The Steele Collection Books 1-3: Sarah Steele Legal Thrillers Page 3

  “So there is no more drug use in your family?” Sawyer asked.

  Kathleen took a shaky breath. “N—n—no,” she stuttered. I forced myself not to look down in defeat.

  I glanced at the jury. Their eyes were distrustful. I tried to meet Kathleen’s gaze, but she wouldn’t look at me. This was going downhill fast.

  “So if I were to get the police to raid your house, we’d find no drugs at all?” Sawyer asked. Kathleen’s eyes widened.

  “Objection,” I said. “Threatening the witness.”

  So this was what it was all about. Kathleen wasn’t nervous for herself—I knew people on drugs and she didn’t have the look of it on her. She was protecting her son. I held my breath. What would she do to protect him?

  “Sustained,” the judge said, and I let out my breath.

  But Sawyer had already done what he needed to do. Kathleen looked like a cornered rabbit.

  “So on the nights when you saw the defendant’s car at the barn and heard those screams, you were in no way inebriated?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. Sawyer continued.

  “You’re absolutely sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that you saw that car parked at the barn and heard those sounds at eleven o’clock on May 14th?”

  Kathleen swallowed. I could see what she was thinking. She was wondering if a raid would be ordered on her house if she said yes. So wrapped up in the moment, I nodded for her, as if it would help.

  “Would you swear—” Sawyer pointed at Williams, “—on his life that you are absolutely sure you saw what you described?”

  If anyone looked unsure at the moment, it was Kathleen. I internally groaned. The jury looked gone already, as if they didn’t need to hear any more.

  Giving up, she shook her head. No. She wasn’t sure.

  Sometimes I wished I were a defense attorney—all they had to do was show reasonable doubt. So much for my eyewitness.

  I SIPPED ON A glass of ice water as the courtroom started to clear out. I listened to the murmurs and whispers of the audience as they filed out to go print or publish the events of the day. They spoke of the defendant in strident terms. “Monster … heartless creep.” It was all good as far as I was concerned. But they also had their doubts, and more than a shadow of them. “With no DNA and an unclear witness statement, it’ll come down to the fingerprints, the cops finding him at the scene of the crime, and the defendant’s testimony.”

  Dan stood and stuffed papers into his leather briefcase. His tall frame looked good in a suit, but he was currently wearing a large frown that ruined his features. “That was a debacle,” he said, glaring at me. “I thought you said we had a strong witness.”

  Taking another sip of water, I hesitated. “You know as well as I do that you never know how good a witness is until after they’ve testified.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but underneath I was a jumble of fear and anger.

  “We still have a strong case,” I said, hoping he’d keep it in my hands. “We have the police testimony of finding him on the scene with the murder weapon—it doesn’t get much more clear than that.”

  Dan pursed his lips. “It was a lot clearer eight hours ago.”

  Joshua, the intern, was caught in the fireworks between Dan and me. He looked like he wanted to disappear, which would be impossible considering his 300-lb. Samoan build. He had a shaved head, trendy black-framed glasses, and was fresh out of law school. He was born and raised in Hawaii, and despite what people say about the laid-back nature of the Samoans, he was as driven as they come. He’d logged in just as much time on this case as I had, worked tirelessly, and he had a vision and understanding about things that I respected. He watched the people file out of the room, but he was listening intently as I argued for our case.

  I looked down at my case notes. They represented months of research and testimonies and long hours at the office. I not only knew everything I could about the murder, but I had also learned everything I could about Hank Williams and Tracy Mulligan.

  “No one can handle this better than me,” I said quietly, with conviction.

  Dan took in my statement. I stared back at him. After a moment, I saw acceptance wash across his face.

  “What are you going to do about this?” he asked.

  That was the thing I liked about Dan—he was direct. And I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  “I’m going to go to the scene of the crime to wrap my head around what happened that night.” I took a breath. “And then I’m going to get an appointment with Williams’ daughter, Hannah, and see if I can’t get her to testify. I’m sure she knows more than what she’s let on. I couldn’t get an appointment with her before, and I didn’t pursue it since we had enough on Williams.”

  Dan frowned. “Things have changed.”

  “I know,” I said. “We need more on him.”

  He nodded. His forehead was wrinkled—he looked stressed. “All right, then. Get on it.” He picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. “Meet you back at the office.” Joshua followed him.

  I stayed seated. It had been a long day—I needed a moment.

  Dan turned. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. His dark eyes glanced me over. “I’ll order dinner for us to share. My treat. And then you can sleep over at my place.”

  That’s what I disliked about Dan—he was too direct. His “place” was an apartment above our office building. He was married, but it was known that he slept around. He had me on his list of subjects to bed. I pretended not to have any idea what a creep he was and blew him off.

  “Can’t. Besides, your wife might like to have a nice family dinner with you every now and again.”

  He winced and walked toward the door. I’d probably suffer one way or another for that slight to his ego—or he’d take it as a challenge. Either way, he wasn’t getting what he was after. I’d rather kiss a few more frogs than give in to him.

