Текст книги "About That Night"

Автор книги: Julie James

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Seventeen

KYLE ALMOST HAD a heart attack when he peered down at the Post-it note his sister had given him.

“This is your password? Clearly, that’s the next thing we need to fix,” he said as he logged on to her laptop. Jordan had asked him to stop by her store to see if he could figure out why her Internet connection had suddenly crashed. Based on her password alone, he was already dreading what he might find.

Standing next to the desk, Jordan gave him a quizzical look. “Mom’s maiden name and the years Grandma and Grandpa Evers were born. Why would anyone ever think of that combination?”

“Or you could just make the password one-two-three-four,” he offered. “Since you’re obviously trying to have your identity stolen.” He pointed, lecturing. “Listen and learn: you need fourteen characters, minimum. Use random letters, not words. Here’s a tip: think of a sentence, and use the first letter in each of those words. Mix it up between upper and lower case. Then pick two numbers that mean something to you—not dates—and stick them somewhere between the letters. Put a punctuation mark at the beginning of the password and then a symbol, like a dollar sign, at the end.”

“Yes, sir.” Jordan grabbed a pen and another Post-it note. “Um, could you repeat everything that came after mixing up the upper and lower case?”

Kyle took the pen from her. “I’ll come up with something for you.” He shooed her off. “Now go away. Sell some wine. I’ll call you if I need someone to push an on-off button.” He thought of one last thing. “By the way, when’s the last time you updated the firmware on your router? Okay, from your blank expression, I’ll mark that down as a big ‘never.’ “

Shortly after she left, his cell phone rang, and Kyle saw that it was Rylann. The two of them had been playing phone tag all afternoon—not that he particularly minded hearing her sexy, throaty voice on his voicemail.

He knew, from the press release the U.S. Attorney’s Office had issued last Friday morning, that the grand jury had indicted Adam Quinn. Since then, there’d been some local media interest in the case—a guard instigating the murder of a federal inmate was exactly the kind of juicy public corruption scandal that Chicago journalists loved to report about—but thankfully, none of the witnesses’ names had been revealed. He was more than happy to stay out of the spotlight as long as possible on this one.

“It appears congratulations are in order, Ms. Pierce,” he said when he answered his phone. “I see you got your indictment. I believe a certain somebody said something about calling me when that happened.”

“I’ve been waiting for a time when I had more than five seconds to talk.”

“Oh.” Kyle rocked back in the desk chair, liking the sound of that. “I’m flattered.”

“Because I also need a favor from you.”

Of course she did. “You know, counselor, I think that card you keep playing—the one that says, ‘Redeemable for old times’ sake’—has officially expired.”

“Uh-oh, I better check.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Nope, May 2012. We’re still good.”

He fought back a grin at that one. “What do you need?”

“I have a few follow-up questions related to Quinn,” Rylann said. “It should only take twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. Is this a good time?”

As if on cue, Jordan stuck her head into her office. Seeing him on the phone, she pointed to her computer and whispered. “Is it fixed?”

Kyle shook his head. No. Go away.

He waited until Jordan left before answering Rylann. “Actually, I’m in the middle of something at my sister’s wine shop. Can I call you back?”

She hesitated. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

“Maybe a half hour.”

“I have plans later tonight, so I was going to leave work after I finished talking to you. You were the last item on my checklist,” she said. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow instead?”

“Unfortunately, I’m going out of town tomorrow morning and will be gone all week,” he told her. He was flying to Seattle, San Diego, and then to New York to talk to three potential candidates for a senior-level position in his start-up company. Given the whole Twitter debacle, it had taken some convincing even to get these guys to agree to meet with him.

“This was something I’d been hoping to wrap up in the next few days…” she mused out loud. “How about if I call you in a little while, after I get home? I live in Roscoe Village, so it should be about thirty minutes. Does that work?”

