THE PROSECUTOR (8 page)

She rested her head back, closed her eyes and willed the twinge in her neck away. Every muscle ached. And she still had to face her mother, whom she’d lied to and kept in the dark about her son’s condition. Maybe Emma could slip into the house, head straight for her bed and not tell Mom about Brian tonight. The worst of it was over and, at this point, maybe she shouldn’t tell her at all.

Did a mother
need
to see the brutal remnants of a beating that had left her son’s face swollen and held together by harsh, black stitches? Would she want to see it?

A slow prickle moved up Emma’s spine.
What have I done?
Keeping Brian’s condition from their mother may not have been fair.
God, I don’t know
. A mother would act on basic parenting instincts by going to her child when that child needed care. Emma had stolen that opportunity, ripped it from her mother’s hands.

Her stomach twisted and she held her breath.
What have I done?
Panic, slow and vicious and cutting, flooded her system and her heart slammed, just hammered, hammered, hammered at her. Then she felt it. Tears.
Don’t cry
. Not here. She bit her bottom lip, squeezed her eyes closed.

Zac backed out of the parking spot and glanced at her. “You okay?”

No.
“Yep,” she croaked, turning away from him.
Don’t let him see.
“Just tired. Long day.”

“That it was. Can I get you anything? I’m hungry.”

Food. She hadn’t had any since that morning. “I guess we should eat.” She threw her hands in the air. “Oh, and I’m such an idiot. We should have brought Brian some decent food. What am I doing? I’ve screwed this whole thing up.”

“Hang on.” Zac guided the car from the middle of the lot and parked behind a group of empty cars. “Screwed what up?”

Emma hit the window button and sucked in cold air, let it fill her lungs and quiet her battered conscience. She couldn’t look at Zac. Not now. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was Mr. Perfect Family. Mr. I’ve-got-it-all-together.

Stop.
Of all people, he didn’t deserve that. If anything, he’d been nothing but helpful. Not many prosecutors would help a convicted man.

“Hey.” He rubbed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, a soft, brushing motion that eased the pounding in her body. “Talk to me.”

Even in the dark, she saw it, the compassion in his eyes, the driving need to help. She tilted her head, pressed her cheek against the warmth of his fingers. Being touched was underrated. Or maybe she just hadn’t been touched this way in ages. “I rushed into a plan, and robbed my mother of seeing her son outside of prison. Now, I can’t decide if I should tell her or just let it be. Either way, I’ll probably break her heart. I wouldn’t blame her if she was furious with me.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t roll his eyes and didn’t judge her.
I could love him
. And, yeah, that was big trouble. Thinking like that would lead her smack-dab into the middle of heartbreak when Zac convinced a judge that her brother should stay in prison. That sinkhole inside her would have a huge payday.

“First off,” Zac said, “there’s not a right or wrong answer. You had no idea what his condition was. You wanted to protect her.”

There he goes, Mr. Perfect
. “When I saw that he was okay, I should have called her. I
should
have gone home and gotten her so she could see him.”

He dropped his hand from her cheek. “Come on, Emma. How much are you supposed to do?”

Mr. Perfect wasn’t so perfect.
Thank you.

“It’s a ninety-minute drive,” he said. “By the time you’d have gotten home and back, visiting hours would have been over.”

“Then I should have gotten someone to drive her up here.”

He let out a harsh breath. If he thought
he
was frustrated, he should climb inside her brain. He had nothing on her.

She unfastened the seat belt and shifted to face him. “You think I’m being ridiculous?”

He turned his head toward her, his blue gaze shooting daggers. “I didn’t say that.” The edge in his voice, so quiet and controlled, took on a gritty, strangled tone. “If I thought that, I’d have said it. I think you’re exhausted and you’re overanalyzing.”

“And rightly so.”

“Wrong!” he yelled.

“Hey!”

He held up his hand, pressed his lips together for a second. “My point is you should give yourself credit for managing an unmanageable situation. There’s no instruction manual for this. How would anyone know what the right move is? What it comes down to is you took care of your brother and you saved your mother from worry. Beating up on yourself doesn’t help you, your brother or your mother.
That’s
what I think.”

Emma stayed silent, but folded her arms. Because down deep, tearing away at her, nibbling like a slow-moving cancer, was the urge to crawl across the console and smack him. Just let him have it. She didn’t want him making sense of her life right now, trying to fix every damn thing. What she wanted was sleep, and food and a way to forget about her life for a while.

Zac blew air through his lips and rested his head back. “I’m sorry I yelled. I want you to understand that there’s no playbook, Emma. No playbook. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re extraordinary and you don’t have to do this alone.”

