THE PROSECUTOR (9 page)

She busied herself with two cans of pop while Zac pondered the pizza. “We can eat and then head downstairs. No food down there. I once bumped a bowl of chili and it splattered all over my notes. It’s now a no-food zone. And if you drink down there, it needs to stay away from the work space.” She grinned. “Evidentiary rules.”

“You’re cute, Emma Sinclair.”

“Compliment me all you want. You’re still not bringing food or beverages into my work space.”

“I’m fine with your rules. They’re good ones.”

Pizza devoured, Emma loaded the dishwasher and led Zac to the basement. A sudden whoosh filled her head. For the first time, she’d be allowing the enemy to see her notes. That alone was a monumental step and she took comfort in knowing she trusted this man enough to give him access to her life.

At the bottom of the stairs she flipped the wall switch and her corner work area lit up.

His eyes feasted on the boxes. “Yowzer.”

“It’s the Operation Sinclair command center.”

The copy machine Penny had sent over stood in the farthest corner beside the boxes, a bright white beacon against the gray cement wall. “I hope you know how to use that copy machine because it’s got way too many buttons for me to figure out.”

“It’s probably the same one they have in their office. I’ll show you how to use it.” He stepped over to the boxes—
three high, six across
—and scanned the labels. “Emma, this is unbelievable.”

“I told you I had eighteen boxes.”

“Seeing them is different. I’ve seen teams of detectives that can’t gather this much information.”

Teams of detectives didn’t have a brother in prison and a mother stranded in the grip of depression. “When it’s personal, you work harder. Where do you want to start? I have three boxes of statements from people who were at the bar that night.” She pulled one of the boxes off the stack and set it on the long folding table she used as a desk. “This is the first set. There are two others.”

Zac lifted the top and spotted the individually marked folders. He lifted a few out and opened them. “You have statements like this from each person?”

“Yep.”

“Emma, you’ll be an amazing attorney.”

All the hours she’d spent in this basement, poring over notes, studying cases, organizing files, not one person had ever said that to her and her chest locked up, seizing in a way that stole her breath.

“Thank you. Coming from you, that’s tremendous praise.” She waved her hand toward the files. “I found all of Brian’s friends who were at the club. Then I found Chelsea’s. Some of them weren’t thrilled to talk to me. I understood, but I kept at it and eventually I found more and more people who were there. Oh, and I ran an ad in the paper looking for witnesses. I’ll never do
that
again. You should have seen some of the crackpots.”

“Tell me you didn’t put your phone number in the ad.”

“No. I set up a dedicated email account. Still, I came across some nutcases.”

“I’m sure.”

“It was worth it, though. I have over two hundred statements.”

Again, he shook his head. “I’m in awe. Too bad Penny snatched you as
her
intern. I could use you.”

“Except you’re the enemy.”

He glanced at her, his gaze suddenly serious. “Right now, I’m just a guy trying to figure out what the hell is going on with this case.” He picked up a file. “Where do I start?”

Someone on the other side wanted to help. After all these months of contacting the press, stalking attorneys,
begging
for assistance, she still had trouble believing it. “Well,
Zachary,
that depends on what you’re looking for.”

“The white shirt is bugging me.”

She knew exactly which shirt he was referring to. “The one Brian wore that night?”

“Yes. The witness said the man in the alley wore a white shirt. It was March. I checked the temperature that night. Forty-three degrees. Did Brian wear a jacket?”

Her answer wouldn’t help them. She knew it, but it was the reality and something she’d learned not to fear. At this point, there were too many other things worth fearing. “He said he left it in the car. It was a nice leather one and he didn’t want to take it into the club.”

“Blows that theory.” Zac unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them up. “I guess I’ll dig in.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Their gazes met and held for a long minute and Emma felt that same heat, that yearning to do something she shouldn’t do.
Bad, Emma. Bad.
“For everything. For taking the time to figure this out.”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

“Not all of what you’ve done is your job. Bringing me home the other night, driving me to the hospital yesterday.”
Kissing me
. “You didn’t need to do those things.”

