Читать книгу A Score to Settle - Kara Lennox - Страница 10

“DANIEL, SORRY TO disturb you, but Jamie McNair is on line two.”

The four men and two women seated in Daniel’s conference room looked surprised by the interruption, and it was no wonder; his staff knew not to disturb him during a Logan Oil & Gas board meeting. The company was largely responsible for maintaining Daniel’s personal wealth, and Daniel remained involved in the overall direction and philosophy of the company his grandfather had started.

The meeting was important, but Jamie took priority.

“I have to take this call,” Daniel said to the board as he rose. “Shouldn’t last more than five minutes.”

When Jamie had left his home two days ago, Daniel hadn’t been sure how, or even if, she would follow up. So he was a bit surprised and pleased that she’d called him.

He stepped down the hall and into his private office, then picked up the phone.

“Jamie. Good to hear from you.”

“Mr. Logan.”

Damn, she didn’t sound nearly as warm as he’d hoped. “Did Theresa get in touch with you?” He already knew she had; he’d personally seen to it. He’d even hired a car and driver to take her to the district attorney’s office for an interview.

“She did. And I’ll be honest with you, she piqued my interest.”

“Then you’ll reopen the case,” he said confidently.

“Don’t get your hopes up. She seemed genuine, but I still haven’t verified she was at the scene of the crime. For all I know, she’s an actress you hired.”

Daniel bit his tongue to stifle a snide retort. After spending six years hitting brick wall after brick wall trying to overturn his own conviction, he shouldn’t be a bit surprised by Jamie’s attitude.

“I can provide the documentation you need—”

“I’ll provide my own, thanks very much. And if I find out she’s lying, I’ll personally see to it she’s prosecuted. And if I find you paid her to lie, I’ll prosecute you.”

Daniel was livid. He was so tired of this attitude. Of course, the Harris County D.A.’s office would be doubly motivated to prevent another overturned conviction; Project Justice had recently gained freedom for a mobster’s son convicted of killing his girlfriend, and the case had caused some major embarrassment for the D.A.

“It sounds as if you simply don’t like me very much. Are you going to let personal feelings stand in the way of justice?”

“Please stop being so simplistic. I’m convinced I did a good job convicting Christopher Gables. Naturally, it’s going to take a solid argument to persuade me I made a mistake.”

“We’re talking about a man’s life here.”

“Yes, the life of Frank Sissom, Gables’s victim. Do you have anything else to show me? If so, bring it on.”

“What about that unidentified DNA?”

“If you have a theory about where it came from—or any other evidence—I’m willing to talk. Contrary to what you might believe, I do not have a closed mind. In fact, I’m having one of our evidence analysts reexamine Frank Sissom’s apron.”

“Really?” She’d succeeded in surprising him.

“I should have results tomorrow.”

“Then by all means, we should talk again. When can you get here? I can free up my schedule anytime—”

“I’m glad to hear that, because mine is packed. I can spare you an hour tomorrow afternoon or Monday morning, here at my office.”

Daniel’s heart clutched, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. “I can’t possibly drive downtown.”

“Afraid you’d miss your afternoon massage? Exactly how serious are you about wanting to free your client? I disrupted my whole schedule to drive to River Oaks. If you want my cooperation, you can meet me halfway. Besides, we might need to talk to people in the crime lab or the investigating officers involved in the case—all of whom can be found downtown.”

“I can send one of my best people.” And admit to his staff—already skeptical—that he was not up to handling a case on his own. That would be a bitter pill to swallow.

“Okay. Your assistant can meet with my assistant.”

Now she was playing hardball. “Ms. McNair. Jamie. This matter is too serious for us to play games.”

“Don’t talk to me about games. You’re the one who made me cool my heels while you got your massage and sent me home with tiramisu, trying to butter me up.”

Maybe she had a point. “Did you like it, by the way? Chef Claude is a genius.”

“That is immaterial. I’ve got a lot on my plate and I really don’t have time to chase after every hard-luck and if-only story I hear. You believe he’s innocent? Fair enough. Show me the commitment that says you mean it. I’m willing to listen, but I’m not going to deal with layer upon layer of assistants and bodyguards. You started this, and I think you should be the one to finish it. Personally.”

