скачать книгу бесплатно
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.”
