I'm Watching You

  Mia’s eyes lit up. “So either she didn’t represent them, or she didn’t lose.”

  “He lost,” Abe said, “regardless if Kristen represented him or not. Remember what Westphalen said. And my gut says he’s connected to Kristen in a real way, more than just seeing her on television. He’s met her in person, I’m certain of it. I wonder if we could find any victim who’d lost in court that didn’t blame her.”

  Mia tilted her head, considering. “She gave us the list of all the cases she lost. I wonder if she noted customer satisfaction in that database of hers.”

  Abe picked up the phone. “One way to find out.”

  Friday, February 20, 2:00 P.M.

  The man who’d originally built his house played the trumpet. The man’s wife apparently held little appreciation for her husband’s musical gifts and insisted he either give up the trumpet or soundproof the basement.

  He carefully pushed the basement door closed behind him.

  Luckily for him, the man had really loved his trumpet. Without the soundproofing he most certainly would have been reported by a neighbor by now.

  But now, there was no sound. Skinner was dead. Rigor mortis had come and gone, leaving the body limp. He approached the body, wishing a man could be killed twice. In Skinner’s case, perhaps a hundred times. The bastard had made a career of defending scum who preyed on the innocent. Skinner’s eight-bedroom house on the North Shore, his luxury cars, the fancy private schools for his children— all were bought with blood money, all paid for by the suffering of the innocent and the vile pandering of the guilty.

  He drew his pistol from the drawer, knowing it was impossible to kill a man twice, knowing he’d have to be satisfied with the symbolic gesture. With little fanfare he centered the barrel of the pistol on Skinner’s forehead.

  Pulled the trigger. And nodded once. It was done. And done well.

  Just a few details to wrap it up, and he’d be ready to visit Leah’s fishbowl once again. He pulled on his gloves and prepared to divest Mr. Skinner of his Armani suit. After all, Skinner would find it unbearably hot when he arrived at his final destination.

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, February 20, 2:15 P.M.

  Kristen and Jack watched Julia pull the linen string from Ross King’s torso. Her appointment completed, she’d come down to watch Julia autopsy King. Hell, if an autopsy couldn’t clear her mind, nothing could. She’d met Jack on the way in, his face grim. He’d found nothing new on the clothes or crates or dirt from the gravesites. He was there to find anything to point him toward another lab test that might turn up something.

  And because he has a thing for Julia, Kristen thought. Too bad everybody knows it but Julia.

  “Whoever did this sure as hell knew what they were doing,” Julia said. “Nice, neat stitches, even placement, no tearing.” She looked up and met Kristen’s gaze, her eyes distorted by the goggles she wore. “He’s either a doctor or queen of the quilting bee.”

  “Or a hunter,” Jack added from where he stood on Kristen’s right. He shrugged when Kristen and Julia looked at him in surprise. “I used to hunt with my uncle. Lots of deer and ducks. He could dress a duck with nicer stitches than a surgeon.”

  “It explains the clean incision,” Julia remarked, looking back down at the body.

  Kristen moved closer, watching Julia’s gloved hands. “What do you mean?”

  Julia pulled back a flap of King’s skin. “There aren’t any indications of hesitation.”

  “No jagged edges,” Jack said and Julia nodded.

  “Exactly. The incision only goes as deep as it has to.” She pulled both flaps back, exposing the anatomy beneath. “There’s no damage to the organs… from the knife anyway. Here’s where the bullet went in. Whoever did this was damn good with a knife. I wouldn’t have thought of a hunter, but you could be right.”

  “It’s a possibility.” The deep voice behind her set off warning bells in her head, and she had barely a moment to compose herself before turning to find Reagan standing in the doorway. Filling the doorway, Mia barely visible behind him. Awareness buzzed between them and the morning memory still burning, Kristen looked away.

  “Detective Reagan,” Julia said. “Did your mother bring lunch?” she asked hopefully.

  Reagan moved into the room and it suddenly became that much smaller. “Maybe next time,” he returned. “So our boy’s a sharpshooter with a quick needle. Did the autopsy turn up anything else?”

