RC 01 Killing Justice

I of River City Mystery

Brennan, Allison

(2012)

Tags: | Mystery

Mysteryttt

Three stories of suspense, seduction and murder …

A Capitol Obsession
When a lobbyist is found dead in the armoire of a Senate leader, Detective John Black teams with his off-again girlfriend, State Senator Lara James to find the killer.

Killing Justice
A grieving mother takes justice into her own hands.

Above Reproach
Sex crimes detective Selena Black risks her career and her life to prove that high-profile attorney Greg Keller is the River City Rapist.

Dear Reader:

These three stories were previously published in multi-author anthologies and I'm thrilled to offer them together for my readers. If you have questions or comments, please email me at feedback@allisonbrennan.com. Thank you!

**

Table of Contents

Title page

Dear Reader:

A Capitol Obsession

Dear Reader:

Killing Justice

Dear Reader:

Above Reproach

Allison Brennan Booklist

Killing Justice

By Allison Brennan

KILLING JUSTICE © 2012 by Allison Brennan

A Capitol Obsession © 2009

When a lobbyist is found dead in the armoire of a Senate leader, Detective John Black teams with his off-again girlfriend, State Senator Lara James to find the killer.

Killing Justice © 2008

A grieving mother takes the law into her own hands.

Above Reproach © 2012

Sex crimes detective Selena Black risks her career and her life to prove that Greg Keller is the River City Rapist.

Praise for Allison Brennan’s Books

LUCY KINCAID SERIES

Love Me to Death

“A world-class nail-biter … Brennan is in the groove with this one.”

– New York Times Bestselling Author Lee Child

“Grabbing the reader by the throat from almost the first page, this pulse-ratcheting romantic suspense from Brennan delivers intense action, multifaceted characters, and a truly creepy bad guy. . . . [A] fast-paced, engrossing read.”

– Publishers Weekly

“A page turner, full throttle thriller … One of the best books that I've read in the romantic thriller genre.”

– Bewitched Bookworms

“[Love Me To Death] had everything I look for in a well told mystery.”

–Wordsmithonia

Kiss Me, Kill Me

“[A] riveting new series.…  Lucy continues to be a fascinating and enticing character, and her ongoing development adds depth to an already rich brew of murder and mystery. Brennan rocks!”

– RT Book Reviews

“Ms. Brennan ratchets up the suspense on page one and keeps it going until the last page.”

– Fresh Fiction

If I Should Die

“Brennan’s Lucy Kincaid/Sean Rogan books are not only excellent procedural thrillers, but also chart the evolution of an intriguing relationship. The peeks into the mind of this heinous killer are all too chilling, making the threat level palpable and the story riveting. Brennan is on a major roll!”

– RT Book Reviews

“Non-stop action, spine-tingling suspense … a wonderful addition to a great series.”

– Fresh Fiction

“A spine-tingling chiller that will wrap you up in its mystery and take you on a heart-pounding race to the breathtaking finale!”

– Joyfully Reviewed, Recommended Read

Silenced

“Brennan throws a lot of story lines into the air and juggles them like a master. The mystery proves to be both compelling and complex.”

– Associated Press

“Can’t-put-it-down exciting.”

– Fresh Fiction

“From first to last, this story grabs hold and never lets go.”

– RT Book Reviews, Top Pick!

ROMANTIC THRILLERS

The Prey

“Taut, fast-paced suspense . . . A killer debut.”

– NYT Bestselling Author Mariah Stewart

“Outstanding psychological thriller has great plot, well-defined characters and unexpected twists.”

– Fresh Fiction

The Hunt

“Brennan does murder better than almost everyone writing in the suspense genre.”

– Armchair Interviews

“Brennan is a force to be reckoned with in the thriller genre. … The characters are solid, the plot hurtles forward, twisting and turning in true thriller fashion.”

– Reviewing the Evidence

The Kill

“Excellent psychological thriller.”

– Fresh Fiction

“Powerful, emotional, and not for the faint-hearted, Allison Brennan books are to watch out for.”

– Curled Up With A Good Book Reviews

Speak No Evil

“SPEAK NO EVIL is an edge-of-your-seat, wild, twisty, chilling read.”

– Romance Reader at Heart—A Top Pick for 2007

“Brennan's arrival on the suspense scene has been a tremendous gift.”

– RT Book Reviews

See No Evil

“Brennan firmly cements her position as a top suspense author by delivering an absolutely chilling and tragically sad novel. What makes this story so compelling is seeing how vengeance is taken to the destructive extreme and corruption and abuse of power create monsters. This book is mesmerizing and haunting.”

– RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)

Fear No Evil

“Brennan's cold-blooded killer is horrifying in the extreme. That's not surprising, since this author is making a name for herself by producing not only memorable heroes but also unforgettable villains. This journey into terror is fast paced and pulse pounding. This is Brennan's best book to date!”

– RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)

“Brennan has a terrific talent for scaring the pants off readers while at the same time making them want more, more, MORE!”

– Kim Cantrell, True Crime Book Reviews

Killing Fear

“Fast becoming a master at delivering complex, layered plots and characters that erupt from the page, Brennan has created a roller-coaster ride of chills!”

– RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)

“A bone-chilling tale with a villain straight out of your worst nightmares. . . . KILLING FEAR delivers to the heart-stopping end.”

– Fresh Fiction

Tempting Evil

“An excellent thriller that would surely make an easy transition to the small or big screen. Overall, TEMPTING EVIL is an exciting read from start to finish and I devoured it in an extremely short space of time.”

– Reviewing the Evidence

“When you pick up a Brennan novel, you know you're in for a wild ride that will scare you silly.”

– RT Book Reviews

Playing Dead

“Ms. Brennan delivers another breathtaking tale of gritty, terrifying excellence.”

– Romance Reader at Heart—A Top Pick for 2008

“Crafty Brennan wraps up her Prison Break trilogy with the intricate tale of a nearly perfect frame-up. . . .  It's wonderfully complex and terrifying at the same time.”

– RT Book Reviews

Sudden Death

“Fast, fierce fun. Brennan knows how to deliver.”

– NYT Bestselling Author Lisa Gardner

“A first-rate book, superbly plotted and executed, with exceptional characters. A real page-turner with twists and turns all the way to the end. I could not put this book down. Highly recommended.”

– Fresh Fiction

Fatal Secrets

“In this chilling thriller, Brennan explores the consequences of sliding from fierce commitment into obsession. . . . A master of suspense, Brennan does another outstanding job uniting horrifying action, procedural drama and the birth of a romance -- a prime example of why she's tops in the genre.”

– RT Book Reviews (Top Pick!)

“A fast-paced, action-packed romantic suspense.”

– Romance Junkies

Cutting Edge

“Both the nature and nurture sides of the “what makes a psychopath” argument are on display in Brennan's chiller. . . . Leave it to Brennan to deliver the creepy and deadly. This is definitely the stuff of nightmares.”

– RT Book Reviews

“An excellent suspense novel with a great psychopath villain.”

– Romance Readers at Heart

Dear Reader:

I worked in the California State Legislature for thirteen years. I never wanted to write a political thriller, but always thought that the Capitol made a great setting for a murder mystery.

When I was asked to contribute to an anthology of female crime writers, edited by the amazing Elizabeth George, it was the perfect opportunity to set a murder in the capitol.

I spent a full day walking around every level of the building. As a former staff member, I knew all the secret passages and short cuts, but I’d never paid attention to security cameras or where the California Highway Patrol posted their officers. Now I had reason to—I had murder on my mind and wanted to get away with it.

Originally, I wanted to dump the body in the narrow space between the historic Capitol Building and the 1950s annex. There’s access through a vent behind the Senate Chamber. I had a friend from the Senate show me around as I surveyed cameras and how I might move a body without being caught. There were a few logistic problems, so I went back to the office and asked the staff where they would hide a body. I shouldn’t admit that I was surprised that everyone had a different hiding place!

But what sold me on using an armoire was a true story about how the armoire’s key seemed to disappear every time it was replaced. I couldn’t help but think, what if someone put a body inside?

“A Capitol Obsession” was originally published in 2009 by Harper Collins in the anthology Two of the Deadliest edited by Elizabeth George. The Richmond Times-Dispatch highlighted this story in their review: “Allison Brennan's ‘A Capitol Obsession,’ a murder mystery with a political twist, offers the heft of a full-sized police procedural in a compact, hard-boiled 40 pages.”

You’ll find at least two familiar characters—Sacramento homicide detective John Black and crime scene investigator Simone Charles, who made appearances in Sudden Death and Fatal Secrets.

Happy Reading!

Allison Brennan

2012

A Capitol Obsession

I.

Well-ventilated though it was, the State Senate minority leader's spacious office couldn't mask the smell of a corpse in the middle of summer.

Detective John Black flashed his badge in the general direction of the California Highway Patrol officer who guarded the door. The CHP handled Capitol security and they had secured the office as soon as the body had been discovered, but murder was under the jurisdiction of the Sacramento Police Department. All staff, media and other onlookers had been banned from the third floor. Already the Capitol Press Corp had broadcast the news and John had ignored two messages from the chief of police.

It was the most political of crimes: murder in the Capitol.

Conspicuously tall at six foot seven, John didn't attempt to survey the scene discreetly. Instead, he crossed into the middle of the room as he pulled on latex gloves. The victim was female, blond, in her early thirties, and seated in a wholly unnatural position crammed into the armoire, a man's suit pushed to the back. A sleeve obscured part of the victim's face.

The smell was awful, as gases and bodily fluids had released after death. John unconsciously breathed through his mouth. One of the crime scene people offered him Vaseline. He declined. He'd smelled worse decomps during his twenty years on the force, but it only took one summer working Sacramento's streets to learn quickly what heat did to a dead body. 

The victim’s skin had taken on a greenish discoloration, her face was bloated, and the skin had started to marble. Dried blood covered the woman's chest. One of her legs was under her body, the other straight up. She was fully clothed, but her skirt bunched loosely around her thighs revealing black lace underwear attached to garters. One garter was missing.

John visually inspected the wound in her chest. It didn't look like a bullet—the dark red hole appeared elongated and narrow.

Knife wound. By the looks of it, only one. No passion, then. Crimes of passion usually resulted in multiple stab wounds as the killer released his anger and frustration in a blind rage.

John looked away from the dead and inspected Senator Bruce Wyatt's office. No arcs of blood on the ceiling or any sign of disturbance. It was decorated like the rest of the restored Capitol, adorned with antiques in the Renaissance Revival style. A little ornate for John's taste, but it suited the architecture. But the room was full of heavy, antique furniture, an array of period paintings, and covered with a dark burgundy rug. If the woman died here, there would be evidence somewhere.

“What do you think, Simone?” John asked the supervising criminalist.

The woman didn't glance away from her examination of the wardrobe. “I'll know more when we can remove the body.”

“What's the Medical Examiner's ETA?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“But you have a guess.”

This time she did look at him, a hint of humor in her eyes. “I didn't get to be in my position by guessing. I'll wait until we have the room processed before I posit a theory. But,” she added, “I know one thing with certainty.”

“What?”

Simone nodded toward the corpse. “Look at her. I think you know what I know.”

John stared at the body. “She was dead awhile when she was put inside.”

“Bingo. Rigor had set in. You're looking at her being moved into the armoire roughly twelve to twenty-four hours after death. But the body isn't in rigor anymore, so she's been here a couple days. The M.E. should be able to give you a better timeline.”

Interesting, John thought. Had the body been lying around the office for a day before the killer decided to stuff her into the armoire? Had she been killed in Wyatt's office or moved here? Where were the security cameras? He made a mental note to talk to the Senate Sergeant-at-Arms as soon as he spoke to those who had discovered the body. He'd learned long ago not to take security for granted.

“Process all adjacent offices and hallways,” John said.

“Already on the list.” Simone turned back to her work.

John turned to one of the CHP officers in the room. “Who found the body?”

The cop approached, flipped open his notebook and read formally, “Senator Wyatt called us at 9:25 this morning. He was in a meeting when they discovered the body.”

“Who was in the meeting?”

“Chief of Staff Rob Douglas and Senator James.”

Lara James. Perhaps there was a silver lining. After months of avoiding him, she wouldn't be able to ignore him now.

The cop continued. “Senator James smelled what she thought was a dead rodent. She opened the armoire and found the body.”

Dead rodent? No way a woman—an ex-soldier—like Lara James would mistake the stench of a human corpse for a rat carcass.

“And Wyatt didn't notice the smell?”

It was a rhetorical question, which John would ask Wyatt himself. The armoire itself was solid wood, enough to mask the smell for a time. The foul odor would begin to emanate from the chest, slowly worsening as the body decomposed. Whoever put the body inside had to have known it would be discovered. By the looks of it, she'd been dead more than forty-eight hours, but less than a week. At a week under normal indoor temperature conditions, the gasses would have accumulated to such a degree that the smell couldn’t have been masked.

They had no ID on the body yet, but John suspected she was known in the building. Once Simone and her team finished processing the scene and he could remove the suit obscuring her face, he'd bet dozens of people would recognize her.

He turned to the CHP officer. “Take me to Senator Wyatt, please.”

II.

The California State Capitol was divided into two distinct, connected buildings. Home of the California Legislature since 1869, the original building had a fourth story added in 1908 and had been completely restored in the early eighties. At one time the four-story structure had housed the entire legislature, governor and staff. But as the state grew so did the politics. Hence, the East Wing annex had been built. It was substantially bigger than the original building, less attractive but more practical.

The designers had done the best they could to connect the new six-story building to the original four-story structure, but the entire place was a maze of slopes, stairs, and shortcuts that only experienced staff knew about. The State Assembly occupied the north side of the capitol, the State Senate in the south side. John would have gotten lost if he hadn't been following the uniformed cop from Wyatt's office, through two halls and down a seemingly hidden staircase to the second floor.

“Senator Wyatt has been in the Member's Lounge since the incident,” the cop said.

Incident. Murder was not an incident.

The Member's Lounge—also known as the Maddy—was accessible from the Senate Chambers. It had only artificial light. A long, dark wood conference table sat on plush red carpet that bled out into the hall and the Senate Chambers beyond. Couches framed the perimeter. A refreshment center in the corner provided water and soda. The buffet could be used to bring in lunch or dinner for the elected officials. The large painting of former Senator Ken Maddy almost was lost among the cluttered mish-mash of art that lined the walls—from modern to antique and everything in between.

John wondered if they'd named the room for Senator Maddy because he had been one of the few likeable people in politics. He doubted it. John hadn't met a politician he himself liked, Senator Lara James excluded. Could be his job, of course. He didn't meet many politicians until they broke the law.

Senator Bruce Wyatt sat alone at the table talking on his cell phone. He was in his mid-forties, physically fit, and he still had a full head of graying light brown hair. The sleeves on his white Oxford shirt were unbuttoned and rolled up just below the elbow, his burgundy tie loose around his neck.

Wyatt had been in elected office for twelve years, John knew. Six years in the State Assembly, he was now in the middle of his second senatorial term. That meant Term Limits loomed up ahead for the senator and because of this, Wyatt was now running for Congress, his opponent Assembly Member Kevin Andersen. It had so far been one of the most talked-about and bitter primaries in the state. Wyatt and Andersen had a long-time rivalry and a scandal wasn't in Senator Wyatt's best—or even worst—interests.

John motioned for the cop to leave him alone with Wyatt and closed the door. Wyatt jumped up, snapping his cell phone closed. “Who was she?” he demanded. “What happened?”

John motioned for the senator to sit. Wyatt hesitated, then complied. John pulled out a tall-backed chair opposite him and sat comfortably into the soft leather.

“You didn't recognize her?”

“I—I couldn't tell. I may know her, but I'm not sure. Maybe she's someone I've seen on occasion? Familiar, but . . .”

Wyatt knew her. John would swear to it, but he didn't push. Not yet.

“Let's go back to the last time you were in your office.”

“Today?”

“Before today.”

“I drove back to the district—my hometown of Shasta—on Thursday. Early afternoon. I had an evening event and a full schedule there on Friday. I spent the weekend with my family.”

John made note. “I need a copy of your schedule for the last week.”

“I'll have my scheduler print it out.”

“Who has access to your office?”

Wyatt leaned back. “My staff. Department of General Service. The CHP, the Sergeants, janitorial staff, rules committee. I think State Parks has a master key because the building's a historical landmark.”

Great. Who didn't have a key?

“How did you find the body, Senator?”

“During a meeting with Senator James, she thought smelled something coming from the armoire. The key wasn't there so she picked the lock.”

“How long has the key been missing?”

“I don't know. I put a clean suit in there Monday. But I always leave the key in the lock. I’d planned to wear the suit on Thursday, but I was running late and didn’t have time to change.”

Easy enough to verify. But it still didn't clear Wyatt of murder.

“Did you touch anything in the armoire?”

“I don't think I've touched it since I put my suit in there on Monday. And I can assure you, Detective, there was no dead woman in the armoire then.”

III.

State Senator Lara James paced her office, running her hand impatiently through her short dark hair. She didn't want to be stuck in here, but the CHP officer had told her to sit tight until Sacramento PD talked to her.

Patience was not one of her strengths.

The face of the dead was imprinted on her mind. Not just the dead woman upstairs in Wyatt's office, but every dead soldier and civilian Lara had faced during her nine years of military service.

A bullet to the leg had ended her career two years earlier, and she didn't want to see any more death. Wasn't that one of the reasons she'd run for public office in the first place? To work her way up to a position where she could do more good than harm? How laughable. What had she been thinking?

She was neither a warmonger nor a peacekeeper. She was a soldier who believed in right and wrong, who knew the threat and was willing to fight for freedom. But she'd seen far more evil during her time abroad than she'd known existed. For it was one thing to read textbooks about mass murders and war atrocities; it was quite another to dig up a mass grave of women and children.

A voice popped into her head, followed by a distinct memory.

“Women and children first!”

It was a familiar voice followed by a woman's laughter, and Lara recalled the swish of a door and more voices. The California Restaurant Association had converted an old bank into their offices, and the main floor still had heavy, old-fashioned glass doors. Why would she think of that building now? When was the last time she was there? It was a fundraiser, she hadn’t wanted to go because she didn’t like glad-handing and small talk, but her colleagues talked her into it.

Lara rolled her chair over to her bookshelf and pulled out the most current edition of the Lobbyist Directory.

She sat behind her desk and flipped through the pages, each quarter-page included a photo and bio of a lobbyist registered with the State of California.

And there she was. The woman in the armoire.

Lara stared at the woman with short, slick blond hair and vibrant green eyes, her smile sweetly seductive for a canned shot.

Lara realized that she hadn't immediately recognized the lobbyist because not only had her face been partially obscured, but she'd only met her a few times. Wyatt had introduced them at a fundraiser. He'd offered them both a ride home, and Lara had gratefully accepted. Her sore leg had been bothering her, and she'd been too proud to use a cane.

“Women and children first,” Bruce had said when he pushed open the heavy door for Lara and the lobbyist, Tiffany Zaren. Tiffany had laughed.

Lara's secretary Bonnie knocked on the door then opened it and said quietly, “John Black from the Sacramento Police Department is here to see you.”

Lara looked up. She couldn't believe . . . “Black?” she repeated.

“Hello, Lara.”

John smiled at Bonnie and walked around her. Bonnie shrank back and closed the door, leaving Lara alone with him.

He didn't sit, and in her position, Lara felt unusually vulnerable. Not because she was a woman, but because John was tall and broad, and at times, hulking. A ruggedly handsome detective whom she'd slept with on more than one occasion. Some might have called it a relationship.

“Can't avoid this call, can you?” he said as he slid into the chair across from her desk and crossed his legs.

Lara bit back a nasty comment and flipped the lobbyist directory toward the detective. She tapped her finger on Tiffany Zaren's picture. “I think she's your victim.”

John snatched the book and examined the photograph. “You could be right.”

“I am right.”

He kept the directory. “You discovered the body, I'm told.”

“Lucky me.”

“How?”

“I smelled it.”

“Senator Wyatt said you smelled a rodent.”

“I said I smelled a dead animal. But I knew that wasn't accurate.”

She didn't need to elaborate.

“And you just opened the armoire?”

“I took out my trusty-rusty Swiss Army knife.” She cracked a half smile and waved the knife in front of her. “The file is a multi-use tool.”

John grinned. Damn, but was he sexy when he smiled. “What else did you touch?”

“Wyatt's desk and probably the conference table. The armoire. I didn't touch the body or anything inside.”

“Where was the key?”

“Wyatt said he noticed it missing last week.” John wrote something down. Lara leaned forward. “Okay, what's going on?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Did you notice the position of the body?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the legs. They were broken. I think the body was moved.”

“There's no proof”—”

She waved her hand. “Look, I may not be a cop, but I've been around enough dead people in my life to know what happens when you move them. Rigor mortis had set before she was crammed into that space. So my question is, where was she until she was moved into that cabinet?”

He didn't answer her question. Instead he asked, “What do you know about Wyatt?”

“Bruce is one of the good guys,” she said without hesitation. “He served in the first Gulf War. He's the one who talked me into running for office in the first place.”

“And that makes him a good guy?”

She laughed. John was one of the few people who amused her.

“I know him, John. Murder? No. He'd be a congenital idiot to kill someone in his private office then stuff the body in a piece of furniture.”

“He's looking at a congressional seat.”

“This is America. You don't kill the competition. Lie about them, maybe; kill them, no.”

“Could have killed her in a panic, planned to dispose of the body later.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“You know as well as I do that killers don't always think ahead.” He made a note. “What about Wyatt's staff?”

“I really don't know any of them, except Rob Douglas, Bruce's right hand man. He seems okay.”

John's cell phone went off. He answered it, said two words, and hung up. “Let's go identify the body.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“You have the photograph.”

“Maybe I just want more time with you, Lara.”

“You could have called.”

“I did. You ignored me.”

Touché.

IV.

John introduced Lara to the investigators in Wyatt's office as he signed her into the log. “Don't touch anything,” he admonished.

She slipped on latex gloves nonetheless. She'd done five years as military police after two tours of duty in Iraq.

Wyatt's office now looked like a crime scene. The body had been removed from the armoire and now lay on an orange plastic tarp to preserve evidence.

The victim was indeed Tiffany Zaren and the first thing Lara noticed was that lividity was set on her left side.

“So she was moved,” Lara said.

