Brass parked at the curb, and sat for a moment, observing the one-storey stucco home with the requisite red tile roof. Marilyn Hegel's husband and two children were living here now, in the suburb-like neighbourhood of Summerlin. He had pulled the address from Sean Hegel's driver's licence on file with the DMV.
Summerlin was not that far from downtown, though it had none of the feel of the congestion and fast pace. It was a quiet oasis, in the midst of all of the city's conveniences, just north of the Summerlin Parkway. It was a better neighbourhood than the family had lived in previously, though theirs was one of the smaller homes on the block, and Brass wondered if there had been some insurance money. The supermarket where the cashier had worked was unionized, so there likely had been a benefits package, and a life insurance policy.
There were no vehicles parked in the concrete driveway, so Brass wasn't even sure if anyone was home. The car could be in the double car garage. Perhaps the family actually used the attached garage for its original purpose, not to store the overflow of consumerism like so many did. The place was neat, and well cared for, and a small front garden between the arched entryway and the garage, boasted a welcoming profusion of colourful flowers. The manicured lawn was emerald coloured, despite the recent heat wave. Someone had spent considerable time making sure it was well watered.
They would be twelve and fourteen now, Brass knew. Marilyn Hegel's two sons. They had been three and five years old respectively, when she had been murdered. The younger one, certainly, wouldn't even have any real memories of his mother. The older one might possibly have brief recollections of specific incidents that had been particularly pleasurable or emotional. Heightened perhaps by any photographs or video the family had of the pretty blonde.
An acute wave of desolation rolled over the detective, at the unfairness of life. By all accounts, Marilyn Hegel had cherished her young boys, and was an exemplary mother. He knew the depth of parental love. But because some anonymous bastard had chosen her to be his victim, she would never get to see her children grow up. They would never really know her, or how much she had loved them, or even remember the times they had laughed with her, or that she had held them in her comforting embrace to calm their sorrows or their fears. What a terrible cruelty, to love someone so much and to never get the chance to know that they truly understood the depth of your feelings for them.
Brass didn't want to get out of the sedan, to hike up the short walkway, and press the doorbell. He wanted to put the car into drive, and leave the family undisturbed, making the best of the life that Fate had afforded them. He didn't want to bring old horrors and old pain sharply to the fore again. Opening old wounds.
He wanted a cigarette. Jim found that he was having to battle his nicotine cravings with increasing frequency these days. It had been years since he had wanted one with more than a passing thought. Last night, on his way home, he'd stopped at a convenience store for a six pack of Coors Light, and for a moment his lips had almost formed the request for a pack of Winstons. Why worry about lung cancer when there was a good probability that in a very short time he could be pushing up daisies at the local cemetery anyways? He'd battled back the self-defeating thoughts and the craving that had accompanied them.
He dreaded having to tell Sean Hegel that he was re-investigating his wife's murder from almost a decade ago. Jim wished there was some other way to get the information he needed. The family had been through enough, more than anyone should have to bear. The detective had contacted the employer that Sean Hegel had been working for at the time of Marilyn's murder, a company that did carpet installations, and had learned that Sean was still employed there. But business had been slow the last few weeks, and Hegel had the day off. Rather than calling ahead, Brass had hopped on the parkway and headed over.
He had wondered, as he drove along, obeying the speed limit, and glancing repeatedly in his rearview mirror, if the killer was attempting to trail him at all. If he was, Brass wondered what the guy would think when he stopped in front of the Hegel's new home. If he would know who lived there. Would make the connection. Would realize what the detective's visit there meant. But there had been only one other vehicle exit off of Summerlin Parkway onto Town Centre behind him, a red Toyota. It had continued on when he had signaled and turned onto the Hegel's street, not circling back even though the detective had waited.
There was no point sitting there agonizing over things, Brass reasoned. Perhaps Sean Hegel wasn't even home. Whether he was or not, it would only be delaying the inevitable though. Brass had to speak with him. Maybe it wasn't his favourite part, but it was part of the job. And they had no other leads to their killer. He climbed out of the car and marched determinedly up to the door.
