Unforgivable

by Laura Griffin

  “Miguel Sanchez.”

  “The gas-station shooting,” Ric said. “SMPD worked that case. I heard it’s a slam dunk. Didn’t the perp drop a glove at the scene or something?”

  “A hat. I recovered DNA from it, too, along with hair samples. But Russ Pickerton is running the defense.”

  “No kidding?” Ric had yet to meet a cop who could say the name Russ Pickerton without a string of curses tumbling out. Besides being a media whore, the guy would do anything to get a client off, including paying inconvenient witnesses to recant their stories. Or so people claimed. “How’d Mendoza manage that?” Ric asked her.

  “I think he’s doing it for the publicity. The whole racial-profiling angle generated some controversy. You guys pulled him over on a bum taillight or something.”

  “Yeah, we have a tendency to profile drivers who’re breaking the law.”

  Mia’s heel got hung up on a crack in the pavement. Ric caught her by the elbow.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He kept his hand on her arm and eased her closer. “Are you ready for him?”

  “Who, Pickerton?” She sneered. “What do you think? The man’s an eel. I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him.”

  “He’s pretty rough on expert witnesses.”

  “It’s not just that,” she said. “He’s got a mile-long list of liars for hire who will testify to damn near anything, no matter how scientifically improbable.”

  “I’ve seen him in action,” Ric said. “I once watched him persuade a jury to acquit a guy based on the idea that the fingerprints on the murder weapon had been planted there by the defendant’s twin brother.”

  “Twins don’t have the same fingerprints. Not even identical twins.”

  “The prosecution pointed that out,” Ric said. “But he had the jury so brainwashed they actually let this guy walk. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Mia huffed out a breath. “I’ve got my work cut out for me tomorrow.” She cast a worried look in his direction. “Any progress on the shooting?”

  “We’re waiting on ballistics.” Ric didn’t tell her the rest of what he’d learned that day.

  “What about my Jeep?”

  “Still no word.”

  The smoky scent of barbecue wafted toward them as they neared the weathered wooden building with neon beer signs blazing in the windows.

  “Like I said, you should try to get a check from your insurance company. I doubt you’ll get it back, at least not in one piece.”

  “I don’t care about that. I don’t think I could stand to drive it. I was thinking for the crime-scene techs.”

  Ric pulled the door open, and they stepped into a warm room filled with the scent of spice and hickory. He took her hand and pulled her past the empty hostess stand. Twangy country music drifted from the jukebox as they made their way through the dining room to one of the many vacant booths lining the back wall.

  Ric peeled off his jacket and hung it on a hook beside their booth as Mia stood there, looking annoyed. “You said they’d be crowded.”

  “I’m hungry. I didn’t want to wait for you to change.”

  She unbuttoned her black wool coat. He slid it off her shoulders, and her hair glided over his fingers as he got his first good look at what she’d worn to court: a pale blue blouse in some thin, silky fabric and a dark blue skirt that hugged her full hips. Ric felt a pang in his gut that had nothing to do with hunger.

  “Sit down. You’re gawking.” She slid into the booth and grabbed a menu.

  “Sorry.”

  A young waitress stopped by, and they ordered a couple of beers. When they were alone again, Mia looked down at her menu.

  “You know, I don’t get you,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  She shook her head. Started to say something. Then shook her head again.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  The waitress delivered their beers. Mia ordered rotisserie chicken while Ric went for the rib platter. When the waitress left, Ric got to the point.

  “You were asking about your case. I think we might have a vehicle.”

  Hope flared in her eyes, and she leaned forward. “From the convenience store? What, was it parked there?”

  “We found someone from the Minute-Mart who remembers a dark-colored sedan pulling up to the pet shop across the street around the time you were in the store. That whole strip center was closed down, so we’re thinking it could be the shooter.”

  “How can you be sure of the timing?”

  “We matched a credit-card transaction to a customer who was in there the same time as you and Hannigan, tracked him down for an interview. He remembers seeing you, also remembers the car.”

  “Why would he remember seeing me?”

  “Every man in that store remembers seeing you. You were in a nightshirt.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was in jeans and a sweater, too. Did he remember that?”

  “There was also a dark sedan parked at the construction site adjacent to the zoo on Saturday. A security cam caught it.”

  She leaned back, obviously alarmed by this development. “But I thought the zoo didn’t have surveillance cameras. The director told me—”

  “They don’t. The camera was at the construction site, mounted on the trailer they’ve got parked there. The construction company uses it to keep an eye on workers, keep them from sleeping on the job, stealing equipment, stuff like that. We viewed the footage yesterday, came up with a partial view of a dark-colored sedan parking at the job site about thirty minutes before you reported Sam missing. Looks like he showed up right after you did. Jonah found a gap in the fence, so he could have slipped through unnoticed.”

  Ric waited for the words to sink in. From the lack of color in her face, he figured they had.

