Something About You

by Julie James

  “And that will be the last anybody sees of them tonight,” Officer Kamin said, satisfied. He folded up his Sun-Times as Phelps started the car. “For a minute there, I wasn’t sure our boy was gonna get the go-ahead signal. Looks like he’s home free now.”

  Phelps squinted, trying to get a better look at the pair as they stepped inside the house. “Are you sure Slonsky said to check out the girl?”

  “Yep.”

  “ ’ Cuz the guy looks really familiar to me. Can’t place him, though.”

  Kamin shrugged. “Can’t help you there. Slonsky said to drive by the girl’s house, make sure everything looks secure. That’s all I know.”

  “Maybe we should sit here for a moment, just to be certain we’re all clear.”

  Not exactly in a hurry to seek out more dangerous assignments, Kamin liked the reasoning behind that. “Works for me.”

  They passed the next twenty minutes in silence, the only noise being the occasional crinkling of newspaper from Kamin. He was reading the sports section when he stopped.

  “Well, look at that.” He held the paper out so Phelps could see. “That’s the guy we just saw, isn’t it?”

  Phelps leaned over, then sat back in the driver’s seat, satisfied.

  “I told you he looked familiar.”

  ACROSS TOWN, JACK was in his office, once again listening to the muffled sounds of Davis’s yelling. At least this time, he was pretty sure the ruckus had nothing to do with him. Not directly, anyway.

  He and Wilkins were the only other two agents in the office, given that it was nearly eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. Sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk, Wilkins gestured in the direction of their boss’s office. “Is he always like this?”

  “You get used to it,” Jack said. Actually, he didn’t mind Davis’s occasional flare-ups; back in the army he’d served under several commanders who’d had their fair share of those. Like his former commanders, Davis was pretty much a straight shooter—and loyal as hell to the agents in his office. He’d fought hard to get Jack transferred back to the Chicago office as soon as the position opened up.

  A few minutes later the commotion died down and Davis’s door flew open. He stuck his head out and looked over. “Pallas, Wilkins—you’re up.”

  They took their seats in Davis’s office, which Jack had always found odd in not being much bigger than those the rest of the Chicago agents had been assigned. He figured the Bureau could at least get the guy a view of something more interesting than the building’s parking lot for all the crap he had to deal with as special agent in charge. Then again, knowing Davis, he’d probably specifically requested that office in order to keep track of everyone else’s comings and goings. There certainly wasn’t much that slipped past him.

  “I just got off the phone with one of Senator Hodges’s attorneys,” Davis began. “He ‘requested’ that they be kept apprised of any and all updates related to our investigation.”

  “What you’d tell him?” Wilkins asked.

  “That I’m an old man. I tend to forget things. And that if anyone from Senator Hodges’s camp called me again tonight, I might just so happen to forget the promise I’d made to keep this investigation confidential. There was a good deal of swearing after that, but so far . . .” Davis gestured to the silent phone on his desk. “Now—let’s figure out how we’re gonna handle this mess.” He looked to Jack. “What’s happening with CPD’s investigation?”

  “Our contact is Detective Ted Slonsky, twenty years on the job, the last ten in homicide. According to him, the only prints they found in the hotel room belong to the victim and Senator Hodges. They found traces of semen in the bed and on top of the desk and bathroom vanity, and there were several used condoms in the bathroom garbage. All of it from the same man.”

  “At least we know Senator Hodges practices safe sex when cheating on his wife,” Davis said. “Anything else?”

  “There were bruises on both of the victim’s wrists, presumably inflicted by the killer as he pinned her hands down while suffocating her.”

  “Any blood at the scene? Hair? Clothing fibers?”

  “No traces of blood. We’re waiting to hear back from the lab on everything else,” Jack told him. “And we didn’t get much luckier with hotel security. They don’t have cameras in the floor hallways or the stairwells—and although they do have them in the lobby, the garage, and other public areas of the hotel, there’s no sign of our guy in any of the footage. Which means that so far, Ms. Lynde’s statement is our only evidence that this mysterious second man exists.”

