The Prosecutor

Chapter Fourteen


Deciding he could stand some fresh air, Zac took an early lunch and called his father. At certain times in his life, regardless of his father’s current status as the opposition, Zac gave in to the idea that he still needed his dad’s counsel.

In a matter of days, he’d gone from the office pit bull to a guy his boss couldn’t trust. All because of a woman he’d slept with.

Epic fail.

Zac stepped into the glass-walled lobby of his father’s office building and waved to the guard. Hennings and Solomon didn’t have the entire building. They had three floors, though, and the guards had seen Zac often enough to know him.

He signed in at the desk and made his way to the tenth floor. The receptionist juggled multiple ringing lines, but pointed him in the direction of his father’s office, which worked for him, since he was in no mood for small talk. He’d even taken the long way to his father’s office in a pansy attempt to avoid Penny.

When Zac stepped into the office, his father was holding the phone to his ear and rocking back and forth in his desk chair. He waved him in.

“My son is here. I’ll call you back.”

That fast, his father had rearranged his priorities, putting Zac at the top. No matter how old they got, his father always made time for his children. A good lesson to remember. And suddenly Zac had a vision of Emma chasing after a bunch of kids. His kids.

Where’s this going now? He shook it off. No time for those fantasies. Plus, she currently wasn’t speaking to him, much less wanting to have his babies.

As usual, his father shook his hand then brought him in for a shug—the combo shoulder pat and hug.

“Nice seeing you, son.”

“You, too, Dad.”

His father stepped back, ran a hand down his custom-made shirt. “Have a seat.”

“Mind if I close the door?”

“With a lunch-hour visit, I assumed this would be a closed-door session.”

Just as Zac grabbed the door, Penny stormed by then skidded to a halt. Too slow for his sister, she set her hand on the door and squeezed into the office.

Her blue eyes drilled him. “What’s this about?”

“I’m here for Dad.”

Penny blew that off. “Emma told me about Alex Belson.”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“What about Alex Belson?” Dad wanted to know.

Penny kept her focus on Zac. “It’s worth looking into. She said you wouldn’t even consider it.”

His sister was such a pain in the ass. “This might shock you, but I can’t charge a PD without proof.”

“What about Alex?” Dad asked again.

But Zac was rendered mute by Penny’s accusing glare. She had something brewing in that crazy brain of hers and it couldn’t be good. Not with the way she focused on him, her gaze sliding over his face pondering, considering.

“Hey,” Dad said in that slow, controlled voice that let them know his patience was wearing thin. “Someone answer me.”


Zac faced him. At least until Penny lunged and landed a not-so-gentle punch on his right arm that sent a stab of pain clear to the bone. For a small woman, she had some fire. “Ow. What’s that for?”

“You slept with our client! I can see it on your face, Zachary. Guilt. You pig.”

“What the...?” Zac slid a desperate, sideways glance at their father. Please help me.

“Penny,” Dad said. “Out. Now.”

But Penny remained in her spot, her lips pinched and—if he knew his sister—holding back a whole lot of mean. “I knew you had a thing for her. I can’t believe you.”

Again, she whacked him on the arm. Now he’d had it. He didn’t blame her for being mad, but he’d had enough of the drama-girl routine. “Hit me again and I’ll move you out of here myself.”

Dad stood. “Penny, out.”

“Dad!”

Dad pointed to the door. “Out.”

Suddenly, Penny was twelve again, throwing a fit because the boys got to play outside after dark.

Her perfect little nose wrinkled and she waved her fist at him. “Pig!”

Needing a minute, Zac jammed his palms into his eye sockets. This was so seriously messed up. He dropped his hands. “She’s insane. I mean, is there any chance we’re not from the same gene pool? Maybe I’m adopted and didn’t know it?”

