I'm Watching You

  “Do you ever plan to take those pins out of your hair?” he asked and her breath left her in a hard exhale that left her head spinning.

  Breathe, Kristen. Breathe. “Why?”

  He shook his head and the spell was broken. “Never mind. Go to sleep. Morning will be here soon enough.”

  “And what will happen then?”

  He lifted a brow. “We dig up Trevor Skinner.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, February 21, 7:00 A.M.

  The press was a barely suppressed horde, led by none other than Zoe Richardson who was currently tempting fate by brandishing a microphone way too close to Abe’s face.

  “The public has a right to know the identity of this victim,” Richardson demanded. “You can’t keep this quiet.”

  “We will until we’ve notified the victim’s family,” Abe said in a warning tone, cognizant that his every move was being recorded for the public’s “right to know.” He motioned to the officer assigned to crowd control at the scene. “Just keep them behind this line.” He walked back to the scene, sheltered by some trees just off the main road.

  Julia stood beside Jack next to the shallow grave that had been topped with a marker that read RENEE DEXTER. Mia stood next to Kristen who had quietly told them the details of the case. It was much as she’d described the night before in her kitchen. Dexter was a rape victim who Skinner had verbally eviscerated on the stand.

  “I objected and objected,” she’d murmured, staring at the woman’s name forever inscribed in marble. “But the judge let Skinner tear that woman to shreds.”

  Jack’s team was bringing the body up now, under Julia’s watchful eye. Once Skinner was on the ground the five of them gathered close and Mia knelt next to the body.

  “He’s got something in his hand,” she explained. “His fist is wrapped with duct tape.” Jack carefully slit the tape, opening the hand. With a look of revulsion on her face Mia looked up and met Abe’s eyes. “Looks like the proverbial cat our humble servant let out of the bag got Skinner’s proverbial tongue.”

  “ ‘He died without saying a word in his own defense,’ ” Kristen quoted from the letter. “You’ve told his wife?”

  Abe nodded. “Spinnelli arrived at the Skinners’ house at the same time we arrived here. We didn’t want the press to tell her first.”

  Still kneeling next to the body, Mia looked up at Julia. “Can a person die from having their tongue cut out?”

  Julia knelt on the other side of Skinner’s body. “No. But look at these depressions on both sides of his skull. Same size, same placement just behind his ears.”

  “Vise grip,” Jack said and Julia looked up at him with approval.

  “That would do it.”

  “Do what?” Abe asked.

  Julia stood up. “I’ll be able to confirm it after the autopsy, but if your boy is consistent and this bullet hole in Skinner’s forehead is postmortem and not the cause of death, I’m thinking we’ll find blood in his lungs.”

  Abe sighed. “Meaning he cut out Skinner’s tongue and immobilized his head with the vise so that he drowned in his own blood.”

  Mia rose to her feet, brushing her knees. “I think we need to put a watch on the guy that was acquitted for Renee Dexter’s rape. It’s logical that that’s where he’ll strike next.”

  They all stepped back as the ME’s office zipped Skinner into a body bag.

  “He’s crossed the line,” Kristen murmured. “Skinner was a bastard in the courtroom, but he never broke the law.”

  “What’s next?” Jack asked bitterly. “Judges?”

  “Or prosecutors who don’t win,” Abe said and Kristen’s eyes widened, meeting his. “This guy has no boundaries, Kristen. He doesn’t blame you yet, but that could change.”

  “We asked Spinnelli to give you twenty-four/seven protection,” Mia said and Kristen opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it.

  “Thank you,” she said instead.

  “And until then,” Abe said, “you stay with one of us.”

  Mia’s phone beeped and she flipped it open. “Mitchell.” Her lips curved in a feral smile as she listened. “You don’t say. Ain’t technology grand? Hold on.” She looked at Abe, blonde brows lifted. “They found Skinner’s car across town. It has one of those global positioning systems.”

  Abe’s pulse jumped. Finally a break. “Ask them if they can track the car’s movements Thursday night.”

  Mia looked satisfied. “They can and they did. Looks like we have our own little x-marks-the-spot.”

