think of liquid chocolate and all the things he liked to do with it. Now he’d have to figure out a way to get that thought out of his mind.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know about that. I talked to your brother’s public defender. He said you hammered him about the ex-boyfriend. So tell me because there’s nothing in that box of files about it and that doesn’t sit right with me.”
Emma hesitated, twisting her lips for a second and—yeah—he’d have to get those lips, along with the liquid chocolate, out of his head, too.
“I was upset that the police weren’t talking about the boyfriend. Brian knew Chelsea Moore casually. They were the same age and were regulars at Magic. Brian told me she’d texted him a few times after she’d broken up with her boyfriend. I don’t think Brian was interested in her in a—well—sexual way so he didn’t pursue her. When he was questioned, he asked the police about her ex-boyfriend. They did nothing with it.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked the public defender. The guy before Alex Belson. He didn’t have anything on it.”
“Then how do you know the ex was abusive?”
“Well, Zac,” Emma said, layering on the sarcasm. “I did something that was pure investigative genius. I did something the Chicago P.D. never thought of doing.”
Here we go. “Ditch the drama, Emma. I get it.”
She held up a finger. “I talked to the victim’s friends. Miraculous, isn’t it?”
Zac rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t blame her for the attitude. If it had been one of his siblings on trial, he’d feel that same burning, festering anger. This whole thing stunk of cops trying to protect the ex-boyfriend, who also happened to be the son of a cop.
The blue wall.
He grabbed Emma’s elbow and ushered her to the corner. “Are you parked in the garage?”
“Yes. I need a sandwich first. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Fine. I’ll wait for you and then walk you to your car. Then I have a couple of detectives to talk to.”
* * *
DETECTIVE JOHN CUTLER marched into Zac’s office wearing a wrinkled blue sport coat and a scowl. The man didn’t like being summoned to an ASA’s office in the middle of the day. Zac didn’t care.
Not when one of Cutler’s investigations was about to be sliced and diced in court and Zac would be the one taking the hit.
He tossed a pen on his stacked desk and leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat, detective.”
Cutler stared down at the two chairs, curled his lip at the one with the stack of file folders and dropped his bloated body into the vacant one. He spent a few seconds shifting into what would have to pass as a comfortable position, then stretched his neck where loose skin spilled over his collar.
Zac waited. Why not? No sense giving the detective the ever-important mental edge. Nope. Zac would control the festivities.
Finally, Cutler held up his hands. “What do you need?”
Zac leaned over, scooped a box off the floor and set it on the desk. “The Sinclair case. These are the files. On a six-month investigation. Am I missing something?”
Cutler’s gaze tracked left then came back to Zac. “How do I know what your office did with the files?”
Not an answer. “Is this box everything? If you tell me yes, then I work with what I have. If you tell me no, we have missing evidence.”
Cutler folded his hands across his belly and tapped his index fingers. “I’d have to look through the box. See what’s there.”
“Sure.” Cutler got up to leave. “I’m not finished, detective.”
The man made a show of checking his watch, and Zac nearly laughed. He’d grown up in a household that produced three lawyers. He thrived on conflict.
Cutler reclaimed his seat.
“Couple of things,” Zac said. “What do you remember about a parking garage receipt given to you by Melody—” he checked his legal pad “—Clayton? She’s a friend of Brian Sinclair who claims he was with her around the time of the murder.”
Slowly, Cutler shook his head.
Patience, Zac. Patience. “You don’t remember a receipt?”
“No. She could have given it to Steve and I wasn’t aware.”
“Steve Bennett? The other detective?”
“Yes.”
Sure, another dead guy to blame. This case was rife with dead guys. “I’ll look into that. I’m assuming you viewed the video I sent over. What do you remember about the witness?”
Cutler shrugged. “It’s not like we coerced him. We showed him a six-pack, helped him narrow it down.”
Helped him narrow it down... “And what about the white shirt? Who told him Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt?”
“I don’t know anything about that. That must have been Steve.”
Of course.
Zac jotted more notes and the detective tugged on his too-tight collar again. Yes, detective, you should be nervous. The truth was, Zac scribbled gibberish. The Area 2 detectives weren’t the only ones who knew how to play mind games.
“The victim’s friend told Emma Sinclair that Ben Leeks—I’m sure you’re aware he’s the son of a Chicago P.D. detective—was abusive.”
Cutler shot Zac a hard look. Well, maybe Cutler thought it was a hard look. Zac thought it was more of a desperate, defensive man’s way of trying to intimidate an opponent. “The kid was cleared early on.”
“Cleared how?”
“He was inside the club. We had witnesses who saw him getting busy with some brunette. He didn’t leave the club until closing. When he did leave, he left with a group and they all went to the diner down the street.”
Zac nodded. “I need names. They’re not in the case file.”
Cutler grabbed one of the armrests and shifted his big body. “I told you I don’t have anything. I turned over all the reports.”
“Even the GPRs?” Zac smacked his knuckle against the box. “I didn’t see any GPRs.”
“I turned over everything.”
“Did you write up any GPRs?”
Again the detective tried a hard look and Zac angled forward. “I’m aware that you’re not happy being questioned. I don’t care. I’m about to get hauled into court to defend your work. My guess is you want me to feel confident about that work. I’m far from confident. Cut the nonsense
