Книга - A Score to Settle

A Score to Settle
Kara Lennox


Daniel Logan spent six years on death row for a crime he didn't commit. So for him, the justice system is…flawed. Since his release, he's dedicated himself to helping others wrongly convicted. Now his latest crusade pits him against star prosecutor Jamie McNair. Her staunch belief in this system makes freeing a man she put away seem insurmountable. Exactly the kind of challenge Daniel thrives on.Digging into the case reveals disturbing similarities to his own arrest and conviction. Could the same murderer be at work? To his surprise he relies on Jamie to help free an innocent man and help Daniel escape his past. As they get closer to the truth, their attraction brings them together. Only, the stakes are higher than either realizes….









“I won’t accept that.”


Jamie sat up straighter and looked at him. “Yes, Daniel, you will have to accept that. There are some things in this world that your money can’t buy, and I’m one of them.”

“Did I say anything about money?”

“It’s implied. You’re so used to getting your way that you forget other people have free will.”

“Let me rephrase, then. I don’t accept that you don’t want to find the man who took two lives and ruined two others… That doesn’t excite you?”

She took her time answering. “I would be pleased to prosecute that man as part of my job. But for me, it’s not personal.”

“So this case is nothing personal? Just business?”

She nodded curtly.

“What was that kiss all about, then?”

Her gaze locked with his. Jamie licked her lips and swallowed. “Th-that kiss is immaterial to this discussion. We were talking about the justice system. Our work.”

“You’re right. Immaterial. Completely out of line for me to even bring it up.” With that, he leaned in and kissed her again.


Dear Reader,

Revenge is an ugly thing. I guess that’s why it works so well as a motivation in a novel—it creates instant internal conflict. If the author does her job, the reader will share the character’s outrage and totally understand the desire to strike back; at the same time, the reader knows that taking the law into your own hands is wrong.

Creating that inner conflict is why I write novels. I find it delicious!

In this story, my hero, Daniel, feels a strong desire to strike back at the person who framed him for murder, causing him to spend six miserable years on death row. What better heroine to give him than a law-and-order prosecutor? I hope you enjoy the long journey each of them has to make before they can be together for the long haul.

Best,

Kara Lennox




A Score to Settle

Kara Lennox





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




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.


For my sister Pat.

You are so good at everything.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t

tried so hard to keep up with you.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


JAMIE MCNAIR FUMED SILENTLY as she crawled along a traffic-clogged Houston freeway. Who did Daniel Logan think he was, summoning her as if she was one of his lackeys? When she’d heard that the billionaire wanted to overturn one of her verdicts, she’d been anxious to talk to him and set him straight. But on her terms, not his.

Unfortunately, he’d gone over her head, which tweaked her all the more. Now, because her boss was scared of Daniel and his charitable foundation, she had to make a command performance.

A meeting at the Project Justice office would have been tolerable. But no, Logan had decided he wanted to meet her at his home.

She hated being manipulated. But since Logan had forced her into this meeting, she intended to make it count. In her briefcase she had every piece of information she needed to convince Logan that Christopher Gables was right where he belonged—on death row for brutally killing his business partner.

She had far better things to do than cater to the whims of a spoiled, supposedly do-gooder billionaire. Logan might be wealthy and powerful, but he was also a convicted murderer himself. Her own father had prosecuted Daniel many years ago, and her dad hadn’t been one to make mistakes.

To prepare for the meeting, she had learned everything she could about Logan. She’d found lots of data about his arrest and trial, as well as his family’s oil company. Unfortunately, personal information was in short supply.

The most recent picture she had found was a blurry wire-service photo of him the day he was released from prison six years ago. Back then, he’d been a tall, thin, pale man with a bad haircut. In photos from his trial—more than twelve years ago—he’d looked like a handsome but scared frat boy.

A few minutes later she pulled up to a set of ornate wrought-iron gates in tony River Oaks, one of the richest zip codes in America. She was steamed, but she couldn’t deny a certain curiosity to see the inside of this place. From the outside, it looked like a nineteenth-century English estate home, something that might be found in a Jane Austen novel, complete with ivy-covered walls and worn cobbles forming the driveway.

Jamie was about to get out of her car and walk up to the intercom when the gates opened quietly on well-oiled hinges. She pulled her car—an aging Subaru that must have looked as out of place as a donkey in church—down the cobbled driveway toward the house.

When she got out, one of her heels caught in the cobbles and she turned her ankle. Good night. Who made their driveway out of real cobblestones? Limping slightly and silently cursing at the added annoyance, she made her way to the front door; two huge panels of carved oak that looked as if they belonged on an ancient castle.

She reached for the bell, but before she could press it the door opened.

“Ms. McNair, please come in.”

Standing in the doorway was a beautiful young woman with a sleek, blond bob. She wore a snug lavender cashmere sweater, skinny black pants and pointy-toed boots. Though Jamie wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse, she knew quality when she saw it.

Even Daniel’s servants were well-to-do.

“Thank you. You must be Jillian.” Jamie had recognized the slight British accent as belonging to Daniel Logan’s personal assistant.

Inside, the foyer was no less impressive than the outside, soaring three stories to a peaked roof with stained-glass windows that shot beams of colorful light to the white marble floor below. At the center of the foyer was a fountain in the shape of a boy riding a sea horse, like something one might find in ancient Greece. On the walls were oil paintings in gilt frames, museum-quality portraits and landscapes.

Holy mother of…was that a Van Gogh?

“You’re a few minutes late,” Jillian said matter-of-factly.

“Yes. The traffic…” Jamie was damned if she was going to apologize for being twenty minutes late when Logan was the one who had insisted she meet him here, rather than at his downtown office, which was within walking distance of her own workplace at the Criminal Justice Center.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Logan had another appointment. He should be free in about an hour. In the meanwhile, I’m sure you’d like some lunch.”

Jamie was starved, but she wasn’t going to let Logan’s underling lead her around by the nose. “Unfortunately,” Jamie said, enunciating every word, “my time is limited as well, and the traffic jam tightened my schedule. If Mr. Logan can’t see me right now, perhaps he can come by my office when it’s convenient for him.”

Jillian’s eyes widened slightly. Probably she was so used to people bowing and scraping, eager to please her high-and-mighty boss, that Jamie’s behavior came as a surprise.

“Give me a minute and I’ll see what can be arranged.” Her tone had gone a bit frosty.

Jillian stepped out of the foyer, leaving Jamie alone and steaming. Just because she was a public servant didn’t mean Logan could treat her as if she were insignificant. She would walk right out of here and see how he liked it.

Jamie turned toward a noise she heard in the doorway, thinking Jillian had returned, but instead it was a large golden retriever. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, he accelerated toward her, and for a moment she thought he was going to jump up on her. But he skidded to a stop mere inches from her and stared up at her with big chocolate-brown eyes.

“Oh. Hello, there.” She reached out cautiously to pat his head. He looked friendly, but you could never tell with dogs. This one wagged half his body, obviously thrilled by her scant attention. He leaned into her, and she scratched him behind the ear.

Jillian finally reappeared. “Tucker. Behave.”

The dog obediently abandoned Jamie and trotted to Jillian, sitting at her heel, and she gave him an absent pat on the head. He was obviously well trained.

“Mr. Logan will see you now. But he apologizes for his rather, um, casual attire.”

He could be dressed in a potato sack for all Jamie cared. She just wanted to get this meeting over with. Having tangled with Project Justice before, she knew that the foundation often took on cases that had merit.

This wasn’t one of them.

With the dog following them, Jillian led Jamie through an opulent living room, a strange study in contrasts—ancient-looking tapestries and modernist furniture; cold marble and a warm sandstone fireplace; an antique, ivory-inlaid table here and a modern one of polished limestone there.

She got only a quick impression. Soon they were walking down a long hallway lined with more paintings, and finally down a flight of stairs.

He had a basement?

This just didn’t seem normal. What had she gotten herself into? Logan might be a refined gentleman, but he was also a convicted murderer. The governor had pardoned him, but the conviction had never been overturned—a distinction that made Jamie feel edgy about meeting him in an underground bunker.

Finally, they ended up in an enormous workout room with fancy machines worthy of any upscale health club. But what drew her eye was the naked man lying on a massage table, getting worked over by a busty blonde in a pink velour tracksuit.

Jamie sucked in a long breath. He had only a small towel over his hips to preserve his modesty.

“Daniel, Ms. McNair is here.” Jillian sounded faintly disapproving.

“Ow, Greta, have a heart,” said the naked man, who Jamie assumed was Daniel Logan.

