Gallagher Justice

“Don’t think so.” Krychek ran his hand down his tie. “If he lifted the wallet, why hang around and call 911? He would have hightailed it out of here ASAP. He got what he wanted for his good deed—a free meal and a little attention.”

A cynical observation, but Doggett figured Krychek was probably right on the money.

Doggett stood with his hands behind his back, a habit he’d picked up at the academy so as not to inadvertently contaminate the crime scene. When the tech gave him the go ahead, he donned surgical gloves and squatted beside the body, still careful not to touch anything as he examined the wound in her head.

“Looks like a .45,” he murmured.

“She was kneeling when he plugged her,” Meredith said.

“Any other injuries?”

“Ligature marks around her wrists. He had her tied up at some point.”

“What about the exit wound?”

Meredith shook her head. “The bullet’s still lodged somewhere in the body cavity. I’ll find it when I open her up.”

“Any idea about time of death?”

“Liver temp would be more accurate, but judging from the thermal scan, I’d say two hours, tops. But that’s just an educated guess.”

It always was. Even with modern forensics, the most reliable way of pinpointing time of death was still to find the last person who’d seen the victim alive, other than the killer, of course, but that wasn’t always possible. Doggett glanced at his watch. If Meredith’s guess was accurate, that would put time of death around midnight.

He bent over a tiny mark on the woman’s left shoulder. “You see this?”

Meredith nodded. “Looks like one of those fake tattoos. I thought it was the real thing at first, but if you look closely you can see where the edges are blurred into the pores.”

“You used to work in Gang Crimes, Doggett.” Krychek’s tone held an edge of resentment. “You recognize that symbol?”

“It’s a trident,” Doggett said. “The Gangster Disciples use it, but they mostly operate on the South Side. This is a long way from their home turf. Besides, I don’t think this is a gang hit.”

“I agree,” Skip Vreeland put in. “Look at the hoochie-mama threads she’s wearing. That girl was out for a good time.”

“Hoochie-mama threads with a Michigan Avenue price tag,” Krychek, the fashion expert, muttered.

“We need to get a picture over to Rush Street and start canvassing as many of the nightclubs as we can hit.” Doggett stood and walked back over to the other two detectives. “If she was there tonight, someone’s bound to remember a girl like that.”

Krychek stuck his hands in his pockets, jingling his change. “So what’s the deal here, Doggett?”

Doggett frowned. “What do you mean, what’s the deal?”

Krychek shrugged. “Skip and I were the first detectives on the scene so that makes this our case.”

“Quinlan called me at home and told me to get over here ASAP,” Doggett said. “It’s my understanding this is my case.”

Krychek gave a nervous laugh. “No way.”

“Then looks like we’ve got a problem.”

The two men eyed each other warily until Meredith muttered behind them, “Oh, great. A pissing contest between two cops. How unusual.”

Skip said gruffly, “Hell with this shit. Let’s just get on with what needs to be done and let the boss figure out whose case it is later. Right now, somebody needs to go check on that phone number.” He started to walk away, then turned back to his partner. “You coming?”

Krychek held his ground for a moment longer, his gaze faintly menacing, before he stalked off behind Vreeland.

Doggett moved back to the body. He was glad they were gone. He needed a moment alone here, needed time to think. He frowned as he studied the dead woman. He was missing something.

Carefully he cataloged her features, trying to commit every detail of her person and the crime scene to memory. He’d go over it in his mind a dozen more times before this night was out.

He rubbed his chin. Something was bothering him about that mark on her left shoulder. Doggett had the niggling feeling that he’d seen that symbol before, that it should mean something to him, but he didn’t know what.

He was troubled by her appearance, too. The dress and shoes screamed for attention, but everything else, her makeup and jewelry, were understated. His gaze rested on her fingernails. They were neatly trimmed and squared off, but unpolished, as if this were a detail she’d forgotten because she wasn’t used to getting all dressed up. Or as if she’d been in a hurry to go out.

You know what I think? I think you were pretending to be something you’re not. You were trying to fool someone, weren’t you? But who? And why?

