I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  Wednesday, February 18, 9:00 P.M.

  Finally. He sat in his car safely out of the flurry of uniformed activity taking place inside the parking garage. Lights flashed and yellow tape was strung everywhere. Either some political dignitary had been murdered in the garage or Kristen Mayhew had finally looked in her trunk. He was pretty certain he could disregard the former.

  He’d been busy in the last weeks. He was up to six. Six down, about a million to go.

  He’d taken his first in secret, painlessly and quietly. And had discovered it wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough that he’d done such a thing for the world. For the victims. For his Leah. It wasn’t enough that he be the only one to know. It wasn’t enough that he be the only one to celebrate.

  So he’d abruptly changed his plan and once done, it was easy to determine who else would know what he’d done. The person who most deserved to know.

  Kristen Mayhew.

  He’d been watching her for some time. Knew how vigilantly she worked to get justice for every victim who crossed her path. And how destroyed she was whenever she failed. Today had been a bad one. Angelo Conti. Vicious, vicious, cold-hearted bastard.

  His hands clenched around the steering wheel. Conti had murdered a pregnant woman with no remorse, but was home tonight, sleeping in his own soft bed. Conti would wake up tomorrow and go on with his life.

  He smiled. He himself would wake up tomorrow and add Conti’s name to the fishbowl. It was full, his fishbowl. Full of slips of paper, cut precisely, folded precisely. Each holding a typed name, representing so much evil. But they would get their due, one at a time. He’d get to Conti sooner or later. And like all the others, Conti would pay.

  He was up to six. Six down, about a million to go.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, February 18, 9:30 P.M.

  Spinnelli was waiting for them in the lab, slapping a pair of latex gloves against his palm as they entered in single file, looking like three kings bearing gifts for the Christ child.

  “What took you so long?” he snapped as Abe set the crate he carried on the stainless-steel table that dominated the center of the room.

  “We were waiting for Jack to finish,” Mia snapped back, setting her crate next to his.

  Crime Scene Supervisor Jack Unger was the leader of the CSU team sent to comb the parking garage. His team had been thorough and professional and Abe had to respect their skill even as he grew more restless by the moment. There was likely evidence of multiple homicides in these crates, but the light was too poor in the garage to see a damn thing. Jack had insisted they wait to examine the contents of Kristen Mayhew’s trunk until he’d finished his initial sweep. Jack placed his crate at the end of the table and turned to face Spinnelli.

  “You want it done fast or right?” Jack asked, unperturbed.

  “Both,” Spinnelli said. “Where’s Kristen?”

  “I’m here.” Kristen brought up the rear and closed the door behind her. “I was trying to get John Alden on the phone to let him know what happened, but I just got his voice mail.”

  “Well, I’m here in person so how’s about telling me what happened?” Spinnelli demanded, pulling on his gloves.

  Kristen pulled off her coat and Abe’s memory was confirmed. Her bulky winter coat had concealed a petite, slender body in a tailored suit of black that contrasted sharply with her ivory skin and those green eyes that gripped him from the moment he’d seen her at the elevator, wild-haired and wide-eyed. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, the only other time, two years ago. She’d worn black that day as well. She’d apparently seen him too, but hadn’t connected the memory yet. He wondered if she would. That she remembered anything about that meeting, he found remarkable. He hadn’t recognized her in the elevator, not with her auburn hair curling in every which direction. That day two years ago she’d worn it up in a severe twist that looked so tight it had to hurt, just as she wore it now.

  He watched as she ran a hand over her hair as if to assure herself it was in no danger of escaping the twist she’d managed just before Mia and Jack had arrived on the scene. It didn’t take a detective to figure out she was buttoning herself back into her prosecutor persona. She had a reputation that didn’t include wild hair, fear, or clutching the arms of total strangers.

  “I met Detective Reagan while waiting for the elevator.” She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “It was late and he offered to see me to my car, but when we got there, the tire was flat. When I opened the trunk for the jack, I saw this.” She gestured to the three milk crates, then extended her hand, palm up. “Got another pair of gloves?”

