Red Blooded Murder

Praise for the novels of Laura Caldwell

Red Hot Lies

“Chicago is brilliantly illuminated in Red Hot Lies, a book bursting with scandals and secrets.” —David Ellis, Edgar Award-winning author of Line of Vision and Eye of the Beholder

“A legal lioness—Caldwell has written a gripping,

edge-of-the-seat thriller that will not disappoint.”

—Steve Martini, New York Times bestselling author of Shadow of Power and Compelling Evidence

The Good Liar

“The Good Liar strikes like an assassin’s bullet: sudden, swift, precise, deadly. Not to be missed.” —New York Times bestselling author James Rollins

“Laura Caldwell’s The Good Liar is a massive achievement in one novel, launching a woman right up there with the top thriller writers around.” —International bestselling author Ken Bruen

The Rome Affair

“A fabulous, hypnotic psychological thriller …

Laura Caldwell is a force we can’t ignore.”

—New York Times bestselling author Stella Cameron

“This is [Caldwell’s] most exciting book yet …

a summer must-read.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

Look Closely

“A haunting story of suspense and family secrets …

you won’t want to put it down.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jane Clark

The Night I Got Lucky

“Caldwell is one of the most talented and inventive

chick-lit writers around, and her latest features a

likable heroine in an unusual situation and ends

with a clever resolution.”

—Booklist

The Year of Living Famously

“Snazzy, gripping … an exciting taste of

life in the fast lane.”

—Booklist

A Clean Slate

“A page-turner about a woman with a chance

to reinvent herself, something most of us have

imagined from time to time.”

—Chicago Tribune

Burning the Map

“Exotic locales (Rome and Greece), strong

portrayal of the bonds between girlfriends, cast

of sexy foreign guys and, most of all, its touching

story of a young woman at a crossroads in her life.”

—Barnes & Noble.com, selected as one of “The Best of 2002”

Also by Laura Caldwell RED HOT LIES THE GOOD LIAR THE ROME AFFAIR LOOK CLOSELY THE NIGHT I GOT LUCKY THE YEAR OF LIVING FAMOUSLY A CLEAN SLATE

Dear Reader,

The Izzy McNeil series is fiction. But it’s personal, too. Much of Izzy’s world is my world. She’s proud to be a lawyer (although she can’t always find her exact footing in the legal world), and she’s even more proud to be a Chicagoan. The Windy City has never been more alive for me than it was during the writing of these books—Red Hot Lies, Red Blooded Murder and Red, White & Dead. Nearly all the places I’ve written about are as true-blue Chicago as Lake Michigan on a crisp October day. Occasionally I’ve taken licence with a few locales, but I hope you’ll enjoy visiting them. If you’re not a Chicagoan, I hope you’ll visit the city, too, particularly if you haven’t recently. Chicago is humming right now—it’s a city whose surging vibrancy is at once surprising and yet, to those of us who’ve lived here a while, inevitable.

The Izzy McNeil books can be read in any order, although Izzy does age throughout, just like the rest of us. Please e-mail me at info@lauracaldwell.com to let me know what you think about the books, especially what you think Izzy and her crew should be doing next. And thank you, thank you, for reading.

Laura Caldwell

Red Blooded Murder

Laura Caldwell

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you, thank you, thank you to Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Amy Moore-Benson and Maureen Walters. Thanks also to everyone at MIRA Books, including Valerie Gray, Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Loriana Sacilotto, Craig Swinwood, Pete McMahon, Stacy Widdrington, Andrew Wright, Pamela Laycock, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Alex Osuszek, Margie Miller, Adam Wilson, Don Lucey, Gordy Goihl, Dave Carley, Ken Foy, Erica Mohr, Darren Lizotte, Andi Richman, Reka Rubin, Margie Mullin, Sam Smith, Kathy Lodge, Carolyn Flear, Maureen Stead, Emily Ohanjanians, Michelle Renaud, Linda McFall, Stephen Miles, Jennifer Watters, Amy Jones, Malle Vallik, Tracey Langmuir and Anne Fontanesi.

