I'm Watching You

  “You’re sure you don’t know who this guy is?” Greg asked, apparent doubt in his voice and Kristen’s mind abruptly left the topic of Abe Reagan.

  “You think I’m keeping it to myself?” she said sharply, Greg’s words a verbal slap.

  Greg grimaced. “You know I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that this guy knows you. He has personal access to you. There are times he’s probably close enough to touch you.”

  “Thank you for painting Kristen such a vivid picture,” Lois said dryly and chuckles rippled through the room.

  Kristen managed a small smile despite the chill that clenched her muscles. “Greg hasn’t said anything I haven’t already thought.”

  John cleared his throat. “The police have established some basic time frames on each of the murders. Because they believe that the killer has access to confidential court records, each of you will be asked to provide your whereabouts during those time frames. I’ve assured Lieutenant Spinnelli that you all will cooperate fully.”

  Angry murmurs reached Kristen’s ears and she held up her hand to quiet them. “So many times we criticize the police for not crossing all the t’s and dotting the i’s. They are trying to do just that, trying to eliminate those of us who have access to the confidential court records John mentioned. Please cooperate with them when they come talk to you.”

  John wearily raised his hand. “For the record, I was interviewed by Spinnelli on Saturday for the same reason. When they ask you your whereabouts, just tell them. Remember, everything you’ve heard is confidential. You are not to discuss it outside this room. You are dismissed.” He pointed a finger at Kristen. “I need you to stay.”

  He waited until everyone had filed out, leaving just the two of them at the table. He dragged his hands down his face and sighed. “How was motion hour this morning?”

  Kristen raised her brows, surprised at the question. John never concerned himself with motion hour unless she had a major case, and this morning’s cases were fairly routine. “Strained.” That was an understatement. The defense crowded at the far end of their table as if her very air space was contaminated. “I managed.”

  “You always manage. You aren’t going to like this.”

  The hairs rose on Kristen’s neck. “Like what?”

  “For what it’s worth, I tried to fight this. I took it as high up on the ladder as I could.” In his eyes Kristen saw weary resignation and her stomach clenched. “Milt got calls all weekend long, as soon as news of Skinner’s murder broke.” Milt was John’s boss. His involvement either meant reprimand or raise. Kristen wasn’t naive enough to expect a raise. “You’re on administrative leave until this is all over.”

  Kristen froze, unable to believe what she’d heard. “Excuse me?”

  John sighed again. “No defense attorney in town wants to appear in the same courtroom with you. They’re all prepared to cite physical danger to themselves and their clients. Milt sees this as one big cause for appeal on any case that involves you. You’re to turn over all your cases as of four P.M. today. We’ll split your workload between the others.”

  Kristen sat there, stunned. Unable to utter a word.

  John pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sorry, Kristen. I told Milt he was wrong, that this wasn’t fair, but in the end it didn’t matter. I feel responsible for this, but there’s nothing I can do.” He put a tentative hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She barely felt it. “Consider it a well-earned vacation,” he said lamely. “No, I guess not.”

  A well-earned vacation. The very thought mocked. She rose, keeping her legs steady with the force of sheer will. She would be, as always, in control. “I’ll gather my things.”

  “Kristen—” John reached out a hand and she stepped out of his way. His hand dropped and he sighed once more. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “I won’t.”

  Monday, February 23, 1:00 P.M.

  Abe hated the smell of the ME’s office. On a good day, it had the antiseptic smell of a hospital. He hated hospitals. On a bad day… Luckily Conti hadn’t been dead long enough to call this a bad day.

  “We came as soon as we could, Julia,” Mia said, walking over to the table where Angelo Conti’s body lay. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted you to see this.” Julia joined them at the table. “Conti’s body was in the worst shape of any of them so far. Your guy didn’t just beat him, he pounded him into hamburger.”

  “Medium rare, hold the pickles,” Mia quipped and Julia’s lips twitched.

  “Don’t make me laugh. My ribs are still a little sore from yesterday.”

