The Intended Victim Read online

  Maybe years.

  “The same thing.” The detective gave a restless lift of his shoulder. “He called when he heard the chatter that the Butcher was back and wanted to make sure his name wouldn’t get involved.”

  “How were you supposed to do that?”

  Resentment sparked in the man’s eyes, revealing that his partnership with the assistant district attorney wasn’t a happy one.

  “He didn’t give specific directions,” he muttered. “He just said to do it. Like I’m some sort of miracle worker.”

  Jax shook his head. Had Hutton assumed the detective would steal evidence if it threatened to implicate him? Probably.

  “Why were you meeting with him this morning?”

  O’Reilly glanced toward Jax’s desk, where the top file was lying open. “He said he’d heard there was another murder. He wanted me to look through your notes.”

  Jax frowned in confusion. “He thought he might be implicated?”

  O’Reilly scowled at the question. “Of course not.”

  “Then why does he want you nosing through my private files?”

  “He believes that whoever is out there is a copycat killer,” O’Reilly explained. “He demanded that I search through the evidence and come up with some proof.”

  Jax was confused. Why would Hutton believe the killer was a copycat unless he had some evidence . . . ?

  Belatedly, he realized this was actually a clever ploy by Robert Hutton. “If you found a way to claim the latest killings are by a copycat, all the old case files would be put back in storage,” he said.

  The detective nodded. “Yeah, and he can stop worrying that someone is going to ask the wrong questions and his name is going to get splashed across the front page of the paper.”

  Jax folded his arms over his chest, ready to be done with this conversation. He had a thousand things waiting for his attention. Starting with a double-check of the old files to ensure that there was no other connection to Robert Hutton or Detective O’Reilly. Their story that this was nothing more than panic over sex with an underage girl was plausible, but they remained on his suspect list.

  “Call Hutton and assure him that it’s not a copycat,” he told O’Reilly. “And that if I catch him interfering in my investigation again, I will have him publicly hauled down to the station and grilled in front of the entire department.”

  The older man sent him a jaundiced glare. “Fine.”

  Jax moved aside, but even as the detective stepped forward, Jax was struck by a sudden curiosity. “Hey, O’Reilly.”

  “Now what?” the man groused.

  “What does Hutton have on you?”

  His gaze skittered away. “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t help him out of the goodness of your heart,” Jax pointed out. “So how did he blackmail you?”

  O’Reilly let his features harden into a peevish expression, clearly resenting Jax’s question. Surprisingly, however, he answered. “He made a call to the chief.”

  “And?”

  “And it got Internal Affairs off my back,” O’Reilly snapped.

  Jax abruptly recalled Ash’s explanation of why Gage Walsh had dumped this detective as a partner. “Gage was right,” he said in disgust. “You were stealing from the evidence room.”

  “I took a few pills and a bag of weed no one would ever miss,” the older man groused, his tone defensive. “I needed the money. My mother was sick.”

  Jax didn’t think his opinion of the man could actually plummet, but the fact that he’d try to blame his lack of morals on his sick mother . . . Christ. He was a spineless slug.

  Jax pointed a finger in O’Reilly’s square face. “Come near my desk again and I’ll shoot you.”

  “No need to be such a dick,” the detective muttered, stomping away.

  “I haven’t started being a dick,” Jax called out, a sudden heat touching his cheeks as a uniformed officer appeared around the corner, his expression worried.

  “Everything okay, Marcel?” he demanded.

  “Just peachy,” Jax assured him, dropping into his seat behind the desk.

  He’d wasted enough time on O’Reilly. He needed to concentrate on the actual killer. And how the hell he was going to track him down.

  * * *

  Remi stood near the pool house, hoping to block the wind that swirled through the gardens of her mother’s estate. It also gave her an opportunity to peek through the shutters that covered the window of the decaying building.

  Once, when she’d been a young teenager, she’d snuck inside. She hadn’t known what she wanted to see, but a few of her classmates had recently shared the crazy stories that revolved around her grandfather and his habit of shooting his enemies inside the small building.

  The whole experiment had been a disappointment. There’d been nothing to see beyond the open bar area that still had a few Mason jars filled with moonshine and dusty tables that were shoved against the wall. And, in the back, a couple of bathrooms with showers for people who actually used the pool house to change out of wet bathing suits.

  There were no skeletons hidden in the cabinets or blood on the tiled floor.

  And worse, her father had caught her while she was looking around and grounded her for a week. He said he was worried about the ceiling falling on her head, but she thought it had more to do with the gruesome past of the place.

  He never discussed the fact that he’d married into a family of gangsters. It was as if he was determined to erase the past by simply ignoring it.

  Now she stood there, trying to imagine her father firing a gardener for sneaking in for a cigarette. It seemed extreme, but not more extreme than the dozens of other servants who’d been fired by her mother.

  Almost as if the thought of Liza Harding-Walsh had conjured her from thin air, the older woman stepped around the edge of the pool house.

  As always, Liza was elegant, dressed in one of her designer pantsuits that clung to her curvaceous body and a matching tailored coat. And despite the breeze that was sending puffs of snow spraying through the air, her dark hair was pulled into a sleek, perfect knot at her nape.

