Indianapolis Friday, December 1, 11:00 p.m.
There it was. Tyler Young's townhouse. He sat in a car down the street, watching the neighborhood. He'd need to wait a little longer for this crowd to be in bed.
He was nearly calm. He"d had to get a hold of himself back in Champaign. He'd waited too long to exorcise his ghosts, because now they were all dead. Laura Dougherty and now Bill Young and his wife Bitsey. The wife had just passed on, the nursing home said sadly. And our records are confidential, they'd added mournfully, so no, we can't give you next of kin.
He'd nearly lost it. He'd held back only after seeing the flicker of suspicious fear in the nurse's eyes. So he'd respectfully excused himself, gotten in his car, driven to the middle of nowhere and set a cornfield on fire. Just a random act of kindness.
So he was down to two. Tyler and Tim. It was like Tim Young had dropped off the face of the earth. He could let Tim go. But Tim had been big enough, strong enough then. Just not brave enough to stop Tyler. He had to find them both. To finish this.
If Tyler knows where his brother was, by God, he'll tell me. Because this time, I hold the power. I'll hear him beg.
Then I'll see him die. You count to ten, you fucking bastard. Then go to hell.
Chicago Friday, December 1, 11:05 P.M.
Mia closed the door to Lauren's place. It was dark and quiet. "Reed?"
But no one answered. She wandered through the house, half hoping she'd find him asleep on the sofa or better yet, in the bed, but the house was empty. Just me.
She should be tired, but she was still buzzed. She held Lauren's keys up to the light. There were two keys; one was for the other side. She could slip in, find him. Beth was safe in her room, having shimmied back up the tree despite Mia's objections.
She actually considered going up the same tree to Reed's room, but chucked the idea with a grin. She'd probably fall on her ass and break something. She fingered the chain around her neck. Or not. She seemed remarkably resilient these days.
Or not. She thought about sitting on his lap, crying her eyes out, then once again telling him things she had no business telling him. But he was easy to talk to and she'd wanted him to know. For the first time she'd wanted to throw her faults out there.
Maybe it was a test. To see if he'd throw her back. He hadn't yet.
She slipped into Reed's side of the duplex. It was quiet. She crept up the stairs, her heart pounding. If the house was a mirror image to Lauren's, the last door on the right was the master bedroom. There he was, sprawled on top of the bedspread, sleeping deeply with the light still burning. Still dressed down to his shiny shoes.
He'd had a long day, too. She'd get him comfortable, then go back to her own room on the other side. Then tomorrow, she thought, she'd find a new apartment as close to this house as she could. Because there was no way in hell she was having sex in this room. It was Christine's, down to the lace on the bedspread.
She frowned at the picture on his nightstand. Christine. Of course he'd have a picture of his wife. He loved her. Still. He's never found anyone quite as good, the little voice reminded her. Beth felt the same. It was when Mia went to loosen his belt that she saw the book. Carefully she slid it from his fingers and curious, peeked at the title, but there was none. It was a notebook, and every page inside was handwritten.
She glanced at his face. He still slept. She should put the book right down. Right now. But he'd listened to her conversations. This only seemed fair. She flipped to the front page. It said simply "My Poems, by Christine Solliday" but the next page tightened her throat. "To my darling Reed. I promised you my heart. Here it is."
Poems. Every page was poems, in Christine's own hand. So Beth came by her talent naturally, she thought. And how wrong the girl had been about her father's understanding. Every page was worn, some dog-eared. This book was well read and well loved. It was Christine's heart. And Reed's.
The words blurred as she read and Mia blinked away the stupid tears. He'd been honest after all. He'd said no strings. And like a fool I believed that would be enough.
Hands trembling, she put the book on the nightstand and went to work on his shirt. A fine gold chain appeared, glistening in the dark hair of his chest. He hadn't worn it when they'd made love, but vaguely she remembered feeling it against her cheek earlier, as he'd held her and let her cry. She wouldn't cry now. Not yet. She'd put him to bed, then go back and… She got to the bottom of his shirt and her fingers went still.
At the end of the chain was a ring. A plain gold band. He still wears his wedding ring. Her heart squeezed painfully, but her hand was bent on self-torture and lifted the chain. The ring dangled, reflecting the light from the lamp.
With a jerk Reed woke, one hand closing over the ring while the other closed over her wrist with enough force to make her flinch. "You're hurting me,"' she whispered.
Immediately he released her arm, but his hand stayed wrapped around the ring. His face was hard and angry. "What are you doing here?"
Mia took a step back. "Obviously making a big mistake. Good night, Reed."
