Exposing a Killer Page 3

  Recording.

  She snatched her phone from her pocket and stared at the screen. She had recorded the woman indeed. She had recorded the couple dining, dancing, then arguing. And Megan had never stopped recording through her tumble from the tree nor the race to her car.

  The scent of spicy soap and sun-dried cotton filled her nose a moment before a sense of claustrophobia settled over Megan, and she glanced up to see Jack leaning over her, staring at her phone screen.

  “You got better video than I did.” Jack thumbed the screen of his own phone to show a handful of blurry images.

  “Why do you need pics?” Megan asked. “Why are you in the field anyway and not a stuffy office?”

  Jack shrugged. “Curiosity.”

  “Sure.” Megan cast him a dubious glance. “I have to upload this to the cloud and then get a copy to the police.”

  She tapped the buttons to ensure the video would go to her storage in cyberspace without a Wi-Fi connection. Slow. So slow. And her battery power began to drain as she watched. She had left the house with a full battery, but the video had drawn considerable power. The upload threatened to take the rest.

  She stopped it. She didn’t dare leave herself with less than twenty percent battery power until she was safely at home.

  At the moment, she was headed in the wrong direction.

  If Cahill was dead, the insurance company might decide the case didn’t need to be solved, and Megan’s services would no longer be needed. That commission was all that stood between her and the purchase price of the agency. All she’d wanted since finishing school and going to work for Gary three years ago was her own agency. Six months ago, when Gary decided to retire and sell the company, Megan had asked for first dibs. She had exactly one week to come up with the rest of the money. If she didn’t wrap up this case this week, she would either have to ask her parents for a loan or go without making the purchase.

  She would rather back out of buying than ask her family for help.

  But once the cops took over the case, once Megan reported the assault—murder?—she would be of no use.

  Any way she looked at it, tonight’s work had lost her the agency.

  Unless Cahill wasn’t dead. The woman in the street had certainly resembled her. But if it was her, what had Megan witnessed from her tree?

  * * *

  Megan suddenly looked distressed. Not frightened, not annoyed—but almost mournful. As though someone had robbed her of Christmas morning.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  She glanced toward the window and rose. “I’m getting off.”

  Jack should, too. This was the last L stop before the bus headed farther west, where the neighborhoods grew less and less safe.

  He stood. “Good idea. I can catch a train here to the Loop.”

  “I’m going to the police. You need to come with me as a witness.” Her round chin that lent her face a curving heart shape jutted just a little.

  “Do what you like.” Jack smiled down at her. “I’m going home before I miss the late bus.”

  He probably already had, or would by the time he reached the last southern stop on the L.

  He would have been better off moving further north. If nothing else, he would save a great deal of time in travel. But office space was expensive in the South Loop, and he had that whole house he had inherited from his parents, with the garden apartment that served well for an office space. And he didn’t need to leave his sister alone most days. As of March, the point would be moot anyway. Grace would be well enough to start at her new school in Virginia, and he would be in FBI training.

  Grace. He should text her. She should be asleep, but in the event she wasn’t, or if she woke and he was still not home, he should let her know he was alive and well.

  Not quite well. He did have that wound on his arm. When he raised his hand to pull the stop bell, the gash twinged, and that time he felt himself bleed. Just a little. Enough he probably should get someone to tend to it. Urgent care in the morning. Cheaper that way. Grace’s care cost so much that he hated spending a penny on himself, but he did need a tetanus shot.

  “You’re hurting.” Megan’s voice was soft.

  “It’s nothing.” Jack shrugged. “Let’s go.”

  The bus squealed to a halt. The disembodied voice announced the stop, and both doors opened. Megan and Jack exited through the front. The crowd of rowdy youth, too young to be wandering the streets in the middle of the night, pushed and shoved their way out the back.

  Jack headed for the crosswalk to go into the L station. Megan remained at the bus stop.

  “I’m going to call a rideshare.” She held up her phone.

  The youth who had been on the bus still loitered on the sidewalk where they had gotten off the bus. At Megan’s gesture, they stopped talking and eyed her.

  Jack stepped into their line of sight. “I’ll wait with you.”

  “You don’t have to.” Megan thumbed her phone. “I should have a ride in three minutes.”

  “Just long enough for those kids to jump you and steal your phone.”

  “I don’t want to...” She shook her head, still not looking at him.

  “Have anything more to do with me?” May as well get to the point.

  She shrugged.

  “Whether you say it out loud or not, I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Can you blame me?” She glanced up, and in the streetlights, her eyes were big and bright. “You won’t go to the cops with me, which makes me think you’re up to no good.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to go to the cops with you. I’m happy to give a report tomorrow.” He sighed and looked away, embarrassed that he was twenty-eight and worried about missing the last bus like a teen missing a curfew. “I just don’t want to miss the last bus home from the 95th Street station.”

  The car pulled to the curb in front of them, and she opened the door, but kept looking at him. “Where do you live?”

