“Is she still screaming my name when you’re having sex?”
Wincott laughed. “How the hell would I know? I can’t remember the last time I had any. There’s always at least one kid in bed between us, and now with the baby getting up every couple of hours, the only thing I want to have is sleep.”
“Spoken like a true married man,” Alec said.
Wincott grimaced. “Back to Sweeney,” he said. “We’re discovering that a lot of people wanted him dead, so I won’t be running out of suspects. We’ve been going through his stuff. No one can find his wallet. Hey, guess what? Sweeney kept a diary.”
Alec raised an eyebrow. “That’s a girly thing to do. I didn’t think Sweeney was the dear-diary type.”
Wincott laughed. When he smiled, he looked ten years younger. “It wasn’t that kind of a diary,” he said. “The idiot kept notes on all the people he was going to blackmail. I’m not speculating about that. He wrote it all down. Guess who was in the notebook with the drug dealers and the pimps?”
“Who?”
Wincott leaned in again. “Lewis.”
Alec perked up. “No kidding.”
“That’s right. Sweeney was going to take pictures and send them to his wife.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Lewis with his mistress.”
Alec shook his head. “Now, that’s shocking.”
“I don’t think it’s so shocking,” Wincott argued. “I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t like to see Lewis take a fall.”
“I think it’s shocking that he could get two women to have sex with him.”
“One woman’s built like an ironing board but has some money, which is why he married her, and the other one doesn’t have any money but from what I hear, she’s loaded in other areas, if you know what I mean.”
“Who else was in there?”
Wincott told him about some of the other deviants Sweeney was already blackmailing. “He even had a ledger of the cash he was going to be taking in and the amounts he was going to charge, kind of like a bank account. Who would write all that down?”
“He must have thought he’d never get caught.”
“Like I said, we’ve got a lot of suspects, but we’re narrowing it down. It looks like one of three drug dealers didn’t want to pay Sweeney’s bills. Maybe he was already shaking them down.”
“What about Regan Madison? How does she figure in this?”
“Don’t know,” Wincott said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet. I had to go back to the crime scene and I got stuck there. We did find her cell phone.”
Alec straightened. “Yeah? Where’d you find it?”
“In the bushes behind the dump Sweeney called home. We’re running what’s left of it for prints, but I don’t figure we’ll find any. The basement was wiped clean. Only prints around were Sweeney’s. The killer had to know what he was doing, and he was strong, real strong. Had to be,” he added, “to lift Sweeney’s body up like that with the rope. Oh, and by the way, we got the autopsy report. He was dead before he was stripped and hung.”
“How was he killed?”
“Asphyxiation,” he said. “So now I’ve got to wonder why the killer went to all that trouble to strip him and hang him. Bradshaw thinks it was for drama,” he said, referring to his partner.
“What do you think?”
“I think he was showing off for his fantasy girlfriend . . . you know, trying to impress her.”
“The girlfriend being Regan Madison?”
Wincott raised his eyebrows. “I hear she’s a real looker.”
Alec didn’t comment. Wincott didn’t seem to notice.
“You know how those sickos are. Bradshaw thinks maybe he saw her someplace and got fixated on her. He’s going to talk to Matlin about it,” he added, referring to the psychiatrist on staff.
“Good idea,” Alec said. He then filled Wincott in on his interview with Regan and told him about the man who had chased her to her car. He also mentioned her theory about Sweeney and Dr. Shields. “She’s sure she lost her phone when she fell.”
Wincott was trying to work it out in his mind. “Okay, so he found the phone, saw it had a camera built in, and decided to have a little fun with it. Her e-mail address was there. All he had to do was take the picture and then push a button.”
“Still doesn’t explain the connection to Sweeney.”
Wincott agreed. “And I don’t see a drug dealer having that kind of fun. I can see one of them killing Sweeney, but . . .” He stopped shrugged, and then said, “Not making any sense yet.”
“What did you mean when you said you were running prints on what was left of the phone?”
“He’d smashed the phone to pieces while he was still in the basement. Crime team found a couple of tiny pieces on the workbench.”
“And of course no prints on the hammer.”
“Nope,” he confirmed. “Not a one. Listen, I appreciate you working this with us. There’s going to be a lot of legwork. Since that e-mail was sent to Regan Madison, we’re going to have to check out anyone who’s connected to her. Maybe there’s a vendetta from a jilted lover or an unhappy employee. I can use all the help I can get. Be kind of nice finally working together and me getting to tell you what to do. I’m gonna like that.”
“Yeah, well, before you get all worked up about adding me to your team, there’s something you need to know.”
“What’s that?” Wincott happened to look up, and then muttered, “Ah, hell. Lewis is motioning to me.”
“He’s gonna tell you he wants me out of the loop. I can make phone calls for you, but that’s about it.”
“Wincott,” Lewis shouted from his doorway. “I want to talk to you.”
“Prick,” he mumbled.
“Keep me posted,” Alec said.
Wincott nodded. Alec could hear him sigh as he threaded his way around the desks to get to Lewis.
