Thursday, November 30, 10:55 a.m.
"Hell." Mia grimaced as she walked up to Thompson's Saab.
It was the first word she'd said since leaving Hope Center. He'd pissed her off, stepping in to smooth and soothe again. But they'd needed Secrest calm and Mia was not making that happen. Thoughts of Secrest vaporized when he saw Thompson in the driver's seat. His head lolled, like a rag doll missing stuffing. Blood was everywhere.
Gingerly Mia stuck her head in the window. "Oh God. He went all the way to bone."
"Head's hanging on by a patch of skin about three inches wide," the ME tech said.
"Wonderful," she muttered. "He's still wearing his seat belt. Kept him upright."
The ME tech was making notes. "They say seat belts save lives. Didn't help him."
"That's not funny," Mia snapped. "Goddammit."
The ME gave Reed an is-it-PMS look. Reed shook his head. "Don't," he mouthed.
"Time of death?" she demanded acidly.
"Between nine and midnight. Let me know when I can move him. I'm sorry," he added. "Sometimes a joke's a way to take off the edge when we find a body like this."
Mia took a deep breath and let it out, then turned to the young ME tech with a rueful smile. She squinted to see his badge. "I'm sorry, Michaels. I'm tired and frustrated and I snapped at you." She stuck her head back in the car. "Anybody see his keys?"
"No." A woman with a CSU jacket rose from inspecting the other side of the car. "We haven't touched him yet. The keys could be under him."
Mia opened the back door on the driver's side. "He sat back here. Grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back and slashed. Any sign of struggle or skid marks or dings on the car? Was he forced over?"
The CSU tech shook her head. "I've checked all around the vehicle. Not a scratch. This car was brand new. Pretty expensive car not to steal."
"Luxury car on a juvie salary," Mia murmured. "Move him when you're ready."
The ME techs did, immobilizing Thompson's head to keep it from completely ripping from his body. "He's wearing a ring," Reed noted.
Mia lifted Thompson's hand. "Ruby. I'm betting it's real. Not a robbery, then."
"Did you think it was?" Reed asked and she shook her head.
"No. Wallet's still in his back pocket. Cell phone's in his front." She took it out and punched buttons. "He made six calls yesterday afternoon." Her eyes narrowed. "Four to 708-555-6756, one was to me, and one to… This is the number for Holding." Rapidly she pulled out her own cell and dialed. "Hi, this is Detective Mitchell, Homicide department. Did a Dr. Julian Thompson visit last night?" Her brows lifted. "Thanks."
She dropped her phone in her pocket and looked up, meeting Reed"s eyes for the first time since they'd left Hope Center. "He visited Manny Rodriguez," she said. "He signed out on the visitor sheet five minutes before he called my voicemail last night."
"Can you trace the other number?" Reed asked.
"I'm betting from the exchange that it's a disposable cell," she said.
Michaels looked up from securing Thompson's head. "You could call it."
She smiled at him. "I could, but then he'd know we'd found Thompson. I'm not sure I want to tip my hand yet. But thanks." She patted the young man's shoulder. "And, um, Michaels? That crack about the seat belt? It was kind of funny. In a real juvenile, break-the-tension kind of way." She huffed a tired chuckle. "Wish I'd thought of it."
Michaels's face was full of empathy. "Feel free to borrow at any time, Detective."
Thursday, November 30, 11:45 a.m.
Solliday parked his SUV. "If I make a juvenile joke, will you speak to me again?"
She looked up, brows furrowed. He'd broken her train of thought. "What?"
"Mia, you've given me the cold shoulder for the last two hours. I'm ready to grovel."
Her lips quirked. "The ride over was the cold shoulder. The ride back I was just thinking. But a little groveling wouldn't hurt."
He sighed. "You were making Secrest mad on purpose. You didn't need to."
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "But it felt so good."
"We might need him."
"Oh, all right. But I'd feel a lot better if I knew why he quit CPD early."
"I'd feel a lot better if he respected you."
She shrugged "I got that all the time from my old man." She slid down before he could ask the questions he so obviously wanted to. "Let's see what Jack's been up to."
