Читать книгу The Littlest Witness - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

The rain peppered John’s face as he stood on the roof, his presence as yet unnoticed. The wind was stronger up here, and he braced himself as he watched Cox’s flashlight beam moving about the area.

The roof was surrounded by a concrete safety ledge, about three feet high and six inches wide. Near the stairwell door and to the left, pallets of building materials and twenty-gallon drums had been stacked in preparation for resurfacing and waterproofing the deck, but the rest of the roof was clear and open. But even so, at this time of night and in this weather, the prospect of an eyewitness was pretty dim.

John’s gaze tracked his partner’s progression across the roof. Roy Cox was a fifteen-year veteran of the Detective Division. He and John had been working together for nearly four years now, and although they couldn’t have been less alike in temperament and investigative techniques, the partnership had worked out well. Whereas John was intense, almost obsessive about their cases, Roy was laid-back and soft-spoken, his west-Texas drawl as pronounced as it had been the day he’d left El Paso nearly thirty years ago.

He was a tall man, wiry and grizzled, with a handlebar mustache that might have looked more at home on a Texas range than it did on the streets of Chicago. A second man, the building manager, John guessed, dogged Cox’s steps, his gravelly voice muted by the rain and wind. John switched on his flashlight, catching the man in his beam. Wide-eyed and startled, he looked like a deer trapped in headlights.

Cox called out, “Hey, that you, Johnny boy? Glad you could finally make it. I reckon even you gung ho-types have trouble tearing yourselves away from a warm body on a night like this.”

John refrained from telling him that the only female in his bed lately was Cassandra, the temperamental Persian Meredith had left behind when she’d moved out. But Cox was his partner, and a nosy one at that; John suspected he already knew. “McGowan said you found a suicide note on the victim.”

“Damn straight we did.” Cox walked over and handed the bagged note to John. The words had been typed on a sheet of plain white bond paper.

“Short and sweet,” John muttered, training his light on the note.

“Just the way I like my women.” Cox grinned, his face pale in the cast-off glow from his flashlight. Water dripped from the brim of Cox’s cowboy hat, the battered one he always wore in inclement weather. “Looks like this is our lucky night, Johnny.”

“What do you mean?”

Cox held up a second plastic bag and aimed his flashlight beam on the contents—an expensive-looking beige handbag. “Found it on the deck over there by the wall. Victim must have dropped it just before she jumped. We’ve ID’d her from her driver’s license.”

“Who is she?”

“Name’s Gail Waters. She had a press pass…”

The name hit John like a physical blow. Stunned, he stared at his partner as a shock wave rolled through him. “Who did you say?”

Cox gave him a quizzical glance. “Gail Waters.”

Son of a bitch, John thought, trying to hide his surprise.

Cox rubbed the salt-and-pepper whiskers on his chin. “I’m getting some bad vibes here, Johnny-O. Are you trying to tell me you knew the victim?”

“I never saw her before in my life,” John answered truthfully. But he knew the sound of her voice. He’d talked to her on the phone less than forty-eight hours earlier, when she’d called the station wanting to interview him about his father’s disappearance seven years ago. It was a case that had not been solved to this day.

Gail Waters had been a reporter for and the managing editor of a small newspaper on the near north side of town. She specialized in stories involving disappearances and missing persons. Although she was a print journalist—and had taken pride in pointing out that fact to John—she had also been the co-producer of a cable show called Vanished!, which explored intriguing cases the police hadn’t been able to solve.

Why she’d suddenly decided to investigate Sean Gallagher’s disappearance, John had no idea. But her death had to be a coincidence. It couldn’t have anything to do with his father.

But even so, names from John’s past flashed like a strobe through his head: Ashley Dallas, the young woman whose murder Sean had been investigating at the time of his disappearance; Daniel O’Roarke, the man convicted of Ashley’s brutal murder, who now sat on death row; and John’s own brother Tony, who had been in love with Ashley at the time of her murder.

For some reason Gail Waters had wanted to dig up that old tragedy, expose secrets that had been buried for more than seven years.

And now she was dead.

A coincidence, John told himself again. But a cold finger of dread traced up his backbone as he stood in the icy rain.

“You want to notify the old man or should I?” Cox was asking.