Chapter Twenty
“YOU’RE BACK IN.”
Lewis made the announcement from the doorway of his office. “Buchanan, did you hear what I just said? You’re back in.”
Alec didn’t bother to stand. He simply turned in his swivel chair and asked, “Back in what?”
Lewis strode forward. “I just got off the phone with the superintendent of police. That’s right,” he said. “The superintendent.” His chest actually swelled like a blowfish when he repeated the news.
“And?” Alec prodded.
“Did you have any idea who Regan Madison was when you interviewed her?”
Alec wasn’t in the mood to play guessing games. He’d been in the middle of doodling on his blotter while he watched the second hand circle the clock on the wall. It had been only a couple of hours since Lewis had taken his cases away from him, but he was bored out of his mind. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stomach sitting there and knew that Lewis expected him to show up at eight every morning and do nothing for nine frickin’ hours. If Lewis had wanted to drive him nuts, he couldn’t have picked a better punishment. Three weeks of sheer boredom. Like it or not, he was going to have to deal with it.
“Well, did you?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who is she?”
“A Hamilton,” he said. He all but smacked his lips as he said the name.
Lewis stood in front of Alec’s desk and planted his sweaty palms on Alec’s blotter. “She’s Regan Hamilton Madison.”
“And?”
“Her family owns all those hotels.” He was frowning now, obviously irritated that Alec hadn’t been suitably impressed. “The Hamilton in Chicago is just one of several. They’re all top-of-the-line. The woman comes from money, old money.”
“So?”
“That wasn’t in your report. I checked. You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”
Alec didn’t know how to respond to the absurd question. “So what about her? And what did you mean when you said I was back in?”
“She has brothers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Three of them,” he continued, acting as though Alec hadn’t acknowledged the fact. “The oldest one just called the superintendent. Seems he knows the Madisons quite well. They belong to the same country club,” he added. “The Clairmont Country Club, to be exact. My wife and I have been trying to get in there for over five years.”
“And?” Alec asked, trying to force him to get to the point.
“Aiden’s the oldest Madison,” he said. “He’s a very powerful man.”
He sounded like a fan now. Alec was disgusted. “So?”
“So he’s concerned about his sister’s safety.”
Alec leaned back. “Why are you talking to me? Wincott’s in charge of the investigation. Refer the brothers to him.”
“Wincott has enough to do,” he said. “And Regan Madison isn’t a suspect . . .”
“Did Wincott tell you she wasn’t?”
“I’m telling you,” he snapped.
He wasn’t going to argue. Come on, he thought. Spell it out. Lewis was taking forever to tell him what he wanted. And Alec had so many other things to do. Like doodling. He almost laughed out loud then. Lewis had made sure he’d be excluded from any and all investigations, wanting him to sit at his desk and stare into space. Fortunately, he had a lot of doodles to finish, and right now Lewis’s palms were sweating all over one of his more creative ones.
“I want you to look after her until Wincott brings in Sweeney’s killer.”
Alec dropped his pen. “You want me to be her bodyguard?” He got angry just thinking about it. “I’m not a damned bodyguard,” he muttered before Lewis could speak.
“You are now. Know why I decided on you?”
“Because you knew I’d hate it?”
“That too,” Lewis said, grinning. “You have a bad attitude, Buchanan. That’s why you were so good working vice. You fit right in with all those perverts and psychos.”
His insults didn’t faze Alec. “Nice of you to notice.”
“You’re going to stick with the Madison woman night and day, day and night. You got that?”
Was he more concerned about the wealthy woman being upset or Sweeney’s murder? It was hard to tell.
“If her family has so much money, why can’t they hire bodyguards?”
“They could. Of course they could,” he said. “And they might.”
Every time he opened his mouth, he spit all over Alec’s desk. Man oh man, three weeks suddenly felt like a life sentence.
“But I want someone from this office with her at all times, and I want Aiden Madison to be beholden. Got that?” He didn’t expect a reply. He straightened and headed back to his office. He was shutting the door when he paused and shouted, “Buchanan?”
Alec didn’t answer.
“This is my ticket into Clairmont. Don’t screw it up.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Keep her alive.”
Chapter Twenty-one
DUE TO THE INCESSANT RAIN, THE MAINTENANCE CREW DIDN’T get around to clearing the five-foot-high pile of dead shrubs and branches for days. The men wore black rubber boots and yellow slickers over their work clothes and were soon covered in mud as they hauled the refuse away. Vernon, the most energetic of the three-man crew, had tossed the last gnarled branch into a nearby wheelbarrow and was heading back to the shed to take a break and smoke at least two unfiltered Camels when one of his coworkers, a whiner named Sammy, started screaming like a girl, pointing and backing away. Sammy’s hazel eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of his head.
Harry, the new man, wore large bifocals, which were splattered with mud and drizzle. When he walked closer to see what Sammy was carrying on about, he too started screaming. He didn’t sound like a girl, though; he sounded like a squawking bird.
“What’s the matter with you two?” Vernon returned to the men as he asked the question. Then he saw what they were looking at. A toe was sticking up out of the mud.