He was still tall, but no longer skinny or pale. In fact, the large expanse of skin on his muscular back was an even golden color, and for a moment she wished with all her heart that she was Greta, digging her fingers into those firm-looking muscles.

Daniel turned his head and caught sight of Jamie for the first time. Their eyes locked and held for several seconds.

He was arrestingly gorgeous, and he looked nothing like the stereotypical Texas billionaire in the oil bidness. No boots, no hat, no cigar and no Texas twang. His voice was cultured, educated.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at my worst, Ms. McNair,” he said. “But I got a muscle spasm in my back just before you arrived, and Greta is the only person who can get rid of it.”

Yeah, and he probably got lots of muscle spasms.

“Mr. Logan,” Jamie said succinctly. “We can’t have an intelligent discussion under these conditions. I suggest that if this meeting is important to you, we reschedule. Or even speak on the phone. You can call my office—”

“No, wait, please.” Daniel pushed himself up on his strong-looking arms and swung his legs over the massage table, somehow managing to wrap the towel around himself in the process so that he didn’t flash the three women surrounding him. “I can meet with you now.”

Greta handed him a silk robe, which he donned as he hopped off the table, letting the towel drop to the carpet. He shrugged experimentally, stretched his neck side to side and smiled. “I think you did it, Greta. Now, if you don’t mind giving us a bit of privacy?” He included Jillian in his request.

Greta melted away as quietly as an icicle in the hot sun, but Jillian hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t need me to take notes? Or bring you a file?”

“That won’t be necessary for this meeting, thanks.” He leaned down to scratch the dog, which had been waiting patiently for some attention from him. “Hey, Tucker.”

With one last warning scowl toward Jamie, Jillian walked away.

“My office is this way,” Daniel said. “Thank you for coming. It won’t be a waste of your time—I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Jamie was dumbfounded by the luxury she saw all around her. In a basement, no less. Though they were underground, what appeared to be natural light surrounded them, pouring in from windows and skylights covered with frosted glass or translucent shades. But the most impressive sight was Daniel Logan himself.

He literally made her mouth go dry. No sign of a bad haircut now. As soon as he’d moved to an upright position, his silky brown hair had fallen into place perfectly. The hair was a medium length on top and short over his ears, where he had a sprinkling of premature gray.

Her research had told her he was in his mid-thirties, but he looked slightly older. Not that that was a bad thing. He was still handsome as sin. Perhaps prison had aged him.

She stopped herself before she started feeling sorry for him. He was a convicted murderer who belonged behind bars. Because of his money and influence, he was free to enjoy all this luxury.

His victim, Andreas Musto, would never enjoy anything again.

Daniel’s office was another surprise. She’d expected a commanding antique walnut desk or maybe a workspace carved from a solid piece of granite, and walls decorated with more original art, perhaps a giant, saltwater fish tank or a bearskin rug—something masculine. Instead, she found herself in a high-tech cave.

She’d never seen so much electronic equipment in one place outside a Best Buy. A huge U-shaped desk dominated the room, littered with gadgets of every description: multiple phones, keyboards, printers, three computers, each of which appeared to be in use. One of them had a monitor the size of a movie-theater screen.

Mounted on the walls above them were four TVs, each tuned to a different news channel.

Daniel indicated that Jamie should sit in one of the silk-covered wingback chairs facing the desk. He moved around the room to take his place in the giant rolling chair inside the U. Tucker settled onto a big pillow where he could watch his master with adoring eyes.

For all its high-tech feel, the room was still beautiful. More faux windows covered with black, wooden shutters lined one wall. A fine Oriental carpet topped the wood floor, and above them, two stained-glass chandeliers bathed them in warm light.

“Perhaps we can just cut to the chase here,” Jamie said, wanting to get in the first word. “You have some wild idea that Christopher Gables is innocent. I don’t know what might have led you down that garden path, but I can assure you, the facts speak for themselves. Gables and his victim argued. A couple of hours later, the victim was found dead with a slashed throat, a bloody knife lying nearby. Gables’s prints—and only his prints—were found on the knife.

“Gables, who was normally in the restaurant until closing, could not account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

“That, Mr. Logan, is what we in the prosecution business call a slam dunk. The jury reached a verdict in less than an hour.”

Daniel Logan seemed to be listening intently. He kept his gaze firmly focused on her as she spoke, his expression grave, nodding every so often. It unnerved her, having that laser beam of attention pointed at her, and she got the impression he was not only listening to her words, but observing every nuance of her face, her gestures—and learning more than she wanted him to know.

“So what do you have to wow me with, Mr. Logan?” she asked, struggling to keep from sounding smug. “If it’s that little bit of unidentified DNA found on Sissom’s apron, you should know that fingerprints trump DNA any day. Four separate fingerprint experts identified the prints on the knife as belonging to Gables—even the defense’s own expert witness. The DNA could have come from anywhere.”

Logan nodded again. “It was a solid case. You did an excellent job prosecuting.”

Yes, she had. It had been the first big case in which she’d led the prosecution. After the verdict, for the first time in her life, she’d felt sure her father was proud of her. Not that she would ever know for sure, since he had died while she was in law school.

She did not thank Logan for the compliment. Flattery wouldn’t sway her. “So, what’s your point?”

“Ms. McNair, how would you like to prosecute a serial killer?”



DANIEL COULD SEE HE’D GOTTEN Jamie’s attention. His initial salvo was a shock tactic, sure; he’d have to have the facts to back up his claim. But at least she’d dropped that infuriating smugness. Her pouty lips were open slightly in surprise, her eyes wide and attentive.

He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful in person. But the photos and video he’d seen didn’t do her justice. The glossy, fudge-brown hair had depth and texture no camera could pick up; the unusual shade of blue-green in her eyes defied description. And her skin—like the smoothest stone—somehow also looked warm to the touch.

He told himself it was best for him not to think about her lips too much.

All that was above the neck. He didn’t dare study her anywhere else until her attention was diverted.

Finally she spoke. “You think Christopher Gables has killed before?” She barely whispered the possibility.

“No. I think whoever killed Frank Sissom—and framed Christopher—has killed before. He’s the same man who framed me.”

At last Jamie found her voice. “You have got to be kidding. You brought me all the way here, disrupted my whole day’s schedule, so you could hit me with this…this ridiculous fairy tale about a serial killer?”

“It’s still an unproven theory, I’ll admit. But aren’t you the least bit curious as to why I’m trying to convince you it’s true?”

“Because you like manipulating people, and you have the money and influence to do it?”

He bit the inside of his lower lip to hold on to his temper. Typical prosecutor. She was so sure she was right, that the almighty justice system was infallible. “You seem a bit cranky this morning. You probably haven’t had enough protein. Let me guess—you skipped breakfast.”

“My diet is no concern of yours. Are we done here?” She started to rise from her chair.

“Metal shavings. Were any metal shavings found on Frank Sissom’s body?” It was one of two anomalies brought to light during Daniel’s own murder trial. The prosecution never successfully explained where those shavings had come from, but Daniel had always believed they’d come from the murderer’s own clothing during a struggle.

These days, metal shavings could be analyzed every which way right down to their atoms. Every metal object had a distinct signature, so shavings could be matched to their source. It wasn’t perfect, not like DNA or fingerprints. But cases had been won and lost based on similar trace evidence.

The other anomaly was, in fact, a bit of unidentified DNA found on Andreas’s clothing. Another similarity to the Gables/Sissom case, which Jamie herself had just mentioned.

“I don’t recall hearing about any metal shavings,” Jamie said.

Daniel tried not to be too disappointed. It was a long shot. “Let me go over the facts, then, as I see them.”

Jamie glanced at her watch. “I have other appointments today. You can put your so-called facts in an email.”

Just then someone tapped on Daniel’s office door. He knew that tap. Everyone knocked on doors differently. It was one of those patterns that Daniel had picked up without trying.

“Come in, Jillian.”

She entered, holding a plate with a metal warming lid over it in one hand, and a tall glass of iced tea in the other. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but Claude insists this chicken will go bad if it’s not eaten immediately. Something about the sauce coagulating.”

It was past Daniel’s usual lunchtime; the muscle spasm—and Jamie’s tardiness—had put a kink in his schedule. Jillian knew he put great stock in eating well and often to fuel the brain. But she also knew not to interrupt an important meeting.

He accepted the plate from her. “Thank you, Jillian, but it would be excessively rude for me to eat in front of my guest. Especially since she hasn’t had breakfast.”

“I never said I skipped breakfast,” Jamie objected.

“But you did.” He knew he was right just by the slight shade of defensiveness in her tone.

