No Hero (20 page)

Her shoulder lifted defensively. “So I lied.”

“This is not
a damn joke, Connor. Have you forgotten that you were almost killed? That three boys have been murdered?”

“I haven’t forgotten. I know it’s not a joke, Dev.” To diffuse his anger, she gestured toward the front room. “So you got all the kids farmed out to other shelters?”

He nodded. “Some of them weren’t thrilled. But they’re all gone.”

She waited a moment, but he didn’t ask her about her trip to Angola. “Do you want to know what I found out?”

His face was shuttered, his jaw working. He glared at her for a minute, then made a noise of frustration and defeat. “Tell me,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Reghan raked her fingers through her hair and suppressed a yawn. She was so tired. She didn’t think she’d had five hours’ sleep since she was attacked. And right now, she’d give a month’s salary for a caffeine infusion. “You think I could get some coffee?”

Dev frowned at her. “You think you could do what I ask, just once?”

“Ask?” she echoed, her brows rising. His expression didn’t change.

“Fine.” She stretched, arching her back, then sat on the old couch and pushed her fingers through her hair. “Fontenot’s dying.”

Dev’s gaze sharpened but his voice didn’t. “Am I supposed to express my condolences?”

“Of course not. It’s just—” she hugged herself. “He’s in kidney failure. They have him in the prison hospital. The doctor told me he’ll probably be dead within the next few days.”

“What the hell, Connor? You sound sad.”

“No. Heck, no. It’s just—” She spread her hands, careful not to stretch the splinted fingers of her right hand too much. The cut was stinging and burning after hours of trying to find a way to hold onto the steering wheel comfortably. “He’s old and pathetic and—he likes me.”

“So you’ve said. What the hell difference does that make? I don’t understand.”

She sighed. “Trust me. I don’t understand, either. I can’t help it, though. It’s sad when someone dies.”

His expression hardened. “Yeah, no kidding.” Then he shrugged off whatever image or memory her words had conjured in his mind. “So are you saying the danger is over?”

She shook her head. “No. Just the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember, I told you I didn’t think he would hurt me? Well, I was right. He’s very weak, very sick. And he was appalled when he saw my injuries. He became agitated. He said some things.”

“You should have taken me with you.”

Gee, where had she heard that before? She hiked a brow. “In the mood you were in this morning? You’d have blown a fuse if I’d even mentioned it. You were that determined to rush us out of town. Besides, you refused when I asked you to take me with you to see him yesterday. Why would I think you’d changed your mind by today?”

Dev didn’t acknowledge her question. He picked up a pencil and twirled it, seeming interested in the way it moved. After a few seconds, he asked, “So what did he say?”

“He apologized for causing me to be hurt. He said he’d lost control.”

Dev looked up. “Control of what? Do you think he even knew what he was saying?”

“I think he knew exactly what he was saying. They had him on oxygen but he didn’t sound crazy. Not too crazy, anyhow. I think he meant he’d lost control of the killer. He said it was out of his hands. And then, he warned me to be careful. He told me that my life is in danger.”

Dev stopped fooling with the pencil and sat back. “That’s hardly news.”

“True,” she said ruefully, touching the bandage on her neck. “But Dev,
he
said it. Gerard Fontenot. You should have heard him.”

Dev’s mouth thinned. “I know. He didn’t by any chance spill the name of the murderer?”

She allowed herself a wry smile. “I wish.”

His eyes flashed. “Did you record him?”

“No. They wouldn’t let me take anything into the hospital room—not even my phone. He rambled a lot, but he did say those things—he’d lost control, and my life is in danger. He also said something about the father and the child.”

“The father and the child. He said that on the DVD. I don’t suppose he explained that either?”

She shook her head.

He leaned forward. “Okay. So you got to talk to him. He said some interesting things. But did he give you anything concrete? Something we can hang our case on? Or was he just raving because he had his favorite audience?”

“The man is insane. He’s a sociopath and a psychopath, and who knows what else. But he’s not stupid. He knows what he’s doing, and I believe even now, as sick as he is, everything he says is calculated. He told me he’s lost control, and I believe him.”

