Snowfall (22 page)

“His lawyers are Bernstein and Stella. They might know something about the business of which I was unaware.”

“Anyone else?”

Caitlin started to say no, and then immediately a face popped into her mind. “Juanita Delarosa!”

“Who’s she?” Amato asked.

“She was my father’s private secretary for over thirty-five years. When Daddy died, she retired. She lives in New Jersey.”

“Do you have an address for her?” Amato asked.

“I think so,” Caitlin said. “Mac, would you hand me my purse?”

He did, watching as she dug through the contents and then pulled out a small address book. A few moments later, Caitlin looked up.

“Yes, here it is.” She handed him the book, watching as Amato made note of the woman’s name and address, then dropped it back into her purse. “If there’s anything to tell, she’ll be the one to know.”

“Thank you,” Amato said. “We’ll contact her immediately.”

Moments later, Paulie was back.

“Got the tape,” he said, and turned on the TV, then slipped the cassette into the VCR.

Mac glanced at Caitlin. “Honey…are you up to this?”

Caitlin shrugged. “I’m sick to my stomach and my head’s going to explode. Other than that, I feel fine.”

“Make this quick,” Mac said. “I need to get her home.”

Neil frowned at Mac, and then his glance slid to Caitlin. Even he could see how pale she was, could see the pain etched on her face. He leaned over, briefly cupping her hands with his own.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Bennett, but sometimes ugly things can’t be avoided.” Then he looked back at Mac, his face expressionless. “All we need from you is another couple of minutes, and then you’ll both be free to go. Fortunately for you, it didn’t take Miss Dubai long to die.”

The shock on Caitlin’s face was evident.

“You mean you have a tape of her being murdered and you still don’t know who did it?”

“Just watch and you’ll understand,” Paulie said, fiddling with the controls.

Caitlin stood abruptly, only to find Mac at her back.

“I’m here,” he said softly, and wrapped his arms around her.

Caitlin leaned against him, taking comfort in his presence and his strength.

And then the tape began to play. By the time it was over, Caitlin was sobbing.

“Play that last bit again,” Mac asked.

Caitlin covered her face. “Oh God, Mac, I can’t bear to—”

“Please,” he said, looking at Detective Hahn. “I thought I saw something. Play it again.”

Paulie shrugged and rewound it a few seconds, then hit Play. Immediately the tape picked up at the place where the killer was walking out with the food and beer.

Suddenly Mac was across the room, his finger on the television screen.

“There,” he said. “Play it again.”

Kowalski frowned. “I don’t see—”

“You will,” Mac said. “Detective Hahn?”

Again Paulie rewound and then played the last few seconds.

“Stop there!” Mac shouted.

The image from the camera high above the counter was frozen on the screen, showing only the first two aisles of the small family market, a glare of lights against the front window from a passing car highlighting the back of the killer’s head and shoulders as he made his exit.

“You can’t see anything except the back of his head,” Amato said.

Mac pointed past the man to the window and the glare.

“Look there,” he said. “In the reflection. What do you see?”

Neil leaned closer, his focus shifting to the place where Mac was pointing, and then he took a deep breath. When he looked up, he was wearing an odd, almost apologetic grin.

“Well, it looks a bit like a reflection of the killer’s face, doesn’t it?”

“Where? Where?” Amato asked. “I don’t see it.”

“Put on your glasses,” Trudy said. “It’s there.”

Amato grabbed his glasses from the desk and slid them up his nose.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “How did we miss that?”

“I see it, too,” Caitlin said.

“Can you tell who it is?” Amato asked.

Caitlin leaned closer, then shook her head. “No. It’s too vague.”

“We’ll send it to the lab,” Amato said.

“If they can’t make anything out of it, send it to the agent at Quantico,” Mac suggested. “They can pick out a fly on a horse’s butt taken from satellite imaging. If there’s anything there, they’ll find it.”

Amato pointed to Paulie. “Go make a couple of copies of that tape. Send one to our lab and the other to the Feds, compliments of Mr. McKee here.”

Paulie popped the tape from the VCR and headed out of the room as Amato drained the last of a cup of cold coffee.