“Of course I brought a plate for Ms. McNair.” Jillian quickly produced another covered dish from a rolling cart she’d left in the hallway.

“I’m not staying,” Jamie said.

“Give me fifteen minutes to convince you.” Daniel stood and came out from behind his desk. “Share a meal with me. You’ve got to eat at some point, and this will save you time.” And probably improve your temperament. Also, sharing food was a bonding activity. He needed to convince Jamie that he was not the enemy. If things went his way, they would soon become allies, fighting to save an innocent man’s life. As the prosecutor of this case, she was uniquely able to handle some tasks he would find difficult to do himself.

Jamie inhaled deeply; she probably had gotten a whiff of whatever genius concoction Claude, his chef, had whipped up today, because something convinced her.

“Fine, if you insist, I’ll have some lunch. But keep in mind you can’t soften me up with a gourmet meal.”

No, but good food could make her more open to his suggestions.

Jillian set up their lunch in the small room adjacent to Daniel’s office, where he sometimes took his meals when he was deep into a project and didn’t want to go all the way upstairs to the dining room or patio. He’d had it specially designed to relieve stress.

Although it had no windows, he’d had lights installed that replicated the electromagnetic spectrum of sunlight. The limestone floor and running-water feature helped to ionize the air, and all the plants, of course, provided an oxygen-rich environment.

“Good night!” Jamie paused at the doorway, her jaw about to hit the floor.




CHAPTER TWO


“SOMETHING WRONG?” Daniel asked innocently as Jillian placed napkins and silverware on the wrought-iron umbrella table.

Jamie shook her head in obvious amazement. “Oh, nothing, just that I thought for a moment I’d walked through a wormhole and was transported to an outdoor café in Tuscany. This is incredible!”

“I’m glad you like it.” Daniel enjoyed surprising people.

“Are those…grapes?” Jamie looked above them at the grape arbor, which did, indeed, have a few clusters of fruit growing on it.

“Yes, they are. I had some of our grapevines transplanted to this room. I wasn’t sure they’d survive—grapes are tricky. But they seem to love it here.”

“Where did you get that fountain?” she asked suspiciously.

“From an antiquities dealer. Legal, I assure you. It was recovered in pieces from an Italian farmer’s field. The restoration cost more than the fountain did. Shall we eat?”

Daniel pulled out a chair for Jamie, then took his own. He did love this room. Already, he could feel some of the tension leaving his body. He shrugged, testing his back, but the muscle spasm appeared to be gone for good.

Sometimes he took for granted what his wealth could create.

Jillian took Tucker and departed, leaving Daniel and Jamie alone.

Daniel lifted the lid on his plate and inhaled. His mouth watered. “I’ll have to find out the name of this dish so I can request it again.”

“It does smell good,” Jamie said cautiously as she examined her own plate. It was a small portion of chicken with a light dousing of creamy sauce, along with a generous helping of fresh asparagus and some rosemary new potatoes.

Daniel cut a piece off the chicken, but his attention was focused more closely on Jamie than his meat. He wanted her to enjoy the food.

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. “Your fifteen minutes are running.”

“Right.” Damn, he’d almost forgotten the reason she was here. Who cared if she liked Claude’s cooking? It was more important that she like his facts.

“Are you familiar with the Andreas Musto murder case?”

“The one for which you stood trial. I’m somewhat well versed,” she said cautiously. Which probably meant that what she knew, she’d absorbed from the media. It had been one of those crimes that reporters loved to sensationalize—a billionaire’s son accused of a gruesome slaying.

“I’ll quickly refresh your memory. Andreas Musto was my business partner. We owned a restaurant together. He was found at the restaurant with his throat cut, the murder weapon—a wickedly sharp butcher knife—lying nearby. The knife had my fingerprints on it. I did not have an alibi. Does this sound at all familiar?”

Jamie, who had been devouring her rosemary potatoes during his speech, made a show of chewing, swallowing, taking a sip of iced tea and delicately blotting her mouth with her napkin.

“I’ll admit, the circumstances are similar to those of the Frank Sissom murder. But lots of crimes sound alike. There are only so many ways to kill people—shooting, stabbing, poisoning, strangling, drowning or blunt-force trauma.”

“But how many killers—seemingly intelligent young men like myself and Christopher Gables—leave behind the murder weapon with their prints on it?”

“Criminals often act without logic. In the heat of the moment, a person can lose their ability to reason. Take the bank robber who wrote the demand note on his own deposit slip. Or the man who, hours after a murder, goes on a spending spree with the victim’s credit cards.”

“And just how many murder victims have their throats slashed with a butcher knife? In a restaurant?”

“Murders often take place in restaurants. They’re open late at night, they deal in cash—”

“Robbery wasn’t the motive in either case.”

“The crimes took place many years apart,” Jamie said sensibly. “The locations were twenty, maybe thirty miles from each other. I’m sorry, but the facts do not scream ‘serial killer’ to me.”

He was losing her. He could see it in her eyes.

“So this is why Project Justice took on Christopher Gables as a client?” she asked. “The crime reminded you of the one that landed you in prison?”

“Partly.” He’d rather not tell Jamie about Theresa Chavez until he interviewed the woman himself. But he had to do something to make an impression.

“The similarities in the crimes are one reason I took the case,” he admitted. His decision had shocked his staff; he’d never personally led an investigation before. “It was easy for me to put myself in Christopher’s place. But what really swayed me was the witness.”

“Witness? There was no witness.”

“Ah, but there was. A young woman who bussed tables at the restaurant, El Toreador. She called the police, babbling incoherently in Spanish, then fled the scene before she could be interviewed.”

Jamie leaned back in her chair. “Theresa Chavez. She was the one we think found the body,” Jamie said. “That’s not the same as a witness to the murder.”

“So you know about her.” Damn, he’d been hoping to take Jamie by surprise.

“She was considered briefly as a suspect, but dismissed because she was hardly more than a teenager and weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. Frank Sissom was six foot and two-twenty. No way she could have overpowered him.”

“But she was never questioned.”

“Unfortunately, Theresa was an illegal alien. Apparently she was scared of being deported, so she went into hiding. We never found her.”

“How hard did you look?”

“The police made a concerted effort to locate her.” Jamie didn’t conceal her defensiveness very well. “But a person with no credit cards, no social security number or driver’s license—she disappeared. Completely.”

“But not forever. Theresa has recently come forward. Her conscience was bothering her. She says she spotted a stranger in the restaurant kitchen only minutes before Frank was killed. It certainly wasn’t Christopher Gables, whom she knew quite well.”

His news did not have the desired effect. Jamie did not look shocked or even surprised. She raised one skeptical eyebrow. “After what, six years? Her conscience is bothering her?”

He supposed he couldn’t blame Jamie for her skepticism. Her job put her in daily contact with criminals of the worst order, most of whom would do or say anything to get them off the hook.

“It’s more like a change of circumstances,” Daniel said, noting with some satisfaction that Jamie was well on the way to cleaning her plate. “Her conscience has always bothered her. But she recently got a green card. She doesn’t have to fear deportation. Her English has also improved a great deal in the last seven years.”

“Well. If she has something to say, I’d like to hear it.” Jamie’s tone indicated she didn’t want to hear it at all, but didn’t want to be considered unreasonable. “Have her contact my office. I will at least listen to what she has to say.”

“Will you really?”

“If I say I will, then I will. But keep in mind, eyewitness testimony isn’t the gold standard it once was. So many things can taint a person’s memories—the passage of time, the influence of the media or others’ recollections, even a fervent wish to have seen something different. And, of course, the promise of a load of cash can improve a person’s memory in sudden and dramatic ways.”

This was the height of rudeness. “You think I would pay someone to— You’re actually accusing me of—”

“I am not accusing anyone,” she said hastily. “Just stating a few well-known facts about witness testimony in general. I’m willing to hear the woman’s statement. But I will accept hard, physical evidence over witness testimony any day.”

“Are you saying an eyewitness to the crime wouldn’t convince you to reopen a case?”

“I won’t know until I actually talk to this Theresa. I mean, how will I know she’s even the same person, since she had no documentation back then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge, trust me.”

“That’s just the problem. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone with an ax to grind.”

At least he and Jamie had that in common. Daniel didn’t trust anyone, either, at least not beyond his senior staff at Project Justice and in his own home. He wouldn’t begrudge Jamie that mistrust. “All I ask is that you give the woman a chance to speak.”

“If she’ll call my office and make an appointment, I’ll meet with her.” Jamie popped the last bit of asparagus into her mouth, chewing with a satisfied expression.