Dev made a noncommittal noise.

“I asked the warden about visitors, phone calls, letters. Anything that would indicate that he’s in contact with someone on the outside.”

Dev rocked back in his chair again. “Benoit talked to the warden when he was up there. I haven’t seen his report, but he mentioned he’d asked about all that.”

“Do you know what the warden told me? He said the only visitor Fontenot has ever had, besides me, is his attorney.”

“Yeah, Benoit said there’s no record of any other visitors. But that’s hard to believe.”

Reghan nodded her agreement. “I know. The warden assured me that they make every single visitor sign in, and they record all phone calls.”

“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me,” Dev said. “He’s a monster. Who would be his friend? Who would admit to being his family? So the attorney—he’s the big guy from Laurence and Associates who defended him at the trial? I can’t remember his name.”

“No. It’s a woman.”

“A woman? There was no woman on his case. What’s her name?”

“Galloway. I think her first name is Shareese. According to the warden, she dresses like she’s going to a party, not court, and always wears dark glasses. He said she’s in her mid-thirties. She’s only visited a few times. The last visit was back in June. He said she calls about once a month or so.”

“Did he say what they talk about?”

“The warden says nothing,” she told him. “Or at least nothing substantial. He says she lets Fontenot ramble on for hours. They have the recordings, but the warden said it would take weeks if not months to go through all of them.”

Dev stood. “Where is this attorney? Did you get her address?”

“I have it right here.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a tiny, spiral-bound notebook and flipped to where she’d recorded the information the warden had given her.

“Okay. Shareese Galloway. Here’s the number.” She scribbled the name and number on another page, her handwriting jerky and messy because she had to do it with her left hand, and tore it out and handed it to Dev. “Do you think she’s working on an appeal?”

He shook his head. “Who knows? I’ll give this to Givens. Benoit probably got the same information but it won’t hurt to double-check. He can contact her, bring her in for questioning, if he hasn’t already. Do you know where she works? What firm?”

“You’ve got everything I found out,” she responded. “What are you thinking? That she’s not really his attorney?”

“I don’t know. I want to look at that disk again.”

She almost groaned. “I think you’ve seen everything that relates to you—” But Dev was already clicking the remote control. He sat back down on the coffee table. Reluctantly, she sat on the couch, resting her splinted hand on her lap.
Lovely
. Just what she needed. One more viewing of Fontenot’s dissecting her psyche.

…

“You know you’re sitting way too close to the TV,” Connor grumbled. “You’re not supposed to—”

Dev quelled her with a glance as he hit play. He could tell she didn’t want to watch this again. He didn’t either. Hell, he’d already listened to the damned DVD a dozen times; he could just about lip-sync the thing. But he wanted to listen to Fontenot’s exact words again, this time armed with the new information Connor had just given him.

He stopped at a place in the recording where she was still talking.

“—the justice system that put you in prison,” she was saying.

“My dear Reghan. You are smarter than that. I’m not talking about the penitentiary. I’m talking about this damn chair. You know the story. During his
oh-so-daring
rescue of his partner, Maxwell, and his wife, Gautier slammed me against a marble-topped table and broke my spine. I will never walk again. That cretin stole my freedom. But I am not defeated. I have resources I have not even begun to tap.”

“Resources?” Connor’s voice echoed.

Fontenot glanced directly at the camera for an instant, and Dev froze the disk. In all the times he’d faced Fontenot in court or watched the disk, he’d never actually looked at the man’s eyes. He’d never wanted to study him that closely.

“What?” Connor asked from beside him. “What is it?”

He put his hand on her knee and tipped his head toward the TV screen. “Look at that. There’s something…I don’t know. What is it about his eyes?”

Her delicate brows furrowed. “They’re the strangest color of light blue I’ve ever seen. And they’re a little scary. When he looks at you—” She shivered. “—it’s like looking into a—a glacier.”

“Yeah,” Dev said. Something niggled at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t quite capture the thought.

