Sexy Lies and Rock & Roll (3 page)

“I need you to get over to the Raleigh Police Station. They’re bringing in Evan Scott for questioning in an alleged homicide case,” she says, tone matter of fact.

My jaw drops.

Evan Scott?

Homicide?

I can’t help it. My head swivels slowly around, my body shifting slightly until I can see behind me. I have to make sure she’s not talking to someone else.

Another attorney.

Someone better than me. Someone with more experience, which would be just about any attorney out there in The Pit. Someone who likes people better than lengthy contracts.

Even better than that, she should choose someone in one of the outer offices. Like my dad, for Pete’s sake. He’s an amazing attorney, and this is Evan Scott we’re talking about.

Sexy indie rocker with a voice that hypnotizes.

Not that it’s ever happened to me before.

But he’s like a really big deal and has risen to mega-star fame this past year. I have his first and only album and I’m dying for the next one.

“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice so clogged it comes out in a rasp. I give a cough to clear it. “Why me? This case is way too big for someone like me.”

Midge merely cocks her eyebrow at me, leans back in her chair, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Emma… I don’t allow anyone to work here who can’t handle any case thrown at them.”

“I work here because my dad’s a partner here,” I point out softly. Because it’s true… he got me the job.

“No, you work here because I gave the okay to hire you,” she counters. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think you could cut it.”

For the first time since I started here, I feel a tiny measure of belonging. Granted, it’s minute… almost infinitesimal. I have a hard time believing it as I look at this stunning woman in designer jeans with the body of a Victoria’s Secret model and the face of one as well, who is so brilliant and fierce that she has personally shaped many of the current laws in our state.

There’s no way.

But Midge appears to think otherwise. She uncrosses her arms, stands up from her desk, and says, “You need to head over there now. He’s probably already there and the longer they have him alone, the more chance he’ll talk.”

“But wait,” I blurt out as I stand up, completely wigged out by the prospect of this case. I even hold my hands out to her in a defensive posture. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never even handled a criminal case before.”

“Did you take Criminal Law in school?” she asks.

“Yes, but—”

“Criminal Practice and Procedure?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you have immediate access to some of the best legal minds in this state if you were to call back here with questions?”

“Well, of course—”

“Then what’s the problem?” she asks in exasperation.

“It’s just… Evan Scott… I mean, this is huge. The media repercussions alone…”

“I understand that,” she says, and I almost detect a hint of empathy, but not an ounce of reluctance to send me. “But what’s the first rule of thumb in any criminal case when a suspect is being interrogated by the police?”

“Don’t talk without an attorney,” I say automatically.

“Exactly,” she praises as she walks around her desk toward me. “And would you ever let a client talk to the police?”

“Not until I found out what happened from the client,” I say.

“Well, there you go,” she says with a nod. “Get over there and talk to Evan. Find out what happened. Find out what the police have in the way of evidence. If you feel confident to let him talk, do so, but be prepared to jump in if anything sounds fishy. I’m quite sure they have nothing at this point to make an arrest, so he should be walking out with you.”

I nod, my head spinning with her advice and also a strange tingling low in my belly that is either nerves, indigestion, or perhaps it’s the prospect of meeting Evan Scott.

I’m actually going over to the police station where I’ll be given an officious visitor’s badge and sit in an interrogation room with an observation window that looks like a mirror, but every suspect and attorney knows it’s see through so they can watch and judge body language.

Midge gives a subtle nod toward the door, my cue that I need to get going. I turn away from her, but she stops me. “Oh, and Emma…”

I turn to look at her with raised eyebrows.

“I’m also going to make you point of contact for all media inquiries. I expect there will be a circus if he gets arrested,” she tells me.

“But…”

“No ‘buts’,” she admonishes and turns her back on me as she walks to her chair. “When you get done today, have Evan call me.”

“Call you?” I ask, confused as to why she would ever request such a thing.

She reaches her chair, turns, and sits down, leveling me a grim smile. “He’s my nephew. I want to talk to him and make sure he’s okay.”

“Your nephew?” I ask—okay, practically screech.

