THE PROSECUTOR (12 page)

“She got a call from Ray Gardner.”

Son of a gun.
If he were being taken off the case, he’d have been told. Maybe not. Ray had been pretty steamed at him earlier. Zac waited, the silence tearing his brain to shreds. “Ray is my boss.”

“He’s assigning an investigator from the SA’s office to Brian’s case.”

Air flew up Zac’s throat and came out in a whoosh. If it was relief or satisfaction, he didn’t know. Either way, his boss had redeemed himself. Zac leaned against the doorframe and stared at Emma’s face, where a tentative smile appeared. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away.

“It’s okay to be happy,” he said. “You’ve worked hard for this.”

She lifted the phone then let her hand drop again. “I know. I just can’t believe it. Someone is listening.”

“And you made it happen.” He held up the bag. “I’m on the food. Take your time.”

He turned from the doorway, hoping she wouldn’t press him on what he knew about the investigator. In short—and overdue—order he had to separate his job and this case from his feelings about Emma. It was all too intertwined and...muddy.

“Zac?”

He popped his head back in the bedroom and she held the phone up. “Did you have anything to do with the investigator being assigned to this case?”

“I may have suggested it as a precaution.”

“You think my brother is innocent.”

Trouble
. Part of him wanted to tell her he agreed with her, but the truth was, he didn’t know. The prosecutor in him wanted to believe the jury got it right and hadn’t convicted an innocent man. But he’d also been an ASA long enough to know that, sometimes, justice got sidetracked. Things went wrong. Innocent people went to prison.

He tapped his hand against the doorframe and stared into her big, hopeful eyes. “I think there are inconsistencies with Brian’s case that need to be looked at.”

If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. Nothing moved. No slumping shoulders, no dramatic sigh, no pinched eyebrows. Nothing. Emma Sinclair, rock star.

Finally, she ran her hands over her legs and drummed her fingers. He should say something. Even if he wasn’t ready to admit that Brian might be innocent, he should say
something
. But that was the tricky part.

“Emma—”

She held up her hands and attempted a brief smile that screamed of indecision. “It’s okay. You’re a prosecutor. I know what your job is. And thank you for suggesting the investigator. It’s more than anyone from your office has done since this nightmare began. That means a lot to me. By the end of this, you’ll see that Brian is innocent.”

For her sake, he certainly hoped so.

Chapter Twelve

After her morning class on Wednesday, Emma headed to her mother’s favorite Italian restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall near the United Center. With her crazy schedule, she and her mom hadn’t managed to arrange a dinner out together, so they’d found a sliver of time to squeeze in lunch.

As she drove, Emma turned up the volume on the radio and sang along. At the traffic light, still wailing, she glanced at the car next to her and found the driver, a young guy wearing a baseball cap, howling at her.
Hey, whatever.
She threw her arms up and wiggled them. Still laughing, he shook his head and waved her off. Fun stuff, that. It had been too long since she’d allowed herself to lighten up, to keep from being so serious about every darn thing.

Blame it on the orgasms—as in multiples. Thanks to one Zachary Hennings, whom she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about today. A total stud.

Bad, Emma. Bad.

Emma made a left on a tree-lined street where the homes, in typical city fashion, had roughly six inches of space between them. She found a parking space a block away from the restaurant and called it a done deal.

Not a bad day for a short walk. She tightened the belt on her coat and faced the unseasonable cold. Even if the temperature hadn’t made it out of the forties yet today, the sun’s warmth poured over her. She’d take it after the vicious winter they’d had. Above her, a few birds chirped and the clear blue sky stretched as far as she could see. She stopped, tipped her head up and the damp smell of early spring tickled her nose.

Two years of her life had slipped away, two years of not taking a few seconds to enjoy a pretty day or belt out a song. Two years of being smothered under the blanket of a wrongfully accused brother.

As was typical of her life, the piercing shriek of a police siren interrupted her moment of grateful appreciation. Out of curiosity, she spun toward it and spotted a Chicago squad car near the corner, where he’d made a traffic stop. A car that looked suspiciously like her mother’s.
Oh, come on
. Mom finally leaves the house and she gets pulled over? And for what? The woman barely drove the speed limit. If anything, she’d be cited for driving too slowly.

To be sure, Emma moved closer and—yep—that was her mother in the driver’s seat. The officer hadn’t gotten out of his car yet and as Emma got closer, she found her mother digging through the glove compartment, probably looking for her registration and insurance card. Emma pulled off her glove and tapped the passenger side door. Her mother flinched, glanced up and slammed her hand against her chest.

“Open the window,” Emma said.

From the driver’s side, her mother lowered the window and Emma stuck her head in. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. He just signaled me over.”

“Did you run the light or something?”

