Friday, March 17, 5:00 P.M.
It was dark. And she still couldn’t move. I’m paralyzed. But if she was paralyzed she shouldn’t feel pain. She shouldn’t feel anything and she did. Her body hurt, head to toe. Gradually her senses adjusted. It wasn’t dark, her eyes were covered with a blindfold. And I’m not paralyzed. Her hands and feet were tied, her mouth gagged.
Tied. Gagged. He has me. She was terrified. And alone.
Her back ached from the cramped position in which she was forced. She heard a weak groan to her right. I’m not alone. But she was still terrified.
Her head throbbed and her heart beat so hard it hurt. She drew a breath through her nose and smelled wet rotting earth. Was she outside? No, it wasn’t cold enough. What happened? The last thing she remembered was being in the car with Amy. Where was Amy? Did she hurt, too? Was that Amy’s moan she’d heard?
A door opened and Tess stiffened. Waiting. Footsteps padded across the hard floor. Again she heard the low moan to her right and above her a tsking sound.
“So you’re awake, old man.”
At the sound of the familiar voice Tess’s racing heart stopped, shock sending her body convulsing on a shudder. Disbelief surged. No. It wasn’t possible. It was another voice imitation. Or a nightmare. Please, let this be a nightmare. A terrible nightmare. But a very real toe kicked her aching back, drawing a very real moan from her throat.
“You’re awake, too. Looks like our little family reunion is about to begin.”
The blindfold cut into her skin as it tightened, then abruptly loosened and Tess found herself staring up into the eyes she’d trusted for so many years. Now they sparkled brilliantly. Wickedly. Insanely. Horror gripped her and she simply couldn’t look away. Dear God.
Amy’s smile turned her blood to ice. “I told you when you woke up everything would be fine. See? Daddy is here.”
Numbly, Tess rolled her head sideways. Her father lay curled next to her, his eyes closed, his head less than a foot away. Her eyes skittered up, around. This room was a closet. A tiny little closet. A cold sweat shivered down her body and nausea built. What felt like a groan in her throat came out a whimper and once again Amy smiled.
“It is a little room. You’re probably wondering what’s going to happen to you now.”
Tess could only stare.
“You’re thinking She’s insane.” Amy grabbed her hair and jerked her face up, her eyes now flat and cold. She shook her hard. “Aren’t you?” She threw Tess’s head back and it hit the floor with a thud Tess more heard than felt. She felt . . . dissociated. Floaty.
“The tranquilizer’s still wearing off. You know, all that worry about your heart, all that exercise, the aspirin, the glass of red wine a day? Not necessary. You’re strong as an ox. If that tranq didn’t kill you, nothing will.” She opened the door then laughed. “No, wait. I will. But I want you totally coherent when I do. I want you to feel everything.” She closed the door, leaving Tess stunned. Defenseless. Terrified.
Her father moaned. I have to get him out of here. He’ll die. Then a horrified laugh scraped her throat. Of course he will. So will I.
Friday, March 17, 5:15 P.M.
Aidan looked at the conference room whiteboard, aware of every one of the five hours she’d been gone. The board was covered with names of customers he’d found in Lawe’s ledger. All were corporations that made nothing, served no purpose other than to link to other corporations that made nothing. Arrows pointed in every direction.
In the middle of it all was Deering, which linked to Davis, which linked to Turner and back to Deering. The elaborate labyrinth of corporate entities smacked of money laundering, of someone with assets or activities to hide. Who was Lawe’s customer?
The elaborate labyrinth did not tell them where to find Tess. Vito and Jon and Amy frantically called every hour and each time he had to tell them the same thing. She’s still missing. We’re still working on it. He’d never felt so desperately helpless in his life.
“What the hell is that?” Murphy demanded behind him. He came into the conference room and stared at the board, his normally placid face hard and angry.
“I take it you can’t find Swanson.”
Murphy’s jaw twitched. “Not a trace. Customs has no record of him leaving the country. I checked with a stamp expert who said the stamp from Chad is sold in collector packets on eBay. The postmark is a fake. Nobody has seen Swanson. He’s either dead or gone under.” He closed his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s been five hours.”
Aidan shoved back the fear that was clawing its way up his throat. “I know.”
“So what the hell is this? Looks like Madden’s Monday night play-by-play.”
