You Can't Hide (11 page)

“Why what?”

“You know damn well why what,” Aidan hissed. “Don’t be an asshole,”

Murphy looked up, smiling. Smug bastard. “She broke it off with the guy two weeks from the altar.” His smile faded. “Rumor had it her fiancй cheated on her.”

Aidan shook his head, floored. It would seem he and Tess Ciccotelli did have more in common than he’d originally thought. “Then he was an idiot.”

“On that we agree. You got any lilies yet?”

“Roses, carnations. No lilies, at least not in the quantity we saw in that apartment.”

“Probably bought from at least a few different places. Let’s keep calling until ten. Then we’l go visit the brokerage house where Adams worked.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.

Abandoning her umbrella with a growl, Tess pul ed her cell phone from her pocket after it rang for the third straight time in as many minutes. Somebody was persistent. A glance at the caller ID revealed that somebody to be her secretary.

“Yes, Denise?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended, grimacing when her foot sank into a pothole, soaking her up to the ankle. She ducked beneath the overhang in front of the psychiatric hospital and shivered, shaking the cold dirty water from her right shoe that was probably ruined. It was a miserable morning, cold and rainy. So totally in sync with her mood.

“What’s happened?” she asked more calmly.

“You’ve had some calls this morning, Dr. Chick.”

A shiver that had nothing to do with the icy rain raced down Tess’s spine and she swallowed what was sure to have been a very bad word. “From?”

“A few reporters. One from the
Trib,
one from Channel Eight. They want a comment on the story in this morning’s
Bulletin
.”

A sharp pain arced through her head. “The
Bulletin
.” Visions of a gray-eyed young woman with a long blond braid came to mind. “Let me guess. Joanna Carmichael.”

“No, Cyrus Bremin is the byline, but… yeah. Carmichael’s name’s on the photos. You haven’t seen the article, then?”

Photos.
The pain trebled. “No. How bad is it?”

41

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

“Real bad. You also got two calls from a Dr. Fenwick from the state licensing board. He says you have to call him back immediately.” Denise rattled off the number. “I told him you were consulting this morning, but he insisted.”

Tess’s stomach rol ed as she committed the number to memory. “Any other calls?”

“Mrs. Brown is having panic attacks. I referred her to Dr. Gryce. Mr. Winslow has called three times, demanding to see you and no one else. He sounded hysterical so I penciled him in for three.”

“Thanks.” She dropped her phone in her pocket, her heart beating so hard she thought it would pound straight through her chest. Quickly she scanned the area. There was a bank of newspaper vending machines across the street.

She crossed against the light, earning her blown horns and irate shouts. Her hands trembled as she pul ed the paper from the machine.
The front page.
She was on the front page. The rain pounded her uncovered head, soaking through her coat, but she couldn’t move. Her own face stared up from the page, next to an obscene picture of Cynthia Adams lying impaled on a Chicago street. And the headline that had her heart beating in her throat. NOTED

PSYCHIATRIST IMPLICATED IN PATIENT’S SUICIDE.

Her cell phone rang and woodenly she answered it. “Ciccotelli.”

“It’s Amy. Have you seen the
Bulletin
this morning?”

“Yes.”

Silence buzzed between them as the rain continued to pour. “Where are you, Tess?”

Reality somehow reconnected in her mind and propelled by another one of those bursts of white hot fury, Tess shook herself and tossed the newspaper in the nearest garbage can. She had patients to see and she was wasting time standing in the rain like she had no sense at all. “I’m at the hospital.” Briskly she started back across the road, this time waiting for the light, not caring about the rain. She was already soaked to the skin. “I have to make my rounds now, Amy, but afterwards, it looks like I’l be meeting with the state licensing board. I’l need my attorney with me, I think.”

“Tell me when and where and I’l be there.”

Tess’s throat tightened and she resolutely cleared it. “Thanks.”

Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.

“I’m home.”

Joanna Carmichael looked up from the sports page and nearly choked on her Cocoa Krispies. Her boyfriend stood in the middle of the living room, dripping wet from the rain, one hand clutching a bound stack of newspapers, the other an enormous bouquet of yellow flowers. He wore that big sloppy grin that normally appeared only after sex. “What have you done, Keith?”

