Sunday, March 12, 6:30 P.M.
Aidan stepped out of the cold evening rain and into his parents’ warm laundry room. He shivered even as the smell of something delicious teased his nose. It would be the pot roast his mother had made for Sunday dinner and . . . he sniffed again with appreciation. Pie.
Let it be cherry, he thought, stripping off his drenched overcoat. He grabbed a faded towel from a basket and briskly whisked his head dry before going into the kitchen where his mother stood at the sink loading the dishwasher. From the stack of plates they must have had a full house, he thought wistfully, wishing he’d been there, too. It had been some time since the whole family had been together on a Sunday afternoon. They were all so busy with their lives.
Becca Reagan looked up and a smile lit her eyes, for some reason making his heart squeeze in his chest. The picture of Cynthia Adams lying dead on the street filled his mind, along with Ciccotelli’s voice. She has no next of kin, she’d said. No mother to smile when she came home and only monstrous memories of a father that abused her. Then the mental image became that of a child homicide he’d been working before taking the Adams call. A six-year-old boy killed by the boy’s own father. After Ciccotelli and her lawyer had gone, Aidan had visited the boy’s mother. The mother knew where the father was hiding, but she protected the brute when she hadn’t protected her own son.
If he tried to understand, he’d lose his mind. So he focused on his own mother’s voice, warm with welcome.
“Aidan! I was wondering when you’d come by.”
Aidan kissed her cheek. “Hi, Mom. Anything left?”
She looked him up and down, carefully scrutinizing. It was a familiar look, the one she’d given his father every day after he’d returned home from a day on the streets. After a career of CPD service, Kyle Reagan now enjoyed his retirement. She dried her hands and cupped Aidan’s cheek in her palm, her eyes understanding. She’d ask nothing unless he offered. It was one of the things about her he loved most. One of the things he’d never found in another woman. God only knew he’d tried. Which was why he was still single at thirty-three, he supposed.
“There’s a plate of leftover roast in the fridge. Pie’s still cooling.” She lifted a brow. “Your timing’s as perfect as ever it was.”
He managed a tired smile. “Excellent.”
“Your head’s all wet, boy. You’ll catch pneumonia, you know.”
He opened the refrigerator door. “That’s because it’s raining, Mom. And the Camaro top sprang a leak on the way home.”
She sighed. “It would do no good to tell you to get a sensible car.”
He just grinned and sat down at the large kitchen table. “The Camaro’s got two hundred and ninety horses.”
She rolled her eyes, accustomed to his response. “Your father has some duct tape in the garage. Eat your supper then go fix that heap of yours.”
“Already did,” he said with his mouth full. “Stopped by the store for tape on my way over here.” When he’d cleaned his plate she took it away and deposited a new plate filled with a large wedge of pie.
“You missed Sean and Ruth and the children. Abe and Kristen are still here,” she said. “Your father’s trying to teach the baby about point spreads.”
His fifteen-month-old niece, Kara. His goddaughter. His heart squeezed again, thinking of the happiness his brother Abe had finally found. “I know. Abe’s SUV’s taking up the whole driveway, which is why I’m parked in the street. Where’s Rachel?” His sixteen-year-old sister was growing up entirely too fast for his liking.
“She’s at a friend’s house. She’ll be home by nine. I think she’s got some boy trouble, but she hasn’t told me.” She lifted a brow. “Maybe you can talk to her.”
Aidan grunted. “About boys? Hell, no. If I was Dad I’d keep her locked in her room till she was twenty-five then nobody would have to worry about those boys.”
“You were one of those boys once.”
“My point exactly.”
She sipped at her coffee, her eyes sobering. “I saw Shelley’s mother last week, in the beauty parlor.”
Aidan’s jaw clenched. Shelley St. John was an off-limits topic. “Mom, today is not the day for this.”
Becca nodded. “I know. But I didn’t want you to hear this from somebody else and be unprepared. She’s getting married.”
Once he’d felt hurt. Now he felt only disgust. “I know.”
His mother’s eyes flew open. “You do? How?”
“She sent me an invitation.” One final, well-placed jab in a line of so many. Shelley had been well-versed in the art of backstabbing and betrayal. “Now drop it, please.”
