by Nora Roberts
Impressed, Jenner pursed his lips. “Sounds like you’ve done your homework.”
“I have. Because I’m in love with Deanna I think I understand him. Thing is, he’s got this temper, this rage. He didn’t kill in a rage. I think he did that coolly.” And that was what chilled Finn’s blood. “But he trashes my house, Deanna’s office. He writes his feelings of betrayal on the wall. All but splatters them there. How did she betray him? What changed from the time she got the first note to Angela’s murder?”
“She hooked up with you?”
“She’d been involved with me for two years.” Finn leaned forward. “We got engaged, Jenner. The official announcement had barely hit the streets when we had Angela’s murder and the break-ins.”
“So he killed Angela because he was ticked at Deanna Reynolds?”
“He killed Angela, and Pike, because he loves Deanna Reynolds. What better way to show his devotion than to remove people who upset or annoy her? He trashed her things, taking special care with the wedding-gown sketches, the newspaper reports of the engagement, photographs of Deanna and me. He was enraged because she’d announced, publicly, that she preferred another man to him. That she was willing to take vows to prove it.”
Nodding slowly, Jenner doodled on a sheet of paper. “Maybe you didn’t get your psychiatrist’s degree at Sears. Why hasn’t he gone after you?”
Instinctively, Finn reached up to run his fingers over his sleeve. Beneath it was a scar from a bullet. A bullet that hadn’t come from the sniper or the SWAT team. But he couldn’t be sure. “Because I haven’t done anything to hurt Deanna. Marshall did, on the day he was killed, and a couple of years ago, when he fell into Angela’s trap.”
“I should have talked to him.” Jenner tapped a fist lightly on his files. “He could have known something, seen something. It’s possible he’d received threats.”
“I doubt that. He was the type who’d have come running to the cops. Or he would have told me when I talked with him.”
“You were too busy beating him up.”
“I didn’t beat him up.” Finn folded his arms across his chest. “He swung, I swung. Once. In any case, I meant he would have told me when I talked to him at his office a few days ago.”
Jenner stopped doodling. “You went to see him about Angela Perkins’s murder?”
“It was a theory.”
“One you didn’t feel necessary to share?”
“It was personal.”
“Nothing’s personal on this, nothing.” Jenner edged forward, eyes narrowed. “I’ve let you in on this investigation because I think you’re a smart man, and I sympathize with your position. But you cross me and you’re out.”
“I’ll do what I have to do, Lieutenant, with or without you.”
“Reporters aren’t the only ones who can harass. Keep that in mind.” Jenner closed his file, rose. “Now I have work to do.”
No, Jenner thought now, sympathy and admiration aside, he wasn’t about to let Finn go off on his own. He might be wearing blinders to the fact that his life was in danger, but Jenner knew better.
He rose to refill his coffee cup, and glanced through the glass door. “Speak of the devil,” he murmured. Jenner pulled open the door. “Looking for me?” he asked Finn, and waved away the uniform who was blocking Finn’s path. “It’s all right, officer. I’ll see Mr. Riley.” He nodded briefly at Finn. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“It’s going to take a little longer.” Finn studied the police photos on the board dispassionately. There were snapshots of both victims taken prior to and after death. Side by side, they were like before-and-after shots gone desperately wrong. “You’re going to need to put one more set up there.”
Twenty minutes later, Jenner completed his conversation with the detective in Brooklyn Heights. “They’re faxing us the file,” he told Finn. “Okay, Mr. Riley, who knew that McNeil was passing information on to Angela?”
“Deanna’s staff. I’d be certain of that. I’d also give odds that it would have leaked downstairs.” There was an excitement brewing in him now. The kind he recognized as energy from a puzzle nearly solved. “There’s always been a lot of interaction between Deanna’s people and the newsroom. Are we on the same wavelength here? Three people are dead because they threatened Deanna in some way.”
“I can’t comment about that, Mr. Riley.”
