by Nora Roberts
And here she was, waiting for a cup of what would certainly be very bad coffee in a downtown precinct house filled with the sight and smells and sounds of misery.
Alex handed her the coffee, then eased down on the desk beside her.
“Thanks.” She sipped, winced, and watched a couple of hookers strut out of the holding cells. A tall, bleary-eyed man with a night’s worth of stubble shifted around them and followed a uniform through the door that led down to the cells. Rachel gave a little sigh.
“What’s wrong with us, Alexi?”
He grinned again and slipped an arm around her. “What? Just because we like slogging through the dregs for a living, for little pay and less gratitude? Nothing. Not a thing.”
She chuckled and fueled her system with the motor oil disguised as coffee. “At least you just got a promotion. Detective Stanislaski.”
“Can’t help it if I’m good. You, on the other hand, are spinning your wheels putting criminals back on the streets I’m risking life and limb to keep clean.”
She snorted, scowling at him over the brim of the paper cup. “Most of the people I represent aren’t doing anything more than trying to survive.”
“Sure—by stealing, cheating, and assaulting.”
Her temper began to heat. “I went to court this morning to represent an old man who’d copped some disposable razors. A real desperate case, that one. I guess they should have locked him up and thrown away the key.”
“So it’s okay to steal as long as what you take isn’t particularly valuable?”
“He needed help, not a jail sentence.”
“Like that creep you got off last month who terrorized two old shop keepers, wrecked their store and stole the pitiful six hundred in the till?”
She’d hated that one, truly hated it. But the law was clear, and had been made for a reason. “Look, you guys blew that one. The arresting officer didn’t read him his rights in his native language or arrange for a translator. My client barely understood a dozen words of English.” She shook her head before Alex could jump into one of his more passionate arguments. “I don’t have time to debate the law with you. I need to ask you about Nicholas LeBeck.”
“What about him? You got the report.”
“You were the arresting officer.”
“Yeah—so? I was on my way home, and I happened to see the broken window and the light inside. When I went to investigate, I saw the perpetrator coming through the window carrying a sackful of electronics. I read him his rights and brought him in.”
“What about the others?”
Alex shrugged and finished off the last couple of swallows of Rachel’s coffee. “Nobody around but LeBeck.”
“Come on, Alex, twice as much was taken from the store as what my client allegedly had in his bag.”
“I figure he had help, but I didn’t see anyone else. And your client exercised his right to remain silent. He has a healthy list of priors.”
“Kid stuff.”
Alex sneered. “You could say he didn’t spend his childhood in the Boy Scouts.”
“He’s a Cobra.”
“He had the jacket,” Alex agreed. “And the attitude.”
“He’s a scared kid.”
With a sound of disgust, Alex chucked the empty cup into a wastebasket. “He’s no kid, Rach.”
“I don’t care how old he is, Alex. Right now he’s a scared kid sitting in a cell and trying to pretend he’s tough. It could have been you, or Mikhail—even Tash or me—if it hadn’t been for Mama and Papa.”
“Hell, Rachel.”
“It could have been,” she insisted. “Without the family, without all the hard work and sacrifices, any one of us could have gotten sucked into the streets. You know it.”
He did. Why did she think he’d become a cop? “The point is, we didn’t. It’s a basic matter of what’s right and what’s wrong.”
“Sometimes people make bad choices because there’s no one around to help them make good ones.”
They could have spent hours debating the many shades of justice, but he had to get to work. “You’re too softhearted, Rachel. Just make sure it doesn’t lead to being softheaded. The Cobras are one of the roughest gangs going. Don’t start thinking your client’s a candidate for Boys’ Town.”
Rachel straightened, pleased that her brother remained slouched against the desk. It meant they were eye to eye. “Was he carrying a weapon?”
Alex sighed. “No.”
“Did he resist arrest?”
“No. But that doesn’t change what he was doing, or what he is.”
