A Score to Settle. Kara Lennox

we can just cut to the chase here,” Jamie said, wanting to get in the first word. “You have some wild idea that Christopher Gables is innocent. I don’t know what might have led you down that garden path, but I can assure you, the facts speak for themselves. Gables and his victim argued. A couple of hours later, the victim was found dead with a slashed throat, a bloody knife lying nearby. Gables’s prints—and only his prints—were found on the knife.

      “Gables, who was normally in the restaurant until closing, could not account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

      “That, Mr. Logan, is what we in the prosecution business call a slam dunk. The jury reached a verdict in less than an hour.”

      Daniel Logan seemed to be listening intently. He kept his gaze firmly focused on her as she spoke, his expression grave, nodding every so often. It unnerved her, having that laser beam of attention pointed at her, and she got the impression he was not only listening to her words, but observing every nuance of her face, her gestures—and learning more than she wanted him to know.

      “So what do you have to wow me with, Mr. Logan?” she asked, struggling to keep from sounding smug. “If it’s that little bit of unidentified DNA found on Sissom’s apron, you should know that fingerprints trump DNA any day. Four separate fingerprint experts identified the prints on the knife as belonging to Gables—even the defense’s own expert witness. The DNA could have come from anywhere.”

      Logan nodded again. “It was a solid case. You did an excellent job prosecuting.”

      Yes, she had. It had been the first big case in which she’d led the prosecution. After the verdict, for the first time in her life, she’d felt sure her father was proud of her. Not that she would ever know for sure, since he had died while she was in law school.

      She did not thank Logan for the compliment. Flattery wouldn’t sway her. “So, what’s your point?”

      “Ms. McNair, how would you like to prosecute a serial killer?”

      DANIEL COULD SEE HE’D GOTTEN Jamie’s attention. His initial salvo was a shock tactic, sure; he’d have to have the facts to back up his claim. But at least she’d dropped that infuriating smugness. Her pouty lips were open slightly in surprise, her eyes wide and attentive.

      He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful in person. But the photos and video he’d seen didn’t do her justice. The glossy, fudge-brown hair had depth and texture no camera could pick up; the unusual shade of blue-green in her eyes defied description. And her skin—like the smoothest stone—somehow also looked warm to the touch.

      He told himself it was best for him not to think about her lips too much.

      All that was above the neck. He didn’t dare study her anywhere else until her attention was diverted.

      Finally she spoke. “You think Christopher Gables has killed before?” She barely whispered the possibility.

      “No. I think whoever killed Frank Sissom—and framed Christopher—has killed before. He’s the same man who framed me.”

      At last Jamie found her voice. “You have got to be kidding. You brought me all the way here, disrupted my whole day’s schedule, so you could hit me with this…this ridiculous fairy tale about a serial killer?”

      “It’s still an unproven theory, I’ll admit. But aren’t you the least bit curious as to why I’m trying to convince you it’s true?”

      “Because you like manipulating people, and you have the money and influence to do it?”

      He bit the inside of his lower lip to hold on to his temper. Typical prosecutor. She was so sure she was right, that the almighty justice system was infallible. “You seem a bit cranky this morning. You probably haven’t had enough protein. Let me guess—you skipped breakfast.”

      “My diet is no concern of yours. Are we done here?” She started to rise from her chair.

      “Metal shavings. Were any metal shavings found on Frank Sissom’s body?” It was one of two anomalies brought to light during Daniel’s own murder trial. The prosecution never successfully explained where those shavings had come from, but Daniel had always believed they’d come from the murderer’s own clothing during a struggle.

      These days, metal shavings could be analyzed every which way right down to their atoms. Every metal object had a distinct signature, so shavings could be matched to their source. It wasn’t perfect, not like DNA or fingerprints. But cases had been won and lost based on similar trace evidence.

      The other anomaly was, in fact, a bit of unidentified DNA found on Andreas’s clothing. Another similarity to the Gables/Sissom case, which Jamie herself had just mentioned.

      “I don’t recall hearing about any metal shavings,” Jamie said.

      Daniel tried not to be too disappointed. It was a long shot. “Let me go over the facts, then, as I see them.”

      Jamie glanced at her watch. “I have other appointments today. You can put your so-called facts in an email.”

      Just then someone tapped on Daniel’s office door. He knew that tap. Everyone knocked on doors differently. It was one of those patterns that Daniel had picked up without trying.

      “Come in, Jillian.”

      She entered, holding a plate with a metal warming lid over it in one hand, and a tall glass of iced tea in the other. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but Claude insists this chicken will go bad if it’s not eaten immediately. Something about the sauce coagulating.”

      It was past Daniel’s usual lunchtime; the muscle spasm—and Jamie’s tardiness—had put a kink in his schedule. Jillian knew he put great stock in eating well and often to fuel the brain. But she also knew not to interrupt an important meeting.

      He accepted the plate from her. “Thank you, Jillian, but it would be excessively rude for me to eat in front of my guest. Especially since she hasn’t had breakfast.”

      “I never said I skipped breakfast,” Jamie objected.

      “But you did.” He knew he was right just by the slight shade of defensiveness in her tone.

      “Of course I brought a plate for Ms. McNair.” Jillian quickly produced another covered dish from a rolling cart she’d left in the hallway.

      “I’m not staying,” Jamie said.

      “Give me fifteen minutes to convince you.” Daniel stood and came out from behind his desk. “Share a meal with me. You’ve got to eat at some point, and this will save you time.” And probably improve your temperament. Also, sharing food was a bonding activity. He needed to convince Jamie that he was not the enemy. If things went his way, they would soon become allies, fighting to save an innocent man’s life. As the prosecutor of this case, she was uniquely able to handle some tasks he would find difficult to do himself.

      Jamie inhaled deeply; she probably had gotten a whiff of whatever genius concoction Claude, his chef, had whipped up today, because something convinced her.

      “Fine, if you insist, I’ll have some lunch. But keep in mind you can’t soften me up with a gourmet meal.”

      No, but good food could make her more open to his suggestions.

      Jillian set up their lunch in the small room adjacent to Daniel’s office, where he sometimes took his meals when he was deep into a project and didn’t want to go all the way upstairs to the dining room or patio. He’d had it specially designed to relieve stress.

      Although it had no windows, he’d had lights installed that replicated the electromagnetic spectrum of sunlight. The limestone floor and running-water feature helped to ionize the air, and all the plants, of course, provided an oxygen-rich environment.

      “Good night!” Jamie paused at the doorway, her jaw about to hit the floor.

      CHAPTER TWO