Every Breath You Take

  A very early riser as a rule, she usually took her coffee into her tiny living room, opened the drapes, and curled up in a chair beside the front window to watch the neighborhood slowly come to life. This morning, however, she was three hours too late to watch the “show” and she was in no mood to do anything except go back to bed, crawl under the covers, and try to get warm.

  After stopping in the hallway to turn up the thermostat, she carried her coffee into the bedroom, put it on the nightstand, and got back into bed. Trying to encase herself in a safe cocoon of sheets and down-filled comforter, she propped pillows against her headboard, drew her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. Ethel hopped off the dresser and curled up at her feet; Lucy settled deeper into the pillow near her hip.

  By nine o’clock, she’d already drunk the hot coffee, but she was still shivering inside from the aftermath of everything that had happened in Anguilla and St. Maarten. She decided to call Holly and tell her she was back, and engaged to Evan, and maybe ease into the story about Mitchell after that. Holly’s hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays were from noon to nine PM, and since Holly lived only twenty minutes away, they might even be able to get together.

  She was already reaching for the phone when it began to ring.

  “Kate,” a cordial, but unfamiliar, male voice said, “this is Gray Elliott. You probably don’t remember me, but we’ve met a few times when you’ve been with Evan.”

  “Yes, of course I remember you,” Kate said, wondering if “Chicago’s most eligible bachelor” was actually that unassuming, or just pretending to be.

  “I phoned Evan this morning, and he told me how to reach you and that you’re engaged now. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know this is short notice, but I was wondering if you could drop by my office at ten-thirty this morning.”

  Kate sat up abruptly and swung her legs over the side of the bed, dislodging Ethel in the process. Apparently, being engaged to a successful young attorney with the right social connections had some definite perks. Before this, she could barely get the detectives handling her father’s case to call her back. Now, the state’s attorney himself was calling her voluntarily. “Is this about my father’s case?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’d rather explain that in person.”

  There was something about his voice that unsettled her. At first his tone had been affable, but the invitation to his office sounded businesslike. “Should I bring a lawyer along?” she asked, trying to joke.

  “You may bring anyone you wish,” he said warmly, and just as Kate began to chide herself for being edgy about his call, he added, “However, I don’t think you’ll want Evan to be present.”

  Kate hung up the phone and immediately dialed Holly. “Hi,” she said when Holly answered. “I got back late last night. Gray Elliott—the state’s attorney—just called me and asked me to come to his office at ten-thirty. It has something to do with my father’s case. I could use a little moral support if you have the time.”

  “I’ll make the time,” Holly said. “I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes, and you can tell me about your trip on the way there.”

  Exactly forty-five minutes later, Holly stopped in front of the house in her sporty SUV. She smiled as Kate got inside, then she sobered. “You look awful. What happened down there?” she asked as she pulled away from the curb.

  Kate was so glad to see her that she immediately fell into their time-honored habit of turning even bad events into material for lighthearted banter. “Let’s see, what happened down there? I fell in love with a new guy and got engaged.”

  “To Evan, or the new guy?”

  “I got engaged to Evan. Max is my new love.”

  “Then everything is perfect, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then why do you look so … unhappy?”

  “Because I also took your advice and went to bed with someone.”

  Holly shot her a long, amazed glance and had to slam on the brakes to avoid running a stop sign. “How did that go?”

  Kate leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to force her lips into a smile. “Not very well,” she whispered.

  “It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of days. How bad could a thing like that go in a couple of days?”

  “It could go really bad. Really, really, really bad.”

  “Let’s hear the details,” Holly persisted.

  “Later—on the way back. Evan was wonderful about it, though.”

  “You told him about it?”

  “He’d brought a ring with him,” Kate said, opening her eyes and smiling more naturally. “Look—”

  Holly reached out and took Kate’s outstretched fingers. Holly was wearing faded jeans, scuffed boots, a white turtleneck, and a bulky navy peacoat that had seen better days. Her long blond hair was scrunched into a big tortoiseshell claw clip at the crown to keep it from falling into her face, and she was wearing no makeup. “Very impressive,” she said sincerely. “A little over four carats, E in color, nice proportions.” Holly was the errant daughter of wealthy New York socialites. She knew her jewels. She had a trust fund, which she refused to touch, and which she said was obscenely large. She also had the knack of looking delicate and feminine when she was dressed like a lumberjack and the extraordinary ability to morph herself into a haughty former debutante on a moment’s notice and hold her own in any social situation.

  She rarely talked about her family in New York except to say laughingly that she and her sister both felt honor bound to atone for their robber-baron ancestors by serving the less fortunate. Holly took care of animals; her sister, Laurel, was a lawyer who worked pro bono on cases involving women and children.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “THANK YOU FOR COMING BY ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE, Kate,” Gray Elliott said after she’d introduced him to Holly. “Let’s sit over there,” he added, gesturing to a sofa with a coffee table in front of it and a pair of chairs facing each other at opposite ends.

  Kate sat down on the sofa and Holly sat next to her. Curious and tense, Kate watched Elliott pick up some folders from his desk; then he carried them over to the coffee table and sat down on the chair nearest Kate.

