I'll Be Watching You

  coming here to hurt her."

  "That's not all he wanted," Mitch muttered. "He wanted a diversion. And he got it. While the doorman and I were arguing with you, he slipped into the building and upstairs to Taylor. Her front door was ajar.

  I smelled chloroform in the hall. After I called Reed, I went around to the side of the building and

  checked the delivery entrance. Since it rained earlier this afternoon, there were puddles all around. I

  was hoping to find some telltale marks, like tire tracks or footprints. I found both. There were tire tracks running down the ramp to the side door. A vehicle was driven down there recently. There was also a

  set of footprints leading from the door to the tire tracks. One set. My guess would be that Taylor was unconscious and being carried to the car."

  "Christ." Reed felt bile rise in his throat. "Gordon has her. He's planning a repeat performance. First Adrienne. Now Taylor."

  "Gordon?" The shocked outburst came from Jonathan. "As in, my brother?"

  "Yeah." Mitch answered for Reed, who was in no shape to explain. "That's who we mean."

  Olin strode in. "I've got a couple of witnesses who saw a silver mini-van speed away about thirty minutes ago. No make or model. And no license-plate number. Apparently, the vehicle came close to causing two accidents at two separate intersections as it headed south toward mid-town. Driver's probably in a hurry to get out of Manhattan. Silver mini-vans aren't exactly rare, which I'm sure is why our perp chose it. We've alerted the other boroughs. They'll get word to their patrol cars."

  "Let's hope someone gets us a lead." Hadman turned to Mitch. "Time to cut to the chase. I gave those files to Weston. I know what you two were looking for. So, tell me, do you have actual proof that Gordon Mallory's alive?"

  "We will when we find Taylor."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only answer we've got right now, Hadman." Reed countered grimly. "And it'll have to be

  enough. I'm convinced Gordon's alive. But even if I'm wrong, our psycho-stalker's got Taylor."

  With that, he whipped around to his client, who'd sunk down into a chair, white-faced. "Jonathan." He grabbed his arms. "I know you're reeling. But you've got to think. Where would Gordon take Taylor?"

  Jonathan gazed up at Reed with a vague expression in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "We planned to, as soon as we had conclusive evidence. We're close. But now everything's changed."

  "'We,'" Jonathan repeated. "Taylor knows?"

  "Yes. She was doing a forensic profile on Gordon, based on his personality and what he endured as

  a teen."

  "God. He hated Adrienne's guts." Jonathan swallowed. "So he didn't die in the boat explosion?"

  "We don't think so. Now answer my question. Where would he take Taylor?"

  It was no use. That vague look was still there as Jonathan fought to process the enormity of what he

  was learning. "Do he and I have identical DNA?"

  Reed wanted to shake him until he talked. But he had to snap him out of his shock first. "Yes. And

  he's got motive, means, and access. Jonathan, listen to me. I'll explain everything later. But we're

  fighting the clock. Taylor was trying to help you. Now it's your turn to help her. Please."

  That did the trick.

  Jonathan raised his head, and Reed could see the fog in his eyes clear. "Okay. Okay." He wiped beads

  of perspiration off his brow. "I don't know much more about Gordon's habits than you do. I do know

  that most of the places he hung out were very chichi, very visible. No way he'd take her there. His apartment's been sold, so that's out." A quizzical look. "Where's he been living all this time?"

  "Good question," Reed muttered.

  "If no one knows, then maybe that's where he's taking Taylor."

  "Excuse me for interrupting," Hadman inserted. "But this whole theory doesn't fly. Not in my mind.

  First off, I don't buy that anyone survived that boat explosion, much less planned it. But even if I'm wrong, Gordon Mallory was a flashy, extravagant guy. No way he's living in some slum just so he can bump off the Berkleys, stalk Taylor Halstead, and frame his brother."

  "You don't know how much Gordon hated Adrienne, or how screwed up he was," Jonathan countered bitterly.

  "Fine. I'm sure he was a nutcase and a scumbag. But he was also smart. He'd think through his plan.

  He'd know we'd fry his ass if we found him. He'd have two choices. Live underground or get a fake ID and passport and flee the country. What would he plan to subsidize his lifestyle with— love? No way. Like I said, he liked the good life too much." Hadman's brows rose. "Unless you know something we don't—like the existence of some Swiss bank account?"

  Reed shrugged. "I'm sure he had secret accounts. But even if he set himself up financially, it was a short-term thing. The amount he cheated his clients out of wasn't enough to set him up for life, not by

  a long shot. You want my opinion? I think Gordon plans on getting his hands on Douglas's estate.

  That's why he's framing Jonathan. As for how he'd claim his inheritance when he's supposedly dead, there's got to be an angle we're just not seeing—"

  The ringing of Reed's cell phone interrupted him.

  "Maybe it's Taylor. Maybe she found a way to call." Reed punched on the phone. "Hello?"

  There was a long pause. "Mr. Weston?"

  "Yes? Who is this?"