Sean Hegel opened it before the chimes had stopped echoing in the interior of the home. Brass recognized the other man right away. Hegel was about medium height, light brown curly hair, now with a great deal of grey, and pale blue eyes ringed with a darker hue. The man had put on thirty or forty pounds, but he carried it well. And he sported a neatly trimmed beard now, whereas he had been clean shaven before. But clearly it was the same man.
Hegel recognized him as well, before Jim could even introduce himself, his reaction one that the detective had not anticipated. Sean Hegel's face crumbled, and he clutched the edge of the door. In a broken voice he gasped, "Oh God, no, not one of my boys..."
"No, no, Mr. Hegel," Brass put in hurriedly, "I'm not here about your sons. They're just fine." The man associated him with death, Jim realized. And why wouldn't he? He was a homicide detective, and there weren't a lot of reasons he'd be knocking at someone's door that didn't pertain to a murder investigation. Brass felt lousy for the panicked terror his unannounced appearance had evoked in the other man.
Hegel recovered quickly, his features sagging with relief. "I thought..." he said quietly, just letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. He looked at Brass uncertainly. "Detective...Martens?" he tried to put a name to the face.
"Brass," Jim supplied.
"Sean, who is it?" a female voice quizzed, and then a woman was standing behind Hegel in the shadows of the foyer.
"A police officer," he told her. And then he added quickly, "Nothing to do with Jeff and Ian." Hegel stepped back. "Come in, Detective."
Brass entered the home, stepping onto the immaculate slate tiles of the foyer. There was a small, formal living room to the right, and looking further down the hallway, he could see a more casual family room, with a raised gas fireplace set into the wall. The woman was a tall, plump redhead, whose pretty features were covered with freckles. She looked at him curiously with dark blue eyes.
"So what is this about then?" Sean inquired matter-of-factly.
"There's no easy way to say this, Mr. Hegel. I've reopened the investigation into your wife's murder. New information has come to light, I'm not at liberty to say just what, of course, but something to make us question some of the details about what happened." Brass paused, under the stunned stares. "About who else might have been involved."
"I don't get it," Hegel said hollowly. Then taking a deep breath, "I guess we'd better go sit down." He began to lead the way down the hall, and Brass followed. "Allie, hon, maybe you could make some coffee. Would you like coffee, Detective Brass?"
Jim didn't really, but he could see how on edge the woman was, and knew that she could probably use something to do to get over her nervousness. Such as the familiar task of putting on a pot of coffee. And perhaps Hegel wanted her out of earshot for a few minutes. Brass wondered if the woman was a girlfriend, or maybe a second wife. The endearment indicated she was not likely a sister or other family member. "Thanks, that would be great," he smiled.
The family room was spotless as well, the wood floor buffed to a beautiful sheen, the room nicely decorated but uncluttered. Sean Hegel sat on a brown cordouroy recliner, and Brass settled onto a matching sofa. "Allie is my second wife," Hegel answered the unasked question. "We started dating about a year after...after Marilyn died. We've been married six years. The boys love her and she just adores them. She's their mom, for all intents and purposes. They can't really remember Marilyn. Jeff can, at times, at least he thinks he can. Ian has no recollection at all. Mostly, they only know her from the stories I tell them."
Brass noticed the framed eight by ten photograph of Marilyn Hegel on the mantle. He was glad to see that her memory had not been banished to a box in the attic. He felt a rising respect for the second Mrs. Hegel, that she was secure enough in herself and her marriage, to display the likeness of her deceased predecessor so prominently in the home. There were other photos, of course, a wedding photo of Sean and Allie Hegel. Recent school photos of the boys; good looking kids.
"Marilyn was my high school sweetheart," Sean Hegel told him quietly. "We got married right out of school. We were so young. People thought she must be pregnant," he laughed. "But it wasn't that, we were just so crazy about one another. Couldn't stand to be apart. The boys came along later. We hadn't gone to college, either of us, but we did all right. We had our rough spots, of course, like everyone. But I never once regretted marrying her. When she died...when that bastard Juneau killed her...I didn't know how I could go on. How I could take care of the boys. I still miss her, sometimes, you know? Like, I'll hear a joke that I know would have given her the giggles, or I'll see a bouquet of pink roses...she liked pink roses...and I'll just get this awful ache..."
