I'm Watching You

  “Among other things.”

  “He said the other woman’s name in his sleep?”

  “He did. Have you wondered how Zoe Richardson found out about the letters addressed to you, Kristen? About how he signs the letters ‘Your Humble Servant’?” Kristen’s mouth fell open. “He muttered about it,” Sara said softly, “in his sleep, a few nights after all this started, so I’ve known. So did Zoe Richardson.”

  Kristen swallowed, connecting the dots but still unable to believe the picture. “He’s having an affair with Zoe Richardson? John? John Alden? My boss?”

  “Your boss. My husband. Richardson’s not his first, Kristen. But this is different. You’re in danger and it’s because that woman plastered your face all over the news as some kind of link to this killer. I know about Friday night and Sunday night. You’ve been attacked twice.”

  Kristen pressed her fingers to her lips, her brain reeling. “I …” She met Sara’s eyes across the table. “Why didn’t you call him on the cheating before?”

  Sara lifted a shoulder, misery in her eyes. “I was humiliated, so I let it go.”

  “Until now.” Kristen closed her eyes under the enormity of it all.

  “I won’t lie for him, Kristen. And he should pay for what he’s done to you. The night you found the first letters, in your trunk? You tried to call him. Three times.”

  “He didn’t have his phone on.”

  “Because he was with her. He came home in the middle of the night, sneaking in like the dog he is. Took a shower, thinking I was sound asleep. I turned his phone back on, listened to his messages. Then I deleted them so he wouldn’t know what I’d done.”

  “He was mad at the phone service for losing his messages,” Kristen remembered, her mind still reeling. “He was mad at me for not calling him.”

  Sara slid out of the booth. “Perhaps he’ll be taking a ‘vacation’ soon, too.”

  Kristen watched her go, sighed, then took out her cell phone and dialed Spinnelli.

  Tuesday, February 24, 5:30 P.M.

  “Come in, sit down.”

  Abe looked around the little apartment owned by Grayson James. There was a small fireplace with a mantel upon which rested several trophies, all for marksmanship. “Thank you for taking time to talk to us, Mr. James.”

  “Diana said you’d be coming. She said you’re interested in maker’s marks.” He put a small lamp on the kitchen table and flipped it on. “Let’s have the bullet.”

  For the sixth and final time that day Mia drew out the plastic bag holding the bullet. No one else on Diana’s list had been able to help them.

  “Can I touch it?” James asked.

  “By all means,” Abe said and watched the old man handle the bullet with deft fingers. James held the bullet under the light.

  Then sat down slowly. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  Mia looked at Abe, a new energy in her eyes. “You’ve seen it?”

  “I have. More years ago than I’d like to remember.” For a long moment, James stared at the bullet, his face taking on a faraway expression. Then he blinked and gave the bullet back to Mia. “I had a friend when I was a boy, back before the War. He and I would shoot together at his father’s cabin. His father made his own bullets, taught us to do it, too. That was his mark. I’d never seen it before and never seen it since. Where did you find it?”

  “Your friend, Mr. James,” Abe said as calmly as he could. “Can we talk to him?”

  James’s lips thinned. “Not unless you’re into séances. Hank Worth died at Iwo Jima in 1944.”

  Mia exhaled, her disappointment as palpable as his own. “Any surviving children?”

  “Nope. He was only eighteen when we joined up. Look, I’ve helped you. The least you can do is tell me where you found this bullet. You’re detectives, so whatever it is, it can’t be good. I hate to see someone tarnishing Hank’s memory. He was my friend.”

  Abe hesitated. “I can’t give you details, Mr. James, but we’re homicide detectives. This bullet was used in an attempted homicide.”

  James’s eyes widened as he put two and two together. “You’re investigating that vigilante, the one killing criminals and lawyers.”

  Mia’s back straightened at the implied accusation in James’s voice. “We are.”

  “Seems like a quandary,” James said. “He’s poppin’ off guys that deserve it, but still…”

  “Still?” Mia asked.