  “Chances are, this wasn’t some garden-variety pervert hanging out at the zoo, trolling for kids.” He was pointing out the obvious but needed to drive his point home.

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “Wrong angle.”

  She looked away, chewed her lip.

  “You notice a car like that around lately? Maybe at work or when you’ve been out?”

  “No.” Anger flickered in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? About this connection?”

  “I’m telling you now. Anyway, it’s only a possible connection. We’re still running it down.”

  The bread arrived. They tore and buttered in silence. She was clearly upset by the link between the shooting and what happened to Sam.

  Yes, it was only a possible link, but Ric believed there was something to it. This thing, whatever it was, was about Mia. It was the reason he’d spent the better part of his Saturday night tromping around a construction site, making a cast of a shoeprint and a tire track. It was the reason he’d driven by her house every night since the shooting. It was the reason he was there right now, telling a civilian confidential details about an investigation. Mia was at the center of this, and he needed to figure out why.

  When their meals came, they moved on to easier topics. Mia filled him in on the unidentified remains she’d looked at that day and he agreed to check into it. She seemed hopeful about the lead, but Ric thought it was even less promising than the Fort Worth case. Unidentified bones, especially ones that had been sitting unclaimed for two years, weren’t likely to offer a whole lot of warm leads.

  A frigid gust slapped at them as they exited the barbecue joint. The temperature had dropped, and for a while, they walked in chilly silence.

  It began to sleet. Mia shivered. Ric draped an arm around her and pulled her against him. She tensed at first, but after a few seconds, she tucked her head against his shoulder.

  “So, how are those lab results coming?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer right away, and he remembered her theory about him buttering her up for favors. Sharp woman.

  “I’m still working,” she said. “I wa
s in court all afternoon, so I’m falling behind. Sometimes it seems like all I do is testify.”

  “That’s because you’re good.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve watched you. You’ve got a way with juries. Much better than your boss. What’s his name, Snyder? Prosecutors hate putting him on the stand. That’s why you get called so much.”

  “It is?”

  “That and the freckles.”

  She halted in front of her house and stared up at him. “I get called to testify because of my freckles? Sounds like I wasted four years in graduate school.”

  He followed her up the sidewalk. “You look trust-worthy. Like the girl next door. Juries like you.” They stopped beneath the porch light. He reached up and traced a finger down her cheek. Her bruise was fading, and she’d hidden what was left under some makeup. “Being beautiful doesn’t hurt, either.”

  She looked away and shook her head.

  “What?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want a straight answer this time. No bullshit.”

  A faint warning sounded in his brain, but he ignored it. “You know, you’re cute when you curse.”

  She rolled her eyes. “See? There you go again.”

  “What?”

  She swiped a curl out of her face and glared at him. “You’re flirting with me.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Why did you stop calling me at the end of the summer? Be honest this time.”

  He looked away.

  “Come on, Ric, out with it. You suddenly weren’t attracted to me? You got bored? After all those drop-ins and phone calls, you decided you didn’t like my personality?”

  “Maybe I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  “What makes you think I want a relationship?”

  The warning in his head grew louder, and still he ignored it. “You’re nesting,” he said.

  “Nesting.”

  “You’re settling down. We had coffee together, what, three times? And you start looking at me like you’re ready to pick out dishes or something.”

  Her arms fell to her sides, and her mouth dropped open. “I wanted to pick out dishes? Did you really just say that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can pick out my own dishes! What would I need you for?”

  He watched her, not sure how the hell they’d gotten to this point. And he knew that whatever microscopic chance he might have had of taking her to bed tonight had been annihilated.

  “I can buy my own dishes and my own house, too, thank you very much!” Her cheeks flushed pink, only this time it was from anger, not cold. “And what is it with men, anyway? You think every woman is sitting around waiting for someone to slip a ring on her finger. Hate to break it to you, but that’s a fallacy fostered by way too many overinflated egos.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right! Some women just want sex, same as men.”

  Ric stared at her. “You’re saying you just want sex?” He couldn’t help himself. He started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head, watching her, unable to control the grinning, even though it pissed her off. “You. You’re just—”

  Her glare intensified.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Mia, no offense, but you’re full of it. When was the last time you went out with a guy and didn’t want anything out of it but sex?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, although clearly the answer was never. “But maybe I will. Maybe I’ll call Vince Moore back. I doubt he’s looking to pick out dishes. And he’s pretty ripped, too. It might be fun.”

  Ric’s humor evaporated. “That guy’s an asshole, Mia. Stay away from him.”

  His phone buzzed, and Ric checked the number. His boss. Damn it, this wouldn’t be good. He turned off the ringer.

  Mia shoved her key into the lock and turned to face him, blocking the door with her body just in case he thought he was getting an invitation inside.

  “You need to be careful,” he said as his phone vibrated, making a dull rattle against his car keys.

  “I didn’t ask you for dating advice.”