“Souvenirs.” The pile of newspapers landed on the table with a thud, sending the milk sloshing from her bowl. He had to have bought twenty copies of the
Bulletin,
each one of them evidence of her editor’s treacherous deceit. Each one bearing Cyrus Bremin’s byline on her story.
My story.
Schmidt had promised her a story. He’d never promised her a byline, she thought bitterly.

Keith shook like a wet dog then presented the bouquet with a regal flourish. “Thought you might want to send a few clippings home.”

Like hell she would. She gritted her teeth. “Keith, it’s not my story.”

His smile faded and he stood there, still holding the flowers she refused to take. “Of course it is. And on the front page, too.”

“It’s Bremin’s story,” she spat. “He got my byline because he’s the senior investigative reporter at the paper. That asshole Schmidt gave him my story.”

“Your name’s next to the pictures,” he said quietly, putting the flowers aside, all the happiness gone from his face.

42

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

“A photo credit.” She sneered at it. “I’m not a photographer. I’m a journalist and if you had any sense at all you’d see the difference.”

He slicked back his wet hair. “I think I have a great deal of sense, Jo. I see the difference. I also see your name in a major paper, on the front page. It’s what you wanted. What you wanted to prove to your father you could do. On your own. Now we can go home.”

She shoved the papers to the floor, mention of her father and his infuriating condescension bringing her blood to a boil. “I’m nowhere close to being ready to go home, Keith. Not until I have a byline above the fold on page one. Not before.”

He stood there for a moment, just looking at her with that expression that had always made her want to squirm. “You’ve done something good here, Jo. You’ve exposed a doctor who hurt her own clients. Maybe if you could see around your own ego, you’d see it was true. I’ve been patient with you, but your name is on page one. You said when that happened we could back to Atlanta. Jo, I want to go home.”

“Then go.” Disgusted she got up to put her bowl in the sink. “But go alone. I’m not leaving this town until I’m above the fold.” She glared at Cyrus Bremin’s name, mocking her from the stack of papers on the floor. “I’ve got to have some leverage with Schmidt.” A thought formed amid the bubbling fury. “An exclusive with Ciccotelli would do it. She told me to give her a call.” She looked over to see Keith’s back as he retreated to the bedroom and felt a sudden surge of guilt. “Keith, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I was just so disappointed.”

He nodded without turning around. “Don’t forget to put the flowers in water. You always forget and then they die.”

Joanna shrugged away her uneasiness. Keith would come around. In the six years they’d been going steady, he always had. Now she had to focus on what was really important. Getting Ciccotelli to agree to an exclusive. After this morning’s article it wouldn’t be easy, but she could blame the debacle on Bremin, clearing her own way. It could work. Then she’d be able to prove her father wrong. She could make it in journalism without his help. She’d be able to take her place in the family news business with a credential she’d earned herself.
Monday, March 13, 9:15 A.M.

Aidan blinked when a newspaper landed on his desk midway into his tenth florist call. He glanced up to see his lieutenant’s face, tight-lipped and stern, then dropped his eyes back down to the page. And stared as the florist’s voice became just a buzzing in his ear. “Um, ma’am, I’l have to call you back.” He hung up the phone and picked up the paper. It was the
Bulletin,
one step up from a supermarket tabloid.

And Ciccotel i’s face stared up at him from the front page. “Murphy, look at this.”

Murphy lurched to his feet, his eyes hard and cold. “Who printed this shit?”

“Cyrus Bremin,” Spinnelli bit out, his mustache quivering in bottled rage. “He says he has an anonymous source inside CPD. Find out who corroborated his story. I want him in my office, ASAP.” The door to his office slammed, sending window blinds rattling. Murphy still stared at the black-and-white page. “I’l talk to Bremin,” he said, very quietly.

“He’l identify his source fast enough.”

“And get us in deeper with the press. You’re always telling me to keep my head. This time, preach to your own choir, Murphy.” Aidan studied the picture of Adams. “This must have been taken before I got to the scene, because I pushed the crowd across the street and told Forbes and DiBello to watch for cameras.” He squinted at the photo credit. “It says Joanna Carmichael took the picture.” He typed Carmichael’s name into his computer. “Well, well. Look where Miss Carmichael calls home.”