  Abe frowned. “Jacob Conti hurt you that badly?”

  Julia gave a facial shrug. “A few bruises. It could have been worse.”

  “Yeah, Jack could have ripped off his face.” Mia looked satisfied at the thought.

  Julia’s cheeks colored delicately. “Jack shouldn’t have gone after Conti like that.”

  “Well, I’m glad he did,” Mia said.

  After a half beat of hesitation Julia admitted, “So am I.”

  “You could have pressed charges,” Abe said.

  “I could have, but the situation seemed inflamed enough as it was, what with that reporter filming every move. He’d just found out his son was dead, for God’s sake.”

  “His murdering son,” Mia muttered. “I wouldn’t waste your tears on him, Julia. Angelo Conti died the same way Paula Garcia died, beaten to death with a tire iron.”

  Julia huffed out a sigh. “I suppose your guy does have a way with poetic justice. Well, anyway, take a look at this.” She rolled the body slightly and pointed to a spot just above the back of Conti’s knee. “It’s faint and incomplete, but better than nothing.”

  Abe leaned closer to see, his pulse quickening. “A partial thumbprint.”

  Mia met his eyes, hers gleaming. “In Conti’s blood. Nicely done, Julia.”

  “The body’s lividity indicates the killer rolled Conti on his side shortly after his death. The blood still would have been wet.”

  “He didn’t wear gloves,” Mia murmured.

  Abe felt a spark of excited hope. “He got so carried away he made a mistake.”

  “Yeah,” Julia said with satisfaction. “For the severity of the beating, there was very little blood on the body. He must have known he’d screwed up and tried to clean him off afterward. But after laying Conti on his side, the body contracted up in rigor and this spot behind the knee would have been hidden. He missed it.”

  Abe whistled. “We’re lucky the print wasn’t blurred from the leg rubbing against it.”

  “That you are. I called Jack to help with the print. He should be here any minute.”

  “It’s only a partial,” Mia cautioned. “We shouldn’t get our hopes up.”

  “We won’t.” Abe took another look at the partial print. “But he’s made a mistake. He’ll make others and that’s how we’ll find him.”

  Julia pulled off her gloves. “Good. I want this thing over, for all of our sakes, but especially for Kristen’s. I heard about what happened last night. How is she?”

  “Kristen,” Mia said archly with a side look at Abe, “seemed fine when I left her. But then I didn’t stay all night.”

  Julia looked amused. “But you slept on the couch, right, Abe?”

  Abe rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did, actually. It’s a very uncomfortable foldout.” He had, actually. She’d fallen asleep in his arms as he sat on the edge of her bed. He’d stayed there next to her for a long while, watching her take deep even breaths, wondering if his sudden and intense interest was due to the fact she was the first woman he’d met after a six-year dearth or if he secretly did compare her to Debra. He’d concluded neither was the case, that he was simply acting on the desire of a healthy red-blooded man for a beautiful, intelligent, sensitive woman. Then he’d retired to the relative discomfort of the foldout couch where he’d lain awake well into the night cursing the fact that he was a healthy red-blooded man w
ith a beautiful, intelligent, sexy-as-hell woman in the next room. Stopping after a few morning kisses was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  “Foldouts usually are,” Julia commented dryly. Then she looked up when the door opened, her face changing from amusement to awareness. “Jack.”

  Jack closed the door behind him. “Your message said it was urgent.”

  “It is.” Abe pulled on his jacket. “Take care with it, Jack. It’s our best lead so far.”

  Monday, February 23, 2:30 P.M.

  Taking care of business was less messy when he kept his head. There was a lot less cleanup required when the only mark on the body was a neat bullet hole in the forehead. The exit wound in the back of the head was a bit of a chore, but the best things in life were rarely the easiest. At least it was easier than it had been with Conti. He still shuddered at the thought of washing the body. Repugnant it had been. Even for me.