His father grinned. “Unless your mother is keeping a secret, I’m confident you’re both mine.” He gestured to the chair. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

He dropped into the plush leather guest chair so unlike the crummy metal ones in his office. Everything about this office—the rich woods, the neat shelves stocked with law books, the orderly appearance of the desk—all of it screamed control and organization. “I think I screwed up.”

“If you had sex with our client, I’d say you’re right.”

“Emma.” Ah, cripes. Admitting this violation wouldn’t be easy and Zac’s stomach heaved. “I, uh...”

His father sat forward and folded his hands on the desk. “Your sister’s assessment is correct?”

Thank you. “Yeah, but it’s not ugly. Not like she made it sound. Emma is amazing and smart and dedicated. Who wouldn’t want her?”

Dad held his hands up. “You’re both unattached, responsible people. Things happen. But you’re the prosecutor. An intimate relationship subjects your case to scrutiny. You know that.”

“Exactly.”

“You should have kept your hands off her until this case was over.” He smacked a hand on the desk. “That didn’t happen. So let’s figure it out. You had a fight with Emma over Alex Belson?”

Right. Alex. “You know about Emma getting attacked in the alley.”

“Yes.”

“Alex came by my office this morning. He’d heard that Stanley Vernon recanted.”

No reaction to this news. His father remained quiet. “Dad, I know you know. You’ve got spies everywhere.”

Dad rolled his bottom lip out. “We’d heard something.”

“Alex was curious about Vernon’s statement. I didn’t think much of it. I know I’d be curious if a witness on a case I’d worked recanted. Emma ran into him when he left my office. She looked upset and I asked her what happened.” Zac threw his hands up. “She tells me she thinks Alex attacked her in the alley.”

If trial lawyers got Oscars, Zac’s father would have a few—more than a few. When it came to an unruffled performance, he was a master. “You think she’s imagining it?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m not objective anymore. I froze. Part of me wanted to get nuts and protect her. She does everything herself. I hate that. But Ray is all over me on this. I was supposed to make it go away.”

“And you didn’t.”

“I wanted to. I wanted Brian Sinclair to be guilty. I wanted to tell Chelsea Moore’s family that we got it right the first time. Instead, I told my boss to assign an independent investigator because the case is seriously flawed.”

His father sat back and took it all in. If a lecture was forthcoming, Zac knew he deserved it. His father’s lectures were legendary. A person could turn to stone once Dad got rolling. Now, though, he was probably muted by his son’s failures. Finally, he sat forward, leaning in, engaging. “What can I do?”

No lecture. Got lucky. Zac dragged his fingers through his hair, then tugged. Damn, his head hurt. How did he start feeling so old and exhausted? This case and the emotional warfare, that’s how. “I don’t know. I had to blow off steam.”

“I see that.” Dad let out the three-thousand-pound sigh. Zac hated that sigh. “You need to talk to Emma. Tell her you care. My guess is she doesn’t know you’re invested. She thinks you’re willing to sacrifice her for your career.”

Point there.

“Are you?”

Zac glanced up. Staring into his father’s eyes, he knew the answer. Clear as day. “No.”

“Kid, you’re in a jackpot here.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“What you need to do is make her understand that you care, but back away. You have to. She knows as well as you do that this relationship is dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Then you put this Belson thing aside. I’ll get one of my investigators on it. See if there’s something there. This case has so many twists and turns, anything is possible.” He drove his index finger into the desktop. “You stay away from Emma until this is over. You hear?”

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Dad—”

“No excuses. Impropriety could destroy your career and keep this kid in prison when he doesn’t belong there.”

Guilt, hot and slick, shot up Zac’s neck. His father was right. Distance from Emma was the smart move. He’d talk to her. Explain his position. Convince her it was the right thing for both of them. Then he’d walk away.

Temporarily.

He hoped.

After the you’re-my-son-but-you-screwed-up talk, Zac detoured to Penny’s office. He pushed the partially open door in. His sister sat behind her massive desk, doing something on her computer. She spotted him and shot him the death glare again.

She folded her arms. “Zachary.”

