Allison Brennan - See No Evil

He tracked down Emily’s other friends but they had next to nothing to contribute. He attempted to talk to her teachers, but they refused to talk to him since he wasn’t a cop. He called Emily’s piano teacher, who had been advised by his lawyer not to speak to anyone, and the art studio downtown had no one on the premises who personally knew Emily. “The classes are run by the community college,” the gallery owner told Connor. “You’ll have to talk to the head of the art department, Anton Foster.”

Connor took down the contact information and tried Foster, but only got voice mail. He left a curt message and slammed down the phone, reminding himself that this was the part of being a cop he never liked-following up on leads that went nowhere. But it had to be done.

Where the hell was Julia?

His cell phone rang: Dillon.

“What’s up, bro?” said Connor.

“I thought we were meeting at my house.”

“Julia isn’t home yet.”

“Why don’t I meet you at her house? I have to make another stop. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“You have news?”

“Some. I’ll talk to you when I get there.”

Connor hung up and sat down against the tree. At least the view was nice. Calming.

An orange-and-white tabby cat cautiously approached. Connor sat there, pretending not to notice. The cat came closer. Closer. Sniffed his hand, almost like a dog. Connor smiled. They’d had a cat when he was little, a black cat with a white chest who looked like he was wearing a tuxedo, hence his name, Tuxedo, given to him by Carina who was then seven. He’d been a stray, but the Kincaid family adopted him. They were in Texas at the time. When they moved a year later for Virginia, they brought Tuxedo with them. He disappeared soon after the move, and they never found him. Nor did they get another pet that wasn’t caged.

He wondered if the tabby belonged to Julia. He’d never pictured her as an animal person. A workaholic. A fierce prosecutor. A rigid attorney. Except around Emily, where she softened, became human, female. A woman he could picture with a cat on her lap and a fire in a darkened room. A woman like the one he’d kissed five long years ago.

He should never have kissed her, but she’d looked so beautiful, so vulnerable, so damn kissable. He couldn’t resist. He’d been attracted to her from day one, but kept his feelings well tamped down. Back then when he’d kissed her, she’d responded with a fierce passion he’d never suspected was inside. He’d hoped that maybe, when things died down, he’d ask her out. Take her to bed.

It didn’t happen. The day after their kiss, the cold attorney Julia Chandler was back with a lose-lose ultimatum.

He’d wanted to resign so badly and screw her, screw the case. But the truth was he couldn’t see what would happen if he was tried for manslaughter. Even if he spent a day in jail, a cop behind bars was in jeopardy. He wasn’t willing to give his life to protect criminal bastards who contributed to the abuse of underage girls.

He couldn’t have been more shocked when Julia gave him the ultimatum. In the end, he did what they wanted and went back to work.

He’d tried to explain what would happen, but Julia refused to listen. She was so caught up in the rights and wrongs, she’d really had no idea what she was asking him to do.

The next six months were hell. The department was polarized. Ultimately, he resigned, refusing to be a lightning rod for controversy and anger anymore.

He shook the past from his mind. Five years was a long time, but remembering how he felt then brought back the old anger and resentment. Connor needed to put that aside so he could help clear Emily.

He heard the car’s approach before he saw it. The cat beside him scampered off toward the house. Instead of bounding up the stairs to the porch, the cat went through a small hole beneath the stairs.

Julia’s Volvo came into view. She parked outside of the detached garage and got out, looking at Connor’s truck, then looking around for him. She wasn’t in her attorney uniform. Instead, she was wearing a skirt similar to last night’s, a flowing number in spring colors, and a tight little lacy white pullover shirt. Her hair was down and the light breeze played with it. He stood and approached her.

“Where have you been?” he said, focusing on the fact that she wasn’t home when she was supposed to be, instead of how delicious she looked.

She frowned, her brows pulled in. “I didn’t realize you were my keeper.”

“You said you were coming straight here after the courthouse.”

“I made a detour.”

“And?”

“Let’s go inside.”

She led the way inside. She had three locks and a security system. “Scared of something?”

She shrugged. “Andrew Stanton suggested I get a security system after the Fione trial.”

“I don’t know that case.”

“It was over two years ago. Fione raped and killed three women in the bay area. We had DNA, two eyewitnesses, and he kept souvenirs-the victim’s underwear. We tried to plead it to life without parole thinking he’d go for it to save his life, but he refused to plead guilty, so we prosecuted special circumstances murder one and he got the death penalty. Of course, that costs us a hell of a lot more than the plea.” She sighed. “I think that’s why the bad guys go to trial, to cost us time and money. We had Fione easy.”

“So he’s away for life. Why the security?”

“He threatened me in court. I wasn’t scared of him, he was going to prison for the rest of his life, but Andrew thought since I was handling high-profile cases it would be prudent to have security.”

“Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He touched her arm. She looked down, surprised that indeed she was trembling. “So what kind of threat did Fione make?”

“The usual. That he’d get out and cut my throat.” She tried for a light laugh, but it came out a squeak. “That’s water under the bridge, really. He’s never getting out. Might not see the end of a needle in my lifetime, but he’s secure in San Quentin.”

“But he scared you.”

“What he did to those women scared me and made me angry. He mutilated their bodies so badly they needed closed caskets. The second victim was discovered by her eight-year-old daughter. She didn’t even recognize her mother. It was awful.”

“Any more threats?”

“Here and there. I have a gun.”

“Great,” he muttered.

She glared at him. “I know how to use it. I went to safety training. I’m not stupid, Kincaid.”

“I never thought you were. But you don’t carry.”

“It’s for home protection. I’m safe at the courthouse. The security is tight.”

“There’s the parking garage, walking to lunch, driving home-”

She waved off his concerns and he couldn’t help but grin. This was the Julia Chandler he remembered. The know-it-all professional prosecutor.

“What did you find in the archives?” he asked, following Julia through the wide foyer, down a narrow hall to the bright, country-style kitchen in the rear of the house. A partially enclosed sunroom with skylights on the roof had been built off the kitchen. The view was incredible.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

She put her briefcase down on the kitchen table. “Can I get you something?”

“Whatever.”

She opened her refrigerator and stared. He looked over her shoulder. “It’s empty,” he said. “Have you been robbed?”

A laugh escaped before she could pull it back in. Connor was pleased that he’d made her chuckle. “I don’t eat here much.”

“Obviously.”

“But I have filtered water. And ice.” She pulled two glasses from a cabinet and pressed buttons on the door of the refrigerator for ice and water.