Secret Witness. Jessica Andersen
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even go there. And besides, you’ve done nothing but lie to Detective Peters for the last twelve hours. That’s not exactly a great basis for a lasting relationship.
Or a brief, explosive one. The thought brought a quick liquid heat.
“You okay, Miss Alberts?” She jolted and shot a glance at the back hall of the lobby, relaxing when she saw the night watchman’s familiar stocky form. Though thoughts of the handsome detective were a momentary distraction, the fear that the man on the phone was watching her stayed near. Lurked.
“I’m fine, Bobby.” When had the words I’m fine become a mantra? “Just heading home.” She looked out past the revolving glass doors and suppressed a shudder. She didn’t want to go home through the Zone. Not tonight.
“It’s late, Miss Alberts, why don’t you take the catwalk over to the train station? It’ll be safer.”
She seized the idea gratefully. Usually, she spurned the T because the hospital was a mere ten-minute walk from her house and it took twice that to wait for the train. But tonight the brightly lit, well-guarded MBTA station seemed like heaven. “I’ll do that, Bobby. Thank you.”
So she took the catwalk and waited for the train. But the feeling of being watched didn’t go away.
LATER THAT NIGHT, Reid trotted up the old granite steps and banged on the nail-studded door with the cast-iron knocker. There was something to be said for the charm of the Patriot District, he thought as he scanned the narrow cobbled street. There were flower boxes at every window overflowing with period-correct plantings, and a discreet kiosk on the corner filled with brochures.
A sweet slide of saxophone drifted out of the window next door, making Reid think of beignets and open-air cafés.
Though the neighborhoods were only fifteen minutes apart by foot, Patriot was a far cry from the open markets and seedy underbelly of Chinatown. He wasn’t sure which he preferred.
He knocked again, and a little wooden window opened in the big wooden door. Jade-green eyes stared out at him.
“Well, that’s not very safe,” he commented. “I could stick a gun right through there and start shooting. Aren’t peepholes considered historically accurate around here? They’re certainly safer. You never know who’s going to come knocking.”
The eyes blinked. Then Steph’s voice said, “You’re absolutely right. I’ll keep it closed from now on.”
The little window slid shut.
It took him a full minute to realize she wasn’t going to open the door.
He knocked again, harder, and started to feel prickles on the back of his neck. On the pretext of scratching his head, he scanned the neat neighborhood again. Nothing. Patriot might be pretty to look at, but there were certainly plenty of places to hide.
Or else he needed a vacation. A long one, with sun and beaches, and curvy redheads wearing string bikinis.
Or lab coats.
“Stephanie? I need to talk to you.” He knocked, and kept knocking until he heard a dead bolt being shot from inside.
“Go away,” she said, then contradicted herself by opening the door. “What do you want?”
“Coffee,” he said, and pushed his way into the house. “Your aunt here?”
“No. But why don’t you come in and make yourself at home?” she offered sarcastically as he prowled through the first floor and found nothing amiss. “Maureen’s out for the evening.”
He found Stephanie’s daughter in the living room, playing quietly with a model horse and a stuffed bear. She was galloping the bear around with the horse on the bear’s back. He supposed it made sense to a three-year-old.
“Hey, kid,” he said, because it seemed rude not to acknowledge her, and the girl gave him a blinding smile that lit her whole face and shifted something inside his chest.
God! That human beings could ever do something evil to a child. He felt suddenly small, tainted by the things he’d seen. The things he’d done.
When the little girl stood up and walked toward him, Reid took a step back and bumped into Stephanie. The brief contact reminded him of their almost-clinch in the elevator, and the shadows in her eyes reminded him of questions still unanswered.
She quirked a smile. “Don’t like kids much?”
“It’s not that. It’s just—” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t see them at their best too often, you know?”
“Too many tantrums?”
Too much blood, he thought. Too many babies hanging on their mothers’ legs while their daddies were dragged out the front door. But he said, “Something like that.” Noticing that Stephanie was holding a pair of mugs, he reached for one. “Thanks.”
At her invitation, he sat on a stiff-looking old-fashioned chair that startled him by being comfortable. Stephanie sat on the sofa. She sipped her drink. “Why are you here, Detective? Wasn’t your… company glad to see you?”
Reid glanced at the four parallel scratches on his arm. “She wasn’t in a very good mood. I think she’s feeling fat.”
There was a little tug at his pant leg, and an inquiring noise, like a small bird chirping. He looked down at the kid. Her lips were pursed, and another chirp emerged. “She whistles?”
Stephanie nodded. “Maureen said she started it this morning. We’re hoping it’s a sign that she’s getting ready to talk again.”
The girl frowned as though concentrating, and warbled a few more notes.
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