John turned to a uniformed officer standing near the door and handed him the lobbyist directory. “The victim is Tiffany Zaren. Get her address, employer, associates, the whole nine yards. Call her office and find out the last time anyone saw her, if she's married, has kids, elderly parents living with her, a boyfriend, an ex—”

Lara interrupted, “She's divorced, no kids, and lives in one of those new lofts downtown. 16th and J. She’s a lobbyist with Nygrant, Prescott and Zaren. Her biggest clients are Indian gaming.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn't know her well.”

“I've talked to her a couple times. I have a good memory.”

John caught her eye. “So do I.”

She turned back to the victim, flustered, and hating being flustered. She'd been avoiding John for the last couple of months. The intensity of their relationship unnerved her, and she thought a break was in order. He just didn't know when to give up.

And she didn't know if she wanted him to.

“You're correct, Senator James,” Simone Charles said. The criminalist turned to John. “The M.E. confirmed it. She was on her left side for at least twelve hours. But she had to have been moved in a fairly narrow window—twelve hours after her death up to twenty-four. There's no ID or purse in the armoire or the office. She's missing a garter and a shoe.”

John asked, “Have you finished sweeping these offices?”

Simone shook her head. “We're still collecting evidence,” she said “We'll be done here in an hour, then can expand the search to the rest of the floor.”

“I'll check into”—” John began before the CHP officer interrupted.

“Detective, we have some sensitive issues here”—”

“We have a dead body here.”

“There are one hundred and twenty elected officials in this building, plus the governor’s office—”

“Ms. Zaren's body was moved. We don't know if she was killed in this room, or in another part of the building. Or outside the building and brought in. Did you get the security tapes I asked for?”

“For the last forty-eight hours.”

“Make it for the last week,” John said. He glanced around the office. “There's no security in here?”

“Not inside the offices. Most public areas are covered, entrances, elevators. It would be virtually impossible to pass through the halls without being caught on at least one camera.”

“What about security to get into the building?”

“All entrances have cameras, metal detectors and X-ray machines. Staff and guests are required to pass through them.”

“Not after hours,” Lara interjected. “Any staff can come in using their I.D. card. Legislators can walk around the screening or come in through the garage.”

“I want all security tapes of everyone who has come in and out of this building, from elected officials to janitorial staff,” John said. “Are there cameras in the garage?”

“Yes.”

“I want those tapes, too. Get it all to Officer Smiley here.” John gestured toward a dour-looking cop standing by the door. The two left, and John turned to Lara. “What else do you know about the victim?”

“She went to all the fundraisers, which isn't surprising for a lobbyist for Indian gaming issues. She knows I'm not one of her votes, so I don't see her much.”

“Detective?” Simone said. “The M.E. is bringing up a gurney to transport the body. He shared his preliminary findings.”

“What do you have?”

“She was stabbed once in the chest. The weapon hasn't been found, but it's likely a narrow, non-serrated knife. She's been dead over seventy-two hours, less than one week. She was moved close to twenty-four hours after she died.”

“A full day? What about smell? Why didn't anyone notice her earlier?”

“The building is air-conditioned. That’s going to slow the rate of decomposition. And the cedar lining of the armoire masked the smell. The victim wasn't killed in this room,” Simone added. “The only blood we've found is dried”—”

“She's been dead for more than three days. Why wouldn't it be dry?”

“I should say flaked. If she were killed here, I would expect to see blood in the carpet or on the furniture, even with a thorough cleaning job. If the killer tried to clean with bleach or another caustic chemical, that would show. Everything is pristine. But there are some blood flakes all around the armoire, and several just inside the secondary entrance into this office.”

“Secondary entrance?” John questioned.

Lara pointed to the door across the room. “That’s the main entrance. It leads to the staff area and where visitors would come in.” She turned and gestured to another door, this one closer to the senator’s desk. “The secondary entrance is used primarily by the senator to come and go without having to pass through the waiting area. For privacy and security.”

John said, “So the victim was brought in through that door.” He opened it. A narrow hall led to the main thoroughfare.

Simone said, “I can’t rule it out.”

“Someone would certainly notice if a dead body was being carried through the building,” John said. “Are you certain she wasn't killed in this room?”

Simone shrugged. “There's an odd mark on her back.” The criminalist rolled the victim to her side and lifted her white silk blouse. On Tiffany Zaren's flesh was an impression, almost like a white stamp, in a perfect 2x3 rectangle. There appeared to be small letters within it.

“I can’t make out the words,” John said.

“I think her back was against some sort of embossed metal plate for several hours. I'll work on it and get back to you, but so far we haven't been able to find anything in this office or the adjoining offices that match this shape and size.” She rolled the body back over. “The knife pierced her lung and she probably suffocated, or died of bleeding into her pericardium. There's not enough blood here for her to have bled out. But look at her hands”—” Simone lifted one arm. Dried blood coated Zaren's hands with more streaks and marks on her arms, skirt, and blouse.

“She was trying to stop the bleeding.”

“Either she pulled the knife out herself, probably stunned or in shock, or the killer pulled it out and she grabbed her chest. Wherever she was killed, there's going to be blood evidence.”

Lara interrupted. “You don’t need me here. I'm going back to my office.”John glanced at her over his shoulder. “Good. Then I'll know where to find you.”

V.

John went back down to talk to Wyatt. Two men in crisp suits were arguing with the haggard-looking senator. “I'd like to speak with Senator Wyatt in private,” John said.

“This is an embarrassment to the institution!” one of the men exclaimed.

Wyatt had gone pale. “But what happened? How did she get into my office?”

John escorted the two men to the door, closed it behind them, then sat on the corner of table, his height giving him an additional psychological leverage over the sitting Wyatt. He hadn't decided whether Wyatt was guilty or not—Lara was right, only an idiot would stash a body in his own office. But Wyatt wasn't acting as John would expect an innocent man to act.

“You know the victim,” John stated.

“I just found out. Tiffany Zaren. Of course I know her. I'm carrying one of her client's major bills.”

“Indian gaming?”

“Yes.”

“Is the bill controversial?”

“Anything related to Indian gaming is controversial,” he said. “That doesn't have anything to do with this.”

“Then what does her death have to do with?”

“I don't know. I—I still can't believe it.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Zaren?”

Wyatt paused, as if thinking. But John suspected that he knew exactly the last time he saw the pretty lobbyist, just as John was positive Wyatt recognized her when he first saw the body. Was he trying to protect himself or someone else?

“Wednesday at a fundraiser.”

“Where?”

“Chops,” he said, referring to a popular restaurant.

“Who put on the event?”

“It was an Assembly leadership fundraiser.”

“I need a guest list.”

“My secretary can get it.”

“And Ms. Zaren was there?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“Six, six-thirty.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Eight. I had another event to go to, a dinner.”

“With whom?”

“Several people, including another senator and two Assembly members, a couple of major donors. My wife Cindy. My secretary has all that information.”

“Where was the dinner?”

“Morton's.”

Morton’s was a pricey, five-star restaurant. “And you didn't see Ms. Zaren after leaving Chops at eight?”

“No.”

“I'll need information about the legislation you were working on together.”

“Why?”

“Gambling is a touchy subject. It’s a good place to start.” But a better place to start, John thought, was to find out why Wyatt was acting guilty if, as Lara believed, he was innocent.

VI.

John went to speak with Tiffany’s partners in the lobbying firm of Nygrant, Prescott and Zaren. They had a suite of offices in the Senator Hotel directly across from the Capitol. After her secretary gave him copies of her schedule, client list and contact information, he went to speak with Steve Prescott. He learned Zaren had joined as a partner two years ago and handled primarily Indian gaming plus some small unions. She was well liked, smart, and had brought in a lot of business for all three partners.

“What about a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know of anyone specific,” Prescott said. “She dated a lot, but I don’t know that she was serious.”

“Past boyfriends? Someone who was bothering her?”

Again, Prescott shook his head. “I’m married, have two kids. I go home at night whenever I can. Tiffany liked the fundraisers and parties; she was our public face.”

“And your other partner? James Nygrant?”

“He works out of our L.A. office. He hasn’t been here in over a month.”

“What about Senator Wyatt?” John asked.

Prescott appeared surprised by the question, but John wasn’t sure it wasn’t an act. “Wyatt’s married.”

“That doesn’t mean a beautiful woman like Tiffany wasn’t involved with him.”

“They worked together. That’s all I know.”

From the way he avoided John’s eyes, he definitely suspected there was more than a working relationship.

Something in the conversation bothered John, so he remained silent and waited for Prescott to break. It happened quickly.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know anything firsthand, just rumors. If she was involved with Wyatt, it was very quiet. I hadn’t heard about it from anyone, it was more how she acted when she was going to meet with him, if you understand.”

John nodded when the lobbyist hesitated.

Prescott continued. “Last year, Tiffany had been involved in a very public affair with Kevin Andersen, the Assembly minority leader. It’s over. He wasn't married, there was nothing controversial about it, but some of our clients felt it could compromise their position. Since then, she’s dated several other men, publicly, all outside of the issues we represent. So if she was involved with Wyatt, it wasn’t something she would share with me.”

“She broke it off with Andersen?”

“As far as I know.”

While there was nothing unusual about an attractive lobbyist being a revolving door for relationships, it gnawed at John.

John next went to her loft. Her car was in its parking slot, and he confirmed with the landlord that the last time she entered the garage was at eleven p.m. the previous Monday. That correlated with her secretary’s assertion that she usually walked the five blocks to work.

Nothing was amiss in her loft, which could have been called “minimalist.” The mail on her desk had been opened and dealt with. Nothing past due, bank statements showed a healthy but not excessive balance, and her expenses were in line with her income. Organized. Tidy. No journal or diary. A laptop computer sat on her desk. John called Simone and asked her to come and pick it up, as well as Zaren's computer at the lobbying firm. He'd ask for extra help to work the gambling angle. He'd read an article awhile back that implied Nevada gaming interests weren't pleased with the expansion of Indian gaming in California. But he couldn't figure out how killing a lobbyist would help either group. Unless it was to cast suspicion on Wyatt. But if someone was smart enough to frame a senator, John didn't think they'd be so damn obvious about it by leaving the body in the office. That whole scenario just didn't feel right to him, and after twenty years as a cop, John trusted his instincts.

By the time he arrived back at the Capitol, it was well after five. The crime scene people were done, the victim had been taken to the morgue, and Wyatt's office was still sealed. John spoke to his officers, who were reviewing security tapes starting at eight p.m. Wednesday night, when Tiffany had last been seen. So far, there was no evidence of foul play on the tapes. John wanted to seal off the entire historic building, but he came up against brass who said that if she'd been killed elsewhere in the building, the scene was already compromised, and the Chief wasn't going to take the heat for further inconveniencing staff and elected officials.

Damn politics. A woman was dead and his boss kept catering to the politicians.

John went down to the Assembly Minority Leader's suite, hoping he wasn’t too late to speak with the victim’s ex-boyfriend. The secretary immediately escorted him to Kevin Andersen's private office. Andersen's office was well-appointed with awards and diplomas covering the wood-paneled walls. His desk was clear except for an expensive-looking silver pen and pencil set positioned dead center and a short stack of files in the corner.

“I'm stunned.” Andersen was in his early forties with perfect hair that may have been a rug.

“When did you last see Ms. Zaren?”

“It must have been the leadership fundraiser on Wednesday, but she left before I did.”

“You were involved with her for how long?”

“Why is this relevant?”

John simply watched him, reminded how much he disliked politicians.

Andersen sighed. “I’m sorry, it’s this building. Gossip, most of it false. We saw each other for about eight months.”

“And she broke it off.”

“It was mutual.”

“Alleged impropriety because of her gaming clients?”

“It was mutual,” he repeated. Then he added, “Tiffany’s career was important to her, and I respected that.”

“Do you know if she was currently involved with anyone?”

“I don't keep tabs on her anymore.”

Andersen stared him in the eye. Good liars can do that, but good liars were rare. Still, he was in the lion's den.

“Where did you go after the fundraiser?”

“Dinner with my staff, then home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Is this an interrogation?”

“I'm just asking questions.” John put on his simpleton face. Andersen wasn't buying it.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?”

Andersen tensed, then responded curtly. “The fundraiser was cocktail event—wine, cheese, like that. After the fundraiser, I took my staff out to dinner as a thank you for helping on their own time, then walked two of the girls to their parking garage because I don't like the idea of women walking around downtown Sacramento at night. Julia and Hilary. They're in the office today, you can confirm with them. Then I walked back here, picked up some files, and left. I wasn't here long.”

“Where was your car parked?”

“In the Capitol basement.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Probably. Couldn't say who.”

Everything Andersen said could be verified through the security tapes, so he made a note and thanked the Assemblyman for his time.

John left Anderson’s office and found his officers viewing security tapes in the CHP office on the first floor of the annex, across from the governor's office. He said, “It's after six. I'm going to head back to the station and write up my report. I want someone on Wyatt's office all night, and if you see anything on the tapes, call me. I need a list of everyone entering and exiting the building from seven p.m. last Wednesday until the body was discovered this morning, time-stamped.”

“Yes, sir.”

John was about to leave when he saw someone familiar on one of the closed-circuit screens. “Is this live?” he asked.

“Yes,” the commanding officer said. “These are coming in from all the cameras. Some are fixed, some rotate in five-second intervals.”

What was Lara James doing looking at the camera on— “Where's this?” He tapped the screen.

“Third floor annex. Outside the main elevator bank.”

What was she up to? John left, found the camera—but Lara was gone.

VII.

Lara knew most of the flaws with the security in the Capitol building, but that was because she had been trained to be observant. At first glance, security appeared to be tight. Visitors and staff entered through metal detectors, their possessions scanned by X-ray machines. Throughout the public areas of the building were both CHP officers and extensive security cameras, which fed live to the CHP office as well as digitally recorded. CHP monitored the cameras, walked the halls after hours, and were posted at key positions on the ground floor.

Even with all the precautions, however, there was a huge hole in camera security. While the public floors were well monitored, upstairs, where staff and legislators worked, there were fewer cameras. And in the historic building where Tiffany Zaren's body had been found, the only security above the main floor were cameras aimed at the elevators and chamber entrances.

What the criminalist had said to John bugged Lara. Someone had intentionally moved Tiffany's body into Wyatt's armoire. Why? Convenience? To frame him? Or maybe both? More important, how could someone move the body and not be caught on camera? So Lara walked both the annex and the historic building, top floor to the basement, to map out a path where someone could theoretically bypass all security cameras.

She came to a startling conclusion: If someone knew the building well, it was possible to get almost anywhere above the first floor in the historic structure—and certain areas of the adjoining annex—without being seen by any camera.

“What are you doing?”

She spun around. It was John Black.

He raised an eyebrow. “I was checking the tape in the CHP office and saw you staring at one of the cameras, with that expression you get when you're deep in thought. I’ve been tracking you since. I figure you have some thoughts in that smart head of yours that relate to my case. Will you share?”

“Of course,” she said.

He started up the stairs, and she swallowed her embarrassment to ask, “Can we take the elevator?”

John’s expression showed concern, but he simply said, “Sure.”

She sighed, relieved he didn't comment further. She’d walked far too much today, and she hated having a bum leg. She hated a lot of things, come to think of it. Being unable to continue her career in the military. Living with constant pain.

Lara shared with John her observation about the security cameras and concluded by saying, “Whoever killed Tiffany Zaren has intimate knowledge of this building. They had to know there were blind spots in the security cameras.”

“An insider.”

“Staff, former staff, or anyone who is in the building often, like a lobbyist. If her body was moved into Wyatt’s office, the killer must have planned the route meticulously. Perhaps even planned the murder. Pre-mediated.”

“Why would someone bring her here to kill her?” John asked. “Then plant her body in Wyatt's office?”

“The crime lab hasn't discovered where she was killed?”

“Not yet. But it has to be in the building. Even if someone could get her body into the building, which I could probably figure out how to do but it would be difficult, I can’t see why they'd do so.”

“To embarrass Bruce? To prove they can? There's been some wacky stunts around here by people trying to get political or media attention.”

“But murder?”

Lara didn't have an answer to that.

They exited the elevator on the sixth floor. Most people had left work—it was well after six—but a few stragglers remained. Lara spoke quietly as she led John through the corridor that led to the historic side of the Capitol.

“Someone wanted to frame Bruce Wyatt.”

“Maybe he killed her.”

She shook her head. “I don't buy into that. He's not that dumb.”

“Maybe he's counting on people to think that.” Lara didn't say anything, and John continued. “I know he's your friend, but you know as well as I do that sometimes the people we think we know are strangers.” John rubbed his temples.

“Headache?” she asked.

“I missed lunch.”

Without thinking, Lara said, “We should get a bite to eat.”

John grinned. “It's a date.”

“I mean—”

“Too late to backpedal, Lara. I'm holding you to dinner.”

They found themselves on the Assembly side of the historic fourth floor. “This place is a freaking maze,” John said. “I don't know how anyone can find their way around. Was that passage we just walked through on the roof?”

“Yes, the original Capitol roof. A couple of protesters broke through the maintenance door a few years back and draped banners over the side,” Lara said. “Now there's a dedicated security camera there and alarms on the door.”

John glanced around; they were standing outside the freight elevator. “There're no cameras here,” he said.

He punched the button and stepped in when the doors opened. Lara followed, not sure what he was thinking.

“There're no cameras on any of the historic stairwells, only on the public elevators,” Lara said. “I've been thinking about this all day. Tiffany had to have been killed on the historic side. The annex has far more security. No one can walk down the halls without being observed. And while staff and members come and go at odd hours of the day and night, wouldn't a killer try to hide?”

“Unless he had a reason for being here,” John said. “Like he is a staffer or elected official.”

The freight elevators opened. She pointed at the door to the right that led to the stairwell. “See? No security.” She opened the door and gestured. “None inside, either.” She stared at another door across the banister.

“What are you thinking?” John asked.

She didn't respond, but walked around the landing of the stairwell to a door that looked exactly like one she'd often walked past on the Senate side. Expecting it to be locked, she tried the knob.

It opened.

“Lara—”

“I rarely come over to the Assembly side of the building, but in the Senate stairwell, there's a door like this. I think they connect.”

The hallway was dark and Lara couldn't find a light switch, but saw light coming from under a door thirty feet away. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with supplies like toilet paper, towels and toilet seat covers. A maintenance closet.

“Lara?”

Suddenly fluorescent lights came on. John had found the switch.

“This goes directly to the Senate side,” she said. “I never knew this was here. I thought the only way to get to the Senate side of the building was the front hall, by the ornate staircases under the Governors’ portraits. Very visible. But this . . . ”

“Coupled with the fact that there is virtually no security over here and, frankly, few people.”

“There are only four legislative offices, some staff and committee rooms, but most of the people work in the annex.”

“And at night?”

“Zero, unless they're late on passing the budget. Do you know the time of death?” she asked.

“Simone said more than seventy-two hours. I'll know for sure after the autopsy tomorrow. I’ll have Simone's team check out this hall.”

“If no one saw her on Thursday, wouldn't it reason that she was killed Wednesday night?”

John agreed. He walked down the corridor and put on a glove. He tried the door. It opened.

“It was locked from the other side,” Laura said.

“You tried it earlier?”

“I was curious.”

He closed the door and faced her. “You've always been curious, haven't you?”

Lara swallowed, anticipating a change of subject to one she wasn't as comfortable with as murder. “Is that a problem?”

He shook his head, his mouth firm but his dark eyes lit with something that made Lara's heart flutter. “I've learned something in these last couple of months.”

“What's that?”

He took a step forward and she had to look up at him. She was considered tall, but standing next to John, she felt petite and feminine. “My feelings for you have never changed,” he said. “But seeing you again, face-to-face, I realize they have. I miss you, Lara. I shouldn't have called you. I should have come to your office and not left until you agreed to move in with me.”

“John—”

He kissed her. For a long moment, her mind went blissfully blank, her entire body focused on his mouth. She wanted to protest, she wanted to tell him it wasn't the same for her.

But that would be a lie.

John stepped back, a grin on his face. “I love you too. Let's get dinner.”

VIII.

John learned several things during the autopsy on Tuesday morning. Time of death was established Wednesday night between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. Tiffany Zaren died of massive internal bleeding when a knife—likely a letter opener—punctured a corner of her heart and her lung. There were also extensive post-mortem markings, indicating that her body had been manhandled.

And she'd had sex less than an hour before she died.

DNA samples were taken and sent to the lab, but it would be at least two weeks—even with the rush John put on it—before he had anything useful. And he needed to make an arrest before he could compel a suspect to submit his DNA. The post-mortem injuries needed to be further analyzed, but once they found out where her body had been stored for a day, they could better figure out what had happened to her.

Still, the information would be useful during his next conversation with Senator Bruce Wyatt and every other man who had been in the building after nine p.m. Wednesday night.

John returned to the Capitol with the new information. The officer viewing security tapes called on his cell phone. “Detective,” he said, “I have a list of everyone who came and left the Capitol from eight p.m. Wednesday to four a.m. Thursday morning.”

“Meet me in Senator James's office.”

Lara was at her desk, glowing. At least he imagined she should be after their night together. He wasn't going to let her walk away this time. He was in it for the long haul. For the first time, her attitude told him she believed him. Trust didn't come easy for Lara, and John was honored he'd earned it.

“I have—” he began, but his cell phone rang. It was Cindy Wyatt, the senator's wife.

She said, “You left a message for me yesterday. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you right away. I was out most of the day. Bruce told me about that poor woman.”

“I was calling to verify a dinner you had at Morton's Steakhouse last Wednesday evening?”

“With my husband and his colleagues and their wives.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I'm not sure. Between ten and ten-thirty.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“Yes. We drove right to our townhouse on the river. Then on Thursday afternoon, we drove to our home in Shasta.”

“And you and your husband were home all night?”

“Yes.”

When he hung up, Lara said, “You're verifying Bruce's alibi?”

“A dead body was in his office. I have to verify his and everyone else on his staff, just for openers.” John tapped his pencil on the pad. “His wife says he was home all night. Wives are known to lie.” He made a note to verify Cindy Wyatt's statement.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

“I missed you.” He smiled when Lara blushed. “Seriously, I wanted a place to talk to my officers. You don't mind, do you? I figure this is the most secure place in the Capitol, away from controversy and probing press.”

