THE PROSECUTOR

by Adrienne Giordano

  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?”

  She nodded and followed him into the kitchen where his table sat buried under case files, reminding him that he should get a damn life and invite people over once in a while.

  “I guess you don’t eat in the kitchen much?”

  “There’s one spot cleared. I usually sit there and read while I’m eating.” He cleared a second spot. At least now they could both sit.

  “So, the files in your office and all of these—” she pointed “—are all your cases?”

  “Yeah. No time to be bored.”

  He scooped coffee into the basket, filled the reservoir and hit the button. “Tell me about the detective.”

  “Creep. He was waiting for me when I got home last night. I didn’t see him when I pulled in, but by the time I got near the front door, he was in the driveway.”

  Zac leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “What time was this?”

 
; “About twelve-fifteen.”

  Of all the idiot things. Sure he was some hotshot detective everyone in the P.D. either feared or worshipped, but if the guy thought Zac would let him interfere with his case, Ben Leeks had another think coming.

  Zac nodded. “Putting aside the fact that it’s not all that safe for you to be driving around by yourself so late—”

  A flush of red fired Emma’s cheeks and she snapped her head up. “Excuse me? Some rogue detective pays me a visit in the middle of the night and it’s my fault?”

  “I didn’t say that. And you didn’t let me finish.”

  But—wow—the woman was steamed in a big way. He’d better fix this quick. He held his hands up. “I’m sorry. None of my business. What he did was out of line without question. I’ll deal with him.”

  “That’s more like it, Mr. Prosecutor.”

  Now he was Mr. Prosecutor. Perfect. Maybe he deserved that blast of frigidness. Pointing out the obvious—that a woman should not be out alone late at night—was apparently unacceptable. With the cases he’d seen—maimed women, dead women, women who’d been violated in unspeakable ways—suddenly he shouldn’t warn someone the world could be an ugly place?

  Or maybe his already jaded view of the world got knocked further into submission by such atrocities. Someone like Emma Sinclair, with her can-do, won’t-be-beaten attitude, didn’t see the world the way he did. She saw a problem and tried to fix it. Zac saw a problem and wanted to know who he could lock up.

  The coffeemaker gurgled. Finally. He spun to the cabinet, pulled out two giant mugs and poured. The potent aroma of the strong brew drifted toward him and something in his brain popped. “Milk or sugar?”

  “Black with sugar.”

  From the same cabinet he grabbed a few packs of sweetener and handed the steaming mug over. “Tell me what Detective Leeks said.”

  She dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of lined paper. “I wrote it down.”

  She wrote it down. Emma Sinclair would be an A-list lawyer. Before reading, he took a hit of coffee, one good gulp that burned his throat. He set the mug down, unfolded the paper and read.