The “old man” Cox was referring to was John’s uncle and their commanding officer. Liam Gallagher kept himself apprised of every investigation the detectives conducted under his watch. His knowledge of all the uncleared cases in his jurisdiction was nothing short of phenomenal, and John had always held his uncle in the highest esteem.

But now a tiny doubt began to niggle at him. Liam had worked on the Ashley Dallas case, too. Had Gail Waters talked to him about John’s father’s strange disappearance?

“Let’s hold off on that.” John stared at the note for a moment longer, then handed it back to Cox. “A type-written suicide note always worries me. I’d like to do a little more digging before we call in.”

Cox groaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. You’re going to get a hard-on about this one, aren’t you? You’ve got that look.”

“I’m going to do my job,” John said grimly. “And so are you. Until we get the coroner’s report, we’re going to treat this as a homicide investigation.”

Cox muttered an oath as his radio crackled. He pulled it from his belt and walked a few feet away to respond. John used the opportunity to examine the wall and floor of the roof at the spot from where he judged the victim had fallen. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he knelt and scoured the area with his flashlight, knowing all the while the rain had probably washed away whatever trace evidence, including fingerprints, that might have been left.

“Meat wagon’s here,” Cox called from the stairwell door. “You coming?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” John stood and gazed over the side of the building. Down on the street, a handful of bystanders had gathered at the fringes of the yellow tape.

As if sensing John’s gaze, one of them, a man wearing a black parka, a stocking cap and a muffler covering the lower part of his face, glanced up at the roof. Even five stories away, John felt a tug of recognition.

He knew the man only as Fischer, an informant he’d used successfully in the past. John had no idea about the man’s real identity, but he seemed to have an uncanny knack for showing up at crime scenes, particularly the ones John was called out on. He suspected Fischer not only had a police scanner, but an inside line into the department. Whatever his connection, his information had proved invaluable in the past.

As John watched, Fischer turned and headed down the street, his shoulders hunched against the sharp blast of wind from the lake.

John rubbed the back of his neck where the hair had suddenly stood on end. Fischer always gave him a case of the jitters, although he couldn’t say why exactly. Maybe because there were elements of danger and distrust involved with all informants.

The door to the stairwell slammed shut in the wind and Cox disappeared. John saw that the building manager remained and had started across the roof toward him.

He was a short squat man, somewhere in his forties, who breathed in sharp, almost gasping puffs of air. In the dim light he looked eager and excited, his small dark eyes greedily taking in every last detail of the search.

“Detective, if I may be so bold…” Rain glistened in the fringe of brown hair that circled the man’s bald pate like a dingy halo.

“What is it?” John asked, annoyed at having his concentration broken.

“It’s something I, er, mentioned to Detective Cox, but he, er, didn’t seem to take much notice.” The man stuttered and stumbled over his words, as if extremely nervous. He wiped moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s over there.” He pointed to the stack of building materials near the stairwell door.

“What is?”

“I’m, er, not sure. Evidence maybe.”

John said sharply, “What are you talking about, Mr.—”

“Dalrimple. Morris Dalrimple. My friends call me Dal.”

“Why don’t you show me what you’re talking about, Mr. Dalrimple?”

The building manager touched his fingertips to his chin, then dropped his hand to his side. “I think I saw something. If you would, er, just shine your flashlight over there…a little more to your right…yes, that’s it. Right there. And then if you would, er, kneel, like you did earlier…”

John complied, although there was something about Dalrimple that was a little unsettling. To be honest, the man gave him the creeps.

John focused his light on the stacks of building materials. From where he knelt he could make out narrow channels running through the crowded pallets of drums. He didn’t see anything at first, but then he moved the beam back, playing it along one of the channels.

“Yes, there it is!” Dalrimple cried excitedly. He almost jumped up and down with glee. “I thought I saw something in there earlier, although Detective Cox couldn’t spot it. But if I may be so bold…tall people, er, tend to overlook a lot of things. You don’t concern yourself with places that accommodate only little people—like myself, for instance. I thought right off the space between the pallets might be a good place for someone to, er, hide, but Detective Cox was certain no one could fit in there. I must admit, since I, er, put on a little weight, it might be a bit of a squeeze—”

Dalrimple broke off in midsentence as John stood and strode to the pallets. He bent and angled his light into the long channel between the stacks of drums. Something was lying on the floor several feet inside. Lifeless eyes gleamed in the crisp beam from John’s flashlight.