Becca sighed. “Eat your pie before your brother realizes I’ve cut it for you.”
“It’s too late,” Abe growled from the doorway. “Dammit, Aidan, you’re eating it all.”
“You snooze, you lose,” Aidan replied smoothly.
Grumbling, his brother snatched a plate and sat down at the table. “What happened to you? You’re all wet.”
Becca set the coffeepot between them. “It’s raining, Abe,” she said and Aidan smiled in spite of himself.
But Abe wasn’t smiling. “You haven’t slept, have you? You still working the Morris boy?”
Aidan shook his head. “Me and Murphy spent all yesterday afternoon tracking the slimy SOB of a father, but he’s gone under. We picked up a new case just after midnight. Kept us busy all day.”
Abe frowned. “The only new case on the board from last night was a jumper.”
Aidan focused at his dessert. “It wasn’t a suicide. Not really.”
“How can it not really be a suicide?” Becca wanted to know. “Isn’t that like being a little bit pregnant?”
“Who’s pregnant?” His sister-in-law, Kristen, entered the kitchen, holding a baby with red curls. She narrowed her eyes at the remaining slice of pie, then at Abe. “Hey.”
“Talk to Ma,” Abe said with a shrug and reached for the baby.
“Who’s pregnant?” Kristen repeated, joining them at the table.
Abe bounced Kara on his knee. “Nobody. Aidan grabbed a jumper last night.”
Kristen grimaced. “Tough night.” His sister-in-law knew all about tough cases. A prosecutor for the states attorney’s office, Kristen saw her share of bodies daily.
Aidan sighed. “You don’t know the half of it. This woman was being treated by a psychiatrist who—” He stopped when Abe and Kristen flashed each other a look.
“Tess Ciccotelli,” Kristen said flatly. “So you’re the one who dragged her into Interview this afternoon. Hell, Aidan.”
Aidan looked from Kristen to Abe. Kristen looked furious and Abe was fiercely concentrating on retying the bow in Kara’s curly hair. Aidan knew he was on his own. “How did you know?”
“My boss called me this afternoon. Told me the basics and asked me to take the case, to talk to the cops who’d brought her in for questioning. I told him I couldn’t. Tess and I have worked together for years. We’re friends.”
“You and everybody else it seems.” Aidan jabbed at the pie, annoyed. The woman had more allies than NATO. “Wasn’t anybody else sitting in that courtroom when she absolved Harold Green of all responsibility for murdering three little kids and a cop?”
Kristen went still. “She did not absolve him of responsibility, Aidan.”
“You weren’t there, Kristen,” Aidan said, warning in his voice. “I was.”
“Not in the courtroom, no. Before, after, yes. She came to me, Aidan, torn up about what she had to do. She knew what the backlash would be. She could never have testified to Green’s incompetence to stand trial if she hadn’t believed it completely. That’s not the kind of woman she is. You spent hours with her this afternoon. Surely you saw that.”
Aidan shifted in his chair, uncomfortable because he still was unsure exactly what he’d seen and heard. “She’s a shrink, Kristen. She can make people see what she wants them to see.”
Kristen shoved her plate away. “She’s a psychiatrist, not a witch doctor. You’re wasting your time, Aidan. Find out who else wanted that woman dead. And find out who hated Tess enough to drag her into the middle of it.” She stood up, breathing hard. “You’ll find out the list is a hell of a lot longer than you think.”
Aidan rubbed his tired head. “Kristen, please.”
“Please, what, Aidan? Please look away while you indulge your petty prejudice? I don’t think so. Did you know that Tess Ciccotelli lost her contract with the city because the cops’ union protested her?”
He thought about the Mercedes she’d driven the night before. “No, but she doesn’t appear to be hurting for income.”
Kristen’s eyes narrowed, dangerously. “Well, then, did you know that she nearly lost her life because some cop didn’t act fast enough to protect her from one of those nutcases in Interview?”
Aidan flinched. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Ask Murphy. He can tell you what happened. Tess Ciccotelli has paid enough for doing what was right. I won’t sit by and see her charged for this. There is no fucking way she did this and you know it as well as I do.”