  “Not yet.” Briskly, Julia bent back down to the body.

  “What did you find out about the white van?” Kristen asked and Reagan turned, his eyes narrowed in reproach and for a moment he said nothing. She knew he knew about her call to Spinnelli and that she’d offended him by not calling him first. Possibly even hurt him.

  But she hadn’t been able to call him. The wounds she herself had raked open that morning were still raw, the humiliation still too fresh. He thought he knew, but he didn’t. And even if he did, there was no way he’d ever understand.

  “It was a flower delivery van,” he finally said, just as quietly. “Spinnelli’s got a few men canvassing the Arboretum area where King’s body was found to see if anyone saw a similar van. Hopefully it hasn’t been so long that the trail’s gone cold.”

  One of Julia’s techs came in with a clipboard. “Well, this is something you don’t see every day,” Julia said. “Two of your Blade vics have evidence of cellular damage. From the look of these slides, I’d say your gang boys at one time were frozen solid.”

  Mia tsked. “Freezer burn. Shoulda’ used Saran Wrap.”

  Reagan shot Mia an amused look before turning back to Julia. “That makes sense.”

  Julia raised a brow. “It does?”

  Mia nodded. “The three Blades were in the photo together, but they were last seen at different times. We wondered what our humble servant did with the first bodies while he killed all three. He wanted them all in the photo together, since they did the crime together.”

  Reagan crossed his arms over his chest. “This could mean that he’s storing them in a place where he can’t risk detection. If he hadn’t frozen them, the first two bodies would have started to stink before he bagged all three.”

  Mia scrunched her mouth. “Or he could just be the fastidious type.”

  “This could also support his being a hunter,” Jack said. “A hunter would have a big freezer for his game, especially if he went for deer.”

  Reagan nodded slowly. “You’ve got something there,” he said, then looked over at Mia. “After the press conference, let’s pay a visit to the local target range. I’ll bet they have a club for hunters or know where we can find one.”

  “Ask for members that go for deer and fowl,” Jack advised. “You don’t sew up deer after they’re dressed, but you might stitch up a bird. I’ve got to get back now. Bye, Julia.”

  Julia looked up from King’s body with an absentminded smile. “Bye.”

  Mia rolled her eyes as Jack left with a backward wave. “Idiot,” she muttered, but Kristen wasn’t sure if she meant Jack or Julia and frankly was in no mood to care. All she was looking for right now was escape from Reagan’s eyes that seemed to follow her every move. She’d pulled on her own coat and was two steps from the door when Mia stopped her with a lifted hand. “Wait. We actually came to talk to you about that database you keep. The one of all your cases. Did you keep track of whether or not the victim was satisfied with the outcome of the case?” Mia asked.

  “Or more importantly,” Reagan’s voice rumbled softly, “with you. We’re looking for someone who didn’t blame you for losing.”

  Kristen swallowed, the sound of his voice sending prickly tingles up and down her spine. He was too close, way too close, but there was no room to back away. So she drew a deep, steadying breath instead, unwillingly drawing in the smell of him. Soap… and gyros. He’d had gyros for lunch. “They all blame me, one way or another. But I’ll go through my list and try to remember everything I ca
n.” She glanced at her watch and felt the tension already throbbing in her neck spike, this time at the thought of Zoe Richardson’s planned conversion of Spinnelli’s press conference into a three-ring circus. “It’s showtime, people.”

  Friday, February 20, 3:00 P.M.

  This is better than sex. The thought struck Zoe as funny, even as she acknowledged the truth of it, but she didn’t smile. Cameras were poised, the stage set with microphones and two straight-backed chairs. A door on the left opened and two men walked to the podium. One was John Alden, Kristen Mayhew’s boss, the other Lieutenant Marc Spinnelli.

  And speaking of the devil…As Alden and Spinnelli took their places on the stage, Mayhew entered, flanked by Mitchell and Reagan. Zoe frowned inside her head at the sight of Reagan who thought he was pretty hot stuff, giving them the slip this morning. Still surrounded by her honor guard, Mayhew moved to the sidelines, her face devoid of any signs of their earlier altercation until she spied Zoe sitting in the front row. Mayhew’s response was quickly masked, but not before Zoe saw her green eyes flash.