And suddenly, in asking those questions, Doggett found what had been missing for him, the connection he needed with the victim.

I’m going to find out all about you, he silently told her. And then I’m going to find out who did this to you. You have my word on that.

CHAPTER THREE

“SO THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE,” Milo Cherry commented as Fiona climbed into his car, a vintage ’69 Corvette Stingray beautifully restored. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Thanks.” She sank comfortably into the bucket seat and glanced around. “Is this new? I’ve never seen you drive it before.”

“I’ve been working on it in my spare time for a couple of years now. Cars are kind of a hobby of mine.”

She ran her hand over the leather. “I’m impressed, Milo. I had no idea you were so mechanically inclined.”

He gave her an enigmatic smile. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“It would seem so.”

Fiona was certainly witnessing a whole new side of him tonight, and it wasn’t just the car. She was used to seeing Milo in his conservative, slightly geeky, lawyer persona—dark suits, sedate ties, brown hair neatly combed. Tonight his hair was gelled and he wore slim black pants and a black shirt opened at the collar.

But the change went deeper than just the surface. Milo was usually one of the most laid-back people Fiona knew, but tonight he seemed restless, almost wired. His fingers tapped a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel as he waited for her to settle in.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” she told him as he pulled away from the curb. “But I think something may be burning in here.”

“It’s just incense. I put it out earlier, but the smell is still kind of strong. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. But would you mind if I rolled down the window a little?”

“You can’t.” He shrugged another apology. “The power windows don’t work. Some kind of glitch with the wiring I haven’t been able to figure out.”

Fiona smothered a sneeze. “You’ve got the address of the crime scene, right?”

“You said the corner of Bleaker and Radney. That’s a few blocks west of Rush Street. Speaking of which.” His fingers continued to drum on the steering wheel as they headed down her street. “I had no idea you lived so close to the party zone. Do you go there much?”

“To Rush Street?” Fiona shook her head. “Rarely.”

“There’s a nightclub on Division Street called Blondie’s. Have you ever heard of it?”

“No, but I don’t get out much,” she said dryly. “And besides, I’m not really the nightclub type.”

He shot her a glance. “I think you might like this place.”

“Is that where you were tonight when I called?” she asked curiously.

He studied the road. “What makes you think I wasn’t home?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She stared at his clothes. “Maybe because you don’t look as if you just woke up.”

“I never said I was asleep.” An intriguing little smile played at the corners of his mouth, and it occurred to Fiona that he had the look of a man with a secret he was just dying to tell. She wondered if, like a lot of males she’d known, he was preening over a recent conquest and couldn’t wait to brag about it in the locker room. He glanced at her again. “You want to go sometime?”

“Go where?” Her mind had drifted, and she’d forgotten what they were talking about.

“To Blondie’s.”

“Are you sure a redhead can get in?” she teased.

“As long as you’re with me, you’ll be okay.” His tone was dead serious. “What do you say?”

Fiona hesitated. “You don’t mean like a date or anything, do you?” She winced the moment she said it. Gee, Fiona. Could you be any more insulting.

His smile disappeared. “Not a date date. Of course not. I thought we could drop by after work and have a drink sometime. Listen to some music. Maybe even dance if the mood strikes us. You know, do that whole Ally McBeal thing.”

Fiona feigned shock. “Don’t tell me you actually watched that show?”

He gave her a warning look. “If you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it. Plus, I may have to kill you.”

“Not funny, considering where we’re going,” she grumbled.

“Sorry.” He downshifted as he rounded another corner. “So is that a yes or a no to Blondie’s?”

“It’s a maybe. Let me think about it.”

He slanted her a glance. “Just out of curiosity...if I had asked you for a date, what would your answer have been?”

“No. But it’s nothing personal,” she was quick to assure him. “I don’t date people I work with.”

“Does that include big shots like, say, Guy Hardison?”

Fiona turned in genuine shock. “What?”

“Nothing. Forget I said that.”

“I don’t want to forget it,” she said sharply. “You’ve implied something I don’t think I much care for, and now you owe me an explanation.”