Finn shoved back from the table. “Damn it, I’m not here as a reporter. I’m not looking for a scoop, the latest tidbit from an unnamed police source. You want to frisk me for a mike?”
“I don’t think you’re after a story, Mr. Riley,” Jenner said calmly. “If I’d ever thought that, you never would have gotten your foot in the door. But maybe I think you’re too used to doing things your own way, to running your own show to handle the delicate matter of cooperation.”
Finn slammed his hands down on the table. “If you think you’re going to brush me off, you’re wrong. You’re right about the harassment, Lieutenant. One phone call and I can have a dozen cameras dogging your every move. I can put so much pressure on you that you won’t be able to sneeze without someone sticking a mike up your nose. Before you catch your next breath Chicago will be buzzing about a serial killer. The commissioner and the mayor will love that, won’t they?” He waited half a beat. “You use me, or I’ll use you. It’s your choice.”
Jenner folded his arms on the table, leaned forward against them. “I don’t like threats.”
“Neither do I. But I’ll do a lot more than threaten if you try to block me out now.” He looked at the victims on the board. “He could lose it.” He spoke quietly now, carefully. “He could lose it anytime and try to put her up there. You’re pissed because I did some tracking on my own, fine. Be pissed. But use me. Or by God I’ll use you.”
Objectively, Jenner buried his irritation, calculating how much damage would be done by a media war. Too much, he mused. It was always too much.
“Let’s do this, Mr. Riley. Let’s say we theorize that McNeil was the first victim of three—and we’ll want to keep that under our hat.”
“I told you I’m not interested in a story.”
“Just laying down the ground rules. We’ll theorize that, and that only a limited number of people had the knowledge that would lead to motive for his murder.” He gestured to a chair, waiting for Finn to sit again. “Tell me about those people. Start with Loren Bach.” In the spirit of compromise, Jenner opened the file on Loren that Angela had commissioned from Beeker.
Cassie walked into Deanna’s office, then let out a long, long sigh. Deanna stood on a stool in the center of the room, the seamstress at her feet. Yards of shimmering white silk billowed.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s barely started.” But Deanna was almost sighing herself as she brushed a hand over the sweeping skirt neatly pinned to the lacy bodice. Irish lace, she mused. For Finn. “But you’re right.”
“I’ve got to get my camera.” Inspired, Cassie bolted for the door. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You must be still,” the seamstress complained over a mouthful of pins. Her voice was raspy, as if she’d already swallowed more than her share.
Deanna used all her willpower not to shift from foot to foot. “I am being still.”
“You’re vibrating like a spring.”
“Sorry.” Deanna took a long, steadying breath. “I guess I’m nervous.”
“The bride-to-be,” Cassie recited as she walked back in with a Palmcorder blocking her face. “Deanna Reynolds, the reigning queen of daytime TV, has chosen an elegant gown of . . .”
“Italian silk,” the seamstress prompted. “With touches of Irish lace and a sea of freshwater pearls.”
“Exquisite,” Cassie said soberly. “And tell us, Miss Reynolds—” with an expert’s touch, she zoomed in on Deanna’s face—“how do you feel on this exciting occasion?”
“Terrified.” She crossed her eyes. I
f the fitting took five minutes over the allotted hour, she’d be making up time all week. “And partially insane. Other than that I’m enjoying every minute of it.”
“If you’ll just stand perfectly still, I’ll do a little circle around so that our viewers can get the full effect.” Cassie sidestepped, panned back. “This’ll go in my growing library of life behind Deanna’s Hour.”
Deanna felt her smile stiffen. “Do you have a lot of tape?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Simon pulling what’s left of his hair out. Margaret tossing spitballs. You racing for the elevator.”
Beneath the sparkling bodice, Deanna’s heart thudded thickly. “I guess I’ve never paid much attention. So many cameras around. You always keep that at hand, don’t you?”
“You never know what historical, or humiliating, moment you might capture.”
Someone had captured her, Deanna remembered, while she’d slept at her desk. Coming to work, going from, shopping, playing with Fran’s baby in the park.
