Prologue



The first day of kindergarten at the exclusive Briarwood School was the worst day of Regan Hamilton Madison’s life. It was such a disaster she made up her mind never to go back.
She had started out the day believing the new school would be wonderful. And why not? She’d been told so by her brothers and her mother, and she had no reason to doubt them. Seated in the back of her family’s limo for the ride to Briarwood, she proudly wore her new school uniform, a navy blue and gray plaid pleated skirt; a white blouse with mandatory pointed collar; a navy blue tie, knotted just like a man’s tie; and a matching gray blazer with a pretty gold emblem of the school’s initials on the breast pocket. Her curly hair was pinned back with school-approved, navy blue barrettes. Everything she wore was brand-new, including her white knee-high socks and navy blue loafers.
Regan had thought school would be fun. For the past two years, she and nine classmates at her posh preschool had been pampered and told how wonderful they were by teachers who never lost their smiles. She fully expected her first day at Briarwood to be about the same. Maybe even better.
Her mother was supposed to ride with her to the new school, just like all the other mothers—and sometimes even fathers—of new students did, but due to circumstances she assured her she couldn’t control, her mother had to stay in London with her new boyfriend and couldn’t get back to Chicago in time.
Grandmother Hamilton would have been happy to go with her, but she, too, was out of the country, visiting friends, and wouldn’t be home for two more weeks.
When Regan had spoken to her mother over the phone the day before, she’d told her she didn’t need Mrs. Tyler, the housekeeper, to take her to school. Her mother had then suggested Aiden. Regan knew that if she had asked her oldest brother, he would have done it. He was seventeen and wouldn’t like going with her, but he would have… if she had asked. He would do anything for her, just like her other brothers, Spencer and Walker.
Regan decided she didn’t want anyone to walk her to her classroom. She was a big girl now. The uniform she wore proved it, and if she got lost, she would simply ask for help from one of the smiling teachers.
School, as it turned out, wasn’t at all what she had imagined. No one had told her kindergarten at Briarwood lasted all day. She hadn’t been warned about the huge number of children attending the school, either, and she certainly hadn’t been warned about the bullies. They were everywhere. But she was most concerned about one older girl in particular who liked to torment kindergartners when the teachers weren’t looking.
By the time the school bell rang to dismiss the students at three o’clock that afternoon, Regan was so distraught and worn out she had to bite her lower lip to keep from crying.
There were cars and limos lined up in the circular drive. Evan, her driver, got out of the car and started toward her.
Regan spotted him but was too tired to run to him, so he hurried toward her, alarmed at her appearance. Her barrettes were dangling on strands in her face; her necktie was undone; her shirt-tail was out, and one of her knee-high socks was down around her ankle. The five-year-old looked as if she’d gone through a tumble cycle in the clothes dryer, Evan opened the back door for her as he inquired, “Everything all right, Regan?”
Head down she responded, “Yes.”
“How was school today?”
She dove into the car. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
That specific question was asked again by the housekeeper when she opened the front door for her. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Regan repeated.
The housekeeper took her book bag. “Thank you,” Regan said. She ran up the circular staircase and down the south hallway to her bedroom, slammed the door shut, and promptly burst into tears.
Regan knew she was a disappointment to her mother because, try though she did, she couldn’t keep her emotions under control. If she fell and scraped her knee and it stung, she just had to cry, no matter where she was or who was around to observe her behavior.
When she was unhappy, she broke all the rules her mother had tried to teach her. Regan had been told time and again to be ladylike, but she wasn’t sure what that entailed, except, of course, to keep her knees together when seated in a chair. She didn’t like to suffer in silence, no matter how golden that rule was in the Madison household. She didn’t particularly care about being brave either, and if she was miserable, then her family needed to hear all about it.
Unfortunately, the only family member home at the moment was Aiden. He was the least sympathetic, probably because he was the oldest, and couldn’t be bothered with the worries of a six-year-old. He hated it when she cried, but that didn’t stop her.
She blew her nose, washed her face, and changed her clothes. After she removed her uniform, she carefully folded it and then dropped it into the wastebasket. Since she wasn’t going back to that terrible school, she wouldn’t need those ugly clothes ever again. She put on shorts with a matching top and broke another rule by running barefoot down the hall to her brother’s room.
She timidly knocked on the door. “Could I come in?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but opened the door, ran across the room to his bed, and jumped up on the soft comforter he always tossed on the floor when he slept. Folding her legs underneath her, she pulled the dangling, school-approved barrettes from her hair and dropped them in her lap,
Aiden looked irritated. Dressed in his rugby clothes, he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by textbooks. She didn’t notice he was on the phone until he said good-bye and hung up.
“You’re supposed to wait until I say it’s okay for you to come in my room,” he said. “You don’t just barge in.” Then, when she didn’t respond, he leaned back in his chair, studied her face, and asked, “Have you been crying?”
She thought about it and decided to break another rule. She lied. “No,” she said, her gaze glued to the floor.
He knew she wasn’t telling the truth but decided not to press the honesty issue now. His little sister was clearly distraught. “Is something wrong?” he asked, knowing full well there was.
She wouldn’t look at him. “Nooo…” she said, drawing the word out.
He let out a loud sigh. “I don’t have time to guess what the problem is, Regan. I’m going to have to leave for practice in a couple of minutes. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing’s wrong. Honest.”
She was making circles with her fingertips on top of the comforter. Aiden gave up trying to find out what was worrying her. He bent down and put on his shoes. He suddenly remembered that today was Regan’s first day at Briarwood and casually asked, “How was school?”
He was totally unprepared for her response. She burst into tears and threw herself down, burying her face in his comforter and conveniently wiping her eyes and her nose on his duvet. She told him everything she’d been saving up since recess. The problem was, she didn’t make a lick of sense.
It all came out in one long, rambling, barely coherent, sentence. “I hate school and I’m never going back, not ever, ’cause they didn’t let us have snacks and T had to sit still for too long and there was this girl and the other big girl made her cry and the big girl said if we told teacher, she’d get us too and I didn’t know what to do so I went by the building with the girl at recess and I helped her cry and now I’m never going back to that bad school again ‘cause tomorrow the big girl said she was going to get the girl again.”
Aiden was astonished. Regan was wailing for all she was worth. Had she not been so miserable, he would have laughed. Such drama. She got that trait from the Hamilton side of the family. All the Hamiltons wore their emotions on their sleeves. He and Spencer and Walker fortunately took after the Madison side. They were far more reserved.
Regan was making so much noise Aiden didn’t hear the knock on the door. Spencer and Walker came rushing inside. Both brothers were tall, lanky, and dark-haired like Aiden. Spencer was fifteen, and of the three brothers, he had the softest heart. Walker had just turned fourteen. He was the daredevil in the family and the most reckless. He looked as if he’d been through a war. His arms and face were covered with bruises. Two days before, he’d climbed up on the roof to retrieve a football, had lost his footing, and surely would have broken his neck if he hadn’t grabbed hold of a tree branch to slow his descent. His friend Ryan hadn’t been as fortunate. Walker landed on him and broke his arm. Ryan had been the junior varsity quarterback but now would have to sit out the season. Walker didn’t feel much guilt about the accident. He blamed the mishap on the branch that had trapped Ryan making it impossible for him to get out of Walker’s way.
Walker now was looking for bruises on Regan. None were visible, so why then was she crying? “What’d you do to her?” he asked Aiden.
“I didn’t do anything,” Aiden answered.
“Then what’s wrong with her?” Walker asked. He leaned over the bed and inspected his little sister, unsure what to do.
Spencer nudged him out of his way, sat down next to Regan, and began to awkwardly pat her shoulders.
She was finally calming down. Aiden let out another loud sigh. Maybe the storm was over. He finished tying his shoes as he said, “There, she’s feeling better. Just don’t ask her about—”
“So how was school?” Walker asked at the same time.
The wailing started all over again. “—school,” Aiden finished. He lowered his head and turned toward the desk so his sister wouldn’t see him smile. He didn’t want to hurt her tender feelings, but Lord, was she loud. Considering her size, the noise she made was downright impressive.
“She had a bad day,” he told his brothers.
“You think?” Spencer responded.
Regan stopped crying long enough to say, “I’m not ever going back there.”
“What happened?” Walker asked.
Regan recited her litany of complaints in between her sobs.
“You have to go back,” Spencer said.
It was the wrong thing to say. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” Spencer said.
“Daddy wouldn’t make me go.”
“How do you know what he would do? He died when you were still a baby. You can’t possibly remember him.”
“Yes, I can. I remember him good.”
“Your grammar is appalling,” Aiden remarked.
“Which is why you need to go to school,” Spencer pointed out. He had to raise his voice to be heard because his sister was once again crying.
“Damn, she’s loud,” Aiden muttered. He shook his head and added, “Okay. I’m going to be late for practice if I don’t leave soon, so let’s get to the bottom of this. Regan, stop wiping your nose on my sheets and sit up.”
He tried to make his voice stern. Neither his order nor his tone made any difference to her. She wasn’t going to stop crying until she was good and ready.
“Listen, Regan. You need to calm down and tell us what happened,” Walker said. “What exactly did the big kid do?”
Spencer dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled Kleenex. “Here,” he said. “Wipe your nose and sit up. Come on. We can’t fix this problem for you until we know exactly what the big kid did, okay?”
Aiden was shaking his head. “Regan’s going to fix the problem,” he said.
She bolted upright. “No, I’m not, ’cause I’m not going back to that bad school.”
“Running away isn’t the answer,” Aiden said.
“I don’t care. I’m staying home.”
“Hold on, Aiden. If some big bully is picking on our sister, then by God, we ought to…” Walker began.
Aiden raised his hand for silence. “Let’s get all the facts straight before we do anything, Walker. Now, Regan,” he said, his voice soothing, “how old was this big girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Do you know what grade she’s in?”
“How would she know that?” Spencer asked. “Regan’s just a kindergartner.”
“I do too know,” Regan said. “She’s in second grade, and her name’s Morgan, and she’s mean.”
“We’ve established that she’s mean,” Aiden said impatiently. He checked the time before continuing. “So now we’re getting somewhere.”
Walker and Spencer were both smiling. Fortunately, Regan didn’t see.
“You said that the second grader made another girl cry?” Aiden asked.
Regan nodded. “She made her cry, all right.”
“What did she do to make her cry?” Walker asked. “Did she hit her?”
“No.”
“Then what?” Now Walker sounded as frustrated as Aiden did.
Tears welled up in Regan’s eyes again. “She made the girl give her her barrettes.”
“Was the girl in kindergarten?” Aiden asked.
“She’s a very nice girl too. She sits beside me at the round table. Her name’s Cordelia, but she said everybody calls her Cordie and I should call her Cordie too.”
“Do you like this Cordelia?” Spencer asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And there’s another girl I like too. Her name’s Sophie, and she sits at the same table with me and Cordie.”
“There you go,” Aiden said. “You’ve only been at the new school for one day, and you’ve already made two new friends.”
Believing the trauma was over, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the door. Walker stopped him. “Wait a minute, Aiden. You can’t leave until we figure out what to do about the bully.”
Aiden paused at the door. “You’ve got to be kidding. The bully is a second grader.”
“We still need to do something to protect Regan,” he insisted.
“Like what?” Aiden demanded. “You think maybe all three of us should go to school tomorrow and terrorize the kid?”
Regan perked up. “That’d be good,” she said. “Make her leave Cordie and Sophie and me alone.”
“Or,” Aiden said, “you could handle the problem on your own. You could stand up to the bully. Tell her you aren’t going to give her anything and to leave you and your friends alone.”
“I want the first one.”
Aiden blinked. “The first one?”
“The one where you and Spencer and Walker come to school with me and scare her. That’s the one I choose. You could stay all day with me if you want.”
“This isn’t a multiple choice…” Aiden began.
“Hold on. Didn’t you say the bully… what’s her name?” Walker asked.
“Morgan.”
“Okay. Didn’t you say that Morgan was going to torment Cordelia again tomorrow?”
Regan sniffed, and her eyes widened.
“So why are you worried? She’s not coming after you,” Walker said.
She looked so serious. “Because she’s my friend, Walker.”
Aiden smiled. “How do you think she’ll feel if you don’t show up tomorrow?”
“Cordie isn’t going back to that school either. She told me so.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure her parents will make her go,” Aiden said. “You know, Regan, there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who run from bullies and those who face them.”
She wiped the tears away from her face. “What kind am I?”
“You’re a Madison. You face trouble. You don’t run from anyone.”
She didn’t like hearing that but knew from the set of her brother’s jaw that he wasn’t going to change his mind, no matter how much she argued. She at least felt better because she had shared her fears.
The next morning when Mrs. Tyler was brushing Regan’s hair, she thought about not wearing the barrettes, but she wore them anyway, just in case Cordelia needed extra ones.
By the time she arrived at Briarwood, she was sick to her stomach. She spotted Cordie waiting by the school doors.
“I thought you weren’t coming back to this school,” Regan said when she reached her.
“Daddy made me,” Cordie answered dejectedly.
“My brother made me.”
Sophie called out to them. She had just gotten out of her car and was struggling to get her book bag straps over her shoulders.
When she saw Cordie and Regan together, she ran to them, her looked just like a princess. Her hair was such a light color, it looked almost white, and her eyes were the prettiest shade of green.
“I know what we can do,” Sophie announced the second she’d caught up with them. “We can hide behind the fifth graders on the jungle gym during recess, and then, Regan, you can sneak up on Morgan and get Cordie’s barrettes back.”
“How?” Regan asked.
“How what?” Sophie said.
“How do I get the barrettes back?”
“I don’t know, but maybe you can think of something.”
“Daddy says I have to tell the teacher about Morgan, but I’m not going to,” Cordie said. She brushed her dark curls over her shoulder and added, “Telling will only make Morgan madder.”
Regan was suddenly feeling very adult. “We have to tell her to leave us alone. Aiden said so.”
“Who’s Aiden?” Sophie asked.
“My brother.”
“But Morgan’s only bothering me? Cordie said. “Not you or Sophie. You should run and hide from her.”
“You could hide with us,” Sophie suggested.
“Teacher will make us go outside for recess,” Cordie said. “Morgan will find me then.”
“We’ll stay together, and when she tries to make you give her things and tries to scare you, we’ll tell her to go away. Maybe because there’s three of us, we could scare her good.”
“Maybe,” Cordie allowed, but her voice lacked enthusiasm, and Regan knew she didn’t really believe it.
“By recess I can come up with a good plan,” Sophie said.
She sounded so sure of herself, so confident. Regan wished she could be more like Sophie. Her new friend didn’t seem to fret about anything. Regan, on the other hand, was a worrier. And obviously so was Cordie. The two of them worried all morning about Morgan.
Because it was sprinkling outside, they had their first recess in their room, but by lunchtime and general recess, when the kindergartners mingled with the rest of the school, it was sunny, and they were forced to go to the playground.
Too late, Regan realized she shouldn’t have eaten lunch. The milk in her stomach was rapidly turning sour, and she felt as though she’d swallowed a rock.
Morgan was waiting for them by the swing sets reserved for the kindergarten and first grade. Fortunately, Sophie had her new plan in mind.
“As soon as Morgan sees Cordie and starts walking over to her, I’ll run inside school and get Mrs. Grant.”
“Are you going to tell teacher what Morgan’s doing to Cordie?”
“No.”
“How come?” Regan asked.
“I don’t want people to call me a snitch. My dad says being a snitch is the worst thing you can be.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Regan asked. She was watching Morgan out of the corner of her eye. So far, the bully hadn’t spotted them.
“I don’t know yet what I’ll tell teacher, but I’ll get her to come outside, and then I’ll get her to get close enough to hear Morgan scare Cordie. Maybe she will see Morgan making Cordie give her her barrettes.”
“Sophie, you’re so smart,” Cordie said.
It was a great plan, Regan thought. Sophie disappeared inside the school just as Morgan, looking every bit like the giant Regan likened her to, came stomping toward them.
The two girls took an involuntary step back. Morgan stepped forward. Regan frantically looked for Sophie and Mrs. Grant but couldn’t find either one of them. She was terrified. She stared at Morgan’s feet, thinking they looked as big as Aiden’s, and then timidly looked up into her beady, brown eyes. She felt nauseated.
Now Regan had two horrible worries. Suffering Morgan’s wrath, and puking in front of the entire school.
The bully put her hand out, palm up, and glared at Cordie. “Give them here,” she said, wiggling her fingers. Cordie immediately reached up to remove the barrettes, but Regan grabbed her hand and stopped her.
“No,” she said as she stepped in front of Cordie. “You leave her alone.”
It was the bravest thing she had ever done, and she felt faint and giddy and sick all at the same time. Bile was burning a path up into her throat now, and she couldn’t quite swallow, but she didn’t care how miserable she was. She was being brave, and she couldn’t wait to tell Aiden all about it.
Morgan poked her in the chest. Regan staggered back and almost fell down, but she quickly righted herself and defiantly planted her feet. “You leave Cordie alone,” she repeated. The bile in her throat made her voice weak, and so she swallowed hard and then shouted the order again.
Uh-oh. Her stomach lurched, and she knew she was never going to make it to the girls’ restroom in time.
“Okay,” Morgan said. She took another threatening step forward and poked Regan again. “Then you give me something.”
Regan’s gurgling stomach was happy to oblige.

