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The Prosecutor
Adrienne Giordano


Two attorneys with everything to lose fight for justice in THE PROSECUTOR by USA TODAY bestselling author Adrienne Giordano Chicago assistant state’s attorney Zac Hennings just got handed a political hot potato: keeping the convicted murderer in a high-profile case behind bars. He’s up against his most formidable - and alluring - adversary. First-year law student Emma Sinclair is passionately fighting to free her brother. But she needs the take-no-prisoners prosecutor’s help. Caught between attraction and letting a killer go free, Zac walks a tightrope. Until evidence surfaces that the real culprit’s still out there. With his career and Emma’s life on the line, Zac races to right a terrible wrong. Refusing to back down, he’ll bring a cunning lawbreaker to justice - or die trying.









“Something tells me that down deep, you don’t agree with what you have to believe.”


Her touch spilled heat into Zac’s gut. He was no saint, but he could honestly say he hadn’t felt that kind of fire in a long time. Whether it was wishful thinking or plain wanting action, he didn’t know, but he liked it. Given his current status as the prosecutor on her brother’s case, thinking like that would lead him nowhere good.

Emma snatched her finger back. He smiled and her cheeks immediately flushed. Too damned cute. Even if he should be running like hell.

“I need to go,” she said.

For safety, Zac stepped far enough out of reach so he didn’t do something stupid and touch her. “Yes, you do.”




Acknowledgments


Thank you to my husband, who continually offers support and incredibly corny jokes that make me smile. You are the love of my life and I’d be lost without you. To Gigi Giordano Pallitto, you rock, girlfriend! Thank you for your never-ending patience while I tackled legal research. I’ve always said it’s good to have a lawyer in the family. Hopefully, I haven’t mangled the massive amount of information you provided!

To John Kocoras, I so appreciate your early input while I plotted this story. Who knew I’d find Brady and Giglio material so fascinating?

And now for my usual suspects, whom I couldn’t complete a book without. Thank you, Theresa Stevens, for once again pushing me on the tiny details in my writing. I wish I could bottle all you’ve taught me and share it with other writers. You’re the best! To Tracey Devlyn and Kelsey Browning, thank you for your constant support and for traveling this road with me. It’s been an amazing ride. Lucie J. Charles and Misty Evans, you always allow me to disturb your day with critiques and brainstorming ideas, and I’m continually thankful for your help.

John Leach, there aren’t enough words to thank you for sharing your law enforcement knowledge. With each book, you give me new possibilities for my stories.

Thanks to my editor, Denise Zaza, for joining my lunch table the day we met. I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to work with you. It’s been a wonderful experience. To Dana Hamilton, thank you for your guidance throughout production on this book.

Finally, to my son, who reminds me every day why love is so important. I love you.


The Prosecutor

Adrienne Giordano






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


USA TODAY bestselling author ADRIENNE GIORDANO writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports-obsessed son and Buddy the Wheaten Terrorist (Terrier). She is a cofounder of Romance University blog and Lady Jane’s Salon-Naperville, a reading series dedicated to romantic fiction.

Adrienne decided to write The Prosecutor after seeing a news segment on a wrongly convicted man. For more information on The Defender, Adrienne’s next Mills & Boon


Intrigue book, please visit www.adriennegiordano.com. Adrienne can also be found on Facebook, at www.facebook.com/AdrienneGiordanoAuthor, and on Twitter, at www.twitter.com/AdriennGiordano. For information on Adrienne’s street team, Dangerous Darlings, go to www.facebook.com/groups/ DangerousDarlings.


For Elisa and Chris, who make the complexities of sibling relationships easy to navigate. I love you.


Contents

Chapter One (#uc214d8cc-e0ee-556c-95a0-9cfb997f1728)

Chapter Two (#uea9bf976-2f0f-570a-a628-8336e610e7ca)

Chapter Three (#uef494660-f69d-54c3-8b3e-82c65e3ed295)

Chapter Four (#u175dc03a-b066-5f6b-bb03-f0675024c5b0)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Assistant State’s Attorney Zac Hennings leaned back in his chair the second before a newspaper smacked against his desk.

“If there’s any blowback on this,” Ray Gardner said, “it’s yours.”

Zac glanced at the newspaper. On page one, below the fold, was a photo of a young woman—brunette—gazing out a window framed by a set of gold drapes. Someone’s living room. The headline read Fighting for Justice. He skimmed the first few paragraphs. The Chelsea Moore murder.

A burst of adrenaline exploded in Zac’s brain. Big case.

Turning from the newspaper, he looked back to his boss. Ray’s generic gray suit fit better than most he wore but still hung loose on his lean frame. Once in a while, to keep his staff sharp, Ray would show up in a blue or black suit. Regardless, the guy needed a good tailor, but Zac wasn’t going to be the one to suggest it. Not when Ray led the Criminal Prosecutions Bureau, the largest of the six divisions of the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office.

Ray gestured to the newspaper. “The Sinclairs got traction with this. Steve Bennett—”

“The detective? The one who died last week?”

“That’s him. Brain cancer. He apparently refused to face his maker without clearing his conscience. He sent Emma Sinclair a video—starring himself— telling her the witness who ID’ed her brother wasn’t sure he got the right guy. According to Steve, detectives pressured the witness into saying he was positive.”

Zac took his time with that one, let it sink in. “We locked up Brian Sinclair for murder and now we’ve got deathbed revelations?”

“Something like that. The State’s Attorney called me at six this morning after seeing her newspaper. She wants the office bulldog on this. That’s you, by the way. You’ll have all the case files this afternoon.”

More files. Every open space in Zac’s office had been jammed with stacks of folders containing all the lurid details of crimes ranging from robberies to murders. Where he’d put more files he had no idea, but as one of nine hundred assistant prosecutors in Chicago, a city plagued with over five hundred murders last year, he had bigger problems than storage space.

Not for the first time, his responsibilities settled at the base of his neck. He breathed in, gave that bit of tension its due diligence and put it out of his mind. Unlike some of the attorneys around him, he lived for moments like this. Moments when that hot rush of scoring an important case made him “the man,” marching into court, going to battle and kicking some tail.

The cases were often brutal, not to mention emotionally paralyzing, but his goal would always be telling the victim’s loved ones they got a guilty verdict. No exceptions. In this case, they’d already convicted someone. Zac had to make it stick.

Adding to the drama was Chelsea’s father, Dave, who was a veteran Chicago homicide detective. A good, honest cop who’d lost his child to a senseless act of violence.

In short, Zac wanted to win.

Every time.

“We’re already behind the curve with this article,” Ray said.

“I’ll get us caught up.”

When Chelsea Moore’s murder occurred, Zac had been grinding his way through misdemeanors. After getting promoted to felonies, he’d worked like a dog to win his cases and it paid off. Big-time. Ray had just assigned him a politically and emotionally volatile case that he’d bleed for in order to keep Chelsea’s killer behind bars.

No matter how hard Emma Sinclair came at them, Dave’s daughter deserved justice. And Zac would see that she got it. He’d study the trial transcripts and learn the facts of the case.

“The P.D. will go to the wall for Dave Moore,” Ray said.

“Yep. The guy breaks cases no one else can. He won’t tolerate his daughter’s murderer going free. His buddies won’t, either.”

Ray pointed. “Bingo.”

If Emma Sinclair managed to get her brother’s conviction overturned, the Chicago P.D. would not only be angry, they’d also make sure Helen Jergins, the new State’s Attorney who’d promoted Zac, got run out of town. Hard.

Ray shifted toward the door then turned back. “Whatever you need, you let me know. We have to win this one.”

“I got this,” Zac said. “Count on it.”

* * *

EMMA STOOD IN FRONT of the huge whiteboard she’d rolled to her mother’s basement wall and contemplated her revised list of target defense attorneys. Given the newspaper article, today would be the day to once again get cracking on Project Sinclair.

Eighteen months ago her twenty-two-year-old brother, a guy who had nothing but love for those around him, had been convicted of strangling a young woman outside a nightclub. Unable to withstand the injustice of the circumstantial case—no fingerprints or DNA—Emma started banging on the doors of defense attorneys all over the city, trying to win a reversal. No matter how many times she was told no, she would not be silenced. Not when her innocent brother was rotting in prison.

She flicked her finger against the whiteboard. The new video evidence would lure one of these lawyers in. It had to. The case suddenly had all the political melodrama—corruption, false witness testimony, withholding information—defense attorneys thrived on.

She spun back to the oblong folding table, shoved aside an open banker’s box, grabbed the binder with her latest set of research and made a note to study up on Brady and Giglio material. Being a first-year law student, a field she’d never imagined for herself, she hadn’t yet mastered the concepts, but they involved impeaching a witness and items prosecutors were required to share with the defense. Maybe in the next few days she’d have a defense attorney—preferably pro bono, considering that she was broke—to help her slice through the technical aspects of the case.

