White Collared Part One: Mercy (6 page)

Then at some point she’d conjured up something she’d only read about in the dark of night as she lay in her bed. A ménage à trois. Her between two men. And not just any men.

Nick and Jaxon.

Her pussy contracted in the first stirring of orgasm as she recalled her fantasy of them torturing her naked and defenseless body with their tongues, lips, and teeth.

She blinked away the porno playing in her head and took a tentative sip of her coffee, its bitter taste cannon-balling her back to reality.

To keep her mind off sex, she took the opportunity to check out his office. Not surprisingly, it was one of the biggest in the firm. While not a corner office, the sunlight brightened the space, and the cherry wood and chrome furniture gave the room a modern feel. His degrees from the University of Michigan and a couple of framed magazine covers he’d graced hung on the mocha-tinted walls.

She had laminated copies of those same covers in a file back at her apartment.

“Of course it’s on your end,” Nick said, taking his seat behind the desk. “We have nothing to gain from leaking that information. I expect you to plug the leak or I’m going to speak with my friend the attorney general about the inexcusable actions of your men.”

He hung up, shaking his head and swearing under his breath. “I knew it would happen. The media jumped on the kink bandwagon so quickly that I haven’t had the chance to prepare a counter campaign.”

She pulled up the local news on the Internet. The headline read “A Different Shade of Marriage,” with a big picture of a popular leather store that offered products such as whips, floggers, masks, and clothes for the metro-Detroit BDSM community. “Couldn’t you hold a press conference? Steer the media away from the whips and chains angle?”

“It would be like adding fuel to a fire. We have to find another suspect.” He frowned and clenched his fist, drawing attention to his nails, which were bitten down to the quick. “If we can find someone else who wanted her dead, we could at least get the media off his back.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t know why anyone would want her dead. She was the sweetest woman I’d ever known.”

His eyes went glassy, as if he held back tears. It occurred to her he’d known Alyssa for several years. This loss was personal. It wasn’t only about saving his friend but finding the true murderer of his other friend.

“Maybe someone set the crime scene to frame Jaxon for the murder,” she offered.

“Would you like to see the photos? If not, I completely understand. They’re even more graphic than the one you saw at the police station.” He lifted a large manila envelope and out slid the photos face down into a pile on his desk.

Prepared for this possibility, she’d taken a pill this morning. “I’ll be fine.”

She lifted the top picture and flipped it over, telling herself the woman in the photo was a stranger. Not Alyssa Deveroux. Not Jaxon’s wife or Nick’s friend.

She examined the photo with detached interest. It was a close-up of the victim on her back, her eyes closed and smeared with blood. Then she picked up another picture, this one of her on her stomach. The fingers and toes were purple. Premorbid loss of circulation or postmorbid pooling of blood?

Kate peered closer. “These thin lines were made from a single-tail, but these other welts are thicker.” She lowered the photo to the desk and pushed it closer to Nick, pointing to red marks on the back of Alyssa’s thighs. “He probably used a cane.”

Nick’s brows furrowed, creating deep lines in his forehead. “I’m not sure I know what that is.”

It didn’t surprise her. He didn’t play in the BDSM community, and he wasn’t exactly the prime target for erotica.

“I have a book I can bring in that might help you understand a little more about BDSM and the types of equipment used. Would that help?” Her face flushed hot. “Or you could look it up online,” she added nonchalantly.
Like she had. She’d found all sorts of information about kink on the Internet—even pictures.

She didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. As evidenced by his friendship with Jaxon, Nick didn’t seem to have any sexual hang-ups when it came to the alternative sexual lifestyle.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said softly, making her feel more comfortable for suggesting it. “Yes, by all means, bring in the book.” He handed her another photo. “What else can you identify from the pictures?”

Something in the photos nagged at her. She was missing something.

When she was a child, she and her father used to play chess. For years she’d blamed her losses on her young age and lack of experience until, one day, her father told her to look at the entire board rather than a single area.

On a hunch, she laid out several of the photos at once, looking at them as a whole rather than piece by piece. And that’s when she noticed it. “Thirteen.”

“Excuse me?”

Nick watched her intently. “Thirteen whip marks. Thirteen welts. Thirteen cuts. And although it’s difficult to tell from the photos, I’m guessing thirteen stab wounds.”