  “Beverly. And I have a sixteen-year-old sister I don’t like to leave alone all night.”

  “That makes sense.” She appeared to relax a bit.

  “Are you coming?” the driver of the rideshare asked.

  “Coming.” Megan nodded to Jack. “Thanks for helping me escape those people.” With athletic grace, she slid into the minuscule back seat.

  “But I met you tonight because I need—”

  She started to close the door.

  Jack saw only one response. He grasped the door and jammed himself into the car. He closed the door.

  “I hoped to speak to Miss Cahill tonight,” Jack said. “There are so many discrepancies in my files I thought maybe she could shed some light on them.”

  “But she was never around in the daytime,” Megan said.

  Jack nodded, then glanced at the driver’s back and shut up.

  The short trip was made in silence. The driver never said a word, though he glanced in the rearview mirror from time to time, a wary expression in his pale eyes. Jack wanted to reassure him that they weren’t the criminals but figured doing so would make the poor man even more uncertain of their legitimacy.

  They drove back west and reached the District 18 police station, the nearest precinct. Megan hopped out before the driver or Jack could make a move to open her door for her. She thanked the driver and slammed her door before Jack managed to wedge himself out of the low, tight vehicle. His door had barely shut behind him before the driver sped down Larraby.

  Megan was already inside the building and approaching the reception window. Jack lengthened his strides and caught up with her.

  “I’d like to report a crime,” Megan told the young woman behind the counter.

  The station was empty save for an elderly lady asleep on a chair. She was well-dressed and appeared sad even in repose.

&nb
sp; Tearing his gaze from the woman, Jack focused his attention on Megan’s dialogue with the officer.

  “Yes, the shooting off of Armitage,” Megan was saying.

  “Wait over there.” The officer pointed to the chairs and picked up a phone.

  Neither Jack nor Megan made a move toward the chairs. Jack knew, and suspected Megan did, as well, that they wouldn’t have to wait for long.

  They didn’t. In just a few minutes, they were ushered behind the barrier and into an interview room. Megan perched on the edge of a chair, arms folded across her front. Jack chose to stand and walk around the room in search of activated cameras or recording devices. He saw both, but neither appeared to be on. He continued to pace. His arm began to throb. Or maybe it had been throbbing and he’d been too preoccupied to notice. He touched it with his left hand. Dry. A good sign. He might get away without mentioning the wound if no one noticed his torn sleeve. And if Megan said nothing.

  He caught her gaze and knew she would mention the wound no matter how he tried to ask her not to.

  “Why are you so nervous?” Megan asked. “Are you wanted for something?”

  “I’ll have you know, Miss O’Clare—”

  Before Jack could finish his sentence, the door opened to admit a middle-aged sergeant. “So, Jack, are you really reporting the crime, or were you the cause of it?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Uncle Dave,” Jack said.

  “Your uncle is a cop?” Megan leaned back in her chair and laughed. “That’s why you didn’t want to come here?”

  Neither Jack nor his uncle moved.

  Megan’s grin faded. “So there’s a problem here.”

  “You must be a great PI,” Jack muttered with classic Midwest sarcasm.

  “Sit down, Jack, and tell me why you’re here.” His uncle glanced at Jack’s arm. “And not in an emergency room.”

  Jack sat as Megan had earlier—arms crossed over his chest.

  She offered Dave Luskie her hand. “Megan O’Clare, private investigator with—”

  “I know who you are. That was a nice reception your parents gave for officers wounded in the line of duty.”

  Uncle Dave being one of them, of course he had been invited to the north suburban home.

  Uncle Dave sat across the table. “So tell me what happened this time. Were you the one shooting in Lincoln Park?”

  Jack cast him a glare. “No...sir.”

  “Then may I record this session?” his uncle asked.

  Jack and Megan consented, and a red light blinked on in the camera. Since Dave hadn’t moved, someone else was listening in.

  After stating the date and time and those present, Dave posed his query regarding the shooting in Lincoln Park again.

  “We were shot at.” Megan glanced at Jack, then took the reins and galloped with the story.

  “And now any secrecy for our investigations has flown out the window,” Jack said when Megan finished. “Officers will go question Ms. Cahill—”

  “If she’s still alive,” Megan inserted.

  “And if we didn’t see her killed, she’ll be warned her jig is up.”

  “Sounds too dangerous for civilians to be involved with,” Dave said.

  “Money says otherwise.” Jack looked to Megan. “For me anyhow.”

  “Not to mention professional integrity,” Megan said, but she didn’t look convinced.

  “You wouldn’t need money so badly if you’d let us have custody of Grace,” Dave said.

  “Over my dead body.” Jack spoke through his teeth.

  Dave’s lips tightened, then he shook his head and moved on from a topic nearly as old as Grace herself. “I want all your case notes and any pictures you have. This is a police matter now.”

