The Rebel. Adrienne Giordano

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      And he had the rough-around-the-edges grit of one of those throwback detectives she liked to watch on reruns of NYPD Blue.

      “Well,” she said, “lucky for you I’m not easily offended. And what’s worse is that I figured out immediately you meant the sculpture and not my—” she looked down, circled her hand in front of her chest “—you know.”

      “The sculpture. Yeah. It’s really good.”

      Aside from the botched nose.

      “Thank you.”

      “No. I mean it’s really good. I knew Ben. Good guy. Great guy, actually. His wife is the daughter of...” He shook his head, waved it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The sculpture is...accurate. Scary accurate.”

      Hmm... Having been approached by detectives before, Amanda felt the puzzle pieces beginning to come together and she readied herself to ruin Detective McCall’s evening. “I had a few photos from different angles to work from.”

      “Yeah, I guess that helps. Listen, do you ever do forensic work?”

      And there it was.

      As suspected, the detective wanted her help on a case. Probably doing an age progression on a missing child or working with a witness to identify an attacker. Because of budgeting woes and a lack of funds for full-time forensic artists, police departments sometimes hired outside the department.

      None of it mattered. She’d have to turn him down. “I’m sorry, Detective. I do have an interest and have taken some classes, but it’s not work I feel comfortable with yet.”

      McCall, apparently ignoring her refusal, leaned in. “I’ve got this case...”

      He has a case. On countless occasions throughout her childhood she’d heard those very words from her mother, a part-time forensic artist. Amanda held her hand up. “I’d like to help, but I have little experience in forensic work. I’d do more harm than good.”

      “No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s a cold case. Five years now. No leads. All we have is a skull and some hairs found where it was dug up. That’s all that’s left of her.”

      “Her?”

      “The medical examiner thinks it’s a female. Maybe late teens or early twenties.”

      “I see.”

      “I actually found her.”

      Amanda gawked. Couldn’t help it. “You found the skull?”

      The detective shook his head as he let out a huff. “Craziest damned thing. I was out walking my dog in that vacant spot near Midway, and Henry started digging. I’ll never forget it. Whoever this girl is, she and I are a team. I made sure I kept her case. It’s mine.”

      “That’s admirable, Detective. Really.”

      He shrugged. “We have a sketch done by one of the department artists, but I don’t know. Maybe she got it wrong because no one is coming forward to claim this girl and we didn’t get any hits from DNA. I’m a father. It makes me sick.” He ran his hand over his thinning, gray hair as he scanned the ballroom and the people moving toward the exit. “I saw what you did with the sculpture of Ben and thought maybe you could help us out.”

      Amanda glanced across at Lexi, hoping to grab her attention with the save me stare. No luck there because her friend was busy whispering in Brodey’s ear. By the look on his face, he liked what he was hearing. A flash of something whipped inside Amanda. At odd times, she missed the comfort, the familiarity, the knowing of an exclusive relationship. Casual dating didn’t provide any of that.

      But a pity party wouldn’t get her assistance from Lexi or Brodey. To her right, Mrs. Hennings and Mrs. Dyce were in deep conversation about scheduling a lunch, so there’d be no help there, either. For this one, she’d fly solo. Try once again to nicely let the detective know she couldn’t help him. As much as she felt for him, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk involvement. She faced him again, meeting his gaze straight on. “Detective, I’m sorry. It’s just not what I do. I’ve never done a reconstruction before. I could ask around, though, and see if any of my colleagues might be interested.”

      McCall hesitated and studied her eyes for a few seconds, apparently measuring her resolve. He must have received her message because he nodded, his jowly cheeks shaking with the effort. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you. I want to give this girl her name back.”

      And, oh, that made Amanda’s stomach burn. Ten years ago, her mother would have loved this project.

      A lot had changed in ten years.

      Movement from Amanda’s right drew her attention to Mrs. Hennings placing her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to say, it’s past my bedtime.” Mrs. Hennings touched Mrs. Dyce’s shoulder. “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out a day for lunch.”

      “I’ll be at the youth center. Call me there.”

      “Will do.” Mrs. Hennings nodded at Lexi. “And I’ll have David call you about his new home. He needs help. Just don’t tell him I said that.”

      Lexi laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. And thank you. I’m excited to work with him.”

      Then Mrs. Hennings turned her crystal-blue gaze on Amanda. “My son has just moved back from Boston. Lexi will be helping him on the redesign of his condominium. I’d love to have him look at your artwork. He’s starting from scratch.” Her lips lifted into a calculating smile only mothers pulled off. “Whether he likes it or not, he’s starting from scratch.”

      And from what Amanda had heard from Lexi, when Mrs. Hennings made a request, you should not be fool enough to deny her. When it came to Chicago’s upper crust, Mrs. Hennings might be their president.

      “Of course,” Amanda said. “I’d love to. Lexi and I have worked together several times. Your son can come by my studio and look at some of my paintings. Or we could do a sculpture. Whatever he likes.”

      The older woman reached to shake Amanda’s hand. “Wonderful. I’ll have him call you.”

      * * *

      “OH, COME ON, David,” Mom said. “I know you can be charming.”

      David Hennings sat in the kitchen of his parents’ home, his hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, and faced down his mother, a woman so formidable and connected the mayor of Chicago kept in constant communication with her. She might be able to sway masses, but she was still his mother and, at times, needed to be told no.

      Otherwise, she’d control him.

      And that wasn’t going to happen.

      “Mom, thank you for your never-ending encouragement.”

      She scoffed at his sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”

      Yes, he did. As much as he liked the usual banter between them, he didn’t want to hear about whatever scheme she had going. Not on a Monday morning when he had a to-do list a mile СКАЧАТЬ