Secrest waited for them at the front door. "Well?"
"He's dead," Mia said. "Throat slit. We'll need to contact his next of kin."
This time Secrest's flinch was more pronounced. "He opened his mouth to speak, then cleared his throat. He was divorced," he murmured. He looked away, his face grown pale. "But I know his ex-wife. I'll get you her number."
"Bring it to where Unger is doing the printing," she said, trying to be nice. "Thanks."
Officer Willis was printing Atticus Lucas's beefy fingers when they walked in. "Mr. Lucas," Mia said. "Thanks for cooperating."
"I got nothin' to hide." He ambled out and Mia shut the door behind him.
The mobile fingerprinting unit was a digital system, ink-free. Once a print was scanned, it could be immediately compared to the database. Jack looked up from his laptop screen.
"Both rooms are clean. No bug concerns. What did you find?"
"Thompson's dead. Throat slit. He visited Manny Rodriguez last night."
Jack blinked. "Interesting."
Solliday pulled up a chair and looked at Jack's screen. "Well?"
"I've printed all the staff but one. I asked the desk dragon to go get him. She just paged him on the loudspeaker. When we get his prints, we'll start on the students."
Mia's lips twitched. Marcy the Desk Dragon. She liked it. But she sobered, taking in the stack of print cards. "So do we have any obvious differences?"
"Sorry, Mia. Everybody's prints match the ones in the state's database."
"And the fingerprint cards Bixby gave us?" Solliday asked.
"Just a nice souvenir the printing agency gives, really. The official print I go by is what's in the state's system. And none match the odd print we found in the art room."
"Who's the teacher you haven't printed?" Solliday asked.
There was a knock on the door and Mia opened it to Marcy, aka the Desk Dragon.
"I've looked everywhere for Mr. White. I can't find him anywhere in the building."
Secrest came up behind her looking grim. "And his car isn't in the parking lot."
Mia's brain started to churn. "Shit. Ah, shit."
"He can't be gone," Jack said. "There's been a unit out front all morning."
"He was standing here when Marcy announced you'd arrived, Jack," she remembered. "He must have heard we were getting ready to fingerprint. Willis was a few minutes behind and that's when the units got to the front gate."
"Thompson," Solliday said through gritted teeth. "The cell phone number. He called White last night."
Solliday rushed for the teachers' personnel files he'd left in the other conference room. She ran to look over his shoulder. "Please say White's cell isn't 708-555-6756."
"It is." He looked up, her frustration mirrored in his eyes. "It was White. He's gone."
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her chin dropped to her chest. "Shit, damn, fuck." A wave of weary despair washed over her. "He's slipped right through our fingers." Brooke Adler's face flashed in her mind, as she'd been a few hours ago, burned and in blinding pain. The woman had clawed and clung to life long enough to give them important information. Count to ten. Go to hell.
They'd use it to find the bastard. "Let's go find him. Before he kills anybody else."
Thursday, November 30, 12:30 p.m.
"Beacon Inn, River Forest. This is Kerry. How can I help you?" He kept his back to the pay phone, eyes scanning the street, ready to run. "Hi. Can you connect me with Joseph Dougherty, please?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but the Doughertys checked out yesterday." I kind of figured that out on my own. "Oh dear. I' in calling from Mike Drummond's Used Cars. We heard about the loss of their home and wanted to offer them use of one of our cars until their insurance supplied them with another one. Could I possibly get a forwarding address or telephone number?"
"Let's see…" He heard the clacking of a keyboard. "Here. Mr. Dougherty asked deliveries be forwarded to 993 Harmony Avenue."
"Thank you." He hung up, well-satisfied. He'd head on over there right now to make sure they were there. He wouldn't let them slip through his fingers a third time.
He got back into the car he'd stolen. He was boiling mad on the inside, but freezing on the outside. He'd had to walk out of Hope Center with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the book in which he'd stuffed all his articles. And not a minute too soon. He'd been halfway down the block when a cruiser pulled up to the front gate. Another minute and he'd have been trapped. He'd quickly abandoned that car and stolen another in case they detected his absence right away.