  "It's Alison Elmond. You left me a message. Something to do with my uncle's murder?"

  Speaking of the unexplored angle.

  "Oh, yes—Ms. Elmond. Thank you for returning my call." Reed massaged his temples, trying to reassemble the questions he'd mentally prepared to secure information on Gordon. Only now those questions had to be slanted toward a more urgent and immediate goal. Finding Taylor.

  His prolonged silence must have made his caller nervous because she gave an uneasy laugh, then

  began talking to fill it. "Actually, it's not Ms. Elmond anymore. Not since last week. I got married."

  "Congratulations," Reed replied on autopilot. "My mistake, Mrs-----?"

  "Kincaid," she supplied with the obvious pride of a newlywed. "Mrs. Dennis Kincaid."

  Everything inside Reed went still. "Dennis Kincaid? I know a Dennis Kincaid who's the audio engineer

  at WVNY. Is he your new husband?"

  "Why, yes."

  "I'm dating Taylor Halstead."

  "Oh, what a small world." Another awkward laugh. "Dennis talks about Ms. Halstead all the time. He thinks the world of her. He was thrilled to work with her. Even though he was devastated by what happened to poor Rick Shore. What a horrible tragedy. Dennis took it hard."

  "I'm sure he did." Reed had to keep her on this subject. This coincidence was far too bizarre to be a fluke. "Rick's death was a shock to everyone at WVNY. They're a close-knit group."

  "I know. And Dennis felt a particular bond with Rick. He taught him so much. I can't tell you how grateful Dennis was. And not only to Rick. To Jack Taft, the program manager. Mr. Taft is the one

  who gave Dennis the opportunity to do audio for Ms. Halstead's show."

  "So I heard. Although, as I understand it, Dennis is great at his job."

  "Did Ms. Halstead say that?" Alison asked eagerly.

  Reed went with his gut. "She says it all the time. She feels very lucky to have such a competent crew."

  "It's Dennis who feels lucky. He constantly mentions how smart Kevin Hodges is. But, most of all, he talks about Ms. Halstead. He says how amazing she is, how fascinated he is by her abilities with people. He says he learns something new from her every day. When she's on the air and he's working the

  control panel, he just watches her through the glass partition. He says that by watching her, he can

  soak up some of her energy. He's her biggest fan."

  He just watches her through the glass partition . . . watches her... watches her . . .
r />   The phrase struck Reed like a ton of bricks.

  What was it Mitch had said about the call Jonathan just received? He'd said that someone had made a sound clip of Taylor's voice. The caller had taped her voice, then spliced together the right phrases.

  Well, he wouldn't have to work too hard to make that sound clip if he were right there in the studio.

  In fact, he'd have immediate access to copies of all her shows. And splicing together just the right

  phrases would be a snap—if the caller were a trained audio tech.

  Taylor's audio tech.

  Reed's insides lurched. God. Was it possible?

  "Mr. Weston?" Alison prompted. "Are you still there?"

  "Yes, I'm sorry." Reed pulled himself together. He had to ferret out the rest. "Mrs. Kincaid, if you

  don't mind my asking, how long were you and Dennis engaged?"

  "We didn't do the engagement thing. We just got married. It was very spontaneous. Dennis just came over one night last week all pumped up, and said, 'Let's get married.' And we did."

  Pumped up? More like frustrated—and in a hurry to tie a crucial legal knot.

  Another piece fell into place.

  "That sounds very romantic." Reed had to fight to keep his voice even. "Is Dennis usually that spontaneous? I mean, you must have known each other for quite a while now."

  "Not really. We met around Thanksgiving. We just happened to click right from the start. I have a

  pottery shop in the Village. Dennis came in to buy a gift. The rest, as they say, is history." Alison paused, as if it suddenly occurred to her that Reed's questions had taken an odd turn. "I think we got sidetracked. You wanted to talk to me about my uncle and his wife's murders. I felt ill when I saw the news on TV. But I'm not sure how much help I can be. I haven't seen Uncle Douglas since I was a child. My mother was an artist, kind of the black sheep of the family—a bohemian, in the minds of the Berkleys. So we weren't in touch."

  "Were you in touch with either Gordon or Jonathan Mallory?"

  "No. I'm sorry."

  "That's okay. I'm just covering all my bases." Reed's jaw was working. He had to get back to the

  subject of Dennis. He knew she'd become wary of his personal questions. He didn't care. He had to

  try one last time. He couldn't force her to talk, not without a warrant. And a warrant required evidence, which he didn't have. Nor did he have time to gather it. Not with Taylor's life on the line.

  He'd tread carefully.

  "Before we hang up, is Dennis at WVNY tonight?"

  As Reed had expected, she was instantly alert. "Why?"

  "Because I'd like to send a congratulatory bottle in honor of your marriage," Reed replied smoothly. "What does Dennis drink?"