“Where’s Emma?”

“Dream on. You’ve done enough for one day.” She sat forward and poked a finger at him. “You upset my client. For this, I will shred you in court. You’ll beg me to stop.”

His baby sister, warrior queen. “Spare me. I care about her.” She opened her mouth, but he waved. “Forget it. Not discussing it. I have to talk to your client. Where was she when you spoke to her?”

Penny spun back to her computer and Zac stared up at the ceiling. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t kill her. He closed his eyes, took a few breaths and thought about an ice cold beer on a beach, in a hammock maybe. Breaking ocean waves... Sleep.

A minute later, after somehow finding the patience not to strangle his sister, he glanced back at her. “Great. Thanks for your help.”

On his way out the door Penny said, “She’s on her way home.”

He turned back. “Thank you.”

“You’re killing me, Zachary.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m killing me. This thing with Emma, it’s not...” He stopped. He didn’t know what it was. “I never expected to care.”


Penny shifted front and dropped her hands on her desk, her gaze straight-on. “She’s been through a lot. I’ve gotten to know her and she seems happy. As happy as someone in her position can be. She’s coming out of the dark.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t break her heart or I’ll have to stab you.”

She’d do it, too. He twisted his lips, made a show of rolling his eyes, but really, he wanted to hug her. She was a drama aficionado, but he loved her. “I’ll fix it.”

It took thirty-five minutes—long past Zac’s lunch hour—to get through downtown traffic and reach Emma’s Parkland neighborhood. On the way, he called Diane, his co-counsel on the murder case currently in jury selection, and asked her to handle the afternoon session. She had a better grasp of the case anyway and would be fine on her own.

He made the left leading to Emma’s street and found it blocked by fire engines and patrol cars. Black, billowing smoke rose into the air from three doors down.

Sweat peppered his upper lip and he swiped at it. “What’s this now?”

He parked at the curb and got out. A cop standing at the barricade held his hand up.

Zac flashed his credentials. The cop studied the gold-toned badge and glanced back at Zac who jerked his chin toward the emergency vehicles. “What’s happening?”

“House fire.”

His stomach pinched. Couldn’t be. “You know the address?”

“225. White, two-story.”

Bam—he might as well have been sucker punched. The hot dog he’d grabbed on the way over flipped like a gymnast in his gut. His vision swam for a minute. Focus.

“You okay?” the cop asked.

In his mind, he pictured Emma trapped in a burning home, overcome by smoke, falling over... Stop.

“Is anyone hurt? I was headed there. I’m a...friend of the family. How bad is it?”

“No one home. They’re still knocking down the fire.”

A car pulled up behind Zac, the rattle of its engine sounding all too familiar. For a moment, he couldn’t move, the relief immobilizing. He massaged his forehead, his mind already moving to the next task.

He inched around. “This is the owner’s daughter. She lives there.”

“She can’t go in.”

“I know. I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

EMMA TURNED HER CAR OFF and stared at the thick, black smoke coming from the center of her block.

For a moment, she sat nestled in her seat belt, valiantly attempting to ignore her body’s warning signals. The throbbing temples, the fierce pain shooting across her forehead and the flashes of white blinding her. She pushed the car door open and headed for the barricade where an officer stood with—Zac.

Why was he here?

She picked up her pace, her gaze cemented to the swirling red lights in the middle of the block. Zac’s face—oh no—his face held the drawn look of a man about to be strapped into the electric chair.

She kept moving, though, staying focused on the middle of the block that, from the look of Zac, couldn’t be anything she wanted to see.

Four feet from him, she pointed. “Is that my house?”

Surprisingly, the words came fast and direct. No shaking voice. No obvious panic. If they only knew.

“Emma—”

She pushed by him. “What’s on fire?”

The officer slid in front of her. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Is that my house?” Zac grabbed her arm, but she jerked it free. “Tell me.”

“Yes.”

