Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.
Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”
That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.
“Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.
At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.
Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.
0957 hours
He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.
“Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.
She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.
And then she’d find out.
“Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”
1008 hours
Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.
The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”
“When does he work again?”
“He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”
Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”
“No.”
“He just didn’t show?”
The manager nodded. “Yes.”
“Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”
“No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”
Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”
The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”
“Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”
The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”
Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”
“Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”
“I’d like to see that, please.”
The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”
“Do I need one?” Tower shot back.
The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”
He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”
Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.
A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.
And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.
1011 hours
The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.
Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.
He glanced down at the passenger seat. The silver blade of the Buck knife radiated a cold light back at him.
The time for waiting is over.
Pick up the knife.
Go inside. Lay the whammo on that arrogant bitch. Slice her. Gut her.
Kill Katie. Kill that cunt.
Kill Cora.
He gave a short shake of his head, trying to clear his mind. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let his rage get in the way. He couldn’t let his mother turn his victory into another defeat by taking away what he most wanted.
Fear.
Control.
Pain.
Vengeance.
Somewhere deep inside the icy core of his soul, he felt a small flickering warmth spring to life. Katie was the only one who had thwarted him since he had become a real man. She was the only one who had defied him. Since that night on Mona Street, he’d heard his father’s mocking laughter in every voice. Worse yet, he’d seen his mother’s hard features in every line of Katie’s face. Just like his mother had done when she attacked him and tore away at his sexual power, Katie’s defiance and her escape robbed him of his manhood. It stripped him of what he’d become.
She had to pay.
His mouth curled into a cold smile. He’d send Katie to hell, where she belonged. Right next to his mother.
“I’m coming,” he whispered, and got out of the car.
1017 hours
“Adam-254, Adam-251?”
Gio reached for the microphone. “Fifty-four, go ahead.”
“Assist the detective. Contact Ida-409 at the west end of Corbin Park.”
Gio clicked the mike, signaling he copied the call. A second click followed, presumably from Ridgeway. Gio was close to the park and drove there in a matter of a couple of minutes. As he turned off Post and into the wide lanes at the west end of the park, he was surprised to see Ridgeway already there. He pulled his car alongside.
“You got here quick,” he said.
Ridgeway grunted back.
“Ida-409?” he asked Ridgeway. “That’s Tower, right?”
Ridgeway nodded, but didn’t say a word.
Gio suppressed a sigh. Instead he said, “You take an oath of silence or something?”
“No,” Ridgeway answered, “but sometimes I wish you would.”
“What’s up, Grumpy Gus?”
Ridgeway’s bleary-eyed stare answered Gio’s question.
“Nothing’s up,” the veteran officer said through gritted teeth. “I’m just tired.”
Gio nodded an apology. Ridgeway accepted it wordlessly and leaned his head back against the headrest.
It was at times like this Gio missed their fallen comrade, Karl Winter the most. Winter knew how to listen, especially to Ridgeway.
The best he could do was sit next to him and know when to remain silent.
1020 hours
He strode down the alley like he owned it.
He did own it.
He was in control.
At her small back gate, he unlatched the clasp and slipped into the yard as quietly as he could. He clutched the Buck knife in his right hand, the blade hidden by the cuff of his white shirt. The weight of the cool metal reassured him.
Confident, he walked to her back door. At the door, he peered through the small glass panes into the house.
No activity.
He strained his ears, listening for movement.
The patter of water and the rumbling whine of plumbing filtered toward him. He glanced at the marbled, frosted window a few yards to his right. Condensation formed on the outside of the window and the glass had a hazy film of steam covering it.