“That's fine. I have something to do. I'll be right back.”

John watched Lara leave. Something was wrong. He'd have gone after her, except Officer Smiley came in ready to report on the tapes he'd viewed. “Eight legislators entered the garage after eight p.m. Wednesday night,” he said, “and three staff members. Staff are required to use their passkeys to enter, not exit, but we identified them on camera when they left.”

“Someone could have come in during business hours and hidden somewhere in the building,” John noted. He glanced at the staff list. One name stood out: Robert Douglas, Wyatt's Chief of Staff. He entered at 9:50 p.m. and exited an hour later.

Smiley nodded. “I identified Tiffany Zaren entering the building at 10:40 p.m. with Senator Wyatt. She never left. Wyatt exited the garage at 11:35 p.m.”

Douglas was in the building at the same time as Wyatt and Zaren, he thought. “I want to view those tapes.”

“You asked me to check for Assembly member Kevin Andersen? He came in at ten thirty, just like he said.

“When did he leave?”

“He didn't. At least not through the garage.”

“Find out which exit he used and when he used it. I need to talk to Wyatt.”

First Wyatt lied, then Andersen. Why?

IX.

Lara's fists were squeezed tight. She stood in front of Bruce Wyatt in his temporary office one floor beneath the crime scene.

“You had Cindy lie for you!”

“I—what?” Wyatt looked stricken.

“I called your house at eleven Wednesday night. Cindy said you were out. She told the police you were at home. You’re a bastard.”

“I don't know what—”

“Were you having an affair with Tiffany Zaren?”

“I—no—not like—”

She knew as soon as he stuttered that he was guilty. He'd cheated on his wife and Cindy was covering for him. Why? Because she loved him? How could she love a man who didn't take his wedding vows seriously? How could Lara respect a man who cheated on his wife, who lied to her, who was possibly a killer?

“You killed her.”

“I didn't. I swear to you, Lara. I didn't kill Tiffany. Yes, we were having an affair. It didn't mean anything, just one of those things . . .”

Lara felt betrayed. She had admired this man. She'd always understood where he was coming from, even when they disagreed on policy. She had respected him more than anyone. More than her father, more than her commanding officer. Bruce Wyatt was like an older, wiser brother. A mentor.

Now he was nothing but a fraud. How could she believe anything he said?

“Tell the police.”

“No, I—”

“Dammit, Bruce! They're not stupid. They're going to see you coming in with her on the security tapes!”

His face fell as he remembered security. “I didn't think—”

“You can say that again.” If Bruce was so stupid to think that he could get away with having an affair, maybe he was stupid enough to stuff his dead lover in an armoire.

“Cindy didn’t know about the affair; she was just protecting me because she knows how this town can be. And it's not what you think.”

“What a cliché. You have no idea what I think.”

“I didn't kill Tiffany,” he whispered.

“I'm telling the police about my conversation with Cindy. I'm not lying for you, Bruce.”

The door opened abruptly, and Bruce jumped, ready to snap at whoever was coming in uninvited. Lara turned so quickly that her leg cramped. John walked into the office and firmly shut the door. John didn’t look at her, and she realized she should have gone to him first with the information she had. But she’d been so angry with Wyatt, and with herself for her bad judgment.

“Start at the beginning,” John demanded.

Wyatt seemed to shrink, older and defeated. “I was having sex with Tiffany. We came here after the dinner. Cindy and I had taken two cars, I told her I had to pick up some papers. Tiff and I had never, um, 'been' in my office before. She left around eleven thirty. Said she didn't want anyone seeing us together. We hadn’t been involved for long, just a few weeks. I wanted to drive her home, but Tiff . . . She said she'd be fine. I left right after, went down to the parking garage. I didn't think anything of it. I tried calling her on Thursday before I left town, but she didn't answer.”

“You lied to me,” John said. “You didn’t think we’d see you and the victim on the security tapes?”

“I didn’t think anyone would have a reason to!”

“Even after her murder?” Lara said. “What were you thinking?”

Bruce was flustered. “To be honest, I thought the security cameras would show her talking to someone else—after she left me—and prove I wasn't the last one to see her.”

“You should have come clean from the beginning,” Lara said, disgusted with her former friend and mentor.

She glanced at John. He was looking at her, but she couldn’t read his expression. She wished she could rewind the last thirty minutes, and tell John about the phone call, before she confronted Wyatt.

John reached into his pocket and answered his vibrating cell phone. “Black.” He mostly listened, said a few words, then he finished and hung up.

“We found the murder weapon,” he said to Wyatt. “A letter opener. Under your middle desk drawer. With Tiffany’s missing garter wrapped around it.”

X.

Wyatt lawyered up. He claimed he didn’t recognize the sterling silver letter opener, and that was it.

John pushed the senator hard before letting him leave, but he didn’t have anything more than circumstantial evidence. There were no prints on the letter opener, and he couldn't find where Tiffany had been killed, or why he would move her after nearly twenty-four hours into his office. Security tapes showed he used the elevators five minutes after Tiffany went down the staircase, and he exited the building from the basement shortly after that. If Wyatt was guilty of murder, he had someone help him cover it up.

While John had believed in the possibility of a crime of passion and Wyatt panicking, stuffing the body in the armoire, he simply had a hard time believing the senator would have left the murder weapon in his own desk, when he had plenty of opportunities to dispose of it.

But maybe someone with free access to the office would have.

John met with Robert Douglas in the CHP office, having no intention of pussyfooting around with Wyatt's Chief of Staff.

“You were in the building late Wednesday night,” John began.

Douglas nodded. “I came in to pick up some papers.”

“When?”

“Around ten. It was after I made my rounds at all the cocktail events. It’s that time of year, fundraising. Why?”

John ignored the question. “What time did you leave?”

“I don't know. It wasn't that long.” He glanced away. This guy wasn't a good liar.

“Did you see Senator Wyatt at any time Wednesday night?”

“At Chops, for a fundraiser.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That was it?”

“I don't understand.”

John slammed his fist on the table. “Yes, you do understand, but I'll ask clearly. When you were here in the building between 9:50 and 10:55 Wednesday night, did you see, hear, talk to, or otherwise know that Senator Wyatt was also in the building?”

He hesitated. “Yes,” he said carefully.

“Was he alone?”

“No.”

“Who was he with?”

“I don't know.”

“If you're trying to protect your boss, you're doing a piss poor job of it. Spit it out, or I'll charge you as an accessory.”

Douglas blanched. “I was in my office working. I often work at night when it's quiet. I heard someone moving around his office and thought it was odd, because the janitorial staff is long gone by then. I opened the door and—”

“And what?”

“Bruce was with someone. I didn't see her face. He was sitting in his chair and she was under his desk and—”

“I get the picture. You didn't recognize her?”

“I just saw blond hair.”

“And you didn't think to say anything after we found a dead blonde?”

“I—no.”

“Did Wyatt see you?”

“Yes, but I left right after that.”

“And?”

“The next day he came up to my desk and joked it off.”

John took out his ace. He had Douglas's personnel records. The top page was a copy of a request for a raise submitted to the Senate Rules Committee. “On Thursday, the Senator approved a raise for you. A nice bump.”

Douglas didn't say anything.

“Was he paying you to hide the fact that he was having an affair, or that he had killed someone?”

“The affair,” Douglas whispered. He cleared his throat. “I swear, Bruce didn't look or act like he killed anyone. We had a staff meeting in his office after he left Thursday afternoon and everything looked like it always does.” He sat up straighter, as if trying to please a strict teacher. “In fact, Kris—the scheduler—opened the armoire to put Bruce's shoes inside. He keeps an extra pair and she'd taken them down to be shined. I swear to God, ask her.”

With one sentence, Robert Douglas had cleared both himself and his boss of murder and provided another witness.

Unless the substantial salary increase was for moving the body Thursday night and Douglas was far more shrewd than he seemed on the surface.

“What time did you leave Thursday?”

“Five thirty or so.”

“Did you return at any time Thursday night or early Friday morning?”

“No. I took Friday off. Felt I'd, um, earned it.” He stared at his hands.

Which led John back to who wanted Tiffany Zaren dead? And why would they frame Senator Wyatt?

After Douglas left, John studied the tapes again. Officer Smiley had marked all key segments. “The place was Grand Central Station between nine and ten,” Smiley said. “But after eleven, the only people in the building other than security and janitorial staff were Wyatt, the vic, and Assembly member Andersen.”

Smiley continued. “I traced their steps, and Wyatt's statement holds up. See—here—Zaren leaves Wyatt's office.”

“That's what you said on the phone, but I don't see anything.”

“Here.” He paused the tape. An arm appeared in view. He slow-motioned the tape and Tiffany came into the frame briefly, then disappeared two frames later. “By the shadow, she must have taken the stairs.”

“Taken the stairs where?”

“Don't know. She doesn't show up on any other camera, but the stairwells aren't monitored in the older building.”

John remembered his walk with Lara through both sections of the Capitol. “What about Andersen?”

“He was in his office briefly from 10:30 until 10:50. He was talking on the phone with someone when he entered. Then he left and took the elevators to the garage.”

“But you said earlier that Andersen didn't leave through the garage.”

“Right. He didn't. He is on tape leaving through the north entrance at 12:10.”

Where in the building was Kevin Andersen for over an hour?He said to Smiley, “Review the tapes starting at eight p.m. on Thursday through six a.m. Friday and tell me everyone who comes in or leaves the building from any entrance.”

XI.

Lara was furious at Bruce Wyatt, but she didn't believe he was a killer.

She retraced the steps she'd taken with John the day before and found herself in the same Assembly corridor on the fourth floor of the historic building where she and John had gone down the freight elevator and discovered the passage to the Senate side of the building. A long, narrow hallway curved around, leading to three different committee rooms. She'd never been in any of them. The doors were locked. Contemplating picking the lock, she decided against it. She’d call John and ask him if the crime scene unit had extended their search for evidence onto the Assembly side of the building.

She rounded the corner near Committee Room 437 and practically ran into a credenza. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the narrow hall. No other furniture had been in any of the halls she'd been roaming. She sat down on top of the credenza to rest her bum leg, disturbing a fly that buzzed by her head.

Lara rubbed her eyes. She was more disappointed than anything. Why had she run for office in the first place? Her mentor turned out to be an adulterer, legislation she felt passionate about was killed unceremoniously in committee, and nothing worthwhile had been accomplished.

Maybe she should try not to take it all so seriously. John had walked back into her life, and she didn't think she'd be able to get rid of him this time. She smiled, remembering last night, thinking about what it would be like to let someone fully into her heart and share her life.

Her leg wasn't feeling any better and Lara accepted that she would have to take a pain pill to make it through the rest of the day. When she slid off the credenza, three more flies flew off as well.

What were flies doing here in a climate-controlled building?

She squatted in front of the credenza, putting most of her weight on her good leg. As she got closer, the smell of death wrapped around her. It was subtle, but she couldn’t mistake the underlying scent of dried blood. Suspicious, she removed a tissue from her pocket to ease open the doors from the bottom. The foul stench increased.

Though there was no longer a dead body in this space, it was clear there had been—the bottom of the credenza was covered in dried blood. On the back panel was a 2 X 3 metal plate with Sampson Furniture Company stamped on it.

The victim had a 2 X 3 rectangular mark on her back that the criminalist said had been made when the body was pushed against a metal plate.

Other than the memory of death, a bright red spike-heeled shoe was the only thing inside.

Lara called John.

XII.

Lara sat alone in her office while John and the crime scene investigators worked in Committee Room 437. As soon as she'd showed them the evidence in the credenza, they searched the entire floor and found blood evidence in the closest unlocked committee room. It now looked like Tiffany was murdered in that room, then stuffed in the credenza almost immediately after death, where she was kept for nearly twenty-four hours. The killer had to break rigor to move her the next night to Wyatt's armoire. The post-mortem injuries were caused as the killer manipulated her body out of the crude storage box.

John didn't have much time to talk, but he said that it looked like Wyatt's alibi held and the security tapes showed it would have been impossible for him to kill Tiffany Zaren, unless there was some huge conspiracy to protect him which would include false security data. Both Lara and John doubted that—secrets didn't last long in this building.

If Wyatt wasn't guilty, who had killed the lobbyist? Lara wondered. It mattered for justice, but did it truly matter to her? Bruce had still lied to her. Everything she'd believed in was . . . gone.

Everything except for the solid and reliable John Black.

She was surprised when Assembly Minority Leader Kevin Andersen walked into her office. “Do you have a minute?” he asked her.

“I have several,” she answered.

He sat and leaned back in his chair. “I heard Bruce was arrested.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Oh?”

He was pumping her for information. It was politics as usual. Andersen and Wyatt had a rivalry going from way back to their college years, and Wyatt had defeated Andersen the first time they both ran for the same seat. And now they were running against each other for Congress. Of course he would gloat over the tragedy.

“What do you want, Kevin?”

He put his hands up. “Nothing, nothing. Just wanted to talk about what happened, I guess.”

“A woman is dead and you want to gloat over Bruce's downfall.” She shook her head, disgusted. Why had she expected any better? “Asshole.”

Andersen's expression hardened. “He was having an affair with a lobbyist. That's not a crime, but murder is.” How did Andersen know about the affair? Had it leaked out that fast? She wouldn’t be surprised. Or Bruce wasn’t as discreet as he’d thought.

“I don't believe for a minute that Bruce killed her. I don't know what happened, but I do know that the police are investigating every possible scenario.”

“It doesn't matter. They might not be able to prove Wyatt killed her, but they can't disprove it. And he knows it. You need to convince him to resign. He won’t listen to anyone else, but he might listen to you.”

“Detective Black is good at his job. He’s going to figure out exactly what happened. They have security tapes. They have witnesses; it’s just a matter of time. Bruce may be an adulterer, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

Something crossed Andersen’s face, then he jumped up and slammed his fist on her desk. “Who's going to give him money after this scandal? And you, little lady, would be wise to distance yourself from that fool.”

Little lady? She should kick the smug expression off that bastard's face.

He walked out and she fumed. Asshole.

But how did he know Bruce Wyatt was having an affair with Tiffany?

XIII.

Nighttime basement supervisor Benjamin Jackson normally came on duty at eight in the evening, but John asked that he come in earlier. It had already been a long, long day.

Because the evidence proved Tiffany Zaren had been kept in the credenza for a full day before her body was moved to Wyatt's armoire, someone else had to be involved. John had pushed Robert Douglas and the rest of Wyatt's staff, but no one acted like a guilty accomplice.

But there was one piece of evidence he couldn't reconcile, and he hoped Jackson had the answers.  Jackson was sixty and had a sour expression, like Morgan Freeman in a prison film.

“Mr. Jackson, I have a couple questions. On Wednesday night cameras show Senator Wyatt leaving the garage at 11:45 p.m.”

“Yep, white Chevy Tahoe. He drives his district car, doesn't use a fleet vehicle.”

“I also have cameras showing that Assemblyman Andersen came down to the basement just before eleven, but I don't have a time that he left. I'm still going through film, but I was hoping you might remember.”

“Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Both days.”

Jackson rubbed his chin. “Well, on Wednesday he came down about eleven and sat in his car for a time. Then I saw him get out and go to the little boy’s room.”

“Where?”

Jackson pointed in a westward direction. “It’s near the stairwell. You can't see it from here, but there's a corridor that goes to the historic side. Only staff uses that bathroom, but I thought he might have been a little tipsy.”

“And then?”

“I saw him in his car after midnight. Don't recall the exact time, but there he was, sitting in the driver’s seat, sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

“Sure, eyes closed, just sitting there.” Jackson winked. “It's known to happen. They drink a little too much, don't want to be caught driving—the scandal of a DUI is more serious nowadays than ten, twenty years ago.”

“Did you wake him?”

“Naw, he got out a few minutes later and told me he'd drunk too much and was going to walk home. “

“And Thursday?”

“Came in at eleven, gone before midnight.”

John went back to the CHP office and had Officer Smiley run the tape on Thursday during that time period.

Sure enough, Kevin Andersen drove in at eleven. He parked, and the recording had him going up to his office. He left almost immediately, went into the staircase—

—but the next time he showed up on tape was a full forty-three minutes later when he entered the basement. The CHP Commander confirmed that the hall had access to the historic stairwell. The stairwell without a camera.

More than enough time to move a body.

XIV.

It was late when Lara was leaving the office. She had half-expected John to come in and suggest they have a drink or relax at his place.

He didn’t. Of course he was working. She hoped he wasn’t still angry with her about how she handled confronting Bruce Wyatt. She’d apologized, he grunted an acceptance, and that was it. Or was it?

Their relationship was complicated only because she made it that way. She saw that now. Why was she playing hard to get? The fear of a lifetime commitment? But life was too short. Shouldn't she take a chance now and then? She willingly risked her life for her country, why couldn't she risk her heart for the man she loved?

She called John’s cell.

“I’m about to talk to Andersen,” he told her. “Are you in your office?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come up when I’m done.”

When he hung up, she thought about that snake Andersen coming into her office and threatening her—calling her a “little lady” and telling her to distance herself from Wyatt. If he'd been a friend, she might consider it an act of kindness. But Kevin Andersen had never been a friend of hers. What a jerk.

She had some questions for Andersen, and thought John should know that Kevin had known about Wyatt’s affair. She texted him the information, then signed letters, glancing at her phone while waiting for a response. John always responded to messages, even if briefly.

Five minutes later, she frowned and called him. No answer. It might be nothing—he was interviewing a possible witness. Yet her instincts told her something was fishy. It wouldn’t hurt to check out the Leader’s office.

She walked down one flight of stairs, favoring her bum leg, and opened the main door. Though the door was unlocked, the office was empty.

“Hello?” she said.

No answer. Then she heard John’s voice in Andersen’s office. The door was ajar, but she couldn’t see anything from the angle.

“You don’t want to do this, Kevin,” she heard him say. “Put the gun down.”

Lara moved quietly to the door and peaked in. Anderson was behind his desk, holding a revolver. She couldn’t see John from this angle, but she heard his voice.

There was no other way into the office. She tiptoed to the secretary’s desk and pressed the panic button to alert the Assembly Sergeant-at-Arms when there was a security problem in the office.

Kevin Andersen was definitely a major security problem.

“Get your handcuffs. Cuff yourself to the chair. I don’t want to kill anyone. I just need time to think.”

“Let’s talk about this,” John said.

“It was a mistake, and I fixed it!”

“I'm sure you had a very good reason for killing Tiffany—”

“I didn’t kill her! Wyatt did it.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Did he buy you off?”

Lara could almost feel John bristling from the accusation.

Everything clicked.  Andersen's previous relationship with Tiffany, Bruce's affair, the security tapes. “I fixed it.”

Andersen’s finger was on the trigger. His eyes were wild, and his perfectly coiffed hair was hanging in front of his face.

“You knew about Bruce's affair, didn't you?” John said.

“His wife called me. Told me they were in the building.”

Lara was stunned. Cindy Wyatt? Why on earth would Cindy Wyatt call her husband's biggest rival? A woman scorned . . . she must have known about the affair. What had she planned to accomplish if Andersen found out about it? Did she really want her husband to lose the congressional primary?

“You didn't mean to kill her.”

“I didn't. Bruce did. I saw him.”

“You saw him kill her?”

John was buying time. Good. When were the Sergeants going to get here? Lara feared Andersen would act rash.

Andersen nodded frantically, sweat on his brow. “They were having sex in the committee room. I was just going to get pictures, threaten him with exposing the affair. He went for me, Tiffany got in the way, and he killed her.”

“Well, let’s get your statement on the record then. Why don’t you—”

“I see through your game! I know what you’re doing! You’re trying to get me to come down to the station.” He barked out a laugh. “I didn’t kill Tiffany. I loved her!”

Lara kicked open the door and startled him enough that he shifted the gun from John to her.

That was all John needed. He leapt over the desk and tackled the Assemblyman. Andersen kept hold of the gun and hit John upside the head.

Lara grabbed Andersen’s wrist and slammed it against the corner of his desk. He yelped in pain and the gun fell from his hand. She kneed him in the groin with her good knee, then retrieved the gun from the floor while John cuffed him.

Two Sergeants rushed in and John flashed his badge. “Sac PD.”

To Andersen he said, “You're under arrest, Kevin Andersen.”

“My career is over.”

“Your freedom is over,” Lara said. “And to think that I spent nine years of my life fighting for it.”

“You don’t understand! I loved Tiffany. I would never have hurt her. Not on purpose. It was an accident. An awful accident.”

Lara leaned forward. John had pushed Andersen into a chair, cuffed, and was calling for a car to transport the prisoner to the city jail.

“Let me tell you what I think happened,” Lara said. “Cindy Wyatt was furious with her husband about his affair and wanted to hurt him. The best way to hurt Bruce would be to damage his career. She called you and told you about Bruce and Tiffany. You snapped. You were already in the building. You had to see for yourself.” She tapped his sterling silver pen set, which, not surprisingly, had an empty slot for a matching letter opener. “You grabbed the letter opener on your way out.

“You then caught up with her in the stairwell. Maybe fought with her, maybe confessed your undying love. You got her into the committee room and stabbed her—”

“No.” He shook his head back and forth, his hair falling into his eyes. “Bruce has taken everything that was important to me. My first election. My girlfriend. And he moved into my Congressional District just to run against me! And Tiffany . . . I loved her. I loved her and she slept with him! I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Suddenly he closed his mouth, looked at the Sergeants filling the doorway, his eyes wide, then from Lara to John. “I want a lawyer!” he demanded. “And a doctor! I think you broke my wrist, Lara. I’ll sue you.” He glared at John. “And I’ll sue you for false arrest! Bruce Wyatt set me up.”

Lara glanced at John. He looked weary, but elated. “Thanks,” he said.

“Anytime.” She winked.

“Think Wyatt’s still going to run for Congress?”

Lara nodded. “Yeah. Probably be a bloodbath with the scandal and the affair, but ironically, the more people in the race, the better chance Wyatt has of squeaking out a victory.”

“Over my dead body,” Andersen spat out.

John motioned for the Sergeants to keep an eye on the prisoner. “I’ll be right back.” He took Lara’s hand and escorted her from the office. He stepped around the corner and kissed her.

“Ready to go home after I book him?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Your house or mine?”

“I’ll stencil your name on my mailbox first thing in the morning.”

Now or never, Lara thought. John was worth the risk. More than anyone she’d known.

