I'm Watching You (6 page)

„Lamb, veal, onions, feta cheese, and yogurt. You’ve never had one? Really?“

„Ethnic foods weren’t exactly a staple where I grew up.“

„Where did you grow up?“

She studied the sandwich for a long moment, so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. „Kansas,“ she said finally and he wondered what she’d left there that bothered her so much.

He forced his voice to be light. „No kidding. I took you for East Coast.“

„No.“ She looked out the window. „Turn left at this light.“

He was quiet as she gave terse directions to her house. Bringing his SUV to a stop in her carport, he shifted in his seat so he could see her face. Her profile, really, as she sat resolutely looking forward, not looking at him. Not looking at her house. „I could take you to a hotel if you want,“ he said and she stiffened. „I’m serious, Kristen. No one would blame you if you didn’t want to sleep here tonight. I could do a walk-through while you pack a bag.“

„No, I live here. I won’t be thrown out of my own house.“ She wrapped up the remains of her gyros and gathered her laptop from the floorboard. „I appreciate the gesture, but he doesn’t appear to want to do me harm. I have an alarm system and Spinnelli’s patrol will be driving by every hour. I’ll be fine. Besides, I have to feed my cats. But I would appreciate you giving the place the once-over.“ One side of her mouth quirked up and he admired her pluck. „The cats aren’t much in the way of protection.“

He followed her to the side door and waited as she stepped inside and disabled the alarm. She turned on the light and he let his eyes wander around, taking in the goldenrod appliances, the garish foil wallpaper, the cabinets of chipped fiberboard. It appeared she hadn’t had insomnia enough times to have started renovations on this room. His gaze came back to where she stood, ramrod straight with her coat still on. Even in the dim light he could see her swallow hard. The need to protect again welled, but even after only a few hours he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t welcome his touch, no matter how reassuring it was intended to be. So he made himself stay where he was, his hands in his pockets.

„You want the lights on or off?“ she murmured.

„I’ll turn them on as I go,“ he answered, wishing she’d agreed to go to a hotel. He didn’t know if she was in danger, but she was still clearly frightened and it unsettled him.

He made his way through her house, flipping on the living room light, noting the blue-striped wallpaper. She had done a good job. His sister Annie was a professional decorator and she couldn’t have done any better. He found both spare bedrooms devoid of vigilante murdering peeping Toms, as was the bathroom with its neat stacks of makeup and hairspray. She’d left it so neat, almost as if she expected company. He instantly wondered who, irritation pricking at the thought of shaving cream and a razor littering the neat vanity top. But there was none. No sign of a man. He laughed at himself. Harshly. If there existed such a person, she would have called him to pick her up instead of trying to take a cab.

And even if there existed such a person, it was none of his damn business.

Abe pushed open the door to her bedroom, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. There was none. He hadn’t expected there to be. He flipped the light switch and saw Kristen’s skill lent itself to picking furniture as well. Art deco pieces filled the room, giving it a solid feel. There was no lace, no trace of ribbon, but still there was a feminine air. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned quilt on her bed. Or maybe the scent of her perfume, still hanging in the air. A sleek black cat sat on her pillow, watching him with eyes as green and cautious as Kristen’s.

Abe swept his flashlight under her bed and around the closet filled with black suits, dark navy suits, charcoal gray suits. Her knack for color didn’t extend to her wardrobe, or maybe there was an unwritten dress code for officers of the court. Still he wondered at the absence of party dresses, evening gowns, shiny shoes. He paused long enough to scratch the cat behind the ears before making his way back to the kitchen where Kristen stood spooning loose tea into a china teapot with big pink roses. She still wore her winter coat and he wondered if she planned to stay after all.

„This floor is clear,“ he said and she nodded mutely. „Basement door?“

She pointed to the wall behind him. „Be careful. It’s a bit of a mess down there.“

Kristen Mayhew’s mess was cleaner than any of his siblings’ houses, he thought. The fireplace mantel was scraped and sanded down to its natural wood. A set of stained wood samples rested on the top, propped against the wall. Abe sighed. Their humble servant was indeed correct. The cherry was the best choice.

Kristen jumped when his footsteps sent the stairs from the basement creaking. She wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the knowledge that a killer routinely stalked her movements in her own home, or that there was a man in the house for the very first time ever. She drew a breath, the aroma of the brewing tea settling her nerves enough that she didn’t appear insane. Abe Reagan reappeared, sliding his pistol into his shoulder holster.

