I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  Perplexed, Mia read the last line for her. “ ‘And if for some reason you can’t sleep well, I recommend the blue stripes.’ ”

  There was silence in the room until Reagan tapped the table. She looked up to find the same frown on his face. “What does that mean, Kristen, ‘the blue stripes’?”

  Kristen fought back a bubble of what would most certainly be hysterical laughter. “What do you do when you can’t sleep, Detective Reagan?”

  Reagan studied her thoughtfully. “I usually get up and watch TV or read.”

  “Mia?”

  Mia looked at her strangely. “Sometimes TV. Sometimes the treadmill. Why?”

  Kristen pushed back from the table and peeled off the gloves that were sticky with her sweat. She grabbed a paper towel and dried her hands. “I do home improvements.”

  Mia’s blond brows jumped to the top of her forehead.“Excuse me?”

  Kristen’s lips curved in a self-deprecating smile. “ on my house. I’ve painted walls, refinished hardwood floors and put in a new bathroom. Last month I wallpapered my living room. I hung samples on the walls for a week, trying to decide which pattern to go with. Pink roses, green ivy, or …” Exhaling, she threw the paper towel away. “Or blue stripes.” She turned to look at the group who looked collectively troubled. “I see you understand.”

  “He’s a vigilante murdering peeping Tom,” Mia said, disbelief in her voice and this time Kristen couldn’t control her laugh, which thankfully didn’t sound too hysterical.

  “Jack, I need another pair of gloves. Let’s see what else he left in the crate.”

  Jack obliged and she pulled on the dry gloves while he gingerly removed folded clothing from the crate and placed each item in a specially prepared plastic tub. A rank odor filled the air and Kristen was suddenly glad she’d had no dinner. “We’ll unfold them in the lab, look for fibers, that kind of thing,” he said. “We’ve got a shirt, very bloody.” He flipped the collar to check the tag. “No famous brand. One pair of jeans, slightly bloody. Levi’s. One belt.” He grimaced. “One pair of jockey shorts. Fruit of the Loom.”

  “Would his mother be proud?” Spinnelli asked dryly and Jack chuckled.

  “You mean are they clean? May have been when he put ’em on. Sure aren’t now. One pair of socks, one pair of Nikes. And finally …” He frowned at the bottom of the crate. “I don’t know. Some sort of tile. Considerate of your humble servant to put a bottom in the crate, Counselor. That way nothing of importance slipped out.” He lifted out a thin slice of stone, turning it over and sideways. “Well, this is one for the books. I think it’s marble.”

  “This whole case will be one for the books,” Kristen said. “How about the next crate, Jack. The one with the Blades? I want to see if there’s another letter.”

  Jack sliced open the next envelope and more Polaroids and papers slid free. “He’s methodical,” he said as they gathered closer. “Close-ups of the tattoos, bullet entry wounds.”

  Kristen clenched her fists to keep her fingers still. “Is there a letter, Jack?”

  “Patience, patience,” he admonished.

  “You wouldn’t say that if he was peeping in your living room window,” Mia said and Jack had the good grace to look chastised.

  “One map, ‘x’ marks the spot… And one letter.” He handed it to Kristen, soberly.

  “Wonderful.” Kristen scanned the page, swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat at the P.S., this one more personal. “ ‘My dearest Kristen. It would appear you haven’t yet found the first token of my esteem.’ ” She looked up, found Reagan studying her with the same concern as before. “He sounds pissed.”

  Reagan’s black brows furrowed. “Go on.”

  “ ‘No matter, it’s only a matter of time, after all. I suppose we’re fortunate it is winter. They should keep.’ ” Her own brows crinkled at that, then glancing at the map she understood and her stomach quickened at the thought. “He means their bodies should keep.”

  “Aren’t we the lucky ones?” Mia asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  “ ‘These three hoodlums and their kind savage the peace every day. They’ve stolen the lives of two precious innocents and for that alone they should die. The fear and misery they caused the good people who would have done the right thing and testified makes their sin all the worse. You fought a good battle in the courtroom, Kristen, but this one was lost before you began. Again, sleep well knowing these heartless murderers have been rendered final justice… Your Humble Servant.’ ”

  “And the P.S.?” Abe asked.

  Kristen drew a careful breath, trying to keep the words from sticking in her throat. “ ‘The blue stripes were a good choice and your workmanship admirable. You may, however, choose different attire when you begin work on your next project. I would hate for anyone to believe you anything but a lady.’ ”

  Mia hesitated. “What did you wear to the wallpapering extravaganza, Kristen?”

  Kristen’s cheeks heated as her hands grew clammy once again. “A sports bra and biker shorts. It was three A.M. I didn’t think anyone in my neighborhood was awake to care.”

  Reagan pushed back from the table and paced the length of the room, his big body tense. “That isn’t the point,” he said tightly. “Jack, I want to see that last letter.”