“These are the corporations listed as Lawe’s customers. I checked all the individuals in his ledger and most of them were divorce cases, so I assumed Lawe was looking for assets or doing surveillance for custody disputes. These corporations are suspicious because it’s the perfect way for a person to operate under the radar.”
“It’s a shell game,” Murphy said.
“Exactly. A and B partner to form company C, which hires and pays Lawe. I can’t find a single individual on the officer’s roster. But Deering is the main entity.”
Spinnelli and Jack came in and frowned at the board. “Nothing?” Spinnelli asked.
“Nothing,” Aidan confirmed bitterly. “It’s driving me insane.”
“Well, here’s something new for you,” Jack said. “I examined Dr. Carter’s coat, the one he wore to the viewing yesterday.” He held out his hand and in his palm was another sewn-in needle-sized microphone. “I went back to his place and checked the rest of the clothes in his and Archer’s closets. This was the only one that was wired.”
“Then he was there last night,” Murphy said. “At the viewing.”
“There’s a few more things you should see. One of my guys found this in Parks’s apartment.” It was a small plastic bag that held a hair. “It’s not Parks’s fiancé’s. I’ve established that. It could belong to his maid. I’m checking. It appears to be a woman’s hair. There is evidence of chemical color. Highlighting.”
Aidan stared at the hair, his mind speeding ahead. “But the shoes.”
“We examined the plaster casts we took of the footprints outside your back door, Aidan. The outline perfectly matches the shoeprints we found on Bacon’s bathroom floor. But the pattern in these new footprints isn’t consistent. The depth changes from front to back, side to side with every step, like the feet inside the shoes slipped around. And, the person who left the prints weighed between one twenty and one thirty-five.”
“Not a man,” Spinnelli said. “A woman. Masterson?”
“Denise Masterson fits that description, but she wasn’t at the viewing last night, at least not while we were there,” Murphy said while Aidan thought about the night before, the people he’d seen. A snippet of conversation stood out in his mind.
“She’s a difficult person to care for,” Aidan murmured.
Jack frowned. “What?”
“Amy Miller said that about Tess last night at the viewing. I thought she meant Tess was hard to take care of.” He was reluctant to believe where his mind was headed.
“She’s the right height, right weight,” Murphy said quietly, voicing Aidan’s thoughts aloud. “Her blonde hair is streaked blonder.”
“But they’ve been friends for twenty years. She took care of Tess when she was sick, defended her when she thought we suspected her. She and Amy are practically family. But she does have a key to Tess’s apartment, and access to her office, too.” He rubbed his temples. “She’s been calling me every hour, asking if there is any news. Why? Why would she do this? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Can we tie her to Rivera or Bacon?” Spinnelli asked tightly. “Or Lawe? We need to be able to tie her to more than just Tess to get a warrant.”
Aidan rose, every muscle tensed. “If there’s a link we’ll find it. For now, let’s check her apartment. She could have Tess there. I’ll go right now.”
Spinnelli held him back. “No. Not you.”
Desperation clawed, but he controlled it. “I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Not knowingly. But if it is Miller, she’s smart. If she suspects we’re on to her she could go under and then we won’t find Tess. Let’s at least get her in here where we can watch her while we get a search warrant for her place. I’ll call her, tell her we have a lead and ask her to come in and look at some mug shots. You find a link.”
“What about Swanson?” Murphy asked. “Should we stop looking for him?”
Spinnelli pursed his lips. “You’re sure Swanson wasn’t at the viewing last night?”
“I checked the funeral home video we made,” Murphy said. “He wasn’t there.”
Spinnelli nodded. “Then focus on Miller. Find me a link.”
“Bacon was an ex-con,” Aidan said. “Rivera’s brother’s in jail waiting trial, and Miller’s a defense attorney.”
“That’s a place to start,” Spinnelli said. “Call me when you find something.”
In thirty minutes Spinnelli was back. “Miller’s not answering her home phone or her office phone. Do you have a cell number?”
“No. Tess had it programmed into her cell phone. I have Jon Carter’s numbers, though.” From his wallet Aidan pulled the emergency list Jon had given him the day Malcolm Seward nearly killed Tess. “This time of day he’s probably at the hospital.”
Spinnelli hesitated. “I don’t want him tipping Miller off.”
“I don’t think he would, Marc,” Murphy said thoughtfully.
Aidan stared at the paper in his hand, remembering the afternoon Carter had written it. “I agree. In fact, I think we should bring him in. He knows Amy. Knows her habits. We have to get inside her head to know what she’s going to do next.”
