„‘My dear Mrs. Whitman,’“ she read, „‘what you have suffered defies articulation, so I will make no attempts to do so. I want you to know your tormentor has received justice at long last. He is dead. This doesn’t begin to restore what you’ve lost, but I hope you can now go on with your life.’“ She looked up. „ ‘Your Humble Servant’.“
„So it’s true?“ Whitman asked. „Ramey is dead?“
Kristen nodded. „Yes. When did you receive this letter, Mrs. Whitman? And how?“
„It was on the welcome mat under my newspaper this morning.“
After Kristen had found the offerings in her trunk, Abe thought. The timing was interesting, the method of delivery conveniently untraceable. He’d bet they’d find no prints on the letter or its envelope, but they could get delivery time from the paperboy. „Was there anything else with the letter?“ Abe asked and Whitman met his eyes unflinchingly.
„No. Just the letter and the envelope. Why?“
Kristen slid the letter in the envelope and handed it to Mia. „The detectives will need you to verify your whereabouts at the time of Ramey’s death, Mrs. Whitman.“
Mia bagged the letter. „We’d be grateful if you and your husband would come down to the station and provide us with fingerprints. Then we can separate yours from the letter writer’s.“
„I’ll save you the trouble, Detectives,“ Whitman said entirely too softly. „If Ramey was killed at night, I was here alone. I’ve no one to corroborate my alibi. I didn’t kill him, but I salute the man who did.“
„And Mr. Whitman?“ Kristen asked.
„He’s gone.“ For a moment Abe thought Whitman’s composure might crack, but with a deep breath she held it together. „He filed for divorce a year after the trial.“
„We’ll need his address, ma’am,“ he said. Whitman’s eyes flashed with pain and anger and humiliation, and Abe felt a stirring of pity. „I’m sorry.“
Thursday, February 19,
6:00 p.m.
If the interviews with Sylvia Whitman and Janet Briggs had been stiff and formal, the conversation with Eileen Dorsey and her husband had been anything but. Kristen’s ears still rang from the shouting. Her heart still raced like a wild thing in her chest.
„Well, that was pleasant,“ Mia said, rubbing her forehead wearily.
Kristen leaned back against her rental car, barely controlling her trembling.
Reagan’s voice came rumbling from just behind her. „Are you going to be all right, Kristen?“ She let the sound of his voice, his very nearness, seep in. Felt the trembling begin to subside. Didn’t let herself think about how or why he made her feel so safe. For now she’d just take what he offered and leave it at that.
She threw Reagan a weak smile. „I’ll be fine. But I’m grateful you were there. Having two armed detectives certainly helped diffuse them. At least we know they own a gun.“
Mia whistled. „Or fifty. Man, I’ve never seen a personal arsenal so well equipped.“
Reagan moved to lean one hip against the hood of Mia’s car. „ ‘Yes, I have a gun, Detective,’“ he mimicked and Kristen snickered as the adrenaline high started to subside. He sounded just like the outraged Stan Dorsey as the man had slapped an enormous revolver on his dining room table, followed by two semi-automatics, a hunting rifle covered in camouflage paint, and an AK-47. Then he’d opened his custom-made oversized gun cabinet, revealing another forty weapons, his eyes angry and wild.
„And yes, they’d all been fired lately,“ Kristen added lightly. She could still taste the fear she’d felt when Dorsey advanced, standing toe-to-toe, icily declaring that he dreamed every night of filling Ramey’s body full of holes. That he hadn’t killed the bastard, but if he had, he could only hope he landed her as his prosecutor. That her ineptitude would ensure he made it home for supper. Then Dorsey had leaned in close and lobbed the final verbal grenade. That he wished Ramey had picked her parking garage that night. Then she’d know what it was like to be a victim.
Then there had been heat at her back as Reagan moved behind her. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t said a word, but something in his face caught Dorsey’s attention and in a slow, measured movement, the man took a step back, fists at his sides. Reagan handed Dorsey his card over her shoulder, instructing them to call if they had more information.
Mia shook her head. „I wonder if their neighbors know they’re living next door to a fucking armory. He’s a ‘collector.’ How clever.“
Reagan shrugged. „They’re all registered. They aren’t breaking the law.“
„They got a letter, too.“ Kristen tried to put Dorsey’s wild eyes from her mind. He was angry enough to have killed, but probably too passionate to have done it so methodically.
„As did Janet Briggs,“ Mia said.
„Our humble servant either used one hell of a discreet delivery service or he was out last night himself,“ Abe said. „Assuming the other victims received letters, he made eleven deliveries. Somebody must have seen something somewhere. We’ll do a canvass of the neighborhoods to see if anybody remembers a car or a person lurking.“
„Good idea.“ Mia’s cell phone rang, a simple non-musical beep. „Yeah.“ Her eyes narrowed. „When?… Fine, we’ll be there.“ She pocketed her phone and looked up. „Spinnelli says the ME has news. We’re meeting back at the office ASAP. You coming, Kristen?“
Kristen nodded, just as her stomach growled. „I am, but first I’ll stop and grab some dinner to go. You bought the gyros last night, Detective Reagan. I’ll pick up something from Owen’s and bring it to Spinnelli’s. Don’t let the ME start until I get there.“
„What’s Owen’s?“ Mia asked. „Please tell me it has meat.“
Reagan rolled his eyes. „The Indian curry was good.“
„I gotta have meat, Reagan, or I’ll get anemic.“
He snorted. „Yeah, you look real anemic to me, Mitchell.“
Mia turned toward Kristen, ignoring him. „If Owen’s has meat, I’m in.“
Kristen smiled. „Owen’s is the diner where I eat. You want to try his fried chicken?“
Mia sighed. „Best offer I’ve had all day.“
Thursday, February 19,
6:15 p.m.
Zoe snapped her cell phone closed. „Bingo.“
Scott yawned. „I have a date tonight, Richardson.“
„So did I.“ Zoe made a mental note to cancel it. If she hurried, she might have a story ready for the ten o’clock slot. She watched two cars pass, the first with Detective Mitchell at the wheel, accompanied by a man she didn’t recognize but fully intended to get to know much better. The other car was manned by Kristen Mayhew, driving solo. „That’s not her car.“
Scott yawned again. „So maybe she got a new one.“
„Are you kidding? That woman plans to drive her old Toyota into the ground and it still has a few good years on it.“ She shrugged when Scott’s head turned, his brows scrunched in a frown. „I know her mechanic. He tells me stuff.“
„Pillow talk,“ Scott said with a sneer and Zoe bit her tongue. Like it or not, she needed him to make the damn film.
Ignoring him, she pulled her mirror from her purse. Her makeup was still flawless. „Besides, the car had an Avis sticker in the window. Come on, we’re doing an interview.“
„With who? Your hero just drove away.“
Again Zoe bit back the retort. The day Mayhew was her hero… Meal ticket, maybe. Hero, never. „Haven’t you been paying attention? She visits three houses with Detective Mitchell. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why?“
„I’m sure you’ll tell me,“ Scott drawled, and the tips of her nails bit into her palms.
„Records says that this house belongs to Eileen Dorsey. The last house was Janet Briggs, the one before that Sylvia Whitman. Three victims of Anthony Ramey,“ she said and watched his eyes widen. Scott wasn’t stupid, just a man who foolishly believed a single night of sex months ago should become an ongoing relationship and was mad because it hadn’t. „So you do watch the news,“ she said, swallowing a smirk.