The Prosecutor. Adrienne Giordano

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СКАЧАТЬ old girlfriend—well, she couldn’t really be called a girlfriend. Melody, according to Brian, was more like a friend with benefits. The fact that this friend had called their house on the day an article ran about Brian could not be a coincidence. Particularly since Melody, again according to Brian, had spent a few minutes with him around the time of the murder. He’d left the club and walked Melody to her car around 12:30 a.m. that night. The defense never called Melody as a witness and, with Brian not testifying at trial, Emma assumed this information had been deemed irrelevant. Not that she understood it, but she didn’t understand a lot of the nuances about Brian’s trial.

      “What did she want?” Emma asked her mother.

      “I don’t know. She started talking, then stopped and said she needed to speak with you.”

      “Did she leave a number?”

      “Yes.”

      Her mother read off the number and Emma repeated it to herself. “Got it.”

      She disconnected and entered the number into her phone before she forgot it. Pedestrians continued to stream from the building and she moved to the side. Another gust of wind caught her coat and she yanked the zipper up to shield herself from the cold air. Stepping away from the pedestrian traffic, she pressed the TALK button, heard the phone ring and waited for Melody to pick up.

      Brian’s public defender had been no help when it came to Melody. He’d never even pursued her claims because she couldn’t prove that Brian had been with her that night. According to the lawyer, she could be covering for him.

      As if a casual friend would risk a perjury charge. Whatever.

      Emma didn’t want to revisit her frustrations with Bri’s public defender. Unless she could prove his incompetence, it was best left alone. Instead, she’d remind herself that she now had Hennings and Solomon on her side.

      “Melody? It’s Emma Sinclair.”

      “Hi, Emma. Thanks for calling me back.”

      “Sure. What can I help you with?”

      “How’s Brian?”

      He’s in prison. “He’s holding up.”

      “I saw the article in the paper.”

      “They did a nice job.” She wasn’t about to give an outsider too much information.

      “Is there anything I can do to help? I told the prosecution and the defense lawyer that I’d testify. They never contacted me, even after I gave the detectives the receipt from the parking garage.”

      Suddenly, all movement around Emma ceased—a huge, jarring halt that caused her body to stiffen. “There was a receipt?”

      Breathe. Get loose. Too many hopes had been bludgeoned by the cruelty of injustice and she’d learned to temper her optimism. Whatever this receipt was, it couldn’t have been anything stunning or the public defender—she’d hope—would have uncovered it.

      “Yes,” Melody said. “I used a credit card to pay for the garage. It was one of those machines. You stick the ticket in, put your credit card in the slot and you get another ticket that lets you out of the garage. Brian was with me.”

      Emma paused a second, let the cold air wash over her while she mentally played find-the-missing-receipt. She’d amassed boxes and boxes of notes on the case and had never heard about a parking receipt. Didn’t mean the thing wasn’t sitting around somewhere, but she would have remembered seeing it. If she’d seen it.

      Oh, and she could just hear the prosecutors moaning about how it wouldn’t prove that Brian had been with Melody and unless they had solid proof, Melody could be protecting her lover.

      “Unfortunately, none of this proves where Brian was at the time. I’ve hired a new lawyer, though. Can I have her contact you?”

      “Yes. I mean, he shouldn’t be in jail. He didn’t do it.”

      “I know. I’m not giving up.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Thank you for calling, Melody. I appreciate it. I know Brian will, too.”

      Emma hung up and stared at the phone. Now she had a receipt to chase down, another lead to work with. People continued to file out of the building, their voices and footsteps clicking against the cement.

      4:40.

      By the look of the mountain of files in his office, Zac Hennings would probably still be at his desk. He struck her as the diligent type—a man who’d sit and study his notes, losing all track of time. Maybe she’d march up and demand—no—ask about the receipt. Playing nice with the new prosecutor might get her a little cooperation.

      If not, too bad. She wanted answers.

      * * *

      ALREADY, ZAC HAD DETERMINED one thing. The video had to be deep-sixed. On a decent day, a detective’s deathbed confession was a nightmare scenario. Couple that with Zac’s rabid sister and the persistent Emma Sinclair and he had one hell of a problem. Emma didn’t have his sister’s flashy clothes and sarcastic manner, but she obviously had a quick mind and adjusted to conflict easily. With these two, he’d have his hands full.

      First thing was to obtain copies of all the case files and interview the detectives.

      Still at his desk, he tapped the screen again and the dying detective’s face appeared. Damn, he looked bad. It could be a major problem in court. Who wouldn’t be sympathetic to someone dying of cancer?

      He set the phone down and jotted notes as the now-deceased detective spoke. Witness unsure. Alley dark. Couldn’t positively ID. Showed a six-pack—the old photo lineup where the witness was given photographs of possible suspects and asked if he could identify any of them. In this case, according to the dying detective, the witness thought that maybe Brian Sinclair could be the guy.

      All of it should be documented in the case files.

      Zac shook his head as the detective confessed to coaxing the witness with leading questions. He had dark hair, right? And a white shirt, correct?

      Zac studied the detective’s sallow face, seeking anything that might indicate that brain cancer had caused mental impairment. Outside of the papery, sagging skin that came with chemo treatments, his speech was clear and he seemed rational. Zac checked the date on the bottom of the screen. Six weeks ago. He’d have to research the effects of brain cancer in the weeks prior to death. To refute this evidence, he’d simply need to prove that the man had lost cognitive brain function. In which case, everything on the video would be thrown out.

      Problem solved.

      Next. Identification of the white shirt worn by the accused might be something for Penny to run with. The murder happened in March. It could have been cold. Did the assailant wear a jacket? That had to have come up in court.

      Again, all this information should be in the case files, which Zac didn’t have. He scooped up his desk phone and dialed his office assistant. “Hey, Beth. Have you seen the files from the Sinclair case yet?”

      “I put them in your office. They’re in a box by the corner window.”

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