Damn bitch cop. She'd gotten to the print discrepancy sooner than he'd expected. He'd thought he'd have another day at least. Shit. For the time being he'd have to travel light. He'd run back to his house, taking time only to leave a surprise for the lady of the house and to grab his seven remaining eggs. He had to make sure the woman who'd cooked and cleaned for him all these months wouldn't give him up to the cops, because he had big plans for his little bombs. And when everything settled down, he'd go back to the house for the rest of his things. His souvenirs of the life he was leaving behind. Then he'd go on with a new life, all sources of anger eliminated from existence. He'd finally be free.
Thursday, November 30, 2:45 p.m.
"You gonna eat those fries?" Murphy asked and Mia gave him the Styrofoam box.
They were sitting around Spinnelli's table, Reed and Mia, Jack and Westphalen, Murphy and Aidan. Spinnelli paced, his mustache bunched in a scowl.
"So we have no idea where he is?" Spinnelli said for the third time.
"No, Marc," she said, irritated. "The address on his personnel sheet was fake. He told us he had a fiance, but nobody at the school knows her name. He has no credit cards. He's cleaned out his bank account, the address on which is a PO box in the main post office with about a million other people who don't want to be found. We have an APB on his car, but so far it hasn't turned up. So, no. We don't know where he is."
Spinnelli glared. "Don't get sarcastic with me, Mia."
She bristled. "I wouldn't dream of it, Marc."
"What do we know about Devin White?" Westphalen inserted in a way that made Reed think the old man had calmed those two down before.
"He's twenty-three," Reed said. "He taught math at Hope Center starting this past June. Before that he was a student at Drake University in Delaware. According to the resume in his personnel file, his degree is in math education and he played on the school's golf team. The registrar's office at the university confirms he was a student there."
"He had to live somewhere," Spinnelli said. "Where did they mail his checks?"
"Direct deposited," Reed said.
"We lifted prints from the coffee cup in his classroom," Jack said. "They matched the ones I'd been looking for so I didn't bother reprinting the students."
"How did he get through the background check?" Aidan asked.
Jack shrugged. "I talked to the company that does Hope Center's fingerprinting. They swear they printed him and that they uploaded his prints into the system."
"I used to work with ex-cons in a rehab program," Westphalen said. "On drug test days, they'd pay people for their urine. We had to change our system. One of us had to go in the toilet with these guys and watch them give their sample."
Everyone grimaced. "Thank you for that picture, Miles," Spinnelli said dryly.
Westphalen smiled. "My point is, if White didn't want to be in the system, there are ways to avoid it if the security at this printing company was lax enough."
Spinnelli sat down. "How reputable is the company?"
Again Jack shrugged. "It's a private firm. It does employee fingerprinting for a lot of companies in the area. I suppose it's possible White got somebody to take his place, but why would he? His prints aren't in AFIS."
Murphy's mouth bent speculatively. "Maybe he was worried they were."
"He could have been arrested for a misdemeanor," Mia mused. "But he still would have shown up on a records check. Unless… this guy has no credit cards, and all the addresses he's given are fake. He's flying really low under the radar. What if Devin White's a fake?"
"The university confirmed he'd gone there," Reed said. Exhausted, he dragged his palms down his face. "Graduated with honors."
"Yeah, they confirmed Devin White went there." She tilted her head. "Can we get a picture from the university? A yearbook picture or something?"
Aidan stood up. "I'll check. Murphy, you fill them in on what we found."
"We found a neighbor who remembers seeing a guy meeting White's description with Adler last night," Murphy said. "He was helping her up the stairs to her apartment."
"That's consistent with White's story. The bartender says she drank three beers. Her car was still at the bar. We knew that already. What else?" Mia said impatiently.
Murphy shook his head. "Testy today. While we were going door to door, a woman came screaming at us, saying someone had stolen her car. Ten-year-old Honda."
"His getaway car," Reed said.
"But it gets better." Murphy's brows went up. "It had GPS. Installed aftermarket."
Mia sat up. "No way. He probably picked an old car thinking it wouldn't have GPS. So where did you find it?" she demanded.
