See No Evil (15 page)

She asked Sarah to fax her at home with all the information about the art charity event. She didn’t know if she would go, but she thought the information about Jason Ridge’s death—and Bowen’s involvement in his DEJ—was odd. There was definitely more to the story than what Grace had written, and Julia needed to find out what. It might have nothing to do with Emily, or everything to do with Emily. Jason’s death was the third she could connect to Garrett Bowen, directly or indirectly, and that was two coincidences too many.

She paid the bill and stared out the window as she finished her iced tea. One thing Grace said bugged her: Why was Connor helping her? Why did she go to him when she had no one else to turn to?

The kiss.

No, she wasn’t so shallow to think that he would even want to kiss her again after what happened. But she’d never forget the way she felt when he kissed her that night long ago, the night before she told him that if he didn’t testify against a crooked cop, she’d put him on trial for manslaughter.

She’d been working late in her office. Working? No, she was torn. Stuck. Unable to figure out what to do about the entire screwed-up case. The two illegal immigrant minor females, still Jane Does, found in the chapel annexed to the San Diego Mission de Alcalá had started a task force that included the FBI, Border Patrol, and SDPD. But in the end, they couldn’t stop the smuggling of sex slaves across the border. The girls wanted to come, they wanted a chance at freedom, and if they had to give their bodies, some felt it was a fair trade.

There was nothing fair about being sexually abused and used and then beaten to death when they started looking like the whores they were treated as. The men who bought the girls wanted them young and beautiful, not old and used. And if they tried to escape…she’d read the reports, seen the pictures of naked girls shot in the back and left for carrion in the desert east of the city.

But ultimately, after months of investigation, the only crime they’d been able to stop was the one within their own ranks, two cops taking bribes and turning their back on the sex slave trade.

The district attorney at the time, Bryce Descario, had come to Julia an hour before. “Have you talked to Kincaid?”

“Not yet.” She’d dreaded it. Connor had made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with the Internal Affairs investigation. But without his collaboration, the FBI said they couldn’t proceed and take over the case, that it was an internal San Diego PD issue, not a federal issue. She disagreed, but she was one attorney in a sea of federal bureaucrats and special agents. She was definitely out of her comfort zone.

“I don’t have to remind you how politically sensitive this situation is. I want it gone. The election is less than two years away, this needs to be old news. Kincaid will agree or you will file charges on the Suarez death.”

“But—”

“I thought we were clear on this. The chief of police has agreed.”

Only because you can’t fire him, she thought with disgust. She hated politics. Hated this district attorney. Hated the mayor and regretted voting for him. What about the truth? Didn’t anyone care about the truth anymore?

“We’re clear.”

“Good. Kincaid didn’t do himself any favors. He set himself up for this. Now he has to sit at the table or leave the house. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Chandler?”

“Yes, sir.”

Descario left and Julia reminded herself that Connor Kincaid had dug his own grave. Had he not gone after Suarez himself—without a warrant, without backup—he wouldn’t have been under investigation. He shot an unarmed man. Suspected human trafficker, but armed only with a knife.

She’d read the report and statistics that a good knife thrower could have hit Connor with a clean throw, but politically—God, how she hated politics—politically, a knife was no match for a gun and they were twenty-five feet apart, clearly in the gray area.

Tomorrow. She’d tell him tomorrow. His entire problem would go away if he agreed to testify. If not, he’d have to take his chances with the charges. And probably lose his job in the process.

She packed up her papers. It was nearly midnight and she had an eight a.m. court appearance. Not that she would sleep well tonight, but at least she could soak in the bath and maybe work out some of the tension in her muscles.

A knock on her door made her jump. Who was still here this late?

Connor Kincaid came in without waiting for her answer. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his broad chest a little too tightly for her comfort. They’d worked together closely for the last few months and she was attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? Hot cop in uniform. Piercing black eyes to match his black hair. Square jaw, long nose, and the muscles. God, his muscles were hard and sleek and she had often imagined what it would feel like to be locked in his arms.

She glanced at her desk, feeling a blush coming on. She acted like such a schoolgirl around Connor, and he’d made no indication that he thought she was attractive. He was more angry than anything. Angry about the status of the investigation, about how they found more dead girls in the desert just last week, how no one seemed to care.

She cared. But she wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. An overworked twenty-nine-year-old deputy district attorney three years out of law school did the job she had to do, a job that two people could easily work full-time.

“The hearing is tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She shut her briefcase.

“Do you know anything?”

She wanted to tell him everything, but couldn’t. Her duty to her office, her ethics wouldn’t allow her to break the rules for him.

But she wanted to. It didn’t seem fair. And for the first time, a little chisel hit the rock of justice in her heart, that maybe the law and the rules weren’t always fair.

