down only stoked Ross’s impatience.
If anyone but Ken Newcomb had shown up on his doorstep, Ross wouldn’t have given him the time of day. He wasn’t that comfortable around cops to begin with, despite all the years they’d spent ostensibly working on the same side of the law. He’d spent too many years in his youth outrunning them to feel at ease around them. It was part of what made him so good at his job; he knew what someone desperate to elude the law would do and where he would go. But Newcomb had been the lead detective on Jed’s case, as well as a member of that elite group that wanted Chastain to go down as badly as Ross did, if not more.
“When?” Ross said, cutting right to it.
“Two days, we think.” He eyed the now-empty bottle Ross cradled in both hands. “You got another one of those?”
Ross stalked over to the refrigerator without missing a beat. “You think? ”
Newcomb’s face darkened. “Taylor was supposed to be in court yesterday morning. His lawyer tried covering for him, but it took us about two seconds to figure out he wasn’t in the city anymore.”
“I’d say that was a couple hours too late. You should’ve had a man on him. You had to know he was going to run. He shouldn’t have even been out on bail.”
“You know it and I know it. Try telling that to the judge.”
Ross plunked an unopened bottle of beer on the table in front of Newcomb. “Who is it?”
The detective shook his head as he reached for the bottle, and Ross knew he’d understood the question he’d really been asking. Chastain had gotten away with too much for too long not to have greased a few palms along the way.
“Bernstein’s on the up-and-up,” Newcomb said. “Real hard-nosed law-and-order type. The D.A. was glad to get him. Besides, we were more concerned about Chastain running. He has a lot more to lose.”
“The case is that strong?” After the way Chastain had weaseled out of every charge ever brought against him, Ross couldn’t imagine him consigning himself to a life on the lam unless he was sure he was going down. And Chastain wasn’t one to concede easily.
Newcomb ticked off the evidence on his fingers. “We’ve got the blood on his suit and overcoat. And we’ve got the tape.”
“It’s that good, huh?”
Newcomb took a drink before answering. For the first time Ross sensed a crack in the detective’s confidence. “What?”
Newcomb heaved a sigh. “We don’t have a body, though witnesses spotted Taylor dumping something in the river that night. There’s no sound on the tape of course, which would help lock down the motive if we could hear what they were saying. Plus, it was kind of rainy that night, so Chastain’s lawyer’s probably going to argue we can’t see everything clear to enough to be absolutely sure. Reasonable doubt—you know the drill. His lawyer’s going to try everything he can.”
“So much for that slam dunk, huh?”
Newcomb glowered at him through bloodshot eyes. “He pulls out a gun, shoots her in the chest, she goes down, they drag the body away. It’s all there in black and white. Short of an eyewitness, it’s the best case we’re going to get.”
“Why would Taylor run and not Chastain?”
Newcomb swallowed deeply from the bottle and pulled it away from his lips with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe Chastain still thinks he’s getting off scot-free. He’s a cocky SOB. Taylor’s just a hired gun. He has to know it doesn’t look good. He can either turn on Chastain or he can run. And the last guy who tried to rat out Chastain on this turned up dead.”
“Who?”
“Crowley, the other guy who’d removed Mulroney’s body with Taylor that night. He’d made some noises about wanting to talk to the D.A. Then he turned up dead. Everybody knows who did it.”
“But no way to prove it.”
Newcomb tipped his bottle in acknowledgment.
“So Crowley’s death left Taylor alone to stand trial with Chastain.”
“And maybe Taylor finally figured out that his chances of walking away this time weren’t looking so good.”
“Who’s on the case? Officially, that is.”
“Wes Miller.”
Ross nodded. He knew the other skip tracer. “He’s good. He shouldn’t have trouble finding Taylor. You don’t need me.”
“Miller’s good. You’re the best.”
“Jed was the best.”
“And he taught you everything he knew. More important, you’ve got more incentive than Miller. He’s only in this for the money. This is personal for you. You want Taylor to go down even more than you want Chastain to, and you won’t stop until he’s back here where he belongs. We both know it. That’s why I’m here.”
Damn. Newcomb knew him too well. He knew that while Chastain was the man in charge, Taylor was the one Ross held responsible for Jed’s death.
His control over his emotions must have slipped. When he looked up from the table, he found Newcomb staring at him, that strange triumphant glow in his eyes. “So you’ll do it?”
Say no.
The words came automatically.
“I’ll do it.”
Ross didn’t know who he’d been trying to convince otherwise. Deep down, though part of him never would admit it, he wanted to do this. He hadn’t been able to do anything for Jed when it mattered, hadn’t been able to save his life, hadn’t been able to see to it that the man responsible paid. But he could do this. This was what he was good at, what Jed had taught him to do. It only seemed right that his specialty be put to use to capture the man who’d killed Jed.
If he was completely honest with himself, he might admit he was looking forward to getting back into the game. Peace could be damned boring.
“You know, Newcomb, you didn’t say anything about bringing him back in one piece.”
Newcomb grinned slowly. “As long as there’s enough of him to stand trial, he’s all yours.”
Chapter Two
“Good night, Connie,” Mr. Mortimer said, holding the door of the pharmacy open to let her pass. “See you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” the woman he knew as Connie Baker echoed softly. She stepped past him onto the rain-slicked street, but try as she might, she couldn’t force herself to repeat the latter sentiment.
She wouldn’t be in to work tomorrow or ever again. By morning, she would be far from Chicago, leaving no trace of her short time here and Mr. Mortimer to wonder what had happened to his young cashier. Connie Baker would cease to exist, just another name to be discarded and never used again, like all the others. Beth Roberts. Lisa Greene. Allie Freeman. Just another woman who disappeared, never to be seen again, while another woman appeared out of nowhere in another place.
She didn’t know why it was so hard to tell one more lie to a man she’d been dishonest with from the beginning. He didn’t know her real name; he didn’t know her past. He knew nothing about her but the carefully crafted story she’d chosen to tell him, and not one bit of it the truth.
Still, there was something about having her final words to him be yet another lie, even if she was the only one who would know. He’d been exceptionally good to her when she’d thought herself hardened against even the slightest human kindness. Louis Mortimer had owned his pharmacy in this neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago for forty years while raising three children here with his late wife, Marie. He’d given her a chance and asked few questions, sensing she was running from something.
It