  Spinnelli stepped up to the microphone and the vague murmurs ceased.

  “You’ve heard we are investigating a string of connected murders,” Spinnelli announced without preamble and Zoe felt more than saw the heads turning her direction.

  Thank you, thank you, Zoe thought.

  “Yesterday we recovered five bodies. All were declared homicides. As you know, all the victims had within the past three years passed through the justice system, but were either acquitted or released by way of plea. The investigation is being led by Detectives Mia Mitchell and Abe Reagan of my office and supported by the State’s Attorney’s Office. We currently have no statement on the status of the investigation other than to say we are applying all urgency to its resolution.” He paused and cameras flashed.

  Next to her a man from a competing station popped to his feet. “What can you tell us about the letters that were received by the victims of the five dead men?”

  “We are not commenting on that at this time.”

  Zoe rose to her feet and pretended not to listen to the rustling murmurs of her peers. “Lieutenant, can you comment on the personal letters received by ASA Mayhew dedicating the murders to her and declaring himself her humble servant?”

  She’d guessed the part about the murders being dedicated to Mayhew, but quickly saw she’d guessed right. Murmurs became mutters and exclamations and from her plum spot on the first row she could see Spinnelli’s jaw clench hard in anger, if not in surprise. Showing her hand to Mayhew this morning had been necessary to confirm her lead, but unfortunately it had also given Spinnelli time to mentally prepare. It was still a direct hit and she let herself bask in the thrill of the scoop.

  “We have no comments at this time,” Spinnelli said evenly, but the deed was still done. Zoe looked at Mayhew from the corner of her eye. Mayhew stood straight and tall, her face perfectly composed as the flashes now aimed at her face. Damn, but Zoe had to respect her for keeping her cool when it was important. It was probably why Mayhew was Alden’s top prosecutor. She knew when the public was watching and played it well.

  “But all the victims had been defendants unsuccessfully prosecuted by ASA Mayhew,” Zoe pressed. “Do you have any words for the other men and women who are out on the street because Mayhew was unable to get a conviction?”

  One of the men behind her said, “Duck!” which sent skitters of laughter through the press, but it was obvious neither Alden nor Spinnelli was amused.

  Spinnelli pointed at a reporter from WGN. “Next question.”

  Zoe sat, pleased. Sometimes a blatant dismissal said more than a direct response.

  “Are you looking for a single killer or a group?” asked WGN.

  “No comment,” Spinnelli said. “Next?”

  “You only have two detectives assigned to this case when you’ve put teams of four or more on other serial murder cases.” The observation came from a Trib correspondent and brought more murmurs. “Should the public assume you’ve placed less significance on the murders of these men because they were accused criminals?”

  Spinnelli’s jaw clenched harder and Zoe could see a muscle twitching in his cheek. The Trib had struck a chord. That would be an interesting angle, she thought, the conflict of interest in this case. How many cops really wanted this vigilante caught?

  And how scared were Mayhew’s lost cases likely to be right now? She thought about Mayhew’s most recent loss. Angelo Conti would be sure to have a response, especially if she caught him coming out of a bar. It wouldn’t be real news, but it would be great copy. And sometimes great copy created great news. What a deal.

  Amid the mutters and flashes, Spinnelli said evenly, “We have assigned Detectives Reagan and Mitchell to this case. Both are experienced and well-qualified. They are backed up by the full resources of CPD. This case is staffed appropriately.”

  John Alden rose to his feet. Spinnelli moved to one side to allow Alden to speak.

  “Lieutenant Spinnelli and I are in full agreement on the staffing and plans for this investigation. We have no further comments at this time.”

  Together the two men left the podium and Zoe had to admit they were both fine, fine specimens of pure American male, Spinnelli in his dress uniform, Alden in his expensive suit. But now was not the time for idle wandering.

  She had a report to prepare before six o’clock. She hoped Angelo Conti was drunk.

  Friday, February 20, 4:15 P.M.

  The guy behind the glass counter was built like a Sherman tank, which was a good thing because under the glass was a most formidable display of firearms.