  “I’m talking about your safety,” he said. “Pay attention to your surroundings. Get a security guard to walk you to your car if you need to work late. Keep your alarm on when you’re at home. And if anything unusual happens, call me.”

  She just looked at him.

  “Are you listening, Mia?”

  “Be extra careful. Got it. Anything else you wanted to share?”

  Another sound from his pocket, and he yanked the phone out. “Santos. Hold on.” He looked at Mia. “Lock up tight tonight. And don’t forget—”

  “To set my alarm, I know. You’d better go, Ric. Sounds like you’ve got somewhere to be.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sophie’s brow furrowed with concern the second Mia stepped through the glass door. “Whoa, what happened to you?”

  “What?” Mia jerked the scarf from around her neck and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat.

  “You look like you just ran over a puppy. Everything okay?”

  “Bad day in court.” She tugged the ID badge out of her purse and clipped it to her blouse. She didn’t want to talk about it right now. She didn’t want to do anything besides slip into her lab coat and bury herself in work. “Any calls come through?”

  “The usual. Detectives desperately seeking updates. I put them through to your voice mail. Oh, and one in particular called three times. A Detective Moore. Vince was his first name? Not sure I’ve met him.”

  “You’d remember it,” Mia said. “He’s cute.”

  “Cute as in Levi’s ads or cute as in I’d look like an Amazon next to him?”

  “The first one.”

  “Good to know.” Sophie held out a stack of pink message slips, and Mia tucked them into her pocket. “And FYI, that guy Darrell’s looking for you. The one from the Cave,” she added, referring to the basement offices where the data technicians worked.

  “Good, because I need to talk to him.” What Mia really needed was to escape before Sophie could pin her down for more details. She started for the elevator bank. “Hey, if I don’t see you before I leave, good luck at your gig tonight.”

  Mia made a dash for the elevators and squeezed into one right before the doors closed. She rode up to the sixth floor with a DNA tracer and a couple of guys from Cyber Crimes. She wondered if any of them had ever been ripped to shreds by the illustrious Russ Pickerton. Probably not.

  The doors dinged open, and she stood face-to-face with Darrell. His eyes lit up.

  “I was just looking for you. Where you been all day?”

  “Court.”

  She stepped out, and he fell into pace beside her. Darrell was tall and lanky and always seemed to be eating something. This afternoon, it was a chocolate-iced doughnut, and Mia’s stomach started growling.

  “Got some news for you.”

  “What’s that?” Please let it be good news. She needed something—anything—to salvage her terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad day.

  “You know that profile you lifted earlier this week?”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Electrical cord. Ligature strangulation case. I ran it through the database and bing.”

  In Darrell-speak, bing was good.

  “And?”

  “An offender hit.” He grinned at her.

  “You’re kidding.”

  The saliva off that cord had come from someone whose profile was already stored in the database. Offender hits were rare, but Mia lived for them anyway. They were the reason she got up in the morning. They made everything worth it—the drudgery, the painstaking hours, even the Russ Pickertons of the world.

  “I notified the department that submitted the sample,” Darrell said, “and the detective there wants to talk to you. Kopchek, I thi
nk it was.”

  “Kubcek,” she corrected. She was grinning now, too. “I know him.” Or at least, she felt like she did. He’d been hounding her for weeks.

  “He’s got some follow-up questions, stuff a little out of my league. I told him I’m just the lowly data jockey— you’re the DNA guru around here.”

  “I’ll call him.” She stopped in front of her office and gave Darrell a spontaneous hug, which might have been a bad idea, because when she looked up, a blush was creeping up his neck. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Mia slipped into her office and shrugged out of her woolen layers. She hung everything on a hook beside the door and pulled on the crisp white lab coat that had been recently laundered and had her name embroidered on the pocket. The familiar bleach scent was comforting.

  An offender hit. Yes.

  Mia pressed her palms against the counter and closed her eyes as a feeling of relief washed over her. Some family in Houston would get answers to their questions now. And maybe someday, after the soul-rending grief subsided they might even feel comforted by the knowledge that the person who’d taken their child from this world hadn’t gotten away with it.

  Mia took a deep breath. It was turning out to be a good day, despite the morning. Her work had led to a break-through, and Russ Pickerton—with all his smoke and mirrors and courtroom antics—could go screw himself.

  A ring emanated from her overcoat pocket. She fished her cell phone out but didn’t recognize the number on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Check your e-mail.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Something about the voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  “Check your e-mail. And make sure you’re alone.”

  “Who is this? Hello?”

  She glanced at the phone, but the call had disconnected. Mia’s pulse quickened. This seemed like maybe an obscene call, and she wasn’t sure she should power up her laptop. Instead, she tapped the in-box on her cell-phone screen and waited for her messages to pop up. Eleven new ones, one flagged urgent. No subject line. She clicked open the message, and a picture of Sam filled the screen.

  Mia’s stomach dropped. Sam was smiling up at the camera and standing in front of a sign: CEDAR HOLLOW ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.