Chapter One



The demon wanted out.
The man wasn’t surprised or alarmed. The beast always began to stir at the end of the day when his mind wasn’t consumed with his job, and his body so desperately needed to relax.
For a long time, nearly a full year, the demon had hidden from him, and he hadn’t known it was there. And so he’d naively believed that he was having panic attacks, or spells, as he liked to think of them, because that somehow made them less threatening. They started with a yearning deep in his belly. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. He likened the sensation to wrapping his arms around a hot stone to warm his freezing body, but as the day progressed, the stone began to get hotter and hotter, until it radiated unbearable heat. Anxiety would come over him then, horrific anxiety that would make his skin crawl and his lungs burn with the need to scream and scream and scream, and in desperation he would think about taking one of his special pills the doctor had prescribed, but he never did take anything, not even an aspirin, for fear the medication would weaken him.
He believed he was a good man. He paid his taxes, went to church on Sundays, and held down a full-time job. It was a stressful, had-to-stay-on-his-toes kind of job, requiring his full concentration, and there wasn’t time to think or worry about the heavy burden waiting for him at home. He didn’t mind the long hours. In fact, there were times he was grateful for them. He never ran from his responsibilities in his professional or his personal life. He took care of his invalid wife, Nina. At her insistence they had moved to Chicago for a new start after the accident. He’d found employment within two weeks of his arrival and had felt that was a good omen. It was a hectic but joyful time. He and Nina decided to use a small portion of the settlement money to purchase a spacious story-and-a-half house on the outskirts of the city, and once they were unpacked, he spent the summer evenings putting in ramps and modifying the first floor so that Nina wouldn’t have any trouble getting around in her new state-of-the-art, featherweight wheelchair. Nina’s legs had been mangled in the accident, and she would, of course, never walk again. He accepted what fate had dealt them and moved forward. He was relieved when his wife slowly regained her strength and learned to do for herself during the day
When he was home, he insisted on pampering her. He prepared their dinner every night and did the dishes, then spent the rest of the evening with her watching their favorite television shows.
They’d been married ten years, and in all that time their love hadn’t diminished. If anything, the terrible accident had removed any possibility of their falling into complacency or taking each other for granted. And no wonder. His sweet, gentle Nina had died on that operating table, and then, miracle of miracles, had come back to him. The surgeons had worked through the night to save her. When he heard the news that she would recover, he got down on his knees in the hospital chapel and vowed to spend the rest of his life making her happy.
He lived a rich, full life… with one little exception.
Awareness of the demon hadn’t been gradual. No, enlightenment had come all at once.
It was the middle of the night. He hadn’t been able to sleep, and rather than toss and turn and possibly wake Nina, he went to the kitchen on the opposite end of the house and paced about, the thought a glass of warm milk might help calm his jitters and make him sleepy, but it really didn’t do much good. He was putting the empty glass in the sink when it slipped out of his hand and shattered in the basin. The sound seemed to reverberate throughout the house. He rushed to the bedroom door and stood outside, waiting and listening. The noise hadn’t awakened his wife, and he felt a moment of relief as he padded back to the kitchen.
His anxiety was building. Was he losing his mind? No, no. He was having one of his spells. That was all. And this one wasn’t so terrible. He could handle it.
The newspaper was on the counter where he’d left it. He picked it up and carried it to the table. He decided he would read every single page, or until he was so sleepy he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
He started with the sports section, read every word, and then moved on to the metropolitan news. He scanned an article about the dedication of a new park and jogging path, spread the paper wide and immediately saw the photo of a beautiful young woman standing in front of a group of men. She was posed with scissors ready to cut a ribbon draped from one stake to another across the path. And she was smiling at him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He was reading the names under the photo when it happened. He suddenly felt a crushing tightness, and he couldn’t catch his breath. A jolt very much like lightning raced through his heart causing excruciating pain. Was he having a heart attack, or was it another panic attack?
Try to calm down, he told himself. Just calm down. Take deep breaths.
The anxiety was growing even stronger, and with it came the horrific yet familiar terror. Then his skin began to burn and itch, and he frantically scratched his arms and legs as he jumped up and paced around the kitchen island. What was happening to him?
He realized he was running and forced himself to stop. Looking down, he saw the long, jagged scratches. There were bloody streaks on his arms and legs, some cuts so deep, blood dripped on the floor. He was close to exploding. He tore at his hair and whimpered, but the terror was taunting him now. Then, like a blinding light, the epiphany came. He suddenly realized he no longer had control over his own body. He couldn’t even make himself breathe.
With startling clarity he saw and understood. Someone else was breathing for him.
He awakened the following morning curled up in the fetal position on the kitchen floor. Had he fainted? He thought maybe he had. He staggered to his feet and braced his hands on the island to steady himself. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths and slowly straightened. He spotted the scissors on top of the folded newspaper. Had he placed them there? He couldn’t remember. He put the scissors back in the drawer where they belonged and picked up the newspaper to throw it into the recycle bin in the garage. He saw the clipping from the newspaper then. Both the article and the photo of the smiling woman were there in the center of his table, waiting for him. He knew who had placed them there. And he knew why.
The demon wanted her.
He buried his face in his hands and wept.
He knew that he must find another way to placate the beast. Physical activity seemed to help. He went to the gym and began to work out like a man obsessed. One of his favorite routines was to put on boxing gloves and pound the bag as hard as he could for as long as he could. He would lose track of time and stop only when he couldn’t raise his arms without suffering unbearable pain.
For days he’d kept his body in the state of perpetual exhaustion. Then, even that wasn’t enough.
Time was running out. The demon was consuming him. Ironically, it was his wife who gave him the idea. One evening, while she kept him company as he did the dishes, she suggested that he should have a night out. A night, she insisted, when he could enjoy himself and have some fun with his friends.
He put up quite an argument. There were already too many nights when he had to be away from her because of pressing commitments at work. And what about all the time he left to go running or to work out at the gym? Surely that was enough alone time.
She was more stubborn than he was and wouldn’t stop cajoling. He finally agreed, only to make her happy.
And so, tonight would be his first night out. He could already feel the adrenaline pumping. He was as nervous and excited as he had been when he had gone on his first date.
Before leaving home, he told Nina he would be heading into the city after work to meet some friends at Sully’s, a popular bar and grill, but she wasn’t to worry; if he had more than one drink, he wouldn’t drive home. He’d take a cab.
All of it was a lie.
No, he wasn’t going to the city to relax. He was going there to hunt.

Chapter Two



Regan Madison had spent three miserable days and nights surrounded by sleazebags. They seemed to be everywhere—in the airports, at the hotel, and on the streets of Rome as well. A sleazebag, as she defined him, was a lecherous but rich old man with a mistress less than half his age hanging on his arm. Regan had never really paid any attention to such couples before her stepfather, Emerson, married Cindy, his child bride. Regan understood the appeal. Cindy had the body of a stripper. She also had the IQ of plywood. And that made her perfect for him.
Fortunately for Regan, the deliriously happy and definitely dysfunctional couple stayed on in Rome while she flew home to Chicago. Exhausted from her long flight, she went to bed early and slept a full eight hours thinking that tomorrow would be a better day.
She was wrong about that.
She awakened at six o’clock the following morning feeling as though a thousand rubber bands were wrapped around her left knee, cutting off her circulation. She had banged it on her dresser the night before and hadn’t taken the time to ice it. The pain was nearly unbearable. Throwing her covers back, she sat up and rubbed her knee until the throbbing subsided.
Her bad knee was the result of an injury in a charity baseball game. She had been playing first base, doing a creditable job too, until she pivoted the wrong way and tore her meniscal cartilage. The orthopedic surgeon she’d consulted advised surgery and assured her she’d be back in action in just a few days, but Regan kept putting the procedure off.
She swung her feet off the bed and leaned forward to stand, cautiously putting her weight on the sore knee. Then, as if she weren’t miserable enough, she started sneezing, and her eyes began to water.
Regan had a love/hate relationship with her hometown. She loved the galleries and the museums, thought the shopping was every bit as wonderful as it was in New York—an opinion her two best friends, Sophie and Cordelia, vehemently disagreed with—and she believed that at least eighty percent of the inhabitants were good, decent, law-abiding citizens. Most smiled when she passed them on the street; some even said hello. Like the majority of Midwesterners, they were friendly and polite, but not intrusive. They were hardy souls, even though they loved to complain about the weather, especially in the winter months when the wind really did feel like knives slicing through your back or chest, depending on whether you were walking away from Lake Michigan or toward it.
For Regan, however, spring was a real nuisance. She suffered from allergies, and each spring, while ragweed and mold flourished, she turned into a walking pharmacy. Yet, she refused to let it slow her down. On the days when the air was heavy or the pollen count was sky high, she stuffed packets of tissues, aspirin, antihistamines, decongestants, and eyedrops into her purse and kept on going.
She had a full day scheduled and knew she should get cracking, but all she wanted to do was crawl under the soft down comforter in her soft warm bed. It was so good to be home.
Home for Regan was a suite at The Hamilton, one of the five-star hotels owned and operated by her family. It was located in the fashionable Water Tower district of Chicago and boasted a reputation for elegance, sophistication, and comfort. For the time being, she was satisfied with her living arrangements. She had everything she needed at the hotel. The corporate offices were there, and so her work was conveniently an elevator ride away. Besides, she had known most of the staff her entire life and thought of them as family.
As much as she wanted to go back to bed, she didn’t give in to the urge. Shoving her hair out of her eyes, she staggered into the bathroom, washed her face and brushed her teeth, then put on her workout clothes, clipped her hair in a ponytail, and took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor to do two miles on the new, indoor track. She wasn’t about to let a little bout of hay fever or any aches and pains in her knee set her back. Two miles every day, no matter what.
By seven-thirty she was back in her room and had showered, dressed, and eaten her standard breakfast of wheat toast, grapefruit, and hot tea.
Regan had just sat down at the desk in the parlor suite to go over her notes when the phone rang.
Cordelia was calling to check in. “How was Rome?”
“Okay.”
“Was your stepfather there?”
“Yes, he was.”
“So how could the trip have been okay? Come on, Regan. You’re talking to me, Cordie.”
Regan sighed. “It was awful,” she admitted. “Just awful.”
“I take it stepdaddy had his new bride with him?”
“Oh, yes, she was there.”
“Is she still hanging out of everything Escada?”
Regan smiled. Cordie did have a way of making the most horrid situations amusing. She knew what her friend was doing—trying to lighten the mood. It worked too. “Not Escada,” she corrected. “Versace. And yes, she’s still spilling out of everything Versace.”
Cordie snorted. “I can just picture it. Were your brothers there?”
“Aiden was, of course. The hotel in Rome was his pet project, and he was his usually serious self. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in years. Guess that goes with being the oldest.”
“What about Spencer and Walker?”
“Spencer had to stay in Melbourne. Some last-minute problems developed with the design for the new hotel. Walker was there, but only for the reception. He wanted to rest up before the race.”
“So did you speak to him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good for you. You’ve finally forgiven him then, haven’t you?”
“I guess I have. He was only doing what he thought was right. Time has given me some perspective, as you predicted, so go ahead and gloat. Besides, I’d feel terrible if he used up all of his lives before I let him know I’d forgiven him. He wrecked another car last month,” she added.
“And walked away without a scratch on him, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m glad you aren’t mad at him anymore.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t jump the gun the way he does. He’s so impulsive. I have a couple of dates with a man, and he’s hiring people to investigate him.”
“Excuse me. You had more than a couple of dates with Dennis.”
“Yes, well.
“At least you didn’t let him break your heart. I know for a fact you didn’t love him.”
“How did you know?”
“When you broke up, you didn’t shed a tear. Face it, Regan, you cry at Puppy Chow commercials. If you didn’t cry over Dennis, your heart wasn’t really in it. And just for the record, I’m thrilled you dumped him. He was all wrong for you.”
“At the time I didn’t think he was all wrong. I thought he was close to perfect. We had so much in common. He loved the theater, the ballet, and the opera, and he didn’t mind attending all those fund-raisers. I thought we had the same values—”
“But that wasn’t the real Dennis, was it? He was after your money, Regan, and you’ve got too much going for you to put up with that nonsense.”
“You aren’t going to give me another pep talk about how pretty and smart I am, are you?”
“No, I don’t have time to do the pep talk now. I’ve got to get back to the lab before one of my students blows it up. I’m calling to make sure you got home okay and to ask if you want to have dinner tonight. I’m starting my grapefruit diet tomorrow.”
“I wish I could, but I’m swamped with work. I’m going to be playing catch-up for a week,” she said.
“Okay, then plan on Friday, and I’ll start the diet on Saturday. We both need to have some fun,” Cordie protested. “Last week was awful for me. Monday one of the kids dropped a box of supplies, and every one of the new beakers broke. Then Tuesday I found out my budget for next year has been cut in half. In half,” she stressed. “Oh, and on Wednesday Sophie called and asked me to do an errand for her, and that turned out to be pretty awful too.”
“What was the errand?”
“She made me go to the police station to check on something.”
“What something?”
“You’ll have to wait to hear the gory details. Sophie made me promise not to say anything. She wants to explain it to you.”
“She’s cooking up another scheme, isn’t she?”
“Maybe,” she answered. “Uh-oh. One of my students is frantically waving to me. Gotta go.”
She hung up before Regan could say good-bye. Five minutes later Sophie called. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“I need a favor. A big one.”
“Rome was fine. Thank you for asking. What kind of favor?”
“Say yes first.”
Regan laughed. “I haven’t fallen for that ploy since kindergarten.”
“Then meet me for lunch. Not today,” she hurried to add. “I know you’re probably swamped with work, and I’ve got two meetings back to back I can’t miss. Maybe we could do it tomorrow or the day after. I’ll need a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours for lunch?”
“Lunch and a favor,” she corrected. “We could meet at The Palms at twelve-thirty on Friday. Cordie’s through at noon, and she could join us. Can you do Friday?”
“I’m not sure I—”
“I really need your help.”
She sounded pitiful. Regan knew it was deliberate manipulation, but she decided to let her get away with it.
“If it’s that important…,” she began.
“It is.”
“Okay, I’ll make it work.”
“I knew I could count on you. Oh, by the way, I checked with Henry to make sure your calendar was clear next weekend, and I told him to pencil me in.”
“For the entire weekend? Sophie, what’s going on?”
“I’ll explain it to you at lunch, and you’ll have a whole week to think about it.”
“I can’t—”
“I loved the picture in the newspaper. Your hair looked great.”
“Sophie, I want to know—”
“I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you Friday at twelve-thirty at The Palms.”
Regan wanted to argue, but it was pointless since Sophie had already hung up the phone. She checked the time, then grabbed her PDA and rushed out the door. Paul Greenfield, a senior staff member and a dear friend, was waiting in the lobby. Regan had known Paul since she was a teenager. She’d worked as his intern during the summer months of her junior year in high school, and for those three months she’d been madly in love with him. Paul had known about her infatuation—she’d been ridiculously obvious about what her mother called a bad crush—but he was very sweet about it. Married now with four children of his own who ran him ragged, he always had a ready smile for her. Paul’s hair was graying at the temples and he wore bottle-thick glasses, but Regan still thought he was extremely handsome. He was holding what looked like a five-hundred-page printout in his arms.
“Good morning, Paul. Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Good morning,” he replied. “Actually, these are for you.”
“Oh?” she took a step back.
He grinned. “Sorry, but about an hour ago I got an e-mail from your brother Aiden.”
“Yes?” she asked when he hesitated.
“He was wondering why he hasn’t heard from you.”
He tried to hand the stack of papers to her. She took another step back and smiled. “What exactly does Aiden want to hear?”
“Your opinion of his report.”
“He wrote all that? When in heaven’s name did he have time to write a five-hundred-page report?”
“Two hundred and ten pages,” he corrected.
“Okay. When did he have time to write a two-hundred-and-ten-page report?”
“You know your brother doesn’t sleep.”
Or have a life, she thought but didn’t dare say because it would have been disloyal. “Apparently not,” she said. “What kind of report is it?”
Paul smiled. She was looking at the pages as though she expected a jack-in-the-box to jump out at her. “Aiden’s plans for expansion,” he said. “He needs to know what you think before he can go forward. All the numbers are there. Spencer and Walker have already gotten on board.”
“Bet they didn’t have to read the thing.”
“Actually, no, they didn’t.”
She could see the guilty look on his face as he transferred the pages into her arms. She balanced the PDA on top.
“Aiden didn’t even mention this when we were in Rome. He now thinks I should have already read it?”
“There’s obviously been a mix-up. This is the second time I’ve had to have the pages printed for you. The first copy seems to have disappeared. I gave it to Emily,” he said, referring to Aiden’s assistant. “She insists she gave it to Henry to pass on to you.”
“If she had given the report to Henry, he would have given it to me.”
Paul was always diplomatic. “It’s a puzzle, but I don’t believe either one of us should waste time or energy trying to figure it out.”
“Yes, right. A puzzle.” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. “We both know that Emily—”
He didn’t let her continue. “We shouldn’t speculate. However, your brother is waiting to hear from you, hopefully by noon today.”
“Noon?”
“He told me to tell you not to worry about the time difference.”
She gritted her teeth. “Okay. I’ll read it this morning.”
His smile indicated he was pleased with her decision. “If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office until eleven. Then I’m on my way to Miami.”
He was walking away when she called out, “You knew I’d cave, didn’t you?”
His laughter was her answer. Regan checked the time, groaned, and then straightened her shoulders and headed to her office.