  Looking over the empty courtroom, I noticed a marble statue of Lady Justice poised over the witness stand like an angel of hope. Her blindfold promised equality, but so many times it was nothing but a chance for those in front of her to try pulling tricks and playing games.

  Come on, Miss Sentimental, time to get to work. As I hit the main lobby, I was bombarded by the media and their thousand questions. I pushed through them and got into a black Ford. It was a company car and most of the time we didn’t get them, but for this case I requested it because of the media pressure.

  “Ninth and Idaho, please.”

  The tanned, unshaven driver looked me over in the rearview mirror and nodded. He took a bite from a large red apple and then pulled onto the road. He said nothing more as we drove through traffic. I didn’t remember seeing this driver before, but they frequently changed.

  I called Joshua and asked him to make an appointment with Hannah Williams, preferably by tomorrow morning, and told him he couldn’t take no for an answer.

  I looked up and suddenly noticed The Pour House, a pub that was nowhere near the office. Where was the driver going? Alarm bells went off in my head. The driver wasn’t looking my way. I quietly grabbed my purse and retrieved my phone. With bated breath, I dialed 9-1-1 and looked up as I pressed the send button.

  I stared down the barrel of a gun. “Give me your phone, Miss Steele.” The car jerked to a stop on the side of the road. I handed him the phone, and my heart sank when he disconnected the call.

  “Time to sleep, Miss Steele.”

  He fired. A dart plunged into my chest. A cold rush flowed through my body. I screamed, but only a whimper came out. The world started to spin. Reaching for the door handle, I yanked, but there was no strength behind my grip. I was blacking out and I knew it. My head slumped forward and I felt the back of the front seat smash into my jaw.

  Then nothing.

  I SAT UP WITH a start. My head pounded like a hammer. I tried to pull my hands free, but they were strapped to the chair where I sat. I blinked a few times and tested the gag j
ammed in my mouth. It tasted like mothballs and rum. Not a good combo.

  Think, Sarah, find the markers. Windows, sounds, anything to track this place down later. But I couldn’t see because they’d put a hood over my head. There were strong paint fumes in the air. The sound of footsteps on the concrete floor made me turn my head. Heels. Not a woman’s. Expensive dress shoes.

  “Take the hood off.” The male voice was commanding, yet soft, like the voice of someone who didn’t fear anything or anyone. The hood was pulled off and a burst of light hit my eyes. A lamp pointed straight at my face so all I could see were a few shadows. They surrounded me like I was some kind of attraction at the zoo.

  I tried to collect my bearings. My legs were untied. My hands were bound tight to the arms of a metal office chair. By the acoustics of the place and the dampness in the air, I thought we had to be in a basement.

  The same man spoke again. “Hello, Miss Steele. I am … well, I am against you. We need the Williams case to go away.” I thought I’d heard his voice before. Like it was a voice in a commercial or something. I couldn’t place it.

  I didn’t pull or struggle on my restraints. I wasn’t even sweating. My vision had cleared and I studied the ground. There was yellowed carpet glue in thin lines on the concrete floor. I saw green carpet lint littering the floor.

  I could feel the monster within me trying to get out. But I wouldn’t let it. Not yet, not again.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked in a dark voice. “Bribe me? Rough me up and threaten my family? Or whatever you saw on the latest episode of Law & Order?”

  “No, miss,” the man said. I heard him take a step forward. “It’s not as if we could mess up your family any more than it already is. Your mother’s in jail for murdering your father.”

  No matter how many times I’d heard it, the fact still sent a searing pain through my chest. It hadn’t dulled over the years. He was right—the situation couldn’t get any worse, and he didn’t even know the half of it.

  I pushed back the pain and raised my chin. The light dried out my eyes, and I squinted to see better.

  One of the men to the side shifted, and I could see his features through the dim light. He wore a smooth black suit and a red tie. He stood around six feet tall. He was well groomed, with a small goatee and trimmed black hair. Firstborn and very type A. Not one wrinkle in sight.

  The man in charge spoke again. “I know that no matter what I say, you will go on your way and do your best to win your case. So I’m going to make you a promise.” With a click, the room went dark. My heart quickened. “If you don’t let this trial go, I promise that Hank Williams will do to you exactly what he did to Tracy Mulligan.” My mouth went dry. “Except he’ll take much longer with you.”

  Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it down. I needed to get out of here. Now. What did I have? My legs were free. As if a reflex took over, I got to my feet, bent in half from the chair. With a feral cry, I charged the voice. The light clicked back on, blinding me, but I was moving too fast to be stopped. I lunged at the middle shadow.

  My head hit his chest and he caved, dropping to the floor. My weight knocked the wind out of him. I twisted in the chair, and the metal back socked him in the jaw. Moving again, I rolled to my knees just as something hit my head.

  Before I lost consciousness, I saw a face. A face that looked identical to Hank Williams’.

  MY HEAD FELT LIKE it was stuck under a truck tire. I rubbed my eyes and felt something sticky—blood. I looked around to find myself back in my apartment and in my own bed.

  I sat up—too fast. The room swam as I steadied myself and then stumbled to the door. My apartment looked the same as I had left it. My purse was on the table and my phone and keys were laid out neatly in front of it. I cursed.