She chuckles, and wow… she’s even more beautiful when she laughs. “Yes, my nephew. My very dear nephew who I’m exceptionally close to.”

Is that a warning not to fuck this up?

That tingling in my stomach turns to nausea. “But… why aren’t you representing him? You’re like the best attorney in the state.”

“At this point, I believe you can handle this,” she says calmly, and then picks up a file from the corner of her desk. I watch as she lays it before her, opens it and starts reading a document.

She doesn’t say anything else to me either.

In essence, I’ve been dismissed.

Evan

I
t’s actually cliché.

Small room with a lone square table in the middle. Two chairs, one on each side. Fluorescent light above that flickers periodically. Obvious darkened mirror-glass cut into the wall that reflects the stark interior to me, but clearly lets them watch me unobtrusively. Although they probably aren’t watching me, as I’m doing nothing more than staring at my clasped hands on the tabletop.

They led me in here about fifteen minutes ago, asked me if I wanted anything to drink, which I declined because I’ve seen enough Law & Order during my poor, struggling years as a musician to know they’d steal my DNA from the cup when I was done.

I haven’t seen them since. I’m thinking the fact I called my aunt Midge from the backseat of their unmarked car on the way to the station has something to do with that.

I didn’t have to admit to her on the phone that I was a little wigged out. She could hear it in my voice and reassured me, “It’ll be fine. I’ll handle everything.”

After I hung up, I told the two detectives I wouldn’t be giving a statement until my attorney arrived. Turnbull was driving and Kasick turned to look at me over his shoulder. “Who’s your attorney?”

“Midge Payne,” I said and wasn’t surprised when Kasick’s eyes flared wide.

“Guess a music star deserves a hot-shot attorney, huh?” he said to Turnbull as he turned back to face the front.

“She’s my aunt,” I muttered, but they didn’t say anything in response.

And other than the offer of something to drink, I haven’t heard a peep. Perhaps Midge was out there right now waving some magic jurisprudence around that would make this all go away.

I hear the door behind me open and I turn slightly in my chair to look, expecting either one of the detectives or Midge to be walking through. Instead, a short, petite woman dressed in a prim black suit walks in carrying a slim briefcase. I immediately peg her as an attorney, although for the life of me, I have no clue why she’s in this room with me as she’s most definitely not
my
attorney.

She is hot though, I’ll give her that.

Glossy blond hair that’s on the warm, golden side, but worn in a sleek bob that sits above her shoulders and is parted on the side. Her eyes are a light brown and framed with dark lashes, which appear to be unadorned with makeup of any kind. In fact, I don’t see any eyeshadow or blush. Just a clear face with remarkably soft-looking skin, a slight smattering of freckles across her nose, and that’s it.

Beautiful… in a wholesome kind of way. Clearly buttoned up and looks to be wound tight. I bet it would take a crowbar to wrench those legs apart.

“Mr. Scott,” she says, and she can’t hide the soft, southern twang of a North Carolina girl. I know this because I have the counterpart accent, having been born and raised in this state as well. “I’m Emma Peterson and I’m from Knight & Payne.”

She walks boldly into the room, shutting the door behind her, before leaning over and sticking her hand out for me to shake. I notice her hand is delicate with slender fingers. She wears a thin gold ring on her middle right finger with an amethyst stone, but that’s the only jewelry other than tiny gold studs in her ears. All very sedate and in line with the way a traditional lawyer would look, which is not typical of a Knight & Payne attorney. In fact, I know no attorney there that dresses that way.

“You’re not with Knight & Payne,” I tell her assuredly as I ignore her outstretched hand.

“I most certainly am,” she says with indignation and reaches efficiently into the side of her briefcase, pulling out a card. She hands it to me, and I reluctantly take it.

Emma Peterson, Associate Attorney

It looks official enough with the firm logo and tagline below it. I throw it on the desk and ask her, “Where’s Midge?”

“At the office,” she says and walks past me to the chair on the opposite side of the table. “She asked me to handle this.”

