I'm Watching You

  He pulled her close in a hard hug. “That’s not all, Kristen. That’s everything.”

  “You’re right.” She lifted her head and looked down at their naked bodies. It was a sight she thought she would never see. Her naked with a man. That the man was Abe was… everything. She kissed his shoulder, then dropped her head back to rest on his arm. “Do you realize we’re naked on my kitchen floor with a squad car parked out on my curb?”

  He scratched his nose. “Do you realize I’m about to sneeze from all this dust and I’m lying on a piece of dry-wall?” he asked and she giggled. Giggled. She, Kristen Mayhew, formerly of frigid fame, was lying naked in a pile of plaster dust with a man who looked like Abe Reagan and giggling. He smiled and touched the tip of her nose. “You should laugh more often,” he said. “And you’ve got plaster dust all over your nose.”

  She stretched lazily, feeling better than wonderful. “A shower will fix that.”

  “Hmm. The shower.” There was laughter in his voice. “Do you want to know what I want to do in the shower?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wednesday, February 25, 8:30 P.M.

  “Thanks.” Zoe closed her cell phone with a snap. “Let’s go.”

  Scott wearily put the minivan in gear. “Where?”

  “County. She just went in with Detective Reagan.”

  Scott sighed and pulled away from the curb where they’d been parked. “Let me guess. Another one of your sources?”

  “Hospital lobby,” Zoe said with satisfaction, opening her compact. “She got away earlier today, but we’ll catch her this time.”

  “Oh joy,” Scott muttered.

  Zoe glared at him. “Just drive, Scott.”

  Wednesday, February 25, 8:45 P.M.

  Kristen stood outside the window to ICU watching Vincent’s body lying motionless in the hospital bed. She and Abe had set out from her house to grab dinner, but without her asking he’d driven straight to the hospital, which was so sweet of him.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “For what?”

  She could feel the vibrations of his rumbling voice through her back as he held her tightly against him, partly possessive, mostly supportive. She leaned back into him, feeling her hair catch on the stubble of his beard. For the first time in years she’d actually left the house with her hair down, because he’d asked her to and she didn’t know if she could ever tell him no. “For coming up with me. I know you don’t like hospitals.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I figured it out when you muttered in the elevator how much you hate hospitals.”

  “Sorry. It’s … ingrained.”

  “Still, thank you for bringing me to see him. It was thoughtful.”

  She could feel him shrug. “I knew you were worried about Vincent.”

  “And thanks for getting me in.” At first they’d refused her entry because she wasn’t family, but Abe had gotten them in by flashing his badge. She sighed heavily, looking at Vincent just lying there. “I never thought of either of them as being old, but I guess they are.”

  A nurse walked up. “Visiting hours are long since over, Detective. You’re going to need to go now.” She raised a brow. “Unless you have any more questions.”

  “No, you’ve told us there’s no change. No more questions,” Kristen said quietly.

  “Wait. I have a question. Has anyone been in to see him?” Abe asked in his cop voice, and Kristen twisted to look at him over her shoulder in surprise.

  “Two men, but neither of them were family,” the nurse answered.

  “Two men?” Kristen frowned at the nurse in confusion. “One would have been Owen Madden, but who was the other?”

  “He didn’t leave his name, and he was extremely distraught.”

  “Can you describe him?” Abe asked and the nurse’s eyes softened.

  “Twenty-five-year-old Caucasian male with mild Down’s syndrome. Very functional. Said he’d heard about his friend on the news. I really wanted to let him in, but…”

  Kristen sagged. “Timothy.”

  Abe lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “You know him?”

  “He worked for Owen up until a month ago, but quit when his grandmother got sick.”

  Abe’s eyes narrowed. “When did he quit? Exactly, Kristen?”

  “I don’t know. Mid-January maybe.” His meaning struck her and she shook her head forcefully. “No way. There is no way Timothy could be involved in anything like what we’re dealing with. No way, Abe.”

  “Mid-January, Kristen. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  The nurse considered them. “If you’re talking about your vigilante, I’m inclined to agree with Miss Mayhew. From everything I’ve read in the paper, the killer is highly intelligent, calculating. While this Timothy was highly functioning, we’re talking two different planes.”