Above her head, the exposed water pipe clunked. Her mother flushing the toilet. Emma sighed. She should move all this stuff upstairs to Brian’s old room, but her mother didn’t need to see a daily reminder that her son was a convicted murderer. Bad enough the poor woman had to think about it, never mind see it every time she walked upstairs.

So Emma and her effort to free her brother would stay in the cold, dreary basement, surrounded by cobwebs that, no matter how many times she brushed them away, kept returning. When the time came for her to move out on her own again, she’d have a finished basement. No doubt about it. For now, she’d left her cute little apartment in Wrigleyville so her widowed mother wouldn’t have to face her demons alone.

A rapid click-click-click of heels hitting the battered hardwood came from the first floor. Emma had spent countless hours listening to her mother’s footsteps above. Whether early morning or the darkness of night when sleep eluded them, Emma recognized the sound of her mother’s shoes. The ones she’d just heard didn’t belong to her mom. Someone’s here.

“Emma?” her mother called from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Penny Hennings here to see you.”

Emma froze. Penny Hennings. She perused her whiteboard, where she’d alphabetized the lawyers’ names. Hennings. There it was. Not Penny, though. Gerald, from Hennings and Solomon.

Maybe Penny was a relative sent to check her out for Gerald Hennings, who might want to take the case. And if said relation fought downtown traffic on a weekday morning and hauled herself to the North Side, to Parkland, it had to be serious. Emma linked her fingers together and squeezed. Please, let it be.

“Be right up, Mom.”

She glanced down at her sweats, torn T-shirt and pink fuzzy slippers. Great. She’d have to face some snazzy lady from a big-time law firm in this getup. She plucked a rubber band from the little bowl with the paper clips. Least she could do was tie back her tangled hair.

Rotten luck.

Forget it. She had to put her appearance out of her mind. For all she knew, Penny Hennings could be a cosmetics saleswoman.

But what were the chances of that? Particularly at 9:00 a.m. on the morning an article about Brian ran?

“Emma?” her mother called.

“Coming.”

She straightened. If Penny Hennings was from Hennings and Solomon, Emma had to go into full sales mode and convince this woman that her firm should take Brian’s case. After eighteen months of studying overturned convictions and hounding lawyers, it was time for their odds to change. And Hennings and Solomon could make that happen.

Emma ditched her slippers at the base of the stairs and marched up. She looked like hell, but she’d dazzle this would-be-lawyer-slash-cosmetics-saleswoman with her powers of persuasion.

The basement door stood open and Mom’s voice carried from the living room. Emma closed her eyes. This could be it. After a long, streaming breath, she stepped out of the short hallway.

A minuscule woman—maybe late twenties—with shoulder-length blond hair sat on the sofa. The plaid, overstuffed chair tried to swallow her, but her red power suit refused to be smothered. No, that puppy screamed strength and defiance and promise. Could be a good sign.

Plus, to the woman’s credit, she kept her gaze on Emma’s face and not her attire. One cool cookie, this blonde.

Emma extended her hand to the now standing woman. “Hello. I’m Emma Sinclair.”

“Good morning. I’m Penny Hennings. I’m an attorney from Hennings and Solomon. I’m sorry to barge in, but I saw the story on your brother this morning.”

Emma glanced at her mother, took in her cloudy, drooping brown eyes and flat mouth. A heavy heart had stolen her mother’s joy. Ten years ago, at the age of forty, the woman had been widowed and learned that hope could be a fickle thing. Emma, though, couldn’t give in to that defeatist thinking. There was a reason she’d been left fatherless at sixteen and now, with her brother in prison, had assumed the role her father would want her to take. To watch over Mom and free Brian.

Some would say she didn’t deserve all this loss. Why not? It turned out their family had crummy luck. Her father’s sudden death from a brain aneurysm had left a void so deep she’d never really acknowledged it for fear that she’d be consumed by it and would cease experiencing the joy the world offered. Ignoring that vast hole inside her seemed easier.

Then Brian went to prison—more crummy luck—and the hole inside grew. The thing she held on to day after day, the thing that kept her focused and sane and standing, was the fight to free her brother.

Whatever it took, she’d find a way to put their family back together.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

Make this happen. “Forgive me. I’m...well, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself, but you’re the first attorney to contact me in eighteen months and I’m really, really happy to see you.”

Penny offered a wide smile and instantly Emma’s pulse settled. “Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee?”

“No, thank you. I can’t stay long. I spoke to my father—Gerald Hennings—on the way over. He indicated that you’d contacted him about this case some months back.”

Emma sat on the love seat and rested her hand over her mother’s. Maybe they’d finally get the break they deserved. “Yes. He was kind enough to review the case, but said there was nothing he could do.”

“At the time, that was true, but I’m intrigued by this video you’ve obtained. If the video is accurate, we might be able to prove that your brother’s constitutional rights were violated. Any information regarding witness testimony should have been turned over to the defense before trial.”

“It’s Giglio material, right?” Emma asked.

Penny cocked her head. “You’ve brushed up.”

“Yes. I’m also a first-year law student at Northwestern. I left a job at a public relations firm so I’d be available during the day to work on my brother’s case. With the hands-on experience, I figured I might as well go to law school. I waitress at night and work my classes in around everything else.”

“Wow. You’re good.”

Emma shrugged. “Not really. My brother is innocent and he’s slated to spend the next twenty-five years in prison. I can’t let that happen.”

Penny’s expression remained neutral, her lips free of any tightening or forced smiles. No pity. Good. They didn’t need pity. They needed a shrewd legal rainmaker.

“That’s why I’m here. I’d like to review the information you’ve collected and possibly take your case. Pro bono. I’m not going to lie: this will be tough. The victim’s father is a Chicago P.D. detective. The State’s Attorney will go to war with us to keep your brother in prison, but I won’t back down. If Brian’s rights were violated, I’ll prove it. Besides that, I’m hungry for a big case and I think yours might just be the one.”

Suddenly, Penny Hennings seemed young. Idealistic maybe. Not the battle-hardened defense attorney her father was. Did it matter? Her wanting to step out from under her father’s shadow and make a name for herself was a great motivator.

She’s a rainmaker, smart and determined.

Emma gestured down the hall to the basement door. “Would you like to see what I have on the case?”

Penny smiled. “You bet I would.”

* * *

ZAC PUSHED HIS ROLLING cart stuffed with case files from the courtroom to his fifth-floor office. Along the way he passed other prosecutors dragging their own heavy loads and their stone faces or smirking, sly grins told the tales of their wins and losses.

Zac’s day had consisted of jury selection for a murder trial he was scheduled to prosecute. The pool of candidates wasn’t ideal, but his evidence was strong and he’d parlay that into a win.

He nudged the cart through his doorway and turned back to the bull pen for Four O’clock Fun. On most days, prosecutors coming from court gathered to compare notes, discuss the personalities of judges and opposing lawyers, anything that might be good information for one of the other ASAs. Some days, Four O’clock Fun turned into a stream of stories that would scandalize the average person, but that prosecutors found humorous. For Zac, gallows humor was a form of self-protection. A way to keep his sanity in the face of the day-to-day evil he grappled with.

“Zac,” Stew Henry yelled, “Pierson got his butt kicked by Judge Alred today.”

“Seriously?”

Alred had to be the easiest-going guy on the bench. It took a lot to aggravate him. Two steps toward the bull pen, Zac’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Alex Belson, the public defender on the Sinclair case, returning his call.

“Have to take this,” Zac yelled to the bull pen before heading back to his office. “Alex, hey, thanks for getting back to me.”

“No prob. Got to say, screwy timing since your sister called me today, too.”

“My sister?”

What’s that about?

“Yeah. She’s taking the Sinclair case. Wants copies of all my notes.”

Zac dropped into his chair to absorb this info.

“You didn’t know?” Alex asked.

Penny had left a voice mail earlier in the day, but he’d been in court and hadn’t had a chance to get back to her. “I haven’t talked to her today.”

Another call beeped in and Zac checked the screen. Penny. “Alex, let me call you back.” He flashed over to his sister. “Pen?”

The sound of a horn blasted. Outdoors.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you in your office?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m walking into the lobby. Be there in two minutes.”

She was here. “What’s this about your taking the Sinclair case?”

“Word travels fast. How’d you know?”

“The PD told me. Pen, I caught this case.”

Silence. Yeah, little sister, soak that up. If this case went forward, Zac would be battling his baby sister in court. At twenty-nine, only two years his junior, she was equally competitive when it came to winning her cases. Plus, she had their legendary father as co-counsel.

In short, it would be a bloodbath.

Unfortunately for his sister, Zac planned on winning and giving Dave Moore justice for his daughter.

“So,” Pen said, “I guess my calling you to find out who Ray assigned proved fruitful.”

“You don’t want this case. It’s a dog.”

“Not a chance, big brother. See you in a minute.”

