Every Breath You Take (31 page)

“How well do you know Mitchell Wyatt now?” he asked calmly, but he sounded like a prosecutor to her.

“The answer to that is obvious. You didn’t need to ask me anything. You have the evidence.”

“I’d like an explanation.”

Holly leaned around Kate and said mildly, “Go to hell.” Then she stood up and looked at Chicago’s most eligible bachelor with cool, disappointed hauteur—as if he were a cockroach, but one who should have, could have, been a higher-level insect. “My sister is Laurel Braxton. She’ll be representing Kate in this matter should you have some purpose—other than being a voyeur—to question Kate about those pictures again.”

“I do have a higher purpose, Miss Braxton.”

“Dr
. Braxton,” Holly corrected, and he looked duly chastened and a little surprised.

“Dr. Braxton,” he agreed; then he realized he’d been distracted and looked at Kate, who was madly swiping tears off her cheeks. “Kate—that should be Miss Donovan, I assume—since we’re unlikely to have a cordial relationship hereafter?”

Kate gave him a glacial stare, and he said with charming chagrin, “I’m glad to see I’m right about something.”

Kate wasn’t buying his superficial boyish charm; she’d already had all she could stomach of that from Mitchell. “What possible excuse can you have for invading my privacy by taking those photographs and then humiliating me by bringing me here and making me look at them?”

“Your father’s death. All I wanted to know was how long you’ve known Mitchell Wyatt so that I can rule him out—or in—as a possible suspect. The Wyatt family has had two deaths from unnatural causes recently, and your father makes a third instance. It’s a little odd for someone to have such a cataclysmic effect on people
surrounding him, but Mitchell Wyatt seems to be one of those people.”

It was strange, inexplicable, but at that moment, Kate felt a fierce desire to protect the same man she despised for her own reasons from being attacked again because he was the bastard grandson of the Wyatt family, therefore beneath contempt to people like Evan and, apparently, Gray Elliott. “I met him in Anguilla a few days ago for the first time. The rest is in those pictures. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with my father’s death, and there is no way on earth that man killed his brother. He was very fond of him!”

“He talked about William with you?”

“Briefly. I pried it out of him. He told me he was dead—No, that’s not right,” she amended quickly when she saw the flare of interest in Elliott’s gray eyes. “I didn’t know his brother was William Wyatt, but when Mitchell talked about him, I assumed the brother was dead.”

“Why?”

“Because when Mitchell told me about him, he said …” Kate had all she could do to keep from weeping as she repeated the words that had seemed so poignant at the time. “He said … ‘My brother’s name was William.’”

“When did he say William was dead?”

“Don’t you listen?” Kate said, almost stamping her foot in frustration. “Mitchell used the word
was
, so I assumed that meant that William was dead. He never said William was dead.”

“All right, I’m clear on that. Now, will you explain to me how you know he was fond of William?”

“I could tell by the way he talked about him. It was obvious that he cared for him.”

He nodded, thinking that over. “Okay,” he said, looking convinced. “You made an assumption, based
on Wyatt’s tone and expression, that he was fond of William?”

“Yes,” Kate said, dying to grab her purse and get out of there.

“Did you also assume, based on Wyatt’s behavior, that he was fond of you?”

Kate didn’t see the question coming, wasn’t prepared for his drawing that parallel. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes, and swallowed. “You can see that I did,” she whispered.

“That’s it,” Holly said brightly, “we’re leaving.” She dug her sister’s business card out of her purse, thrust it at him, and headed for the door with Kate right behind her.

Elliott turned and watched them. “Miss Donovan?” he said.

Kate turned and glared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly. “Looking at those pictures, it was impossible to know that you were emotionally as well as physically involved with him. I’m sorry you got burned.”

Kate refused to let him get off with an apology, let alone such an insincere one, but she kept her dignity and said calmly, “You would have put me through this even if you had known. What makes you think you’re any different than he is?”

In the car on the way home, Kate told Holly the whole story, and ended by telling her that Evan expected Kate to handle seeing Mitchell at the Children’s Hospital benefit. “I don’t know how I’m going to face him after what he did to me.”

