Prior Bad Acts by Tami Hoag Page B

phone call and a sanctuary became a cage.
    Kovac reached around the judge and drew the door closed.
    “Let’s get you to bed before you fall down,” he murmured.
    The Moores’ master bedroom looked like it belonged in some five-star hotel. Not that Kovac had ever set foot in one. The places he stayed usually had disposable cups, one working lamp, and suspicious stains on the creepy polyester bedspread. He had, however, been known to watch the Travel Channel on occasion.
    The room was a cocoon of heavy, expensive fabrics, warm, rich shades of gold and deep red, thick carpet, antiques, and spotlit art. Mementos were clustered on her nightstand—a silver-framed photo of a rosy-cheeked baby; a gold-leafed keepsake box with a top encrusted in tiny, exotic shells and seed pearls; a black-and-white photo of herself in a graduation cap and gown and a tall, handsome, well-dressed man with silver hair. Her dad, Judge Alec Greer. Neither of them could have looked more proud as they gazed at each other.
    Kovac placed one of his business cards next to the photograph.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to track down your husband?” Kovac asked as the judge eased herself back against a mountain of elaborate pillows on the bed.
    There were no photographs of Carey Moore with her spouse. Not on either night table. There might have been one on the bookcase on the far side of the room, but it couldn’t be seen from the bed.
    “There’s no need,” she said quietly.
    Kovac shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. I just know if you were my wife and I knew you’d been attacked, I’d damn well be here. I don’t care if I was having dinner with the president.”
    “You’ll make some lucky woman a good husband someday, then,” she murmured, closing her eyes, closing him and his opinions out.
    “Well, I haven’t so far,” Kovac muttered as he left the room.
    He was a two-time loser in the marriage-go-round. And still he knew enough to want to be with his partner if she was hurt and frightened. It was a husband’s job to protect and reassure. Apparently, Carey Moore’s husband didn’t know that.
    The nanny was standing at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.
    “Has Mr. Moore called at all tonight?” Kovac asked.
    “No, he hasn’t.”
    “Is that the usual for him? He goes out, doesn’t check in with anybody? Doesn’t call to tell his daughter good night?”
    “Mr. Moore is a very busy man,” she said. Defensive, her gaze just grazing his shoulder.
    “How often is he gone in the evenings?”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “You live here, don’t you?”
    “It’s none of my business.”
    “Well, it is my business,” Kovac said. “Is he gone a lot?”
    “A couple of nights a week,” she said grudgingly. “He’s a very—”
    “Busy man. I know.”
    He handed the girl his card.
    “Will you call me when Mr. Moore gets home?” he asked. “No matter what time it is.”
    She frowned at the card. Kovac imagined they didn’t have much crime in the Nordic countries. It was too damned cold, and the people were too polite and too damned good-looking. She was probably contemplating the next plane to Stockholm.
    “Don’t let Mrs. Moore sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time,” he instructed as he started down the stairs. “She has a concussion. It’s important to wake her up during the night and make sure she knows her name and where she is.”
    The nanny was still staring at his card when he turned to look at her from the front door.
    “Tell her I sent you,” he suggested. “She’s already pissed off at me.”

7

    KARL DAHL WAS a watcher. He never had much to say. He never had any friends. People didn’t notice him, as a rule. He had learned long ago to melt into the background.
    Over the years different people had given him the nickname “Ghost.” He had always been pale, with a sort of a strange gray cast to him. His eyes were gray. His skin had a certain grayness to