John knelt and felt inside the channel. Using the flashlight as an extension, he dragged whatever was on the floor toward him, until he could reach it with his hand. His fingers closed around a scrap of fabric, and a tinny voice intoned, “Ma-ma” as he pulled a doll from its hiding place.

“Well, I’ll be!” Dalrimple exclaimed, gazing down at the toy in John’s hand. “How do you suppose that got in there?” He started to touch the doll’s mop of dark hair, but John jerked it away. Dalrimple looked crushed.

“There could be prints,” John felt obliged to explain. “You understand.”

“Oh, of course. I know all about, er, police procedure. Mama and I never miss an episode of ‘Cops.’ So what do you think about the doll, Detective? Is it evidence?”

“Possibly.” Walking back across the roof, he stood at the edge where Gail Waters had gone over and fixed his light on the stack of pallets. The channel between was tight, but as Dalrimple had suggested, a small adult could manage to squeeze inside. A child could do so quite easily. And if she had been hiding in the space earlier, she could have seen what happened without being detected.

It was possible he might have himself a witness, after all. And if Gail had been murdered, it was imperative that he find the owner of the doll as quickly as possible.

He turned to Dalrimple. “I’m going to need your help…Dal. This is very important.”

The little man almost glowed. “Well, er, of course. Whatever I can do to be of, er, assistance.”

“I’ll need a list of all the tenants in the building, and I’ll need you to flag the ones who have children. We’ll start with the families who have little girls under the age of, say, ten.”

Dalrimple’s brow furrowed. “That could, er, take a while. I’m not so good on the computer, and Mama doesn’t like to be disturbed once she’s gone to bed.”

John grasped the man’s arm. “The problem is, I don’t have a while. I need it now. Five minutes ago. You can help me out, can’t you, Dal?”

The man seemed torn for a minute, some internal conflict—no doubt involving his mother—causing myriad expressions to flash across his face. Then he nodded, resolved. “You can count on me, Detective. I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.”

“Good,” John said. “I’ll be sure to note your cooperation in my report.”

Dalrimple said solemnly, “Mama will be so pleased.”

ZELDA’S EATERY was closed on Sundays, and normally Thea loved to sleep in. She’d never been an early riser on weekends, but in spite of her late hours the night before, she was up by seven, tiptoeing around the apartment so that she wouldn’t awaken Nikki.

Mrs. Lewellyn was gone, having gotten up sometime after Thea went to bed and let herself out of the apartment. She’d been sleeping on the couch when Thea got home, and Thea hadn’t had the heart to disturb her. She made a mental note to call the older woman later and thank her for coming over the evening before on such short notice. Nikki’s regular baby-sitter had already made plans when Thea had called from the diner about working a double shift, but Mrs. Lewellyn had been more than willing to step in.

Back in Baltimore, Thea had never had to worry about child care. Nikki had been enrolled in a wonderful preschool, and when Thea was kept late at work, her stepmother, Mona, who was employed in the same office, was usually available to pick up Nikki. And on the rare occasions when Mona couldn’t do it, Kate Ramano, Thea’s best friend since high school, had readily stepped in.

Thea wondered what Kate and Mona thought of her now. She’d left Baltimore without a phone call to either of them. They had no idea where she and Nikki were, or the real story behind Rick’s death, although Thea knew they’d both have their suspicions. They knew what her life had been like after the divorce—the midnight phone calls, the threats, the stalking.

Rick had made her life a living hell, and both Mona and Kate had been wonderful friends through it all. But they were human. They’d have to wonder, at times, if Rick’s shooting had been self-defense or premeditated. Hadn’t they heard her say, more than once, how much she wanted him dead?

Shivering, Thea poured herself a cup of coffee, then clicked on the TV, leaving the volume on mute as she surfed through the cable stations, trying to find a local news broadcast. She’d seen no sign of reporters on the scene last night, thank goodness, but she could never be too careful. The last thing she needed was to have her face splashed across newspapers. What if the Mancusos saw her picture?

