chapter 9
Long curtains drifted at half-open windows. Summer would check each one later to be certain all were closed and locked, but for now it was pleasant to feel the sea wind on her face.
Sitting on Sophy’s bed, with a book opened on her lap, Cara read quietly.
“‘It was late one winter night, long past my bedtime . . .’”
Sophy gave a little sigh and closed her eyes. Stretched out beside her, Audra wiggled once, then relaxed, her feet hidden in pink bunny slippers. Liberace was curled on Audra’s lap, quiet for once.
“‘We walked on toward the woods, Pa and I.’”
Summer had vague memories of reading this same book long ago, but there had been no bedtime rituals such as this in her house. She had chosen her own books, alone at the public library, while her father had been off on some military posting too secret for details. And her mother?
She shook away cold memories and focused on the quiet bedtime scene before her, feeling like an intruder even though Cara had expressly requested her to stay.
As the words flowed, Audra closed her eyes, and even Summer felt the tug of sleep and peace.
What if there had been nights like this for her and her sister? How much better to grow up this way rather than within the tense silences of a household where people had forgotten how to communicate or even care?
There were no answers. No sense of resolution. But Summer hadn’t expected any. You could never go back.
Cara continued to read from Owl Moon, her voice soft with emotion, easy with long experience at the familiar lines. The girls joined in for train whistles and owl cries as the story unfolded, and the sense of family became poignant and tangible.
If Summer had been the emotional type, the scene might have pulled out a few tears. Because she wasn’t, she stood and slipped away. First she would check downstairs and make sure the cooking staff had locked up properly in the kitchen. With Cara’s wedding approaching, kitchen activity had moved into fast-forward, and two pastry chefs were expected soon, to supplement the preparations made by the family’s longtime chef. Cara had explained that Imelda and Patrick were excellent workers, but terrible about leaving windows open and doors unlocked, so Summer made a tour of the kitchen part of her security procedure.
On this trip she found a window cracked open off the pantry, wedged in position with a spoon. Annoyed beyond words, she planned a serious discussion of security with Cara as soon as the girls went to bed. Meanwhile, Summer continued around the house, jotting down problems in a little book. Finally satisfied that all doors and windows were secure and nothing looked out of place, she prepared to set the alarm.
A footstep in the hall stopped her.
“You left before we were done.” Cara’s face was calm but tired in the glow of the single overhead light. “I hope nothing was wrong.”
“I needed to finish checking the house and grounds. I was just about to set the alarm before I went outside.”
“Go ahead. Tate knows the code.”
“Who else knows it?” Summer asked quietly.
“Only myself. And the girls, of course.”
Warning bells clanged in Summer’s head. How much would it take for a school chum to weasel the password out of Sophy, who trusted everyone? “You might want to consider changing the code on a weekly basis, just for safety.”
“A sensible precaution.” Cara rubbed her neck, wincing. “Why don’t you set the alarm and finish your rounds while I make us some tea?”
Fifteen minutes later, Summer returned to find Cara curled in a window seat overlooking the rose garden, while tea steamed from the lip of a nearby kettle.
“I’m sorry about the tricks the girls played today. I’ve told them they’re both grounded for a week. I trust that will stop the problems.” Cara cut wedges of a frosted cake and shifted them onto plates of Royal Copenhagen china. “I thought you might like some of Patrick’s beyond-decadent white-chocolate frosted carrot cake. I warn you, it’s addictive.”
Summer slid into the opposite seat. “Bad idea. I could barely fit into your leotard for Sophy’s dance class today.”
“She said you were wonderful, by the way. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’ve only made three classes this year.” Cara frowned down at her tea. “There have been so many things I’ve had to miss since I took this job.” When she looked up, her emotions were carefully tucked away. “You know, I haven’t really had a chance to thank you for taking this assignment. You came very highly recommended.”
“No need to thank me, ma’am. It was my chief’s call. I have to admit that this part of California is gorgeous. So is this amazing house of yours.”
“I’ve often thought we should sell it and move somewhere closer to the city, but the girls have spent most of their lives here and they would hate moving. Despite my long commute into San Francisco, so would I.”
Summer watched her draw slow lines in her whipped cream. “The file said your husband built the house when you were first married.”
“It was Howard’s special project. He chose the granite, the wood, even the tiles for the roof. The two of us actually laid the flagstones for the fireplace ourselves when I was pregnant with Audra. There are a lot of memories here.”
As she sat back, studying her teacup, something closed in her face, and Summer realized the personal details were over. Though Cara O’Connor looked delicate, Summer figured you didn’t get to be an assistant DA without being tough and able to box up your emotions.
“I spoke to Audra about what happened at the museum. I explained how irresponsible it was and how many people she upset by her actions.”
“But you didn’t tell her that she could have been in serious danger?”
