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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.”
