The echo of the shot died quickly, almost as quickly as Lew Mcationeil.
"That was for Deanna," the killer whispered, and drove slowly away.
When Deanna heard the news a few hours later, the shock of it overshadowed the envelope she'd found on her desk. It said simply:
Deanna, I'll always be there for you.
Chapter Nineteen
Deanna lounged in Finn's big tub with steaming water whirling and pulsing around her, her eyes half closed and a frothy mimosa in her hand. It was the middle of a Saturday morning, and she had more than an hour before Tim O'Malley, her driver, would be by to pick her up for an appearance in Merrillville, Indiana.
She felt as lazy and smug as a cat curled in a sunbeam.
"What are we celebrating?"
"You're in town; I'm in town. And not counting your afternoon across the state line today, it looks like it could stay that way for a week."
From the opposite end of the tub, Finn watched her tension ease, degree by degree. She'd been wound tight as a spring for weeks. Longer, he thought, sipping the icy drink. Even before Lew Mcationeil's random and senseless murder, she'd been a bundle of nerves. In the weeks following Lew's death her feelings had shifted from remorse to anger to guilt to frustration over a man who had done his best to sabotage her show for his own ends.
Or Angela's ends, Finn theorized.
But now she smiled, and her eyes were heavy with pleasure. "Things have been a little chaotic lately."
"You flying off to Florida, me chasing presidential candidates from state to state. Both of us trying to put together a show with press and paparazzi dogging our heels." He shrugged, rubbing his foot up and down her slick, slippery leg.
It hadn't been easy for anyone on her staff, or his, to work with the continued and pesky attention the media had focused on their relationship. For reasons neither of them could fathom, they had become the couple of the year. Just that morning, Deanna had read about her wedding plans in a tabloid some helpful soul had tucked under the front doormat.
All in all it made her uneasy, unsure and far too distracted.
"Do you call that chaotic?" Finn asked, and drew her attention back.
"You're right, just another day in the simple life." Her sigh was long and sumptuous. "And at least we're getting things done. I really liked your show on Chicago's decaying infrastructure, even if it did make me start to worry that the streets are going to crumble under my car."
"Everything was there — panic, comedy, half-crazed city officials. Still, it wasn't as gripping as your interview with Mickey and Minnie Mouse."
One eye opened. "Watch it, pal."
"No, really." His grin was wicked. "You've got America talking. What kind of relationship do they have, and what part does Goofy play in it? These burning questions need to be answered — and who knows, it might help take some of the heat off us?"
"We were dealing with American traditions," she shot back. "On the need for entertainment and fantasy, and the enormous industry that fuels it. Which is every bit as relevant as watching politicians sling insults at each other. More," she said, gesturing with her glass. "People need some mode of escape, particularly during a recession. You do your shows on global warming and the socioeconomic troubles in the former Soviet Union, Riley. I'll stick with the everyday issues that affect the average person."
He was still grinning at her. Deanna took a sip of her mimosa and scowled at him. "You're riding me on purpose."
"I like the way your eyes get dark and edgy." He set his glass aside so that he could slide forward and lay his body over hers. Water sloshed lazily over the lip of the tub. "And you get this line right here" — he rubbed his thumb between her brows—"that I get to smooth away."
His free hand was busy smoothing something else. "Some might say you're a sneaky bastard, Finn."
"Some have." He nipped at her lips. "Others will. And speaking of Mickey and Minnie." His hands cruised over her hot, soft skin.
"Were we?"
"I was wondering if we can compare our relationship to theirs. Undefined and long-term."
While the jets of water frothed around them and between them, she stroked a hand through his damp hair. It felt so good to be here, to know that at any moment the comforting heat could erupt into explosive heat. "I can define it: We're two people who love each other, who enjoy each other, who want to be with each other."
"We could be with each other more if you'd move in with me."
It was a subject they'd discussed before. And one they had been unable to resolve. Deanna pressed her lips to his shoulder. "It's easier for me to have my own place when you're away."
"I'm here more than I'm gone these days." "I know." Her lips slid up his throat as she tried to distract him. "Give me some time to work it out in my head."
"Sometimes you've got to trust your impulses, Deanna, your instincts." His mouth met hers, tasting of frustration and desire. He knew if he pushed, she'd agree, but his instinct warned him not to rush her. "I can wait. Just don't make me wait too long."
"We can give it a trial run." Her blood was pulsing as frantically as the bubbling water. "I'll move some things in, stay here through next week."
"I'll make it hard for you to leave again." "I bet you will." She smiled, pushing his hair back, framing his face. "I'm so in love with you, Finn. You can believe that. And I swear, the rumors about me and Goofy are all lies. We're just friends."
He tipped her head back so that her body slipped farther into the water. "I don't trust the long-eared son of a bitch."
"I just used him to make you jealous — though he does have a certain guileless charm I find strangely appealing."
"You want charm? Why don't I — damn." Finn tossed his wet hair back and reached for the tubside phone. "Hold that thought," he told her. "Yeah, Riley."
Deanna was considering several interesting ways to distract him when she saw the change in his face. The water shifted and slopped over as he climbed from the tub to reach for a towel.
"Get Curt," he said, dripping as he slung the towel around his waist. "And contact Barlow James. I want a full crew, a mobile unit on the spot five minutes ago. I'll be at the site in twenty minutes." He swore, not so lightly, under his breath. "You can if I tell you that you can."
"What is it?" Deanna turned off the tub and rose. Water streamed from her as she shook out a towel. She already knew he was leaving.
"There's a hostage situation over in Greektown." With a quick flick of the wrist, he turned on the television even as he headed into the bedroom to drag on clothes. "It's bad. Three people are already dead."
She shivered once. Then as quick, as brisk as he, she reached for her robe. She wanted to tell him she'd go with him. But of course she couldn't. There were several hundred people waiting for her in the ballroom of an Indiana hotel.
Why was she so cold? she wondered as she bundled hurriedly into her robe. He was already tucking a shirt into his slacks, as calmly as a man going to his office to work on tax forms. He'd survived air raids and earthquakes. Surely a skirmish in Greektown was nothing to worry about.
"You'll be careful."
He grabbed a tie, a jacket. "I'll be good." As she reached into the closet for the suit she'd chosen for her afternoon appearance, he spun her around for a kiss. "I'll probably be back before you."
The worst kind of war was one with no front lines or battle plans. It was fueled on anger and fear and the blind need to destroy. The once-tidy restaurant with its pretty, striped awning and sidewalk tables was destroyed. Shards from the broken window sparkled like scattered gems over the sidewalk. The flap of the awning in the raw spring wind was smothered by the static-filled drone of police radios. Reporters held back by barricades swarmed like hungry wolves.