A slow smile eased across his face. “Maybe I have a thing for the defendant’s sister.”

Feeling a little playful—and when was the last time that happened?—Emma fanned herself. “I might have a thing for the prosecutor, too.”

“Could be fun.”

“Could be an awful mess.”

They both knew it—no sense ignoring it. Awkward silence was shattered by the furnace kicking on. Not necessarily a bad thing, considering that they needed a distraction from exploring their mutual attraction.

Zac tapped a finger on one of the folders. “I’ll find out what happened with Chelsea, but you may not like the outcome. You need to be ready for that. My sister is a great lawyer and she’s got my father to help, but...”

Emma held her hand up, then dropped it again. “I know what you’re saying. You don’t want us to get our hopes up.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Silly man. She was an ace at hurt. Hurt had no teeth left except when it came to him. That she wasn’t so sure about. “Zac, all we have left is hope. If it doesn’t go our way, we’ll deal with it. The Sinclair family, unfortunately, is used to disappointment.”

The electric charge of moments ago roared back and his gaze swept over her. From head to toe, he quietly took her in and the stillness, all that power and control he was so good at unnerved her. She wiggled her fingers and he glanced down at her hands.

I don’t know what to do
.

Finally, he stepped toward her, pulled her against him and kissed the top of her head. “This is complicated.”

Complicated.
Good word. Under her cheek, his heartbeat thumped and Emma settled there, enjoying the much-missed comfort of a man’s arms around her. She fiddled with the button on his shirt, flicking her finger back and forth. They could just stand here like this for a while. A few more minutes was all she wanted.

He backed away. Of course he did. When had she ever been lucky enough to get what she needed or craved out of life? She looked up at him and those baby-blue eyes gazed down at her. Gripping his shirt, she pulled him down and kissed him. Softly at first, but when he tightened his hold, something inside her shifted. For once, she—the caged twenty-six-year-old woman who hadn’t experienced affection in...well, she wouldn’t dwell on how long—didn’t feel like rushing to the next item on her to-do list. Particularly with Zac’s hands finding their way under her sweater to bare skin and—
yes—
her body detonated. A veritable explosion of fire and loneliness and yearning all bursting free, frying her from the inside.

She pulled him closer, clutching his shirt, hanging on while he nipped at her lips, making her want more and more because—oh, it had been so long since she’d felt this scorching need to be close to someone. Had she
ever
felt this?

I’m boiling
. Not good. The loneliness, the neediness. It was all too much.
Overload
. Her skin got tight.
He’ll destroy me
.

She gripped his shirt harder, willed her mind to silence.
It’ll hurt when he leaves.
No good.

With one last peck, Zac backed away. “You okay?”

She darted her gaze over his face. Such a fine face. Strong and angular and oh so touchable. “No.”
Really, Emma?
What was wrong with her?

But Zac smiled that million-dollar smile of his and ran a hand over her hair. Just a gentle touch that let her know he understood her brand of kooky. And didn’t that do her in completely? Somehow, she’d found safety in this man. Or maybe all the nights alone had simply made her think she’d found safety.

“I’m sorry. My mind is raging. But I love every second of kissing you. I’m alive again and that’s a gift.” She tugged on his shirt. “A gift I want a whole lot more of.”

He pulled her in again and she rested her head against his chest while he stroked her back. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. A gentle, repetitive motion that did wonders for her frazzled senses. His chest rose and fell under her head as he let out a giant breath. “I think that can be arranged. Show me your files first.”

“Kinky,
Zachary
.”

Stepping back, he shook his head. “Seriously, you have to stop talking like my sister. It’s freaking me out.”

“You’re no fun.” She waved toward the boxes—
three high, six across
—she was about to let the prosecution have access to.

And to
her
. In the last ten minutes she’d sliced her life open and exposed every vulnerable artery to the enemy. Now she had to prepare for the consequences. But she’d do that later. She smacked her hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Nine

After hours of reviewing case files and breaking down time lines, Zac knew there was more than thirty minutes when Brian’s whereabouts were unaccounted for. From the sudden silence in the basement, he’d guessed that Emma knew it, too.