This was the best Daniel could expect. Having reached the terms he’d hoped for, it was time to end this meeting. He had learned long ago that once someone agreed with him, the best course of action was to get the hell away from them before he said or did something to change their mind.

But he was loath to send Jamie away. When was the last time he had shared a meal with a beautiful woman? He often grabbed a bite to eat with Jillian when they were on a tight schedule and she was helping him with some project or another, but that was different. She was practically a little sister. He’d known her forever and didn’t think of her in sexual terms.

It was hard to look at Jamie and not think of sex. She had a strangely strong effect on him.

One of the worst things about being in prison had been the lack of female companionship of any kind, and he’d always imagined that the first thing he would do if he regained his freedom was find a beautiful, willing woman and have sex for days on end.

It hadn’t happened like that, of course. Once he got out, he’d had to rebuild himself, physically and mentally, before he could even think about bringing another person into the mix. Then he’d had to deal with the deaths of his parents, one right after the other, all while building his fledgling foundation and handling crisis after crisis at Logan Oil & Gas.

Jamie was the first flesh-and-blood woman to arouse him in a very long time.

“I hope you left room for dessert,” he found himself saying against his better judgment.

Jamie seemed to rouse herself from the pleasure induced by a superior meal. “Oh, no, I don’t have time for that.”

Daniel reached for the hardwired phone that was nestled in a stone niche near their table. “Cora, we’re ready for dessert,” he told Claude’s assistant when she answered. “What’s on the menu today?”

“Tiramisu,” Cora said. “I’ll get a couple of slices right down to you.”

“Tiramisu,” he repeated for Jamie’s benefit.

“I really have to go.”

“Another few minutes won’t—”

“No, I really have to go.” She was much firmer this time as she scooted her chair out and found her feet.

Daniel was tempted to try to cajole her into staying for dessert. But he risked making her angry, and she’d only just recently lost that tense, mulish expression and begun to speak to him as an intelligent human being, rather than a bug on the sidewalk she’d like to squish.

“I’ll show you out, then,” he said amicably. He picked up the phone again and pushed the Jillian button—every phone in the house had a Jillian button. After speaking briefly to his assistant, he showed Jamie back through his office where she grabbed her all-but-forgotten briefcase. They continued up the stairs and down the long hall that led to the front door.

“Who are all these people?” Jamie asked, nodding toward the portraits that lined the walls. “Logan ancestors?”

“Good heavens, no. Most of my ancestors were Scottish peasants, not the kind who were immortalized by great artists. My grandfather bought most of these paintings as investments.”

“Your grandfather was a self-made man?”

“If you call discovering oil on your little piece of hardscrabble farm made and not lucky.”

“I imagine it takes a bit more than luck to build an empire the size of this one.”

“Some hard work,” Daniel agreed. “My father was never home for dinner. Worked himself to an early grave.”

“I take it that’s not your philosophy.”

“Make no mistake, Jamie, I work hard. But I also take care of myself, and I insist my employees do, too. What’s the point of working yourself to a frazzle—even for something you care deeply about—if you’re not around to appreciate the fruits of your labor?”

“I guess people do it so their children will have the kind of life they didn’t,” Jamie said, rather philosophically.

“Is that what your father did?”

“Oh, no. My father wanted me to live exactly the same life he did.” An edge in her voice suggested disapproval.

“He was a lawyer, too, I take it. A prosecutor?” His research had told him Jamie was born out of wedlock and the father was out of the picture.

She didn’t answer, and Daniel thought better of pursuing the subject. They’d arrived in the foyer, and Jillian was there, clipboard in hand as well as a small, white cardboard box, which she handed to Jamie with a brittle smile.

“What’s this?”

“Tiramisu. Something to nosh on if you get stuck in traffic again. Daniel didn’t want you to miss it. Although our chef, Claude, is French, not Italian, he does an incredible job.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said uncertainly.

“No, thank you,” Daniel said, meaning it. “I know it was an imposition, driving out to River Oaks, but I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. I believe in the end you’ll be glad you did.”

She turned to face him, and that mulish expression had returned to her face. “Mr. Logan. Best-case scenario for me is that you’ve wasted some of my time. Worst case, you make me look like an incompetent fool and possibly cost me my job.”

“I hope it won’t come to that.”

“If you’re right, that is exactly what would happen. Believe it or not, I would be willing to accept unemployment if you could prove I’d made such a heinous mistake. But I’m not willing to be made a fool simply because you have the money, and the clout, and the patience to get your way. I will not give in simply to be done with this. I will fight you every step of the way, no matter how good your freaking tiramisu is.”

On that note, Jillian opened the front door for her, and Jamie stepped out into the blustery fall day toward her car.

Jillian closed the front door with a bit more force than necessary. “She’s a real piece of work.”

“I thought she was fantastic! Intelligent, outspoken, passionate about her work…”

“And drop-dead gorgeous,” Jillian observed drily. “I don’t suppose you’re crushing on her, are you?”

“Jillian, please. I’m well out of adolescence. I don’t get crushes.”

“Whatever you call it, I hope you won’t let it get in the way of what you have to do. Because to free Christopher Gables, you might very well have to crush one passionate, overzealous prosecutor.”



WHAT JUST HAPPENED BACK THERE?

Jamie’s hands actually trembled as she put the car in gear and headed toward the gates that were, even now, opening for her. She’d walked into Daniel Logan’s home practically breathing fire, ready to dazzle him with her facts and her smart-ass wit. Instead, she’d found herself ogling a half-naked man, sharing one of the best meals she could remember while the same man wore nothing but a bathrobe, and saying yes to something she never should have agreed to.

Now she was committed to giving Theresa Chavez an audience. And if the woman convincingly claimed to have witnessed someone other than Christopher Gables killing Frank Sissom, Jamie could not, in good conscience, dismiss the woman’s statement.

She would have to investigate. She would have to find out if it really was the same woman who discovered the body, then fled, and then determine if the woman was credible.

None of which would change the fact that Christopher Gables’s fingerprints, and only his prints, were found on the murder weapon. But if she didn’t perform due diligence, Daniel Logan would never leave her alone.

She knew how Project Justice operated, because quite a few cases prosecuted by her office had been overturned due to the persistence of the foundation’s people. Daniel—who believed in this case so strongly that he had taken it on personally—would not give up until he was convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that his client really was guilty.

God, what a nightmare. Winston Chubb, the district attorney, wasn’t going to be happy with this turn of events. And he would find a way to blame Jamie for it, she was sure. Winston always managed to grab the credit for anything good that happened, and passed the buck regarding anything bad.

On top of everything else, she could smell the tiramisu, faint threads of chocolate, vanilla and coffee. She ought to just throw the little white box—tied with a satin ribbon, for God’s sake—into the first trash can she saw. The dessert was a symbol of everything that had gone wrong with that meeting, including her completely inappropriate physical reaction to the billionaire.

Imagine her, Jamie McNair, attracted to a convicted killer! But she was.

It was hard to visualize Daniel Logan killing anyone. Even knowing the facts, she hadn’t felt the least bit uncomfortable alone in his presence, other than having to hammer down her libido.

But then, people had said that about Ted Bundy.



THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Jamie was back into her office and the little white box was empty, damn it.

Her day was shot. A pile of cases sat on her desk—mostly routine plea-bargain requests from defense attorneys. She went through as many as she could, signing off on the reasonable ones, rejecting the more outrageous requests for repeat felons and violent offenders.

She spent an hour returning phone calls, talked to three different detectives regarding a felony assault case, then checked her schedule for the following day.

Jury selection for a drunk hit-and-run case in the morning; three appointments in the afternoon.

With fifteen minutes left of her official workday, Jamie did what she’d known she would do all along. She opened the Gables/Sissom murder file and dug through a mountain of reports until she found the one from the crime lab regarding the evidence they’d processed—bloodstains, fingerprints, the knife and, finally, the victim’s clothing.

Most of the details regarding the clothing had to do with bloodstains—including one tiny biological stain on the apron that hadn’t belonged to the victim and had remained unidentified. But there was also a list of substances other than blood found on the victim’s shirt, which included olive oil, tomato juice, salt—all the things once might expect to find on someone who spent time in a restaurant kitchen.

One finding, though, made Jamie stop: “a black, powdery substance assumed to be from a laser printer or copy machine.”

Assumed to be? Since when did crime-scene analysts assume anything? Probably the restaurant had a printer or copy machine, and since Frank Sissom was one of the owners, she had every reason to believe he’d been in the office and changed a printer cartridge.

But a black, powdery substance could also be metal shavings. Damn it.