  It was amazing.

  “Remi, what on earth are you doing?” she asked, genuine surprise touching her beautiful face.

  “Mother.” Remi grimaced as she stepped away from the window. This was the house where she grew up, but she suddenly felt like an intruder. “You startled me.”

  Liza arched her brows. “Not as much as you startled me. I glanced out the window to see a shadowy figure skulking around my yard.”

  “And you came out here alone?” Remi sent her a chiding glance. “You should have called the cops.”

  Liza waved a slender hand toward the mansion on the other side of the covered pool.

  “I knew Albert was working nearby,” the older woman told her. “There was a frozen pipe in the kitchen this morning and he’s making sure it doesn’t burst.”

  Belatedly, Remi heard the sound of a shovel hitting hard dirt. Poor Albert. It was too cold for the older man to be outside working, but he would no doubt be offended if she tried to make him call for a plumber to weatherize the pipes.

  “You still shouldn’t have come out here alone,” Remi said.

  A strange expression rippled over the woman’s face as she glanced toward the pool house.

  “I thought . . .”

  Remi felt a strange sensation scuttle down her spine. Like spiders scurrying over a web. She shivered, instinctively wrapping her arms around her waist. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Her mother smoothed her expression to the familiar polite mask. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  Remi glanced over the vast backyard. She’d spent a lot of her childhood lying next to the pool or playing tennis on the court next to the back fence. She’d been happy here, even though she didn’t have a lot in common with her parents. She’d known she was loved and protected and had the opportunity to do whatever she wanted with her future.
A rare gift.

  Of course, when she’d lived here, she’d concentrated far too much on her resentment that she was a neglected daughter who didn’t get nearly enough appreciation. Like every other teenage girl.

  Her lips twitched, a small measure of her unease fading. She always overreacted when she was with her mother. Today, however, she needed to make sure she didn’t act like an emotional child.

  If she wanted her mother to answer questions, she was going to have to lure her into a sense of comfort.

  “Just having a look around,” she said. “It’s been a while since I spent any time here.”

  Her mother looked skeptical. “It’s freezing.”

  Remi moved to wrap her arm through her mother’s, steering her around the edge of the pool. “I was just getting ready to come inside.”

  Her mother allowed herself to be led toward the mansion, her gaze lowering to the glove that was still clutched in Remi’s hand.

  “What are you holding?” she demanded.

  Remi had a brief regret that she’d brought the glove. It’d been an impulsive desire in case she ran into Albert. She wanted a chance to ask him about the Mustang and why her father’s glove would be on the ground.

  Now she tried to think quickly. The last thing she wanted was to upset her mother. Especially today.

  “I found it on the ground,” she lied smoothly.

  Liza jerked it out of her hand, her face tightening with an expression that was impossible to read.

  “That belongs to your father,” she rasped, her fingers stroking over the embroidered initials on the cuff.

  “Yes,” Remi agreed in gentle tones.

  “I don’t understand.” She frowned, glancing around the frozen ground. “How did it get here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This should be locked upstairs.” Her voice was sharp with an anger she rarely revealed. “No one is allowed in your father’s rooms. No one. I need to talk to my housekeeper.”

  Remi grimaced; this wasn’t starting out as well as she’d hoped. “The glove could have been lost years ago, Mother,” she tried to soothe. “Beneath a bush or in the hedge. The wind probably untangled it and it landed here. Please don’t blame your staff.”

  “Perhaps.” Liza carefully folded the glove as they entered the back door of the house.

  In silence, they slid off their coats and hung them on the hooks next to the door. Then they headed into the kitchen.

  “We should have coffee,” Liza announced, firmly heading across the tiled floor.

  Remi wandered behind the older woman. “Do you want me to make it?”

  “I’m capable of switching on the coffee machine,” Liza assured her, flicking buttons on the space-age, stainless-steel monstrosity.

  Remi was frankly impressed. It looked like you needed a master’s degree to figure out the thing. Leaning against the counter, she heaved a small sigh and allowed her gaze to roam over the large room.

  The cabinets were painted a bright white, with silver countertops and a white marble floor. The ceiling was high and there was a bank of windows that overlooked the pool. It all combined to create an atmosphere of bright cheerfulness that lifted Remi’s mood.

  “This has always been one of my favorite rooms,” she murmured.

  “The kitchen?” Her mother looked surprised. “You hate to cook.”

  Remi’s lips twisted. She wondered if that would be put on her gravestone. It certainly was the one thing everyone knew about her.

  “I love the view, and it always smells like fresh-baked bread.” She nodded toward the small white table set beneath the windows. “Dad and I used to sit over there and eat our morning cereal.”

  Her mother filled the mugs and crossed to join Remi. “I remember.”

  Remi sipped her coffee, turning her head to study her mother’s profile. “Have you ever thought about selling the estate?”

  Liza jerked, as if she’d been struck by an unseen blow. “Selling?”

  “It’s a lot of house for you,” Remi said, genuinely curious. She understood her mother’s loyalty to the family estate, but it had to be lonely in the huge house. “You might be more comfortable in a smaller place.”

