Against my leg, only partially hidden by the folds of the bathrobe, my nine wobbled in my hand. I brought it up, released the magazine. I stowed the clip in one deep pocket of the robe, the gun itself in the other.
“What are you doing here, Kev?”
“I came to talk to you.”
“All right. Talk.”
Kev frowned as he eyed the furnishings of my room over my shoulder. “You alone?”
I gathered the shawl collar of the bathrobe, snugged it closer to my bare throat. “Who were you expecting to find with me?”
We both knew the answer to that one. Kev had witnessed Barrett’s offering me a lift from the scene of my damaged Jaguar and the Last Stand. That, though, was all Barrett had offered. Kev didn’t know that. And if I didn’t know better, I’d have said his lack of knowledge made him jealous.
Of course, Kev hadn’t always had such tender feelings for me. Until the night before I found the Delmonico boys, I’d been a thorn in his side. And a pain in his ass. But investigators open themselves up to all kinds of pain. As the investigation dragged on, worry for the boys took its toll. Kev couldn’t bear the pain of failing them. And one night, when he confided in me, neither could I.
We consoled each other.
And that wasn’t all we did.
“I just want to talk to you,” Kev said. “I swear.”
I nodded, embarrassed by the vivid memory of my past weakness with him, and let him enter. As he stepped into my room in his shirt and tie, I felt decidedly underdressed. The robe reached to my ankles, but I was well aware the only clothes I wore beneath it were a bra and panties of nude Belgian lace. Across the room, near the bed, my discarded clothes lay over the back of the upholstered armchair. Thankfully, nothing too personal lay on top. Only the day’s wool trousers and a cashmere turtleneck in the blackest of blacks were in evidence.
I wished I were wearing a parka, though, when Kev stalked past the pile, frowned at it, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He scowled at the bed, too, with its snow-white coverlet and crisp sheets already turned down for the night. He turned his grimace toward my clothes again—and in a flash, brushed a quick finger along the hem of my soft sweater.
“Jamie, if you know where that child is, you’ve got to tell me.”
I slammed the door, regretting that Kev wasn’t on the far side of it, and crossed my arms against my chest. “Of course I don’t know where she is.”
“I saw the cash you left on your ex-husband’s desk. Tell me you’re not withholding information just to make him suffer. Tell me you didn’t dangle your lead in front of him just for revenge.”
“If I had a lead, I wouldn’t be here listening to you—”
“Tell me,” Kev snapped, “she’s not going to die.”
When I managed to speak, my voice was small and soft. “I can’t tell you that.”
“I can’t do things the way you do, Jamie.” Kev’s hands fisted at his sides. “I have rules to follow. Regulations.”
“I’m a licensed PI and a security specialist. I follow rules, too.”
“Procedure is the cornerstone of solid investigation.”
“I agree.”
“I’m damn good at what I do.”
“So I’ll send a telegram to the man in J. Edgar’s chair.”
“I see the slack faces of those boys every time I close my eyes.”
“What?” Kev’s confession stopped me cold.
“I don’t want to see Brooke Thorp in the same kind of shape.”
Sadness welled from the depths of my heart. But something else rose with it. That something was compassion for Kev Jaeger.
“Those little boys suffered and died, and why?” Kev plucked his badge from his belt. “Because I did my job the way I’m supposed to do it.”
He tossed his shield to me, rooted to the spot beside the door. It sailed through the air in a sweeping arc, flashing as the subdued lamplight of my room slanted across its brassy surface. When I caught the thing, it felt weighty in my hands.
I supposed that was nothing compared to how heavy it felt to the men and women who carried it all the time.
“I have to follow procedure,” Kev insisted. “So if you know where Brooke Thorp is, you have to tell me. I can’t stand to see her end up like the Delmonico boys.”
Shame made me mumble, “I never thought you wanted them to die.”
“Well, I’m certain you sure as hell didn’t want to drag their dead bodies from the river.”