“Roscoe Village is right by my sister’s store. DeVine Cellars, on Belmont. Why don’t you just stop by here on your way home and we can talk in person?”

The words flew out of Kyle’s mouth before he could even think about them.

Apparently, Rylann was just as surprised by the offer as he was. “I, um…hadn’t considered that possibility.”

Neither had he, but the more he thought about it, the faster he was warming to it. If for no other reason, he was curious to check out today’s skirt suit selection. “Well, if you want to talk to me this week, counselor, I’d start considering it. That’s the only time I’m available for pesky assistant U.S. attorneys.”

“If I were to agree to this, it would be solely because—as it so happens—I’ve been wanting to check out your sister’s shop for a while now,” she said. “I hear she’s got the best wine selection in the city.”

Kyle grinned. “You keep telling yourself that, counselor. Maybe in thirty minutes, when you get here, you’ll actually believe it.”

A DEFIANT THIRTY-SEVEN minutes later, when Rylann walked into DeVine Cellars and felt the cool air of the shop hit her, she momentarily felt as if she were back in San Francisco. There had been a store just like this only a block from her old apartment that she’d frequented often—cozy yet sophisticated, highboy tables scatted throughout, and bin after bin filled with wine bottles.

Rylann scanned the store and saw customers at two of the tables but no sign of Kyle. She walked over to an empty table tucked into a corner against the wine bins, hung the strap of her briefcase on the back of one of the chairs, and took a seat.

She’d just begun to read the chalkboard over the main bar, which listed the wines the store had available by the glass, when she heard a friendly voice to her right.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

A slender, very pretty blond woman with blue eyes smiled as she approached the table. Even if Rylann hadn’t recognized Jordan Rhodes from the photos that had been in the media over the years, she would have known instantly that she was Kyle’s sister. Though nearly a foot shorter than Kyle, and with hair that was several shades lighter, those blue eyes gave it away.

Before Rylann could say anything, Jordan cocked her head with a look of recognition. “I know you. You’re the prosecutor who handled the motion to reduce my brother’s prison sentence.”

Rylann assumed Jordan had been in court that morning to support Kyle. Or maybe she’d seen the photo of the two of them that had done the media circuit. “You have a good memory. Actually, I’m meeting Kyle here tonight. Is he around?”

For whatever reason, Jordan appeared shocked by the question.

“You’re meeting my brother here?” she asked. “Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty sure. It was his suggestion, actually.”

Jordan stared at her. “Are we talking about the same Kyle Rhodes? Tall; freakishly lustrous, shampoo-commercial hair; has this weird thing about giving people nicknames?”

“I heard that, Jordo.” Kyle came around the wine bins, wearing jeans and a navy crewneck sweater. As he approached, Rylann noticed that he hadn’t shaved that day and that the scruff along his strong, angular jaw made him look very…beddable.

Witness, she reminded herself.

He stopped at Rylann’s table. “I see that you’ve had the non-pleasure of meeting my sister.” He gestured, making the introduction. “Jordo, this is Rylann Pierce.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow pointedly at Kyle.

He glared.

An entire dialogue seemed to pass between them.

Then Jordan extended her hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rylann. Please let me know if there’s anything I can get you.” She pointed to the chalkboard. “I’ve got a great cabernet open tonight.”

“I see that. Actually, I think all the Kuleto Estate cabs are great,” Rylann said. “The India Ink is probably in my top five wines.”

Jordan pulled back, impressed. “You speak wine, I see.” She nodded approvingly at Kyle. “I like her already.”

“Jordo…” he said warningly.

“What? That was a compliment.” She turned back to Rylann. “Question: you’re not secretly a money-grubbing skank, are you?”

Kyle looked pained. “My God, Jordan.”

“What? It’s a fair question given your past predilections.”

Rylann smiled at the dynamic between the two of them. “Your brother is safe with me. We’re not together, we’re just…” She paused, looking at Kyle and trying to decide how best to describe their situation, since she had no clue whether he’d mentioned to his family that he was working with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “…old friends,” she finished.