Chapter Three



The murder was a mistake.
He stood in the shadows of a building near the Water Tower district watching the entrance, waiting for the chosen one to appear. The damp, cool night air settled in his bones. He was miserable but didn’t dare give up, and so he continued to hide there waiting and hoping for over two hours. Then he finally accepted that he had failed.
Defeated, he climbed back into his Jeep and headed home. Tears came into his eyes, so severe was his disappointment and shame. He heard someone sob, realized that he had made the sound, and impatiently wiped the tears from his cheeks.
He couldn’t stop shaking. He had failed. What would the demon do to him now? He sobbed again.
And then, just as he was about to scream with the despair, the answer came. He saw the entrance to Conrad Park and suddenly knew the demon had guided him to where he needed to go. The jogging trail circled the university and the park in a perfect figure eight. He remembered seeing the diagram in the newspaper along with a long article about a festival. The proceeds would go to some sort of charity, but he couldn’t remember which one.
You’ll find her here, the demon whispered.
He was suddenly relieved. He found a perfect parking spot along the street next to the university. He pulled up beside a telephone pole. There was a poster for a coming race north of the city nailed to it. The poster showed a pretty young woman crossing a finish line.
He started to open the door and then froze. He wasn’t dressed properly. He’d worn his cheap but serviceable black suit with a white shirt and pinstriped tie because he thought he’d find her down by the Water Tower district, and he wanted to blend in with the other businessmen going home from work. He had stuffed a baseball cap in his pocket and planned to put it on once he started following her so that no one else on the street would be able to identify him after the fact.
What should he do?
Make the best of it, the demon hissed.
He grabbed his briefcase and decided to act as though he were a professor at the university, walking in a hurry. It wasn’t such a stretch. Yes, he could pull it off.
The weather had turned foul again. It had rained hard every day for the past four days, but it was supposed to be clear tonight. The weatherman had obviously been wrong. Damn, he should have thought to bring his umbrella along. It was too late to get one now.
Gripping the vinyl handle of the briefcase in his left hand, he walked quickly along the trail, trying to act as though he knew where he was headed. He walked for almost a mile, a fine mist covering his clothes, the urgency building inside him as he searched for the perfect spot. There weren’t many wooded areas, and he knew the specimen would be more cautious and watchful there.
He wasn’t too concerned that the mist would keep her away. Runners run, no matter the weather. And there was an important race to get ready for, he thought. Oh, yes, he would find her there.
But where should he hide? He kept walking, looking for a good spot. New lights designed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps were spaced along the path about twenty feet apart, some even closer together near the back of a building he was approaching. A sign with an arrow pointing to the building indicated it was a lecture hall. “Won’t do, won’t do,” he muttered. Too much light for what he intended.
His suit was soaked through, and still he continued on. What was that against the wall? He walked closer, stepped off the path, and then stopped. A shovel? Yes, that’s what it was.
There were three large holes along the side of the stone building where shrubs had been pulled out to make room for new ones. One of the workmen had obviously left the shovel behind. And a few other items as well. On the ground next to the shovel was an orange tarp folded haphazardly, and sticking out from one edge was a hammer, rusty but adequate. He seized it, measured the weight and grip in his hand, and held it close to his side. He hadn’t thought to bring a weapon. He was strong, terribly strong, and he believed he could subdue any woman, no matter her size, with his bare hands. The hammer might make it easier to convince her not to struggle. Better safe than sorry, he thought.
He walked around the curve in the path and gasped with excitement. A renovation was in progress. There was a pyramid of dead shrubs and trees, the roots like dried-up octopus tentacles reaching into the path. The trash was waiting to be carted away. He looked around for signs of anyone who could see or hear, then picked up a rock, and with his first pitch, broke the lamplight nearest the pile. Still too bright, he decided and threw another rock to break a second lamp.
“Perfect,” he whispered. A perfect little nest.
He kept thinking about those big, deep holes someone had thoughtfully left for him. A couple of them were on the south side of the building, but there were two more adjacent to the path with neon orange cones around them. Although he was wearing gloves, he still brushed his palms against his pants as he hunkered down behind the stack of foul-smelling, decomposing rot. His loafers sank into the mud. He gingerly placed the cheap attaché case on the ground next to him and took a deep, calming breath.
His senses were heightened by adrenaline, and he was more attuned to his surroundings. He could hear every little sound, smell every musty scent.
He heard the pounding of feet against the pavement as a runner approached. He smiled with satisfaction. Runners run, no matter what. He scrunched down lower still and squinted through the triangular opening he’d made between the branches. He watched the spot under a bright light he knew the runner would have to pass.
“Yes.” The runner was indeed a woman. But was she the right woman? Was she the perfect chosen one? He couldn’t see her face—she was looking down at the path as she sped along. He could see her slim, atheletic body, though, and her thick, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had to be the one. He stared at her long, luscious, incredibly perfect legs.
Clutching the hammer like a baseball bat, he prepared to spring.
He didn’t mean to kill her. He wanted only to daze her. Too late, he discovered his timing was off. He should have let her get past him and then struck her from behind, at the base of her skull, but he was too eager and too inexperienced. She was a fighter, clawing at his face as he struggled to take her down.
He dodged her hands, and when he was finally able to get a good look at her face, he realized she was seeing him clearly. Panic set in, and then fury.
She was pulling pepper spray from her pocket and screaming at the top of her lungs. He struck her hard—one blow from the hammer—and she collapsed. The demon wouldn’t let it end there.
Again and again he struck her legs, pounding her knees and her thighs and her ankles.
There was blood everywhere.
Luck stayed on his side, for the mist had turned into a hard rain. He turned his face up to the sky and let the cold rainwater wash the blood away. The crimson stream flowed under his shirt collar giving him goose bumps. He closed his eyes to rest.
He suddenly bolted upright. How long had he been squatting next to her body, stupidly looking up at the black sky while anyone and his uncle could have wandered by?
He shook his head. He had to hide the body.
The holes. Those beautiful, big holes on the side of the building. Dare he risk carrying her all that way? Or should he use the shovel and dig a better hole underneath all the dead shrubs. Yes, that’s what he would do. But not yet. He quickly hid her under some branches, then found a spot near the shovel to hunker down and wait. After midnight, when he was sure no one would disturb him, he moved the dead branches and dug a pit for her. He made sure it was deep enough to cover her folded body. As he dragged her to the hole, both shoes and one of her socks came off, so he threw them in. He stuffed her into the hole butt first, shoveled dirt on top of her and patted it down, and then dragged the rotting branches and dead shrubs over his work.
After he covered his footprints as best he could, he stood off to the side of the path to survey his handiwork. He was relieved to see that the rain had already washed the blood away from the walk.
The shaking started when he got back in his Jeep. He could barely get the key into the ignition, so undone was he by what had just happened. By the time he got home, an overwhelming sensation of peace and tranquility eased through his limbs, and he was feeling just like he used to after sex. Satisfied, content, relaxed.
And guilt free. That surprised him a little. He really didn’t feel any guilt at all. But then, why should he? The woman had tricked him, and for that reason alone she deserved to die.
Two other runners had passed by while he’d waited to bury the body, and either one of them, both males, might have noticed the bloodstains the rain hadn’t completely washed away yet. Yes, he’d taken quite a risk tonight.
He flipped the car lights off before he turned the corner so the nosy bitch neighbor wouldn’t see him pulling into his drive. Several weeks before, he’d removed the garage door light. As he approached his house, he drove at a snail’s pace. There she was, standing at her kitchen window, staring out. She was always checking on the neighbors.
She disappeared just as the garage door went up. Her name was Carolyn, and she was becoming more than just a pain in the ass. Too bad Carolyn didn’t live alone. She took care of her mother. One would think that the old woman would keep her occupied, but apparently that wasn’t so. Carolyn was a busybody and intrusive, always wondering when she could stop by to meet Nina. If she kept it up, he would have to do something about her.
After he parked in his garage, he pulled a wooden crate from a shelf and laid the bloody hammer in the bottom. Then he emptied his pockets. The pepper spray and driver’s license he’d impulsively taken from the woman went into the box next. He shoved the crate and the attaché case into a corner. After that, he stripped and put his muddy clothes and shoes in a trash bag.
He had to be quiet. He didn’t want to awaken Nina, and so he decided he’d sleep in the guest room. He silently crossed the house and climbed the stairs. When he saw his face in the bathroom mirror, he gasped and recoiled in horror. What had the woman done to him? His face looked like raw hamburger. He quickly turned on the faucet and used a cloth to gently wash the blood away. Her nails had ripped long tears in his skin on both sides of his face. There was even one long scratch down the side of his neck. He raged against her as he stepped into the shower and turned the water on. His arms were a mess, too.
My God, what if someone had seen him on the drive home? How many times had he sat at stoplights looking left and right. Maybe one of the other drivers had already called the police and given them his license plate number.
He began to bang his head against the tile. They’ll catch me; they’ll catch me. What will I do? Oh, God, what will happen to Nina? Who will take care of her? Will she be forced to watch me being dragged away in handcuffs? That humiliation was too appalling to think about, and so he did what he had trained himself to do while Nina was in the critical care unit at the hospital. He forced himself to block the image until it disappeared.
He stayed inside his house all weekend, glued to the television set, waiting to hear the newscasters talk about the murder. As time went by, he became strangely detached because the woman hadn’t been discovered. By Tuesday, he counted himself lucky and was feeling quite confident.
Not bad, he told himself. Not bad at all for a dress rehearsal.
He’d even come up with the perfect explanation for his scratches. The rain had made the ground slick and he’d slipped and fallen into some thorny bushes.
His department head, a pissant of a man, called him into his office on Wednesday at four to tell him that everyone had noticed how hard he was working and how cheerful he had been these past three days. Why, one of his colleagues had mentioned that he’d even told a joke. The pissant hoped that he would continue with this bright, fresh, wonderful attitude.
As he was leaving his boss’s office, he was asked a question. What had caused this transformation? Spring, he’d told him. He was ignoring the foul weather and relandscaping his entire backyard. He was having a delightful time, but he wasn’t doing any planting yet. The ground was warm now, and he was tearing up everything. Out with the old and in with the new. He was even thinking about building a gazebo.
“Do be careful pulling out those shrubs,” the pissant cautioned. “You don’t want to fall into any more thorny bushes and get hurt again. You’re lucky the scratches didn’t become infected.”
Indeed. He most certainly didn’t want any more scratches, and yes, he was a very lucky man.

Chapter Four




The week went by in a blur. By Friday, Ragan was in a much better mood. She’d caught up on all of her paperwork, and she was able to get back to what she loved to do.
Even running into Aiden’s assistant didn’t dampen her spirits. Regan had been hurrying down the hall to her office when Emily Milan called out. She turned and waited for Emily to catch up to her. The woman was at least three, maybe four, inches taller than Regan and towered over her when she wore high heels. Her blond hair was cropped short with jagged wisps framing her striking features. Everything about Emily was trendy, from her short, tight skirt to her bold, colorful jewelry.
Regan didn’t like Emily, but she tried her best not to let her personal feelings interfere with work. For some reason, Emily had taken a real dislike to Regan too. Emily’s animosity had been building over the past couple of months, and she was becoming more openly hostile.
“Aiden would like me to take over the meeting you were scheduled to run this morning. I’m sure he wanted to make certain it ran smoothly.”
It was an insult, and not even a veiled one. Regan had to remind herself why she put up with the woman. As unpleasant as she was, she did ease Aiden’s workload, and that was all that mattered.
“That’s fine,” she said.
“I’ll need the notes Aiden e-mailed you. Print them out and have your assistant bring them to me.”
No please or thank you, of course. She simply turned and walked away. Regan took a breath and decided she wasn’t going to let Emily ruin her morning. Think of something good, she told herself. It took a minute, but she finally came up with something. She didn’t have to work with Emily. That was definitely good.
Most days, Regan believed she had a dream job because she got to give away money. She was the administrator of the Hamilton Foundation. Her grandmother Hamilton had begun the philanthropic program, and when she had a fatal stroke a couple of years ago, Regan, who was already being trained for the position, stepped in and took over. It wasn’t yet the multimillion-dollar foundation Regan hoped for, but it was successful and had provided money and supplies to many struggling schools and community centers. Now all she needed to do was convince her brothers to increase the funding. And that was no easy task, especially with Aiden, whose entire focus was on expanding the hotel chain.
The Chicago Hamilton was just one of Aiden’s babies, but he used it as the model for other ventures. Customer service was the number one priority, and because of the staff’s attention to detail, the hotel had won every prestigious award possible since the year it had opened. The operation of all the hotels ran very smoothly because Aiden took pains to hire people who shared his commitment.
Henry Portman was waiting for Regan when she entered her office. Her young assistant worked part-time while he attended college. The young African-American man had the body of a lineman, the heart of a lion, and the mind of a young Bill Gates.
“The dragon’s looking for you,” he said in greeting.
She laughed. “I ran into Emily in the hall. She’s going to take over the ten o’clock meeting. Anything else going on I need to know about?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Give me the good news first.”
“The supplies are on the way to two more schools for their art programs, and there are sixteen more letters waiting for your signature.” Grinning from ear to ear, he added, “Sixteen very worthy high school seniors are going to go to college now, all expenses paid.”
She smiled. “That is good news. On days like this, I do love my job.”
“Me too,” he said. “Most of the time anyway.”
“Which leads you to the bad news?”
She sat down behind her desk and began to sign the letters. As she finished each one, she handed it to Henry, who folded it and put it in an envelope. “There was a problem this morning. Well… actually, the problem’s been ongoing for about a month, but I thought I could handle it. Now, I’m not so sure. Do you remember a guy named Morris? Peter Morris?”
She shook her head. “What about him?”
“You turned him down for a second grant about a month ago. When he received the denial letter, he immediately reapplied. He thought it was some kind of clerical error or that he hadn’t dotted all his i’s or left a line blank or something on what he called the automatic-renewal application, and that’s why he filled out another one. Anyway, he called several weeks ago and asked when he could expect the money. He had this crazy notion that, once he’d been approved for the first grant, it was gravy from then on. I straightened him out on that score,” Henry said. He shook his head as he continued. “Then he calls me again and tell me he doesn’t think I understand what an automatic renewal means.”
“He sounds tenacious.”
“He’s a pain in the… you know. I didn’t want to bother you about it, but the guy just won’t go away. Since you left for Rome, he’s increased his calls. It’s like he’s got this campaign going. Maybe he thinks that if he keeps bugging me, I’ll give in just to get rid of him.”
“If he’s that much of a nuisance, I should talk to him. Would you pull his paperwork? I must have had a good reason for turning him down.”
“I already pulled it,” he told her, pointing to a file on the edge of her desk. “But I can save you some time and tell you why you denied his request. He misused the money from the first grant. The grant was specifically targeted for the purchase of new supplies for the community center.”
“Oh, yes, I do remember him now.”
“Morris told me he had purchased new materials. He just misplaced the receipts.”
“And what did you say to that?”
Henry laughed. “I said, okay, that’s good to know, and then I asked him when it would be convenient for you and me to swing by and see for ourselves. He did some fancy dancing then. You should have heard him stammering and sputtering.”
She shook her head. “In other words, no new supplies for show-and-tell.”
“That’s right. I don’t think he has any idea how much trouble he’s in. When his employers find out he misused the grant money, they’ll want to prosecute, I would.” He added, “I didn’t tell him that, though.”
“How did you end the call?”
“We’re not best friends, if that’s what you were wondering,” he said. “It was hard being polite to the jerk, but I managed. He wants to come down and talk to you personally. Before he hung up, he assured me that he could get you to change your mind.”
“Fat chance.”
“My thought exactly. It was odd, though. He acted like he had some kind of personal connection to you. I think he’s a worry. He’s got this edge about him. I don’t know how he got past the initial screening the accountants did for all the applicants, but he somehow managed. I really don’t think you should waste your time talking to him. But if you insist, and he threatens you, I think you ought to tell Aiden about him.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The look she gave him made her six-foot-three assistant wince.
“I’m not going to involve any of my brothers, Henry. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re clear.”
“If Morris becomes a threat, I’ll notify security, and I’ll call the police. Now enough about him. I’ve signed the last letter. They’re ready to mail.”
Henry scooped up the envelopes and turned to leave. “One more thing,” she said. “Will you print out Aiden’s e-mail. There are notes for the meeting Emily’s going to handle.”
“You want me to take the printout down to her?” he asked. His expression was pathetic.
She laughed. “You’ll survive.”
He cleared his throat and took a step back inside. “About Aiden…”
“Yes?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you, but the way I see it, I work for you, not your brother. Right?”
She looked up. “That’s right.”
“A couple of weeks ago he stopped in. You weren’t here, and he told me that if there was ever any problem, I was supposed to call him.”
She tried not to get angry. “Aiden’s got a father complex.”
“I told him there weren’t any big problems and that we’re doing great. We are doing great, don’t you think? And we’re making a difference.”
“That’s right. We are.”
He was pulling the door closed when he remembered one other bit of news. “I forgot to mention it, but last week I found the dragon in here.”
“In my office? What was she doing?”
“She said she put some papers on your desk, but after she left, I looked and I didn’t see anything new. I think she was snooping. I also think she messed with your computer.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asked, wondering what Emily had been searching for. The longer Regan thought about it, the angrier she became.
“I’m pretty sure. You always turn your computer off when you leave for the night, and I had only just gotten to work when I walked in and found her in your office. She’s got some gall, doesn’t she?” That was an understatement. Before Regan could respond, Henry said, “I think we should start locking this door so the dragon can’t get in.”
“You’ve got to stop calling her dragon. One of these days it will slip out in front of her.”
He shrugged, letting her know without words that he really didn’t care.
Regan worked until eleven-thirty, then ran upstairs to her suite to freshen up.
Since it was only seven short blocks to The Palms, Regan decided to walk. On the way back, she would drop off the grant reports at the attorney’s office, and she wanted to stop by Dickerson’s Bath Shop to buy a bottle of Sophie’s favorite body lotion. Her friend’s birthday was just around the corner. Regan had already purchased a gorgeous Prada bag Sophie had admired, and she was going to fill it with all the things her friend loved. If there was time, she would also stop in Nieman Marcus and buy a bottle of Vera Wang’s perfume. It was all Sophie wore these days.
Regan decided walking would do her good. The exercise would hopefully help her get rid of her bad mood. Finding out that Emily had been snooping around her office was infuriating, and she wasn’t able to get past it yet.
She was thinking about the invasion of her privacy as she crossed the lobby. She spotted Emily heading toward the concierge and decided to confront her.
“Emily, have you got a minute? I’d like to speak to you.”
Emily turned, a look of irritation on her face, and said, “Yes, of course.”
“Henry mentioned that he found you in my office last week.”
Regan expected a denial and was shocked when Emily said, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“What exactly were you doing?”
“I placed some papers on your desk.”
“Why didn’t you give them to Henry or leave them on his desk?”
“I didn’t want them to get misplaced.” Emily was looking over Regan’s shoulder instead of directly at her, letting her know how unimportant the conversation was.
“Henry doesn’t misplace things.” She was going to launch into a litany of praise for her assistant, but Emily didn’t stay around long enough to listen.
She walked away and without a backward glance said, “Henry misplaced Aiden’s report, didn’t he?”
“No, he did not,” she said emphatically.
“Then I must assume you did.”
Emily kept going. Regan wasn’t about to get into a shouting match with the woman or go chasing after her, but trying to get along with her was becoming more and more impossible. Something had to be done, and soon. Count to ten and concentrate on something good, she told herself. Something positive.
She stepped outside of the hotel and immediately noticed what a beautiful, clear day it was. The gray haze had already burned off the city, and the sun was shining brightly. The sky was a perfect shade of powder blue. Spring flowers were budding out of giant earthen pots along the street. She took another deep breath and promptly started sneezing. The pollen count must not be too bad today, she thought. Her eyes weren’t burning and she only sneezed six or seven times.
Things were looking up. She was staying positive. Mind over matter, she told herself.
Then she encountered her first sleazebag of the day on the corner of Michigan and Superior while she was waiting for the light to change. A late-to-middle-aged man, who didn’t seem to care how many people watched, groped a petite redhead Regan estimated to be around eighteen years old. The silly girl obviously loved the attention. Her squeaky laughter could have broken glass. Regan gripped the leather strap of her purse and strode past the lovey-dovey couple, forcing herself not to say anything judgmental out loud.
She ran into another early May-late December couple as she was striding past Nieman Marcus, and by the rime she reached the restaurant, she was hopping mad and nauseated.
Kevin was on duty today. Tall, lanky, and painfully thin, the twenty-year-old had spiked black hair and almond-shaped eyes. He was Henry’s best friend. His smile put her in a much better mood.
“Looking awful good today, Regan,” he said after giving her a quick once-over. “That fitted suit sure accents your…”
She raised an eyebrow. “My what?”
“Curves,” he whispered, and had the good grace to blush.
Before she could answer, he leaned over the podium to look at her shoes. “Hey, are those Jimmy Choo?”
She laughed. “What do you know about Jimmy Choo shoes?”
“Not from nothing,” he admitted. “But my girlfriend lusts after them, so I figured, you being so classy and all, you’d have a couple hundred pair.”
“Kevin, I don’t have a couple hundred anything, and no, these aren’t Jimmy Choo shoes. Is that a new earring?”
He nodded. “Carrie gave it to me for our six-month anniversary. Dad hates it, but he’s so happy about my grades he isn’t making a big deal about it. Carrie’s trying to talk Henry into getting one too.”
Kevin noticed Mr. Laggia, the owner, heading their way. “Uh-oh,” he whispered. “Here comes Laggia. Be sure to rave about the ferns. The guy’s obsessing about them.”
Regan smiled as the owner approached. “I love what you’ve done with the place, Mr. Laggia. Those ferns are wonderful.”
He beamed with pleasure. “You noticed?”
How could she not notice? They were everywhere. “Oh, yes,” she said.
“You don’t think it’s too… jungle?”
“No, no, of course not.”
The restaurant did have a bit of a jungle theme going, but it wasn’t overwhelming, and the ferns above each booth gave the customers the feeling of being in a private room.
“How many today?” Kevin asked.
“Three,” she answered. “Sophie made the reservation for twelve-thirty. I’m a little early.”
“Show her to section four,” Laggia said. “I’ve just put in some ficus. They’re quite robust.”
Kevin stood behind the squat man, rolling his eyes and grinning. He showed her to a booth that was completely surrounded by ficus and palms and ferns. Cordie and Sophie were both late. Regan sipped Sprite, hoping to settle her stomach, and she was actually beginning to relax when, lo and behold, in walked another disgusting couple. Regan tried to think positive. Maybe the gray-haired gentleman was the girl’s father or grandfather. When Kevin led them past her booth, she noticed the old man’s hand moved down the girl’s spine. Was he fondling her or guiding her?
Regan knew she was obsessing now but didn’t care. She was determined to find out if the overly endowed girl was the man’s grandchild or girlfriend. She leaned out ever so slightly and tracked them as they turned the corner. She tilted farther and farther to watch them. She lost her balance and would have landed on the floor if she hadn’t grabbed hold of the edge of the table.
She felt like a fool. She sat up straight, adjusted the white tablecloth she’d nearly ripped off the table, and sat back. Let it go, she told herself. Just let it go.
She could just see the top of the man’s head. She had to know, and so she got up on one knee to watch the pair, but the leafy plants that lined the top of the booth were in her way. She parted the springy leaves. One got loose and smacked her in the face. She wasn’t deterred. She spotted the girl sliding into a booth on the far side of the restaurant. The old man didn’t sit across from her. Regan pushed the leaves farther apart just in time to see him slip into the booth next to the girl. Kevin handed each one a menu. He hadn’t even turned to go back to his station before the old man put his arm around the girl’s shoulders, leaned down, and kissed her.
“Lecher,” she whispered.
“Doing a little gardening?”
Regan jumped at the sound of Sophie’s voice. She hastily let go of the fern, dodged another leafy ficus branch, and sat down.
“You’re late.”
Sophie ignored the criticism. “What were you doing? Looking at a gorgeous man, I hope.”
“Sorry, no. I was watching another sleazebag.”
“So you’re still doing that, huh?”
Regan nodded. “I can’t seem to help myself. Honest to heaven, they’re everywhere.”
Sophie laughed. Regan thought she looked like a young teenager. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and her cheeks were flushed from running. Sophie ran everywhere because she was usually late. She looked lovely today, but then she always did. “Is that a new blouse? I like it.”
“I wear too much pink,” Sophie said. “But I saw this and I just had to have it.”
The waiter appeared at the table and took Sophie’s drink order.
Regan turned toward the entrance of the restaurant and said, “I can’t believe you beat Cordie here. I wonder what’s keeping her. She’s never late.”
“I told her she didn’t need to be here until one or a quarter of,” she said.
The waiter had returned with a tall glass of iced tea. Sophie immediately grabbed three sugar packets and dumped the contents into the glass.
“Why did you tell her—”
“She already knows what I want to talk to you about. I dragged her into this a good month ago, but I didn’t want to bother you because you were doing so much traveling back then.”
“I just went to Rome.”
“Excuse me. Before Rome you were in Houston and Miami and…”
“L.A.,” she supplied. “I guess I have done a lot of traveling in the last two months. So tell me. What’s the ‘this’ you dragged Cordie into?”
“The plan.”
She’d used the word with relish, and Regan saw a gleam in her eyes.
“You’re sounding awfully earnest, Sophie. So, tell me about the plan” she added, exaggerating the words.
“Don’t mock me.”
Regan put a hand up. “I’m not mocking you. I swear it on your iced tea.”
The waiter had heard “iced tea,” and a few seconds later a tall glass was placed before Regan. She didn’t tell the eager man she didn’t want it. She thanked him instead.
Sophie folded her hands. “To begin with, the plans have changed for this evening.”
“We aren’t going to dinner?”
“Yes, of course we’re going to dinner. Cordie already made the reservations. We’re going to a reception first.” She turned to her purse and pulled out a wad of folded papers and placed them on the table.
“What are those?”
“I’ll explain in a minute.”
“Okay. Then tell me about the reception.”
Sophie was frowning at a group of businessmen seated at a long table adjacent to them.
“What’s wrong?”
“Those men are staring at you.”
“They aren’t staring at me. They’re staring at you,” Regan said. “Just ignore them.”
“The one on the end is really quite cute.”
Regan didn’t look. “Tell me about the reception.”
Sophie finally gave Regan her full attention. “It’s for the men and women who register early for the weekend seminar we’re all going to attend.”
She’d blurted it all out and then gave Regan her brightest smile. It didn’t work.
“Can’t do it.”
“Sure you can. You’re all stressed out from the trip to Rome, and having to be in the same room with your sleazebag stepfather—to borrow your opinion of the man. This is something completely different and... noble. Yes, what we’re going to do is noble.”
“How noble?”
Sophie leaned forward. In a whisper she said, “We’re going to catch a murderer.”

