Only because you can’t fire him, she thought with disgust. She hated politics. Hated this district attorney. Hated the mayor and regretted voting for him. What about the truth? Didn’t anyone care about the truth anymore?
“We’re clear.”
“Good. Kincaid didn’t do himself any favors. He set himself up for this. Now he has to sit at the table or leave the house. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Chandler?”
“Yes, sir.”
Descario left and Julia reminded herself that Connor Kincaid had dug his own grave. Had he not gone after Suarez himself-without a warrant, without backup-he wouldn’t have been under investigation. He shot an unarmed man. Suspected human trafficker, but armed only with a knife.
She’d read the report and statistics that a good knife thrower could have hit Connor with a clean throw, but politically-God, how she hated politics-politically, a knife was no match for a gun and they were twenty-five feet apart, clearly in the gray area.
Tomorrow. She’d tell him tomorrow. His entire problem would go away if he agreed to testify. If not, he’d have to take his chances with the charges. And probably lose his job in the process.
She packed up her papers. It was nearly midnight and she had an eight a.m. court appearance. Not that she would sleep well tonight, but at least she could soak in the bath and maybe work out some of the tension in her muscles.
A knock on her door made her jump. Who was still here this late?
Connor Kincaid came in without waiting for her answer. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a black T- shirt that hugged his broad chest a little too tightly for her comfort. They’d worked together closely for the last few months and she was attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? Hot cop in uniform. Piercing black eyes to match his black hair. Square jaw, long nose, and the muscles. God, his muscles were hard and sleek and she had often imagined what it would feel like to be locked in his arms.
She glanced at her desk, feeling a blush coming on. She acted like such a schoolgirl around Connor, and he’d made no indication that he thought she was attractive. He was more angry than anything. Angry about the status of the investigation, about how they found more dead girls in the desert just last week, how no one seemed to care.
She cared. But she wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. An overworked twenty-nine-year-old deputy district attorney three years out of law school did the job she had to do, a job that two people could easily work full-time.
“The hearing is tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She shut her briefcase.
“Do you know anything?”
She wanted to tell him everything, but couldn’t. Her duty to her office, her ethics wouldn’t allow her to break the rules for him.
But she wanted to. It didn’t seem fair. And for the first time, a little chisel hit the rock of justice in her heart, that maybe the law and the rules weren’t always fair.
But they were all she had.
She came around her desk. “I heard about the girls in Calipatria. I’m sorry.”
He tensed. “The bastards are going to get away with it. Trebone isn’t talking.” Trebone, a police informant who was tightly wrapped in the Crutcher investigation, had surrendered after Connor shot Suarez. And now Trebone had been scared silent.
She wanted to soothe Connor, to tell him someday justice would be served, but Julia couldn’t get out the words. They didn’t seem to mean what they had to her when she decided to go into civil service.
Instead, she touched his arm. “We’ll figure it out.”
He looked at her hand, then at her face. For the first time since they’d begun working together, she saw desire in his eyes. Connor didn’t hesitate. If he had, she would have run away like a rabbit, avoiding the passion in his intense expression.
He put one hand on her neck and pulled her face to his. His lips locked onto hers. He tasted of warmth and spice and a hint of hops. At five foot nine she never thought of herself as petite, but she felt remarkably feminine in Connor’s arms.
She gasped, and he kissed her deeper, his tongue seeking hers. She responded, opening her mouth to him, her hands squeezing his biceps, holding on to keep herself from falling.
Connor Kincaid kissed like he did everything else in his life. Fiercely, passionately, without reservation or regret.
He walked her backward until her rear end hit the desk and he bent her backward. Her clock tumbled to the floor with a thud. Remembering where she was, she put her hands on his chest and turned her lips from his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear, breathless.
He stepped back and she felt cold. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-” Connor touched her cheek so softly Julia almost didn’t feel it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She watched him leave, then sat at her desk and cried.
SIXTEEN
Where the hell was she?
Connor Kincaid paced outside Julia’s renovated Victorian house perched on cliffs along the coast outside of La Jolla. A small neighborhood was nestled below, then the highway, shops, and finally the beach and ocean, less than a mile as the crow flies.
He finally stopped pacing and leaned against a tree on the edge of her property, staring at the distant ocean.
He tracked down Emily’s other friends but they had next to nothing to contribute. He attempted to talk to her teachers, but they refused to talk to him since he wasn’t a cop. He called Emily’s piano teacher, who had been advised by his lawyer not to speak to anyone, and the art studio downtown had no one on the premises who personally knew Emily. “The classes are run by the community college,” the gallery owner told Connor. “You’ll have to talk to the head of the art department, Anton Foster.”
Connor took down the contact information and tried Foster, but only got voice mail. He left a curt message and slammed down the phone, reminding himself that this was the part of being a cop he never liked-following up on leads that went nowhere. But it had to be done.
Where the hell was Julia?
His cell phone rang: Dillon.
“What’s up, bro?” said Connor.
“I thought we were meeting at my house.”
“Julia isn’t home yet.”
“Why don’t I meet you at her house? I have to make another stop. I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“You have news?”
“Some. I’ll talk to you when I get there.”
Connor hung up and sat down against the tree. At least the view was nice. Calming.
An orange-and-white tabby cat cautiously approached. Connor sat there, pretending not to notice. The cat came closer. Closer. Sniffed his hand, almost like a dog. Connor smiled. They’d had a cat when he was little, a black cat with a white chest who looked like he was wearing a tuxedo, hence his name, Tuxedo, given to him by Carina who was then seven. He’d been a stray, but the Kincaid family adopted him. They were in Texas at the time. When they moved a year later for Virginia, they brought Tuxedo with them. He disappeared soon after the move, and they never found him. Nor did they get another pet that wasn’t caged.
He wondered if the tabby belonged to Julia. He’d never pictured her as an animal person. A workaholic. A fierce prosecutor. A rigid attorney. Except around Emily, where she softened, became human, female. A woman he could picture with a cat on her lap and a fire in a darkened room. A woman like the one he’d kissed five long years