Thanks to all the TV and broadcast people who offered their insights, especially Jeff Flock and everyone at Fox Business News, as well as Steve Cochran, Anna Devlantes, Amy Jacobson, Elizabeth Flock, Jim Lichtenstein, Pamela Jones and Bond Lee.

Much gratitude to my experts—Detective Peter Koconis and Chicago Police Officer Jeremy Schultz; Janet Girtsen, Deputy Laboratory Director of the Forensic Science Center at Chicago; criminal defence lawyers Catharine O’Daniel and Sarah Toney; private investigators Paul Ciolino and Sam Andreano; and physicians Dr Richard Feely, Dr Roman Voytsek-hovskiy and Dr Doug Lyle. Thanks also to everyone who read the book or offered advice or suggestions, especially Dustin O’Regan, Jason Billups, Liza Jaine, Rob Kovell, Beth Kaveny, Pam Carroll, Katie Caldwell Kuhn, Margaret Caldwell, Christi Smith, William Caldwell and Les Klinger.

The hands that grabbed her were greedy. They shoved her, pushed her, not caring when she cried out. And although she wanted more—more now, more later—she felt the need, even in this faraway moment, to say the truth. “We shouldn’t be doing this again. At least I shouldn’t. This is the last time, just so you know.”

“Shut up,” came the reply.

“I’m not kidding. I want you to know that this is it. It’s over after today.”

“Shut up.”

Those hands moved lower, clawing and probing as though they’d been waiting for this, lying in wait until she was vulnerable, when they could strip her bare and plunge her into oblivion.

She threw her head back and clutched at the bed sheets, holding herself down until the moment when she would step into the void that she so craved.

A breeze trickled in the window, enticing after the biting winds that had battered Chicago for months. Yet nothing could touch the heat that boiled inside, carried her in small but growing crests, reaching her in places she always forgot until moments like this.

The hands stopped suddenly, startling her.

“Why?” she said, desperate.

A mouth crushed against hers, bit her. “I said shut up.” And she did.

Later, when she was alone, she slipped into her clothes for the evening—white, ironically. Tonight, she would smile, and she would be engaging. After all these years, she knew how to do that—how to shine her eyes at someone, how to direct her energy so they felt seen and heard and touched. No one at this event would know what she’d just done. She would carry the last two hours in her head, like little packages whose pretty wrappings hid the shame and the pleasure. Those thoughts would please her when she mentally unwrapped them; they would send pangs of delight throughout her body. But they would remove her from everyone, too. Secrets were always like that. They put a film between you and the rest of the world, so that you could see everyone else, but no one could see the whole of you.

Searching for her bag, she walked through her place and found it by the door. She remembered now that she’d dropped it there in the heat of that first moment, when she had let herself be devoured by her wants.

She sighed and picked up the bag. She took it into her bedroom, where she transferred a few essential items into a smaller bag more appropriate for the evening. She brushed her hair.

For a second, she studied herself in the mirror. She didn’t look any different than she had that afternoon. There wasn’t a blush to her cheeks or a shine to her eyes. She’d gotten so good at hiding the evidence.

Her gaze dropped. It was hard to look at herself these days. She walked to the front door, trying to clear her mind of the last few hours, of everything.

She stretched out her arm for the doorknob, but suddenly it turned on its own, surprising her, making her gasp.

The door opened.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said, when she saw who was there.

She stopped short, looking into those eyes—eyes that saw her, knew what she was really like. She opened her mouth to say something sexy, but when she looked again, she saw those eyes shift into an expression of cold anger. She turned away for a moment while she collected words in her head and shaped them so that they would be earnest, pacifying.

But before she could form the sentences, she felt something strike her on the back of the head. She heard herself cry out—a cry so different from those she’d made earlier, a cry of shock and of pain. Instinctively, she began to raise her hands to her head, but then she felt another blow. Her mind splintered into shards of light, the pain searing into pink streaks. She felt her knees buckle, her body hit the floor.

