Rob's expression was stricken. "Kara… Kara…"
"I know how crazy it sounds, but doesn't it explain everything? It explains the note—it's from one of his former 'toys'—and it explains this so-called Ingrid personality in Kelly and this Janine in me. And most of all, it explains why Ed wrote Dr. Gates' name on the floor instead of mine!"
"Kara, there isn't a jury in the world that will buy that."
Kara fought the sinking, trapped feeling that threatened to overwhelm her. The apartment walls seemed to be closing in.
"I'm in big trouble, right?"
Rob nodded. "Your prints are all over the apartment, you can't account for your whereabouts at the time of the murder, and you've got what might be construed as a motive."
"Motive? I didn't know he'd… he'd been with Kelly until you told me yesterday!"
"You know that and I know that, but—"
"But what will a jury say? Is that it?"
Rob shrugged and remained silent.
"Do you think Ed might have thrown Kelly out that window?"
"He was there."
Yes. Ed Bannion had been there, and he'd bitten Kelly! He'd also been alone with Kara in Kelly's apartment. She felt cold all over.
"Then what was he doing hanging around me? Do you think he wanted to kill me?"
"Maybe. I doubt we'll ever know."
"And what about the other man they say was with Ed at the Plaza? Is he out there lurking about?"
Rob reached over and squeezed her hand.
"I'll be keeping an eye on this place—and it's here I want you to stay. Not that apartment."
Kara felt her back begin to stiffen at being told where to stay, but she made herself relax. Rob was right.
"But what if I'm… dangerous after I go to sleep?"
"Can't you talk to Ellen? Find some way to lock you in a bedroom when you call it a night?"
Kara thought about that. She could tell Ellen and Jill she'd been sleepwalking.
"That might work. What are you going to be doing?"
"I'm going to be all over Gates. He's in this up to his neck. Not like you say—sorry, but there's no way I can buy that. But he's involved. After all, it was his name Bannion wrote on the floor. So that means the good doctor's got some questions to answer. And I'm the guy who's going to be asking."
The grim determination in Rob's eyes offered her a glimmer of hope.
Jill came running into the room, a plate in one hand and her ever-present chopsticks in the other.
"Rob! Rob!" she cried, then caught Kara's sharp look. "Mr. Harris! Look at this!"
Kara watched his face brighten at the sight of her. He put an arm around her waist and drew her close. With the contact, all the tension seemed to run out of his body.
"What are they?"
"Guess!"
"Spotted rocks."
She giggled. "No! They're uncooked cookies."
"Don't look like cookies to me. Cookies are flat. Those are round."
"They flatten when they cook. But watch this!" She picked up one of the balls of raw cookie dough with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth. "See? I can do it now!"
"Well, I'll be!" Rob said, hugging her closer. "You did that just like a real Chinese! Can I have one?"
Jill picked up another with her chopsticks and got it to Rob's mouth.
"Hmmmm," he said. "Tell the cook it needs more vanilla."
"Not me!" Jill said. "You tell her!"
Jill ate another dough ball.
"You know," Rob told her, "you're so good with those, I think we can take you to a sushi bar."
"What's that?"
"That's where they eat raw fish on rice balls."
Jill made a sour face. "Eeeeuuuuu!"
Kara watched Rob rock his head back and laugh. She had to tell him about his daughter. And soon. Before he figured it out on his own.
▼
2:55 P.M.
Rob sat in Gates' waiting room and surveyed some choice photos of the murder scene. The best was a close-up of the writing on the floor. Rob had made sure the photographer had set the lamp so that the light reflected off the still-wet letters. He was anxious to show this to Gates and watch how he reacted to seeing his own name written in blood.
Kara was innocent and Gates was guilty. He firmly believed that. He had no right to. He hadn't a shred of evidence to back that up. It was a gut feeling.
Or was he fooling himself? This was why cops were supposed to stay away from cases in which they were emotionally involved. Emotions clouded judgment. Were his feelings for Kara clouding his?
Rob began to turn the photo over on his lap, then snapped it back to face up. From this angle, the smears to the right of "Gates" had looked like an "equals" sign, followed by a "K."
The hairs at the back of his neck began to rise. Gates is Kara? Rob stared at it from all angles. Was that what Bannion was trying to say? That Gates was in Kara? Like the note on the electric bill had said? Like Kara had said less than an hour ago?
The number of people who believed in that crazy idea seemed to be growing. Was it possible that—?
Rob shook off the thought. No. Couldn't be. Something like that simply wasn't possible. The smeared end of Bannion's scrawl—the "=K" part—had to be a trick of the light. People did a lot of awful things to each other in New York, but they didn't take over each other's bodies.
When Gates' patient came out, Rob scooted into the consultation room as he had done before, without waiting for the receptionist to warn the doctor.
"Detective Harris," Gates said in a bored tone. "What brings you back?"
"Your friend Edward Bannion is dead," Rob said without preamble.
It had the desired effect. Gates stiffened and blurted:
"My friend?"
Any uncertainties Rob had harbored about Gates being involved in Bannion's death evaporated with those two words. He took grim satisfaction from the fact that Gates' first response was not to ask who was Edward Bannion or what the hell Rob was talking about, but to challenge the idea that he was a friend.
He shoved a particularly gory crime scene photo under the psychiatrist's nose.
"Sure. Don't you recognize him?"
Gates took the photo and studied it. The blood and the corpse did not seem to faze him.
"I've never seen this man before in my life."
"Really?" Rob handed over the close up of the scrawl. "The last act of his life was to write your name."
Gates was clearly jolted by the sight of his name written in blood. But Rob had to hand it to him: he recovered quickly.
"This could mean anything. It doesn't say 'Dr. Gates' and it doesn't say 'Lawrence Gates,' it just says 'Gates.' That could mean anything."
"Yeah," Rob said softly, staring at him, "but you know and I know that he means you."
"Are you accusing me of murder?" Gates said.
"You said it, not me."
Gates leaned back and smiled. He picked up the key ring from his desk top and began twirling it on his finger.
"All right, Detective Harris. Let's assume you are accusing me of the murder of a man I have never even heard of until this very moment. Let's play this game through. I have no motive, and no opportunity."
"Can you account for your whereabouts at the time of the murder?"
"Which was?"
"Approximately two-thirty A.M. Sunday morning."
"I was here, in my office, working on patient charts. And I have the best witness in the world."
"Really. Who's that?"