“I don’t cook,” she said. “Except breakfast.”

“I like breakfast.” He stepped forward. “You make breakfast, I make dinner. Sounds good to me.”

She smiled. “Sounds good to me, too.”

###

Dear Reader:

My first book, The Prey, was released in 2006. I joined International Thriller Writers as a debut author and was thrilled to attend the first ThrillerFest in Phoenix, Arizona. At this amazing conference, I met other debut authors who would become my closest friends in this business.

A group of new authors with their debut thrillers coming out the following year banded together into ITW’s first Debut Author Class and asked me to be one of the mentors. Though I felt I was still too new to mentor anyone, I agreed, and one of the projects was an anthology that Lee Child—yes, the Lee Child—agreed to edit.

Mentoring turned into writing a story for the anthology, and I didn’t feel up to the challenge. Honestly, I was terrified. I’d never written a short story before.

Writing short isn’t easy. The more I wrote, the more fearful I became that I was doing it wrong, that I’d never get this story under five thousand words (it ended up six thousand), and worse, that I’d fail. But I wrote and edited and finally finished. I faced my fears, and “Killing Justice” became my first short story.

The easiest part of writing was taking real-life legislation and situations as the backdrop of my fictional scenario. A variation of the child predator legislation discussed in this story was really killed in the public safety committee, and shenanigans like swapping out committee members to assure certain vote results has long been practiced in the California Legislature. I created State Senator Matt Elliott to be someone I’d want fighting for what’s right and just.

“Killing Justice” was originally published in 2008 by St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur in the anthology Killer Year. You might remember Matt Elliott as the District Attorney from Playing Dead and Sudden Death; he’s the brother of FBI Agent Megan Elliott. Someday, I’d like to write a book about him. He’s led a very interesting life.

Happy Reading!

Allison Brennan

2012

Killing Justice

I.

Senate Pro Tem Simon Beck sat in his high-back leather chair signing letters, the tall, narrow window behind him framing the Tower Bridge at the far end of Sacramento’s Capitol Mall, the morning sun making the elevator bridge appear golden. His secretary Janice escorted Senator Matt Elliott into the office, offered him coffee—which he refused—then quietly retreated.

Simon had been expecting the confrontation since Elliott called him at six in the morning and said nothing, allowing the tension to build.

It didn’t take long. Elliott slammed his fist on the antique desk and leaned forward, his knuckles white. “You bastard. You stacked the committee!”

Simon placed the pen precisely on the blotter, sat up straight, and clasped his hands in front of him.

“Sit down, Senator Elliott.”

The pulse in Elliott's neck throbbed. He pushed away from the desk and paced, running both hands through his dark hair. “You promised you wouldn't fuck with my bill package.”

That was true. Simon had always planned to quash the so-called “children’s safety” legislation on the Senate floor at the end of session when it would be too late for Elliott to raise the money and qualify an initiative. Simon hated the fact that in California, when the legislature—which had been given the power to pass or defeat legislation—didn't cater to the cause of the year, the rich and powerful would raise a few million dollars to put their pet project on the ballot.

He hated it except when it benefited his interests.

The truth was, if Senator Matt Elliott had the time, he could have qualified an initiative in time for the November ballot, the worst time for their party to be forced to take a position on so-called “tough on crime” legislation. Didn't Elliott see that? Wasn't the future strength of their party more important than one bill?

Kill the bill now, Simon.

Jamie Tan's words came back to him. The head of the Juvenile Justice Alliance, which operated nearly two hundred group homes for juveniles in the criminal justice system, had made it perfectly clear that if Elliott's bill passed, they'd pull all support. It was an election year and they wanted to take no chances on a vote by the full Senate. The bill had to die in committee.

Worse, Tan had brought the head of a prison reform group and one of the two major trial lawyer organizations into the meeting. The warning was clear: screw them, his election well would run dry.

That was the biggest problem with term limits, Simon realized. Before the electorate put in limits, the leader had real power. Now, special interests had the power. Jamie Tan would be around longer than Simon Beck, and Tan knew it.

Simon had no choice but to back down. If he lost even one seat this election cycle, he’d be unceremoniously dumped as leader.

“Put Paula back on the committee,” Elliott demanded, stopping in front of his desk.

“Forget it, Elliott. My decision is final.”

“I'll bury you, Beck.”

“You? You're the outcast of our party. A maverick. Ha! No one trusts you. You're just as likely to vote with the Republicans as vote with us. So you won Paula over to this issue, but you know damn well she'll never agree with you on your other pet projects.”

“This isn't a pet project. My bill will save lives.”

Beck waved his hand in the air. “Don't believe your own press releases.”

“Damn you, we can make a difference!”

“Do you realize what's at stake? Do you know how many people will lose their jobs if your bill passes? Do you understand that the state is under court order to decrease the prison population? All your bill would do is make the crisis worse.”

“Tell that to Timothy Stewart! Wait, you can't. He's dead.”

“That's what this has all been about. You want to destroy an entire industry because of one mistake.”

“One? The Stewart case is only one example of the problems with the current system.”

Simon's phone beeped. On cue. He'd told his secretary to never leave Matt Elliott alone in his office for more than five minutes.

“Yes, Janice? Right, I'll take it.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “Get out, shut up, or your career is over.”

II.

Senator Matt Elliott hung up with the fiery Paula Ramirez who was as livid as he was that Beck had replaced her on the Public Safety Committee. Matt had spent the entire three years of his legislative term working on Paula, earning her trust and respect. It all came to a head when he asked for her support of this bill, against their party line. Matt was the maverick, the others expected him to vote however he damn well pleased, but Paula was one of theirs: a dyed-in-the-wool, intellectual, steadfast liberal.

And he'd won her over on this issue. He'd also grown to like her, though they still didn't see eye-to-eye on criminal justice reform.

It was Hannah Stewart, the slain boy’s mother for which “Timothy’s Law” had been named, who'd swayed Paula. Her raw, honest testimony that Matt, a former prosecutor, could only attest to, not recreate. She'd been to hell and back in the five years since her son had been murdered. Matt had been the assistant district attorney when her son’s killer had gone to trial; he’d been with Hannah since the very beginning. It was that case that had prompted him to run for office to change the laws that he had vowed to uphold as a prosecutor.

And now he had to tell her that not only was the bill dead as the result of political posturing and corruption, but he didn't think they had the time or resources to qualify an initiative for this year's ballot. It would be put on the back burner until the next election.

His chief of staff, Greg Harper, knocked on the door. “Mrs. Stewart and her sister are here.”

“Send them in.”

He stood and walked to the door to greet them. Matt felt like a prosecutor again, giving bad news to surviving family. He'd always hated that part of the job, and this was worse because he knew Hannah.

“What's wrong?” she asked as soon as they sat down on the couch facing his desk.

She'd always been perceptive. Even when she was going through the emotional ringer during Rickie Coleman’s trial, she'd picked up on the subtleties of the court testimony.

“Paula was removed from the Public Safety Committee,” Matt said. “She was replaced by someone who opposes Timothy's Law.”

“Why?”

“I told you this was going to be a tough sell.”

“But after Senator Ramirez agreed to support Timothy's Law, we had the votes, correct?

He nodded. Hannah sounded calm, but her eyes were glassy. She knew what this setback meant.

“And she was removed why? Because someone didn't want the bill to pass?”

“Essentially.”

“You mean the Senate Leader.”

“I'm not going to lie to you, Hannah. Politics reigns supreme in this building. We knew what we were up against—the group home industry is worth tens of millions of dollars and growing. All they are doing is slowing down the tide against them. We will change the system. But I learned this isn’t the way.”

Hannah said, “Since Timmy, more kids have been hurt. It'll happen again. Are human lives a justifiable cost for these people?”

Matt had nothing to say. He agreed with Hannah. “I'm truly sorry. Paula is sorry, too. We did everything we could.”

Hannah turned away from Senator Elliott and looked at her niece in the stroller. Rachel was a beautiful child, perfect in every way, round and plump with chubby hands and deep dimples. The dimples ran in their family—both Hannah and her sister, Meg, had them.

Unlike Rachel's twin indentions, Timmy had had a solitary dimple on his left cheek.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the wave of pain hit her, palatable. Unconsciously, her hand fiercely rubbed her forehead.

“Hannah, are you okay?”

It was the senator speaking. He’d tried. He’d been so kind, so steadfast, he’d worked so hard. But it wasn’t enough.

She lied. “I'm fine.”

“I know you're disappointed. I'm furious about this, and I promise you I'll take it to the voters. I'm not going to sit back and let this power play go unnoticed. My chief of staff is crafting a press release, and I'm having a press conference—with Paula—immediately after the committee hearing.”

Hannah nodded, though she only heard part of what he said. She'd known this could happen. And, really, why had she come to testify in the first place? It wouldn't bring Timothy back. It wouldn't piece together her destroyed marriage.

You did it to save other children.

And now other children were still at risk because of politics. Politics that allowed juvenile sex offenders to move quietly into neighborhoods without anyone knowing. Politics that allowed those perverts to live across the street from an elementary school, to watch the little boys and little girls walking to and from school every day.

They could slip out of the poorly secured houses because people who had no idea how to care for these criminals were put in positions of authority. Did they even understand that their young charges hurt other children? That it was only a matter of time before they escalated from sex crimes to murder?

What was the difference between a seventeen-year-old convicted rapist and an eighteen-year-old rapist? The public was allowed to know when the older predator moved into their neighborhood, but not the younger.

“Hannah?”

It was her sister Meg, in her motherly tone. A sign that she was worried.

Rachel started fussing in her stroller and Meg reached for her. Hannah interrupted.

“Let me take care of her,” she said.

Meg agreed, her eyes following Hannah as she left with the baby.

Meg said to Matt, “She needs to do something. Rachel helps, I think.”

Matt would never forget the pain in her eyes when he first met her, even though he’d always thought of Hannah as a quietly strong woman. Yet five years later, the agony was still there, a permanent reminder of the uncaring bureaucrats and a callous system that made it more profitable to house sex offenders in middle-class neighborhoods than in prison.

Of course, the group homes were officially “non-profit,” but the people who ran the facilities also owned the food supply, laundry services, and transportation companies. Investors quietly bought up houses in middle-class neighborhoods and leased them out to the “non-profits” at inflated rates. Then there was court-ordered counseling, attorney fees, private security companies—Matt had only just begun to trace the money trail of those connected with these facilities.

“How's she holding up?” Matt asked.

“Hannah's strong. She's gotten through the worst of it, and now that the divorce is final, I think she'll be okay. It’s just—”

“What?”

“Every time Hannah speaks in public, like in front of the committee, she relives Timmy’s murder.”

Matt hated thinking he was partly to blame for Hannah’s pain. He'd sympathized with her, he took care of her needs, but he'd never failed to use Timmy's murder to advance his goals. And while his goals were for the protection of all children, he'd lost sight of his own humanity in the process. That maybe everything he'd asked Hannah to do had kept the wounds open and festering, instead of healing.

He wished he could help Hannah move forward, reclaim her lost life. Five years was a long time to grieve.

But he'd never lost a child to violence.

III.

Hannah pushed her index fingers into her temple, pushing back the dull, constant ache that she’d learned to live with for the last five years.

She'd lost her only child. Then she'd lost her husband. Eric wasn't dead, but he was dead to her.

“Why weren't you watching him? How could you let this happen?”

He'd apologized, but the damage was done. Eric thought she was responsible. That her actions and inactions had resulted in Timmy being stabbed six times after enduring a rape.

Rickie Coleman said he didn’t mean to kill Timmy—that he was scared of going to jail if he was caught. The judge only gave him nine years. For manslaughter, not murder.

The sixteen-year-old Coleman lived right down the street from Timmy’s school in a group home for juvenile sex offenders. Timmy had passed by that house every day, unaware of the depravity that hid behind the door.

If she'd only known, she'd never have let Timmy walk home alone. Or even with friends. She would have picked him up. Or arranged a neighborhood carpool.

Dammit! His school was only three blocks from home! He should have been safe.

She worked only ten minutes away and had adjusted her work schedule in order to meet Timmy when he came home from school every day.

But he never came home that day. She called every friend and ran from her house to the school, calling his name, her panic growing.

She ran right past the house where Timmy lay dead in the backyard, to be discovered three hours later when the owner came home from work.

The house next door to the group home.

Rachel let out a yelp and Hannah cleared her head. Remembered where she was . . . in a restroom in the California State Capitol.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” She changed the wet infant's diaper. Rachel reached up and pulled Hannah's long brown hair. Hannah was in the handicap stall, which she'd often used when Timmy had been in a stroller. Now, she needed it for privacy more than the room.

“Sorry, Rachel,” she murmured as she reached under the stroller. Her hand touched the cold metal.

Are you sure?

Of course she was sure. Her son was dead, her marriage was over, and she had nothing left but distant memories of happiness.

Rachel gurgled in her stroller, reached again for Hannah's hair. She allowed the baby to grab a handful, a tear falling onto Rachel's little pink dress.

“I love you, Rachel,” she whispered. “I hope your mommy forgives me.”

Hannah loosened the gun, which she had strapped down with duct tape under the stroller that morning when she volunteered to load Rachel's stroller into the car.

She had watched people coming and going through security during her numerous trips to the capitol. The guards passed the strollers around the metal detector and only took a cursory glance at the contents. Diaper bags and backpacks were run through the X-ray, but not the stroller itself.

She and Meg had grown up on a farm in the Central Valley and their father taught them to shoot at a young age. Hannah never expected to use a gun on a human being.

Senator Beck was anything but human.

“Let's tell your mommy you want a walk,” she told Rachel, securing the gun in the small of her back, under her loose-fitting blouse. “Auntie Hannah has a meeting.”

IV.

“I'm not going to sit here and pretend none of us know exactly what happened today. Senator Ramirez was unceremoniously removed from the Public Safety Committee after faithfully serving for seven years. Why? Because she supported Timothy's Law.”

He stared at his fellow committee members one by one. They in turn looked disgusted, bored and angry. Angry at him, perhaps, because he was shining a high-wattage light on the dark dealings of the Capitol.

Good bills were killed because of special interests every day of the week. Matt's bill was simply another casualty.

“We've heard enough,” the Chairman, Senator Thomas, said. “You're getting very close to being censured.”

“Censured? You think I care about being censured when you sit there and abstain on a bill that would protect children and save lives?”

“Senator Elliott, that is enough.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt noticed Hannah Stewart enter the committee hearing room. She came in through the rear entrance and sat in the back row.

He couldn't drag her through another hearing, not like this. Her face was ashen, and she was as skinny as he'd seen her during the trial when her sister told him she'd lost weight, going from one hundred forty pounds to less the one hundred ten.

“It may be enough for you, but I will continue to fight for child safety legislation even if some of the members of this committee believe in politics over human lives.”

Thomas stared at him icily as Matt took his seat. He stared back. He wasn't going to let them get away with it. He knew what he would tell the press.

Without fanfare, the committee voted. Three ayes, four abstentions.

Failed.

The next time he looked at the audience, Hannah was gone.

V.

Though Hannah had grown up listening to her father’s tirades about the corruption of government, she'd always believed in the system. That good people ran for office—people like Matt Elliott, the man who'd prosecuted Timmy's murderer. The man whose eyes teared up when he told her the judge was going to give Coleman a lenient sentence. That Rickie Coleman would be a free man at the same time Timmy should have been graduating from high school.

Senator Elliott was not to blame. He'd done what he could. It just wasn’t enough.

It was Beck's fault. Simon Beck, the man who'd stacked the committee for the sole purpose of killing Timothy's Law. A man who cared more about politics than a little boy who'd bled to death, alone, crying for his mommy . . .

Hannah screamed, but no sound escaped her tight throat. She heard Timmy's silent pleas every time she closed her eyes, every time she tried to sleep. But never in daylight, never like this.

She pretended to look through her purse as she watched the traffic in the corridor. It didn't take long before she saw the group she needed. Six women of different ages, walking with briefcases and purpose. She quickly trailed after them, standing only a foot from the rear as they opened the door and piled into the Senator’s waiting room.

The short woman of the group announced them. “Betsy Franklin with the Nurses Coalition. We have a meeting with Senator Beck.”

The secretary checked the schedule, nodded, and told them to have a seat and she would let the senator know that they'd arrived.

If any of the women noticed her, they must have assumed she also had an appointment with the Senate leader. They didn't comment. She didn't offer an explanation.

She sat in a chair while Nurse Betsy Franklin spoke to Beck's secretary. Hannah hadn't been in this office before, but she was a good observer. She watched as the secretary vaguely nodded toward a door behind her and to the left. Was Beck's office right on the other side of the door? Or down a hall?

Now that she’d made her decision, an eerie calm descended around her.

Killing Senator Beck wouldn't bring Timmy back from the dead, but it would punish him for what he'd done to stop justice. It would make a statement: that people who had the lives of others in their hands could not callously disregard the dead, or the living.

“Janice, I'll just be a sec.” A tall, lanky man with a boyish face and graying hair walked past the secretary with a half-smile at the nurses. He opened the door, then closed it. But Hannah saw what she needed to see. A short hall, then double doors.

Where that bastard worked.

Rickie Coleman was to blame for killing Timmy. But what about the system that put him in the neighborhood in the first place? Even though Coleman was now in prison and the staff fired, that house was still open and operational in her old neighborhood. Nearly every day she drove by, watched as the so-called “counselors,” who looked barely old enough to vote, escorted the six teenage boys from the house to an unmarked van. Followed as they drove across the county to “school.” Their school was housed in a recreation center that also held a preschool and several after-school programs. They put those sexual predators in the same building with innocent children.

When she'd gone to the Recreation Board, she was told that, “There have been no reported problems. And they pay their rent on time.”

She'd been in the Capitol building enough over the last six months to know that she couldn't simply walk into the Pro Tem's office. The secretary would ask if she had an appointment. And she doubted that Senator Beck would talk to her, even if she did ask for a meeting.

Are you sure you want to do this?

She wasn’t sure of anything. She couldn't sleep; she could barely eat. She'd never wanted to move, but she couldn't live in the same house where Timmy had lived. She was in limbo, going through the motions of living while having no real life.

Her soul had died the same day as Timmy.

The man left Beck's office ten minutes later and Hannah jumped up.

“Ma'am, you can't—”

Hannah closed the door and ran to the double doors, opening them at the same time as the secretary opened the outer door.

“Sergeants!” the woman called.

Hannah closed the door.

She'd noticed Matt Elliott had locks on his doors and was pleased to find that so did Senator Beck. She turned it.

“Ms. Franklin?” Senator Beck asked, confused, as he rose from his desk.

Recognition crossed his tanned face as he stared at her.

“Hannah Stewart,” she said, though it was unnecessary. “You killed Timothy's Law.”

Fists pounded on the door behind Hannah. She drew the gun.

“Senator? Senator?” a muffled voice called through the door. Someone shouted, “Get the Sergeants!”

“Mrs. Stewart—” Beck put his hands up, slowly. He stared at the gun, not at her.

Her enemy cowered in front of her. Sweat formed along his receding hairline. She should kill him now. But her hand trembled, so she held the gun with both hands; her purse fell to the floor with a thud. She jumped, heart pounding.

“You sacrificed innocent children for politics,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded normal.

“Mrs. Stewart, put the gun down.”

He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked at the end. He was scared. He feared for his life when the lives of the innocent meant nothing to him.

“That group home, the same one that Rickie Coleman slipped out of to kill my son, is still in operation. And because of you, it will not be shut down.”

“That's not the role of state government—”

“Bullshit!” Swearing surprised her as much as her volume. “You stacked the committee! You killed my bill!”

“Mrs. Stewart, it's only legislation—it can't bring your son back.”

“Timmy! His name is Timmy! Do you know how many juvenile sex offenders escaped and hurt children? Do you?”

“Mrs. Stewart—”

“We don't know because they're minors and their records are confidential! And because the people who run those homes make millions of dollars off the system, they'll never be shut down. The group home in my own neighborhood? The owner makes three times the market value every month on an inflated lease. Is that the price of a child? Seven thousand dollars a month?”

Beck took a step toward her and Hannah pulled the trigger.

VI.

“Senator, they're evacuating the building,” Greg exclaimed as he ran into Matt's office, his lips in a tight, white line.

“What's going on? Bomb threat?”

“There's a gunman in the building.”

“They'd lockdown if there was a gunman loose, not evacuate,” Matt said. His instincts hummed.

“I'm just relaying what the Sergeants told me. He’s in the historic building; the annex has been locked down and is being evacuated. It's mandatory.”

Matt waved his hand dismissively at Greg and turned on the television by remote.

“...Capitol building is being evacuated. Nothing more is known at this time.”

The picture switched from a reporter outside the east entrance of the capitol to the bureau chief. “Sources in the building tell NBC news that every office has been ordered to evacuate immediately. A gunman is in the building. Wait—”

The reporter listened to his earpiece. “A shot has been confirmed fired. Three separate sources report that a shot has been fired on the second floor of the historic building. Sources indicate the shot may have come from Senate Pro Tem Beck's office, a Democrat from Los Angeles.”

“Simon,” Matt whispered.

He pictured the look on Hannah's face when he told her about the committee.

Suddenly, the last five years became clear. For the first time Matt realized what he’d done. The last major case he tried before filing for office was the Timothy Stewart murder. It was the judge’s idiocy that had propelled him to seek the senate seat. He’d wanted to fix the system in a way that a prosecutor couldn’t—by changing the laws.

And then he brought Hannah Stewart in to help his cause. She'd seemed the perfect spokeswoman for reform: an eloquent, attractive mother, a person the press and the people could relate to. She joined his bandwagon to change the laws, to ensure that children were protected and violent predators—whatever their age—were locked up where they couldn’t hurt anyone.

It had been his cause because he’d lost in court when he hated to lose—and rarely did. Rickie Coleman had been convicted, but the judge threw out the first-degree murder charge—believing Coleman when he said he didn’t intend to kill the boy—and Coleman ended up with manslaughter and a nine-year sentence.

Matt had wanted to change the system, fix what was broken, and he used every means possible.

Including a woman so devastated by grief that she hadn’t truly lived in five years.

He suddenly knew who the “gunman” was.

He had unwittingly created her.

VII.