Something tightened around her neck, squeezing her larynx with more and more force, stealing the breath from her. The light in her brain exploded then, filling it with tiny spots. Strangely, it seemed as if each of those spots encased the different moments of her life. She could see all of them at once, feel all of them. It was a beautiful trick of the mind, a state of enlightenment the likes of which she hadn’t known possible. She felt more alive than she ever had before.

1

Three days earlier

The bar, on the seventh floor of the Park Hyatt hotel, had its doors propped wide, as if boasting about the suddenly dazzling April weather.

We stepped onto the bar’s patio—an urban garden illuminated by the surrounding city lights.

“Spring is officially here,” I said. “And God, am I ready for it.”

The thing about spring in Chicago is that it’s fast and fickle. A balmy, sixty-eight-degree Friday like tonight could easily turn into a brittle, thirty-five-degree Saturday. Which is why Chicagoans always clutch at those spring nights. Which is why a night like that can make you do crazy things.

The maître d’, a European type in a slim black suit, spotted the woman I was with, Jane Augustine, and came hustling over. “Ms. Augustine,” he said, “welcome.” He looked at me. “And Miss …”

“Miss Izzy McNeil,” Jane said, beaming her perfect newscaster smile. “The best entertainment lawyer in the city.”

The maître d’ laughed, gave me a quick once-over. A little smile played at the corner of his mouth. “A lawyer. So you’re smart, too?”

“If so, I’m a smart person who’s out of a job.” I’d been looking for six months.

“Maybe not for long,” Jane said.

“Meaning?”

Jane shrugged coquettishly as the maître d’ led us over the slate floor to a table at the edge of the patio.

“Our best spot,” he said, “for the best.” He put two leather-bound menus on the table and left.

We sat. “Do you always get this kind of treatment?” I asked.

Jane swung her shiny black hair over her shoulder and looked at me with her famous mauve-blue eyes. “The treatment was all about Izzy McNeil. He’s hot for you.”

I turned and glanced. The maître d’ was watching us. Okay, I admit, he did seem to be watching me. “I think I’m giving off some sort of scent now that I’m single again.”

Jane scoffed. “I can’t stop giving off that scent, and I’m married.”

I studied Jane as the waiter took our drink orders. With her long, perfect body tucked into her perfect red suit, she looked every inch the tough journalist she was, but the more I got to know her, the more I listened to her, the more I was intrigued by the many facets of Jane. When I was lead counsel for Pickett Enterprises, the Midwest media conglomerate that owned the station where Jane worked, I’d negotiated her contract. And while she was definitely the wisecracking, tough-talking, shoot-straight journalist I’d heard about, I had also seen some surprising cracks in the veneer of her confidence. And on top of that was the sexiness. The more I knew her, the more I noticed she simply steeped in it.

“Seriously,” Jane said. “I know you’re bummed that you and Sam had that little problem—”

“Yeah, that little problem,” I interrupted her. “We’re seeing each other occasionally, but it’s just not the same.”

Six months ago, my fiancé, Sam, disappeared with thirty million dollars’ worth of property owned by my client, Forester Pickett, the CEO of Pickett Enterprises, and it happened on precisely the same night Forester suddenly died. After nearly two agonizing weeks that seemed like two years—weeks in which my world had not only been turned upside down, but also shaken and twisted and battered and bruised; weeks during which I learned so many secrets about the people in my life I thought I’d been dropped into someone else’s life—the matter had been resolved and Sam was back in town. But I’d lost all my legal work in the process and essentially had been ushered out the back door of my law firm. As for Sam and me, the wedding was off, and we weren’t exactly back together.

“Whatever,” Jane said. “You should enjoy being single. You’re dating other people, right?”

“A little.” I rubbed the spot on my left hand where my engagement ring used to rest. It felt as if the skin were slightly dented, holding a spot in case I decided to put it on again. “There’s a guy named Grady, who I’m friends with, and we go out occasionally, but he wants to get serious, and I really don’t. So mostly, I’ve been licking my wounds.”

“Enough of that! Let someone do the licking for you. With that red hair and that ass, you could get anyone you want.”

I laughed. “A guy at the coffee shop asked me out the other day.”

“How old was he?”

