If I went in disguise, I'd lose all that. And I'd lose the chance to see his face when I introduced myself. Were we right that Aldrich had told him that he thought he'd seen me in Newport? Did Koss have anything to do with hiring the man who had tried to kill me? The best way to find that out was for me to appear, unannounced, right in front of him.
Jack knew that. Or he realized it, after two cigarettes and nearly an hour of hashing it out. He still didn't like it, but as long as I was willing to take every possible precaution, he would allow that it was our best chance of inching closer to the truth.
"What time's the lecture?" he asked as we reached Chicago.
"Three this afternoon."
He nodded and switched lanes. "Need to dress up?"
"It's at Northwestern. It'll be mostly students, so my jeans will be fine."
A minute of silence, as he tapped the steering wheel. Then he cleared his throat. "Reason I'm asking . . . Made dinner plans. Or Evelyn did. Found us a place. Says it has the best steak in Chicago. Only problem? There's a dress code. Which is bullshit. You want something more casual? I'll switch. I just . . ." Another throat-clearing, his gaze still on the road. "Thought we'd go someplace nice. Seems that means a dress code. If you needed to buy something for this lecture . . ."
"Then I could buy something that would also be suitable for this evening. No, if we're going fancy, I'm not wearing business clothes. It's nice to dress up every now and then and, believe me, I don't get many chances to do it. Let's hit a mall, and I'll go shopping."
"I'll buy."
"You don't need to--"
"Yeah. I know. Bit awkward, though. Taking you out. But you gotta spring for a new outfit."
I smiled. "I'll survive."
"I'd like to pay--"
"No, Jack. Really. That's my definition of awkward."
Jack did not help me get my pretty frock. He had to do some shopping of his own, because his working wardrobe looked a whole lot like mine--jeans and casual shirts. He tried to argue that we had time for him to accompany me. While I'm sure he had absolutely no interest in helping me pick a dress, I suspect he was planning to slap down cash, in spite of my protests. So I told him I'd meet him in an hour and took off before he could follow.
It wasn't just about paying for my outfit. I didn't want to buy it in front of him because I had decided I wasn't just dashing into the nearest department store and grabbing something vaguely suitable off the sales rack. I was going to buy a date dress--the kind where I'm willing to flaunt the fact that I'm in good shape. It doesn't happen very often. I'm not comfortable being that woman. Maybe that means something, in light of my newly discovered past, but I think it's just the way I've always been. I'm not completely inept, though. I know how to wear heels and put on makeup and do my hair and even pick out a sexy dress . . . with a little help from the sales staff.
At four, I was in a huge lecture hall at Northwestern, listening to Sebastian Koss. Seeing him on the stage--and projected on several screens--there was no doubt this was the man we'd spotted at Drew Aldrich's townhouse.
Koss had gone to visit Aldrich last week. Aldrich had been alive when he arrived and dead when he left, and while it was always possible that an accomplice had snuck in to do the deed, it seemed a fair bet that Koss had killed his former client.
That day, Koss was speaking on privacy rights for deceased victims. It's a contentious issue and an increasingly important one. The age of cheap video recorders has given sadistic killers the perfect way to relive their crimes. They tape themselves raping, torturing, and murdering their victims. If found, those tapes are invaluable to the prosecution. But does it violate the rights of the deceased to show them in an open courtroom? Not only do all the jury members and journalists and courtroom observers see it, but there's the risk it will end up on the Internet, where anyone can view the horrific last moments of a life.
For myself, I wouldn't care if it meant my killer was punished. But what if there was a tape of Amy's rape and murder? Would I want anyone to see her that way? To remember her that way? Every time someone watched that tape, I'd feel as if she'd been victimized again.
I sat riveted by Koss's talk, even as students around me shifted and whispered, probably only here because they'd been assigned a paper on the subject. The audience was mostly students, but there were enough older adults that I didn't look out of place. Nor did Jack, sitting across the hall, near the back. I'd glanced at him once, before the talk began, to orient myself, but now I kept my gaze forward.