His awareness of her primed his body for action, even over the phone. She wanted to deal with him personally, did she? Her reasons sounded plausible, but he didn’t completely buy them. Perhaps she wanted to see more of him, just as he wanted to see more of her. He would have been pleased, if not for the massive logistic problem her ultimatum caused.

“What’s it going to be?” she prompted. “I’m due in court in ten minutes.”

“Name your time,” he finally said. “I’ll be there, so long as you keep our meeting discreet. Being out in public can cause difficulties for me.”

“Believe me, I’m as anxious as you to keep this thing under wraps. Two o’clock tomorrow? I can reserve the conference room.”

“I’ll be there.” Come hell or high water. He hadn’t heard any flooding forecasts for South Texas, but hell was a definite possibility.

The board meeting broke up at close to noon. After seeing everyone out to their cars, Jillian returned to Daniel’s office to go over his afternoon schedule.

“It’s nice poolside, if you’d like to take your lunch there. You haven’t breathed any fresh air in a couple of days.”

He resisted the urge to remind Jillian that the filtered air in his home was nine times cleaner than the smog-infused air of Houston. “Good suggestion.” Dirty air or not, he liked sitting outside when he could, looking out over his swimming pool and listening to birds and wind in the trees. It helped him think, and he had a lot of thinking to do. And it reminded him he was a free man.

“Also, Jillian, please have the limo ready tomorrow at 1:30—no, 1:15. I’m going downtown to meet with Jamie McNair… What?”

The unflappable Jillian’s mouth gaped open. “You’re going downtown?” she repeated.

“Yes. Maybe not in the limo, I don’t want to draw attention. The Bentley might be better.”

“You are going downtown,” she said again.

“It’s the Christopher Gables case. Ms. McNair is willing to talk, which is frankly more than I expected at this stage.”

“But… you’re going to a meeting? Personally?”

“Jillian, have you gone hard of hearing? I’m perfectly capable of attending a meeting off-site. I’ll admit, I usually choose not to, but this is important.”

“With all due respect, sir, you haven’t left the estate in three years.”

That stopped him. “Three— Oh, surely you’re mistaken.”

“Your grandmother’s funeral in Miami. October 3, two thousand—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going. I have to go.”

Jillian’s face softened. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The tightness in his chest eased slightly as he pictured Jillian sitting next to him, dealing with pesky details. But when he pictured himself meeting with Jamie, he saw the two of them alone.

Hell, he didn’t need Jillian to hover and fuss over him. He could handle this mission on his own. He had taken on the responsibility of being Christopher Gables’s champion, and he needed to see it through.

“No, thank you, Jillian. I’ll bring Randall for security. That should be sufficient.”

Jillian looked as if she wanted to argue, but in the end she nodded her head and turned. “Yes, sir.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Daniel sucked up a monumental case of nerves and strode to his limo parked in the driveway. He’d opted for the larger, more ostentatious car after all; it seemed safer.

He had a briefcase full of information about the Sissom/Gables case as well as the Andreas Musto murder—the parallels between the two cases simply could not be coincidence. He’d even drawn up a chart, with graphics, showing similarities. And if there was a remote chance that he could find the person who’d stolen six years of his life…

Daniel wasn’t a violent man, as his lawyers had so tirelessly reminded the jury. But if he ever came face-to-face with the man who’d framed him, he could easily kill with his bare hands. That thought had provided comfort during many sleepless nights.

His special-order Mercedes limousine was familiar and comforting, and he breathed in the scent of well-tended leather. But the car must be at least four years old now.

“Randall,” he said just before his driver and bodyguard closed his door, “order a new limousine.”

“Is something wrong with the car?” Randall asked, concerned. He was the one who insisted on personally keeping the vehicle in perfect condition, mechanically and cosmetically.

“No, it’s just time.” Keeping up appearances didn’t really matter much to him, but others depended on his maintaining a certain image. The slightest show of weakness—financial or otherwise—could give rise to rumors that could affect Logan Oil & Gas stock prices, and the well-being of countless investors who’d risked their retirement to his care.

Moments later, the car eased down the driveway and the wrought-iron gates opened noiselessly.

And Daniel felt sick to his stomach.

