He rose slowly. “I didn’t come here to frighten your little girl. I’m sorry she’s scared. But this is a police investigation. A woman is dead, and it’s my job to find out what happened to her. If your daughter knows something—”
“She doesn’t know anything. Please, she can’t help you.” Thea’s arms tightened protectively around Nikki as she gazed up at Detective Gallagher, trying to appeal to the softness she’d glimpsed in him earlier, fervently hoping the compassion had been genuine. “I don’t know how her doll got on that roof, but I do know Nikki wasn’t up there last night. She couldn’t have been. She didn’t see anything.”
“Why won’t you let her tell me that?”
Thea drew a long trembling breath and said, almost in a whisper, “Because she can’t. She can’t tell you anything. My daughter can’t speak, Detective.”
JOHN STOOD at the window in Thea Lockhart’s living room while he waited for her to come out of her daughter’s bedroom. She’d reluctantly told him to help himself to the coffee, and he’d complied, the aroma too tempting to pass up this early in the morning. The rich steamy brew was a far cry from the lukewarm sludge at the station, and he savored the taste as he stared out the window.
The building across the street blocked the view of the lake, forcing his gaze downward. The yellow crime-scene tape had torn loose in the wind, and sometime during the night the rain had changed to snow; now a light layer of it hid the bloodstains. Passersby on the street barely gave the spot a second glance. They didn’t know or didn’t care that a woman had died there last night, had sucked in her last breath while plunging five stories to the ground. Had the name of her killer been on her lips when she died?
Scowling, John turned away from the window. He couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that Thea Lockhart and her daughter knew more about Gail Waters’s death than they were telling. Why else was Mrs. Lockhart so nervous around him?
Mrs. Lockhart. John glanced around the apartment, taking in the shabby furniture, the basket of laundry shoved in one corner, the coloring book and crayons scattered over the dining-room table. Gold hoop earrings had been dropped into a glass bowl on the cocktail table, and a pair of white walking shoes rested near the front door.
There wasn’t a trace of masculinity anywhere, including the laundry. A pink uniform lay folded on top of the basket, while the leg of a child’s pajama bottom hung over one side and a lacy white bra spilled over the other.
He stared at the bra for a moment as something familiar, and unwanted, stirred in him. Meredith had been gone for some time. He was over her, and he’d long since come to terms with his failed marriage. But a woman’s underthings were a reminder of the intimacy and closeness he’d once had, and he couldn’t deny a certain hollowness in his life now. A loneliness he didn’t often admit to.
He glanced up and caught Thea Lockhart watching him from the hallway. She knew what he’d been staring at, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. She lifted her chin as she came into the room.
She’d changed from the chenille robe into a pair of worn jeans and navy blue sweater. Her short dark hair was combed behind her ears, but a riot of curls spilled across her forehead. She shoved it back impatiently.
“How’s your daughter?” John asked, his gaze inadvertently traveling over her. She was very thin, her skin smooth and soft-looking, but she had a toughness about her, a wariness in her dark eyes that made him think she was no innocent. She’d been around. Somehow he liked that about her.
“She’s playing with her doll for now, but she’ll want breakfast in a few minutes.”
John took the hint. He’d need to leave before then. “Why did you lie to me about the doll, Mrs. Lockhart?”
She looked surprised for a moment, as if his question had been unexpected. Then she shrugged. “I didn’t lie. I wasn’t sure it was Nikki’s. And I still can’t imagine how it got on the roof last night.”
He lifted a brow as he watched her move to the tiny kitchen and pour herself another cup of coffee. She held up the pot. “Can I freshen yours?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m fine. This is good, by the way.” He toasted her with his mug, and she inclined her head slightly. She didn’t move back into the living room, but remained in the kitchen with the bar between them.
John left his post by the window and crossed to her. She looked vaguely startled again as he looked down at her, and she averted her gaze as she sipped her coffee.
“You still don’t think your daughter left the doll on the roof?”
She frowned. “Of course I don’t. You saw how shy she is, how…easily frightened. There’s no way she would have gone up to that roof alone, and I know Mrs. Lewellyn would never have taken her up there.”
“Maybe that’s something we need to ask Mrs. Lewellyn.”
“I intend to,” Thea snapped. Then, as if having second thoughts about her angry tone, she set down her coffee and gazed at him in earnest. “Look, even if Nikki was up there—which I know she wasn’t—what is it you think she can do for you? She can’t tell you anything, Detective.”
John put down his own cup and leaned his arms on the bar, trying to appear relaxed and unthreatening. “Has she always been like this?”
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer. That same fierce protectiveness he’d witnessed earlier came over her features, and she frowned. “No. Just since her father died.”
“I see.” A widow. That might explain a lot, John thought, and not just the lack of male paraphernalia in the apartment. It might also explain the glimmer of desperation he’d seen in Thea Lockhart’s dark eyes, and the fear. And the fact that she seemed to have a hard time looking him in the eye, acknowledging the unmistakable physical attraction that clung to their glances, their voices, the air around them. She might feel guilty about that, he decided, although there was no reason to. He didn’t intend to act on his impulses and he was certain she didn’t, either.