When the lecture ended, most of the students bolted for the door, but there were enough who'd been truly interested in Koss's talk that it wasn't easy getting near him. At least twenty crowded down at the front, either to ask a question or to simply listen to him a little longer. I'd been near the back of the hall, which meant I was now at the rear of that crowd, unable to even wriggle forward.
Koss answered questions politely, with a charming smile, but his gaze kept sliding to the side, looking for an escape route. When he announced that he'd be speaking locally again next week, I knew he was ready to bolt. And I was still a half dozen layers of students away from him.
"Please do come out and see me," he was saying. "Admission is free and if you sign up now, there's an informal meet-and-greet afterward, where we may continue the conversation. Today, however, I have a pressing appointment."
"Mr. Koss!" I called the moment he broke for breath, raising my hand to get his attention.
For a moment, as his gaze lit on me, his expression was blank. Then there was a flicker of "where do I know that face?" followed by what looked like a genuine smile. Koss motioned for me to wait and leaned over to the young man who'd accompanied him onstage to whisper something. As Koss took his leave of the group, the young man beckoned me to a side door.
"Mr. Koss would like to speak to you," he said. "I'll take you to the green room."
The "green room" was a small lounge with snacks and beverages. There was a security guard at the door, but he said nothing as the young man ushered me past. Koss stood inside, guzzling bottled water. He turned as we came in.
"Ms. Stafford," he said, setting the bottle down and extending a hand.
"Nadia, please. I'm surprised you recognized me."
"It took a minute, but I have an eye for faces."
"I know you're rushing off to another engagement . . ."
"Not really 'rushing.'" He smiled. "I have dinner plans, but they were only an excuse. Otherwise, it seemed I'd be there awhile. So I'm free for a chat. I presume that's what you wanted?"
I nodded. "It's about Drew Aldrich."
There was a flicker of surprise. Again, it seemed genuine enough. The problem was figuring out why he was surprised, and what it said about his involvement in my predicament.
"I'd heard of his death," Koss said. "An old colleague contacted me. I won't say I was sorry to hear of it. That was . . ." A brief tightening of his lips. "Not my proudest moment as an attorney. I presume you've learned that I was on his defense team."
"I have."
"Let's talk then. There's a place nearby where we can grab a drink."
CHAPTER 34
I'd like to think Koss's warm greeting meant he wasn't responsible for the hit on me, but I wasn't foolish enough to follow him into any empty buildings or down any dark alleys. Fortunately, he didn't try to lead me to any. He took me just off campus to a small pub, where we sat in a spot private enough to talk, but not so private that he could shoot me under the table and escape undetected.
I caught a glimpse of Jack on the way to the bar, only because he let me see him, so I'd know he was nearby. If he came into the pub with us, he stayed out of sight.
After we ordered a drink, Koss said, "When I first contacted you, I didn't get the impression you knew I'd helped represent Aldrich."
"I just found out a couple of days ago. His death brought it back and I wanted to know more about the trial, to better understand what happened. I saw your picture. I wa
s already taking a few days off work, and I have friends in Chicago, so I decided to see if you might speak to me. You seemed sympathetic before about Wayne Franco, so I thought . . ." I shrugged. "I don't know what I thought. I'm not laying blame. I know where that lies--on Drew Aldrich. It's just that . . . I never knew much about the trial. I was too young. I heard plenty, all from my family's side. I just . . . I want to understand."
"And I'm happy to help with that," Koss said. "Though I fear nothing I have to say will make you feel any better about the matter. Aldrich was guilty. We all knew it. But as a former officer of the law, you know that it's the defense's job to give their client his best shot, however uncomfortable that may be sometimes. Even for those who don't see it as a game, who are interested in justice, we tell ourselves that by offering the best defense possible, a guilty man will go to jail, that justice will be served, with little room left for appeal."
