Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (16 page)

I hurriedly packed a suitcase when I got home and headed for Albany. The Saturday-morning sun had risen by the time I reached the apartment building where Bob lived adjacent to the medical school campus. I pushed the button that connected to the intercom in his apartment. When there was no response, I punched it again and again. I checked and it was a few minutes after eight a.m. Where was he?

I decided to drive to a pay phone, but as I was walking across the parking lot to my car, I heard his familiar laugh and spun around. Bob was coming up the sidewalk with a drop-dead gorgeous blonde walking next to him.

“Bob,” I called. “Bob.”

I waved and he saw me. He said something to the woman and the two of them came to me.

“I thought you weren’t coming until next weekend,” Bob said.

“Change of plans. Something horrible has happened.”

Bob said, “This is Linda, a friend from my study group.”

She stuck out her hand. “Bob and I are coming back from an all-night study session at the medical library. We stopped for coffee and bagels.”

I shook her hand and she said, “I got to run and get some sleep.”

Watching her walk away, I felt jealous. She had killer long legs, a confident gait, and long locks that bounced on her shoulders with each step.

“What’s wrong? Is it your mom?”

I said, “Hold me, tight.” He wrapped his arms around me and I put my face against his chest and whispered, “I may have gotten two people and an unborn baby killed. That case I told you about.”

He pushed me back so he could see my face and said, “How? I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

As we walked to his apartment, I recounted what had happened. Once inside, he said, “I don’t have any Dr Peppers left from your last visit, but I can get you coffee.”

He started toward the kitchen.

“What I want is for you to come back here and hold me.”

Bob hugged me tight. “I’m sure everything is going to be okay,” he said, patting my back.

“The cops hate me. They blame me.”

“Well, I can kind of see why.”

“What?” I said, clearly hurt.

“I mean, I understand why they are upset, but they certainly can’t hold you responsible, especially since they dropped the ball when they were supposed to be watching Hitchins.”

“You think I should have filed those bogus charges?”

“Dani, you’re exhausted and emotionally upset. You’ve just been through a horrific incident. Let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after you get some sleep.”

He led me into his bedroom, where I stripped down to my bra and panties and climbed under the covers. “Aren’t you joining me?” I asked. “I thought you guys were up all night.”

“We were and I’m exhausted. But the coffee I just drank is giving me a buzz. I want to make a few notes and take a shower. Then I’ll join you.”

I curled up in a fetal position. I was disappointed. I wanted to feel him holding me. I wanted to have him spoon with me and feel the warmth of his body and feel loved. I also wanted to get that image of Mary Margaret out of my mind.

“Don’t take long,” I said.

“Okay.” He bent down and kissed my forehead.

“Bob, I should have done something to protect them.”

“Think about something else.”

When I woke up, it was late afternoon. Bob was snoring next to me in bed. For a brief moment, I felt happy, and then I remembered what had happened during the past twenty-four hours.

16

The banner headline on the
white plains Daily
’s Sunday edition screamed in all capital letters: KILLER MURDERS THREE. A subhead on the page added: Mother, Daughter, Unborn Baby Dead: Boyfriend Suspected. The newspaper published a large photo of Mary Margaret and Mrs. Finn standing next to each other in happier times at what appeared to be an amusement park. A second photo showed a body covered with a white sheet being pushed into the back of a medical examiner’s van. In a sensational account, reporter Will Harris told readers that Charleston Taylor, an Elmsford-area farmer, had been doing his early-morning chores when he’d heard a woman screaming from a clearing not far from his barn. “I’ve done enough rabbit shooting to recognize the sound of gunshots and that’s what I heard next. Two of ’em.” Alarmed, Taylor called the police.

Harris quoted White Plains police chief Harvey Cutler stating that Rudy Hitchins was “a person of interest.” Hitchins’s mug shot was published inside the newspaper where the story jumped from page one. The paper also published a photograph of Chief Cutler and D.A. Whitaker standing outside the courthouse holding a Saturday press conference.

