She opened her mouth to scream. Nothing. Paralyzed. The man’s hot breath snaked over her skin and she gasped. Don’t let him win. Her eyes watered. She blinked, fought the tears seeping free. Breathe, Emma.
Chaos and fear whirled through her mind. Turn around. Look at him. Her minimal self-defense lessons flashed into her head. If she could get to his throat or his eyes, she’d have a chance. She shifted, tried to spin, but he shoved her against the wall, his bigger body leaning into her, crushing her.
“Help!” she croaked.
Her attacker laughed and pushed his body further into hers. “You wanna die right here like Chelsea Moore?”
Vomit heaved into her throat and she gagged, swallowed it back. Someone, help me. Should have waited for Zac...Fight. Don’t let him win. Messages and warnings came in a rush, battering her oversensitized system, shredding what was left of her nerves.
Elbow.
She jerked her elbow back and connected—his arm maybe—but it skidded off.
And then she got mad. Mad enough to show this jerk that she wouldn’t be an easy victim. Not ever.
“No!” she hollered, her voice suddenly coming to her aid. Thank you.
“Emma!” Zac from the alley entrance.
“Here.”
The pressure from the man’s disgusting body eased up and she sucked in a breath, all that rancid air flooding her lungs. She turned and swung. Nothing there. A shadow sprinted to the back exit of the alley. The clomp of shoes—Zac’s dress shoes—sounded from behind her.
Catch him. Knowing Zac would follow, she gave chase.
“Did you see him?” she hollered over her shoulder.
“No.”
She had to find him, see who he was and what he knew about Chelsea Moore.
Zac caught up to her, his longer legs making the task easy. “Emma, hang on.”
He grabbed her arm and halted her, but she struggled against his hold as her attacker fled. No. No. No. “He’s getting away.”
She yanked free and ran to the far end of the alley, looking both ways. I’ve got to find him. Crushing disappointment, like rising water, overtook her, stole her breath. I blew it. Whoever it was, he’d disappeared. “No!” Her echoing rage bounced off the surrounding buildings and she squeezed her fingers into tight, knuckle-popping fists. So much pressure.
Then Zac was next to her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her in for a hug so fierce it sparked that same heat that she’d felt earlier. Concentrate, Emma.
“What happened?” he asked.
Not wanting to be babied—who needed that?—she elbowed away and stared into the blackness where her attacker vanished. Damn it. She shook out her hands, let her aching fingers recover. “He pushed me.”
Zac set her back and squeezed her arms. “Mugger?”
“No. He said...”
What did he say? Think, Emma. She spun around, pointed. She’d been standing there, right there, shoving the shirt into the pipe and then—bam—he’d shoved her. As she stared at the spot and envisioned the attack in her mind, his voice came back to her, low and mean and vile, and she focused. Think. The words tumbled in her brain and she separated them, gave them order. “He said, ‘Do you want to die like Chelsea Moore?’”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Did he say anything else?”
Zac hugged her again, holding her against him and the warmth of his bigger body drew her closer. After all the battles she’d fought alone, someone wanted to take care of her.
“Yes.” Emma backed up, waggled her hands as the words came back to her. “He said, ‘You don’t learn, do you?’”
In the darkness, Zac’s arm moved. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”
Emma stilled his hand, kept him from dialing. “Wait. We must be getting close to something someone doesn’t want us to find. He followed me here.”
“Lady!” The club’s security guard. “You gotta move this car!”
“Be right there!” She turned back to Zac. “The bouncer was rushing me. I paid him twenty bucks. That’s why I didn’t wait for you.”
“What are we doing here?”
“Lady!”
“We’re coming,” Zac yelled back, his voice carrying an unmistakable don’t-screw-with-me message.
Grabbing his hand, Emma dragged him back to where she’d shoved her shirt. The stingy light illuminated them and she pointed at it. “I wanted to see if we could see the white from where the witness was standing. Maybe that’s what’s bugging you about the shirt.”