Mom scoffed. Perhaps the timing stunk, but Emma laughed. She had to. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

The cop finally heaved himself from his car, slipped his cap on and headed their way. Emma backed out of the window and stood tall. “Hello, officer.”

“Step away from the car, please.”

He wore a light jacket, obviously padded with a vest underneath. In this town, any cop would be nuts not to wear one. This was her home, but it was still a city and cities had gangs and drugs and guns that could steal a life.

“This is my mother.” Emma jerked her thumb down the street. “We’re meeting for lunch.”

“Yeah, fine. Step away from the car.” The cop’s nasty gaze focused on her and he pointed to an area in front of the car. “Move. Now.”

What the heck? A second officer—this one younger and not as tall, but bigger-chested—got out of the car and walked toward her. “Ma’am, step to the side.”

Mom leaned over to the passenger side and spoke through the window. “Emma, it’s fine.”

The second cop puckered his lips, glanced at the other cop and gave a subtle nudge of his chin.

Emma eyeballed them both. “Why are you pulling her over?”

“Broken taillight. License and registration, please.”

Emma angled around the second cop to check the taillights. If Mom had a broken taillight, it had just happened because they were fine this morning. Both taillights were intact. She pointed to the taillights. “They’re fine.”

The first cop wandered to the back of the car and stared at the driver’s-side taillight. “This one is burned out. I saw it when she made the turn.”

“Mom, hit the brakes.”

Both taillights lit up. Emma gave the first cop a hard stare, daring him to argue with her. “It seems you’re mistaken.”

The cop shrugged. “She must have a short in the wiring. Better get it checked before she has an accident,
Emma
.”

And the way he said her name, sarcastic and taunting and drawing out the m’s. She jerked her head back and then came the “aha” moment. Her mother didn’t have a broken taillight. Her mother had a daughter making the CPD look bad. Clearly, they didn’t like that because not only had they pulled her over on a trumped-up violation, they’d suggested that her mother might have an accident.

That, Emma would not stand for. She threw her shoulders back, held her head higher. “Are you threatening us?”

The cop placed his hand over his chest in mock horror and Emma thought her blood would seep clear through her pores. She’d like to climb over the car and pummel him. Just beat him senseless for being an idiot.

“Ma’am,” the second cop said to her mother from the passenger side, “we’ll let you go with a warning today, but you need to get that light checked.”

A warning. They’d given the warning all right.

The second cop stepped around Emma and headed back to their car. She watched him for a second and zeroed in on his name tag.
Collins
. Gotcha. She brought her attention back to jerk number one. She hadn’t gotten close enough to catch his name, but she had his partner’s. She’d find them.

Jerk number one tipped his hat. “Enjoy your lunch,
Emma.
”

With all the crime happening in a city the size of Chicago, these creeps had nothing better to do than harass a widow whose son was in prison, wrongfully convicted.

Despite the brisk air, hot stabs punctured Emma’s skin. They weren’t harassing her mother, they were harassing her. First it was the detective coming to the house and now this. From the curb, Emma watched the lights on top of the police car move down the street. That crazy detective and his friends were trying to scare her by targeting her loved ones, by letting her know they could find them wherever they happened to be. Well, guess what? She was out of loved ones.

Emma stooped down and looked at her mother through the still-open window. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t understand what happened with that taillight. I’ll have to have it checked.”

Part of Emma wanted to tell her mother that it wasn’t about the taillight, but what was the point? Why give her another thing to worry about when she was finally finding her way out of depression? Giving her mother any questionable news might send her back to that joyless, mind-numbing state she’d been in for too long.

Emma opened the car door and slid in. “I’ll take care of it. Let’s find a parking space and have a nice lunch. Maybe we’ll even have a glass of wine. What do you think?”

Her mother grinned. “Drinking at lunch?”

“It’s one glass.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t kill me.”

Yes, and right after lunch, from the privacy of her car, Emma would put a call into their pit-bull lawyer and let her know that certain members of the Chicago Police Department were harrassing her.

* * *

T
HE
JUDGE
TOOK
PITY
and called an early recess for the day. Zac had no issues with that and lugged his stuffed file cart out of the now-empty courtroom. Two o’clock and he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Reminding him of his crashing blood-sugar levels, a nagging ache thumped at the center of his forehead. He needed food. Fast. He’d run his cart back to the office and hit the corner deli for a bite. Then he’d study his cases for the next day.

From his right jacket pocket, his phone—the personal one—buzzed. Office phone was left pocket.

He checked it. Penny. “Hey.”

“
Zachary,
I just thought you’d like to know I’m about to file a complaint against the City of Chicago.”

Zac rolled his eyes.
Let the drama begin
. “Okay, Pen, I’ll bite. What is your complaint?”

“It starts with the Chicago Police Department harassing Emma Sinclair. From there, I’m sure I’ll come up with plenty of other misconduct violations.”

