I'll Be Watching You

  "No apology necessary." He sat down beside her, massaging the tension from her shoulders.

  "How did the arraignment at supreme court go?"

  A shrug. "As expected. The judge didn't revoke bail. That's all Jonathan was afraid of. I, on the other hand, was half hoping he would."

  Taylor twisted around and shot Reed a startled look. "Why?"

  "Purely selfish reasons. If Jonathan's locked up, Gordon can't masquerade as him—not without getting caught."

  "Oh." She blew out a tired breath. "I see your point. But something tells me Gordon's too smart to get caught. If Jonathan were locked up, Gordon would somehow find out about it, and crawl back into the sewer like the rat that he is." A humorless laugh. "And, like that same cunning rat, he'd emerge only

  when he knew it was safe."

  "He's never going to be safe," Reed returned in a hard, determined tone. "Not with me gunning for him."

  Taylor gave him a weak, grateful smile. "Have you read through the police reports yet? Anything new?"

  "Nothing that jumped out at me. Except for the fact that none of the partial human remains found at the scene of the boat explosion were Gordon's. Just his monogrammed life preserver."

  "He could have tossed that overboard to make it look convincing."

  "Exactly. On the other hand, it could have been propelled by the force of the explosion, and his whole body could have been blown to bits. So let's just say that the lack of physical remains raises a red flag—for us. For the police and the prosecution—well, under the circumstances, our red flag is weak.

  And it's certainly not enough to build a credible case that Gordon's alive."

  "He's out there, Reed. I know it. I don't need proof. He's circling me like a hawk. Who knows when

  he'll swoop down? I don't have the luxury of time that you do. Any day, any minute, he could—"

  Taylor broke off, hopeless and frustrated, and terribly ashamed of what she was implying. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was completely uncalled for."

  Reed pressed her head against his chest. "Taylor, listen to me. I know you feel like you're coming apart

  at the seams. And I know you're scared. But we both knew that getting our hands on Gordon wasn't going to be a cakewalk. He's smart. He's meticulous. And his intentions are not to be caught. That's not the way it's going to go down. We will catch him. I promise you that. In the meantime, never doubt my priorities. You and I have the exact same timetable. Jonathan is my client. You're ..." He swallowed.

  "I love you. Your life and your safety are the most important things to me. I'm working on this Gordon angle round-the-clock. I've got Mitch doing the same. That's for you, not Jonathan."

  "I know." She leaned into him. "I just want this whole thing to be over."

  "Amen."

  "Anything new on the DNA front?" Taylor asked. "That was pretty fascinating stuff you showed me

  last night."

  "I did some more reading on the DNA profiles of identical twins," Reed answered reluctantly. "Without getting into too much scientific detail, there are two genetic terms involved here: phenotype and genotype. Genotype is the makeup of our genes—in other words, our DNA. Phenotype is the external stuff—our physical characteristics, which result from the interaction of our genes with the developmental environment inside the uterus. The last part's the relevant part. Since each fetus interacts differently

  with its environment, identical twins have identical genotypes but different phenotypes."

  "What physical traits does that affect?"

  "The operative ones in a criminal case are fingerprints and teeth marks. Both those characteristics differ slightly in identical twins. Unfortunately, the killer was smart enough not to leave any fingerprints. But Adrienne did have teeth marks on her left breast. I read a precedent case where the defense attorney elicited the expert testimony of a dentist who displayed dental casts, Styrofoam impressions, and CAT scans of the casts of the defendant's teeth, which the court overlaid on the actual wounds to compare them. They were different. If necessary, I can try that tactic in court. It's not foolproof, but it might create reasonable doubt."

  He massaged his temples. "What makes me crazy is that it's sure as hell not enough to get Hadman

  and Olin's cooperation on your stalker case."

  "Nothing's going to do that, short of Gordon showing himself," Taylor said quietly. A long pause as

  she contemplated her own words. "Reed, maybe we should use that fact to our advantage."

  "Meaning?"

  "Let's get Gordon to show himself."

  "And how do you propose we do that?"

  Reed wasn't going to like this. Taylor herself didn't like it. But it might be their quickest solution.

  Maybe even their only solution.

  "My new lease starts tomorrow," she explained. "I'm sure Gordon knows that. I'm sure he also knows where I'm moving. He seems to know everything about me. So why don't I oblige him and move? Without anyone's assistance but the moving company. Once they're gone, it'll just be me. That should give Gordon a clean shot."

  "Forget it." Reed's entire body had gone rigid. "You're talking about making yourself a target."

  "If it'll ferret Gordon out, I'm willing to risk it."

  "Well, I'm not. The idea's crazy. You'd be leaving yourself wide open to a psychopath. The subject's closed. We'll find Gordon through less radical means."