Hegel sighed. "It took me a long, long time to get myself together. To get over the anger and the hatred. The guilt. Even though Juneau was dead, and I was glad he was, it just seemed like he got off too easy." The pale blue eyes assessed the detective. "And now you're telling me that there was more to it. That...what...he wasn't the only one involved? How can that be? And why are you just finding out now, after all this time?" There was a hard edge to the man's voice.
"I really can't say," Brass replied reluctantly. "And I need to ask you to not talk about this with anyone. It could hinder our investigation. I do have a couple of questions for you though, if you don't mind."
"Sure," Sean told him resignedly.
"We know your wife did her banking at the Sunrise Centre Mall, at the Wells Fargo, every two weeks, and her paycheque was deposited into a chequing account there." Hegel nodded. "Did she ever had an account at the Las Vegas Tower branch?"
Sean Hegel frowned. "No, we had an account with Chase before we got the mortgage on the old house, and then switched to Wells Fargo, at the Sunrise Centre."
"I know you probably wouldn't know every single transaction your wife did at each ATM around town, and I'll verify with your old account records...but do you know if your wife might have had reason to use an ATM at the Tower? Or maybe some other reason to be there from time to time? A friend who worked in the building? Some other shop or service she might have used on occasion?" Jim waited.
Hegel frowned. "No, not that I know of."
"Here we are," Allie Hegel's soft voice broke in, as she entered the room carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee, and a small cream pitcher and sugar bowl in a matching pattern. She held it while the two men thanked her and took their cups. Brass drank his black, and Sean with a bit of cream and a spoonful of sugar. She looked apprehensively from one to the other, unsure what to make of the detective's visit. "Would you like a cookie or a tea biscuit or anything?" she inquired solicitously.
"No, I'm good thanks," Brass responded with a smile. He sipped the hot brew. "This is very good."
She smiled back, then glanced at her spouse. "Well, I have some laundry to put on." He nodded and she left them alone again.
"Did she frequent any of the stores in the Sunrise Centre?" Jim continued.
"Marilyn didn't really like that mall," Sean confessed. "She mostly just did the banking there. She prefered to shop at the Galleria. Though she wasn't much of a shopper, not like how some women are, you know? She was pretty frugal." He spoke with a quiet pride. "Got her money's worth out of things. Only bought on sale. She used consignment stores for a lot of the kids' stuff. But at Christmas time, she'd go to the Galleria to get gifts for people. She said the selection was better."
Brass took the information in. So far, there was nothing helpful in anything Sean Hegel had told him. "I have to ask you about her undergarments, Mr. Hegel. Did your wife ever buy her lingerie at a place called Lacy's Closet?"
"She used to buy her bras and underwear at Walmart," Hegel answered. "Just plain stuff, not what I'd call lingerie, not that silky stuff. When we were first married, she used to wear that kind of thing more often. I used to get her fancy stuff for our anniversary and Valentine's Day. But she used to get these infections," he admitted, colouring slightly. "And her gynocologist told her to try cotton underwear, it was supposed to breathe better or something. It worked. After that she'd only wear the fancy stuff for special occasions." There was a faint, fond smile at the remembrance. "But no, I never bought stuff anywhere but Victoria's Secret, and she didn't buy that kind of thing for herself at all once Jeff was born. Didn't think it looked good on her, but it did. Women...they can be so funny that way, huh?"
So much for that angle, Brass thought tiredly. He took a long swig of the coffee, before setting the cup down on the coffee table. "One more question. Did Marilyn ever mention anything about someone at the bank, a teller or a security guard or something, who made her feel uncomfortable? Someone who gave off that same kind of vibe that Todd Juneau did? Looked at her in a way that she didn't like? Maybe said something that she didn't think was appropriate? Anything like that?"