She made it out of his room, down the stairs and out the front door. Her hands shaking, she managed to get the key in Lauren's front door and bolted inside. She stood, breathing harder than if she'd run a mile. She thought he'd follow her. Obviously that was a big mistake, too. Her whole body was shaking now. Badly.
Stupid. She hadn't eaten in… She couldn't remember the last time. She downed a slice of cold pizza, her stomach churning. When she was on her second slice the front door opened. Reed's face was pained, his shirt buttoned. If he still wore his ring, at least he had the decency to hide it from her. No, that wasn't fair. The ring was his business. He told you from the beginning, Mia. No strings. "We need to talk, Mia."
She shook her head. "It's all right. Go back to bed, Reed." He didn't move and her patience snapped. "You know, I've had a really foul day. I would like to be alone now."
He came closer, cupped her cheek in his palm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Don't be." She swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat. "You told me what you wanted from the start. I'm the one who keeps crossing the line. I can't play by your ground rules, Reed. I can't do an affair with no strings. I was wrong to try."
He went still. "Then maybe we can change the ground rules."
Hope lit a little fire in her heart. Then she slipped her hand inside his shirt and pulled out the chain where the plain gold band dangled and the fire in her heart fizzled. "You know, I spent most of my life competing with a dead boy I never knew existed for the love of a man who wasn't worth slime. I'm not going to compete with your dead wife, Reed, even though the prize would be… very worthwhile. I think I deserve better than that. Now, I think you should go. I'll be out of here tomorrow."
She thought he'd argue, but he stood, his expression haunted and desolate. "I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow."
"Eight o'clock. Spinnelli's. I'll be there."
She didn't see him to the door. She turned to the backyard, wishing things were different. That she was different. Then something brushed at her leg and she jumped.
Percy looked up at her, accusation in his eyes. "Meow."
With a weak laugh she picked him up. "I'd forgotten about you. At least you can ask for your dinner, unlike poor Fluffy." She rested her cheek against his soft fur, felt his purr. "Let's eat, Percy, then bed."
Indianapolis, Saturday, December 2, 2:15 a.m.
You'd think a realtor would have better home security, he thought as he let himself in through Tyler Young's patio door. His loss, my gain. Shouldering his heavy load, he crept up the stairs, listening, but there was no sound except for the pounding of his own heart. Finally.
He would finally face the one who'd killed Shane, as an adult now, not the helpless kid he'd been. Two people slept in the bed, one a woman. A ceiling fan turned above the bed and along with Tyler's snores, covered his steps as he moved to the woman's side. One stab of his knife and she painlessly gurgled her last.
Tyler still snored heavily and this close, he could smell liquor on his breath. Good. Drunk people made such easy targets. Tyler would be that much easier to subdue.
He had dreamed of this as a kid, in the Youngs' house of hell. Every night he'd fantasized his revenge as Tyler… He swallowed, the memory making his stomach churn even now, ten years later. As Tyler did what Tyler did. The fantasies had kept him sane then. Now, those fantasies were about to come true. Now he'd do what Tyler did. Every single step. Quietly he fixed the chain he'd brought to the head of the bed, down at the floor. At the end of the chain was a cuff and with a click he snapped it around Tyler's beefy wrist. And held his breath.
But Tyler's snores continued. The rag for Tyler's mouth was soaked in urine, another little trick he'd learned from the man who was now his captive. But he had his own tricks now. With great care he took out the third of the knives he'd treated with his curare paste. How easy to do, and how… exotic. His gun in his left hand, he quickly opened one of
Tyler's veins with his right. Tyler's eyes surged open, but the gun was already aimed between the man's eyes. Horror filled Tyler's eyes by degrees as he took in the gun, the chain, his bleeding arm.
But there was no recognition and that pissed him off. "It's Andrew." He knew the moment Tyler remembered and laughed softly. "In about two minutes you won't be able to move, but you'll feel every little thing I do." He leaned in close. "This time you'll count to ten, Tyler. This time you'll go to hell. But first, you'll answer to me. I'm going to take out this rag. If you scream, you will die. Understand?"
Tyler nodded, sweat beading on his forehead.
He removed the gag with distaste. "Where is Tim?"
Tyler licked his lips nervously. "If I tell you, will you let me go?"
He hadn't even asked about his wife. "Sure."
"New Mexico. Sante Fe." He drew back a fraction of an inch. "Now let me go."
Before Tyler could react, he shoved the rag back in his mouth. "You grew up stupid, Tyler. Let me help you. One, two, three…" And as he counted Tyler's body went stiff and rigidly still. "Ten. It's showtime."
He knew he didn't have much time. Under normal circumstances, Tyler would lose consciousness in under ten minutes. But after ten years, he wanted more than ten minutes and he wanted Tyler Young fully aware. He wanted Tyler Young to feel pain. He wanted Tyler Young to pay.