“How did her father die?” he asked carefully.
“An accident. A…tragic accident. Nikki hasn’t gotten over it yet, and I…don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand. But if there’s even a slim chance that Nikki was on the roof last night, Mrs. Lockhart—”
“Thea,” she said quickly. Their gazes met for a moment, and then hers darted away. She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and rinsed out the cup. “You can call me Thea.”
“That’s a very pretty name.”
“It’s for my grandmother,” she said, and then looked as if she wished she could take it back.
He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Does your grandmother live here in Chicago?”
She almost smiled, too, as if recognizing his tactic. “My grandmother’s been dead for years, Detective.”
“John.” When she gave him a reluctant glance, he said, “I’m named for my father, Sean.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Very.”
“An Irish cop. That’s almost a cliché, isn’t it?”
“In that case, my whole family is a cliché.”
John had never seen a person’s demeanor change so rapidly. She’d been wary before, even a little frightened, but now her expression took on a frozen look, as if she’d donned a mask to hide her true identity, her real feelings. He’d wanted to put her at ease, but instead, her armor had grown thicker. She said stiffly, “You come from a family of cops.” It wasn’t a question, but a flat emotionless statement.
John shrugged. “Guilty.”
“I imagine you look out for each other. Take care of each other.”
John frowned at her tone. “Occasionally,” he said, thinking about his brothers. Actually he would be the last person Nick would come to for help, and Tony…well, Tony was another story.
Thea said quietly, “I’d like you to go now, Detective. There’s really nothing my daughter and I can do to help you.”
She was good, John realized suddenly. Too damn good. She’d distracted him f
rom the questions he’d been intent on asking about her daughter, and all the while, convinced him he was the one in control.
He stared down at her, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her dark eyes were deep and unfathomable, a mysterious blend of fear, guile and cunning. A very dangerous mix.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Lockhart.”
One brow rose slightly, and he could see that the fingers clinging to the tiny gold chain around her throat trembled. His gaze dipped, in spite of himself, to the curves beneath her sweater, and an image of that lacy white bra leaped to his mind. He could almost see her in it, her breasts straining against the fabric, his thumb stroking her through the silk—
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said hoarsely.
His gaze shot to hers. I doubt that, he wanted to tell her. Then again, maybe she did know. Maybe that was why the blush on her cheeks had deepened, standing out starkly against the ivory of her complexion. Her brown eyes flashed with sudden fire, and John thought absurdly that if he hadn’t met her under these circum-stances…if she wasn’t a recent widow…if his marriage hadn’t made him more than a little careful…
“You’re thinking that if Nikki was on that roof, you might have an eyewitness to Gail Waters’s death. It would be cut and dried. You could close your case. But you’re wrong, Detective. My daughter wasn’t on that roof. She couldn’t have been.”
“But what if she was?” John challenged, ignoring the flicker of fear in her eyes. “What if Gail Waters didn’t commit suicide?”
She gasped slightly, her face going paler.
“What if she was murdered and your daughter saw it all? What if she is the only one who can identify the killer? Have you thought about that, Mrs. Lockhart?”
Chapter Three
After John left Thea that morning, he drove to the county morgue, housed in the huge Chicago Technology Park off Harrison. He’d called earlier and was expected.
“What’s so important about this case that I had to come in here to do the autopsy on a Sunday morning?” the assistant medical examiner demanded as she shoved a file in an already bulging drawer and slammed it shut.
John shrugged. “I figured you didn’t have anything better to do. Vince is out of town, isn’t he?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
“Heard it through the grapevine.” John wasn’t about to admit to his ex-wife that he occasionally kept tabs on her new husband. Nor was he going to confide in her the possible significance of the Gail Waters case. Meredith hadn’t been very supportive when his father had disappeared seven years ago. She’d suggested Sean might have been involved in something shady or even a cover-up to protect his youngest son, Tony, from suspicion in his girlfriend’s brutal murder.
John had not taken kindly to Meredith’s insinuations, although, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit the occasional doubt about his father’s disappearance had crossed his own mind. Sean Gallagher wouldn’t have been the first cop to go off the deep end, nor the first man to walk out on his family. He and John’s mother, Maggie, had not exactly had a marriage made in heaven. And what with Tony’s troubles back then…
John forced his thoughts back to the present, letting his gaze rove critically over his ex-wife. He hated to admit it, but she looked good. “So how’s the baby?” he asked with only a tinge of…what? Envy? Jealousy? Self-pity?
Meredith laughed softly. She shoved back her unruly hair as she sat down at her desk. The action reminded him of Thea. They were both small women, both had dark hair, but the resemblance ended there. Meredith’s skin was olive, Thea’s like porcelain. Meredith could be a real bitch at times; Thea was…still a mystery.
“What can I say?” Her green eyes sparkled. “He’s tiny and beautiful and absolutely wonderful. A perfect male specimen, if I do say so myself.” Her gaze met John’s, and for just a split second, something that might have been regret flickered in her eyes. Then she said bluntly, “You look like hell, John. What have you been doing—living at the station?”
