Chapter 20

Stillman couldn't believe what he saw. Proof was standing right in front of him, but he still refused to grasp it, his mind simply wouldn't understand it. It couldn't be taking place, this implausible scene. It was like some sort of bad joke, a ridiculous nightmare—one he wished he'd wake up from soon. He'd seen Lilly safe and sound, intact—happy, in fact—not fifteen minutes before. How could her condition change so drastically in so little time?

It was the look in her eyes that shook him. His gut took a downward plunge as memory served, painfully recognizing it against his will. It had been eighteen years since he'd last seen it—in someone else's eyes. A person very close to his heart, younger, more naïve—but all in all, not physically unlike the person in front of him now.

He didn't want to summon up what it meant—the idea made him sick. It couldn't be his best detective standing there in the torrent—the usually imposing, respectable Lilly Rush—face swollen, lip split, bleeding, clothes hanging off her body in soiled, soggy shreds.

You didn't have to be a genius to figure it out.

Scotty's gasp stirred him out of his shock. Neither had seen the perpetrator huddled on the ground a few feet away. The damn bastard had somehow managed to stagger to his feet and would have escaped if Scotty hadn't broken into a run, overtaking him. Down they went, both of them, a tangle of arms and legs, Scotty somehow extricating himself long enough to snap a pair of handcuffs across his wrists. Rain teemed down on them, drops bouncing off the cuffs with a tinny thud.

Motionless, Stillman's gaze drifted over to Lilly again. She wasn't looking at him. Nor at the ground, nor at Scotty—nor at her attacker. Her chest heaved but no sound came out—she wasn't saying or doing anything, just standing there, swaying slightly, arms spread, like a scarecrow. Blood ran in rivulets down her face, dripping down to the blacktop below. Stillman's stomach was in anxious knots. He couldn't bear the thought of yet another person close to him hurt, slipping through his fingers, wronged without him being able to do anything about it. He longed to reach out to her, as he had to Janie years before, but he didn't dare. This was Lilly Rush they were talking about—no physical contact included. His own daughter had warded him off. What was to stop Lilly from doing the same?

And yet he couldn't leave her standing there half-naked in the storm.

On instinct he found himself removing his coat and offering it to her… Surprisingly enough, she took it. Her fingers were ice cold.

"Boss!"

Suddenly afraid Scotty might be roughing up the culprit—though God knew if there wasn't a case to be built against him, he'd actually applaud it—Stillman snapped back into Lieutenant mode. "Don't—" he warned.

But he shouldn't have worried. Scotty might be a hothead, wildly impulsive when provoked, and he'd made his mistakes in the past. But his behavior this time had been blameless.

Lilly's assailant had been reduced to his knees, face concealed by a stocking mask. But any injury he might have had been brought on by Lilly, and Lilly alone. There wasn't a single fresh scratch on him.

Under his unflinching stare, Scotty's hand reached down and pulled off the disguise.

Lilly's knees were wobbly, her ears ringing in a way that seemed to drill straight through her brain. The pain from her injuries was long gone, spirited away by the adrenaline brought on by her frenzied raid against the lunatic. Her feet physically ached for more flesh to sink into. Liquid poured down her face—but whether it was blood or rain she couldn't really be sure. The only thing she could be certain of so far—the only lesion she'd appraised—was that her teeth were all still there. Her mind could only focus on one thing in order to stay in control, and this was counting her front teeth over and over again, feeling comfort in the fact they were all there, whole and untouched.

Breathe, Rush. Breathe, she kept telling herself. It's over. He didn't get what he came for. You're okay.

Stillman seemed to be talking to her. She couldn't bring herself to face him—didn't want him to see. Once he saw it would be real. She'd be a victim, and she didn't want to be. Not in front of her boss of all people. And Scotty. Scotty—Christina's lover. Oh God, how would she ever live this down?

Breathe, Rush. Take it easy. Just—count the teeth. That's a good girl.

A coat was thrust in front of her and she snatched at it, not realizing till then how frozen she was. Every part of her was absolutely soaked—chilled to the bone.

