Kate left the news to Thor and wandered into the dining room, flipping on the old mission-style chandelier she had salvaged and rewired herself, thinking about the Bondurant connection and how Jillian did or didn't fit the victim profile.
“Damn you, John,” she muttered.
“We'll talk about the case. I've got some ideas I'd like to bounce off you.”
“It's not my job. I'm not with BSU anymore.”
“You were an expert in the field . . .”
And he had access to every expert in the field. He didn't need her.
She hung her coat on the back of a chair and sat down at the oak table she'd refinished that first summer after she'd left the Bureau. She had been wound, wired, still reeling from Emily's death and the wreck of both her marriage and her relationship with Quinn. Life as she knew it had ended, and she had to start over again. Alone, except for the ghosts.
She'd never told anyone close to her about Quinn, not her sister or her parents. They didn't know her resignation from the Bureau had come under a cloud of scandal. She couldn't have adequately explained the connection she'd felt to Quinn as Steven had drifted away from her on a tide of grief and anger. Even severed, that connection had been too precious to share with people who wouldn't understand. And her parents wouldn't have understood any more than any of her colleagues back in Quantico had.
She'd had an affair, cheated on her husband. She was a villain. That was what people wanted to believe—the worst and most sordid. No one wanted to know how alone she'd felt, how in need of comfort and support she'd been. They didn't want to hear about the powerful pull of something far beyond physical attraction that had drawn her to John Quinn—and he to her. People preferred to believe the worst because it seemed less apt to touch their own lives.
And so Kate had kept her secret to herself—and the guilt and regret and heartache that were part and parcel of the deal. And she'd built that new life a block at a time, careful to give it a good foundation and balance. The job was eight-to-five most days. Clients came and went. She got to help them in specific ways, and then their lives moved on and out of hers. Her involvement was finite and manageable.
Even as she thought that, she saw Angie in her mind's eye, and took a long pull on the Sapphire. She remembered the girl's tears, the tough kid, the street kid, curled in on herself and crying like the child she would never admit she was. Scared and embarrassed and ashamed—and she would never admit that either.
Kate had kneeled at Angie's feet, maintaining contact with one hand—touching the girl's hand or her knee or stroking her head as she doubled over and tried to hide her face. And the whole time, the same loop of emotions, the same chain of thoughts, played through Kate's mind—that she was nobody's mother, that this connection she was making to this girl was more than Kate wanted and less than Angie needed.
But the stark truth was that Kate was all she had. The ball was in her court and there was no one else to dump it to. There wasn't another advocate in the office who would stand up to Ted Sabin. There weren't that many who would stand up to Angie.
The story the girl told was short and sad and sordid. She had got picked up on Lake Street and dumped out in the park, a disposable sex toy for a man who never even asked her name. He paid her twenty when the going rate was thirty-five, told her to call a cop when she complained, shoved her out of his vehicle, and drove away. He left her there in the middle of the night like an unwanted kitten.
The image of her standing there alone, disheveled, smelling of sex, with a crumpled twenty in her pocket stuck in Kate's mind. Abandoned. Alone. Her life stretching out in front of her like forty miles of bad road. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Not that much older than Emily would have been if she had lived.
The tears rose up in a sneak attack. Kate took another sip of the gin and tried to swallow the knot down with it. There was no time for crying and no point in it. Emily was gone and Angie was no substitute. She didn't even want a substitute. The sudden sense of emptiness could be dodged or numbed. She was an old hand at it. Put the pain back in its box. Keep those walls up high. God forbid anyone see over them . . . herself included.
The fatigue and the alcohol pulled at her as she got up and headed for the den. She had to check her messages. And she wanted to call the Phoenix to make one last connection with Angie for the night—to strengthen the connection that had been made that afternoon.
She refused to let herself think of the girl sitting alone in her room at the Phoenix, feeling vulnerable and afraid and disappointed in herself for reaching out. She refused to think that she should have tried harder to make that connection go deeper.
The entry hall was lit by a streetlight half a block away, the illumination coming soft and silver through a pair of sidelights Kate kept meaning to get rid of. It was a simple matter to break a sidelight and get into a house. That reminder unfailingly came at night just before she went upstairs to bed.
A lamp burned low in the library-cum-office, a room she had left much the way she remembered it from childhood, when her father had been a midlevel executive for Honeywell. Cluttered and masculine with a sturdy oak desk and a couple of hundred books lining the walls, it smelled of leather upholstery and the faintest memory of good cigars. The message light on the answering machine flickered like a flame, but the phone rang before she could hit the playback button.
“Kate Conlan.”
“Kovac. Get your fanny to the Phoenix, Red. Our witness is missing. We'll meet you there.”
“I SHOULD HAVE stayed,” Kate said, pacing the ratty den of the Phoenix with her hands on her hips. “Goddammit, I should have stayed.”
“You can't be with 'em twenty-four/seven, Red,” Kovac said, lighting a cigarette.
“No,” she muttered, turning a furious glare on the narcotics dick Kovac had borrowed to keep an eye on Angie while she was at the Phoenix—a grubby-looking skinny guy in an army jacket with the name Iverson stenciled over the pocket. “That was your job.”
“Hey.” He held up his hands to ward her off. “I was here, but I was told you didn't want me too close. She must have slipped out the back.”
“Well, duh. Where did you think she would ‘slip out'? By definition, that sorta rules out the front door, doesn't it?”
The narc tipped his head back and swaggered toward Kate, cocky and mean, an attitude that played well with dealers and hypes. “I didn't ask for this lame fucking job, and I don't have to take a bunch of shit from a fucking social worker.”
“Hey!” Quinn barked.
Kate stopped Iverson in his tracks with a look and closed the distance between them herself. “You lost the only witness we had, asshole. You don't want to answer to me? Fine. How about the chief? How about the county attorney? Why don't you tell the mayor how you lost the only witness to the burning of Peter Bondurant's daughter's body because you're a hot-shit narc and you think baby-sitting is beneath you?”
Iverson's face went purple to the rims of his ears. “Fuck this,” he said, backing off. “I'm out of here.”
Kovac let him walk out. The front door squeaked open and slammed shut, the sound reverberating in the cavernous hall.
“Every superior in the chain is gonna ream his ass,” he said with a sigh. “He won't be able to sit down on the street sweeper they assign him to tomorrow.”
Kate began to pace again. “Did she leave or was she taken?”