So he'd planned ahead. Placing his gun on Tyler's night-stand, he unpacked his kit. As usual he carried his sharp knife and lead pipe and his remaining plastic eggs, but tonight he'd brought a little extra along. He pulled an oxygen tank and mask from his pack. He'd be able to extend Tyler's conscious minutes by three times by forcing oxygen into his lungs. Tyler might just pass out from the pain first.
The thought made him smile.
"So, Tyler," he said conversationally, placing the mask over the man's frozen face. "How y'been? Molested any children lately?" Tyler and his wife had no children, at least no children that lived with them. He'd checked all the bedrooms before finding the master, and there were no children in this house. No pets either. So he could fully concentrate on his work. "Can't talk? Too bad. You'll just have to listen to me. Don't worry, I'll keep you informed, every step of the way. First, I'll break your legs, just because I can."
And he did, enjoying the way Tyler's eyes crossed with pain. He then rolled the pipe from one hand to the other. "Normally I'm finished with the pipe by this point," he said, still casually. "But I have another use planned for you. See, I don't like men. Just women. But I'd hate to let that keep me from giving you the same pleasure you gave me." He could tell Tyler understood. "Excellent. Oh, and the knife? Normally I just slit throats with it, but again, I have a special use planned for you." He grinned down at his victim, kept alive because he wished it. Tyler would die when he wished it. "You called us dickless pussies back then. I guess you'll get to find out what that term really means. So let's get this show on the road, Tyler. Before the oxygen runs out."
Chicago, Saturday, December 2, 6:35 A.M.
Murphy watched as Mia approached his car. He was alert, but eyed the coffee cups in her hand with appreciation. He got out and stretched, then took one. "Thanks."
She leaned against the car, looking up at the house. "Anything?"
"White never came back, but the kid's been watching. There he is now."
Once again the blinds bent and little fingers appeared. Once again Mia gave him a warm smile and a wave. Once again the kid disappeared. "I say we try to get a warrant. We've certainly gotten them on less before."
"I'll call a cruiser to watch while we're in meeting. We'll coordinate with the others."
The others. Which would include Reed. She would do her job.
"Spill it. kid." Murphy ordered in his mild way. "What did pretty boy Solliday do?"
She smiled, surprised she could. "Nothing. He made no promises, Murphy, and broke none. And I got a couple of nights of really good sex out of the deal."
Murphy winced. "Rub it in, why don't you?" He tilted his head. "Let me know and I'll mess up that pretty face of his for you."
"My hero." Abruptly she sobered. "Look what we have here."
The front door opened and the kid came out, dressed for church in a dark suit and a clip-on tie. He paused on his front porch, then sucked in a breath and started walking, not stopping until he'd crossed the street to where they stood. He was holding the flyer they'd given his mother. It was flattened, but someone had crumpled it. His swallow was audible.
He was only about seven or eight. Reddish blond hair was carefully wet and combed. Freckles covered his face. She'd always been a sucker for freckles. Soberly she held out her hand. "I'm Detective Mitchell. This is Detective Murphy."
He shook her hand. "I'm Jeremy."
"Jeremy Lukowitch?" Murphy asked and the boy nodded.
"Where's your mom, Jeremy?" Mia asked.
"Still asleep. I think we should go to the station," Jeremy said gravely.
"And maybe we will," Mia said, then went down on one knee. "Tell me, Jeremy, have you seen the man in this picture?"
"Yes."
"When?"
He swallowed again. "Lots of times. He lives here sometimes."
Oh. sweet bingo. "Do you remember the last time you saw him, honey?" she asked.
"Thursday morning before I went to school, but he came home late that morning."
"Do you remember what time?"
"Five forty-five. I looked at my clock." Jeremy lifted his chin. "You should get a warrant to search our backyard."
Mia's heart was knocking, but she kept her voice calm. "What will we find?"
"He buried stuff there." Jeremy started counting on his fingers. "Thursday, Tuesday, Sunday and last Friday."
Mia blinked. "Last Friday?"
Jeremy nodded soberly. "Yes, ma'am. Now I'll agree to testify if you give me and my mother witness protection. We'd like to change our names and move to… Iowa."
Mia looked up at Murphy who was unsuccessfully trying to bite back a smile, then back at Jeremy. "You watch a lot of TV, don't you, Jeremy?" she asked.
"And I read," he said. "But mostly TV." Then his chin trembled, spoiling his facade. "I have to have the protection for my mom. He hurt her once. Really bad. She's afraid." Tears filled his eyes. "And she cries all the time. Please, lady, please don't let him hurt my mom." He stood there, so brave and alone as tears ran down his freckled cheeks and Mia had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying with him.
