The streetlight outside their second-floor bedroom was broken, its lens and bulb shattered. Glass shards sparkled like diamonds on the street below each time an oncoming car's headlights swept across the debris. Christensen stared down at the glimmering pool of glass, then at the cars lining both sides of the street. He was a man on the edge of darkness.
“Close that, would you?” Brenna said as she stepped from the bathroom.
He watched her reflection in the window. She wore only a towel, which she unfastened as she crossed the room. It fell to the floor in midstride, and he hesitated before twirling the miniblind rod. When he turned around she was naked, but he found no joy in it.
“You don't usually care, open or closed,” he said.
“Not usually.”
He studied her face for implication. “The call, you mean?”
Brenna shrugged. “It's probably nothing. I told you that.”
“Crank caller, you said.” Christensen thought about the similar call that had so rattled Teresa. He wanted desperately to tell Brenna, but couldn't.
“Right,” she said.
“And you wanted the cops to know about it.”
“I wanted it noted. Why take chances? Plus, I wanted to make sure Milsevic let Teresa Harnett know what had happened.”
Teresa knows.
Christensen choked back the words, remembering his promise, struggling with a silent surge of fear. He was struggling, too, against an impulse to confront the most explosive issue between them: Could he trust Brenna to make unselfish choices? She enjoyed the spotlight's glareâand the glare had never been more intense than during DellaVecchio's original trialâbut at times it had blinded her to danger, both to herself and to their blended family. Once, during the Underhill case a year before, she'd put the kids in harm's way. Christensen wasn't sure their relationship could survive something like that again. Lately, he wasn't sure it could survive, period.
For nearly six years, he had loved her intelligence, her powerful sense of right and wrong, and her extraordinary passion as both a lawyer and a lover. He knew Brenna loved him to the best of her ability in ways that only someone who knew her well could appreciate. She loved him as much as she would ever love any man, and that he never questioned. But he'd known for some time that he ranked third behind Taylor and her role as one of the city's most sought-after criminal-defense attorneys. Was it enough?
“So, you think Milsevic will follow through? I mean, crank call or not, do you think he's taking it seriously? We're all exposed here, you know.”
She slid some panties on and turned away from him as she tugged on a well-worn T-shirt. Her movements grew sharp as she stood before their dresser's mirror and pulled a brush through her hair. Suddenly, she wheeled on him.
“If you've got something to say, just say it,” Brenna said. “Don't give me twenty questions.”
He stared. “The only dumb question is the one you don't ask.”
“But why don't you just say what you're thinking?”
He crossed the room and tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.
“Bren, it's just weird, is all. I mean, whoever left that message is smart. No spoken words, just a recording. Nothing that could identify who it came from.”
“You think I haven't thought of that?” she said.
“So what if it wasn't just some crank? What if it was somebody worried about you recognizing their voice?”
“You think it's DellaVecchio, don't you?” she asked.
“Not necessarily.”
“But you think it could be. Just like Milsevic.”
Christensen paused. “What did Milsevic say?”
Brenna circled him, out of range, stopping at the head of their bed to strip back the covers.
“You're not convinced the police are going to investigate this, are you?” he said.
She didn't look up, busied herself setting her alarm. Her hands were a blur as she moved from task to task, a study in agitation.
“Please talk to me,” he said.
Brenna took a long, deep breath. Her hands slowed, and she ran one through her hair, pulling it back from her face. A single tear had rolled down her cheek. It fell onto her shirt, leaving a translucent mark in the cotton above her heart. He approached again, and this time she stood still as he took her in. He waited for a sob that never came.
After a while, she said, “Don't you see how this plays perfectly into their theory about DellaVecchio? He's dangerous, and now he's out. I just handed them something they can use against us at the hearing, or before the hearing if they decide to push it.”
“But you called the police anyway,” Christensen said.
“I wouldn't take a chance with the kids, with you. Never again. Even if it's just some idiot getting his giggles.”
Christensen hesitated, thinking again about Teresa. “And if it's not?”
She tried to pull away, but he held her. She tried again, feebly, then put her arms around his neck and looked him in the eye.
“Whoever did this to Teresa Harnett, he's still out there,” she said. “But we don't know how he's reacting. In a couple weeks, this becomes an open case.
We
know the cops probably won't reinvestigate the attack. They're afraid of proving themselves wrong. But
he
doesn't know that. The real attacker just knows it's all coming undone. What he thought was over isn't really over.”
“And it's your fault,” Christensen said.