For a while last night, she’d worried that Detective Gallagher might have recognized her from a wanted poster or police blotter or even a newspaper. Rick’s murder, along with the disappearance of his ex-wife and daughter, was bound to have made front page in Baltimore. She couldn’t be certain the story hadn’t been picked up by one of the wire services and carried nationally, as well, even though she’d seen no mention of it in the past four months.

When she and Nikki had first arrived in Chicago, she’d scoured the papers and listened to news broadcasts daily, but the Windy City had its own headlines, its own problems with domestic violence.

And by the time Thea had had the nerve to venture out of their motel room and look for a newsstand carrying the Baltimore Sun, the whole grisly affair had been knocked from the pages by a bribery scandal involving high-ranking city officials. There’d been no mention of Rick’s murder, no mention of the police corruption Thea had suspected for months.

She’d been left to imagine what the headlines must have been: VINDICTIVE EX-WIFE MURDERS DECORATED POLICE OFFICER. COP KILLER FLEES BALTIMORE WITH FOUR-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER. STATEWIDE MANHUNT FOR COLD-BLOODED MURDERER.

Thea sometimes still had a hard time believing how much her life had changed. She’d been a business major in college and had gone to work at her father’s private-investigation firm right after graduation. She hadn’t been interested in field work, but she had been interested in numbers. She’d run the office efficiently, cutting costs and increasing profits with her innovative ideas. Now she worked as a waitress in a diner. She’d once been a respected member of the chamber of commerce. Now she was a wanted criminal.

Deep in thought, she started violently when the doorbell sounded. Her heart skidded against her chest as her head swiveled toward the door. Who in the world would be coming to see her at this hour on a Sunday morning?

Telling herself it was probably Mrs. Lewellyn wanting to chat for a few minutes, Thea hurried to the door. But when she glanced through the peephole, she gasped in dismay.

Detective Gallagher stood in the hallway, his blue eyes so piercing she could have sworn he had the ability to look directly through the door, straight at her.

Frantically she glanced around. Was there anything incriminating in the apartment? Should she hide? Pretend she wasn’t home? Grab Nikki and make a run for it?

Smoothing her hands down the sides of her chenille robe, Thea tried to get her nerves under control. There was no reason to panic. Detective Gallagher was conducting a police investigation that she had inadvertently become a part of. All she had to do was convince him that she had seen nothing last night. She had no connection to the dead woman.

But suddenly the woman’s picture flashed on the TV screen, and for a moment, the smiling attractive face triggered something in Thea. Not recognition exactly, but a feeling that at sometime, somewhere, she and the dead woman’s paths had crossed.

The doorbell sounded again, and casting a glance toward Nikki’s bedroom, Thea patted down her tangled dark hair and pulled open the door.

Detective John Gallagher was even taller than she remembered, and more formal looking than she would have expected for a Sunday morning, unless of course, he was on his way to church. But somehow Thea doubted that. He had the appearance of a man who lived and breathed his investigations. Police work would be his religion. She knew the type all too well.

He was dressed in a dark gray suit, a starched white shirt and a silk tie that were obviously expensive—and made Thea immediately suspicious. She knew what cops made, what they had to do to afford clothing like his. A shudder of warning rippled through her.

“Good morning.” His tone was cordial, but he didn’t smile. His expression remained impersonal, his eyes very blue and very cold.

In spite of his grim demeanor, he was a strikingly handsome man, Thea realized. The kind of man who almost always spelled trouble.

He gazed past her shoulder into the apartment. “May I come in? I have a few questions I need to ask you.”

Dear God, what kind of questions? What in the world was he doing here? Thea frowned. “But I told you last night—I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t even home.”

One dark brow lifted slightly. “But your little girl was, right?”

His words were like a dagger through Thea’s chest. Her heart seemed to stop for a long painful moment, and she could almost feel the color draining from her face. “How did you—”

“May I come in? This won’t take long.”

He didn’t wait for her acquiescence this time, but strode by her into the apartment, turning to face her when she remained motionless at the open doorway. Left with no option, Thea closed the door and followed him.

“Sorry to interrupt your coffee.” He nodded toward the steaming mug on the cocktail table. “Smells good.”