  Jack gave her a pair and she pulled them on, taking a position at the table as physically far from Abe as possible. She’d maintained her distance in the hour since they’d discovered the crates filled with clothing and envelopes. Not once had she gripped his arm or anyone else’s, and Abe knew she was embarrassed that he’d seen her vulnerable and frightened. She was no longer either of those things, now sober and wary. He found the utter turnaround fascinating.

  “Let’s take a look at what your secret admirer left for you,” Jack said. “Any preference on where to begin?”

  Abe watched as Kristen’s eyes flicked to the crate on the end, the one with the Polaroid of the stitched-up torso. The one she’d worried might hold body parts as she clutched his arm. The one he’d carried in himself.

  “It wasn’t any heavier than the others,” Abe said and her eyes lifted to his, and for a moment he saw relieved gratitude before the professional shield rose once again.

  “Then let’s start with the way he had them placed in my trunk. Left to right.”

  Jack picked up an envelope from the first crate, examining it. “I’m willing to bet we get nothing from the envelopes. Probably stock you could buy at any office supply store. But I’ll slit the top just in case he was stupid enough to lick the envelope and leave me some DNA.”

  Spinnelli grunted. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Jack’s the eternal optimist,” Mia said. “He still buys season tickets to the Cubs.”

  Jack just grinned at Mia in the way of very old friends. “They’ll win the pennant this year.” Sobering, he handed the envelope to Kristen. “You recognize this guy, Counselor?”

  Kristen hesitated. “It was too dark in the garage.” Drawing a breath, she held out her hand. “Let’s take a look.” Abe saw her hand tremble, saw her quickly control it as her eyes dropped to the grainy Polaroid stuck to the envelope. “Anthony Ramey,” she said quietly.

  “Shit,” Mia muttered.

  “Who is Anthony Ramey?” Abe asked.

  “Serial rapist,” Kristen answered and she swallowed. “He seized his victims in parking garages up and down Michigan Avenue. Targeted women walking alone to their cars after hours.” Her green eyes flicked to his. He thought about the wild fear in her eyes in front of the elevator, that pathetic can of pepper spray in her hand, and found himself angry on her behalf. It was no wonder she’d been afraid of him. It was little wonder she ventured out onto the streets at all, given the crimes she’d seen. It was little wonder any of them could. “I prosecuted him two and a half years ago,” she said, “but the jury acquitted.”

  “Why?”

  Regret shadowed her face. “Unlawful search of Ramey’s apartment. The judge threw out the only piece of physical evidence we had, and his victims were unable to make a positive ID.”

  “Warren and Trask executed that search,” Mia said, tilting the envelope so she could see the picture, leaving it in Kristen’s hands. “They still haven’t gotten over it.”

  Kristen sighed. “Neither have I. Those three women didn’t want to testify, but they did because I told them we could put Ramey away for good.”

  “Well, now someone has,” Abe said and Kristen looked troubled.

  “I’d say so.” She gave the envelope back to Jack. “I don’t think I’m going to like this, but let’s have the next one.” Jack handed her the n
ext envelope, the equally grainy Polaroid showing three bodies lined up shoulder to shoulder. Kristen blinked and brought the picture closer to the overhead light. “You got a magnifying glass, Jack?” Wordlessly Jack handed her a small glass. She peered and squinted. “Oh, God.”

  Mia looked over her shoulder and hissed a curse. “Blades.”

  Abe’s brows went up. “Blades? Those three guys are Blades?” He’d had dealings with the gang in his undercover role. The Blades were well-known for dealing in weapons and drugs. They’d been small-time when he started in Narcotics, but they were growing rapidly. If someone had murdered three Blades, there would be hell to pay.

  Again Kristen met his eyes from across the table. “They have Blade tattoos. See for yourself.” She handed him the envelope and the glass. “I prosecuted three Blades last year for the murder of two elementary school children waiting for their school bus,” she continued as he noted the tattoo of three braided snakes on the upper arm of one of the bodies. She had a good eye. Or perhaps she had never been able to put the sight from her mind. “The children got caught in gang cross fire. They were only seven years old.”

