by Mallory Kane
There was no moon, but the streetlights allowed him to see that the vehicle was an older subcompact, maybe a Ford Focus, and it was red—not the best color for sneaking around.
It hugged the right side of the cul-de-sac all the way around and then came to a stop directly in front of Ash’s house. He held his breath again. People’s senses were a little like animals’ in that if something doesn’t move, oftentimes a person wouldn’t notice it. Ash was banking on that, and the partial cover of the bushes between him and the street.
He couldn’t tell anything about the driver. The streetlights weren’t bright enough to illuminate the inside of the car. The driver sat there with the engine idling.
After about three minutes, another flash of headlights blinded Ash. A second vehicle had turned onto his normally quiet street. Its headlights stayed on as it circled the cul-de-sac, their beams never quite close enough to Ash to expose him. Although their glow licked at his feet.
The car turned into the driveway three houses down and opened the garage door, pulled forward, then closed it.
A clicking noise and a flash of light brought his attention back to the vehicle parked directly in front of his house. The man had opened the driver’s side door—to get out? Ash stole a narrow glimpse inside the car before the interior light went out and another clicking sound told him the driver had thought better of getting out of the car.
The dome light hadn’t helped Ash get a look at the driver’s face, but it had revealed one thing. The man in the car was holding a large silver handgun upward in his right hand.
Had he been prepared to shoot Ash’s neighbor if he’d walked over to investigate the dark, idling car?
Ash stayed put for several more minutes. Finally, the car slowly and carefully drove away. Squinting and resisting the urge to run into the street, Ash tried to see the license plate, but it was as beat-up and dirty as the vehicle, and the best he could do was maybe a five and maybe a one.
He sat there for five minutes after the car disappeared down the street, but nothing happened, so he got up and went inside.
He’d already known he wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight, the second night in a row, because he had to check on Rachel every four hours or so. But he hadn’t reckoned on a late-night visitor adding another worry to the crowd of them that was chasing around in his brain.
He grabbed a dimmable flashlight and quietly slipped through the door to the guest room, which Rachel had left ajar.
“Rachel,” he whispered. “Rachel.”
She stirred. “Ash? Are you coming to bed?” she asked, obviously mostly asleep. She thought they were still together.
Her husky voice sent memories spreading through him like wildfire. That soft midnight whisper had always been an instantaneous turn-on for him. He shifted uncomfortably. Still was.
He smiled wryly as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, Rach, I just need to check your eyes.”
“My eyes?” she muttered, then, “Oh. My eyes.” She sat up, the dark, sexy voice gone. “You can turn on the light if you want to.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to shine this light into your eyes. It’s pretty dim, so hopefully it won’t be uncomfortable. Ready?” He turned the light’s switch to the lowest setting.
She nodded, but when he proceeded, she squinted. “They look fine,” he said.
“Told you I don’t have a concussion,” she replied as she slid back down in the bed. “G’night.”
“Good night, Rach.”
He sat there for a few moments, staring at her pretty, serene face. He realized he was thinking about what her baby girl would look like. Their baby girl. Or boy. A boy. They might be having a boy. His gaze drifted to her stomach, its shape obscured by the covers. He wanted to touch it, feel the roundness where his baby grew. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. What was the matter with him? He’d never cared a thing about kids.
Rachel murmured something in her sleep, startling him out of his reverie.
Following an impulse he wasn’t sure he understood or liked, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, then slipped out.
He went to his bedroom and flopped down on top of the covers. He glanced at his alarm clock, but he wasn’t going to need it. It was less than four hours until he had to get up, and he had plenty to think about to fill the time.
Had the person in the car been checking on him or Rachel? Was he the same man who’d broken into her apartment and assaulted her? Whoever he was, he was armed. And from the way he’d held the gun, Ash could tell he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Ash got up and retrieved his weapon from the locked desk drawer where he kept it. Until he figured out who was trying to harm Rachel—and why—he planned to be armed 24/7.
Chapter Six
“Dr. Stevens, this is Commissioner Washington’s secretary. The commissioner needs to see you in his office immediately.”
Rachel almost choked on a mouthful of decaffeinated coffee. She’d barely made it to her desk in time to catch the phone. She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”
She told Vanessa where she was going and rushed to her car, her mind racing with questions. What could the commissioner want to see her about? Her attack? The DNA report? The only times she’d been contacted by the police commissioner’s office was when they’d wanted her to run a specific DNA sample.
When she arrived, the secretary escorted her right into his office, which was filled with high-ranking law enforcement officials.
“Dr. Stevens,” Commissioner Washington said, acknowledging her without rising. “I believe you know everyone here—Deputy Chief Hammond, Lieutenant Colonel Barr, head of Criminal Investigations, Lieutenant Colonel Harris, my chief of staff, District Attorney Jesse Allen and A.D.A. Tim Meeks.”
She nodded at each of them in turn. Tim smiled at her and winked. She looked away. Their paths rarely crossed, which was a good thing. After Ash had turned cool, she’d gone out with Tim a few times but when he had pushed her to have sex, she’d refused. He hadn’t called her since, and that was fine with her.