They didn’t know what it meant, but it had to be a clue. Hopefully, a clue that would lead them away from Jaxon and to the real killer.

“You’re amazing,” he said with awe.

She shrugged. “In my teens, I went through a dark period where I studied books about serial murderers, satanic cults, and . . .” His eyebrows shot up. “You think I’m strange.”

“Yes. But in a good way. You’ll make an excellent attorney, and, despite your protests, I think you’d be well-suited as a criminal defense attorney or, God forbid, a prosecutor.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough. I’ve been doing this for eleven years, and I’ve met thousands of lawyers in that time. Not one of them could sit down with a crime photo like I gave you and hone in on such a significant detail in such a short amount of time. In fact, most couldn’t stomach a photo like that at all. You’re unique, Kate.”

“Thank you.”

For the first time, she believed she’d have a future at this law firm. By this time next year, she could have her own office. No more uncertainty. A steady paycheck. Job security. Stability.

Everything she’d ever wanted.

Nick leaned back. “What else do you notice in the pictures?”

The killer had left thirteen shallow cuts that weren’t made by any traditional BDSM tool, but she recognized the source all the same. Her own father had used the knife every time they’d cleaned their deer after a hunt.

“He used a Buck 110 Folding Hunter Knife to make the cuts and stab wounds.”

Nick’s jaw slackened. “How could you know that?”

Her hands trembled as she remembered. “I used to go hunting as a kid. This knife is excellent for skinning an animal. It also has a unique angle you can find only with this knife.”

“If we can track down who bought this knife, we could find the killer?”

She shook her head, sorry to erase the hope that had flickered in his eyes. “No. It’s a common knife. They sell thousands.”

“Too bad.” His shoulders dropped. “Anything else jump out at you?”

She looked again, focusing on the less obvious. “Bruises. Judging by the yellowing, I’d say they’re a few days old.” Had Jaxon made these marks as they played? “Shit.”

Nick raised a brow. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

She shrugged. She used to swear like a drunken sailor in a whorehouse, but Nick knew her only as Kate Martin. “Now that we’ve shared our favorite flavors of ice cream, what’s a little profanity among friends?”

“Right. Friends.” He gestured with his hand for her to continue. “What was the reason for your expletive?”

“The bruising could help the prosecution build a case that the murder was an escalation of abuse.”

“He’s wealthy,” Nick added, joining Kate in anticipating the prosecution’s theories of motivation. “He could’ve hired someone to kill her.”

She closed her eyes and saw it play out like a movie in her mind. Jaxon sitting in a dark, upscale steakhouse with a hired hit man. Eating a steak and drinking bourbon as he calmly instructed the man on how to tie up a woman and torture her to death.

Her gut churned. Something didn’t fit with that scenario. “The killer has to be part of the kink scene. Whoever did it knew what he was doing. A single-tail isn’t an easy weapon to handle. This was personal to the killer. Thirteen cuts. Thirteen lines from the whip. Thirteen welts. The number means something to him. And unless he drugged her, she had to trust him enough to tie her up. Which means it’s probable she was having an affair.”

Nick swept up all the photos and tossed them back in the envelope. He dropped it on the desk and sat back in his chair, slightly rocking, his head tilted up toward the ceiling.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her for a moment. When he did, she saw the stress of the situation in his tired eyes. “If we don’t find the real killer, they’re going to put Jaxon away for the crime.”

She liked to believe innocent people didn’t go to prison, but she’d read the statistics in criminal law class. Up to 5 percent of the people in prison were innocent. Thousands of men and women were convicted each year for a crime they didn’t commit. She couldn’t say with 100 percent certainty Jaxon was innocent. But if Nick believed it, she’d hesitate on believing otherwise.

“So what do we do?”

“We do our job.” He gave her a small smile. “Welcome to the practice of criminal law.”

Chapter Eight

T
HERE WAS AN
urgent knock on the door to Nick’s office before it opened a crack. “Mr. Trenton? We have a situation that requires your immediate attention.” Lisa, his mousy secretary, poked her head into the room. “Mr. Deveroux is here to see you, but the press has blocked his entrance inside.”