Spinnelli nodded stiffly. “All right. Call him. But ask him to come here. We tell him here. And since we’re bringing in the people who know Miller best, let’s get Vito Ciccotelli and his mother in here. He’s got to be going crazy sitting on his hands.”
Friday, March 17, 6:00 P.M.
The stage was set. All the actors in place. But there was a sense of dissatisfaction. The end would come all too soon. So much planning, so much anticipation required a longer, more meaningful payout. Ciccotelli’s life could be ended with a simple bullet to the head. Either of the Ciccotellis in fact. It would probably be safer that way.
But far less satisfying. I’ll play with her for just a little longer. Make it last a little longer. Because when it’s over, there will be nothing. The future loomed, empty and desolate. Because of her. Because of Tess Ciccotelli. Goddamn her to hell.
Rage pulsed and visions of Ciccotelli’s body, torn and mutilated taunted. Beckoned. Not yet. Get control of yourself. Sit down and get control of yourself.
The computer chair was the only place to sit, but from there the computer screen called. It was better than magic. It was access. Total and complete access to anyone, anytime. Access was information. Information was power. And power was everything.
There were microphones to check. Fewer now that Ciccotelli’s apartment and office had been swept clean. But the upside was that Ciccotelli no longer occupied either place. She was in essence, homeless. Jobless. It made losing the access worthwhile.
That the police had found the devices was an expected outcome. What had been unanticipated was Ciccotelli’s discovery of the mike in the cat’s collar. Bad luck there.
The recording quality had been poor, the cat’s purring a source of interference, but the information obtained had been of the highest quality, little Rachel’s anonymous tip to the police and Reagan’s concern over finding a little boy’s killer perhaps the most useful. It had only taken a few discreetly placed calls to find out who the little boy was and his father’s name. A call to a female client with something to hide guaranteed a series of randomly placed phone calls luring Reagan to various points around the city where the boy’s father would allegedly be.
He’d figure it out quickly, but wouldn’t be able to resist any of the calls on the off-chance it could be real. People with scruples were so easy to manipulate.
Now Joanna Carmichael was another story. Hers was one of the few devices that remained, but the mike worked elegantly. The girl had done a good job, tailing Ciccotelli. Her threat to expose Ciccotelli’s friends had been alarming at first, but so far, she’d done nothing more in depth than the amateurish exposé on Jon Carter. Unfortunately the buzz would do nothing more than boost business at Robin’s bistro.
And, thinking of Jon and Robin, it was likely the police had found the video at Parks’s apartment and even now suspected the pair. Parks had been a loose end that desperately needed snipping and there had been no time to lure him away to a safe place. The shoes had been a clever ploy and combined with the calls luring Reagan to the far sides of the city should throw the police off for a while. When all was said and done, most of the bastards in blue couldn’t find their asses with both hands. Although Reagan and Murphy were a little smarter than most and unflaggingly loyal to boot.
That kind of loyalty never ceased to mystify. Saps, all of them.
The file holding feed from Joanna’s home phone was open now. Six telephone calls had passed in and out of Joanna’s phone since Wednesday. A mouse click had the tape rolling. The first five calls were of no consequence, but the sixth . . .
“Joanna Carmichael, this is Kelsey Chin.”
A jolt of shock permeated. She’d found Chin. Chin, who knew things. Private things. Joanna had made an appointment to see Chin . . . this morning. Like Bacon, Joanna now had unauthorized information. Like Bacon, Joanna would have to go.
Friday, March 17, 6:10 P.M.
Murphy hung up his phone. “Guess who defended David Bacon?”
Aidan didn’t look up from the list of people who’d visited Nicole Rivera’s brother in jail. Amy Miller was nowhere in sight. “Arthur somebody from Legal Aid. I checked that.”
“But guess who Arthur the Legal Aid guy took the case from when she excused herself for conflict of interest in the middle of the case?”
Now he looked up. “Amy Miller?”
“None other. Arthur said she got as far as filing the motions when Eleanor Brigham was assigned the case. Because Miller knew Eleanor through Tess, she asked the judge to excuse her. At the time Arthur thought it was because she had a full caseload.”
Aidan’s pulse spiked. Finally, something they could use. “It’s a strong link. She knew Bacon’s talents. She put him on her contact list for future use.”
Murphy picked up the phone. “I’ll call Patrick.”
“You have something then?”
