She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“

It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.

She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.

From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.

She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.

Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.

She ought to know.

Thursday, February 19,

12:00 noon

Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.

But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.

Ahh, she thought. Here we go. Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe, she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.

„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“

Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“

„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.

„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“

She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“

She’d caught him by surprise with that one. Hah. But he covered his temper quickly and with admirable aplomb lifted a brow. „I choose not to give credence to rumor, Miss Richardson. Especially rumor as preposterous as that one.“ He tilted his head in a half nod, a smooth and graceful exit move. „Now I must be getting back to my family.“

Her image turned back to the camera. „That was industrialist Jacob Conti with sympathy for the family of Paula Garcia, but relief that his son is home tonight. Back to you.“

Zoe stopped the tape and ejected it. She’d dupe the segment onto her master later, the tape she used to capture all her more interesting moments. A portfolio of sorts. She stood, absorbing the feel of silk sliding down her legs as her robe fell into place. She loved silk. This robe had been a gift from one of the mayor’s aides. They’d scratched one another’s political backs for a while. She smiled. Then they’d scratched other itches for a while longer. In her honest moments she could admit she missed him, but she mostly just missed the silk.

Soon she’d be able to afford her own silk. Soon she’d be able to afford anything she wanted. Because soon it would be her face, her voice America trusted for its news. She paced her small living room restlessly. She needed a story. So far she’d done pretty well shadowing relentless pursuer of evil and overachieving Girl Scout, ASA Kristen Mayhew. Her gut told her that if it wasn’t broke, don’t fix it. She tapped a French-manicured nail on her silk sleeve, wondering what was first up on Kristen’s agenda tomorrow.

Thursday, February 19,

12:30 a.m.

The computer monitor glowed in the darkness of the room. The Internet had made the world a very small place indeed. The name he’d drawn from the fishbowl resided on Chicago ’s North Shore, in one of the city’s most affluent communities.

He wouldn’t be able to get to Number Seven where he lived or worked, he thought. He’d need to draw him out, to lead him to the place he’d chosen for just such a purpose.

He glanced at the stack of envelopes, gleaming an unnatural white in the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. But first he had some work to do.

Thursday, February 19,

6:30 a.m.

CSU had the site prepped and ready when Reagan pulled his SUV up to the Arboretum. Inside the building, tropical plants flowered. Outside, what little grass could be seen was brown and shriveled. A light rain- fell. Jack had erected a tarp beyond the parking lot, over a narrow span of grass in the shadow of the El tracks above. CSU must have found something.

Bracing herself against the cold, Kristen slid down from the high seat of the SUV and picked her way across the icy sludge in her sensible shoes, Reagan’s big body beside her. He slowed his pace to match hers and she was grateful, for he acted as a windbreak. He’d pulled up to her house at one minute ‘till six this morning, a bag of bagels and lox on the front passenger’s seat of his SUV. So she was treated to yet another ethnic delicacy and found she liked the lox nearly as well as the gyro the night before.

Jack was pacing outside the yellow tape when they approached, his face grim. „Come and see,“ was all he said. One of Jack’s men knelt, shining a flashlight at the ground.

No, not the ground. What the light illuminated was not snow-covered dirt. Horrified, Kristen could only stare as her blood ran cold. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit.

„I’ll be damned,“ Abe muttered under his breath. „Who are Sylvia Whitman, Janet Briggs, and Eileen Dorsey?“

„Ramey’s three rape victims,“ Kristen heard herself reply, still staring at the beam of the flashlight. At the marble marker bearing the three names. And dates.

It was a grave marker.

Her eyes jumped up to meet Reagan’s. „The dates are their birth dates to the day of their assault. He…“ She swallowed back bile.

Reagan shook his head. „It doesn’t make sense.“

Mia jogged up behind them, her breath turning to fog in the air. „What doesn’t make sense?“ Then a quiet, „Oh, God.“

Kristen shook herself. „You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Besides, if something had happened to even one of these three women, I’d have been informed.“ By one of their irate boyfriends or husbands who had so bitterly blamed her for dragging their women through the hell of testifying only to suffer again when Ramey was acquitted. She still felt the sting of their anger, of the accusations she hadn’t tried to defend. She pushed back the guilt and stared at the marker at her feet. „It’s for remembrance,“ she said. „For the victims.“