Jordan raised a skeptical eyebrow at Kyle. “Old friends with the U.S. Attorney’s Office? Sure.”

“The wine, Jordo?” he said pointedly.

She flashed them both a grin. “Coming right up,” she sang cheerfully as she walked away.

Kyle took a seat in the chair next to Rylann. “Sorry about that. For years, my sister has labored under the impression that she’s funny. My father and I have humored her in this.”

Rylann waved this off. “No apology necessary. She’s just protective of you. That’s what siblings do—at least, I assume it is.”

“No brothers or sisters for you?” Kyle asked.

Rylann shook her head. “My parents had me when they were older. I asked for a sister every birthday until I was thirteen, but it wasn’t in the cards.” She shrugged. “But at least I have Rae.”

“When did you two meet?”

“College. We were in the same sorority pledge class. Rae is…” Rylann cocked her head, trying to remember. “What’s that phrase men always use when describing their best friend? The thing about the hooker and the hotel room.”

“If I ever woke up with a dead hooker in my hotel room, he’d be the first person I’d call. A truer test of male friendship there could not be.”

Rylann smiled. “That’s cute. And a little scary, actually, that all you men have planned ahead for such an occasion.” She waved her hand. “Well, there you go. If I ever woke up with a dead hooker in my hotel room, Rae would be the first person I’d call.”

Kyle rested his arms on the table and leaned in closer. “Counselor, you’re so by the book, the first person you’d call if you woke up next to a dead hooker would be the FBI.”

“Actually, I’d call the cops. Most homicides aren’t federal crimes, so the FBI wouldn’t have jurisdiction.”

Kyle laughed. He reached out and tucked back a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “You really are a law geek.”

At the same moment, they both realized what he was doing. They froze, eyes locked, his hand practically cupping the side of her cheek.

Then they heard someone clearing her throat.

Rylann and Kyle turned and saw Jordan standing at their table.

“Wine, anyone?” With her blue eyes dancing, she set two glasses in front of them. “I’ll leave you two to yourselves now.”

Rylann watched as Jordan strolled off. “I think you’re going to have some explaining to do after I leave,” she whispered to Kyle.

“Oh, without a doubt, she’s going to be all up in my business over this.”

Rylann laughed. Then she gave her glass a swirl, opening up the aromas of the wine and checking its hue. It gave her a convenient excuse to look away from Kyle.

The scruff was killing her.

Time to get down to business. “So about this case…”

TRY AS SHE might to hide it, Kyle hadn’t missed Rylann’s reaction when he’d touched her.

She was in lawyer mode again, naturally, asking him about Quinn and various things he’d noticed at MCC. But he wasn’t a fool—moments ago, he’d seen the flare of heat in those gorgeous amber eyes. The spark he’d felt between them the night they’d met was still there, no doubt, but she was either fighting it or playing hard to get.

So he played along, answering all her questions like a good little ex-con. Whether he’d ever seen Quinn showing any favoritism to certain inmates, whether he’d heard rumors about any such favoritism, and if he had any idea who, out of all the inmates, had been most tapped into the gossip and thus might know more than he did.

Somewhere along the way, he found himself getting a little…distracted. Maybe it was the way her hair spilled over her shoulder as she leaned forward to jot something down on her legal pad. Or how her cheeks had picked up a rosy flush as she continued taking sips of her wine. Or possibly it was the lovely, slender curve of her neck as she rested her head on her hand while listening to him.

Mostly, though, it was just the direct way she held his gaze and listened to him, as if they were the only two people in the room.

“I get the impression I wasn’t much help to you tonight,” he said when she appeared to be wrapping up with her questions.

Rylann swirled her glass on the table. “It was a long shot. Agent Wilkins and I have been striking out all week with this.”