“Look, it’s nothing.” He lifted a hand off the steering wheel. “Just talk around the office, that’s all.”

“What kind of talk?” Fiona folded her arms as she glared at him. She knew what he was getting at, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Nothing really. Just some grumbling about all the hot cases you’ve been getting lately.”

“If by hot you mean high profile,” she snapped, “Maybe it’s because I win them.” It annoyed Fiona that she felt she had to defend herself. She was a damn good prosecutor. No one had given her anything.

“Don’t take it personally.” Milo gave her a cool smile. “Like I said, it’s just gossip.”

Fuming, Fiona turned to stare out the window. She hated gossip. It had taken her a long time to live down all the talk after the scandal with David broke. She didn’t need people speculating about her love life now and remembering what had happened to her in the past.

She certainly didn’t need her own colleagues spreading rumors about her.

The silence grew so awkward that Fiona was relieved when they turned down Radney a few minutes later, and she saw the police cars and the crime scene unit pulled to the curb in front of the alley. Milo parked behind them, and Fiona started to get out, but the door wouldn’t open. “Another glitch,” he said.

“Good way to hold your dates captive,” she muttered.

He turned back and stared at her. “What?”

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

She waited for him to come around and open the door, and then, still angry, she climbed out of the car and headed toward the alley without a word. Milo hurried after her and caught her arm. She spun, stared at his hand for a split second, then lifted her gaze to his.

He got the message loud and clear and removed his hand from her arm. “Sorry. And I’m sorry about earlier, too. I was out of line.”

“Yes, you were.” She held his gaze for a moment longer, then relented. “But let’s just forget it. We’ve got work to do.”

He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “I’d like to forget it, but I can’t. Look, Fiona, I’ve got to say this. There’s a reason why people are talking.”

“What reason?” she asked coldly.

“It’s Hardison. The way he looks at you. He has a thing for you. It’s obvious to everyone but you.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s a happily married man, for God’s sake.”

“Is he? How long has it been since you saw the two of them together?”

That gave Fiona a moment’s pause. She’d always thought Guy and Sherry Hardison had the perfect marriage. They seemed so close. “Their marriage is none of my business. If they’re having difficulties, it has nothing to do with me.” She started to turn away, but Milo stopped her again.

“Just...be careful around Hardison, okay? There’s a lot more to that guy than he lets on.”

“Like what?”

“Take my word for it. Guy Hardison is not the picture of propriety he wants everyone to believe he is.”

“You know what I think?” Fiona challenged him. “I think you’ve been listening to too much office gossip.”

“And you know what I think? I think you have no idea the effect you have on men.”

A shiver ran up Fiona’s spine at the strange note in Milo’s voice. She could barely make out his features in the darkness, but she could feel his eyes on her. She could sense his intensity, and the chill inside her deepened. She was suddenly aware of how alone they were on the street. There were cops at the scene, but their voices sounded a long way off. She felt a prickle of alarm as he continued to stare down at her.

Then he laughed softly, and his mood seemed to change instantly, as if the whole thing had been a huge joke. He jammed his hands into his pockets, looking like the Milo she saw every day at work. “Lucky for me,” he said with a disarming grin, “I’m immune to tall, gorgeous redheads. Blondes have always been my downfall.”

* * *

THEY SHOWED THEIR credentials to the police officer guarding the perimeter, and then Milo went off to find the medical examiner.

“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” Fiona asked the uniformed officer.

“Talk to Doggett.” He nodded toward a man who stood a few feet away, busily scribbling something in his notebook.

“Thanks.” Fiona knew most of the detectives who worked out of the Area Three Detective Division, but she didn’t recognize this man. “Are you Detective Doggett?” she asked as she approached him.

He didn’t look up. “Who wants to know?”

His voice caught Fiona off guard. It was deep and husky. Might even be considered sexy in certain situations.

But the man himself was nothing to write home about. He was around forty or so, with close-cropped brown hair, high, rugged cheekbones and lips that were well-shaped but humorless. Fiona had the immediate impression he wouldn’t be an especially pleasant man to be around, but that could be said for about ninety percent of the cops she’d met in her lifetime. And she’d met plenty.