  Jack saw Davis raise an eyebrow at the mention of Cameron’s name, but his boss refrained from commenting. At least for the time being.

  “All right, here’s where we stand,” Davis said. “Officially, the Bureau only has jurisdiction over the suspected blackmail aspects of this investigation. Unofficially, however, we’ve got a U.S. senator having sex on tape with a call girl who, just moments later, gets smothered to death in that very hotel room—there’s no way we’re sitting on the sidelines. Do you think this Detective Slonsky is going to be a problem?”

  “Not likely. He seemed relieved to have our assistance in light of the senator’s involvement,” Jack said.

  Davis nodded. “Good. Theories?”

  Jack paused, letting Wilkins take the lead.

  Wilkins sat up in his chair. “We’re currently working on two theories, both based on the assumption that the victim, Mandy Robards, was involved in a plan to blackmail the senator.”

  “Do we have a basis for that assumption?” Davis asked.

  “The videotape was found in her purse. On the tape, she’s the one who shut off the camera after the senator left. So unless she was making the tape for him as an early Christmas present, I think it’s safe to say she had nefarious motives.”

  Davis looked over at Jack with a bemused grin. “Nefarious. This is what we get when we hire a Yale boy.”

  “You missed sacrosanct earlier. And taciturn and glowering,” Jack said.

  “What’s glowering?”

  “Me, apparently.”

  Wilkins pointed. “Now that has to be a joke.” He turned to Davis. “You heard that, right?”

  Davis didn’t answer him, having spun his chair around to type something at his computer. “Let’s see what Google says . . . Ah—here it is. ‘Glowering: dark; showing a brooding ill humor.’ ”

  Davis spun back around, with a nod at Wilkins. “You know, I think Merriam-Webster here is right, Jack—you do have a glowering way about you.” Then he turned to Wilkins. “And yes, that was a joke. It normally takes about a year to accurately detect Agent Pallas’s small forays into humor, but you’ll get there.”

  About this time, Jack was trying to remember why the hell he’d been so eager to get back to Chicago. At least in Nebraska a man could brood in peace. “Perhaps we should get back to our theories,” he grumbled.

  “Right. So our first theory is that the girl set up the blackmail scheme—maybe working with someone else, maybe not—and someone connected to the senator found out and killed her to keep the affair from becoming public,” Wilkins said.

  “But they left the videotape behind,” Davis noted.

  “Maybe they didn’t know the tape was actually in the room. Or maybe they panicked after killing the girl, or maybe something scared them off, like hearing Ms. Lynde calling security in the next room.”

  David toyed with his pen, considering this. “And the second theory?”

  “Our second theory is that the whole thing was a set up and someone killed the girl to frame the senator for murder. What they didn’t count on was Ms. Lynde seeing the real killer leaving the hotel room.”

  “Going with those two theories for the moment, who does that put on our list of suspects?” Davis asked.

  “Pretty much anyone who either likes or hates Senator Hodges,” Wilkins said.

  “Glad to hear we’re narrowing it down.” Davis leaned back in his c
hair, musing aloud. “What do we make of the fact that Hodges was recently named chairman of the Banking Committee?”

  “It’s an angle we’re looking into,” Jack said. “What bothers me are the contradictions: the crime scene is clean—no physical evidence was left behind. That would suggest a professional, somebody who knew what they were doing or at least thought about it in advance. But the murder itself feels amateurish. Angry. Suffocation is a lot more personal than a bullet to the head. Something doesn’t add up. I think our first step is to talk to Hodges’s people and find out who knew he was having an affair.”

  “I’m not sure Senator Hodges is going to like that idea. Or his attorneys,” Davis said.

  “Perhaps when we make it clear that the senator’s continued cooperation is the only thing keeping him from being arrested for murdering a call girl, he’ll warm up to it,” Jack said.

  “All right—let me know if you need me to run interference with Hodges’s lawyers. Last thing—what’s happening with our witness? Sounds like the senator caught a break having Ms. Lynde in the room next to him.”