Zac hung up and stared through the open doorway where raucous laughter from Four O’clock Fun raged on. That Alred story must have been a good one. He should have stayed and listened. He could use the laugh.

Two minutes later, Penny swung into his office. Behind her strode a woman wearing tan pants and a black sweater. Emma Sinclair. He’d never met her, but had seen photos of her, including the one from the morning paper still sitting on his desk. That photo hadn’t done Emma any favors. In person, her dark hair extended below her shoulders and, when Zac took in the soft curve of her cheek and her big brown eyes, something in his chest pinged. Just a wicked stinging that reminded him he was in desperate need of a woman’s affections.

Except she was his opponent.

Why the hell was Penny bringing her here?

“Hello, Zachary,” Penny said in that sarcastic, singsong way she’d been addressing him for years. She stepped forward to give him the usual kiss on the cheek, but caught herself.

Yeah, welcome to Awkwardville. For the first time, they were squaring off against each other in the professional arena. Considering that his father and his two siblings were all attorneys, Zac had known he’d eventually face one of them in court. The only thing that had saved him thus far was the Chicago crime rate providing enough cases to go around.

Until now.

Pen gestured to Emma. “Zachary Hennings, meet Emma Sinclair. Brian Sinclair’s sister.”

Zac stepped around the desk and shook hands with Emma. What he expected, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason her warm, firm grip surprised him. Their gazes met for a split second and the intense, deep coffee brown of her eyes nearly knocked him on his butt. But he couldn’t think about Emma Sinclair and her alluring eyes and how they affected him. He had to think of Chelsea Moore.

Dead Chelsea Moore.

He released Emma’s hand and stooped to clear the files off the second chair in his office. The place was a mess. “Have a seat.”

On his way back to his desk, he shot Penny a what-the-heck? look. She grinned. She wanted to play, he’d play.

While doing so, he’d also remind his baby sister that he wasn’t a guy who liked to lose.

* * *

EMMA WATCHED ZACHARY HENNINGS—did he really want people calling him Zachary?—head back to his desk while she took the seat he’d cleared for her.

He relaxed back in his desk chair, Mr. Casual. As if she’d believe he could be comfortable with Penny as the attorney on a high-profile case and the sister of the convicted sitting in front of him. He certainly looked the part, though. Then again, he had that yacht-club look about him. His short, precisely combed blond hair and perfect bone structure just added to the patrician image. The only thing slightly ruffled about him was the unfastened top button on his shirt and his loose tie. The look fit him, however. Country-club rugged.

If she’d met him elsewhere, she’d have steered clear of him. In her experience, men who looked like that were either arrogant and patronizing or ignored her altogether. Being Miss Completely Average, she didn’t have the high-maintenance looks men like him went for and that was just fine with her. What she needed was a dependable, rock-solid man who could roll with the insanity of her life.

Something told her Zachary Hennings had no interest in a woman with complications. Maybe that was an unfair judgment, but it wasn’t for her to worry about.

“So,” Penny said. “Let’s talk about this video.”

Zachary held up a hand and gave a subtle nudge of his chin in Emma’s direction. “Is this appropriate?”

“She’s my intern.”

Her intern. Funny.

“Say what?”

“She’s a law student who knows this case better than anyone. Trust me, in her first year at Northwestern she knows more about the law than the two of us combined did as first years. Suck it up. She’s staying.”

Obviously amused by his sister’s antics, he cracked a wide grin. Emma cut her gaze to Penny, then back to Zachary before biting her lip. Down deep, the warrior in her wanted to join the fray, but watching these two hammer away at each other would be just as much fun.

“You were saying about the video? I need a copy, of course.”

“Of course.” She pulled her phone, hit the screen a couple of times and stuck it back in her purse. “On its way. I’m planning on filing a PCR.” Penny turned to Emma. “Post-conviction relief.” Emma nodded and Penny went back to her brother. “A video like this, you know we’ll get our hearing based on newly discovered evidence.”

He shrugged. “No judge in Cook County will vacate a sentence in the murder of a cop’s daughter without something better than that video. And hello? Did the detective not have brain cancer? How do we know disease hadn’t brought on hallucinations?”

“Please, Zachary. You’ll need to try harder than that.” Penny stood and adjusted the hem of her jacket. “Anyway, I only stopped to see which lucky prosecutor would face me in court. Now that I know, I’m off to make notes on this new evidence. Better start thinking about the State’s reply, big brother. See you at dinner on Saturday.” She gave him a finger wave. “Toodles. Love you.”

Emma sat speechless as Penny strode from the office. Her attorney was one crazy chick, which might not be a good thing, considering that Brian’s freedom rested in her hands. But Penny had something. Maybe it was her brash attitude or her willingness to take a chance on Brian, but whatever it was, Emma liked it. A lot.

From his desk chair, Zachary snorted. “She’s nuts. Get used to it.”

Emma stood. “Maybe so, but I like her spunk.”

“She has plenty of that.”

Before she turned for the door, Emma stared down at him. “My brother is innocent.”

“He was convicted by a jury of his peers.”

“And juries never make mistakes?”

No answer. It didn’t matter. “I’ve studied the evidence,” she continued. “The public defender blew this one. I can promise you my brother didn’t strangle anyone. I’d know.”

According to the prosecution’s theory, Brian had left Magic—the nightclub—to meet the victim in the alley beside it. After he murdered her, apparently using the belt from her jacket, he supposedly went back into the club and partied for another hour.

“Were you with him that night?”

“No. But I know my brother. He stole four dollars from my wallet when he was twelve. An hour later the guilt drove him mad and he confessed.”

Zachary shrugged. “He was twelve. He’s a man now. People change.”

“Not my brother. He was living at home with my mother at the time of the murder. Want to know why?”

“Is it relevant to my case?”

“My brother is in prison. Everything is relevant.”

Zachary tapped his fingers on the desk. “I’ll bite. Why was he living at home?”

“Because our father died ten years ago and I’d moved out. He didn’t want our mother to be alone. He had a good job and could have easily afforded to be on his own, but he couldn’t stand the idea of his mother being by herself. That’s not a man who commits murder.”

Emma stopped talking. The past year had taught her the value of silence. Silence offered that perfect span of time when each person decided who would flinch. She stared down at Zachary Hennings.

A fine-looking man she desperately hoped would flinch.

Finally, he stood. He was a good six inches taller than she was, but she held her ground and kept her head high. “No offense, Ms. Sinclair, but you’re far from impartial and the daughter of a good cop is dead. Any one of us, given the right circumstances, has the capability to commit murder.”

“Not my brother, Mr. Hennings. You’ll see.” She turned to leave.

“It’s Zac. My father is Mr. Hennings. And I can tell you I’ll study the case file. I love to win, but I have no interest in keeping an innocent man in prison. That being said, twelve reasonable people heard evidence and decided his fate. I’m not going to go screaming to the judge that it was a mistake. Prove it to me and we’ll take it from there.”


Chapter Two

In the beat-up hallway outside Zac’s office, Emma spotted Penny waiting for her. The moment she got close, Penny headed for the elevator, the two of them moving at a steady clip.

“I’ll get started on the petition,” Penny said. “What’s your schedule the next couple days?”

“I have a class in the morning and then I work tomorrow night. On Saturday, I work at four, but I have all morning and early afternoon open. Sunday I have to study. What do you need?”

“We need to analyze the video and compare what he says to what we know happened around the time of the murder. There has to be something else that will support our case. I think we’ll get our hearing anyway because that video is pretty darn compelling, but it wouldn’t hurt to have more.”

Emma pushed through the lobby door and a burst of cold, early-April wind blew her hair back. Penny remained unruffled, her hair perfectly intact as she whipped through the doorway. Emma would have loved to be that put together, but she didn’t have a sense of fashion so she stuck with the basics of slacks and sweaters. Basics were easy and kept her from looking like a fashion disaster.

Penny stopped on the cement steps of the towering building. Behind them, the early rush of employees leaving for the day funneled by.

“I already have a time line built,” Emma said. “I’ll go through the video and do a second time line with what the detective says. And, oh, I’ll get myself on the list to visit Brian tomorrow. I can squeeze that in before work and show him the two time lines. Maybe he can help.”

“Good. Anything that seems off, note it and I’ll have one of our investigators check it out.”

Investigators. All this time, Emma had been trudging around town, fighting every step of the way, begging every defense lawyer, reporter, blogger, anyone who could help, and finally, finally, someone believed in her. Her breath caught and she smacked a hand against her chest.

Penny drew her eyebrows together, marring her perfect porcelain skin. “You okay?”

Maybe. “You have investigators.”

“The firm does, yes.”

Months of exhaustive, energy-sapping worry erupted into a stream of hysterical laughter. “Investigators.”