Crying would hurt Jeremy's expectation of cops. But she did gather him in her arms and hug him tight. "We'll protect your mom, Jeremy. Don't worry, honey."
Murphy already had his radio out, calling for support.
Mia backed away and wiped Jeremy's cheeks with her thumbs. "You hungry, kid?"
He nodded, sniffling. "We didn't finish our dinner last night."
"I've got a breakfast burrito in my car. I'll split it with you while we wait for CSU."
Jeremy nodded sagely. "They should bring X-ray and metal detectors."
Mia's lips twitched. "I'll tell them you said so."
Saturday, December 2, 7:15 a.m.
Reed stopped behind a line of cruisers and CSU vans. Nothing was happening yet. He supposed they were still waiting for the warrant. Mia was leaning against her department car. He approached, not knowing what to say, or how she'd respond.
He didn't know of what he felt. Or what he wanted. It had been a sleepless night. She looked over and gave him a friendly smile that didn't come close to brightening her eyes. "Lieutenant Solliday," she said formally. "I have someone here you should meet."
Inside the car was a little boy, with strawberry blond hair and freckles.
"Lieutenant, this is Mr. Jeremy Lukowitch," Mia said. "Jeremy, this is Lieutenant Solliday. He's a fire investigator."
Fear shadowed the boy's eyes. "Detective Mitchell says she'll protect my mom."
"Then she will. She's a good cop."
Mia swallowed, but her smile didn't falter. "Jeremy, you wait here in my car where it's warm, okay? I'm going to trust you not to touch anything."
"I won't."
She started to walk away, then stuck her head back in the window. "Jeremy, we won't go inside until we have a warrant, but will your mom come out?"
"She's probably still asleep. Sometimes she takes sleeping pills."
Mia nodded briskly. "That's fine. I'll be back soon." She backed away from the car slowly, but her expression had grown grim. "Are you EMT trained, Reed?"
"Yeah. You think she OD'd on pills?"
Mia was jogging now, going around the back where Jack linger was poised for action, waiting for the warrant. "Not knowingly, maybe. But she saw White. She lived with him. He's not gonna let her live."
"We get the warrant?" Jack asked.
"Not yet. I think the mom took some pills. We're going in." She threw her shoulder into the back door and it cracked. But she winced and hissed. "That hurt."
"Y'think?" Reed said. "Move." And with one heave the door splintered. Both of them drew their weapons and he followed her in.
"Mrs. Lukowitch, this is the police." She ran back to the bedroom where a woman lay curled in a fetal ball. "Ah, shit. Ah, hell. I smell cyanide." She holstered her gun and felt for a pulse. Then stepped back. "She's dead, Reed. Rigor's already setting in."
Reed sighed. "Eleven."
"You were right. Bodies weren't what he was counting." She closed her eyes. "Now how do I tell that baby his mother is dead?"
"With me. I'll tell him with you."
She nodded. "Okay. Let's go."
Saturday, December 2, 8:10 a.m.
Mia and Reed shielded Jeremy with their bodies as the ME wheeled his mother out in a body bag. But the boy wasn't watching. He was looking straight ahead, at nothing at all. Mia crouched down when the ambulance had driven away. "Jeremy, sweetie, I have to work on your house."
"What will happen to me?" he asked so softly she had to lean forward to catch the words. "My mom is dead. My dad is gone. Who will take care of me?"
Me, Mia wanted to say, but didn't. This was a boy, not a cat. "I've called a social worker. They'll put you in a temporary home until we can get something worked out."
"A foster home," he said dully. "I seen them on TV. Kids get hurt there."
Reed shot her a look and she stepped back. He crouched down in front of Jeremy. "Son, I know what you've seen on TV. But you need to understand, those are only the bad ones and they're rare." The boy wasn't buying it, so Reed tried again. "Jeremy, you're a very smart boy. How many airplanes do you think fly in America every day?"
Jeremy turned his head. "Thousands," he replied flatly.
"That's right. How many times do you hear about plane crashes on the news? Not many. You hear about the one or two bad planes, but never the thousands of good ones that reach their destinations safely every day. Same with foster care. Bad ones happen, but they're rare. I grew up in a good one. so I know."
Jeremy's shoulders sagged. "Okay." He looked up at Mia. "Can I still see you?"
Her heart squeezed. "You bet. Now we have to do our jobs, Jeremy. You sit tight and don't leave without me, Lieutenant Solliday, or one of these officers."
His look was far too wise for seven years old. "I'm not stupid. Detective Mitchell."
She ruffled his hair. "I know."
Murphy waved to them. "Got the warrant."
"That was good, what you said to him," she murmured as they walked. "Thanks."
