She told the desk officer to send her up. She would meet her at the elevators on two.

Kitt was waiting when the elevator doors slid open and Valerie stepped off. She wore her nurse’s uniform. She looked shaken.

“Hello, Valerie. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s really important. But…I’m on my lunch break. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Kitt nodded. “Follow me.”

She led her to an empty interrogation room. Neither her desk nor the break room would give them the kind of privacy this conversation required.

They sat. Kitt thought about simply telling her everything-her love for Joe, how she had realized it. Then beg her forgiveness.

Shame kept her from speaking.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Valerie began, clasping her hands in her lap.

Kitt saw that she still wore Joe’s ring. “Just say it, then.”

She nodded, took a deep breath and began. “I lied to your partner. When she asked me about Joe. About our being together the night that little girl died.”

Kitt struggled to shift gears. To place what she was saying. “What do you mean, you lied?”

“Joe and I weren’t together all that night.”

Joe’s alibi for the night of Julie Entzel’s murder. He didn’t have one, after all.

How did she know Valerie was being truthful now?

Kitt struggled to keep her thoughts from showing and to pull herself together. Fact was, ethically, she should turn this over to another detective right now.

She should. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

That didn’t mean she was so stupid as not to cover herself-or protect the investigation.

“Valerie, because of the nature of this conversation, I need to both record it and take notes. Is that all right?”

The younger woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “As long as it doesn’t take much time.”

“It won’t, I promise.”

Within moments, Kitt had set up the video recorder and was sitting across from Valerie, a tablet on the table in front of her. “Could you repeat what you told me earlier?”

She did, repeating it almost verbatim, adding, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the girls who had died.”

“Let’s start at the beginning, Valerie. Detective Riggio visited you while you were working at the hospital.”

“That’s right. Highland Park Hospital. She asked me some questions about Joe. Whether we were together all night on March 6. I said we had been.”

Kitt leaned forward slightly. “Now you’re saying that’s not true?”

“Yes.” Valerie looked down at her hands, then back up at Kitt. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have lied. I just…all I could think about was protecting Joe.”

“What made you think Joe needed protection?”

M.C. had attempted to avoid this very thing by questioning Valerie before Joe had the opportunity to call her.

“Joe had told me about that ex-con who was working for him. That you’d been asking questions. He’d said it was making him uncomfortable.”

Valerie let out a shaky breath. “I knew there was no way Joe could have anything to do with…that. So I lied.”

“And now? What caused your change of heart?”

“I keep thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And about…all those other girls. And I can’t live with myself.”

She wrung her hands. As she did, her diamond solitaire caught the light. It was a pretty ring, Kitt thought. Certainly bigger than the one she’d gotten. She and Joe had been kids when they’d gotten engaged; they’d had little but the roof over their heads.

Valerie glanced at her watch. “I’m still certain he couldn’t have had anything to do with hurting a child. But I couldn’t be party to the lie anymore.”

For long minutes after Valerie had left, Kitt sat in the interrogation room, staring at the empty doorway, trying to objectively evaluate Valerie’s story. Something about it didn’t ring true.

But was that because it wasn’t-or because she didn’t want it to be?

Kitt glanced down at the log of Brian’s calls. A number leaped out at her. One she knew by heart.

She knew it by heart because, once upon a time, it had been hers as well.

60

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

12:30 p.m.

M.C. started with Rose McGuire, the second victim, simply because she had lived in an assisted-living community rather than a private residence. Even though seven years had passed, M.C. hoped there might still be someone on staff from the time of the murder. If so, they would remember. An incident like that was not easily forgotten. In addition, it had no doubt resulted in sweeping changes in the center’s security.

The Walton B. Johnson Assisted Living Center had been named after the Rockford millionaire philanthropist whose brainchild the center had been. Or so the center’s director informed M.C. as they walked to her office. It had been the first of its kind in the city, providing a much-needed living alternative for the elderly. His foundation continued to underwrite needy residents, up to ten percent of occupancy. Their newest, a man named Billy Hatfield, had moved in just that day.

They passed a line of wheelchairs filled with ladies-their gray hair ranging in shades of silver to lavender. Some napped, others waved at her and called greetings, others seemed to be grousing about something.

“What are they waiting for?” M.C. asked.

The director smiled. “Mr. Kenneth comes in to do hair on Mondays. Every Tuesday after lunch we put up the sign-up sheet. As you can see, Mr. Kenneth is very popular with the female residents.”

They reached the woman’s office. A plaque on the door read Patsy Anderson, Director.

She unlocked the door and led M.C. inside. After they had both taken a seat, she asked, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about Rose McGuire.”

Her smile slipped. “Surely you don’t mean-”

“I do, indeed, Ms. Anderson. We’re looking into reopening the investigation.”

She didn’t look pleased at the news. M.C. didn’t blame her. If the case was reopened, it would attract media attention-which would be bad publicity for them.

Worse than she knew.

“That was so long ago.”

“Seven years.”

“I wasn’t even on staff here. I was hired in 2002.”

“Is there anyone on staff who was?”

She frowned. “Offhand, I don’t recall. I’d have to go into the personnel records.”

“Would you, please?”

“It’ll take a bit of time.”

“When do you think you could have the information to me?”

She glanced at her desk clock. “End of the day, latest.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“You know,” she went on, “the previous director retired, but she lives here in town. I bet she’d be happy to talk to you. She took the murder really hard. In fact, it’s why she retired when she did. Why don’t I call her, see if she’s home and tell her you’re coming over?”

Twenty minutes later, M.C. greeted Wanda Watkins, a small, energetic woman with a lovely silver bob and eyes so big they took up an inordinate amount of her face.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Watkins.”

“Call me Wanda. Come in.”

She led M.C. into her small living room. A big calico cat perched on the back of the floral sofa, another sprawled across the cushions.

Unfortunately, M.C. was allergic. She felt her nose twitch.

“My babies,” the woman said. She scooped up the one and shooed the other. “Please, sit.”

M.C. did. She took out her notebook and pen. “As Patsy told you over the phone, we’re looking into reopening the investigation into Rose McGuire’s murder. We have a possible new lead.”

“Thank God.” She stroked the cat. “It’s been difficult, knowing her killer was never caught. Not just because he was still free, but because Miss Rose was such a sweet woman. Always a smile, never a complaint.”