Brian had left Melody’s car around 12:45. His friends all made statements that he was with them, but no one could pinpoint the exact time, at least not until 1:20, when one guy received a text and remembered showing it to Brian.

Thirty-five minutes
. Plenty of time for someone to slip out of a nightclub, walk to the alley next door, strangle a woman and return. Zac kept his eyes glued to the witness statement in front of him, not really reading, but not ready to look at Emma yet.

As good as Penny and their father were, those thirty-five minutes would work to Zac’s favor. Even with the holes in this case, he could create enough of an argument to satisfy a judge, make his boss happy, give Dave Moore his so-called justice and keep Brian Sinclair in prison.

Assignment complete.

But was it the right thing? For the first time in his career, a career filled with emotional cases that he’d both won and lost, he found himself questioning his own judgment because he wanted to get laid.
Moron
.

Seated next to him at the long folding table, Emma sighed and the soft sound hit him square in the chest. He wanted her, no doubt about it. His problem was that he didn’t just want her. He cared for her. This was a woman who’d put her life on hold to salvage the remaining rubble of her family. Emma saw problems as opportunities. Whatever the issue, she found a way to strap it to her back and carry it. What man would be crazy enough
not
to want her?

Which was why his reasonable self—knowing he was messing with something he shouldn’t mess with—turned tail and ran.
Hell with it
. He grabbed the bottom of her chair and rolled it closer so he could snuggle her neck. “It’s 10:30. I should go.”

Rather than shoo him away, she tilted her head, exposing her neck. “Yes, you should. My mother will be home any second now. I feel like a sneaky teenager. You’re a bad boy,
Zachary
.”

“Ah, yes, my sister’s voice.”

Emma cracked up. “Sorry.”

But Zac kissed her, one of those long, slow ones that would torture him long into the night. “So, yeah, I’m going to leave before I try to convince you to hop into bed with me.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “Right now, sailor, that wouldn’t take much convincing.”

“How you wound me.”

“You’ll survive, I’m sure.” She gestured to the stack of folders he’d set aside. “Do you want me to copy everything in those folders for you? I have a class in the morning and then I’m working the lunch shift. I’ll have time after that.”

He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slid it on. “Emma, between work and school, you don’t have time to be copying notes. I’ll send someone over to do it.”

“If it’ll help my brother, I’ll make the time.” She went up on tiptoes and kissed him quick. “Besides, I don’t want anyone touching my notes. Not that I don’t trust you. I do, but accidents happen and something could disappear.”

“You don’t have to explain to me. I’m a prosecutor with half a box of evidence. Thank you. How about we go through more of this stuff tomorrow? At my place so your mom doesn’t have to leave.”

Emma bit her lip, looked down at her feet. “I don’t know.”

Losing her
.

“My sister will insist on armed security for the folders, but I’ll talk to her, convince her that I won’t abscond with evidence.”

Laughing at him, she looked up and rolled her eyes. “She let you in here, didn’t she?”

“Maybe she trusts me after all. How about you? Do you trust me?”

“I let you in here, didn’t I?”

He shrugged.

Again, she bit her lip. Indecision was a wicked thing. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t want to do anything stupid. Penny is our hope in all this. Then you come in here and kiss me and I think
Penny who?
That bothers me.”

He tugged the front of her shirt. “If it makes you feel better, it bugs me, too.” He grinned. “I like kissing you, though.”

“Such a man.”

“Can’t help it. What do you say? Tomorrow night?”

“You’ll behave?”

“Realistically? Probably not.”

She laughed and the sound lit something in him that would keep him awake the whole damn night.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

He leaned over and, already blowing his quest to behave, kissed her again, nibbled those lush lips. Her lips could drive a man insane, thinking about all the uses for them. “I guess you will.”

* * *

A
FTER
Z
AC
LEFT
, Emma checked on her mom who had parked herself at a friend’s house and was now on her way home. If nothing else, it was good for Mom to get out some. Emma stacked the folders to be copied on the tray table she’d set up next to the copy machine. Starting on them now would save time in the morning.