"Mia…"
"Not now, Reed. I can't." She hurried off, leaving him watching her back. Confused and torn he jogged after her to watch what buried treasure Jack would dig up.
Saturday, December 2, 10:30 a.m.
It was a good day to be alive. Things were finally looking up. Put on a happy face. He grinned as the ridiculous phrases flitted through his mind. He'd left Tyler alive and burning. Immensely satisfying. He'd nearly started straight for Sante Fe, but the adrenaline high had quickly ebbed. Exhausted, he found a cheap roadside motel and went to sleep. When he woke, he was clear minded once more. He'd drive to Santa Fe, sticking to back roads. Once there, and once finished, Mexico seemed the best idea for laying low. Eventually his picture would be old news and he could return.
He had to go under. Hide like a girl. Because Mitchell had his picture everywhere.
Rage for the woman bubbled up and he pushed it back. He'd tried to get her once. He needed to learn from Laura Dougherty. Listen to fate. Let it go.
Control returned and with it the logistics of his plan. Even when he emerged from Mexico, he would not return to Chicago. He'd settle somewhere south, where it was warm. So he need to get his things. His memories. It was another eight hours of his life, from Indy to Chicago and back south to where he'd started that morning. But he'd waited ten years. What was another eight hours? He wanted his things.
His instinct was alerted blocks from the house. He turned two blocks too soon and slowed to a stop. He could see cruisers and vans and men with shovels. At his house.
Mitchell had found his house. She'd taken his stuff. Coldly he turned his car around. To hell with fate. The woman had to pay. She'd dodged a bullet twice this week. Lucky bitch. But her luck was about to run out.
Saturday, December 2,11:45 a.m.
Mia rocked back on her heels, fists on her hips. The table was covered with the items they'd recovered from the Luko-witches' yard. And they'd needed both the X-ray and metal detectors. Jeremy would be proud of that at least. "This is remarkable."
Spinnelli was examining each item. "We've got Caitlin's purse, a necklace from Penny, fourteen sets of keys… shoes, more necklaces… My God."
"These keys belong to Dr. Thompson," Reed said. "These are Brooke's. We think he took them Wednesday night when she'd had too many beers. These belong to Tania from the hotel, these are Niki Markov's, the saleswoman. The rest we don't know."
"Now we can tie him to the Burnette and Hill murders," Spinnelli said with satisfaction. "I still want forensics, but this is a hell of a lot better than what we had."
"Atlantic City is sending someone to look at this stuff," Aidan said. "The women he raped there say he took their keys, his way of saying he could come back anytime."
"Sonofabitch," Reed muttered.
"I think we'll all second that emotion," Spinnelli said. "Sam called. He said the urine tox on Yvonne Lukowitch showed Valium laced with cyanide, not the Ambien in her prescription."
"We found a receipt from a photography shop," Jack said. "He bought the cyanide there. It's used in film developing. Sam said she never would have felt a thing."
She sighed. "Later on it will mean something to Jeremy that his mother didn't commit suicide. Now it's not much comfort to a terrified seven-year-old. Jeremy said his mother met White when she was leading a dog training class in the park last June. His mother came home talking about this new man she'd met. White brought her wine and roses. She asked him to move in within three weeks."
"That's fast," Jack said.
"She was lonely," Mia returned. "We found a scar on her body, collarbone to breast, from a knife slice. Jeremy said White did it the first night he moved in. He told her if she told, he'd do worse and to Jeremy. Jeremy and his mom have been living in terror since the end of last June."
"And we still don't know his name," Murphy said bitterly.
Spinnelli looked hopeful. "I may have something for you. I got a call this morning from Impound. They recovered a car that was reported stolen on Thursday. It was found in the area Murphy was searching. Impound found a book under the seat."
Reed sat up. "A math book?"
Spinnelli's smile was sharp. "Algebra One. Somebody should be bringing it in the next few minutes. Until then, what will we do next?"
"I'm following leads from the photo on the news," Aidan said. "And I'll be the liaison to Atlantic City PD. I sent the photo to Detroit PD, but we don't have anything yet."
"Keep calling," Spinnelli said. "Mia?"
"We have the list from DCFS of all the kids Penny Hill placed with the elder Doughertys. We're going to follow up on that today. We've got nine names with no known address to track down and a few alibis from the known ones to verify."
"Okay," Spinnelli said. "Did we get anything out of the two boys from Hope Center?"
"Miles talked to them," Mia said. "Thad admitted after he learned Jeff was dead that it was Jeff who assaulted him. He said Jeff and Regis did it and Manny watched the door. They threatened to gut him like a pig if he told. So, he didn't tell. Regis Hunt gets moved to adult prison pending an investigation and trial. Thad will transfer to another juvie facility. But Dr. Bixby's still missing."