  He smiled sociably and leaned his forearms on the tops of his legs. “How well do you know Mitchell Wyatt?”

  Kate stiffened in shock, her heart thundering all the way up into her throat. “I thought you said this was related to my father.”

  “It may be. That’s what I want to find out. How well do you know Mitchell Wyatt?” he repeated calmly.

  “Did Evan tell you I know him?”

  “No, he did not, and he won’t hear it from me, which is why I suggested you not bring Evan along.” That was definitely a kindness on his part, Kate realized, trying to reassess her opinion of him. “Let me ask a different question,” he said patiently. “How long have you known him?”

  “A couple of days. We bumped into each other in Anguilla.”

  “And you’d never met him before then?”

  “No.”

  “How well do you know him?” he asked, returning to that question.

  “Not well at all,” Kate said half truthfully. “You’re quite certain?”

  “I’m positive.”

  His expression was disappointed, regretful as he held her gaze and opened the top of the folder. With a flick of his wrist, he sent enlarged color photographs of Kate and Mitchell, locked in passionate embraces, sliding across the shiny surface of the coffee table.

  Kate stifled a moan and jerked her gaze from the proof of her intimacy with Mitchell.

  Holly leaned forward for a closer look. “Holy crap,” she breathed. She picked up one of Mitchell and Kate on the balcony at the Enclave right after they checked in. He was standing in front of her with his hands braced on the wall on either side of her, grinning at her—the moment when she had be
en laughingly confessing that she thought he hadn’t brought any clothes. “I’d love a copy of this one,” Holly said into the charged silence. “And this one, too,” she added, picking up a photograph of the two of them kissing passionately on the beach—when he had been naming the languages he spoke. His hand was shoved into the hair at her nape holding her mouth to his and his arm was angled down across her back, clamping her hips tightly against his. “I wish it wasn’t so grainy.” Holly picked up another one taken that night; in this one his right hand was over Kate’s breast, and she fanned herself with it. “My God, Kate, I am impressed. I truly mean that.”

  Oblivious of everything except the explosion of anger inside her, Kate stood up, glaring at Gray Elliott through furious tears. “How dare you!”

  “How well do you know Mitchell Wyatt now?” he asked calmly, but he sounded like a prosecutor to her.

  “The answer to that is obvious. You didn’t need to ask me anything. You have the evidence.”

  “I’d like an explanation.”

  Holly leaned around Kate and said mildly, “Go to hell.” Then she stood up and looked at Chicago’s most eligible bachelor with cool, disappointed hauteur—as if he were a cockroach, but one who should have, could have, been a higher-level insect. “My sister is Laurel Braxton. She’ll be representing Kate in this matter should you have some purpose—other than being a voyeur—to question Kate about those pictures again.”

  “I do have a higher purpose, Miss Braxton.”

  “Dr. Braxton,” Holly corrected, and he looked duly chastened and a little surprised.

  “Dr. Braxton,” he agreed; then he realized he’d been distracted and looked at Kate, who was madly swiping tears off her cheeks. “Kate—that should be Miss Donovan, I assume—since we’re unlikely to have a cordial relationship hereafter?”

  Kate gave him a glacial stare, and he said with charming chagrin, “I’m glad to see I’m right about something.”

  Kate wasn’t buying his superficial boyish charm; she’d already had all she could stomach of that from Mitchell. “What possible excuse can you have for invading my privacy by taking those photographs and then humiliating me by bringing me here and making me look at them?”

  “Your father’s death. All I wanted to know was how long you’ve known Mitchell Wyatt so that I can rule him out—or in—as a possible suspect. The Wyatt family has had two deaths from unnatural causes recently, and your father makes a third instance. It’s a little odd for someone to have such a cataclysmic effect on people surrounding him, but Mitchell Wyatt seems to be one of those people.”

  It was strange, inexplicable, but at that moment, Kate felt a fierce desire to protect the same man she despised for her own reasons from being attacked again because he was the bastard grandson of the Wyatt family, therefore beneath contempt to people like Evan and, apparently, Gray Elliott. “I met him in Anguilla a few days ago for the first time. The rest is in those pictures. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with my father’s death, and there is no way on earth that man killed his brother. He was very fond of him!”

  “He talked about William with you?”

  “Briefly. I pried it out of him. He told me he was dead—No, that’s not right,” she amended quickly when she saw the flare of interest in Elliott’s gray eyes. “I didn’t know his brother was William Wyatt, but when Mitchell talked about him, I assumed the brother was dead.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when Mitchell told me about him, he said …” Kate had all she could do to keep from weeping as she repeated the words that had seemed so poignant at the time. “He said … ‘My brother’s name was William.’”

  “When did he say William was dead?”

  “Don’t you listen?” Kate said, almost stamping her foot in frustration. “Mitchell used the word was, so I assumed that meant that William was dead. He never said William was dead.”

  “All right, I’m clear on that. Now, will you explain to me how you know he was fond of William?”

  “I could tell by the way he talked about him. It was obvious that he cared for him.”