She called the guy who’d signed the report, Eddie Goddard. He’d been working at the crime lab since Jamie was in high school, and though he was normally thorough and dependable, he still was not her favorite person. A card-carrying member of the Good Ol’ Boys Club, he didn’t like women telling him what to do.

“Eddie. I see you’re working late like me.” It was now well after five.

“I was just heading out, actually. What can I do for you?” He did not sound enthusiastic about adding any tasks to his To Do list.

“I won’t stop you from getting home in time for dinner,” she promised, hoping to earn brownie points. “But tomorrow morning, I’m going to bring you a piece of clothing from the Frank Sissom case. I need some additional analysis on a certain stain.”

“You’re joking, right? That case is ancient.”

“Wish I was. But I need to shut somebody up before he goes to the press and makes our lives more miserable than they already are. A quick look-see under a microscope will probably do the trick.” She hoped.

“Okay, sure,” he agreed in monotone.

Tomorrow morning, she would retrieve the actual physical evidence from the police, hand the victim’s shirt over to Eddie and pray that Theresa Chavez didn’t call.




CHAPTER THREE


“DANIEL, SORRY TO disturb you, but Jamie McNair is on line two.”

The four men and two women seated in Daniel’s conference room looked surprised by the interruption, and it was no wonder; his staff knew not to disturb him during a Logan Oil & Gas board meeting. The company was largely responsible for maintaining Daniel’s personal wealth, and Daniel remained involved in the overall direction and philosophy of the company his grandfather had started.

The meeting was important, but Jamie took priority.

“I have to take this call,” Daniel said to the board as he rose. “Shouldn’t last more than five minutes.”

When Jamie had left his home two days ago, Daniel hadn’t been sure how, or even if, she would follow up. So he was a bit surprised and pleased that she’d called him.

He stepped down the hall and into his private office, then picked up the phone.

“Jamie. Good to hear from you.”

“Mr. Logan.”

Damn, she didn’t sound nearly as warm as he’d hoped. “Did Theresa get in touch with you?” He already knew she had; he’d personally seen to it. He’d even hired a car and driver to take her to the district attorney’s office for an interview.

“She did. And I’ll be honest with you, she piqued my interest.”

“Then you’ll reopen the case,” he said confidently.

“Don’t get your hopes up. She seemed genuine, but I still haven’t verified she was at the scene of the crime. For all I know, she’s an actress you hired.”

Daniel bit his tongue to stifle a snide retort. After spending six years hitting brick wall after brick wall trying to overturn his own conviction, he shouldn’t be a bit surprised by Jamie’s attitude.

“I can provide the documentation you need—”

“I’ll provide my own, thanks very much. And if I find out she’s lying, I’ll personally see to it she’s prosecuted. And if I find you paid her to lie, I’ll prosecute you.”

Daniel was livid. He was so tired of this attitude. Of course, the Harris County D.A.’s office would be doubly motivated to prevent another overturned conviction; Project Justice had recently gained freedom for a mobster’s son convicted of killing his girlfriend, and the case had caused some major embarrassment for the D.A.

“It sounds as if you simply don’t like me very much. Are you going to let personal feelings stand in the way of justice?”

“Please stop being so simplistic. I’m convinced I did a good job convicting Christopher Gables. Naturally, it’s going to take a solid argument to persuade me I made a mistake.”

“We’re talking about a man’s life here.”

“Yes, the life of Frank Sissom, Gables’s victim. Do you have anything else to show me? If so, bring it on.”

“What about that unidentified DNA?”

“If you have a theory about where it came from—or any other evidence—I’m willing to talk. Contrary to what you might believe, I do not have a closed mind. In fact, I’m having one of our evidence analysts reexamine Frank Sissom’s apron.”

“Really?” She’d succeeded in surprising him.

“I should have results tomorrow.”

“Then by all means, we should talk again. When can you get here? I can free up my schedule anytime—”

“I’m glad to hear that, because mine is packed. I can spare you an hour tomorrow afternoon or Monday morning, here at my office.”

Daniel’s heart clutched, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. “I can’t possibly drive downtown.”

“Afraid you’d miss your afternoon massage? Exactly how serious are you about wanting to free your client? I disrupted my whole schedule to drive to River Oaks. If you want my cooperation, you can meet me halfway. Besides, we might need to talk to people in the crime lab or the investigating officers involved in the case—all of whom can be found downtown.”

“I can send one of my best people.” And admit to his staff—already skeptical—that he was not up to handling a case on his own. That would be a bitter pill to swallow.

“Okay. Your assistant can meet with my assistant.”

Now she was playing hardball. “Ms. McNair. Jamie. This matter is too serious for us to play games.”

“Don’t talk to me about games. You’re the one who made me cool my heels while you got your massage and sent me home with tiramisu, trying to butter me up.”

Maybe she had a point. “Did you like it, by the way? Chef Claude is a genius.”

“That is immaterial. I’ve got a lot on my plate and I really don’t have time to chase after every hard-luck and if-only story I hear. You believe he’s innocent? Fair enough. Show me the commitment that says you mean it. I’m willing to listen, but I’m not going to deal with layer upon layer of assistants and bodyguards. You started this, and I think you should be the one to finish it. Personally.”

His awareness of her primed his body for action, even over the phone. She wanted to deal with him personally, did she? Her reasons sounded plausible, but he didn’t completely buy them. Perhaps she wanted to see more of him, just as he wanted to see more of her. He would have been pleased, if not for the massive logistic problem her ultimatum caused.

“What’s it going to be?” she prompted. “I’m due in court in ten minutes.”

“Name your time,” he finally said. “I’ll be there, so long as you keep our meeting discreet. Being out in public can cause difficulties for me.”

“Believe me, I’m as anxious as you to keep this thing under wraps. Two o’clock tomorrow? I can reserve the conference room.”

“I’ll be there.” Come hell or high water. He hadn’t heard any flooding forecasts for South Texas, but hell was a definite possibility.

The board meeting broke up at close to noon. After seeing everyone out to their cars, Jillian returned to Daniel’s office to go over his afternoon schedule.

“It’s nice poolside, if you’d like to take your lunch there. You haven’t breathed any fresh air in a couple of days.”

He resisted the urge to remind Jillian that the filtered air in his home was nine times cleaner than the smog-infused air of Houston. “Good suggestion.” Dirty air or not, he liked sitting outside when he could, looking out over his swimming pool and listening to birds and wind in the trees. It helped him think, and he had a lot of thinking to do. And it reminded him he was a free man.

“Also, Jillian, please have the limo ready tomorrow at 1:30—no, 1:15. I’m going downtown to meet with Jamie McNair… What?”

The unflappable Jillian’s mouth gaped open. “You’re going downtown?” she repeated.

“Yes. Maybe not in the limo, I don’t want to draw attention. The Bentley might be better.”

“You are going downtown,” she said again.

“It’s the Christopher Gables case. Ms. McNair is willing to talk, which is frankly more than I expected at this stage.”

“But… you’re going to a meeting? Personally?”

“Jillian, have you gone hard of hearing? I’m perfectly capable of attending a meeting off-site. I’ll admit, I usually choose not to, but this is important.”

“With all due respect, sir, you haven’t left the estate in three years.”

That stopped him. “Three— Oh, surely you’re mistaken.”

“Your grandmother’s funeral in Miami. October 3, two thousand—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going. I have to go.”

Jillian’s face softened. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The tightness in his chest eased slightly as he pictured Jillian sitting next to him, dealing with pesky details. But when he pictured himself meeting with Jamie, he saw the two of them alone.

Hell, he didn’t need Jillian to hover and fuss over him. He could handle this mission on his own. He had taken on the responsibility of being Christopher Gables’s champion, and he needed to see it through.

“No, thank you, Jillian. I’ll bring Randall for security. That should be sufficient.”

Jillian looked as if she wanted to argue, but in the end she nodded her head and turned. “Yes, sir.”



THE FOLLOWING DAY, Daniel sucked up a monumental case of nerves and strode to his limo parked in the driveway. He’d opted for the larger, more ostentatious car after all; it seemed safer.

He had a briefcase full of information about the Sissom/Gables case as well as the Andreas Musto murder—the parallels between the two cases simply could not be coincidence. He’d even drawn up a chart, with graphics, showing similarities. And if there was a remote chance that he could find the person who’d stolen six years of his life…

Daniel wasn’t a violent man, as his lawyers had so tirelessly reminded the jury. But if he ever came face-to-face with the man who’d framed him, he could easily kill with his bare hands. That thought had provided comfort during many sleepless nights.

His special-order Mercedes limousine was familiar and comforting, and he breathed in the scent of well-tended leather. But the car must be at least four years old now.