Whitaker was quoted liberally, explaining how his office had been in the midst of prosecuting Hitchins with felony assault because of his earlier attack on Mary Margaret. He further noted that Hitchins had been freed from jail by Judge Morano despite strong protests from the D.A.’s office. “My staff was actively going after this man in an extremely violent domestic case,” Whitaker declared. “In some communities, domestic violence is ignored, but not here, especially not while I’m the district attorney. I only wish Judge Morano had been as alarmed as we were.” There was no love lost between Whitaker and Judge Morano.

In the final paragraphs of the news story, Harris identified me as the prosecutor who had been overseeing the Hitchins case.

I’d read the Sunday paper as soon as I returned home from Bob’s apartment in Albany. After my weekend respite, I was eager to return to work. I needed to talk to Whitaker about teaming me with Pisani once Hitchins was arrested. But when I got to work in the morning, Steinberg told me that Whitaker had decided I needed to take “a few extra days off.”

“I want to help,” I protested.

“Look, Dani,” Steinberg said, “the cops are still angry and Will Harris has been fishing around for a story. He’s asking to interview you. We don’t want you talking to him right now, especially while Hitchins is loose. No reason to make you a target.”

Was that really the case, or did Steinberg simply want to keep me out of the limelight so Whitaker could bask in it? The reason hardly mattered. I was being told to stay scarce and I didn’t like it. For two days, I was like a caged animal at my house until Wednesday when I decided to attend a funeral mass at St. Mary’s Assumption Catholic Church for Mary Margaret and her mother.

As I approached the church, I spotted two television news trucks in the parking lot. Reporters were interviewing mourners, so I kept driving and parked my car on a side street. I waited until the mass had begun before discreetly slipping into the sanctuary through a side door. About two hundred attendees had come to pay their last respects. The church could hold as many as a thousand, so only the pews in the front were full. I took a seat in the back. From my vantage point, I could see the backs of the heads of Police Chief Cutler, D.A. Whitaker, and Paul Pisani sitting in the front row. Our mayor and a slew of candidates running for election in November for various Westchester County posts were seated close by them. Several pews were filled with uniformed police officers, a testament to how popular Mary Margaret had been at O’Toole’s.

I exited the church several minutes before the mass ended, hoping to avoid attention, but as soon as I stepped outside, someone called my name.

“Ms. Fox, Ms. Fox.”

The man approaching me had a runner’s slender build. He stood about six feet tall, was in his late twenties, and had a mop of brown hair that needed to be trimmed. He was wearing a dark blazer, a white collared shirt that had its top button undone, and gray pants that were too long in the cuff. I noticed his trousers were frayed in the back where he’d stepped on them.

“I’m Will Harris with the
Daily
—the reporter who telephoned you after you were first hired—and I wondered if I could speak to you now.”

“Now’s not a good time. Besides, I can’t talk to the media unless my boss okays it in advance.”

“Sure, I understand, but you’re an important part of the Rudy Hitchins story. The only reason Whitaker filed felony assault charges against him was because of you. Otherwise, none of this would have happened.”

I couldn’t believe he was blaming me for the murders. I spun around and began walking.

“Wait, wait,” Harris called. “That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean the murders were your fault. What I said was supposed to be a compliment—that no one really cared about domestic violence around here until you were hired.”

“For a man who makes his living with words, Mr. Harris, you seem to choose them poorly. You need to speak to Mr. Whitaker.”

I turned my back to him and started toward my car.

“I’ll run it by Whitaker,” he yelled.

Hoping to avoid other reporters, I picked up my pace. I was just about to my car when I noticed its right rear tire was flat. The left rear tire was flat, too. Hurrying forward, I saw both front tires were flat. Obviously, someone was sending me a not-too-subtle message.

A car moved slowly up the street and then stopped next to me. Its tinted windows and the antennas sticking from its trunk meant it was an unmarked police cruiser. The driver lowered the passenger window.

“Need a lift, Counselor?” O’Brien asked. He reached across the seat, grabbed the interior latch, and shoved open the passenger door. “The two of us need to talk.”

17

O’Brien drove to a greasy spoon on the fringes of White Plains that only cops and truck drivers would patronize. Given the warm reception he received from Ellen, our busty, middle-aged waitress, it was a favorite.

“I’ll take my usual,” he announced.