  It was 8:13 at night, two hours after I’d left the courthouse. Which meant wherever they had taken me had to be close.

  I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking. There were six missed calls—one from Joshua, two from Dan, one from Angela, and two from my best friend, Mandy. The screen was still on my disconnected call to 9-1-1. I pushed redial.

  “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” a male voice answered.

  “I’d like to report a kidnapping—” My voice broke as what had happened to me sank in. Tears came to my eyes and my throat clenched. I swallowed down the rising panic attack.

  After giving him a few details in a hoarse voice and getting a promise that a detective was headed my way, I hung up.

  Glancing around the room, I saw that all my blinds were open. I rushed to each window, eyes wide in panic, yanking the blinds shut. By the time each one was closed, tears poured down my face and I curled up in the corner and gave in to my frustration.

  Sobs tore at my chest. This wasn’t just about the fear I felt clawing at me—it was about mourning the loss of my safety, the belief that nothing like this would ever happen to me.

  THE POLICE ARRIVED TWENTY-FIVE minutes later, which was exceptionally fast for them. They probably recognized my name. I knew several of the homicide detectives, but not many in small crime.

  Detective Ross came with his partner, Detective Monroe. They were professional and thorough, asking me everything about the driver, the man I’d seen in the basement, and all the other details I noticed. Detective Ross kept clearing his throat, as if he had allergies or was nervous. His eyes were full of compassion, though, and he was patient with me as I slowly told them everything I could remember.

  Halfway through the interview, I called a locksmith. The kidnappers had access to my keys—I needed new locks and I wanted them in before the detectives left. Luckily, I got ahold of one who was available and he was over within the hour with a new handle and deadbolt. I wished he had installed two deadbolts, but I knew that was overkill.

  I also texted Mandy: I need you. Please come.

  “I hope you understand the need for discretion,” I said as Ross filled out the report form.

  Ross took off his glasses and ran his hand over his dark goatee. He had olive skin and a full head of black hair. I figured him to be an ex-football player, maybe even for Boise State … Ross … I scanned my memory, trying to remember if I’d ever met him, but came up blank.

  “This is a high-profile case and any leak of this kind would start a media frenzy,” I said. “And if there’s a leak, my boss wants to be the one to start it.”

  “I understand, Miss Steele. Has anything else happened to you that might have to do with this case?” Detective Ross looked up over the top of his reading glasses with dark, brooding eyes.

  I shrugged. “There have been phone calls with no one on the other line, but I can’t say that’s out of the ordinary.”

  He wrote something down. “I’ll check your phone history,” he said. He tapped his pen on the paper. “Their threat was very specific. They said it was Williams who was going to kill you—”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, not understanding the question.

  “It’s just interesting,” he said.

  Monroe came up beside me and put his knuckles on the table. “I want you to be careful,” he said. “No late nights out alone, change your phone number, and maybe stay with a friend for a month or two.”

  “Come on,” I objected. “I’m not going to stop living my life for this guy. He’s behind bars.”

  Ross sighed and leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest. “Fine, Miss Steele, but you might look into getting some mace. And do you own a gun?”

  The question caught me off guard. “Uh … yes.”

  It was a Lady Glock, a gift from my father before his premature death. He’d taught me how to load it and clean it. I’d shot a few rabbits when I was younger, but I hadn’t done much with it since then. But I kept it close, in a drawer in my bedroom table.

  “Do you know how to use it?” Monroe asked.

  “Well ...” I’d shot it recently when I went camping with Mandy and Rick, but that was it.

  “I know a guy
,” Monroe said. “He can put you through a safety course and get you to the top of the list for a concealed weapons permit. I think it might be a good idea in your line of work. Times are not getting better. But you need to know how to use it, how to be safe. The worst thing is an untrained person with a gun.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this,” I said.

  “Why?” Monroe said, standing straighter. “Because I’m a cop? Look, the more people out there—good people—who carry, the better off we’ll all be.”

  I eyed him like he was crazy. If I was hearing right, it sounded like he was encouraging people to carry.

  “If every house had a gun and people knew how to use them, imagine the change in the crime rate.”

  “What about accidental shootings, kids getting ahold of their dad’s gun?” I asked.

  “Most accidental shootings happen when people aren’t trained. If you know what a gun is, how to clean and fire it, you won’t shoot yourself or anyone else by accident. Most people just don’t know—don’t want to know—so when they come in contact with a weapon, they’re more prone to hurt themselves. I had a gun by the time I was ten years old. I never came close to shooting myself because my dad taught us kids how to respect and use weapons.”

  I imagined a much-shorter version of Monroe toddling around with guns at his belt. The thought of knowing how to use a gun was certainly appealing at the moment. I slouched and hugged myself, thinking about the possibility of those men coming back.

  “I’ll look into it—if you think I should.”

  “I do.” Monroe handed me a piece of paper with a name and a phone number. “Call him—he’ll hook you up.”

  I nodded and stood. This was not what I was expecting. I’d dealt with the police before, but most of the time it was a representative or someone higher up, not the guy on the ground.