“Randall,” he said just before his driver and bodyguard closed his door, “order a new limousine.”

“Is something wrong with the car?” Randall asked, concerned. He was the one who insisted on personally keeping the vehicle in perfect condition, mechanically and cosmetically.

“No, it’s just time.” Keeping up appearances didn’t really matter much to him, but others depended on his maintaining a certain image. The slightest show of weakness—financial or otherwise—could give rise to rumors that could affect Logan Oil & Gas stock prices, and the well-being of countless investors who’d risked their retirement to his care.

Moments later, the car eased down the driveway and the wrought-iron gates opened noiselessly.

And Daniel felt sick to his stomach.

The car was as safe as any presidential limo, with triple-thick steel doors and bulletproof tinted glass. Randall was a former Secret Service agent, an expert in every sort of bodyguard skill on the planet, including evasive driving, marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. But that didn’t stop Daniel from envisioning everything that could go wrong—car accidents, breakdown, traffic snarls, Randall suddenly falling ill…

Daniel told himself it was because he was nervous about meeting Jamie. She’d opened the door a crack; if he was late, she might slam it shut again, making his job more difficult. But the truth was, he just wanted to turn around. Behind the brick wall and iron gates, Daniel dictated everything that happened around him.

Away from that cocoon, anything could happen.

What had gone wrong with him? He’d once loved adventure. He’d traveled, embarked on business ventures, tried every sport he could manage. He’d climbed mountains, dated movie stars and earned a business degree from Harvard.

Now, just leaving the house took a monumental dose of courage.

Yes, being falsely accused of a murder he didn’t commit, then going through the trial and six years of incarceration on death row, was bound to change a man. Once he’d been freed, he’d come home and, for the first time in a very long time, he’d felt safe and loved.

But even back then, he hadn’t been housebound. He’d made periodic trips to Logan Oil and to Project Justice after his father’s death to keep things running. He’d attended funerals and visited doctors.

But the past few years he’d ventured forth less and less as the people he’d hired to run his empire had competently taken over.

I’m fine, damn it.

There was nothing wrong with how he’d chosen to live. After what he’d been through—having a good chunk of his youth stolen away—he ought to be allowed to enjoy his every hour of freedom on his own terms. Thanks to his father and grandfather, plus a few smart decisions he’d made, he had the money to do that, and he refused to feel guilty about it.

Focus on the prize, he told himself. He had to think about Christopher. Succeeding with his mission to find justice for Christopher meant giving a man back his life, and Daniel knew what a huge gift that was. Succeeding also meant more favorable publicity for Project Justice, which was important to all those other men and women the foundation could help.

Then there was the little matter of showing smug Jamie she didn’t know everything. Somehow, though, that thought didn’t fill him with the pleasure he thought it would.

Finally, there was the satisfaction vengeance would bring.

Daniel cracked a tinted window, immediately aware of how different the breeze from outside felt. It smelled wild. Unsafe.

“Nice day for a drive,” Randall said. Daniel had left the glass partition open. “Sometimes I miss the old days, just you and me out and about in the Jaguar.”

“We were a pair, weren’t we? Tearing through town like we didn’t have a care in the world.” That was back when Daniel thought he was invincible.

The bodyguard’s presence reassured Daniel. Randall was the best—discreet and potentially deadly. He looked ordinary enough, harmless even with his light brown skin, round face and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair.

But appearances could be deceiving.

Daniel considered Randall a friend. He was good company—educated, intelligent, funny. And they’d once spent countless hours together.

But they’d had little face-to-face contact in recent years.

Daniel spent the short drive toward downtown looking over papers in his briefcase, information he already knew by heart. He had an almost photographic memory. But he wanted to have answers right at hand for any questions Jamie might pose—and the hard data to back him up.

Jamie. Seeing her again was worth all this trouble. She was the first person in a very long time to challenge him—or excite him. Though of course he couldn’t know her on anything but a professional level, the undeniable electricity that charged the air around them when they were in the same room added an element of interest to this case.

Daniel didn’t “date.” He could not envision himself in a real romantic relationship. Sharing with anyone the world he’d so carefully crafted would ruin it. But that didn’t stop him from the occasional fantasy, and lately Jamie McNair had taken a starring role in his daydreams. He’d also lost a bit of sleep over her, as she’d appeared in his night dreams, too.

He’d best not get too attached to his fantasy. When he put the prosecutor in her place, firmly convinced she wasn’t infallible, she wouldn’t gratefully fall into his arms.

Traffic was light, and soon they were wending through downtown streets. Crowded. Noisy.

Abruptly, Daniel shut his window, sealing the noise outside. But that didn’t stop the panic that suddenly rose in his chest.

He could stop now. Turn around. Cancel the meeting, hand the whole thing over to Ford or Raleigh, his top lieutenants. There was time. Although Christopher’s appeals had run out, his execution hadn’t yet been scheduled.

The urge to run was so strong, it made Daniel light-headed.

“Do you know the suite number of Ms. McNair’s office?” Randall asked.

Daniel turned to Jillian, realized she wasn’t there, and his panic increased. “I wrote it down somewhere… Hell.” It was a simple detail, but his mind was suddenly blank. “I’ll look it up.”

He checked his schedule on his phone. Yes, there it was, on the sixth floor.

He cast his mind ahead to the coming meeting with Jamie, but now he had trouble visualizing it. Was that because he was about to enter an unknown building with unfamiliar elevators and strangers within inches of him? Perhaps.

Or maybe it was the unpredictable woman herself. For the first time in a long time, he would not be in control of every detail around him. It was both exciting and terrifying.

He shook his head. Billions of people could walk into a strange building without thinking twice. He was being ridiculous. If Jamie perceived any nervousness or weakness, she could gain an advantage. Especially on her home turf.

As they turned onto Franklin Street, Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. Three TV news vans, bristling with antennae and satellite dishes, were parked at odd angles in front of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center. Reporters with microphones and cameramen and -women crawled the sidewalks and steps to the contemporary skyscraper, along with a crowd of at least a hundred curious onlookers.

The limo pulled to a stop, and lots of heads turned to gawk. Cameras swiveled in Daniel’s direction.

“What the hell…?” If Jamie had engineered this welcome wagon, he would wring her neck. Hadn’t he emphasized how important privacy and discretion were? Had she done this to deliberately sabotage his efforts?

“Any idea what’s going on?” Randall asked.

“None.” He quickly dialed in the internet on his phone and checked the local headlines. “Ah. Judge John Harlow was caught in the backseat of his car with a fifteen-year-old. Story broke this morning.”

“You can’t get out here,” Randall said firmly. “If the press gets wind that you’re out and about, it’ll ruin any chance you have of conducting normal business.”

“Is it really a front-page story? I mean, come on.”

“Yes, Daniel. You driving downtown to meet with a prosecutor about Christopher Gables would be front-page material.”

Daniel thought he had a pretty good grip on the media and their opinion of him. After all, he watched every news channel all day in his office. Did he have a blind spot where he, personally, was concerned?

More important, what was he going to do now? He wished he’d brought Jillian. She could contact Jamie, smooth things over, reschedule the meeting—

Hell, what was he thinking? He could call Jamie himself. He had the fanciest cell phone on the planet, which Jillian programmed with any number he might need.

Moments later he was dialing Jamie’s direct number, and a rush of sweet anticipation coursed through him as he waited for her to answer.



JAMIE WAS AS PREPARED for her meeting with Daniel Logan as she could be. She had reserved the conference room, and had even sprung for a snack tray from the deli around the corner out of her own pocket. Daniel had fed her lavishly, so she felt obligated to at least see that he didn’t go hungry while on her turf.

Frankly, she was surprised—and flush with inappropriate pleasure—that he had agreed to her terms. As she assembled her stack of papers she intended to present, she couldn’t deny a certain eagerness. But behind it was a dark cloud of impending doom she couldn’t shake.

If Daniel succeeded in his quest, her job was in danger. Certainly her chances of rising to any level of prominence in the district attorney’s office would be quashed. Winston Chubb had been livid when she’d told him what Daniel Logan was up to. Though he feared the man, Chubb had instructed her to neutralize Logan and his do-gooder efforts using any means at her disposal.

Any means.

As she returned to her desk to check messages one last time before the meeting, the phone rang. The number on caller ID was blocked and she considered letting it go to voice mail. But at the last minute she picked it up. If it was Daniel, telling her he was delayed, she would politely remind him she couldn’t rearrange her schedule—just as he’d done to her.

“McNair.” Her voice came out a bit sharper than she’d intended.