  Again Jack obliged, slitting open the envelope, sliding the contents to the table. He bypassed the Polaroids and the map and handed Reagan the letter without a word. Reagan scanned it, creases of color appearing on his cheekbones, a scowl bending his features. “ ‘My dearest Kristen, I grow impatient for you to share the satisfaction of my labor. Ross King was the lowest of criminals, preying on young children, stealing their youth, their innocence, then conspiring with his debased lawyer to further pervert the system. What he has received at my hand is a thousandfold less than he deserves. Sleep well tonight, knowing the children he ruined are vindicated and countless others are now safe from harm…Your Humble Servant.’ ”

  “And the P.S.?” Kristen asked, hearing her voice tremble.

  He looked up, his eyes narrowed and questioning. “ ‘Cherry, dear.’ ”

  Kristen closed her eyes, her empty stomach churning. “I’ve been stripping the paint off my antique fireplace mantel and I’m about to start the staining. Choices are oak, maple, or cherry.” She opened her eyes. “The fireplace is in my basement. You can’t see in from the street. You have to be standing at the window, looking down.”

  “Then he’s venturing up to your house.” Spinnelli was grim. “When was the last time you worked on the mantel?”

  “This past Saturday.” She flattened her hands on her thighs. “I’ve been too busy with the Conti case to do any work on the house the last few days.”

  “Then we have a time frame. He must have been frustrated that you didn’t check your trunk.” Spinnelli looked from Abe to Jack to Mia. “You check the tire for vandalism?”

  “Puncture in the sidewall,” Abe responded, his fists jammed in his pants pockets.

  “Was the tire punctured while the car was parked in the garage?” Spinnelli asked.

  “Almost certainly,” Jack said, then turned to Kristen. “Do you mean you really haven’t opened your trunk for a month, Kristen? Not even once?”

  Kristen shrugged. “I never carry anything large. Any home improvement materials get delivered by the store. I just put little stuff in the backseat.”

  Mia frowned. “Don’t you buy groceries or anything?”

  “Not a lot. I don’t cook very often, so no.”

  “If you don’t cook, what do you eat?” Spinnelli asked.

  Kristen shrugged again. “I eat most of my meals at a diner near the courthouse.” She found herself addressing the next question to Abe Reagan. “What next?”

  Reagan was looking at the maps. “Let’s put some uniforms at each of these locations until we can get your guys out there, Jack. I want to start at dawn. First light.”

  Spinnelli was looking at the Polaroids. “We ha
ve five dead men. Suspects?”

  Mia sucked in one cheek. “First stop would have to be the victims of the… victims.”

  “How many victims are we talking about, Kristen?” Spinnelli asked.

  Kristen sat back. “Ramey had three that we know of. The Blades had their two. Ross King had six boys come forward, ranging in age from seven to fifteen. So all totaled we have eleven victims, plus families and friends.” She lifted her eyes once again to Reagan’s intense gaze. “I can get you a list of names and last-known addresses.”

  “But that one victim would kill all five,” Jack wondered. “Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect way to muddy the waters.” Abe noted the coordinates of each map on his notepad. “Get your revenge, pop off a few for the road, give the defense attorneys room to introduce reasonable doubt if you’re caught. There’s a certain poetic justice in it.”

  “I’m surprised our humble servant didn’t pick off a defense lawyer or two while he was at it,” Mia muttered.

  Kristen took in the photos, the clothing, the maps. The letters. “Don’t discount it,” she said quietly. “I don’t think he’s anywhere close to being done yet.”

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, February 18, 11:00 P.M.

  Abe stopped short at the base of the stairs. There she was, once again. Standing at the glass doors that led to the street, nearly swallowed up in her bulky coat, her rich red hair still in the tight twist that made his head ache just looking at it. Her profile could have been hewn from stone, she was so still. He was surprised to see her. He thought she would have left half an hour before, when the meeting had disbanded and they’d all gone their separate ways. Spinnelli had gone back to his office to order uniformed watch over the three sites indicated by the maps. Mia disappeared with a large box filled with Ray Rawlston’s personal effects.

  His new partner was efficient, eradicating all traces of the man who’d owned that desk for twenty years. He didn’t envy her the task of taking personal effects to the widow of a fallen officer. He’d done it himself, once, before making detective. It was his partner’s baseball cap, and he’d held the woman left behind, awkwardly patting her back as she sobbed, clutching the baseball cap to her breast. His part-ner’s wife hadn’t cried at the hospital or the funeral, but it was somehow holding that damn cap that lowered her floodgates. He’d gone home and pounded the punching bag in the garage until Debra had come to find him, worried. She’d kissed his sore knuckles, then held him, murmured in his ear the comforting things that only a wife can. Could. Past tense. Debra was gone, truly gone.

  God, he missed her. He let himself yearn for just a moment, to wish for what might have been, to wonder what if. Then realized he still stood in the same spot. Still stared at Kristen Mayhew’s profile as she stared out onto the darkened street. And he wondered what went through her mind. He assumed she was scared. She had every right to be. Even though Spinnelli had ordered a unit drive by her house every hour and even though she had every one of their personal cell phone numbers, she had every right to be afraid.