The Sergeant-At-Arms, Bob Bush, ran a hand over his mustache, a nervous habit he'd thought he'd broken. In charge of Capitol security for the past twenty years, he'd had his share of situations. But never had a shot been fired in the Capitol under his watch.

“CHP is on alert,” Jefferson said.

They stood outside Beck's office, which had been immediately evacuated after the gunshot. He'd just debriefed the secretary, who didn’t know anything.

“Where's the damn security tape?”

The security camera outside the senator's office would have recorded who'd passed through the door.

“They're viewing it downstairs right now,” Jefferson said, listening to his earpiece. “They have an I.D. Hannah Stewart, Caucasian female, forty-two.”

“Who the hell is she?”

A commotion outside the door had Bob turning. He saw Senator Elliott trying to bypass the shield they'd set up around the office.

“Senator, you need to evacuate,” Bob said, turning around to talk to Jefferson before he'd finished his sentence.

“I know Hannah.”

Bob stopped, turned to him. “She won't pick up the phone. We've been trying to call into the office for the last five minutes.”

“She'll talk to me. Please, let me go in.”

“I can’t do that, we don't even know if Senator Beck is alive. SWAT is getting into position.”

“Don't shoot her.”

“He’s been ordered to assess the situation and report.”

“Please, Bob. I can defuse this.”

“What's her story?”

“She testified on one of my bills in Public Safety. It was defeated today.”

“She's holding Beck hostage because a bill got killed?”

“No. She's holding Beck hostage because her son got killed and she doesn't think anyone cares.”

VIII.

The Sergeants would not let him go in, but that didn't faze Matt. He had an idea.

He ran upstairs to the third floor to the Republican leader's office. The floor was oddly deserted. The windows in the gallery were sealed shut, but those in the Member’s offices could be opened. Matt walked in through the leader's “escape” door—an unmarked entrance directly into his office from the side hallway. Few legislators kept their private door locked.

Matt crossed to the window behind the desk, directly above Beck's office. He opened the window. A portico traversed the west steps of the Capitol building, but stopped before reaching the office windows.

Matt looked down, swallowed heavily. A three-foot ledge ran under the windows, but if he slipped . . . the drop was already precarious because of the seventeen-foot ceilings. But broken ankles were the least of his concern now. To his left was a spindly palm tree, to his right the top of a tree with long, narrow leaves. It didn’t look sturdy enough to climb down, but if he fell from the ledge, the tree would prevent him from hitting ground.

He knew Beck's little secret—after hours, he often opened that window and leaned out to smoke cigars. Not once had Matt seen him lock it.

Without hesitating, Matt flung open the far window and climbed out, holding onto the ledge, his legs dangling over, and assessing the drop. He hung there only a moment before falling . . .

Slam. Right on the ledge. His knees protested, but nothing broke. He teetered a moment, grabbed a thin branch to steady himself. He shook off the pain, shimmied along the ledge to Beck’s unlocked window and pushed it open.

Hannah stood over Beck's desk, a gun aimed at his chest. Beck's face was ashen and he lay awkwardly across his chair.

He was too late.

XI.

“What the hell was that?” Bob Bush exclaimed at the faint thump coming from outside the building.

Jefferson listened, then said, “SWAT reports that a man jumped from the third floor onto the balcony and has entered Beck's office.”

Bob bit back expletives. “Who?”

“No confirmation yet. He was wearing gray slacks and white button-down, rolled up at the sleeves. Dark hair, approximately six foot one inch—”

“Matt Elliott. Ring the office.” Dammit, did the Senator want to get both him and Beck killed?

Bob held the phone to his ear as it rang and rang.

XII.

“Let me answer the phone,” Matt told Hannah.

“Why are you here?”

“Hannah, please.”

She didn't respond, and Matt slowly reached over to Beck's desk, watching Hannah’s eyes the entire time. He pressed line one, picked up the phone. “It's Matt Elliott.”

“Senator, what are you doing?” Bob Bush exclaimed.

“Beck is alive. Give me five minutes.”

He hung up over Bob’s protests. “Hannah,” he said, “you don't want to do this.”

He glanced at the Senate leader. There was no blood; she hadn't shot him. Something was still wrong. Beck's mouth moved rapidly, but no words came out. He was pale and his left eye seemed to look in a different direction than his right. Heart attack? Didn't matter, Beck needed medical attention immediately.

“You don't want to kill him.”

Hannah looked at him with blue eyes filled with anguish so tangible Matt's own heart broke.

“No one cares about Timmy,” she whispered.

“You care, Hannah. You've done everything you can. I'm not going to let anyone forget about your son.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Today—today he would have been fifteen.”

Matt had forgotten. He'd breathed nothing but the Timothy Stewart homicide for five and a half years, but he hadn't remembered the child's birthday.

His mother would never forget.

“I'm so sorry, Hannah. I've done everything I could to make sure no other mother suffers like you have.”

She shook her head. “He—” She waved the gun at Beck and swallowed. “People like him don't care. All they see are numbers and statistics. And money. Always the money. Like the life of a child has a price on it! All they had to do was give parents information. Give us a chance to protect our children. I’d have walked Timmy home myself every day if I’d known those sex offenders lived in that house. But no one can protect the children if we don't even know what we're up against!”

Matt was concerned about Beck. His breathing was shallow, his face clammy, and an odd sound emanated from his throat. Maybe it was a stroke, not a heart attack. Hannah seemed oblivious.

If Beck died, she'd be charged with second-degree murder. Matt didn't know if he could live with that on his conscious.

“What about Rachel?”

Hannah blinked, really looked at him for the first time. “Rachel?”

“How can you protect your niece if you go to prison? What is Meg going to tell Timmy's cousin? Rachel needs you. Meg needs you. She's stood by you from the very beginning. She sat next to you during Coleman's trial every single day. Think of how she will feel if you go to prison. Or if SWAT shoots you.”

Matt had spied the SWAT team member in the tree across the path, and blocked his direct line of fire. He couldn't let Hannah die, especially not as a criminal.

He couldn't let Beck die.

“I'm nothing,” she whispered.

“Hannah, you're living in hell. Let me help bring you back. Please.”

She stared at him. “Promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“You won't stop until Timothy's Law passes.”

“That I can promise you.” Arms outstretched, he took a step toward her. “Hand me the gun.”

She nodded.

His momentary relief that she was giving up the fight dissipated as Hannah brought the gun to her head.

“No!”

He leaped toward her.

The gun went off.

IX.

Three Months Later

“Matt, Sandra Cullen is here to see you.”

“Thanks, Bonnie.”

Bonnie was the last of his staff. When he announced last month that he wasn’t seeking reelection, his entire staff found other jobs. He didn’t blame them, though there were still six months left in his term. He didn’t care that he was staffless. He had nothing he wanted to accomplish—at least in this building.

He’d already done all the damage he could.

Sandy closed the door behind her. She was a petite woman, skinny through excess energy. She’d been the District Attorney of Sacramento County for coming on twelve years, as well as his former boss. He had complete respect for her. It was Sandy who had tried to stop him from running for state senate. He’d accused her of playing politics—he was taking out a member of her party. But in hindsight, she’d wanted to spare him the pain of failure.

An idealist in government simply tilted at windmills, she’d said.

“I'm not going to try to change your mind,” she said, “because you're going to make a damn fine D.A.”

When Sandy had announced her retirement, Matt had tossed his hat into the ring. She’d endorsed him immediately.

Already, he felt like the world that had crashed down three months ago was rising just enough to allow him to breathe.

“Thought you might like to know that my office just accepted a plea on Hannah Stewart’s case. She’ll remain at Napa State Hospital for twelve months.”

“No jail time?”

Sandy frowned. “I know you think I’m callous, but I couldn’t fight for jail time on this one. I would have got it. But in a trial, I think I would have ended with a hung jury. She wanted—and needed—to go to the mental hospital.”

“Thank you.”

“I read in the paper that Beck was released from the hospital yesterday. Is he coming back? It was unclear.”

“He’s still incapacitated from the stroke. He doesn’t have mobility on his left side at all, though he’s regaining his speech.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“And Hannah?”

He paused. “Once.” It had been awkward for both of them. He thought originally she’d been too embarrassed and grateful that he’d knocked her hand away before she killed herself. Instead, she’d blamed him for her failed suicide attempt.

“I just don’t want to live anymore.”

“Matt, I always said you were too good for this building.”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t it be better if there were more people here like us? Then maybe we could make a difference.”

She smiled sadly. “When Hell freezes over.”

###

Dear Reader:

Whenever I write a short story or novella, I consider setting. I want a place I know well, which is why almost all my short stories are set in the Sacramento area. I’ve lived here most of my adult life and don’t need to spend as much time on research.

Research is still very important to me, and I have a lot of fun participating in research “field trips”—I’ve toured the morgue, observed an autopsy, visited the FBI Academy at Quantico, and am a role player in FBI SWAT training exercises. But most of my research is done the old-fashioned way—reading, personal interviews, and on-line. For example, when I learned through a newspaper article that the Sacramento Police Department only had six detectives in their sex crimes squad, I knew I wanted to write a story about it. I called the Public Information Officer with SPD and asked him many questions about their caseload, the types of  cases they investigate, and how they’re assigned.

Detective Selena Black popped into my head fully-formed and ready to star in a book. I felt that I knew her so well, that when I started writing “Above Reproach” it came out in first person. This scared me because I’d only written one very short story in first person and didn’t know if I could sustain it for a novella.

But as a writer, I always want to try new things, new styles, and new ideas. I wanted to challenge myself and Selena Black seemed the best way to do that.

“Above Reproach” was originally published in early 2012 by Murder She Writes, a blog I co-founded in 2005. It’s the longest story in this anthology, and my personal favorite. I hope you like it.

Happy Reading!

Allison Brennan

2012

Above Reproach

I.

“The victim is Ashley Young,” the responding officer, Sampson, told me as I approached. It was officially Tuesday morning: 12:02 a.m.

I recognized Sampson from the station, but hadn’t worked a case with him. “We found her purse over there.” He gestured toward the Dumpster near where the alley and walkway intersected. He handed me her California driver’s license. Ashley was twenty-four, five feet five inches tall, one hundred ten pounds, blond hair and blue eyes.

Pretty and blond, just the way Greg Keller—aka “the River City Rapist”—liked his prey.

I stuffed my hands back into the pockets of my wool coat. The fog had thickened after the sunset, penetrating my bones. The fog layer was supposed to keep the rain away, but the ground had been wet after a week of this unending dreariness. Usually I liked the gray; tonight it was simply depressing.

“Why are we still in the alley?”

“Ms. Young started to panic when I suggested we go to the car. My partner fetched the blanket for her.” His tone was a bit defensive. My reputation preceded me once again.

“Good,” I said, hoping to smooth the relationship. I was known as the stereotypical bitch cop. The reputation wasn’t wholly warranted; it stemmed from a couple cases early in my career. But like the game of telephone, truth became distorted in the repeated telling.

I said, “Check on the ambulance, would you please? The paramedics should be here by now.”

Sampson stepped aside and got on his radio.

Ashley watched me as I approached. I showed her my badge. “I’m Detective Selena Black with Sac P.D. It’s my job to find the guy who did this.”

She just stared, and I feared she was going into shock. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, the blanket tucked firmly under her chin, and when I stepped closer, she pulled away, rubbing against the filthy brick wall that reeked of urine and garbage, pulling herself into a tighter ball.

I needed to give her a moment to feel comfortable with my presence, and then I’d start asking questions.

The poorly lit corridor where she’d been attacked was long and narrow—made for walking, not driving—connecting the alley with the street. The businesses here were all closed; only the bars were open past ten. The fog turned what little light we had into halos surrounding the lamps. The damp air would get thicker, making evidence collection next to impossible, if we waited much longer.

The sign for The Sweet Tooth with its colorful lollipop logo against the gray employee entrance didn’t fit the scene beneath it: a young woman huddled under a scratchy wool blanket in the corner, shaking and trying to convince herself that none of this had happened. My older brother John and I used to harvest change from under the cushions of our couch—planted there, we knew, by Dad’s cop friends—and spend it at this same candy shop.

Old Sacramento is best known as home of the Jazz Festival (called the Crime Festival for those of us who work overtime Memorial Day weekends). Old Sac boasted a real paddleboat that doesn’t run, and a steam train that does. When I was little, on Sundays after church, John and I explored every store, alley, and nook in the square half-mile that made up Old Sac while my dad hung out at the sports bar. Dad wasn’t a drinker, but he liked the crowd, which ran toward cops and cop groupies. He and his buddies from the beat would share war stories or just watch the game, mostly rooting for the Raiders or the ‘Niners, or in spring for the Giants. Sometimes he’d find a girlfriend, but that never lasted. Once I asked him why he never remarried after Mom died. He’d simply said, “I still love her.”

I grew up on F Street, two blocks from where Dorothea Puente killed nearly a dozen people for their social security and disability checks—jogging distance from the crime scene where I now stood. The sports bar my dad had frequented closed more than a decade ago, but the back entrance was in this corridor, now leading employees into The Moon and Stars, a New Age gift shop.

“Ashley.” I kept my voice firm, but quiet. She needed to believe that I was tough enough to protect her, but not threatening or chastising. Too many rape victims started their story with variations on it’s all my fault, even when they were brutally attacked. “I’m not going to leave you. The ambulance is on its way; you’re safe now.”

Greg Keller was a crafty bastard who had two traits that had kept him out of prison: street smarts and connections. Being the son of a wealthy Sacramento family wasn’t the biggest problem in my case. Keller was also a high-ranking lawyer with the Attorney General’s Office—that was the major sticking point. Circumstantial evidence, of which I had plenty, wasn’t enough to give me the arrest warrant I desperately needed.

I had proof that Keller attended the same political and charity fundraisers that his victims attended the night they were attacked. The events were at a variety of different venues, but all were either downtown or the adjoining Old Sac. The victims were all blond, under thirty, and had been at a bar immediately after the event. And, each victim had “lost” something of value at the bar—a cell phone, planner, file, silk scarf. My theory was that Keller found a way to palm the item and leave it on the bar when the bartender was busy or distracted. There was no guarantee the victim would return the same night, or that they would return alone, but the odds were in Keller’s favor that the majority of his targets would come back, and some of them would be alone. It had to be a game to him, the anticipation and waiting to see which of his prey would walk into his trap.

My one positive ID of Keller had been tossed by the judge as prejudicial, and I couldn’t get a warrant without something rock solid. I’d already been warned by the powers that be that every “t” must be crossed and every “i” dotted before I locked Keller behind bars.

I hoped this latest victim could turn the key.

Ashley had a cut across her face, as did the other victims, a sick memento from her attacker. An excellent plastic surgeon could fix it and leave the cheek with little to no scarring, but it would take months—or longer—to heal. As if the pain he’d left her with wasn’t enough, she now had to look in the mirror every day and see his mark. Remember and live in fear, because that’s what her rapist wanted — her fear.

Some serial rapists take mementoes—like the victim’s underwear or a lock of their hair—but I suspected Keller marked his victims so when he saw them in public, he could remember what he’d done to them. I wanted to cut the dick off the bastard.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ashley repeated.

“I know,” I lied.

I’d faced rape victims before—on the streets, in the hospital, in the mirror. If I told her she was a fucking mess, she’d put up an impenetrable shield and deny it until Hell froze, giving me shit to work with to nail the devil who’d done this to her and four other women.

What she needed was a long, hot shower followed by a long, hot soak in the bathtub with three bars of Irish Spring and a bottle of tequila—to clean and to forget.

But it was my job to make sure she didn’t get that peace for the next few hours. It was my job to get her to the hospital. To make sure the rape kit went into evidence and nag the lab to process it. To take her statement and make her remember every awful minute of her trauma. She had to suffer so I could stop this prick. I didn’t like it, but it had to be done.

Though Ashley was the fifth known victim of the River City Rapist, I suspected there were more who hadn’t come forward, who’d opted for the soap and tequila to kill the pain along with the evidence. But he was escalating, becoming more violent, as if a simple rape wasn’t enough to get his rocks off, he had to cut and demean his victims.

“I know you were raped,” I said, breaking a million protocols. She hadn’t told anyone she was raped. I could see she was on the verge of denying it, and if she didn’t let me in, I wouldn’t have anything to work with.

I squatted next to her. “Are you hurt?” Stupid question. Of course she was hurt, but I needed to know if she had any life threatening injuries.

“He raped me,” she whispered.

“I know.” I looked her over, but the way she was sitting all bunched in a ball, I couldn’t see any part of her body except her face. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your face?”

She didn’t move to touch her cheek. “He said he wanted me to remember him,” she said in a monotone.

My cell phone vibrated and I glanced at the caller ID, thinking it might be Sampson or his people who were canvassing the area.

Dr. Gabriel Storm.

I pocketed my phone, not needing the distraction (though very much wanting that particular distraction) and focused on Ashley.

The officer said over the radio, “The ‘bus is here.”

I told her, “The ambulance is here. I’ll go with you to the hospital.”

Ashley shook her head. “I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just want to go home. Puh-please.”

I squatted next to her, close but not touching. I wanted to give her a minute to know she was safe now. Quietly, I said, “Quick stop at the hospital, then I’ll take you home. Okay?”

I needed something from Ashley—anything to shake at a judge to get a warrant for Greg Keller.

“Ashley, did you see your attacker?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

“A glance.”

“What did you see in that glance?”

“He was white.” Same description as the other victims, and too damn vague to help. White victims were more likely to be raped by a white offender. “Can you remember anything else? His voice? A tattoo? Something familiar about him?”

I wanted to show her Greg Keller’s picture, but his lawyer would argue that I planted the image of Keller in her mind during a susceptible moment.

I’d already done it once, with the third victim and got bitch-slapped by Keller’s asshole attorney, who successfully got the entire identification suppressed, and the judge rejected the line-up I had planned with Keller. The victims may not be able to identify his face, but he’d spoken to them. No line-up without more evidence. There was a leak in the D.A.’s office, and the D.A. himself was pissed off, but could do nothing about it except tell me to get something solid and he’d get me the warrant any time of day or night. My lieutenant told me one more fuck up and I’d be off the case.

I hadn’t done anything wrong—it was a grey area but I was within my rights. I’d figured out the rapist’s M.O. after the second victim and pulled the guest lists of the events they’d attended. There were over a dozen white men between twenty-five and forty—the basic profile of the rapist—and I’d printed all their pictures to show the two victims. But they hadn’t seen their rapist and couldn’t ID any of them. I had the pictures with me when called to the third attack crime scene; Keller happened to be on top and she ID’d him.

I couldn’t lose this case. If I didn’t stop Greg Keller, other women would suffer. He was escalating, becoming more violent, targeting women more closely together. It had to stop, and it would stop at Ashley Young.

I heard the gurney from the ambulance bumping down the stone alley. Finally.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Ashley pleaded. “My mom—she can’t know. My work—oh, God, they can’t know!” Ashley wasn’t crying, but her voice had that edge that told me she’d be hysterical if I screwed this up, and hysterical rape victims couldn’t give me what I needed to do my job.

“Ashley,” I said, “I’m on your side. We’re here to help you.”

The tears came. Quiet tears, dropping into her lap. She rocked herself.

The EMT pushed the gurney next to me. A light drizzle began. So much for the rain holding off. “Keep the clothes, the blanket, everything,” I said.

“I know the drill, Detective.”

Ashley averted her head, a rumble of pain coming from her throat. “What’s your name?” I whispered to the EMT.

“Adam Harper.”

I squatted again in front of Ashley. “This is Adam. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s going to make sure you’re warm and safe. I’ll stay with you, okay?”

She didn’t object when Adam shined a light into her eyes, but they had a wild feral look, like she was ready to bolt.

“Look at me, Ashley. Any detail you can remember is important. Where were you before the attack?”

She hesitated and seemed confused, then nodded slowly. “I was at Fat Annie’s with friends from work.” Fat Annie’s was a local bar and grill, about two blocks from this corridor.

“What about earlier in the evening? After you left work?”

“The Railroad Museum. We had an event there—I worked the door.”

“What kind of event?” My pulse quickened. This was Keller’s exact profile.

Adam tried to remove the blanket to examine her, but she whimpered and looked panicked.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Let Adam—”

She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “We all walked back to the parking lot together, then I got in my car and couldn’t find my cell phone. I went back, and then this guy grabbed me and pulled me in here. He held me from behind. I wanted to scream, but he had a knife. He showed me, right in my face, and I froze. He said he’d cut my throat and I believed him.”

The story was pouring out, and though it was disjointed, I knew it was the truth. I’d heard a similar tale far too many times. The lost cell phone. Retracing steps. The attack.

“You said you got a look at him?”

“And he ripped my sweater,” she said without answering my question. “And he had a knife. He c-c-cut off my bra and I thought someone would walk by. Someone would stop him—he pushed me down on my knees, he told me—told me I was a-a bitch in heat.” Tears continued rolling down her dirty face while the EMT put a loose bandage over the cut on her face.

Adam said, “Let’s put her on the gurney and get her out of this garbage. Her pupils aren’t responding the way they should, she’s shocky.”

His words cut through the rage burning within me. When I nailed Keller’s ass, I would make sure every convict in Folsom State Prison knew what he’d done and then he could be given the same treatment he dished out to his victims.

We lifted her up and onto the gurney. She was still in a tight ball. Adam said, “Can you stretch out your legs for me Ashley?”

“I saw him before,” she whispered to me. “I saw him at Annie’s, and thought I recognized him, but didn’t know why. Why would he hurt me like this?”

She’d seen him. I had an eyewitness. I tried to restrain my excitement. As soon as she was stable and in the hospital, I’d show her photos. If she positively ID’d Greg Keller, and I could get both a search warrant and a DNA warrant. Victory and justice were within reach.

I touched her face. “I’ll find him and put him in jail. I promise.”

A streak of blood crossed her cheek where I had touched her. I looked down at my hands. The purple gloves I wore were wet. “Adam, she’s bleeding.”

He removed the blanket even though Ashley cried out in protest.

“Shit,” he said.

Blood seeped from Ashley’s fingers, which clung tight around her waist.

“Did he stab you?” I asked.

She looked down as if just remembering she was injured. “It’s just a scrape. I’m fine. Really, please I want to go home.”

She was anything but fine. I pulled her hands away and restrained them so the medic could do his job. Ashley screamed, “No! No!”

