The Littlest Witness

John put down his own cup and leaned his arms on the bar, trying to appear relaxed and unthreatening. “Has she always been like this?”

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer. That same fierce protectiveness he’d witnessed earlier came over her features, and she frowned. “No. Just since her father died.”

“I see.” A widow. That might explain a lot, John thought, and not just the lack of male paraphernalia in the apartment. It might also explain the glimmer of desperation he’d seen in Thea Lockhart’s dark eyes, and the fear. And the fact that she seemed to have a hard time looking him in the eye, acknowledging the unmistakable physical attraction that clung to their glances, their voices, the air around them. She might feel guilty about that, he decided, although there was no reason to. He didn’t intend to act on his impulses and he was certain she didn’t, either.

“How did her father die?” he asked carefully.

“An accident. A…tragic accident. Nikki hasn’t gotten over it yet, and I…don’t like to talk about it.”

“I understand. But if there’s even a slim chance that Nikki was on the roof last night, Mrs. Lockhart—”

“Thea,” she said quickly. Their gazes met for a moment, and then hers darted away. She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and rinsed out the cup. “You can call me Thea.”

“That’s a very pretty name.”

“It’s for my grandmother,” she said, and then looked as if she wished she could take it back.

He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Does your grandmother live here in Chicago?”

She almost smiled, too, as if recognizing his tactic. “My grandmother’s been dead for years, Detective.”

“John.” When she gave him a reluctant glance, he said, “I’m named for my father, Sean.”

“You’re Irish?”

“Very.”

“An Irish cop. That’s almost a cliché, isn’t it?”

“In that case, my whole family is a cliché.”

John had never seen a person’s demeanor change so rapidly. She’d been wary before, even a little frightened, but now her expression took on a frozen look, as if she’d donned a mask to hide her true identity, her real feelings. He’d wanted to put her at ease, but instead, her armor had grown thicker. She said stiffly, “You come from a family of cops.” It wasn’t a question, but a flat emotionless statement.

John shrugged. “Guilty.”

“I imagine you look out for each other. Take care of each other.”

John frowned at her tone. “Occasionally,” he said, thinking about his brothers. Actually he would be the last person Nick would come to for help, and Tony…well, Tony was another story.

Thea said quietly, “I’d like you to go now, Detective. There’s really nothing my daughter and I can do to help you.”

She was good, John realized suddenly. Too damn good. She’d distracted him from the questions he’d been intent on asking about her daughter, and all the while, convinced him he was the one in control.

He stared down at her, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her dark eyes were deep and unfathomable, a mysterious blend of fear, guile and cunning. A very dangerous mix.

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Lockhart.”

One brow rose slightly, and he could see that the fingers clinging to the tiny gold chain around her throat trembled. His gaze dipped, in spite of himself, to the curves beneath her sweater, and an image of that lacy white bra leaped to his mind. He could almost see her in it, her breasts straining against the fabric, his thumb stroking her through the silk—

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said hoarsely.

His gaze shot to hers. I doubt that, he wanted to tell her. Then again, maybe she did know. Maybe that was why the blush on her cheeks had deepened, standing out starkly against the ivory of her complexion. Her brown eyes flashed with sudden fire, and John thought absurdly that if he hadn’t met her under these circum-stances…if she wasn’t a recent widow…if his marriage hadn’t made him more than a little careful…

“You’re thinking that if Nikki was on that roof, you might have an eyewitness to Gail Waters’s death. It would be cut and dried. You could close your case. But you’re wrong, Detective. My daughter wasn’t on that roof. She couldn’t have been.”

“But what if she was?” John challenged, ignoring the flicker of fear in her eyes. “What if Gail Waters didn’t commit suicide?”

She gasped slightly, her face going paler.

“What if she was murdered and your daughter saw it all? What if she is the only one who can identify the killer? Have you thought about that, Mrs. Lockhart?”

Chapter Three

After John left Thea that morning, he drove to the county morgue, housed in the huge Chicago Technology Park off Harrison. He’d called earlier and was expected.

“What’s so important about this case that I had to come in here to do the autopsy on a Sunday morning?” the assistant medical examiner demanded as she shoved a file in an already bulging drawer and slammed it shut.

John shrugged. “I figured you didn’t have anything better to do. Vince is out of town, isn’t he?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”

“Heard it through the grapevine.” John wasn’t about to admit to his ex-wife that he occasionally kept tabs on her new husband. Nor was he going to confide in her the possible significance of the Gail Waters case. Meredith hadn’t been very supportive when his father had disappeared seven years ago. She’d suggested Sean might have been involved in something shady or even a cover-up to protect his youngest son, Tony, from suspicion in his girlfriend’s brutal murder.

John had not taken kindly to Meredith’s insinuations, although, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit the occasional doubt about his father’s disappearance had crossed his own mind. Sean Gallagher wouldn’t have been the first cop to go off the deep end, nor the first man to walk out on his family. He and John’s mother, Maggie, had not exactly had a marriage made in heaven. And what with Tony’s troubles back then…

John forced his thoughts back to the present, letting his gaze rove critically over his ex-wife. He hated to admit it, but she looked good. “So how’s the baby?” he asked with only a tinge of…what? Envy? Jealousy? Self-pity?

Meredith laughed softly. She shoved back her unruly hair as she sat down at her desk. The action reminded him of Thea. They were both small women, both had dark hair, but the resemblance ended there. Meredith’s skin was olive, Thea’s like porcelain. Meredith could be a real bitch at times; Thea was…still a mystery.

“What can I say?” Her green eyes sparkled. “He’s tiny and beautiful and absolutely wonderful. A perfect male specimen, if I do say so myself.” Her gaze met John’s, and for just a split second, something that might have been regret flickered in her eyes. Then she said bluntly, “You look like hell, John. What have you been doing—living at the station?”

“Lot of active cases,” he muttered.

“What else is new?” She stood and pulled on a white lab coat that had been draped over the back of her chair. Her expression became sober and professional. “So what are we looking for here? Anything specific?”

“The usual. The victim took a dive off a five-story building, so I’ll want to know about brain contusions.” Not many lay people, including some murderers now serving prison time, knew that the bruising of the brain from a fall was different from that of a blunt-force injury. If Gail Waters had been bashed in the head before she hit the pavement, an autopsy would reveal it.

“Let’s do it then,” Meredith said wearily. “I’ve got a baby to get back to and a husband who promised to be home by dinner.”

Her meaning wasn’t lost on John. He’d missed more meals in the six years they’d been married than he cared to remember, and they both knew it had nothing to do with Meredith being a lousy cook. Even though she’d had her own impossible hours to deal with finishing her residency, John had been the one, more often than not, to phone with the apologies and excuses. After a while he hadn’t even bothered with those.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she’d announced one night that she was leaving him, nor when she’d admitted to—flung it in his face—a two-year affair with the man she was now married to. A man who had once been John’s friend.

“Why should you feel so betrayed?” she’d screamed at him that night. “I’m the one who’s had to put up with your mistress all these years.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never cheated on you.”

“I’m talking about that damn job of yours. You’re a cop first and a man second, John. And being a husband isn’t even a lousy third. I pity the next poor woman who falls in love with you.”