Aidan twisted in his chair to where Vito Ciccotelli stood with his mother in the doorway, Spinnelli just behind them. Vito looked terrible and Aidan’s heart bent in sympathy. He had a harder time with Gina Ciccotelli. On the way to the viewing the night before, Tess had told him of her reconciliation with her father. She’d also related her mother’s role in the whole terrible misunderstanding. Aidan didn’t think he could be as forgiving. Still, his own mother had taught him respect and he came to his feet.
“We may,” Aidan confirmed. “Sit, please. We’d wanted to bring you two together with Jon Carter, but he’s in surgery for the next hour.” Aidan pulled out a chair for Tess’s mother, then straightened to meet Vito’s dark eyes, so like Tess’s he once again had to press the fear back. “It’s a woman,” he said directly. “We think it’s Amy Miller.”
Gina gasped, her hand flying to cover her heart. “No. That’s simply not possible. She’s like my own daughter. She’d never hurt Tess.”
But Vito sat very still. “I don’t know, Mom. I think she would.”
“Why, Vito?” Murphy asked. “What do you know?”
“Nothing specific,” he murmured. “Just a feeling I’ve had for years. I didn’t want to have it, so I told myself I was wrong.” His mouth twisted. “I should have listened to myself. You know Amy lived with us from the time she was fifteen.”
“Tess said they were like sisters,” Aidan said, “but no. I didn’t know she lived with you. Why did she?”
“Because her father was murdered. Amy’s father and my father were business partners and good friends. Amy’s mom had died . . . oh, a long time before.”
“When Amy was two,” Gina whispered. “She killed herself.”
Vito frowned. “You never told us that.”
“Amy’s father never wanted her to know, so we never told her. We took her in. Made her our own. Vito, you’re wrong. Amy can’t be involved in this.”
“How was her father murdered?” Aidan asked tightly.
“He and his fiancé were stabbed in a robbery.” Vito dropped his eyes. “Amy was assaulted. Raped.” Vito paused meaningfully. “She said. They arrested a neighbor kid.”
“Leon Vanneti,” Gina said, her voice trembling. “He was a no-good boy. Ran wild with those motorcycle boys.” She swallowed hard. “You always said he was innocent.”
“Because I thought he was.”
“You said ‘she said,’” Murphy observed. “Why?”
“I knew Leon. He was wild, but he wasn’t bad. But the hospital did an exam. Found semen and some bruising. It all came out at the trial.”
“Along with the bloody knife they found under his bed,” Gina snapped. “Vito, how can you say these things?”
“Because it didn’t make sense. Leon wasn’t stupid. He would have hidden his tracks. He said he’d never touched her but the jury didn’t believe him. Bad-looking motorcycle dude versus a sweet little girl. There was no DNA analysis because it was about seven years too early. Now Leon’s serving a life sentence.”
“And Amy became a defense attorney,” Murphy mused. “Being a victim, I would have thought she’d go the opposite way and prosecute.”
Amy’s career motives were something to consider. Aidan tucked the thought away. “Why did you think Amy could hurt Tess?”
Vito shrugged uneasily. “It was more of a feeling. Tess was the only one of us to have her own room, because she was the only girl, but she was thrilled to share with Amy when she came to live with us. Amy wanted her own room. Made a hell of a fuss. She always wanted special treatment.”
“She’d just lost her parents,” Gina protested.
“So you said,” Vito said. “Many times. Then things would go missing. Little things, nothing big. And there was the crawl space thing.”
Gina shook her head, desperation in the gesture. “An accident. Vito, please.”
“What crawl space thing?” Aidan asked, but he thought he knew.
“When she was sixteen, Tess got locked in the crawl space under the house where we grew up.” Vito said. “It’s small and dark, and—”
“That’s why she never takes the elevator,” Aidan murmured and Vito nodded.
“We’d gone away for a long weekend. Tess and Amy were supposed to go to a friend’s, but Amy changed her mind and came back to go with us. Apparently Tess followed her but got locked in the crawl space. She was down there for three days. No food or water. She’d pounded her hands to a pulp and scratched until her fingernails were broken to the quick.”
Aidan flinched. “God.”
“Amy claimed that she didn’t know Tess had decided to come home and go with us. But it was hard to blame Amy. She felt terrible. Nursed Tess for days.”
