by Misty Evans
Excellent.
“Gentlemen,” Jackie said, “I’ll forgive you for keeping me from my beauty sleep since I got lucky and found a spot in your back lot.” She offered up a winning smile. “Now you won’t have to validate my parking.”
She tossed her briefcase on the table. The buckle thwacked against the metal surface and the reverberation sharpened her senses.
Full bore, baby.
“And,” she said, “I sure as hell hope you’re not violating my client’s rights by questioning him without his attorney present.”
Beck’s gaze was hot on hers. “What the hell?”
She met his stare and pointed. “Have you said anything?”
“You’re not my lawyer,” he said. “I want Fleming.”
Fleming? She should be insulted. She was insulted. That idiot was useless when it came to actually arguing a case. Before jumping the aisle, Jackie ate him for lunch on an eight-month trial that won the prosecution – eh-hem, her – a guilty verdict. And Beck was ready to toss her for that guy? Puh-lease.
Had to be because of their sordid history. In short, he despised her.
She liked to believe it was due to their spring break interlude. The glamour-boy jock from the University of Alabama was just coming off an ugly break-up and she couldn’t risk the heartbreak. No flippin’ way. Not after acing her LSATs with law school looming. Back then, like now, she’d been too focused on her work and had virtually ignored the male sex.
Of course, their history didn’t end there. The Donlin case two years back didn’t help. She’d refused to bring charges on a murder case they’d never win. Sure, he’d done the work – damned good work – and gathered as much evidence as he could, but it was scarce. No DNA, no fingerprints, no blood. A mountain of circumstantial evidence existed, but the case had been forensically bankrupt. What they’d had would never stick. Even if they’d made it to trial, a guilty verdict would have been impossible.
Beck hadn’t liked hearing it and had gone over Jackie’s head. Her boss agreed with her and somehow it all became Jackie’s fault. But that’s how it went when FBI agents and detectives were pissed at prosecutors.
All that ended when she jumped the aisle to the defense side.
Rolling right over Beck’s objections, she waggled her finger at the detectives. “Give us a second. I need to confer with my client. And, we’re going across the hall. To the room that doesn’t have recording devices.” She pointed at Beck. “Come with me.”
* * *
“For the love of God,” he said, “she is not my lawyer.”
Beck shook his head vigorously as the two cops who’d been interrogating him stood to leave in the wake of the hurricane known as Jackie DelRay.
Chair legs scraped against the concrete floor, like fingernails on a chalkboard, setting his teeth on edge. The cocky, confident glint in DelRay’s eyes did the same.
Muldoon unlocked him from the table, but left the cuffs on. “Do not leave me alone with her,” Beck begged the detectives. He swiveled to follow the two men—damn cowards—with his gaze. “I want my phone call. I want Fleming!”
Muldoon held the door on the opposite side of the hallway open. “You’ve got two minutes.”
The door banged shut behind Muldoon but not before the guy smirked a good luck, buddy at Beck.
When I get out of here, I’m gonna make your life hell, you coward.
“Stop being a baby,” DelRay said, shoving one of the chairs out of the way and squaring up the other across from him. Her gaze dropped to his chest and did a slow perusal. “Where’s your shirt?”
The cops hadn’t allowed him to grab one before they’d handcuffed him and read him his rights. He was lucky they even let him put on shoes.
Beck sighed heavily before dropping into a chair and trying not to like having Jackie’s eyes on him. He wished he could pause and look at the stunning defense attorney for a moment like any red-blooded man in his right mind would do, or have a normal, civilized discussion with her about the mess he was in. Because, jeez, it would be nice to have someone in his corner right now. But Jackie did not do normal. For Jackie, everything was an engagement, a skirmish. A fight.
Beck had fought her once. And lost. The Donlin case still made acid rise in his throat.
Not to mention the way Jackie DelRay had run out on him in Ft. Lauderdale back in the day.