“I know exactly how you’re going to do it,” Holly assured her, “and I will coach you. In fact, if Evan has room for me at your table, I’ll come along for moral support.”

“We’ll make room—”

“The first thing you need is a fabulous gown, which calls for a trip to Bancroft’s.”

“Actually,” Kate admitted, “Evan already phoned Bancroft’s to arrange for a personal shopper to help me pick out a gown for Saturday.”

“Evan can pay the bill, but
I’m
your new personal shopper.”

S
TANDING OUTSIDE THE INTERROGATION ROOM AND
flanked by Lily Reardon and Jeff Cervantes, Gray Elliott watched MacNeil and his regular partner, Joe Torello, getting ready to begin interviewing Mitchell Wyatt.

“Who are they?” Cervantes asked.

“Pearson and Levinson,” Gray replied.

“The
Pearson and Levinson? Together in the same room?” Lily said, looking reluctantly impressed. “I’m surprised they didn’t refer Wyatt to a criminal defense lawyer.”

“They will when the time comes.”

Lily reported directly to Gray and handled cases that he was particularly interested in; Jeff reported to her and would assist her at Wyatt’s trial. “Have we gotten any reports back yet on what the searches turned up?” she asked.

Gray shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Who brought Wyatt in this morning?” Cervantes asked.

“He came in on his own. Levinson called me at home last night when Wyatt was still en route. It seems someone tipped Wyatt off about our searches, and he figured out on his own that our alleged confession was bogus, and that he was our actual suspect.”

“And he landed at O’Hare anyway?”

“As you see.”

“The act of an innocent man?” Lily suggested.

“Or a moderately clever one who wants us to arrive at that conclusion,” Jeff stated.

“I think he’s more than moderately clever,” Gray said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an article he’d found on the Internet and had translated from Greek to English that morning. “Six years ago, a Greek reporter talked Stavros Konstantatos into giving him an interview about the key to his successes and how he managed to squeeze out his competition.”

Gray showed them the picture from the article, in which the Greek tycoon was proudly holding up his arms, fists clenched. The translated caption beneath the photograph read,
“I have two fists with which I do battle. With my right fist, I wield the power and might to vanquish those who would oppose me. My left fist is subtle; it uses reason, shrewdness, and restrained force against my enemies. I strike with either fist.”

“What does this have to do with Wyatt?” Lily said, handing the page back to him.

“Mitchell Wyatt was his ‘left fist,’” Gray said. “He refers to him as that in the body of the article.”

Cervantes peered through the two-way glass. “Interesting, the way he’s sitting in there.” The table was oblong with two chairs on the long side facing the two-way mirror, and one chair at each end. Wyatt was sitting on the side facing the two-way mirror, but he’d angled his chair away from the table and was sitting with one foot propped on the opposite knee, his back to Pearson. A tablet and pen were on the table near his elbow, along with an untouched cup of coffee provided by MacNeil. “He’s turned his back on one lawyer, and he’s ignoring the other.”

“He doesn’t think he needs them,” Gray speculated. “I think he intends to handle this entirely by himself.”

“His lawyers undoubtedly warned him not to donate
any of his DNA by drinking anything we give him,” Cervantes said. “He also knows this is a two-way mirror and that we’re probably standing out here.”

As if on cue, Wyatt turned his head to the right and looked straight toward them.

“Shit,” Lily said. “He’s even better looking in person. If there’s a heterosexual woman or a gay man on the jury, I’ll never get a conviction.”

Gray ignored that and tipped his head toward the glass. “Here we go,” he said. “MacNeil is going to start off with the photographs to give him the idea that we may have been following him for months.”

MacNeil thumbed through the photographs he and Childress had taken, and selected a close-up of Wyatt and Donovan kissing on the balcony at the Enclave. “Let’s work backward toward the day of your brother’s murder, shall we?”

Wyatt quirked a brow at him and said nothing.

“Can you explain this for me?” MacNeil said, and casually tossed the photograph on the table.

Wyatt leaned slightly forward, looked at it, and then at MacNeil. “Aren’t you a little old to need an explanation?”

MacNeil slapped another, similar photograph on the table, but this one was taken the night before at the villa, and Wyatt’s hand was on Donovan’s breast. “Explain this.”