“It might not change what he was doing—allegedly—but it might very well say something about what he is. Preliminary hearing’s at two.”
“I know.”
She smiled again and kissed him. “See you there.”
“Hey, Rachel.” She turned at the doorway and looked back. “Want to catch a movie tonight?”
“Sure.” She’d made it to the outside in two steps when her name was called again, more formally this time.
“Ms. Stanislaski!”
She paused, flipping her hair back with one hand as she looked over her shoulder. It was the tired-eyed, stubble-faced man she’d noticed before. Hard to miss, she reflected as he hurried toward her. He was over six feet by an inch or so, and his baggy sweatshirt was held up by a pair of broad shoulders. Faded jeans, frayed at the cuffs, white at the stress points, fit well over long legs and narrow hips.
It would have been hard not to miss the anger, too. It radiated from him, and it was reflected in steel-blue eyes set deep in a rough, hollow-cheeked face.
“Rachel Stanislaski?”
“Yes.”
He caught her hand and, in the process of shaking it, dragged her down a couple of steps. He might look lean and mean, Rachel thought, but he had the grip of a bear trap.
“I’m Zackary Muldoon,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Rachel only lifted a brow. He certainly looked fit to spit nails, and after that brief taste of his strength she wouldn’t have put the feat past him. But she wasn’t easily intimidated, particularly when she was standing in an area swarming with cops.
“Can I help you, Mr. Muldoon?”
“I’m counting on it.” He dragged a big hand through a tousled mop of hair as dark as her own. He swore and took her elbow to pull her down the rest of the steps. “What’s it going to take to get him out? And why the hell did he call you and not me? And why in God’s name did you let him sit in a cell all night? What kind of lawyer are you?”
Rachel shook her arm free—no easy task—and prepared to use her briefcase as a weapon if it became necessary. She’d heard about the black Irish and their tempers. But Ukrainians were no slouches, either.
“Mr. Muldoon, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. And I happen to be very busy.” She’d managed two steps when he whirled her around. Rachel’s tawny eyes narrowed dangerously. “Look, Buster—”
“I don’t care how busy you are, I want some answers. If you don’t have time to help Nick, then we’ll get another lawyer. God knows why he chose some fancy broad in a designer suit in the first place.” His blue eyes shot fire, the Irish poet’s mouth hardening into a sneer.
She sputtered, angry color flagging both cheeks. She jabbed one stiffened, clear-tipped finger in his chest. “Broad? You just watch who you call broad, pal, or—”
“Or you’ll get your boyfriend to lock me in a cell?” Zack suggested. Yeah, that was definitely a fancy face, he thought in disgust. Butter-soft skin in pale gold, and eyes like good Irish whiskey. What he needed was a street fighter, and he’d gotten society. “I don’t know what kind of defense Nick expects from some woman who spends her time kissing cops and making dates when she’s supposed to be working.”
“It’s none of your business what I—” She took a deep breath. Nick. “Are you talking about Nicholas LeBeck?”
“Of course I’m talking about Nicholas Le
Beck. Who the hell do you think I’m talking about?” His black brows drew together over his furious eyes. “And you’d better come up with some answers, lady, or you’re going to be off his case and out on your pretty butt.”
“Hey, Rachel!” An undercover cop dressed like a wino sidled up behind her. He eyed Zack. “Any problem here?”
“No.” Though her eyes were blazing, she offered him a half smile. “No, I’m fine, Matt. Thanks.” She edged over to one side and lowered her voice. “I don’t owe you any answers, Muldoon. And insulting me is a poor way to gain my cooperation.”
“You’re paid to cooperate,” he told her. “Just how much are you hosing the boy for?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your fee, sugar?”
Her teeth set. The way she saw it, sugar was only a marginal step up from broad. “I’m a public defender, Muldoon, assigned to LeBeck’s case. That means he doesn’t owe me a damn thing. Just like I don’t owe you.”