When she took another sip of wine—her glass almost empty—Kyle knew that the interview portion of this evening had come to an end. Which meant that it was time for him to take things up a notch.

He gestured to her wineglass, starting with a softball question to warm her up. “So is wine something you got into when you lived in San Francisco?”

She nodded. “I knew nothing about it when I first moved there from Champaign. But most of the people I hung around with drank wine, so I slowly began drinking it more often, figuring out what I like. And what I don’t like.”

Now time for a not-so-soft question. “You never did tell me the whole truth about why you left San Francisco.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Why are you so interested in that?”

“You know so much about me, it seems only fair.” Kyle decided to go for broke. “Did it have something to do with a guy?”

For a moment she seemed to debate whether to answer this. “Yes.”

“Is he still in the picture?”

“No.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to hear that. “Not very talkative about this subject, are you?”

“Maybe instead we could talk about your breakup with Daniela.”

Kyle rested his arm on the table, leaning closer to her and speaking in a lower voice. “And maybe, just once, you could restrain yourself from turning one of our conversations into a verbal tennis match.”

Her eyes held his for a moment, as if she were considering this, then she looked away and gave her wineglass another swirl. “My ex-boyfriend and I broke up after he decided he wanted to move to Rome. With or without me.”

“Sounds like your ex-boyfriend is a douchebag.”

Rylann smiled at that. Then, quite deliberately, she shifted away from that topic by checking her watch. “Well, look at that. I think you and I finally managed to break our eight-minute record of getting along.” She took her last sip and then set her glass on the table. “Speaking of time, I really should get going.”

“That’s right, you mentioned earlier that you have plans tonight. Hot date?” Kyle asked.

Real subtle, asshole.

“I’m just going to the movies with Rae,” she said. “We’re seeing The Hunger Games at eight thirty.”

Kyle checked his watch. “Eight thirty? You still have time.” He looked straight into her eyes, deciding to go for broke. “Stay for a little longer, Rylann.” His voice turned huskier. “We’ll have another glass of wine and catch up. That’s what old friends do, isn’t it?”

She studied him for a long moment.

Too long.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she finally said. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about our situation.”

Kyle looked around the wine store—there was only one other table of customers, and they weren’t paying any attention to them. So by “people,” she obviously meant him.

“The situation?” he asked.

“You know, the whole lawyer-witness thing.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes held his quite directly. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think there was something going on here. Because that couldn’t happen, obviously.”

Right. That situation.

Kyle took a sip of his wine as the meaning of her words hit him.

It didn’t mean a thing, he reminded himself. She was just one girl.

“Of course.” He threw her an easygoing grin. “Actually, I was just trying to avoid having to get back to the whole mess of network connection problems waiting for me in Jordan’s office.”

“Oh. Sorry I couldn’t help you out with that.” Rylann stood up and threw the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder. “So…I’ll be in touch if there’s any development in the Quinn case.”

Sure she would. No clue how long that might be. “You know how to find me, counselor.”

“Right.” She smiled in farewell. “Thanks again for meeting with me. I promise to stay out of your freakishly lustrous, shampoo-commercial hair. At least for a while.”

After she left the wine shop, Kyle sat at the table, playing distractedly with his glass.

“She didn’t want to stay?”

Kyle looked up and saw Jordan standing at the table. For once, shockingly, she didn’t appear ready to harass or needle him.

“She had plans with a friend,” he said with a shrug.

“You’ve never introduced me to a woman before.”

Kyle shook his head. “It’s not like that, Jordo,” he said. “Rylann is just—”

“—an old friend.” With a soft smile, she reached out and ruffled his hair. “Got it.”

Eighteen

AS IT TURNED out, Rylann wasn’t quite as good as she’d thought she was.

Over the last five years she’d prosecuted cases, she’d become quite skilled at reading defendants and their lawyers at the initial court appearance. Given Quinn’s obvious nervousness, she’d originally predicted that his lawyer would be calling her within two weeks to negotiate a plea agreement.