Brenna nodded.
“Why can't Milsevic see that then? Tunnel vision?”
“Exactly. Nailing DellaVecchio's the goal here. Nothing else matters.”
“But what ifâ”
“I've made a liar out of Teresa Harnett. I've made liars of the cops. How can I expect them to get excited about somebody making phony phone calls?”
“Because you're a private citizen, just like anyone else. Because you have a right to police protection.”
Brenna pushed away with an impatient-teacher look. “What planet did you say you're from?”
“Other options, then? State police? The FBI? Don't they get involved whenever someone uses the phone to commit a crime?”
Brenna walked to the window. She absently twirled the dangling plastic rod, opening and closing the miniblinds once, twice, three times. Beyond the window, only darkness instead of the streetlight's soft glow.
Christensen snapped off the bedside lamp. “Somebody broke the streetlight,” he said.
Brenna turned to him. “I'll call Milsevic again tomorrow,” she said, her voice calmer in the darkened room. “By then he'll have heard the message. Then I'll get a better feel for where he's coming from.”
“And if he's blowing you off?”
“I'll figure something out. I left a voice-mail message for Kiger. Maybe he'll call. If nothing else, at least we've alerted the Harnetts. Teresa's the linchpin here. If this guy's scared enough to be watching me, I'd bet he's watching her.”
Christensen stopped Brenna's hand as she reached for the miniblind rod again. He rolled the blind shut tight, then laid his hand on her left cheek. “I love you, Bren.”
She kissed him, her lips lingering on his as she spoke: “I know.”
Flasher coat. That's what the hump-backed greaseball at Army-Navy called it, like, twelve years ago, when he laid out twenty dollars and took it home. Heavy as hell. Hung way down past his knees. Air Force blue. Looked fine. Main thing was the collar, man, big as a pair of wings. Turn it up at the back, button it at the neck, pull a Pirates cap down over your eyes. Shit, you practically disappeared. No worries, especially in this neighborhood. People just think it's a new look. Come back in a week, see this getup all over Shadyside, cap and all. Fucking sheep.
How long she been in there? Guess if you pay three bucks for a cup of coffee, it better take some time to make.
Junkies were easy. Didn't matterâcrack, booze, caffeine. They all had their routines. Practically set your watch by 'em. Every morning he'd followed, three times now, she got here the same time, 8 a.m. on the nose. Left her house and drove a couple blocks, straight here, parked in the alley behind the coffeehouse. Got a takeout coffee and something to eat. Only thing he didn't know was whether she took cream and sugar, and he wasn't about to get that close. Wasn't
that
invisible. From half a block away, she'd never know.
Same thing Downtown, depending on traffic. Two mornings now he'd watched her there. She wheeled that nice ride of hers into the Oxford Centre parking garage, both times between eight-twenty and eight-thirty.
Beautiful.
What was taking her so long? Couldn't see a thing through the glare on the front window. But she was in there somewhere; he could still see her car's back bumper sticking out of the alley. She'd be out in a minute with a cup of whatever, then down Fifth through Oakland. Onto the Parkway, off at Grant, into the garage and the deserted corner near the stairwell where she parked every day. Knew her routines as well as he knew his own. Anytime he wanted, she was his.
But the best place? No question. Right there in her bedroom, one clean shot from the empty roof across the street. One shot to end this bullshit and put everything right. He could almost see the red LaserShot beam dance across her skull, feel the SIG jump in his hands. Just thinking about it made him hard. Better adjust. Don't want people thinking there's a tent pole under this peacoat.
Well, finally. Out the front door and headed for the car, juggling her keys and her cup and a little bag with her muffin. Even so, even with that Columbo coat, she moved nice, like chicks who really know how to strip, the ones who know what drives guys nuts. It's not bumping and grinding like a paint shaker at the hardware store. It's those little jukes from side to side, like she's mixing a martini, makes you see stars. You watch a woman like that move, can't help but picture her working that magic with you inside.
Around the corner, into the alley. The alarm chirps. The car door slams. Take her a few seconds to get everything setâcup in the cupholder, key in the hole, maybe a quick bite of muffin before she rolled. Every morning the same. Then, ignition and blast off. The rear bumper disappeared and she was gone, headed for town. Watch said 8:07. Two minutes later than the last time he followed her, but close enough to know she'd be where he wanted when he wanted, if he wanted.
Bitch might as well wear her schedule on a sandwich board.
“No calls for a few minutes, Liis. I'll be tied up on something, maybe half an hour. I'll get back to people this afternoon.”