“A PD?” He all but backed her off the sidewalk and into the building. “What the devil does Nick need a PD for?”
“Because he’s broke and unemployed. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She set a hand on his chest and shoved. She’d have been better off trying to shove away the brick building at her back.
“He lost his job? But…” The words trailed off. This time Rachel read something other than anger in his eyes. Weariness, she thought. A trace of despair. Resignation. “He could have come to me.”
“And who the hell are you?”
Zack rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m his brother.”
Rachel pursed her lips, lifted a brow. She knew how the gangs worked, and though Zack looked rough-and-ready enough to fit in with the Cobras, he also looked too old to be a card-carrying member.
“Don’t the Cobras have an age limit?”
“What?” He let his hand drop and focused on her again with a fresh oath. “Do I look like I belong to a street gang?”
With her head tilted, Rachel ran her gaze from his battered high-tops to his shaggy dark head. He had the look of a street tough, certainly of a man who could bulldoze his way down alleys, pounding rivals with those big-fisted hands. The hard, hollowed face and hot eyes made her think he’d enjoy cracking skulls, particularly hers. “Actually, you could pass. And your manners certainly reflect the code. Rude, abrasive, and rough.”
He didn’t give a damn what she thought of his appearance, or his manners, but it was time they set the record straight. “I’m Nick’s brother—stepbrother, if you want to be technical. His mother married my father. Get it?”
Her eyes remained wary, but there was some interest there now. “He said he didn’t have any relatives.”
For an instant, she thought she saw hurt in those steel-blue depths. Then it was gone, hardened away. “He’s got me, whether he likes it or not. And I can afford a real lawyer, so why don’t you fill me in, and I’ll take it from there.”
This time she didn’t merely set her teeth, she practically snarled. “I happen to be a real lawyer, Muldoon. And if LeBeck wants other counsel, he can damn well ask for it himself.”
He struggled to find the patience that always seemed to elude him. “We’ll get into that later. For now, I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
“Fine.” She snapped the word out as she looked at her watch. “You can have fifteen minutes of my time, providing you take it while I eat. I have to be back in court in an hour.”
CHAPTER TWO
From the way she looked—elegant sex in a three-piece suit—Zack figured her for one of the trendy little restaurants that served complicated pasta dishes and white wine. Instead, she stalked down the street, her long legs eating up the sidewalk so that he didn’t have to shorten his pace to keep abreast.
She stopped at a vendor and ordered a hot dog—loaded—with a soft drink, then stepped aside to give Zack room to make his selection. The idea of eating anything that looked like a hot dog at what he considered the crack of dawn had his stomach shriveling. Zack settled for a soft drink—the kind loaded with sugar and caffeine—and a cigarette.
Rachel took the first bite, licked mustard off her thumb. Over the scent of onions and relish, Zack caught a trace of her perfume. It was like walking through the jungle, he thought with a frown. All those ripe, sweaty smells, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, you could come across some exotic, seductive vine tangled with vivid flowers.
“He’s charged with burglary,” Rachel said with her mouth full. “Not much chance of shaking it. He was apprehended climbing out of the window with several thousand dollars’ worth of stolen merchandise in his possession.”
“Stupid.” Zack downed half the soft drink in a swallow. “He doesn’t have to steal.”
“That’s neither here nor there. He was caught, he was charged, and he doesn’t deny the act. The DA’s willing to deal, offer probation and community service, if Nick cooperates.”
Zack chuffed out smoke. “Then he’ll cooperate.”
Rachel’s left brow lifted, then settled. She had no doubt Zackary Muldoon thought he could prod, push or punch anybody into anything. “I sincerely doubt it. He’s scared, but he’s stubborn. And he’s loyal to the Cobras.”
