by Lexi Blake
David shook his head. “Too close to the city. I was thinking upstate. Someplace rural, where they don’t much care for the press and a man can get a fair trial.”
She liked the way he thought.
Royce’s cold eyes rolled. “Yes, that’s also where the yokels think football players are gods and anyone in a suit is suspicious. Very clever.” He turned to Campbell. “You make sure Adams is cleaned up after you get him through processing and take him out as quietly as possible. I want this trial happening right here in the city. I’m not having it moved because of some photos. Do I make myself clear?”
“As crystal,” Campbell replied with a long sigh. “I’ll start processing his clothes now. Johnson! Let’s get things moving. The press will have us surrounded in a few hours.”
Royce leaned in, lowering his voice as he spoke to David. “And you are here on the sufferance of my boss. The only reason you’re allowed to walk in this place is because we don’t want you outside talking to the press. Watch yourself. One wrong move and you’ll be the one hauled out of here.”
Royce moved away, marching toward the back of the house, likely to get an idea of the crime scene.
“Giant ass,” Campbell said with a shake of his head. “He’ll be giving a press conference before he even reads the initial reports.”
“And that would be a good time to get Trey out of here,” Isla pointed out. “He needs to be in a hospital, not a prison.”
Campbell held up a hand. “He’s not going anywhere but the station. I need to question him and I can’t do it here. We’ll process his clothes and body and then transport him. I’m sorry, David. You know what a football fan I am, but this isn’t looking good. Adams is on some serious drugs, but we’ve got no signs of an intruder. They kept separate bedrooms and hers was the only room in the house that got trashed. She was killed with a knife. I won’t know how many stab wounds until we get the ME report, but it was a lot. This was a rage killing, and I would bet a lot of money the person who killed her also loved her. Nothing professional or cold about this one.”
David nodded. “Noah, would you please stay with Mr. Adams while they process him? I want everything documented. We’ll need to move somewhere private.”
“Of course.” Noah followed the detective.
David turned to her, holding out a hand. “Ms. Shayne, it’s good to see you again, though I hate the circumstances.”
She’d met him before. Somewhere in the back of her brain she realized that, but she’d never noticed how handsome he was, how warm his eyes were or how broad his shoulders. Of course, she’d been in a deep freeze for a few years following Austin’s death. She seemed to finally be coming out of it and her hormones were working overtime. But this was not the time nor the place to flirt. “Thank you for getting here quickly. Obviously I’m in over my head. I handle Mr. Adams’s business and minor legal issues. I’ve never practiced criminal law. I hope you’ll help me keep up. This family is important to me.”
“What do we know? Noah wasn’t able to tell me much. I can easily see the DA’s office is already salivating,” he said with a frown. “That might make my job easier. They’re going to be impatient, and Osborne is more politician than lawyer. Speaking of getting everything in order, does Mr. Adams know he has new representation?”
“I have power of attorney in case of . . .” It felt wrong to say the words. She should be colder than this.
“In case of Portia Adams’s death, you have Mr. Adams’s power of attorney, so you have the legal right to retain me.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull it together.”
He reached out and put a hand on hers, squeezing slightly. “Relax. I’m here and you are no longer an attorney. You’re a family friend and you’ve suffered a terrible shock. What can you tell me?”
“Ms. Shayne?” Noah was back and slightly out of breath, his eyes trailing to where he’d come from. “We’re having trouble with Trey. He’s having a hard time understanding the officers and it’s upset him. I think you should come in here and try to calm him down.”
She turned. She should have expected this when she’d sent Miranda out. Portia could cover for him, make him appear almost normal. Without Portia’s steady hand, Isla had no idea what Trey would do. “He has trouble remembering where he is sometimes.”
She walked down the hall, her heels clicking on the marble floors. David and Noah were behind her. The detective had been patient and shown some compassion, but he could only go so far. Now that Royce was here, he would have to move a bit more quickly.
“Mr. Adams, I need you to calm down,” the detective was saying.
She turned and found herself in the downstairs office. It looked like they were trying to process his clothes. They’d managed to get his shirt off, but now Trey paced across the floor.
“Where is my wife?” Trey asked, his eyes bloodshot.
“Mr. Adams, if you do not comply, I’m going to have to make you comply,” Campbell was saying. There were three officers surrounding Trey. All of them had their guns out.
Isla stopped, taking in the scene and the fact that there was something in Trey’s hand that shouldn’t be there.
Oh, god. They would kill him or he would kill himself.
“Why does my client have a gun?” David asked. He reached out as though he was going to pull her back.
If he got a hand on her, he would likely haul her away. She could already tell she was dealing with a save-the-women-and-children kind of guy. Noble, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. She stepped away before he could get hold of her.
“Trey, it’s me. It’s Isla,” she said, giving him a hint of a smile. It was all she could manage. “I need you to calm down.”