Blood roared. Just a screaming, pounding, eviscerating surge shredding her body. “Where’s my mother?”

Zac eyed the cop.

“No one inside,” he said.

For once, she gave in, let the momentum take her and she stepped back, forcing herself to stay upright. Her mother was safe. Zac grabbed her elbow. Slowly, her body in low gear, churning through the thick mud of information, she turned to him.

“Emma? Talk to me.”

Her mother was safe. That should have been enough. As relieved as she was, Brian’s ticket to freedom sat in boxes—three high, six across—in the basement. They’d barely put a dent in copying them. All her work, all her hopes, all her mother’s dreams could be burning.

She had to get there. Had to see what was left. Couldn’t stand here and wait. God, she was so tired of waiting. She sucked air through her nose, stared up at the thick black smoke and the overwhelming urge to tear the living hell out of something consumed her. Raw energy sliced down her arms into her fingers. She shook her hands, flexing and unflexing.

“Emma?”

The sound of Zac’s voice. The man who’d lost faith in her and thought she was crazy only added to the agony and she backed up. Three steps. Then another for the extra room. That black smoke continued to torment her. I need to see it.

The cop’s radio crackled and he unclipped it from his shoulder, spoke into it and turned his back to her.

Run.

She burst into a sprint, barreling around the edge of the barricade.

“Emma!” Zac hollered.

She heard the cop yell, but didn’t dare slow down. She’d be there in seconds.

All at once, the house, the trucks, the firefighters, the billowing smoke came into view and she halted in the middle of the street. Ugly, flashing flames shot from the first-floor windows while firefighters yelled commands and directed thousands of gallons of pressurized water into the inferno. Fear spiked and she held her breath, willed herself to look at the basement window next to the porch.

Maybe it’s not the basement.

Orange-tipped flames, almost beautiful in their slashes of color, flicked from the window and Emma knew.

An insane howling roared up her throat, clawing its way out and her legs wilted. Her head whirled and she held her arms wide looking for anything solid to cling to.

“Emma!” Zac yelled.

A chunk at a time, the emotional assault wrecked her and her body gave out. She dropped to the ground in a wailing lump.

All the evidence gone. The files, the photos, the time lines—everything. Gone.

Her chest tore open, a good solid rip that left her exposed and vulnerable. And still she screamed. Crack. She glanced up as the porch overhang toppled.

Can’t breathe.

Out of oxygen, she finally stopped screaming. She sucked in huge gulps of air. Please, more air. On all fours, she stared down at the grass and tears dropped from her cheeks to the backs of her hands.

Zac kneeled in front of her and she sat back. He cupped her cheeks in his hands. His mouth moved, but she heard nothing.

Chaos. Everywhere. Make it stop.

She jerked her head from his hands. The one who thought she was crazy.

Again, he grabbed her and held on. “Emma!”

Why is he here? The sound of his voice, commanding but gentle, broke through and she focused on steadying breaths. All surrounding movement drifted away. The roaring dulled and the agony in her chest eased. Sanity returning. “Zac?”

“You’re okay, honey. You’re okay.” He let go, wrapped his arms around her and held tight. “I’ve got you.”

He had her. He sure did. In a matter of hours he’d managed to devastate her then showed up to help. Would her life ever get uncomplicated?

“Why are you here? Did you know?”

He inched back. “No. I came to talk to you about this morning.”

Oh, God. She wasn’t ready for that. Not with this simmering anger, this grief over allowing herself to fall for a man she’d known would sacrifice her to get a win.

“All my files. They’re gone.”


“We don’t know that yet.”

A firefighter yelled and Emma averted her eyes, not wanting to see the charred remnants of their home. Mom. “I have to find my mother. I can’t let her come home to this.”

“Where is she?”

“I think she went shopping.” She slapped her hands over her face then dragged them down. “This will kill her.”

Zac stood, held his hand to Emma. “Start calling. I’ll get with someone from the fire department, see what’s what.” He motioned to the house. “Maybe it’ll only be the first floor.”