Mr. Perfect returns.
“You can’t help me, Zac. Your job is to keep him locked up.”

“My job is to go into court and prove he did it.”

Now they were getting to the meat of the issue. “Do you think he did it?”

He stared out the windshield, drummed his fingers against his thigh. After a minute, he turned to her. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. I need to talk to witnesses, find the rest of the damn reports that should have been in that box and figure out what’s going on with this case.”

His being unsure could work for her. Maybe he wasn’t committed to finding the real killer, but it was more than she’d gotten from any prosecutor or law enforcement official thus far. “I can help with that.”

Light from the dashboard illuminated his narrowed eyes. “How?”

“You told me to prove it to you. I’ll give you copies of all my notes. If Penny wants to use them at trial, we’ll have to turn them over anyway, but I’ll give it all to you. Even the stuff we don’t use.”

For her brother, she’d do that. She’d even help Zac sort through it all and explain it to him.

He eyeballed her. “You said it was eighteen boxes. You’ll give me all eighteen boxes?”

“I’ll give you copies. Not that I don’t trust you—you and your sister are the only ones I do trust. Everyone else terrifies me. I need to protect my originals, but I have no problem going over it all with you. I’ll show you the inconsistencies in your
rock-solid
case.”

Zac grinned at her. “You’ll give me everything? Leave nothing out?”

“I have nothing to hide.”

He turned and shifted the car into gear. “You, Ms. Sinclair, have a deal.”

“Excellent. My brother is innocent. You’ll see.”

Chapter Eight

Zac stepped into his office carrying his jumbo coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He flipped the light on with his elbow, did his usual scan of the mountains of files stacked in every available spot and wondered if he would ever come in and have an empty desktop.

In a city this size?

Probably not.

He set his cup on the desk and opened his briefcase to sort through the files he’d need for court.

A familiar knock sounded and he glanced up to see Ray Gardner striding toward him. The boss first thing on a Monday morning couldn’t be good.

“Hey,” Zac said, still pulling folders from his briefcase. “What’s up?”

“What’s the story with Ben Leeks?”

Zac snorted. Of course the detective went to his superiors about Zac’s visit. He probably left out the part about his inappropriate visit to Emma. Zac snapped the briefcase closed, set it on the floor and motioned his boss to a chair.

The two of them sat, just a couple of buddies and no bull. “Ray, this is a mess. How these guys got a conviction baffles me.”

His boss shifted in his seat. “How so?”

“There’s no evidence. I got one half-filled box of files. No GPRs, no witness statements, nothing. I’ve got Leeks showing up at Emma Sinclair’s at one in the morning and telling her to back off.”

“He did that?”

“Yeah, I paid him a visit on Saturday and told him to knock it off and to have his son call me. This kid is the ex-boyfriend of Chelsea Moore and was supposedly abusive. They cleared him within hours. What is that? You can add to that Brian Sinclair spending the night in a hospital last night because someone wanted to send his sister a message. You think that’s a coincidence? With the gang contacts Ben Leeks has?”

Ray drummed his fingers on the armrest and twisted his lips. A few long seconds passed—nothing unusual for his boss—while Ray mulled over this new information.

“Look,” he finally said. “The SA is all over me on this. She got a call from Grossman over the weekend and he’s about to blow his top. I need you to make this go away.”

Leeks had taken it all the way to the superintendent of police. Zac should have expected nothing less.

“And what? We don’t care that the
investigation
was a joke? I’m not saying Sinclair is innocent, but I have questions. I’ve also got a copy of a security video showing Sinclair leaving a parking garage down the street from the club at 12:37 that night.”

Ray’s eyebrows shot up. “What video?”

“My sister tracked it down from a witness statement. A witness who was never called at trial, but who was with Sinclair in the parking garage and drove him back to the club. According to the time line, he would have left his friend’s car and walked into that alley to murder Chelsea Moore. Is it a solid alibi? Not necessarily. But why wasn’t the friend’s testimony admitted into evidence? Something is wrong here.”

Ray’s secretary appeared in the doorway and Zac held his hand to her. Ray angled back, spotted her and stood. “I’ve got a meeting. Figure out how to make this go away. Quietly. Please.”

Someone was on something if they thought this case would go away quietly, especially with his sister in charge. Kicking up a frenzy was her specialty. She’d mastered the art of manipulating that frenzy in her desired direction at the age of ten. She was, in fact, brilliant at it.

His desk phone buzzed and he hit the speaker button. “Zac Hennings.”

“Hi, Zac,” the office assistant said. “I have Dave Moore to see you.”