Penny’s eyes widened. Poor woman must have thought her client was insane. Emma laughed harder and grabbed her lawyer’s arms. “I’ve been alone with this for so long. No one has helped. No one. Even my mother has been too depressed to lend a hand, and now you tell me you have investigators. And it won’t cost me anything. You have no idea what that means to me.”

Finally, the tears came. A flood of them gushing to the surface and tumbling down her face. God, she was tired. Insanity might not be far behind after all.

Penny stepped an inch closer. “Listen, we’ve got a long road. I’m good, but we’re dealing with the murder of a cop’s daughter. We’re about to climb Everest with no oxygen. Can you make it?”

Emma nodded. This one she knew for sure. “I’ve already climbed to ten thousand feet without oxygen. I’m not stopping now.”

“Good. Then let’s do this. Call me with any updates. I’ve got to go.”

Penny charged down the cement steps and Emma pulled her phone from her jacket pocket. Two missed calls. One from Mom. She dialed. “Hi.”

“Hi. You had a call. That Melody. The one Brian was dating.”

Brian’s old girlfriend—well, she couldn’t really be called a girlfriend. Melody, according to Brian, was more like a friend with benefits. The fact that this friend had called their house on the day an article ran about Brian could not be a coincidence. Particularly since Melody, again according to Brian, had spent a few minutes with him around the time of the murder. He’d left the club and walked Melody to her car around 12:30 a.m. that night. The defense never called Melody as a witness and, with Brian not testifying at trial, Emma assumed this information had been deemed irrelevant. Not that she understood it, but she didn’t understand a lot of the nuances about Brian’s trial.

“What did she want?” Emma asked her mother.

“I don’t know. She started talking, then stopped and said she needed to speak with you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“Yes.”

Her mother read off the number and Emma repeated it to herself. “Got it.”

She disconnected and entered the number into her phone before she forgot it. Pedestrians continued to stream from the building and she moved to the side. Another gust of wind caught her coat and she yanked the zipper up to shield herself from the cold air. Stepping away from the pedestrian traffic, she pressed the TALK button, heard the phone ring and waited for Melody to pick up.

Brian’s public defender had been no help when it came to Melody. He’d never even pursued her claims because she couldn’t prove that Brian had been with her that night. According to the lawyer, she could be covering for him.

As if a casual friend would risk a perjury charge. Whatever.

Emma didn’t want to revisit her frustrations with Bri’s public defender. Unless she could prove his incompetence, it was best left alone. Instead, she’d remind herself that she now had Hennings and Solomon on her side.

“Melody? It’s Emma Sinclair.”

“Hi, Emma. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Sure. What can I help you with?”

“How’s Brian?”

He’s in prison. “He’s holding up.”

“I saw the article in the paper.”

“They did a nice job.” She wasn’t about to give an outsider too much information.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I told the prosecution and the defense lawyer that I’d testify. They never contacted me, even after I gave the detectives the receipt from the parking garage.”

Suddenly, all movement around Emma ceased—a huge, jarring halt that caused her body to stiffen. “There was a receipt?”

Breathe. Get loose. Too many hopes had been bludgeoned by the cruelty of injustice and she’d learned to temper her optimism. Whatever this receipt was, it couldn’t have been anything stunning or the public defender—she’d hope—would have uncovered it.

“Yes,” Melody said. “I used a credit card to pay for the garage. It was one of those machines. You stick the ticket in, put your credit card in the slot and you get another ticket that lets you out of the garage. Brian was with me.”

Emma paused a second, let the cold air wash over her while she mentally played find-the-missing-receipt. She’d amassed boxes and boxes of notes on the case and had never heard about a parking receipt. Didn’t mean the thing wasn’t sitting around somewhere, but she would have remembered seeing it. If she’d seen it.

Oh, and she could just hear the prosecutors moaning about how it wouldn’t prove that Brian had been with Melody and unless they had solid proof, Melody could be protecting her lover.

“Unfortunately, none of this proves where Brian was at the time. I’ve hired a new lawyer, though. Can I have her contact you?”

“Yes. I mean, he shouldn’t be in jail. He didn’t do it.”

“I know. I’m not giving up.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Thank you for calling, Melody. I appreciate it. I know Brian will, too.”

Emma hung up and stared at the phone. Now she had a receipt to chase down, another lead to work with. People continued to file out of the building, their voices and footsteps clicking against the cement.

4:40.

By the look of the mountain of files in his office, Zac Hennings would probably still be at his desk. He struck her as the diligent type—a man who’d sit and study his notes, losing all track of time. Maybe she’d march up and demand—no—ask about the receipt. Playing nice with the new prosecutor might get her a little cooperation.

If not, too bad. She wanted answers.

* * *

ALREADY, ZAC HAD DETERMINED one thing. The video had to be deep-sixed. On a decent day, a detective’s deathbed confession was a nightmare scenario. Couple that with Zac’s rabid sister and the persistent Emma Sinclair and he had one hell of a problem. Emma didn’t have his sister’s flashy clothes and sarcastic manner, but she obviously had a quick mind and adjusted to conflict easily. With these two, he’d have his hands full.

First thing was to obtain copies of all the case files and interview the detectives.

Still at his desk, he tapped the screen again and the dying detective’s face appeared. Damn, he looked bad. It could be a major problem in court. Who wouldn’t be sympathetic to someone dying of cancer?

He set the phone down and jotted notes as the now-deceased detective spoke. Witness unsure. Alley dark. Couldn’t positively ID. Showed a six-pack—the old photo lineup where the witness was given photographs of possible suspects and asked if he could identify any of them. In this case, according to the dying detective, the witness thought that maybe Brian Sinclair could be the guy.

All of it should be documented in the case files.

Zac shook his head as the detective confessed to coaxing the witness with leading questions. He had dark hair, right? And a white shirt, correct?

Zac studied the detective’s sallow face, seeking anything that might indicate that brain cancer had caused mental impairment. Outside of the papery, sagging skin that came with chemo treatments, his speech was clear and he seemed rational. Zac checked the date on the bottom of the screen. Six weeks ago. He’d have to research the effects of brain cancer in the weeks prior to death. To refute this evidence, he’d simply need to prove that the man had lost cognitive brain function. In which case, everything on the video would be thrown out.

Problem solved.

Next. Identification of the white shirt worn by the accused might be something for Penny to run with. The murder happened in March. It could have been cold. Did the assailant wear a jacket? That had to have come up in court.

Again, all this information should be in the case files, which Zac didn’t have. He scooped up his desk phone and dialed his office assistant. “Hey, Beth. Have you seen the files from the Sinclair case yet?”

“I put them in your office. They’re in a box by the corner window.”

On the floor sat one square file box, maybe eleven by thirteen inches. A corner of the lid was torn, as if someone had tried to lift it and it ripped. “That’s it?”

“That’s all that was delivered.”

One box. On a six-month investigation. There should have been stacks and stacks of reports particularly General Progress Reports—GPRs—where detectives recorded notes. Those GPRs were what he needed. Typically handwritten by the detectives, the reports told the story of who said what. Anything on the investigation’s progress should have been documented for use in trial.

So why did Zac only have one small box?

He’d have to track down the old prosecutor—the one who’d been fired by the new State’s Attorney—to see what happened to the rest of the documentation. Yeah, he’ll be more than willing to talk.

Zac stood, grabbed the box and set it on his desk. At least it had some weight to it. Inside he found a few supplementary reports, along with a lineup report. He perused one of the pages for any mention of a white shirt. Nothing. He checked the next page. Nothing.

Not off to a good start. He continued flipping through the files. Nothing about a white shirt. He dropped the stack of papers back in the box and propped his hands on his hips. He’d have to read through every document and study it.

Someone told the detectives that Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt that night and it wasn’t their star witness. That guy had only confirmed the shirt’s color. Zac considered the guy’s statement, rolled it around in his mind. Massaged it. What he came up with was that the detectives, in a typically aggressive move, had convinced the witness they had Brian Sinclair dead to rights and all they needed was corroboration on the white shirt.

Which they got. Hello, video. If he couldn’t discredit this sucker, Penny would argue that Sinclair’s constitutional rights under Giglio v. the United States had been violated. In Giglio the Supreme Court ruled that the prosecution had to disclose all information related to the credibility of a prosecution witness, including law enforcement officials.

Bottom line, if the cops had pressured the witness into falsely identifying Brian Sinclair, his testimony could be thrown out.

And then they’d be screwed.

* * *

EMMA FOUGHT THE STAMPEDE of people exiting the building and rode the elevator to the eighth floor. As suspected, Zac was still at his desk, his big shoulders hunched over a legal pad as he took notes. A fierce longing—that black emptiness—tore at her. She’d always been drawn to men with big shoulders and the way her smaller body folded into the warmth and security of being held. Pfft. Right now she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out with a man, never mind been held.

Dwelling on it wouldn’t help her. She’d have to do what she always did and keep her focus on Brian. Then she’d pick up the pieces of her life.

She knocked on the open door.