Gina pushed away from the table. “Vito, this is wrong.” Her arms crossed over her chest, she paced angrily. Then stopped abruptly in front of the whiteboard, her entire expression flattening in shock. “What is this?” Her question was hoarse.
Aidan got up and walked to the board. Her hand shook as her finger tentatively touched one of the corporations’ names. Deering. The key entity.
“This name. I’ve seen it before.” She turned to look at Vito, her eyes filled with horrified realization. “It was the customer that hired that woman.”
That woman. Realization hit Aidan like a brick as Vito surged to his feet. Amy. Again. Tess’s and her father’s estrangement had been no misunderstanding. No accident. A fury bubbled from deep within him.
“What woman?” Murphy asked.
Aidan evenly, quickly, told the story.
“The one that’s ripped our family in two for five fucking years,” Vito fumed. “That conniving bitch. Amy wanted Tess out of the picture so she deliberately set Dad up.”
“While she came to our Thanksgiving table and sat in Tess’s chair.” Gina’s eyes filled with tears.
“And it worked for five years.” Wearily Aidan rubbed his head.
“Phillip Parks,” Murphy said behind him, very quietly and Aidan knew.
“Amy was Parks’s other woman.”
Murphy nodded. “When we questioned Parks he might have told us, exposing her.”
Aidan sank into his chair. “She’s been systematically ruining Tess’s life for years.”
“Why did Amy’s mother kill herself?” Spinnelli asked.
“She was paranoid schizophrenic.” Gina was trembling uncontrollably. “We watched Amy so carefully. We knew it was inherited sometimes. But Amy always seemed so normal. So happy. We didn’t want to scare her so we never told her.”
Vito closed his eyes. “God.”
“Did Tess know this?” Aidan demanded and Gina shook her head.
“It was Amy’s father’s wish that nobody ever know. So we kept it hidden.”
The phone on the conference room table rang and Murphy snapped it up. “Thanks,” he said and hung up. “Patrick says he’ll meet us at Miller’s with the warrant. Let’s go.”
Friday, March 17, 6:45 P.M.
Sometimes the best approach was to hide in plain sight. A brisk knock brought a man to the door. The boyfriend . . . what was his name? Keith. Must remember the details. But the boyfriend was not the desired party. Joanna Carmichael was.
“Can I help you?” he asked with a deep drawl.
“I’m here to meet with Miss Carmichael regarding her ongoing investigative piece.”
Keith’s jaw tightened. “Oh,” he said flatly. “That. Well, she’s not home right now. You’ll have to come back later.” He started to shut the door, then his eyes widened with shock as he stared at the pistol, complete with a silencer.
“Now where is that Southern hospitality I’ve heard so much about? Invite me in.”
He backed up at a suspicious angle, hitting a desk that sat just inside the door, his hands behind his back. He moved quickly, but ultimately not quickly enough. His knees hit the floor before he could point the gun he’d pulled from the drawer, a red stain quickly spreading across the front of his starched white shirt. It was just as well. He’d been a dead man from the moment he’d opened the door. He’d just sped up the timetable when he’d pulled the gun. Foolish, really.
He probably wouldn’t have had the guts to use it anyway. He fell forward, his gun slipping from his grasp to lie harmlessly on the carpet. It would make a charming souvenir. The floorplan of this place was much like Cynthia Adams’s apartment, ten floors up. Carmichael would be home soon. The closet would be a reasonable place—
The boom of Keith’s gun shook the air in the same moment that pain speared, hot and sharp. And then pain gave way to shock. He shot me. My arm. He propped himself up on his elbows, the gun held unsteadily in both hands. A grim smile stamped on his mouth. The sonofabitch really did have the guts after all.
“Fuck you,” he rasped. Then he collapsed, trapping the gun beneath him.
Shock gave way to fear. Run. Run. A second passed before her feet obeyed. The stairwell was closer. Run. Down one floor, now two. Breathe. The sleeve of the tan coat had a neat hole around which blood had already soaked.
Carefully she took it off and walked out onto the tenth floor, the coat draped to cover the wound. The elevator came quickly and with no further ado, descended quickly to the lobby. From there, walking out as cool as a cucumber was no issue at all.
Friday, March 17, 7:00 P.M.
She wasn’t here. Aidan stood in the middle of Amy Miller’s living room watching Jack’s team look for anything that might indicate Tess had been here. But there was nothing. Nothing. And he felt true fear. Cold. Debilitating. Paralyzing in its intensity.