Dave Moore. The day couldn’t have started off any worse. What would he even say to the man?
I’m sorry, Dave, but your daughter’s murder investigation was completely botched.

No way to win this one. Zac checked his watch. An hour before his first court appearance and he still had notes to review. He’d give Dave some dedicated time—he owed the man that much—and then excuse himself.

“Send him back.”

Two minutes later, Dave stepped into Zac’s office looking like he’d aged ten years in the couple weeks since Zac had last seen him. His thick head of gray hair was neat and gelled in place, but the loose flesh under Dave’s eyes told the story. The man was seriously lacking sleep. Zac rose from his chair and extended his hand.

“Zac, thanks for seeing me unannounced.”

He waved the comment away and pointed at the guest chair. “Have a seat.”

Dave’s large frame dwarfed the chair, but he shifted until he found a suitable position. “These chairs never get any better, do they?”

“Not in my experience.”

Dave nodded then looked around at the stacks of folders. Oddly, his gaze landed on the unmarked box on the floor. His daughter’s box. No way for him to know what was in it, but his focus sent goose bumps up Zac’s arms.

“Dave, talk to me. What do you need?”

The detective tore his attention from the box. “I need you to tell me Chelsea’s murderer won’t walk out of prison. After that Steve Bennett video, the article in the paper and now I’m hearing noise about your going at it with Ben Leeks, I have concerns.”

That dog
. Ben Leeks had tapped into every available resource. Even the grieving father.

Zac sat back, his squeaking chair adding to the aggravation of the morning. “I did have a conversation with Leeks. He made an inappropriate visit to Emma Sinclair. This is a politically charged case and he’s not doing us any favors.”
Neither am I with that whole kissing-the-defendant’s-sister thing.
Total mess all around. “I’m working this case, Dave. I’m looking at witness testimony, reviewing evidence, talking to the PD, but I want to be honest with you. There are problems.”

Dave’s eyes went sharp. “What kind of problems?”

“A serious lack of an investigation for one. I should have a mountain of evidence. I’ve got half a box. But I promise you, I’ll figure this out. Your daughter deserves that and I’ll give it to her.”

“You think we locked up the wrong guy? That because she was my daughter, the case was fast-tracked?”

Zac wasn’t about to tell a detective that his buddies behind the blue wall had manipulated evidence to gain a conviction. “I don’t know yet. He was convicted. Something swayed the jury. I’ve got the trial transcripts on the way. I’ll study everything and if Brian Sinclair deserves to be where he is, he’ll stay there. I can promise you that.”

“But you’re wondering.”

“I have questions. I won’t lie to you. If Sinclair is innocent, the person who did this to Chelsea is walking around. Neither of us wants that. Right now, I need to talk to the Leeks kid and see what was up with his relationship with Chelsea.”

Dave nodded. “I’ll make sure that happens.”

“Don’t. I’ve already spoken to his father about it. He knows I’ll subpoena the kid if I have to. For now, I need you to not be a detective working your contacts. I need you to be Chelsea’s father. If Brian Sinclair gets a hearing on this new evidence, I want to walk into court with everything aboveboard. No cops cashing in favors. My sister, who’s representing Sinclair on the PCR petition, will tear us apart if there’s a whiff of impropriety.”

“Sinclair did it, Zac. I can feel it. We’ve gotta get him for good. My wife is a wreck and I don’t know what to tell her. We need it to be over.”

This poor guy. His daughter murdered, his coworkers screwing up the investigation and now his family would have to go through it again. How the hell was the man supposed to cope? “I’m sorry this is coming back. I give you my word that the investigation will be solid. By the time I’m done, there won’t be any questions.”

The detective stared at him for a long minute, then, with great effort, pushed himself out of the chair. “I know you’re the best they’ve got. I appreciate what you’re doing. If you need my help, let me know.”

Zac waited for Dave to leave, then picked up his desk phone and dialed Emma. Her files were looking like the Promised Land right now. Pressure had never been an issue for him. Part of him lived for it, the rush of energy, the high that came with battle. For him, it meant euphoria. It meant walking into court and decimating the opposition.

Except he had a thing for Emma Sinclair—also known as the opposition. Worse, she might be right about her brother’s innocence—damned if he knew—and it would rock a city already rife with political scandals.

Emma picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Emma.”

“Hello,
Zachary
.”

And wow, that spot-on imitation of Penny was bizarre. Zac laughed for the first time today.
Hell
. Another reason to like her. She made him laugh when everything else gave him an ulcer. “You sound just like her. That’s nuts.”

“I’ve been practicing. I can’t help myself. She’s such a character. How are you?”