Wyatt barely flicked a glance at it. “What part of it don’t you understand?”

“That’s interesting,” Gray said. “I didn’t think it would be this easy to get a reaction out of him.”

“He looks completely unperturbed,” Lily argued.

“No, he clenched his jaw, but just for an instant there. He’s angry, and he’s also very adept at hiding it. Remember that at trial.”

MacNeil took his time putting the photos back into the
right folder, letting Wyatt see that there were many folders of photographs in the stack of files. “Maybe we should start from the beginning, instead,” MacNeil announced. “Where were you on the day William Wyatt disappeared?”

“I don’t know what day that was,” Wyatt replied calmly. “He was gone for several days before his wife and son realized he wasn’t at the farm and reported him missing.”

“Have you ever been to the Wyatt farm?”

“No.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Detective Torello took over. Reaching into an envelope, he removed a clear plastic evidence bag containing a leather button with a pattern and insignia on the front. “Do you recognize this?” Torello asked.

Pearson and Levinson tensed. “You don’t have to answer that,” Levinson said quickly.

Wyatt ignored the warning. “It looks like the missing button from one of my overcoats.”

“Do you know where we found this button, Mr. Wyatt?” When Wyatt didn’t reply, Torello said, “We found it wedged under the cover on the well where your brother’s body was found. That well is located a few feet from the property line of the Wyatt farm, which you say you’ve never been near. Do you want to rethink that answer?”

“No, it was right the first time.”

“Can you explain, then, how this button from your coat turned up at that farm?”

“I can’t explain it.”

Torello perched a hip on the corner of the table. “How do you suppose a button that you admit came from a coat of yours got snagged on a well cover on a farm you’ve never been to?”

“I repeat—” Wyatt said patiently, “I can’t explain it.”

Lily shot a pleased look at Gray and was surprised to see that he was frowning, his hands shoved into his pockets. “He’s not our man,” Gray said in answer to her puzzled stare. “And he’s sure he can prove it.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“I don’t know, but I have a hunch he’s getting ready to tell us. He’s glanced at his watch twice and he’s getting fed up.”

In the interrogation room, Torello regarded Wyatt steadily, and when he said nothing more, Torello put pressure on him. “Let me tell you how we think your coat button got snagged on that well cover—”

“I’m sure it would be a very entertaining, imaginative story, but I’m a little short of time. Do you have anything else you want to discuss other than this button?” When Torello frowned at him and said nothing, Wyatt said, “I’ll take that to mean you don’t. In that case, here’s what you need to know: William disappeared in November. The coat that button came off of was made for me in London and delivered to me in Chicago at the end of December.”

MacNeil stepped forward and said in a conciliatory “good cop” tone, “Where was the coat purchased and can anyone there verify the date it was delivered?”

“I’ll give you my London tailor’s name. He can also tell you where the buttons came from, and verify that I have no other clothing with identical buttons.”

“Where is the coat now?”

“I sent it back to him so that he could order a new button and mend the hole left by the last one. Is there anything else, or are we finished?”

“Not quite,” MacNeil said. “When did you first discover that the button was missing from your coat?”

“In mid-January. I took the coat out of the closet and realized that the button was gone. I don’t know where I lost it.”

Gray Elliott stared through the window. “Either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to believe it.” Without shifting his gaze, he said, “Tell MacNeil to come out here.”

Cervantes knocked on the door and poked his head into the interrogation room. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Detective MacNeil, could I have a word with you?”

MacNeil strolled out, closed the door, and looked at Gray. “Are you buying Wyatt’s story?”

Gray nodded. “For now, yes. Get Wyatt’s passport, and tell him not to leave Chicago until we’ve checked with the tailor and had a look at that coat ourselves.”

Wyatt took one look at MacNeil’s face when he walked back into the interrogation room and stood up. Wordlessly, he pulled his passport out of his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table; then he picked up the coffee, took a swallow, and put the cup down. “There’s your DNA, voluntarily given. Try not to mix it up with anyone else’s while you’re finishing your investigation. Anything else?” he clipped, while his attorneys rose to their feet and picked up their briefcases.