Chapter Five



Regan hadn’t been shocked by Sophie’s announcement. After all, she’d grown up with her and was certainly used to her dramatic ways. “ ‘We’re going to catch a murderer’? Is that what you just said?” Regan asked.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Okay,” she said. “And how exactly are we going to do that?”
“I’m serious, Regan. I really want to get this bastard.” Regan raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Sophie to ever curse. “Who are we talking about?”
“Dr. Lawrence Shields,” she said. “He’s a doctor of psychology who uses his mail-order credentials to fleece rich but lonely, vulnerable women, both young and old.”
Regan was nodding. “Have you heard of him?” Sophie asked.
“I’ve read a couple of articles about him in the newspaper.” Sophie took a drink of her tea and then said, “His self-help, let-me-show-you-how-to-turn-your-miserable-life-around seminars draw hundreds of unsuspecting men and women. It’s so sad, really. The young are looking for a guru for guidance in figuring out what they should do with their futures, and the older men and women are looking for ways to change the paths they’ve taken.”
“I remember reading that Dr. Shields is considered to be a miracle worker.”
“He most certainly is not. Those articles and interviews are paid advertisements. Shields spends a considerable amount of money promoting his seminars. He does two a year here in Chicago.”
Sophie was getting all worked up. The spots of color on her cheeks had spread.
“I imagine he makes quite a lot of money on those seminars,” Regan said, wondering how much the man charged for a weekend of group therapy. It was probably exorbitant.
Her friend picked up the stack of folded papers and handed them to Regan. “These are photocopies of a diary written by a woman named Mary Coolidge. She’s one of the women Shields conned.”
“I’ll read this later,” she promised. “Just give me the highlights now.”
Sophie agreed with a nod. “Mary Coolidge’s husband died two years ago, and after that, she moved around in a fog of depression. Her daughter, Christine, tried to help, but Mary refused to go to counseling or take medication.”
“After you lose someone you love, it’s natural to mourn,” Regan said. “It’s still hard for me to deal with my mother’s death, and she’s been gone almost a full year.”
“Yes, it’s natural to mourn, but it took Mary two years before she’d even leave her house.”
“So what did she do?” Regan asked. She watched Sophie add yet another packet of sugar to her drink and was a little amazed she could stand the taste.
“Mary heard about the seminars Shields held, and without telling her daughter or any of her friends, she paid the thousand-dollar fee and attended the two-day workshop.”
“A thousand dollars? How many people attend these workshops?”
“Three or four hundred. Why?”
“Do you realize how much money he’s taking in?” She leaned back against the padded booth and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please continue.”
“Shields was as good as his promise. He did change Mary’s life. The charismatic fraud pounced on her loneliness, methodically weaseled his way into her heart, and then took every dollar her husband had left her, which, as it turned out, was well over two million dollars. Shields is a snake,” she added. “But a clever snake. Everything he did was legal. Mary willingly turned her assets over to him.”
“And this is all in her diary?” Regan asked.
Sophie nodded. “Had her daughter not found the thing, she never would have known all the details of what had happened. Mary had written all about her whirlwind romance. Just three short months after meeting Shields, he asked her to marry him and she agreed. He insisted she keep their engagement their little secret until he had the time—and the money—to buy her a proper engagement ring.”
“What do you mean, until he had the money? If he was charging—”
Sophie cut her off. “It was a con, of course. He told her he was experiencing ‘temporary’ money problems, and she, wanting to prove her love and trust, willingly transferred her savings over to him.”
“How could she have been so gullible?”
“Loneliness,” she said. “You know what happened next, don’t you?”
“He changed his mind.”
“Exactly,” she said. “He told her he’d had a change of heart. Not only didn’t he want to marry her, he didn’t want to give her the money back. He also pointed out that there really wasn’t anything she could do about it.”
“That poor woman.”
The waiter interrupted to take their lunch orders.
“I think we should go ahead,” Sophie said. “I can’t take a long lunch today.”
Regan checked the time. It wasn’t quite one yet. “I’ll wait for Cordie, but you go ahead.”
Sophie ordered a salad and a refill on her iced tea. The second the waiter left, Regan asked, “What happened to Mary?”
“She killed herself. At least that’s what everyone believes.”
“Everyone but you?”
She nodded. She put her napkin down and excused herself. “I’ll explain when I come back.”
Sophie headed for the ladies’ room, leaving Regan hanging. Regan noticed the men at the table were all watching her friend pass by. Sophie knew it too, which was why she was walking with such an exaggerated stride. It’s all in the hips, she used to tell Cordie and Regan. If you wanted to get a man’s attention, move the hips. And heavens, was she moving them now. It certainly worked for her, Regan thought. She picked up the papers to look them over and happened to glance toward the entrance just as Cordie walked in.
Everything about Cordie was a contradiction. Men found her quite sexy because she had an hourglass shape, long dark hair, and moved with the grace of a feline, but she was totally oblivious of any stares of admiration—the men at the table were now gawking at her—and she was far more comfortable underneath a car than inside it. Like Sophie, she was an only child and had lost her mother at an early age. Her father owned an extremely lucrative chain of auto repair shops all through the Midwest. Though he’d become a very wealthy man, in his heart he was still a mechanic, and as a way of bonding with his daughter, had taught her everything he knew about cars. He’d given her an old Ford a couple of years ago, and since then, she had rebuilt the engine and replaced everything but the muffler and the windshield. One night a week Cordie taught an auto mechanics class. She also taught chemistry at a local high school and at the same time was working on her PhD at the university. If she stayed on schedule, she’d be finished with her dissertation in another year.
She was dressed in a black suit and a pale silk blouse. She looked quite chic. If Cordie had any flaws, it was her terrible taste in men.
Sophie bumped into her on her way back from the ladies’ room. They both stopped to talk to Kevin.
Regan watched them, smiling. Sophie was waving her hands around as she explained something. Kevin looked enraptured by whatever she was telling him, while Cordie stood there with her arms folded, nodding every so often.
Sophie had the most energy of the three friends. Taller than Regan and Cordie, and almost a full year older than the two of them, she believed that since she was the oldest, she should always be in charge. In high school she was labeled a troublemaker—a title she worked hard to earn—and because she dragged Regan and Cordie into her schemes, they landed in detention on a regular basis. Sophie was still bossy, but nowadays, Cordie and Regan rarely went along with any of her plans.
Regan had a feeling that this weekend might turn out to be an exception.
Cordie gave a quick wave as she walked down the aisle and slid into the booth across from Regan. Sophie was still talking to Kevin. His boss, Mr. Laggia, had joined the conversation.
“I’m starving,” Cordie said. “And no wonder. It’s one o’clock. Are you ready to order? Sophie said she already did.”
“I’m ready. What’s she talking to Kevin and Mr. Laggia about?”
“She thinks it would be a nice idea to feature the restaurant again and is going to talk to the food editor about it.”
Cordie motioned to the waiter, and after the two of them had ordered their lunch, she nodded to the folded papers. “Are those copies of Mary Coolidge’s diary?”
“Yes,” Regan answered. “You’ve read it?”
“I have. It’s heartbreaking.”
“Why didn’t you mention any of this when you called?”
“I knew Sophie would want to tell you. It’s her plan after all.”
“I haven’t heard the plan yet.”
Cordie smiled. “You will,” she said. “Besides, she already made me promise I’d attend the reception and the weekend seminar, and I knew she was going to rope you into going too. She’s had some hare-brained ideas in the past, but this one is for a good cause.”
The waiter placed the Diet Coke she’d ordered on the table with a bread basket.
Cordie immediately took a wheat roll and was tearing it apart when Regan said, “If what Sophie has told me about Mary Coolidge is accurate, then Shields should be in prison. Why isn’t he?”
“He’s as slick as an eel, that’s why,” she said. “I’ve filed a complaint with the state board hoping they’ll yank his license, and I’m sure others have done the same. Something needs to be done to stop him from preying on other vulnerable women.”
“I don’t understand. He’s making a fortune with his seminars,” she said. “Why would he…”
She was searching for the right word. Cordie supplied it. “Fleece? Rob? Steal?”
“… fleece lonely women? He doesn’t need the money.”
“I don’t think it’s a question of need with him,” she said. “I think he does it for the power it gives him. I think he gets off on it.”
“Who’s getting off on what?” Sophie asked as she sat down next to Cordie. “Hand me my iced tea, please.”
“We’re talking about why Shields goes after rich, unhappy women,” Cordie said. She handed Sophie her drink as she added, “And I was saying it isn’t about the money.”
“I disagree,” Sophie said. “I think it’s all about the money.”
“The risk of someone going to the police…” Regan began.
“He thinks he’s invincible,” Sophie said. “And the risk? Must be worth it to him. Mary Coolidge handed over a little more than two million. And that’s a whole lot of money, ladies.”
“Definitely worth the risk,” Cordie said. “When you’re as greedy as he is.”
Regan looked at Sophie. “How did you get hold of this diary?”
“I told you Mary’s daughter found the diary after the funeral… when she was packing her mother’s things.”
“Yes.”
“She immediately went to the police and got nowhere. She also hired an attorney to get her mother’s money back, but after reviewing the paperwork Mary had signed, the attorney told the daughter that what Shields had done was reprehensible, but legally he hadn’t broken any laws.”
“And?” Regan asked when Sophie didn’t continue.
“Christine—that’s the daughter’s name—had to return to Battle Creek, where she and her husband live, but before she left, she mailed copies of the diary to the Tribune. The reporter who got the envelope made a few phone calls, but he had more pressing work to get done, and he didn’t have the time to devote to what he considered to be a lost cause. The letter and the photocopies ended up in his trash can.
“I heard him telling another reporter about the gullibility of the woman, and, of course, I became curious, so after he left, I took the copies out of the trash and read them.”
“You know what a sucker Sophie is for lost causes,” Cordie said. “And since she needed help, she coerced me into reading the diary…”
“And she promptly got on board,” Sophie added.
“When did all this happen?” Regan asked.
Sophie answered. “You were in L.A. when Cordie went to the police to find out what she could.”
“She made me go,” Cordie said. “And I’ll admit that I was initially encouraged to learn that the police did, in fact, have an active file on the man. My excitement didn’t last long, though. Lieutenant Lewis is a silver-haired charmer and a bad flirt. He oozed sympathy and understanding,” she added. “And it took me all of two minutes to figure out he wasn’t the least bit sincere.”
Sophie had forgotten to tell the waiter to bring her salad as soon as it was ready. All three lunches arrived together. In a hurry now to get back to the office, she picked up her fork and attacked her salad with gusto. Cordie poured ketchup all over her cheeseburger, slapped the top bun on, and picked it up.
“Have there been any other complaints against Shields?” Regan asked.
Cordie put the cheeseburger back on her plate before answering. “Yes, it looks like there were other women, but no hard evidence had been collected. The lieutenant insisted he was working on it. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Anyway, another month went by and still no arrest had been made. I found out that Lewis had shuffled the investigation over to one of his more lackluster detectives named Sweeney.”
She picked up the cheeseburger again and was about to take a bite when Regan asked, “And how long did you say you’ve been working on this?”
“Not that long,” Cordie said.
Regan deliberately waited until Cordie was about to take a bite of her sandwich and then said, “One more question…”
Cordie put the sandwich down again. “You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you? Asking me questions just as I… Sophie, leave my french fries alone.”
“They’re not good for you. I’m just helping you eat them because I care about your health. That’s the kind of friend I am.”
Cordie rolled her eyes at Sophie and then turned back as Regan was asking, “I do have a serious question. Do you think Mary Coo-lidge committed suicide, or do you believe what Sophie believes?”
“That she was murdered?” Cordie whispered. “I’m not sure. It’s possible.”
Regan dropped her fork and leaned forward. “Are you serious?”
“How come you didn’t act shocked when I told you my opinion?” Sophie asked.
Regan didn’t mince words. “Because you’re a drama queen. Cordie’s more practical, and if she thinks it’s possible, then…”
“Then what?” Sophie asked, frowning now.
“Then it’s possible.”
“I’m not a drama queen.”
“Tell me why you think it’s possible,” Regan asked Cordie, ignoring Sophie’s comment.
“Read the diary.”
“I will, but tell me now.”
“Okay. You’ll see toward the end, Mary was scared of Shields. He had threatened her. If you read the last entry, you’ll see that her handwriting is all over the page, which tells me the drugs were in her system and making her loopy. Maybe that’s why she wrote what she wrote… but then again, maybe it was really happening.”
Regan picked up the papers, pulled the last page out, and read. There were only four words.
Too late. They’re coming.

Chapter Six




The alley smelled like wet dog hair and puke. The over-flowing Dumpster that Detective Alec Buchanan had spent most of the night behind smelled much, much worse.
In all, there were now seven detectives working the case. Alec had drawn the short straw and was relegated to doing backup for another detective named Mike Tanner, who was inside the dry and most likely warm warehouse, waiting to make the deal.
Undercover detectives Dutton and Nellis were across the street, watching the entrance to the warehouse from different angles.
Two other detectives were across town at a restaurant, looking as young and clean-cut as high school honor-roll students dressed in the uniform of all the teenagers in the city—Old Navy T-shirts, Gap loose-fit jeans, and scuffed white Nikes. They were impatiently waiting for a fresh supply intended for the streets of suburbia.
The seventh detective was following the money.
Detective Dutton was officially running the show, but Tanner thought he was in charge. Alec had worked with Tanner for only a couple of days, and so he tried not to make any snap judgments about the man. He’d adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Though, admittedly, what he had seen so far hadn’t impressed him. Tanner had a short fuse and let his temper get the upper hand. Not good, Alec thought, in a situation like this. Not good at all.
Tanner had already caused problems. He’d refused to wear a wire and wouldn’t let the techs put a couple of bugs inside the warehouse. Tanner was worried the mikes would be discovered, and since he was the only one who had worked with the twins, the others had to acquiesce.
Alec had been told to expect the deal to go down around three or four in the morning, when the scum crawled out from under their rocks to buy and sell anything and everything. These two lawyers were a different breed, though. They apparently started their workday around noon.
The attorneys, Lyle and Lester Sisley, were identical twins who had migrated to Chicago from a 7-Eleven-sized town in Georgia. They sounded and acted like good ol’, down-home, country boys who pledged allegiance to the flag and to Elvis every morning, and who liked to go out on the town and kick up their boots every now and then, but who would never ever get into any real trouble. Casual acquaintances considered the twins a little slow-witted, but sweet, terribly sweet.
The opposite was the case. There was nothing sweet or slow-witted about them. Their IQs were identical and hovered just one point above genius. It was reported that they had partied their way through law school and still had managed to graduate at the top of their class.
The twins had been in Chicago for a little over a year when they came to the conclusion that they were working too much and making too little. They decided then that they needed to branch out.
Five years later, they were taking in millions, and it sure as certain wasn’t from their legal fees. They continued to practice law and maintained offices on Elm Street, but they had very few clients. The two shared an impressive title, yet neither dared print it on the glass of their office door. They were quite simply known as the premier drug lords of Chicago.
And more. Much, much more. It was estimated that in the past twelve months, Lyle and Lester had sold more drugs than Pfizer Pharmaceuticals. There wasn’t a pill they didn’t push or a drug they didn’t lace with other, more addictive substances.
Needless to say, the undercover detectives had been trying to nail their sorry asses for a long, long time. Today would hopefully be the end for Lyle and Lester, if all went as planned. It had taken months of hard work to entice the twins into taking the risk of actually transferring the money personally. Greed had been a powerful motivator, and Tanner, who had set up this latest venture, believed he had successfully penetrated their inner circle.
Most of their illegal business transactions were conducted in the warehouse where Tanner was waiting.
The twins were the odd couple. They did almost everything together. They worked together, played together, and lived together in a high-rise apartment on Lake Shore Drive. They would even occasionally dress alike in cowboy attire.
There were a few differences. Lyle had a thing for buxom women. He consumed them like a baseball player chewing on sunflower seeds and spitting out the shells when the taste was gone. Yet, the women he so casually discarded couldn’t say enough nice things about him. After he finished with them, he lavished them with expensive “parting” gifts. The women called Lyle the ultimate gentleman.
Lester had a thing for cars, Rolls-Royces to be specific. He had over fifteen of them stored in his warehouse now and had just purchased another one. The cost was a mere one hundred fifty-three thousand, but that was chump change to the drug lord.
Lester never drove the cars. Every Friday he liked to walk around the warehouse and look at them. He was overheard telling a friend that he was saving the cars and needed to keep them in mint condition, but he didn’t explain exactly what he was saving them for.
“Heads up.”
The whisper came through Alec’s earpiece. Dutton, from his position across the street, had spotted the twins.
Alec dropped into the Dumpster and squeezed down in the garbage. Something crawled up his neck, and he fought the urge to slap it away as he turned ever so slightly and peered out the hole he’d drilled in the metal. The lousy hiding place had been Tanner’s idea. Alec had wanted to find a spot in the loft of the warehouse where he could watch and listen, but Tanner wouldn’t hear of it. He was sure the twins would know if anyone was hiding inside, and since Tanner had set the meeting up, Alec didn’t argue.
Alec told Dutton he had no intention of waiting in the damn Dumpster. Dutton agreed. Tanner’s determination to be a superstar cop and make a name for himself was jeopardizing the operation. Dutton gave the order that as soon as Lyle and Lester went to the door, Alec was to climb up the fire escape and go in through a window he’d already scoped out for trip wires.
Alec kept watching the street. No one there yet.
“We’ve got a problem.” The voice belonged to Detective Nellis. “There’s a uniform talking to the twins. Ah, hell, he’s gonna give them a ticket. They parked in a tow-away zone.”
“No,” Dutton said. “He’s not writing a ticket. They’re all walking toward the warehouse now. The uniform’s between them.”
“Is he willingly going with them?”
“Can’t tell,” Dutton said.
“What about a gun? Does Lyle or Lester have a gun on him?” Nellis was angry. “Can you see, Dutton?”
“I can’t tell about the gun,” he whispered. “Alec, you’ve got time to get inside and warn Tanner. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Tell Tanner to abort,” Nellis whispered.
“He won’t, he won’t,” Dutton argued. “Alec, go. They’ve stopped in front of the main entrance, so they’re not gonna use the side door. They’re looking up and down the street. Not another soul around, Lester’s unlocking the door now. The uniform looks worried.”
Alec was already moving. He swung out of the Dumpster, raced across the alley, and climbed up the fire escape. The window was just out of reach. He jumped, grabbed the ledge, and then lifted himself through the window.
Dutton was right behind him. The detective wasn’t as big or as muscular as Alec, but he was just as nimble and didn’t make a sound.
There were boxes of auto parts stacked six feet high all over the loft and video cameras attached to the rafters. The twins didn’t have an alarm system. They took care of their own problems, and anyone who was crazy enough to rob or vandalize any of their property simply disappeared.
Dutton was slowly crawling toward the rail. Alec held up a hand to stop him and pointed to one of the cameras.
They could hear voices. The twins were talking to each other as they walked toward the office, which was directly below the loft. Tanner must have been waiting for them in the doorway of the office, because they heard him shout, “What the hell is this?”
Another voice—it had to be the young cop—answered, “What are you…”
And then there was a second of dead silence.
Dutton whispered, “They know.”
Alec nodded. He motioned to Dutton to cover the steps while he slowly edged closer to the railing so he could see what was happening.
Tanner was losing it, pacing back and forth, defensively throwing accusations at the twins. Lyle shoved the cop toward Tanner and pulled a gun.
It all went to hell then.