“Ashley, I’m here. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again.” I spoke to her soothingly, murmurs that weren’t really words, trying to get her to calm down. I wanted to give the cop who’d found her a tongue-lashing. Why hadn’t he seen this?

“Detective,” Adam snapped. “Hold her down.”

I did as the paramedic ordered, wincing at the pain and panic in the young woman’s eyes as Adam strapped her to the gurney, for her safety. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Let us help you. We need to get you to the hospital.”

Wasn’t it as much my fault as the responding officer’s that Ashley’s injuries had gone unnoticed for so long? I could have inspected her body. I probably should have. It didn’t matter that she told me she was fine. I knew better than anyone that victims often lied about their injuries, especially at first when they were in shock, as a measure of protection while their brain processed what had happened to them.

Was stopping Greg Keller more important to me than the victim’s well-being?

I didn’t want to contemplate the person this case was turning me into. I’d been a cop for nine years, and a detective for three. I had investigated homicides and sex crimes. I had seen the worst that people could do to others, and until now, I had handled each case professionally.

I knew why I took Keller’s continued freedom personally. It wasn’t just the fact that I’d been in Ashley Young’s shoes fifteen years ago; it wasn’t just that Keller was a brutal rapist who was a threat to women of Sacramento. It was because I knew he was guilty, and he knew I knew he was guilty, and I could do nothing to stop him.

“Ready,” Adam said. “Help me push her out.”

I did, glad that someone else had taken over at this point. Ashley was out of my hands, but her assault wasn’t.

The EMT met us at the corner and took over from me. They wheeled her into the ambulance.

I ordered the cop standing guard, “Secure the scene until the CSU gets here.” Then I ran toward my car to meet the ambulance at the hospital.

II.

The bustle of the shift change woke me. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen asleep at my desk. I’d come to the station after Ashley went into surgery, frustrated that I couldn’t talk to her and worried about her injuries, which were far more extensive than we’d known when she was first found.

I sat up and stretched, my shoulders and neck were stiff to the point of pain. I reached for my coffee mug, half filled with cold coffee, and fumbled in my top drawer for an aspirin bottle. I swallowed three pills chased with disgusting coffee before noticing that Joe Lin, my partner on the River City Rapist investigation, was sitting across from me.

“You’ve been here all night,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You heard?”

He nodded once. “Why didn’t you call me in?”

“You had the trial this morning; you need to be fresh to keep that bitch in prison.” He’s been the lead detective on a case last year involving a female pedophile—high profile because it was so rare. But if I looked into my motives for not calling Joe, I don’t know if they would have been that pure. Joe was a good detective, but he’d been pulling back on Keller. Not because Joe was corrupt, but because we had forty-nine unclosed cases that had hit our unit the first six weeks of this year alone—not including the cases we’d closed or were left over from last year.

“I read the report you filed last night. Sounds like our guy. What did you fall asleep in the middle of doing?”

“Viewing the footage from Fat Annie’s, the bar and grill our vic was at before the attack.” I restarted the DVD I’d gotten from the bar and watched from when Ashley first arrived, at 9:47 p.m. I didn’t remember when I had fallen asleep, so I fast-forwarded, keeping my eyes on the screen while Joe talked.

“The D.A. promised to call me to the stand this morning. He hopes it doesn’t go until after lunch, so I’m all yours this afternoon.”

“Harrumph,” I muttered. I didn’t have a lot of faith in the D.A.’s office right now. They were as intimidated by the prospect of indicting Greg Keller as half my department. Going after the Attorney General’s Ivy League pet lawyer made everyone squeamish.

“What are your plans?”

“I’m going to get a warrant.”

“Warrant? For what?”

“Keller’s car and clothing he wore last night. I’m working on getting the guest list from Ashley’s employer, but if I can find him on tape at Fat Annie’s, that’ll give us something to take to a judge. I can put him at the same place Ashley was before her attack—we have a shot.” I hoped.

“But she didn’t identify her attacker, right?”

“No, but she said she recognized him. She didn’t know his name, but said she’d seen him somewhere before the attack. If I can get Keller’s picture in front of her—a line up photo, all proper and official, she’ll point him out. I’m certain of it. She’s still in surgery, though.” I frowned, worried about the victim’s chances. She’d lost consciousness in the ambulance driving over and had gone right into surgery. “He stabbed her, Joe. He’s escalating. The rapes are getting closer together, the attacks more vicious. Before it was just their faces; now he stabbed her in the stomach.”

“I don’t think a judge is going to give us a warrant for Keller unless she can positively ID him.”

“That’s why I’m doing this.” I nodded toward my computer screen where the security camera captured everyone going in and out of Fat Annie’s.

“That’s still thin.” Joe walked around his desk so he could look over my shoulder. “The place was packed for a Monday night.”

“There were a lot of events downtown last night, plus a concert at the River Cat Stadium that ended at ten.”

I didn’t tell Joe this was the third time I was viewing the disk. I said, “I’m going to talk to her boss this morning, get the guest list—I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t share it—and when I verify that Keller was there—”

“And if he wasn’t?”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t at Fat Annie’s.” I couldn’t ask Keller questions—Keller had a lawyer, he was a lawyer, who, the first time we’d attempted to question him, had said he didn’t rape anyone, and he wasn’t answering any questions on what he called a ‘fishing expedition.’

“Selena,” Joe began, but I put up my hand, practically bouncing in my chair.

“Joe—I got him!”

All remnants of fatigue drained away. I rewound the disk and played back the last minute at half-speed. The time stamp was 10:13 p.m., approximately thirty minutes after Ashley arrived.

Joe and I watched. The angle of the camera was odd—high and tilted slightly. I know why I missed Keller on the previous passes. Other than the poor quality that rendered the black-and-white picture fuzzy, Keller had walked in behind a large guy in a dark suit. Keller was also in a dark suit and almost blended in with the other guy. He also was only in profile, until for one second he turned and faced the camera. He looked directly at it, smiling, then walked out of the frame.

The bastard knew I’d get the tape. He knew and didn’t care. My chest tightened as my heart pounded. It was a game to him, a sick, twisted game.

I rewound again and captured the screen shot of Keller, printing it out as well as emailing a copy to our tech guy to enhance.

“That’s him,” I said.

“Probably,” Joe said.

“Definitely.”

“The quality sucks, Selena.”

“We can fix that.” I looked at him over my shoulder. “You know that’s him, right?”

“I know that’s him, but I also want to catch him as badly as you do. And he’s not seen on tape with the vic, right?”

“No,” I admitted, “it’s circumstantial, but it might be enough to get a warrant for his clothing.”

“We should wait until the victim is out of surgery.”

“She may not be conscious, she may not be coherent, there’s no guarantee we’ll get to talk to her before tomorrow or the next day. Enough time for him to clean his car and destroy his clothes.” If he hadn’t done it already. But I couldn’t think that way. We had to cover all our bases.

Joe said, “You’re right, but I still don’t think the judge is going to go for it. Any other rapist, yes—but no grey areas with Keller. Did you interview her friends last night?”

“One of them came by the hospital,” I said. “She didn’t know Keller, hadn’t seen anyone following them, wasn’t helpful at all.”

I finished watching the tape. Ashley left with her friends at 10:56. Keller didn’t leave the bar—at least, he wasn’t on tape leaving. But there were several points on the disk where larger groups left together, and the camera didn’t capture every face.

“I need to get someone on this looking for his suit, or the way he walks, or something,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” Joe said, sitting back down.

We were short-staffed and underfunded. If I wanted someone to go through the disk, I’d need to do it myself.

Joe was re-reading my report. “You have a clear timeline for the attack—only a small window.”

“It’s not enough,” I said. Joe grunted his agreement.

Ashley and her friends had been captured on the parking garage security camera at 11:03. They’d entered the garage, which was built under the freeway and easily accessible to pedestrians, and walked as a group to a row of cars. After Ashley parted from her friends, she sat in her car for several minutes. It was impossible to see what she was doing, but I imagined she was going through her purse looking for her cell phone.

At 11:08, she got out of her car and headed back the way she’d come. We knew from several witnesses at Fat Annie’s that she never made it back to the bar. At 11:40, a 911 call came in from a lone female who said she heard someone crying in the alley, but was too scared to investigate. The responding officer had interviewed the woman, but she hadn’t seen anything. I planned on talking to her later, but didn’t hold out much hope that the not-so-good Samaritan would be helpful.

I’d walked the stretch from the garage to the bar and it took five minutes tops. The narrow walkway that led to the alley where she’d been raped was halfway between the bar and the garage. I had uniformed officers going to every business on the street asking if they had any security footage, but I hadn’t spotted any active cameras in our hot spot.

My guess was Keller was waiting for her to return. If she was with friends, he would have let her pass. But she was alone, and he grabbed her.

For him, it was the excitement of the hunt. Not knowing if tonight would be the night for victory, waiting in anticipation for his prey to walk into his trap. He was patient, but bold. Five attacks in five months, but the last three were only two weeks apart. He was escalating, both in the timeline and in the violence.

I had to stop him.

I stared at the print out of Keller from Fat Annie’s. “I hope this is enough for the judge.”

“It might, if we get someone like Forsyth.”

“Say a prayer.”

III.

Unfortunately, Marianne Forsyth was preparing for a trial, and at eight in the morning, only Judge Robert Healy was hearing warrants. His clerk said he was in a meeting and we sat down to wait.

Joe said, “The ADA wants to see me for a few minutes. I’m going to run upstairs—be back in two shakes.” He must have seen concern in my expression because he added, “I promise.”

“Fine.” It wasn’t fine—we’d wanted Judge Marianne Forsyth because she was liberal in granting warrants for sex offenders. Healy was a former civil lawyer turned criminal court judge when appointed by the governor the year I was born. He was a dictator in court. Great when you got him on the bench because he didn’t take bullshit from anyone—in fact, I didn’t think he particularly liked anyone. If you had your case in order, you fared well in his court. If you let one thing slide, didn’t cross one damn ‘t,’ you were reamed.

Getting a search warrant was a bitch. We were so screwed.

I couldn’t sit—both tired and antsy. I had Keller on camera, but that didn’t mean he’d raped Ashley Young. I didn’t have a frame where the two of them were together, and Ashley hadn’t told me anything specific. It was going to be a stretch, but I had to try. I hoped she was out of surgery by the time I got to the hospital and if I could just get one word from her positively ID’ing Keller, I’d have him.

Keller was sly. The one positive ID I had was tossed out, and the victim was so upset and angry with the system, I couldn’t get her to talk to me. Maybe he’d scared her, intimidated her. I didn’t put anything past Keller. Maggie Van Allen just wanted it all to “go away.”

But rape didn’t just go away. It stayed with you, even when you beat it. Even in victory, it was a reminder of the past.

In five rapes, I had a lot of circumstantial evidence on Keller, but not enough for the DA to go after a prominent government lawyer. Proximity was the primary evidence—Keller had been at the same location as each victim the night she’d been attacked. The only other commonality was that the victim was blond, and left their cell phone or another personal item at an event or bar, then went back to retrieve it. Two were attacked before they returned; three were attacked after they retrieved the item.

The rapist had left DNA on the first victim, and that’s why I desperately needed Keller’s DNA. But that warrant had been quashed two victims ago, when I first put Keller on my radar. I needed something substantive in order to arrest Keller and force him under state law to submit for DNA testing.

The judge’s chamber door opened. A voice from the doorway caught my attention.

“Thank you, Judge. I’ll see you on Friday.” He closed the door.

Greg Keller.

He stepped out and didn’t seem surprised to see me waiting, the warrant I’d written up at the station in my hands.

“Detective Black. Selena Black.”

He’d caught me off-guard. I hadn’t expected to see him. My first urge was to bolt—I was between Keller and the door. Then shame washed over me, because I had sworn to protect and serve, and that meant facing evil head on.

He’s only a man. Small, weak, needing to prove his dominance over women by hurting them.

I’d read No Exit in college, a twisted story about three people stuck in Hell. For eternity, they’re locked together in a windowless room, each the other’s torturer. No violence, just hate and hopelessness.

I sat, filled with the same hate and hopelessness. Greg Keller was my personal purgatory, the rapist I couldn’t catch.

When I looked at Keller, I saw evil, a twisted ugliness that overshadowed his clear blue eyes, aristocratic features, and square chin—a psychotic Ken doll that wanted to damage and deface all the Barbies out there.

He leered at my discomfort. “The early bird catches the worm, Selena.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. My voice, at least, hadn’t failed me.

His lips curled into a snarky grin. “Meeting with an old friend, Detective. And you?”

He knew. I saw it in his eyes. He knew I was going after him again, just like he’d known I’d been warned to back off after Madelyn Lane’s ID was tossed by a judge. Was he planning on glad-handing it with every judge the morning after he attacks another woman? So when I came calling, they’d toss me on my ass?

“I will prove you’re a rapist.”

His expression didn’t change at first, but his eyes darted quickly right and left, to see if the clerk had returned. When he realized we were alone, he leaned closer to me and my body betrayed me.

I flinched.

And he knew I was scared.

“You can’t,” he whispered.

The door opened and Keller turned, almost walking into Joe. Joe was surprised, glanced from Keller to me, then was about to speak when Keller said, “Keep your bitch on a leash or I’ll have both your badges.”

Keller stomped out as if I had attacked him.

“What the hell happened?” Joe asked.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”

“He was livid.”

“It was an act.”

But I could see Joe doubted my word. Something cracked inside, despair flooding through me.

“Did the judge call us yet?”

“Keller was in there. We might as well forget the damn warrant.”

“You don’t know why he was here.”

I stared at Joe. He’d been on this case from the beginning, why was he cutting Keller slack now?

The clerk stepped in from the hall. “Detectives? Judge Healy is ready for you.”

I didn’t want to go in, but Joe didn’t give me a choice. He led the way.

I sat like a good soldier while Judge Healy read the warrant. It didn’t take long.

Healy closed the folder without expression and crossed his hands on his immaculate desk. “If I understand you correctly,” he said, “Mr. Keller is a suspect only because he was in the vicinity of the crime—at a bar four blocks from the attack.”

“No, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did I misread your statement?”

I said, “Sir, Mr. Keller was in the vicinity of all five rapes. I have the guest lists of the events where both Mr. Keller and the victim were in attendance. The latest rape victim, who is currently in surgery, said that she didn’t know her attacker but had seen him at Annie’s, the bar where she’d been immediately prior to the attack. I have the surveillance tape that shows—”

Healy cut me off. “As I said, it appears Mr. Keller is a suspect only because he was in the vicinity of the crime.”

“The crimes,” Joe reiterated. “That stretches the bounds of coincidence.”

“You have no prints, no witnesses, no probable cause.”

“We have the rapist’s DNA—we just need to match it to Keller.”

“Why not ask for a warrant for all white men in Sacramento County?” Healy waved his hands. “Have everyone sacrifice their rights on your hunch.”

“Sir—” Joe began, but I barely heard him.

I said, “When we spoke to Keller after the third rape, he was patronizing and uncooperative. If he was innocent, all he had to do was submit to a simple blood test. All I’m asking for are the clothes he was wearing on the security tape, plus a search warrant for his car.”

“That’s all?” Healy mocked.

Healy’s attitude grated on me, and it didn’t help that I hadn’t slept all night. “As soon as the victim is out of surgery, she’ll ID him,” I said.

“Maybe you have a vendetta, Detective Black.”

“I have no vendetta,” I said with restrained anger. What had Keller said to the judge? Why had he been here?

Healy opened his top desk drawer and removed a thick file. “The proof is in the pudding, as my mother used to say.” He slapped his hand on the file. “Do you remember Clive Robeaux?”

Of course I remembered that pervert who went after cheerleaders. He’d walked on a technicality. I’d still be after him if he hadn’t moved to L.A. Last I heard three cheerleaders down there had been attacked this past year. I’d sent L.A.P.D. everything I had on him, but they hadn’t been able to make anything stick. He was good at covering his tracks, and he played the system like a damn violin—just like Keller.

“It seems Robeaux filed charges against you and the department for abuse of authority, harassment, and false arrest.”

“They were all thrown out, Your Honor,” I said.

“His case was thrown out because of lack of evidence.”

“That was because—”

Healy cut me off. “I don’t honestly care why, only the final outcome. There’ve been seven complaints against you in the past three years.”

“By criminals. Every cop in the department has complaints against them. Most have no merit.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, then smiled. “I am the judge. If you come back with an infallible statement from the victim that Greg Keller is the man who raped her, and I’ll give you an airtight arrest warrant. Until then, you’d better watch your step, Detective.”

IV.

I’m not a patient person. And when an impatient person has a badge, you can generally get the answers you need when you want them.

Except in hospitals.

All I knew was that Ashley Young was still in surgery. She’d been in for hours, and no one would tell me why it was taking so long, when they’d be done, or how she was doing. I tried calling Gabriel, who’d been the emergency surgeon on call during two of the first four rapes, but he didn’t answer, either.

I couldn’t sit, so I paced, ignoring the glare of the triage nurse assessing the throng of patients who all claimed to need emergency medical attention. At quick glance, I guessed that ninety percent of them could have taken two aspirin and gone home.

Keller must have given the judge the Robeaux file. It was public information, which made me wonder if Keller was doing a background investigation on me while I was investigating him.

But he couldn’t get everything. Even some records were beyond the reach of the Attorney General’s office.

After what happened in the judge’s chambers, I now knew that Keller had been following the investigation closely. Who had he talked to? He enjoyed my frustration that I couldn’t arrest him. He was playing off his contacts and legal knowledge, plus I suspected that each target and each crime scene were specifically selected to avoid security cameras and the likelihood of a witness, while also being as open and public as he could manage.

Keller thrived on the danger, the thrill of his game with police, as much as the attacks themselves. 

“Selena.”

I wasn’t a girly-girl, but my heart fluttered a moment at the sound of Gabriel’s deep baritone. I didn’t need to see Doctor Gabriel Storm to know the ER surgeon was behind me. His quiet, authoritative voice made his presence well-known. But maybe I had sensed him a moment before he spoke. He had already gotten inside my heart. How had I let that happen?

I braced myself as I tilted my head up at his too-handsome face, but couldn’t stop the reaction I always had when his dark blue eyes settled on mine—dark butterflies in my stomach, drawing me to him. Lust.

“I didn’t know she’d been stabbed,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “She wouldn’t let anyone near her, the blanket covered her stomach, I asked her—” The guilt had weighed on me from the moment I saw all that blood. What could I have done differently?

He reached out and squeezed my arm. The gesture was intimate and supportive even in its brevity. For five seconds the power of his confident personality focused completely on me. His eyes reflected my anger and frustration over not being able to stop Greg Keller, over not knowing the seriousness of Ashley Young’s injuries. But no blame, no accusations. His touch supported me, lifted me up to do my job, saying what words couldn’t.

Men didn’t generally make me feel feminine or desired, partly because I could play the arrogant, hardened cop as well as any man. Better, because being a girl in a boy job, you needed to be tougher, more resilient, more everything, just to survive. But from the minute I met Gabriel Storm four months ago after he performed stitched up the first victim of the River City Rapist, he’d made me feel wanted and loved.

Which was completely ridiculous.

Except for the fact that we’d been having sex whenever we both had a night off.

Which was rare.

Except that he gave me a key to his condo.

Which I had never used.

Damn, I wanted to.

Business first. Then we could celebrate the victory when I locked Keller in jail.

“When can I talk to her?” I asked. “I brought pictures. She told me she saw him, if she can ID him, then I’ll get the warrant. You can witness her statement, then—”

“Lena, she’s dead.”

I shook my head. “No.” I said it emphatically, as if my denial would change the facts. “No!”

That’s when I saw the sheen of tears in Gabriel’s blood-shot eyes, the blood on his surgical gown, and the fatigue in his posture.

“I did everything I could.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I had been to brutal crime scenes. I spent my first two years as a detective in homicide, fighting for the dead; I’d lost victims who I thought would live. But I never took it personally.

Until today.

Gabriel was in the business of saving lives. I was in the business of justice. Yet I felt exactly what he felt.

What more could I have done?

“I should have known something was wrong when I first got on scene. I should have checked her myself—”

He ran his hands up and down my arms. “Don’t. Would ten minutes have helped? Twenty? I don’t know. The damage was to her liver. Most of the bleeding was internal. If it happened here in the hospital, I might have been able to save her. I don’t know.”

He was consoling me, when he was the one in pain. I squeezed his hands. I wasn’t a demonstrative lover. I didn’t like public displays of affection. Inside I’m a bit twisted and a little broken. My past—my choices, my mistakes, my regrets—had hardened me in ways I couldn’t verbalize. They were things I had never shared with anyone, because speaking them made them real. And sometimes, I wanted to believe in the fantasy.

Sometimes, I needed to believe I’d never been raped.

Or that I hadn’t showered after.

Or that I hadn’t reported the crime only to be disbelieved by campus police.

Yet here was this fabulous man, a lifesaver, noble and handsome and good, trying to make me feel better when he suffered as much as I did. What had I done to deserve Gabriel Storm? It must have been something good in a previous existence to have this anchor in my disastrous life.

Come back with a statement from the victim that Mr. Keller is the man who raped her, and I’ll give you your warrant.

Now my victim was dead, and the chance of a warrant nil. Is that why he’d stabbed her? Because he screwed up and let her see him?

All I could think about was losing my only witness. The woman who would nail Keller’s coffin shut. Rage washed through me so suddenly, so violently, I pulled my hands from Gabriel and slammed my fist into the wall. It hurt like hell, but not as much as the icy anger inside that a rapist—a killer—was untouchable.

Gabriel took my injured hand and kissed it, then pulled me away from the main corridor. I never allowed anyone to lead me anywhere, but I didn’t stop Gabriel. I don’t know if I could have. He opened the door of the stairwell and we stepped inside.

He kissed me before I could speak. His kiss was firm, commanding. My back was against the wall, and my hands were around his neck, and I didn’t think. I just kissed him back with the same urgency, the same greedy need to feel something good and right and wanted. Gabriel knew what I needed without me ever speaking a word.

But was it just this case? Maybe I was reading this all wrong. Cops dating nurses and doctors was an old cliché, but there was a fundamental truth in these relationships—violence, pain, suffering, healing, helping—we understood each other.

He stepped back, held my face. “What?”

“Nothing.” I didn’t want to lose this moment in time. I kissed him again, the physical desire cloaking the loss, and obscuring my raw emotions.

