Star Witness (4 page)

Still, he supposed he couldn’t blame her for the way she felt about him. The first time they’d met in the courtroom, she as a brand-new public defender and he trying his first case as prosecutor. He’d reacted instantly to her tall, leggy, drop-dead-gorgeous body and eyes that caught the sun just like her hair. But she’d entered the courtroom shooting daggers from those whiskey-colored eyes.

She was undeniably Freeman Canto’s granddaughter. Canto and Con Delancey, Harte’s grandfather, had both been fixtures in the Louisiana state legislature. And they’d clashed on every single issue, most notably the security and tariffs on the Port of New Orleans. Canto was fiscally conservative, while Con Delancey fought to keep both security and tariffs at a minimum to help the working people. And, as Dani had said, they’d conducted themselves as gentlemen. There had been a kind of honor among politicians back then. An unspoken agreement that while the politics might occasionally get dirty, the politicians would not.

The first time he’d faced Dani across the courtroom, Harte hadn’t been completely surprised that she’d shown up prepared for battle, ready to continue the feud between the Cantos and the Delanceys. Her client, the defendant, had been a woman who’d killed her husband, claiming self-defense and fear for her life. But there were no witnesses, no evidence of spousal abuse and the woman had shot the man point-blank.

As Harte fought to win his case, he’d discovered what a great defense attorney Dani was. She was passionate, a dedicated knight battling for her client.

Ultimately, Harte won the verdict, but he’d lost the respect of his opposing counsel. Later he’d found out that Dani had appealed and gotten her client acquitted.

Once he’d gotten more experience under his belt, he’d had to admit she was right. That first case had been a win for him, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. It had taken him a few years and more than a few cases to live down convicting a battered wife.

Their paths hadn’t crossed but a couple of times since then, which had helped keep the instantaneous attraction he’d felt for her the first time he’d seen her at bay. But he’d never forgotten how she’d looked when she’d walked into the courtroom that first day. She’d had on a short skirt and high-heeled shoes that made her legs look a mile long. He’d never forgotten her face, her body or the unconsciously sexy, confident way she moved.

But her body wasn’t all that he’d found sexy about her. She was smart and quick. Across from her in court, he’d quickly found out that as a public defender, she was as tenacious and focused as a terrier.

A cramp in his thigh interrupted his thoughts and he realized he’d been nearly asleep. Rubbing the tight muscle, he considered the irony that he and Dani were on the same side this time. Well, sort of on the same side. She still thought of him as the enemy.

His cell phone rang. It was Lucas.

“How’s your girl?” his oldest brother asked.

“My
witness
is all right,” Harte responded. “How were the steaks?”

“Great, as usual. We just got home.”

“Really?” He glanced at the time on the display. “Late night for you, at the folks’ house.”

“Not my idea. Ange and Mom were exchanging recipes. I watched a ball game with him.” Lucas never referred to their father as
Dad.
“I’d planned to talk to you about the info you asked me about.”

Harte sat up. “What’d you find out?”

“Not much. Nothing on the record. Yeoman’s got a fairly clean file. Some small-time stuff early on, but he’s managed to keep his record clean for the last twenty years.”

“His record. What about what’s not on the record?”

“Now, that’s a different story. Every detective has an anecdote about Yeoman getting away clean while one of his goons took the rap.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I got from Mahoney. There’s got to be somebody out there that Yeoman cheated or framed, who’d jump at the chance to get back at him.”

“I called Dawson the other day and asked him what he knew. I figured he might have run into Yeoman when he was chasing down Tito Vega.”

“And had he?”

“Nope, but he made a couple of calls for me.”

“I hope he’s careful. This is the best chance the D.A.’s ever had to put Yeoman away. We’ve got to be careful about where information comes from.”

“Our cousin’s a good investigator, kid. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I know,” Harte said. “I’m just worried. Yeoman’s hired Felix Drury as his attorney. He’s a shark. He’ll eat us alive if we can’t vet every tidbit of evidence we present.”

“You’re still not sure about Dani, are you?”

With a sigh, Harte rubbed a hand down his face. “I believe she’s telling the truth about what she heard. It’s just hard to take in and it’s going to be harder to convince a jury. She’s linking a respected legislator and a renowned attorney with Yeoman, a thug and a drug dealer. She says her granddad was certain that Senator Stamps was taking bribes to push for lower tariffs on imports. If I can prove that independently, and find a solid connection between Stamps and Yeoman...”

“Are you saying you’re going after Stamps?”

Harte sighed and ran a hand across his five-o’clock—or midnight—stubble. “I don’t know. I need something more than Dani’s hearsay about what she heard that night.”

“Well, Dawson’s info may help. He called a guy he uses part-time—a former drug addict who’s a C.I. these days,” Lucas said. “Apparently, there’s been talk on the street for a long time about Yeoman’s connections in the legislature. Something else that nobody seems willing to talk about openly.”

“That’s all well and good,” Harte said. “But the fact that nobody will come forward with solid information is what keeps the D.A. up nights. Nobody’s ever been able to prove anything.”

“According to Dawson’s C.I., some folks think that connection is Stamps.”

Harte sat up, feeling his pulse speed up. “Why am I just now hearing this?”

“Because I just got it. The C.I. said to check Stamps’s voting record and his bank accounts.”

Harte rubbed his eyes. “I’m already on the voting records. I’ve got an intern tallying his position on every issue under the sun. But I have no cause to subpoena his bank records.”

“You could ask him nicely,” Lucas said wryly.