His pistol. He’d drawn his weapon. A shiver raced down her spine. „All clear?“

He nodded. „No one’s here except for you, me, and the black cat on your pillow.“

Kristen smiled, just a little. „Nostradamus. He lets me sleep in his bed.“

Reagan choked on a laugh and her heart did a little trip that had nothing to do with vigilante psychos. He was an incredible-looking man. And he seemed kind. But he was still a man. „You named your cat Nostradamus?“ he asked with a grin.

She nodded. „Mephistopheles hasn’t come home yet. He’s out chasing mice.“

His grin widened. „Nostradamus and Mephistopheles. The Prophet of Doom and the Devil Himself. Whatever happened to Huffy or Snowflake?“

„I never could bring myself to name them something cute,“ she said dryly. „It just wasn’t in their nature. The first week after I adopted them they destroyed the carpet in three rooms.“

„So if you ever got a dog, you could name him Cerberus and have a full set.“

Her lips twitched as he’d meant them to and she felt a sudden rush of appreciation for his effort to lighten her mood. „The three-headed guardian of Hades. I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Would you like some tea? I drink it at night when I’m all wound up. I’m hoping it will settle my nerves so I can sleep tonight.“

„No thanks. I have to get home and catch a few hours’ shut-eye. I have to meet Mia and Jack at dawn at the first site.“

Kristen’s hands stilled on the teapot. „Which one will you do first?“

He shrugged his wide shoulders. „Ramey. We’ll do them in the order he did.“

Kristen made herself pour the tea, grimacing when her hands shook, sending tea over the cup’s edge and onto the old countertop. „That makes sense.“ She looked up at him to find him watching her with the same intense expression he’d worn in Spinnelli’s office. It was concern, she realized and her back went straight. She wasn’t weak. She might be many things, but weak was not one of them. „I’d like to be there as well.“

He considered it. „That makes sense,“ he echoed her words. „Wear sensible shoes.“

She looked down into her tea, then back up at him. „I don’t have a car.“

„I’ll be by to pick you up at six a.m.“

The volley was over and it was her serve. „Thanks. I’ll get a rental car tomorrow, but – “

„It’s all right, Kristen. I don’t mind.“

He really didn’t, it was clear to see. And that bothered her. „Then…“

He pushed himself away from the wall against which he’d leaned. „I’ll be going.“ He stopped at the kitchen door. „You’ve done a wonderful job on your house.“

Her hands cradled the steaming cup, absorbing the warmth. She was so cold. „Thank you. And thank you for driving me home. And for the gyro.“

He studied her face, his expression uncertain. „You’re sure you want to stay here?“

She smiled with a hell of a lot more confidence than she felt. „Positive. You should get some sleep. Six a.m. is only a few hours away.“

Abe took a last uncertain look before backing out the door and into the carport. Through the gauzy curtains on her kitchen door he watched her lock the door and set the alarm. For a moment he debated going back inside and dragging her to the relative safety of a hotel, but knew it was none of his business. Kristen Mayhew was a grown woman and entirely capable of making her own decisions.

He started his car and had pulled into the street before he realized she hadn’t called him Detective. Nor had she called him Abe. They’d talked for almost an hour and she hadn’t called him anything at all. He shouldn’t let it bother him. He shouldn’t let
her
bother him. She was pretty, that was true, but he’d meet many pretty women now that he was no longer working undercover. For five years he’d held no attachments, stealing time to see his own family, his brothers, sisters, his parents, Debra, all the while worrying that he’d been followed, that just by visiting he’d place them in jeopardy.

Now he was out from under the burden of constant secrecy and isolation, working in an environment where people developed social and professional relationships. It was natural to be tempted on his first day out. And it would be unnatural not to find Kristen Mayhew tempting. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the first time he’d seen her.

And unlike the first time he’d seen her, he was now free to feel the lust that clutched at his gut like a slippery fist without the shadow of guilt. Debra was gone now. Truly gone. After five years of existing in hellish limbo, Debra was finally at peace. It was time to get on with his life. Step one would be getting Kristen Mayhew to call him by his first name. Then he’d take it from there.

From her living room window, Kristen watched as Reagan’s taillights disappeared around the corner, troubled
. I should be
, she thought and uneasily glanced up the street, wondering if the man who’d killed five people was watching her at that moment. But the street was empty, all her neighbors’ windows dark. The troubled feeling persisted and Kristen wasn’t sure how much she could attribute to a man who called himself her humble servant versus a man who was unwilling to leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.

Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.

She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“

It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.

She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.

From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.

She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.

Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.

She ought to know.

Thursday, February 19,

12:00 noon

Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.

But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.

Ahh
, she thought.
Here we go
. Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned,
nice profile, Zoe
, she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.

„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“

Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“

„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.

„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“

She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“