They’d captured her unconscious in the studio beside Angela’s body.
Cassie, who was in and out of the office dozens of times a day. Cassie, who knew every detail of Deanna’s schedule. Cassie, who had dated one of the studio camera operators.
“Turn it off, Cassie.”
“One more second.”
“Turn it off.” Her voice sharpened, and Deanna set her teeth to steady it.
“Sorry.” Obviously baffled, Cassie lowered the camera. “I guess I got carried away.”
“It’s all right. I’m just edgy.” Deanna managed to smile again. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It was insane even to speculate that Cassie would be capable of murder.
“It’s your first day back.” Cassie touched her hand and Deanna had to force herself not to jerk away. “God knows it was a madhouse around here after the show with all those calls coming in about Kate Lowell. Why don’t you give yourself a break after you’ve finished the fitting, and go home? I can reschedule the rest of the afternoon’s business.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” She spoke slowly over the erratic thud of her heart. “I’ve got a lot of things to deal with at home.”
Cassie’s mouth thinned. “I didn’t mean you should jump out of one madhouse into another. You’re not going to get any work done there, with all those painters and carpenters slogging away. I think—” She saw that Deanna’s eyes had focused behind her and turned. “Jeff.” Her mouth softened at the admiration on his face. “She looks fabulous, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. Really.” He glanced at the camera Cassie held. “You got pictures?”
“Sure. Capture the moment. Listen, unless it’s a crisis, hold it off, will you? This is a momentous occasion. Dee’s going home early.”
“Oh, good idea. Finn called, Deanna. He said to tell you he had a meeting and he’d see you at home. He thought he might get there by four.”
“Well, that’s lucky. Maybe I’ll beat him there.”
“Not if you don’t hold still,” the seamstress muttered.
But it was barely three-thirty when Deanna slipped into her shoes and grabbed her briefcase. “Cassie, can you call Tim?”
“Already done. He should be waiting downstairs.”
“Thanks.” She stopped by the desk, feeling ashamed and foolish about her earlier thoughts. “I’m sorry about before, Cassie. The camera business.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Cassie zipped open one of the daily letters that heaped on her desk. “I know I’m a nuisance.” She chuckled. “I like being a nuisance with it. See you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Don’t stay late.”
More at ease, Deanna walked to the elevator, checking her watch as she punched the Down button. With any luck, she could surprise Finn by arriving first. It wouldn’t take much effort, she knew, to persuade him to fix some blackened chicken and pasta. She was in the mood for something spicy to cap off her first day back in harness.
She could deal with a mountain of paperwork and phone calls there. Then, if she scheduled a break, she could slink into something designed to drive Finn crazy.
They’d have dinner late. Very late, she decided, and swung out of the elevator.
Maybe she’d wrap a few last-minute Christmas gifts, or talk Finn into baking some cookies. She could run a couple of the new segment ideas by him.
The flash of sunlight had her reaching automatically for her tinted glasses. Slipping them on, she climbed into the back of the waiting limo.
“Hi, Tim.” She closed her eyes and stretched. The limo was beautifully warm.
“Hi, Miss Reynolds.”
“Turned out to be a beautiful day.” Out of habit, she reached for the bottle of chilled juice that was always stocked for her. She looked up idly at the back of her driver. Despite the car’s warmth, he was huddled inside his coat, his cap tipped low.
“Sure did.”
Sipping the juice, she flipped open her briefcase. She set the file neatly labeled “Wedding Plans” aside and reached for the daily correspondence Cassie had culled for her to read. She’d always considered the drive to and from the office part of the workday. In this case, she had to make up the time she’d taken with the fitting, and for knocking off early.
But by the third letter, the words were blurring. There was no excuse for being so tired so early in the day. Annoyed, she slid her fingers under her glasses to rub her eyes clear. But they blurred all the more, as if she’d swabbed them with oil. Her head spun once, sickly, and her arm fell heavily to the seat beside her.