Thea merely looked at him. She had no intention of offering him coffee or anything else. This wasn’t a social call, and the sooner she got rid of him, the better.

How in God’s name had he known about Nikki? The Mancusos had far-reaching contacts, but still…

Thea laced her fingers together, trying to stop the trembling. She couldn’t let him see how nervous she was. Couldn’t give herself away. For Nikki’s sake, she had to perform as she had never performed before.

“How did you know about my daughter?” She got to finish the question this time, amazed that her tone came out just right—part curiosity, part irritation at having her peaceful morning interrupted.

“We obtained a list of all the tenants in the building with children. Little girls, to be exact.”

“But why?” For the first time, Thea noticed the brown paper bag he carried in one hand. Fear crept up her backbone. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Detective Gallagher, what’s this about?”

In answer, he turned toward the television. “I see you’ve been watching the news this morning. You probably already know that the woman who died here last night was Gail Waters. She was a reporter for a small newspaper called the Press.”

“A reporter?” What had a reporter been doing in this building? Who had she come to see? Had she somehow found out about her and Nikki?

“The paper is local, but some of her investigative pieces also ran on a cable news channel.”

Gail Waters had been on television? Was that why she’d looked familiar? Thea desperately wanted to believe that was the case. There was no reason to assume a reporter’s presence in this building had anything to do with her and Nikki. And yet…

Detective Gallagher was here in her apartment, asking questions about her daughter. Obviously he thought there was a connection.

Thea lifted her chin. “As I told you last night, I don’t recall having seen her before. I don’t understand why you’re here, Detective Gallagher.”

His gaze, intent and probing, fell on her once more. “As you can imagine, there’re still a lot of unanswered questions concerning her death.”

“But I thought her death was a suicide. The officer I spoke with last night said a note had been found on the body.”

“And as I said last night, suicide’s a possibility, but we’re not ruling out homicide. Not yet, at least.”

“Homicide? You think someone murdered her?” Thea felt momentarily faint. “Who would want to kill her?” she asked weakly.

He gave her a curious look. “Reporters are a lot like cops. People sometimes don’t like the questions we ask.”

Thea didn’t say anything to that, but she remembered the list of people Rick had claimed wanted him dead. And yet the last person he’d suspected was the one who finally did him in. Thea’s stomach churned in warning. “Whether it was suicide or murder, I don’t see what her death has to do with my daughter or me.”

“I’m coming to that.” He took something from the bag and held it up for her inspection. “Do you recognize this?”

Thea’s knees almost buckled when she saw the doll. The black curls, the brown eyes, the dimpled cheeks were very much like her daughter’s, which was exactly why she’d bought the doll for Nikki. It had been an extravagance they could ill afford these days, but her daughter had been so enchanted with the resemblance when they’d seen her in a shop window. Thea hadn’t been able to resist. Until then, Nikki had been largely unresponsive to just about everything. The doll, named Piper after a character in Nikki’s favorite book, had struck a chord deep inside the child that no one, including Thea, had been able to touch since that terrible night four months ago.

Nikki loved that doll. She would never have willingly parted with it. So how had Detective Gallagher come to be in possession of it? And what did the doll have to do with Gail Waters’s death?

Chilled, Thea stared at the doll in Gallagher’s hand, forcing her expression to remain placid. It was imperative that he not connect the doll to Nikki. It was crucial that the two of them remain untouched by his investigation. “You came here at this hour of the morning to ask me about a doll?” She let a trace of irritation creep into her voice.

“Do you recognize it?”

Almost absently Thea rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Detective Gallagher watched her intently, studying her as if she were a bug under his microscope. But Thea had learned a lot about bluffing from her father and from the other investigators who had worked for him. “That doll could belong to any little girl in this building. I can’t imagine why you think it’s my daughter’s.”

His eyes narrowed on her. He didn’t appear fooled by her evasions. “I found this doll on the roof last night after a woman had fallen to her death. Does it, or does it not, belong to your daughter?”

On the roof! My God…

A fresh wave of fear washed over Thea, but she shook her head, denying her thoughts. This was crazy. Nikki would never have gone up to the roof. She wasn’t even allowed out of the apartment without Thea’s permission, and besides that, her daughter was terrified of the dark. There was no way on earth she would have gone up to that roof alone last night, and Thea couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Lewellyn would have taken her.

