When He's Dirty, стр. 11

“Trust him? I’m not trusting anyone I’ve never even met.”

“He knows Waters like no one else. He’ll do what the has to do to protect himself and the prosecution. He’s going to stay alive and we need him to stay alive.”

“The DA wants to know I have a solid case.”

“You do,” he argues. “Even without Adrian, you do. No jury is letting that man go. We have solid evidence. We have other witnesses.” He leans forward on the desk. “We’re all tense. We’re all targets. Fuck, I’m looking over my shoulder, too. I’m sure you are as well.”

“I doubt I’m a target,” I say. “I know only what is in the file.”

“What better way to end a trial than to kill the lead attorney?”

“I’m not the only attorney on the case,” I argue.

“Who else would want to take lead if you were dead?” He doesn’t give me time to reply. “I can get you protection.”

“As in someone following me around?”

“Yes.”

The sickness of all I have discovered over Waters colors my reply. “No, and I’m not trying to be stupid. Waters has a habit of turning good cops bad. I’ll trust myself over anyone else right now.”

“You sure?” he asks, and the very fact that he doesn’t deny my statement, validates my reply.

“Do you know something I should know?”

He pushes off the desk. “You know what I know. That’s why I’m a witness.”

“How did you leave it with Adrian?”

“I told him to hurry the fuck up and make a decision.” He heads for the door and glances back at me. “If you change your mind on security—”

“I won’t.”

He nods and exits the office, leaving me with the realization that my top witness is investigating me. Unfortunately, he might not like what he finds.

“Miller.”

I jolt and I look up to find Ed Melbourn, the DA standing in my doorway, a moment before he steps inside my office and shuts the door. He’s fifty-something, fit, a big man, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders, and a broader presence.

“Where are we on the Waters case?”

“Exactly where anyone would be after two key witnesses were murdered,” I answer, always direct and honest, which has served me well with Ed. I think. It’s hard to know where you stand with Ed. “The team is rattled, but we’re pushing forward, reframing our case. We can still win this.”

“What about that FBI agent that was undercover with Waters?”

“He’s not keen on coming forward, at least not now. Pitt seems to think he might be a last-minute addition.”

“Last minute is not a good plan. What’s his problem?”

“Two dead witnesses. He doesn’t want to be dead right along with them. He doesn’t trust law enforcement to protect him, and frankly, sir, I understand.”

“What I understand is that we need Waters to go down.”

“We still have a solid case,” I argue.

“Until another witness ends up dead? Or has sudden memory loss? For all we know, they’ll get on the stand and have that memory loss there. Your daddy’s a beast. He does whatever it takes to win. Be your daddy, Miller.” He opens the door and intends to exit.

“If I wanted to be my father, I’d still be working for him.” It’s out before I can stop it and I’m not sure I would have even tried.

He half turns and eyes me. “And yet, you got this case because of your track record with your daddy. If you lose it, some might think you can’t make it without him. I will.”

He turns and exits.

I rotate away from the desk, facing the wall, and give myself about two seconds of self-doubt before my spine stiffens and I rotate again and head for the door, intent on pursuing Ed. That’s when Cindy, the newest ADA, straight out of school, and working under me, steps inside the office. She’s petite, feisty, and a pretty blonde who has proven to be a real asset. “Zara Moore, Waters’ ex-girlfriend, says she’s no longer willing to testify. She remembers nothing.”

I can almost feel a fist punch me right in the chest. “Where is she now?”

“She left protective custody. That’s all I know. What now?”

“We find another witness,” I say, but I already know we’re out of options. Except one: Adrian Mack.

***

About six-thirty, Cindy and I head to the coffee shop by my house, the scent of fresh baked cookies stirring old memories of a nanny who baked often, while my mother did not. But to my mother’s credit, she did love to eat the tasty treats over shared story time while my father was always at work.

For now, I pass on my cookie craving, and Cindy and I order drinks, before spending another hour working. “Three key witnesses feels like enough,” she says, as we’re wrapping up.

“It should be,” I say, “but my gut says Zara won’t be the last witness to get cold feet.”

“Or die?” she asks. “Talk about being intimidated in a big way. This case has gotten outright creepy. Do you ever get worried we’re on the hitlist, too?”

I sip what’s left of my coffee, and do so with the intent of hiding my reaction. Pitt said the same thing. It’s not a pretty idea, not at all. In fact, it’s an ugly idea.

“You’re fine,” I assure her, setting my cup down. “And this is the best way to start. Everything you face after this case will feel a little less intimidating.”

“Do you still get intimidated? I mean, you worked on some really big cases in the private arena.”

“Every time I take a case, I affect someone’s life. Every time, I’m intimidated by the great, but welcomed burden and responsibility to do right by people who have only me to count on.”

“Yes,” she says. “I can see that. If I didn’t want to do right by people, I wouldn’t be working for pennies. I could have taken a job with a firm for more money. But I,”—her lips purse together—“it feels a