The car was as safe as any presidential limo, with triple-thick steel doors and bulletproof tinted glass. Randall was a former Secret Service agent, an expert in every sort of bodyguard skill on the planet, including evasive driving, marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. But that didn’t stop Daniel from envisioning everything that could go wrong—car accidents, breakdown, traffic snarls, Randall suddenly falling ill…

Daniel told himself it was because he was nervous about meeting Jamie. She’d opened the door a crack; if he was late, she might slam it shut again, making his job more difficult. But the truth was, he just wanted to turn around. Behind the brick wall and iron gates, Daniel dictated everything that happened around him.

Away from that cocoon, anything could happen.

What had gone wrong with him? He’d once loved adventure. He’d traveled, embarked on business ventures, tried every sport he could manage. He’d climbed mountains, dated movie stars and earned a business degree from Harvard.

Now, just leaving the house took a monumental dose of courage.

Yes, being falsely accused of a murder he didn’t commit, then going through the trial and six years of incarceration on death row, was bound to change a man. Once he’d been freed, he’d come home and, for the first time in a very long time, he’d felt safe and loved.

But even back then, he hadn’t been housebound. He’d made periodic trips to Logan Oil and to Project Justice after his father’s death to keep things running. He’d attended funerals and visited doctors.

But the past few years he’d ventured forth less and less as the people he’d hired to run his empire had competently taken over.

I’m fine, damn it.

There was nothing wrong with how he’d chosen to live. After what he’d been through—having a good chunk of his youth stolen away—he ought to be allowed to enjoy his every hour of freedom on his own terms. Thanks to his father and grandfather, plus a few smart decisions he’d made, he had the money to do that, and he refused to feel guilty about it.

Focus on the prize, he told himself. He had to think about Christopher. Succeeding with his mission to find justice for Christopher meant giving a man back his life, and Daniel knew what a huge gift that was. Succeeding also meant more favorable publicity for Project Justice, which was important to all those other men and women the foundation could help.

Then there was the little matter of showing smug Jamie she didn’t know everything. Somehow, though, that thought didn’t fill him with the pleasure he thought it would.

Finally, there was the satisfaction vengeance would bring.

Daniel cracked a tinted window, immediately aware of how different the breeze from outside felt. It smelled wild. Unsafe.

“Nice day for a drive,” Randall said. Daniel had left the glass partition open. “Sometimes I miss the old days, just you and me out and about in the Jaguar.”

“We were a pair, weren’t we? Tearing through town like we didn’t have a care in the world.” That was back when Daniel thought he was invincible.

The bodyguard’s presence reassured Daniel. Randall was the best—discreet and potentially deadly. He looked ordinary enough, harmless even with his light brown skin, round face and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair.

But appearances could be deceiving.

Daniel considered Randall a friend. He was good company—educated, intelligent, funny. And they’d once spent countless hours together.

But they’d had little face-to-face contact in recent years.

Daniel spent the short drive toward downtown looking over papers in his briefcase, information he already knew by heart. He had an almost photographic memory. But he wanted to have answers right at hand for any questions Jamie might pose—and the hard data to back him up.

Jamie. Seeing her again was worth all this trouble. She was the first person in a very long time to challenge him—or excite him. Though of course he couldn’t know her on anything but a professional level, the undeniable electricity that charged the air around them when they were in the same room added an element of interest to this case.

Daniel didn’t “date.” He could not envision himself in a real romantic relationship. Sharing with anyone the world he’d so carefully crafted would ruin it. But that didn’t stop him from the occasional fantasy, and lately Jamie McNair had taken a starring role in his daydreams. He’d also lost a bit of sleep over her, as she’d appeared in his night dreams, too.

He’d best not get too attached to his fantasy. When he put the prosecutor in her place, firmly convinced she wasn’t infallible, she wouldn’t gratefully fall into his arms.

Traffic was light, and soon they were wending through downtown streets. Crowded. Noisy.

Abruptly, Daniel shut his window, sealing the noise outside. But that didn’t stop the panic that suddenly rose in his chest.

He could stop now. Turn around. Cancel the meeting, hand the whole thing over to Ford or Raleigh, his top lieutenants. There was time. Although Christopher’s appeals had run out, his execution hadn’t yet been scheduled.

The urge to run was so strong, it made Daniel light-headed.

“Do you know the suite number of Ms. McNair’s office?” Randall asked.

Daniel turned to Jillian, realized she wasn’t there, and his panic increased. “I wrote it down somewhere… Hell.” It was a simple detail, but his mind was suddenly blank. “I’ll look it up.”

