Spinnelli drew a breath. “She’s not over him yet. He was her mentor.” Spinnelli shrugged, and Abe could see he still had unresolved grief of his own. “He was her friend.”
“Yours, too.”
Spinnelli managed a smile before sinking back down into the chair behind his desk. “Mine, too. Mia’s a good cop.” His eyes sharpened and Abe had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling Spinnelli was looking straight into his own soul. “I think you’ll be good for each other.”
Abe was the first to look away. He jangled his car keys. “I need to be getting over to the prosecutor’s office.” He’d made it to the door before Spinnelli stopped him again.
“Abe, I have read your file. You were lucky to be alive at the end of that last sting.”
Abe shrugged. It was the story of his sorry life. Lucky, lucky, lucky. If they only knew the truth. “Looks like Mitchell and I have something in common after all.”
Spinnelli’s jaw tightened. “Mia went down guarding Ray’s back. You have the reputation of taking chances, riding in to save the day.” Spinnelli’s expression was severe. “Leave your death wish in Narcotics. I don’t want to go to any more funerals. Yours or Mia’s.”
Easier said than done. But knowing what was expected, Abe nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Two
Wednesday, February 18, 8:00 P.M.
Kristen jabbed the elevator button. She was late leaving the office again. “Go home and rest, my ass,” she muttered. John wanted her fresh for tomorrow, but he’d also wanted a “quick check” on a case. One thing led to another, just like every night. And just like every night she walked out of the office after everyone else had gone home, including John. She rolled her eyes even as she noted the burned-out bulbs in the hallway that connected their offices to the parking garage elevators. She fished her dictating recorder from her pocket.
“Note to Maintenance,” she murmured into the recorder. “Two bulbs burned out at elevator entrance.” Hopefully Lois would type up that note and the twenty others she’d recorded in the last three hours. Lois never refused, it was just a matter of getting her attention. All the prosecutors had staggering caseloads and every request coming out of the Special Investigations Unit was life and death. Unfortunately, Kristen’s caseload was mostly death. Which ended up taking most of her life. Not that she had much of one. Here she was, standing at the elevator to the parking garage, alone and almost too tired to care.
She let her head drop forward, stretching muscles strained from poring over case files when the hairs on the back of her neck lifted and her nose detected a slight shift in the musty smell of the hallway. Tired, yes, but not alone. Someone else is here. Instinct, training, and old tapes had her reaching for the pepper spray she kept in her purse while her pulse scrambled and her brain strained to remember the location of the nearest exit. Every movement deliberate, she spun, her weight evenly distributed on the balls of her feet, the can of pepper spray clenched in her fist. Prepared to flee, but ready to defend.
She had but a split second to process the sight of the mountain of a man that stood behind her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes glued to the digital display above the elevator doors before one of his huge hands was clamped around her wrist in a vise grip and his eyes were boring into hers.
Blue eyes, bright as a flame, yet cold as ice. They held her gaze inexplicably. Kristen shivered yet still she stared, unable to look away. There was something familiar about his eyes. But the rest of him was a total stranger, and the rest of him filled the hallway, his broad shoulders blocking what little light there was, throwing his face into shadow. She searched her memory, trying to place where she’d seen him. Surely she’d remember a man of his size and presence. Even wrapped in shadow, the hard planes of his face spoke of unmistakable desolation, the line of his jaw uncompromising strength. Each day she dealt with people in pain and suffering, and intuitively she knew this man had experienced a great deal of both.
It was another second before she realized he was breathing as rapidly as she was. With a muttered curse he ripped the pepper spray out of her hand and the spell was broken. He dropped her wrist and automatically she rubbed it, her heart slowing to a somewhat normal rate. He hadn’t been rough, just firm. Still, she’d have bruises from the pressure of his fingers on her skin even through the layers of her winter coat.
“Are you insane, lady?” he snarled softly, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.
Her temper rallied. “Are you? Don’t you know better than to sneak up on women in dark hallways? I could have hurt you.”
One dark eyebrow quirked up, amused. “Then you are insane. If I’d been bent on assaulting you, there wouldn’t have been a damn thing you could’ve done to stop me.”
Kristen felt the blood drain from her face as his words hit home, and just that fast all the old tapes began to roll. He was right. She would have been defenseless, at his mercy.
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t faint on me, lady.”
Again her temper surged, saving her. She pulled herself upright. “I never faint.” That much was true. She extended her hand, palm up. “My pepper spray, if you don’t mind.”
He grunted. “I do mind.” But he dropped it in her palm anyway. “I’m serious, lady, that pepper spray would just have made me madder. Especially since you didn’t get me right away. I might even have used it on you.”
Kristen frowned. Knowing he was right just made her madder. “What do you expect a woman to do?” she snapped, exhaustion making her rude. “Just stand here and be a victim?”
“I never said that.” He shrugged. “Take a self-defense class.”
“I have.” The elevator dinged and both of them jerked their eyes to the wall, waiting to see which set of doors would open first. The doors on the left slid open and the man waved his hand dramatically, gesturing her in first.