“I’m Fiona Gallagher. I’m with the state’s attorney’s office.”

“Gallagher?” He finally looked up, and she was immediately struck by his eyes. They were a light, eerie blue. Piercing one might say.

And that stare. That stare could freeze meat, Fiona thought with a shiver.

“You related to Tony Gallagher?” he asked her.

“He’s my brother. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

And judging by his scowl, the experience hadn’t been all that pleasant. Fiona wondered what the source of friction had been between Doggett and her brother. Tony could be a bit...unpredictable at times. She suspected the same was probably true of Doggett.

“Are you the lead detective on this case?” she asked briskly.

“Let’s assume that I am.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but the last thing Fiona wanted was to become embroiled in a turf war between two homicide detectives. “What can you tell me about the investigation?”

He gave her a mild once-over, but that laser beam stare didn’t tell her a damn thing about what he was thinking. “The victim was shot in the back of the head with what looks to be a .45 caliber slug.”

“Have you identified her yet?”

“We’re running her prints now.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not that we’ve found so far. The buildings in this area are mostly office space, and everything’s closed at this hour.”

“What about security cameras? Maybe something was caught on tape.”

Doggett nodded. “We’re working on that.”

Someone called out his name, and he turned as another detective hurried toward him. When the man saw Fiona, he stopped abruptly.

“This is Fiona Gallagher. She’s an ASA,” Doggett said. “This is Detective Vreeland.”

Vreeland nodded. “We’ve met.” His tone inferred it had been a pleasure he’d just as soon not repeat.

Vreeland and his partner, Jay Krychek, along with Vincent DeMarco, had been part of the Internal Affairs investigation into the allegations of misconduct by some of the detectives under Frank Quinlan’s command. Unlike DeMarco and Krychek, Vreeland had struck Fiona as a by-the-book cop. A basically honorable man doing a sometimes impossible job. If anything unethical and illegal had gone on during Quinlan’s watch, she doubted Vreeland had been a party to it. But, like any good cop, he wasn’t about to testify against one of his own.

He turned back to Doggett. “We checked the cross directory. The number isn’t in there, which means it’s either unlisted or a cell phone.”

“You try calling it?” Doggett asked.

Vreeland shook his head. “We didn’t want to tip our hand unless we had to.”

“What phone number?” Fiona asked.

“The crime scene techs found a purse in the Dumpster they think belonged to the victim. A phone number was stashed inside a compact, and we’re trying to track down a name to go with it.” Doggett took out his cell phone, and turned back to Vreeland. “Let’s give it a shot. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a name off an answering machine.”

Doggett punched in the number, then lifted the unit to his ear and listened. A second later, the phone in Fiona’s purse started to ring.

CHAPTER FOUR

“THAT HAS TO BE A coincidence,” Fiona said as she fished in her purse for her cell phone. “The timing’s too perfect to be anything else.”

“One way to find out,” Doggett said.

She pressed the talk button and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Coincidence, huh?”

Fiona was looking at Doggett, saw his lips move, but it took her brain a split second to register his voice in her ear. Then her gaze met his, and simultaneously they hung up their phones.

“I guess you’d better have a look at the body,” he said grimly.

She would have anyway, but now Fiona’s stomach churned in apprehension. If her phone number had been in the victim’s possession, then she was undoubtedly someone Fiona knew. Maybe a client, maybe just an acquaintance, but someone who had crossed her path. Fiona prayed it was nothing more personal than that.

The body was already being prepped for transport to the morgue, but Doggett waved the attendants aside. As they stepped back, one of them momentarily blocked the light so that Fiona could barely make out the victim’s features. She didn’t recognize her at first, but then the man moved away, and the light hit the dead woman’s face full on.

Fiona gasped. She took an involuntary step back, straight into Doggett. Rather than moving away to give her some room, he put his hands on her arms to steady her. “Easy.”

He was strong in spite of his lean physique. Beneath the dark suit he wore, his body was hard and muscular. More than capable of holding Fiona up if she needed him to.