Instead, it took him two weeks and three days to make that call.

“I’ve read the FBI reports,” Michael Channing led in shortly after Rylann answered the phone. There was a touch less bravado in his voice in comparison to the last time they’d spoken at Quinn’s arraignment. “I’d like to talk about a plea bargain. In person. My client has something he wants to say.”

“How about tomorrow?” Rylann asked. “I’m in court in the morning but can make myself available later on. Say, two o’clock?”

“Two thirty,” Channing said brusquely.

Clearly, it was going to be one of those kinds of discussions.

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Rylann sat across the table from both Quinn, who looked uncomfortable in his navy suit, and his lawyer, who looked put out and cantankerous, per usual. She’d reserved one of the conference rooms for this meeting—no need for them to see the mountain of files on her desk. Today she wanted to convey the impression that this case was her top, and only, priority.

“You said you wanted to talk?” Rylann began.

Channing gave his client a go-ahead look. “It’s okay. Anything you say here is inadmissible at trial if we don’t come to an agreement on a plea.”

Quinn glanced mistrustfully at Rylann, appearing to want confirmation of this.

“He’s correct,” she said. “Unless you were to take the stand at trial and perjure yourself. Which I strongly recommend against doing.”

Quinn ran his hand over his mouth, then rested his hands on the table. “You’ve got this whole thing with Darius Brown wrong, Ms. Pierce. It’s not what you think.”

Rylann’s face remained impassive. “How so?”

“I never told Watts to kill Brown,” he said emphatically. “I only told him to rough the guy up, that’s all. You know, teach him a lesson.”

“That was some lesson.”

“Look, Brown attacked me first. You can’t have that in prison. You get too much of that and the inmates will be running the damn asylum.” Quinn attempted a smile, then it faded when he saw that the serious expression on Rylann’s face remained unchanged.

His tone became more angry, a quick flash of temper. “You sit there, looking so smug,” he said to her. “But who do you think watches these animals after you get your convictions? You see them at trial for—what?—a couple days, maybe a week, and then you pass the buck on. I have to deal with them for years. You and your whole office should be thanking me for doing my job.”

“Doing your job doesn’t include killing an inmate, Mr. Quinn.”

“I told you, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, getting louder.

There was a pause as the two men exchanged a look, then Channing spoke. “We’ll agree to involuntary manslaughter. And you also agree to drop the civil rights charge.”

“Not going to happen,” Rylann said matter-of-factly. “You deliberately put Brown in harm’s way,” she told Quinn. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands.”

“No fucking way,” Quinn said to Channing. “I’ll take my chances at trial.”

“You go to trial, and you’re looking at a murder-two conviction,” Rylann said.

“Or he might walk away free,” Channing said. “All you can actually prove is that my client arranged to put Brown in a cell with Watts. Whether he did that out of payback and colluded with Watts to attack Brown is based entirely on speculation.”

“Not true. I’ve got two witnesses who can establish both retaliatory motive and that Quinn and Watts were working together.”

“Witnesses who are both convicted felons,” Channing said. “One of whom is undoubtedly hoping to score a sweet deal with you in exchange for his testimony, and the other of whom is Kyle Rhodes.” He laughed humorlessly. “Do you really think the jury is going to believe anything the Twitter Terrorist says?”

“Absolutely,” Rylann said without hesitation. “Let me tell you what the jury will think when I put Kyle Rhodes on the stand. They’ll see a witness with no motive or agenda—someone who’s testifying solely because it’s the right thing to do. Sure, he made a mistake, but he also had the guts to own up to that by pleading guilty and accepting full responsibility for his crimes. Frankly, Mr. Channing, if your client is half the man Kyle Rhodes is, he’ll do the same.”