This room, like the previous, was a freezer, the good ol’ detectives having turned down the heat since Beck was half naked, hoping, he guessed, that a little physical torture along with their endless, stupid questions would make him confess.
Fat chance.
“Why are you wearing two different colored shoes?” he fired back at the hotshot attorney.
Not much took Jackie aback, but she glanced down and seemed to notice for the first time they didn’t match. Same conservative pump, but different colors. She blinked twice and went back into pit bull mode. “Maybe because it’s the middle of the night, I’m half dead from exhaustion and didn’t bother to peruse my closet before racing down here. To, I might add, help someone who clearly does not want my services. A simple thank you would be nice. Besides, my shoes are not the problem here.”
“Your suit might be. Is that the same one you wore two years ago as a prosecutor?”
A brow cocked upward and at the same time, she ran a hand over the lapel of the jacket. “I love this suit. It’s my lucky one. And in case you haven’t noticed, you are handcuffed and sitting in an interrogation room on charges of murder. You have bigger things to worry about than my wardrobe.”
No shit. Annabelle was dead and he was the easy suspect – the only suspect. Cops liked easy. He folded his fingers together and considered his options. He didn’t have many. “What are you doing here, Ms. DelRay?”
“Defending you, what else?” The ass-kicker shifted facades. Her defenses lowered slightly, her face softening. “And stop with the Ms. DelRay stuff. I know we’ve had our issues, but we’re on the same side. Even if you want that idiot Fleming, right now, I’m here and this case is going to explode. Let me help until you get an attorney.”
“You don’t even know what happened.”
“I know enough and you’re going to fill in the rest.”
How much did she know? The cops didn’t have a clue as to what had really happened. All they had was circumstantial bullshit and conjecture. Unfortunately, that might just be enough. An attack on the Director’s wife was an attack on all of them and with Beck in custody, they wouldn’t look anywhere else. “What did they tell you?”
“That you killed Annabelle Lockhart.” She leaned closer, getting right in his face, those beautiful brown eyes searching his, as if he would melt and tell her his deepest, darkest secrets. “Did you?”
He caught a whiff of her perfume, something sexy and mysterious with a little tuberose, and was that vetiver? For a split second, his old fantasy of stripping her clothes off – those awful, out-of-date suits in drab colors – and seeing the real woman underneath flashed through his brain. “I thought defense attorneys never asked questions they didn’t want to know the answer to.”
She sat back, rolled her eyes. “Stop playing me, Beck. I know you didn’t do it.”
“Bullshit.” This was no game to him – his life was on the line here. He wasn’t going to be her next high-profile case. “Then why did you ask?”
She flipped open her battered briefcase, took out her phone and punched up a recording app. “Start from the beginning. What happened tonight? Were you with Annabelle?”
“Turn off the recorder. You’re not my lawyer. You of all people should recognize conflict of interest.”
Her slender fingers traced the outline of her phone, and she paused before hitting the button, a tiny smile quirking the corner of her lips at his concession. “It’s not a conflict of interest if I’m not your permanent counsel. Although why you don’t want me to record this is beyond me, since currently I am your attorney. Go ahead.” She motioned
with her hand and hit record. “Start at the beginning.”
Damn hard-headed woman. “I attended a bachelor auction at the Hay-Adams.”
“Fancy place.”
“It was a charity event for the St. Agnes Women’s Shelter.”
“And you were on the auction block?”
He nodded. The light came on in her eyes as she pieced together a part of the puzzle. “Annabelle bought you?”
“Considering who my boss is, it was an uncomfortable situation to find myself in.”
The smile that had threatened earlier broke free. “Big, bad Beckett Pearson unraveled by Annabelle Lockhart? I met her once. She didn’t seem too scary to me.”
Was Jackie afraid of anyone? He gave a derisive grunt. “She made it very clear she bought me for a reason.”
The smile fell off her face. “You slept with her?”