My mind flashed back to that autumn day—the chapping wind on the water, the blue of their skin, their bloated limbs resisting the desperate pressure of my hands—and I shivered. I couldn’t be angry with Kev for putting them there. Not really. Not when he’d done everything in his power to bring those boys home. It wasn’t his fault that his everything—and the everything of the FBI—hadn’t been enough to save them.
This time, I suddenly realized, my everything might not be enough, either.
Shaking off the feeling, I carried Kev’s shield to him where he stood beside my bed. With fumbling fingers, I clipped it to the breast pocket of his shirt. “I don’t know where she is, but when I get a lead, I’ll let you know. I want Brooke to come home. And I know you do, too.”
It didn’t sound quite like an apology for all the harsh things I’d said to him in the last six months.
But in my heart it felt like one.
“Do you mean that, Jamie?”
I nodded, my unbound hair slipping over my shoulders like silk ribbons.
Kev lifted a lock, still damp from the shower, and smoothed it around his index finger.
“You’re a pain-in-the-ass investigator,” he whispered. “And you’re a hell of a woman.”
He bowed his head. My heart rate picked up speed. The scent of him, surf and sand, mingled with the perfume of fresh sheets. His breath, like an evening breeze, feathered across my lips. Because he meant to kiss me.
Kev’s free hand curled around the nape of my neck. He backed me toward the waiting bed. And panic snaked through me like a living creature.
I pressed my palms to the plane of his chest, turned my face from his. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going to get involved with you again.”
“We’re already involved.”
“No, we’re both involved in the same investigation. That’s not the same thing.” And it wasn’t. I knew that now, though I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it six months ago.
“Jamie, I’ve got feelings for you. I try to pretend I don’t, but—”
“It’s late,” I told him, pushing my way out of his grasp. “You’re tired. You won’t feel like this in the morning.”
After all, he hadn’t the last time. The day after our night together, I found the Delmonico boys. And Kev kicked me to the curb.
“You’re sleeping with someone else, aren’t you?” His voice was husky.
“No.”
“Yes, you are. You’re sleeping with Barrett.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then who are you sleeping with, Jamie?”
I couldn’t hurry to the far side of the room—and beyond Kev’s reach—fast enough.
I said, “I intend to keep looking for Brooke until I find her. I’ll tell you when I have a lead. I expect you to do the same.”
Without another word, I wrenched open the door and swung it wide.
Kev steamed past me. Shifting shadows kept his expression hidden. He stalked outside, got in his car, and started the engine.
I didn’t watch him reverse from his parking space. And I didn’t watch him turn onto the street. By the time he did the first of those things, I’d done what I should’ve done when he came to me all those weeks ago.
I slammed the door to my room.
And I locked the bolt behind me.
Chapter 19
After Kev’s little display of physical affection, sleep was a long time coming. I
tossed and turned, worried I’d misjudged him and that I’d misled him. I worried I was on track to bungle this entire investigation.
Most of all, I worried for Brooke.
I worried she’d never enjoy another graham cracker before her mother tucked her into bed. I worried her teddy bear would never get another Halloween hug. And I worried she’d never have another birthday.
Still, the next morning—and my trip to Philadelphia—came much too soon. I rushed through another quick shower, piled my damp hair on my head in some semblance of an upswept style, and donned the black suit Matty called my “court outfit.” In all fairness, I usually did wear it to court. It was a wickedly simple number, expertly cut and tailored to all the right places. Its black Italian fabric practically ate light.
Best of all, this suit suggested I wasn’t a gal to be messed with during cross-examination.
But as big business as the suit was, the shoes I wore with it were pure show business. Designed for me by the man who dressed the feet of Marlene Dietrich and Nicole Kidman, they were a token of appreciation for my recovering compromising photos of his son with a certain European princess—before her husband saw them. In thanks, he’d made me racy red heels with lots of no-nonsense hardware.
They were Mad Max meets the Ruby Slippers.