  “Still, it’s killin’ all the same. I did it, in the war, because I had to. But it changes you. When you take the life outta somebody else’s body, it changes you.”

  Mia looked lost for a moment and Abe knew she was remembering the firefight the night her old partner was killed. She’d shot a man that night, killing him. The punk’s pal shot both Mia and her partner. Mia was lucky to be alive. “Yes, Mr. James,” she said, “it does. We need to find this guy. Please tell us anything else you remember.”

  James was regarding her soberly. “My friend had a sweetheart before he shipped out to the Pacific. They’d planned to get married when he came back, but she up and married somebody else not two months after he left. Killed him, it did. Wait here.”

  They waited in silence and a few minutes later James returned. “Here’s the letter he sent me. It’s dated December, 1943. Here’s her name, his sweetheart, that is. Genny O’Reilly. Said he’d just gotten her letter, but the mail took forever in those days. It could have been months before that she actually married the guy.” He handed them the yellowed page. “I’d like it back when you’re done with it. Sometimes my memories are all I have left.”

  Tuesday, February 24, 6:00 P.M.

  Zoe’s boss, Alan Wainwright glared. “What were you thinking?”

  Zoe glared back. “That if I got him drunk enough he’d let something slip.”

  Wainwright sneered. “Like his zipper? My God, he’s the damn DA. Do you know how it feels to get reamed a new asshole by the mayor and the network execs?”

  “Do you know how much our share has jumped since I broke the story?” Zoe shot back. Today hadn’t been a picnic for her either, having to endure the catcalls and lewd ‘requests’ as she crossed the newsroom. It might as well have been a locker room. John Alden wasn’t the first man she’d used her body to get close to, but she picked men who would be discreet specifically because she didn’t want her story denigrated by sexual come-ons.

  Wainwright paused, then smiled wolfishly. “Seven points.”

  “So get off my fucking case,” Zoe snarled. “I did what I needed to do. And I’d do it again.” She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door. All she wanted at this point was a hot bath and a glass of wine.

  “Spinnelli told the mayor. Two guesses as to who told Spinnelli.”

  Zoe froze. “Who?” she asked, even though she knew only one person would warrant the smugness she heard in Wainwright’s tone.

  “Kristen Mayhew.”

  Zoe’s breath came out in a hiss and Wainwright chuckled.

  “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  Tuesday, February 24, 6:30 P.M.

  Jacob Conti sat at his desk in the darkened room. He heard the murmured voices in the hall and knew Drake had come with a report, his second of the day. He knew the killer had struck twice since killing his Angelo, this last time leaving alive a witness.

  He knew that his wife hadn’t left her bed since their son’s murder. He knew that in her few hours of lucidity she’d wept for her son in great heaving sobs that tore his heart out. He knew that she slept now, the doctor having given her yet another sedative.

  He knew that his son’s body still lay nude and cold and butchered in the morgue.

  More than anything else, he knew Angelo’s killer would pay.

  Drake slipped in and closed the door behind him. A moment of silence passed, then Drake’s voice came through the darkness. “Can we turn on a light, Jacob?”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

  Light floode
d the room. Jacob blinked his eyes against the sudden glare.

  Drake approached with a frown. “You aren’t doing any good by sitting here in the dark.”

  Jacob returned the frown. “Save the advice and tell me what you have.”

  Drake drew a small notepad from his breast pocket. “She has very little family. A mother in a Kansas nursing home with Alzheimer’s who she visits religiously once a month and a father who says they haven’t spoken in years.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but I know there’s bad blood between them.”

  “Then I take it he’s not dead. Yet.”

  Drake shook his head. “I get the feeling his death wouldn’t be the club you’re looking for. I had a black rose and a note left on her mother’s pillow last night.”

  Jacob’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Melodramatic, Drake.”

  Drake shrugged. “It was meant to be. My man’s posing as an investigator following up on the flower and the note. If my man can’t dig anything up, there isn’t anything there.”

  “Everybody’s got something. Even squeaky clean ASA Mayhew.”

  Drake didn’t look convinced. “We’ll see. Your thug who attacked her Sunday night told her that if she didn’t talk, people around her would die.”

