the door wider, allowing them to enter. Once they were in the room, Kelly directed them to the sitting area. “Please, sit down.”
Leon opted for the small sofa, his large frame taking up most of the space, while Jack chose one of the two armchairs that had been grouped with the sofa around a coffee table.
“There’s probably some soda or wine in the minibar. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Jack said, not bothering to point out that they were on duty.
“Nothing for me, either, ma’am,” Leon replied.
“All right.” Kelly took a seat in the other chair and clasped her hands together. “You said you had some questions for me.”
“We need to go over a few details in the statement you gave to Sergeant Russo last night,” Jack began. For a moment, he debated reminding her that they had met before, but decided against it. Best to keep things professional, he reasoned.
They went over the details of her statement again and Kelly related the events of the evening—picking up the newspaper, having a vision of the man in the car with the woman in black, of that woman removing a gun from her bag and shooting him. And given Kelly’s stricken expression as she related the incident for them, Jack concluded that whether she’d had a vision of the killing or had seen the thing firsthand, the experience had been real for her.
“And you have no idea who the victim or the alleged woman with the gun were?” Leon asked.
“None at all.”
“You have to admit it seems kind of strange that you should know every detail about the man’s murder, but not know who he or his killer was.”
“Believe me, Detective, I’m aware of how strange it sounds. But it’s the truth. I’ve never laid eyes on either of them before I picked up that newspaper in the café. And even then, I didn’t see them in the traditional sense.”
“What about a description of the woman?” Jack asked. “Can you tell us what she looked like?”
Kelly shifted her somber brown eyes to his face. “I’m afraid it was dark inside the car and she was wearing some kind of cloak with a hood that shadowed her face. I never got a clear look at her. Only of her gloved hand reaching for the gun, then pulling the trigger.”
“You said she called the man ‘Doctor,”’ Jack pointed out, approaching it from a different slant. “Do you think you’d be able to recognize her voice if you heard it again?”
Kelly paused, seeming to consider his question for a moment. “I doubt it. She spoke very softly, almost a whisper. And the man, well he was breathing kind of hard, like he was winded or maybe had asthma or something. Plus with the street noise and music, she could be sitting across the table talking to me right now and I don’t know that I’d recognize her voice.”
“What about—”
Leon’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and answered the phone. “Jerevicious. Yeah? Hang on a second.” He stood. “I’m going to need to take this call.”
“If you want some privacy, you’re welcome to go into the bedroom,” Kelly offered.
“Thanks,” he told her, and disappeared into the adjoining room.
When they were alone, Kelly said, “I see you decided to follow your dream after all.”
“I didn’t think you remembered me,” Jack told her, unable to mask his surprise.
Kelly gave him a slow smile. “I was an impressionable teenager the last time I saw you. It’s not likely that I’d forget the man who saved my most valuable possession.”
Jack swallowed, taken aback by her candor. He also worried that the event had traumatized her more than he’d ever suspected. “Actually, I don’t think those punks would have really done anything to you. At heart, they were cowards who got their kicks out of scaring young girls. I doubt they’d have taken things any further.”
The smile turned into a chuckle. “I wasn’t referring to my virtue, Detective Callaghan. I was talking about my camera. I’d worked after school and on weekends for six months to buy it. It was my most valuable possession.”
Jack flushed, felt like an idiot for overreacting.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t resist,” she said, stifling a grin. “From your expression, it was obvious that you were worried I’d been permanently scarred by that incident in the park. I wasn’t.”
“You could have been.”
The smile faded from her lips. “Trust me, Detective. Benny Farrell and Reed Parker weren’t the first ones to think that, because no one else wanted me, I was fair game for them to do whatever they pleased to me. I never lost any sleep because of them. I’m tougher than that.”
Because she had had to be. Admiration and anger ripped at him as he thought of what her life must have been like. “I’m sorry. I never really thought about what it was like for you growing up at St. Ann’s.”
“There was no reason for you to,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “You come from a close-knit family, but I don’t. That’s not anyone’s fault. It’s simply the way things are. It’s certainly not something you should feel guilty about.”
“I don’t. I’m just sorry that your life was so tough.”
“Don’t be,” she informed him, her voice turning chilly. She stood, crossed her arms. “I’ve done just fine for myself. So you can save your pity, Detective. I don’t need it or want it.”
Jack shot to his feet. “First off, the name’s Jack. Since we share some history, I think we can dispense with the formalities. Second, you can quit trying to put words in my mouth. I don’t feel guilty because you grew up without a family and I sure as hell don’t pity you. I admire you. I did back when you were a kid. And I do now because you obviously did make something of yourself.”
She opened her mouth then clamped it shut, as though his remark had taken the wind out of her sails. After a moment, she whooshed out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to say with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d just been poked with a needle.
Jack chuckled. “I get the feeling that you don’t do that often. Apologize,” he explained.
“I don’t.”
“Don’t make many mistakes, huh?”
“Hardly,” she said. “I make tons of them. But I try not to do or say things that I’ll regret.”
“Guess that explains why you look as though chewing a bucket of nails would have been preferable to telling me you’re sorry,” he teased.
Streaks of color raced up her pale cheeks. “It would have,” she admitted. “I guess I’m a little sensitive about my heritage. Or lack thereof.”
“A little sensitive?” he prompted, hoping to get her to smile at him again.
“All right. A lot sensitive,”