“No. I won’t have my girls dragged into this man’s sick game.”
“It appears to me they already are,” Summer said quietly.
“Tate thinks I should tell them. Now you.” Cara pushed away her cake uneaten. “The girls have had too much to contend with already. There have been nuisance phone calls, day and night. We change the number and things are quiet for a few days, then somehow they get the number and it starts all over again. Sophy’s friends want to know why she has police officers at her house and Audra’s friends make fun of her because she can’t go out for ice cream or a movie on a whim. I’m the reason,” she said grimly.
“You’re an important person. The work you do makes life safer for all of us.”
“I used to think so. When I started out, you could have fueled whole cities with the strength of my zeal. Oh, I was going to make things different in San Francisco. I was going to be the tireless one, the incorruptible one, the prosecutor who would turn the tide.” She took a long, harsh breath. “Lately, I don’t know if I can pay the price. You can’t have it all: job and family and sanity. Can you understand that, Ms. Mulvaney? That there is always a price, and usually it’s the women who have to pay it.”
Summer turned her teacup, understanding Cara O’Connor perfectly. The woman was clearly exhausted, clearly terrified about the threat to her children, but she still struggled to do the right thing. “I understand, ma’am. But it doesn’t surprise me. Frankly, I never expected the world to be fair.”
Cara studied her over the teacup, one brow raised. “There’s a story there. It’s written in your face when you think no one is looking.”
Summer shifted uneasily.
“Don’t worry, I won’t probe. But I may make it my business to find out before your job is finished here.”
Summer drummed her fingers on the table. “Be my guest.”
She was cut off by the tinny melody of Cara’s cell phone, the Gilligan’s Island tune again.
“I’ve been waiting for news on a case.” Cara touched a button. “Hello?”
Suddenly her whole body tensed.
Summer sat forward. “What’s wrong?”
Cara stabbed at the phone, ending the call and tossing the phone onto the table. “Him. It’s always the same metallic voice, wired through some kind of synthesizer.” She closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands. “I’ve had a new cell phone number for two weeks, and somehow he found it. Two weeks. How does he know?”
Summer wished she could assure Cara that everything would be fine, but her gut instinct warned that the pressure was going to get worse. “What did he say?”
“That I’d be sorry. It’s always been the same message.”
“I’ll have the call traced.”
Cara nodded tiredly. “It’s worth a try. But all the other times, he threw away the phones. He uses them once, then tosses them, and each time they’ve been stolen earlier the same day.”
“Maybe he’ll get careless, ma’am.”
Cara took a breath. “Call me Cara, damn it. All my friends do.”
Summer sat back, sensing that Cara O’Connor didn’t let down her guard easily. “My pleasure, but only if you do the same.”
“Agreed. There’s something else, something that came today.” With shaky hands the prosecutor reached into her briefcase and removed a clear plastic bag. Inside the bag was a brown cardboard box. “This was left under the desk in my office.” Cara handed Summer a pair of latex gloves, then pulled on a pair herself before she lifted the lid.
Summer bent closer, reading the block letter words. “‘May 12, 1986. Los Reyes Clinic. Remember.’” When Summer looked up, she was shocked at Cara’s ashen features. “Maybe you should take a few deep breaths, ma’am. I think some whiskey would be a good idea, too.”
“I said to—to call me Cara.” She took a harsh breath. “And I don’t drink. My husband had something of a problem, so I stopped keeping any alcohol in the house.” She took a swallow of tea, then refilled her cup carefully, followed by Summer’s. “I’ll be fine. It was just hearing the words aloud after all this time.”
Silently Summer covered the box, slid it back into the bag, and resealed the top. First thing in the morning she would forward everything to her forensic people. Maybe they could pull a partial print, a piece of hair or some other trace material.
“Do you want to tell me what the message means?” she asked quietly.
“It’s the last thing I want to do.” Cara gripped her teacup. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”
Summer didn’t answer.
“Of course I don’t. I know the date very well because in 1986 I—I went to Mexico. There was a small clinic in Los Reyes.” Her voice wavered. “I’m not saying anything more. If you want to leave, fine.” The teacup spun out of her fingers and turned on its side, brown liquid racing over the table.
Calmly, Summer reached across the table and blotted the spilled tea. “If you had an abortion, I’m not about to judge you for it.”
“Everybody else would. God knows, I still have dreams about that day. Nightmares, actually. The ugliness of it all. The indecision.”
“Have there been specific demands made?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Cara closed her eyes. “I convinced myself the past was buried. Given my line of work, I should have known better.” Slowly she reached for a new napkin, watching the brown stain creep over the white cotton. “I have a sample of Glenlivet in the pantry at the back of the top shelf. I told myself I’d keep it for necessity or a special occasion. I’m afraid this is it.”