  Abe frowned. “I know. But I hate coincidences. If he comes back, will you call me?”

  The nurse took his card. “Of course.”

  Wednesday, February 25, 9:05 P.M.

  The elevator dinged and there they were. Zoe narrowed her eyes when Reagan put his arm around Mayhew’s shoulders. She’d known there was more going on than Reagan just guarding Mayhew’s house. Now her mind scrambled as to how to make the most of it.

  “Here they come,” Zoe hissed. “Scott, are you ready?”

  “Rolling,” he said tersely and she stepped in front of the couple, gauging their reactions. Mayhew’s eyes flared and Reagan’s teeth clenched. Very, very good.

  “Miss Mayhew, can you comment on the condition of Vincent Potremski?”

  “No.” She and Reagan started walking and Zoe sidestepped them.

  “How do you respond to recent allegations of impropriety in John Alden’s office?”

  Mayhew stopped dead and shot her a look of complete incredulity. She shook her head, sending her curls bounding. “No comment, Miss Richardson. Now if you’ll excuse us.” They started walking again, but Zoe spied the telltale tremble in Mayhew’s hands that she’d come to look for in times of stress. Mayhew might look poised, but she wasn’t.

  “Isn’t it true that your friend was nearly beaten to death because of you? That this is your fault? That he’ll probably be a vegetable for the rest of his life?” she asked to Mayhew’s back and once again Mayhew stopped dead. But when she turned, there was no incredulity on her face, only rage. Zoe waited, senses tingling. She’d broken Mayhew’s control. Finally.

  Mayhew advanced a step and Reagan tugged at her shoulder. “Kristen,” he said quietly, but clearly enough to be heard. “She’s not worth it.”

  For a moment it looked as though Reagan had won and Zoe felt the pang of disappointment. But then Mayhew took another trembling step forward. “First of all, Miss Richardson, the correct term is ‘persistent vegetative state,’ and I’m sure the families of those so afflicted would appreciate your consideration in this regard. Secondly, you wield a great deal of power with that microphone, Miss Richardson, and you, sir, with your camera. I’d hope that you’d use it to help bring justice to innocent victims rather than further fanning the flames.” She walked away, Reagan’s arm around her again, his hold proprietary and Zoe saw Mayhew lean against him.

  And for just a brief moment, Zoe wished for someone to lean on, too. Then the brief moment was annihilated by the fire of fury. Little pompous bitch. “Stop film,” she snapped. Scott lowered his camera, his gaze still on Mayhew’s retreating back, his expression one of respect, making her even angrier. “Don’t say a damn word,” she hissed and pushed past him.

  She had a piece to prepare.

  Wednesday, February 25, 10:30 P.M.

  “Who is Leah Broderick? Please.”

  He looked down at Hillman with contempt. The man was arrogant and powerful when he sat high above the courtroom. But now, when threatened, Hillman became a quivering mass of nothing. He wished Leah could be here to see him now.

  He’d transferred Hillman from his
van to his basement with relative ease. Hillman had resisted lying down on the table, though, and a little persuasion in the form of a blow to his head had been necessary. Hillman regained consciousness and spent the next hour fruitlessly pulling at his bonds. Then the begging had begun. It was rewarding to see such arrogance reduced.

  He took out his gun and ignoring Hillman’s pleas for mercy, methodically put a bullet in the judge’s left knee. Hillman’s scream was high and shrill, his body writhing. Hillman began to sob and again he wished Leah could be here.

  “Just a precaution, Judge Hillman. I can’t have you running away.” The right knee exploded with the same force as the left and Hillman screamed again. He bent to inspect his work. Blood flowed, so he packed both knees with gauze. “I don’t want you to bleed to death, Judge. Not just yet anyway. I’ll check on you later. For now, I have a special treat.” He walked over to the stereo and hit the play button. “I’ve taken the liberty of recording the transcript of a certain trial. Listen closely. Then you’ll know what you’ve done.”

  Then he went upstairs to lie down on his bed, more exhausted than he should be. He had time for a few hours of sleep, then he had to get back to the hunt.

  Wednesday, February 25, 11:40 P.M.