“It’s Daniel. I’m in front of your building now, but I’m trapped. There’s a media frenzy going on out here, and if I step out of my car I’ll become a part of the uproar.”

“Oh, for the love of—” She tried mightily to hold on to her patience as she moved to the window and looked down. From her sixth-floor office she had a perfect view of the front entrance, and it was exactly as Daniel had described.

“It’s the Judge Harlow thing, I imagine,” Daniel said.

Jamie sighed in frustration. She hadn’t yet read her newspaper today, but she’d heard about the judge. The whole office buzzed with the news. Just what the city needed, another scandal.

“Is there a back entrance?” Daniel asked.

“I’m afraid not. With our heightened security, everyone has to come and go through the front doors. You’ll just have to cope.”

“I can’t.” His voice held a note of panic. “It’s highly unlikely I would make it into the building unobserved. And I don’t think either of us wants to see our business splashed on the front page until we’re ready.”

He did have a point. “What do you suggest? My time is extremely limited. I’m awaiting a jury verdict, and I could be called back into court at any minute.”

“We can meet in my car. There’s a big backseat—it’s private, it’s roomy and very secure.”

Jamie didn’t like it. Not at all. Was he simply manipulating her, forcing her to abandon her plans and conduct the meeting on his turf—again?

But she couldn’t deny that a security problem existed. That crowd outside looked hungry, and if they couldn’t get a glimpse of the judge or at least get a statement from someone in Public Relations about the situation, they would take what they could get.

And they would have a heyday with the juicy combination of Daniel Logan trying to free Christopher Gables. They would grab on to the surface similarities between the cases, and she would have to spend all of her time chasing down rumors and denying, denying, denying.

“All right, we can meet in your car,” she said, barely able to part her jaws to get the words out. “Give me a few minutes to gather my materials.” And her wits.

She was about to get in the backseat of a car with a man who had the ability to short-circuit her rational mind and possibly tank her whole career.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding like he meant it. His relief was almost palpable. “It’s the black Mercedes limo parked near the corner.”

Five minutes later, she was wending her way past reporters and cameras on the walkway leading from the criminal justice building to the street. Despite her efforts to appear insignificant and ignorant, one reporter jumped into her path and stuck a microphone in her face.

“Ms. McNair, can you comment on the situation with Judge—”

“Even if I knew anything, which I don’t, I wouldn’t comment. Excuse me.” She stepped around the microphone, hoping the reporter holding it would focus on someone else.

A few more steps, and she reached the longest, blackest, shiniest vehicle she’d ever seen. A uniformed driver popped out to open the back door and she slid in as quickly as possible, praying no one noticed. The only time she’d been at the center of media attention—during the Christopher Gables trial—she hadn’t liked it. It was something she needed to get comfortable with, though, if she wanted to advance in her chosen profession.

Jamie kept her eyes focused down on herself as she smoothed her skirt and gathered her thoughts. Only then did she look up and face Daniel Logan.

At least he had clothes on this time. But the effect of Daniel in a well-tailored gray suit and silk tie was no less devastating to her hormones. Her heart gave a little jump, and she sucked in her breath.

He held out his hand. “Jamie. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

She took his hand. “Daniel. Thank you for coming.”

It was the first time she’d called him by his given name. She’d been avoiding it, because it seemed a bit too chummy. Too intimate, given their adversarial relationship.

But it seemed positively Victorian to keep calling him Mr. Logan.

As soon as she could do so politely, she eased her hand away from the warmth of his. His handshake absolutely oozed confidence. How did he do that? And what did hers communicate? Shivering nerves?

“How was the traffic?” she asked, because that was what everyone in Houston asked first thing in any meeting.

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” he admitted. “I was going over my notes. But I guess it was okay. We got here quickly.”

Of course he didn’t have to concern himself with mundane matters like traffic. He had a chauffeur and a limousine the size of a battleship. She tried to imagine living like him—hot and cold running servants, mostly hot from what she’d seen—a three-story mansion, polo ponies and tennis courts. She couldn’t even wrap her mind around it. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not work like a dog every day, watch her spending, save for retirement.

She resented the ease of his life. Yeah, six years on death row wouldn’t have been a picnic. But he’d been convicted of murder. And here he was, flaunting his wealth and dabbling in “charitable” work, helping others like himself escape retribution for their crimes.

“So,” she said crisply, imagining a clear shell around her that would make her immune to the handsome billionaire’s physical proximity. “The driver can’t hear us, can he?” She glanced at the glass partition that separated the driver from the passenger seating.

“Not a word. We could scream at the tops of our lungs and he wouldn’t hear us.”

That thought didn’t particularly cheer her.

“Yes, well. Since I called this meeting, and we have limited time, let’s get started.”

“All right. Tell me about Theresa.”

That was a good place to start. “She was credible. Sincere. My investigation leaves me certain she is the same Theresa who made the 9-1-1 call, bringing the police to El Toreador. And her statement about seeing a stranger in the restaurant kitchen sounds plausible.”

“Only plausible? You don’t think it rings with truth?”

“Plausible,” she said firmly.

Daniel’s eyes almost twinkled as he listened attentively with his whole body. She liked that about him, even if she disapproved of everything else. So many people—men especially—might appear to be listening, but they were actually waiting for their turn to speak.

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he said. “Can you show her mug shots? Have her work with a sketch artist? I have an artist on call for Project Justice that does excellent work.”

Now came the hard part. “As I’ve explained before, one eyewitness statement, delivered all these years after the crime, will not trump the physical evidence. All Theresa gave me was a vague description. She saw an unfamiliar man in the kitchen talking to the victim. Minutes later, as she was bussing tables, she heard a loud crash in the kitchen and went to investigate. She found the victim dead.”

“But she gave some description, right? Male Caucasian in his thirties, medium build…”

“Wearing a baseball cap, so she couldn’t even get a hair color. It’s too general.”

“But she told you it was positively not Christopher Gables. Correct?”

“Yes,” Jamie admitted. “But if we press her for details at this point…well, it’s easy for the mind to play tricks. Her subconscious could provide details just to please me.”

Daniel opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off.

“Not that she would deceive me on purpose, but memory is a strange and unreliable beast. Considering your experience with Project Justice, I’m sure you understand that.”

Daniel seemed to deflate slightly. “Still, it seems likely to me that if this stranger was the last person seen talking to Frank before he died, he is a more probable suspect than Christopher.”

“Except that his prints weren’t found on the murder weapon.”

Daniel pressed his lips together, and Jamie tasted victory. At last, she just might have convinced him he was on a fool’s errand.

She tried to press her advantage. “I brought the case file with me. I’m ready to go step-by-step through the thinking process that led me to prosecute this case.”

“I’d like that.”

Jamie opened her briefcase just as her phone rang. It was rude to take a call during a meeting, but she was still waiting for that verdict.

“I’m sorry, this might be important.” She quickly looked at the caller ID. “Oh. You may actually be interested in this.” It was Eddie, the evidence tech whom she’d bullied into taking another look at Frank Sissom’s clothing. “Yes, Eddie?”

“I got the results on those stains. Put it through the spectrometer. It’s not toner powder at all.”

Her stomach sank. Let it be dirt. Charcoal. Cigarette ash. “Well, what is it?”

“Very fine metal filings. Ferrous.”

This could not be happening to her. Metal filings? As in exactly what Daniel had predicted she would find?

“Thanks, Eddie, I’ll get back to you.”

“Well?” Daniel said. Then his face softened. “Jamie, what’s wrong? You’re pale. Did he say something to upset you?”

Her lips felt suddenly cold, and she could barely form the words. “You said something about a s-serial killer?”




CHAPTER FOUR


“WHO WAS THAT ON THE PHONE?” Daniel asked sharply. Whoever it was, he’d sure said something to shake up Jamie.

“My evidence tech, the one reexamining Frank Sissom’s clothes. He found something no one else did—very fine metal shavings.”

Daniel could hardly believe what he was hearing. His long shot had paid off. “Jamie, this is huge. Do you realize what this means?” In his exuberance, he threw his arms around the lawyer and hugged her. Finally, someone had listened to him about those damn metal shavings.

“Um, do you always get this happy at the prospect of helping a client?”

Suddenly self-conscious, he released her and scooted back a few inches on the enormous bench seat. “Sorry.” Had he been out of the social scene so long, he’d forgotten how to behave appropriately with someone he barely knew?

Only, he felt as if he knew her. Over the past twenty-four hours, he had delved deeply into Jamie McNair’s background, and his admiration for her had only grown.

Her roots had come from anything but privilege. Her single mother had raised her in a one-bedroom apartment with a series of low-paying jobs. Her father was completely absent—Daniel hadn’t even been able to learn his identity.