  “Yeah. I told him to tell her that.” He’d meant it, too. “So what?”

  Drake grunted, still displeased with the maneuver. “So I built on that. She’s had no significant others in the last five years that I’ve been able to trace, but lately she’s been spending a lot of time with Detective Abe Reagan.”

  Jacob scowled. “If Reagan’s guarding her, that’ll make her harder to corner again. Mayhew’s no dummy.”

  “Which is why I didn’t want her attacked in her own home,” Drake said angrily.

  Knowing Drake was right just added to his frustration. “So what are you going to do about it?” Jacob demanded. “I want that vigilante.” He clenched his fists. “I want the man who beat my son to death and Mayhew knows who he is. She has to.”

  “I really don’t think she does, Jacob. I think if she did, he’d be in jail.”

  “I don’t want him in jail. I want him here.” Jacob thumped his desk.

  Drake’s brows lifted. “She’s spent time with Detective Reagan and his family.”

  Jacob relaxed. Family always made for good leverage in any negotiation. “Good. I want an answer. I don’t care where it comes from.”

  Drake’s grin was wolfish, stirring his own blood. “That ball’s in motion.”

  Tuesday, February 24, 7:00 P.M.

  Abe pulled into his parents’ driveway and shut off the motor, his hands shaking with a barely suppressed mixture of fear and fury. He looked over at Kristen who still peacefully slept in the passenger seat, her face slightly flushed, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She’d been out like a light almost as soon as they’d pulled away from the station. She’d missed the trill of his cell phone, his muttered oaths in response to Aidan’s urgent summons. Then she’d missed the melodic chiming of her own phone. And again more epithets as he answered, listened to the mocking voice of the caller who refused to give his name.

  His eyes flicked over the collection of cars in front of his parents’ house. Everyone was here. Sean and Ruth and Aidan and Annie. He and Kristen would simply add to the number that gathered in support.

  She would blame herself. She would be wrong, but she’d blame herself nevertheless. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He shook her shoulder briskly. “Kristen, wake up.”

  She turned in the seat, leaning into his arm, murmuring something unintelligible. She turned her face into his palm, so trustingly he felt his heart clench. When this was all over he was going to take her far away, to someplace where it would be just the two of them. Someplace where she could finally relax, take out those damn hairpins. Someplace where he could take her in his arms tenderly and teach her to unlock the mysteries of her own sensuality. Show her that she wouldn’t, couldn’t disappoint him. Ever.

  “Kristen, honey, wake up.”

  He watched her lashes quiver, then lift. Slowly she came awake, then lifted her chin with a jerk when she realized where they were. “You said you were taking me home.”

  He closed his hand over the back of her neck and gently squeezed. “I will. First I have to see my folks.” He hesitated and she sat up straighter in the seat.

  “What’s happened?” She studied his face in the darkness of the SUV’s cab, then sagged back against the seat, her expression defeated and for that alone he wanted to catch both Conti and their humble servant and make them pay. “Who?”

  “My dad,” he said unevenly and she closed her eyes. “He says he’s okay, but I didn’t want to take his word for it. Aidan says he’s pretty banged up, but…”

  “Let me guess,” she said bitterly. “Whoever did it wanted to know who ‘he’ is.”

  He wouldn’t lie to her. “Yes.”

  Wearily she rubbed her forehead. “I told you I shouldn’t come around your family. I shouldn’t be here right now. Go in and see your father. I’ll call a cab to take me home. Truman’s on tonight, I think. I’ll be fine.”

  I’ll be fine. The words echoed in his head and something just snapped. He twisted, bringing his angry face within inches of her startled one. For a second they stared, then he took her mouth with a ferocity he immediately regretted. He was angry, but not with her. She was fragile and vulnerable enough without his making it worse. He pulled away, but her hands pulled him back, holding on almost desperately. She kissed him hard and long and when she finally let him go they were both breathing like spent athletes.

  “You are not fine,” he whispered against her lips. “You’re scared and so am I.”