But they were all she had.

She came around her desk. “I heard about the girls in Calipatria. I’m sorry.”

He tensed. “The bastards are going to get away with it. Trebone isn’t talking.” Trebone, a police informant who was tightly wrapped in the Crutcher investigation, had surrendered after Connor shot Suarez. And now Trebone had been scared silent.

She wanted to soothe Connor, to tell him someday justice would be served, but Julia couldn’t get out the words. They didn’t seem to mean what they had to her when she decided to go into civil service.

Instead, she touched his arm. “We’ll figure it out.”

He looked at her hand, then at her face. For the first time since they’d begun working together, she saw desire in his eyes. Connor didn’t hesitate. If he had, she would have run away like a rabbit, avoiding the passion in his intense expression.

He put one hand on her neck and pulled her face to his. His lips locked onto hers. He tasted of warmth and spice and a hint of hops. At five foot nine she never thought of herself as petite, but she felt remarkably feminine in Connor’s arms.

She gasped, and he kissed her deeper, his tongue seeking hers. She responded, opening her mouth to him, her hands squeezing his biceps, holding on to keep herself from falling.

Connor Kincaid kissed like he did everything else in his life. Fiercely, passionately, without reservation or regret.

He walked her backward until her rear end hit the desk and he bent her backward. Her clock tumbled to the floor with a thud. Remembering where she was, she put her hands on his chest and turned her lips from his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear, breathless.

He stepped back and she felt cold. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—” Connor touched her cheek so softly Julia almost didn’t feel it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She watched him leave, then sat at her desk and cried.

SIXTEEN

W
HERE THE HELL
was she?

Connor Kincaid paced outside Julia’s renovated Victorian house perched on cliffs along the coast outside of La Jolla. A small neighborhood was nestled below, then the highway, shops, and finally the beach and ocean, less than a mile as the crow flies.

He finally stopped pacing and leaned against a tree on the edge of her property, staring at the distant ocean.

He tracked down Emily’s other friends but they had next to nothing to contribute. He attempted to talk to her teachers, but they refused to talk to him since he wasn’t a cop. He called Emily’s piano teacher, who had been advised by his lawyer not to speak to anyone, and the art studio downtown had no one on the premises who personally knew Emily. “The classes are run by the community college,” the gallery owner told Connor. “You’ll have to talk to the head of the art department, Anton Foster.”

Connor took down the contact information and tried Foster, but only got voice mail. He left a curt message and slammed down the phone, reminding himself that this was the part of being a cop he never liked—following up on leads that went nowhere. But it had to be done.

Where the hell was Julia?

His cell phone rang: Dillon.

“What’s up, bro?” said Connor.

“I thought we were meeting at my house.”

“Julia isn’t home yet.”

“Why don’t I meet you at her house? I have to make another stop. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“You have news?”

“Some. I’ll talk to you when I get there.”

Connor hung up and sat down against the tree. At least the view was nice. Calming.

An orange-and-white tabby cat cautiously approached. Connor sat there, pretending not to notice. The cat came closer. Closer. Sniffed his hand, almost like a dog. Connor smiled. They’d had a cat when he was little, a black cat with a white chest who looked like he was wearing a tuxedo, hence his name, Tuxedo, given to him by Carina who was then seven. He’d been a stray, but the Kincaid family adopted him. They were in Texas at the time. When they moved a year later for Virginia, they brought Tuxedo with them. He disappeared soon after the move, and they never found him. Nor did they get another pet that wasn’t caged.

He wondered if the tabby belonged to Julia. He’d never pictured her as an animal person. A workaholic. A fierce prosecutor. A rigid attorney. Except around Emily, where she softened, became human, female. A woman he could picture with a cat on her lap and a fire in a darkened room. A woman like the one he’d kissed five long years ago.

He should never have kissed her, but she’d looked so beautiful, so vulnerable, so damn
kissable.
He couldn’t resist. He’d been attracted to her from day one, but kept his feelings well tamped down. Back then when he’d kissed her, she’d responded with a fierce passion he’d never suspected was inside. He’d hoped that maybe, when things died down, he’d ask her out. Take her to bed.

It didn’t happen. The day after their kiss, the cold attorney Julia Chandler was back with a lose-lose ultimatum.

He’d wanted to resign so badly and screw her, screw the case. But the truth was he couldn’t see what would happen if he was tried for manslaughter. Even if he spent a day in jail, a cop behind bars was in jeopardy. He wasn’t willing to give his life to protect criminal bastards who contributed to the abuse of underage girls.

He couldn’t have been more shocked when Julia gave him the ultimatum. In the end, he did what they wanted and went back to work.