Chapter Seven




“So are you in, Regan?” Sophie asked.
“Of course I am.”
“I knew you would be,” she said. “You’re always telling me I’m a sucker for lost causes…”
“Actually, that’s what Cordie tells you.”
“Yes, but you’re a sucker too.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Regan asked.
Cordie was just finishing her cheeseburger. She waved a fry in Sophie’s direction and said, “You’re going to be late. Didn’t you tell me you had a meeting at one-forty-five?”
“I need to talk to Regan first,” Sophie said. She turned her full attention on her friend and said, “I need you to read the diary as soon as possible, but definitely before tonight. It won’t take long. Mary didn’t write in it every night. I think it’s only forty-some pages. You know what? Maybe you could read it after Cordie and I leave. And then…”
“Yes?”
She took a breath and blurted out, “I need another favor. I need you to go to the police station and find out if anything has been done with the investigation. Cordie went last time, so it’s your turn.”
“My turn? I just joined in this—”
“It’s still your turn,” Sophie pointed out.
“Why can’t you go to the police station?” Regan asked.
“Are you serious? I’m a reporter. They won’t tell me anything.”
Before Regan could say a word, Sophie said, “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You too, Cordie. So I’m not a full-fledged investigative reporter yet, and, yes, I know you know I haven’t written any big exposes yet, and I’ve been working my butt off on the advice column at the paper for almost five ****in’ years, but honestly, Regan, you should have more faith in me. You too, Cordie,” she said again. “Everything’s going to change soon. You’ll see.”
“I have complete faith in you,” Regan protested. “And I wasn’t thinking…” She suddenly stopped arguing and laughed. “You’re really good, Soph, with the guilt thing.”
“She’s a pro all right,” Cordie said.
“I was trying to guilt you, wasn’t I? Old habits die hard, I suppose. But I still can’t go to the police station because there are always reporters hanging around in case something big happens, and one of them will surely recognize me and want to know what I’m doing there. I know how busy you are...”
“I can make the time,” Regan promised.
Sophie was thrilled. “You do understand why I don’t want any other reporter snooping around, don’t you? This is my investigation. I want to be the one to nail Shields and get justice for Mary Coolidge.”
“And maybe get yourself a Pulitzer?” Cordie asked.
Sophie smiled. “That’s a one-in-a-billion possibility, but one can always hope. That’s not why I’m doing it, though.”
“We know,” Cordie said. “Shouldn’t you get going, Soph?”
Sophie looked at her watch and groaned. “I’m gonna be late. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said as she grabbed her purse. “Will one of you pay for my lunch? I’ll pay for dinner tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Cordie said.
“What time are you picking me up?” Sophie asked. “And who’s driving?”
While Cordie was answering, the sleazebag and his babycakes girlfriend caught Regan’s eye as they strolled out of the restaurant. Cordie noticed the change in her friend’s expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“That creepy old man hanging all over that twelve-year-old.”
Cordie turned and spotted the couple. “She isn’t twelve. She’s got to be at least eighteen. Otherwise he could get busted.”
“And he’s what? Sixty?”
“He could be,” she said. “And the age difference bothers you because…”
“It’s disgusting.”
“And?”
“You’re sounding like a therapist.”
“I just think you ought to admit why you’re so disgusted. The couple remind you of your creepy stepfather and his sleazy bride.”
“Of course they do.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I thought I was helping you make a breakthrough.” She smiled then. “You really need to lighten up a little. It’s time.”
Regan nodded. She knew Cordie was right. She just wasn’t sure how to go about it.
“I’ve had the most horrible morning. Have you got time for me to do some whining?”
“How much whining?”
“A bunch.”
Cordie laughed. “I can give you ten minutes. Then I’ve got to leave.”
Regan immediately launched into her complaints about her job, her brother Aiden’s constant interference, and her run-in with his assistant, Emily. When she told Cordie that Henry had caught Emily snooping in her office, Cordie was incensed and said, “You need to fire her ass.”
Regan’s eyes widened. Cordie laughed. “I’m starting to sound like my students. You do need to fire her, though.”
“I can’t. She’s Aiden’s assistant. He has to fire her,” she said. “But knowing you’re as outraged as I am makes me feel better. I’ve done enough whining for now. I think I’ll order another iced tea and read this diary. Then I’ll walk over to the police station. I’m going to stay positive,” she added.
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to believe that the day is going to get better.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. And good luck with Detective Sweeney.” Before Regan could ask why, she added, “He’s the man you’ll have to talk to about the investigation. He’s a real piece of work.”
“I’m not worried. How bad can he be?”

Chapter Eight




Detective Benjamin Sweeney, known by his initials, B. S., to all the other detectives in the department, was having a worse than usual bad day. It started at five-thirty a.m., when he woke up with a hangover that felt like a jackhammer drilling behind his eyeballs. The only medicine that would take away the hallucination and stop the pain was what had caused it in the first place, another stiff drink of bourbon, which he downed in two thirsty gulps. It burned his throat and took the hair off his tongue. Bleary-eyed, he gargled Listerine to hide the smell of the booze, got dressed, and went to the dentist. At seven he had a bad root canal. By nine the shot of novocaine had worn off, and he was in agony. Then, at ten, the sun vanished, heavy dark clouds moved in, and he got soaked running from his car into a roach-infested apartment building with his partner, Lou Dupre. They climbed four flights to stare down at the decomposing body of a young twentysomething female. There were empty crack vials littering the room. Sweeney figured one druggie had offed another. No real loss that he could see.
He also knew there wouldn’t be any identification on the victim—that would have been too easy—and of course he was right. There wasn’t. Usually he could complain enough to make Dupre do all the paperwork and the running around in circles before the file was put in the “still pending” drawer, which Sweeney had secretly labeled “who gives a damn.”
Today, however, Dupre wasn’t cooperating. He called Sweeney an asshole, told him he was sick and tired of his constant bitching, and insisted he was going to have to get off his lazy fat ass and start pulling his own weight.
In all the movies about cops and robbers that Sweeney had watched on television while he was drinking himself into oblivion, the detectives were like brothers with their partners. One would take a bullet—and inevitably did before the movie was over—for the partner. A frickin’ love affair in the movies. A fairy tale. In Sweeney’s miserable world—the real world—he and his partner, Dupre, hated each other’s guts. There were times when Sweeney would fantasize about a good old-fashioned shootout where he could get behind his partner and blow his brains out.
He knew the feeling was mutual. Hell, these days everyone in the department was avoiding him as if he had the clap. They knew he was under investigation, unofficial though it was, and they had decided to condemn him before any of the facts were in. Sweeney wasn’t worried about Internal Affairs. Yes, he was guilty of taking the money to look the other way while a drug dealer was killed, but the men who paid him to close his eyes weren’t in any position to rat on him. And the money, ten thousand dollars, was clean. Squeaky clean. Sweeney had been real careful. Let the task force listen to all the rumors from the out-of-work whores the murdered dealer had been running. It didn’t matter to Sweeney. If they had anything concrete, he would already have been suspended.
Sweeney had two years and three months to go before he could retire, but there were days, like today, when he knew he wasn’t going to make it. He could understand what happened inside a madman’s head just seconds before he opened fire on his coworkers, and sometimes he got a hard-on just thinking about Dupre’s blood and guts splattered all over the walls.
Before she’d run off with their boy, his wife had told him that he’d turned as mean as a rabid rottweiler and that the booze had corroded his brain. His response hadn’t been very clever, but he’d gotten his point across. He’d backhanded her and ordered her to get his supper on the table. Later that night, while he was watching some brotherly love movie on TV, she’d packed up some suitcases and sneaked out the back door with the kid, but he’d caught up with her as she was starting her old Honda Civic. He’d reached in through the window she was frantically trying to roll up, ignoring the kid screaming in the backseat, grabbed her by the throat, and told her it would be fine and dandy with him if he never laid eyes on her or the brat again. He leaned in real close to her face then and told her that if she ever tried to get so much as a dime in alimony or child support he would come after her with an ax.
She must have known from the look in his eyes he wasn’t bluffing. He never heard from her again, and as the days and nights dragged on, he became convinced that he was better off living alone.
No matter what the gossip in the department said, he wasn’t a drunk. Not yet anyway. He was just tired of having to deal with all the scum on the streets. Chicago had turned into a cesspool where only degenerates knew how to survive and thrive. Like bacteria, they multiplied and flourished in the filth.
He was afraid the bacteria had already invaded his body and that he was slowly turning into one of them. And when he got real scared and the booze wouldn’t dull the night terrors, he’d fantasize about taking early retirement. All he needed was one big score, and he could walk away. Screw the pension. If he hit it big, he could buy a boat and sail to the Bahamas. He’d never even been on a boat, and he’d never been to the islands, but the brochures he kept tacked up on the wall above his bureau had lots of photos showing how clean the place was.
He wanted to walk down a clean street, breathe clean, unpolluted air, look up and see a clean blue sky without a trace of gray haze, but most of all, he wanted to feel clean again.
Whenever any dark fantasies got in the way of his concentration, he would buy a bottle of bourbon, take a sick day, and go on a little binge. The way he figured it, he was doing the taxpayers a favor. If he stayed holed up at home and got roaring drunk, he was protecting the law-abiding citizens of Chicago by not killing them.
He knew he had to hang on and stay sane until he either hit the big score or until his pension kicked in, and so he tried to find a little happiness in the day-to-day things. Tonight, for example, was going to make him very happy. His shift would be over in just twenty minutes, and unlike his kiss-ass partner, he wasn’t going to stay a minute longer. He’d gotten his paycheck today, and so tonight he was going to treat himself to an expensive porterhouse steak, then drive across town to Lori’s School of Beauty, which fronted for a thriving whorehouse, and get himself a free haircut and blow job from one of the hookers who was too afraid of him to turn him down. He planned to cap off his romantic evening with an old friend, Jack Daniel’s Black Label.
Time was creeping by. He must have checked his watch twice in the last minute. Nineteen more to go. God, he hated this place. His desk was on the far right of an ugly oblong room. The side of his desk butted up against a pea green wall. Some mornings, as he was climbing the stairs to the second floor of the station, he would feel as if he were going into a sweatshop, so crowded and dismal was the place. There was talk of remodeling, but, thus far, only one room had new paint.
He leaned back in his chair and looked around. There was a handful of detectives working at their cluttered desks, most on their phones, but none of them were paying any attention to him. Sweeney thought he could get away with leaving early and not be missed.
That possibility was quickly squelched when the new prick boss came up the stairs. Lieutenant Lewis had only been in charge for five weeks, but it was long enough for Sweeney to decide he hated him. The lieutenant didn’t like problems, and after I.A. had a little chat with him about their unofficial investigation, Lewis had turned against Sweeney. Well, screw him. The prick didn’t want any of Sweeney’s dirt to rub off on him. Too late, Sweeney thought with a snicker.
Lewis wasn’t so pristine either. Sweeney watched him saunter into his glassed office at the back of the room. He’d gotten wind that Lewis was screwing around on his rich, high-society wife. Every man had secrets he didn’t want anyone else to know about, and if the lieutenant kept breathing down his neck, Sweeney had made up his mind to do a little investigative work of his own. It’d be easy for him to find out who the whore servicing Lewis was and take a few photos for the little missus. He’d do it anonymously, of course. How would Lewis live without his rich-bitch wife paying all the bills? Maybe Sweeney ought to buy one of those digital cameras and send the wife some explicit eight-by-ten photos. Hell, he might as well have some real fun and post them on the Internet too. He caught himself before he laughed out loud over the possibility. Serve the prick right if the missus took a scissors to his expensive suits, smashed that Rolex he always made sure everyone noticed, and kicked him out on his bony ass.
Tit for tat. He knew Lewis was keeping a notebook on him, listing all the little infractions, so he could weed him out without getting into trouble with the union, but as long as Sweeney stayed careful, Lewis couldn’t fire him.
Only three lousy minutes had passed. He shuffled some papers around on his desk and looked over his shoulder again. Crap. Lewis was watching him. He hastily turned back to his papers and opened a file, pretending to be engrossed.
Alec Buchanan came rushing up the stairs. The undercover detective looked like a drugged-out gang leader with his long, dark hair, bloodshot eyes, and scraggly beard. Buchanan hadn’t been in this division long. He’d transferred over a short time ago, and before that he’d been strictly vice. Sweeney had never spoken to him, but he knew him by reputation. You didn’t want to get on his bad side.
A young street cop in blue chased after Buchanan. His expression was pained, and he was sweating profusely. Sweeney pretended to be engrossed in his paperwork until the two men went into the lieutenant’s office. Then he picked up the phone, punched the hold button, and with the receiver to his ear, turned in his chair to see what was going on.
Lewis didn’t waste any time throwing a tantrum. His anger was directed at the kid cop. Sweeney tried not to smile as he watched the lieutenant lose it. He kept stabbing the air with one long, bony finger as he railed.
Sweeney had heard what had happened. The street cop had ruined God-only-knew how many months of undercover work. It had been a bad scene. He’d heard a couple of detectives talking about it in the coffee room that afternoon. From what he’d overheard, Buchanan had turned into a frickin’ superhero. He’d gotten the cop out of the drug hole while the guns were blazing. Buchanan would probably get another commendation, but from the look on his face, he wanted someone’s blood, not medals. Sweeney assumed Buchanan was out to get the stupid kid cop, but after watching for a long minute, he realized the detective’s anger was directed at Lieutenant Lewis. Maybe it was because he’d been assigned with Tanner, who everyone in the department knew was a loose cannon.
Speaking of the devil. Tanner came flying through the room, a look of pure hate in his eyes as he shoved a detective out of his way and barged into the lieutenant’s office. He was shouting before he’d shut the door.
This was better than one of those old movies on television. All he needed now was a beer and some popcorn.
“What’s going on?” a detective across the room called out.
Another detective answered. “Buchanan’s trying to save the kid’s ass. Tanner wants him hung out to dry.”
Sweeney rolled his eyes. Frickin’ saint, that’s what Buchanan was. Sweeney enjoyed watching Lewis get all bent out of shape. His face was bright red. Maybe he was gonna have himself a stroke. Wouldn’t that be nice?
He checked the time again. Fifteen minutes to go. Damn, he was thirsty. He needed to get the hell out of here so he could start drinking. The lieutenant sure wasn’t paying any attention to him now. Sweeney turned to his computer, shoved the papers back into the file, and stuffed the folder into his “who gives a damn” drawer. He was pushing his chair back when he happened to look up. A sweet young thing was coming up the stairs. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. By the time she reached the reception area, he was salivating. He wasn’t the only one. The noise had subsided in the room, and Sweeney guessed the other detectives were looking her over too.
A kiss-ass detective on the opposite side of the room all but pole-vaulted over his desk to get to the woman and offer her assistance, blocking Sweeney’s view. He glanced behind him. The men inside the lieutenant’s office were all still engrossed in their argument.
The detective trying to sweet-talk the woman reluctantly pointed to Sweeney. The woman began to make her way around the cluttered desks to get to him. Sweeney hastily adjusted his tie to hide the ketchup stain, sucked in his gut, and pulled a folder out of his drawer so he would look busy.
She was a knockout with those full, luscious lips. To say nothing about the soft curves and long legs. Maybe she was one of those-thousand-dollar-a-night whores he’d heard about but had never actually seen. Wouldn’t that be a piece of luck? He thought he was smart enough to figure out a way to make her put out for him. That would certainly be something to remember on long, lonely nights. He could just picture her down on her knees, her long curly hair brushing against his thighs…
He forced himself to stop the budding fantasy before he got too horny. His chair groaned as he leaned back and watched her walk closer. Classy bitch, he thought. Too classy to be a high-priced whore. He spotted the sapphire ring and knew it had to be the real deal. No phony stones for this broad. No ring on the left hand, though, so the sapphire hadn’t come from a rich husband. She either had a wealthy father or a sugar daddy paying all her bills, and Sweeney, cynical to the bone, opted for the second possibility. Pretty-girl reeked of money. He could almost smell it on her, and his mind raced for a way to get some of it.
Maybe she would turn out to be his one big score. Everyone had secrets, even classy ladies like her. He licked his lips in anticipation, but caution set in quickly. Stop being a fool, he told himself. His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Deep inside he knew she was out of his league. Resented it too. She had that rich, well-scrubbed look he rarely saw these days. Pretty-girl had striking blue eyes, a shade lighter than the stone on her finger. Rich and beautiful. Out of his reach, all right.
She stopped in front of his desk. Before she could speak, he said, “Can I help you?” He knew he sounded surly. He didn’t care.
“Detective Sweeney?”
He pointed to the nameplate with his cigarette-stained finger, then realized his name was facing him, not her. He leaned forward, turned the nameplate around, and in the process spilled half a cup of cold coffee on his keypad. Muttering a foul word, he grabbed a sheet of paper and wiped up the liquid.
“That’s me, sweetheart. I’m Detective Sweeney.”
He could tell she didn’t like being called sweetheart. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Tough, he thought. He didn’t care if he pissed her off or not. Since he’d already figured out he didn’t stand a chance with her, why bother to be politically correct? Besides, his good friend Jack Daniel’s was waiting for him.
“My name is Regan Madison,” she said as she placed her briefcase on the vinyl chair facing his desk and stood next to it.
“Are you here to report a crime?”
“No. My friend, Cordelia Kane, asked me to stop by and find out what developments have been made regarding her complaint against a psychologist named Dr. Lawrence Shields.”
He didn’t pretend to know whom she was talking about. “Who?”
She repeated word for word what she’d just said. He still didn’t know who or what she was talking about. He hemmed and hawed, trying to bluff his way with the catchall phrase he used on nearly every inquiry he received over the phone. “Oh, yes… that’s still an ongoing investigation.”
“What exactly has been done?”
“Look… you’re gonna have to refresh my memory. I’ve got so many cases to oversee…”
He left the sentence hanging and let out a loud yawn. What a colossal waste of time, Regan thought. Cordie was right. Sweeney was obnoxious and obviously incompetent. His I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude infuriated her.
He was also a lecher. He was too busy ogling her chest to look into her eyes. With effort, she held her patience as she explained who Dr. Shields was and what he had done to Mary Coolidge. Sweeney was still looking clueless when she finished.
“Your friend… what’s her name?”
“Cordelia Kane.”
“What’s your connection to her?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, what’s your connection to her?”
“Cordelia’s my friend.”
“No, not her. The other woman. The one who killed herself.”
“Her name was Mary Coolidge.”
“I see.”
He was making sure she knew he wasn’t really interested in anything she had to say. His eyes were half closed, and he was rudely yawning every other second now. God, he was such a jerk.
If he leaned back any farther in his chair, he’d land on his backside, and she began to hope that he would.
“I’d like to talk about the investigation, Detective. Do you have any idea…”
He waved his hand to stop her. “It’s all coming back to me now. Like I was telling you, I’ve got so many cases it’s hard to keep track of all of them. I remember now. Your friend was really angry with this Dr. Shields. Told me she was sure he was responsible for the old lady killing herself. My investigation is in my pending file,” he added with a straight face as he pointed to his desk drawer,
“What progress has been made with the investigation?”
“Well, the truth is…”
“Yes?”
He shrugged. “I’m working on it.”
She wanted to scream. She took a breath instead. Antagonizing him wouldn’t help her get any straight answers. “I see. Could you tell me—”
It was as far as he would let her get. “I’m going off duty now. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and inquire?”
Regan’s temper was near the boiling point. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Is Lieutenant Lewis available?”
Pretty-girl was becoming a pain in the ass. Sweeney’s resentment turned into hostility. How dare she try to intimidate him by pulling rank on him.
“The lieutenant’s busy,” he said, nodding his head to the office behind him. “Besides, he will only bounce you back to me, and I’ve got nothing to report.”
“Has anything been done? Has anyone talked to her neighbors or—”
“The way it looks, this Shields guy didn’t do anything illegal. I know that’s hard to swallow, but that’s the way it is. The woman willingly gave him all her money and then committed suicide. Simple as that. Case closed.”
“So the investigation isn’t really pending, is it?”
She was furious. Her face was bright pink, but he didn’t care. Shrugging, he said, “Sure it’s pending. Pending on getting some real evidence.”
Regan glanced around the room for help. She looked at the four men inside the glassed-in office at the back of the station. The man standing behind the desk was evidently the lieutenant. He was shouting and waving his hands around.
One of the other men drew her attention then. Dressed in filthy clothes and leaning against the window, he said something that infuriated the lieutenant, who was now pounding the desk and shouting. The tantrum didn’t seem to faze the man.
The lieutenant turned his wrath on the uniformed policeman. Even with the door closed she could hear a few of the vile insults and threats the lieutenant was making. The man leaning against the window came to the policeman’s aid. He got in front of him and said something to the lieutenant that sent him into a rage.
Regan wasn’t about to interrupt. She didn’t want to have anything to do with this lieutenant, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him for help.
Deciding that she’d done all she could, she picked up her briefcase and left the station. The second she reached the sidewalk, she pulled out her cell phone and called Sophie.
“I talked to Detective Sweeney.”
“And?”
“The man’s a mess.”
“That’s what Cordie said about him,” she said. “But was he useful? Did he give you any information that might be helpful?”
“No, nothing,” she said. “I don’t think anything’s been done. He couldn’t have cared less about poor Mary Coolidge.”
“You read the journal didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Dr. Shields needs to be stopped.”
“Which is why you went to the police station to find out—”
“Sophie, there is no investigation under way.”
“Did you talk to Lieutenant Lewis?”
“No,” she said. “He won’t help. He’s worse than Sweeney, if such a thing is possible.”
“I thought you didn’t talk to him.”
“I saw him in action,” she said. “He was screaming and carrying on.”
“Exactly what did Sweeney tell you?”
Regan walked along as she related the conversation she’d had with the obnoxious detective. “I’m telling you, it was a complete waste of time.”
She ended the call just as she turned the corner. She thought she heard someone shout and instinctively turned around.
The crash was inevitable.

