His fingers stretched and relaxed between mine. “It’s rare you have a case go to trial, right? Most of these things are settled outside of court.”
“True, but the ones that tend to go to court are the type of defendants who really need to be locked away for as long as possible. I hate knowing that my case lies at the mercy of a handful of people who the entirety of their understanding of the legal system comes from cable television.”
“It does sound hopeless when you put it that way. So what else can you do?”
My teeth sank into my lip as I considered what more could be done to protect society from the Skovils of the world.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“If you conjure any brilliant ideas, let me know.” His arm bumped mine. “I’d love to find an answer to the same problem both of us fight in our separate corners.”
“Well in this instance, my corner lost this round. I didn’t get the conviction.”
His car came into view up ahead, a fluctuating shape in the rolling fog.
“You might not have gotten a conviction, but you don’t have to worry about this guy hurting anyone else, right?” he said.
“Right.”
“Can’t that count for a win then?”
This time I was the one who stopped moving. “Dr. Wolff, surely you can’t be advocating death for pedophiles as a therapeutic means of treatment?”
His eyes lifted. “Of course that’s not what I’m suggesting. There is treatment—effective treatment—for these types of individuals. However, there has to be a desire to change, and it sounds like in this case, there was none.”
“So murder is the answer for these types of creeps?” I asked.
“Murder is never an answer.”
When he pulled my hand, I fell in step beside him. “Then what are you suggesting?”
He consulted with the dark in front of us, heavy lines drawing into his forehead. “That sometimes, in certain situations, the ends justify the means.”
When I stayed silent, his head twisted my direction. “On this topic, at this juncture,” I said, “you’ll hear no objection from me on that.”
“Look at us, finding some common ground after drawing battles lines on this topic years ago.” He stopped when we approached his car, turning to me, his face hovering above mine.
My heart responded to his nearness, a chill winding up my spine. Noah shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around my shoulders. It was such a natural motion, it could have been an instinct wired into him.
My discomfort—his remedy.
His head tipped when he saw my smile. “What?”
“You just put your coat around me.”
He opened the passenger door for me, shoulders lifting. “You were cold.”
Eight
Word spread fast about Skovil’s death—the rumors spread faster.
The office had been buzzing yesterday, but today it was swarming with speculation. I had no interest in being sucked into a conversation of guesswork where Skovil’s death was involved—I needed definitive answers.
“Isn’t it a little early for lunch?” Connor caught me on my way out the door, venti coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other.
“I’m not going to lunch.”
“Then where are you going at ten a.m. on a Tuesday, fifteen minutes before we’re scheduled to take a witness statement?”
I froze mid-step and muttered a curse. I’d been so distracted by Skovil’s death, I was forgetting all kinds of things, including putting on my wedding ring when I woke up this morning. Hopefully Noah didn’t notice it. Not that he’d notice if I went a month without wearing it.
Last night, we’d made progress . . . that came to a halt when I brought up the dinner with Dean and his date this Thursday. Noah had never been a fan of double dates, but he was even less a fan of Dean Kincaid. He assured me that the level of a man’s ego was a direct reflection of his sum of insecurities. Classic psychiatrist.
“I forgot all about the interview,” I said.
“That’s why I make these handy things known as appointments in your calendar. Both your virtual and physical copies.” Connor stepped between the exit and me.
“This is important.” I checked my watch. “And you’ve taken plenty of witness statements on your own.”
“Not expert witness statements.”
“Connor, you’re a better lawyer than half the actual ones in this office. You could try a case in court if need be, and you are certainly capable of this.” Stepping around him, I patted his shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Anything?”
“Life or death qualifier anything,” I clarified.
“You owe me a triple chai soy latte,” he called after me.
I snapped my fingers as I headed toward the elevator. “Done.”
The drive from the office to South Park didn’t take long, though it was like traveling from one world to another. The crime rate in this part of Seattle was over two hundred percent the national average, and more blocks than not gave the impression of a third world hidden in the shadow of a first world one. You couldn’t roll down the window and not catch a whiff of the danger in the air.
South Park wasn’t a stranger to me, but this visit wasn’t strictly official business. I’d visited the address I was heading to, but under different circumstances.
Finding an empty spot on the street, I maneuvered my giant SUV into the vacant space. A handful of cruisers were stationed outside the Rambler Apartment Complex, one of them occupied by a familiar face. He finished up the call he was on and stepped out of the car.
“Hey, kid.” Ed’s thick arms wound around me, squeezing as gently a man his size was capable. “It’s been too long.”
“What are you talking about? We got together for coffee and pie around Christmas.”
“Yeah. That was nearly a year ago.” His hands molded around my shoulders, appraising me like I was his own daughter he hadn’t seen in years. “I used to see you nearly every weekend when you were growing up.”
“Adulting is hard. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.” Smiling, I veiled my surprise at seeing how much he’d aged in a short amount of time. Exhaustion leaked from every part of him, his eyes and posture most of all. Even his wrinkles sagged, as if tired themselves. “How have you been, Ed?”
He winked. “Never been better.”
“You’ll still be saying that on your deathbed.”
“And it’s never going to be more true than it will be then.”
My gaze cut behind him to the crime scene specialist emerging from inside the complex. The smiles fell from our faces.
“How’s everything going in there?” I asked.
“You know how this works. It takes time, then more time, before any determinations can be made.” Ed’s hand landed behind my elbow, guiding me aside. “There’s no smoking gun as far as evidence is concerned yet. Other than the defensive wounds the ME’s discovered, I haven’t seen a trace of proof inside that shithole to lead me to the assumption this was a homicide.”
My eyebrow quirked up at him. “The evidence hasn’t been tested yet.”