Page 1 of The White Picket Fence

CHAPTER1

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tuesday, March 29, 10:15 a.m.

“Hey, Tino.”

Tino Ciccotelli smiled at the nurse on duty at the ICU desk. “Mrs. G. So good to see you.” And it was. Although Tino wished he’d seen her nearly anywhere else but here.

Here, in a hospital.

Tino had come to hate hospitals. Not that anyone liked them, of course.

Marian Gargano smiled back in that motherly way she had. She was his oldest friend’s mom, and he’d spent more time at her kitchen table during his teen years than he had his own.

There had been a number of times over the years that he’d wished she were his mother.

The thought used to make him feel guilty, feel like he’d betrayed his own mother, but at the moment he was too tired to care.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You look exhausted.”

“Because I am. Just got off a plane.”

“Where were you off to this time?”

“Knoxville, Tennessee. Murder victim. I interviewed a child who witnessed her mom getting killed.”

Her expression softened. “I’m so sorry, honey. I know those cases take it out of you.”

They did. He met victims and their families at the worst times of their lives. It had begun to wear on him, the constant sorrow. Interviewing children—be they witnesses or victims—made the sorrow so much worse.

“Someone’s got to do it.” And that someone was him. He did what he did for the victims, for their families. He played a small part in getting them justice. “I was able to get a good sketch. Cops have already ID’d the killer.”

Usually, he tried to take a break between interviews, but the request had come in the night before to get back to Philly for another victim. The woman he was here at the ICU to see was, thankfully, still alive to tell her own story.

D. Johnson, white female, age seventy-five. She’d been beaten within an inch of her life but had somehow survived.Must be a tough old bird.

Hopefully, her memories of her attacker would be crisp enough to be useful. Hopefully, Tino would be able to take those memories and turn them into a “wanted” poster.

Marian came around the desk to cup his cheek. “This one’s going to be harder.”

Tino frowned. Miss Johnson was the survivor of an assault. Not a sexual assault, thank the good Lord, because those were devastating. “Why?”

It was Marian’s turn to frown. “It’s Mrs. Johnson.”

So a Mrs., not a Miss.“And?”

Marian’s expression became confused. “Did you not read the file they sent?”

“I only got a name. D. Johnson.”

“Dorothy Johnson, Tino. Your old art teacher from high school.”

Tino felt his knees wobble and had to take a step back. “What?” he whispered, because Dorothy Johnson had been the first person to nurture his ability, to tell him that he was good, that he was really good.

She’d given him the confidence to pursue art as a career.

She was the reason he stood right here, right now.

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