Chapter Nine



Alec Buchanan was in a hurry to get to his car and drive home so that he could get out of the filthy clothes he was wearing. He felt as if he had bugs crawling all over him, and all he wanted to do was take a long, hot shower. He was all but running as he turned the corner and damn near rolled over the woman standing there.
He hit her hard. Her briefcase went flying in one direction, and she went flying in the other. He caught her around the waist and lifted her just as she was about to go headfirst into the brick building.
Alec held on to steady her. Damn, she was pretty. Smelled nice too. Surprising that he could smell anything today after his night in the garbage.
He released his hold, picked up her briefcase, handed it to her, and then stepped back. “Sorry about that.”
She nodded to let him know she’d heard his apology. She couldn’t speak. She looked into his eyes, tried to smile, then turned and walked away as fast as she could. She took deep, gulping breaths, trying not to gag. Dear God, the stench radiating from him made her eyes tear.
She burst out laughing. When she looked back, he was still watching her. She smiled but turned the corner and began laughing again. The man with the beautiful white teeth reminded her of a childhood trip to the zoo. Her brother Aiden had taken her when she was seven or eight years old. She remembered they’d gone inside a big, gray stone building. It was crowded and musty inside, but at the end of a long aisle was the new gorilla habitat. The finishing touches hadn’t been put on the gorilla’s new home. There was a double set of bars separating the gorilla from the crowd, but a thick, unbreakable Plexiglas pane hadn’t been installed yet. Regan pulled away from Aiden and ran, darting in and out of the crowd to get there before anyone else noticed there was room right in front of his cage. She made it all the way to the first set of bars before the smell knocked her to her knees. The stench was overpowering, and she began to gag. Aiden had to pick her up and carry her outside to fresh air.
She still remembered the horrible odor from the gorilla’s cage. The man she’d just run into smelled much worse.
Laughing about the old memory put her in a much better frame of mind. Unfortunately, her good mood didn’t last long.
She had just left Neiman Marcus and was hurrying down a side street with her briefcase and shopping bag in one hand and her purse in the other when a man twice her size bumped into her. What am I? Invisible? she thought. Twice in one day men had tried to walk through her.
This one didn’t bother to apologize. In fact, he seemed to deliberately step on her foot. He never looked back as he hurried down the street. Her toe stung where he’d stomped on it, and she walked at a slower pace toward Dickerson’s Bath Shop. The day was only half over and things could improve, she told herself. What good were negative thoughts?
Then she walked into Dickerson’s, and staying positive just wasn’t possible. The salesclerk, a woman wearing the name tag, “Ms. Patsy,” was leaning against the cash register and talking on the phone. She had the receiver cradled in the crook of her shoulder while she filed one of her fingernails.
Ms. Patsy’s face was such a bright red she was obviously worked up about something. She spotted Regan, impatiently waved at her to wait, and continued her conversation. The woman was in her late fifties or early sixties, but she was babbling on the phone like a teenager. She was apparently talking to a friend, filling her in on the latest gossip she’d heard about another woman named Jennifer. Regan wasn’t trying to listen in, but she couldn’t help overhearing a little of what she was saying, and she was appalled by the woman’s cruel remarks.
Regan moved down to the end of the glass counter so she wouldn’t have to listen, and after waiting for several minutes, she picked up the bottle of lotion and turned to go to another counter. Ms. Patsy shouted to her to wait, hung up the phone, and rang up the sale. Resentment simmered in her sour expression as she handed the package to Regan, and without a word, walked away. Regan was astonished by the woman’s rudeness.
She was actually relieved to get back to the hotel and her office, but the day didn’t get better. She spent the rest of the afternoon putting out one fire after another.
She worked until six, then ran up to her suite to freshen up, and was back downstairs by the door waiting for Cordie by six-fifteen. Her friend arrived by cab, which meant the old Ford was on the fritz again. Regan called for her car before going outside to greet her friend.
“What is it this time? The radiator?”
“Muffler,” Cordie called out as she crossed the pavement. “I’ll buy a new one tomorrow and install it this weekend.”
When Regan’s car was brought around, the doorman rushed to hold the door open.
“I know what you’re thinking, Terry,” Regan said as she slid behind the wheel of her fifteen-year-old Chevy.
The doorman grinned. “You really should think about trading it in.”
“Are you kidding? It’s in mint condition.” Cordie had leaned across the bench to offer her comment.
Sophie wasn’t waiting out in front of her apartment building when they pulled up. They had to circle the block three times before she appeared. Regan had been telling Cordie about the rest of her horrid day and how she was losing faith in her fellow man, but once Sophie got in the car, Regan didn’t get in another word on the drive to Liam House, ten miles away.
The parking lot adjacent to the conference center was fall, so Regan circled the park, looking for a space. The dim lighting made it difficult for her to see. Sophie was directing from the backseat. “There’s one… no that’s a driveway. Never mind. Keep going.”
“Look at that idiot jogging down the middle of the street. Is he trying to get killed?” Cordie said.
“I’ve got to start running again,” Sophie said. “I’ll run with you, Regan, on the university path.”
“I don’t go there anymore,” Regan said. “Not since the indoor track was finished at the hotel. It’s much more convenient.”
“I’d work out more often if I had a gym in my house,” Cordie said.
“When have you ever worked out?” Sophie asked.
“I work out,” Cordie countered. “I just don’t do it consistently.”
Sophie laughed. “If you’d only get into shape, you wouldn’t have to diet all the—”
Cordie cut her off. “You were going to tell us your big plan.”
“What?”
Cordie patiently repeated the reminder. “Oh, my God,” Sophie said. “I forgot.”
Regan looked at her in the mirror. “You forgot your big plan?”
“No, I forgot to tell you what happened today. You’re not going to believe it.”
“So tell us,” Cordie demanded.
“Mary Coolidge’s neighbor finally called me back. I’ve left at least ten messages for the man over the past couple of weeks and was about to give up, but as it turned out, he was out of town, and that’s why he didn’t call.”
“And?” Cordie prodded.
“You know that Shields always has two assistants flanking his sides?”
“Yes,” Regan said. “Mary wrote about them in her journal.”
“They’re really his goons.”
“Goons? Who says ‘goons’ these days?” Cordie asked with a laugh.
“Mary’s neighbor,” Sophie said. “He called them goons. Now, pay attention. Mary told her daughter that Shields said he’d hired the two men as bodyguards. She was afraid of them and said they seemed to enjoy intimidating people. They even went so far as to wear sunglasses day and night.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Regan said.
She spotted a car backing out of a parking space, put her blinker on, and pulled in.
“So what did the neighbor say?” Cordie asked. She was getting a crick in her neck looking at Sophie.
“He was letting his cat in when he saw two men walking up Mary’s drive.”
Regan turned the motor off. “And you think they went to her house to threaten her?”
Sophie nodded. “This is all speculation, but…”
“But what?” Regan asked.
“But I think she told Shields she was going to the police, and he sent his goons to dissuade her.”
“I guess that’s possible,” Cordie said. “But it’s going to be tough to prove.”
“Does the neighbor remember when the men were there?” Regan asked.
“He’s pretty sure they were there the night Mary killed herself. I think they went there to terrorize her, and she thought that taking the pills was the only way out. Either that or…”
“Jeez, Sophie, quit making us guess,” Cordie said. “Or what?”
In a near whisper, Sophie said, “Maybe they forced her to take those pills, and they stayed there until she was unconscious.”
Regan shook her head. “Think about it, Sophie. What was the last entry in her journal?”
Cordie answered. “Too late. They’re coming.”
“And the handwriting was pretty loopy, wasn’t it?”
“It was all over the page,” Cordie said, “suggesting that Mary had already ingested pills.”
“Unless they forced her to take some pills, then let her have a break so she could jot down a few thoughts in her journal, and then forced her to take more, I’d have to say…”
“Okay, that theory doesn’t hold up,” Sophie said. “But if Shields’s men went there to threaten her…”
“That would be very difficult to prove,” Regan said.
“If we got a photo of the bodyguards and showed it to this neighbor…” Cordie began.
Sophie slapped the headrest behind Cordie. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Only, the thing is…”
“Yes?” Regan asked.
“The neighbor isn’t so sure he could recognize them,” she said. “He told me he didn’t get a real good look at their faces, but I still want to show him a photo just in case.”
“So that’s it? That’s the big plan? Get a photo of the goons?” Cordie asked. “We could just drive up to the circle drive, sit in the car, and when they come out, snap, snap. We’ve got our photos.”
“No, there’s more,” Sophie said. “First, we go in and I pay our fees.”
“You’re not paying for me,” Regan said.
“You’re not paying my fee either,” Cordie said.
“You’re doing me a huge favor. You’re giving up your weekend to help, so no more argument. Paying the fees is the least I can do as a thank-you. I’m going to pay in cash,” she added in an attempt to deflect further argument. “I don’t want Shields or his people to have access to any accounts, so I don’t want to pay by check or credit card.”
“Good Lord. Are you telling me you’re carrying three thousand dollars in your purse?”
Sophie grinned. “There wasn’t room in my bra, so, yes, it’s in my purse.”
“Who carries that kind of cash around?” Cordie asked Regan.
“Apparently Sophie does,” she answered.
“My father carries ten times that amount in cash all the time,” Sophie commented.
“Soph, how can you afford to pay three thousand dollars?” Cordie asked. “You make less than I do.”
“Daddy.”
“You told me last month you weren’t ever going to take any more money from him, remember? You were determined to make it on your own.”
“It was an early birthday present,” Sophie said. “He just purchased another vacation home, and for tax purposes put that one in my name too. Daddy has enough money stashed away to last three lifetimes.”
Although they had known Sophie since kindergarten and were her best friends, Regan and Cordie still didn’t know what her father actually did for a living. Every time one of them asked him, he came up with a different answer. Either he was changing occupations once a month, or he was making it up as he went along. For a long time, Regan thought he was in banking, and Cordie believed he was a real estate mogul. Now that they were older and had heard all the rumors and speculation, they knew Sophie’s father was into some shady dealings. He was always cooking up one scheme after another, and they now worried that it was only a matter of time before one of his schemes backfired.
Regan worried about Sophie. As sophisticated as her friend considered herself to be, she was horribly naive about her father. And extremely protective.
Cordie looked as if she wanted to continue to argue. Regan, determined to get her friends back on track, asked, “What’s the plan once we’re inside the conference center?”
“We join the reception and… look around.”
Regan glanced at Cordie. “What do you mean ‘look around’?” she asked.
“Yes,” Cordie said. “Exactly what are we looking for?”
Sophie grabbed her purse and opened the back door. “His computer. I’ve done some checking and know the registrations and records are computerized. I also found out he carries a laptop computer with him and I’m hoping that sometime this weekend we can get to it.”
“Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” Cordie said.
“You can’t be thinking about breaking into his computer,” Regan said, appalled at the idea.
Sophie laughed. She waited until both of her friends had gotten out of the car before answering. “No, of course not. I don’t have the skill to break into his computer. Cordie will have to do it.”
“No way. I’m not doing anything illegal.”
“I need to get into his records,” Sophie argued. “It’s the only way I can find out about the other women he’s scammed.”
“His bodyguards aren’t going to let any of us near his computer,” Regan said.
“We’ve got all weekend to try.”
“Sophie, please tell me there’s more to the plan than breaking the law,” Regan said.
“Of course there is,” Sophie said. “We’re here to investigate. We’re going to talk to every person who signed up, and maybe someone knows something that will help us.”
“Like what?” Cordie asked.
“Like who Shields has been seeing,” she said. “We have to play this by ear.”
“Sounds like we’re playing it by the seat of our pants,” Cordie said.
“How does she talk us into these things?” Regan asked. She was trying not to laugh.
“She always makes her plans sound… reasonable.”
“Hello. I’m right here. I can hear every word you’re saying.”
Cordie and Regan ignored her. “It’s a lousy way to spend the weekend,” Cordie complained.
“But it’s for a good cause,” Sophie said. “And it’s too late to back out.”
Cordie looked up at the sky. “It’s going to rain. Damn, my hair’s going to frizz.”
“Are we going to stand here all night or what?” Regan asked.
Cordie and Sophie took the lead across the dark parking lot. Regan’s knee was throbbing, so she walked at a more sedate pace, trying not to limp. She cursed herself for wearing impractical shoes.
“Slow down,” Cordie said. “Regan’s having trouble with her knee again. When are you going to get that surgery?”
“Soon,” she said. So they wouldn’t nag her into doing what she wasn’t ready to do, she switched subjects. “My car needs an oil change. Are you up to it, Cordie?”
“Sure. I’ll do it next weekend.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “You spend more time under the hood of a car than a mechanic, Cordie. I swear, I’m never going to understand the two of you. You can afford any car you want, and yet you both drive old heaps. But then, I guess we know why Regan keeps her heap.”
“Aiden.” She and Cordie said his name at the same time.
“It makes him crazy, doesn’t it?” Sophie said laughing. She hurried ahead and waited at the door for her friends to catch up. “Okay, ladies. Time to concentrate on the task at hand.”
Liam House was an old stone building that had seen many uses in its lifetime. It now served as a facility for seminars and retreats. The interior was a pleasant surprise. Newly remodeled, the marble floors gleamed against the soft, warm beige of the walls. The registration table was on the opposite end of a rectangular foyer.
A thirtysomething woman, wearing the name tag “Debbie,” sat behind a table handing out registration forms. She wore a bright periwinkle blue flannel blazer. Behind her, dangling down from the balcony, were two twelve-foot-long banners. Each had a life-size photo of Dr. Shields. In both banners, Shields wore the same periwinkle blazer and the same smile.
“Is the guy a psychologist or a realtor?” Cordie whispered.
Sophie nudged her. “Notice the laptop?”
“It’s on the table right in front of me. How could I not notice? Do you want to distract her so I can grab it and run?” Cordie asked sarcastically.
“Get with the program,” Sophie whispered.
All three of them filled out their registration forms. Sophie handed them to Debbie.
“The fee’s a thousand dollars for each of you, hon.”
“Yes, we know,” Sophie said as she handed the wad of cash to the woman. Debbie took her time counting the hundred-dollar bills. Satisfied the amount was accurate, she typed their names from their registration cards into her computer, pushed a button, and the printer on the table behind her immediately spit out three receipts. “Dr. Shields is in the living room with some of the other participants. We’re having a welcome reception, and you won’t want to miss it. The doctor does such marvelous exercises.”
“Exercises?” Regan asked.
“Challenges,” Debbie corrected. “Mental challenges. That’s what Dr. Shields calls them. He helps you pull out all the anger and bitterness and hostility that’s eating away at your creativity, and once you’ve gotten all that poison out, you can move in a more positive direction. He really changed my life,” she added. “And he’ll change your life too if you work with him and trust him.”
Regan mustered up a big smile. “Oh, I want to change. I really do. That’s why I’m here.”
“Me too,” Sophie gushed.
Debbie eagerly nodded, “The reception is being held down the hallway and around the corner, behind a double set of doors. You don’t know how lucky you are, ladies. It’s a real bonus that the doctor isn’t just mingling. He’s already hinted that he might do a couple of exercises tonight. It wasn’t printed in the program. Dr. Shields is so busy these days with all the demands on his time, but he loves to be spontaneous when he can schedule it on his calendar.”
“He schedules spontaneity?” Regan asked, trying not to laugh.
Debbie was as enthusiastic as a Lakers’ cheerleader. “Why, yes, he does.”
Regan turned to leave. “Wait,” Debbie called out. “I forgot to give you ladies your packets.” She handed each of them a blue folder. “There’s a notebook and pen inside the folder so you can write down the doctor’s words of wisdom. No tape recorders or cameras allowed inside. Now, if you have any questions or need anything, all the personnel are dressed in identical blue blazers like the one I’m wearing. We’re all here to help make this seminar a fabulous experience for you.”
“I’m sure it will be,” Sophie said.
Regan walked ahead down a wide hallway, turned the corner, and came to an abrupt stop. “Good heavens,” she whispered.
There, adjacent to the double doors was an impossible-to-miss, eight-foot-tall cardboard cutout of Shields. A full-color body shot had been done, and with his bright blue blazer and dazzling, obviously capped, white teeth, he really did look like an advertisement for a real estate agent who had just made the deal of a lifetime. One of Shields’s eyelids was lowered ever so slightly, as though the photographer had caught him in the middle of a wink.
“Think he likes himself?” Cordie asked.
“He’s an egomaniac,” Sophie said.
“Do you think he’s wearing colored contacts?” Cordie asked.
“Have you ever met anyone with cobalt blue eyes?” Regan responded.
“Good point.”
Cordie stepped forward to open the door when Sophie stopped her. “Hold on. I have to turn my tape recorder on.”
“You better sit up close to him,” Regan said.
“I’m sitting in the back,” Cordie said.
“Okay. Let’s do it,” Sophie said as she opened the door.
The living room was surprisingly large and very crowded. There was a long, cream-colored sectional in front of the stone fireplace, and easy chairs were grouped in pairs around the room. Folding chairs lined the back walls.
At least eighty percent of the participants were women, but there wasn’t one age group that was more prominent than another. Regan had assumed most of the registrants would be men and women going through some kind of midlife crisis, but she was wrong about that. There were just as many twentysomething women and several who were well over sixty.
Sophie headed to the front and squeezed in between two men on the sofa facing the fireplace. Both men were happy to accommodate her.
Cordie spotted two empty folding chairs in the corner against the back wall. She nudged Regan. “Follow me.”
Regan hurried after her friend, took her seat, and then gave Shields her full attention. The psychologist stood in front of the massive stone fireplace. He was an imposing figure. Tall, tanned… or was that makeup he was wearing? His bodyguards were easy to spot. They stood like robots at opposite ends of the hearth. They weren’t wearing sunglasses, and their eyes were constantly scanning the audience.
“They’re creepy,” she whispered.
“The bodyguards?” Cordie asked.
“Yes.”
“So is Shields. Is he wearing makeup?”
“I think so.”
The psychologist didn’t look like a monster, just a vain, fiftyish con artist trying to be twenty again. Mary Coolidge had written that he was the most charismatic man she had ever known. Maybe it was because Regan was predisposed to disliking him, but she couldn’t find anything charismatic about him.
Cordie nudged her. “You know who he kind of reminds me of?”
“Who?”
“Your stepfather.”
“Another reason not to like him,” Regan replied.
Shields did have a dazzling smile. He had moved to a corner of the room and was surrounded by adoring women. He suddenly motioned for the women to take their seats. He waited until they had found spots, then strode back to the center of the fireplace. A hush fell over the group.
“Showtime,” Regan whispered.