Tess and her father weren’t here. Neither was Amy. Fury bubbled up and he silently clenched his fists at his sides. Made himself take a deep breath. Losing his temper wouldn’t bring Tess back safely. Understanding Amy would bring Tess back. Figuring out Amy’s next step before she made it would bring Tess back.
I’m not a mind reader, Tess had said. Suddenly, fiercely, Aidan wished that he was. He needed to be. Needed to get inside Amy’s head.
Don’t be a mind reader. Be a cop. Do your job like you do every day. The fist that clenched his gut eased, just enough to get his focus back. Get inside her head. Aidan did a slow turn around the room, examining the movie posters that covered the walls. “She’s a collector,” he murmured, vaguely surprised. It was a rather eclectic collection, spanning the 1930s to the 1990s. Some movies were classics, others more obscure.
All had a common theme. His heart started to thud. “Murphy! Come here.”
Murphy came from the kitchen holding two glass jars, one in each hand. “What?” He looked up and whistled. “These must be worth a mint.”
“They are, but it’s not the money. It’s the meaning. Look.” He started at the end of one wall, pointing. “Double Indemnity with Barbara Stanwyck.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Murphy said.
“Woman uses a man to kill her husband and gets away with it. All About Eve.”
Murphy’s eyes were bright. “Anne Baxter plays another manipulative bitch. They’re all movies where women win.”
Aidan stared at the poster that was centered on one wall and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. His heart was racing now. “Murphy, listen.” He read off the actresses’ names. “Stanwyck, Turner, Davis, Baxter.”
Murphy’s eyes widened. “The corporations you had on the white board.” He scanned the posters. “But Deering was the name in the middle. I don’t see that.”
Aidan tapped the poster in the middle. “This one is from Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte. Olivia de Havilland drives her ‘friend’ Bette Davis insane. De Havilland’s character’s name was Miriam Deering. Each one of these movies is about a woman manipulating either men or other women. It’s a fucking road map. She must have thought she was so damn clever. Tess would have seen the posters a million times.”
“And she never suspected a thing. Amy taunted her with the information and Tess never suspected. How much are these posters worth, Aidan?”
“If they’re original? Close to two hundred grand total.”
“You took a film appreciation class when you were getting your degree, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Aidan said flatly. The thrill of cracking the code had quickly cooled. “Hell of a lot of good it does me now. What does any of this have to do with where Miller is right now?”
Murphy clasped his shoulder and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “Try to relax your mind, Aidan. Think about what we know, not about what we don’t. Think about this. Two hundred grand is a lot of cash to plunk down for wall decor. I looked at Miller’s 1040 for last year and she only declared sixty in income. The rent on this apartment is consistent with that. The posters aren’t.”
Aidan lifted his brows. “Earlier, you said you were surprised she didn’t become a prosecutor. If you’re looking for shady minions to do your bidding . . .”
“As a defense attorney, she has access to all the bad guys she needs to do any little thing she wants done.” Murphy looked around the living room. “You know the one thing I expected to see was a big computer system. When Rick showed us all the cameras I had a vision of this James Bond-like console that had ten monitors and covered a whole wall. There’s no computer here. Not even a monitor.”
“She probably has a laptop.”
“Probably, but she had all this footage to watch. Cameras in Tess’s apartment, her office, Cynthia Adams’s apartment . . . I can’t imagine her spending the time watching one feed at a time, especially since she still puts in time on her job. She’s got to have at least two or three monitors, Aidan. Otherwise, it’s not logistically possible.”
Aidan nodded grimly. “Then she’s got another place where she plays. I’ll check into any real-estate holdings of her corporations, starting with Deering.”
“Aidan, Murphy,” Jack called from the bedroom urgently. “Come and see.”
Aidan stopped short at the sight. The armoire doors were thrown back, revealing dozens of pictures. One face was common to all. “Swanson,” Aidan murmured.
Vito stood at the foot of Amy’s bed, his head bent under a frilly pink canopy. “There are more under here,” he said flatly.
Aidan and Murphy bent close to the pictures on the armoire. Many were group photos. “This was taken at Robin Archer’s bistro. Tess has one just like it.” But closer inspection had his gut clenching once again. “She’s cut Tess out of this picture.”
“Out of all the pictures,” Murphy murmured. “Looks like Swanson sat next to Tess every chance he got. Miller is obsessed with this guy.”
Aidan glanced at Vito. “Swanson went missing three months ago.”