Zac’s headache pounded away and he closed his eyes. What the hell was Penny talking about? “What happened?”

At the elevator bank, he swung into the corner alcove and leaned against the windowsill. Afternoon sun shot rays of light against the marble floors and he centered himself in its path to soak up the heat.

“Emma and her mom had a lunch date and her mother got stopped for a broken taillight. Guess what, Zachary?”

The headache suddenly went nuclear, his skull nearly coming apart. “No broken taillight?”

“Excellent guess.”

“Emma was with her?”

“They were meeting at the restaurant. Emma had just parked and saw the whole thing.”

“What’d the cops say?”

Obviously reading from notes, Penny recited everything Emma had told her. He stayed quiet, listening, absorbing it all, ignoring the spine-busting grip of tension and remaining focused while the warm sun made him think of needing a vacation. “Hang on.”

“What?”

“The part about the accident. They said she’d have an
accident?
”

“They implied it, yes.” Paper shuffling came from Penny’s end of the line. “They said she’d better get it checked before she had an accident.”

That made him boil. It was one thing to pull her over, but to imply that someone would get hurt? Epic fail. Zac stood tall, stretched his shoulders to crack his back. “You’re sure that’s what they said? No paraphrasing?”

“Yes. That’s what Emma said. Her mother heard it.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Have him hold,” Penny said to someone on the other end. “Well, how about that,
The Herald
is on the other line. They’re returning my call.”

Damn, Penny.
“You went to the press?”

“You bet your butt I did. I’m done playing. Gotta go.”

The line went dead and Zac squeezed the phone hard enough to snap a knuckle. This damn case. He couldn’t get a break. Witnesses,
Emma
being threatened. He didn’t know how the hell to deal with that particular issue. Well, he did know, but he’d definitely lose his job if he dug his fingers into someone’s throat and tore it out. Add to that his boss being mad at him for not controlling the spin and he was cooked.

And worse, he’d gotten emotionally involved with Emma. Whom he’d made love to last night, a couple of times, which he wanted to do again in the very near future.

He ran his free hand over his face. “What am I doing?”

At the window, he tilted his head to the bright sun hoping it would calm his rioting brain.
Think
. But the headache reminded him that he needed fuel. He opened his eyes and stared down at the street where a steady flow of pedestrians came and went from the building. The lunch truck was still parked at the curb.

First things first. He’d grab a sandwich from the truck, go back to his office, call Emma and get the story from her.

Then he’d kick some tail.

At least he had a short-term plan. An excellent plan. With the way this case was going, that plan would probably be blown in the next five minutes but for now it would do.

After jamming the sandwich down his throat and settling in at his desk, Zac popped three ibuprofens. Excessive, but he had King Kong tap-dancing in his head. He hit Emma’s number on his personal cell. Voice mail. She might already be at work. She’d mentioned it the night before.

Next he dialed Detective Leeks, that scumbag. If Leeks wanted mind games, Zac would bring it on. This guy would not threaten Emma. Not without some backlash, and Zac had enough firepower to grab the detective’s attention.

Another voice mail. No one wanted to answer today. He waited for the beep. “Detective Leeks, this is ASA Zac Hennings. Have your son in my office at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. If he doesn’t show, I’ll get a subpoena. Your choice, detective.”

Pleased with the message, he hung up. That’d rattle some cages.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Ray stood in the hallway, hands on his hips, his fingers drumming.
This is a problem
. Keeping his focus on his boss, he sat back, forced his shoulders down and did his best to appear casual.

“Hey, finished up early in court.”

Ray stepped into the office, his face pinched and red enough that his already high blood pressure had probably spiked a couple hundred points. When he closed the door behind him, Zac tapped a foot. Ray didn’t often close doors. When he did, people got a few extra holes ripped into them.

Here we go
.

Ray jabbed a finger. “You’re not the investigator. I talked to the SA and we assigned an investigator. You’re not him.
He
will question witnesses. You want answers from the Leeks kid, you can watch from another room.” Ray stopped, took a breath and dropped his hands. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re too close to this. It’s killing your judgment.”

Zac stood and got eye to eye with his boss. He wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t wisecrack, wouldn’t take an attitude. He’d just lay it out, as he always did. “What’s killing my judgment is detectives and cops threatening witnesses. Emma Sinclair’s mother—her mother, for God’s sake—got pulled over today on a bogus stop.”

“What bogus stop?”

“A busted taillight that’s not busted. Emma was there and the cop told her they’d better get it fixed before her mother gets hurt.”

Ray sighed.

Yeah, right there with ya, pal.
“So, if I’m whacked out it’s because I’ve had it with a small group of Chicago’s finest. We need to get this Leeks kid in here and ask him if he wore a white shirt the night of Chelsea Moore’s murder. Fairly simple.”