“I’m good. You okay?”

“You mean after my trip to psycho-land last night?”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t call it that, but yeah.”

“I am. I had decent sleep. I’m taking your advice and not beating myself up. What’s done is done.”

Good for her. “What did you decide about your mom?”

“I didn’t tell her. Brian’s caseworker just called and he’s on his way back to the prison. I didn’t see much point in telling my mother now.”

“Probably the right move.”

“I hope you’re right,
Zachary
.” She laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m punchy. I’ve been studying constitutional law since five.”

On top of all this, she was a law student keeping up with her studies. “Oh, that’s good stuff right there.”

“You think?”

“I know. We’re talking about the foundation of our country. Constitutional law is all about our society’s fundamental relationships.”

“Well,” Emma said, “since you’re an expert, you can help me study for my test on Friday.”

“Anytime. I love that subject. I know it every which way. That’s not what I’m calling about, though.”

“Somehow, I figured that.”

Well, shoot. He should have called her this morning to check on her. That would have been the right thing to do after the day she’d had yesterday. The lines of separation on this case were starting to shift. To
blur
. Regardless of his feelings for Emma, he had to focus on winning. On giving Dave Moore and his family the answers they deserved. “When can I get a look at your files?”

“
Zachary,
you’re so forward.”

Again, he laughed.
Those shifting lines are nonexistent now.
“You don’t want to go there with me, Emma. I take dirty talk to a whole new level.”

Silence. Yeah, he thought so. So did his erection.
Dammit
. “The files?”

She cleared her throat. “Right. The files. After the copy machine gets here.”

“What copy machine?”

“The one your sister insisted on because she refuses to let you take one slip of paper from this basement. She told me she’d have a copy machine sent over so you can make dupes of whatever you need.”

Leave it to Penny. At least it was coming out of her budget and not the state’s.

“That’ll be convenient,” Zac said. “When is it getting there?”

“She said sometime today. I’m off tonight if you want to come by.”

He checked the calendar on his phone. Pickup basketball game at seven. He’d have to skip that. “Tonight works. I’ll swing by after work. I’ll even bring dinner.”

“Perfect. Bring enough for three. My mom will be here.”

* * *

E
MMA
SWUNG
THE
FRONT
DOOR
open and found Zac standing on the other side juggling his briefcase and enough pizza to feed a small army. She grabbed the two pizza boxes from him. “Zac, we’re only three people.”

“I figured there’d be enough for leftovers.”

Leftovers. How incredibly sweet. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come inside.”

He stepped into the living room and looked around. Just days ago his sister had been in the exact spot. Of course, her reasons for being there were about defending Brian whereas Zac’s were about prosecuting him. No one had ever accused Emma of leading a boring life.

She led Zac to the kitchen where she set the food on the despised and scarred Formica countertop. One day, they’d rip it out and give their homey kitchen the update it deserved. Some of Emma’s most cherished moments—family breakfasts, her father’s corny jokes, fresh-baked cookies with Mom—occurred while sitting in this kitchen. No wonder her mother refused to give up the circa-1985 table. The table held memories of a life that no longer existed. A life stolen by death and injustice.

Emma pointed to the floor where Zac was about to step. “Don’t trip. The linoleum is coming up.”

Being the fixer he was, he squatted and pressed it back into place.

“Thanks, but it’ll only come up again. It’s one of the projects on Brian’s to-do list when he comes home. He’s handy that way.”

Zac nodded, seemingly unmoved by her declaration that Brian would be coming home. “Where’s your mom?”

“She went out for a bit.”

“Doesn’t want me here, huh?”

Might as well tell him the truth. Smart man that he was, he’d figure it out anyway. “It’s not that. I told her you were a nice guy.”

He cracked a grin. “Did she call you a liar?”

“No. She loves Penny, so it wasn’t hard for her to believe. I think it’s more about not wanting to like you.”

“Come again?”

Needing a minute to align her thoughts, Emma set one of the pizza boxes on the table and flipped it open. “I think she’s afraid she’ll like you and then you’ll keep her son in prison.”

Kind of like me
.

“There’s an angle I never considered.”

“I’m not sure how she’d reconcile those two things. She’s used to life kicking her to the curb, but that might be too much.”

Emma grabbed a couple of plates from the cabinet, found the necessary silverware and arranged everything on the table. Yes, she was stalling and they both knew it. “What do you want to drink? Pop, iced tea? I could probably scrounge a beer from the back of the fridge, but I can’t vouch for how long it’s been there.”

His lips quirked and Emma got that little rush—the zipping heat—that had distracted her too many times over the last few days. “Pop is good. Thanks.”