Quinn jumped back in. “Oh, so the Twitter Terrorist is some hero, and I’m the fucking scum of the earth.” He pointed to the case file in front of Rylann. “Does your little file tell you what Darius Brown did before the FBI locked him up at MCC? He robbed a bank with two of his buddies and pistol-whipped one of the tellers. Trust me, your ‘victim’ wasn’t exactly a saint.”

“And Darius Brown went to prison for his actions,” Rylann said. “Just like you will go to prison for yours.”

She saw him open his mouth and beat him to the punch. “Let’s talk straight, Mr. Quinn. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. On two other occasions you orchestrated attacks on an inmate, but this time you picked the wrong guy to carry out your dirty work. Watts beat Brown to death with a padlock attached to a belt, and you made the whole thing happen.” She turned to Channing, repeating her earlier terms. “Voluntary manslaughter, and the civil rights charge stands. That is the best, and only, deal you will get from me.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“This is not what we’d hoped for, Ms. Pierce,” Channing said coolly.

“Understood.” Rylann stood up from the table and gathered her file. “You can let me know your decision after you and Mr. Quinn have had the opportunity to talk. If you’re not interested in my terms, then we’ll prepare for trial. I assume you know your way out?”

She made it all the way to the reception area before she heard them call her name. She turned and saw Quinn and Channing walking in her direction, en route to the elevators. Quinn strode past her without a second glance, and Channing barely slowed his pace as he addressed her.

“E-mail me the agreement as soon as it’s ready,” he said. “I’ll call the clerk and have him put us on the docket for a change of plea.”

And that was that.

Rylann watched Quinn and Channing go, thinking that it was almost a shame they’d given in.

She would have rather enjoyed kicking both their asses at trial.

THE REST OF the week flew by, a flurry of motion calls, witness interviews, and meetings with various FBI, ATF, and DEA agents. Before Rylann knew it, on Friday morning she was in court for the entry of Quinn’s guilty plea.

Afterward, she walked out of the courtroom feeling good about the resolution of the case—and even better twenty minutes later in her office, when Cameron stopped by to congratulate her.

“I just saw the press release Paul is putting together regarding Adam Quinn’s guilty plea,” Cameron said, referring to Paul Thompkins, the office’s media representative. “Well done. The official word from the U.S. Attorney’s Office is that this case demonstrates that we will vigorously prosecute law enforcement officials who abuse the trust individuals—including inmates—place in them.” She smiled. “And we have you to thank for that.”

Rylann waved off the praise. “Agent Wilkins deserves the credit as well. And for what it’s worth, Kyle Rhodes really stepped up to the plate.”

“The Twitter Terrorist comes through for us. Who would’ve thought?” Cameron asked. “I heard from Cade that Quinn and his lawyer were both jerks during the plea negotiations.”

Rylann had talked to Cade about the case during one of their afternoon Starbucks runs. He was quickly becoming her go-to guy in the office, which was nice—it was good to have a friend she could trust in the special prosecutions group.

“You should’ve seen how sanctimonious Quinn was,” she told Cameron. “It’s fortunate we caught him now. If it hadn’t been for the tip from that undercover FBI agent, this might’ve gone on for years.”

“I suspect Quinn’s tune will change quickly now that he’ll be on the other side of those prison bars,” Cameron said.

“Very true.”

A few minutes later, after Cameron had left, Rylann called Rae.

“Are you free tonight?” she asked Rae. “Drinks are on me—I feel like celebrating.”

Rae sounded excited. “Ooh, let’s make a night of it. What are we celebrating?”

“The end of a very long workweek.”

Rae laughed. “I hear that. Since you mentioned it, I was just reading in the Trib about this new bar, Firelight, that’s opening tonight. Supposedly, it’s the place to be this weekend. Want to check it out?”

Rylann thought about that. “Opening night at a hot new club? Think we’ll get in?”

“If we look good enough, we will.”

Rylann laughed. “I like your confidence, Mendoza. I’ll cab over to your apartment at nine o’clock to pick you up.”