  “Guy’s almost as well stocked as that Dorsey idiot,” Mia muttered behind him and Abe chuckled. She was right. Unfortunately both the Dorsey idiot and his wife had rock-solid alibis for the nights King and Ramey disappeared and for the hours they believed their humble servant delivered his notes early Thursday morning.

  The tank behind the counter narrowed his eyes. “Can I help you?”

  Abe flashed his shield, Mia following suit. “I’m Detective Reagan and this is Detective Mitchell.” The man’s eyes flickered in recognition, his mouth bent in a sneer.

  “Only a matter of time,” he declared bitterly.

  “Why do you say that, sir?” Mia asked.

  “Some guy pops a few and suddenly the cops are crawling all over legitimate gun owners.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Actually, we’re here to ask your help,” Abe said and the man scoffed.

  “Right. So what?”

  Abe leaned his hip against the counter, lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “So, you obviously know why we’re here. We’re looking for the guy who popped a few and who’s getting ready to pop a few more. We picked your store because you host a marksmanship competition and we’re hoping you’ll cooperate and give us the list of entries without making us go to all the trouble of getting a warrant.”

  The Sherman tank got smug. “Get a warrant.”

  Abe sighed. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable.”

  “He will be. Give the man the list, Ernie.” A tiny old woman appeared from the back of the store, her arm in a sling. “I’m Diana Givens, the owner of this store. This is Ernie, my nephew. He’s been helping me run things while I was laid up.” She extended her uninjured hand and Abe shook it. “I saw the press conference, Detective. I know who you are and why you’re here.” She turned to Ernie. “Get the folder from the upright cabinet in the office. Now, Ernie,” she snapped and Ernie did her bidding, slouching and muttering all the way. “Damn boy thinks he’s the next president of the NRA,” Givens muttered. “I run a clean place here, Detectives. I obey gun sale laws and run all buyers through the system. I don’t think it does a damn to stop crime, but I obey the law. I’ll cooperate with you however I can.”

  “Then maybe you can help us a little more,” Mia said, staring at a display case on the wall. “You’ve got a great collection here. My dad’s a c
ollector. He’s got a LeMat, mint.”

  Diana Givens visibly softened, her eyes taking on a possessive light. “Mint?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “If he wants to sell it, I’m interested.”

  Mia turned with a half smile. “He’s leaving it to me someday. I don’t plan to part with it, but thanks. We’re looking for a marksman who hunts.”

  The old woman stuck her tongue in her cheek. “That narrows it down, honey.”

  Mia smiled. “I know. He likely hunts duck and deer. Do you keep track of ammo sales by customer? We’ll look for someone who buys both kinds.”

  “You hunt?” Diana Givens asked her.

  Mia looked amused. “I have. Not a lot, but I know my way around the forest. Bagged a three-point buck once with my dad. Mom made venison stew for a month.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything back at the morgue when Jack suggested hunters to Julia?” Abe asked.

  Mia grimaced. “Because I wanted Jack to have his moment in the sun in front of Julia. She barely notices his existence and he’s been practically tripping over his damn tongue for the last year.” Mia leaned on the counter, eye to eye with the diminutive Givens. “Can we check your records, Miss Givens?”

  Givens hesitated, then nodded. “I kind of hate to say yes, you know? Your boy took down some very bad players. I hate to see him stopped.”

  “But we have to stop him, ma’am,” Abe said quietly and Givens sighed heavily.

  “I know. But I don’t have to dance a jig over it. Records are in the back.”

  Friday, February 20, 4:30 P.M.

  “The Myers girl is here with her father, Kristen.”

  Kristen looked up from her paperwork. The headache from hell was brewing behind her eyes. Lois was looking over her shoulder toward the waiting area with a frown.

  The Myers girl was her newest sexual assault case, the one where the father was insisting they press charges. All she needed to make this day perfect was to have that young girl break down in her office again. “I don’t suppose they’ll come back later.”

  Lois snorted her displeasure. “No, I don’t suppose. Kristen, that dad makes me nervous. He’s twitchy. You want me to call Security?”