was made. He’d choose all the dog-eared names first. There was still a random nature, the choice in the end was still God’s. When there were no more dog-eared names, he’d go on to the lesser crimes. And if he never made it that far, at least he’d go on to his reward knowing he’d gotten the biggest bang for his buck.

He unfolded the little piece of paper and his smile turned grim. Oh, yes. I’m ready.

Wednesday, February 18,

11:35 p.m.

„It’s good.“

Abe chuckled. „You sound surprised.“

„I am.“ Kristen studied the gyro in the strobing light of the passing streetlamps. They were just a few miles from her house, but she’d torn into the sandwich less than a minute after leaving the drive-thru saying she was hungrier than she’d thought. „What’s in it?“

„Lamb, veal, onions, feta cheese, and yogurt. You’ve never had one? Really?“

„Ethnic foods weren’t exactly a staple where I grew up.“

„Where did you grow up?“

She studied the sandwich for a long moment, so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. „ Kansas,“ she said finally and he wondered what she’d left there that bothered her so much.

He forced his voice to be light. „No kidding. I took you for East Coast.“

„No.“ She looked out the window. „Turn left at this light.“

He was quiet as she gave terse directions to her house. Bringing his SUV to a stop in her carport, he shifted in his seat so he could see her face. Her profile, really, as she sat resolutely looking forward, not looking at him. Not looking at her house. „I could take you to a hotel if you want,“ he said and she stiffened. „I’m serious, Kristen. No one would blame you if you didn’t want to sleep here tonight. I could do a walk-through while you pack a bag.“

„No, I live here. I won’t be thrown out of my own house.“ She wrapped up the remains of her gyros and gathered her laptop from the floorboard. „I appreciate the gesture, but he doesn’t appear to want to do me harm. I have an alarm system and Spinnelli’s patrol will be driving by every hour. I’ll be fine. Besides, I have to feed my cats. But I would appreciate you giving the place the once-over.“ One side of her mouth quirked up and he admired her pluck. „The cats aren’t much in the way of protection.“

He followed her to the side door and waited as she stepped inside and disabled the alarm. She turned on the light and he let his eyes wander around, taking in the goldenrod appliances, the garish foil wallpaper, the cabinets of chipped fiberboard. It appeared she hadn’t had insomnia enough times to have started renovations on this room. His gaze came back to where she stood, ramrod straight with her coat still on. Even in the dim light he could see her swallow hard. The need to protect again welled, but even after only a few hours he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t welcome his touch, no matter how reassuring it was intended to be. So he made himself stay where he was, his hands in his pockets.

„You want the lights on or off?“ she murmured.

„I’ll turn them on as I go,“ he answered, wishing she’d agreed to go to a hotel. He didn’t know if she was in danger, but she was still clearly frightened and it unsettled him.

He made his way through her house, flipping on the living room light, noting the blue-striped wallpaper. She had done a good job. His sister Annie was a professional decorator and she couldn’t have done any better. He found both spare bedrooms devoid of vigilante murdering peeping Toms, as was the bathroom with its neat stacks of makeup and hairspray. She’d left it so neat, almost as if she expected company. He instantly wondered who, irritation pricking at the thought of shaving cream and a razor littering the neat vanity top. But there was none. No sign of a man. He laughed at himself. Harshly. If there existed such a person, she would have called him to pick her up instead of trying to take a cab.

And even if there existed such a person, it was none of his damn business.

Abe pushed open the door to her bedroom, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. There was none. He hadn’t expected there to be. He flipped the light switch and saw Kristen’s skill lent itself to picking furniture as well. Art deco pieces filled the room, giving it a solid feel. There was no lace, no trace of ribbon, but still there was a feminine air. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned quilt on her bed. Or maybe the scent of her perfume, still hanging in the air. A sleek black cat sat on her pillow, watching him with eyes as green and cautious as Kristen’s.

Abe swept his flashlight under her bed and around the closet filled with black suits, dark navy suits, charcoal gray suits. Her knack for color didn’t extend to her wardrobe, or maybe there was an unwritten dress code for officers of the court. Still he wondered at the absence of party dresses, evening gowns, shiny shoes. He paused long enough to scratch the cat behind the ears before making his way back to the kitchen where Kristen stood spooning loose tea into a china teapot with big pink roses. She still wore her winter coat and he wondered if she planned to stay after all.

„This floor is clear,“ he said and she nodded mutely. „Basement door?“

She pointed to the wall behind him. „Be careful. It’s a bit of a mess down there.“

Kristen Mayhew’s mess was cleaner than any of his siblings’ houses, he thought. The fireplace mantel was scraped and sanded down to its natural wood. A set of stained wood samples rested on the top, propped against the wall. Abe sighed. Their humble servant was indeed correct. The cherry was the best choice.

Kristen jumped when his footsteps sent the stairs from the basement creaking. She wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the knowledge that a killer routinely stalked her movements in her own home, or that there was a man in the house for the very first time ever. She drew a breath, the aroma of the brewing tea settling her nerves enough that she didn’t appear insane. Abe Reagan reappeared, sliding his pistol into his shoulder holster.