She assessed him with a shrewdness born of thousands of hours of associating with known felons who’d committed every unspeakable crime. This man was no danger, she could see that now. Still, Kristen Mayhew was a prudent woman. “I’ll wait for the next one.”
His blue eyes flashed. His square jaw clenched and a muscle twitched in his cheek. She’d offended him. Too damn bad. “I don’t hurt innocent women,” he said tightly, holding the elevator doors back when they began to close. His powerful body settled slightly and she got the sudden impression he was as weary as she. “Come on, lady, I don’t want to hold this elevator all damn night, and I won’t leave you here all alone.”
Uneasily she glanced up and down the deserted hallway. She didn’t like loitering there any longer than she had to. So she walked into the elevator, annoyed as always when faced with the reality that despite ten years and five times as many self-therapy books, she was still afraid to be alone in a dark corridor. “Don’t call me ‘lady,’ ” she snapped.
He followed her in and the doors slid closed. He faced her, his eyes now stern. “What was the first thing they taught you in that self-defense class, ma’am?”
She seethed under his patronizing tone. “Always to be aware of your surroundings.”
He simply lifted an arrogant brow and Kristen’s blood began to boil. “I was. I knew you were there, didn’t I? Even though you sneaked up on me.” And he had. She swore he had not been there a moment before she sensed him and he hadn’t made a sound in his approach.
He snorted. “I’d been standing there for two whole minutes.”
Kristen narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
He leaned back against the elevator wall, folding his arms across his chest. “ ‘Note to Maintenance,’ ” he mimicked. “And my personal favorite, ‘Go home and rest, my ass.’ ”
Kristen felt her face flood with color. “Why haven’t we moved?” she demanded, then rolled her eyes. Neither of them had punched a button. Quickly she jabbed the button for the second floor and the elevator began to move.
“And now I know where you’ve parked your car,
” he announced with a satisfied nod.
He was right. She’d ignored everything she’d learned about keeping herself safe. She rubbed her throbbing temples. “You were right, I was wrong. Are you satisfied now, sir?”
His lips curved at that and the sight took her breath away. A simple smile transformed his face from devastating to… devastating. Her poor, abused heart skipped a beat, and she had the good sense to be surprised at herself. She didn’t react to men, not that way, anyway. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them or notice them or even appreciate a good specimen here or there. And he was most definitely a good specimen. Tall, broad. Movie-star good looks. Of course she’d noticed him. She was human after all. Just slightly broken. The memory of a single word cut into her consciousness. No, there was no “slightly” about it.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “And I honestly didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You just seemed so pleasantly engaged in conversation with yourself and I didn’t want to barge in.”
Again her cheeks burned. “Don’t you ever talk to yourself?”
His smile dimmed and the look of almost desperate desolation returned to his eyes, making Kristen feel guilty for even asking the question. “On occasion,” he murmured.
The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened to a darkened cavern of automobiles and the smell of stale oil and exhaust. This time his after-you gesture was much more subdued and Kristen wasn’t sure how to end the conversation.
“Look, I’m sorry I almost pepper-sprayed you. You were right. I should have been more aware of my surroundings.”
He studied her carefully. “You’re tired. People lower their guard when they’re tired.”
She smiled wryly. “So it shows, huh?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just for my peace of mind, let me walk you to your car.”
Kristen narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“I was wondering when you’d ask. Are you always this trusting, carrying on conversations with strange men in deserted elevators?”
No, she definitely wasn’t, definitely had the right not to be. “No, I normally pepper-spray first and ask questions later,” she shot back and he smiled, this time in rueful acceptance.
“Then I guess I’m lucky once again,” he said. “I’m Abe Reagan.”
Kristen frowned. “I know you. I know I do.”
He shook his dark head. “No, I would have remembered you.”
“Why?”
“Because I never forget a face.”
He said it matter-of-factly, as if there were no possibility of flirtation. And Kristen was annoyed to find herself disappointed.
“I have to be getting home.” She turned on her heel, her key poking out from between two fingers as she’d been taught. She held her head high and looked and listened as she walked, but only heard his footsteps behind her. She stopped at her aged Toyota and he stopped, too. She looked up at his face, again in the shadows. “Thank you. You can go now.”
“I don’t think so, ma’am.”
Enough was enough. “Excuse me?”
He pointed to her tire. “See for yourself.”
Kristen looked and felt physically sick. Of all times, a flat tire. “Dammit.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll change it for you.”
Another day she might have refused, because she was certainly capable of changing a tire. Today, she’d let him knock himself out. “Thanks. I really appreciate it, Mr. Reagan.”
He took off his overcoat and laid it across her hood. “My friends call me Abe.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. If he’d planned anything evil, he would have done it by now. “I’m Kristen.”
“Then pop the trunk, Kristen, and we’ll have you on your way.”
Kristen did, wondering when she’d last opened her trunk, sincerely hoping she had a spare, already anticipating Mr. Know-it-all’s scathing response if she didn’t.
And stopped short, staring at the interior of the trunk she’d left clean and empty.