“What? No.” God. He sat back, totally pissed and completely on edge. How had this happened? It was like living a bad dream. Kicking his feet out, they bumped into Jackie’s and he had to shift sideways in order to extend his legs all the way. His ass hurt from sitting on the cheap plastic chair and he was beyond exhausted, his temper a short fuse. “I danced around her blatant advances all night. We stopped at her place for a drink before dinner, we ate at Flat 1776, and I dropped her off afterwards. That’s it. That’s all that happened.”
“So why do the cops think you killed her? What’s your motive?”
“Everything they have is circumstantial and I don’t have motive.” He’d heard their spiel, the list of ‘evidence’, over and over. “I was the last one to see her. To be in her house. After I left, she sent me a text. A suggestive one with a picture of her in lingerie. She paid three grand for this date and the cops think I slept with her. They believe the autopsy will reveal my…trace evidence, but they won’t find any, I assure you.”
“Meaning, no semen? No condom in a garbage can? Nothing?”
Jeez. Of course, she would spell it all out in black and white. “None.”
“Good. Then let’s get you out of here and work on carving these charges up.”
If only. “What they will find – on my suit jacket – is her blood.”
Jackie’s calculating mind went berserk behind her eyes. This time both brows climbed skyward. “Well, that’s a problem. Explain.”
Beck wished someone could explain this whole goddamn situation to him. Deep breath. Focus. “When we were at her place before dinner, she dropped a wine bottle and cut herself. Her blood is on my jacket because she grabbed my arm with her bleeding hand when I tried to help her clean up the mess. I’m guessing the jacket is at the lab. Crime techs were already searching my place by the time I had cuffs on.”
“Her throat was slit.”
“Yep, and they’re saying it was done by a piece of glass from the broken wine bottle. She left it in a grocery bag on the counter when we went to dinner.”
“Did you touch the bottle at all?”
“What do you think?”
Shit was written all over Jackie’s face. “Was there anyone else at the house when you were there? Did you see any cars in the driveway when you dropped her off? Did she mention anyone living with her? Any hired help? Any enemies who might want her dead?”
“We didn’t discuss her domestic help, and silly me, I didn’t think to ask about her enemies. Great dinner conversation, thanks for the tip. I bet that’s why you’re so popular, isn’t it? All the guys love you grilling them about their enemies and who might want them dead.”
She flinched slightly, but didn’t acknowledge the dig. “Was there anyone else in her house?”
“As far as I know, she lives alone. Byron moved out four months ago according to gossip around the office.”
“Okay,” Jackie said, blowing out a breath. “You were the last one to see her, your fingerprints are on the weapon, and her blood is on your jacket.”
His fingers impatiently drummed on the table. It was a slam-dunk case. Fuck. “I wasn’t the last person to see her. The killer was.”
“I’m looking at it from the prosecution’s point of view.”
And now he was the one who knew better than to ask a question he didn’t want an answer to. He asked anyway. “And?”
Jackie punched the recording off, tossed her phone in her briefcase and stood, smoothing down her jacket and glancing at her mismatched shoes again. “I’d say it’s a good thing I came down to help you because you’re in a world of hurt. Fleming would screw this up so many ways you couldn’t see straight from your prison cell.”
Before he could respond, the door to the room flew open, bouncing off the wall.
“Time’s up,” Muldoon said. “Back across the hall.”
“Fine,” Jackie said. “We’re through anyway, and my client won’t be answering any more questions tonight. It’s late and he’s tired. Get him processed.”
She waited for Muldoon to escort Beck back to the interview room they’d started in, where he stood waiting while Jackie did her thing.
“We still have questions,” Muldoon said.
“Sorry, detective. I’m shutting it down.” She faced Beck again. “You’ll have to stay in here tonight, but I’ll get you arraigned tomorrow afternoon. Are you able to post bond?”
He nodded. All that damned modeling money earning interest in his mutual funds account would come in handy. The irony of using it for bail hit him all over again – all the years growing up in his criminal family and staying clean hadn’t done a damn bit of good.