Murphy looked over his shoulder. “Cynthia Adams’s building. She walked right into that story, lucky bitch.”

“She gets a date with us, so maybe she’s not so lucky.” Aidan printed the address just as Spinnelli’s door opened.

43

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

“Conference room in thirty,” Spinnelli barked. “Call Jack Unger down in CSU and get him there, too. The SA wants to talk.”

Monday, March 13, 9:30 A.M.

Witnesses had been expected. Photographers had not.

Merry Christmas to me.
Cynthia Adams lay right on the front page, her heart on her sleeve, so to speak. But even better was the sight of the ever-popular Tess Ciccotelli, looking worried and worn. A person couldn’t buy that kind of publicity. All in al , a very good day so far. Mr. Avery Winslow was progressing right according to schedule as well. All afternoon he’d alternated between pacing his living room, rocking himself in the nursery and frantically calling his trusted psychiatrist.

He was much more mentally unstable than Cynthia Adams had been. She’d been resistant. Very adept at denying the very thing she feared the most. Frustrating business, it had been. Seemed like every time Adams came close, she’d pul ed herself back, denying she’d heard a thing. Sometimes even denying she’d had a sister at all. Her “medication” had to be upped three times before she was sufficiently unhinged. Ultimately the use of unnatural chemicals had been required. PCP pushed her over.

The lilies had been a masterful touch, the picture of her sister hanging from a noose, the icing on the cake, as it were. The birthday cake. The calendar had been very cooperative in the mental decomposition of Miss Cynthia Adams.

The calendar would be the key to turning Mr. Avery Winslow as well. That and the nonstop crying of an infant. Masterful.

And, if pretty little Nicole was fulfilling her responsibilities, at this very moment poor Mr. Winslow was receiving one more candid photo that should push him over the edge. Dragging his trusted Dr. Ciccotelli with him.

Monday, March 13, 9:45 A.M.

States Attorney Patrick Hurst tossed the newspaper to the table in disgust. “Dammit. This is bad, Marc. Real y, real y bad.”

Jack Unger from CSU pul ed the paper to his side of the table and studied it. “Who is Bremin’s anonymous source?”

Murphy scowled. “We don’t know. He wasn’t there last night. The photographer was. The two uniforms first on the scene remember seeing Carmichael in the crowd, but deny having said a word to her.”

“Anyone on shift yesterday could have seen Ciccotelli come in with us.” Aidan shrugged uneasily, remembering how angry he’d been. One look at his own face would have given her away. “Her attorney signed in downstairs, so anybody looking at the log knew she was here. Lots of people would have seen them leave together. None of them will admit to talking to the press, Marc, but we all know that any of them would have been more than happy to do it.”

Spinnelli folded the paper so that Ciccotelli’s face no longer stared out at them. “True enough. But we’l investigate the leak along with everything else, just like we always do. So why are we really here, Patrick? Your visit seems a bit… premature.”

The SA sighed. “I’m here because this has implications far beyond Tess Ciccotelli’s innocence or guilt or even beyond finding whoever did this to that poor woman.”

“Cynthia Adams,” Aidan said softly, then lifted his brows when Patrick frowned at him. “That was the poor woman’s name.”

Compassion flickered in the SA’s eyes. “I know that, too, Detective. But right now we haven’t even ruled Miss Adams’s death a homicide.” He lifted his hand before Aidan could argue. “You’l investigate. You’l find who did this. I’m not telling you to stop. In fact I’m telling you to hurry. The big issue here is Dr. Ciccotelli’s credibility on past cases. That you’ve brought her in for

44

Karen Rose

[Suspense 5]

You Can't Hide

questioning is public knowledge now, thanks to Bremin and the
Bulletin
. Every defense attorney who’s lost a case where Ciccotelli has testified will be citing grounds for appeal. This could be devastating for my office. Do you know how many cases she’s been involved in over the last five years?”

Yes,
Aidan thought. Now he knew exactly how many. And Kristen had been absolutely right. Harold Green was an aberration. Tess Ciccotelli had done more than her share to put some very bad guys away. The knowledge left him subdued. “Forty-six,” he murmured. Spinnelli’s mustache bunched over his pursed lips. “What?”