  God. Seven years old and mowed down like they were nothing because a crowd of punks had a turf war going. “And these guys were acquitted?” he asked tightly.

  She nodded and once again he saw regret in her green eyes. Regret and anger and growing apprehension. “We had four eyewitnesses.”

  “Who promptly got amnesia the day of the trial,” Mia added bitterly. “That one was mine.” She looked away. “And Ray’s.”

  “You did your best, Mia,” Spinnelli said. “All of you did.”

  Abe handed the envelope back to Jack. “Let’s see the last one.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” Mia muttered.

  Kristen squared her shoulders. “We’re two for two. The last one will probably be one of mine, too.” She took this envelope herself. “This one’s been sewn up, breastbone to abdomen.” Her mouth tightened. “And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” She glanced at Spinnelli over her shoulder. “Ross King.”

  Spinnelli’s lips curled in distaste. “Hell’s got new company tonight.”

  Abe reached across the table and took the envelope from her hands. She was right, but he had to strain to see it. The battered face in the Polaroid bore little resemblance to the face that had been plastered across the front page of the Tribune for weeks leading up to King’s trial. “You’ve got good eyes. I wouldn’t have recognized him with all those bruises on his face.”

  “Maybe it’s because that’s how I imagined him,” Kristen returned, her voice hard. Brittle. “After all the parents of his victims got done with him.”

  Abe looked up in surprise and her lips curved bitterly. “We’re not immune, Detective. We see the victims, too. It’s hard not to hate a man who preyed on boys who trusted him.”

  “I read about it in the paper when I was under.” Abe handed the envelope to Spinnelli who’d been waiting his turn. “Softball coach and pedophile.”

  “With a damned clever lawyer.” Kristen’s jaw clenched. “Put King’s brother on the stand and coached him to let it slip that King had priors for sexual misconduct. His lawyer got a mistrial, but we had to plead him down from rape to misdemeanor assault because the boys’ parents refused to put their sons through a second trial.”

  “Which was what his sonofabitch lawyer had planned all along,” Spinnelli gritted.

  “Like I said, his lawyer was damned clever.” Kristen leaned forward, bracing her gloved fingertips against the table, staring into the crates. “So now we know the cast of characters. Five dead bad men. Let’s get on with the play, Jack.”

  They all watched as Jack carefully sliced open the first envelope and slid its contents on the stainless-steel table. He switched on a tape recorder. “This is the envelope with the Polaroid of Anthony Ramey,” he said for the tape. “Inside we find four more Polaroids. Views of the victim from various angles. Looks like a concrete floor in the background.”

  Abe sifted through the pictures. “Here’s a close-up of his head. Bullet was probably a twenty-two.” He looked up at Kristen. “Anything bigger wouldn’t have left much face.”

  Jack was back to the envelope contents. “Four Polaroids and… one map with a nice little ‘x.’ Looks like it’s down by the Arboretum.”

  Spinnelli’s mustache bent down. “That’s where we picked Ramey up.”

  Jack set the map on the table, leaving one piece of paper in his hand. He went still, only his eyes moving, back and forth as they scanned the page. He looked up uncertainly. “And one letter that starts ‘My dearest Kristen.’ ”

  Kristen’s eyes widened. “Me?”

  She was alarmed, Abe thought, as well she should be. Their killer had just gotten a little more personal. “Read the letter, Jack,” Abe commanded softly. “Out loud.”

  Wednesday, February 18, 10:00 P.M.

  Jacob Conti didn’t glance sideways when the door to the club was opened for him. He was rich beyond most people’s ability to count. Everybody held the door open for Jacob Conti. He had almost forgotten a time when he would have been surprised at the gesture of respect. He scanned the throng of bodies gyrating on the dance floor, his eyes narrowing as he located Angelo. His son was easy to spot. He’d be the one with a whore on each knee and a bottle in his hand. You’d think after narrowly escaping prison his son would toe the line for at least an evening. But no, there he was. Celebrating his innocence, no doubt.