  But enough about Angelo Conti. He’d moved on to Arthur Monroe now, the put-upon pedophile that society had failed. He’d chosen Arthur Monroe’s final resting place with ironic care. The liberal bleeding-heart judge who had taken more pity on the offender than his five-year-old victim owned a small dry-cleaning business north of the city. It would serve as both a dumping ground for Monroe and a warning to the judge.

  He pulled his van into the narrow access road behind the dry cleaners. The van sported a new sign that was a fine imitation of the one used by Chicago’s Department of Water Management. It, like the electrical contractor sign, made a fine cover for digging a trench. Nobody would give a second thought to seeing a utility vehicle on the street.

  And nobody did. It was almost anticlimactic, he thought as he got back in his van to drive away. Nobody challenged him, nobody said, “Hey, fella, what are you doing?”

  But then again, it was better that way. His reward would come when the world found out that yet another repellent menace was off the streets.

  Back to work now. Back to the fishbowl tonight. It was good to have a hobby.

  Monday, February 23, 3:45 P.M.

  “Kristen?”

  She looked up at the sound of Greg’s voice to find him standing in the doorway to her office, looking miserable. She might have said he looked as miserable as she felt, but the human face was not capable of that kind of expression. She looked back down, concentrating on the files she was collecting, forcing her voice to be steady. “I’m almost finished, Greg. I’ll be ready to get these cases to you in about an hour.”

  He sighed heavily. “You know that’s not why I’m here.” He came into her office, shutting the door. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry it had to be you. I’m sorry it had to be me.”

  She looked up and met his kind eyes. “I know. I’m not upset at you, Greg. Really.”

  He flopped into the chair across from her desk. “This isn’t fair. It isn’t right. But then this whole past week hasn’t been fair or right. Are you okay, Kristen? Physically?”

  Her hands stilled on the file folders. “I’m fine, Greg.”

  “That’s what you always say,” he said bitterly. “We were afraid this would happen, Lois and I. That’s why we wanted you to come stay with one of us.”

  “And have intruders with guns in your home, endangering your families? I don’t think so.”

  He grimaced as her words hit home, then pounded his fist against his knee. “Dammit, somebody needs to be there for you. You shouldn’t go through this all alone.”

  I’m not. The thought echoed in her mind, easing some of the tension from her shoulders. For however long it lasted, Abe Reagan was there. She still wasn’t completely sure why, but at this point it was enough to know he would come when she called. “I’m fine, Greg,” she said more firmly. “I have police protection, a home alarm—”

  “Both of which served you well last night,” he said sarcastically.

  She conceded his point with a nod, not letting herself think about how vulnerable she really was. “I’m considering a dog.”

  He looked unappeased. “A big one?”

  “A nasty one with three heads. I’ll name him Cerberus.” Greg frowned, then relaxed a little. “You’ll get one soon?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  A knock interrupted them and Lois stuck her head in. “Kristen, you have a visitor.”

  Kristen’s smile dimmed. “Refer them to John. I’m on vacation.”

  Lois shook her head. “Personal.” She opened the door wider and Owen’s face appeared, followed by the rest of him. He held a brown paper bag that smelled wonderful.

  “You didn’t come by for lunch,” he said reproachfully and Greg stood up.

  “Dog, tomorrow?” Greg urged.

  “Promise.” Greg left and Owen entered, frowning at the box on her desk.

  “What is this?”

  Kristen waved a careless hand. “Oh, I’m just cleaning up a few files.”

  “Why did that man say ‘dog, tomorrow’?”

  “I’m getting a dog,” she said lightly. “What’s inside the bag?”

  “Soup and a Reuben. I didn’t think you liked dogs. That blind guy came into the diner one day with a Seeing Eye dog and you sneezed your way into next week.”

  “Pie?” she asked, hoping she could redirect Owen with talk of food.

  “Dutch apple, Vincent’s family recipe. Why are you getting a dog?”