  Her relief was tangible. "That's lovely of you. He drinks Scotch. But he won't be in tonight. He'd

  planned to be, since our honeymoon is now officially over. But at the last minute, he asked Mr. Taft

  for one more night off. He told me it involved something personal and important." A shy giggle. "He was very mysterious. All he'd tell me was not to wait up, because he had no idea how late he'd be home. He said he was planning a surprise that would secure our future." It was pathetic how eager she sounded.

  Reflecting on the "surprise" Dennis was really planning, Reed nearly threw up.

  "Maybe he's looking at a cottage upstate, like in Dutchess County," she added wistfully.

  Reed jumped all over that. "Why? Is that where you two want to move ?"

  "I do. Not Dennis. He'd prefer to look closer to the city. But houses in the suburbs cost a fortune. We can't afford them. And we want a place of our own. Especially Dennis, who's been living in dumps, as

  he described them, since he moved to the city. They were so bad, he never even let me visit him.

  We're living in my place now, but it's cramped. So a nice cottage upstate would be a start. Maybe he's considering it for my sake." Alison's voice took on an anxious note. "I realize it's far. But tell

  Ms. Halstead not to worry. Dennis will commute by train, no matter how many hours it takes."

  It won't be necessary, Reed thought grimly. Not after what he has in mind.

  "I'm sure he will," he said aloud, pursuing the transportation angle in the hopes of hearing the magic words: "silver minivan." "But since you work in the Village, maybe you two could drive in together,

  rather than taking the train."

  "That would be great if we had a car. But we don't. Not yet. We're saving up for one."

  Okay, so the minivan was a rental. Not a surprise. As for saving up for anything, Alison had a rude awakening ahead of her. She might be saving. But Dennis had his whole pension lined up.

  "Truthfully, Mr. Weston, I think Dennis is putting off buying the car. He's a little gun-shy about

  getting behind the wheel after his accident."

  Now, that came out of left field.

  Reed went after it like a lion to meat. "I didn't realize Dennis had been in an accident."

  "He doesn't like to talk about it much. But he was in a head-on collision right before he moved to

  New York. The whole trauma left him pretty shaky."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Mid-September, I think."

  Bingo. Pay dirt.

  Reed's knuckles were white as they gripped the cell phone. "Was he badly hurt?"

  "The impact sent him right through the windshield. His face was completely torn up by the glass. Other than that, he was lucky. A few broken bones, lots of cuts and bruises, and some horrible memories."

  That shot holes in Reed's theory. The injuries Alison was describing were inconsistent with those

  suffered in a boat explosion. Still, the timing was too similar to ignore.

  "That sounds serious," he tried. "Wow, an accident of that magnitude and there were no extensive

  body injuries?"

  "Thankfully, no. Not on either side. The woman who hit him suffered only from whiplash and a totaled car. Dennis's car was wrecked, too. But his face . . ." Her voice trembled a bit. "It breaks my heart

  what he went through."

  "I can imagine. He must have some nasty scars."

  "Fortunately not. He underwent extensive reconstructive surgery. The poor man's cheekbones had to

  be rebuilt, his nose reset. . . plus some skin grafting and a lot of other surgical procedures I try to block out, they sound so gruesome. I'm not the medical type. I'm just grateful that Dennis is alive and well."

  "Of course."

  Dennis is alive and well.

  There it was. The reality. The reason why Gordon had no bodily injuries. He hadn't been on his yacht when it exploded. He'd gotten off beforehand. And there'd been no accident—not for him. The shrewd SOB had simply gotten a new face.

  Enter Dennis Kincaid.

  Reed had to hang up. He'd gotten as much as he could out of Alison Kincaid, at least for his purposes. The cops would have tons of questions for her later. But that was their thing. Right now, all that

  mattered to him was Taylor. Alison obviously had no clue where her husband was headed.

  Time for the police to take over.

  "Well, Mrs. Kincaid." He wrapped up the call in as few words as possible. "I won't keep you any longer. Congratulations again. I wish you the best."

  He punched off the phone, staring at it for a moment before raising his head to gaze at Hadman.

  "I have answers. Call your men and tell them to change the description of the man driving that minivan."

  "It's not Gordon Mallory?"

  "Oh, it's Mallory all right. He's just made some alterations."

  CHAPTER 35

  6:47 P.M.

  The bouncing motion of the car penetrated her consciousness.

  With a Herculean effort, Taylor cracked open her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She felt achy and groggy. Like she had the flu. Like she should be in bed. Why was she in a car?

  She was half slumped over o
n the seat. Her arms were cramped, twisted behind her. She tried to

  free them and push herself into a sitting position, but they wouldn't budge. It was like something was holding them down. Same with her feet, which were stuck together like glue, making any leg motion impossible.

  What the hell was going on?

  She blinked, forced herself fully awake. Headlights reflected in the passenger's sideview mirror. It was evening.

  "I see you're awake. Good. I could use the company."

  Taylor's head snapped around, and she stared blankly at the man who was driving. Dennis. Why was

  she in a car with Dennis?

  "You picked the worst time of day to visit your new place," he continued. "Rush hour sucked. We sat