He’d tried to explain what would happen, but Julia refused to listen. She was so caught up in the rights and wrongs, she’d really had no idea what she was asking him to do.

The next six months were hell. The department was polarized. Ultimately, he resigned, refusing to be a lightning rod for controversy and anger anymore.

He shook the past from his mind. Five years was a long time, but remembering how he felt then brought back the old anger and resentment. Connor needed to put that aside so he could help clear Emily.

He heard the car’s approach before he saw it. The cat beside him scampered off toward the house. Instead of bounding up the stairs to the porch, the cat went through a small hole beneath the stairs.

Julia’s Volvo came into view. She parked outside of the detached garage and got out, looking at Connor’s truck, then looking around for him. She wasn’t in her attorney uniform. Instead, she was wearing a skirt similar to last night’s, a flowing number in spring colors, and a tight little lacy white pullover shirt. Her hair was down and the light breeze played with it. He stood and approached her.

“Where have you been?” he said, focusing on the fact that she wasn’t home when she was supposed to be, instead of how delicious she looked.

She frowned, her brows pulled in. “I didn’t realize you were my keeper.”

“You said you were coming straight here after the courthouse.”

“I made a detour.”

“And?”

“Let’s go inside.”

She led the way inside. She had three locks and a security system. “Scared of something?”

She shrugged. “Andrew Stanton suggested I get a security system after the Fione trial.”

“I don’t know that case.”

“It was over two years ago. Fione raped and killed three women in the bay area. We had DNA, two eyewitnesses, and he kept souvenirs—the victim’s underwear. We tried to plead it to life without parole thinking he’d go for it to save his life, but he refused to plead guilty, so we prosecuted special circumstances murder one and he got the death penalty. Of course, that costs us a hell of a lot more than the plea.” She sighed. “I think that’s why the bad guys go to trial, to cost us time and money. We had Fione easy.”

“So he’s away for life. Why the security?”

“He threatened me in court. I wasn’t scared of him, he was going to prison for the rest of his life, but Andrew thought since I was handling high-profile cases it would be prudent to have security.”

“Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He touched her arm. She looked down, surprised that indeed she was trembling. “So what kind of threat did Fione make?”

“The usual. That he’d get out and cut my throat.” She tried for a light laugh, but it came out a squeak. “That’s water under the bridge, really. He’s never getting out. Might not see the end of a needle in my lifetime, but he’s secure in San Quentin.”

“But he scared you.”

“What he did to those women scared me and made me angry. He mutilated their bodies so badly they needed closed caskets. The second victim was discovered by her eight-year-old daughter. She didn’t even recognize her mother. It was awful.”

“Any more threats?”

“Here and there. I have a gun.”

“Great,” he muttered.

She glared at him. “I know how to use it. I went to safety training. I’m not stupid, Kincaid.”

“I never thought you were. But you don’t carry.”

“It’s for home protection. I’m safe at the courthouse. The security is tight.”

“There’s the parking garage, walking to lunch, driving home—”

She waved off his concerns and he couldn’t help but grin. This was the Julia Chandler he remembered. The know-it-all professional prosecutor.

“What did you find in the archives?” he asked, following Julia through the wide foyer, down a narrow hall to the bright, country-style kitchen in the rear of the house. A partially enclosed sunroom with skylights on the roof had been built off the kitchen. The view was incredible.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

She put her briefcase down on the kitchen table. “Can I get you something?”

“Whatever.”

She opened her refrigerator and stared. He looked over her shoulder. “It’s empty,” he said. “Have you been robbed?”

A laugh escaped before she could pull it back in. Connor was pleased that he’d made her chuckle. “I don’t eat here much.”

“Obviously.”

“But I have filtered water. And ice.” She pulled two glasses from a cabinet and pressed buttons on the door of the refrigerator for ice and water.

Connor picked up his cell phone. “Dillon’s on his way. I’m having him pick up some food or we’ll all starve.”

Julia didn’t know why she was nervous having Connor Kincaid in her house. Maybe because she’d been thinking about that kiss five years ago. Or maybe because she had unresolved guilt for what happened in the Suarez/Crutcher case and how it had affected him. But having Connor sitting at her kitchen table felt odd, so she started talking immediately about what she’d learned, just the facts, to see if he came to the same conclusion she had.

“You talked to Grace Simpson?” he asked, surprised.

“Off the record.”

“She’s a reporter. You can’t trust reporters.”

“I trust her on this.”

“She’s going to stab you in the back.”

“No, she’s not. Because I promised her an interview.”

Julia didn’t want to get into it. Grace had been hounding her for an interview since she’d become a reporter six years ago, why was a trust fund baby a civil servant, or some such nonsense.