“He grabbed the gun when my officer was trying to take his shirt, and don’t think someone’s not going down for allowing that to happen,” Campbell said, his voice tight. “Ms. Shayne, you better get him on board and fast, or I will tase you and have you hauled out of here if you get too close.”
Behind her, she could hear a crowd gathering. Royce was saying something about taking the problem out. She had to ignore everything but the man in front of her.
“Where’s Portia?” Trey asked.
Her heart ached. She remembered when this man had been a god walking the earth. He’d been the darling boy of the Northeast and now he was ruined, his mind in tatters. “Trey, I’m sorry. Portia is dead. Please give me the gun. The police need to do their job. They have to find out who killed Portia.”
Her heart was breaking because he was obviously confused. This giant of a man had been brought so low in the last few years that she couldn’t imagine he could go lower, but here they were.
He stared at her, his eyes seeming to clear for a moment. “Who killed Portia?”
“We don’t know. We have to find out, but her blood is on your clothes and the police need them. I need you to cooperate with them.” Her voice sounded tiny in the big room, so shaky. It couldn’t stand up to the tension of the place. That tension was a living, breathing thing and it felt like it was growing. She had to find a way to beat it before it burst and took down all of them. “They need your clothes as evidence.”
“Isla, did I kill Portia?” Trey asked.
She could hear David Cormack curse under his breath. Oh, he might curse her name at the end of this. Royce likely had his phone out, recording everything. He would use this all against them. Every word that came out of Trey’s mouth would make David’s work harder.
But she couldn’t think about that now. This situation was visceral, and nothing would matter if she couldn’t find her way out of it. She shook her head. “No, Trey. You couldn’t have hurt her. You love her. Please don’t say anything else. Please.”
His once handsome face grimaced in pain. He was still big and muscular, still capable of destruction. She was worried he was going to des
troy himself.
“I’m nothing without her. Without her I am nothing. Nothing.” The words came out of his mouth in a hard monotone.
“Ms. Shayne, please back up,” Campbell said, his voice hushed. “I’m going to try to bring him down.”
“Please don’t hurt him.” She wasn’t sure his children would survive losing them both.
“I love you, Portia,” Trey said.
The gun came up and chaos broke out.
Every cop in the room tensed. She watched in horror as he brought the gun to his forehead. And then she was whirling, her body twisting and turning, not of its own accord. She found herself pressed up against the wall, David’s big frame covering hers, ready to take a stray bullet for her if he had to.
A loud bang crashed through the room, and David went rigid above her.
She heard shouting and then the unmistakable sound of electricity going through a body. The air around seemed to crack and fizzle as the Tasers did their job.
“He’s going to be all right,” David whispered. “But don’t move until we’re certain. I don’t want you caught in some adrenaline-fueled crossfire.”
“He’s alive?”
“The shot went wide.” David’s voice was calm in the storm. “He’s alive, but this is bad for us. We need to talk.”
She understood exactly what he meant. Her client was alive, but the fight had begun and they were already behind.
TWO
David paced the floor of the hospital, his loafers barely making a sound. It was quiet. Too quiet. The silence in the hallway made it far too easy to hear the only sounds that anyone was paying attention to. The nurses’ station was full and every eyeball was peeled to a TV monitor showing a glossy morning anchor, her perfect face solemn as she delivered the salacious story.
“According to police sources, longtime Manhattan resident and world-famous philanthropist Portia Adams was found dead in her Upper East Side apartment early this morning. She died of multiple stab wounds. Her husband of twenty-five years, former New York Guardians quarterback Trey Adams, was in the home at the time. Here is assistant district attorney Royce Osborne with an update.”
He turned away. That massive ass. Osborne had done his impromptu press conference from the hospital steps. And he’d done a far better job of kissing the DA’s ass than of telling the public anything they needed to know.
“Any news?” Noah looked over at the nurses’ station. “Well, any news that’s not being handed out by a douche canoe?”
“The doctor hasn’t come out yet. It could be another hour. They’re being very thorough. The detectives decided to take a lunch break,” David explained. “I think it’s a ploy to get us to do the same. They would love to get in there without his lawyer present. One of us needs to be here at all times.”
Noah frowned, his face slightly panicked. “But what about food?”
Poor little rich boy. He pointed to the ramshackle vending machines and their nonstop offerings of stale chips and too-sweet candy. There was an ancient coffeepot that held coffee-flavored coffee, so Noah would hate that. “That’s where your next meal is coming from. Buck up, buddy. Where’s Isla?”
She’d ridden over with them. He wasn’t sure she’d noticed but she shook for a good thirty minutes after Adams had attempted to commit suicide and nearly taken her out instead. He’d had to restrain himself or he would have reached out to hold her hand in the car.