“Enter,” Zac said, his gaze glued to his notes.

“Hello again.”

His head snapped up and a bit of his short blond hair flopped to his forehead. A sudden urge to fix the disturbed strands twitched in her fingers. Wow. Clearly she’d been without male companionship for too long. Even so, this was the man who wanted to keep her brother in prison. She had no business thinking about her hands on him.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

She stepped into the office, keeping back a couple of feet from the desk. “Hi, Zac. And it’s Emma.”

He dropped his pen and reclined in his squeaky chair. “Can I help you with something?”

You sure can. She waggled her phone. “I just took a call from a friend of Brian’s.”

The idea that she should have checked with Penny before talking to the prosecutor flashed through her mind. Maybe she’d been too hasty, but that had never stopped her before. Her brain functioned better this way, always moving and jumping from assignment to assignment. Fighting her brother’s legal battle, until now, had been a solitary endeavor, and she had simply not considered that she had an ally. Next time, she’d consult with Penny. Next time.

She stepped closer to the desk and met Zac’s questioning gaze. “Melody was with my brother around the time of the murder.”

Zac opened his mouth and Emma held up her hand. “Let me finish. I know what Melody says doesn’t prove anything, heard it a hundred times. However, she told me she turned over a receipt from the parking garage near the club.”

“And?”

So smug. “I have boxes and boxes of information regarding my brother’s case. Eighteen to be exact. They’re stacked in my mother’s basement. Three high, six across. I guess you could say I’ve amassed one box for every month since his conviction.”

“Really,” Zac said, his voice rising in a mix of wonder and maybe, just maybe, respect.

Not so smug anymore, huh? “I’ve never seen a receipt from a parking garage.”

“With eighteen boxes, you don’t think you could have missed it? And I’m sure you realize that a receipt won’t prove his whereabouts.”

There went the respect. Lawyers. Always vying for the mental edge.

“I do realize that. My concern is why I didn’t know about this receipt and what other information I might not know about. I’d like a copy of the receipt.”

He remained silent, his gaze on hers, measuring, waiting for her to cower.

“Zac, I’m happy to call Penny and make her aware of it. I’m sure you realize that all evidence must be shared with the defense.” For kicks, she grinned at him.

He sat forward, his elbows propped on the desk, all Mr. I-won’t-be-taken-down-by-a-law-student. “You and my sister will get along great.”

“Excellent. I’d like the receipt, please.”

“Sure.” He pointed at the open box on his desk. “It’s probably in here.”

Slowly, she turned toward a brown banker’s box sitting on the desk. The lid was off, but nowhere in sight.

One box.

A small box at that.

“Those are my brother’s files?” She surveyed the office. “Where are the rest of them?”

Zac stood, his tall frame looming over the desk, his focus on the files. “We’ll start with this one.”

A niggling panic curled in Emma’s stomach. “Tell me there’s more than this. Tell me my brother wasn’t convicted of murder based on half a box of files.”

The prosecutor wouldn’t look at her. Not even a glance. He busied himself sifting through the box. Her brother’s freedom rested on the contents of one minuscule box. How dare they. Eighteen months of keeping Brian from descending into emotional hell, eighteen months of her digging in, eighteen months of begging anyone who’d listen for help—it all bubbled inside. Emma locked her jaw and gutted her way through an explosion of anger that singed her. Just burned her alive from inside. These people were so callous.

She grasped the upper part of the box and yanked it toward her. Finally, he looked at her and if his eyes were a bit hard and unyielding, well, too bad. “Tell me there’s more.” But darn it, her voice cracked. Emma Sinclair wasn’t so tough.

He continued to stare, but something flicked in his blue eyes and softened them. “Right now, this is all I have. There’s more. On a six-month investigation, there has to be more.”

“Where is it?”

He propped his hands on his hips and shook his head. Emma folded her arms and waited. She wanted to know where those files were.

“Emma, I’m not about to go into court without every scrap of evidence from the first trial. A young woman is dead and I want her killer locked up, but if your brother is innocent, I’ll be the first one to say so.”

Brief silence filled the room. He hadn’t answered her question about the whereabouts of the rest of the files. She could argue, kick up a fuss about the injustice of it all, but what was the point? All she’d do was alienate the man responsible for keeping her brother in prison. That didn’t seem like a class-A plan.

Plus, for some reason, she believed him. Maybe it was his eyes and the way they snapped from hard to sparkly or the way his confidence displayed strength and a willingness to fight, but above all, Zac Hennings screamed of honor and truth.

Emma imagined that not much rattled him and she suddenly had a keen desire to see him in action, in front of a judge and jury, arguing his cases. Maybe she’d make a research trip to the courthouse and size up the enemy. She’d always believed there were multiple ways to win any brawl. Pinpointing her opponent’s strengths—and weaknesses—was one of them.

Yes, a trip to the courthouse was definitely in her near future.

She shoved the box back at him. “I still want a copy of that receipt. If you don’t have it, I’ll have Melody call her credit card company. Either way, I’m getting that receipt.”

After a long stare, one where the side of his mouth tugged into a brief smile, he dug through the box and pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I should advise you that I’ll have everything copied and sent to Penny’s office. That’s what I should do.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“No. And it’s highly improper. The receipt you want is probably in this envelope. I’ll go through it with you. Document everything. That’s the best I can do.”

* * *

THERE WAS NO DAMN RECEIPT. Zac sat back and watched cute, pain-in-the-butt Emma Sinclair sift through the last stack of papers from the banker’s box. They’d gone through the whole box—not that there was much of it—and nothing.

What was it with this case? He’d barely started and already everything felt...off.

Emma restacked the pages she’d just gone through and shoved them back into the envelope. “No receipt.”

“I’ll look into it. Right now, in fact.” He picked up his phone and dialed Area 2 headquarters to speak with John Cutler, one of the detectives who had investigated the case. This guy was legendary in Cook County. The cops often joked that he could squeeze a confession out of a brick. Problem was, some of those confessions got recanted. In this particular case, Brian Sinclair had never confessed. Detectives had kept him in an interview room—some would call it an interrogation room, but cops didn’t like to use that term—and questioned him for more than a day, never letting him rest, never letting him eat and never hearing a confession.

Then the first of his four public defenders showed up. From what Zac remembered, one PD died—died for God’s sake—one got fired, the third quit and finally, Brian Sinclair wound up with Alex Belson, an attorney Zac had faced in court many times and had no problems with. Some of the PDs were tough, never willing to stipulate to anything. Belson, though, was reasonable. Zac could call him up, talk about a case and they’d hammer out a deal to take to the judge. He never minded calls with Alex.

Zac was not a fan of Detective Cutler, however. His tactics were too rogue. Any confession pried free by Cutler always received extra scrutiny. Zac wasn’t about to head into court and have the confession thrown out because the suspect’s rights had been violated. No. Chance.

He waited on hold for Cutler. Emma sat across from him, her back straight and her dark eyes focused. Maybe her shoulder-length brown hair was rumpled from her fingers rifling through it, but otherwise, she was all business, and he pretty much assumed she wouldn’t leave until he gave her something. And a dinner invitation probably wouldn’t do it.

As a man who liked a challenge, he appreciated her ferocity. Her determination to find justice in a case that had more turns than a scenic drive. It didn’t hurt that he found her easy on the eyes. Not in a flashy, made-up way, like a lot of the women he’d dated. Why he went for those women was no mystery and it was definitely nothing deep. Guys were guys and Zac supposed most enjoyed the company, among other things, of a beautiful woman.

Emma was different. She had a no-frills, natural beauty that left his chest a little tight and if she’d been anyone else, just an average woman he’d met, he’d have asked her out. Plain and simple.

Judging by the intensity of her beautiful brown eyes, she wanted to skin him.

The receptionist came back on the line and informed him that the detective was out. Of course he was.

“Thanks,” Zac said. “Have him call me ASAP.” He rattled off his work cell phone number and disconnected the call. “He’s on a case,” Zac told Emma.

She nodded then stood. “Obviously, Penny will need a copy of everything in this box.”

She turned to leave, her body stiff and distant, and something pulled Zac out of his chair. Damned if he’d let her leave like this. Why he cared, he didn’t know, but he did—massively. He hustled around the desk. “Emma, look, I don’t know what’s going on with the case files, but I’ll figure it out. One way or another, I’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, because your job is to keep my brother in prison. You want to win.”

“If he’s guilty, you bet I do. But if he’s innocent, if his rights were violated and you can prove that, he’ll get a new trial. That’s the way our system works. Nothing I can do to change that. Nor do I want to.”

She eyed him. “What do you think?”

“About?”

She waved at the files on his desk. “Looking at that box, do you think my brother’s rights were violated?”

Not a chance I’m answering that one, sweetheart. “I think we’re missing the rest of the files. I think we’ll find them and then I’ll get a clearer picture of this case. Until then, I believe his rights were not violated and he was convicted based on solid evidence.”

