several moments with her face buried in it.
“Can I assume you have an unlisted phone number?” Kovac asked, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub.
“Yes, of course.”
“We’ll need to set up a trap on your line. This won’t be the only call you’ll get.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because the call came after the attack. If we’re talking about the same mutt, then he’s in this for more than your wallet.”
She didn’t look at him. She was staring at nothing, her expression bleak.
“You should lie down,” Kovac said, reaching out once again to help her to her feet.
She paid no attention to him and stopped at the door to her daughter’s room, which was adorned with a fanciful painted fairy touching a magic wand to a sign that read: “Princess Lucy’s Room.” Leaning against the doorjamb, she turned the knob carefully and peeked inside. Kovac looked in over her head.
Princess Lucy was sleeping the sleep of the innocent in a bed with pale pink sheets and a confection of white quilts and comforters and bed skirts. Cute kid. Maybe four or five, with a mop of wavy dark hair and a mouth like a rosebud. A small lamp with a ruffled lavender shade glowed softly on a table across from the bed.
Carey Moore watched her daughter sleep for a moment, her cheek pressed to the frame of the door, one hand pressed across her mouth. Kovac imagined she was realizing the decision she had made in her chambers today had ramifications that were rippling out far beyond the government center and beyond herself. Someone had reached out over a phone line and invaded her home, the place she should have felt most safe, the place her daughter should have been safe.
People never had a clue what an illusion their sense of safety was. A security system could be gone with the snip of a wire. A security building with a twenty-four-hour doorman still had a garage with a gate that stayed up long enough for a stranger to drive in behind a resident. A perimeter wall could always be scaled. Every e-mail ever sent could be retrieved with a couple of mouse clicks. One wrong set of eyes glancing at a social security number on a form, and an identity became a commodity for sale. One phone call and a sanctuary became a cage.
Kovac reached around the judge and drew the door closed.
“Let’s get you to bed before you fall down,” he murmured.
The Moores ’ master bedroom looked like it belonged in some five-star hotel. Not that Kovac had ever set foot in one. The places he stayed usually had disposable cups, one working lamp, and suspicious stains on the creepy polyester bedspread. He had, however, been known to watch the Travel Channel on occasion.
The room was a cocoon of heavy, expensive fabrics, warm, rich shades of gold and deep red, thick carpet, antiques, and spotlit art. Mementos were clustered on her nightstand-a silver-framed photo of a rosy-cheeked baby; a gold-leafed keepsake box with a top encrusted in tiny, exotic shells and seed pearls; a black-and-white photo of herself in a graduation cap and gown and a tall, handsome, well-dressed man with silver hair. Her dad, Judge Alec Greer. Neither of them could have looked more proud as they gazed at each other.
Kovac placed one of his business cards next to the photograph.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to track down your husband?” Kovac asked as the judge eased herself back against a mountain of elaborate pillows on the bed.
There were no photographs of Carey Moore with her spouse. Not on either night table. There might have been one on the bookcase on the far side of the room, but it couldn’t be seen from the bed.
“There’s no need,” she said quietly.
Kovac shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. I just know if you were my wife and I knew you’d been attacked, I’d damn well be here. I don’t care if I was having dinner with the president.”
“You’ll make some lucky woman a good husband someday, then,” she murmured, closing her eyes, closing him and his opinions out.
“Well, I haven’t so far,” Kovac muttered as he left the room.
He was a two-time loser in the marriage-go-round. And still he knew enough to want to be with his partner if she was hurt and frightened. It was a husband’s job to protect and reassure. Apparently, Carey Moore’s husband didn’t know that.
The nanny was standing at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.
“Has Mr. Moore called at all tonight?” Kovac asked.
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Is that the usual for him? He goes out, doesn’t check in with anybody? Doesn’t call to tell his daughter good night?”
“Mr. Moore is a very busy man,” she said. Defensive, her gaze just grazing his shoulder.
“How often is he gone in the evenings?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You live here, don’t you?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Well, it is my business,” Kovac said. “Is he gone a lot?”
“A couple of nights a week,” she said grudgingly. “He’s a very-”
“Busy man. I know.”
He handed the girl his card.
“Will you call me when Mr. Moore gets home?” he asked. “No matter what time it is.”
She frowned at the card. Kovac imagined they didn’t have much crime in the Nordic countries. It was too damned cold, and the people were too polite and too damned good-looking. She was probably contemplating the next plane to Stockholm.
“Don’t let Mrs. Moore sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time,” he instructed as he started down the stairs. “She has a concussion. It’s important to wake her up during the night and make sure she knows her name and where she is.”
The nanny was still staring at his card when he turned to look at her from the front door.
“Tell her I sent you,” he suggested. “She’s already pissed off at me.”
7
KARL DAHL WAS a watcher. He never had much to say. He never had any friends. People didn’t notice him, as a rule. He had learned long ago to melt into the background.
Over the years different people had given him the nickname “Ghost.” He had always been pale, with a sort of a strange gray cast to him. His eyes were gray. His skin had a certain grayness to it.
Different people in his growing-up years had suggested he had maybe gotten lead poisoning or mercury poisoning or some other kind of poisoning. Karl had always figured none of that was the case, else he would have been dead or sickly.
He’d been in jail before. A few times. Jail was not a place to draw attention. Especially not for men with certain proclivities. After his first brutal experience, he had managed to more or less stay out of harm’s way the next time, and the next. But he couldn’t be anonymous this time.
This time everyone in the jail knew who he was and what he had been accused of doing. Everyone in the place hated him. Guards and hardened criminals alike hated him enough to want to hurt him, kill him. Other inmates spat at him when they got the chance. Some shouted threats. It had been made clear that if he fell into the hands of the general population, he wouldn’t come out alive.
Today had been worse than most. Judge Moore had ruled on his “prior bad acts,” as the lawyers called them. News of her ruling had gone through the place like wildfire. The prosecution wouldn’t be allowed to talk about anything he’d been accused or convicted of prior to the Haas murders. That would be a good thing for him, except he didn’t believe a jury would acquit him, no matter what. One of the guards called him Dead Man Walking, and Karl figured that was about right if he stayed in jail.
He had his own cell on the suicide-watch row. Still, he didn’t feel safe. Jail was only meant to keep the