"Parked in a 7-Eleven lot near Chicago and Wessex."
Reed frowned. "Wait." He pulled the list of White's bank transactions from the pile of paper in front of him. "That's a block from where he wrote some of his checks to 'Cash."
Mia's grin was Cheshire-cat slow. "It's where he lives. The bastard murdered two women then drove to his neighborhood, probably walked home and went to sleep."
Spinnelli stood up. "I'll get uniforms canvassing that area with pictures of White."
"We can go to the press," Westphalen said and Mia gave an exaggerated wince.
"Do we have to?" she whined.
Spinnelli shot her an understanding look. "It's the most direct way."
"Not Wheaton or Carmichael, okay? How about just to Lynn Pope? We like her."
"Sorry, Mia. This one I'd have to give to all the networks. But I'll try to avoid Miss Wheaton." He left to organize the search.
"Damn." Mia turned to Westphalen. "Did you talk to Manny today?"
"I did."
"Thompson went to see Manny last night. Right before he called me. A few hours before he died."
Westphalen took off his glasses and polished them. "That makes sense. He said that his doctor had told him not to talk to anybody. Not to 'cops, lawyers, or shrinks."
"So he didn't talk to you?" Reed asked.
"Not a lot, no. He was genuinely terrified, but not of Thompson. He did tell me that cutting out the articles wasn't his idea. That they were given to him, but he wouldn't say how or by whom. I asked him where he got the matches, and he claimed he didn't take them, that they'd been planted there. When I asked why someone would do that to him, he shut up. Didn't say another word, no matter how I pried."
Mia's brows furrowed. "Is he paranoid?"
"Hard to say without more observation. I will say that he's every bit as fascinated with fire as you indicated, Lieutenant. Even when he wouldn't speak, his eyes became glazed over when I showed him video of a burning house. It was like he couldn't control himself. I think that if he'd known the matches were in his room that he wouldn't have been able to resist using them. Do you know exactly where they were found?"
Reed was annoyed. Like Manny couldn't control himself. The kid liked fire. The kid made bad choices. The shrink was showing his true colors. And because he was so annoyed, he bit his tongue and said nothing.
"Secrest said they found them in the toe of his high-tops," Mia answered.
Westphalen nodded. "Not exactly the most discreet place to hide something."
She looked perplexed. "Are you saying you believe somebody actually planted matches in his shoes? Why would somebody do that?"
"I don't know. You're the detective. Your lieutenant is very annoyed with me, Mia."
Reed kept his voice calm. "Yes, I am."
"Why?" Westphalen asked.
Reed controlled the exhale that would have been a frustrated huff. "Manny Rodriguez is not a radio-controlled hypno-zombie," he replied. "He's a kid who's made some bad choices. Every time he lit a match, he knew it was wrong and yet he chose to do it anyway. Maybe he didn't steal those matches. I don't know. But to suggest that using them would be out of his control is not only ludicrous, it's dangerous."
Westphalen's amusement had fled. "I agree."
Reed's eyes narrowed, not trusting the sudden capitulation. "You're setting me up."
One side of Westphalen's mouth lifted. "No, I'm not. Really. Reed, I don't believe that anybody's decision to break the law makes them less accountable. They should still be punished. But their ability to control their impulses is sometimes hampered."
"By upbringing," Reed said flatly.
"Among other things." Westphalen studied him. "You don't buy that, either."
"No, I don't."
"And you're not going to tell me why."
Reed relaxed his face, made his mouth smile. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"
"I think it matters a great deal," Westphalen murmured. "What I'd be looking for now is Devin White's trigger. What made him start now? Why? We can assume Brooke was retaliation, but what role did the other victims play in his life to make him hate them so?"
Mia sighed. "So we're back to the files."
Westphalen smiled at her paternally. "I'd say so. Call me if you need me."
Mia watched him go, then turned to Reed, questions in her eyes. But she left them unasked. "Let's go talk to Manny, then back to the files."
Thursday, November 30, 3:45 P.M.
Reed waited until the boy was seated across from him. Mia was standing behind the glass, watching. "Hi, Manny."
The boy said nothing.
