The Detective And The D.A.. Leann Harris

that their safe had been robbed of two diamond necklaces.

      All the pieces fit together into a clear picture—except that there wasn’t any blood evidence on Carlson or in his apartment. Fiber evidence, yes, but no blood. Of course, Carlson could’ve disposed of the shirt, but as bloody as the crime scene had been, it would’ve also gotten onto his pants, too, which had contained fibers.

      Carlson’s hands had been cut and bruised, but he claimed it was from changing a tire on his car.

      What didn’t make sense to Ash about this case was that Carlson was a burglar. He’d done time for theft. He didn’t have a history of violence, with the one exception of being arrested for hitting his ex-wife. The manner in which Catherine Reed had been killed indicated rage. Carlson’s history didn’t fit with the crime.

      Ash wondered why Kelly hadn’t questioned this aspect of the crime the first time around. Then it hit him—the timing of the murder. Five years. Kelly had just miscarried their baby.

      No wonder Kelly hadn’t questioned the little nagging doubts in the file. He didn’t doubt that some of the work he had done right after the miscarriage could have been called into question.

      It sounded to Ash as if Steve Carlson had gotten the short end of the stick, and he didn’t have a decent lawyer to complain about it the first time around. Kelly wasn’t going to be too pleased with his observations.

      When he walked into lobby of the criminal division, Kelly stood next to her secretary’s desk.

      “Good,” she sighed, “you’re here.” She didn’t wait on him but walked into her office.

      “Is the detective here?” Ash heard someone ask Kelly.

      “He is.” Kelly stood by her desk.

      Seated in the chairs before her desk was an elderly couple. Introductions were quickly made to Catherine Reed’s parents, George and Nancy Procter.

      “So when are you going to rearrest that killer?” Mrs. Procter asked. The elegantly dressed woman pinned Ash with a hard stare, which belied her soft tone. Her husband also watched Ash with cold regard.

      Ash looked at Kelly. “There’s a lot of work to do, beginning the case, again. And it’s a cold trail, which makes things even harder.”

      “Do you mean you’re not going to arrest that man today?” Mrs. Procter’s voice reminded Ash of a queen issuing an order to her servant. Ash had always resisted being pushed or bullied. It was a quirk he’d acquired in the first grade when an older third-grader had tried to bully him. After a week of taking it, Ash had punched the bully and ended the terror. He’d learned a valuable lesson, never to be victimized again.

      Ash opened his mouth, but Kelly stepped forward. “We want to make sure nothing else will go wrong and that we can nail Steve Carlson.”

      “And will you press for the death penalty?” George Procter questioned.

      Well, it was certain that the Procters weren’t going to be happy unless Carlson fried. Apparently the genteel society folks were out for blood, not that he could blame them. But he had the feeling that the Procters were going to be breathing down his and Kelly’s necks.

      Kelly leaned back against her desk. “I’ll have to talk to my boss about the disposition of the case.”

      “I want that man to pay for what he did to our little girl,” the older man insisted, “and I don’t care what it takes to make him pay.”

      It sounded as if George Procter was ready to take justice into his own hands.

      “I’ll be sure to pass your feelings on to my boss,” Kelly told him.

      “There’s no need. I’ll tell him myself,” George informed her. “Come, Nancy, let’s go.”

      After the couple left, Kelly closed the door to her office. She leaned back against the door. “This is going to be a nightmare. I’ve already had five calls this morning about this case—from my boss, the newspapers, the victim’s husband—all demanding to know what I’m going to do.” Her gaze met his, and she silently asked if he had the answer.

      “Have you looked at the file, Kelly?”

      Her eyes narrowed. “I have.”

      “So you see our problem.”

      She sighed. “Yeah, I do. That’s why I wanted the case reinvestigated. I need more to tie Carlson to that crime. I want you to go over it again, Ash. Interview the people at the dinner party that night. Something’s wrong. I didn’t catch it before, but I’m not going to make that mistake a second time.”

      “All right. I’ll start digging, but you realize, in the intervening five years, a lot of the people who could’ve helped might not be there. And the evidence from the crime scene, we need to reevaluate it.” He wanted to paint as dark a picture as he could.

      “I know that, Ash. Remember who you’re talking to.”

      As if he could forget it. He had tried for the past four years to avoid having to deal with Kelly Whalen. He’d been fairly successful in his quest. Until now.

      But she had a point. Of all the people in the city, Kelly would know how hard it would be to investigate this murder.

      “I know you know how difficult this is going to be. Tell everyone we’re going to have to go from square one and it’s going to take some time,” Ash replied.

      She rubbed her neck. “What I need is a miracle. You got one?” Her eyes begged him to have an answer. That look sizzled down his spine, warning Ash that he was walking into trouble.

      A loud rap on the door stopped Ash from answering Kelly. Immediately, the door opened and the D.A. walked into the room. Jake Thorpe, a tall man with a shock of white hair, had made his way up through the ranks. He had joined the D.A.’s office in the early seventies after he got out of the army and had gone to college and law school.

      “Ah, good, you’re here, Ashcroft. That will make things easier.” He turned to Kelly. “I just got a visit from George and Nancy Procter. I must say they were very concerned about the disposition of this case.”

      “I just bet they were,” Ash muttered.

      Kelly glared at him.

      Jake’s brow arched. “What we need to do is make sure you can refile this case. Are we going to be able to do that anytime soon?”

      Kelly’s chin came up. “Ash was just enumerating the problems we’re going to have with the evidence and witnesses.”

      Jake turned to Ash. “What problems?”

      “As I started to explain to Kelly, the case rested on Carlson’s confession to the burglary, and fiber evidence on his clothes. With the clothes out, all we have is the jewelry. He could claim the necklaces were given to him. We need to connect him with the murder. Over the passage of time, witnesses have left the area and if we don’t have the evidence in storage, then I doubt we can uncover anything new.”

      Jake studied Ash. “We all understand the problems, Detective. What we need is a new pair of eyes to view the evidence. But we also need you to do so quickly. I can only take so much heat.”

      Ash understood. Jake was between a rock and a hard place, and he didn’t much care for it. He wasn’t the only one.

      Ash leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He reviewed the file Kelly had given him.

      “So you’ve been given my case.”

      Ash glanced up into Lee’s hardened face. The scowl the older man wore was enough to frighten anyone with a lick of sense or guilt. At six foot, two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, Ralph Lee looked as if he could take down any suspect and beat him into a pulp with his ham-sized fists. It didn’t matter that the detective was fifty. He was still in top shape, with a steely gaze that had been known to bring more than one suspect