He squatted down, saw the chipped red polish on the toenail, and fell back on his ample butt. “Don’t touch nothing,” he choked out as he scrambled to his feet. “The police won’t want us touching nothing because this here is now a crime scene.”
Harry was staring hard at the toe, half expecting it to wiggle. “How do you know, Vernon?”
“ ’Cause this is where the crime was perpetrated, you twit, or at least where the body was buried.” He paused to point dramatically at the toe before continuing. “And that makes it a crime scene. That’s what they call it on television when they wrap yellow official tape all around the perimeter. Sammy, for the love of God, stop your yelling.”
Sammy pulled a soggy handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “We should do something for her . . . shouldn’t we try to do something for her?”
Given the circumstances, Vernon was surprisingly calm. “No one can do anything for her now.”
“It is a real toe, isn’t it, Vernon?” Harry asked.
“What do you mean, ‘ real’?”
“I’m thinking it could be a rubber one or a plastic one. One of those smart-ass college kids might be trying to prank us.”
It was a viable possibility. Vernon leaned in. “It’s real, all right. Rubber don’t decompose so fast, and I can see it isn’t plastic ’cause there isn’t any shine to it.”
Sammy gagged. Harry gave him a sharp look and waved him back. “The police won’t appreciate it if you puke on their crime scene. Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested.
“Are you sure the toe’s attached to a body?” Harry asked Vernon.
“You come up with the stupidest questions. I’m not touching it or tugging on it to see if it’s attached or not. That’s for the police to figure out. Why don’t you run over to the lecture hall and use their phone to call the police? Sammy and I will wait here.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker if I just use my cell phone?”
“For crying out loud, does everyone in the U.S. of A. have a cell phone?”
“I don’t know about everyone else in the U.S. of A.,” Harry said. “But I sure do. Had it for over a year.”
He unfastened his slicker, pulled out a bright red phone, and dialed 911.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE LAST THING REGAN WANTED OR NEEDED WAS SOMEONE SHADowing her every second of the day. Detective Buchanan didn’t particularly care how she felt, though. He strolled into her office, looking as scruffy and as sexy as she remembered, leaned against the side of her desk, and calmly announced that he was going to be her bodyguard for the next three weeks, or until the man who had e-mailed her the photo of Detective Sweeney was apprehended.
“Shouldn’t you be out there looking for the murderer instead of following me around?”
“I’ve been assigned to you,” he said. “Detective Wincott is out there looking,” he added.
She was frustrated and weary. She was also scared but wasn’t going to admit it. Cordie still hadn’t called her back, and Regan was worried sick about her and Sophie.
“Yes, you already told me that Detective Wincott was in charge. I haven’t met him yet. I have been cooperating, haven’t I?” she said. “And it seems you only just left. There’s been such commotion here since then. I need some time to just sit down and think. My head’s reeling. I have some work to finish, and then I want to . . .”
He tried not to smile. “Think?”
“Yes, think.”
“No problem,” he said.
He removed his tie and stuffed it in the pocket of his jacket before taking it off and draping it over a chair.
She watched him get comfortable on the sofa. “What happens in three weeks?”
“Sorry?” He was rolling his sleeves up as he turned to her.
“You said you were going to be my bodyguard for three weeks. What happens then?”
He undid the top button of his shirt before he answered. “I’m finished with the job and leaving Chicago, but don’t worry, if he’s
still out there, then someone else will be assigned to guard you. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”
“Who made that decision?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Okay, who?” She wasn’t going to let it go.
“Lieutenant Lewis.”
“Do I have anything to say about this?”
He flashed a smile and picked up the latest Forbes magazine from the coffee table. “Not really,” he said. “Like it or not, I’m here to stay.”
She didn’t like it, not one little bit. Detective Buchanan was a clear distraction, but she had to put the discussion on hold when his cell phone rang. Her office phone rang at the very same time.
Peter Morris, the man she had turned down for a second grant, was on the line. He was absolutely thrilled he’d gotten through to her.
“This is wonderful,” he stammered. “Your assistant kept putting me off, and I can’t believe I’m finally talking to you. I know you didn’t have anything to do with turning me down for the grant renewal, so I’m not blaming you. It was just a huge misunderstanding, wasn’t it?”
Before she had time to answer and set him straight, he rushed on. “My work is important. I need that money, and I was guaranteed that, once I qualified—and I did qualify last year—that it would be an automatic renewal. How about I come by tonight and you could have the check ready?”
“That’s not going to happen, Mr. Morris. I am the one who turned you down for the grant, and the information each applicant received was quite specific. There is no such thing as an automatic renewal.”
He refused to believe her. His voice had lost a little of its cheer as he said, “No, that’s not true. You couldn’t have turned me down. You understand how important my work is.”
“Mr. Morris—”
He interrupted her again. “I know what you’re going to say. Your assistant already told me that I could reapply next year, but the community center desperately needs the money now. Pulling the rug out at the last minute . . . it just isn’t right. Now, about the check—”
The Murder List Page 15