Becca gasped and Aidan blinked, shocked at the word that rarely came from his sister-in-law’s mouth, while Abe’s hands came up to cover Kara’s ears. “You said the f-word,” Abe said slowly. “In front of the baby.”
Kristen pursed her lips, visibly trembling, her cheeks red. “I’m sorry for that, Abe. But I’m not sorry for any other part of it. Talk to Murphy, Aidan. Then run a list of all the criminals Tess has helped us put away. Then you look me in the eye and tell me that there’s no one who wants to see her suffer enough to set her up like this.”
“Kristen,” Abe murmured. “Calm down. Aidan will get to the bottom of this.” He sighed and jiggled the baby on his knee. “You are going to take this case, aren’t you?”
Kristen shook her head. “No. I can’t be objective when it comes to this. I think the whole business has been so patently unfair. Patrick said he could be objective, so he’ll take it from here.” She leveled a serious look at Aidan. “Unless the investigation absolves her from responsibility.”
Aidan met her gaze. He’d never known his sister-in-law to be wrong about someone she fought for so passionately. She, more than anyone else, lent weight to Ciccotelli’s innocence. “Before I left today, I asked Records to run the list of offenders she’s testified against. I should have it tomorrow morning.”
She drew a breath. “Thank you.”
“And I’ll ask Murphy about the . . . nutcase that tried to hurt her.”
“Who succeeded,” she said quietly. “Check Tess out, Aidan. You’ll find you’re wrong about her.”
“I hope so, Kristen. But either way, I’m going to do my job.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m counting on it.”
Sunday, March 12, 8:30 P.M.
Ciccotelli was home now, safe and sound. Clearly visible through her window. With binoculars of course. Such an important tool of the trade. Never leave home without them. People would notice a gun or a knife, but no one questioned a person walking the street with binoculars around the neck and, if anyone asked, it was simple enough to claim a fascination with birds.
As if. Annoying little chirping creatures. Except for the birds of prey that silently watched from the skies, swooping down on unsuspecting marks, talons ready to tear into flesh like paper. Birds of prey were creatures to be admired. And emulated.
The unsuspecting mark was sitting at her dining room table, working on her laptop, headphones covering her ears. Occasionally looking up to stare out the window that put Chicago at her feet. It was an interesting fact, truly. Given a high enough window most people never considered that as they looked out, someone else could just as easily be looking in. And really it was so very easy. And at the moment, boring.
She wasn’t in jail. And while disappointing, it was to be expected. Enough people still thought enough of Dr. Tess Ciccotelli to defend her against what appeared to be ludicrous charges. Where was motive? they would ask. An upstanding psychiatrist, awarded citation after citation . . . A chuckle broke the silence. By this time tomorrow, the police would have their motive and the number of her staunch defenders would soon dwindle.
But just in case, there should be more. There would be more.
One touch of the speed dial had Nicole’s phone ringing and like the smart girl she was, she answered on the very first ring.
“What?” her voice was raw and hoarse.
“What the hell have you done to your voice?” It was expected that an actress would take better care of her voice, but it sounded as though Nicole had been crying. She was a weak woman. She’d need to be watched closely. Perhaps another visit to Nicole’s little brother was required to ensure her continued compliance. “You better still be able to perform.”
Nicole cleared her throat. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’d better hope so. I’ve invested a great deal of time and money on your voice, Nicole. Please don’t forget that your brother’s health depends on you and you alone.”
“What do you want?” Nicole asked, her words sounding as if they were being yanked from between clenched teeth.
“Be at the corner of Michigan and Eighth by eleven. Bring the wig.”
There was a beat of silence, then the sound of Nicole’s voice, choked and afraid. “You said it would be a few days.”
“I changed my mind. Eleven, Nicole.” We’re going to pay a visit, you and I. To Mr. Avery Winslow. Winslow’s face with its sad, basset-hound droop stared up from the photograph lying on top of the pile. Little Avery Junior’s face was next in the stack. Poor Mr. Winslow, losing his infant son like that. That a father would feel guilty was utterly understandable. That he would seek the help of a psychiatrist, rational. That his psychiatrist was Tess Ciccotelli, his doom.