Liisa Wyatt looked up from her keyboard. “Good morning to you, too,” she said.
Brenna tossed her Starbucks cup and a crumpled muffin bag into her secretary's trash can. “I'm sorry. Good morning. Just take messages for a while, OK?”
“What's wrong?”
Life had seemed so right just after DellaVecchio's release. Now, a week later, everything seemed wrong. Brenna thought again about the odd phone call she got last night, the third. Just menacing silence on the line. She thought about the lie she had told Jim when he came home from the kids' basketball practice and caught her pacing like a caged cat. She wanted to tell Liisa what was happening, that someone was scaring holy hell out of her. But when she opened her mouth, “Nothing” came out. She forced a smile as she said it.
“You sure?”
“Just some stuff I need to take care of, and I need a chunk of time to do it. I'll let you know when I'm done.”
She closed her office door and leaned back against it. Already, a dozen pink message slips were wedged beneath a corner of her desk phone. They'd have to wait. She couldn't, wouldn't, put up with this. She wasn't easily intimidated. Hell, she could intimidate with the best of them. But this guy was calling her at home, three times now if you counted the song recording he'd left on their machine that first time. He always seemed to know when she was alone, when she was the one who'd pick up the phone. As if he'd been watching the house, figuring out their schedules.
The cops still had her answering machine, so all she got the second time was the weighted hum of an open line. She'd slammed the phone down on instinct, but wised up fast. She'd called the phone company to order Caller ID. It was activated just hours before last night's call, and it worked like a charm.
She hung her coat and scarf on the burnished-steel rack in the corner of her office and sat down. She fished the yellow Post-it note from her briefcase and read her scribbleâ412â358â4491. The number that had flashed onto the LCD readout when last night's call came in. She'd tell Jim about it eventually, let him know what was going on. But first she wanted some information.
She reached for the Greater Pittsburgh White Pages. She opened it to the pages marked “Prefix Locations/Area Code 412” and traced her finger down the page. She stopped when her finger hit 358. She ran her finger across the page. It came to rest on a word she never expectedâLawrenceville.
Her hand shook as she dialed the number. On the fourth ring, a woman answered. “Depth Charge.”
“I'm sorry?” Brenna said.
“Depth Charge. Who ya lookin' for?”
“Is this 358â4491?”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody asked me to call them at this number,” Brenna said. “This is the Depth Charge? What's that?”
“I'm busy as hell,” the woman said, and hung up.
The bar was flanked on one side by a showroom full of granite headstones, and on the other by a narrow, car-choked side street. On the side of a building facing south on Butler, a billboard offered “Caskets Unlimited” to passing motorists.
Brenna had driven past the Depth Charge four times as she eased the Legend up and down Butler. She'd even circled this block twice before she spotted it. Maybe the odd billboard distracted her, or maybe she hadn't seen it because the front door was nearly hidden by an ancient refrigerated display case, which someone had left out on the pitted sidewalk for scavengers to haul away.
She eased the car to the curb and set the parking brake. Even at 10 a.m., even in the day's bright sun, Lawrenceville had a gloomy, claustrophobic feel. She'd gotten over the initial shock of finding that the latest call came from somewhere in DellaVecchio's neighborhood. But by the time she canceled her morning appointments and drove out of the Oxford Centre parking garage, her heart was pounding.
Brenna hesitated before opening the car door, trying to calculate the odds. Even if this
was
the phone the caller used, wouldn't that make sense? Whoever set DellaVecchio up the first time was smart. He made sure back then that the most obvious clues pointed to his straw man. If he was setting DellaVecchio up again, why wouldn't he use a phone from somewhere down here?
She opened the car door and stepped out. The only noise came from the steady hum of traffic along Butler. The sidewalks were deserted except for a stoop sitter, an old woman dressed in black, more than a block away. Brenna thought the
click-click-click
of her low heels on the concrete seemed obnoxiously loud as she walked toward the front door. She stepped into the dim tavern, ignoring the half-dozen regulars who turned to look at her as they sipped beer for breakfast. The pay phone was on the wall just inside the front door, so she picked up the sticky handset, pretending to make a call. Leaning back, she read the numbers on the tiny white stripe underneath the touch-tone keypad: 358â4491.
Brenna checked the Post-it note again, swallowed hard, and hung up the phone. Back in bright daylight, she noticed a sign for 44th Street at the nearest intersection. She realized then she was less than a block from DellaVecchio's house.