  "Whatever those are." She blew out her breath. "It just occurred to me that sometime between

  yesterday and today we both stopped saying 'if when we refer to Gordon as my stalker. We're now

  both sure, hard evidence or not."

  "Yeah," Reed concurred. "We are."

  MARCH 1

  1:15 A.M.

  D-day.

  Her new lease had started seventy-five minutes ago.

  He eyed the apartment that would soon be hers, wondering when she'd be moving in. Her old place

  was in chaos, and had been for days, as moving preparations were under way.

  The boxes would be sent over on schedule. Her old place would be vacated. But as for when she

  joined them, that was still iffy.

  She was staying with Reed Weston. She had been since she returned from Florida.

  A few weeks ago, that would have been enough to make him wild with rage. Picturing her with another guy. Knowing she was in his bed. He'd been furious enough when he realized she was turning off her

  cell phone every night so he couldn't contact her. Stupid bitch. Didn't she know that if he wanted to

  reach her, he could?

  Anyway, none of it mattered now. His plan had entered its final stage.

  She was getting antsy. He could see it in her movements, the restlessness in her step and in her eyes.

  She hated living like a prisoner. Pretty soon, she'd shake herself free, if only for a little while.

  A little while was enough. He'd be waiting.

  Her time was running out. So let her screw Reed Weston to her heart's content. When she died, he'd

  be the one inside her, not Weston.

  First he'd tell her everything. That was a given. He had to tell someone. His plan was too ingenious to keep to himself.

  Pity he couldn't share it with the rest of the jackasses involved. Especially the cops. The looks on their faces would be priceless.

  Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to be. He needed to move on, to begin his new life.

  And, oh, what a life it would be.

  CHAPTER 33

  MARCH 3

  3:30 P.M.

  DELLINGER ACADEMY

  Taylor left school late.

  She didn't have to glance across the street to know Mitch was there. She was acutely aware of his presence. Posting himself outside whatever building she was in was becoming second nature to the guy.

  She turned up the collar of her coat and started walking.

  All the stable components that made up her life were being yanked away,
one by one.

  Her first day back at school. It had been a carbon copy of her first day back at the radio station. Anxious glances from the faculty. Silence when she entered the teachers' lounge. An optimistic but uneasy pep

  talk from the headmaster. And odd looks, accompanied by whispered conversations, from the students.

  It had been like rubbing salt in wounds that were already so raw they were bleeding. She shouldn't have been surprised. Dellinger was small and tight-knit. When something juicy went on, news traveled like wildfire, no matter how hard people tried to keep it quiet. Still, she'd pinned hope against hope that somehow the powers that be would have been able to sit on it, that she'd escape the fallout.

  She hadn't.

  It wasn't Mitch's fault that he'd lit the fuse by talking to the administration and a couple of faculty members. He'd just been doing his job.

  But once he'd stepped through that first hallowed doorway, ears had gone up everywhere. And the

  rest had been a fait accompli.

  Quickening her step, Taylor headed toward Starbucks. She desperately needed a few minutes alone.

  Alone. That was a laugh. Mitch would be right behind her. He'd wait five minutes, then stroll in and

  order himself a grande Coffee of the Day to go. After that, he'd post himself outside, skimming the newspaper and drinking his coffee.

  Talk about the ultimate chaperone.

  Taylor opened the door and stepped inside. The place was warm, and smelled of coffee and scones.

  It felt good.

  She went up to the counter, ordered a grande decaf Americano. No caffeine for her. She was already twitching.

  After she'd sat down at the counter near the window, her thoughts returned to the semi-pep, semi-prep talk she'd received from her headmaster. He'd been very kind. But he was worried, and she knew it.

  He had good reason to be. Dellinger was an exclusive private school—one of the most selective in Manhattan. Once a majority of the parents were tipped off as to what was going on, they'd band

  together and put a ton of pressure on the board of directors. Taylor would become an "undesirable"—a danger to their precious offspring. Offspring that many of them barely noticed except at times like these, Taylor thought bitterly. Still, financial pressure was financial pressure, especially when it was exerted

  by powerful people. Unless Taylor's stalker was caught, and pronto, she might be out of a job by the

  end of the school year.

  She slammed down her empty cup. She was suffocating. She needed some air.

  And by God, she was going to get it.

  3:45 p.m.

  STARBUCKS

  LEXINGTON AVENUE AT SEVENTY-EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY

  "Mitch, look. I don't want to argue with you." Having pulled Mitch aside as soon as he'd bought his coffee, Taylor was delivering her announcement with unyielding intensity. "I'm not asking to go

  jogging alone in Central Park. Actually, I'm not asking at all. I'm telling. And, not to be rude, I can

  do that. I'm paying your salary."