And they fit like a dream.
The only things I couldn’t wear to court would be my weapons. I had a license to carry concealed in the state of Pennsylvania, as well as the papers to operate there as a PI, but neither would be enough to get my guns through the security checkpoint at the Philly courthouse. Really, I wouldn’t need either firearm. But that didn’t mean I liked handing them over to Matty for safekeeping. After all, I hadn’t forgotten the man I was going to see had nearly slit my throat.
I rented a navy Ford Taurus and drove to Philly. In the District Court building, I found Frank on the second floor, hanging around the courtroom doors with a hundred other people. Half a dozen of them were reporters. Several of them recognized me as I wove my way through the crowd. The young Newswatch Nine reporter who’d dogged me outside Foley’s house elbowed her cameraman. They hurried my way, touching off a stampede.
“Ms. Sinclair, do you think Charles Chapman Brown is fit to stand trial?”
“Jamie, is it true you think Brooke Thorp is dead?”
“Ms. Sinclair, why haven’t you found who’s responsible for the rash of child abductions on Fort Leeds?”
I had to push my way through them like a Heisman Trophy winner. “No comment. Excuse me. You’re blocking the way to the courtroom.”
“Cut the lady some slack, all right?”
Frank plowed between journalists, clamped a ham hand on my arm, and tucked me against his side.
“You okay?” he asked me.
“Fine, Frank. Thanks.”
“It was good of you to come, Jamie.”
“It’ll be my pleasure to see Brown held over.”
When the courtroom doors opened, we let the surge carry us inside. By the time we cleared the threshold, most of the seats were taken. I recognized Marianne’s producer in the gallery’s second row. The men and women with him were probably the brass at Newswatch Nine. There was no shortage of civic leaders, either. Or ordinary citizens. Clearly, Charles Chapman Brown had captured Philadelphia’s imagination when he’d tried to capture Marianne Lewis.
In the row right behind the District Attorney’s table, a pair of seats sat empty. Frank steered me toward them, flicked a nod of thanks at the bailiff. Ahead of us, the DA herself organized her paperwork. She had a long line of assistant DAs at the table with her, but to me it looked like she wanted the publicity and political clout this case would bring all for herself.
She snagged Frank’s eye, flashed me a thumbs-up.
“When this is over,” he said, “she wants to meet you.”
Really, I didn’t deserve all this attention. Anyone in their right mind would want to protect a mother of two and her children from a stalker like Brown. I didn’t get to say any of that, though.
At that moment, the defendant’s door opened.
Three uniformed guards ushered Charles Chapman Brown into the courtroom.
An excited ripple ran through the room. People leaned this way and that to get a better look at Brown. I didn’t know what they expected him to look like, but I doubted this was it.
Brown’s orange jumpsuit hung on him as if he were a wire coat hanger. Its shade didn’t do his complexion any favors, either. A heavy chain linked one manacled wrist to the other. Another ran between the shackles on his ankles. While his hair was still the color of dirty dishwater, it looked freshly washed. He’d pulled it back into a stubby ponytail—or someone had done it for him. Because he moved with dragging steps and his mouth hung open like he was on heavy medication.
Brown’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the faces in the courtroom. If he were looking for Marianne Lewis, he could look all he liked. The anchorwoman wasn’t coming. I’d made sure of that.
But maybe he wasn’t looking for Marianne.
Brown’s eyes brightened when they found me. Maybe he remembered me from the scene of his arrest. Or maybe he remembered trying to kill me.
Maybe he hoped he could try again.
Under the direction of his guards, Brown shuffled past the DA’s table, his canvas slip-on shoes scuffing the industrial carpet. He passed so close to me, I could’ve reached out and touched him. Not that I wanted to.
The judge entered. We all rose. The judge took the bench. We all sat. When Charles Chapman Brown took his seat next to his lawyer, I was directly in his line of sight.
I didn’t like it.
Neither did Frank.
“That squirrel better watch himself,” he muttered.
