„Note to Maintenance,“ she murmured into the recorder. „Two bulbs burned out at elevator entrance.“ Hopefully Lois would type up that note and the twenty others she’d recorded in the last three hours. Lois never refused, it was just a matter of getting her attention. All the prosecutors had staggering caseloads and every request coming out of the Special Investigations Unit was life and death. Unfortunately, Kristen’s caseload was mostly death. Which ended up taking most of her life. Not that she had much of one. Here she was, standing at the elevator to the parking garage, alone and almost too tired to care.
She let her head drop forward, stretching muscles strained from poring over case files when the hairs on the back of her neck lifted and her nose detected a slight shift in the musty smell of the hallway. Tired, yes, but not alone. Someone else is here. Instinct, training, and old tapes had her reaching for the pepper spray she kept in her purse while her pulse scrambled and her brain strained to remember the location of the nearest exit. Every movement deliberate, she spun, her weight evenly distributed on the balls of her feet, the can of pepper spray clenched in her fist. Prepared to flee, but ready to defend.
She had but a split second to process the sight of the mountain of a man that stood behind her, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes glued to the digital display above the elevator doors before one of his huge hands was clamped around her wrist in a vise grip and his eyes were boring into hers.
Blue eyes, bright as a flame, yet cold as ice. They held her gaze inexplicably. Kristen shivered yet still she stared, unable to look away. There was something familiar about his eyes. But the rest of him was a total stranger, and the rest of him filled the hallway, his broad shoulders blocking what little light there was, throwing his face into shadow. She searched her memory, trying to place where she’d seen him. Surely she’d remember a man of his size and presence. Even wrapped in shadow, the hard planes of his face spoke of unmistakable desolation, the line of his jaw uncompromising strength. Each day she dealt with people in pain and suffering, and intuitively she knew this man had experienced a great deal of both.
It was another second before she realized he was breathing as rapidly as she was. With a muttered curse he ripped the pepper spray out of her hand and the spell was broken. He dropped her wrist and automatically she rubbed it, her heart slowing to a somewhat normal rate. He hadn’t been rough, just firm. Still, she’d have bruises from the pressure of his fingers on her skin even through the layers of her winter coat.
„Are you insane, lady?“ he snarled softly, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.
Her temper rallied. „Are you? Don’t you know better than to sneak up on women in dark hallways? I could have hurt you.“
One dark eyebrow quirked up, amused. „Then you are insane. If I’d been bent on assaulting you, there wouldn’t have been a damn thing you could’ve done to stop me.“
Kristen felt the blood drain from her face as his words hit home, and just that fast all the old tapes began to roll. He was right. She would have been defenseless, at his mercy.
His eyes narrowed. „Don’t faint on me, lady.“
Again her temper surged, saving her. She pulled herself upright. „I never faint.“ That much was true. She extended her hand, palm up. „My pepper spray, if you don’t mind.“
He grunted. „I do mind.“ But he dropped it in her palm anyway. „I’m serious, lady, that pepper spray would just have made me madder. Especially since you didn’t get me right away. I might even have used it on you.“
Kristen frowned. Knowing he was right just made her madder. „What do you expect a woman to do?“ she snapped, exhaustion making her rude. „Just stand here and be a victim?“
Kristen Mayhew.
He’d been watching her for some time. Knew how vigilantly she worked to get justice for every victim who crossed her path. And how destroyed she was whenever she failed. Today had been a bad one. Angelo Conti. Vicious, vicious, cold-hearted bastard.
His hands clenched around the steering wheel. Conti had murdered a pregnant woman with no remorse, but was home tonight, sleeping in his own soft bed. Conti would wake up tomorrow and go on with his life.
He smiled. He himself would wake up tomorrow and add Conti’s name to the fishbowl. It was full, his fishbowl. Full of slips of paper, cut precisely, folded precisely. Each holding a typed name, representing so much evil. But they would get their due, one at a time. He’d get to Conti sooner or later. And like all the others, Conti would pay.
He was up to six. Six down, about a million to go.
Chapter Three
Wednesday, February 18,
9:30 p.m.
Spinnelli was waiting for them in the lab, slapping a pair of latex gloves against his palm as they entered in single file, looking like three kings bearing gifts for the Christ child.
„What took you so long?“ he snapped as Abe set the crate he carried on the stainless-steel table that dominated the center of the room.
„We were waiting for Jack to finish,“ Mia snapped back, setting her crate next to his.
Crime Scene Supervisor Jack Unger was the leader of the CSU team sent to comb the parking garage. His team had been thorough and professional and Abe had to respect their skill even as he grew more restless by the moment. There was likely evidence of multiple homicides in these crates, but the light was too poor in the garage to see a damn thing. Jack had insisted they wait to examine the contents of Kristen Mayhew’s trunk until he’d finished his initial sweep. Jack placed his crate at the end of the table and turned to face Spinnelli.
„You want it done fast or right?“ Jack asked, unperturbed.
„Both,“ Spinnelli said. „Where’s Kristen?“
„I’m here.“ Kristen brought up the rear and closed the door behind her. „I was trying to get John Alden on the phone to let him know what happened, but I just got his voice mail.“
„Well, I’m here in person so how’s about telling me what happened?“ Spinnelli demanded, pulling on his gloves.
Kristen pulled off her coat and Abe’s memory was confirmed. Her bulky winter coat had concealed a petite, slender body in a tailored suit of black that contrasted sharply with her ivory skin and those green eyes that gripped him from the moment he’d seen her at the elevator, wild-haired and wide-eyed. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, the only other time, two years ago. She’d worn black that day as well. She’d apparently seen him too, but hadn’t connected the memory yet. He wondered if she would. That she remembered anything about that meeting, he found remarkable. He hadn’t recognized her in the elevator, not with her auburn hair curling in every which direction. That day two years ago she’d worn it up in a severe twist that looked so tight it had to hurt, just as she wore it now.
He watched as she ran a hand over her hair as if to assure herself it was in no danger of escaping the twist she’d managed just before Mia and Jack had arrived on the scene. It didn’t take a detective to figure out she was buttoning herself back into her prosecutor persona. She had a reputation that didn’t include wild hair, fear, or clutching the arms of total strangers.
„I met Detective Reagan while waiting for the elevator.“ She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. „It was late and he offered to see me to my car, but when we got there, the tire was flat. When I opened the trunk for the jack, I saw this.“ She gestured to the three milk crates, then extended her hand, palm up. „Got another pair of gloves?“