  He approached slowly and cleared his throat. “Am I out of pepper spray range?” In the window’s reflection he saw her lips quirk in rueful amusement.

  “You’re safe, Detective,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

  He stopped a few inches from her right shoulder, closer than he’d intended. But he caught the scent of her fragrance and his feet refused to move. When she’d clutched his arm in the garage she’d been this close, but his head had been filled with the odor of stale oil and exhaust. She smelled good, he thought. Pretty. And he wished he hadn’t noticed. “I’m on my way home. I thought you’d have been out of here a half hour ago.”

  “I’m waiting for a cab.”

  “A cab? Why?”

  “Because you have my car at Impound and the rental car place is closed.”

  Abe shook his head. Of course. He couldn’t believe one of them hadn’t thought about that before going their separate ways. “Don’t you have a friend you can call?”

  “No.” It wasn’t a bitter retort, just no. No, you don’t have a friend you can call, or no you don’t have a friend? The thought hit him out of nowhere, accompanied by a profound need to protect. From a vigilante murdering peeping Tom? From having no friends? From me?

  “I’ll take you home. It’s on my way.” It was a lie, of course, but she didn’t have to know.

  She smiled. “How do you know? You don’t even know where I live.”

  He recited her address, then shrugged a little sheepishly. “I was listening when you told Spinnelli your address for the patrol drive-bys. Let me drive you home, Kristen. I’ll check out your house and make sure no vigilante peeping Toms are hiding in the closets.”

  “I was worried about that,” she admitted. “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

  “I’m sure. But I do have two favors to ask.”

  Instantly her green eyes went wary and he wondered why. Or who. A woman that looked like Kristen Mayhew would find it impossible to escape opportunists who wanted special favors. “What?” she asked sharply.

  “First, stop calling me Detective Reagan,” Abe said simply. “Please call me Abe.”

  He could see her shoulders relax through the heavy winter coat. “And the second?”

  “I’m starving. I’d planned to stop someplace for a quick bite. Join me?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I never ate dinner, either.”

  “Good. My SUV is parked across the street.”

  Wednesday, February 18, 11:00 P.M.

  He was ready. He ran a soft cloth down the matte barrel of his rifle. It was like new. It should be. A wise man cared well for his tools. It had served him well these past few weeks.

  He pulled the photo in its cheap silver frame just a little closer. “Six down, Leah. Who will be next?” Carefully he laid the rifle on the table and stuck his hand in the fishbowl. Once the bowl held Leah’s goldfish. Ever since he’d known her, Leah had a goldfish. Cleo had always been its name. When one died, a new one would miraculously show up in the bowl the next day and it would be named Cleo. Leah never acknowledged one fish was dead, never made a fuss. She just went out and bought a new fish. He’d found a dead Cleo in Leah’s fishbowl the day he’d identified her body. He hadn’t the heart to buy a new one.

  Now the fishbowl held the names of every person who had escaped justice under Kristen Mayhew’s watch. Murderers, rapists, child molesters, all out walking the streets because some morally bankrupt defense attorney found a loophole. The defense attorneys were no better than the criminals themselves. They just wore better suits.

  He riffled his hand through the little slips of paper, searching, pausing when his finger caught a dog-eared edge. He’d worried over whom to target first. Over which crime was more serious than the rest, which victims deserved justice before the others. He’d only have so much time, especially now that the police were involved. He’d known that Kristen would involve the police before he’d tipped his hand, but it seemed a justifiable risk for the satisfaction he’d receive just by knowing she knew. So he’d put all the names in the fishbowl and let God guide his hand. He pulled out the folded piece. Looked at the corner he himself had turned down. He’d given God a little help, that’s all.

  What was the punishment for that dog-ear? he wondered. There were crimes that were worse than others. Rape and child molestation had a premeditation, a wickedness that must be punished, eliminated. So he’d gone back and dog-eared all the sexual crimes.

  He stared at the folded paper for another long minute. The last pick had yielded a prime target. Ross King deserved to die. There wasn’t a decent person that would disagree with that. He hadn’t died easily, or quickly. And in the end he’d begged so piteously. He’d often wondered, in the past, if he could beat a man who begged for mercy. He now knew he could.

  He’d done well that night, ridding the world of a parasite too dangerous to live with decent
people. God would be pleased. The innocents were just a little safer today. So his decision was made. He’d choose all the dog-eared names first. There was still a random nature, the choice in the end was still God’s. When there were no more dog-eared names, he’d go on to the lesser crimes. And if he never made it that far, at least he’d go on to his reward knowing he’d gotten the biggest bang for his buck.

  He unfolded the little piece of paper and his smile turned grim. Oh, yes. I’m ready.

  Wednesday, February 18, 11:35 P.M.

  “It’s good.”

  Abe chuckled. “You sound surprised.”

  “I am.” Kristen studied the gyro in the strobing light of the passing streetlamps. They were just a few miles from her house, but she’d torn into the sandwich less than a minute after leaving the drive-thru saying she was hungrier than she’d thought. “What’s in it?”

  “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 gyro 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.”