"I would have come to see you earlier today, but we've been very busy." Nothing.
"It started at four this morning when Detective Mitchell and I were called to the scene of this really big apartment fire." Manny's chin stayed stoically rigid, but his eyes flickered. "Big flames, Manny. Lit up the whole sky."
He paused, let the boy get his salivation under control. "Miss Adler is dead."
Manny's mouth fell open. "What?"
"Your English teacher is dead. She lived in the apartment that was set on fire."
Manny's eyes dropped to the table. "I didn't do it."
"I know."
Manny looked up. "I didn't want her to die."
"I know."
He sat there for a moment, just breathing. "I'm not going to talk to you."
"Manny." He waited until he had the boy's attention. "Dr. Thompson is dead."
Manny paled, shock flattening his face. "No. You're lying."
"I'm not. I saw his body myself. His throat had been slit."
Manny flinched. "No."
He slid Thompson's morgue photo across the table to Manny. "See for yourself."
Manny wouldn't look. "Take it away. Fuck you, take it away." The last was a sob.
Reed slid it back and turned it face down. "We know who did it."
Doubt flickered in his eyes. "I'm not talking to you. I'll end up like Thompson."
"We know it was Mr. White."
Manny slowly met his eyes. "Then why do you need to talk to me?"
"Dr. Thompson called Detective Mitchell right after he left here last night. He said it was urgent. He then called Mr. White. A few hours later he was dead. We want to know what you told him that he needed to tell us."
"You don't have White."
Reed shook his head. "No. And we may not unless you're straight with us."
Manny shook his head. "Forget it."
"Okay. Then about the matches. How do you think they ended up in your shoe?"
Manny's expression soured. "You won't believe me anyway."
"How can I? You haven't told me anything. Were the shoes in your room all the time?"
The kid was considering the question. "No," he finally said. "I had them with me all that day. It was my group's day to use the gym."
"When did you use the gym?"
"After lunch." He sat back. "That's all I'm gonna say. Let me go back to my cell."
"Manny, White can't hurt you in here."
Manny's lips curved. "Sure he can."
Thursday, November 30, 4:45 P.M.
"You rang?" Mia asked as she and Solliday stopped at Aid-an's desk.
Aidan looked up. "I did. I called the registrar's office at White's university in Delaware, but they were gone for the day-they're an hour ahead of us. But I did get in touch with the secretary in the education department. Very helpful lady."
Mia sat on the edge of his desk. "What did the nice lady say?"
Aidan handed her a black and white photo on plain paper. "She faxed this twenty minutes ago. It's a picture from a department newsletter, taken at a university golf benefit last year. She circled Devin White. It's grainy but you can see his face."
Solliday looked over her shoulder, so close that if she turned her head she could kiss him. The longer the day dragged on, the more she was anticipating the evening. But they'd made a deal and Aidan was watching her intently.
"It's close, isn't it?" Solliday murmured. "Same height, same coloring." He straightened and she finally drew a breath.
"But not the man we talked to this morning," she said. "The face is wrong. But most people only notice size and coloring unless they're really looking. He picked a good ID to steal. I'm betting the real Devin White is dead. Did the secretary have any numbers for his family or contacts or anything?"
"Said he'd left his family section blank. She didn't think he had any relatives living. His mother was dead and he'd never known his father."
"Well, did the helpful lady give any more helpful information?"
"She said that Devin was one of her favorites," Aidan said. "That he'd promised to call her when he got settled. But he never did and she assumed he'd gotten busy in his new life. He'd been headed from Delaware to Chicago for a job interview, but he was planning to stop in Atlantic City for a few days. That would have been early last June."
Energy started to percolate through her veins. "We can check the hotels, see if White stayed at any of them."
"Already started," Aidan said and handed them each a sheet of paper. "These are the main hotels in Atlantic City. If we split it up, we can get through them faster."
Mia took the paper to her own desk, then stopped with a frown. A video-sized brown padded envelope lay on top of the stack of Burnette's files. In block letters it was addressed to her. There was no return address. "What's this?"
Aidan looked over and slowly came to his feet. "I don't know. It wasn't there when I went to the fax machine earlier. We could ask Stacy."
