The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 4

Chris could finally take no more. "You heartless bastard. These people were my family."

"Please." Callahan's voice was thick with venom. He leaned back in his chair. His lips curled in disgust. "Spare me the histrionics. I've seen this routine before from better actors than you."

"Watch it," George cautioned. "You've already established that you don't have enough evidence to prove my client is guilty. This treatment is bordering on harassment. I won't hesitate to file a formal complaint."

The cigar returned to its former place between the livery lips and the detective purpled in rage. He leaned further into his chair and squinted his eyes several times, obviously trying to work up a smart retort. He finally said, "The decision has been made. Case closed. Effective immediately. Now get the hell out of my sight and pray to God I never lay eyes on you again."

Chris was incoherent as they fled the office. George MacQuery was not the kind of person one casually dismissed, and he could feel the man's resentment pouring off of him in a black wave as he trailed dumbly behind.

As they reached the lobby, Chris stumbled. The realization of what had just happened overcame him, and the shock was like a physical blow.

It was over.

There would be no more staring at the phone for hours, hoping the police would call with some news.

Brianna and Michael were dead---or if not, they were surely lost to him forever.

He'd just been officially orphaned by the justice system and, like so many other orphans, his withering hope had finally died.

Where did that leave him?

"Chris, are you okay?"

The only thing keeping him on his feet was George's strong grip.

He tried to speak but could not form words. The room was spinning. He held his breath in an attempt to keep from vomiting.

"Could someone call an ambulance?"

Activity in the lobby came to a screeching halt, and all eyes turned on them. The weight of the curious stares was too much. Chris's universe narrowed to a pinprick of light and winked out as he lost consciousness.

JASON KINGSLEY flashed perfect white teeth at the young female desk sergeant and winked. He'd had plenty of practice putting his sexy smile and mysterious hazel eyes to good use over the years. They never failed him. This time was proving to be no exception. She looked away, trying to affect disinterest, though the pink that rose in her cheeks gave her away completely.

"The last thing I want to do is get you into trouble, but I think this guy would be happy to get his keys back. I tried to flag him down, but he didn't see me. Just a name. That's all I need. I'll look it up in the phone book."

"It's nice of you to want to return the keys, Mr. Kingsley, but I'm really not---"

Their attention was drawn to a flurry of activity to the right. George MacQuery, a prominent attorney and an old acquaintance, was kneeling on the floor next to the inert form of a younger man. Jason vaguely recalled seeing them enter the precinct shortly after he had arrived, although he hadn't had a good look at George's companion. His unconscious awareness of his surroundings, his ability to remember little details was a carry-over from the good old days in the FBI. It was a habit he'd never quite been able to break. On the upside, it did serve him well in his present occupation.

The female desk sergeant stood and craned to see past the crowd that had gathered.

Jason followed her gaze. "Looks like you've got some action today, huh?"

"Poor guy. Such a shame."

"What's his story?" His interest was piqued.

"It's Chris James," she said, as if he should know. He shrugged in response. "Don't you watch TV?"

He grimaced. "Never touch the stuff---kills brain cells."

"The murders were big news, what with the two of them being so famous. He writes a column for that lifestyle magazine, The Sounder, and his partner, the one who was killed, was some big shot attorney."

Jason cocked his head to the side, trying to recall if he'd heard anything about it. "What was his name?"

"Chris James."

"No, the attorney."

"Michael... something or other. I can't remember."

"Not Michael Blake?"

"Yeah, that was his name."

Jason's jaw clenched. How had he not heard about this?

Michael Blake. Jesus.

He watched in rapt attention as a team of paramedics arrived on the scene and loaded Chris onto a stretcher.

"You said Blake was murdered?"

"As far as anyone knows. They never found the bodies."

"Bodies? Who was the other one?"

"His daughter." There was a stricken look on the young woman's face. "God, she was just a baby."

"Blake had a daughter?"

She sighed. "Don't you even read the paper? It was his daughter," she explained, pointing toward Chris.

A niggling memory insinuated itself into his brain---a disconnected piece of a puzzle that he'd never been able to find a place for. Even though that particular case had been solved long ago, the mystery remained.

He turned and focused intent eyes upon the young woman. "You said they never found the bodies?"

"Just a lot of blood."

"Any suspects?"

"Chris James was under suspicion for a while. They couldn't ever come up with enough evidence to pursue it, though." She rolled her eyes.

"Idiots. All you need to do is look at him to see there's no way he could have done it. Some things you can't fake, you know. His grief is real."

"Any idea of a motive?"

"None. As far as anyone could tell, the attorney was squeaky clean. No enemies."

Jason snorted. "Okay. If you say so."

"You knew him?"

"Not really, no." His brow furrowed. "I have to go."

"What about your license plate trace?"

He glanced at the set of keys dangling from his finger. He'd found them in the back of his desk drawer. They were probably an old set to Bradley's apartment. He was suddenly a lot less interested in the cheating spouse gig he was currently working. Infidelity paid the bills, true, but there was no challenge or joy to be found