So how had the doll gotten up there?

“You look surprised, Mrs. Lockhart. Why is that, if the doll doesn’t belong to your daughter?”

Cornered, Thea chewed her lip. “The doll is a common one. I’ve seen it in several stores. Nikki does have one similar to it, but that doesn’t mean this one is hers. It couldn’t be, because there is no way she would have been on that roof. She’s only four years old.”

“The stairs go all the way to the roof,” Detective Gallagher pointed out. “Even a four-year-old can climb stairs, and you said yourself, you were out all evening. How can you be sure your daughter wasn’t on that roof?”

“Because her baby-sitter would never have allowed it.” But a vision of Mrs. Lewellyn snoring peacefully on the sofa flashed through Thea’s mind. Was it possible Nikki had left the apartment while the elderly woman slept? But why would Nikki do something like that? It was totally out of character for her. There was no good reason Thea could think of that would have compelled her daughter out of the apartment and up to the roof.

Either the doll wasn’t hers or she’d lost it somewhere, in the hallway perhaps between here and Mrs. Lewellyn’s apartment, and someone had picked it up. Someone else had taken it to the roof. That was the only possible explanation.

If only she hadn’t had to work late last night. Then she would have been home with Nikki herself, and Detective Gallagher wouldn’t be here asking all these questions, and she wouldn’t be assailed by all these doubts. This awful premonition that somehow she and Nikki both were tied to the dead woman.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she insisted.

Detective Gallagher stared at her for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Sorry I wasted your time.” He started for the door, but before Thea could breathe a sigh of relief, he turned back to face her. “Maybe we should ask your daughter about last night. Just to be on the safe side.”

“She’s sleeping, and I really don’t want to wake her. She…hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

“I see.” His eyes were dark and fathomless as his gaze rested on Thea. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but a sound from behind her drew his attention, and Thea knew without turning that her daughter was standing in the doorway. She also knew that once Nikki saw the doll in Detective Gallagher’s hand the pretense would be over.

But Piper had disappeared behind the detective’s back, out of Nikki’s sight. Thea thought for a moment he was actually going to leave without questioning her daughter, but then in the next instant, she told herself she should have known better. He was a cop, wasn’t he? No one was sacred. Not even a wounded four-year-old girl.

“You must be Nikki.” His tone lowered, became almost gentle. He walked past Thea before she could protest and knelt in front of her daughter. “Your mother and I were just talking about you. I’m Detective Gallagher.”

Nikki was still dressed in her pajamas, looking soft and sweetly rumpled, her cloud of dark hair hanging in tangles down her back. She stared at Detective Gallagher, her brown eyes wide with fright.

Thea moved quickly to Nikki’s side and knelt beside her, smoothing back her hair. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s not going to hurt you.”

She gave Gallagher a warning glance, and he smiled reassuringly at Nikki. A rather devastating smile, Thea thought fleetingly.

“Why don’t you call me John? That’s what my friends call me. Some of them even call me Johnny.”

How ludicrous. The man looked nothing like a Johnny.

Nikki’s gaze silently probed his features, searching for signs of violence. Rick had taught their daughter well, too. Thea’s heart twisted, watching her.

Still kneeling in front of Nikki, John said, “I wonder if you could help me out, Nikki. I found a pretty little doll on the roof last night. Come to think of it, she looks a lot like you. I rescued her before she got rained on, and now I’m trying to find out who she belongs to.” He brought the doll around and laid her across his knee.

Nikki made a guttural sound deep in her throat and snatched Piper from his knee, clutching her tightly to her chest as she backed into the tiny hallway.

“I take it she belongs to you,” John said softly. He glanced at Thea, his gaze cold and accusing. “What was your doll doing on the roof, Nikki? Did you leave her there?”

Nikki looked near tears. Her eyes were like two huge O’s. She continued to back away from Detective Gallagher, until she was trapped against the wall. Then she slid down to sit on the floor, curling into a soft protective ball around Piper.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” John said, making no move toward the little girl. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

Shaken by her daughter’s reaction, Thea pushed past the detective and gathered Nikki into her arms. Nikki whimpered, burying her face in Thea’s shoulder as she clutched Piper tightly. “She can’t answer your questions, Detective,” Thea said coldly. “Why don’t you just go away and leave us alone?”