Mia pulled on a pair of gloves. "We saw her leaving when we came in." She shook the video from the envelope. Solliday still had the TV/VCR on his desk, so she slid it in.
Holly Wheaton's face appeared, sad and grave. "In light of the recent, tragic murder of the child of a local police officer, we wanted to take a look at the toll police work pays on their families. Often they pay a high price for their family's public service. Some, like Caitlin Burnette, are targets of revenge for their parents' stand against crime."
"Bitch," Mia muttered. "Using Roger Burnette's suffering for her damn ratings."
"More," Wheaton continued soberly, "find the expectations of being the child of a cop too great to handle and go the other way." The camera panned back and Mia felt her stomach simply drop. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Solliday gripped her arm and pushed her into a chair.
His hands covered her shoulders and shook gently. "Breathe, Mia."
She covered her mouth with her trembling hand. "Oh my God."
Wheaton gestured to the brick building behind her. "This is the Hart Women's Correctional Facility. Sentenced here are women who've committed crimes from drug possession all the way up to murder. Sentenced here are women from all walks of life, from all kinds of families." The camera zoomed to Wheaton's pained expression. "Even families of cops. One such inmate is Kelsey Mitchell."
"What is this?" Spinnelli demanded from behind them. "Oh God. Mia."
She waved him to quiet as Kelsey's arrest photo filled the screen. Kelsey looked haggard, old, strung out from drugs. "She was only nineteen," Mia whispered.
"Kelsey Mitchell is serving a twenty-five year sentence for armed robbery. She's both the daughter and sister of a cop. Her father died recently, but her sister, Detective Mia Mitchell, is a decorated homicide detective, and ironically, is responsible for several women being detained in the very same cell block as her sister."
"They're going to kill her." Mia could barely hear her own voice. "They're going to kill Kelsey." She lunged to her feet, her heart beating wildly. "She can't show this tape. This is a damn threat. She wants her damn story and she doesn't care who gets hurt."
"I know." Spinnelli ejected the tape. "I'm going to call Wheaton's producer right now. Try to calm down, Mia." He headed back to his office, his expression grim.
Mia reached for Solliday's phone. "I'm going call that fucking bitch myself."
Solliday grabbed her shoulders, twisting until she faced him. "Mia. Let Spinnelli take care of this." She tried to pull away, but Solliday held firm.
Pain throbbed in her shoulder and she flinched. "You're hurting me."
Instantly he loosened his grip, but he didn't let go. "Promise me you will not call Wheaton. You will not threaten her. You will let Spinnelli handle this. Promise me, Mia."
She nodded. He was right. Suddenly too weary to fight it, she lowered her forehead to his chest and rested against him. His hands tightened then opened wide, hesitating before moving to her back and bringing her close.
"Somehow it'll be all right," he murmured into hair.
She nodded, fighting the tears that rose in her throat. Cops didn't cry. She should know. Bobby had told her so. Often. "They'll kill her, Reed." He said nothing, just held her until she felt control of her emotions return. She pulled away, calm now. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not," he said quietly. "The last three weeks have been hell. You've held up better than anyone could have expected." He tilted her face up. "Even you."
His eyes were filled with both sympathy and respect and she took comfort from both. Then stepped away to find Aidan watching her and she felt her cheeks heat.
Wanting to shift the focus from what had obviously been a public embrace, she narrowed her eyes at Aidan. "You know, I think that Jacob Conti had a point after all."
For a second Aidan's eyes widened then he grinned before he could stop himself. He sobered himself, giving her a proper glare. "Mia Mitchell. You should be ashamed."
Solliday looked confused. "Who is Jacob Conti?"
Mia sat down in her chair with the list of Atlantic City hotels. "Bad man. Very bad." Conti was a very bad man who'd dealt his own brand of justice to a TV reporter who, through stirring things up to make news, put Conti's son in the sights of a killer. Conti's revenge for his son's death had been effective and final. Unfortunately for him, illegal as well. Mia would have to take more conventional routes of revenge.
"Old case," Aidan said. "Back when my sister-in-law Kristen was being stalked."