For a full ten seconds, he stared at the shirt then turned to the alley entrance. He grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”
The two of them strode back to her car, Emma double-timing to keep up. At the entrance, Zac whirled around. She did the same thing. Behind them traffic whooshed by as they gazed into the darkness where the meager light showed two doorways. Only two doorways.
No white shirt.
* * *
ZAC KNEW THAT SOMEONE had to stand in the alley with that shirt on. Except it was Emma’s shirt and he wasn’t about to send her back in there.
“Dude,” the bouncer said. “You gotta move these cars. It’s a fire lane.”
But Zac was distracted by a white shirt he couldn’t see. He studied the bouncer. Big, but not huge. A size or two bigger than Zac.
I’m wearing a white shirt.
Following Emma’s lead, he peeled a fifty from his money clip. “My name is Zac Hennings. I’m a Cook County Assistant State’s Attorney. We’re investigating the homicide that occurred here two years ago.”
“The cop’s daughter?”
“That’s her.” Zac held the fifty between two fingers. “This is yours if you’ll put my shirt on and stand in the middle of this alley. That’s it. Fifty bucks. It’ll take two minutes.”
Come on. Take the money. He needed to see for himself if that shirt was visible from his vantage point. If not, he’d haul the detectives back here and prove to them that it couldn’t be seen from this distance. Something they should have done and something the SA’s office should have confirmed.
Dammit.
Zac didn’t know what to feel right now. Frustrated with shoddy investigating? Sure. Terrified that his case was coming apart? Definitely. Worried about Emma? Absolutely.
And yet, if the evidence fell apart, it would help her. But this was his job and his boss wanted to save face for the SA.
The bouncer glanced at the club’s doorway. Losing him. Zac flicked the fifty at him. A second later, the bill was gone. Zac hurried out of his jacket and Emma took it from him, watching as he stripped down to his undershirt. Did she have to do that? Talk about a distraction. Cold air blasted his bare skin, bringing his mind back to his task rather than taking his clothes off in front of a woman he’d like to see do the same.
Emma held his jacket up and he slipped his arms into it. “Thanks.” He went back to the bouncer. “Go halfway down the alley and stop.”
While the security guard made his way down the alley, Zac glanced at Emma and the red scrape he’d failed to notice when they’d first come out of the alley. His face got hot and his typically reined-in temper flared. Should’ve gotten here faster. He’d never considered himself a chest-pounding alpha male, but another man putting his hands on Emma made him want to gut someone.
And he was the prosecutor.
What a mess.
He propped his finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “You’ve got a scrape. Did he hit you?”
“No. He shoved me into the building, and my cheek crashed into the brick.”
“I’m sorry.” He leaned down, dropped a kiss on the spot. “I’m sorry you’re hurt and that I didn’t get here sooner. We have to be more careful.”
She squeezed his wrist. “I should have waited. Nex
t time I’ll wait.”
“This good enough?” the bouncer yelled from the middle of the alley.
“Yeah. You’re good. Hang there a sec.” Zac took a few steps left, separating himself from Emma. He had to focus on his job, on not letting his growing feelings for this woman sway his judgment. He stared into the blackness. Nothing. He took two steps closer to the alley entrance.
“You remember where the witness was standing?” he called to Emma.
“He said he was walking past the club on his way to the garage so he’d have been on the sidewalk and crossing. You’re probably closer than he was.”
Then she was next to him, her energy an electric current zapping him hard. The two of them looked into the black mouth of the alley, not seeing a thing.
Now Zac had a problem.
Chapter Ten
After her eight o’clock class, Emma drove to the North Side to meet Penny at Stanley Vernon’s home. Mr. Vernon, the star witness for the prosecution, had identified Brian as the man wearing the white shirt in the alley and Penny wanted to shake him up.
