Adrienne Giordano - The Prosecutor

Cutler reclaimed his seat.

“Couple of things,” Zac said. “What do you remember about a parking garage receipt given to you by Melody—” he checked his legal pad “—Clayton? She’s a friend of Brian Sinclair who claims he was with her around the time of the murder.”

Slowly, Cutler shook his head.

Patience, Zac. Patience. “You don’t remember a receipt?”

“No. She could have given it to Steve and I wasn’t aware.”

“Steve Bennett? The other detective?”

“Yes.”

Sure, another dead guy to blame. This case was rife with dead guys. “I’ll look into that. I’m assuming you viewed the video I sent over. What do you remember about the witness?”

Cutler shrugged. “It’s not like we coerced him. We showed him a six-pack, helped him narrow it down.”

Helped him narrow it down... “And what about the white shirt? Who told him Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt?”

“I don’t know anything about that. That must have been Steve.”

Of course.

Zac jotted more notes and the detective tugged on his too-tight collar again. Yes, detective, you should be nervous. The truth was, Zac scribbled gibberish. The Area 2 detectives weren’t the only ones who knew how to play mind games.

“The victim’s friend told Emma Sinclair that Ben Leeks—I’m sure you’re aware he’s the son of a Chicago P.D. detective—was abusive.”

Cutler shot Zac a hard look. Well, maybe Cutler thought it was a hard look. Zac thought it was more of a desperate, defensive man’s way of trying to intimidate an opponent. “The kid was cleared early on.”

“Cleared how?”

“He was inside the club. We had witnesses who saw him getting busy with some brunette. He didn’t leave the club until closing. When he did leave, he left with a group and they all went to the diner down the street.”

Zac nodded. “I need names. They’re not in the case file.”

Cutler grabbed one of the armrests and shifted his big body. “I told you I don’t have anything. I turned over all the reports.”

“Even the GPRs?” Zac smacked his knuckle against the box. “I didn’t see any GPRs.”

“I turned over everything.”

“Did you write up any GPRs?”

Again the detective tried a hard look and Zac angled forward. “I’m aware that you’re not happy being questioned. I don’t care. I’m about to get hauled into court to defend your work. My guess is you want me to feel confident about that work. I’m far from confident. Cut the nonsense and answer my questions.”

Cutler sighed. “I wrote up GPRs. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Did you make copies?”

“No.”

“Of course you didn’t. Does it shock you that reports pertaining to the allegedly abusive son of a detective were not submitted into evidence for a murder trial?”

Cutler stayed silent. The blue wall.

Zac eased his chair up to the desk and put the box back on the floor. “I think we’re done. For now.”

The detective sat across from him, his breaths coming in short, heavy bursts and his cheeks flamed. He was obviously steaming mad.

Good.

Zac was about to get his butt handed to him—by his baby sister, no less—and he wasn’t going down alone. Ignoring the about-to-be-raging bull across from him, he flipped open one of the many file folders on his desk and began reading. Cutler finally pushed himself out of his chair.

“That Sinclair kid is guilty,” he said. “No two ways about it.”

Zac didn’t bother to look up. “A video of him leaving the parking garage at 12:37 might say otherwise. Buckle up, detective. We’re about to go for a rough ride.”

* * *

EMMA PULLED INTO THE driveway at 12:15 that night after enduring Friday-night chaos at the restaurant. As usual, Mom had left the porch and overhead garage lights on. Even now, with a son in prison, Mom worried about her children being out late.

It never ends for her.

Emma gathered her apron and shoved the car door open. Her feet hit the pavement and she nearly groaned. Hauling trays all night had left her arms and back aching and, combined with her beat-up feet, she longed for her bed.

Nothing about waitressing was easy, but the money was good. Better than good since she’d gotten lucky and landed a job in an upscale steak place. Still, she craved the day when she’d go back to an office job, sit behind a desk and leave the body aches behind.

Soon, Emma. If her plan worked and Brian came home, she’d have her life and a chance at a normal schedule back. She could attend law school at night, allowing her to take a nine-to-five job. Heck, maybe Penny would hire her as an assistant.

Emma hip-checked her car door shut and hit the LOCK button. A loud beep-beep sounded. Out of habit, she glanced behind her. Nothing there. Their neighborhood had always been safe, but she’d learned to be cautious wherever she went. Criminals didn’t necessarily care what neighborhood they were in if the target appeared easy.

Humming to herself for a distraction until she reached the front door, she tossed her apron over her shoulder. She’d throw it and her uniform in the washer before bed so she’d have it for tomorrow.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

Emma froze, her body literally halting in place, unable to move. Deep—male—voice behind her. He knows my name. An onslaught of blood shot to her temples. Car key pointed out, she spun around. A man wearing an unzipped brown leather jacket, dark shirt—no buttons—and jeans stood in the tiny driveway directly under the garage light. He wasn’t tall, but he appeared fit. Muscular. Tough.

Get a description.

Short, darkish hair that was almost black. No gray. She guessed he was in his late forties. His nose was wide and crooked, broken a few times maybe.

He stepped toward her. Don’t let him get too close. She backed away, key still in hand, ready to poke an eye, if necessary. He grinned. A disgusting I’ve-got-you grin that pinched Emma’s throat. She swallowed once, gripped the key harder.

“Ms. Sinclair, relax. I’m Detective Ben Leeks, Chicago P.D.”

Emma let out a long breath, but paralyzing tension racked her shoulders. No straight-up detective would be visiting her house at this hour, particularly the father of a guy whose girlfriend had been murdered. With her free hand, she reached into her jacket pocket for her phone. Worst case, she’d hold the panic button on her key ring to trigger the car’s horn and then dial 9-1-1.

“Detective, it’s late. This is inappropriate.”

Slowly, she backed toward the porch. A car drove by. Scream. That’s what she should do. Except she might wind up looking like a lunatic and lunatics never got their brother’s convictions overturned.

The detective didn’t move. Simply stood there, arms loose at his sides, posture erect, but casual, completely nonthreatening. “No judge in Cook County will overturn that conviction. Get comfortable with your brother in prison and stop making trouble. Troublemakers in this city get dealt with. Sometimes the hard way.”

Emma stood in a sort of detached shock. Tremors erupted over her body, that nasty prickling, digging into her limbs and making her itch. He strolled out of the driveway, just a man enjoying an early spring night. Get in the house. She ran toward the door, shoved the key at the lock with trembling hands and missed. She glanced over her shoulder again, saw no one and breathed in. Get inside. On the second try, the key connected and she stormed into the house, throwing the dead bolt then falling against the door.

He’d just threatened her.

Maybe it wasn’t an overt threat. Without a doubt he’d deny it if she flung an accusation his way, but they both knew he’d just delivered a message.