“Well, people, I think you can go home now,” he said. “If you think of anything else, call us immediately. Mr. McKee has my card.”

Weak with relief, Caitlin turned to get her coat, only to find Detective Neil holding it for her.

“Allow me,” he said.

“Thank you,” Caitlin said, taking comfort in the familiarity of her own things. After all that she’d been through and seen this afternoon, she felt as if she’d been attacked all over again.

Before she could move, Neil took her hand.

“You have my card. As I told you before, if you need anything…anything at all, feel free to call me, day or night.”

Too exhausted to appreciate the special attention, she smiled vaguely and nodded, but all she needed was Mac, and he was deep in conversation with Amato and Kowalksi.

“Mac?”

He turned, immediately solicitous.

“Ready?”

She nodded.

“Still hungry?”

Her gaze strayed to the wall and the pictures of the slain women. Tears filled her eyes. “I may never be hungry again.”

Mac pulled her into his arms. “It’s not your fault, Caitie. You have to know that.”

Trudy Kowalski patted Caitlin’s shoulder in sympathy.

“He’s right, Miss Bennett. You can’t take on the guilt for these women’s deaths. It’s the killer who’s to blame, not you.”

“Theoretically, I know that,” Caitlin said. “But it doesn’t make their deaths any easier to bear.”

Mac gave her a swift hug, then handed her his handkerchief. “Wipe your eyes. I’m taking you out for pasta. It’s a good, stick-to-your-ribs meal, and you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

Caitlin nodded, then shook Sal Amato’s hand.

“Detective, we appreciate your help.” Then she looked at Trudy and J.R. “All of you. Thank you in advance for helping me. I’m so tired of being afraid.”

Trudy smiled and winked. “It’s our job to help. And now, thanks to you, we have a whole new direction in which to take the case.”

Mac took Caitlin by the arm. Even as they were leaving, Sal Amato was barking orders, sending Kowalksi in one direction and Neil in another.

Satisfied that, for now, the worries were out of their hands, Mac and Caitlin left quickly, anxious to leave the premises and all they represented. Yet even when they were out on the street and hailing another cab to go to the restaurant, Caitlin knew that, no matter how far they went, she could not escape what was happening. Until the killer was caught, she was living on borrowed time.

Kenny smiled in satisfaction as he hung up the phone. His source at the paper had assured him that they’d gotten the story they needed from Caitlin Bennett. It would be all over the news by evening for sure. He kicked back in his chair. Caitlin would be pleased. She owed him big time on this, and he would make sure to collect. To hell with the muscle-man who was stuck to her side. She was bound to come to her senses soon. Then she would see who really mattered in her life.

The rest of the day passed in its usual busy way. And every time the phone rang, he kept thinking it would be her, calling to tell him what a genius he was. But it wasn’t, and by the time quitting time rolled around, she still had not called. Not once. Not even to say thanks.

The slight to his ego was small compared to having to come to terms with the possibility that he was nothing more to her than an employee. She paid him to do things for her, and as long as he did them to her satisfaction, their relationship, such as it was, would continue. Beyond that, there was nothing. He didn’t want to accept it, but as his mother used to say, “Truth is a hard egg to swallow.”

His steps were slow, his heart heavy, as he left the office for the day. And the sharp bite of winter cold was like adding insult to injury as he tried, without success, to hail a cab. With his head down, his shoulders hunched against the wind, he started the walk home.

Caitlin Bennett’s story was all over the evening news. It was the lead in the papers and on two of the local television stations. Her taunt had hit a painful target.

Buddy saw the first of the headlines on his way home from work. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he bought a paper and read it on the subway. By the time he reached his apartment, he was shaking with rage.

The bitch. She’d called him juvenile! She’d said she wasn’t afraid. He would show her what true fear meant, but before he did, he was going to make her sorry in a whole other way.

He tossed the paper on the floor as he entered his apartment, then used it to wipe his feet, leaving the dirty slush from his shoes behind on the pages.