Chapter Ten



Shields began his greeting. He had a crooning, hypnotic voice that was a cross between Barry White and Mr. Rogers.
Cordie nudged Regan. “One of the bodyguards, the guy on the left, has been staring at you since you walked in. What’s his problem?”
“Ignore him,” Regan said.
Shields clapped his hands. “The early bird gets the worm, as my grandmother used to say. Tomorrow there will be five hundred people in the auditorium. Space is at a premium here, so I had to limit the number at this conference, but because you men and women came early and paid your fee, I decided to have this little get-together. If more show up tonight, we’ll open those doors and expand. Now then, let me tell you what you’ll learn during this weekend.”
He was droning on and on, so Regan tuned him out. She pulled his photo from the pocket of the folder and compared the likeness. Close, she thought. Her mind began to wander and then it turned to more practical matters, and she flipped the photo over to jot down some reminders for herself. “Call security and talk to them about Peter Morris,” she wrote. Then, “Talk to Aiden about the Emily Milan problem.” Regan looked up and scanned the audience. Shields certainly had a way with the participants. Most of the women seemed captivated by what he was telling them. Some were actually leaning forward in their chairs as though subconsciously trying to get closer to him. She turned her attention once again to Shields, and after listening for ten minutes, concluded his extemporaneous speech consisted of two themes, fear and greed. Yes, Shields insisted, they really could have it all. They deserved to have it all. But first they needed to rid themselves of the poison inside them.
A hand shot up. Shields took a step forward, paused to flash a smile, and then said, “Yes?”
A woman bolted to her feet. While she was tugging at her ill-fitting skirt, she asked, “I… I’m not sure I understand. I know you said we had to open our minds to new opportunities and that we must first get rid of the poison inside...”
When she hesitated, Shields said, “Yes, that’s right.”
“Well… the thing is… I didn’t know I had poison inside.”
Shields dramatically waved his hands. “Everyone in this room has poison inside them.”
“But that’s just it,” the woman said, still tugging at her skirt. “What do you mean by poison?”
He obviously expected the question. Clasping his hands behind his back, he took another step forward.
“Look how close he is to Sophie,” Cordie whispered. “Her tape recorder must be getting every word.”
“I think the woman who just asked the question is a plant. What do you think?”
“Maybe so,” Cordie agreed.
“Have you ever been hurt by anyone,” Shields asked the woman. “Hurt deeply?”
Who hadn’t? Regan thought about Dennis and was suddenly interested in what Shields had to say. The woman who’d asked the question lowered her gaze, and a faint blush covered her cheeks. “Yes… I’ll bet most of us in this room have been hurt deeply,” she said as she nervously glanced around. “My boyfriend… he cheated on me, and he didn’t care how much he hurt me. He… used me.”
“And you took that hurt and buried it deep inside, didn’t you?” Shields nodded sagely and looked over his audience. “How many of you have been in hurtful relationships over the years? How many have endured betrayals from family and those you believed were your friends? How many of you have been overlooked for promotions time and again at work when you know in your heart you earned them?”
Hands were shooting up all over the room. “Shields has them eating out of the palm of his hand,” Cordie whispered. “Uh-oh. That bodyguard is still staring. Put your hand up.”
Regan dutifully put her hand up. A shiver ran down her spine the longer she watched Shields. He was smiling like a benevolent Yoda now.
“I believe that all those painful experiences have turned into drops of poison inside you, eating away at your potential, your creativity, your passion for life.”
“But how do we get rid of this poison?” another woman called out.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “By the time this seminar is over Sunday evening, you’ll be cleansed and ready to take on the world. I guarantee it.”
He paused again, and then in a voice as smooth as Haagen-Dazs said, “Why don’t we do a little exercise? Everyone, take out your notepad and pen. You’ll find both inside your folder. We’re going to make a list.”
He motioned to the bodyguard on his right. The muscleman immediately knelt in front of the fireplace and turned the gas jets on. Seconds later a roaring fire was heating up the already warm room.
“Better get our notepads out and look eager,” Cordie said. “It’s hot in here,” she added. “I should have worn my hair up. It’s definitely gonna frizz.”
Regan was used to Cordie obsessing about her hair and ignored her comments.
“Ready?” Shields called out. “Now, here’s what I want you to think about. How can you make the world a better place for you? Would you be happier, more fulfilled, more joyful, if the people who have hurt you no longer existed? What if you could wave a magic wand and poof,” he said, snapping his fingers for drama, “they’re gone… forever. Would you be better off without them? If you could get rid of the poison inside you, would you be happier? If you believe you would, write down the names of those people you want to vanish.”
Regan couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She wasn’t the only one. A timid hand went up. “Excuse me, Dr. Shields. Did I hear correctly? You want us to—”
Another woman stood, clutching the notepad to her chest. “You want us to make a… murder list?”
“That’s not what he said,” a young man shouted.
Shields put his hands up. “You can call it whatever you want. Those of you who are a bit squeamish, think of it as a list of the people you simply wish to never see again.”
The woman clutching the notepad couldn’t seem to compute what he was telling her to do. “Okay. So you want us to write down the names of people we wish were… dead.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. If those people who have injured you no longer existed, then wouldn’t you be able to get rid of the poison inside you?”
“Yes… I guess… but…”
Another man shouted, “I’m gonna need more paper.”
Nervous laughter followed his comment. “Is there a limit on the names?” he asked.
“Write down as many names as you want. I do think for this exercise we’ll have a time limit. Ten minutes,” he said. “Shall we get started?”
He stretched his arm, stared down at his watch, and said, “You may begin.”
A man sitting in front of Regan whispered, “This is going to be fun. I’m going to start with my wife.”
“You mean your ex-wife,” the woman sitting next to him said.
“Oh, that’s good. I’ll put her on my list too.”
Cordie looked appalled. “Can you believe this? Shields has turned the group into ghouls.”
“Hush,” Regan whispered. “We better act like we’re with the program. Start writing.”
“No matter how obscene this exercise is?”
“No matter.”
“Well, then…”
“Well, then what?”
Cordie smiled. “Might as well have a little fun.”
They both pulled out their notepads. Regan wrote across the top of the paper, “Murder List” and underlined the words twice. Underneath she wrote, “People I Want Dead.” Now what? Stalling for time, she tapped her pen against the folder until the man in front of her turned and frowned.
“Do you mind? You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She had a feeling the bodyguard was still watching her. Maybe she was being paranoid. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up, then quickly lowered her head. Nope. Not paranoid. The creep was still staring. What was his problem?
Cordie was sniffling and digging through her purse. Regan handed her a tissue.
“Five more minutes,” Shields called out. “And then I’ll circle the room and I want everyone to hold up their notepads so I can see the number of names.”
Uh-oh. Regan began to write. Shields, bodyguard one, and bodyguard two all made her list. Who else? Ms. Patsy, that rude saleslady from Dickerson’s. Oh, yes, she mustn’t forget that horrible Detective Sweeney. The world would definitely be a better place without him. She was about to add Lieutenant Lewis to her list because he’d been so vicious to that young man, but time was up.
She’d had no idea she was so bloodthirsty. Shields clapped his hands. “Pens down. Everyone hold up your notepad so I can see them. That’s right. Good. Good,” he praised. “Everyone participated. Now here’s what I’d like you to do. One by one come up to the fireplace. Tear the paper out of the notepad and shred it. Then you’ll throw it in the fire and watch the flames devour the names. Shall we begin?”
“Will that get rid of the hurt and the poison?” a woman asked.
“It’s a symbolic gesture,” Shields explained. “Meant to open your mind to all the possibilities.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cordie asked.
“We get to open our minds to the possibility that we could kill all of our enemies,” Regan explained with mock enthusiasm.
“Shall we begin?” Shields called out.
Sophie was the first in line. She was smiling at Shields as she walked past.
“Un-oh, Sophie’s flirting,” Cordie whispered. “And Shields is loving the attention.”
“How can she? He’s so… repulsive.”
“This is b.s. Can you believe he actually charges money for this?”
“Shields said there were five hundred people signed up for this seminar. Multiply that number by the thousand dollars each paid, and…”
“He’s making a bloody fortune.”
“I can’t believe we’ve committed an entire weekend to this.”
“Let’s get in line and then get out of here. I’m starving.”
Regan had just picked up her purse when her cell phone rang. The sound earned her a glare from both bodyguards.
She answered the phone, quickly gathered up her things, and went out into the hallway while Cordie got in line to toss her list in the fire.
Emily Milan was on the line. She was in one of her moods again and didn’t waste words.
“You didn’t give me Aiden’s latest notes,” she snapped. “And as a result, the last meeting was a complete disaster. I’m not going to be able to do my job if you continue to play these childish games, Regan.”
“I’m certain Henry printed out everything that was e-mailed,” she said. “I didn’t erase it, and I’ll be happy to check again when I get back to the hotel, but—”
“I expect those papers on my desk tomorrow.”
“I’m sure everything my brother sent was printed,” she repeated.
“Do I have to talk to Aiden about this?”
Regan counted to five. It didn’t help. “Please do.”
She snapped the phone shut and stood there glaring at it. “Oh, you are so going on my list,” she muttered.
She wished she could have fired Emily right then and there, over the phone. She couldn’t, though. She didn’t have the authority. Thunder rumbled close by, interrupting her mental tirade. She shoved the phone into her purse and went back inside to find Cordie and Sophie so she could get out of there before her mood completely soured. She was pulling the heavy door closed behind her when she noticed one of the bodyguards was down on his knees in front of the hearth turning the gas jets off. She guessed she’d missed the fire cleansing ritual.
She couldn’t find Sophie, but Cordie was where she’d left her, still sitting in the uncomfortable folding chair against the back wall. She sat down beside her and whispered, “Could we leave now?”
“In a minute,” Cordie said. “Shields is telling us what he thinks is a super-inspirational story about one of his students.”
“Students? He teaches a class?”
Cordie shook her head. “He’s calling us his students. All the people who have attended his past seminars are former students. How can anyone with half a brain fall for his act? He’s such a fraud.”
“Look around,” Regan whispered. “The room’s full of unhappy people desperately wanting to change their lives. He’s telling them what they want to hear.”
“He also gives them someone to blame instead of taking responsibility for their own behavior. Sophie was right. He does prey on the vulnerable.”
“I’m going to ask Aiden to fire Emily,” Regan said.
Cordie bolted upright. “Really.” She looked thrilled.
Regan repeated the conversation she’d had with the obnoxious woman. “What would you do?”
“Make Aiden fire her skinny little ass,” she whispered. “You should hire his next assistant. He’s obviously looking for the wrong type.”
“What type is that?”
“Young, beautiful, blond, thin…”
“What do you care what she looks like?”
Cordie shrugged. “I don’t care,” she said quickly. “You’re the one complaining.”
Regan sighed. “I can’t fire her. She doesn’t work for me. Besides, Aiden needs help…”
“So? Get someone else to help him.”
Shields’s volume increased as he finished his story. Applause followed. He waited for the noise to die down, then announced that the spontaneous session was over and to please mingle. Within seconds the psychologist was surrounded by women fighting for his attention.
“Is it raining?” Cordie asked. She lifted a strand of her long hair, sighed, and shoved it back behind her ear. “It’s raining, all right. My hair’s frizzing already.”
“Nonsense,” Regan said. “Your hair doesn’t frizz. It curls.”
Cordie dug through her purse, found a hair clip, and went to work pulling her hair into a twist.
“I’ll go get the car and pull up under the overhang. You find Sophie and drag her outside if you have to,” Regan said.
She gathered up her things, tucked the folder under her arm, and headed out. The mood in the room was still jovial, many of the participants laughing nervously and talking with one another. Such eagerness, such hope, she thought. She was sure she heard Sophie’s distinctive laughter. How in heaven’s name could she stomach being so close to Shields?
Regan seemed to be the only person in a hurry to leave. The lighting on the porch and around the building was abysmal. She could barely see her hand in front of her face.
If she had been a pessimist, she would have thought the rain had been waiting for her, because the second she stepped out from under the overhang, the soft drizzle turned into a downpour.
She sprinted across the parking lot, the rain pelting her face. Since she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, she used the blue folder to try to block the raindrops so she could see where she was going.
By the time she reached the park, her knee was throbbing. She considered stopping and taking off her new, impossible-to-resist, sling-back heels, but it was only about fifty yards to the car, and she didn’t want to stop. She already had her car key out. It was attached to a bracelet chain. Regan had slipped the chain over her wrist so she could grip her purse as she ran.
She could have taken a shortcut through the grass, but then her beautiful, soft, buttery leather shoes would have been completely ruined. God, what an idiot she’d been to wear such high heels.
She was about twenty-five, maybe thirty, yards from her car when she thought she heard someone shout her name. Regan automatically pivoted toward the sound. Her left knee buckled, and she went down hard. Crying out in pain, she let go of her purse and the folder to brace against the fall. She was used to having her knee go out—it happened at least once a month—but the pain usually went away after a couple of seconds. This time was different. It was sharp and close to unbearable.
Half the contents of her purse scattered on the sidewalk. She knelt on one knee as she scooped up her lipstick and billfold. Someone shouted at her again. It was a high-pitched voice, or was that the wind playing tricks on her? She strained to listen for the sound as she stuffed the billfold back into her purse and staggered to her feet.
Nothing. Just her imagination, she decided. All she wanted to think about was getting out of the rain.
She heard him coming before she saw him.