So tired, she thought. So hot. As if in slow motion, she tried to shrug out of her coat. The papers fluttered to the floor, and the effort of reaching for them only increased the dizziness.
“Tim.” She leaned forward, pressed a hand against the back of the front seat. He didn’t answer, but the word had sounded dim and far away to her own ears. As she struggled to focus on him the half-empty bottle of juice slipped from her numbed fingers.
“Something’s wrong,” she tried to tell him as she slid bonelessly to the plushly carpeted floor of the car. “Something’s very wrong.”
But he didn’t answer. She imagined herself falling through the floor of the limo and into a dark, bottomless pit.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Deanna dreamed she was swimming up through red-tinted clouds, slowly, sluggishly pulling herself toward the surface, where a faint, white light glowed through the misty layers. She moaned as she struggled. Not from pain but nausea that rolled up, burning in her throat.
In defense, she kept her eyes closed, taking long, deep breaths and willing the sickness back. Drops of clammy sweat pearled on her skin so that her thin silk blouse clung nastily to her arms and back.
When the worst had passed, she opened her eyes cautiously.
She had been in the car, she remembered. Tim had been driving her home and she’d become ill. But she wasn’t home now. Hospital? she wondered dully when she let her eyes cautiously open. The room was softly lit with delicate violets trailing up the wallpaper. A white ceiling fan gently stirred the air with a whispering sound of blades. A glossy mahogany bureau held a collection of pretty, colored bottles and pots. A magnificent poinsettia and a miniature blue spruce decorated with silver bells added seasonal flair.
Hospital? she thought again. Groggily, she tried to sit up. Her head spun again, hideously, shooting that fist of nausea back into her stomach. Her vision doubled. When she tried to bring her hand to her face, it felt weighted down. For a moment she could only lie still, fighting back the sickness. She saw that the room was a box, a closed, windowless box. Like a coffin.
A spear of panic sliced through the shock. She reared up, shouting, stumbling drunkenly from the bed. Staggering to a wall, she ran her fingers over the delicate floral wallpaper in a dizzy search for an opening. Trapped. She wheeled around, eyes wide. Trapped.
She saw then what was on the wall over the bed. It was enough to crush the bubbling hys
teria. A huge photograph smiled sassily down at her. For several stunned moments Deanna stared at Deanna. Slowly, with the sound of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears, she scanned the rest of the room.
No, there were no doors, no windows, just flowers, bowers of them, wall to wall. But there were other photographs. Dozens of pictures of her were lined on the side walls. Candid shots, magazine covers, press photos stood cheek by jowl against the dainty wallpaper.
“Oh God. Oh God.” She heard the whimpering panic in her own voice and bit down fiercely on her lip.
Looking away from her own images, her eyes glassy with shock, she stared at the refectory table, its snowy white runner stiff with starch as a backdrop for silver candle holders, glossy white tapers. Dozens of little treasures had been arranged there: an earring she’d lost months before, a tube of lipstick, a silk scarf Simon had given her one Christmas, a glove of supple red leather—one of a pair that had disappeared the winter before.
There was more. She eased closer, straining against the tidal wave of fear as she studied the collection. A memo she’d handwritten to Jeff, a lock of ebony hair wrapped in gold cord, other photographs of her, always of her, in elegant and ornate frames. The shoes she’d been wearing in the limo were there as well, along with her jacket, neatly folded.
The place was like a shrine, she realized with a shudder. The sound in her throat was feral and frightened. There was a television in the corner, a shelf of leather-bound albums. And most terrifying, cameras bracketed the upper corners of the room. The pinpoints of their red lights beamed like tiny eyes.
She stumbled back, fear soaring like a slickly coated bird. Her gaze sliced from one camera to the other.
“You’re watching me.” She fought back the terror in her voice. “I know you are. You can’t keep me here. They’ll look. You know they’ll find me. They’re probably looking already.”
She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but saw that her watch was gone. How long? she wondered frantically. It might have been minutes, or days, since she’d passed out in the car.
