Friday, February 20,
1:50 p.m.
Abe set a bag on his desk. „You hungry?“
Mia looked up, sniffing deeply. „Depends. What is it?“
„Gyros and burgers.“ He peered into the bag. „And baklava.“
Mia licked her lips. „I take back every bad thing I said about you.“
Abe chuckled. „I doubt that.“
She chose a burger. „Did you get anything from the cabbie?“
„He said he saw a white van with a big flower on the side right after he dropped off Littleton early yesterday morning.“
Mia’s brows jumped. „A florist delivery van? Any name?“
„Said it had ‘flowers’ in the name,“ Abe said dryly, unwrapping his gyro. He took a deep appreciative breath. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
„Well, that oughta narrow it down.“
„To 460 places in Greater Chicago. I already checked.“
„Did Jack find anything floral on the stuff from Kristen’s car?“
„Nope, and it bothered him. Jack thought that if the killer used a flower delivery van to transport the bodies or the crates, we would have found something on the clothes at least. Pollen or something.“ He pointed to the faxed lists of Chicago area customers who’d purchased sandblasting equipment. „How’s it coming?“
Irritably, she pushed the papers away. „It would help if I knew what the hell I was looking for. There are hundreds of names here. I’ve got Todd Murphy helping run names for priors, but somehow I don’t think our guy’s been in trouble before.“
Abe was inclined to agree with her. „Well, let’s see if any of these people work in one of the florists in Chicago with ‘flower’ in the name. Give me a couple pages.“
She handed him a handful of paper, wincing when a loud shout came from Spinnelli’s office. „He’s not happy.“
Abe glanced over, saw Spinnelli pacing, holding a telephone to his ear and gesturing wildly. „What, stage fright over his press conference?“ It was scheduled for three o’clock.
„Hell, no. He’s trying to explain to the captain how Richardson got the scoop.“ She tilted her head, frowning when he just looked at her. „Oh, boy. I thought you knew.“
He felt a spear of sharp heat in his neck, a sure sign of stress. „Knew what?“
„Richardson knows that Kristen got letters, too, and that we’ve got five bodies in the morgue and their names. Apparently Richardson ambushed her going into the courthouse. Kristen called Spinnelli right after that. I thought she’d told you, too.“
His appetite disappeared. „No, she didn’t.“ In fact, she hadn’t been able to get out of the SUV fast enough. The hours after they’d driven away from the Restons’ house had been awkward, to say the least. She’d pulled back into herself, saying nothing until they reached the house of the first child killed by the gang’s gunfire. Then it was all business. And not once did she call him Abe. They talked to the families of the slain children, endured more anger and accusation, retrieved two more letters from their humble servant, then he’d driven her back to the courthouse in silence, thick and heavy.
She hadn’t called him about Richardson, hadn’t trusted him. It hurt. But it had been interest he’d seen in her eyes, sitting there in front of the Restons’ house. Interest and heat. He’d been a heartbeat away from kissing her, right there in front of the Restons’ house, which would have been completely unacceptable. Unprofessional. Probably wonderful.
But she’d pulled away. She was afraid, he knew. So am I, he thought. But Kristen’s fear ran deeper and he was afraid to contemplate its source, because he thought he knew. And if he was right, they had one hell of a long row to hoe.
I have to be insane to even consider having any rows with Kristen Mayhew, he thought. So why am I? Because she had pluck and courage. Green eyes and subtle curves. A quick mind and quiet grace. And a laugh that made him catch his breath.
Maybe it was just because she was a nice person. Maybe it didn’t have to be any more complicated than that Kristen Mayhew was a beautiful woman and a nice person.
Bullshit. It was way more complicated than that.
Mia finished her burger in thoughtful silence. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, then folded it into a tiny square. „I’ve known Kristen for a long time, probably about as well as anyone knows her,“ she finally said. He looked up and saw understanding in Mia’s blue eyes and felt his cheeks heat. „But nobody really knows her that well,“ she went on. „She’s always been a bit of a loner.“ She frowned. „They call her the Ice Queen in the locker room, which is so totally unfair.“
Abe remembered the anguish in her eyes when the mother broke down in the Restons’ living room, how Kristen had never uttered a word in her own defense when the parents’ words had been cruelly accusing. The way she’d said the victims „never, ever forget“ just before they’d gone in. No one who had seen what he’d seen could ever conceivably call her icy and cold.
„Yes, that is very unfair.“ His voice was calm. Much calmer than he felt. Kristen Mayhew brought out something in him that he hadn’t felt in years, the fierce desire to protect, to take care of anyone that hurt her.
The killer felt the same way. The realization was sudden and clear. That’s why he’d targeted her for his gifts, why he watched her in her own home.
„The killer knows her,“ he said.
Mia looked puzzled. „We know that.“
„No, he knows her. He’s seen her interact with the people, the victims.“ The compassion, the anguish. „And he doesn’t hate her.“
„What do you mean?“
Abe leaned forward, intense. „I watched her with all these victims and their families for the last two days. They’re aloof at a minimum, hostile at the most extreme.“
„Like Stan Dorsey.“
„Yeah. But no one was warm, certainly not admiring.“ Not even Les Littleton, who she’d gone out of her way to help and who still damned her in his pathetic misery.
Mia’s eyes lit up. „So either she didn’t represent them, or she didn’t lose.“
„He lost,“ Abe said, „regardless if Kristen represented him or not. Remember what Westphalen said. And my gut says he’s connected to Kristen in a real way, more than just seeing her on television. He’s met her in person, I’m certain of it. I wonder if we could find any victim who’d lost in court that didn’t blame her.“
Mia tilted her head, considering. „She gave us the list of all the cases she lost. I wonder if she noted customer satisfaction in that database of hers.“
Abe picked up the phone. „One way to find out.“
Friday, February 20,
2:00 P.M.
The man who’d originally built his house played the trumpet. The man’s wife apparently held little appreciation for her husband’s musical gifts and insisted he either give up the trumpet or soundproof the basement.
He carefully pushed the basement door closed behind him.
Luckily for him, the man had really loved his trumpet. Without the soundproofing he most certainly would have been reported by a neighbor by now.
But now, there was no sound. Skinner was dead. Rigor mortis had come and gone, leaving the body limp. He approached the body, wishing a man could be killed twice. In Skinner’s case, perhaps a hundred times. The bastard had made a career of defending scum who preyed on the innocent. Skinner’s eight-bedroom house on the North Shore, his luxury cars, the fancy private schools for his children – all were bought with blood money, all paid for by the suffering of the innocent and the vile pandering of the guilty.
He drew his pistol from the drawer, knowing it was impossible to kill a man twice, knowing he’d have to be satisfied with the symbolic gesture. With little fanfare he centered the barrel of the pistol on Skinner’s forehead.