She smiled. “Right. That’s what you have to believe. Something tells me that, down deep—” she placed her index finger in the center of his chest and pushed “—right here, you don’t necessarily agree with what you have to believe.”

At her touch, heat radiated through his gut. He was no saint and willing women weren’t all that hard to come by when he put some effort into it, but he could honestly say he hadn’t felt that kind of fire in a long time. Whether it was wishful thinking or simply wanting action, he didn’t know, but he liked it. Given his current status as the prosecutor on her brother’s case, thinking like that would lead him nowhere good.

Emma snatched her finger back. He smiled and her cheeks immediately flushed. Too damn cute. Even if he should be running like hell.

“I need to go,” she said.

For safety, Zac stepped far enough out of reach so he didn’t do something stupid and touch her. “Yes, you do.”

He watched her leave the office while his pulse triple-timed. A career-making case and he was having carnal thoughts about the convicted man’s sister. Talk about a brilliant way to screw up.

Time to refocus and get organized. Zac dialed Alex Belson to find out where all the evidence for this case was. In a matter of one business day, Zac had fallen way behind on a case that should have been a slam dunk. A damn murder conviction and he had no files.

“Alex, hey, it’s Zac Hennings.”

“Hang on.” Alex said something to someone on the other end then came back to him. “Sorry. Madhouse. What’s up?”

“The Sinclair case. What the heck happened here? I’ve got one box—half full. I should have a truckload.”

Alex groaned. “I feel for ya, man. I inherited exactly what you got.”

“And?”

“And what? I was the fourth PD to handle this guy. I backtracked, though. The first guy died—as in keeled over out of the blue. And the other two guys aren’t with the PD’s Office anymore. I’m guessing when the first guy crapped out, some of his files were never recovered. Then the other two guys left and all I could salvage was what was in that box.”

A murder case with no evidence. Zac dug his fingertips into his forehead. He’d have to track down the two remaining PDs, wherever they might be. If he had a knife, he’d gut himself. “You’re telling me that one box is all there is?”

“As far as I know. I don’t have investigators just sitting around here. Plus, we’re dealing with a cop’s daughter as the victim. Dude, I knew going in I was going to lose. The blue wall wasn’t coming down on this one.”

Cops in Chicago were legendary for their ability to keep quiet about crimes involving other cops. Chicago’s blue wall wasn’t cement—that sucker was solid steel—and the detectives didn’t bend over to help the defense. For the most part, Chicago detectives were honest investigators who worked until they reached logical conclusions. In some cases, hunches, whether right or wrong, guided them, made them feel someone’s guilt deep in their bones. Magicians that they were, they found a way to organize the evidence so it helped get a conviction.

In the case of Chelsea Moore, detectives chipped away until the evidence fit. They would have made it fit for Dave. In a way, Zac understood.

And that scared the hell out of him.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Alex said. “Emma Sinclair made for a great investigator. She hammered me about the victim’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Ben Leeks Jr.”

Zac wrote down the name. “What about him?”

“His father—Ben Leeks—is an Area 1 detective.”

Zac’s stomach pitched. He shot a glance at the box of evidence. There had to be something in there about the boyfriend. “Was he questioned?”

“According to the detectives, he was cleared early on. The PD before me talked to the kid. Nothing there.”

“I’m guessing Emma wasn’t happy.”

“She thought it was too convenient. Can’t say I blamed her. I went with what I had.”

After three other PDs had already gone with it. Total snake pit. Zac made another note to look into the boyfriend. “What happened with the boyfriend?”

“Chelsea’s friend said the kid was abusive. Smacked her around some.”

“And he was cleared?”

“The blue wall, my friend, the blue wall.”

Zac wrote blue wall on his notepad and then slashed a giant X through it. If it took a blow torch, he’d burn through that steel wall.


Chapter Three

After blowing off class on Friday morning and visiting Brian, Emma flew down the expressway toward home. Lately it seemed she was always in a hurry to get somewhere while never really reaching the place she wanted to be. Today however, her optimism had hit a two-year high. During their visit, Brian had made adjustments to her time line. How those adjustments would differ from the video and trial transcripts, she wasn’t sure, but she’d find out soon enough by comparing them.

Emma sang along with the radio. She felt as if things were looking up. Even if the gray sky, in complete contrast to her mood, hung dull and lifeless, it wouldn’t dampen her sunny mood. Brian had stayed subdued about their new lawyer. Defense mechanism. Her younger brother lived in a six-by-six cell. Hope ran thin for him.

Emma’s cell phone rang and she punched the Bluetooth.

“Helloooo?” she sang.

“Penny Hennings here. Where are you?”

Hello to you, too, Penny. Then again, Emma didn’t need her pro bono lawyer to be her friend. She needed her to give Brian his life back.

“I’m coming from seeing Brian. Thirty minutes from downtown. Why?”

“I’m heading to court. I need my intern’s help. Can you get to the parking garage next to Magic?”

Emma stuck out her bottom lip. “The nightclub?”

“The one and only. I had one of our investigators call the garage owner about the missing receipt. He has an office across the street from the garage above the sub shop. He also has five years of security backups and can pull the date we need. I love technology.”

Now this could be good. “He’s willing to let me look through them?”

“Yes. And if you find anything, he’ll give us a copy. I’ll call Zac. I want someone from the State’s Attorney’s Office to be with you so they can’t accuse us of tampering. The chain of custody on this will be rock solid. Ha! My brother will have a cow. I cannot wait. Seriously, I love my job sometimes.”

Maybe Zac was right about his sister being nuts. Sanity issues aside, this might be another lead. “I’ll take care of it.”

Emma arrived at the garage, parked and made her way across the street. A lunch rush descended on the sub shop and, with her metabolism reminding her that she’d only had a banana for breakfast, she contemplated grabbing a sandwich on the way out. Next to the sub shop was a door marked ENGLAND MANAGEMENT. She swung through the door and walked up the stairwell.

At the top of the stairs she found a second glass door. The receptionist glanced up and waved Emma in.

“Hi. I’m Emma Sinclair.”

The receptionist smiled. “He’s expecting you. Come in.”

Emma was ushered down the short, carpeted hallway to an office where a man sat at a metal-framed desk. The receptionist waved her in and the man stood up. He wore khaki pants and a long-sleeved golf shirt that stretched across his protruding belly. She guessed his age at about fifty, but she never was any good at figuring out a person’s age. His lips curved into a welcoming grin and the wrinkles around his eyes bunched. Nice smile. Emma returned the gesture. She’d come to appreciate someone smiling at the sister of a man convicted of murder. Even if that man were innocent, most people didn’t take the time to think of her feelings in that regard.

“I’m Emma Sinclair. I believe Penny Hennings told you to expect me.”

“Sure thing. I’m Glen. Glen Beckett. Have a seat.” He waved her over to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “You know the date you’re looking for?”

I sure do. “Yes. March 21st—two years ago. Not last March.”

Glen swung to the computer and grabbed the mouse. Emma leaned forward. “On second thought, Glen, would you please wait one second? Someone is meeting me here and I don’t want to start without him. Let me make a quick call.”

She dialed Penny, who picked up on the second ring. “He’s coming.”

“Who?”

“Zac.”

“Really? Not an investigator?”

“Zac’s court appearance was continued and my brother is no fool. If I’m requesting someone be with you, he knows I’m not playing games. My extremely smart brother wants to see for himself what evidence I’m going to hit him with.”

The door behind Emma flew open and Zac Hennings, all wide shoulders and six-foot-plus of him, marched into the office. For reasons she didn’t understand herself, Emma stepped back. Zac certainly knew how to enter a room and command it.

“He’s here.” Emma disconnected and shoved the phone in her jacket pocket. “Hi.”

Zac nodded. “Emma.” He turned to Glen, held his hand out. “Zac Hennings. I’m an Assistant Cook County State’s Attorney.”

“Holy...” Glen shot a look at Emma then went back to Zac.

“I’m only here to authenticate the video if we find something.”

“Oh,” Emma said. “We’ll find something. My brother said he walked Melody to her car and she drove him back to Magic.”

Glen faced his computer again. “Then we should have it. The camera by the exit records all vehicles as they leave. Do you know what time?”

“Somewhere around 12:30 a.m.”

A few clicks later a video popped onto the screen. Emma jumped out of her seat and crashed into Zac, her shoulder nailing him right in the solar plexus as they both attempted to round the desk. He let out a whoosh of air and clasped both her arms to keep her from stumbling. Emma stared down at his hands—good strong hands that had to be capable of all sorts of things—and sucked in a breath.

“Sorry!” she said. “So sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He waved her through. “Go ahead. You’ll recognize him before I will.”

She wedged herself between Zac and the desk and stood next to Glen, who scrolled through a video while checking the time stamp.

“I can stop it around 12:25, if you want. Then you can watch it in slow motion.”