“You know, I don’t
have
to work because of my inheritance, why do I want to put in twelve-hour days working with scum, yada yada.

“Now can we get back to the business at hand?” Julia never felt comfortable talking about her family money.

“Jason Ridge.”

“Yes. He was a patient of Bowen and he ended up dead. So we have Paul Judson—who wronged Billy Thompson, a member of Wishlist—dead. We have Jason Ridge—a patient of Bowen—dead. And Victor Montgomery—who wronged Emily, a member of Wishlist—dead, too.”

“What if the girl Jason raped was a member of Wishlist?” Connor speculated.

“Don’t you think that’s a huge conflict of interest?” Julia asked. “That Bowen would be counseling both the rapist and his victim?”

“It seems a coincidence, but what else would make sense?”

“Could Jason have been a member himself?” Julia wondered.

“Describing his own murder?”

Julia shook her head. “You’re right. Sounds ridiculous. But there has to be some connection we’re not seeing.”

She suddenly jumped up.

“Oh! I called a friend and he’s pulling the coroner’s report on Ridge.” She ran down the hall to her den, then returned. “It hasn’t come in yet.” She placed a fax on the table.

“What’s this?” Connor picked up the paper. “It looks like an invitation. You going to a party tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” Julia told him about the art fund-raiser. “Grace Simpson told me Jason Ridge’s parents are big art supporters, and it might give me a chance to talk to them. But it’s a long shot.”

Connor put the fax down and tapped it with his finger. “Did you know this shindig is at Garrett Bowen’s house?”

Julia’s eyes widened as she read the invite. “What a coincidence.”

“Somehow I don’t think so.”

In twenty-four hours, the game would be over. The players were in place, the plan formed, contingencies made. Just one more problem to solve.

He handed a shot of Chivas to his guest. “Don’t go to the fund-raiser tomorrow.”

“Of course I’m going.”

“I’ve seen the guest list. You won’t be able to control yourself, you’ll blow it.”

She stood. “I’m going. You can’t keep me away.”

“I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me.”

“Protect me?” She laughed. “I’ve never asked you to protect me. I wanted to kill him two years ago. You’re the one who got in my way.”

“I saved your life.”

“I have no life.” She let out a deep breath. “I’m not going to mess with the plan. It’s perfect justice. The irony—” She swallowed, her jaw quivering, and for a brief moment he panicked. He couldn’t have her fall apart on him now. He needed her strong, for just a little while longer.

Two years ago she had been fragile, on the verge of suicide. She’d had a gun, determined to kill the man who had stolen so much from her. He’d simply been in the right place at the right time and seized on the opportunity, not quite knowing how it would play out. Had he let the distraught and emotionally crippled woman kill the man she’d sought, he’d have been cheated out of
his
vengeance. A gun? Too fast, too easy.

His goal was not to simply kill the man who had wronged them, but to humiliate him before death. To destroy his lofty, hypocritical pedestal and watch him fall.

He hadn’t known her before that day on the street when he stopped her from committing cold-blooded murder. A chance meeting? He didn’t believe in luck. It was fate, giving him the spark to create such a brilliant operation. The aesthetics in each step of his masterful plan were glorious, harmonious with the overall goal of destroying injustice and restoring balance.

They were too close to victory to have her fall apart now.

He took a step toward her, touched her cheek. She leaned into his hand, closed her eyes. “You’ve been my rock. I would have been lost without you.” She kissed his palm.

They’d never slept together, but now was the time. He saw her desperate need to cling to something, to give her strength to triumph over her adversary.

Only he could give that to her. He picked her up. She was surprisingly light. He took her to his bedroom, laid her on the bed. Her eyes were closed. Who was she thinking about? Her ex-husband? Him? Someone else?

It didn’t matter. He would make her forget her weakness, give her the strength to get through the next twenty-four hours.

After that he didn’t care. He’d walk away, untainted. He had a passport and a plan.

A plan for every contingency.

After Dillon arrived, they reviewed the files and the coroner’s reports.

Dillon thought it as suspicious as Connor and Julia had that Jason Ridge had been Bowen’s patient, too. “Bowen’s name keeps popping up,” Dillon said.

Connor looked up from the stack of paper Julia’s legal clerk had printed that summarized every case Victor Montgomery had handled in the last two years. So far, the task was giving him a headache. “What happened with your meeting?”

“Bowen is a narcissist. Completely convinced that his opinion is not only right, but the
only
solution. He started Wishlist for cutters—teenagers who self-mutilate—and it grew from there. He sees himself as an almost godlike figure, certain he and only he knows how to cure these kids.” Dillon rubbed his eyes. “He believes Emily broke down and acted out on her fantasy.”