“I need you, Lena, but it’s not for sex.”

I raised an eyebrow flirtatiously, while my heart beat with the very real fear that he was going to distance himself from me. Who could blame him? “You mean you haven’t been having fun in bed?”

His eyes narrowed and he kissed me again, his body pressed firmly against mine, every muscle tight. He kissed my jawline, my neck, behind my ear, hot and cold chills running through my nerves until I wanted to get naked and wrap my legs around him.

He whispered in my ear, “I want your body, from the minute I saw you I lusted for you. But I need you. I don’t know how you do your job, every day, facing bastards like Keller. Fighting for victims like Ashley. I admire it. Your strength gives me strength to face the losses, to fight for my patients. To know that there’s someone in this world who understands what I face without me having to explain it. I look at you, Lena…” He stepped back and caught my eye. “I see an amazing, beautiful woman. I touch you…” He put his hand on my neck, behind my hair, his skin so soft but his touch firm. “I touch you and don’t want to let go.” He kissed me lightly. “I could make love to you every night and each time it would be fresh, passionate, freeing. You make me forget the misery of my job, and remind me of the joy.”

“Gabriel—” My voice sounded far away.

“My shift ends at six. You still have my key?”

“Yes. I don’t know when I’ll be done today—”

“Come over any time. But if you’re there by eight, I’ll have dinner for you.”

“Feed my body, feed my soul,” I said.

Over the intercom, a female voice paged Dr. Gabriel Storm. He tensed, stepped back, changing from passionate lover to compassionate doctor. I understood how quickly shields had to be put up—putting on the uniform or the white coat meant other people depended on us.

His eyes held mine. “I have to tell her family,” he said.

“I can—”

He shook his head. “You know who the rapist is. Why can’t you arrest him?” He didn’t say it as an accusation; doctors saw the dark side as well.

Except this case had been under my skin for four months, eating at me.

“He’s a murderer now,” I said. Would Healy be more lenient about the warrant if he knew the River City Rapist had killed? “And my only witness is dead.” I took a deep breath and wrestled my emotions back under control. “I’ll think of something.”

“I know you will.”

V.

When I was in college, pulling an all-nighter didn’t faze me. Now, at thirty-one, I was feeling the effects of no sleep, too much caffeine, and too little food. I grabbed a sandwich and pint of milk on my way back to the station. Joe should be done in court by now, and we needed to go back to the basics.

We had to be missing something, and I wanted to go through each case one by one, talk to Ashley’s friends and colleagues. I’d put in a call to her employer, who hosted the event at the Railroad Museum, asking for a copy of the guest list. It wasn’t on my desk when I walked in, so added a follow-up call to my growing list.

There were no messages about the case, which irritated me. I picked up the phone and called Simone Charles who ran the crime lab.

“I need something,” I said when she answered.

“Good afternoon, Detective Black,” Simone said.

I took a deep breath. “Please. Ashley Young is dead and I have a suspect but no probable cause. What do you have?”

“The morgue is rushing the autopsy and I’m processing her clothing now.”

“What about the rape kit?”

“She went immediately into surgery. They’ll do it during the autopsy. I talked to Phineas myself. He understands what we’re facing.”

I stared straight ahead, seeing nothing but clouds of people leaving the courthouse on lunch break. Lawyers. Jurors. Defendants. The system working.

So often it failed.

Too often.

“Selena?” Simone said quietly.

“I’m here.”

“We’re all with you on this. You’re good, Selena. You’ll get him. The minute I find anything, I’ll call you.”

Did I sound so needy that I needed praise from my colleagues?

“Thanks. I appreciate it. And I’ll let you know if anything else pops.”

“I have one more thing—we printed Ashley’s phone that the bartender turned over. The only prints on it were the bartender’s.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“The only prints were the bartender’s—Ashley’s weren’t.”

My stomach fluttered in the way it did when I knew I had a key piece of evidence.

“Keller wiped the phone.”

“Someone wiped the phone,” Simone corrected.

I rolled my eyes. She might have to play that game, I didn’t. “That’s good. Thanks.”

I hung up and let out a long sigh. I hadn’t made a lot of friends on the job, so I appreciated the few I did have. Simone Charles was one of my favorite people, a dedicated criminologist with a sharp eye. And Phineas Ward, the lead supervisor at the morgue, was also a friend. Last case I had that ended up in the morgue was a rape victim who killed herself two weeks after the attack. A young college student learned her attacker was getting a pass by the D.A. because there wasn’t enough evidence to support her accusation. Both Phineas and I had gotten written up for bringing the suspect into the morgue to view the girl’s body. I forced her rapist to touch her cold, dead flesh. Told him how her roommate found her bleeding out in the bathtub, too late to save her.

Her death’s on you, asshole.

“You look like shit,” Joe said from behind.

I whirled around in my chair. “Don’t sneak up just to insult me,” I said. But Joe was right. I hadn’t been home since yesterday, and a quick splash of water from the bathroom sink was hardly a shower.

“I talked to Simone. So far, nada.”

“Did you talk to Ramirez?” Sergeant Juan Ramirez was our supervisor.

“No.” I shuffled papers around my desk.

“You’re avoiding his calls.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I waved my right hand, indicating the entire squad room. The corner sex crimes had was semi-private, with eight cubicles in a doorless office. Only six were used, and Joe and I were the only two in right now. No surprise there, considering how many cases we caught in any given week. “He can find me.” I frowned. “He’s going to pull the case now that it’s a homicide.”

“Homicide will let you work the case with them.”

I snorted. “And Ramirez will happily give up one of us for a few days? Weeks? Hardly. He’ll give me time to debrief them then I’m back here.”

“Maybe fresh eyes are just what this case needs.”

“Bullshit. This case needs someone who cares that Keller is getting away with murder. He gave the Robeaux file to Healy, you know he did.”

“Healy’s been around a long time. Old memories and all that. It’s not just Robeaux.”

I fumed. I knew exactly what Joe alluded to, and it angered and upset me. Of all the people to bring up that. “I did the right thing, and I stand by it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did.” I’d been paying for doing the right thing for years. Agreeing to work undercover for the FBI didn’t earn me many friends, but the political corruption case had been huge. It wasn’t my department—it was another city I was on “loan” to. The people who went down—three cops and twice as many DAs, judges, and defense attorneys, the whole gamut—were beyond corrupt, thinking they were invincible. They never thought they’d be caught, either because they’d intimidated potential witnesses or because they’d gamed the system. And every cop I worked with knew I’d done the right thing—even if they sneered at me for turning on “my own” people.

Invincible. Just like Greg Keller. Except they weren’t, and he wasn’t, and I was going to get him.

“Selena, I’ve known you for years. You’re smart and close cases. We’ve worked rapes together before, child molestation cases, we’ve seen cases as bad or worse than what the River City Rapist has done. And yeah, you take the case personally, but that makes you good. Until now. You have to step back, get some perspective.”

“I have perspective. Greg Keller thinks he can get away with it because of who he is and who he knows.”

“He’s goading you, and you let him. Like today in Healy’s chambers.”

I was stunned. “I told you I didn’t do or say anything to him. He heard you walk in and acted like I had done something. It’s part of his game.”

“Maybe you’re right, but—”

“Either you believe me or not. There is no maybe.” Joe’s distrust hurt far more than I expected. I liked all the detectives on the sex crimes squad, but Joe had always been my favorite. A friend. But maybe that trust was misplaced. How could he think I was lying?

He said quietly, “Maybe you don’t think you over-stepped, Selena. And I get it—I do. I want him too. But what is it about this case that has you so twisted? It can’t just be because of who he is.”

Except that it was, partly. It was because people in power got away with crimes all the time simply because they were in power.

I sidestepped his question. “Ashley Young is dead. Back to the basics.”

Joe knew I was hedging, and he let me. He sat down at his desk and went to work on the phone. I stared at the computer, but didn’t see much of anything.

Twelve years ago I was a college freshman. I hadn’t been naïve or stupid—I couldn’t have been, being raised by my cop dad and hard-ass brother. But I was stupid when the teaching assistant of a popular professor raped me on a date and I didn’t report it for twenty-four hours. After I showered. After I got drunk. After I tried to make it all disappear, to believe it had never happened.

Except it had, and when I went to the campus police, they talked to the T.A. and he said it was consensual. Then I learned that the T.A. was the son of an alum who’d given enough money to build a half-dozen state-of-the-art buildings. The powerful son of a powerful donor.

I’d said no. I’d told him to stop when he put his hands under my shirt, but I didn’t fight back hard enough. Maybe because I’d had two beers, maybe because I didn’t think he’d actually hurt me. When I realized he was taking off my pants was when I realized he’d drugged me. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t use any of my self-defense tactics.

It was my fault for being so naïve, so stupid, and I didn’t want anyone to know.

That’s what I thought then, at nineteen, blaming myself for getting in the bad situation in the first place. Twelve years of training and working this job and I knew I wasn’t to blame. I knew it was all on him, and I hoped and prayed his next victim was stronger and braver than I had been.

I never told my brother the truth about why I dropped out of college. I couldn’t face my own failures. And I joined the police academy, became a cop, and vowed to protect the weak from those who would prey on them.

Just because someone is in authority doesn’t mean they can get away with rape.

Or murder.

VI.

Ashley’s employer wasn’t sending in the guest list from the event at the Railroad Museum.

The information stunned me as much as it made me furious.

“Let me talk to him,” I said to Joe. “Did you explain—”

Joe cut me off. “I know what I’m doing, Selena. They are protecting their donor list. He was very nice about it, just said we’d have to get a warrant. I’ll let homicide know.”

“Ramirez hasn’t even taken us off the case yet.”

“He will, face it. It’s theirs.” Joe slapped his hand on the tall stack of files on my desk. “What about these victims? Don’t they deserve some of your time?”

The verbal slap hurt. I hadn’t neglected any of my other cases, but right now Ashley Young was at the top of my pile. “Doesn’t Ashley deserve more than twenty-four hours?”

“I’m on your side,” Joe said.

Maybe, but not today. Today, Joe had hedged everything from how he responded to Keller this morning to how he was dealing with the investigation now.

“Maybe if you’d been on call last night, you’d understand.”

“I wasn’t on call, but neither were you.” He stared at me, accusing. “Didn’t think I wouldn’t find out? You called in that you were in the area and took the case.”

“I knew it was him.”

“But you didn’t have to go. Why were you out at midnight?”

“Mondays are big event nights downtown. We know his M.O.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so exhausted these last few weeks? You’ve been out hunting him?”

“Hunting? Try tracking.” Keller hunted his prey. I wasn’t the bad guy here. “I need some air.” I left, fearing if the conversation deteriorated any more then Joe and I would never be friends again.

I didn’t know if we would regain the respect.

I sat in my car because I didn’t know what else to do. It was nearly three in the afternoon, which reminded me that I had asked Officer Sampson to keep an eye on him after I found out Ashley was dead. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep surveillance on him for long—he’d fight it in court if he had to, and my bosses wouldn’t authorize it without some evidence. I had no reason to pull resources into my case, and the free help from cops like Sampson wouldn’t last forever, either.

Keller had surprised me this morning in Healy’s chambers; I’d return the favor. But the surprise would be in him not seeing me. I had one shot; I had to do it right.

It was no longer raining, but the air was heavy with moisture and I suspected by sundown the downpour would resume.

Sampson was “patrolling” near the Attorney General’s office. He wasn’t on duty until four, but had been happy to watch Keller for a few hours off the clock. Most cops were like me, they didn’t like assholes like Keller acting like they were above reproach.

“Anything?” I asked Sampson when I approached.

“Quiet. I got here at one, he entered the building with a group of people at one-thirty, I assume returning from lunch. I haven’t seen him exit.”

I slipped him a Starbucks card. “I’ll keep an eye on him for a while.”

“Get him.”

I found a clandestine bench shielded by bushes near the entrance, where he wouldn’t be able to easily spot me. While Keller was unpredictable after dark, during the day he had a regular pattern. I’d pulled in favors to have uniformed cops tail him during his daily coffee break. Between four and four-thirty every afternoon, Keller left the AG’s office by the side door and walked two blocks to a local coffee joint. There, he ordered a large coffee, poured in extra cream, and often met with a reporter. Then he’d walk back to his office and not leave until after six p.m.

All I needed was that coffee cup. If he tossed it in a public bin, I could grab it and get his DNA. It was 50/50 that he would throw it away on his way back to the AG’s office, but I’d trail him every day this week. One day he’d dump it, and I’d be there, ready to collect.

Being a plainclothes detective was a positive; the fact that Keller knew who I was, a big fat negative. I’d gotten in his face after Maggie Van Allen’s rape—where he’d cut her face so deeply even the most brilliant plastic surgeon couldn’t fix the nerve and muscle damage. He’d been so calm, gloating, taunting me.

I stormed out of the courthouse that day, furious with the judge who’d denied the search warrant. The DA himself had argued for it, but the judge wouldn’t budge—he claimed the victim’s ID of the suspect had been given under extreme duress because not only had I only showed her Keller’s photo, it was while she was still in shock and being treated by the paramedics.

DA Elliott had precedents, but the judge said they weren’t valid, and unless I had another witness, or physical evidence tying Keller to the crime scene, the warrant was denied.

I stood next to the fountain on 8th Street, my back to the courthouse. Justice had been denied. I’d almost gotten another contempt charge—third? Fourth?—when I questioned the judge under my breath. I didn’t know he had such good hearing. Warrants were given liberally, and they should be—they were specific and focused. I only wanted to search his car and house for the knife that had been used to cut open Maggie Van Allen’s face, and take the clothes he’d been wearing that night.

“Bad day?”

I jerked my head up. Keller stood only feet from me. I hadn’t heard or seen him approach, my anger the only sense I had anymore.

“Get out of my face,” I said. I had a niggling sense that something was wrong.

He smiled. “You have the wrong idea about me. Let’s go get some coffee.”

I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. Then that sense of wrong hit me:

There was no reason he should be here. Minutes after the judge tossed my warrant request.

“You knew.”

“I’m smarter than you.”

“I’ll stop you.”

He leaned in. “You fuck with me, you’ll be sorry.”

He walked away, leaving me stunned. And committed to putting him in prison.

If I were to be honest with myself, last fall after the first two rapes I’d let the case slide. No real evidence, no match on the DNA, no witnesses, only vague descriptions. I’d always suspected that the rapist cut his victim’s faces because he had contact with them at least on a periodic basis. Seeing the scar would give him another surge of power and lust, he’d consider them his chattel, his secret.

It wasn’t until after the third victim that I put the connection together about the political and charity events. But by the time I had the few common names, he’d struck again.

Luck had it that when I responded to Maggie Van Allen’s crime scene, I had photos of three men. They weren’t in a line-up, which was the judge’s complaint, and Greg Keller had been on top. She positively ID’d him. I had no doubt.

And everything he’d said and done since confirmed I was right.

Another suspect, a more lenient judge, I would have gotten the search warrant off Maggie’s ID. I had surveillance footage, could ask for the clothes he was seen in, search his car based on the fact that he most likely drove from the crime scene and there could be a knife or blood in the car. All I needed was evidence that tied him and the victim together. A strand of hair. Her blood on his sleeves. And then I’d get the DNA warrant and nail him—because he had the rapist’s DNA.

But Keller knew we had his DNA, and still he continued preying on young women, scarring them for life, marking his victims so he could relive his crime every time he saw them. They ran in the same circles. That was part of the thrill for him. To talk to his victims after the attack, to see their faces, to watch their eyes dart about in fear. He was brazen and bold; he wasn’t going to stop until I put him in jail. He wasn’t scared of me or the Sacramento police department. And that cockiness would be his undoing.

At 4:07 p.m., Greg Keller left the Attorney General’s office and walked down 9th Street toward a small, but popular coffee and teahouse near J Street. I noticed how young women followed him; more, I noticed that he noticed them. He loved the attention.

He’d have plenty of attention when he was a criminal defendant.

I didn’t follow too close because I didn’t want him to notice me. For the last month, I had wanted him to see me all the time, thinking the pressure would make him cave or slip up. But instead, he seemed to thrive on it.

Now, I wanted to blend.

I waited on the corner of K and 9th, loitering with the homeless, my eye on the shop halfway down the street. Rain that had drizzled all morning now came down in erratic, fat droplets. My umbrella offered a shield from the rain and if held at an angle, obscured my face. I stayed flush against a closed business front and pretended to talk on my cell phone while waiting for Keller to emerge. Seventeen minutes later, Keller walked out with a guy I recognized, a reporter for the last remaining local newspaper. They shook hands and went in opposite directions, Keller heading back to the AG’s office.

Now I had to risk getting closer, but the umbrellas made it difficult to keep my eye on Keller. The lighter morning foot traffic also made it more likely he’d spot me.

At the light across from the AG’s office, he stopped and looked right at me, twenty feet away. He smiled broadly, licked the cup lid, and held it over the trashcan. Then he shook his head and sipped again. The light turned green and he crossed the street.

I don’t know when he spotted me, but he was enjoying the game. I wonder if he even knew about Ashley Young. If he knew what he would be facing now that one of his victims was dead. Maybe I could push him into unwittingly giving me a clue to follow up, another path to travel. Make him angry enough to screw up.

I ran after him. “Congratulations, Keller, you’ve graduated.”

He turned and looked at me with a smirk, fearless. “Thank you.”

“You’ve officially qualified for special circumstances.”

The smile disappeared. He glared at me and I saw the anger that fueled his attacks on women. Now I had his attention.

“Don’t fuck with me, Detective.”

“Your last victim died on the operating table after you stabbed her.”

I spoke loudly; several people heard my comment. I tossed my damp hair out of my face and smiled. “I will bury you,” I said quietly.

His hands clenched. I hoped he hit me. I’d have cuffs on him so fast he’d have to drop the cup. I practically felt the evidence bag burning in my back pocket.

I pushed. “Why blondes? What do you have against us? Some smart girl dump you because she found out you were a monster behind that pretty face? Or do you have mommy issues? Oh, no, that’s right—you had a nanny. I looked her up. She was blond, too. Maybe I’ll give her a call and find out just what kind of little boy you were.”

His eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “You should think twice about harassing me, Detective Black. You forget, sweetheart, I have access to files. All criminal files. Even reports made twelve years ago to campus police.”

My blood turned to ice as I realized he’d researched me.

“Admit it, Selena,” he whispered, drawing out my name like a snake. “You’re just like every woman out there. You play the game, pretend you don’t want it, but secretly you crave being treated like a bitch in heat. Hot and horny. You wanted to fuck that poor dufus as much as he wanted to screw you. Then the next morning you wonder, what would people think if they knew you were a slut? So you cry rape, boo-hoo.” He smiled again, but his eyes were cold and I knew he’d kill me if he could. “Watch yourself. Sacramento is a dangerous town, especially for blondes.”

Then he disappeared into the Attorney General’s Office.

With his coffee cup.

VII.

I had screwed myself by following Keller. Not only had I put my career at risk, I’d put this case at risk.

The bastard was guilty and I had nothing but an inadmissible statement. He’d played me well—in front of my partner, no less, making me look like a lunatic cop.

I needed his DNA to compare. Patience would give it to me—there was no doubt in my mind that Keller would attack another woman. But that was the Catch-22 … how many women would be raped—how many would die—before I could stop him? 

By the time I arrived back at the station, I’d already ignored calls from Joe and Ramirez. I thought my sergeant was calling me because he was turning the case to Homicide, and this afternoon was soon enough.

Joe intercepted me before I was ten feet inside. “Don’t you ever answer your phone anymore?”

“I’m off-duty,” I said.

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything.”

“Ramirez wants your head.”

Before I could probe Joe for more answers, Ramirez spotted me. “Black! My office.”

Joe squeezed my hand in support, but I went into Ramirez’s office alone.

“Sir?”

“Greg Keller’s attorney has filed a restraining order against you, and is threatening a lawsuit against this department.”

“On what grounds?”

“Did you follow him this afternoon?”

“Very briefly, it was—”

“And confront him in front the Attorney General’s office?”

“He threatened me, sir.”

“If he didn’t draw a weapon, I don’t want to hear about it. I thought you were a grown-up, Black. One of my best detectives. Tempestuous at times, but sharp and dedicated. And you screw with the wrong guy.”

“He’s guilty!”

“And that’s your problem. From the beginning of the year, you’ve been focused on Keller. How many cases have you passed off to your team? I’ve looked—you’ve taken twelve percent fewer cases than anyone else. Is that fair to them?

“I want to catch this guy just as much as you and Joe and every other cop in this department. But I will not jeopardize the integrity of my team. The police chief and mayor are both up in arms over this.”

“He’s trying to—”

“Maybe. Maybe he is. Or maybe you stepped over the line.”

“I did not.” I cleared my throat. “You’re right about me passing off cases, and I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to my team. Today—I thought I could get him to slip up. You know how close we are, if we can get his DNA we have him.” I paused. “You heard Maggie Van Allen. She was a reliable witness. It wasn’t fair that her ID was tossed out.”

The air was let out of Ramirez and he sank into his chair, his broad shoulders seeming to deflate. He rubbed a hand over his weathered face and said, “Our job isn’t always easy, Selena,” he said. “We face criminals every day, people we know are guilty, and we can’t always stop them. Early in my career, barely out of rookie status, I responded to a domestic violence call. A woman had burned her three-year-old daughter’s arm on the stove. She claimed it was an accident, but I saw that little girl’s eyes and I took her away, to the hospital, and told the doctors that I thought the mother was lying. They came back with inconclusive on abuse and passed it over to social services. But the crux of the problem was that while the bureaucrats were trying to follow all the laws and protect the rights of the mother, the little girl was put back in the home with weekly social worker visits.” Ramirez stared me in the eyes. “The little girl was named Regina. I was at her funeral six months later. The mother pled to involuntary manslaughter and got ten years. Regina deserved to live, deserved a mother who hugged her, not hit her. I know it wasn’t fair then, and what happened to Keller’s five victims wasn’t fair to them, or that Keller has friends in high places that are making our job impossible. But our hands are tied—we can’t touch him right now.”

Ramirez straightened his spine and started moving files off his desk. “The case is at homicide now.”

“I’d like to assist—”

He put up his hand. “Don’t. You’re on administrative leave as of today. You can come back after you talk to the police psychologist.”