“Lot of active cases,” he muttered.
“What else is new?” She stood and pulled on a white lab coat that had been draped over the back of her chair. Her expression became sober and professional. “So what are we looking for here? Anything specific?”
“The usual. The victim took a dive off a five-story building, so I’ll want to know about brain contusions.” Not many lay people, including some murderers now serving prison time, knew that the bruising of the brain from a fall was different from that of a blunt-force injury. If Gail Waters had been bashed in the head before she hit the pavement, an autopsy would reveal it.
“Let’s do it then,” Meredith said wearily. “I’ve got a baby to get back to and a husband who promised to be home by dinner.”
Her meaning wasn’t lost on John. He’d missed more meals in the six years they’d been married than he cared to remember, and they both knew it had nothing to do with Meredith being a lousy cook. Even though she’d had her own impossible hours to deal with finishing her residency, John had been the one, more often than not, to phone with the apologies and excuses. After a while he hadn’t even bothered with those.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she’d announced one night that she was leaving him, nor when she’d admitted to—flung it in his face—a two-year affair with the man she was now married to. A man who had once been John’s friend.
“Why should you feel so betrayed?” she’d screamed at him that night. “I’m the one who’s had to put up with your mistress all these years.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never cheated on you.”
“I’m talking about that damn job of yours. You’re a cop first and a man second, John. And being a husband isn’t even a lousy third. I pity the next poor woman who falls in love with you.”
“John?” Meredith’s insistent voice brought him back to the present. She gave him a strange look. “You ready?”
“Just waiting for you.” He strode toward the door of her office. “Let’s get this over with. Like you said, you’ve got a husband and a baby to get home to.”
“And you?” Her gaze was more than a little curious.
He shrugged. “I’ve got a case to solve. That’s what I’m good at, remember?”
“I remember you were good at a few other things, too,” she said softly, her tone almost tender. “It just wasn’t enough.”
AFTER BREAKFAST Thea left Nikki coloring at the dining table while she went down the hall to Mrs. Lewellyn’s apartment. The building, with its stained carpeting and peeling paint, was old and badly in need of refurbishing, but that was why Thea could afford the rent.
The newer lakefront high-rises on Lake Shore Drive were way out of her price range, as were the redbrick town houses cropping up near the parks. Thea had chosen the university neighborhood because of its relatively low crime rate, and because the diversity made it easier to blend in. She’d thought of everything when she and Nikki had moved in here—except the possibility of a woman being murdered in their building.
Standing in the dimly lit corridor, Thea kept an eye on her own apartment door while she waited for the elderly woman to answer hers.
When Mrs. Lewellyn finally opened the door, her eyes widened with pleasure. “Why, Thea, I didn’t expect to see you this early. You got home rather late last night, didn’t you, dear?” She had the barest trace of an English accent, which suited perfectly her prim-and-proper demeanor. In spite of her stooped shoulders, she was several inches taller than Thea.
“It was just after midnight,” Thea said. “I want to thank you again for coming over on such short notice to stay with Nikki.”
Mrs. Lewellyn brushed aside her gratitude. She was dressed for church, Thea noticed, in a dark blue suit and matching pumps. Her gray hair, as always, was pulled into a bun at the back of her head. “It was my pleasure. You know I adore Nikki. She’s never any trouble at all.” She glanced past Thea into the hal
lway. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the apartment, coloring.” Thea cast another glance at her door. “I have to get back to her, but I wanted to talk to you in private for a moment.”
Mrs. Lewellyn’s brows rose. “About Nikki?”
Thea nodded. “I need to ask you something, Mrs. Lewellyn. Did you and Nikki leave the apartment last night?”
“Leave the apartment? No, dear. Why do you ask?” A worried light dawned in her eyes, and she put a hand to her heart. “You heard about that poor woman who jumped off the roof last night. That’s what has you so upset this morning, isn’t it?”
Thea shivered. “How did you hear about it?”
“It was on the news earlier. And I saw Mr. Dalrimple in the laundry room. Evidently the police have enlisted his help. He’s strutting around like a rooster in a hen coop.”
So that was where Detective Gallagher had gotten his tenant list and how he’d known Thea had a daughter. That was also why he’d been at her door first thing this morning.
Thea told herself it was foolish to blame the building manager for her current predicament, but truth be told, she’d been uneasy about Morris Dalrimple ever since she’d moved into the building. His gaze was just a little too admiring, his tone a little too interested, and once, when she and Nikki returned from grocery shopping, Thea was almost positive she’d caught him coming out of her apartment.
He’d told her he had been knocking on her door, claiming a clause in her lease needed her initials, but Thea wasn’t convinced. He’d looked guilty as she signed the paper, his face all flushed and his beady little eyes not quite able to meet hers. Thea knew he had a master key to all the apartments. What was to prevent him from coming and going as he pleased while tenants like her were at work or at school?
Shuddering, she said, “Nikki’s doll was found on the roof last night.”
The Littlest Witness Page 4