Considering Emma informed Penny of the white shirt test the night before, Penny, being Penny, sensed blood gushing from Zac’s case. If they could get Mr. Vernon to recant, Penny felt sure their request for a post-conviction relief hearing would be granted and Brian would have a chance at a reversal.
This meeting was crucial to their effort. Emma breathed deep and squeezed the steering wheel. Moisture from her hands made the surface slick and she scrunched her nose. Relax. Let Penny do the talking.
On her first pass around the city block, she spotted the spunky lawyer in her pink coat—not hard to miss—waiting for her two doors down from their intended target. Remembering Zac’s cross-eyed irritation from the morning he’d spotted that coat gave Emma a moment of respite from the giant knot between her shoulders. Popsicle Penny.
As siblings went, Zac and Penny were a funny pair. Clearly, their affection ran deep, but she imagined that when they fought, they fought hard.
Being attorneys, Emma assumed they were used to the conflict, but she wasn’t sure she could face her brother in court. Her protective instincts would kick in and she’d worry about beating him.
Zac and Penny didn’t have those issues. Not with their kill-or-be-killed instincts. They craved the slaughter. The win.
Emma found a parking space half a block from Mr. Vernon’s home. The short walk and fresh air would help clear her mind for the conversation about to take place. Part of her wanted to run screaming from this encounter. In a few moments, she’d have to face the man who’d helped tear her family apart. Maybe, at the time, he’d felt he was simply doing his civic duty, but she now knew that he’d lied on the stand.
And she had proof in Zac’s white shirt.
Emma stepped onto the sidewalk, straightened her trench coat and ran a hand down the front. She’d opted for a knee-length navy-blue skirt and light blue sweater for this meeting. Not too lawyerish or bold. She took one step and—whoops—her thin heel sank into the crack in the sidewalk, the soft dirt holding her hostage. Terrific.
Outside of special occasions, she never wore heels and now knew why. She slid out of the shoe and squatted to free it.
“What?” Penny called from four houses down.
“Keep your panties on. My shoe is stuck.”
Obviously enjoying the show, Penny shook her head. “I do love you, Emma.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
She plucked the shoe free and used a tissue from her purse to wipe the heel. Upsetting the Vernons by leaving a trail of mud in their home certainly wouldn’t help their cause. Her shoe clean once again, she half walked, half jogged to where Penny was standing. “I’m sorry. I hate heels. I’m never good in them.” She pressed her hand to her head where a sudden throb nearly split her skull. I’m a wreck.
Penny squeezed her arm. Not hard. Just a light, reassuring gesture. “Relax. I’ve got this. You sit and look sincere. The guilt alone will kill this guy.”
“I’m afraid I’ll screw up. What if he refuses to talk in front of me?”
“Then I’ll send you outside, but I have a hunch that won’t happen. When I tell him we tested the white-shirt theory, he’ll take one look at you and cave. Trust me. We’ll be fine.”
Emma smacked her eyes closed. Penny, the only lawyer in town with enough faith, or maybe it was nerve, to take their case, needed her and she was having a meltdown. Not smart. The knot in her shoulders tightened and Emma rolled her head side to side. She could do this. Hadn’t she interviewed over two hundred witnesses? Some of whom had literally run from her, but she’d kept at it, hour after hour. She’d hounded them. And persuaded them to talk to her.
I can do this.
She opened her eyes and jerked her head. “Thank you. And, no pressure here, but my brother’s life is in your hands.”
“Oh, please. As if that would work on me.” She linked her arm with Emma’s. “Let’s eat this guy alive.”
Lawyers.
They climbed the four brick steps leading to a two-story, aluminum-sided, single-family home. The porch columns looked recently painted and Emma felt a pang of guilt over the neglected maintenance on her mother’s home. There was always so much to do. Penny knocked on the front door and the repetitive thunk refocused Emma.
I can do this.
A plump woman with bleached-blond hair—maybe fiftyish—opened the door. She spotted Penny in the popsicle coat and smiled. Then she turned to Emma. The smile evaporated. I can do this.