He rose slowly. “I didn’t come here to frighten your little girl. I’m sorry she’s scared. But this is a police investigation. A woman is dead, and it’s my job to find out what happened to her. If your daughter knows something—”

“She doesn’t know anything. Please, she can’t help you.” Thea’s arms tightened protectively around Nikki as she gazed up at Detective Gallagher, trying to appeal to the softness she’d glimpsed in him earlier, fervently hoping the compassion had been genuine. “I don’t know how her doll got on that roof, but I do know Nikki wasn’t up there last night. She couldn’t have been. She didn’t see anything.”

“Why won’t you let her tell me that?”

Thea drew a long trembling breath and said, almost in a whisper, “Because she can’t. She can’t tell you anything. My daughter can’t speak, Detective.”

JOHN STOOD at the window in Thea Lockhart’s living room while he waited for her to come out of her daughter’s bedroom. She’d reluctantly told him to help himself to the coffee, and he’d complied, the aroma too tempting to pass up this early in the morning. The rich steamy brew was a far cry from the lukewarm sludge at the station, and he savored the taste as he stared out the window.

The building across the street blocked the view of the lake, forcing his gaze downward. The yellow crime-scene tape had torn loose in the wind, and sometime during the night the rain had changed to snow; now a light layer of it hid the bloodstains. Passersby on the street barely gave the spot a second glance. They didn’t know or didn’t care that a woman had died there last night, had sucked in her last breath while plunging five stories to the ground. Had the name of her killer been on her lips when she died?

Scowling, John turned away from the window. He couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that Thea Lockhart and her daughter knew more about Gail Waters’s death than they were telling. Why else was Mrs. Lockhart so nervous around him?

Mrs. Lockhart. John glanced around the apartment, taking in the shabby furniture, the basket of laundry shoved in one corner, the coloring book and crayons scattered over the dining-room table. Gold hoop earrings had been dropped into a glass bowl on the cocktail table, and a pair of white walking shoes rested near the front door.

There wasn’t a trace of masculinity anywhere, including the laundry. A pink uniform lay folded on top of the basket, while the leg of a child’s pajama bottom hung over one side and a lacy white bra spilled over the other.

He stared at the bra for a moment as something familiar, and unwanted, stirred in him. Meredith had been gone for some time. He was over her, and he’d long since come to terms with his failed marriage. But a woman’s underthings were a reminder of the intimacy and closeness he’d once had, and he couldn’t deny a certain hollowness in his life now. A loneliness he didn’t often admit to.

He glanced up and caught Thea Lockhart watching him from the hallway. She knew what he’d been staring at, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. She lifted her chin as she came into the room.

She’d changed from the chenille robe into a pair of worn jeans and navy blue sweater. Her short dark hair was combed behind her ears, but a riot of curls spilled across her forehead. She shoved it back impatiently.

“How’s your daughter?” John asked, his gaze inadvertently traveling over her. She was very thin, her skin smooth and soft-looking, but she had a toughness about her, a wariness in her dark eyes that made him think she was no innocent. She’d been around. Somehow he liked that about her.

“She’s playing with her doll for now, but she’ll want breakfast in a few minutes.”

John took the hint. He’d need to leave before then. “Why did you lie to me about the doll, Mrs. Lockhart?”

She looked surprised for a moment, as if his question had been unexpected. Then she shrugged. “I didn’t lie. I wasn’t sure it was Nikki’s. And I still can’t imagine how it got on the roof last night.”

He lifted a brow as he watched her move to the tiny kitchen and pour herself another cup of coffee. She held up the pot. “Can I freshen yours?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m fine. This is good, by the way.” He toasted her with his mug, and she inclined her head slightly. She didn’t move back into the living room, but remained in the kitchen with the bar between them.

John left his post by the window and crossed to her. She looked vaguely startled again as he looked down at her, and she averted her gaze as she sipped her coffee.

“You still don’t think your daughter left the doll on the roof?”

She frowned. “Of course I don’t. You saw how shy she is, how…easily frightened. There’s no way she would have gone up to that roof alone, and I know Mrs. Lewellyn would never have taken her up there.”