  “For starters, very few people outside this room know there is a witness,” Wilkins said. “We’re keeping that quiet for now. As a courtesy, Detective Slonsky sent a squad to drive by her house tonight, although the officers haven’t been given any specifics about the case. They called in just a few minutes ago and reported that Ms. Lynde returned to the house with a male companion and that everything looked secure.”

  “Do we have a reason to believe Ms. Lynde is in danger?” Davis asked.

  “Not as long as her identity is kept confidential,” Wilkins said.

  Davis saw Jack hesitate. “You have a different opinion, Jack?”

  “I don’t like the idea of our key witness’s security being dependent on our belief that everyone will keep her identity confidential. Seems like an unnecessary risk.”

  Davis nodded. “I agree. And given Ms. Lynde’s position, I’d like to err on the side of caution here. Politically, it would be a nightmare if something happened to an assistant U.S. attorney as part of an FBI investigation.”

  “We’ll set up a protective surveillance,” Jack said. “We can coordinate with CPD on that.”

  “Good.” Davis pointed. “I also want twice-daily reports from you two. And I have a call scheduled for Monday morning to update the director on the investigation—I expect you both to be present for that. Now, Wilkins, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Agent Pallas alone.”

  Jack was not surprised by this. He’d had a funny feeling there was a lecture looming on the horizon ever since Cameron’s name had come up.

  Davis waited until Wilkins shut the door behind him. “Should I be worried, Jack?”

  “No.”

  Davis watched Jack with sharp gray eyes. “My understanding is that Ms. Lynde has been very cooperative in this investigation.”

  “She has.”

  “I expect us to reciprocate.”

  “Of course.”

  There was a moment of silence, and Jack knew Davis was taking in the taut set of his jaw and the tension that rolled off his body in waves.

  “I’m not trying to be a hard-ass here,” Davis said, not unkindly. “If it’s going to be a problem for you to work with her—”

  “There won’t be any problem.” Jack stared his boss straight in the eyes. Cameron Lynde may have been a problem for him once, but that was not a mistake he’d repeat. “This is just another case, and I’ll handle it like any other.”

  “Ms. Lynde should be made aware of the protective surveillance. I’d like her to feel comfortable with this. It’s going to be somewhat of an intrusion.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll talk to her about it first thing tomorrow.”

  After studying Jack for a moment, Davis appeared satisfied. “Good. Done.” He pointed in the direction of Wilkins’s office.

  “Now—tell me how the kid is doing.”

  Six

  AS COLLIN UNPACKED the groceries, he heard Cameron start the shower in the master bathroom upstairs. From past experience, he knew this meant he had approximately twenty-two minutes before she made an appearance. Plenty of time to whip something up for breakfast.

  It never ceased to amuse him, as it had earlier that morning when he’d first checked the fridge, how little her culinary skills—or lack thereof—had changed since college. Actually, what amused him most was just how predictable she was. After twelve years’ experience, he’d known exactly what he would find when he opened the refrigerator doors: one solitary unopened Egg Beater carton that had expired four weeks earlier; a bag of bagels and three tubs of different-flavored cream cheeses, all one schmear away from empty; and two dozen Lean Cuisine entrees in the freezer, neatly organized according to the four major food ethnicities: Italian, Asian, Mexican, and macaroni and cheese.

  Which was why a trip to Whole Foods had been in short order that morning, if Collin had any intention of keeping his promise to make breakfast. Luckily the grocery store was only two blocks away. Even more convenient, it happened to be right across the street from an independent coffee shop, The Fixx, whose six-shot specialty latte, the “Smith and Wesson,” packed enough punch to knock the hangover out of even the sorriest of late-night drinkers. In truth, Collin knew he’d only get through about five sips of the stuff before throwing the rest out in disgust. But what could he say—he got a kick out of ordering a drink named after a gun. Another guy thing, perhaps.