Avery Winslow had been on the juice for three weeks now. His apartment was prepped. It was time for Act Two.
Poor Mr. Winslow. It really was nothing personal. Not against him, anyway. But Ciccotelli . . . she was different. She was personal.
Soon enough, she’d be dead. But she’d suffer a great deal first.
Sunday, March 12, 11:30 P.M.
Too late. Too late. I’m too late. The refrain ran through Tess’s mind again and again as she pushed her way through the crowd. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t see past all the men. Tall men. Dark hair. All so angry.
Angry with me. She pushed past the last man and stopped. At her feet lay Cynthia Adams. Dead. Too late. One of the men stooped down and scooped Cynthia’s heart from her broken body and held it out, still pumping in his hand.
“Take it,” he commanded, his blue eyes glowing in the night.
“No, no.” She stepped back. The heart still quivered, blood dripped between his fingers to fall on Cynthia’s pale face. And as the blood made little drips on Cynthia’s face, her eyes popped open and stared. Dead and empty.
She spun around, a scream trapped in her throat. And froze where she stood. Police. Coming for me. Uniforms as far as her eye could see. Accusing eyes. Run. Wake up. Dammit, wake up and run.
“Tess. Dammit, Tess, wake up.”
She could hear a scream, shrill and terrified. Realized it came from her own throat. Tess whipped her head up from the dining room table, her eyes wide, her vision still blurry. She blinked hard and a face came into focus. Familiar. Brown eyes, sandy hair cut short. Fingers pulling the headphones from her ears. Strong hands on her face. Live and warm.
Jon. Jon was here. She was all right. They wouldn’t get her. Not today.
Her pulse still raced to beat all hell, but she could breathe again. “God, Jon.”
Jon Carter held her face between his surgeon’s hands, his capable fingers cradling her skull, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, waiting till she got hold of herself. Tess gave him a shaky nod and settled back into her chair. He grabbed another chair and straddled it, watching her carefully.
“I’m all right. It was just a bad dream.”
“Uh-huh.” He slipped his fingertips to her carotid, held them there as he counted.
“I said I’m all right.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “Just a bad dream.”
“You were screaming so loud I could hear you in the hall. Scared the shit out of me, Tess. Good thing I had a key. I might have called the cops otherwise.” He shuddered. “Sounded like you were being disemboweled in here.”
She jerked back, the heart dream still vivid in her mind. “That’s not funny, Jon.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” His sandy brows knit in concerned confusion. “That must have been some dream. What happened?”
Tess stood, pissed when her knees felt like rubber. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“I was worried about you. You called Amy away from lunch and never let me know you were all right. I tried calling all afternoon, but you didn’t answer so I came by after I finished my shift.”
“I turned the ringer off so I could sleep.”
“You’re not sleeping,” he pointed out.
She’d tried, several times. The damn dream kept waking her up. To her knowledge she hadn’t screamed before, though. “Actually, I was just now.”
“Uh-huh. At the table, your face in your laptop keyboard. I’m certain drool is not good for all the electrical thingies in there. What’s going on here, Tess?”
His eyes followed her as she took one experimental step toward the kitchen, then another. “Didn’t Amy tell you anything?”
“Nope. All she would say is that you were stranded so she went to get you and took you home and tucked you into bed. I take it there’s a bit more to it than that.”
“Ah. Attorney-client privilege. So she can keep a secret. Good to know.” Tess made it to the refrigerator and held on to the door, still shaky. “I’m going to have a glass of wine. You want one?”
He’d followed her and now stood in the kitchen archway, frowning. “No. What are you talking about, attorney-client privilege? Amy said your car broke down.”
“Amy was being discreet as I have retained her for her services.” Tess found the corkscrew, grateful for something to keep her trembling hands occupied. “I appear to be a suspect.”
His frown deepened. “Like, in a crime?”
Tess huffed a nervous laugh as she pulled the cork from the bottle. “Like, in a dilly of a crime, Jon. Pour this, will you? My hands still aren’t steady.” He poured the glass, which she drained in three noisy gulps. “More.”
