A Score to Settle (4 page)

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…

Daniel told himself it was because he was nervous about meeting Jamie. She’d opened the door a crack; if he was late, she might slam it shut again, making his job more difficult. But the truth was, he just wanted to turn around. Behind the brick wall and iron gates, Daniel dictated everything that happened around him.

Away from that cocoon, anything could happen.

What had gone wrong with him? He’d once loved adventure. He’d traveled, embarked on business ventures, tried every sport he could manage. He’d climbed mountains, dated movie stars and earned a business degree from Harvard.

Now, just leaving the house took a monumental dose of courage.

Yes, being falsely accused of a murder he didn’t commit, then going through the trial and six years of incarceration on death row, was bound to change a man. Once he’d been freed, he’d come home and, for the first time in a very long time, he’d felt safe and loved.

But even back then, he hadn’t been housebound. He’d made periodic trips to Logan Oil and to Project Justice after his father’s death to keep things running. He’d attended funerals and visited doctors.

But the past few years he’d ventured forth less and less as the people he’d hired to run his empire had competently taken over.

I’m fine, damn it.

There was nothing wrong with how he’d chosen to live. After what he’d been through—having a good chunk of his youth stolen away—he ought to be allowed to enjoy his every hour of freedom on his own terms. Thanks to his father and grandfather, plus a few smart decisions he’d made, he had the money to do that, and he refused to feel guilty about it.

Focus on the prize,
he told himself. He had to think about Christopher. Succeeding with his mission to find justice for Christopher meant giving a man back his life, and Daniel knew what a huge gift that was. Succeeding also meant more favorable publicity for Project Justice, which was important to all those other men and women the foundation could help.

Then there was the little matter of showing smug Jamie she didn’t know everything. Somehow, though, that thought didn’t fill him with the pleasure he thought it would.

Finally, there was the satisfaction vengeance would bring.

Daniel cracked a tinted window, immediately aware of how different the breeze from outside felt. It smelled wild. Unsafe.

“Nice day for a drive,” Randall said. Daniel had left the glass partition open. “Sometimes I miss the old days, just you and me out and about in the Jaguar.”

“We were a pair, weren’t we? Tearing through town like we didn’t have a care in the world.” That was back when Daniel thought he was invincible.

The bodyguard’s presence reassured Daniel. Randall was the best—discreet and potentially deadly. He looked ordinary enough, harmless even with his light brown skin, round face and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair.

But appearances could be deceiving.

Daniel considered Randall a friend. He was good company—educated, intelligent, funny. And they’d once spent countless hours together.

But they’d had little face-to-face contact in recent years.

Daniel spent the short drive toward downtown looking over papers in his briefcase, information he already knew by heart. He had an almost photographic memory. But he wanted to have answers right at hand for any questions Jamie might pose—and the hard data to back him up.

Jamie. Seeing her again was worth all this trouble. She was the first person in a very long time to challenge him—or excite him. Though of course he couldn’t know her on anything but a professional level, the undeniable electricity that charged the air around them when they were in the same room added an element of interest to this case.

Daniel didn’t “date.” He could not envision himself in a real romantic relationship. Sharing with anyone the world he’d so carefully crafted would ruin it. But that didn’t stop him from the occasional fantasy, and lately Jamie McNair had taken a starring role in his daydreams. He’d also lost a bit of sleep over her, as she’d appeared in his night dreams, too.

He’d best not get too attached to his fantasy. When he put the prosecutor in her place, firmly convinced she wasn’t infallible, she wouldn’t gratefully fall into his arms.

Traffic was light, and soon they were wending through downtown streets. Crowded. Noisy.

Abruptly, Daniel shut his window, sealing the noise outside. But that didn’t stop the panic that suddenly rose in his chest.

He could stop now. Turn around. Cancel the meeting, hand the whole thing over to Ford or Raleigh, his top lieutenants. There was time. Although Christopher’s appeals had run out, his execution hadn’t yet been scheduled.

The urge to run was so strong, it made Daniel light-headed.

“Do you know the suite number of Ms. McNair’s office?” Randall asked.

Daniel turned to Jillian, realized she wasn’t there, and his panic increased. “I wrote it down somewhere… Hell.” It was a simple detail, but his mind was suddenly blank. “I’ll look it up.”

He checked his schedule on his phone. Yes, there it was, on the sixth floor.

He cast his mind ahead to the coming meeting with Jamie, but now he had trouble visualizing it. Was that because he was about to enter an unknown building with unfamiliar elevators and strangers within inches of him? Perhaps.

Or maybe it was the unpredictable woman herself. For the first time in a long time, he would not be in control of every detail around him. It was both exciting and terrifying.

He shook his head. Billions of people could walk into a strange building without thinking twice. He was being ridiculous. If Jamie perceived any nervousness or weakness, she could gain an advantage. Especially on her home turf.