"He's not home, dead or otherwise," Spinnelli said. "I've got an APB out for his car."
"And it doesn't appear that his keys are in the pile," Reed added.
"So he could be alive and hiding, or dead and hidden. What else?" Spinnelli asked.
"Just something Jeremy said," Mia mused. "Remember, Murphy, he said that White buried something in the backyard last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. If he killed somebody then, we haven't found them yet."
There was a knock at the door and an officer stuck his head in. "Lieutenant Spinnelli? I'm from Impound. I have some evidence for you."
"Thank you. We hope this is good." Spinnelli handed the book to Mia when the officer from Impound was gone. "Do the honors, Mia."
Mia pulled on a pair of gloves and slid the book from the paper evidence sack. "One math book. And inside…" She looked up. "Newspaper clippings. Hill and Burnette." She grimaced. "And me. Here's the one of me taking down DuPree and here's the one with my address, thank-you-Carmichael, and… hello." She grinned. "One clipping from the Gazette in Springdale, Indiana, thanksgiving night fire leaves two dead. It's dated the day after Thanksgiving."
"The first time Jeremy saw White burying something in the backyard," Murphy murmured. "Who did he kill?"
Mia scanned the article, her heart picking up. "One of the victims was Mary Kates."
Mia scanned it, her heart picking up. "One of the victims was Mary Kates. Kates is one of the names on the DCFS list." Hurriedly she found the list. "Two names. Andrew and Shane Kates. They're brothers. Andrew would be the right age."
"This is good." Spinnelli paced. "Very good. Now that we know who the hell this guy is, we need to know where he'll strike next or where he'll hide or run. The four of you find out. I'm going to call the captain and tell him we finally made some progress."
Mia felt invigorated. Renewed. She stared at the table with all his souvenirs, her heart pumping gallons. "Andrew Kates. Your days are numbered, you sonofabitch."
Saturday, December 2, 5:15 p.m.
The wig was making his head sweat. "How much is the rent?" It was an empty apartment in Mitchell's building. The super held the key in her hand. He was waiting for the right moment to get the information he needed If she couldn't tell him, he'd take her keys and investigate Mitchell's place himself.
"Eight fifty," the old woman said. "Due first of the month."
He made a point of looking in the closets. "And is the neighborhood safe?"
"Very safe."
No more than a couple shootings a week on the street outside. The woman lied like a rug. "I read about that detective in the paper."
"Oh, that. She's moved out. It'll be very quiet from here on out."
Panic rose in his throat. But she was probably lying again. "That was fast."
"Well, the movers haven't come yet. But she's out of here. No need to worry."
But there was every need to worry. He wanted Mitchell. He needed to get into her place before she moved all her things. Surely there was some clue to where she'd gone. He considered shooting the old bag where she stood, but the new gun in his back waistband would be loud. Tyler had built quite a gun collection. He'd wanted to take them all, but he still had to travel light, so he'd taken only two. A.38 and a.44, both of which would bring people running if he fired them. So he'd do it the oid-fat›hioüed way. From under his jacket he pulled his pipe wrench and smacked the old lady's head. Like a rag doll she crumpled, blood from her wound starting to soak the carpet. He bound her hands and feet and gagged her before stuffing her in the closet.
With her key he let himself into Mitchell's place. She needed a good decorator Methodically he checked the coat closet. Other than a trifolded flag on the shelf, it was empty. Her kitchen cabinet was filled with boxes of Pop-Tarts, her freezer with microwave meals. She needed a good nutritionist more than a decorator.
Her bedroom was a mess, blankets in a pile on the floor. But interestingly, a box of condoms sat opened on the night-stand. Her closet was such a mess, there was no way to know if she'd taken clothes or not. Frustrated, he returned to the living room. A pile of mail covered a lamp table. Greedily he searched it. The only thing remotely personal was a postcard with a crab on the front. "Dear Mia, wish you'd come with us. Miss you. Love, Dana." Dana? A friend with whom Mitchell might stay?
He opened the lamp table drawer and pulled out a photo album with a grin. He'd struck gold. He lifted the cover and sighed. Mitchell was no more organized about her photos than she was about anything else. None of the photos were put into the plastic sleeves. It was just a pile, as if she threw everything in here with the plan to someday do it right. How had she ever managed to get as far as she did?
On the top of the stack was an obituary she'd ripped from the paper without even trimming the edges. He fought the urge to trim them himself and read it. Her father had died three weeks before. Interesting. She was survived by a mother. More interesting still. She'd come to heel if her mother were in danger.