"I'm aware of that."
"Even so, I couldn't handle being on that side of a courtroom. Aldrich's case was instrumental in making me see that."
He took a sip of his whiskey before continuing. "You may hope I'll tell you he got an unfair trial. To say that there was evidence tampering or underhanded legal maneuvers. There wasn't. It was, in my opinion, worse than that, because this case shows a basic failing of the legal system. What Aldrich got was a world-class defense pitted against a small-town prosecution team. My firm saw the opportunity for an easy pro bono win, one that would bolster their reputation as both lawyers and humanitarians. They seized it. Your family paid the price, and I'm sorry about that."
"That's what I figured when I found out who took the case. Can you talk a little about it? If you have time?"
"I do, and I will."
He said little I hadn't already gleaned from news reports. As for getting a read on Koss, I failed on that, too. All I could tell was that he still seemed troubled by his involvement with Aldrich's case.
Did I find myself questioning whether he'd killed Aldrich? Not really. Whether he pulled the trigger or not, he was guilty, and I didn't have a problem reconciling that with the thoughtful man sitting before me. If you believe in something strongly enough, you'll kill for it. I know that better than anyone.
Did I think it was possible for him to sit here, being so patient and considerate, if he'd put out a hit on me? I doubted it. As good an actor as I was, I couldn't have pulled that one off myself. But I couldn't rule it out, either.
So we talked. He answered all my questions with no sign that he had better places to be. In the end, even when I was worrying that I was holding him up, he made sure I had everything I needed, and offering to facilitate discussions with others involved in the case. He sat with me for over an hour before he finally made his excuses and said good-bye.
Though I may have failed to come to any conclusions about Koss's role in my hit, that was certainly not the only reason we'd taken the risk of meeting him. We wanted to see what he'd do after I made contact.
I let him leave the pub first, as I made a pit stop in the restroom. Then I followed him at enough of a distance that if he glanced back and saw me, I'd seem merely to be heading in the same direction. There were enough people on the sidewalk that it was unlikely he'd even spot me. I watched to see if he made a call or texted anyone. He didn't. He headed straight to a campus parking lot, which happened to be the same lot where Jack had parked. I managed to get his car's make, license number, and the direction he was headed before Jack whipped up and I climbed into the backseat.
I changed my clothes and added a wig and glasses. I had no intention of getting close to Koss. The disguise was simply in case he glimpsed me in the car.
We followed him through the city. It was late rush hour, which meant the streets were busy enough to make tailing simple. As we drove, I kept the binoculars trained on Koss to see if he made any phone calls. He didn't seem to. He drove straight to a shopping plaza in the suburbs and pulled up to a park outside a restaurant.
"His dinner engagement," I said as we watched from a distance.
Koss hopped out and hurried over to where a woman waited just outside the restaurant doors.
"And that would be his wife," I said.
"You sure?"
"Yep. I saw her photo online."
They went into the restaurant. We didn't follow. Koss wasn't about to place a panicked call to his Contrapasso colleagues while dining with his wife. Which would seem to imply that he wasn't placing a panicked call at all.
Still, we weren't done checking out Sebastian Koss. Our next step would have been to break into his office, except he didn't have one. Or he did, but it was at home. Which was convenient, actually, giving us the chance to search his personal and business life at once. Except that when Jack called to check, a girl answered, presumably Koss's teenage daughter. No way were we breaking in with kids at home.
"What do you think?" I asked as we sat in the parking lot, car idling.
"Not going to assume anything," Jack said. "But he seems clean. Of wanting you dead, at least. Dig more tomorrow. For now?" He checked his watch. "Reservation's in just over an hour. You still up for it?"
I smiled. "Absolutely."
We hadn't gotten a chance to check into our hotel yet. Now we did.
"This is nice," I said as I gaped around the elevator, all polished brass and shimmering marble.
Jack mumbled something I didn't quite catch, but that told me I shouldn't comment on the fancy hotel. Just accept it.