“In about—” Washington looked at his watch “—ten minutes, we’ll be holding a press conference to announce that convicted murderer Rick Campbell is, as of today, a free man, because of a DNA analysis you performed for me. We’re just going over the particulars.”
Oh, no. The commissioner was about to go public with the results of the DNA analysis. He was going to tell the press that Campbell was innocent of the Christmas Eve Murders.
Had anyone told Ash? She closed her eyes as her head started to throb.
“I want you available in case there are technical questions. Now—” the commissioner held up a hand “—I don’t want too much technicality, so be succinct and keep it as close to a layman’s level of understanding as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hearing the hollow ring in her voice. She should have taken the doctor’s advice and called in sick today. But that would have meant being around Ash’s house all day by herself, and she was sure he wouldn’t like that.
Not that it mattered what he liked or didn’t like. After he saw her standing on the podium with the commissioner, he’d never forgive her.
“All of you,” the commissioner continued, “be aware that Rick Campbell and his family will be standing with us. I’ll make the announcement, answer a few questions and call on you if necessary.” His gaze settled on Rachel. “Then I’ll turn the microphones over to the Campbells’ lawyer.”
He stood and adjusted his dress blues. “We will all remain on the platform until the Campbells are done. Is that understood?”
The others stood as one, and Rachel followed their example. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
As they walked out, Tim Meeks put a hand on Rachel’s arm. “Pretty exciting, isn’t it? I mean, to be the DNA expert who freed Campbell.”
“It’s gratifying to know that I helped to set things right.”
“Yeah.” Tim adjusted his tie and leaned in close to her ear, as if he were telling her a huge secret. “You know it was me, right? I pushed Jesse into accepting the Campbells’ petition for DNA analysis.”
“Really?” Rachel replied. So it was Tim, just like Ash had suspected. He’d certainly feel vindicated. “Why?”
“What?” Tim asked. “Why what?”
“Why did you do it? I mean, what made you choose this case?”
“Are you kidding? The Christmas Eve Murders? One of the most notorious and grisly murder cases in Missouri history. It was a win-win!”
As they walked toward the platform, where a podium had been set up, Rachel said, “Win-win? I don’t understand.”
“If the DNA was Campbell’s, we’d be sending the message that we’re open to reexamining a case if the situation warrants it. But if the DNA wasn’t Campbell’s—” Tim grinned “—we’d be freeing an innocent man and going after the real killer.”
It did sound like, no matter what, that the D.A.’s office would come out smelling like a rose.
“And this was your idea?” she whispered as they began lining up on the platform behind the commissioner.
In front of them, the reporters crowded the platform, yelling questions while photographers snapped stills or operated video cameras. They reminded Rachel of piranha who’d sensed blood.
“Yes. Well, mine and Jesse’s.” Tim nodded in D.A. Jesse Allen’s direction.
The commissioner held up his hands to quiet the reporters and began speaking. So Rachel stood up straight and composed her face. To her dismay, Tim leaned toward her again. “Want to grab lunch after this?”
She did her best to hold on to her pleasant expression. He was asking her out, right in front of a crowd of reporters? “No,” she whispered and took a tiny sideways step toward Hammond.
Rachel stood on the platform between Tim and Chief Hammond, trying to pretend her head didn’t hurt. She clutched the folder that the commissioner’s chief of staff had handed her as they had left the office. He’d whispered that it was a copy of her report.
When she’d first gotten to the platform, she’d craned her neck to get a look at Rick Campbell. He was standing to the left of the commissioner and a short man holding a folded document—his lawyer. On his other side was a gray-haired woman and a man who looked to be in his late thirties. Looking at Campbell and at them, it was obvious they were his mother and brother.
Campbell himself was a small, thin, average-looking man with graying hair and a furtive way about him that Rachel had seen in others who’d been in prison. She shivered as his pale blue eyes met hers. He didn’t look away, nor did he smile. He just nodded solemnly at her. Rachel turned her gaze to the commissioner, who had just finished his opening statement and was inviting questions.
The reporters fired questions like volleys of buckshot at Commissioner Washington. After he’d answered dozens of them about why this new DNA evidence had just come to light, how the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department could defend such a heinous miscarriage of justice, and whose heads were going to roll to pay for the conviction and imprisonment of an innocent man, the question Rachel had been dreading finally came.
“Commissioner, just exactly how accurate is this new DNA evidence? How certain are you that Campbell is innocent and, if he didn’t kill Joseph and Marie Kendall, who did?”
Rachel waited, not breathing, as the commissioner turned to her and nodded. He turned back to the microphones.
“This is Dr. Rachel Stevens. She is a senior criminalist in our crime scene unit. Her specialty is forensic DNA. She ran the sample. She can answer a few questions about her findings.”
Rachel touched her hair to be sure her bandaged wound was covered as she stepped to the microphone. She’d carefully combed it this morning and secured it by a band at the nape of her neck.