Penny shoved her hand out. “Mrs. Vernon? I’m Penny Hennings. We spoke on the phone.”
The woman’s gaze slid back to Penny and her smile returned. “Yes. Hello. Come in. My husband will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
Penny followed the woman in, but swiveled to Emma and crossed her eyes. Emma cracked a smile, thankful her lawyer’s energy was strong enough to handle any grim task.
Mrs. Vernon ushered them into a sitting area at the back of the house. Three large windows of the converted porch overlooked a patch of yard with wisps of early-spring greenery. In the summer, it would be a quiet, comforting spot for reading. Not that Emma did much pleasure reading anymore. Who had time?
The woman motioned them to the upholstered love seat, offered them coffee and went about all the niceties required when guests arrived. A valiant effort, but Emma imagined that their presence wasn’t all that welcome.
While Mrs. Vernon tended to the beverages, Penny sat erect and unmoving, her hands in her lap. Even in a motionless state, her crackling energy suffused the room. Pink coat and fair-haired beauty aside, this was a panther ready to pounce.
A man entered the room. Mr. Vernon. Emma recognized him from court, but he was thinner now, somehow smaller than he’d been when she’d seen him during Brian’s trial. As if life had beaten a few inches off him. She could relate.
For a moment, she remained buried in the shock of seeing him. His testimony had decimated her brother’s future and torn away another chunk of her family. Don’t go there. Penny popped off the love seat, slapped the glamour girl smile on her face and stuck her hand out.
“Hello, Mr. Vernon. Thank you for seeing us. So kind of you.” Emma unglued herself from the chair and stood. “Allow me to introduce Emma.”
Funny how she left off the last name. Mr. Vernon held out his hand. His gray-blue eyes narrowed a bit, not mean, more questioning. Within seconds his eyebrows lifted. Recognition complete. The poor man made an effort to smile, but it came off stiff and unyielding.
Apparently, Emma wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure.
“Nice to meet you, Emma.”
Liar.
“You, too, sir.”
Liar.
Penny smacked her hands together. “Shall
we sit?”
“Yes, please. My wife offered you a drink?”
“Yes, thank you.” Penny settled back into her seat and waited for Emma and their witness to park themselves. “Mr. Vernon, as I mentioned on the phone, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your testimony.”
His gaze shifted to Emma, then back. “I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.”
How about that you lied? Emma clasped her hands in her lap, determined to keep her trap shut.
Penny reached into her briefcase for a legal pad. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“That’s fine.”
The Popsicle Penny smile, all sweet and gooey, broke loose. “Thank you. I’d like to ask you about the white shirt you said you saw on the man in the alley.”
Vernon’s throat bulged from a swallow. Interesting.
“Sir, we did a re-creation in the alley.”
“I don’t understand.”
Penny flipped her palm up. “A man wearing a white shirt stood in the alley where Chelsea Moore’s body was found. We did this at night, of course.”
Mrs. Vernon entered the room with two coffee mugs and handed one each to Penny and Emma. “Thank you, ma’am,” Emma said.
Penny set the mug on the table next to her. “Mr. Vernon, I don’t mean to be argumentative and I’m not questioning what you saw—” She smiled that sweet-girl smile that had probably destroyed an army of men. “Well, maybe I am. You understand. I need to clarify the details.”
“What details?”
“About the shirt. When we did our test, the man wearing white could not be seen from where you said you stood.”
“How can that be?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Are you certain of your location? Or perhaps the man in the alley was closer than you thought.”
Mr. Vernon glanced at Emma, then shook his head. “No.”
Liar.
Trap shut. Emma sipped her coffee, but oh, how she wanted to rage and scream at him to tell the truth. Her brother’s future had been ripped to shreds, stolen, and this man dared to sit in front of her and lie?
THE PROSECUTOR Page 11