Plus, she was too keyed up to sleep. Intimacy, she decided, was a beautiful thing. She’d gone too long without this tingly, happy feeling that came with having the right man touch her.

Zac Hennings, for many reasons, might not be Mr. Right, but he was definitely Mr. Right Now. Setting aside the fact that he was the opposition, he was a good man. A good man willing to look beyond the surface of her brother’s case when others had turned away.

She stood in front of the copy machine and picked up the first folder. The one containing her notes about the white shirt testimony. Zac seemed a little obsessed with the white shirt. She wished she could have told him Brian hadn’t been wearing white that night. That it was all some dumb mistake and that he’d worn blue. The case would have fallen apart if he’d simply worn blue. Such a simple thing could have changed it all.
Why didn’t you wear blue?

No use dwelling on it. Emma opened the folder and read her notes. Witness at end of alley. Saw man coming toward him. Moved on. Her gaze shot left again.

End of alley
.

On a moonless night. She remembered that from her investigation. She’d checked on it. It had, in fact, been heavily overcast that night. Dark. Really dark.

End of alley
.

Emma dropped the folder and papers scattered in a blanket of white at her feet. “Oh, my.” She scooped up her phone, charged upstairs to her bedroom and grabbed one of her white work shirts, a jacket, her purse and keys and flew out the door.

As she ran to her car, she scrolled her contacts for Zac’s number. Hopefully he’d meet her there because only stupid women walked in dark city alleys late at night. Emma wasn’t stupid. At the same time, this mission could only be done in the dark. The call went straight to voice mail and she hung up. She’d call back from the road.

Once en route, she tried Zac again, but the phone beeped. On the line. She’d leave a message. “It’s Emma. On my way to the crime scene to check something. Can you meet me there?”

She drove past Magic where even on a Monday people headed in for a night of partying. A sign with bright red letters indicated dollar draft night so the college kids probably showed up en masse. On the busy main street, cars stacked up at the traffic signals. Half a block down, one of the many city bridges spanned the Chicago River, its lights twinkling against a black sky. She stopped in a no-parking zone at the alley entrance and slapped her hazards on. A cabbie flew by, sitting on his horn and the sharp blare grated up her neck.

“Take it easy, mister,” she muttered.

Her phone whistled and she checked it. Voice mail from Zac. She punched the button and his deep voice filled the car. “It’s me,” he said. “Three minutes out. Wait for me.”

Another car whooshed by and she chomped her bottom lip. Sooner or later a cop would move her along. The dashboard clock blinked. Another two minutes and Zac would be here.

Someone knocked on the passenger window. The banging sent blood slamming through her and she swung her head sideways. One of the bouncers from the club jerked his thumb. “Lady, you gotta move.”

Emma grabbed her purse, jumped out and shut the door before a passing car ripped it off. She worked her way to the curb and stared up at the massive security guy. “Hi. I’m an investigator.”
Investigator?
“Working on a murder case. I need to check something in the alley. Real quick. Promise.” Digging into her purse, she fished out a twenty. “Will you keep an eye on the car a minute?”

“Lady—”

“Two minutes. That’s all I need.”

The bouncer glanced around, snatched the twenty out of her hand and nodded. “Go. Fast.”

“Thank you.” From the passenger seat she grabbed the white shirt and headed into the alley.

So much for smart girls not going into dark alleys alone. Desperate measures, right? Besides, Zac would show up any second.

Still, she headed in, moving slowly at first, letting her eyes adjust to the blackness. The only lights were halfway down the alley over two adjacent doors on each building. From the street behind, a car horn honked, then screeching tires. Prickles coursed up her arms and even in the cold, the air felt hot against her. The sides of the buildings pressed in and her eyes darted left and right. Anyone could be hiding here and she wouldn’t see him.
Take a breath
. She turned back. No bouncer.

Was this what Chelsea heard right before she died?

