Star Witness. Mallory Kane
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Harte won the verdict, but he’d lost the respect of his opposing counsel. Later he’d found out that Dani had appealed and gotten her client acquitted.
Once he’d gotten more experience under his belt, he’d had to admit she was right. That first case had been a win for him, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. It had taken him a few years and more than a few cases to live down convicting a battered wife.
Their paths hadn’t crossed but a couple of times since then, which had helped keep the instantaneous attraction he’d felt for her the first time he’d seen her at bay. But he’d never forgotten how she’d looked when she’d walked into the courtroom that first day. She’d had on a short skirt and high-heeled shoes that made her legs look a mile long. He’d never forgotten her face, her body or the unconsciously sexy, confident way she moved.
But her body wasn’t all that he’d found sexy about her. She was smart and quick. Across from her in court, he’d quickly found out that as a public defender, she was as tenacious and focused as a terrier.
A cramp in his thigh interrupted his thoughts and he realized he’d been nearly asleep. Rubbing the tight muscle, he considered the irony that he and Dani were on the same side this time. Well, sort of on the same side. She still thought of him as the enemy.
His cell phone rang. It was Lucas.
“How’s your girl?” his oldest brother asked.
“My witness is all right,” Harte responded. “How were the steaks?”
“Great, as usual. We just got home.”
“Really?” He glanced at the time on the display. “Late night for you, at the folks’ house.”
“Not my idea. Ange and Mom were exchanging recipes. I watched a ball game with him.” Lucas never referred to their father as Dad. “I’d planned to talk to you about the info you asked me about.”
Harte sat up. “What’d you find out?”
“Not much. Nothing on the record. Yeoman’s got a fairly clean file. Some small-time stuff early on, but he’s managed to keep his record clean for the last twenty years.”
“His record. What about what’s not on the record?”
“Now, that’s a different story. Every detective has an anecdote about Yeoman getting away clean while one of his goons took the rap.”
“Yeah, that’s basically what I got from Mahoney. There’s got to be somebody out there that Yeoman cheated or framed, who’d jump at the chance to get back at him.”
“I called Dawson the other day and asked him what he knew. I figured he might have run into Yeoman when he was chasing down Tito Vega.”
“And had he?”
“Nope, but he made a couple of calls for me.”
“I hope he’s careful. This is the best chance the D.A.’s ever had to put Yeoman away. We’ve got to be careful about where information comes from.”
“Our cousin’s a good investigator, kid. He knows what he’s doing.”
“I know,” Harte said. “I’m just worried. Yeoman’s hired Felix Drury as his attorney. He’s a shark. He’ll eat us alive if we can’t vet every tidbit of evidence we present.”
“You’re still not sure about Dani, are you?”
With a sigh, Harte rubbed a hand down his face. “I believe she’s telling the truth about what she heard. It’s just hard to take in and it’s going to be harder to convince a jury. She’s linking a respected legislator and a renowned attorney with Yeoman, a thug and a drug dealer. She says her granddad was certain that Senator Stamps was taking bribes to push for lower tariffs on imports. If I can prove that independently, and find a solid connection between Stamps and Yeoman …”
“Are you saying you’re going after Stamps?”
Harte sighed and ran a hand across his five-o’clock—or midnight—stubble. “I don’t know. I need something more than Dani’s hearsay about what she heard that night.”
“Well, Dawson’s info may help. He called a guy he uses part-time—a former drug addict who’s a C.I. these days,” Lucas said. “Apparently, there’s been talk on the street for a long time about Yeoman’s connections in the legislature. Something else that nobody seems willing to talk about openly.”
“That’s all well and good,” Harte said. “But the fact that nobody will come forward with solid information is what keeps the D.A. up nights. Nobody’s ever been able to prove anything.”
“According to Dawson’s C.I., some folks think that connection is Stamps.”
Harte sat up, feeling his pulse speed up. “Why am I just now hearing this?”
“Because I just got it. The C.I. said to check Stamps’s voting record and his bank accounts.”
Harte rubbed his eyes. “I’m already on the voting records. I’ve got an intern tallying his position on every issue under the sun. But I have no cause to subpoena his bank records.”
“You could ask him nicely,” Lucas said wryly.
“Yeah,” Harte responded. “I could toss a pig off a roof too, but the chances of it flying are better than a Louisiana congressman volunteering private financial information.”
His brother laughed. “I’ve got to go. Big day tomorrow.”
“Me too. I’ll get with Dawson tomorrow. I hope he’s got something more solid than a drug addict’s report of a comment heard on a street corner.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to need it.”
“G’night, kid.”
Harte hung up and looked at the dashboard clock, although he already knew it was after midnight. As he shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position, headlights appeared at the other end of the street. Harte crouched down in front of the headrest and waited to see what the vehicle did. It slowed down, which accelerated his pulse. Then he heard a garage door open. Peering around, he saw the car disappear into a garage three doors down. He watched until the door closed, then breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed as much as he could.
His thigh threatened to cramp again. Thanks to his long, lanky Delancey body, the Jeep wasn’t going to be as comfortable as he’d hoped it would be. Still, he’d appointed himself Dani Canto’s protector. A little discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure her safety.
But damn, it was going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
When Dani woke up the next morning and stretched, she yelped in pain. Every inch of her body was sore, thanks to her crash landing on her porch floor the day before. Her shoulders were tight and painful, her right knee ached and she had a headache.
She pushed herself up out of bed and hobbled to the shower. Under the hot spray, her muscles loosened and the headache eased, although the scrapes on her knees and elbows stung like fire. She blamed the sore muscles, the scrape and the aching knee on the bastard who’d tried to run her down. She blamed the headache on Harte Delancey, although, if she were truthful, he didn’t deserve it.
After he’d left, she’d gotten into her pajamas and climbed into bed, fully intending to drink enough to wipe his ominous words from her brain. But the wine’s taste was bitter on her tongue. She’d tried to read, tried to watch TV, even put on a blues music station, but nothing helped. So she turned out the light and lay in the dark, feeling sorry for herself.
She missed her granddad. Sure, he’d been eighty, but he’d been as healthy as a decades-younger man. In fact, he’d been planning to run for another four years in the legislature. She