Every Breath You Take Read online

  “No flirting with Caperton,” Kate teased, looking from the little boy to his devoted nanny.

  “Billy Wyatt is waiting out in the reception room,” Evan’s secretary said as he stalked by her desk, carrying his briefcase and a folded newspaper. “He’s been here since ten o’clock, and he insists on seeing you.”

  “Bring me a glass of water, send someone for a Dr Pepper, and then have him come in,” Evan said curtly. In his office, he slapped the newspaper on his desk and unloaded the files that he’d worked on the night before from his briefcase.

  His secretary arrived with a glass of chilled bottled water, and he sat down behind his desk; then he picked up the Tribune and reread the latest story about another of Kate’s successes. She was like a splinter in his foot that he couldn’t get completely out. Everyone knew they’d been engaged, and every time people started to forget, Kate reemerged as the star in another damned local newspaper or magazine article.

  According to the article before this one, the state’s attorney and the mayor were two of her regular customers. For weeks after that article appeared, Evan couldn’t show his face in the courthouse or anywhere lawyers gathered without being ribbed for failing to recognize what a political advantage he’d sacrificed by not marrying her.

  Today’s article raved about her, as all the other stories had done, but today’s article also included a nice big color photograph of Wyatt’s little bastard and her in the kitchen at Donovan’s. It was the second time he’d seen that picture, the second time he’d had to look at it. The little son of a bitch looked so much like his father that it was uncanny, and that infuriated him even more.

  “Hi, Evan. Thanks for making time for me.”

  Tossing the paper down in disgust, Evan stood up and shook Billy’s hand. At seventeen, Billy was a good-looking kid, a little stocky, as his father had been, but not as pleasant to be around.

  The psychiatrists and the court had both agreed—with a little help from the excellent defense lawyers that Evan’s law firm had selected—that his ADHD medication had caused Billy’s psychotic break the day he shot his father. That didn’t require a big stretch of imagination, since there’d been mounting evidence that the medication could cause psychotic episodes in some people. A year of confinement in a psychiatric hospital, plus ongoing therapy during his three-year probation period, had supposedly helped him resolve conflicts and learn impulse control.

  “How’s your new girlfriend?” Evan asked, trying to remember what Billy had said her name was during his last visit.

  “Rebecca’s fine.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “In group therapy. You probably know her parents—the Crowells?”

  Evan didn’t know them, so he shook his head and ended the small talk. “What can I do for you?” Evan asked, but he already had a good idea why Billy was there. Cecil had died recently, and he’d left one-third of his estate to charity and one-third to Billy, which was to be held in trust until he was thirty, with the stipulation that he forfeited it if he was convicted of any felony in the meantime. The remaining one-third had been left to Mitchell Wyatt, who had already directed the executors to use his share to create the William Wyatt Foundation for Victims of Violence.

  “I want to hire you to break my grandpa Cecil’s will. Mitchell is going to start a fucking foundation with my money, and I want you to stop him before it’s too late. My father is dead, my grandfather and great-grandfather are dead, and everything was supposed to be mine. If my dad hadn’t brought Mitchell into the family, Grandpa wouldn’t have given him my money, and I’d be rich. Instead, I’m supposed to wait around until I’m thirty to get a little bit of what I should have had, and I’m not going to do it. I get off probation in another year and a half, and I want my money, and I want my own life!”

  “Billy, we’ve already had this conversation. As I told you, Cecil’s will was drawn up by the best probate law firm in Chicago. I’ve looked it over, and there’s no way you can get your money back from Mitchell. I know it’s not fair, but you’re going to have to learn to live with it—”

  “You don’t understand! I hate that son of a bitch. I hate him so much I can’t stand it.”

  “Believe me, I know how you feel.”

  Billy looked contemptuous of that possibility, so Evan reached out and shoved the Tribune in front of him. “Do you see that picture? That was my girlfriend. Mitchell Wyatt got her pregnant. See that kid—that’s his kid.”

  Billy studied the boy in the photograph, and then he said in a chilling voice, “So—this makes him what—my cousin?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  THE CLOSEST PARK TO DONOVAN’S TOOK UP AN ENTIRE city block, with paths through the trees leading to all four bordering streets. It was too far away for Danny to walk on his own, but he always insisted on trying anyway and ended up walking beside his stroller part of the way and riding in it the rest. “Look who I see,” Molly told him as they neared the park. “There’s our friend Reba, with a balloon. I wonder who it’s for?”

  “For me!” he said excitedly, clapping his hands in his stroller. He scrambled out of the stroller as soon as they reached the bench by the swings, and he ran to Reba, who was sitting there, reading a book. She’d told Molly two weeks ago, when she first started coming to the park, that she was eighteen and taking some time off before starting college.

  “Hi, Danny,” Reba said, and pretended she didn’t know a red balloon was floating by a string from her hand.

  “Mine?” Danny asked, pointing to the balloon. “Please?” he added with a lopsided grin that never failed to get an answering smile—and usually whatever he wanted, as well.

  Smiling, Reba stood up, still holding the balloon, and gave Molly a wink. “Follow the balloon, Danny, and I’ll show you a surprise.”

  “A turtle!” Danny predicted joyously, following her toward one of the paths, with Molly holding his hand and pushing the empty stroller.

  “Follow the balloon,” Reba chanted over her shoulder as she started down the path.

  “The balloon is the same color as your shirt,” Molly told Danny. “What color is it?”

  “Red!” Danny replied gleefully.

  A thrashing sound in the brush on her left and slightly behind her made Molly turn to look, but all she saw was a baseball bat an instant before it crashed into her skull. She didn’t see the bat being raised again for a second blow or hear Reba say fiercely, “No, don’t, Billy! No one is supposed to get hurt!” She didn’t hear Danny start to cry or call, “Molly, Molly!” She didn’t feel a sheet of paper being shoved down the front of her dress.

  In the park near the swings, two mothers looked up and saw a bright red balloon floating upward from the trees. They didn’t think anything about it until fifteen minutes later, when a woman staggered from the path with blood streaming from her head.

  A block away, on the opposite side of the park, an old man was sitting on a bench tossing peanuts to a squirrel. A young couple emerged from the park, pushing a dark green stroller with a child who was trying to climb out. The young mother laughed and pressed him back down. The old man on the bench didn’t think anything about that until twenty minutes later, when police cars, with sirens screaming and light bars flashing, descended on the park from every direction.

  On the fifth floor of the Richard J. Daley Center, Gray Elliott was in his office, eating lunch at his desk and writing an outline for a speech he was scheduled to give before the Illinois Anti-Crime Commission the following week. With a sandwich in one hand, he picked up his telephone with the other and answered a phone call from police captain Russell Harvey.

  “Gray,” the captain said, “I just got a phone call from a lieutenant downtown who knows that you and I have dinner at Donovan’s once in a while. Kate Donovan’s son was kidnapped from a park near the restaurant an hour ago. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Gray dropped his sandwich on the desk and stood up. “Who caught the case?”

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