  Angelo’s celebrations were legendary. And they would soon stop.

  Jacob stood in front of Angelo for a full minute before his son realized he was there.

  “Hello, Father,” Angelo slurred, lifting the mostly empty bottle in salute.

  “Get up,” Jacob gritted. “Get up before I pull you out of here.”

  Angelo stared a moment, then slowly ambled to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is you being seen here getting drunk.”

  Angelo grinned. “So? I was acquitted.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as if surprised he could even say the word. “I can’t be tried again. Double jeopardy, you know.”

  Jacob grabbed Angelo’s lapels and hauled him on his toes. “You idiot. You weren’t acquitted. You got a hung jury. That means they get another shot at you. That means Mayhew is watching you like a hawk. That means one wrong step and you’re back in jail.”

  Angelo pulled away, flattening his lapels with damp palms, his courage mostly bravado and booze. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Mayhew again. She hid a really nice ass under that black suit.” He raised a surly brow. “But I won’t be going back to jail.”

  Jacob clenched his fists at his sides. He’d hit Angelo here and now, but Elaine didn’t like him to raise his hand to their boy. Their “boy” was twenty-one years old and headed for trouble, but Jacob held his temper. “And what makes you so sure, Angelo?”

  Angelo sneered. “Because you’ll always be there to bail me out.”

  Jacob watched his only son weave through the gyrating bodies and knew Angelo was right. He loved his son and he’d do anything to keep him safe.

  Wednesday, February 18, 10:00 P.M.

  “That’s it,” Jack said after he’d read the last word of the letter.

  Kristen stared at it, glad it was in Jack’s steady hands, because hers were anything but. Knowing the others were waiting for her to say something, she tugged at the latex gloves that encased her sweaty palms and reached for the letter, willing her hands not to shake.

  “May I?”

  Jack handed it over with a shrug. “You’re the celebrity, Counselor.”

  She shot him a sharp look. “That’s not funny, Jack.” “I didn’t mean it to be,” Jack replied. “What does he mean, blue stripes?”

  Her heart pounding against her rib cage, she scanned the page, hoping Jack had left something out. He hadn’t. She turned the page over and stared at the back, hoping there would be something to alert
her to the writer’s identity. There was nothing. Just a plain piece of paper from a generic printer, just like thousands of printers in the city. No name, no mark, no nothing. Just three paragraphs of the most elegant, chilling words she’d ever read.

  “I take it you’ve never received a similar letter?” Mia asked, gently pushing at Kristen’s wrist until the letter lay flat on the table where she could see it, too.

  Kristen shook her head. “No, not like this.” She drummed her fingertips on the table. “Never like this.” She lifted her eyes and found Abe Reagan’s blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity she found more disconcerting now than when he’d gripped her wrist in front of the elevator. “What?” she asked, and he frowned.

  “Read it again,” he said.

  “Fine.” Kristen made herself utter the first line. “ ‘My dearest Kristen.’ ”

  “He knows you,” Spinnelli murmured, sending a new set of chills down her spine.

  “Or thinks he does,” Abe mused, then gestured with his hand. “Go on.”

  She splayed her gloved hands flat on the tabletop on either side of the simply printed page to keep her fingers from drumming. “ ‘My dearest Kristen, There comes a time in a man’s life when he must take a stand for his beliefs and acknowledge a law higher than the law of man. This is that time. For too long have I watched the innocent suffer and the guilty go free. I can watch no longer. I know you of all people can appreciate this. For years you have worked to avenge the innocent, to make the guilty pay for their crimes. But even you cannot win them all. Anthony Ramey preyed on innocent women, battered their bodies, stole their confidence and their trust, and though they bravely confronted their attacker in your courtroom, they found no justice. Today they have their justice, as do you. Tonight you can sleep well, knowing Anthony Ramey has met his final judge.’ ” She drew a deep breath. “It’s signed ‘Your Humble Servant.’ ” Her fingers drummed, just once and she splayed her hands flat again. “Then there’s the P.S.” She opened her mouth, but no more words came out.