Summer found the small bottle, the size used on airplanes, and added half to Cara’s tea. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”
“No, I won’t. I won’t feel better until this person is found—and stopped.” Cara’s eyes were haunted as she took a sip of her tea and grimaced. “This tastes like battery acid.”
“I’m told it’s an acquired taste.”
The assistant DA rubbed her neck with unsteady fingers. “You’re not asking for any details?”
“I have the date and a location. You’ve given me what is necessary.”
“I meant it when I said I wouldn’t tell anything more. That’s non-negotiable.”
Summer nodded. She wasn’t here to probe Cara’s past. She’d make her own quiet inquiries and see what emerged. Meanwhile, security was her main concern.
“I’ll have the box and paper analyzed first thing in the morning. We may get prints or enough DNA evidence to put this creep away.”
Cara took another sip of her tea. “I don’t think so. Whoever sent that box got past two sets of guards and my own assistant. This person is very good, Summer. That terrifies me.”
“You think it’s someone in the building, someone you know?”
“At first I couldn’t accept that. Now I’d have to say it’s possible. How else could they get into my office?”
“As of tomorrow, your door gets new locks, and you keep it locked. No access without a call from your assistant. No one gets a key except the two of you.”
“I was thinking along the same lines.”
Summer made a note in her book. “I want to know everyone who entered your building today, along with who they went to see and when they departed.”
“I thought of that. Security should have a list for me by noon tomorrow.” Cara shoved a strand of hair from her forehead. “I asked my assistant for the names of people who came into my office while she was there.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
Summer scanned the sheet. “Only twelve? Was she out for a long time?”
“She always goes for lunch at one. Anyone on the floor could have slipped in then, and most of them know her schedule.” There was a note of weariness in Cara’s voice. “Forty-two people work on my floor, and all forty-two were in the building today.” She smiled grimly. “I checked with security.”
“That gives us some kind of baseline, at least. Things could be worse.” Summer refilled their cups. “Let’s get to work.” She read off the first name on Cara’s list while opening a new page in her ever-present notebook. “How long have you known him and are you currently working on any active cases together?”
As Cara spoke, Summer took notes.
It was going to be a long night, she thought grimly.
They were halfway down the list when the back door opened and the alarm beeped.
“Only me.” Tate peered around the corner, then punched in the security override code.
He looked rumpled and sexy with his shirt unbuttoned and sleeves pushed up. A man no woman could resist, Cara thought. Heaven knows, she had tried vainly for years.
“Excuse me,” Summer murmured. “I’ll be right back.”
She was gone before the other two realized it.
“That is one unusual young woman.” Cara stood up. “Let me get you some tea.”
“You stay put. Hopefully I can pour hot water without inflicting third-degree burns on myself.” Tate slid into the chair beside her and traced her cheek. “You look like hell,” he said huskily.
“So nice of you to tell me, especially since you look rumpled, but gorgeous as always. The world is unjust.” Cara sighed. “What on earth are you doing with a boring workaholic like me?”
“Having the time of my misbegotten life.” Tate spoke with a raw directness that stripped away the clever comment she had planned. “Remembering what it felt like to be eighteen and invincible, only now I’m a whole lot smarter. At least, I hope I am.” He looked at the box, now carefully repacked. “Is this what you found beneath your desk?”
“Afraid so.” Cara nodded, leaning against his chest. She needed to relax, just long enough for the names on her list to stop blurring and the panic to recede.
He smelled like oranges and aftershave and good leather, and she leaned closer, thinking that he had probably just showered and shaved. As she rested her cheek against his skin, she felt the old, racing heat, the slick sensitivity between her thighs.
Always the desire.
With a sigh she turned and focused on cutting a piece of carrot cake. “Patrick made this before he and Imelda left. No dieting allowed while that boy is in charge of the kitchen. Imelda said she’s put on ten pounds since coming here.” Cara sliced through rich layers of chocolate frosting and carrot-filled cake, then gasped sharply.
Tate shot forward and caught her hand. “You’ve cut yourself.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Where’s the alcohol, Cara? Otherwise, I run you straight to the emergency room.” His face was impassive.
“Fine. The alcohol is beneath the sink, Dr. Clooney.”
Tate muttered as he banged through the cabinets and returned with alcohol, paper towels, and a bandage. “This could hurt.”
Summer appeared in the doorway, staring at Cara’s hand. “What could hurt?”
“She cut herself. The woman’s the worst patient on the planet, I warn you. Maybe you can keep an eye on this, since she’s likely to forget.” Ignoring Cara’s protests, he put the bottle on the table. When he glanced at the nearby list, his eyes narrowed. “You were going over this together, weren’t you? So Summer isn’t your normal, everyday nanny.” He took Cara’s hand grimly. “Which is it, Ms. Mulvaney? Private investigator or undercover state trooper?”
Summer looked at Cara. So much for secrecy.