  Saturday, February 21, 7:00 A.M.

  He staggered back against his basement wall, nauseous. He slid to the floor. Gasping. His heart thundering as if it would claw its way out of his chest. His hands, his arms, his chest, his face… all covered in blood. I did this. Dear God … I did… this. This.

  He closed his eyes. Relax. Take a deep breath. Get control of yourself.

  He drew in the air with deep gulps, shuddered it out, felt control return in slow spurts. He was finished. Angelo Conti was dead. Very, very

  Bracing his feet on the cement floor, he pushed against the wall, forcing himself to his feet. And surveyed the carnage he’d left in the process. He’d lost control. He mustn’t allow that to happen again.

  But Conti deserved it, the cocky punk. It had been no great mystery finding him last night. He’d just waited until Angelo came out of his favorite bar just off Northwestern’s campus, weaving drunkenly. He’d headed for his brand-new Corvette, obviously intending to get behind the wheel. Conti hadn’t cared that he was too drunk to walk. One would think the boy would be minding his manners after narrowly avoiding prison for the murder of Paula Garcia and her unborn son, but obviously Angelo thought himself charmed.

  Angelo had been wrong…

  He never saw me coming. He could have just hit Conti on the head and dragged him into the van, but something about that drunken swagger and the brand-new Corvette made his blood boil. So he’d popped his knees. Both of them.

  Then he’d coshed him on the head and dragged him to the van.

  He’d savored the anticipation of Conti’s return to consciousness, the fear that would make the boy’s eyes go glassy and his tongue finally stop flapping. But no. Angelo had roused from his stupor surprisingly alert and in seconds had figured out where he was.

  And who I was.

  He hadn’t stopped talking, and before I knew it, the tire iron was in my hand. The first few blows were to get his attention. But still Conti wouldn’t shut up. Then he started talking about Kristen.

  And I lost control.

  The things Conti had said… vicious, vile things. “How did she pay you for doin’ her dirty work, huh? How was she? I bet there’s a real tiger under that prissy suit.” He kept talking, saying perverted, vile things about him, about Kristen. He just wouldn’t stop.

  And then neither could I.

  He drew a breath. No one would recognize Conti now. Most of his face was gone. There would be no sense in taking any Polaroids. He walked to where he’d left Conti’s things and found the boy’s wallet. His driver’s license had been taken away for too many DUI’s. But Conti did have a university-issued photo ID. That would have to do.

  He busied himself, taking care of Conti. The sharp crack of his pistol and the acrid odor of a fired weapon soothed. It was routine by now.

  He checked his watch and grimaced at the time. “I’m late,” he murmured. He had to clean himself up and get back to work. Later, he’d return and make the marker. Paula Garcia and her unborn son deserved that much.

  Saturday, February 21, 9:30 A.M.

  Trevor Skinner’s wife was a thin, pale woman who looked as if she’d collapse at any moment. She was no help when it came to any questions about her husband’s whereabouts, any strange visitors, nothing that would explain how Skinner was lured to the place where he’d been shot Thursday night.

  They’d found the ambush site easily, thanks to modern technology. Skinne
r subscribed to one of those global on-call services that track motorists by satellite so that they can send help should there be an emergency. The service also provided driving directions. Luck was with them. Skinner called for directions to an abandoned factory site, where the killer shot his kneecaps and moved him elsewhere. Apparently the car was then stolen by passing teens who drove it to where it was found that morning.

  Abe was ready to call it quits with the hysterical Mrs. Skinner when an elderly housekeeper tentatively tugged at his jacket sleeve. “Sir?” she whispered. “There was a package delivered.”

  At instant alert, Abe and Mia escorted the housekeeper to the next room where they could hear her soft voice over Mrs. Skinner’s understandable hysteria.

  “When was this package delivered, ma’am?” Abe asked.

  “Thursday.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe two o’clock.”

  “Did you see anyone deliver it?”

  “No, sir. Someone just rang the doorbell and left it there.”

  “Can you describe this package, ma’am?” Mia asked.