He checked his schedule on his phone. Yes, there it was, on the sixth floor.

He cast his mind ahead to the coming meeting with Jamie, but now he had trouble visualizing it. Was that because he was about to enter an unknown building with unfamiliar elevators and strangers within inches of him? Perhaps.

Or maybe it was the unpredictable woman herself. For the first time in a long time, he would not be in control of every detail around him. It was both exciting and terrifying.

He shook his head. Billions of people could walk into a strange building without thinking twice. He was being ridiculous. If Jamie perceived any nervousness or weakness, she could gain an advantage. Especially on her home turf.

As they turned onto Franklin Street, Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. Three TV news vans, bristling with antennae and satellite dishes, were parked at odd angles in front of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center. Reporters with microphones and cameramen and -women crawled the sidewalks and steps to the contemporary skyscraper, along with a crowd of at least a hundred curious onlookers.

The limo pulled to a stop, and lots of heads turned to gawk. Cameras swiveled in Daniel’s direction.

“What the hell…?” If Jamie had engineered this welcome wagon, he would wring her neck. Hadn’t he emphasized how important privacy and discretion were? Had she done this to deliberately sabotage his efforts?

“Any idea what’s going on?” Randall asked.

“None.” He quickly dialed in the internet on his phone and checked the local headlines. “Ah. Judge John Harlow was caught in the backseat of his car with a fifteen-year-old. Story broke this morning.”

“You can’t get out here,” Randall said firmly. “If the press gets wind that you’re out and about, it’ll ruin any chance you have of conducting normal business.”

“Is it really a front-page story? I mean, come on.”

“Yes, Daniel. You driving downtown to meet with a prosecutor about Christopher Gables would be front-page material.”

Daniel thought he had a pretty good grip on the media and their opinion of him. After all, he watched every news channel all day in his office. Did he have a blind spot where he, personally, was concerned?

More important, what was he going to do now? He wished he’d brought Jillian. She could contact Jamie, smooth things over, reschedule the meeting—

Hell, what was he thinking? He could call Jamie himself. He had the fanciest cell phone on the planet, which Jillian programmed with any number he might need.

Moments later he was dialing Jamie’s direct number, and a rush of sweet anticipation coursed through him as he waited for her to answer.

JAMIE WAS AS PREPARED for her meeting with Daniel Logan as she could be. She had reserved the conference room, and had even sprung for a snack tray from the deli around the corner out of her own pocket. Daniel had fed her lavishly, so she felt obligated to at least see that he didn’t go hungry while on her turf.

Frankly, she was surprised—and flush with inappropriate pleasure—that he had agreed to her terms. As she assembled her stack of papers she intended to present, she couldn’t deny a certain eagerness. But behind it was a dark cloud of impending doom she couldn’t shake.

If Daniel succeeded in his quest, her job was in danger. Certainly her chances of rising to any level of prominence in the district attorney’s office would be quashed. Winston Chubb had been livid when she’d told him what Daniel Logan was up to. Though he feared the man, Chubb had instructed her to neutralize Logan and his do-gooder efforts using any means at her disposal.

Any means.

As she returned to her desk to check messages one last time before the meeting, the phone rang. The number on caller ID was blocked and she considered letting it go to voice mail. But at the last minute she picked it up. If it was Daniel, telling her he was delayed, she would politely remind him she couldn’t rearrange her schedule—just as he’d done to her.

“McNair.” Her voice came out a bit sharper than she’d intended.

“It’s Daniel. I’m in front of your building now, but I’m trapped. There’s a media frenzy going on out here, and if I step out of my car I’ll become a part of the uproar.”

“Oh, for the love of—” She tried mightily to hold on to her patience as she moved to the window and looked down. From her sixth-floor office she had a perfect view of the front entrance, and it was exactly as Daniel had described.

“It’s the Judge Harlow thing, I imagine,” Daniel said.

Jamie sighed in frustration. She hadn’t yet read her newspaper today, but she’d heard about the judge. The whole office buzzed with the news. Just what the city needed, another scandal.

“Is there a back entrance?” Daniel asked.

“I’m afraid not. With our heightened security, everyone has to come and go through the front doors. You’ll just have to cope.”

“I can’t.” His voice held a note of panic. “It’s highly unlikely I would make it into the building unobserved. And I don’t think either of us wants to see our business splashed on the front page until we’re ready.”

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?”