  “I’m sorry, Abe. I’m so sor—”

  He cut off the apology with another hard kiss, gentling it after the initial searing contact. He adjusted the angle, seeking a closer fit, finding it, backing off only long enough to let them both catch their breath, then returning for more. He ended it without ending it, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth, her temple. The hollow behind her ear and down her neck, forcing himself to remain gentle when her body shuddered.

  “When this is over, I’m taking you far away,” he murmured, the deep rumble of his voice shaking her down to her core. “We’ll lie on the beach and forget all about this.”

  Don’t make promises, she wanted to say. They were here because someone had beaten his father. Because of me. That wasn’t something even the Reagans could easily ignore and she just didn’t think she could bear their reproach, no matter how much they deserved to feel it. Kristen turned her face into his hand and kissed his palm. “Go see your father,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

  “You’re not staying here by yourself. Come with me.”

  It wasn’t a request, she knew. Just as she knew it would be foolish to tempt fate and stay in the car alone. Unprotected. So when he opened her car door, she slid down without a protest and walked, his strong arm around her shoulders.

  From the laundry room she could smell Becca’s dinner cooking, but there was a forbidding quiet that was foreign to the Reagan household. Abe pushed open the door to the kitchen. Five pairs of eyes turned to look at them, all filled with rioting emotions, Becca’s with fear, Aidan’s with fury. Sean and Annie’s held disbelief. Ruth stood beside Kyle, holding a roll of gauze and she shook her head slightly. Kyle kept his face stubbornly averted and Kristen saw Abe swallow hard before approaching his father. His eyes slid closed and his throat worked as he struggled to keep his composure.

  “How bad is it?” she heard him murmur to Ruth.

  “I’ve had worse,” Kyle snapped, but his speech was slurred. “I’m a bloody pulp, but I can still hear and talk.”

  “How?” Abe asked simply.

  Becca drew in a breath. “He was leaving the grocery store and a man—”

  “I can tell it, Becca.” Kyle struggled to sit up in the chair and Aidan
was there to help him, but Kyle pulled away. “I can do it. I was leaving the store and a man stuck a gun in my kidney. Told me to walk quietly and took me behind the store.”

  “How many were there?” Abe asked.

  “Four,” Kyle answered and Kristen shuddered from her spot in the laundry room. “Told me to tell you to figure out who the vigilante was or they’d move on to the rest of the family.”

  Abe looked around abruptly. “Where’s Rachel?”

  Ruth put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “She’s in the bedroom with the kids.”

  “Where is Kristen?” Kyle asked. “You shouldn’t have left her alone.”

  “I’m here,” Kristen said quietly. “I’m fine.”

  Kyle raised a bandaged hand. “Come here.”

  On trembling legs Kristen complied. Whatever he had to say wouldn’t be nearly bad enough. One look at Kyle’s face made her trembles start all over again. Purple and black bruises covered his face and a patch of thick white hair had been shaved, a bandage in its place. Both hands were bandaged, his right more so than his left. She sank to her knees at his feet and stared up at him, blinking back tears. He’d sat with her all night, playing solitaire, keeping her company. Making her feel safe. And for his kindness he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. She opened her mouth and he made an impatient noise.

  “If you say you’re sorry, I’ll be forced to kick your ass,” Kyle said through swollen lips and a hysterical giggle bubbled up in her chest. Kristen forced it back and responded the only way she knew would preserve his dignity.

  “I was going to ask how the other guys look,” she lied dryly.

  His blue eyes gleamed with appreciative humor. “Not as pretty as me,” he said.

  Standing behind him, Becca smiled tremulously. “You didn’t cause this, Kristen. You’re as much a victim as anyone else.” Kyle nodded, then winced in discomfort.

  “Is anything broken?” Kristen asked him.

  “A few ribs. My pride.” Kyle grew very serious. “You will not tell them anything, Kristen. You have to promise me that.”

  Kristen huffed in frustration. “I don’t know anything. If I did, the killer would be in prison. If I thought it would do any good, I’d call Conti and tell him I don’t know anything.”