  “My notes are in my car and on the office computer.” Megan squirmed. “Can I email my pictures? I really need my phone.”

  Jack wondered if his uncle could resist the pleading in Megan’s moss green eyes.

  “That should be all right,” Dave said, proving he could not.

  Neither could Jack. A glance into those eyes and he thought of summer days on the lake, warm and dreamy, and sharing—

  He shook the thoughts from his head. “I can’t release my notes without permission from my client.” Jack stood. “You’ll hear from him tomorrow.” He strode to the door, opened it and waited for Megan.

  She shook his uncle’s hand again, then sauntered past him and into the corridor. Neither of them spoke until Jack and Megan had passed the barricade door and entered the lobby.

  “We can take another rideshare to my car,” Megan said. “The area might be clear by now. And I can drive you to an emergency room.”

  “All right.” Jack accepted her offer. He was suddenly so tired he could barely stand. His arm hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt for the loss of his parents and the closeness his family had shared when they were still alive. He hoped Grace would never learn she was the cause of the rift, but he feared she would. Unlike Jack, she believed their uncle and aunt’s newfound faith was legitimate.

  Megan pointed a finger at his arm. “You should have said something about your arm paining you. We could have gone there first.”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  She snorted. “You’re not a movie hero.” She pulled out her phone. “Let me get that ride called up.”

  “My turn.” Jack drew his phone from his pocket and pulled up the rideshare app he rarely used.

  “Jack.” Beside him, Megan’s voice was tentative. “I suppose I don’t know you well enough to ask what that was all about in there?”

  “If you knew me well enough, you wouldn’t ask.” The response snapped from Jack. Immediately repentant, he hastened to add, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business.” Megan glanced at her phone. “Are you upset about losing control of the case?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I am. I really need the money.” She sighed.

  “You’re not a trust fund baby?”

  “Not until I’m thirty, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “It sure isn’t.” He couldn’t help grinning at her indignation. “I’m just surprised an O’Clare would be so hard up she’s concerned about losing her commission on a mere workmen’s comp fraud case.”

  “That’s my parents. I don’t get a penny from them.” She paused in the center of the lobby. “Gary and Janet are selling the agency, and I want to buy it. I need this last commission to have enough in the time frame they require.”

  Jack opened his mouth to ask why she couldn’t just ask her parents, then thought better of it.

  “My parents would pay for advancing my education in a minute, but they don’t want me to be a PI. It’s not highbrow enough for them.”

  “Let me guess. Law school or med school?”

  “Or an MBA, yes. But I’d suffocate in an office, and I like seeing justice done. Were you—” She glanced around the lobby at a handful of newcomers perched on the plastic chairs as though preparing to bolt at a moment’s notice, then led the way to the front door. When they stood on the sidewalk again and she’d tapped commands into her phone, she finished her question. “Was that tension in there because your family expected you to be a cop?”

  Jack welcomed the sight of another rideshare sign in a car window so he didn’t have to pursue that line of conversation. He had already told her more than he’d said to any lady with whom he’d had more than a passing acquaintance. She was easy to talk to.

  She was charming. Charming and strong. Two hours ago, they had been running for their lives. Now she was sitting in a crossover vehicle chatting with the driver about jazz versus blues. Nothing seemed to rattle her for long.

  A good thing he wasn’t going to be workin
g with her. She was too appealing to him, and the last thing he needed in his life was a woman. He would let her drive him to a Red Line L station since that line ran all night, and then say goodbye. The cops would take on the Cahill case now, and he and Megan would no longer be in danger. Then they reached the corner she had given for their destination. Jack saw something was wrong.

  Megan’s car was no longer parked in what should have been a good location for a few overnight hours.

  Even before the rideshare stopped, Megan flung open her door and raced to the empty parking space. “I have a pity sticker. They shouldn’t have towed me.” Her cry was loud enough to be heard in every apartment on the block. “They shouldn’t have towed me.”

  “They didn’t.” Jack followed Megan to the opening and saw what she was too distraught to observe.

  There, amid a pile of dead leaves in the gutter, lay something white beneath a rock.

  Someone had taken her car and left a message with only one word visible beyond the margins of the makeshift paperweight.

  SORRY.

  THREE

  Megan leaped back as though that ragged sheet of paper in the gutter were a deadly weapon.

  The single visible word glared at her. “Apology or threat?” she mused out loud.

  “Depends on who took your car.” Jack crouched beside her. “We can pick it up with a tissue in case they left fingerprints. I have one in my pocket.”

  “I can do better than that.” Megan dug in her jeans and found a plastic bag she had grown used to carrying in the event her roommate forgot a bag when they were out with Tess.

  “You have a dog?” Jack asked.

  “My roommate does.” Megan slipped her hand inside the bag and moved the rock aside.

  Jack turned on the flashlight from his cell phone. The words leaped from the page like a slap. No, a blow to Megan’s ambitions and maybe even her private investigator license.