As they turned onto Franklin Street, Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. Three TV news vans, bristling with antennae and satellite dishes, were parked at odd angles in front of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center. Reporters with microphones and cameramen and -women crawled the sidewalks and steps to the contemporary skyscraper, along with a crowd of at least a hundred curious onlookers.

The limo pulled to a stop, and lots of heads turned to gawk. Cameras swiveled in Daniel’s direction.

“What the hell…?” If Jamie had engineered this welcome wagon, he would wring her neck. Hadn’t he emphasized how important privacy and discretion were? Had she done this to deliberately sabotage his efforts?

“Any idea what’s going on?” Randall asked.

“None.” He quickly dialed in the internet on his phone and checked the local headlines. “Ah. Judge John Harlow was caught in the backseat of his car with a fifteen-year-old. Story broke this morning.”

“You can’t get out here,” Randall said firmly. “If the press gets wind that you’re out and about, it’ll ruin any chance you have of conducting normal business.”

“Is it really a front-page story? I mean, come on.”

“Yes, Daniel. You driving downtown to meet with a prosecutor about Christopher Gables would be front-page material.”

Daniel thought he had a pretty good grip on the media and their opinion of him. After all, he watched every news channel all day in his office. Did he have a blind spot where he, personally, was concerned?

More important, what was he going to do now? He wished he’d brought Jillian. She could contact Jamie, smooth things over, reschedule the meeting—

Hell, what was he thinking? He could call Jamie himself. He had the fanciest cell phone on the planet, which Jillian programmed with any number he might need.

Moments later he was dialing Jamie’s direct number, and a rush of sweet anticipation coursed through him as he waited for her to answer.

If Daniel succeeded in his quest, her job was in danger. Certainly her chances of rising to any level of prominence in the district attorney’s office would be quashed. Winston Chubb had been livid when she’d told him what Daniel Logan was up to. Though he feared the man, Chubb had instructed her to neutralize Logan and his do-gooder efforts using any means at her disposal.

Any
means.

As she returned to her desk to check messages one last time before the meeting, the phone rang. The number on caller ID was blocked and she considered letting it go to voice mail. But at the last minute she picked it up. If it was Daniel, telling her he was delayed, she would politely remind him she couldn’t rearrange her schedule—just as he’d done to her.

“McNair.” Her voice came out a bit sharper than she’d intended.

“It’s Daniel. I’m in front of your building now, but I’m trapped. There’s a media frenzy going on out here, and if I step out of my car I’ll become a part of the uproar.”

“Oh, for the love of—” She tried mightily to hold on to her patience as she moved to the window and looked down. From her sixth-floor office she had a perfect view of the front entrance, and it was exactly as Daniel had described.

“It’s the Judge Harlow thing, I imagine,” Daniel said.

Jamie sighed in frustration. She hadn’t yet read her newspaper today, but she’d heard about the judge. The whole office buzzed with the news. Just what the city needed, another scandal.

“Is there a back entrance?” Daniel asked.

“I’m afraid not. With our heightened security, everyone has to come and go through the front doors. You’ll just have to cope.”

“I can’t.” His voice held a note of panic. “It’s highly unlikely I would make it into the building unobserved. And I don’t think either of us wants to see our business splashed on the front page until we’re ready.”

He did have a point. “What do you suggest? My time is extremely limited. I’m awaiting a jury verdict, and I could be called back into court at any minute.”

“We can meet in my car. There’s a big backseat—it’s private, it’s roomy and very secure.”

Jamie didn’t like it. Not at all. Was he simply manipulating her, forcing her to abandon her plans and conduct the meeting on his turf—again?

But she couldn’t deny that a security problem existed. That crowd outside looked hungry, and if they couldn’t get a glimpse of the judge or at least get a statement from someone in Public Relations about the situation, they would take what they could get.

And they would have a heyday with the juicy combination of Daniel Logan trying to free Christopher Gables. They would grab on to the surface similarities between the cases, and she would have to spend all of her time chasing down rumors and denying, denying, denying.

“All right, we can meet in your car,” she said, barely able to part her jaws to get the words out. “Give me a few minutes to gather my materials.” And her wits.

She was about to get in the backseat of a car with a man who had the ability to short-circuit her rational mind and possibly tank her whole career.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding like he meant it. His relief was almost palpable. “It’s the black Mercedes limo parked near the corner.”

Five minutes later, she was wending her way past reporters and cameras on the walkway leading from the criminal justice building to the street. Despite her efforts to appear insignificant and ignorant, one reporter jumped into her path and stuck a microphone in her face.

“Ms. McNair, can you comment on the situation with Judge—”

“Even if I knew anything, which I don’t, I wouldn’t comment. Excuse me.” She stepped around the microphone, hoping the reporter holding it would focus on someone else.

A few more steps, and she reached the longest, blackest, shiniest vehicle she’d ever seen. A uniformed driver popped out to open the back door and she slid in as quickly as possible, praying no one noticed. The only time she’d been at the center of media attention—during the Christopher Gables trial—she hadn’t liked it. It was something she needed to get comfortable with, though, if she wanted to advance in her chosen profession.