Zack said something foul about the Cobras. Rachel was forced to agree. “Well, that may be, but it doesn’t change the bottom line. His record is fairly lengthy, and it won’t be easy to get around it. It’s also mostly hustle and jive. The fact that this is his first step into the big leagues might help reduce his sentence. I think I can get him off with three years. If he behaves, he’ll only serve one.”
Zack’s fingers dug into the aluminum can, crushing it. Fear settled sickly in his stomach. “I don’t want him to go to prison.”
“Muldoon, I’m a lawyer, not a magician.”
“They got back the stuff he took, didn’t they?”
“That doesn’t negate the crime, but yes. Of course, there’s several thousand more outstanding.”
“I’ll make it good.” Somehow. Zack heaved the can toward a waste can. It tipped the edge, joggled, then fell inside. “Listen, I’ll make restitution on what was stolen. Nick’s only nineteen. If you can get the DA to try him as a minor, it would go easier.”
“The state’s tough on gang members, and with his record I don’t think it would happen.”
“If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.” Zack threw up a hand before she could tear into him. “I know I came down on you before. Sorry. I work nights, and I’m not my best in the morning.” Even that much of an apology grated on him, but he needed her. “I get a call an hour ago from one of Nick’s friends telling me he’s been in jail all night. When I get down here and see him, it’s the same old story. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody. I’m handling it.” He tossed down his cigarette, crushed it out, lit another. “And I know he’s scared down to the bone.” With something close to a sigh, he jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’m all he’s got, Ms. Stanislaski. Whatever it takes, I’m not going to see him go to prison.”
It was never easy for her to harden her heart, but she tried. She wiped her hands carefully on a paper napkin. “Have you got enough money to cover the losses? Fifteen thousand?”
He winced, but nodded. “I can get it.”
“It’ll help. How much influence do you have over Nick?”
“Next to none.” He smiled, and Rachel was surprised to note that the smile held considerable charm. “But that can change. I’ve got an established business, and a two-bedroom apartment. I can get you professional and character references, whatever you need. My record’s clean—Well, I did spend thirty days in the brig when I was in the navy. Bar fight.” He shrugged it off. “I don’t guess they’d hold it against me, since it was twelve years ago.”
Rachel turned the possibilities over in her mind. “If I’m reading you right, you want me to try to get the court to turn Nick over to your care.”
“The probation and community service.
A responsible adult to look out for him. All the damages paid.”
“You might not be doing him any favor, Muldoon.”
“He’s my brother.”
That she understood perfectly. Rachel cast her eyes skyward as the first drop of rain fell. “I’ve got to get back to the office. If you’ve got the time, you can walk with me. I’ll make some calls, see what I can do.”
* * *
A bar, Rachel thought with a sigh as she tried to put together a rational proposition for the hearing that afternoon. Why did the man have to own a bar? She supposed it suited him—the big shoulders, the big hands, the crooked nose that she assumed had been broken. And, of course, the rough, dark Irish looks that matched his temper.
But it would have been so much nicer if she could tell the judge that Zackary Muldoon owned a nice men’s shop in midtown. Instead, she was going to ask a judge to hand over the responsibility and the guardianship of a nineteen-year-old boy—with a record and an attitude—to his thirty-two-year-old stepbrother, who ran an East Side bar called Lower the Boom.
There was a chance, a slim one. The DA was still pushing for names, but the shop owner had been greatly mollified with the promise of settlement. No doubt he’d inflated the price of his merchandise, but that was Muldoon’s problem, not hers.
She didn’t have much time to persuade the DA that he didn’t want to try Nick as an adult. Taking what information she’d managed to pry out of Zack, she snagged opposing counsel and settled into one of the tiny conference rooms in the courthouse.
“Come on, Haridan, let’s clean this mess up and save the court’s time and the taxpayers’ money. Putting this kid in jail isn’t the answer.”
Haridan, balding on top and thick through the middle, eased his bulk into a chair. “It’s my answer, Stanislaski. He’s a punk. A gang member with a history of antisocial behavior.”