Stillman was speaking to her again. Or was he? Maybe she was hearing things. No—he'd said a word. But just one word. Followed by some sort of exclamation. And now he wasn't staring at her anymore.

Reluctantly, she followed his frown along the pavement to where she knew the thug lay. Scotty had shoved him to the ground. And removed the mask. The same sinister dark orbs she'd seen before, on top of her, met hers for an instant—not fearful or broken down. Just filled with an unexpected, imbalanced hatred.

Now she remembered where she'd heard his voice before.

It was Robert Feldman.

Robert Feldman.

Scotty gaped—he couldn't get it through his head. Robert Feldman! This was the guy whose wife had found the twins buried in their yard—the one who had witnessed the big brawl between him and Lilly. The one they'd been keeping updated every step of the way—certain his only interest in knowing was to report it to his grieving, fretful wife.

Son of a bitch…!

His grasp on the back of his neck hardened, fists tingling in rage. The image of Lilly, his partner, beat-up, wounded, having who knew what done to her, would haunt him for a long time to come. His mind desperately raced for a way to make it better, even knowing nothing ever could. Why couldn't we be better friends? he kept agonizing. If only we'd been good, I woulda walked home with her. If Christina hadn't showed up yesterday, she wouldn't have been so freaking mad at me. And then I coulda walked her to the train—and this never would've happened.

"Pull yourself together," came Stillman's harsh whisper, maybe realizing his attention had become permanently fixed on Lilly's wavering shadow. "This is not the time for recriminations. Take this asshole inside—and don't do anything that could injure our case."

"Sure, boss," mumbled Scotty almost unintelligibly, heaving the perp to his feet. Damn this was a tall, heavy motherfucker. Built like a goddamn ox. Poor Lil never had a chance.

Don't go there, Valens.

Rape and Lilly Rush were three words that were never meant to go in the same sentence. It made him nauseated just thinking about it. He wished he could banish them from his mind—ridiculous. Sacrilegious. Impossible.

But he knew it wasn't.

And whatever had happened there, he was at least partly responsible. He'd been feeding this maniac tips about the investigation; and allowed Lilly to do the same. None of them had ever considered him a suspect. He'd let Lilly go alone—out of pride. She wanted nothing to do with him, to be on her pig-headed own—well, let her. And here were the consequences.

It just didn't make sense for Robert Feldman to be the stalker. Why should he? What did he have to do with anything?

Guilt-ridden, masochistic, he couldn't resist turning back to peer at Lilly one last time. She and Stillman were moving slowly across the parking lot toward Stillman's car. He couldn't tell if words had passed between them or not. All he could make out, for one brief moment, was Stillman's hand resting on her shoulder, an unspoken gesture of support. And for that one short-lived second he almost wished he could trade places with him—be her confidante, her rock, her friend for a change.

But he guessed that chance was gone forever.

Next day was wintry and cloudy as ever, but at least the rain had stopped. The streets were plastered in muck. All that remained of Lilly's struggle in the parking lot were a few rusty-colored smudges and the general feeling of worry, disbelief, and apprehension that one of their own could be so easily tampered with.

She hadn't come in, obviously. Vera had expected as much. Although with Rush, you could never be sure. He'd had a standing bet with Jeffries, that even if she were involved in a shooting or a stand-up fight with a serial killer, the next day would find her bright and early at her desk, all set and ready for business.

It would be a while before he cracked a sick joke like that again.

He couldn't believe it when Scotty told him. And Stillman. The way they depicted the scene was enough to leave his mouth hanging open. Apparently Rush had beat the shit out of the guy, but not before he caused some serious damage.

And now he was supposed to interrogate him.

Interrogate him—huh. Kicking his worthless ass is what I should be doing.

Preliminary inquiries had shown the following:

Robert Feldman worked at Kemp's garage alongside Newton, and had since before Erica Bailey was abducted. Newton had been questioned thoroughly about him, they had no way of proving if he'd ever been in a relationship with Erica, but at least he'd seen her the few times she'd called on him down at the garage. He was a temp back then, which could account for why his name had never come up during any of their searches. It was stamped out loud and clear in recent records, though—an unforgivable piece of information they'd overlooked.