Her brain was whirling with facts related to the DNA sample, but before she could speak, several reporters started shouting questions.
“Did you know whose sample you were analyzing?”
“How certain are you that Rick Campbell is innocent?”
“If the sample doesn’t match Rick Campbell, who does it match?”
Rachel held up her hand in a useless gesture to stop the barrage. To her surprise, the crowd fell silent. She took a deep breath. “Forensic DNA today is an exact science. Only about one-tenth of one percent of the DNA in humans differs from one person to the next. We use these variables to generate a DNA profile of an individual. We can use blood, hair, saliva and other body tissues and products.” She took a breath, fully expecting to be interrupted with more questions, but her audience seemed rapt.
“The way forensic DNA analysis works involves obtaining samples from crime-scene evidence and from one or more suspects, extracting the DNA from each sample, and analyzing it for the presence of a set of specific loci or markers, as they’re often called. If the sample profiles don’t match, then that suspect did not contribute the DNA in that collected sample. If the patterns match, the suspect may have contributed the evidence sample.”
Then the floodgates opened. Reporters fired questions so rapidly that all Rachel heard was a roar.
“Please,” she said into the mike. “Please. I can’t understand you. Let me continue.”
Once again the reporters quieted down.
She opened the folder containing the report that the commissioner’s chief of staff had handed her as she walked out of the office. When she looked down to refresh her memory of the exact percentages, she was surprised to see that it was an unsanitized copy of her report.
“This is information from the report I submitted to the commissioner related to the Christmas Eve Murders. My analysis of the sample resulted in a 99.9935 percent probability that the tissue, blood and hair samples, other than the family’s, that was collected at the scene all belong to the same individual.”
She looked up and through the sea of faces crowding the podium on the steps of the building where the commissioner’s office was located. Her eyes met the dark, stormy gaze of the man who’d fathered her baby, and whose life she was destroying with this information.
I’m so sorry, Ash.
“When I compared these samples to the sample submitted by the person convicted of this crime, the result was a 0.0000003 percent match. That’s six zeroes. A three-in-a-million chance that Rick Campbell is even related to the person who committed those murders.”
As the cacophony of questions flared, Rachel pointed to a fresh-faced young man. “Yes?”
“Three in a million? What exactly does that mean?”
“As I said, it indicates that Rick Campbell and the person whose blood and tissue were found at the crime scene are not the same person. In fact, they’re not even related.”
“But there are at least two other people out there whose DNA matches Campbell’s?”
Rachel shook her head. “No. This is why I referred to DNA profiling as an exact science. With the exception of identical twins, it is so rare to find two people whose DNA exactly matches, that I’m not aware of a single case.” She took a long breath, prepared to explain the makeup of a single strand of DNA, but the commissioner stepped to the microphone.
“All right, that’s enough. Rick Campbell and his family are here. We’ll give them a chance to speak.” He introduced their attorney.
Rachel hardly heard a word that was spoken for the next forty minutes, during which Campbell’s lawyer, his parents and finally he took the microphone. All of them were bombarded with questions. Most of the questions revolved around how it felt to be a free man—or to have their son or brother free—after so many years.
She concentrated on staying upright. She was tired and nauseated, her head hurt and that swallow of coffee was the only thing in her stomach.
Finally Rick Campbell held up his hands and shook his head. His lawyer clasped a hand on his shoulder and took his place at the microphone.
“No more questio
ns, please,” the lawyer said. “Rick still has a lot of red tape to cut through before he can go home. And I’m sure he’d much rather be doing that than standing here talking to you.” The lawyer turned away from the microphone.
Campbell waved, then glanced toward Rachel and nodded. It appeared that he was nodding thanks to the city officials, but his gaze held hers and never faltered. He was nodding at her. Then he turned and linked arms with his mother. They, his brother and his lawyer left the podium.
At the same time the commissioner stood straight, turned smartly on his heel and led the way for his entourage. They paraded back inside the building to the elevator. There he stopped.
“Dr. Stevens,” he said, turning to offer her his hand. She shook it. “You did an excellent job out there. Handled the reporters nicely. Thank you.”
He and the rest of the big shots got on the elevator. Tim stayed behind. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride back.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I drove.”
“Then I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Tim.” She sighed. “That is really not necessary. I’m parked right out there.” She wished he’d stop being so persistent. She didn’t want to say or do anything that might encourage him, but she didn’t like being rude.
“Me, too,” he said, grinning.
“Fine.” She gave up and headed toward the parking lot with Tim beside her.
“Rachel, listen,” he said as they walked. “I want to apologize for how I acted on our last date. I was wrong, and I do want to see you again.”
Rachel spotted her car and, to her dismay, she saw Ash pacing back and forth beside it. She stopped and faced Tim. “I am sorry, but things are—complicated right now,” she said.
Tim’s mouth curled in a wry smile as he looked at her, then at Ash. “Yeah. So I see.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
Rachel walked over to her driver’s side door and clicked the automatic door lock. Ash’s face was set and his eyes were still filled with storm clouds.