After several minutes Hope's heart finally began to slow. She sat up in bed and sighed shakily. Had her bizarre, hysterical episode entirely passed? She felt jittery, her nerves still jangled by the incident. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep for hours, if at all tonight, she reached for her book of sonnets on the beside table and flipped it open.
For a long moment, she stared in rising confusion.
Someone had written in a bold hand in the margin of her favorite sonnet Ryan Vincent Daire, 1807 S. Prairie Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, 2008.
The book trembled in her hand. The page had been clean just before she'd stood and put on the Marlborough gown. She'd have bet her life on it.
She flipped through the pages anxiously but found no other anomalous messages. After staring at the name, her own street address on Prairie Avenue and the number—surely that wasn't
supposed to signify a year, was it?—for several more minutes, Hope realized that the mysterious writing had been placed directly next to a line from the sonnet. 7
Love is not time's fool.
THREE
Ryan studied a translated statement from a twenty-year-old illegal immigrant who was being extradited. The kid claimed his sister and cousin had disappeared at approximately the same time two men had come to their village in Mexico recruiting men for work in the United States. One of the men fit Anton Chirnovsky's description, the other matched that of a former Colombian drug importer named Manuel Gutierrez. Gutierrez had apparently joined the recruiting division of Donahue's white slavery operation. A file suddenly plopped down on his desk. "You going to explain to me what that's all about or not?" Gail Edgerton asked archly when he looked up. Gail worked in the Computer Crime Research Lab. She'd kindly agreed to do a little digging for Ryan earlier this morning even though her blonde eyebrows had shot up on her forehead in disbelief when she'd seen his written request.
"Thanks, Gail. I owe you one," Ryan muttered as he opened the folder. The words Hope Virginia Stillwater, born: 1881, died: 1906 immediately leapt out at him, She'd been twenty-five years old when she died? What the hell had happened to her? Ryan wondered as something that felt akin to panic unfurled in his gut.
"How about if we take you to lunch to return the favor, lovely lady?"
Ryan kept his head ducked when he heard Ramiro. Damn. He hadn't particularly wanted his partner to know about this bit of research he'd requested from Gail. He hadn't expected Gail to bring him the information in person. It was a given that Ramiro would be all over Gail once she came into the vice squad room. Ramiro'd had a letch for the attractive blonde for years, not that Gail ever gave him the time of day.
"You trying to tell me you wanted that information as well, Menendez?" Gail asked doubtfully. "This has gotta be one for the record books. There isn't enough crime in the year 2008, so you two top cops gotta go solving hundred-year-old murders?"
Ryan's head reared up.
"Murder?"
Gail grinned, obviously pleased she was telling him something he didn't know. She tilted her chin at the file. "It's all in there, and you do owe me for it, Daire. Extra. I had to call the Chicago Police Department Regional Archives Depository to get information on a homicide from 1906. The guy up there was a real pain in my ass. I think I deserve a lunch with tablecloths and waiters, don't you?"
"Definitely," Ryan murmured evenly, despite the fact that it felt like ice water had just been shot down his spinal cord.
"Nineteen hundred and six? What the hell are you talking about? That doesn't have anything to do with the Donahue case," Ramiro said with a scowl. Ryan deftly moved the file away from Ramiro's fingers when he made a grab for it.
"I think I'm coming down with the flu or something. Not hungry. But I've got a great idea, Gail. Why don't you let Ramiro take you to lunch? You can pick the spot and I'll spring for the check. I really do appreciate this."
Ramiro's attention was instantly diverted. His eyes zoomed over to Gail's face. Gail's expression of slight disappointment deepened to stark suspicion when Ramiro pumped his eyebrows and flashed a white smile, shamelessly using the single, deep dimple in his right cheek to seduce his wary prey.
Gail sighed.
"All right. It's got to be better than the cafeteria food."
"You won't be disappointed, beautiful lady."
"Especially if Daire's going to reimburse you for the check, right?" Gail asked, her amusement tinged heavily with skepticism as she gave Ramiro the once-over. Still, Ryan heard her laughing at one of Ramiro's dumb jokes as they exited the squad room together.
Ryan's stomach growled for its lunch but he turned his complete focus onto the meager file about Hope Stillwater's life.
About Hope Stillwater's murder, he added to himself grimly.
Ryan lay in the old-fashioned claw-foot porcelain tub and stared into space while the water cooled around him. He should get up and move or his well-used muscles would stiffen and ache. He'd both worked out at his gym and moved a pickup truck full of items from his loft to the Prairie Avenue mansion. It was past midnight. He should go to bed.
Still, he remained unmoving, his mind churning.
The sound of water splashing made his head swing around. Funny. He knew he'd been preoccupied but he hadn't moved. The sound of lapping water followed by what had sounded like a soft sigh hadn't matched with any of his actions. The dim overhead light cast shadows in the corners but Ryan could still see that the large bathroom was silent and empty except for him and his thoughts.
Ruminations about a woman long dead.