As if that weren't enough, Valens recalled seeing a ramshackle red chevy on the highway the day before, when they'd been rummaging through the weeds for remainders of Erica Bailey. Same car had been found parked just outside Police Headquarters. No license plates. Ultimately it was also traced to Kemp's garage, "borrowed" without permission.

Feldman's prints were run through IAFIS, unsuccessfully. When they were run against the unidentified prints found on the phone used to call Scotty the night of the first threat, they matched.

So now they had two matching set of prints, two possible suspects: Morgan Newton and Robert Feldman. Feldman was undoubtedly responsible for what had happened to Lilly. Was he responsible for Erica Bailey as well?

"Why'd you do it, Robert?" Vera demanded, confronting the stony-faced suspect across the small interrogation room table.

"Do what?" Feldman coolly wanted to know.

Vera's fists balled in anger. Don't gimme that shit, you son of a bitch. "Dance on the bar with a sombrero on your head—what do you think, smartass? Why'd you rough up Detective Rush?"

"Wasn't roughing up I had in mind—" Feldman drawled, and Vera had to squeeze his palms against the table and clamp his jaw down tight, to keep himself from bashing his skull into the wall.

"Spare me," he scoffed. "You made a phone call to Detective Valens threatening her—trying to get her to stop the investigation. My question is why."

Feldman appeared utterly bored. "Who's to say why we do the things we do?" He seemed to get a kick out of leading them nowhere.

Jeffries unexpectedly detached himself from a dark corner, face somber, inscrutable. "Don't forget you're facing some serious charges," he growled. "Assault on a police officer is a major felony. If you can prove there were mitigating circumstances, we might be willing to go easier on you."

Vera scowled at him. Sure he was lying—no self-respecting cop would ever back out on a fellow detective like that. But that didn't make it sound any less offensive toward Lilly. Mitigating circumstances, my ass. There could be no mitigating circumstances for what this fucking bastard had done—or tried to do.

"Ok," he cut in gruffly. "Lemme tell you what I think. You're obviously a good lookin' fella—bet the girls don't just say no to you, do they. And working in Kemp's garage, you musta seen this blonde, pretty housewife coming down everyday to visit Newton. That can't be, you think—her wanting to be with this big Hulk Hogan kinda guy instead of you. So you put the moves on her. She'll have none of it. Then what? Fill in the blanks, loverboy."

Loverboy smirked at him. "You really think that's how it happened?"

Vera was rapidly reaching the end of his rope. "What did you do to Erica Bailey, Feldman?"

"Who says I ever did anything to Erica Bailey? Didn't even know her."

"According to Morgan Newton, you couldn't keep your eyes off her. You knew who she was, all right."

Robert Feldman shrugged. "I may have seen her from time to time. Can't recall her now."

"Morgan Newton thinks she was seeing another man. Erica's son remembers her lover being tall and dark-haired. That sound familiar to you?" Jeffries jumped in.

Feldman gave him a lazy grin. "Lotsa people are dark haired and tall, you know, detective."

"Tell us what you did with her. With Erica Bailey. Your prints are all over that purse you threw across the interstate. Yeah—we found it. You honestly thought you'd get rid of it hurling it around like that?"

For the first time, Robert Feldman's demeanor changed, a tense sort of shadow falling across his eyes.

"Purse was found in 2002. Erica Bailey disappeared in 1995. Where'd you keep her all that time, Feldman? You were obviously the last to see her—your prints are on that purse."

"I don't know what you're talking about," seethed Feldman.

"Sure you don't. But you're not half as smart as you think you are," Jeffries interposed grandly. Now it was their turn to gloat. "Stalking Detective Rush all this time, thinking she was on to you. But check this out—we had nothing on you till you attacked her. We weren't after you—at all. You weren't even a suspect. Thanks to your little stunt, we now have your prints and all the other incriminating evidence. You've given yourself up, my friend."

If he hadn't been such an unpopular guy at the moment, his reaction would have been hilarious. Slack-jawed, wide-eyed, the thought of his not being a suspect had evidently never crossed his mind. Got him! Vera exulted, expecting none other than a full confession.

But the only spiteful words that crossed his lips were, "I want a lawyer."