He kept searching. Lots of kids' school pictures. And a wedding picture. Mitchell in pink with a tall redhead in white lace. On the back it said "Mia and Dana." Bingo. But Dana who? And where would he find her? Ask and you shall receive. Under the wedding photo was an invitation.
DANA DANIELLE DUPINSKI AND ETHAN WALTON BUCHANAN
request your presence… It was completely intact. He smiled. Shed been a bridesmaid so there d been no need to send in the RSVP. He pocketed the card and the obituary. Dana Dupinski lived a good half hour from here. He'd better hurry.
Saturday, December 2, 6:45 p.m.
"Talk," Spinnelli said from the head of the conference table. They'd regrouped, Reed and Mia, Murphy and Aidan, and Miles Westphalen. "What do we know?"
The table was again full, this time of paper. After more than seven hours of phone calls, faxes, and e-mails, they'd been able to put together a great deal of Andrew Kates's past. Reed was energized. They were closing in.
"We know where Andrew Kates has been," he said, "where he's likely to go, and importantly, why ten is the magic number."
Mia stacked her notes. "Andrew and Shane Kates were born to Gloria Kates. Aidan tracked Andrew to the Michigan juvie system who faxed us copies of their birth certificates. No father listed for either boy. Andrew is older by four years and served time in Michigan juvie for stealing a car when he was barely twelve. Nobody there remembcicd him, but it's been about ten years."
"Is that the count to ten?" Westphalen asked and Mia shook her head.
"Be patient, Miles. This took us seven hours. You can listen for ten minutes."
"Sorry," Westphalen mumbled, properly chastised and Reed swallowed his smile.
"Anyway," Mia said. "I talked to the head caseworker for the juvie facility. She didn't remember him, but she looked up his file. He was a model resident. Claimed he'd been forced to steal the car by his mother to feed her drug habit. Gloria Kates had a yellow sheet full of drug possession charges, so this was probably true."
"Obviously he got out," Spinnelli said.
"Yeah." Reed took up the story. "When Andrew got caught stealing the car, his mother Gloria skipped town, leaving him to hold the bag."
"Which would explain his hostility against women," Westphalen said. "Why hasn't he gone after her?"
"Because she's dead," Reed answered. "Heroin overdose, a few months later."
"So he has to go after substitutes," Westphalen mused. "Interesting."
"It gets better," Reed promised. "When Gloria left, Andrew went to juvie and Detroit placed Shane with his maternal aunt, Mary Kates, in Springdale, Indiana."
"The Thanksgiving night fire," Spinnelli murmured.
"Yes," Reed said. "I talked with the sheriff and the fire chief there about the Thanksgiving fire. The chief said they found gas cans in the backyard, but no eggs or evidence of solid accelerant. Just a gas and match affair. No fingerprints, no nothing. The sheriff said the aunt and her common-law husband Carl Gibson were found dead in their bedroom, close to the window. Their legs were broken so they couldn't get away."
"Same as the Atlantic City rape victims," Aidan said.
"And some of our victims," Reed agreed. "Nobody in Springdale was sorry or surprised to see it happen and the locals are having trouble making any headway on the case. Gibson had a history as a child predator. He was out on parole."
Westphalen nodded. "Ah. This makes sense."
"When was Gibson arrested?" Spinnelli asked.
"I checked out Gibson," Murphy said. "He had no complaints on his record when Detroit social services first placed Shane. The first charges were filed on behalf of Shane Kates. Gibson pled out, but later he was nailed for molesting two other kids."
"That's the trigger," Westphalen said. "Gibson molested Andrew's brother, then nearly ten years later this boy at Hope Center, Thad, is molested. That same night Gibson and
Andrew Kates's Aunt Many die. But ten years is a long time for such rage to lie dormant."
"That's because you got ahead of our story," Mia said. "Be patient. Miles."
Westphalen grimaced. "Sorry. Please continue."
Reed nodded. "Okay. Shane was molested by Gibson at some time during the year he was there. Based on Gibson's profile, probably multiple times. He's a sick bastard."
"Was," Mia corrected. "Now he's a dead bastard."
"Was," Reed echoed. "Shane would have been seven or eight at the time."
"Same age as Jeremy Lukowitch," Murphy noted and Mia nodded, troubled.
"I don't know what to make of that. Maybe that's why he didn't hurt Jeremy, just his mother. Sorry, Reed. Go on."
"Andrew was in juvie a year. When he got out, he was placed with his aunt, but before the first sundown, Andrew took Shane and ran away. They were picked up by Indiana police a few days later, but Andrew told them what Carl Gibson did to Shane and since the aunt had permanent custody of both of them they were put in foster care in Indiana versus being sent back to Detroit. That's when the first charges were filed against Gibson."
