When He's Dirty (Walker Security - Adrian's Trilogy 1)

“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 bit political here, doesn’t it?”

“Everything’s a little political,” I say. “And I don’t worry about the DA pressuring me for a win if the victim’s guilty. If he wasn’t guilty, that would be another story. Or if this was another case and the victim was innocent and he was forcing me to convict.”

“What would you do if he forced you to convict an innocent man?”

“Refuse. You decide who you are, Cindy, and your choices reflect who you are.”

“But if it’s my job—”

“This isn’t just a job. It’s a moral obligation and if you can’t be on the right side of your morals, well, I guess that’s really between you and your maker.”

She studies me a moment and then says, “You’re a good influence.”

“I haven’t always been. Go home. We have some busy days ahead of us.”

“What about you?”

There is a punch in my gut at the idea of walking into my house alone. “I’m going to grab another coffee and take some notes before I leave.”

“I can wait.”

“I’m good. Go home.”

She grabs her things and right before she stands, she says, “I’m glad our paths crossed.” She doesn’t wait for a reply. She heads for the door.

I’m a good influence. I doubt Adrian Mack is going to think that when he digs into my history. Which means I can’t count on him to show up. All the more reason to stay awhile and find the holes I need to plug in this case. Leaving my things behind—I’m the only one in here right now—I walk to the counter, pay for another coffee and splurge on a giant iced sugar cookie. I might not have a man in my bed, which is perpetually empty, despite that kiss in the bathroom, but my belly will be full this night. And I can run off the cookie. The wrong man tends to be a bit harder to recover from, as I’ve proven quite decisively.

With my cookie in hand, I turn away from the register and find myself running smack into a hard body. “Oh God. I’m sorry.” My hands land on a hard wall of muscle and I glance up to find Rafael staring down at me, amusement in his brown eyes.