Silently he obeyed and she took the glass back to the dining room table and sank back down into her chair. “One of my clients committed suicide last night.”
“This was the call you got last night? The one you needed me to go with you?”
She fluttered her hand. “Yeah, but this would have happened regardless, so don’t feel guilty. Have a seat, my dear. I’ll tell you a story.”
He sat and she told him everything, down to Reagan’s accusing blue eyes and the young reporter by the police station door.
For a long moment he said absolutely nothing. Then he snorted. “That’s insane.”
Tess laughed. “I suppose that’s as good a word as any.” She pushed her glass so that it clinked against the bottle he’d set on the table. “More. Please.”
He poured what would be her fourth glass. “Did they charge you?”
“Not yet. You should stick ’round town. I might need you as a character witness.”
He scowled. “That’s not funny, Tess.”
She tilted her head. “It wasn’t meant to be. I’m in some serious trouble here.” She gestured to the stack of cassette tapes next to her boombox. “And not a clue in any of those. Nobody specific Cynthia mentioned in any of our sessions. Not in five hours of tape. I transcribed every spoken word.”
Jon drew a breath, contemplating. “What next?”
Tess shrugged. “First I have to finish this wine. Then I have to sleep. Really sleep. I’m hoping enough wine will knock me out so that I don’t have that damn dream again. Tomorrow I take these transcripts in to Reagan. Then, if he hasn’t found something to arrest me over during the night, I go to the hospital and do my rounds.” She shrugged again. “After that, it’s anybody’s guess.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
She tipped up one corner of her mouth and tapped the nearly empty bottle with her fingernail, feeling just woozy enough to be pleasant. “I already did. Four glasses.”
“Tess.” Jon shot her a warning glare. “I meant do you think it’s wise to voluntarily give the detective this information. He could have been one of the ones to get your contract yanked.”
“He might have been. Probably was. Still, he and Murphy are my only chance to get this resolved, right now. If they fuck it up, I’ll take it higher. Spinnelli still likes me. For now, I’ll cooperate with the detectives.” She leaned her head on the chair back and closed her eyes. “Jon, somebody killed Cynthia Adams, just as sure as if he’d pushed her off the balcony himself. If I can help Reagan figure out who, I can make this go away and get my life back.” She struggled to her feet, grateful this time for his guiding hands. “Now, I need some sleep.” Leaning heavily on his shoulder, she made her way back to her bedroom.
She chuckled when he pushed her to bed and pulled off her socks. She leaned back on her elbows and grinned up at him. He was a handsome man and she’d heard more than one whispered conjecture regarding the skill of his hands outside of surgery. But they were just friends, she and Jon. Not a spark of chemistry between them. After Amy, he was her closest friend, and monogamously attached, to boot. Still, she couldn’t resist the temptation to tease. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man in my bedroom, Jon. Sure you don’t want to stay?”
He smiled down at her. “It’s an intriguing offer, Tess. But what would Robin say?”
She closed her eyes. “Not to worry. You’re safe from my evil clutches.” She chuckled again, her senses warmed and dulled just enough to be comfortable. “Tell Robin I kept my hands to myself.” She snuggled into the pillow, sighing when his hand pushed the hair from her face. Started to drift. “Fell asleep all alone. Again.”
Jon’s hand hesitated. “Tess.”
She opened one eye. His expression was pained and in turn sent an unexpected wave of longing crashing into her heart. It was the wine, she told herself. Because I’m over that cheating sonofabitch. She’d slept alone in this bed without Phillip Parks for more than a year. She didn’t miss him. He could fry in hell for all she cared. But she did miss . . . having someone, she supposed. She gave herself a little shake that sent the bed floating. There would be plenty of time for self-analysis tomorrow. Especially if Reagan actually manages to arrest me. “I’m fine, Jon. Go home to Robin. Just lock the door and don’t let Bella out.” As if she’d heard her name, Tess’s tortoiseshell cat sprang onto the bed and curled up on her pillow next to her face, purring loudly.
“Call me tomorrow, Tess.”
Sleep was coming. Finally. Mercifully. “Okay.”