"It was hard to place two brothers together," Mia said, "especially with one of them having a juvie record. The local social services agency couldn't place them, so they transferred the case to Chicago who had a lot more homes available. Penny Hill was their caseworker. She placed them with Laura Dougherty who had developed a reputation for success with troubled kids. And she was willing to take them both."
"What did Laura Dougherty do that was so bad that Kates tried to kill her three times?" Westphalen asked.
"That took a little more digging," Mia said. "The DCFS manager didn't know and Penny Hill didn't write it in the file. I finally had to drive out to see Mrs. Blennard, their old friend. She remembered Shane. He was beautiful, blond and blue-eyed. At one point, Laura had considered adopting both boys, then Shane started in on one of the younger boys who was only five." She looked resigned. "Shane fondled him."
"The abused became the abuser," Westphalen said and held up his hands when Reed frowned. "It happens, Reed. However you choose to explain it, it happens."
"Well, it happened with Shane Kates," Mia inserted when Reed would have responded. "When Laura brought Penny Hill back to discuss it, Shane started breaking things on the sly. He blamed this younger boy, but Mrs. Dougherty didn't believe him."
"So who ultimately threw the boys out?" Westphalen asked.
"Mrs. Blennard said Andrew begged Laura not to send them away. Nearly broke Laura's heart. Penny got them counseling, but Shane did it again, and that time Laura caught him in the act. So Laura told them they had to go."
"So where did they go?" Spinnelli asked.
"It got harder to keep them together, but Penny Hill tried. She found a place in the country, a real rural area. She thought it would settle the boys, fresh air and chores." Mia shrugged. "Cows. This was Bill and Bitsey Young's house. They had two biological sons, older, high school age."
"This is where the records start to break down," Reed said. "It answers questions for us, but it raises a whole host for DCFS. All of this information comes from Andrew's file. Nobody can find Shane's."
Spinnelli's eyes widened. "They lost the file?"
"So it would seem," Mia said uneasily. "The boys were placed with the Youngs about ten years ago, but there aren't any more entries in Andrew's file for a whole year. Not by Penny Hill or anybody else. They were essentially abandoned."
"Abandoned by another woman," Reed added.
"Penny Hill forgot about them?" Westphalen's gray brows shot up. "That doesn't sound like the woman everyone described as dedicated to a fault."
"No, it doesn't." Mia frowned. "Penny's daughter said she worried about dropping the ball, that a kid would get hurt. Maybe they weren't foundless worries. At any rate, the next entry in Andrew's file is a year later when he's transferred to another foster home. Andrew was noted as a quiet kid, very withdrawn. Straight As." She lifted a brow. "Math club in high school. But after placement at the Youngs' there isn't another word about Shane in the state's social services files."
"We don't know what happened in the Youngs' house." Reed pulled a photo from his folder. "But we do know the house ended up looking like this."
"Burnt to the ground," Westphalen murmured. "When?"
"After the boys had been there nearly a year," Mia answered.
Murphy leaned over and picked up the photo. "How did you find this?"
"The fire was documented in insurance records." Reed shrugged. "It was a hunch."
Mia shook her head. "It was better than a hunch. I found Shane Kates's death certificate listed in the county's database. Cause of death was respiratory failure."
"From the fire," Aidan said.
Mia nodded. "Exactly. Reed looked up Shane's death date in his insurance database and cross-referenced the Youngs and found they'd filed a claim the following week for their house which had been destroyed in the fire."
"This picture was from the local fire department," Reed said. "They're pulling together the firefighters that responded that day so we can get more information, but it was almost nine years ago."
"So," Westphalen mused, "Andrew set the fire and his brother died."
Mia nodded. "The brother he'd gone to great lengths to protect."
Westphalen's eyes had narrowed in thought. "It's a significant trauma."
"One a person might bury for nearly ten years?" Mia asked.
"Possibly. A compulsive personality might chew it to death or deny it entirely."
Spinnelli frowned. "I'm still missing something. Why is ten the magic number?"
"That looks like the easiest question to answer." Mia slid two faxed pages to the middle of the table, side by side. "Shane's birth certificate from Michigan and his death certificate from Illinois. I overlooked the death date in the computer the first time I searched because the numbers are nearly identical to his birth date. One digit off."
"Shane Kates died on his tenth birthday," Westphalen murmured.
"In a fire," Reed confirmed.
Mia sighed. "Count to ten and go to hell."
"So what next?" Spinnelli asked.
"Track down the Youngs and their sons," Reed said.
"He's done things in order as much as he can. It makes sense the Youngs are next."
Spinnelli nodded. "First thing in the morning I want you in… what's the town, Mia?"
"The Youngs lived in Lido, Illinois."
"Get down to Lido and find them. Murphy and Aidan, you're on call. Dismissed."