“Thank you,” Emma said.

Behind her, Zac inched up, his body not touching hers, but close enough that an awareness made it hard to focus. He had that way about him. Commanding, but reserved. Somehow she didn’t think Zac Hennings had to beat on his chest and holler in order to control a room. He had a sense of authority about him that completely unnerved her.

She kind of liked that. Or maybe she was just lonely. Either way, she couldn’t think too much about it. Her loneliness depressed her and she had no interest in analyzing that fact. Or the fact that he was the prosecutor on her brother’s case. What a mess that would be. Allowing herself to want him darn near guaranteed another heartbreak.

“Do we know what kind of car we’re looking for?” Glen asked.

Emma stepped forward, adding space between her and hunky Zac Hennings. “It’s a Dodge Neon.”

Zac nodded and three pairs of eyes focused on the screen. Three minutes later, Emma checked the time stamp again. 12:35. No Dodge Neon. No Melody. No Brian.

Come on. Inside her shoe, she wiggled her toes. Her head pounded as the seconds ticked away. Please be there.

“There it is!” Glen yelled.

Emma brought her gaze to the car on the screen. The pounding in her head tripled and she squeezed her fingers into fists. This could be it.

Zac leaned closer, his chest nudging Emma’s shoulder. “Can you slow this down?”

Had they been anywhere else, she would have poked him with her elbow and given him the back-off-buddy look, but she refused to take her eyes off that screen.

Glen tapped at the mouse and the car slowed to barely moving as it proceeded through the open gate.

“Here we go. This should be it,” Emma said as two figures—one male and one female—came into view. As the car rolled forward, the camera finally captured their faces and—bang—there was her brother’s smiling face. Energy roared into her, made her a little lightheaded, and moisture filled her mouth. She swallowed once, twice. He’s there.

“Freeze it,” she yelled before the car drove off screen. She turned to Zac. “That’s him. That’s Brian. And Melody.”

“12:37,” he said. “Okay.”

“Okay? Okay what?”

Zac shrugged. “We have him on tape. This gets admitted into evidence.” He turned to Glen. “I’ll need a copy of this video.”

Clearly, the prosecutor didn’t want to say another thing in front of Glen. Fine. She’d wait. At least until they got outside. Then they’d chat.

“Make it two,” Emma said.

* * *

ZAC STEPPED ONTO THE sidewalk and contemplated jumping in front of the bus pulling up to the curb. His sister would go crazy over this video. Not only would she smell the blood, she’d swim faster to get to it.

Emma had stayed on his heels on the way down to the building exit and parked herself in front of him. Forget the impending self-inflicted death.

“12:37,” she said. “That proves where he was.”

“Yes. At 12:37. Doesn’t necessarily help, though. We have the time of the murder narrowed to an hour. He could have done it after Melody dropped him back at the club.”

She flapped her arms. “Oh, please. This is a guy who worried enough about his friend to walk her back to her car and then ride out of the garage with her. You think he goes from there to killing someone? It makes no sense.”

The bus pulled away with a whoosh and left a batch of engine fumes to poison Zac’s lungs. Once again he contemplated the bus. Should have jumped. He looked back at Emma. “Nothing ever makes sense in my job. I go with the evidence. Tell me about the victim’s ex-boyfriend and the abuse.”

Emma jerked her head back and stared up at him with those big brown eyes that made him think of liquid chocolate and all the things he liked to do with it. Now he’d have to figure out a way to get that thought out of his mind.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know about that. I talked to your brother’s public defender. He said you hammered him about the ex-boyfriend. So tell me because there’s nothing in that box of files about it and that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Emma hesitated, twisting her lips for a second and—yeah—he’d have to get those lips, along with the liquid chocolate, out of his head, too.

“I was upset that the police weren’t talking about the boyfriend. Brian knew Chelsea Moore casually. They were the same age and were regulars at Magic. Brian told me she’d texted him a few times after she’d broken up with her boyfriend. I don’t think Brian was interested in her in a—well—sexual way so he didn’t pursue her. When he was questioned, he asked the police about her ex-boyfriend. They did nothing with it.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked the public defender. The guy before Alex Belson. He didn’t have anything on it.”

“Then how do you know the ex was abusive?”

“Well, Zac,” Emma said, layering on the sarcasm. “I did something that was pure investigative genius. I did something the Chicago P.D. never thought of doing.”

Here we go. “Ditch the drama, Emma. I get it.”

She held up a finger. “I talked to the victim’s friends. Miraculous, isn’t it?”

Zac rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t blame her for the attitude. If it had been one of his siblings on trial, he’d feel that same burning, festering anger. This whole thing stunk of cops trying to protect the ex-boyfriend, who also happened to be the son of a cop.

The blue wall.

He grabbed Emma’s elbow and ushered her to the corner. “Are you parked in the garage?”

“Yes. I need a sandwich first. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for you and then walk you to your car. Then I have a couple of detectives to talk to.”

* * *

DETECTIVE JOHN CUTLER marched into Zac’s office wearing a wrinkled blue sport coat and a scowl. The man didn’t like being summoned to an ASA’s office in the middle of the day. Zac didn’t care.

Not when one of Cutler’s investigations was about to be sliced and diced in court and Zac would be the one taking the hit.

He tossed a pen on his stacked desk and leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat, detective.”

Cutler stared down at the two chairs, curled his lip at the one with the stack of file folders and dropped his bloated body into the vacant one. He spent a few seconds shifting into what would have to pass as a comfortable position, then stretched his neck where loose skin spilled over his collar.

Zac waited. Why not? No sense giving the detective the ever-important mental edge. Nope. Zac would control the festivities.

Finally, Cutler held up his hands. “What do you need?”

Zac leaned over, scooped a box off the floor and set it on the desk. “The Sinclair case. These are the files. On a six-month investigation. Am I missing something?”

Cutler’s gaze tracked left then came back to Zac. “How do I know what your office did with the files?”

Not an answer. “Is this box everything? If you tell me yes, then I work with what I have. If you tell me no, we have missing evidence.”

Cutler folded his hands across his belly and tapped his index fingers. “I’d have to look through the box. See what’s there.”

“Sure.” Cutler got up to leave. “I’m not finished, detective.”

The man made a show of checking his watch, and Zac nearly laughed. He’d grown up in a household that produced three lawyers. He thrived on conflict.

Cutler reclaimed his seat.

“Couple of things,” Zac said. “What do you remember about a parking garage receipt given to you by Melody—” he checked his legal pad “—Clayton? She’s a friend of Brian Sinclair who claims he was with her around the time of the murder.”

Slowly, Cutler shook his head.

Patience, Zac. Patience. “You don’t remember a receipt?”

“No. She could have given it to Steve and I wasn’t aware.”

“Steve Bennett? The other detective?”

“Yes.”

Sure, another dead guy to blame. This case was rife with dead guys. “I’ll look into that. I’m assuming you viewed the video I sent over. What do you remember about the witness?”

Cutler shrugged. “It’s not like we coerced him. We showed him a six-pack, helped him narrow it down.”

Helped him narrow it down... “And what about the white shirt? Who told him Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt?”

“I don’t know anything about that. That must have been Steve.”

Of course.

Zac jotted more notes and the detective tugged on his too-tight collar again. Yes, detective, you should be nervous. The truth was, Zac scribbled gibberish. The Area 2 detectives weren’t the only ones who knew how to play mind games.

“The victim’s friend told Emma Sinclair that Ben Leeks—I’m sure you’re aware he’s the son of a Chicago P.D. detective—was abusive.”

Cutler shot Zac a hard look. Well, maybe Cutler thought it was a hard look. Zac thought it was more of a desperate, defensive man’s way of trying to intimidate an opponent. “The kid was cleared early on.”

“Cleared how?”

“He was inside the club. We had witnesses who saw him getting busy with some brunette. He didn’t leave the club until closing. When he did leave, he left with a group and they all went to the diner down the street.”

Zac nodded. “I need names. They’re not in the case file.”

Cutler grabbed one of the armrests and shifted his big body. “I told you I don’t have anything. I turned over all the reports.”

“Even the GPRs?” Zac smacked his knuckle against the box. “I didn’t see any GPRs.”

“I turned over everything.”

“Did you write up any GPRs?”

Again the detective tried a hard look and Zac angled forward. “I’m aware that you’re not happy being questioned. I don’t care. I’m about to get hauled into court to defend your work. My guess is you want me to feel confident about that work. I’m far from confident. Cut the nonsense and answer my questions.”

Cutler sighed. “I wrote up GPRs. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Did you make copies?”

“No.”

“Of course you didn’t. Does it shock you that reports pertaining to the allegedly abusive son of a detective were not submitted into evidence for a murder trial?”

Cutler stayed silent. The blue wall.

Zac eased his chair up to the desk and put the box back on the floor. “I think we’re done. For now.”