  “How’s Kristen?” Mia asked by way of greeting.

  “She’s fine.” Way better than fine, Abe thought. “She’s waiting at our desks.”

  Mia’s eyes went sly. “Hope I didn’t disturb anything. You know, calling so late.”

  Abe shook his head, willing his face not to break into a self-satisfied grin and not entirely succeeding. “Not really. I was dozing.” Next to Kristen, in her bed. His hand cupping her bare breast, her butt tucked snugly against his groin. Life was good.

  Mia tucked her tongue in her cheek. “On Kristen’s sofa.”

  “Absolutely,” he lied and saw her swallow her grin. He pointed to the window that looked into the interview room. “Who we got?”

  “Craig Dunning. Driver and bodyguard to the Honorable Edmund Hillman.”

  “Who is missing.”

  Mia nodded. “Yep.” She pushed the door open and sat down next to the thirty-something man who nervously twisted his chauffeur cap in his hands like a Frisbee. “This is my partner, Mr. Dunning.”

  Abe extended his hand. “Detective Reagan.”

  Dunning’s hand was damp, but his grip was punishing. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  “The life of celebrity,” Abe said dryly. “So you last saw Judge Hillman when?”

  “About five o’clock.”

  “And you were where?” Abe asked.

  Dunning shifted uncomfortably. “In the parking lot of the limo company.”

  Mia rolled her eyes. “Come on, Dunning, it’s late. Let’s have the story.”

  Dunning glared, but complied. “Every Wednesday I pick up Judge Hillman at court and drive him to the limo yard. We…We switch cars. He takes my car and I sit with the limo until he returns. Tonight he never came back.”

  Mia gestured impatiently. “And he goes where?”

  Dunning hesitated. “To meet his girlfriend.”

  Abe shook his head. “First Alden and now Hillman. Don’t any of those guys sleep with their own wives? Okay, Mr. Dunning, let’s have the details. What time does Judge Hillman normally return? And where does he meet this woman, and what is her name?”

  “Her name is Rosemary Quincy, and they meet at a hotel in Rosemont. He’s normally back by six-thirty, seven at the latest.”

  Mia ran her tongue over her teeth, clearly biting back what probably would have been a fitting assessment of Hillman’s staying power. “So how long did you wait?”

  Again Dunning shifted. “Until nine-thirty. Then I went home. But at ten-thirty Rosemary called. She was leaving the hotel and saw his car—my car, that is—still in the lot. She said he’d left hours before, and she was scared, what with all the killings.”

  “Why didn’t she call us herself?” Mia asked.

  Dunning shrugged. “She was hoping to keep her name out of it.”

  “That’s not likely,” Abe said. “What about Mrs. Hillman? Does she know?”

  Dunning licked his lips nervously. “About which? The affair or his being missing?”

  “Both,” Mia said.

  “I don’t think she knows about Rosemary. Hillman would be broke if she did. And about his being missing, yeah, she knew. She called me herself, about eight. I…”

  “You told her that he was somewhere else,” Mia finished, annoyed.

  “Yeah. Look, I came here of my own free will. Can I leave now?”

  Abe handed him a notepad and a pencil. “First write down Rosemary’s name and number, your car description, license plate number. Then you can go.” He gestured to Mia and together they left the room. Shutting the door behind them, Abe looked at Dunning through the window. “Hillman could be fine.”

  “Mrs. Hillman could have done him in for having an affair,” Mia said.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No more than you do.” Mia scrubbed her cheeks with her palms. “Damn, I’m tired of this. I guess it’s back to Kristen’s list.”

  Thursday, February 26, 8:00 A.M.

  Their faces were grim, Kristen thought, looking around the table. They had a right to be. They were missing a judge. The press was in an uproar, the legal community even louder.

  Spinnelli pressed his thumbs to his temples. “Please tell me you found something around the car.”

  “Nothing.” Even Jack was discouraged. “Not one thing.”

  “And nobody saw anything,” Abe added.

  Kristen cleared her throat. “I know you all are tired of my lists, but here’s another one. All the sexual assault cases I prosecuted in front of Hillman. I’ve already talked to a number of the former complainants. Most are still bitter. None reported trauma in the last three months.”