“About forty.”

“That’ll work. As long as he’s eighteen, he’s doable.”

The waiter stepped up to our table with two glasses of wine.

“Would you go out with her?” Jane asked him.

“Uh …” he said, clearly embarrassed.

“Jane, stop.” But the truth was I was thrilled with the randomly warm night, with the hint that the world was somehow turning faster than usual.

“No, honestly.” Jane looked him up and down like a breeder sizing up a horse for stud. “Are you single?”

The waiter was a Hispanic guy with big, black eyes. “Yeah.”

“And would you go out with her?” Jane pointed at me.

He grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

“Perfect!” Jane patted him on the hip. “She’ll get your number before we leave.”

I dropped my head in my hands as the waiter walked away, chuckling.

“What?” she said. “Now you’ve got three dates when you want them—the waiter, the coffee shop dude and that Grady guy. We’re working on the maître d’next. I want you to have a whole stable of men.”

A few women walked by. One of them gasped. “Jane Augustine!” She rushed over. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have to tell you that I love you. We watch you every night.”

“Thank you!” Jane extended her hand. “What’s your name?”

The woman introduced her friends, and then the compliments poured from her mouth in an unending stream. “Wow, Jane, you’re attractive on TV but you’re even more gorgeous in person …. You’re beautiful …. You’re so smart …. You’re amazing.”

“Oh, gosh, thank you,” Jane said to each compliment, giving an earnest bob of the head. “You’ve made my day.” She asked what the woman did for a living, then graciously accepted more compliments when the woman turned the conversation back to Jane.

“How do you do that?” I asked when they left.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re so flattered? I know you’ve heard that stuff before.”

Jane studied me. “How old are you, Izzy?”

“Thirty this summer.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m going to be thirty.”

“Well, I’m two years away from forty, and let me tell you something—when someone tells you you’re beautiful, you act like it’s the first time you’ve heard that.” She looked at me pointedly. “Because you never know when it’ll be the last.”

I sipped my wine. It was French, kind of floral and lemony. “How’s your new agent?”

“Fantastic. He got me a great contract with Trial TV.”

“I’ve seen the billboards.”

Trial TV was a new legal network based in Chicago that was tapping into the old Court TV audience. The billboards, with Jane’s smiling face, had been plastered up and down the Kennedy for months.

“It’s amazing to be on the ground floor,” Jane said. “They’ve got a reality show on prosecutors that’s wild. It’s gotten great advance reviews. And we’re juicing up trial coverage and making it more exciting. You know, more background on the lawyers and judges, more aggressive commentary on their moves.”

“And you’ll be anchoring the flagship broadcast each morning.” I raised my glass. “It’s perfect for you.”

Jane had always had a penchant for the legal stories. When she was a reporter, she was known for courting judges and attorneys, so that she was the one they came to whenever there was news. She got her spot as an anchor after she broke a big story about a U.S. Senator from Illinois who was funneling millions of dollars of work to one particular law firm in Chicago. It was Jane who figured out that the head partner at the firm was the senator’s mistress.

Jane clinked my glass. “Thanks, Iz.” She looked heavenward for a second, her eyes big and excited. “It’s like a dream come true, because if I was going to keep climbing the nightly news ladder, I’d have to try and go to New York and land the national news. But Zac and I want to stay here. I love this city so much.”

Jane looked around, as if taking in the whole town with her gaze. This particular part of Chicago—the Gold Coast and the Mag Mile—had grown like a weed lately as a plethora of luxury hotel-condo buildings sprang into the skyline.

“Plus, aside from getting up early, it’s going to be great hours,” Jane continued. “I don’t have to work nights anymore, and trials stop for the weekends. They even stop for holidays.”

“Is C.J. going with you?” Jane’s current producer was a talented, no-nonsense woman who had worked closely with Jane for years.

She shook her head. “She’s staying at Chicagoland TV. That station has been so good to me I didn’t want to steal all their top people. Plus, I wanted to step out on my own, start writing more of my own stuff.” She gave a chagrined shake of her head. “You know how I got all this?”