She sits down, places her briefcase on the floor beside her chair, and leans over for a moment. When she straightens back up, she has a yellow legal pad in her hand and a generic black pen. Placing the pad before her on the table, she sits ramrod straight as she looks at me. I can just imagine those prim little legs crossed at the ankles and clamped tight under the desk.

“Mr. Scott… I’d like for you to—”

“It’s just Evan,” I say with a sigh, her rigid professionalism starting to grate on my nerves from the start. It makes me nervous to be honest.

She blinks a few times, seems at a loss, but eventually nods in acquiescence. “Okay… Evan… I’d like for you to tell me everything that happened this morning when the detectives showed up at your house.”

I drum my fingers on the tabletop, playing a beat. I do this when I’m nervous. “They showed up and told me my former bandmate, Keith Carina, was dead. Asked me where I’d been last night, then asked me to come in and give a statement. That’s pretty much it.”

Emma scribbles some quick notes before looking back up at me and asking, “You said Keith Carina was a former bandmate? Was that when you were with the band
Kickback
?”

So my attorney knows my music.

Interesting.

“Yes,” I tell her, and then add on in case she doesn’t know all the facts. “We broke up about a year and a half ago, and I went solo.”

“Was there bad blood between you and the other band members?” she asks, her head now bowed over the yellow pad as she scribbles.

This question irritates me because she’s focusing on a potential motive I might have to kill Keith. I try to maintain my calm though and tell her vaguely, “They weren’t happy I went solo.”

She nods in understanding but doesn’t look at me, still writing her notes. “Did the detectives give you any details at all as to what happened? Like what time? Where?”

I shake my head. “Only that Keith was shot in the head and they asked me where I was between midnight and four AM?”

Emma’s head bobs up and down. She jots some words on the yellow-lined paper and asks, “Who were you with last night? He or she’s a potential alibi.”

“It was a she. And I have no clue who she is.”

Emma’s head snaps up, and she looks at me with her mouth parted in surprise. “You don’t know who she is?”

I smirk at her, because it’s fucking adorable this buttoned-up little attorney doesn’t understand the concept of an anonymous one-night stand. “Absolutely no clue. Don’t even remember her first name. She had red hair and fantastic tits though, so I’m sure I could identify her from a lineup, although she’d have to be naked for me to be absolutely sure.”

She makes a noise deep in her throat… possibly disgust, not sure, but her nose also wrinkles up in distaste. Makes me stare at her freckles there a little harder, as they lend a youthful, carefree sort of look about her. That’s clearly not the case though as she looks down that little judgmental nose at me.

“This isn’t a game, Mr. Scott,” she says primly.

“It’s Evan,” I growl at her as I lean forward in my chair, slapping my palms on the table. “And I don’t need your holier-than-thou attitude. I’m a little stressed over what’s going on here.”

Her lips press together and she swallows hard. Inclining her head, she looks at me with apology. “I’m sorry… Evan. You’re right, and I know this is difficult for you. But I’m here to help, I promise.”

She seems sincere and the supercilious look is gone, so I nod in acceptance although I still feel totally guarded with her.

“How about you walk me through the entire evening, giving me time frames? It will help for you to be able to account for all of your time and if you were with anyone who can be a potential witness, as well as if there were periods of time you were alone.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it?”

“No, I’m not,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t matter to me if you did or didn’t. My job is to ensure you get fair treatment through this process.”

“Well, I didn’t,” I snap at her, her rigid adherence to the law and fundamental principles of representation pissing me the fuck off.

“If you say so,” she says, smoothing her fingers along the top bound edge of the yellow pad without meeting my gaze.

“Get out,” I say in a low voice, which rumbles with barely contained fury.

Her eyes snap up, round with surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Get. Out,” I repeat each word succinctly.

“But I’m your attorney—”

“No, you are not,” I cut her off. “Now get the fuck out and send Midge over, or hell… send anyone else in your firm. I’d be happy with the janitor, but you are not representing me.”

“I don’t understand,” she says. For the first time since she walked in that door, gone is the cool, collected voice of a professional. Instead, she sounds hesitant… almost childlike.