Gallagher Justice

“We’ve sent a sample of the ink to the lab, but you can get stamp pads in any discount or office supply store, and those temporary tattoos are sold out of vending machines.”

“It’s the symbol that’s bugging me,” Doggett said. “Why a trident?”

“At least it’s not a swastika,” Meredith said dryly. “Or a pentagram. God knows we see our share of those.” She gave Doggett a moment longer to study the X-rays. “Are you staying for the autopsy?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t just a matter of duty, but a matter of conscience. His way of paying respect to the victim. Doggett never walked out on an autopsy, no matter how gruesome.

Meredith nodded briskly. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Doggett followed her into the autopsy room where Alicia Mercer’s nude body waited for them on a cold, stainless-steel table.

* * *

THE AIR-CONDITIONING in the courtroom was operating in hyperdrive, and Fiona shivered as she glanced around the packed benches, picking out faces in the crowd that she recognized. She was seated at the prosecution table with Milo, who was busy going over his notes. Fiona knew that she should do the same, but her gaze kept straying back to the visitors’ block where a dozen or more cops from Area Three, both in uniforms and plainclothes, had turned out in a show of support for Vince DeMarco.

Fiona came from a long line of cops. The Gallaghers were almost legendary in the police department. Her grandfather, her father, her three brothers...all Chicago PD. So she knew cops. She knew how they walked, how they talked, how they thought. But the one thing she’d never been able to understand about them, no matter their rank, was the blind loyalty to the brotherhood.

Most of the police officers she knew were good, decent, hardworking guys who would never, in a million years, condone rape. They recognized the crime for what it was—an act of violence. In most cops’ estimation, a rapist ranked just slightly above a child molester, and yet here a dozen or so of Chicago’s finest—those good, decent, hardworking men—sat lending moral support to a creep like DeMarco. And all because he was a fellow police officer.

But that view was simplistic and more than a little unfair, Fiona knew. Most of the officers in the courtroom had undoubtedly managed to convince themselves, with Quinlan’s help, that DeMarco was the victim. He was a good cop being railroaded by a vindictive junkie and by an out-of-control prosecutor who had started to believe her own press. Fiona Gallagher, the Iron Maiden, was building herself quite the reputation by going after cops—first Quinlan and now DeMarco.

As for Fiona, she had no doubt whatsoever of DeMarco’s guilt. She didn’t care what his fellow cops thought. She didn’t care what Frank Quinlan had force-fed them into believing. All she had to do was look into DeMarco’s eyes, those cold, dark, soulless eyes, to know the truth.

“You raped that poor girl, didn’t you, Detective DeMarco? You saw her on the street that night, you accosted her, and you’re not the type to take no for an answer. When she wouldn’t go with you willingly, you forced her into that alley, tried to beat her into submission, and then, when that didn’t work, you put your gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed. Isn’t that what happened? Admit it, Detective. You raped that girl, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“No! I didn’t touch her! I swear! I wouldn’t do something like that. I’m a cop, for God’s sake. I took an oath to protect people like Kimbra Williams. I would never hurt anyone.”

So earnest, so sincere. The jury had hung on his every word.

But his eyes had told Fiona something very different. His eyes had taunted her, conveyed to her secretly that, yeah, he’d done it. He’d do it again, too, if the mood struck him, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Maybe you’d like to be next, Counselor.

He hadn’t said it aloud, but the message was so clear in his eyes that for a moment, Fiona was the one who had been rattled by the cross-examination. And it hadn’t helped her poise to know that Frank Quinlan was sitting on the front row, his beady eyes tracking her every move as she walked back to the prosecution table.

He was there again today. Fiona had seen him when she first entered the courtroom. He’d been sitting front and center, in full-dress uniform, brass stars shimmering in the fluorescent lighting as he’d clapped a supportive hand on DeMarco’s shoulder.

Milo muttered something under his breath, then leaned toward Fiona. “Did you see all the brass from police headquarters walk in? What the hell are they doing here?”