“You want me to talk to the shrink? But you just said—”

“It’s not what you’re doing, Detective. It’s how it’s affecting you. Joe told me what happened in the courthouse today.”

My partner hadn’t believed me, but worse, he’d repeated his misperception. I was empty.

I pulled my badge from my pocket and put it on Ramirez’s desk. I removed my gun from its holster and put it on top of the badge. My boss just watched me, and maybe if I cared I’d have noticed then that he looked as depressed as I felt.

I walked out. Right into the middle of another downpour.

I didn’t notice the passage of time, didn’t much think about anything except searching my soul for answers that couldn’t be found.

Could I stay on the job with people who didn’t trust me? Did I even want to? Had I crossed the line? If so, how? How many women were going to be hurt because Keller was well connected?

I found myself at Gabriel’s loft well after dark, rubbing the key between my fingers, not knowing what I should do. If I should even be here. But I knocked on his door. Quietly. Maybe thinking he wouldn’t hear me. Or that he wasn’t home. I hoped he wasn’t home. I hoped he was.

Greg Keller knew everything about me. All the secrets I’d kept from everyone—my brother, my partner, the police department—and he knew.

He’d emotionally raped me. I felt as raw as I’d had twelve years ago when I’d trusted the wrong guy and he drugged me.

The door opened. Gabriel stood there wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, a glass of red wine in his hand. And for a moment, I thought he had company.

“I’m disturbing you.”

“I was expecting you.” He took my arm and pulled me inside. “You’re drenched.”

I had forgotten. Dinner, eight. “I—”

“Shh.” He hugged me though I was dripping onto his beautiful hardwood floor. I’d barely noticed while I walked across town that the rain had soaked through all layers of my clothing, but now I began to shake, as much from the cold as anguish, and relief. Relief to be here, with Gabriel.

He steered me into his living room. “Wait.” He left the room and returned with a towel and bathrobe. I took both. The bathrobe smelled like Gabriel.

“Thank you.” I went into the bathroom and stripped. Even my panties and bra were soaked from the rain. How long had I wandered? I’d parked at my apartment, but hadn’t wanted to go inside, too depressed, too lonely, so I walked aimlessly, lost in miserable thoughts—until I ended up here.

Maybe my subconscious knew this was where I needed to be.

I returned to the living room and Gabriel had food on the table. “It’s lasagna. I was keeping it warm.”

“Homemade?” I asked.

He feigned shock that I had even asked. “Of course. My mother’s Italian. She’d skin me alive if I bought pre-made anything. She’d even frown on the pre-made noodles.”

“Your mom makes her own pasta?”

Gabriel nodded and pulled out a chair for me. I felt oddly ladylike, even in the bathrobe.

“I don’t know if I can eat,” I said. I picked up the wine glass and sipped.

“You will eat. You need energy.”

I ate, because Gabriel wanted me to. By the third bite, I was crying.

He took my hand and led me over to the couch, putting my head on his shoulder. “Shh,” he said. “Lena, I’m here.”

“I screwed up,” I said, trying to make the tears stop, but they refused. “I wanted his coffee cup. Courts have upheld time and again DNA collected from items that are thrown away or left in a public place. I knew his schedule, followed him, watched him, and then—he looked at me. And he knew what I wanted. He taunted me!

“And still, I pushed him. Wanting him to slip up, but he’s been playing me all along.”

“I don’t understand.”

I had never told anyone what happened twelve years ago. No one—not even the Sacramento Police Department when they hired me. I’d lied on my questionnaire. Maybe I had been in denial, or maybe I just didn’t want to answer any questions about that day.

“Twelve years ago, I was a freshman at San Diego State. Pre-law. My dad was a cop, my brother was a cop, I didn’t want to be one, but I wanted to be a D.A. Nailing the coffin tight on the scum who people like my dad and brother arrested.

“It was a gorgeous spring day. I went to the beach after my classes. I used to love the ocean.” Except now it reminded me of pain and humiliation.

“The T.A. in my favorite class invited me out. He’d been flirting with me all semester. I wasn’t used to the attention—I was tall and homely and awkward, especially back then.”

“You’re beautiful,” Gabriel said and took my hand.

I stared at our enjoined hands, gathered the strength to continue. “It was a nice date, then he—I had a couple beers. In one he slipped me a mickey. I told him no, but I couldn’t fight back, and then I didn’t think it was really happening, like I was looking at a stranger being—” I took a deep breath. “He left me on the beach where he’d raped me. I remember the waves most of all, the sand in my mouth. But it was unreal.”

I couldn’t look Gabriel in the eye; I stared on our hands. My knuckles were white with tension. “I could lie and say I forgot everything that happened. I remembered everything. I was confused and scared and very angry mad. Angry at him and at myself.

“I don’t remember how I got home. I think I walked. It was a couple miles. When I woke up, I was in my own bed. I was sticky and sore and bleeding. I showered until the water was cold, and then stayed there, completely paralyzed. Then I drank. A lot. I didn’t report it until the next day. To the campus police. It didn’t go over well. The guy I accused said it was consensual sex. He was respected and well liked and had a rich donor father. The professor he T.A.’d for stood by him. But ultimately, there was no evidence. I still had my clothes, but they said they couldn’t do anything about that. I should have gone to the hospital. I should have gone to them first. I should never have showered, or gotten drunk, or anything. I was so stupid! My dad had been a cop! I knew what to do if I was ever attacked, but I was nineteen and in complete denial. I never told my dad or my brother. Not then, not now. I told no one.

“But,” I continued, “I lied on my employment application. Under penalty of perjury, I lied and said I’d never been a victim of a sexual assault. No one knew, because I never pursued it. The campus police made me feel cheap and stupid, like I had sex because I wanted to, but regretted it later. But Greg Keller knows.”

Something inside me had broken, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

“How does he know?”

“He got the file. He knew the details.”

“He told you?”

I nodded, wiped away my tears with the bathrobe sleeve.

“What happened?”

“He’s been playing with me all along. The courthouse this morning—Joe walked in and Keller acted like I had nearly attacked him. I didn’t!”

“You don’t have to defend yourself with me, Lena.”

“Joe didn’t believe me. And then this afternoon, I followed him, and now he’s threatening to sue. Ashley’s case was moved to homicide. I—I was suspended. Ramirez wants me to see a shrink.” I barked out of laugh that sounded crazy to me. “Maybe I need one.”

“You don’t.” He kissed me firmly. “The world has gone insane, not you.”

“I’ll lose my job. If he turns over those files, my career’s over.”

“Hardly.”

I shook my head, touched the side of Gabriel’s face and looked at him. “I’m a victim of sexual assault. That alone doesn’t keep me off the force. Lying on my employment questionnaire is a felony, but even if I got around that somehow, or appealed, I’d be out of sex crimes.” I considered everything I knew about the case, and about me. “I did take a lot about this case personal, I saw the parallels and maybe I denied that it affected me. But I know they’re two different cases, and I’m not seeking justice for Ashley, or any of the other victims I’ve helped in the twelve years I’ve been on the force, solely because justice was denied in my case. I’ve never faced a criminal so brazen, so confident that he won’t be caught, so taunting.”

“You’re good at your job because you empathize with the victims. There’s nothing wrong with that, Lena.”

“Judge Healy already accused me of having a vendetta against Keller. If I do nail that bastard, his attorney will get the case thrown out. At least cast enough doubt to question the evidence. Especially because the only way I’ll get his DNA short of catching him in the act is following him for the next umpteen years until he screws up and tosses a coffee cup in a public garbage can!”

Gabriel held me tight, stroking my hair. “You’re the most dedicated, smartest cop I know.”

“Not today.”

“There’s something else, something you haven’t told me.”

“This isn’t enough?”

“What are you keeping locked inside, Lena?” Gabriel asked. “What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything, not physically.”

“But?”

My voice hitched. “I shouldn’t be scared. Dammit, I’m a cop!”

“I’m scared when I face a dying human being in the operating room, but I still do everything in my power to save that person. I’m scared when I lose someone, thinking I didn’t do enough, that someday God will show me if I had only been smarter or better, more people would have lived.”

I stared at him, the tears I thought were gone returning. “I’ve never seen you scared.”

“I’ve never seen you scared. But we both are. The difference between people like us and other people is that even when we’re scared, we do our job. It’s who we are.” He kissed me lightly. “I’m lucky I found a kindred spirit.”

I rested my head on his shoulder and relaxed. I might have fallen asleep, just for a few minutes, but when I opened my eyes, I realized Gabriel deserved to know my fears.

“Keller threatened to come after me. I don’t think he would—he knows I can defend myself. But I felt naked without my gun today. What if I couldn’t fight him off? Or worse, what if it’s just that, a threat, to keep me scared that someday he will come after me?

“What did your boss say?”

“I didn’t tell him the details. He wasn’t in a mood to listen to me. I just feel so lost, Gabriel.”

“You’ve been found, Lena. And I’m not letting you go.”

VIII.

I showered and Gabriel warmed up dinner. Purging my secrets made me feel physically lighter, as if the secrets themselves had weight.

When I sat at the table, I found a white rose in a bud vase next to my plate. I stared at it for a long minute, surprised at the wistfulness and hope that rose up inside. Could something so simple as a rose melt me?

Gabriel kissed me lightly on the lips. He poured two glasses of wine and sat across from me. We chatted about nothing serious over the meal, and I drank three glasses of wine. Enough to drown today, but not enough to forget tonight.

I rose to clear the dishes, but Gabriel took my plate from my hands and put it back on the table. “They’ll wait.” He smiled, took both my hands, and led me to his bedroom.

I’d been here before, but tonight felt more important than the nights that preceded it. He pulled off his shirt, then untied the sash on the robe I wore, letting it fall to the ground. “I love you, Selena Black.”

My heart flipped. “I—”

“Shh,” he murmured as he kissed me. “It’ll come.”

I wanted to love Gabriel. I wanted to tell him, then sing it from the rooftops. But the emotional roller coaster I’d been on during the last twenty-four hours had drained me. What if he didn’t believe me? What if I didn’t believe myself?

He kissed me firmly, his hands entwined with mine, as he pushed me onto his soft, plush bed.

Making love to Gabriel had always been full of lust and passion, both of us wanting to enjoy each other to the fullest. Sometimes it had gotten wild.

But tonight, he was exactly how I needed him to be. Firm, determined, but gentle. He explored with his mouth, from top to bottom, slowly. My body went limp as Gabriel smoothed and massaged each muscle, with both his thumbs and his mouth. When he entered me, there were no thoughts left, just my nerves crying out in joy and ecstasy. Our rhythm was perfect, starting slow, building to the nearly unbearable crescendo until I cried out his name and held onto him as if I would drown.

Gabriel lay next to me, pulling me close as we spooned together. He kissed my cheek and whispered, “I love you.”

I love you too.

The steady drumming of rain against the skylights lulled me into a deep sleep.

I woke up incrementally from being cold. The rain still fell, but softer now, the deluge over. I shivered, and reached for Gabriel. He wasn’t there.

I opened my eyes and the bathroom light clicked off. He crossed over to the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered as he slipped back between the sheets.

His body was cold, but I snuggled against him, wrapping my hands around his neck. His hair was damp, and I almost asked why he needed to shower in the middle of the night, then he kissed me, his hands on my naked body, touching me just right, until I couldn’t think at all.

I woke up late, but didn’t care. I had no job to go to today. Gabriel had breakfast ready.

“I’m going to get fat if you feed me like this.”

“You don’t eat properly. Most cops don’t.” He kissed me.

After we ate, Gabriel drove me home on his way to the hospital. After yesterday, I didn’t think I could be happy. But for the first time in years, I felt free.

I would talk to the police shrink and get a clean bill of mental health. I had problems, just like any cop on the street, but nothing that hindered me from doing my job. If anything, I was better because I understood. I empathized with the victims, and in my division that was a plus.

When I got my badge and gun back, I’d do my job the only way I know how: with passion. And when I was off, I’d put it aside and give Gabriel my time and attention.

I wanted to have a real life. And someone like Gabriel fit. He fit very, very well.

My house phone was ringing. Odd, few people had that number.

“Hello?”

“Selena, where have you been?” It was Joe.

“I don’t understand.”

“Get down to the station. Now.”

“What happened?”

“Keller was murdered.” Joe added a low voice, “No one could find you. I hope you have an alibi, because after yesterday…” He let his sentence trail off.

I was so stunned into complete silence, trying to absorb two key facts.

Keller was dead. Murdered.

I needed an alibi. Joe asked me about an alibi.

“Selena, are you there?”

“Dead? He’s dead?”

“Shot in his house. Sometime last night. It just hit the news as well, but—where were you?”

“I was nowhere near Greg Keller.”

“Ramirez wants you.”

“I’m coming.”

I listened to KFBK news driving to the station as the reality of the situation hit me. Keller was dead. Who? Why? I was silently pleased, but angry with myself that I was happy about another human being killed, however deserving. Vigilantes caused as many problems as the criminals they targeted.

What upset me the most, however, was that Keller was dead and I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of proving that he was a rapist and a killer. Would he be buried as a victim, a practical saint for all the work he did for the Attorney General? Or would the accusations follow him to the grave?

I wanted to look Greg Keller in the eyes and say, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” But I would never have the chance to read him his Miranda rights or put the cuffs on his wrists or lock him in a holding cell.

But in the end, there was one truth that gave me peace: he wouldn’t be hurting any more women in the River City.

I walked into the station less than thirty minutes after Joe’s call. Ramirez bellowed for me to go to his office.

“Shut the door,” he ordered. Before I could ask any questions, he asked, “Where were you last night?”

I blinked. My stomach twisted. This was real. I’d been so focused on Keller’s murder that I really hadn’t thought about an alibi. Not that I didn’t have one. “Why?”

“You weren’t at home.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Were you alone?”

“No.” I kept my private life very private. No one knew I was involved with Gabriel.

“He’d better be rock solid, Black. Greg Keller was shot to death last night in his townhouse. His cheek was slashed like the River City Rapist victims. After your set-back yesterday with Judge Healy, then the AG’s office getting involved because of your harassment of Keller, you might have—”

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d kill someone in cold blood.”

“If you thought he was going to get away with serial rape? Murder?”

“Not even then. I’m not a killer.”

“Do you want your union rep in here?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t need it.”

Ramirez sighed. “You’re not a killer, Selena. I know that. But people will ask questions, I have to know everything.”

“I didn’t kill Keller.

Gabriel had come to bed in the middle of the night, cold, his hair wet. I’d thought he’d showered.

But his side of the bed had been cold. He hadn’t been lying next to me for a while. How long? How long had Gabriel been out of the bed?

“Who’s your boyfriend, Selena? Is he going to vouch for you?”

I almost didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to drag Gabriel into this mess. But he couldn’t have had anything to do with Keller’s murder, could he?

“Gabriel Storm, trauma surgeon at Mercy General.”

My boss had the decency to look uncomfortable. Gabriel was above reproach, a well-respected doctor in the community. “The doctor? Dr. Storm?”

“Yes. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months.

“And, um, you were with Dr. Storm all night?”

“I arrived at eight last night for a late dinner and I stayed until this morning when I left at seven-thirty.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m sorry I had to ask, Selena, but after yesterday—I’m sorry I put you through the ringer.”

“You want Gabriel’s statement, too, don’t you?” I didn’t want to ask him. But not just because I might need proof that I had been in his bed all night.

He shook his head. “I hate to do it, but it’s up to homicide. I’ll let them know.”

I nodded. Better to clear me now and not have it hanging over the department.

“Was there anything in his townhouse that incriminated Keller?” I wasn’t wrong about him, but I wanted the evidence.

“CSU is at his place now. They found two knives, nearly identical, with traces of blood. If they can match it with the victims, you can close your case. But the AG’s office is going to keep a lid on it, and—”

“No.”

“Selena, someone murdered Keller in cold blood. We can’t have a vigilante running around knocking off the bad guys. And unfortunately, it’s probably someone we know. Few people knew that Keller was a suspect.”

“I didn’t keep it a secret, Lieutenant. You know that. Our department, the D.A.’s office, the victims. We’re going to go after the victims now?”

“Just be available for questions.”

“Of course.” I left his office.

I didn’t leave all night.

Could Gabriel have killed Greg Keller?

Joe cornered me as I was leaving. “Well?”

“It wasn’t me.”

Joe still looked concerned. “Good.”

“Good? Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Selena.”

“It’s not all your fault.” I tried to smile, but my head was already thinking about what I would say to Gabriel. If anything.

“Are we good?”

I nodded. Life was too short to hold a grudge.

But I was a little wiser now, and with it would come some distance. Protective distance.

I drove from the station to Mercy Hospital. I sat in the parking lot for a long time before I went in and tracked down Gabriel.

He looked both happy and surprised to see me, and ushered me into his office.

“Miss me already?” He grinned then kissed me.

“Yeah, I do.” That wasn’t a lie. “I just came from the station. Greg Keller is dead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dead? How?”

Was he assessing me? What I knew? If I knew anything? Did he seen surprised, or was that an act?

I said, “Shot to death. His face was cut.”

“I can’t say I’m upset, not after what he did.”

“Nor can I.”

I kissed him, but didn’t close my eyes. He didn’t close his either.

He smiled at me. There was something in his expression.

“Do you always shower in the middle of the night?” I asked, trying to make my voice light.

“On occasion.”

He was looking at me, trying to assess whether I was going to push him on this. The only way the police would even look at Gabriel—even if he had been careless and left evidence at the scene—was if I said he wasn’t with me last night.

Except, that would incriminate me as much as him.

Could I live with myself—with Gabriel—when I suspected him of murder?

“Selena, is everything okay?”

What a loaded question. My heart raced—there was no turning back.

“Everything is just fine,” I said.

“Good.” He kissed me. “I have to prep for surgery, but I’m on-call tonight so I can go home when I’m done. Will you be there?”

I nodded. “I don’t cook.”

“Lucky for you I love to cook.”

He opened the door to leave. I said, “By the way, Gabriel?”

He turned to look at me. His expression was curious, his blue eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them. I could lose time with this man, and enjoy every moment.

I said, “I love you, too.”

# # #

Preorder the next exciting Lucy Kincaid novel now!

Reckless

Coming 3/14/13 for only $1.99

Two suspicious hikers …

An unmarked grave …

A missing child …

FBI trainee Lucy Kincaid's spontaneous weekend camping trip with her boyfriend, P.I. Sean Rogan, turns into a deadly nightmare when they come across two hikers looking for their lost son. But when Lucy and Sean split up to help find the missing child, each quickly realizes that the parents have a dark secret they'll kill to keep.

From Reckless:

Sean and Lucy walked along the edge of the lake, which was rocky and strewn with old, rotting branches and logs. Several pairs of geese were out swimming. One stuck his long neck under the water and, as Lucy watched, came up with a fish. From the north, six geese flew overhead, circled, and landed smoothly in the middle of the lake.

Lucy whispered, as if speaking too loud would break the magic of the moment, “We should come back here before sunset. It’s really lovely. Peaceful.”

Sean nodded and gestured to a grouping of rocks about twenty feet high. “We’ll climb up there later. Good view.”

She took his hand and kissed it. The spontaneous display of affection surprised both her and Sean. Lucy was acutely aware that Sean was the more romantic of the two of them. She appreciated it more than she could ever explain to him. He gave her not only what she wanted, but what she needed. Things she needed that she could never ask from anyone, he gave freely.

They had to walk around the rock formation and then saw the campsite. It was a small camp—a lean-to instead of a tent, a couple backpacks, and there was a rifle leaning against a tree. Like Sean and Lucy’s space, there was an old fire pit; it appeared that they’d had a fire earlier, but it had been put out.

The couple wasn’t there, but their voices were getting closer. They were arguing again. There was an urgency that bordered on panic.

Find him.

Lost.

Can’t go back.

Lucy glanced at Sean. He’d heard the same thing, but he’d gone from curious to protective. He didn’t like the tone any more than she did.

“Something’s wrong,” Lucy said.

The woman stepped into the clearing. She had a gun in her hand and turned it toward them. “Who the hell are you?”

Preorder the book here!!

Allison Brennan Booklist

Allison Brennan is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of eighteen books and multiple short stories. She lives in Northern California with her husband and five children. You can read excerpts of all the books below at her website, www.allisonbrennan.com.

Romantic Thrillers

The Predator Trilogy

The Prey

The Hunt

The Kill

The No Evil Trilogy

Speak No Evil

See No Evil

Fear No Evil

The Prison Break Trilogy

Killing Fear

Tempting Evil

Playing Dead

The FBI Trilogy

Sudden Death

Fatal Secrets

Cutting Edge

Thrillers

The Lucy Kincaid Series

“Love is Murder” (digital novella)

Love Me To Death

Kiss Me, Kill Me

If I Should Die (also includes “Love is Murder” novella)

Silenced

Stalked (coming October 30, 2012)

Stolen (coming Spring 2013)

Silenced

Apple:

http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/silenced

Stalked

Apple:

http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/stalked

Supernatural Thrillers

The Seven Deadly Sins Series

“Deliver Us from Evil” in What You Can’t See (novella)

Original Sin

“Ghostly Vengeance” free story at sevendeadlysinsbooks.com

Carnal Sin

“Ghostly Justice” in Entangled (digital only)

Short Stories & Novellas

“Killing Justice” originally published in KILLER YEAR edited by Lee Child

“Deliver Us from Evil” in What You Can’t See (Seven Deadly Sins series)

“A Capitol Obsession” originally published in TWO OF THE DEADLIEST edited by Elizabeth George

“Ghostly Vengeance” free online story (Seven Deadly Sins series)

“Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier” essay in 100 MUST READ THRILLERS edited by David Morrell (non-fiction)

“Her Lucky Day” in BLOODLITE II: OVERBITE edited by Kevin J. Anderson, Horror Writers Association

“Ghostly Justice” in ENTANGLED, digital only charity anthology

“Above Reproach” originally published in GUNS & ROSES digital only anthology

“Love is Murder” digital novella also printed in IF I SHOULD DIE (Lucy Kincaid series)

“Vacation Interrupted” in LOVE IS MURDER edited by Sandra Brown (Lucy Kincaid series)

KILLING JUSTICE anthology of previously published stories “Killing Justice” (2008); “A Capitol Obsession” (2009); “Above Reproach” (2012) (digital only)

MURDER IN THE RIVER CITY novella (digital only)