“Yeah,” Harte responded. “I could toss a pig off a roof too, but the chances of it flying are better than a Louisiana congressman volunteering private financial information.”

His brother laughed. “I’ve got to go. Big day tomorrow.”

“Me too. I’ll get with Dawson tomorrow. I hope he’s got something more solid than a drug addict’s report of a comment heard on a street corner.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to need it.”

“G’night, kid.”

Harte hung up and looked at the dashboard clock, although he already knew it was after midnight. As he shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position, headlights appeared at the other end of the street. Harte crouched down in front of the headrest and waited to see what the vehicle did. It slowed down, which accelerated his pulse. Then he heard a garage door open. Peering around, he saw the car disappear into a garage three doors down. He watched until the door closed, then breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed as much as he could.

His thigh threatened to cramp again. Thanks to his long, lanky Delancey body, the Jeep wasn’t going to be as comfortable as he’d hoped it would be. Still, he’d appointed himself Dani Canto’s protector. A little discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure her safety.

But damn, it was going to be a long night.

Chapter Three

When Dani woke up the next morning and stretched, she yelped in pain. Every inch of her body was sore, thanks to her crash landing on her porch floor the day before. Her shoulders were tight and painful, her right knee ached and she had a headache.

She pushed herself up out of bed and hobbled to the shower. Under the hot spray, her muscles loosened and the headache eased, although the scrapes on her knees and elbows stung like fire. She blamed the sore muscles, the scrape and the aching knee on the bastard who’d tried to run her down. She blamed the headache on Harte Delancey, although, if she were truthful, he didn’t deserve it.

After he’d left, she’d gotten into her pajamas and climbed into bed, fully intending to drink enough to wipe his ominous words from her brain. But the wine’s taste was bitter on her tongue. She’d tried to read, tried to watch TV, even put on a blues music station, but nothing helped. So she turned out the light and lay in the dark, feeling sorry for herself.

She missed her granddad. Sure, he’d been eighty, but he’d been as healthy as a decades-younger man. In fact, he’d been planning to run for another four years in the legislature. She had been planning to have her grandfather around for another four years and more.

It hurt so much that he was gone. She wanted this trial over and done for so many reasons. It had been over a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.

Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until after the trial.
She
was the one being threatened and targeted. It wasn’t fair that she had to be the one locked up while the murderers were free to go where they pleased.

Under the hot soothing spray of the shower, she felt the weight of sadness and worry, heavier than ever. To her dismay, her eyes stung.

“Stop it,” she told herself. She never cried. To cry meant to lose control, and she did not like feeling out of control.

Turning off the taps, she dried off, then wrapped up in a short terry-cloth robe and squeezed the last of the water out of her shoulder-length hair.

In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to perk, she couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday and her near miss. It had been almost dark when she’d gotten home. As she’d walked from the driveway to the mailbox, she’d heard a car engine rev.

By the time she’d realized the car was coming straight at her, it was almost too late. Somehow, instinct had kicked in and she’d managed to leap onto the porch. The car ripped through the wooden steps and then swerved back onto the street and took off.

It had been a close call. Too close. She shuddered, her shoulders drawing up. With a long sigh intended to help her relax, she poured herself a mug of chicory coffee. She added cream and sugar and stirred briskly, then took that almost unbelievably delicious first sip of the morning. It was so good it gave her goose bumps.

A few more sips and she felt her courage begin to rise. Coffee made so many things better. Consciously relaxing the tense muscles between her shoulder blades, she headed toward the front porch to see what kind of damage had been done. She stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. March temperatures in south Louisiana could be as hot as July, but they could also be fresh and springlike. This morning was leaning toward spring. But she quickly forgot about the weather as she surveyed the damage. The car had taken a huge bite out of the front-porch floor. The steps were nothing but splinters, and if she hadn’t managed to clear the edge of the porch with that desperate leap, she might be just as smashed and scattered as the wood.

Shuddering at that thought, she eased closer to the porch’s edge. Had the car damaged the four-by-fours that supported the front end of the porch? She took another couple of steps toward the edge.

“Dani! No!”

The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.

It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.

Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.

“Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.

But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear.
Oh, brother.
Her face grew warm.

“Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”

He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

“Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”

Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”

“No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.

His brows raised and that damnable smile appeared on his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone lightening. “Okay, I’ll go. But you meet me at the door in five seconds flat or I’ll come in and get you.” He gave her a brief nod. “Nice robe.”

She glared at him, but she still didn’t dare to move a muscle.

“Go to hell,” she said.

He waved a hand and headed around back.

Dani baby-stepped backward until she’d made it through the door. Then she sprinted into her bedroom to get dressed, marveling at the fact that he really had slept in his car in her driveway. The idea that he’d actually followed through with it, in some sort of quixotic effort to protect her, gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since the night her grandfather had died.

As Harte waited at the back door for Dani to let him in, he chuckled. Once he’d been sure she wasn’t going any closer to the rickety front edge of the porch, he’d paused for a second to admire those amazing legs. As he enjoyed them, she’d squirmed and turned red. When she begged him to go around to the back door while nervously tugging at the bottom of the short robe, it dawned on him why she was so reluctant for him to leap to her rescue.

She had nothing on under the robe. That thought had sent urgent, almost painful signals to his groin, signals that hadn’t faded yet. He clamped his jaw against the sharp, pleasurable thrumming and forced himself to think about something miserable, like hiking in a freezing rain—or sleeping in his car. It helped a little.