The "not commenting" part got harder when I walked into our room. The door opened into a living room with sofas, a full bar, and a massive window overlooking the gorgeous Chicago skyline. There was no way I couldn't not say something, so I settled for, "This is really nice," while walking to the window, giving him the chance to opt out of a reply, which he did.
"Got two bathrooms," he said after a moment. "Figured that would make things easy. Take the bedroom one. Probably bigger."
"All right."
I headed that way, and I was almost to the door when Jack got in front of me, so fast he startled me.
"Um, about the bedroom," he said. "Only one bed. Got a sofa bed, too. I'll take that. Wasn't a two-bed option. Just . . . wanted to let you know."
"Sounds good. I'll get ready then."
"Right," he said and stepped out of my path.
It took me a while. I might know how to do the dress-up thing, but I'm rusty. After thirty minutes, I realized I was putting our reservation in jeopardy and opened the door to tell Jack I was almost ready. The room was silent.
"Jack?"
No answer.
I slid from the bathroom to peek around the bedroom door. Yes, I was decent, but I wasn't quite done yet and didn't want to ruin that first impression.
"Jack?"
The room was empty. The other bathroom door was open and the inside light was off. I was looking around when I noticed a note on the table. I scampered over to it.
Bringing the car around. Just come down. Don't rush.
Of course I did rush. I took this as a subtle message that I was indeed late. So I finished getting ready and then hurried down.
Was I a little disappointed with the arrangement? Yes, I'll admit it. I'd taken some serious effort to make an impression, and his first sight of me was going to be as I dashed out the hotel front door while he waited in the car. Worse yet, when I got down to the lobby the car wasn't even there. Two vehicles idled out front--a BMW and a Jag.
Then the driver's door on the BMW opened and Jack stepped out. He started to come around. As he turned toward me, getting a full look for the first time, he stopped. He stared. Then he caught himself and continued striding over to meet me.
I was trying not to stare myself. I've seen Jack dressed up. He'd worn a tux for the opera during a stakeout. At the time, I'd wondered how he'd carry off the look--it didn't seem right for him. I'd been wrong. Jack looked as comfortable in a suit as he did in a biker outfit. It just brought out another side to that da
ngerous edge, making him look like he was ready to throw down in the boardroom rather than in a bar. Tonight he wore a sports coat and tie, but the effect was the same. Freshly shaven. Black hair gleaming. Wearing that suit like it came from his closet, not straight off a store rack. He looked good. Damned good.
"Something happened to our car," I said as he reached me. "It must have been sitting in that parking garage too long. The other vehicles rubbed off on it."
He smiled. He didn't say anything, though, just put a hand on the small of my back and guided me toward the car as he leaned over to open the door. He didn't say anything about my outfit, either. I didn't expect him to. Before the opera, it'd been Quinn who'd told me how good I looked--multiple times. With Jack, I hadn't even been sure he'd noticed. Now, he noticed. I could feel his gaze on me as I got into the car, and that was more flattering than anything he could have said.
When we reached the restaurant, I could see why he'd switched cars. If we'd driven our economy rental up to the valet, they'd probably have refused to park it. As it was, we fit right in. As we walked inside and through the restaurant, Jack's hand still resting at my back, we caught some glances. Mostly women, checking him out, as discreetly as possible, given the venue. I earned some looks, too, and held my head a little higher. Most of the time, I'm happy to blend. I want to blend. Every now and then, though, under the right circumstances, a little attention is nice.
I'd been worried dinner might be awkward with both of us out of our comfort zone, but as soon as we were seated, we started talking as we would over any other meal. Except it wasn't "any other meal." We both knew that. The car, the restaurant, the dress, the suit . . . it all said that this wasn't just dinner between friends.
We stayed at the restaurant until there was only one other table of diners left. When we finally stepped outside, the cool night air was as refreshing as any country breeze, and I paused a moment, drinking it in.