The detective sat across from him, his breaths coming in short, heavy bursts and his cheeks flamed. He was obviously steaming mad.

Good.

Zac was about to get his butt handed to him—by his baby sister, no less—and he wasn’t going down alone. Ignoring the about-to-be-raging bull across from him, he flipped open one of the many file folders on his desk and began reading. Cutler finally pushed himself out of his chair.

“That Sinclair kid is guilty,” he said. “No two ways about it.”

Zac didn’t bother to look up. “A video of him leaving the parking garage at 12:37 might say otherwise. Buckle up, detective. We’re about to go for a rough ride.”

* * *

EMMA PULLED INTO THE driveway at 12:15 that night after enduring Friday-night chaos at the restaurant. As usual, Mom had left the porch and overhead garage lights on. Even now, with a son in prison, Mom worried about her children being out late.

It never ends for her.

Emma gathered her apron and shoved the car door open. Her feet hit the pavement and she nearly groaned. Hauling trays all night had left her arms and back aching and, combined with her beat-up feet, she longed for her bed.

Nothing about waitressing was easy, but the money was good. Better than good since she’d gotten lucky and landed a job in an upscale steak place. Still, she craved the day when she’d go back to an office job, sit behind a desk and leave the body aches behind.

Soon, Emma. If her plan worked and Brian came home, she’d have her life and a chance at a normal schedule back. She could attend law school at night, allowing her to take a nine-to-five job. Heck, maybe Penny would hire her as an assistant.

Emma hip-checked her car door shut and hit the LOCK button. A loud beep-beep sounded. Out of habit, she glanced behind her. Nothing there. Their neighborhood had always been safe, but she’d learned to be cautious wherever she went. Criminals didn’t necessarily care what neighborhood they were in if the target appeared easy.

Humming to herself for a distraction until she reached the front door, she tossed her apron over her shoulder. She’d throw it and her uniform in the washer before bed so she’d have it for tomorrow.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

Emma froze, her body literally halting in place, unable to move. Deep—male—voice behind her. He knows my name. An onslaught of blood shot to her temples. Car key pointed out, she spun around. A man wearing an unzipped brown leather jacket, dark shirt—no buttons—and jeans stood in the tiny driveway directly under the garage light. He wasn’t tall, but he appeared fit. Muscular. Tough.

Get a description.

Short, darkish hair that was almost black. No gray. She guessed he was in his late forties. His nose was wide and crooked, broken a few times maybe.

He stepped toward her. Don’t let him get too close. She backed away, key still in hand, ready to poke an eye, if necessary. He grinned. A disgusting I’ve-got-you grin that pinched Emma’s throat. She swallowed once, gripped the key harder.

“Ms. Sinclair, relax. I’m Detective Ben Leeks, Chicago P.D.”

Emma let out a long breath, but paralyzing tension racked her shoulders. No straight-up detective would be visiting her house at this hour, particularly the father of a guy whose girlfriend had been murdered. With her free hand, she reached into her jacket pocket for her phone. Worst case, she’d hold the panic button on her key ring to trigger the car’s horn and then dial 9-1-1.

“Detective, it’s late. This is inappropriate.”

Slowly, she backed toward the porch. A car drove by. Scream. That’s what she should do. Except she might wind up looking like a lunatic and lunatics never got their brother’s convictions overturned.

The detective didn’t move. Simply stood there, arms loose at his sides, posture erect, but casual, completely nonthreatening. “No judge in Cook County will overturn that conviction. Get comfortable with your brother in prison and stop making trouble. Troublemakers in this city get dealt with. Sometimes the hard way.”

Emma stood in a sort of detached shock. Tremors erupted over her body, that nasty prickling, digging into her limbs and making her itch. He strolled out of the driveway, just a man enjoying an early spring night. Get in the house. She ran toward the door, shoved the key at the lock with trembling hands and missed. She glanced over her shoulder again, saw no one and breathed in. Get inside. On the second try, the key connected and she stormed into the house, throwing the dead bolt then falling against the door.

He’d just threatened her.

Maybe it wasn’t an overt threat. Without a doubt he’d deny it if she flung an accusation his way, but they both knew he’d just delivered a message.

All that was left now was to decide what she’d do about that message.


Chapter Four

One thing Zac didn’t expect to hear at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning was his crazy sister pounding on his door. The sound drove through his skull like a pickax. What the heck was she doing? Couldn’t a guy get a break and sleep in on his day off? He should never have given her a key to the first-floor entry. And for that matter, why didn’t she use her other key to open the inside door?

He rolled out of bed, blinked a few times against the shaft of sunlight seeping through the blinds and grabbed a pair of track pants from the chair. Too damn early for this. The way she was carrying on she’d wake up the other two tenants in the house. Worse, he was on the second floor, so the two remaining apartments would have equal opportunity to hear the racket. After jamming his legs into his pants, he grabbed last night’s T-shirt from the floor and decided it would do. Temporarily.

“Zachary! Open this door.”

“Keep your skirt on, Pen. I’m coming. Why didn’t you use your key?”

Prepared to broil her, he ripped open the door and there she stood in a blinding bright pink coat. He closed his eyes, drove his fingers into them. “You look like a popsicle. Seriously, you need to tone that down.”

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze shot to movement behind the popsicle. Instantly his face got hot. A sizzling burn straight to his cheeks because his crazy sister had brought Emma Sinclair—in a knit cap and white trench coat that made him think about stripping them off her—to visit.

Pen pushed by him, stomped into his apartment and jerked her thumb behind her. “She’s why I didn’t use my key. How did I know if you’d be naked in here? Or if you had company.”

Emma remained standing in the hallway and he waved her in. “You might as well come in. Excuse the mess. And that I’m not appropriately dressed for a business meeting.” He turned to his sister. “In my apartment. On my day off.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Penny said. “You won’t believe this one, Zachary.”

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“Bet your butt, I will. Detective Ben Leeks visited Emma last night at her house. He was waiting for her, stalking her, when she came home from work at one o’clock in the morning.”

Zac shifted his gaze to Emma who stood quietly in the middle of his living room, staring at him and his bed head. He might be a little slow on the uptake this morning but last he’d checked, his hearing was pretty good and he thought his nutty sister had just told him Emma had received a visit from a potential suspect’s cop father.

“He did what?”

The thing he did not need in this already puzzling case was some amped-up detective with a direct link to the proceedings screwing around.

Penny, ever the drama queen, threw her hands up. “Marched right up her driveway and scared the daylights out of her.”

Zac went back to Emma, studied her face for any sign of trauma. Nothing there. Only soft lips and those lustful wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

Pen’s phone rang. The theme from The Godfather. “Ooh,” she said. “This is Dad. Hang on.” She retrieved the phone from the suitcase-slash-purse she carried. “Hi, Dad.”

He faced Emma. “She gave my father The Godfather theme as a ringtone. I told you she was whacked.”

Penny’s eyebrows hitched up. “Sure. Got it. I’m on it, Dad.” She disconnected. “I have to go.”

“What?” Zac said for what felt like the tenth time. “You drop this on me and you’re leaving?”

He gestured to his clothing, then to Emma.

“I have to go. The son of one of our clients got arrested. Mom and Dad left for Wisconsin early and they’re already at the lake house. He needs me to get the guy out of lockup and I’m not telling our father no.” She turned to Emma. “I’m sorry to do this to you. Can you fill Zac in and then grab a cab home?”

Emma slid her gaze to Zac, hesitated, then went back to Penny. “Um, sure.”

In a blur of pink, Penny strode to the door and Zac pulled it open for her. Leave it to her to install Emma and her gorgeous brown eyes in his apartment and then bolt. Bad enough that his thoughts had been dropping to the gutter ever since Emma had put her hand on his chest a day-and-a-half ago, now he had to be alone with her in his apartment. Did he mention alone? Damn Penny. “I’ll take her home. Why should she take a cab?”

His sister patted his cheek. “Good boy, Zachary. Don’t forget, we have to be at the lake by five today. Don’t be late. Mom will kill you. And me because you’re my driver.”

“I won’t be late.”

He shut the door and faced Emma, the woman he was terrified to be alone with in his apartment. Only slightly awkward, this situation. “Sorry about waking you up,” she said. “I made the mistake of telling your sister I had the morning and early afternoon open. Apparently she thinks that means it’s okay to call me at 6:00 a.m.”

Zac laughed. “I swear she’s a vampire. She’s always been this way. She can function on five hours’ sleep and I need a ton. How is that fair when we come from the same gene pool?”

“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I appreciate her dedication.”

“She’s dedicated all right. I love that about her. Just not on a Saturday. When I’m sleeping.”

Emma glanced around the apartment. Her stare landed on the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall. Excellent idea. Safest room. He could throw a pot of coffee together. The caffeine would jump-start him and give him something to do with his hands. Considering his hands wouldn’t mind stripping that coat off Emma Sinclair. “How about coffee?”




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