Work had been hell, and it had been all he could do to concentrate. He’d had a bagel for breakfast and nothing for lunch, and he suspected the headache he had was due to too much coffee and not enough food. But he would eat later—after he finished his little “gift” for Caitlin Bennett. By the time it reached its target, she would no longer be mouthing off about lack of fear.

To the uninitiated, Aaron Workman’s office was a study in chaos, but he knew where everything was and when it was due. The manuscripts stacked on the credenza behind him were rejects, waiting for his assistant to mail them back to the senders.

The stack on the floor beside his chair was new, and had as yet to be opened and read. The stack to the right of his desk was from contracted writers and was made up of overdue line edits.

The stack to his left, which was the smallest, consisted of possible buys. Some needed cutting, and one needed to be added to, but the stories were there. Those were his favorites. Discovering new writers was why he’d taken this job.

Years ago, his first editorial job had been for a small press in Pennsylvania that was no longer in business, but it had been the impetus he’d needed to know he was on the right track. This was his fourteenth year with Hudson House. The company was in good financial shape, and he was as happy as he’d ever been.

Except for the mess with Caitlin. As an editor, it was unusual to have a personal relationship with one of his writers, but he loved her like the sister he’d never had. From the first book they’d worked on together, their friendship had grown. Now he considered her one of his best friends. During the day, he was able to block out his fear for her, but at night, when he was in the solitude of his own home, it was impossible to ignore. The only thing that kept him from coming unglued was the fact that his brother had come to her rescue.

He paused, his hands still on the keyboard of his computer, and smiled as he thought of Mac. He was a fortunate man to have him for a brother, and he was beginning to think that Caitlin agreed. It had been a great disappointment to him when Mac and Caitlin had first met. The two people he loved most in the world had taken an instant dislike to each other. Now he was beginning to think it had been attraction from the start, only they’d both been too scared to admit it.

He glanced at the clock, then back at the screen, and resumed the letter he was typing. As soon as he was finished, he was going to give Mac a call. He’d tried all day yesterday with no results and wondered what was going on. Maybe they could meet for dinner tonight. Unless pushed, Caitlin had no social life at all.

A few minutes later he hit Save and then Print, getting up from his desk to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee as he waited for the letter to emerge.

“Mr. Workman, your mail.”

He turned, rolling his eyes at the new stack his assistant set on his desk.

“Does it ever end?” he griped.

She smiled. “No, and you would be sorry if it did.”

He sighed. “You’re right, and thanks.” He set his coffee cup down and began to shuffle through the stack. “See anything interesting?”

“The usual. Three submissions you asked to see based on proposals. A couple of unsolicited ones.”

Aaron waved his hand. “Send them to a reader. I don’t have time to go through them first myself.”

“Will do,” she said, and sorted them out. “Oh, I almost forgot. This is a Priority Mail envelope addressed to you and marked Personal. I didn’t open it.”

Aaron took it, sipping his coffee as he looked for a return address, then shrugged.

“Thanks, Teresa. I’ll give it a look in a couple of minutes. This time I want to finish my coffee without spilling it down the front of my shirt.”

She laughed. It was a known fact within the office that Aaron could not do two things at one time without making a mess, which included reading and drinking. More than one manuscript had suffered the consequences of his spills.

As she left, he turned toward the window, taking his coffee with him as he looked out on the city below. Even from the eighth floor, the streets looked filthy. Once lily-white snow was now a slushy mixture piled high at intersections and forming formidable barriers, sometimes impossible to step over, at curbs. If the weather would stay clear for more than two days at a time without added snowfall, they would be able to get out from under, but as it was, the city was barely keeping up with the snow.

Wrinkling his nose at the mess, he took another sip of his coffee and then turned toward his desk. The red, white and blue of the Priority Mail envelope teased his curiosity. More than likely it was a wannabe writer trying to pull what he or she thought was a cute little stunt by marking a proposal as personal. But its mere presence on his desk taunted him like an unwrapped gift on the day after Christmas.

Grunting at himself for delaying the inevitable, he set down his cup and reached for the envelope. With nothing more for a clue than a New York City postmark, he grabbed the pull tab and gave it a yank.