He started his car and had pulled into the street before he realized she hadn’t called him Detective. Nor had she called him Abe. They’d talked for almost an hour and she hadn’t called him anything at all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. He shouldn’t let her bother him. She was pretty, that was true, but he’d meet many pretty women now that he was no longer working undercover. For five years he’d held no attachments, stealing time to see his own family, his brothers, sisters, his parents, Debra, all the while worrying that he’d been followed, that just by visiting he’d place them in jeopardy.
Now he was out from under the burden of constant secrecy and isolation, working in an environment where people developed social and professional relationships. It was natural to be tempted on his first day out. And it would be unnatural not to find Kristen Mayhew tempting. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the first time he’d seen her.
And unlike the first time he’d seen her, he was now free to feel the lust that clutched at his gut like a slippery fist without the shadow of guilt. Debra was gone now. Truly gone. After five years of existing in hellish limbo, Debra was finally at peace. It was time to get on with his life. Step one would be getting Kristen Mayhew to call him by his first name. Then he’d take it from there.
From her living room window, Kristen watched as Reagan’s taillights disappeared around the corner, troubled. I should be, she thought and uneasily glanced up the street, wondering if the man who’d killed five people was watching her at that moment. But the street was empty, all her neighbors’ windows dark. The troubled feeling persisted and Kristen wasn’t sure how much she could attribute to a man who called himself her humble servant versus a man who was unwilling to leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.
Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.
She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“
It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.
She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.
From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.
She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.
Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.
She ought to know.
Thursday, February 19,
12:00 noon
Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.
But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.
Ahh, she thought. Here we go. Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe, she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.
„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“
Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“
„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.
„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“
She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“
She’d caught him by surprise with that one. Hah. But he covered his temper quickly and with admirable aplomb lifted a brow. „I choose not to give credence to rumor, Miss Richardson. Especially rumor as preposterous as that one.“ He tilted his head in a half nod, a smooth and graceful exit move. „Now I must be getting back to my family.“
Her image turned back to the camera. „That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.“
Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.
Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.
Thursday, February 19,
12:30 a.m.
The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago ’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.
He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.
He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.