"There was this one teller, an older woman, that Marilyn couldn't stand. Said she was so slow, and real snotty. But I don't think that's what you mean, is it?" Brass shook his head. "I don't remember her ever saying anything about some guy at the bank. You think someone working there might have been involved in some way? Had something to do with her abduction and her murder?" The pale blue eyes were haunted.
"I don't think anything yet, Mr. Hegel," Brass replied cautiously. "I'm just trying to collect information."
"Why wasn't anyone asking these questions nine years ago?" Sean asked, his voice a pitch higher.
"Recently, there have been some new questions raised about what happened at the time your wife was killed. But I really can't say any more than that right now," the detective said with regret.
"So if this new investigation leads somewhere, are you going to tell me what you find out?" Hegel demanded.
"If we find out anything conclusive, that has a bearing on your wife's case, then yes I'll be back to share that myself," Jim promised, rising.
He looked again at the school photos of the Hegel boys. Wondering what their lives had been like in the past nine years. Wondering how the tragic and violent loss of their mother at such tender ages, had affected them. How it might shape the young men they would become. He wondered about the other victims, in other states, and the loved ones they had left behind. Each death was like a stone tossed into the still waters of a pond, with the loss and the anguish rippling out with lasting effect on the lives of so many others. Brass had to stop the son-of-a-bitch before he killed again. Before another innocent woman ended up a framed memory on the mantle of those left to cope with the tragedy.
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Beth Marchison's next of kin was listed as her mother, Dorothy Marchison. After Beth's divorce from her ex-husband Carl Ryker, she had evidently reverted to her maiden name. Brass wasn't sure how much information he might get from the elderly woman, but he had telephoned her when he got back to the station after visiting Sean Hegel.
Mrs. Marchison still had the same phone number and was still at the same address that she had been at nine years prior. Brass had called and identified himself, explaining that he was following up some loose ends from her daughter's murder, and asking if he could come by that afternoon to talk with her. Dorothy Marchison's voice had been neutral, as she had agreed to the request.
The woman lived in a small, gated retirement community called the Promenade, located west of Decatur and south of Meadows Lane near the Meadows Mall. There was an impressive entry with a small lake and lovely waterscape near the guardhouse. Brass gave his name and was waved through. The professionally landscaped grounds were well-tended. He drove slowly along winding roads past larger detached homes, and smaller residences that shared a common wall. He passed an energetic couple in tennis whites, power walking along the road, and a man taking a stroll with a Scottish Terrier. Mrs. Marchison, he knew, lived in one of the attached villas. Her home was on the right, just past the community pool and club house.
Dorothy Marchison opened the door so quickly, Brass almost had to wonder if she hadn't been standing there watching for him. She was a petite, white-haired woman, in her mid to late eighties he guessed, her dark eyes magnified behind the lenses of bi-focals. She was stylishly dressed in a skirt and blouse, and wearing a touch of make up as appropriate for a woman of her age. In one arm, she held a small, white dog with a scarlet ribbon bright against the fur on the top of its head.
"Hello, Detective," she said, and her voice was strong and clear. "Do come in, please."
The villa was larger than it had appeared from the outside, spacious, with an open floor plan. The furniture, against walls of pale pink, were cherrywood antiques, or expensive reproductions.
"I thought we might go out back, if that's all right. There's still some shade there, this time of day," Dorothy Marchison commented, then began to lead the way without waiting for his approval. There was nothing feeble or unsteady about her steps, and her back was ramrod straight.
The rear yard was a delight of colour and sound. Amongst the palmettos were raised beds of annuals and perennials, in a sea of pinks and corals. A large, stone wall fountain was just outside the sliding door, and it bubbled a lyrical tune. There was a solid teak patio set grouped on a concrete pad, painted the same coral colour at the exterior of the home. In the centre of the table was a crystal pitcher of lemonade, with ice cubes not yet melted inside, and two crystal goblets.
"Lemonade?" the elderly woman asked, as she set the little dog on the grass, where it sat, its pink tongue lolling.