“Are you kidding? Didn’t you see the TV cameras out front?” Fiona glanced over her shoulder, her gaze once again sweeping the crowded courtroom. Milo was right. The big guns were out in full force, including Deputy Chief of Detectives Clare Fox. She wore her dress uniform, too, and her stars seemed to shine just a little more brilliantly than Quinlan’s.

Milo tugged at his tie. “Hell, with all this attention, you’d think we had O.J. in here.”

“A cop accused of rape is pretty good copy,” Fiona said. “Especially a hero like DeMarco. But at least the reporting so far has been fair.”

“Fair?” Milo grinned. “Ever since you cooperated with that IAD investigation, you own the guy at the Trib.”

“Which I’m sure endears me even more to Frank Quinlan,” she said dryly.

Milo’s grin disappeared. “Quinlan’s got some heavy-duty connections, Fiona. Don’t underestimate him.”

She turned in surprise. “Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were starting to get paranoid on me, Milo. What’s with all these warnings? First Guy and now Quinlan?”

He frowned. “Those two have more in common than you might think.”

She lifted a brow. “Such as?”

Milo turned away, but not before she’d seen something dark flicker in his eyes. That secret again. “They can both be major-league assholes,” he muttered, but Fiona didn’t think that was what he’d meant to say at all.

More and more, she was starting to think that there was something on Milo’s mind, something he wanted to confide in her, but for some reason, felt he couldn’t. The vague warnings were starting to make her uneasy around him.

But at least his appearance was somewhat reassuring. He was dressed today like the Milo she was accustomed to—gray suit, neatly combed hair, dark-rimmed glasses that made him look boyish and earnest. A persona that might or might not be an asset if the jurors compared it to the dark, smoldering sex appeal of Vince DeMarco.

“Only one person missing from this circus,” he said, turning to scan the courtroom. “Where in the hell is Kimbra? Have you heard from her this morning?”

“I haven’t talked to her since court yesterday, but she promised me she’d be here.”

Milo’s lips thinned. “And if she doesn’t show?”

“Then we could be in some deep you-know-what here. But she still has a few more minutes. I’m not giving up on her just yet.”

But it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise if Kimbra didn’t show, even though Fiona had stressed over and over how important it was for the jury to see her in the courtroom today. But that was Kimbra’s MO. When the going got tough, she ran.

Not that Fiona could blame her. It couldn’t be easy sitting in court day in and day out with her attacker only a few feet away, his smoldering gaze mocking her at every turn. The jury saw only one side of Vincent DeMarco, the good-looking, sexy cop who wouldn’t need to resort to rape when he could have any woman he wanted, even one as young and exotically attractive as Kimbra.

But rape wasn’t about sex. It was about power. It was about domination and humiliation.

And humiliation was something Fiona could relate to.

You didn’t fall in love with a man who’d killed three women and not want to curl up and die at your own gullibility—at your own blind stupidity for not having seen through such evil, for not having been able to stop it.

Which was why Fiona had to stop it now.

Almost against her will, she glanced at the table across the aisle. Vincent DeMarco met her gaze and smiled, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Then a commotion at the back of the courtroom drew his attention, and Fiona saw anger flash across his face. He turned and said something to Quinlan, and the older cop nodded in grim agreement.

Fiona shifted her gaze to see what had caused their agitation, and relief swept through her. Kimbra and Rachel Torres, the woman who ran the runaway shelter where Kimbra sometimes stayed, had just come into the courtroom. They paused at the back, and then Kimbra started forward with a little stumble, as if Rachel had had to nudge her to get her to move. The girl’s expression was frozen. She glanced neither to the right nor to the left as she stepped up to the prosecution table and took her seat.

Fiona turned and put her hand over Kimbra’s. “Thanks for coming.”

Kimbra shrugged. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Fiona squeezed her fingers. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but you’ve done great so far. Just hang in there a little longer, okay? It’ll all be over soon.”

“Then he’s goin’ to prison, right?” Kimbra turned eyes that looked as old as time on Fiona. “Cuz if he don’t do no time for this, I’m a dead woman.”

A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine at the certainty in the girl’s voice. “If he threatens you in any way—”