Chapter Eleven



A week had passed since the incident with the runner, and the police hadn’t pounded down his door and dragged him away. For seven days and nights he’d vacillated between stark terror and sheer joy. He’d wake up during the night and think, oh, God, what have I done? and he would hear the demon whisper.
We’ve gotten away with murder.
It was Friday, and the beast was stirring. He had to go hunting again. His last venture out had nearly ended in disaster, but he hoped he had learned from his mistakes and would do better this time, for he couldn’t afford to fail again. Yes, he would be better prepared tonight. In anticipation, he’d packed dark jogging clothes, a new baseball cap—he’d had to throw away the old one because of all the blood on it—and black running shoes. He’d stored the gear under the seat in the back of his car, along with thick, nonprescription, horn-rimmed glasses, a dark brown wig—shoulder-length and tied in a ponytail with a red-and-white bandana like a biker would wear—and the essential pair of new black gloves. He’d even purchased glue and a beard at a novelty store, trimming it just right, so that he wouldn’t look too much like Charles Manson. He still felt he could subdue any woman, but he slipped a knife into his pocket just in case. He spent hours figuring out his approach, trying to cover every possible angle. When he was finally dressed and ready to leave, he took a minute to stand in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom and look at himself. He was pleased with what he saw. Why, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
The demon would be pleased too.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t return home with more scratches on his face and arms. He could lie well when he had to, but the scratches had drawn attention to him and that was inexcusable. He simply had to be more careful. Whenever he thought about that first deadly encounter, he broke out in a cold sweat. He had come so close to getting caught, so very close.
Tonight would be different. He had been lucky the last time, but he wasn’t about to rely on good fortune coming to his aid again. He had most assuredly learned from his mistakes. Blend in. That was number one on his list. And so tonight he was pretending to be a jogger. He was in wonderful shape, of course. All those nights at the gym—had he been preparing for this and not realized it? He had become a bit obsessive, but now he could see he had started his training when he’d lifted that first ten-pound weight.
Finding the chosen one turned out to be surprisingly easy. She practically strolled up to his car and tapped on his window. That’s how close she was. She walked out the door of the hotel with a friend just as his car turned the corner. And, oh, what a sight. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”
A car backed out of the alley across the street, so he was able to stop and stare at her without drawing attention. He even rolled his window down in hopes of getting a whiff of her perfume.
He was going to follow her and wait for his opportunity, but once again, he got lucky. He heard one of the attendants shout to another, asking if he knew the quickest way to get to Liam House. Her car pulled away, and he tried to tail her, but he lost her when she turned off Michigan Avenue. He drove on to Liam House, found a parking spot a quarter of a mile away, and then jogged back to the conference center.
Adjusting his cap over his wig, he circled the building twice, taking his time as he surreptitiously checked out the area. He’d hoped there would be a jogging path close by so he could pretend he was headed toward it, but there wasn’t. Just streets, parking lots, and a little park in between.
The lighting outside the conference center was quite poor, which he found to his liking, but light did spill out from several windows and the front door as men and women hurried inside. He hung back in the shadows of the trees. He was afraid his chosen one might have gone inside while he was circling.
He waited another half hour or so and then he got nervous. Was she there? He backtracked once again, ran through the parking lot, and finally found her car on the opposite side of the park.
“Yes,” he whispered, weak with relief. It was okay. She was inside.
He didn’t have to wait much longer. He was looking for a better spot to watch the entrance of the building when, lo and behold, he glanced up, and there she was. Before the door shut behind her, she was surrounded by a halo of light. He actually gasped at her sheer beauty. He blinked, and for a second her face magically changed, and he saw his beloved Nina. He blinked again and saw now only the woman. What had caused his mind to play such a trick? Perhaps it was her dark hair. Perhaps, too, it was because she was the one, the perfect chosen one.
He felt the tightness gathering in his chest. Suddenly, he heard a sound behind him. He was clearly visible where he stood, and so he quickly knelt on one knee, pretending to tie his shoes, while the stranger, carrying a sack of groceries, passed him. He kept his face averted until the man disappeared. A clap of thunder ripped the sky. He knew he had to act fast. The wind had picked up and was howling. He pulled his baseball cap down farther and took a deep breath just as the clouds opened.
She was ahead of him now, her long-legged stride a sight to behold. He stepped out of his hiding place, oblivious of the wet slap of the rain against his cheeks, and watched her. Appreciated her. Her skirt was short, but not trashy short. In the misty light from the streetlamps her skin looked golden.
A golden girl, that’s what she was to him, the prize he would snatch in just seconds. He tried to savor every little detail about her. He wanted to remember everything, the way she held herself, the way she smelled, the way she felt when he grabbed her.
She had such beautiful strong legs. She was so like his Nina before the accident. Yes, just like her. Like his wife, she moved with elegant grace, her head held high, her hips gently swaying.
His mind rebelled against making the comparison, or was that the demon cautioning him not to think such dangerous thoughts? No, she couldn’t possibly compare to his Nina. There was business to be done. Quid pro quo. With that singular thought in mind, his hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers coiling around his new knife… just in case.
He took that first step toward her and shouted, “Wait!” She didn’t slow down, and so he ran at her and shouted again. This time he heard the fury in his voice.
She turned, her gaze catching him as she pivoted.
He stopped so suddenly he actually rocked on the balls of his feet. In horror, he watched her fall. Her left leg simply folded underneath her, as though her bone had melted. She crashed to the pavement and cried out in pain. He put his hands over his ears to block the sound. It all seemed to transpire in slow motion, just like the car accident of years past. Exactly like that. The tortured look on her beautiful face before the metal imploded on her legs.
His mind couldn’t take it in. What had just happened? He staggered back, then stopped. The poor thing. She was in pain, her leg useless now, and, oh, she was so like his Nina.
He should help her, shouldn’t he? He knew he wasn’t making any sense. Why did he have this nearly overwhelming desire to help someone he was determined to destroy?
He didn’t know what to do. He stood there looking at her. He backed farther away but continued to watch her struggle to get up. Twice she almost made it before she collapsed again. Poor, poor thing. He thought she might be crying, but the wind snatched the sound before it reached him.
He couldn’t stop staring at her, and she kept her eyes locked on him while she tried to get back on her feet. There was a connection between them. He felt it in his heart and in his soul where the demon lived.
She broke eye contact first, turned, and limped away like a wounded animal, her open purse dangling from her arm.
She was headed to her car. He could hear the demon’s voice chanting in his ear. Get her. Get her. Get her. He bolted after her. He could hear himself panting as he closed the distance.
He was almost on top of her when he was suddenly blinded by bright lights. What the…? Ducking his head down, he turned, desperate to find the darkness again.
He hit something slick, went flying, and crashed into a tree, his right shoulder bearing the brunt. Cursing his own clumsiness, he looked down and saw what he had slipped on. It was a folder with papers spilling out. He bent down, hurriedly shoved the papers back inside, thinking he could use the folder to lure her out of her car.
He picked it up and shouted to her again, but she wouldn’t stop. Too late. He was too late. She was already backing her car out of the parking space.
Filth spewed from his mouth, obscene words he hadn’t even known were part of his vocabulary and he had certainly never uttered before. He found it impossible to stop the foul litany. He was losing control of himself, could feel himself slipping away, acquiescing to the demon.
Concentration was difficult, and he tried with all his might to focus. The car that had blinded him had its blinker on, obviously waiting for her parking space. His beautiful, golden prey had stopped. Why wasn’t she leaving? What was she doing?
He ran across the lot keeping her car in sight. The lights made him squint. He reached up to pull the bill of his baseball cap down lower. The cap was gone.
Could she see him through his disguise? Could she see his hatred? She wasn’t moving. What could she be doing? Oh, God, a cell phone. She probably had a cell phone and was using it right this second. She was calling 911. That’s what she was doing.
He panicked. He actually ran around in a circle while he tried to think what he should do. If she was calling the police, how long would it take them to get here?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The cap. He had to get his baseball cap back—it had his fingerprints all over it—and then he needed to get out of the park.
He raced back to the tree he’d crashed into, dropped to his knees, and began to search in the dark. What’s this? His hand curled around a silver cell phone, and his heart leapt with joy. She hadn’t called the police. When she’d dropped her folder, she’d also dropped the phone. Yes, yes, it had to be hers.
Relief flooded over him until he remembered he needed to find his cap. Where was it? Frantic now, his mind screamed hurry, hurry. And then he found it and let out a low, anguished sob. Jumping up, he started running to safety, clutching the folder and the cell phone and his cap in his hands, his mind in such a confused state, he could barely concentrate.
He couldn’t hear himself think. The roar of the demon blocked out all other sounds.

Chapter Twelve



He came out of nowhere. He was running toward her. She could hear his footsteps on the pavement as she was turning. His face was twisted in rage. He was a big, muscular man. What was he doing? And why was he so angry?
Her mind tried to make sense out of why he was there. He was probably a jogger who just got caught in the rain. Maybe he was trying to get to his car just as she was trying to get to hers, and when she turned toward him, she’d so surprised him that he’d stopped.
No, no. There was something all wrong about him. Without understanding why, she knew the anger was directed at her.
Her instincts were screaming at her to get out of there. Fear, a powerful motivator, overrode the pain in her knee as she struggled to get up off the ground.
Her car key still dangled from the bracelet on her wrist. It was a miracle it hadn’t slipped off in the fall. The car was safety. Run, her mind screamed. Run.
The rain was pouring now. Head down, she stumbled to get to her car.
Was he coming after her? She dared a quick look back. Oh, God, he was running at her, closing the distance.
Wait. He was waving something at her and shouting at her to stop.
No, no, it was wrong. It was all wrong. Faster, she had to run faster. Her brother’s warning popped into her head. Spencer had always told her that when in doubt, go with your instincts, and her instincts were screaming at her to get to safety.
She finally made it to the car. The key nearly fell out of her hand when she pulled the coiled bracelet off her wrist, but she grabbed it in time. Her hands were slick from rain, and she was shaking so much it took her two tries to get the key in the lock.
He was almost there. She swung the door open, dove inside, threw her purse out of her way, and pulled the door closed. Twisting around, she hit the lock button down with her fist.
She didn’t take time to recover her breath. She shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine, turning the bright lights on as she backed out. Her foot slipped off the pedal.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. He was standing just twenty, perhaps thirty feet away. The light shone on his face, and his expression terrified her. He didn’t move. She frantically wiped the rain away from her eyes.
She blinked and he was gone.
She grabbed her purse from the floor and frantically dug through it, searching for her cell phone. Where was it?
A car behind her honked. Cordie and Sophie… they were waiting for her to pick them up. And the lunatic was out there.
She gripped the steering wheel and drove like a wild woman to the conference center. Aiden was right, she thought. She did need a new car, one with power locks and an alarm. It had been childish for her to hang on to the old clunker just to spite him.
Her friends were standing on the porch waiting for her. Regan put the car in park and slid across the bench seat to unlock the back door for Sophie. She rolled the window down and called out to Cordie, “You drive.”
“What happened to you?” Sophie asked, and after she got in, she scooted to unlock the driver’s door for Cordie. “Your face is gray.”
“I fell. Actually I—”
Sophie interrupted. “You hurt your knee again, didn’t you? Did it just give out on you?”
“Yes, but…”
“You really should get that fixed,” Cordie said. She was adjusting the mirror.
“Stop interrupting and listen. Something happened. Sophie, give me your phone. I can’t find mine, and I need to call the police.”
Her voice trembled as she related what had happened. Although it seemed odd to her, retelling was almost as frightening as the experience itself, because she now realized how close she might have come to fending off a madman.
Cordie was so shocked by what she was hearing that she grabbed Regan’s hand to comfort her.
“Thank God you got away from him,” she whispered.
Sophie wanted more details. “Could you identify him if you saw him?”
“I don’t know. Yes… maybe. I was so scared. I turned and there he was. He wore thick glasses.”
Cordie found her cell phone and handed it to Regan. “Call right now and tell them there’s a lunatic roaming around the conference center.”
“I’ll bet he’s long gone by now,” Sophie said.
“Are you saying she shouldn’t call?” Cordie asked, ready to argue.
“Of course she should call, but after you give the police the description, tell the officer we’re on our way to the police station. There’s one about two miles from here.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Cordie said. She put the car in drive and headed out while Regan made the call.
“We’ve got to get some ice on Regan’s knee,” Sophie said. “And the sooner the better.”
Regan motioned for her friends to be quiet when the phone was answered. She worried she would end up talking to another detective like Sweeney, but fortunately, the officer who took the call was efficient and polite. As soon as she explained what had happened, he dispatched policemen to the conference center to search for the man.
“I think he believed me, but I don’t know why,” Regan said after she had ended the call. “I rambled, didn’t I?”
“A little,” Cordie said.
“Turn left at the next corner,” Sophie directed. “There’s a QuikTrip where we can get her an ice pack, and a police station is just about a mile farther down that street.”
“How come you know where all the police stations are?” Regan asked.
“Not all of them, just some,” she corrected. “I’m going to be an investigative reporter, remember? It’s good to know these things.”

“I liked Officer Martinez,” Sophie said an hour later as the three left the police station.
Regan was replaying what she had said and shaking her head over her descriptions. “I sounded like an idiot. There was a man… dressed like a runner,” she quoted herself. “He appeared out of nowhere and I fell, and I think he might have been chasing me. But then again… maybe he wasn’t…”
“You were smart to run, Regan,” Sophie said. “That’s what Officer Martinez said. You went with your instincts.”
“He also said there hadn’t been any problems at the center in over a year.”
“You still did the right thing,” Cordie said. “You reported the incident, and if he’s some kind of wacko, which, by the way, I think he is, they’ll be on the lookout for him.”
“Could we not talk about this anymore?” Regan said. “How about eating in the hotel dining room? I’ll get you both settled at a table in the restaurant, run upstairs to change out of these wet clothes, and we’ll have a lovely dinner.”
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to run anywhere,” Cordie said. “And you need to keep ice on that knee.”
“Then come up to my suite, and we’ll order room service.”
They both agreed, and the rest of the evening was blessedly uneventful. As far as Regan was concerned, the matter was closed.

Chapter Thirteen



He had blown it. After all the worrying and the planning and the practicing, he had let her get away. He’d worked so hard. It wasn’t fair. No, it wasn’t fair at all. It was his right to take her life, his duty.
She’d tricked him into feeling confused and sympathetic when she’d fallen. She’d blindsided him. Yes, that’s exactly what she had done.
He pulled the Jeep over to the curb, put it in park, and began to pound the dashboard with his fists. He knew he was behaving like a child having a full-blown tantrum, but he didn’t care. He had failed. He kept beating the console until the shaking subsided. By the time he was able to think clearly again, his knuckles were raw.
Panic didn’t set in until he’d reached the safety of his garage. He stayed in the car until the garage door was down and he was safe inside his frigid cocoon. And still he didn’t move. He leaned against the seat and closed his eyes while he thought about his situation, his mind jumping from one thought to another. He knew it was only a matter of time before the police found the accident he’d buried. Would they connect him to that crime? If they did, he’d be locked away for the rest of his life, and his Nina, his dear, sweet Nina… how could she exist without him?
Stay cool, he told himself. There would be other chances. He
wouldn’t get caught. The beast wouldn’t let that happen. It was going to be okay.
He continued his internal monologue as he crept through the house and opened the bedroom door to check on Nina. She was sound asleep. He quietly closed the door and went into the laundry room just off the kitchen. He stripped out of his clothes, tossed them into the washer, and grabbed the box of Tide.
His mind wouldn’t quiet down. He analyzed his poor performance this evening, and he was appalled and disgusted. He had to do better next time. Had to.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He kept picturing her, his beautiful angel with the broken wing, falling, so gracefully tumbling down. Had he heard her cry out, or had he only imagined she had? His chosen one, his perfect angel, was innocent, as innocent as his beloved Nina.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. He had seen her weep, and his heart ached for her. He was so confused, torn between worrying about her and raging because she had gotten away.
“Can’t have it both ways,” he whispered. And he knew, in his heart he knew, that he had to appease the demon.
Stark naked, he went back into the garage. His chest and arms were covered in goose bumps. There was a small mirror propped on a shelf near the door. He paused to admire himself. His body was that of a Greek god, he thought with a great deal of pride. He’d worked hard to get it that way. Flexing his muscles, he smiled at his reflection.
He stood there a full minute before he turned away. He had the sudden urge, no, need, to look at her things, just to make sure they were where he’d hidden them in the small wooden crate with a stack of rags on top. The crate was tucked in the corner. It wasn’t a very clever hiding place, and tomorrow he planned to move the box.
The hammer, the girl’s driver’s license, and her pepper spray were just where he’d put them. He still wasn’t sure why he’d taken them, but he couldn’t make himself get rid of them just yet. He picked up the license and read her name. Haley Cross. In the photo, she was smiling. The picture he had of her in his mind was a face contorted in terror. He dropped the license on top of the spray and picked up the hammer.
The sound of a phone ringing close by jarred him. He whirled around with the hammer upraised in his hand. It took him a second to realize the noise was coming from his Jeep. Of course. Her phone. Someone was calling her. He waited, frozen, with the hammer in midair, until the ringing stopped. He found the phone and her folder on the backseat.
Shivering from the night chill, he hurried into his kitchen. He placed the phone and the folder on the table, went to the sink to wash his hands and clean the cuts on his knuckles, and then made himself a drink.
He dropped into a chair and opened the folder. He spread the contents across the table and began to read.

Chapter Fourteen



Alec Buchanan was one of the last passengers to leave the plane. A flight attendant had to wake him. He’d fallen asleep about ten seconds after he had clipped on his seat belt and stretched his long legs in a poor attempt to get comfortable.
Alec could sleep anywhere, anytime, much to his brother Nick’s consternation. Nick was afraid to fly and went to great lengths to avoid it, which, of course, made him the brunt of many family jokes. Alec didn’t mind flying at all, though he thought the flight from Boston to Chicago was too short. Since he’d stayed up most of the night with his five brothers and two sisters catching up on all the news, he would have liked a much longer nap.
He knew he looked like hell. He hadn’t shaved since his interview with the FBI Thursday morning. He was pretty sure the job was his if he wanted it. Ward Dayborough, the head of the special crimes division, had been actively recruiting him for over a year and had all but guaranteed that he’d be based out of Boston.
That was just one of the many incentives for taking the job, but even if he didn’t make this move, he still needed to find the time to go home more often. He missed his family.
Over the weekend, the entire Buchanan clan had gathered at their parents’ sprawling island home on Nathan’s Bay to celebrate their father’s birthday. Nick and his wife, Laurant, had brought their baby girl to the island for the first time.
While he was there, Nick, along with the oldest brother, Theo, worked on Alec to accept the offer from the FBI. They tried to convince him that it was a family obligation. Theo was an attorney with the Justice Department, and Nick had been an agent for a special branch of the FBI for many years. Alec did love Boston, and Nick, now that he had a family and needed a bigger place, was offering him a great deal on his town house.
It was time for a change, and Alec had a lot to think about. Being back home had been wonderful, even though he’d taken quite a beating playing football with all of his brothers. Ironically, the bruised shoulder that hurt the most had actually been inflicted by one of his younger sisters, Jordan. He smiled when he thought about her. Jordan was brilliant, no argument there, and had made them all a fortune when they invested in her design for a computer chip that revolutionized the industry, but as smart as she was, she had absolutely no common sense. She was also a klutz. She hadn’t meant to tackle him; she’d simply tripped over her own feet. Fortunately for her, his shoulder took the brunt of her fall, and he’d caught her before she broke any bones.
It was raining when he drove away from O’Hare. Traffic was a bitch, but it still wasn’t as bad as Boston’s rush hour. He took shortcuts back to his apartment, unpacked, and put on his favorite pair of worn-out jeans. He was about to check his messages when his old partner, Gil Hutton, called. Gil had recently retired but still kept his fingers in the gossip pie. Alec swore Gil was clairvoyant. He knew things before they happened.
Gil didn’t waste words on pleasantries. “I got the lowdown on Lewis.”
“Yeah?” Alec laughed as he opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. He popped the tab, and took a long swallow. He could just picture Gil rubbing his head—a habit that used to drive Alec nuts—and gloating. The man loved to gloat when he had hot news.
Alec was feeling a little guilty because he hadn’t confided in his friend about leaving the department. He had good reason. Alec knew Gil wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about his interview with the FBI.
“Lewis was real pissed you fought him about firing that rookie. Know how he’s getting even?”
Alec was suddenly weary. He dropped down on the sofa and closed his eyes. God, how he hated politics. “How?”
“If you try to get a transfer out, he’s gonna block it.”
“I didn’t put in for a transfer.”
“Yeah? Why not? I just assumed…”
Gil’s radar was up. It wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together and figure out that Alec was leaving.
“I haven’t had time to do the paperwork,” he said. That much was true, he thought. He hadn’t had time.
“Well, Lewis will block it. I just thought you should know.”
Alec didn’t ask him where he got his information, but he thought Gil must spend most of his day on the phone, gathering little tidbits.
“You need to get a life.”
His ex-partner ignored the comment. “Lewis is a real prick.”
“Yes,” Alec agreed. “And a game player.”
Worse, he thought, the lieutenant didn’t back up his men the way he should. He hung anyone in trouble out to dry, like the young policeman who really hadn’t done anything wrong except have the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“He’s lost the respect of his detectives,” Gil remarked.
“He never earned our respect. So tell me. Did he block the kid’s transfer?”
“That kid is only four years younger than you are.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have my experience or cynicism.”
“Lewis wasn’t able to block that one. Hey, you want to grab a beer down at Finnegan’s?”
“Not tonight.”
“Maybe tomorrow night then? I want to hear your theories about Detective Sweeney.”
“What about Sweeney?”
“You didn’t hear?”
Alec was losing patience. “Hear what?”
“Oh, man, I thought you knew, but of course you couldn’t have heard since you’ve been in Boston. Don’t you check your messages?”
“I was about to when you called. So tell me. What about him?”
“He was murdered last night.”