“I was thinking he was dead, but if Miller was stalking him and he felt threatened, he might have used the Doctors Without Borders ruse to disappear,” Murphy said.
“Look at these,” was all Vito said and stepped back from the bed.
Aidan stuck his head under the canopy and blinked. “Holy shit.” The entire area of the canopy was filled with more pictures of Swanson in various stages of undress. “Looks like he was in his bedroom when she took these through the window.”
“I went by his last known address yesterday.” Murphy frowned. “The bedroom faced the street. These pictures would have had to be taken from an apartment across the street.” He lifted a brow. “It could be where she plays.”
Aidan felt a little lift of hope. “Let’s get over there.”
“I’ll call Spinnelli. He can start checking addresses. Get us a warrant.”
“Wait. Before you go . . .” Standing in the bedroom closet doorway, Jack held up a pair of wingtips. “Right size. Blood on the laces.” He turned them over. “No mud on the soles. We’ll test to see if the blood is Bacon’s.”
“Then she had two pairs of shoes,” Murphy mused. “Those and the ones she wore this afternoon when she hit Vito.”
“She has a whole hell of a lot more than that.” Jack stepped back. “Take a look.”
Two large suitcases lay opened on the floor, filled with men’s clothes. “The luggage tag says ‘Jim Swanson,’” Jack said. “His wallet’s there, with his driver’s license, a plane ticket to Chad, and his passport. And this, wrapped in a shirt.” It was a butcher knife, crusted dark brown.
Aidan’s blood went cold. “He’s dead then. She killed him.”
“But why?” Murphy asked. “Why would she do that?”
“She was obsessed with Swanson,” Aidan said, his stomach still pitching. “The night before he left he got drunk, remember? He went to Jon Carter’s, spilled his guts.” He glanced over at Vito. “Swanson was in love with Tess, but she’d turned him down. It was why he went to Africa.”
Vito’s eyes widened. “This is that guy? She told me that it had happened. Never told me the guy’s name. She says I’m the only one she told. She felt guilty as hell.”
“So let’s play this out.” Aidan pointed to himself. “I’m Amy. Murphy, you’re Swanson. You’ve come home from Carter’s and you’re drunk and despondent. Not fleet on your feet. Meanwhile, I’m pining for you. Have all these pictures of you. You’re leaving tomorrow and I may never see you again. I go to you and . . . what? Pledge my love?”
“She might.” Murphy nodded. “But I say ‘No way. I love Tess.’ You get mad. What happened when she got mad, Vito? Really mad?”
Vito paled. “I only saw her really mad once. She’d been stood up by some date for a school dance. The guy got a better offer from a more popular girl. She completely trashed her room, throwing things . . .” He swallowed. “She slashed up the dress she was supposed to have worn along with the mattress on her bed. She begged me to help her get the ripped mattress out of her room before Mom and Dad found out. She said she cut the mattress by mistake, but they were gouges, like she’d stabbed it. If my parents had only told us about her mother . . . I never would have kept that secret.”
“She’d be horrified when she saw what she’d done. She loved him and she killed him,” Murphy said slowly. “And in her mind, it’s all Tess’s fault.”
“This was the trigger that changed this from a habitual torment to focused vendetta.” Aidan drew a deep breath. “She wanted to strip everything from Tess. Her career, her credibility.” Her life. He couldn’t bring himself to say those words.
“You,” Murphy added. “You were supposed to leave when Rachel was threatened.”
“But you didn’t,” Vito said unsteadily. “Thank you.”
Aidan remembered the look on Tess’s face when she thought he had. He’d thought she’d known what was in his mind. He’d thought she’d figured him out, all nice and tidy because that’s what she did. She analyzed and diagnosed. Helped suicidal people at their most vulnerable. Blocked killers and rapists from using insanity to escape justice. And she was very good at what she did.
He’d thought such skill would be ingrained, reflexive, something she did with everyone. But it seemed the people she cared about were not subject to such scrutiny. Because she cared openly and without reservation, she expected the same. It had left her vulnerable to those whose motives were selfish or brutal. Phillip Parks. Denise Masterson. Amy Miller.
“Jack.” One of the CSU techs came back, a brown envelope in his hand.
Jack pulled out a stack of postcards and a sheet of stamps from Chad. “They’re already written,” Jack said. “She planned to send these out every few months.”
“She must have written the letter to the clinic’s director,” Murphy added. “To cover up what she’d done. Let’s check out the apartments across from Swanson’s old place.”