Yet Jamie had gotten herself an education with a lot of hard work, scholarships and student loans. Still not rolling in dough, judging from her off-the-rack plum-colored suit and a pair of slightly scuffed black pumps—recently polished, but in need of new soles.

Not that she didn’t look stunning in that color. She would look stunning in just about anything.

Daniel forced himself to focus. “You don’t share my optimism, I take it.”

“Frankly, I’m too shocked to know what I feel. The black, powdery substance on Frank Sissom’s shirt was written off as copier or printer toner. No one ever questioned it or analyzed it until now. It didn’t seem relevant.”

“I’ve learned it’s those tiny, overlooked elements that can make or break a case. So, are we on the same page now? Same offender?”

“It warrants looking into,” she said with some degree of resignation. “One thing I can’t help but notice—Frank Sissom was murdered a scant two months after you were released from prison. If we have a serial offender, who’s to say it isn’t you?”

Daniel felt a prickling of fear. He’d never even considered that he could become a suspect. But he grabbed a bottled water and took a sip to relieve his suddenly dry mouth.

“Why would I push to exonerate Christopher and find the real murderer, if the real murderer was me?” he asked sensibly.

She shrugged. “I’ll put that possibility on the back burner. For now. But that leaves me with Gables as a two-time murderer.”

Daniel curbed his impatience. “Gables was a college kid at the time of the first crime.”

“College kids are adults, perfectly capable of homicide.”

One inch at a time. Daniel had more now than he did last time he’d met with Jamie. He just had to keep building.

“Back to the metal shavings. Was your guy able to distinguish the type of metal, or where it might have come from?”

“Well, it’s ferrous, which means iron or nickel, or an alloy of either. We haven’t gotten beyond that yet. The type of close analysis you’re talking about takes time…and money.”

“I’ll give you the name of a lab. They do photo-chemical spectography, which can give us the exact— What?”

Her expression was closed again, guarded. “It’s not just a question of time or money. My boss is going to throw a fit.”

“Does he have to know?”

“Of course he does! If you’re right, if Christopher Gables was involved in two murders—”

“Wait. Stop right there. You can’t seriously think Gables is a serial killer.”

“How can you know it’s not Gables? Look at it from my perspective, Daniel. I am as sure as I’ve ever been that Christopher Gables committed the murder of Frank Sissom. You can’t argue away those fingerprints. If trace evidence links this murder to another, then Christopher might well be involved in the previous murder, as well. It only makes sense.”

It made no sense at all.

“Would you like me to give you an explanation for the fingerprints?” Daniel asked.

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”

Daniel had given this a lot of thought. Because, unlike Jamie, he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t killed anyone, yet his prints had been found on a murder weapon.

“Christopher used the knife for something else—hours, days, even months prior to the murder. So long as no one else touches the knife, the prints remain intact.

“The real murderer then uses an identical knife to commit the crime. Wearing gloves, he smears some blood on the knife bearing Christopher’s prints and places it near the body. Voilà, a perfect frame-up.”

“The medical examiner matched the knife to the wound,” she argued.

Daniel opened his briefcase, rifled through it until he came up with a page of the trial transcript with some testimony highlighted in yellow.

“‘The wound on Mr. Sissom’s neck is consistent with a Messermeister Meridian Elite eight-inch chef’s knife—the knife found near his body.’ Do you recognize that testimony, Jamie?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

“‘…is consistent with…’ doesn’t mean the same as ‘exact match,’ does it?”

“Please, I’m not on trial here. You’ve made your point. The murder could have been committed with an identical knife.”

“You have no idea how many nights I lie awake, thinking about how my prints ended up on a murder weapon. I had no conscious memory of using the knife that killed my partner. I’m not a chef, and I spent little time in the kitchen.”

“So how do you explain it?”

“I tried to think of the things I might use a knife for. And here’s what I came up with. I might have used a knife to open a package. Not the day of the murder, but perhaps weeks earlier. I had a penknife I kept in my pocket for such things, because the restaurant received packages all the time. But I could have mislaid it and picked up whatever was handy.”

Daniel could almost see the gears turning in Jamie’s head as she mulled over his theory.

“Christopher wasn’t a chef, either,” she finally said. “Our theory was that Christopher confronted Frank in the kitchen, knowing ahead of time he would have his choice of murder weapons.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Daniel said. “See if he has any memory of touching that knife for an innocent purpose.”

“I can answer that for you. He said he used it to cut up an apple for lunch that day. Which was an obvious lie, because he always ate something off the menu for his lunch, and at least three witnesses saw him eating fajitas.”

“It was a lie, I’ll grant you that. Probably concocted on the spur of the moment out of fear and desperation. Have you ever been interrogated, Jamie?”

“No, but I’ve witnessed many police interviews and watched loads of video.”

“That’s not the same. Until you’re locked in that room with a couple of mean-eyed cops, pointing fingers at you, shouting at you, playing head games with you—you have no idea what it’s like. You are tempted to say anything, no matter how untrue, just to get those guys to leave you alone.”

“Did you?” Jamie asked, not without compassion.

“I didn’t. But I was still secure in the belief that my father and his influence and money would straighten everything out. Christopher didn’t have that to fall back on.

“I submit that he told that lie because he was terrified. And his lawyer coached him to continue the lie rather than admit to it.”

Jamie digested the story some more.

Daniel gave her a few moments of silence before he pressed his argument. “Raleigh, our chief legal counsel, has put in the paperwork for a face-to-face interview with Christopher. I’d like you to go with her to the prison.”

“Raleigh? Why not you?”

“Prison officials have to grant an interview for a death-row inmate with his attorney of record. I’m not an attorney.”

“Daniel, I know how Project Justice operates. Your people conduct interviews with prisoners on death row all the time, often without an attorney present.”

“It wouldn’t work this time.”

“I submit,” she said, reflecting his own verbiage back to him, “that you are not the best person to argue on Christopher’s behalf. Not only are you seriously biased because of the similarities between the crimes, but your high profile—by your own admission—makes it difficult for you to move about comfortably in public situations.

“So why don’t you assign this case to one of your people. Full-time. It will be easier on everyone.”

“My ‘serious bias,’ as you put it, makes me uniquely qualified to fight passionately for Christopher’s freedom.”

“Then don’t you think you’re the best one to interview him?”

She was right. And yet…the thought of walking into that prison—the very same prison where Daniel had been incarcerated—was abhorrent to him.

“If I agree, will you go with me? Because, as the prosecutor of this case, you also are uniquely qualified to shoot down any half-baked theories. You know what will and won’t fly in a courtroom before a judge.”

“I’ll have to clear it with my boss.”

And she’d already told him: her boss hated the idea of reopening this case.

“I’ll set something up for next week. That should give you a chance to clear your schedule.”

“I’ll send the metal shavings for further analysis. What’s the name of your lab?”

“PrakTech Laboratories. They’re certified by the county, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, Project Justice will pick up the bill.”

She shook her head, firmed her lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into this. In the end, I’ll probably trash my career, and for what? Christopher Gables isn’t going to walk unless another suspect turns himself in and confesses.”

He felt for her. He really did. “You’re doing this because a man’s life is at stake. You’re a good person, and you don’t like the thought of prosecuting an innocent man any more than I do.”

“Or maybe you’re just one persuasive man.”

“That, too.” He smiled at her for the first time since she’d gotten in the car, and she smiled back.

“I will be checking into Christopher Gables’s whereabouts at the time of the Andreas Musto murder.”

“You would be remiss in your duties if you didn’t. Jamie…I want you to know that I’m grateful.”

“Because you’ve backed me into a corner?”

“For doing the right thing. The man who prosecuted my case—Chet Dotie, as I’m sure you know—he stone-walled every effort I made to exonerate myself. He considered my effort a personal affront, and he threw every barrier into my path he could think of, ethical or not.”

“I’m sure it looked that way…” She trailed off and looked away, less composed, suddenly. “Prosecutors invest a lot of time and money into an important case. I mean, it’s not just about that. Most of them believe…they fight passionately…”

“Dotie didn’t believe in it, though,” Daniel informed her. “He looked me straight in the eye and told me he didn’t care if I’d done it or not, he wasn’t going to let some snot-nosed rich kid get out of jail just because his daddy had money.”

Jamie’s eyebrows shot up and her nostrils flared.

“I’m not telling you this simply to malign one of your own. It’s just that the contrast of your open mind is refreshing.”

She didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “We’ll see how refreshed you feel when this is all over.” Her phone rang, and she answered it without apology this time. “McNair…okay, on my way.”





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