Solliday sat down at his desk and tapped at the keyboard with his methodical pace. Then he looked up, eyes wide. "He was a bad man."
He'd looked up the old case, then. "Told you."
"And Reagan's right. You should be ashamed." But there was a sudden sparkle in his eye. "You are a very bad girl, Mia."
She laughed softly, remembering the last time he'd said those same words. Then, the respite was gone, dread returning with a vengeance as she looked over at Spinnelli's door. If Wheaton's piece ran, Kelsey's life would be in certain danger. But she'd let Spinnelli handle it. For now. "Let's call these hotels, then call it a night."
Thursday, November 30, 5:30 P.M.
The Doughertys's big truck had finally pulled into the driveway at 993 Harmony Avenue. For a while he thought the girl at the hotel had lied. That would've been bad.
He'd been listening to the radio. Nobody reported Tania missing. And nobody had mentioned Niki Markov, the woman who should have been home with her two kids, but had instead had the bad luck to be sleeping in the Doughertys' hotel bed. If women stayed where they were supposed to be, they wouldn't get into such trouble. Now Niki Markov was dead and buried, her own suitcases providing her final resting place. He grinned to himself. Places, that was. Plural. The cops would never find all of her.
The Doughertys got out of the truck and headed straight around the back of the house, bags from JCPenney in their hands. They'd been shopping to replace clothes, most likely. Seeing as how all theirs were gone. Too bad they wouldn't need them.
After he finished here tonight, he'd be done in Chicago. He'd drive south on his way to the last few names on his list. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He pulled the car from the curb knowing that when he returned it would be time to act. And old lady Dougherty's time to finally die.
Thursday, November 30, 5:55 p.m.
"Mia, can you come here for a minute?" Spinnelli stood in his office doorway.
Throwing a worried look at Solliday and Aidan, she approached. "What?"
"Inside. Shut the door. Reporters are the lowest forms of life on the planet."
Her heart sank. "They're going to run the piece." Her stomach followed. "Oh, Marc."
"Relax. I talked to Wheaton. She insists the video you got was a mistake. She meant to send you a copy of the press conference as you'd obviously been watching someone in the crowd." He lip curled in distaste. "She just wanted to help."
"Marc," she gritted through her teeth. "What about Kelsey?"
"I said relax. Wheaton hinted about an exclusive on this case. I turned her down flat and suggested that threatening a police officer was a felony. She got huffy and said there was no intended threat. The piece with your sister was scheduled to air Sunday night with or without any words from us. It was an ultimatum with a deadline."
Her heart was hammering, but trust in Spinnelli kept her feet glued in place. "And?"
"I can't stop her from airing that piece, Mia, but I'll be damned if that…" He drew a breath, editing himself. "I called Patrick. He's pulling some strings to have Kelsey moved to another facility tomorrow morning. She'll be brought in under another name. It'll be done very discreetly." He lifted a shoulder. "It's the best I can do."
Mia swallowed hard, a wave of relief and gratitude overwhelming her. "A lot of people wouldn't have done that much."
"You've sacrificed for this department, this city countless times. I'll be damned if I let Wheaton or anybody else use this department to threaten you or your family."
She closed her eyes, moved. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You're welcome," he said softly.
His voice returned to its normal briskness. "Murphy's still sweeping the area where they found the car White used to get away from Brooke Adler's apartment, but he hasn't turned anything up yet. They'll keep canvassing for the next hour, then resume in the morning. I had math teacher White's picture faxed to the local news teams and the newspapers. It's the best way to find him."
"I know."
"You guys find the real White at any of those Atlantic City hotels?"
"Not yet. We'll keep going until we do."
Spinnelli tilted her head, studying her. "Where are you going to stay tonight?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What?" He couldn't possibly know about her and Solliday. The words "it was just a supportive hug" were on the tip of her tongue.
"Your address was in the paper, Mia. Find another place to live. That's an order."
"You can't tell me where to live. Last I looked, I'm a cop. 1 can take care of myself."