But she didn’t need him to. Or want him to. She was still in shock, but she could stand on her own two feet just fine. She’d seen corpses before, only usually, thank God, they weren’t someone she knew.

She stared down at the victim’s beautiful face. That beautiful, pale, lifeless face, and Fiona’s legs began to tremble in spite of her resolve.

Doggett’s hands tightened on her arms. “You’re not going to faint or anything, are you?”

“No, I’m okay,” she insisted.

“Do you know her?” His deep voice rumbled in her ear and Fiona shivered.

“Her name is Alicia Mercer. Her mother is a friend of mine.”

“Then I assume you know how we can get in touch with her next of kin?”

Fiona nodded. Doggett’s hands were still on her arms, but for some reason, she didn’t seem to mind. She hardly even noticed until he took them away. “Her parents—her mother and stepfather—live in Houston. Lori and Paul Guest. They’re both attorneys. I have their phone number and address at home. Alicia and her twin sister, Lexi, are students at Hillsboro University. They share an apartment off campus. Or at least...they did.”

Doggett jotted down the information in his notebook, then glanced up. “You say the victim is a twin? You’re positive about her identity?”

“Yes, I’m positive. It’s Alicia. She and Lexi look a great deal alike, but they’re not identical. You can check her fingerprints, but I know it’s her...” Fiona trailed off as she gazed down at the body. “She does look different, though.”

“Different how?” Doggett said sharply.

“I never saw her dressed this way. And she’s changed her hair. I didn’t know the girls all that well, but I had the impression Alicia was the conservative one.”

“What about the mark on her shoulder?” Doggett asked. “You ever see it before, on either sister?”

Fiona shook her head. “No. Alicia certainly didn’t seem the type who would go in for tattoos. She was so levelheaded—” She stopped abruptly as something occurred to her. She turned, putting an unconscious hand on Doggett’s sleeve. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Something flickered in his eyes, a curious little flame that made Fiona suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

Most of the time she tried very hard to keep herself aloof—from situations and from the people around her. Body contact, even a touch as slight as her hand on a man’s arm, was never something she instigated. Ever. It didn’t bode well, she decided, that she’d done so now quite automatically. She dropped her hand. “Alicia called me last week. She left a message on my voice mail. I’d forgotten about it until now.”

If he noticed her reaction, he didn’t let on. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“No.”

“Did you call her back?”

Fiona swallowed. “No.”

One brow lifted slightly. “So how well did you know her?”

“As I said, I didn’t know either of the girls very well. Their mother moved to Houston several years ago after she remarried. Alicia and Lexi were maybe fourteen at the time. I didn’t see them again until last year when the girls started the fall semester at Hillsboro. Lori called and asked if she could give them my phone number.”

“Why?”

“She said she’d feel a lot better if they had someone nearby they could call if they...got into trouble.” The irony was devastating. Fiona had to work to keep a tremor from her voice. The guilt, for a moment, was almost overwhelming.

“When was the last time you saw Alicia?” Doggett asked.

“Last winter. She, Lexi, and I had dinner just before they left to go home for the holidays.”

“Did she mention any problems she might have been having? Trouble with a boyfriend? A professor? Anything like that?”

Fiona shook her head. “We didn’t talk about anything personal. I don’t think either of them would have felt comfortable confiding in me about their private lives. I’m sure the only reason they agreed to see me at all was to appease their mother.”

“Did you have dinner with them often?”

“Only a couple of times.”

“Did you have the impression that Alicia got along with her parents?”

Fiona glanced at him in surprise. “As far as I know. I never saw her with her stepfather, but Lori and Alicia were very close.”

“What about the sisters?”

“They were inseparable.”

“But you did say that you didn’t know the girls all that well, right? And you hadn’t seen much of the mother in recent years?”

Fiona hesitated. “It was my impression they were all very devoted.”

“Still,” he said, “Families have problems. It would be pretty unusual if they didn’t tick each other off at least once in awhile.”

“All I can tell you is that I never saw it,” Fiona said a trifle impatiently.