Nick swore under his breath as he shot to his feet. “Damn it. Call security and tell them to do their fucking job or I’ll make sure they don’t have one by the end of the day.” He unrolled his sleeves, snatched his suit jacket from his chair, and slipped it on. Back into professional mode. “Ms. Martin, come with me.”

She followed him down the hall, curious how he’d handle the situation. In her experience, reporters rarely listened to reason. They had a job to do, and nothing short of arrest would keep them from doing it.

While the Society of Professional Journalists maintained a Code of Ethics, rarely had she met a member of the media who adhered to those standards. Their bosses didn’t give a shit about ethics, so long as they got the story and didn’t get sued for defamation. False and misleading information was reported all the time, but since the injured party had to prove the extent of the reporter’s knowledge of the falsity or careless disregard for the truth rather than mere negligence, lawsuits were rarely won against the media. The reporters usually got away with a slap on the wrist.

She was certain there were decent reporters out there.

She’d just never met one.

When they got to the lobby, she saw three reporters with their backs against the glass doors, holding out microphones to a surrounded Jaxon. He’d have to use force to escape. Exactly what they wanted him to do.

Despite the chaos of the situation, the sight of him stole her breath away. Dressed in a navy suit, his crisp, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and no tie, Jaxon exuded the classic handsomeness of her favorite old-time movie stars: Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart. Since yesterday he’d shaven, leaving behind smooth, olive skin, which accentuated his chiseled, high cheekbones and the scar bisecting his thick, dark brow. He raked his fingers through the tamed curls of his raven hair, hair that had that sexy just-rolled-out-of-bed look that people spent fortunes on in Hollywood. But he wasn’t perfect. From this angle, she could see his nose was slightly uneven, with a small bump on the bridge, as if at some point he had broken it. To her, the imperfection managed to symbolize his rugged masculinity.

When the commotion escalated, Kate tore her gaze away from him and scanned the area, stopping on the glass doors to the firm.

“Nick!” she shouted, pointing to the doors and alerting him to her plan. She raced to the doors and threw one open wide. Three male reporters stumbled backward into the office, giving Nick an opportunity to elbow his way through the frenzy.

Rachel Dawson, a popular Detroit morning newscaster known for her solid reporting, long raven hair, and ample-sized chest, shoved through the crowd and thrust her microphone directly under Jaxon’s chin, almost daring him to push her away. “Mr. Deveroux! Could you tell us why you enjoyed beating your wife?”

“Don’t say a word, Jaxon.” Nick grasped him by the neck of his shirt and ushered him through the crowd. When they got inside, Nick stretched out his arms in front of Jaxon like a professional bodyguard and said, “My client will not answer any of your questions. This is private property, and I’m going to ask you all to leave or I’ll call the police.”

One of the reporters in the lobby smirked and pointed his phone at Nick, no doubt set to record audio. “Mr. Trenton, are you also a BDSM master?”

Nicks hands curled into fists, but he remained in control. Kate heard the voices of the building’s security guards ordering the reporters to disperse.

Some of the media heeded the warnings, but Rachel wasn’t as smart. Rather than follow the others, she suddenly broke away from the crowd and barreled into the room. “What is your response to attorney general candidate Mason Ford’s call for a grand jury investigation into the murder of your wife?” she asked Jaxon.

Jaxon blanched and wobbled on his feet. Although he topped her by almost a foot, she repaid the favor from yesterday and slid an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

Nick stalked to Rachel. “I would think you’d know better, Ms. Dawson. That’s nothing more than campaign rhetoric. Now, I believe I told you to leave this property. Don’t make me ask you again.”

The pretty reporter blinked but didn’t budge. “You can’t make me leave. This is private property open to the public, and I have every right to be here.”

“You are inside the office, and I’ve asked you to leave,” Nick said with a tone of dangerous restraint. “You do not have the right to remain. As for being inside the building, the owner has already been contacted and you were causing a public nuisance. I’m sure every firm on this floor would back me up in saying you’ve interrupted business. Furthermore, you are not here for the purpose of doing business with one of the tenants. You’ve trailed my client, a private citizen, and invaded his privacy rights. I’m not sure your boss wants the wrath of this firm raining down on his station. Now get out.”