that one. Hah. But he covered his temper quickly and with admirable aplomb lifted a brow. „I choose not to give credence to rumor, Miss Richardson. Especially rumor as preposterous as that one.“ He tilted his head in a half nod, a smooth and graceful exit move. „Now I must be getting back to my family.“
Her image turned back to the camera. „That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.“
Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.
Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.
Thursday, February 19,
12:30 a.m.
The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.
He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.
He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.
Chapter Five
Thursday, February 19,
6:30 a.m.
CSU had the site prepped and ready when Reagan pulled his SUV up to the Arboretum. Inside the building, tropical plants flowered. Outside, what little grass could be seen was brown and shriveled. A light rain- fell. Jack had erected a tarp beyond the parking lot, over a narrow span of grass in the shadow of the El tracks above. CSU must have found something.
Bracing herself against the cold, Kristen slid down from the high seat of the SUV and picked her way across the icy sludge in her sensible shoes, Reagan’s big body beside her. He slowed his pace to match hers and she was grateful, for he acted as a windbreak. He’d pulled up to her house at one minute ‘till six this morning, a bag of bagels and lox on the front passenger’s seat of his SUV. So she was treated to yet another ethnic delicacy and found she liked the lox nearly as well as the gyro the night before.
Jack was pacing outside the yellow tape when they approached, his face grim. „Come and see,“ was all he said. One of Jack’s men knelt, shining a flashlight at the ground.
No, not the ground. What the light illuminated was not snow-covered dirt. Horrified, Kristen could only stare as her blood ran cold. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit .
„I’ll be damned,“ Abe muttered under his breath. „Who are Sylvia Whitman, Janet Briggs, and Eileen Dorsey?“
„Ramey’s three rape victims,“ Kristen heard herself reply, still staring at the beam of the flashlight. At the marble marker bearing the three names. And dates.
It was a grave marker.
Her eyes jumped up to meet Reagan’s. „The dates are their birth dates to the day of their assault. He…“ She swallowed back bile.
Reagan shook his
Her image turned back to the camera. „That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.“
Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.
Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.
Thursday, February 19,
12:30 a.m.
The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.
He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.
He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.
Chapter Five
Thursday, February 19,
6:30 a.m.
CSU had the site prepped and ready when Reagan pulled his SUV up to the Arboretum. Inside the building, tropical plants flowered. Outside, what little grass could be seen was brown and shriveled. A light rain- fell. Jack had erected a tarp beyond the parking lot, over a narrow span of grass in the shadow of the El tracks above. CSU must have found something.
Bracing herself against the cold, Kristen slid down from the high seat of the SUV and picked her way across the icy sludge in her sensible shoes, Reagan’s big body beside her. He slowed his pace to match hers and she was grateful, for he acted as a windbreak. He’d pulled up to her house at one minute ‘till six this morning, a bag of bagels and lox on the front passenger’s seat of his SUV. So she was treated to yet another ethnic delicacy and found she liked the lox nearly as well as the gyro the night before.
Jack was pacing outside the yellow tape when they approached, his face grim. „Come and see,“ was all he said. One of Jack’s men knelt, shining a flashlight at the ground.
No, not the ground. What the light illuminated was not snow-covered dirt. Horrified, Kristen could only stare as her blood ran cold. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit .
„I’ll be damned,“ Abe muttered under his breath. „Who are Sylvia Whitman, Janet Briggs, and Eileen Dorsey?“
„Ramey’s three rape victims,“ Kristen heard herself reply, still staring at the beam of the flashlight. At the marble marker bearing the three names. And dates.
It was a grave marker.
Her eyes jumped up to meet Reagan’s. „The dates are their birth dates to the day of their assault. He…“ She swallowed back bile.
Reagan shook his
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