Jamie kept her eyes focused down on herself as she smoothed her skirt and gathered her thoughts. Only then did she look up and face Daniel Logan.

At least he had clothes on this time. But the effect of Daniel in a well-tailored gray suit and silk tie was no less devastating to her hormones. Her heart gave a little jump, and she sucked in her breath.

He held out his hand. “Jamie. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

She took his hand. “Daniel. Thank you for coming.”

It was the first time she’d called him by his given name. She’d been avoiding it, because it seemed a bit too chummy. Too intimate, given their adversarial relationship.

But it seemed positively Victorian to keep calling him Mr. Logan.

As soon as she could do so politely, she eased her hand away from the warmth of his. His handshake absolutely oozed confidence. How did he do that? And what did hers communicate? Shivering nerves?

“How was the traffic?” she asked, because that was what everyone in Houston asked first thing in any meeting.

“I wasn’t really paying attention,” he admitted. “I was going over my notes. But I guess it was okay. We got here quickly.”

Of course he didn’t have to concern himself with mundane matters like traffic. He had a chauffeur and a limousine the size of a battleship. She tried to imagine living like him—hot and cold running servants, mostly hot from what she’d seen—a three-story mansion, polo ponies and tennis courts. She couldn’t even wrap her mind around it. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not work like a dog every day, watch her spending, save for retirement.

She resented the ease of his life. Yeah, six years on death row wouldn’t have been a picnic. But he’d been convicted of murder. And here he was, flaunting his wealth and dabbling in “charitable” work, helping others like himself escape retribution for their crimes.

“So,” she said crisply, imagining a clear shell around her that would make her immune to the handsome billionaire’s physical proximity. “The driver can’t hear us, can he?” She glanced at the glass partition that separated the driver from the passenger seating.

“Not a word. We could scream at the tops of our lungs and he wouldn’t hear us.”

That thought didn’t particularly cheer her.

“Yes, well. Since I called this meeting, and we have limited time, let’s get started.”

“All right. Tell me about Theresa.”

That was a good place to start. “She was credible. Sincere. My investigation leaves me certain she is the same Theresa who made the 9-1-1 call, bringing the police to El Toreador. And her statement about seeing a stranger in the restaurant kitchen sounds plausible.”

“Only plausible? You don’t think it rings with truth?”

“Plausible,” she said firmly.

Daniel’s eyes almost twinkled as he listened attentively with his whole body. She liked that about him, even if she disapproved of everything else. So many people—men especially—might appear to be listening, but they were actually waiting for their turn to speak.

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he said. “Can you show her mug shots? Have her work with a sketch artist? I have an artist on call for Project Justice that does excellent work.”

Now came the hard part. “As I’ve explained before, one eyewitness statement, delivered all these years after the crime, will not trump the physical evidence. All Theresa gave me was a vague description. She saw an unfamiliar man in the kitchen talking to the victim. Minutes later, as she was bussing tables, she heard a loud crash in the kitchen and went to investigate. She found the victim dead.”

“But she gave
some
description, right? Male Caucasian in his thirties, medium build…”

“Wearing a baseball cap, so she couldn’t even get a hair color. It’s too general.”

“But she told you it was positively
not
Christopher Gables. Correct?”

“Yes,” Jamie admitted. “But if we press her for details at this point…well, it’s easy for the mind to play tricks. Her subconscious could provide details just to please me.”

Daniel opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off.

“Not that she would deceive me on purpose, but memory is a strange and unreliable beast. Considering your experience with Project Justice, I’m sure you understand that.”

Daniel seemed to deflate slightly. “Still, it seems likely to me that if this stranger was the last person seen talking to Frank before he died, he is a more probable suspect than Christopher.”

“Except that his prints weren’t found on the murder weapon.”

Daniel pressed his lips together, and Jamie tasted victory. At last, she just might have convinced him he was on a fool’s errand.

She tried to press her advantage. “I brought the case file with me. I’m ready to go step-by-step through the thinking process that led me to prosecute this case.”

“I’d like that.”

Jamie opened her briefcase just as her phone rang. It was rude to take a call during a meeting, but she was still waiting for that verdict.

“I’m sorry, this might be important.” She quickly looked at the caller ID. “Oh. You may actually be interested in this.” It was Eddie, the evidence tech whom she’d bullied into taking another look at Frank Sissom’s clothing. “Yes, Eddie?”

“I got the results on those stains. Put it through the spectrometer. It’s not toner powder at all.”

Her stomach sank.
Let it be dirt. Charcoal. Cigarette ash.
“Well, what is it?”

“Very fine metal filings. Ferrous.”

This could not be happening to her. Metal filings? As in exactly what Daniel had predicted she would find?

“Thanks, Eddie, I’ll get back to you.”

“Well?” Daniel said. Then his face softened. “Jamie, what’s wrong? You’re pale. Did he say something to upset you?”

Her lips felt suddenly cold, and she could barely form the words. “You said something about a s-serial killer?”