  He nodded, thinking that over. “Okay,” he said, looking convinced. “You made an assumption, based on Wyatt’s tone and expression, that he was fond of William?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, dying to grab her purse and get out of there.

  “Did you also assume, based on Wyatt’s behavior, that he was fond of you?”

  Kate didn’t see the question coming, wasn’t prepared for his drawing that parallel. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes, and swallowed. “You can see that I did,” she whispered.

  “That’s it,” Holly said brightly, “we’re leaving.” She dug her sister’s business card out of her purse, thrust it at him, and headed for the door with Kate right behind her.

  Elliott turned and watched them. “Miss Donovan?” he said.

  Kate turned and glared at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said solemnly. “Looking at those pictures, it was impossible to know that you were emotionally as well as physically involved with him. I’m sorry you got burned.”

  Kate refused to let him get off with an apology, let alone such an insincere one, but she kept her dignity and said calmly, “You would have put me through this even if you had known. What makes you think you’re any different than he is?”

  In the car on the way home, Kate told Holly the whole story, and ended by telling her that Evan expected Kate to handle seeing Mitchell at the Children’s Hospital benefit. “I don’t know how I’m going to face him after what he did to me.”

  “I know exactly how you’re going to do it,” Holly assured her, “and I will coach you. In fact, if Evan has room for me at your table, I’ll come along for moral support.”

  “We’ll make room—”

  “The first thing you need is a fabulous gown, which calls for a trip to Bancroft’s.”

  “Actually,” Kate admitted, “Evan already phoned Bancroft’s to arrange for a personal shopper to help me pick out a gown for Saturday.”

  “Evan can pay the bill, but I’m your new personal shopper.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  STANDING OUTSIDE THE INTERROGATION ROOM AND flanked by Lily Reardon and Jeff Cervantes, Gray Elliott watched MacNeil and his regular partner, Joe Torello, getting ready to begin interviewing Mitchell Wyatt.

  “Who are they?” Cervantes asked.

  “Pearson and Levinson,” Gray replied.

  “The Pearson and Levinson? Together in the same room?” Lily said, looking reluctantly impressed. “I’m surprised they didn’t refer Wyatt to a criminal defense lawyer.”

  “They will when the time comes.”

  Lily reported directly to Gray and handled cases that he was particularly interested in; Jeff reported to her and would assist her at Wyatt’s trial. “Have we gotten any reports back yet on what the searches turned up?” she asked.

  Gray shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Who brought Wyatt in this morning?” Cervantes asked.

  “He came in on his own. Levinson called me at home last night when Wyatt was still en route. It seems someone tipped Wyatt off about our searches, and he figured out on his own that our alleged confession was bogus, and that he was our actual suspect.”

  “And he landed at O’Hare anyway?”

  “As you see.”

  “The act of an innocent man?” Lily suggested.

  “Or a moderately clever one who wants us to arrive at that conclusion,” Jeff stated.

  “I think he’s more than moderately clever,” Gray said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an article he’d found on the Internet and had translated from Greek to English that morning. “Six years ago, a Greek reporter talked Stavros Konstantatos into giving him an interview about the key to his successes and how he managed to squeeze out his competition.”

  Gray showed them the picture from the article, in which the Greek tycoon was proudly holding up his arms, fists clenched. Th
e translated caption beneath the photograph read, “I have two fists with which I do battle. With my right fist, I wield the power and might to vanquish those who would oppose me. My left fist is subtle; it uses reason, shrewdness, and restrained force against my enemies. I strike with either fist.”

  “What does this have to do with Wyatt?” Lily said, handing the page back to him.

  “Mitchell Wyatt was his ‘left fist,’” Gray said. “He refers to him as that in the body of the article.”

  Cervantes peered through the two-way glass. “Interesting, the way he’s sitting in there.” The table was oblong with two chairs on the long side facing the two-way mirror, and one chair at each end. Wyatt was sitting on the side facing the two-way mirror, but he’d angled his chair away from the table and was sitting with one foot propped on the opposite knee, his back to Pearson. A tablet and pen were on the table near his elbow, along with an untouched cup of coffee provided by MacNeil. “He’s turned his back on one lawyer, and he’s ignoring the other.”

  “He doesn’t think he needs them,” Gray speculated. “I think he intends to handle this entirely by himself.”

  “His lawyers undoubtedly warned him not to donate any of his DNA by drinking anything we give him,” Cervantes said. “He also knows this is a two-way mirror and that we’re probably standing out here.”

  As if on cue, Wyatt turned his head to the right and looked straight toward them.

  “Shit,” Lily said. “He’s even better looking in person. If there’s a heterosexual woman or a gay man on the jury, I’ll never get a conviction.”

  Gray ignored that and tipped his head toward the glass. “Here we go,” he said. “MacNeil is going to start off with the photographs to give him the idea that we may have been following him for months.”

  MacNeil thumbed through the photographs he and Childress had taken, and selected a close-up of Wyatt and Donovan kissing on the balcony at the Enclave. “Let’s work backward toward the day of your brother’s murder, shall we?”