To say it wasn’t as she’d left it would be quite the under-statement. She reached out a tentative hand, then snatched it back. Don’t touch anything. She squinted, trying to make sense of the three large shapes that had not been there before. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim illumination provided by the little trunk light, her brain began to process what her eyes were seeing. And the resulting message from her brain sent her stomach churning. She’d thought her day couldn’t get any worse after the Conti mis-trial.
She’d been very, very wrong.
Reagan’s voice cut through the fog in her brain. “This should only take a few minutes.”
“Um, I don’t think so.”
In an instant he was behind her, looking over her shoulder and she could hear him exhale on a hiss. “Holy shit.”
Either his eyes were better than hers or fatigue had put her in slow-motion mode because it had taken Abe Reagan only a split second to comprehend what had taken her multiple seconds to process to the point of being well and truly horrified.
“I need to call the police.” Her voice trembled and she didn’t care. It wasn’t every day her personal space was violated. It sure as hell wasn’t every day she presided over her very own crime scene. And this one qualified as a real doozy.
Three plastic milk crates sat side by side. Each contained clothing topped by a manila envelope. Each envelope had a single Polaroid taped precisely in its center. And even from where she stood she could see the subject of each Polaroid was well and truly dead.
“I need to call the police,” she repeated, grateful her voice was steady once again.
“You just did,” Abe replied, his voice grim.
Kristen twisted, looking up at his face. “You’re a cop?”
He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “Detective Abe Reagan, Homicide.” The gloves went on each hand with a surgical snapping sound that seemed to echo in the quiet of the garage. “This might be a good time to completely introduce yourself, Kristen.”
She watched as he carefully pulled the envelope from the crate on the far right. “Kristen Mayhew.”
His head jerked around, surprise on his face. “The prosecutor? Well, I’ll be damned,” he added when she nodded. He studied her face intently. “It’s your hair,” he announced and turned his attention back to the envelope in his hand.
“What about my hair?”
“It was pulled back.” He held the envelope close to the trunk light. “I wish I had a flashlight.”
“I have one in the glove box.”
He shook his head, his eyes fixed on the Polaroid. “Don’t bother. I’ll have your car towed and dusted for prints, so don’t touch anything. Son of a gun. This boy is dead.”
“What, the bullet hole in his head tipped you off?” Kristen asked wryly and Abe Reagan shot her a brief but equally wry grin.
“Hey, what can I say?” Then he sobered, resuming his study. “Caucasian male, late twenties, early thirties. Hands tied in front of him …” He squinted. “Wonderful,” he said flatly.
Kristen leaned over his arm to stare. “What?”
“If I’m not mistaken, somebody’s stitched your boy up, stem to stern.”
Kristen grabbed his arm and tilted the picture toward the trunk light. Sure enough, a line started at the man’s sternum and stretched down his torso. “My God,” she murmured. Horrified by a sudden thought her eyes flicked to the milk crates, then up to meet Reagan’s eyes. “You don’t think…” She let the question trail off when his face twisted into a grimace.
“What, that whatever body parts that were removed are in these crates? Well, Counselor, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Do you recognize this guy?”
She squinted, shook her head. “It’s too dark. Maybe I will when we get it in better light.” She looked up at him, feeling stupid and helpless and hating both. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Kristen. We’ll figure this out.” He flipped his cell phone open and punched some numbers. “It’
s Reagan,” he announced. “I’ve got a…”
“Situation,” Kristen supplied, feeling hysterical laughter building down deep. She shoved it deeper. Someone had committed murder and stowed the evidence in the trunk of her car. There could be hearts and spleens and God-knew-what-else in the trunk of her car. She’d been driving around, blissfully unaware that an entire crime scene resided in the damn trunk of her car. She took a deep breath, relieved to smell stale oil and exhaust instead of putrid rotting internal organs.
“A situation,” Abe was repeating. “I’m here with Kristen Mayhew. Someone left what looks like evidence of a multiple homicide in the trunk of her car …We’re on the second floor of the parking garage next door to the courthouse. Seal the exits, just in case he’s still around.” He listened, then looked down at her, and his eyes which she’d thought to be cold flared to life with heated interest. His eyes slid to her hands which she realized were still clutching his arm as if he were a lifeline. Quickly she stepped back and looked away, dropping her hands to her sides just as he said, “I’ll tell her…Yeah, I’ll be waiting.” He snapped his phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. “You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, hoping her face was only peony pink and hadn’t progressed to ruby red which clashed with her hair. Striving for dignity, she asked, “Tell me what?” Then she looked up and whatever forced nonchalance she’d managed to work into her face just drained away.
He was still looking at her, his eyes intense, his jaw tight. A tingle started in her chest and sped to her extremities making her shiver and to her mortification she had to clench her hands to keep them from grabbing his arm again. “Spinnelli says to tell you that you didn’t have to go to so much trouble for department attention,” he said, his voice low and rumbly. “Flowers and candy would have sufficed.” The timbre of his voice alone intensified the sensation of fingertips trailing the back of her neck, and she suddenly wondered what it would be like if he did just that. But he’d turned back to her trunk and the other two crates, breaking the almost tangible connection between them and Kristen shivered again. “He’s sending a CSU team. This could take a while.”