She shifted slightly, and Dev realized his hand was still resting on her knee. He glanced down at it, feeling as if his appendage didn’t really belong to him. He rarely touched anyone, certainly not absently. But he seemed to take every opportunity these days to touch Connor, when he had no conscious idea why. It wasn’t just lust, he was certain of that by now. The yearning for closeness between them was different, more than physical. Touch implied trust, and there were few people Dev trusted. It had never occurred to him to count Connor among that sparse company.

He raised his gaze and met hers. The electric energy that crackled between them centered on his hand. He jerked it away and turned back to the screen, hitting play.

“I will reach out, Ms. Connor,” Fontenot said. “I am the father, the child, and the spirit. No one can equal me. Your Detective Gautier will suffer much more at my hand than I ever did at his. He will know the hell of watching that which he values most, destroyed. All it will take is a mere flick of the wrist, and the slice of life becomes the slice of death. No one’s future is safe.
No one.
You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Dev rewound the disk, replaying the exact same moment.

“I will reach out, Ms. Connor. I am the father, the child, and the spirit. No one can equal me. Your Detective—”

Dev stopped it. “I wonder if that really is just rambling.”

Reghan angled her head consideringly. “I doubt it. See how carefully he talks? How he looks into the camera when he makes certain statements? I don’t think he says a single word that he hasn’t planned and rehearsed.”

“That may be true. But what if he’s just a very smart raving lunatic?”

She leaned back against the cushions. “Think about it, Dev. What do the police have on the killer’s profile?”

Dev smiled wryly. “Not much. They were pretty sure they had a standard serial killer until your attack got thrown into the equation.”

“But my attack does fit, doesn’t it?” She touched her neck. “The characteristics of the wounds, the probable weapon?”

Dev stood and paced. “On the surface. The weapon, the wound. The only thing that doesn’t fit is you—the victim. The other three weren’t chosen randomly, they were chosen because of their connection with me, or with the center. But you…”

She gave him a withering look. “Oh come on, Dev. I’m connected with you, too. And once I was on the police’s radar as being stalked, I was connected with the center. You brought me here to protect me, just as you do everyone else in your life.”

He bristled. “Because you had information linking the killings,” he qualified.

“Information I had only because Fontenot gave it to me.”

“So what are you saying? That he not only planned and practiced what he wanted to say in the interview, but he also carefully fed you the information he wanted you to have? Why? What’s his motive?”

“Because he gets no pleasure out of what he does unless he has an admiring audience?” She looked thoughtful. “Or maybe he knew I’d—”

“He knew you would come to me eventually,” he completed.

She looked grim.

“So why did he have you attacked?” he said. That still didn’t fit.

“Exactly,” she said, poking the air with a finger for emphasis. “I think that’s what he meant when he said he’d lost control. He wanted me involved, because he wanted—or needed—another way to get to you, to draw you in. But I’m thinking he must have told the killer not to hurt me. And the killer went against his orders.”

It was as good a theory as any. But it was still all conjecture.

Dev rubbed the back of his neck. “You still want that coffee? I’m buying.”

…

Reghan followed him into the kitchen, where a fluorescent light over the sink spread a dim halo across the floor. “I’d love a couple of ibuprofen if you’ve got them.”

Yawning, she looked out the bare windows of the back door, into a dark alley. She turned back to see Dev head to a drawer and retrieve a small plastic bottle, popping the top for her.

“Got a headache?”

“No,” she said, taking two tablets from him. “My hand hurts.”

“From driving,” Dev said. “I told you—”

“Could you just make the coffee?” she interrupted as she sat down at the table. “Don’t need the lecture.”

He made a face but thankfully started the process. While she waited, she idly traced the scratches and knife marks on its surface with a fingertip. “What happened today? Did you find Nicky?” she asked.

“Yeah. We found him at his apartment, sacked out. Biaggi, the cop you saw this morning, hauled him in for questioning. I told Givens to lean on him, but I think he overdid it. Biaggi told me he had to practically carry Nicky back to his apartment. The poor kid was totally wiped out.”

“You should have had Biaggi bring him here.”

“Yeah. That was the plan, but Biaggi said Nicky wanted to go to his apartment to get something. Next thing Biaggi knew, Nicky had flopped onto his bed and gone to sleep.”