"Thank you," Brass accepted graciously. "You have a beautiful home," he complimented, taking the glass and waiting for her to be seated first.
"Thank you. We like it here, don't we Tia?" She smiled at the dog as she sat down. Then to Jim. "So you said you are trying to tie up some loose ends from my daughter's case?" For the first time, her aged features lost their serenity and there was pain etched in each wrinkled crevice. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Some things have come to light recently that have raised questions about some of the details of the case," Brass found himself explaining for the second time that day.
"How can I help you?" she wanted to know.
"I'm not sure how close you and your daughter were," he began delicately.
"Quite close." Dorothy Marchison gave a bittersweet smile. "Elizabeth was our only child. We had almost given up hope of ever being blessed that way. I was in my thirties, my husband was forty, and we'd been married for ten years, when I became pregnant with her. I'd lost four babies over the years, and the doctor had recommended that I not risk trying again. But as happy as Stanley and I were with one another, we just felt that something was missing. That our lives weren't complete.
"It was a difficult pregnancy, and I was on bed rest for the last two months. But she arrived, pink and healthy with a mass of dark hair and those big, dark eyes. Stanley lost his heart the moment he laid eyes on her. Because we had waited so long, and had almost given up hope, we both doted on Elizabeth. We spoiled her, but she wasn't spoiled, you understand? We were all close, the three of us, but she was a Daddy's girl." Dorothy Marchison stopped speaking, and her voice became tight. Brass saw the shimmer in her eyes. "He died five months after Elizabeth was murdered. It broke his heart. He just didn't want to live, any more," she told him quietly.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the detective said sincerely, thinking again of a stone dropping into a pond, and the rippling effect.
"Stanley never did think Carl was good enough for his daughter. He seemed like a nice enough young man, I thought, and Elizabeth adored him. Stanley kept his reservations between he and I though. Even after they moved to Reno, she would call me twice a week and we would talk. And we still saw them regularly, moreso even I think when my grandson Dylan was born."
Dylan Ryker would be twenty-four years old, Brass calculated.
Dorothy Marchison continued. "After the divorce, Elizabeth moved back here to Las Vegas. She didn't ask for alimony from Carl, even though she had never worked during the duration of their marriage, and hadn't finished college and didn't have a degree. Not that she wasn't smart enough, heaven knows she was, but she just wasn't sure what she wanted to do with her life, when she was that age, just out of her teens. And then she married Carl not long after that. He had a good job, so she didn't have to work. And she enjoyed being home with Dylan.
"Stanley and I gave her money for the down payment on the house, but she wouldn't accept any other help from us, and insisted that it was just a loan. She said that she wanted to be on her own, responsible for herself, for the first time in her life. She told me that she had always been someone's daughter, and someone's wife, and now she just wanted to be Beth." The elderly woman shook her head indulgently. "Women these days have such funny ideas, don't you think, Detective? It's almost as if there's some shame in being a wife and a mother, as though that isn't good enough. A different generation I suppose," she mused.
Brass listened quietly while she spoke of her daughter, enjoying what he knew had to be freshly squeezed lemonade.
"So, she got herself a job, as a cocktail waitress. Stanley was horrified, at first. I think he had visions of her going topless in some cheap bar." Dorothy Marchison blushed. "But it wasn't like that. She dressed modestly, and served drinks at one of the nicer hotels. It seemed to bring her pleasure, and she didn't mind the menial work. Though she was planning to take some classes at the university. She had always wanted to be a teacher. Stanley tried to encourage her to quit working, and to apply full-time. He told her that we could cover her expenses comfortably enough. But Elizabeth was so bound and determined to be independent." She sighed.
"We would talk on the phone every few days though. She would tell me about a new man she was dating. Or about how things were going with Dylan, with school and sports. She and Dylan were close too. It was a terrible blow to him when he lost his mother." She paused again, swallowing hard. "Anyhow, yes, we were quite close, Detective."
Seeming to sense her mistress's mood, the small dog came closer and pressed against her shins. Marchison reached down distractedly to rub its ears.
