A Score to Settle Page 3
“Is that what your father did?”
“Oh, no. My father wanted me to live exactly the same life he did.” An edge in her voice suggested disapproval.
“He was a lawyer, too, I take it. A prosecutor?” His research had told him Jamie was born out of wedlock and the father was out of the picture.
She didn’t answer, and Daniel thought better of pursuing the subject. They’d arrived in the foyer, and Jillian was there, clipboard in hand as well as a small, white cardboard box, which she handed to Jamie with a brittle smile.
“What’s this?”
“Tiramisu. Something to nosh on if you get stuck in traffic again. Daniel didn’t want you to miss it. Although our chef, Claude, is French, not Italian, he does an incredible job.”
“Thank you,” Jamie said uncertainly.
“No, thank you,” Daniel said, meaning it. “I know it was an imposition, driving out to River Oaks, but I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. I believe in the end you’ll be glad you did.”
She turned to face him, and that mulish expression had returned to her face. “Mr. Logan. Best-case scenario for me is that you’ve wasted some of my time. Worst case, you make me look like an incompetent fool and possibly cost me my job.”
“I hope it won’t come to that.”
“If you’re right, that is exactly what would happen. Believe it or not, I would be willing to accept unemployment if you could prove I’d made such a heinous mistake. But I’m not willing to be made a fool simply because you have the money, and the clout, and the patience to get your way. I will not give in simply to be done with this. I will fight you every step of the way, no matter how good your freaking tiramisu is.”
On that note, Jillian opened the front door for her, and Jamie stepped out into the blustery fall day toward her car.
Jillian closed the front door with a bit more force than necessary. “She’s a real piece of work.”
“I thought she was fantastic! Intelligent, outspoken, passionate about her work…”
“And drop-dead gorgeous,” Jillian observed drily. “I don’t suppose you’re crushing on her, are you?”
“Jillian, please. I’m well out of adolescence. I don’t get crushes.”
“Whatever you call it, I hope you won’t let it get in the way of what you have to do. Because to free Christopher Gables, you might very well have to crush one passionate, overzealous prosecutor.”
WHAT JUST HAPPENED BACK THERE?
Jamie’s hands actually trembled as she put the car in gear and headed toward the gates that were, even now, opening for her. She’d walked into Daniel Logan’s home practically breathing fire, ready to dazzle him with her facts and her smart-ass wit. Instead, she’d found herself ogling a half-naked man, sharing one of the best meals she could remember while the same man wore nothing but a bathrobe, and saying yes to something she never should have agreed to.
Now she was committed to giving Theresa Chavez an audience. And if the woman convincingly claimed to have witnessed someone other than Christopher Gables killing Frank Sissom, Jamie could not, in good conscience, dismiss the woman’s statement.
She would have to investigate. She would have to find out if it really was the same woman who discovered the body, then fled, and then determine if the woman was credible.
None of which would change the fact that Christopher Gables’s fingerprints, and only his prints, were found on the murder weapon. But if she didn’t perform due diligence, Daniel Logan would never leave her alone.
She knew how Project Justice operated, because quite a few cases prosecuted by her office had been overturned due to the persistence of the foundation’s people. Daniel—who believed in this case so strongly that he had taken it on personally—would not give up until he was convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that his client really was guilty.
God, what a nightmare. Winston Chubb, the district attorney, wasn’t going to be happy with this turn of events. And he would find a way to blame Jamie for it, she was sure. Winston always managed to grab the credit for anything good that happened, and passed the buck regarding anything bad.
On top of everything else, she could smell the tiramisu, faint threads of chocolate, vanilla and coffee. She ought to just throw the little white box—tied with a satin ribbon, for God’s sake—into the first trash can she saw. The dessert was a symbol of everything that had gone wrong with that meeting, including her completely inappropriate physical reaction to the billionaire.
Imagine her, Jamie McNair, attracted to a convicted killer! But she was.
It was hard to visualize Daniel Logan killing anyone. Even knowing the facts, she hadn’t felt the least bit uncomfortable alone in his presence, other than having to hammer down her libido.
But then, people had said that about Ted Bundy.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Jamie was back into her office and the little white box was empty, damn it.
Her day was shot. A pile of cases sat on her desk—mostly routine plea-bargain requests from defense attorneys. She went through as many as she could, signing off on the reasonable ones, rejecting the more outrageous requests for repeat felons and violent offenders.
She spent an hour returning phone calls, talked to three different detectives regarding a felony assault case, then checked her schedule for the following day.
Jury selection for a drunk hit-and-run case in the morning; three appointments in the afternoon.
With fifteen minutes left of her official workday, Jamie did what she’d known she would do all along. She opened the Gables/Sissom murder file and dug through a mountain of reports until she found the one from the crime lab regarding the evidence they’d processed—bloodstains, fingerprints, the knife and, finally, the victim’s clothing.
Most of the details regarding the clothing had to do with bloodstains—including one tiny biological stain on the apron that hadn’t belonged to the victim and had remained unidentified. But there was also a list of substances other than blood found on the victim’s shirt, which included olive oil, tomato juice, salt—all the things once might expect to find on someone who spent time in a restaurant kitchen.
One finding, though, made Jamie stop: “a black, powdery substance assumed to be from a laser printer or copy machine.”
Assumed to be? Since when did crime-scene analysts assume anything? Probably the restaurant had a printer or copy machine, and since Frank Sissom was one of the owners, she had every reason to believe he’d been in the office and changed a printer cartridge.
But a black, powdery substance could also be metal shavings. Damn it.
She called the guy who’d signed the report, Eddie Goddard. He’d been working at the crime lab since Jamie was in high school, and though he was normally thorough and dependable, he still was not her favorite person. A card-carrying member of the Good Ol’ Boys Club, he didn’t like women telling him what to do.
“Eddie. I see you’re working late like me.” It was now well after five.
“I was just heading out, actually. What can I do for you?” He did not sound enthusiastic about adding any tasks to his To Do list.
“I won’t stop you from getting home in time for dinner,” she promised, hoping to earn brownie points. “But tomorrow morning, I’m going to bring you a piece of clothing from the Frank Sissom case. I need some additional analysis on a certain stain.”
“You’re joking, right? That case is ancient.”
“Wish I was. But I need to shut somebody up before he goes to the press and makes our lives more miserable than they already are. A quick look-see under a microscope will probably do the trick.” She hoped.
“Okay, sure,” he agreed in monotone.
Tomorrow morning, she would retrieve the actual physical evidence from the police, hand the victim’s shirt over to Eddie and pray that Theresa Chavez didn’t call.
CHAPTER THREE
“DANIEL, SORRY TO disturb you, but Jamie McNair is on line two.”
The four men an
d 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.”
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…