He’d forgotten how pretty she was. Or maybe, when he met her the first time, he hadn’t been ready to see her. He’d stood there in the middle of a crime scene, and all he was able to think about was how plump her lips were, how her hair brushed her breasts. He was an asshole. She was hurting and his dick was thinking of a million and one ways he could comfort her.
“On the phone,” Noah replied, his shoulders sagging. “Are you sure we can’t have pizza delivered or something? Maybe some Chinese. I don’t think well without food and I skipped breakfast.”
“I have a protein bar in my briefcase,” he offered. “It’s all yours.”
For a second he looked like a puppy who’d been kicked and hard. “Real food is important. I need bacon and eggs and pancakes.”
“Do you honestly get up every morning and cook a full breakfast?”
“Well, I don’t but someone does,” Noah admitted. “Usually whoever I brought home with me, but if my sister’s in town, I go to her place. The point is I’m not used to going without food that looks and tastes like food.”
He stared at his young partner. “Go get a hot dog, then. I’ll wait.”
Noah huffed. “Jeez, and they say Henry’s the intimidating one. Any idea how long they’ll take? They’ve been in there for hours. And what exactly is wrong with him? What kind of drugs is he taking?”
The elevator doors opened and Isla stepped out. She wore a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater that was far too big for her. Her hair was up in a ponytail and her face was free of makeup. She looked far too young to be an attorney, much less a high-powered one. She looked like she’d rolled out of bed and gotten dressed in a hurry.
And walked into a nightmare. He hated the fact that he would be the one to take her back to the moment when she’d found the body.
Her gaze went to the nurses’ station and she flushed as she caught sight of the monitor, her jaw tightening before she turned and walked over to them.
“The news stations are broadcasting as the ME moves Portia’s body,” she said, her words clipped and terse. Anger was there in her eyes, but also a helplessness. “They’re showing the gurney and the white sheet. Her children could be watching. How could they do that?”
She was obviously in shock or she likely wouldn’t have asked the question.
“It’s what the press does,” he replied simply because getting angry about the press helped no one. It was a reality of life. “If we would allow them in, they would film the crime scene and do a whole report standing over the dead body. Are you all right?”
She slipped her phone into her purse and took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“How long has Trey Adams had CTE?”
He had his answer in an instant as she went from flushed to pale and her eyes widened. Oh, not the timeline answer, but what he’d really been looking for. Confirmation. The family knew what they were dealing with.
“CTE?” Noah asked.
“How did you know?” Isla looked around as though trying to make sure they were alone.
He could have told her no one was paying attention. They were all watching the news with the singular exception of the cop guarding the door to the room where Trey Adams was being housed. “There have been rumors for years that he left his color commentator job because he couldn’t handle it mentally anymore. Oh, you’ve done a good job of covering, but the rumors are still there. Some people think he’s addicted to drugs, likely painkillers from using them when he played, but no one’s sent him to rehab, not even a quiet, private one. There are other rumors that he has early stage dementia, that he has problems with memory. But I know the truth. He has all of it. Drug problems, dementia, the whole wide range of what we call CTE. Chronic traumatic encephalopathy.”
“So this a brain injury?” Noah asked.
“It’s thousands of brain injuries,” Isla explained. “Over the course of a professional football player’s career, it’s been estimated he could sustain thousands of asymptomatic subconcussive hits. These aren’t the kinds of concussions that put a player on the injured reserve list. The player likely wouldn’t even realize the injury had occurred. Over time, the brain injuries trigger the buildup of an abnormal protein in the brain tissue. It leads to all sorts of brain problems, and you saw a few of them today. Confusion. Memory issues. Depression. He takes a lot of meds. They help keep him calm, but they don’t help him remember or control his impulses.”
Impu
lse control. It was a serious symptom of CTE. Violent episodes. Paranoia. Had Portia done something to upset her husband? Some minor infraction that his damaged brain built up into something worth killing over?
“He’s been diagnosed?” It had been only recently that CTE was acknowledged as a problem that could affect football players and other athletes. Before the work of Dr. Bennet Omalu, who had formally identified the condition, it was known as dementia pugilistica, or in more informal terms “punch-drunk syndrome,” and was thought to be confined to boxing. It was only in the last few years that a diagnosis could be made on a living brain.
“As much as we can diagnose,” she replied. “He started to have trouble concentrating years ago. Even at the end of his career he was starting to show signs. We kept it quiet at first because we weren’t sure what was wrong. After we were sure, Portia didn’t want the press to know. It would have put a strain on him. As you can see, dealing with the press can be stressful.”
He wanted to ask if she thought it was possible that Trey Adams had killed his wife, but that was one question that would never pass his lips. It didn’t matter if Adams was guilty or innocent. All that mattered was putting forth the best defense possible. Typically that would mean talking to the client. He was starting to get worried he might not get to have a stable conversation with this particular client. In this case, he would have to investigate Trey Adams from the outside. He would need Isla.