  “It was wrapped with plain brown paper. There was a label, typed, just with Mr. Skinner’s name. It was very light, like air. About so big.” She gestured with her hands.

  Light like air. A single piece of paper, another letter, most likely and Abe wondered what could have been compelling enough to lure Skinner out. “Did you see a car, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes I did. It was a white van. I remember thinking it was odd because it was a florist van, but there were no flowers.”

  “Yes,” Mia muttered. “A flower by any other name smells just as sweet. Did you open the box?”

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened in something akin to horror. “No. Mr. Skinner didn’t like us touching his things. He was very particular.” The housekeeper looked over her shoulder at the sobbing Mrs. Skinner. “He’s really dead?”

  Oh yeah, thought Abe. Mr. Skinner is very dead. “Yes, ma’am. We’re very sorry.’

  Saturday, February 21, 4:00 P.M.

  “Diana Givens won’t be able to help us.” Mia’s pronouncement from the backseat of Reagan’s SUV was glum. “Nobody can help us. The bullet’s too damaged.”

  CSU had found the bullet in the wood frame of a doorway in the old factory where Skinner had been abducted Thursday night. Analysis of the blood they’d found on the street would provide certainty that that’s where he’d been shot, but they were already pretty sure. The bullet was a huge find, especially since the killer had taken such pains to remove the bullet from King’s body, cutting him open and sewing him back up.

  The bullet had some kind of a mark, a maker’s mark, ballistics had called it. But unfortunately the mark was severely marred, to the point of being unrecognizable.

  “You don’t know that, Mia.” Reagan smoothly parked his monster SUV in the lot of an older-looking gun shop and Mia hopped out.

  “You coming, Kristen?” Mia asked.

  Kristen sighed. She’d been everywhere else in the city today. This would be their seventh gun shop. “Why not?”

  Reagan shot her a sympathetic look. “I can take you home. Spinnelli should have your shadow assigned by now.”

  The thought irked as much as it comforted. Her neighbors were already in a tizzy over having CSU’s bright lights illuminating the neighborhood half the evening. Now there would be a black-and-white stationed outside her house until…Well, until something changed, Kristen supposed. Until her humble servant was no longer watching her. Until she was no longer the target of rage-filled gangs or ravenous reporters. Until she was no longer a victim waiting to happen. She eyed the big sign in the gun shop window and made a decision.

  “No, I’m coming.”

  Reagan helped her down from the high seat and she held her breath until she was solidly on her own two feet. Her knee throbbed like hell, but she’d be damned before she let it show in case any cameras were lurking. “Any cameras?” she murmured and Reagan looked up and down the street.

  “No, I think everybody with a camera is at Spinnelli’s press conference.” Reagan grimaced. “Better him than us. Especially now that our boy has widened his repertoire.”

  “I’ve gotten fifteen calls on my cell from defense attorneys since Richardson broke the story on Skinner.” Kristen took a test step and winced. “Everybody is scared to leave their houses.” And if she felt a certain satisfaction in visualizing them all hiding in their homes, quaking in their boots, Kristen thought she was entitled. She’d never been able to understand the mentality of defense attorneys. They knew that most of their clients were guilty as hell, yet defended them as if the scum-suckers had been the victims themselves.

  Reagan just grunted. “Serves the bastards right. Maybe it’ll be good for them, being scared for a day or two. We should have taken Mia’s car. Climbing up and down all day can’t be good for your knee.”

  She chanced a glance up at him, but couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses. It was better that way, she thought, swallowing the pang of regret. She was becoming too accustomed to the caring look in his eyes. “You heard Ruth. I’m not hurt.”

  He said nothing, just offered his arm as they followed Mia into the store. “What’s that?” Kristen asked, eyeing the case Mia carried by its handle. She’d insisted they stop at her apartment before starting their canvass of the gun stores and emerged with the case.

  Reagan chuckled. “You’ll see.”

  A big man stood behind the glass counter, glaring. “You’re back.”

  “So it would seem,” Mia said dryly. “Is Diana here?”

  “No,” the man snapped.