“Maybe that’s something we need to ask Mrs. Lewellyn.”

“I intend to,” Thea snapped. Then, as if having second thoughts about her angry tone, she set down her coffee and gazed at him in earnest. “Look, even if Nikki was up there—which I know she wasn’t—what is it you think she can do for you? She can’t tell you anything, Detective.”

John put down his own cup and leaned his arms on the bar, trying to appear relaxed and unthreatening. “Has she always been like this?”

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer. That same fierce protectiveness he’d witnessed earlier came over her features, and she frowned. “No. Just since her father died.”

“I see.” A widow. That might explain a lot, John thought, and not just the lack of male paraphernalia in the apartment. It might also explain the glimmer of desperation he’d seen in Thea Lockhart’s dark eyes, and the fear. And the fact that she seemed to have a hard time looking him in the eye, acknowledging the unmistakable physical attraction that clung to their glances, their voices, the air around them. She might feel guilty about that, he decided, although there was no reason to. He didn’t intend to act on his impulses and he was certain she didn’t, either.

“How did her father die?” he asked carefully.

“An accident. A…tragic accident. Nikki hasn’t gotten over it yet, and I…don’t like to talk about it.”

“I understand. But if there’s even a slim chance that Nikki was on the roof last night, Mrs. Lockhart—”

“Thea,” she said quickly. Their gazes met for a moment, and then hers darted away. She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and rinsed out the cup. “You can call me Thea.”

“That’s a very pretty name.”

“It’s for my grandmother,” she said, and then looked as if she wished she could take it back.

He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Does your grandmother live here in Chicago?”

She almost smiled, too, as if recognizing his tactic. “My grandmother’s been dead for years, Detective.”

“John.” When she gave him a reluctant glance, he said, “I’m named for my father, Sean.”

“You’re Irish?”

“Very.”

“An Irish cop. That’s almost a cliché, isn’t it?”

“In that case, my whole family is a cliché.”

John had never seen a person’s demeanor change so rapidly. She’d been wary before, even a little frightened, but now her expression took on a frozen look, as if she’d donned a mask to hide her true identity, her real feelings. He’d wanted to put her at ease, but instead, her armor had grown thicker. She said stiffly, “You come from a family of cops.” It wasn’t a question, but a flat emotionless statement.

John shrugged. “Guilty.”

“I imagine you look out for each other. Take care of each other.”

John frowned at her tone. “Occasionally,” he said, thinking about his brothers. Actually he would be the last person Nick would come to for help, and Tony…well, Tony was another story.

Thea said quietly, “I’d like you to go now, Detective. There’s really nothing my daughter and I can do to help you.”

She was good, John realized suddenly. Too damn good. She’d distracted him from the questions he’d been intent on asking about her daughter, and all the while, convinced him he was the one in control.

He stared down at her, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her dark eyes were deep and unfathomable, a mysterious blend of fear, guile and cunning. A very dangerous mix.

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Lockhart.”

One brow rose slightly, and he could see that the fingers clinging to the tiny gold chain around her throat trembled. His gaze dipped, in spite of himself, to the curves beneath her sweater, and an image of that lacy white bra leaped to his mind. He could almost see her in it, her breasts straining against the fabric, his thumb stroking her through the silk—

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said hoarsely.

His gaze shot to hers. I doubt that, he wanted to tell her. Then again, maybe she did know. Maybe that was why the blush on her cheeks had deepened, standing out starkly against the ivory of her complexion. Her brown eyes flashed with sudden fire, and John thought absurdly that if he hadn’t met her under these circum-stances…if she wasn’t a recent widow…if his marriage hadn’t made him more than a little careful…

“You’re thinking that if Nikki was on that roof, you might have an eyewitness to Gail Waters’s death. It would be cut and dried. You could close your case. But you’re wrong, Detective. My daughter wasn’t on that roof. She couldn’t have been.”

“But what if she was?” John challenged, ignoring the flicker of fear in her eyes. “What if Gail Waters didn’t commit suicide?”

She gasped slightly, her face going paler.

“What if she was murdered and your daughter saw it all? What if she is the only one who can identify the killer? Have you thought about that, Mrs. Lockhart?”