"Last I looked, you were a cop and I was your boss. Find another place, Mia. I don't want to worry about you all night." When her mouth set stubbornly, he exploded. "Goddammit, Mia. For days I sat next to Abe's bedside wondering where the hell you were. 1 thought I might lose two of my best people. Don't put me through that again."
She looked down, feeling suddenly small. "Well, when you put it like that."
He sighed. "It's just for a little while. Howard and Brooks are close to pulling Getts in. They've closed off about all the rat holes he can crawl down."
"He already knew my address."
"True, but now every punk wannabe does, too. You worry about Kelsey on the inside. There are a lot more on the outside that would love bragging rights to you."
"I have a gun. Kelsey doesn't."
"And you both have to sleep sometime."
She ran her tongue across her teeth. "I don't want to admit that you have a point. But," she hurried on before he could say more, "who would you have me put in danger? Dana? She's got kids. Abe? He's got Kristen and the baby."
Spinnelli's door opened and Solliday filled the doorway. "She can stay at my house."
Mia's mouth dropped open. "What?"
Spinnelli just blinked. "What?"
He shrugged his wide shoulders. "It makes sense. I've got a duplex. My sister rents the other side. Lauren's on my side taking care of my daughter more than she's on her own side, anyway. Detective Mitchell can stay in the other side, have her own place."
Mia found her voice. "You were spying on me. Again."
He shrugged. "I was waiting to talk to Spinnelli. It's not my fault I have good ears."
She glared at him. "I'm not staying with you."
"Not me." He smiled innocently. "At Lauren's. It makes sense, Mia. And we can keep going through Burnette's and Hill's files after dinner. That should speed things up."
She just bet it would. The very thought of what would speed up sent new color to her cheeks. And Solliday just stood there, smiling like a damn choirboy.
But if Spinnelli had any inkling of Solliday's ulterior motives, he gave no indication. "It does make sense, Mia. And you never have time to study those files during the day."
She drew a breath. "I want to formally stare my opposition to this stupid plan."
Spinnelli nodded. "Formally noted. Do it anyway."
"What about Solliday's kid? I'm putting her in danger, too. They'll follow me."
"Mia, if you can't lose a tail by now…" Spinnelli gently pushed her out the door. "Finish calling hotels, then break for dinner. After you eat, you can get back to the files."
"Aren't you kind?"
His mustache bunched and his eyes darkened, a sure sign his patience was spent. "We have to get a connection between White, Burnette, and Hill or we have nothing more than circumstantial evidence. We can't place him at any of the three scenes, so we have to at least have a strong motive. Find one. Stop worrying about your apartment and concentrate on what matters. Find White before he kills again."
She knew when she was beaten. "All right. You'll make sure they move Kelsey."
"You have my word."
"Fine. Then I'll stay on Lauren's side of the duplex."
Spinnelli's chest moved in a small sigh of relief. "Thank you. And thanks to you also, Reed," Spinnelli said. "I appreciate you offering up the house."
Mia looked at Solliday, her jaw cocked. "Yeah. Thanks a lot, Solliday."
Something flickered in Solliday's dark eyes and she knew he knew she was pissed. "You're welcome," he told Spinnelli. Then he muttered under his breath, "I think."
Thursday, November 30, 6:15 p.m.
He'd nearly finished his dinner when the face on the TV screen threatened to bring it all back up. The face was his. In horror his eyes froze to the screen. He knew they'd be looking for him. Somehow he never thought they'd put his face on TV.
As he fought to control his shock, his temper began to boil. The bitch. This was the work of the Mitchell woman. Now he couldn't move around the city without people knowing who he was. Today it was Chicago. Tomorrow, CNN? He'd be recognized wherever he went from sea to goddamn shining sea.
He had to get out of this restaurant. Now. With a casual-ness that came only through superior self-control, he rose, threw the contents of his tray in the trash, strolled through the restaurant door and to his car.
She had to go. He patted his pocket where he still carried pretty Caitlin's gun. Mitchell had to go. With her gone, the focus would be shifted to the gunman who'd tried to kill her once before. Melvin Getts was his name. It would be Getts's face on the news.
A cop killer trumped an arsonist any damn day of the week.