“Your new agent?”

“Nope. He only negotiated the contract. It was Forester.”

Just like that, my heart sagged. I missed him. Forester had not only been a client, he’d been a mentor, the person who’d given me my start in entertainment law, the person who’d trusted me to represent his beloved company. Eventually, Forester became like a father to me, and his death was still on my mind.

“I miss him, too,” Jane said, seeing the look on my face. “Remember how generous he was? He actually introduced me to Ari Adler.”

“Wow, and so Ari brought you in.” Ari Adler was a media mogul, like Forester, but instead of owning TV and radio stations, newspapers and publishing companies all over the Midwest, as Forester did, Ari Adler was global. His company was the one behind Trial TV.

“Forester knew I loved the law,” she said, “so he brought me to dinner with the two of them when Ari was in town.”

“Even though he knew it meant he might lose you.”

“Exactly.” Jane put her glass down and leaned forward on her elbows. “And now I’m bringing you to dinner because I want you.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The launch is Monday. We’ve been in rehearsals for the last few weeks.” She paused, leaned forward some more. “And I want you to start on Monday, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to be a legal analyst.”

“Like a reporter?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve never worked in the news business. Just on the periphery.” And yet as logical as my words sounded, I got a spark of excitement for something new, something totally different.

“We had someone quit today,” Jane said. “A female reporter who used to be a lawyer.”

“And?”

“Well, let me backtrack. Trial TV has tried to put together a staff that has legal backgrounds in some way, including many of the reporters and producers. We have reporters in each major city to keep their eye on the local trial scenes. You know, interview the lawyers and witnesses, prepare short stories to run on the broadcasts. But one of our Chicago reporters hit the road today.”

“Why?”

Jane waved her perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, she’s a prima donna who wants everything PC. She couldn’t handle our dinosaur deputy news director.” Her eyes zeroed in on mine. “But you could. After working with Forester and his crew, you know how to hang with the old-boys network.”

“Are you talking an on-air position?”

“Not right away. We’ll give you a contributor’s contract, and you’ll do a little of everything. You’ll assist in writing the stories and help with questions when we have guests. But eventually, yeah, I see you on-air.”

“Jane, I don’t have any media experience.”

“You used to give statements on behalf of Pickett Enterprises, and you were good. Either way, the trend in the news is real people with real experience in the areas they’re reporting on. Think Nancy Grace—she was a prosecutor before she started at CNN. Or Greta Van Susteren. She practiced law, too.”

The spark of excitement I’d felt earlier now flamed into something bigger, brighter. If you’d asked me six months ago what the spring held for me, I would have told you I’d be finishing my thank-you notes after my holiday wedding, and I’d be settling into contented downtime with my husband, Sam. But now Sam wasn’t my husband, and things with him—things with my future—were decidedly unclear.

“What would it pay?”

She told me.

“A month?” I blurted.

She laughed. “No, sweetheart, that’s a year. TV pays crap. You should know that. You’ve negotiated the contracts.”

“But I’m a lawyer,” I said.

“You’d be an analyst and a reporter now.”

Just out of principle, I considered saying no. I was a lawyer; I was worth more than that. But the fact was, unless I could find entertainment law work, I was worth almost nothing. I knew nothing else, understood no other legal specialties. I’d been job hunting for months, and trying to make the best of the downtime—visiting the Art Institute, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Museum of Science and Industry and just about every other museum or landmark Chicago had to offer. But, depressingly, there was no entertainment work up for grabs in the city. Though most Chicago actors and artists started with local lawyers, when they hit it big, they often took their legal work to the coasts. The lawyers who’d had it for years wisely hoarded the business that remained. And, months ago, after the dust had settled after the scandal with Sam, Forester’s company had decided to use attorneys from another firm, saying they needed a fresh start and a chance to work with someone new. I couldn’t blame them, but it had left me in the cold. My bank statement had an ever-decreasing balance, teetering toward nothing. I hadn’t minded the lack of funds so badly when I couldn’t buy new spring clothes, but soon I wouldn’t be able to pay my mortgage, and that would be something else altogether.