  “Oh, Ernie, for God’s sake.” An elderly woman appeared from the back, her arm in a sling. “Yes, I’m here, Detectives. What can I do for you today?” She eyed Mia’s black case cagily, then openly appraised Kristen. “You’ve brought famous company.”

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s a regular celebrity.” Mia leaned on the counter. “It’s like this, Diana. We found a bullet in the course of our investigation.” She brought out a bag and set it on the glass counter. “It’s not beautiful, but right now it’s all we have. What can you tell us about it?”

  The old lady pursed her lips, sending wrinkles from the corners of her mouth like rays of the sun. She fidgeted with the bag holding the bullet. “So what’s in it for me?”

  Mia tapped the black case she’d brought. “Be a good girl, and we shall see.”

  “What is it?” Kristen whispered to Reagan, but he shook his head and shushed her.

  Diana’s eyes had warmed considerably. “Long time since I’ve been called a girl.”

  “Consider it part of the service,” Mia said. “We think this bullet is hand-cast.”

  Diana bent her mouth in a speculative frown. “It is. But it’s too mangled to get any specifics on the mold that made it.” She picked up the bullet and narrowed her eyes. “It has a maker’s mark.”

  “I know. My ballistics guy told me that much. He didn’t recognize it. Do you?”

  She brought out a magnifying glass and examined the bullet with precision. “No, it’s too mangled, like I said. Not many people make their own bullets anymore.”

  “Any of your customers?” Mia asked. “Any on the list of marksmen you gave us?”

  The old woman thought. “There are a handful, but none have a mark.” She eyed the black case. “So what’s inside, Detective Mitchell?”

  Mia popped the latches. “My dad’s gun.” And she smiled when Diana’s eyes grew wide and reverent. “It’s a real treasure.” Then she snapped the case closed when Diana reached out to touch it. “Maybe later.”

  Diana lifted a brow. “Quid pro quo, huh?”

  “Depends. Me and my partner need information on the mark on this bullet. If I can get a decent sketch, can you post it on your bulletin board?”

  Diana conceded with a dignified nod. “I’m the cooperative sort, Detective Mitchell. In fact, I’ll do you one better. I’ll ask all my most enthusiastic s
harpshooting friends to come in for a little get-together, and we’ll make you a list of all the marks we recall.”

  Kristen heard Reagan’s laugh rumble softly above her ear. “She’s good, isn’t she?” he asked and Kristen leaned her head back to look up at his profile. His eyes were focused on Mia, his mouth bent in a smile that held pride as well as amusement. He wasn’t a man to be threatened by the skill of another, even when the other was a woman, and that alone set him apart from most of the men she knew.

  “Yes. Yes, she is. Where are we going next?”

  “Mia and I are going to King High School. We got a picture off the surveillance video of the kid who delivered that box to your house and we want to pass it around. There’ll be kids on the basketball court across from the school all day since it’s Saturday.”

  “If you’re thirty minutes late, is that a problem?”

  He looked down at her with a puzzled frown. “I guess not. Why?”

  Kristen turned to the glass counter. “Because I’m going to buy a gun.”

  Saturday, February 21, 5:00 P.M.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Jacob?”

  Jacob Conti looked up to find Elaine standing in the doorway of his office, wringing her hands. “What is it, Elaine?” But he knew.

  She approached in that timid way of hers. She’d made him think of a delicate bird when he’d first met her, twenty-five years ago now. She still did. “I’ve been trying to reach Angelo all day. I’m starting to get very worried. He was supposed to meet his friends at the club for racquetball and he never showed up. Can you send Drake to search for him?”

  Conti nodded. “Certainly, dear. Try not to worry.”

  She came closer and kissed his cheek. “I’ll try. Thank you, Jacob.”

  He let her leave without telling her that he already had Drake Edwards and three others searching for Angelo. So far, they’d turned up nothing.

  A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Angelo, you had to go and open your big mouth. As if you weren’t a target in the first place, you had to go on television, for God’s sake.

  If anything happened to his son… Someone would pay.

  And Jacob Conti was not a man accustomed to making idle threats.