"I know that your daughter did her banking with Wells Fargo, at the Las Vegas Tower branch," Brass began.
"Yes, that's where Stanley and I had our accounts, so they were more kindly disposed to giving Beth a mortgage for the house," she replied.
"And our investigations have shown that on occasion she would use the ATM machine at the Sunrise Centre Mall."
"I'm not aware of that, but she didn't tell me all of the little, inconsequential details of her life, of course."
"Of course not," Brass agreed. "Did Beth ever mention to you, about any kind of incident that occured at either bank? An employee who was inappropriate? Someone who made her uncomfortable? Maybe another customer even?"
Mrs. Marchison considered the question. "Not that I can recall, no. No one that made her uneasy enough that she felt it was worth mentioning. She was a beautiful woman, and men were often expressing their interest I'm sure. Sometimes, if she returned the interest, she'd tell me about them. There hadn't been anyone special for a while. Elizabeth really wasn't looking for another relationship though at that point in her life."
The detective nodded his comprehension. "I understand that the house and all of its contents, all of her personal effects, went to you and your husband after her death?"
There was another pained look. "Yes, that's right. She had a will, and I was named the executor. There was insurance on the mortgage, and so the balance was paid in full. Stanley arranged for the house to be sold, and the money was put into trust for Dylan, as our daughter had requested. We kept a couple of small pieces of furniture for ourselves, just for sentimental reasons, and then allowed her friends to select anything they wanted as a remembrance of her. Everything else went to the Good Will."
"Her personal items," Brass mentioned, "such as clothing. Were you involved in clearing out her closets and drawers?"
"Yes, I saw to that myself. I chose her favourite dress for...for the burial. Some things, again, I gave to friends of hers. The rest I donated to a battered woman's shelter. Someone came to pick them up."
"Do you remember anything about her undergarments?" Brass queried.
Dorothy Marchison looked at him strangely. "Her undergarments?" she repeated.
"There's a woman's lingerie shop, called Lacy's Closet. Do you know if Beth ever purchased items from there?"
"Lacy's Closet?" She furrowed her brow. "It doesn't sound familiar at all. It wasn't really a topic that came up in conversation though. Elizabeth liked nice things, however. We taught her that she deserved to pamper herself. She always went for quality over quantity when it came to clothing. For her foundation garments as well as her outerwear and footwear. If that helps at all."
It wasn't likely that Beth Marchison had ever shopped at Lacy's Closet either then. Brass tried to stifle a sigh of frustration. "Do you know if, besides the bank's ATM machine, there were any stores or businesses that your daughter might have patronized at the Sunrise Centre?" There had to be something, Brass thought, to have brought Beth Marchison to that particular ATM machine on more than one occasion.
"I'm sorry, I really don't know," the elderly woman replied at length.
The dog had wandered over to his chair, and was sniffing at Brass' pantleg now. He reached down and the pale, pink tongue lapped softly against the back of his hand. "Cute little pup," he remarked.
"Tia is a Maltese," Dorothy Marchison explained with a smile. "She's not really a puppy. She's nine years old now." The smile faltered for a moment. "She was Elizabeth's dog. She had only just gotten her. Tia really was just a puppy then, only a few months old. Stanley and I took her in. He wasn't really a dog person, but Tia brought me comfort. A living, tangible connection to Elizabeth, that I could touch and hug and care for every day."
Brass stroked the long, silky fur. He didn't know what to say to that, so he just focused his attention on the dog.
"I still have a couple of boxes of Elizabeth's things in the storage space above the garage," Dorothy Marchison was saying. Brass looked up with interest. "Papers and things. Taxes. Financial statements and bank records. Receipts. She was very organized. We kept them at first, because Stanley said we should have them for at least seven years. And then when that time came and went, I just...couldn't seem to ever get around to parting with them."
"Would you mind if I borrowed them, Mrs. Marchison?" the detective said hopefully. "I promise to get them back to you in the same condition, when I'm done." It was a longshot, there being anything useful among the papers. They would have been examined at the time of the initial investigation. But there was always the faintest chance that something might have been missed.