And the basement. Where all the files relating to Brian’s case, a recently very active case, were stored.

“I think someone torched my house. Someone wanted to destroy my files.”

Someone who knew she had the only extensive evidence collection.

“Stop. Let me talk to the chief.”

Emma snatched her phone from her jacket pocket. She had to find her mother. “That’s fine, but this was no coincidence, Zac. And you know it.”

* * *

ZAC’S THOUGHTS ZINGED like bullets at a firing range. As much as he wanted to believe that Emma’s house going up in flames could be an accident, his mind wouldn’t wrap around it. The house was old, at least seventy-five years old, so, yeah, it was possible something shorted and—zap—the house is flambé.

He grunted and dragged his hands over his head. Emma and her mom sat on the back step of the ambulance while Emma did what she could to console her mother. Not that it appeared to be working because Mrs. Sinclair wore the bombed-out look of a woman caving in.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of pink came into view. Popsicle Penny on a direct course to Emma and Mrs. Sinclair. Zac hustled over and intercepted his sister.

“Hey,” she said. “How are they?”

He shrugged. “How should they be? We need to find them a place to stay.”

“I did it already.”

Probably a hotel. “Something better than a hotel. A condo or a rental house. Homey.”

“Zac, I’m on it. One of our clients is out of the country for a year. His apartment is empty. Dad called him and he said they can stay there. It’s seven thousand square feet and has a view of Navy Pier. I think they’ll be comfortable.”

I’ll say.

“Penny?” Emma called.

Penny waved. “Let me talk to them, and you and I need to huddle. Something is seriously whacky here.”

He stood off to the side, giving her privacy with her clients. When she reached them, Penny squatted to eye level and touched Mrs. Sinclair’s knee. His sister was a lunatic, but she had a way of connecting with people on an emotional level. A gift she could turn on and off at will.

Another gene pool issue because Zac hadn’t inherited that gift.

He slid his phone from his pocket, scrolled his contacts until he found Tom Carson, the investigator assigned to the Sinclair case.

“Carson,” the man barked. He would never be congenial but he got his job done.

“Hey, Tom. Zac Hennings.”

“What you got?”

“Do me a favor. See if you can find out where Ben Leeks was this afternoon.”

“Junior or Senior and why?”

Zac glanced back at the smoldering house, then to Emma who still sat on the back of the ambulance talking to Penny. She didn’t deserve this.

“Both. The Sinclairs’ home had a fire.”

“Torched?”

“Not sure. If it wasn’t, it’s an interesting coincidence. From the looks of the place, all of Emma’s files are gone.”

“Ah, that’s rough. I’ll get into it.”

“Thanks. Where are we with Junior?”

“It looks like his alibi checks out. I talked to a bunch of his friends, plus some of Chelsea’s. In a twisted way, I think he loved her. This kid’s a numbskull, but murder? I’m not getting that.”

Not exactly a surprise to Zac. “And the white shirt?”

“I can’t find another witness who saw a guy in white. My take? The detectives knew Sinclair was wearing a white shirt and fed it to Stanley Vernon.”

“To sum things up, Leeks is clean, the white shirt is out and Vernon has recanted.”

Welcome to the afternoon showing of his case falling apart.

“You got it, hoss. Anything else?”

Alex. Zac rolled his lips in—can’t go there. No proof. If he put an investigator on it, someone, somewhere in a position higher than Zac’s would find out and his butt would be in trouble deep. Deeper than he already was.

“You there?”

A firefighter trudged by, dragging a giant iron tool. No idea what that was for, but the sight of it brought Zac to the injustice done here today. “One more thing: I’d appreciate your keeping it quiet, but see where Alex Belson was today. He’s a Cook County public defender.”

Tom let out a low whistle.

“Exactly. I’m way out on this. It’s probably nothing.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks. I need one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“His address.”