Truth be told, Brown’s rapt attention gave me the creeps. But I refused to let it show. Throughout the proceedings, I met his gaze—and I matched its intensity.
Not surprisingly, the judge ruled Charles Chapman Brown should be held over for trial. No bond would be set. The gavel fell. The people rose. The guards came for Brown. One of them stepped in front of him, blocking his line of sight to me. And that’s when Brown went crazy.
His knee flew up, catching the guard between the legs.
The man gasped and doubled over, dropped to his knees. The other two guards fumbled for their sidearms. The bailiff did the same. Brown’s public defender stared, goggle-eyed. He tried to stumble back. Tried to get out of the way of the bristling weapons.
Brown’s hands whipped up and out, swinging the chain between his cuffs like a mace. The chain rode the air, looped over the lawyer’s head. With a jerk, Brown pulled the chain taut, dragged the man to him.
Everywhere, people screamed. All around me, they scrambled over seats to get away. There was no help for those who fell.
Beside me, Frank was on his feet, his .38 in his hand. I was on my feet, too. I reached for my weapon, but it wasn’t there.
The guards jockeyed for a clean shot at Brown’s head. But the lawyer was a big boy, much bigger than Brown. In other circumstances, he could probably take care of himself, but Brown cinched his makeshift garrote.
The public defender gagged, clawed at his neck.
He bent backward over Brown like a Spartan shield.
Brown dragged him toward the bench. In the gallery, people screeched and fought to flee. Others stopped to watch, ashen-faced and whimpering.
Frank shoved me toward a fire exit, ordered me to go.
I remained rooted to the spot.
Brown mounted the dais of the judge’s bench, dragging his captive with him. He searched the crowd, found me in the front row.
“You came back to me, lady! You came back!”
Frank nudged me backward, tried to hide me from sight.
I clambered onto an abandoned seat, shouted past Frank’s thick frame. “I’m here, Charles! Just let the lawyer go! I’m here!”
“If you got the shot,” the bailiff bellowed, “take
him out!”
Brown planted a foot in his captive’s back, flipped the chain free, and sent the man sprawling at the armed guards. They fell like so many bowling pins. Frank leveled his .38 at Brown’s chest.
Brown leapt from the bench, slammed into Frank, and drove him to the floor. His .38 flew from his hand. I scrambled after it.
I didn’t get far.
Brown seized my wrist, pinned my arms in a combat hold. I tried to twist; I tried to kick. Brown bent my spine. Pain lanced my clavicle. Stars danced before my eyes.
And then I wasn’t in the courtroom anymore.
But I was still with Brown.
Chapter 20
Gradually, I became aware of surrounding darkness. And the fact that I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see my companion in the gloom. But I could smell him. I almost choked on the chemical tang of mood-suppressing medication.
And worse than that, I could feel him.
His teeth ground against the shell of my ear as he panted his chant to me.
“Good lady. Kind lady. Good lady.”
The cobwebs in my brain blew away. I recalled the courtroom. And my struggle with Charles Chapman Brown. I figured he and I were in some kind of closet. A bead of light outlined the door.
Brown loomed behind me in the dark. He still held me in a headlock, a full nelson that rendered my arms useless. And my butt was snugged to his groin.
“Let me go, Charles.”
Brown gurgled deep in his chest. He released his hold—only to dig a controlling hand into the soft tissue of my throat. The chain that linked one of his wrists to the other slithered over my shoulder as he gripped me tightly. I grabbed at it and at his fingers, but he cinched my voice box like a boa constrictor.
“Let me go,” I croaked.
“Good lady,” he breathed.
And his tongue flickered in my ear.
My skin threatened to crawl off my bones. But disgust gave way to fear. Brown had the upper hand here.
And I refused to let him keep it.
I summoned every ounce of moxie I could find and channeled all of it into my rasping voice.
“Don’t defy me, Charles. Let. Me. Go.”
The Kill List Page 13