A shout came from the hallway and Beck’s heart dropped to the floor.
Byron Lockhart appeared in the open doorway, his face twisted with rage, his jacket askew. More shouts rang out, footsteps pounding as someone chased after him.
“You fucking bastard,” Lockhart said. “You killed my wife.”
Then he reared back and sent a fist at Beck’s face.
* * *
“What the…?” Jackie stood in stunned shock as a handcuffed Beck stumbled back from the cheap shot the FBI director had just thrown.
“Grab him!” she yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you guys letting him in here?”
Even handcuffed, Beck’s big body moved to a fighting stance and his hands came up to protect his head.
Before Lockhart could throw another punch, Muldoon bear-hugged him from behind, dragging him backward.
“You killed her!” Lockhart screamed.
The only good thing about this whole setup was that the Director of the FBI had just been recorded punching a suspect. One of his own damned agents at that.
The press would pounce on this like catnip.
“Sir!” Brasich rushed into the room. “Calm down.”
Unwilling to risk the Director coming unhinged, Jackie moved in front of Beck. Growing up with three older brothers, she’d diffused more than a few smackdowns.
She jabbed a finger at Muldoon, then Brasich. “I should have both your badges. In fact, we may sue the District for this. Throw the department into that lawsuit too. Why not?” She angled back to Beck. “Prepare to be a very rich man. We’re taking everyone down.”
Of all the wacky things she’d seen, this one topped it. If she wasn’t so damned giddy over the colossal screw-up of a supposedly grieving husband anywhere near the murder suspect, she might rail about the injustice of it all. She’d bury them with this little ditty.
Muldoon held the back of Lockhart’s suit coat while nudging him to the door, but...wait. How perfect was this?
“Director Lockhart,” Jackie said, “where were you this evening?”
Brasich whirled on her. “Knock it off, counselor.”
Not in this lifetime, pal. She waggled a hand between Brasich and Lockhart. “You guys had him in here for questioning, right? I mean, hello.” She clunked herself on the head. “This makes total sense. With a highly public – and nasty – divorce going on, of course he’d be your first suspect. Oh, and let’s not forget their joint holdings.
Lots of money at stake for the good director.”
She cocked her head at Lockhart. He wanted to say something. She saw it in the purple glow of his cheeks. Years of trial work had taught her to read the signs. And if her experience taught her anything, with just a gentle poke, the Director would explode on her. Well, bring it on.
“From what I’ve heard,” she said. “Director Lockhart is a jealous man. One with a beautiful wife. Oh, excuse me, estranged wife.” She gestured to Beck. “And here we have the pinnacle of sexuality, absolute eye candy of a man who went out with Annabelle this evening. A man she bid on at an auction.” She let out a snort. “Heck, I don’t blame you for being upset. I mean, are any of us doubting what Annabelle had in mind for Mr. Pearson? I can tell you from the female perspective,” she faced Beck, made a spectacle of checking him out from head to toe. “I have no doubt.”
Oh, wow. She was pushing it here. Even for her, smartass of the century. This little stunt might finally land her in front of the bar association. But, well, she supposed the horse had already left the barn so she might as well play it out.
She stepped in Lockhart’s path, completely invading his personal space while she locked onto his fiery blue eyes. “Did you kill your wife?”
He paused for a long few seconds, his jaw flexing hard. “Fuck. You.”
The room fell silent. Even the detectives were struck mute and that didn’t happen everyday. At least not in Jackie’s life. If nothing else, she’d take pride in that.
Finally, Brasich snapped to and grabbed her by the elbow. “That’s it.” He hauled her out of the way while Muldoon shoved Lockhart out.
“No problem,” Jackie said. She glanced up at the video camera mounted on the wall. “It’s all recorded anyway.”
She turned to Beck whose right cheek had already swelled. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. “I’m fine.”