“And any other real estate held by the Deering corporation.” Aidan was almost out the door when his cell phone rang.
“Reagan, this is Jon Carter. I just got out of surgery and got my messages. One was from you and one was from Amy Miller.”
Aidan stopped short. “What did she say?”
“It was a strange message. She said she needed my help, that it was an emergency. She said she’d been with a client, a young kid who panicked and shot her. She wants to meet me so I can stitch her up because she doesn’t want the GSW reported. Said she didn’t want this kid’s life ruined because he made a mistake.”
“Where is she supposed to meet you?”
“I told her I’d meet her at my house in thirty minutes. I called you because as I was standing in surgery, I kept thinking about last night. Amy held my coat while I gave my condolences to Flo Ernst. I hope I’m wrong, but I won’t take a chance with Tess’s life.”
“We’re on our way, Jon. We’ll be at your house in fifteen minutes.”
“Then I was right.” He sounded weary.
“Yeah.” Aidan drew a breath. “You were right.”
Friday, March 17, 7:30 P.M.
“Tess?” It was a weak moan, barely audible.
Tess lifted her head and squinted in the darkness, so relieved. Her father was conscious. Alive. Cautiously she rolled to her side and met his eyes. His hands and feet were also tied, but for some reason Amy hadn’t gagged him.
Amy. It was so unbelievable. Until she started stringing things together. The crawl space. She’d been so shell-shocked at the time and Amy had been so solicitous. Just as she’d been after the con with the chain. She brought me soup. Nasty soup. Tess had always thought Amy was just a terrible cook. Now the six weeks she spent weak and vomiting began to make more sense. She poisoned me. What a bitch. But why?
Because she’s insane, Tess. And Tess had learned that sometimes that was the only reason anybody needed. But Amy’s anger had changed. Before Cynthia Adams, her anger had never been lethal. Just . . . mean. What changed?
Tentatively she nudged her father’s knee with her own.
“Tess,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”
For how long? She nudged him again, giving comfort, seeking it at the same time.
“I have a knife in my pocket,” he murmured. “My whittling knife. Can you get it?”
His whittling knife. He’d always been ready to carve her a knickknack of some kind when she was small, keeping the knife in the holster pocket of his carpenter pants. She could see it in her mind’s eye. Now if only she could reach it with her bound hands.
Friday, March 17, 7:30 P.M.
Joanna headed for her apartment building with a spring in her step. Her visit to Lexington had been eye-opening, Dr. Chin’s information a springboard for what had become a piece of serious journalism. She hadn’t gotten Ciccotelli’s exclusive, but what she had gotten on the doctor’s best friend might be better. She couldn’t wait to tell Keith.
She’d done it. She’d finally done it. A byline of her own. And nothing like the frothy piece she’d written on Jon Carter’s alternate lifestyle that would appear in the society gossip page. This was hard-hitting journalism. It was page one. Above the fold.
Finally. And Cyrus Bremin wouldn’t scoop her on this one. She had the editor’s promise. But the man had promised before and given her story away, so she’d have to wait and see. Still, she rounded the corner with a grin on her face.
The grin faded and her step faltered as her building came into view. For the second time in a week an ambulance was on her curb. She sprinted the last block. Where before she’d been excited at the prospect of reporting Cynthia Adams’s suicide, now she felt dread.
She caught up with a cop. “I live in this building. What’s happened?”
He looked at her face, his eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”
“Joanna Carmichael.”
His eyes went flat. “We’ve been looking for you. Come with me.”
No. Dread mounted as he led her to the elevator and up to her floor. No. The door to her apartment was open. People were inside. Not people. More cops. Keith.
She was stopped a few feet from the door by a tall dark man and a smaller blonde woman. The man put a hand on her shoulder. “Miss Carmichael?” Numbly she nodded.
“I’m Detective Mitchell and this is my partner Detective Reagan,” the woman said. “Can you tell us where you were an hour ago?”
Her heart slowed to next to nothing. The tall dark one was the brother of Ciccotelli’s cop boyfriend. “With my editor at the Bulletin. Why?”
The woman looked her straight in the eye. “We have bad news for you.”
The woman’s words were drowned out by the squeak of gurney wheels. It bore a body bag. “Keith?” She started after the gurney, panic sending everything else to the back of her mind. The voice she heard screaming was her own. “Keith.”