  She paused to suck in a breath. "I'm stopping by my new apartment. I'm riding up in the elevator,

  letting myself in like a normal person, and checking out the place that one day soon, I'm going to call home. I'm seeing where the movers stacked my boxes, if they put my bed on the far wall of the

  bedroom near the window like I asked, if they were careful with my plants or dumped them all over

  the kitchen floor. Dammit, Mitch, I need to be regular person, a normal new tenant, if only for a half hour."

  "Fine," he returned flatly. "I'll go up with you."

  "No, you won't." She fought to keep her voice down. "Don't you understand? I met my new doorman once. His name's Ed. I want to meet Ed again, without a PI hovering around me."

  "He'll think I'm your boyfriend."

  "I don't want him to think you're my boyfriend. I don't want him to think you're my anything. I don't want to provide some fabricated explanation. I just want to be myself. Please, Mitch, don't give me a

  hard time. I'm at the end of my rope. I need a flicker of reprieve, a concrete glimpse of something real

  in my future. Thirty minutes. That's all it'll take. You can watch the building from across the street. No one's more of a pro at that than you."

  Mitch shrugged. "Fine. Like you said, you're the boss. For the record, I'm not happy. I doubt Reed

  would be either."

  "Duly noted. I'll call you the minute I set foot in the apartment and see that the coast is clear. If you

  don't hear from me five minutes after I go upstairs, you can summon the entire NYPD."

  "Very cute. Let's just go and get this over with."

  4:12 P.M.

  WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY

  Finally. Taylor Halstead, in the flesh.

  He straightened, watching her approach the building.

  Once again, he'd been right. He'd been dead sure she'd come by. So sure that he'd showed up a dozen times over the last three days. He'd really been pushing it. He couldn't be seen. And he couldn't answer questions about his absence.

  But most important, he couldn't miss her. He had to seize his chance when it came.

  Well, here it was. His tenacity had paid off, as always.

  She stopped right in front of the building. So did her trusty PI, he noted with a smirk. A regular Kevin Costner. Well, Mr. Bodyguard was about to have a chance to prove how good he was.

  Flipping open his cell phone, he prepped his digital voice recorder containing the sound clip he'd spliced together of her previous conversations.

  Here goes, he thought. He punched in Jonathan's number.

  4:14 P.M.

  EAST EIGHTY-SIXTH STREET

  Jonathan reached for his ringing cell phone. "Hello?"

  "It's Taylor." Her voice was dulled by cell phone static. "I'm with Reed. We've got to see you immediately. Come to my new apartment. One twenty-three West Seventy-fourth Street. Hurry.

  This could be it."

  Click.

  4:16 P.M.

  WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET

  Taylor turned the key and let herself into her new apartment.

  The paint smell was strong, but it was in better shape than she'd expected. Oh, the parquet floors

  were piled high with boxes. But the furniture was in place, right down to her computer desk and PC, positioned in the living-room niche, as requested. The only item of significance still missing was a telephone. She'd remedy that soon enough.

  She poked her head into the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. All devoid of intruders. She

  flipped on her cell phone and called Mitch. "Everything's fine," she reported. "I'm just getting

  acquainted with the place. I'll be down soon."

  "Twenty-seven minutes," he reminded her.

  "Yes, sir." She punched off the phone.

  The rooms were spacious and bright, just as she remembered. The bed was set up against the long

  wall by the window, precisely as she'd asked. The plants were intact, lined up on the windowsills for

  her to arrange as she pleased.

  She smiled, strolling back into the living room and plopping down on the sofa. Strange surroundings

  mixed with familiar possessions. It already felt more comfortable than her old place.

  Her gaze returned to the computer. It was dark and silent, since it wasn't plugged in. She kept a steady gaze on it, feeling somehow empowered by doing so. She'd celebrate her move by getting a new e-mail address. It was way past time. A different user name. A different Internet provider. But Gordon would not intimidate her, not any more than he already had.

  She considered plugging in the computer and flipping on the power—a sort of symbolic gesture. No,

  she decided. She'd wait until she could unpack her surge protector.

  Was she stalling? Maybe a little.

  She wouldn't lie to herself. That c
omputer still gave her the heebie-jeebies. She hadn't used it since

  New Year's Day, when the last e-card had come. Instead, she'd relied on her laptop. And, since she'd

  cut off her personal e-mail address, the only e-mail she received was what she accessed from Dellinger

  or WVNY.

  That situation was going to change. Now that she knew Gordon was alive, she also knew her fears

  were irrational. If he wanted to terrorize her by e-mail, he would have rerouted his e-cards to one of

  her other electronic addresses.