  He located a twelve-inch skillet in the cabinet above the stove—actually it wasn’t at all hard to find; it was in exactly the same spot he’d left it the last time he’d slept over. He coated the pan with some oil and added zucchini and mushrooms to sauté while he fired up the broiler. He’d decided to make frittatas instead of the omelet Cameron had requested as they’d parted ways at the top of the stairs last night. With frittatas, he figured, she could always reheat the leftovers and might actually have two whole meals in one day that didn’t come out of a box.

  Collin was feeling very protective of Cameron, more so than usual. For her sake, he was trying not to show it, but he still felt uneasy about her near brush with a killer two nights ago. Of course she’d played the role of the nerves-of-steel prosecutor to the hilt—part of the wall she had put up after her father’s death—but he suspected she was more freaked out than she let on. And it certainly didn’t help that the FBI had assigned Jack Pallas to the investigation. Given their history, his involvement in the case undoubtedly had sent Cameron’s insecurities about showing “weakness” into maximum overdrive.

  The sudden reappearance of Jack Pallas in Chicago was indeed an interesting development. Collin remembered how furious Cameron had been, rightfully so, over the infamous “head up her ass” comment. But he also remembered, despite her anger—and he was only one of a handful of people who knew this juicy tidbit—how hard she had tried to dissuade the DOJ from transferring Pallas out of Chicago.

  He had always found that particular contradiction quite curious.

  Collin was sprinkling cheese on top of the frittatas when the doorbell rang. Considering that it wasn’t his house, and also considering that Cameron hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting anybody, he ignored it. Just as he was putting the skillet under the broiler, the doorbell rang again. Twice.

  Collin shut the oven. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. He cut through the dining and living rooms and headed to the front door. It was when he reached to unlock the deadbolt that he realized he was still wearing the oven mitts. He took one off and opened the door. He found two guys on the doorstep, staring at him in surprise.

  Collin’s eyes passed over the man in the tailored suit and rested on the taller guy, the one wearing jeans and a blazer.

  Well, well, well . . . if it wasn’t Special Agent Jack Pallas in the flesh.

  Collin straightened up. It may have been three years, but no introduction was necessary. He knew exactly who the guy was from all the media coverage surro
unding the Martino investigation and the subsequent fallout with Cameron. Not to mention, Jack Pallas was not a man who was easily forgotten. Definitely not his type—meaning straight—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize that he was looking at one damn good-looking individual. With a lean, muscular build and a face that was just barely saved from being almost too handsome by that five o’clock shadow that probably started somewhere around 9:00 A.M., Jack Pallas was one of those men that made other men wish they weren’t standing on a doorstep wearing red-checkered oven mitts.

  But just as he was starting to feel a bit territorial and defensive, Collin noticed that Pallas was similarly studying him. And maybe the scrutinizing once-over was simply the instinctive reaction of the FBI agent, but a man could usually sense when he was being sized up.

  Feeling good about having the upper hand, Collin smiled. “Gentlemen. Can I help you?”

  Jack’s eyes lingered on the oven mitts. What he made of them was tough to say.

  He pulled a badge out of his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Jack Pallas with the FBI, this is Agent Wilkins. We’d like to speak with Cameron Lynde.”

  “She’s in the shower. Been in there for a while, so I don’t think it’ll be much longer.” Collin gestured inside the house. “I’ve got something in the oven. You guys want to come in?”

  Leaving the door open, Collin turned and headed back to the kitchen to check on the frittata. As he took the skillet out of the oven and set it on the counter, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the two agents stepped into the living room and shut the front door behind them. He could see Jack doing a quick survey of the house, taking in the relative lack of furniture in the front two rooms. Due to budgetary constraints, Collin knew, Cameron was furnishing the house in a piecemeal fashion. The living and dining rooms were low on her totem pole given, as she had once said, that she didn’t do a lot of formal entertaining.

  Being there as often as he was, Collin had gotten used to the sparseness of the decor, the simple leather armchair and reading lamp opposite the fireplace that were the sole furnishings in the living room, and the modest four-person table and chairs that looked practically Lilliputian in the spacious tray-ceiling dining room. He’d hazard a guess that Jack, however, was speculating right then about the circumstances under which a person would own such a big house and leave half of it sitting empty.