  “Any names we’ve seen before?” Mia asked.

  “One. Katie Abrams.”

  “The five-year-old who ‘came on’ to her mother’s boyfriend,” Spinnelli said bitterly.

  Familiar anger simmered at the memory of Katie Abrams and the gross miscarriage of justice. “Yes, that’s the case.” Kristen looked over at Todd Murphy who’d joined them again. “But Murphy checked out Katie’s family after Arthur Monroe was killed. The mother’s in prison for possession and Katie’s been in foster care. I talked with her social worker who said she saw Katie two weeks ago. It’s a good foster family and Katie’s relatively happy.”

  “The foster parents?” Spinnelli asked. “Anything there?”

  “Solid alibis, Marc,” Murphy said quietly.

  “Dammit,” Spinnelli gritted. “What next? Miles?”

  “It depends.” Westphalen held up his hand when Spinnelli looked angry. “It depends on whether he picked Hillman at random or if Hillman’s been his target all along. He hasn’t hit anyone since he missed Carson on Monday night. Maybe he was shaken up. Maybe he’s ready to tell us what his revenge is really all about.”

  “If Hillman’s the next random target, we got nothing more than we had yesterday,” Abe said. “If Hillman’s his revenge, is he done?”

  “I have to believe there is a pattern,” Kristen insisted. “He’s so regimented. Everything’s always done the same way. And the focus is always on the victim.”

  “And you,” Mia commented.

  “And me. Somehow I factor into this. But it’s more about the victims. Think about the headstones and the letters. I’m only the P.S. The victims are the focus. Maybe I’m just sensitive because I’ve been talking to these people for the last few days, but I hear the same things over and over again. The victims who’ve been denied justice blame the system. They blame the criminal, the defense attorney, me, the judge. It’s a package.”

  “Just like the box he leaves for you,” Miles said. “Interesting parallel.”

  “So where are you going with this, Kristen?” Jack asked. “What’s the connection? K
atie Abrams?”

  Kristen shook her head. “I don’t think so. For one, there’s been no recent trigger with Katie Abrams. Second, there was no one who cared enough about Katie to avenge her. That was one of the things that made that case so hard. I think it’s someone else.”

  “Maybe we’re all wrong, and we just have a wild card,” Mia said quietly. “Maybe he reads about you in the paper, Kristen, and decided to give you these gifts because he’s crazy. Like John Hinckley, Jr., and Jodie Foster. Maybe there isn’t a connection other than you.”

  “Then we have nothing,” Kristen said flatly. “Because he’s been too smart to leave us anything more than a bullet and a partial print and a cup of coffee.”

  Spinnelli sighed. “What about the shack yesterday? Any prints, Jack?”

  “A few partials from the picture frames, but they were under layers of dust. We took a few from the newspaper. The prints on the newspaper could have been from anywhere, but we’re running them. None match the partial we found on Conti’s body. There was writing on the back of both pictures. One said, ‘Worth: Henry, Callie, Hank and Paul.’ The other said, ‘Hank and Genny, 1943.’ ”

  Abe noted it. “So Paul was the other son, which makes sense because the records clerk told us the Worth property had passed to Paul Worth when Henry the father died. And we know from the marriage certificate that Genny married some guy named Colin Barnett. We have the parish church where Genny and Barnett married and the year and a picture of Genny. I say we pursue it, because it’s the only lead we have.”

  “We have Paul Worth,” Mia inserted. “He would have had his father’s old bullet molds. We should check him out, too.”

  Abe acknowledged the point with a rueful smile. “That would be more obvious than a child that may or may not have been born sixty years ago, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’ll follow up on Paul Worth,” Kristen said. “If he owns that property you found yesterday, there should be records in the tax assessor’s office.”

  “Good.” Spinnelli wrote it all on the whiteboard. “What else?”

  “One more.” From the end of the table Murphy spoke up. “Marc asked me to get the details of the Aaron Jenkins’s sealed record. Jenkins plead down to sexual imposition. He tried to rape a girl under the stairwell in middle school seven years ago. But she’s not on any of your victim lists, Kristen. I checked. Her name is June Erickson.”