His lips quirked up. „No.“
„Good.“
Thursday, February 19,
2:30 p.m.
From his van he watched as an old woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door and took the box he’d left on the doorstep after ringing the bell.
He started the van’s engine with a satisfied smile. He rounded the corner and pulled into an alley, hopped out, and pulled the magnetic sign from the side of the van, revealing the painted sign beneath. Crossed to the other side and did the same, then rolled both signs and stored them in the van before climbing back in.
He had to get back to work. To his day job, anyway. The real work would commence when the sun went down.
Thursday, February 19,
3:30 P.M.
Kristen sat in her car, dreading what she was about to do. Mitchell and Reagan would be here soon. Then she’d have to face the accusing eyes of Sylvia Whitman once again.
She remembered the day of the Ramey trial. It had been a cold day, like this one. The three women, dressed in the conservative clothes they wore every day to work, looking petrified and nauseous. Their husbands, boyfriends barely containing their fury at the sight of Ramey sitting next to his defense attorney. The way each woman took the stand, retold her story, her hands clenched together so tightly. The look of shame none could hide. The way they couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Except for me, Kristen thought. Each woman had fastened her gaze on Kristen’s face, as if she was the only anchor in the courtroom.
How brave they’d been. Even as the defense attorney battered and chipped at their esteem, at their composure. Not one of the three cracked. Until the jury read the verdict and Ramey walked away a free man. They’d cracked then.
Kristen drew an unsteady breath. So had she. The crack had widened this morning when she looked down at the body of Anthony Ramey, his pelvis blown away.
What she’d felt had not been outrage for Ramey the victim nor a sense of loss for his family. She’d denied the feeling standing there with Mitchell and Reagan, but later, alone she could admit it to herself. It was quite simply… satisfaction. And gratitude.
Their humble servant killed a man who didn’t deserve to live, whose death she refused to mourn. It was wrong, but human. And she was still human, after all. After everything.
Mitchell’s dark sedan pulled up in front of her, parking along the curb and Kristen watched the passenger door open and Reagan step out, straighten his body, then his tie. Her throat thickened as her eyes noted his wide shoulders, trim body, the faintest shadow of a beard on his cheeks and she swallowed hard. Yes, she was still human.
Reagan glanced up the hill at the house, then without warning turned his eyes on her. Her heart stuttered and skipped a beat as the tips of his dark hair lifted and the hem of his unbuttoned overcoat tossed in the wind. He made quite a picture, she was forced to admit.
Which forced her to admit something else. Her blood really could still rush, her pulse could still pound from something other than fear. Which was ridiculous. Especially ridiculous was the way she could never seem to look away from his eyes, she thought, so she did just that, opening her door just as he arrived to open it for her. She climbed out on her own, shaking her head politely at his outstretched hand. „I’m fine,“ she said aloud. „What’s new?“
Mia waited by the sidewalk. „We’ve informed the next of kin. They’ll be coming to identify the bodies over the next few hours. King’s mother wailed loud enough to break my eardrums and Ramey’s girlfriend nearly ripped Abe’s pretty face with her finger-claws.“
Abe rolled his eyes at the reference to his pretty face. Which it was.
„And our Blade friends?“ Kristen asked.
„We found next of kin of two of the three. Nobody seems to know anything about the third.“ Mia frowned. „The girlfriend of one swears she was with him on January 12, but that he was missing the next day. The second one’s brother swears he was home January 20, but that he was missing the next day. A full week apart.“
Abe shrugged. „Hopefully the ME can give us a reasonable estimate of time of death.“ He looked up the hill. „Are we ready?“
„What are you going to ask Mrs. Whitman?“ Kristen asked. „You don’t have a time of death on any of them yet, so we’re not asking her to provide an alibi.“
„Yet,“ Reagan answered. „I’m more interested in her reaction to the news.“
„I wouldn’t expect tears,“ Kristen said flatly.
„Of sorrow?“
„Of any kind. Sylvia Whitman’s not the tears type.“ Kristen squared her shoulders. „Let’s get this over with.“ Mia and Reagan stood back, allowing Kristen to ring the bell. Sylvia Whitman opened the door, her expression one of contempt, but not of surprise.
„You don’t seem surprised to see me, Mrs. Whitman,“ Kristen said quietly.
„Because I am not.“ The older woman stepped back. „Come in, if you must.“
As welcomes went, that one left a lot to be desired, Abe thought, but at least Whitman hadn’t ordered them to go. In the car on the way over, Mia had filled him in on the aftereffects of the trial, of the scathing letters Mr. Whitman had written to Kristen’s boss demanding she be fired for incompetence.
That Kristen still felt guilty for not convicting Ramey had been clear as she’d stood on the street, her dread almost palpable as she’d stared up at the house. But once inside, she was composed, her face as still as Whitman’s, and Abe had to give her credit for that.
„Forgive me if I don’t offer you tea,“ Mrs. Whitman said, leading them into the living room, and Abe chose a chair that gave him a good view of Whitman’s face. He’d been serious last night when he’d said one of the original victims could have killed all the men. Original was how he now thought of the eleven names inscribed in marble. That the five dead men deserved their fate didn’t change the fact they’d been murdered. One of the originals could have masterminded the whole plot, taking out a few other deserving accused felons on the way. What an ironic dilemma for the prosecution.
Sitting, Kristen folded her hands together in her lap. „These are Detectives Reagan and Mitchell. Mrs. Whitman, why aren’t you surprised to see me?“ she asked levelly and Abe felt a spurt of pride on her behalf.
Pursing her lips, Mrs. Whitman rose to her feet and retrieved an envelope from a desk. More envelopes, Abe thought. Without a word she handed the envelope to Kristen, who slid the letter out and, holding it by one corner, scanned it, and sighed.
„‘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.“