His pistol. He’d drawn his weapon. A shiver raced down her spine. „All clear?“

He nodded. „No one’s here except for you, me, and the black cat on your pillow.“

Kristen smiled, just a little. „Nostradamus. He lets me sleep in his bed.“

Reagan choked on a laugh and her heart did a little trip that had nothing to do with vigilante psychos. He was an incredible-looking man. And he seemed kind. But he was still a man. „You named your cat Nostradamus?“ he asked with a grin.

She nodded. „Mephistopheles hasn’t come home yet. He’s out chasing mice.“

His grin widened. „Nostradamus and Mephistopheles. The Prophet of Doom and the Devil Himself. Whatever happened to Huffy or Snowflake?“

„I never could bring myself to name them something cute,“ she said dryly. „It just wasn’t in their nature. The first week after I adopted them they destroyed the carpet in three rooms.“

„So if you ever got a dog, you could name him Cerberus and have a full set.“

Her lips twitched as he’d meant them to and she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for his effort to lighten her mood. „The three-headed guardian of Hades. I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Would you like some tea? I drink it at night when I’m all wound up. I’m hoping it will settle my nerves so I can sleep tonight.“

„No thanks. I have to get home and catch a few hours’ shut-eye. I have to meet Mia and Jack at dawn at the first site.“

Kristen’s hands stilled on the teapot. „Which one will you do first?“

He shrugged his wide shoulders. „Ramey. We’ll do them in the order he did.“

Kristen made herself pour the tea, grimacing when her hands shook, sending tea over the cup’s edge and onto the old countertop. „That makes sense.“ She looked up at him to find him watching her with the same intense expression he’d worn in Spinnelli’s office. It was concern, she realized and her back went straight. She wasn’t weak. She might be many things, but weak was not one of them. „I’d like to be there as well.“

He considered it. „That makes sense,“ he echoed her words. „Wear sensible shoes.“

She looked down into her tea, then back up at him. „I don’t have a car.“

„I’ll be by to pick you up at six a.m.“

The volley was over and it was her serve. „Thanks. I’ll get a rental car tomorrow, but – “

„It’s all right, Kristen. I don’t mind.“

He really didn’t, it was clear to see. And that bothered her. „Then…“

He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d leaned. „I’ll be going.“ He stopped at the kitchen door. „You’ve done a wonderful job on your house.“

Her hands cradled the steaming cup, absorbing the warmth. She was so cold. „Thank you. And thank you for driving me home. And for the gyro.“

He studied her face, his expression uncertain. „You’re sure you want to stay here?“

She smiled with a hell of a lot more confidence than she felt. „Positive. You should get some sleep. Six a.m. is only a few hours away.“

Abe took a last uncertain look before backing out the door and into the carport. Through the gauzy curtains on her kitchen door he watched her lock the door and set the alarm. For a moment he debated going back inside and dragging her to the relative safety of a hotel, but knew it was none of his business. Kristen Mayhew was a grown woman and entirely capable of making her own decisions.

He started his car and had pulled into the street before he realized she hadn’t called him Detective. Nor had she called him Abe. They’d talked for almost an hour and she hadn’t called him anything at all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. He shouldn’t let her bother him. She was pretty, that was true, but he’d meet many pretty women now that he was no longer working undercover. For five years he’d held no attachments, stealing time to see his own family, his brothers, sisters, his parents, Debra, all the while worrying that he’d been followed, that just by visiting he’d place them in jeopardy.

Now he was out from under the burden of constant secrecy and isolation, working in an environment where people developed social and professional relationships. It was natural to be tempted on his first day out. And it would be unnatural not to find Kristen Mayhew tempting. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the first time he’d seen her.

And unlike the first time he’d seen her, he was now free to feel the lust that clutched at his gut like a slippery fist without the shadow of guilt. Debra was gone now. Truly gone. After five years of existing in hellish limbo, Debra was finally at peace. It was time to get on with his life. Step one would be getting Kristen Mayhew to call him by his first name. Then he’d take it from there.

From her living room window, Kristen watched as Reagan’s taillights disappeared around the corner, troubled. I should be, she thought and uneasily glanced up the street, wondering if the man who’d killed five people was watching her at that moment. But the street was empty, all her neighbors’ windows dark. The troubled feeling persisted and Kristen wasn’t sure how much she could attribute to a man who called himself her humble servant versus a man who was unwilling to leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.

Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.

She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“

It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.

She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.

From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.

She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.

Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.

She ought to know.

Thursday, February 19,

12:00 noon

Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.

But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.

Ahh, she thought. Here we go. Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe, she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.

„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“

Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“

„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.

„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“

She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“

She’d caught him by surprise with that one. Hah. But he covered his temper quickly and with admirable aplomb lifted a brow. „I choose not to give credence to rumor, Miss Richardson. Especially rumor as preposterous as that one.“ He tilted his head in a half nod, a smooth and graceful exit move. „Now I must be getting back to my family.“

Her image turned back to the camera. „That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.“

Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.

Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.

Thursday, February 19,

12:30 a.m.

The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago ’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.

He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.

He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.