He nodded. „Yeah. Just for my peace of mind, let me walk you to your car.“

Kristen narrowed her eyes. „Who are you?“

„I was wondering when you’d ask. Are you always this trusting, carrying on conversations with strange men in deserted elevators?“

No, she definitely wasn’t, definitely had the right not to be. „No, I normally pepper-spray first and ask questions later,“ she shot back and he smiled, this time in rueful acceptance.

„Then I guess I’m lucky once again,“ he said. „I’m Abe Reagan.“

Kristen frowned. „I know you. I know I do.“

He shook his dark head. „No, I would have remembered you.“

„Why?“

„Because I never forget a face.“

He said it matter-of-factly, as if there were no possibility of flirtation. And Kristen was annoyed to find herself disappointed.

„I have to be getting home.“ She turned on her heel, her key poking out from between two fingers as she’d been taught. She held her head high and looked and listened as she walked, but only heard his footsteps behind her. She stopped at her aged Toyota and he stopped, too. She looked up at his face, again in the shadows. „Thank you. You can go now.“

„I don’t think so, ma’am.“

Enough was enough. „Excuse me?“

He pointed to her tire. „See for yourself.“

Kristen looked and felt physically sick. Of all times, a flat tire. „Dammit.“

„Don’t worry, I’ll change it for you.“

Another day she might have refused, because she was certainly capable of changing a tire. Today, she’d let him knock himself out. „Thanks. I really appreciate it, Mr. Reagan.“

He took off his overcoat and laid it across her hood. „My friends call me Abe.“

She hesitated, then shrugged. If he’d planned anything evil, he would have done it by now. „I’m Kristen.“

„Then pop the trunk, Kristen, and we’ll have you on your way.“

Kristen did, wondering when she’d last opened her trunk, sincerely hoping she had a spare, already anticipating Mr. Know-it-all’s scathing response if she didn’t.

And stopped short, staring at the interior of the trunk she’d left clean and empty.

To say it wasn’t as she’d left it would be quite the understatement. She reached out a tentative hand, then snatched it back. Don’t touch anything. She squinted, trying to make sense of the three large shapes that had not been there before. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim illumination provided by the little trunk light, her brain began to process what her eyes were seeing. And the resulting message from her brain sent her stomach churning. She’d thought her day couldn’t get any worse after the Conti mistrial.

She’d been very, very wrong.

Reagan’s voice cut through the fog in her brain. „This should only take a few minutes.“

„Um, I don’t think so.“

In an instant he was behind her, looking over her shoulder and she could hear him exhale on a hiss. „Holy shit.“

Either his eyes were better than hers or fatigue had put her in slow-motion mode because it had taken Abe Reagan only a split second to comprehend what had taken her multiple seconds to process to the point of being well and truly horrified.

„I need to call the police.“ Her voice trembled and she didn’t care. It wasn’t every day her personal space was violated. It sure as hell wasn’t every day she presided over her very own crime scene. And this one qualified as a real doozy.

Three plastic milk crates sat side by side. Each contained clothing topped by a manila envelope. Each envelope had a single Polaroid taped precisely in its center. And even from where she stood she could see the subject of each Polaroid was well and truly dead.

„I need to call the police,“ she repeated, grateful her voice was steady once again.

„You just did,“ Abe replied, his voice grim.

Kristen twisted, looking up at his face. „You’re a cop?“

He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. „Detective Abe Reagan, Homicide.“ The gloves went on each hand with a surgical snapping sound that seemed to echo in the quiet of the garage. „This might be a good time to completely introduce yourself, Kristen.“

She watched as he carefully pulled the envelope from the crate on the far right. „Kristen Mayhew.“

His head jerked around, surprise on his face. „The prosecutor? Well, I’ll be damned,“ he added when she nodded. He studied her face intently. „It’s your hair,“ he announced and turned his attention back to the envelope in his hand.

„What about my hair?“

„It was pulled back.“ He held the envelope close to the trunk light. „I wish I had a flashlight.“

„I have one in the glove box.“

He shook his head, his eyes fixed on the Polaroid. „Don’t bother. I’ll have your car towed and dusted for prints, so don’t touch anything. Son of a gun. This boy is dead.“

„What, the bullet hole in his head tipped you off?“ Kristen asked wryly and Abe Reagan shot her a brief but equally wry grin.

„Hey, what can I say?“ Then he sobered, resuming his study. „Caucasian male, late twenties, early thirties. Hands tied in front of him…“ He squinted. „Wonderful,“ he said flatly.

Kristen leaned over his arm to stare. „What?“

„If I’m not mistaken, somebody’s stitched your boy up, stem to stern.“

Kristen grabbed his arm and tilted the picture toward the trunk light. Sure enough, a line started at the man’s sternum and stretched down his torso. „My God,“ she murmured. Horrified by a sudden thought her eyes flicked to the milk crates, then up to meet Reagan’s eyes. „You don’t think…“ She let the question trail off when his face twisted into a grimace.

„What, that whatever body parts that were removed are in these crates? Well, Counselor, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Do you recognize this guy?“

She squinted, shook her head. „It’s too dark. Maybe I will when we get it in better light.“ She looked up at him, feeling stupid and helpless and hating both. „I’m sorry.“

„It’s okay, Kristen. We’ll figure this out.“ He flipped his cell phone open and punched some numbers. „It’s Reagan,“ he announced. „I’ve got a…“

„Situation,“ Kristen supplied, feeling hysterical laughter building down deep. She shoved it deeper. Someone had committed murder and stowed the evidence in the trunk of her car. There could be hearts and spleens and God-knew-what-else in the trunk of her car. She’d been driving around, blissfully unaware that an entire crime scene resided in the damn trunk of her car. She took a deep breath, relieved to smell stale oil and exhaust instead of putrid rotting internal organs.

„A situation,“ Abe was repeating. „I’m here with Kristen Mayhew. Someone left what looks like evidence of a multiple homicide in the trunk of her car… We’re on the second floor of the parking garage next door to the courthouse. Seal the exits, just in case he’s still around.“ He listened, then looked down at her, and his eyes which she’d thought to be cold flared to life with heated interest. His eyes slid to her hands which she realized were still clutching his arm as if he were a lifeline. Quickly she stepped back and looked away, dropping her hands to her sides just as he said, „I’ll tell her… Yeah, I’ll be waiting.“ He snapped his phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. „You okay?“ he asked.

She nodded, hoping her face was only peony pink and hadn’t progressed to ruby red which clashed with her hair. Striving for dignity, she asked, „Tell me what?“ Then she looked up and whatever forced nonchalance she’d managed to work into her face just drained away.

He was still looking at her, his eyes intense, his jaw tight. A tingle started in her chest and sped to her extremities making her shiver and to her mortification she had to clench her hands to keep them from grabbing his arm again. „Spinnelli says to tell you that you didn’t have to go to so much trouble for department attention,“ he said, his voice low and nimbly. „Flowers and candy would have sufficed.“ The timbre of his voice alone intensified the sensation of fingertips trailing the back of her neck, and she suddenly wondered what it would be like if he did just that. But he’d turned back to her trunk and the other two crates, breaking the almost tangible connection between them and Kristen shivered again. „He’s sending a CSU team. This could take a while.“