  Liza looked confused. “This has always been my home.”

  “Not always. Didn’t you and Dad live downtown when you were first married?”

  Liza waved away her early days of living in an apartment, the diamonds on her fingers sparkling with a blinding brilliance. “Yes, but it was less than a year before my father died and we moved into this house.”

  Remi had secretly wondered how her father felt about moving into the home of his in-laws. Especially because the reputation of this place was hardly suitable for a cop. As far as she knew, he’d never revealed anything but satisfaction to call this home, but she didn’t doubt he would have preferred someplace less . . . ostentatious.

  Liza Harding-Walsh, on the other hand, obviously didn’t find the house grandiose. Not even for a woman on her own.

  “What about your mother?” Remi asked. Liza never talked about Remi’s grandmother. And on the few occasions on which Remi had spent time with the old woman, there’d been a hushed formality about the event, it had made her feel like she was at a funeral.

  “She went to Florida after Dad’s funeral. She said she couldn’t bear another Chicago winter.” Liza shrugged. “Lawrence and his family moved into the house she built after she died.”

  “I wish I had the chance to get to know my grandparents,” Remi said. “I’ve heard all the colorful stories, of course, but I really have no idea what they were like as people.”

  Liza sipped her coffee, her eyes growing distant, as if she was traveling back in time. Perhaps to when she was a young girl in this kitchen. “My father was a difficult man.” Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Most people say I take after him.”

  Remi would agree with that, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Today was about peace and harmony and getting the information she needed.

  “Was he a good father?” she asked.

  Liza took another sip of coffee. “He was distant and short-tempered, but there was nothing I loved more than spending time with him.”

  Remi didn’t miss the genuine affection in her mother’s voice. It was odd. This was the first time they’d ever had a conversation about her mother’s side of the family. Probably because her father had usually looked uncomfortable as soon as Patrick Harding was mentioned. It had never been overt. Nothing she’d really noticed as a child. But looking back, she realized he had subtly avoided any conversation about the Harding clan.

  “Do you have any special memories of your dad?” Remi asked.

  Liza gave a slow nod. “He would take me on his Friday morning rounds.”

  Remi frowned in confusion. “Rounds?”

  “We would travel around Chicago in a big limo and visit the local restaurants and nightclubs,” her mother said, her voice filled with a childish pleasure. “I would be given a special table with a plate of treats while Dad would discuss business with the owners. I felt like a princess.”

  Remi hid her grimace. She’d known her grandfather was in the protection racket. But to think about the man driving around in a limo with his daughter in tow, no doubt threatening the business owners with some hideous fate if they didn’t pay up . . .

  She cleared her throat, trying not to look shocked. “Did Uncle Lawrence ever go with you?”

  Liza flattened her lips. “He was a momma’s boy.”

  “You weren’t close with your mother?” Remi asked, although the answer was obvious.

  Liza abruptly set aside her mug, her hand not quite steady. Could she still be that troubled about the past? After all these years?

  “I think she was jealous of the time I spent with my father,” Liza said. “She wasn’t a strong woman. She depended on Dad to take care of everything. I think that’s why I had a difficult time being a good mother to you. I didn’t have much of a role model.”


  Remi felt a stab of guilt. She’d been so self-absorbed, she’d never considered the fact that Liza might feel inadequate as a mother. Or that their distant relationship might have pained the older woman. “We’ve managed to muddle through,” she insisted.

  A fleeting smile touched Liza’s face. “I was always thankful that your father was so devoted to you.”

  So was Remi. Deeply grateful. She once again held her tongue. “How did Grandpa feel about you marrying a cop?”

  Liza blinked, as if caught off guard by the question. “He wasn’t happy. In fact, he threatened to disown me.”

  Remi wasn’t surprised by Patrick Harding’s horror at having a cop marry into the family. She was, however, deeply surprised that her mother would have risked her inheritance to be with her father.

  “But you married him anyway?”

  “I fell in love with him the first day we met. Nothing ever changed that.” Liza clutched her hands together, her expression suddenly fierce. “I would have done anything for him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Remi gave a slow nod. “That’s the one thing I never doubted in my life,” she said.

  Liza’s sent her a curious glance. “Your father?”

  “The fact that the two of you loved each other.”

  The older woman’s eyes remained distant, as if her thoughts lingered in the past.

  “No one ever understood me like your father,” she said in low, soft tones. “That’s the key to a happy marriage. Knowing all your partner’s faults but still loving each other.”

  Remi set down her mug, her mouth dry and her heart twisting with a sharp pain. “I had that,” she breathed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the way I felt when I was with Ash,” Remi clarified. “Complete.”

  Not surprisingly, Liza’s features hardened at the mention of Remi’s ex-fiancé. “I heard he was back in town.”

  Remi was annoyed by her mother’s stiff tone. “I never understood why you didn’t like him.”

  Liza widened her eyes and Remi prepared herself for the pretense that she didn’t understand what Remi meant. It was the usual game. Liza would display a fleeting disdain for Ash, then retreat behind her barriers of indifference the moment she was challenged.