"If you think it might help you in some way, then certainly," she acquiesced.
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There were three large, plastic storage boxes of papers that Brass had climbed up a small ladder to retrieve from a small crawlspace above the garage of Dorothy Marchison's home. He left two of them now in the trunk of the sedan. His eyes ached just at the thought of having to wade through all of that small type.
Brass was surprised to find the door to his office open. He had thought he had locked it. He was even more surprised to find Annie Kramer seated behind his desk, looking for all the world as though she belonged there. She broke out in a big grin when he entered the room, pushing up from the chair and quickly covering the distance between them while he set the box on the floor, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.
"Jimmy!" she greeted ebulliently.
"What are you doing here?" he asked with a grin, as she released him. "And how did you get in my office?"
"Since this case you're working on has something to do with Joe Takei's death, I figured I should get out here and see what was up," she announced. "And then a very nice sergeant let me in here, when I showed him my badge and told him we were old friends."
"How long have you been here?" Brass asked, not sure whether he was delighted that she was in Vegas, or chagrined. "And why didn't you call to tell me you were coming? I could have met you at the airport."
"Not long. Half an hour or so. I would have tried you on your cell, if you'd been much longer. And if I'd called before I left L.A., you would have tried to talk me out of coming," she said wryly. He didn't deny it. "I amused myself by looking at all of these citations you've got," Annie told him, jerking a thumb towards the plaques and framed certificates on the wall. "You should be proud, Jimmy."
He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled his thanks.
"So how are you holding up?" she asked levelly, eyeing him critically. "You look tired."
"I feel like I'm racing the clock," he replied, "so sleep is kind of low on my totem pole right now."
"How are you feeling?" Annie inquired worriedly. "I mean about the letter and everything?"
Brass reached to rub the back of his neck, cocking his head and looking at her warily. "You know how it is. Every day a cop puts on the badge and gun and goes to work, there's a danger."
She just stared at him, crossing her arms. "This is me, Jimmy. It's different and you know it."
"You deal with it," he sighed. "Just like back in Jersey when I was undercover. Same thing."
She shook her head. "No, it's not. There you knew who you had to watch your back against. You knew who your enemies were. You don't know a damned thing about this guy. Only that he wants you dead." Her dark, knowing eyes pinned him.
"Look, what do you want me to say?" Brass bit out in frustration. "It's lousy. It really, really sucks." His hands clenched into fists at his side. "Every time someone walks by me on the street, I wonder if he's the guy. Every time I'm on the road, I spend more time looking back than I do looking ahead. Every time I ate something at home, I would wonder if it's poisoned, so I just threw all the damned food away, and I've been eating out since.
"But not at the usual places I'd go to. I've tried to alter all of my habits. Stopped going for coffee at the place around the corner where I've been going for years. Trying not to be too predictable." He wasn't conscious that his voice had risen. "Every time I start my car, even with the alarm system, part of me wonders if the damn thing is going to blow up. And whenever I close my eyes, I just lay there wondering if I'll ever wake up again. And when I do get to sleep finally, I have nightmares about murdered women.
"But the worst thing, now that I've got this invisible bull's eyes painted on my back," Brass growled, the anger covering his fear, his dark eyes narrowed, "is that every time I'm around another human being, I get this godawful sick feeling in the pit of my stomache, that the son-of-a-bitch is going to make his move, and something is going to go wrong. And that someone else...maybe someone I care about..." Cecilia's lovely, bronzed features floated before him on his inner eye, "...is going to end up in a body bag, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"
Brass turned his body then, looking away, his eyes unnaturally bright, ashamed of his outburst. He unclenched his hands and wriggled his fingers, and drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to still the staccato beating of his heart, and calm the blood that pounded in his temples.
Annie moved closer, putting a slender hand on his arm, and rubbing gently through his shirt. She slipped both of her arms around his and held it then, laying her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel his pain, as deeply as though it were her own. She wished that she could absord it all, the fear and the hurt and guilt. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, blinking the tears from her eyes. "We'll get him, Jimmy," she vowed softly.