For that matter, Chelsea must have had a reason for coming into this scary place alone. Emma would have to study her files for any pertinent info on that. Yes. Focus on the case.

A light wind blew and the stench of ripe garbage forced her to scrunch her nose and gasp. A garbage container was somewhere close.

She stopped in the approximate area where Chelsea Moore spent her last moments. Between the rancid smell and visions of the young woman trapped against the wall, her throat being crushed, Emma’s stomach churned.

Closer to the lights now, she spotted the offending container overflowing with garbage. Probably the weekend pile-up. On her right was a thin electrical pipe running up the side of the building. Not a great test subject, but it would suffice. Emma shoved the white shirt into the gap. There. All she had to do was run back to the alley entrance and verify that the shirt could be seen from there.

Behind her came the squish of rubber on damp pavement.
Zac
. She started to turn and a hard shove sent her sailing into the brick building. Her cheek smacked the cold, rough surface. A ripping sensation tore into her and her lungs froze. No air.

Stupid girl
.

“You don’t learn, do you?” a guttural voice whispered and the sound, so low and ugly and hard, sent a violent burst of panic up her throat.

She opened her mouth to scream. Nothing. Paralyzed. The man’s hot breath snaked over her skin and she gasped.
Don’t let him win.
Her eyes watered. She blinked, fought the tears seeping free.
Breathe, Emma
.

Chaos and fear whirled through her mind.
Turn around
. Look at him. Her minimal self-defense lessons flashed into her head. If she could get to his throat or his eyes, she’d have a chance. She shifted, tried to spin, but he shoved her against the wall, his bigger body leaning into her, crushing her.

“Help!” she croaked.

Her attacker laughed and pushed his body further into hers. “You wanna die right here like Chelsea Moore?”

Vomit heaved into her throat and she gagged, swallowed it back.
Someone, help me
.
Should have waited for Zac...Fight
.
Don’t let him win
. Messages and warnings came in a rush, battering her oversensitized system, shredding what was left of her nerves.

Elbow.

She jerked her elbow back and connected—his arm maybe—but it skidded off.

And then she got mad. Mad enough to show this jerk that she wouldn’t be an easy victim. Not ever.

“No!” she hollered, her voice suddenly coming to her aid.
Thank you
.

“Emma!” Zac from the alley entrance.

“Here.”

The pressure from the man’s disgusting body eased up and she sucked in a breath, all that rancid air flooding her lungs. She turned and swung. Nothing there. A shadow sprinted to the back exit of the alley. The clomp of shoes—Zac’s dress shoes—sounded from behind her.

Catch him
. Knowing Zac would follow, she gave chase.

“Did you see him?” she hollered over her shoulder.

“No.”

She had to find him, see who he was and what he knew about Chelsea Moore.

Zac caught up to her, his longer legs making the task easy. “Emma, hang on.”

He grabbed her arm and halted her, but she struggled against his hold as her attacker fled.
No. No. No.
“He’s getting away.”

She yanked free and ran to the far end of the alley, looking both ways.
I’ve got to find him
. Crushing disappointment, like rising water, overtook her, stole her breath.
I blew it
. Whoever it was, he’d disappeared. “No!” Her echoing rage bounced off the surrounding buildings and she squeezed her fingers into tight, knuckle-popping fists. So much pressure.

Then Zac was next to her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her in for a hug so fierce it sparked that same heat that she’d felt earlier.
Concentrate, Emma
.

“What happened?” he asked.

Not wanting to be babied—who needed that?—she elbowed away and stared into the blackness where her attacker vanished.
Damn it
. She shook out her hands, let her aching fingers recover. “He pushed me.”

Zac set her back and squeezed her arms. “Mugger?”

“No. He said...”

What
did
he say?
Think, Emma
. She spun around, pointed. She’d been standing there, right there, shoving the shirt into the pipe and then—bam—he’d shoved her. As she stared at the spot and envisioned the attack in her mind, his voice came back to her, low and mean and vile, and she focused.
Think
. The words tumbled in her brain and she separated them, gave them order. “He said, ‘Do you want to die like Chelsea Moore?’”