  Kristen opened the bag and sniffed appreciatively. “I’m starving. I didn’t have time for lunch.” Truthfully, she’d been afraid to leave the office to get lunch, which added to the general annoyance hanging over the day.

  He closed the bag just as she reached in. “Dog. Now. What happened?”

  “Oh, I’m getting some annoying people at the house because of all this humble servant nonsense.” She pasted a smile on her face to keep him from worrying. “I promised the guys I’d get a dog to scare them away.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s all? Just annoying people?”

  She nodded. “Totally annoying. So how’s the new fry cook?”

  Owen scowled and gave her the bag. “He quit. Hired a new one, but he’s sorry, too. So why didn’t you come by the diner all weekend? You’re not on some fad diet, are you?”

  Kristen chuckled. Between Reagan’s gyros and Italian food and his mother’s ham, she hadn’t eaten so well in years. “No. Actually I’m …” She faltered. “I’m seeing someone.” She shrugged when a delighted smile broke across Owen’s face. “He feeds me.”

  “Excellent. Excellent news. And what’s his name?”

  “Abe Reagan.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed again. “The detective on this murder case?”

  “Yes.” She took the lid off the bowl of soup. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just seems dangerous.”

  No more dangerous than my own life, she thought.

  Owen’s face softened. “He’s good to you?”

  She thought of the night before, of this morning, of his patience and gentleness and felt her cheeks heat. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Eat. I have to get back before Vincent kills the new cook.”

  Kristen smiled at that. “Somehow I can’t see Vincent getting that mad ever.”

  “You’d be surprised. Man has quite a temper.”

  Kristen was genuinely astonished. “Vincent?” A temper? And her mind wandered, for just a moment, considering. A stupid moment. There was no way Vincent could hurt another soul. But still, stranger things had happened.

  “Hmm.” Owen backed up to the door. “He lost twenty bucks on the Bulls’ game last night and actually said ‘darn.’ He was fit to be tied.”

  He was teasing her, Kristen realized and she laughed at herself for the split second she’d imagined Vincent in the role of the humble servant. “You’re bad, Owen.”

  He grinned. “I know.” He opened the door, nearly stumbling over Lois.

  “Kristen, you have another visitor.” She looked half-amused and half-harr
ied, and a second later Kristen knew why.

  “Kristen!” Rachel Reagan bounded into her office. “Ooh, food. Can I have some?”

  Kristen laughed, the day suddenly sunnier. “Sure, but don’t touch the apple pie. It’s mine. Rachel, this is my friend Owen. Owen, this is Abe’s younger sister, Rachel.”

  Rachel smiled up at him, a smile purely reserved to charm people she hadn’t yet finagled into doing her bidding. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Owen tipped an imaginary hat. “And you. Kristen, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thanks, Owen.” Kristen smiled at Lois who stood waiting. “The kid can stay.”

  Rachel unwrapped the Reuben. “I am so hungry. I was talking to my teacher and missed lunch.” She took a huge bite, and said between chews, “We were talking about you.”

  “Me?”

  Rachel nodded and swallowed. “Got anything to drink around here?”

  Kristen handed her one of the bottles of water she kept in her desk drawer and Rachel gulped half a bottle before continuing. “Thanks. She loved my interview with you. She wanted to know if you would come in to talk to my class.” She angled her head slyly. “Please?”

  Kristen frowned at her because it seemed like the right thing to do. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  “Kind of. I told her I was going to a friend’s house after school. You said you practically live here, you work so many hours, so I wasn’t exactly lying.”

  Kristen swallowed her smile and gave Rachel a stern look. “You weren’t exactly telling the truth either. How did you get down here anyway?”

  “I came on the El.” She looked annoyed. “I’m not stupid, Kristen. I can get downtown.”

  But there were a lot of seedy places between Rachel’s neighborhood and the El stop for the ASA’s offices. Kristen shuddered at the thought of a thirteen-year-old roaming the streets by herself. “Rachel, your parents don’t let you walk around town all by yourself, do they?”