Brock Logan had made a fortune defending wealthy people accused of serious crimes. The cases were high stakes, high pay, and Logan’s current project was a prime example: a prominent heart surgeon accused of murdering his wife. According to the prosecution’s theory, the mild-mannered doctor was actually an abusive control freak. When his wife threatened to leave him, he killed her.
The story had a catchy ring to it, kind of like a cable docudrama. But Logan planned to counter it with an airtight alibi: his client had been having drinks at his golf club with a fellow doctor at the time of his wife’s murder.
The door jerked back, and Ollie stood there in his typical short-sleeved button-down and dark pants. He had a gray buzz cut and a paunch that hung over his belt.
“Christ, what are you doing here? You coming from the courthouse? Get your ass in here.” He took her elbow and pulled her inside. “You could’ve called me, you know. You didn’t have to drive all the way here in the rain.”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ollie smirked. “And I’m guessing you wanted to meet the Big Kahuna, too, right?”
“I’m here for my money, Ollie. I’ve got rent due, and you’ve been dodging me.”
“I was just about to write your check.”
She crossed her arms.
“Hey, you know I’m good for it.” He made a sweeping gesture at the entrance foyer, attempting to distract her. “So what do you think of this place?”
“It’s nice.”
The foyer was large and airy, and Kira’s living room would have fit inside it, no problem. An ornate staircase curved over a tall archway that led into the back of the house. To Kira’s left was a formal dining room, and to her right was a spacious living area with oversize sofas.
“Beats working at the office,” Ollie said, leading her through the archway. “We’ve got Hunan coming. Logan’s outside on the phone.”
“In this weather?”
“Covered patio.”
Kira stepped into the kitchen and stopped short, dazzled by the endless white countertops, sleek new appliances, and massive cooking island. In the breakfast room, financial news droned from a wall-mounted TV, and she noted the long wooden table blanketed with files and legal pads. Logan and Ollie were already neck-deep in trial prep.
Kira glanced around the kitchen. “You could cook for an army in here.” Not that she cooked, but hypothetically. “Is he even married?”
“Divorced.” Ollie rolled his eyes. “He made out better than I did, though. Pays to be a lawyer. Want a beer?”
“I’m good. Listen, we’ve got a problem.”
“One sec.” Ollie took his phone from his pocket and frowned down at it as he scrolled through a message. He muttered something and looked up. “What is it?”
Kira set her files on the island. “Robert Peck. The defendant’s doctor friend.”
“The golf-buddy alibi. What about him?” Ollie grabbed a beer bottle off the counter and took a swig.
“I was at the courthouse, and I dug up an old divorce,” she said.
“How old?”
“Fourteen years.”
Ollie set his beer down. “I didn’t know Peck had been married before.”
“Yeah, guess he forgot to mention it. The marriage only lasted eight months.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“In the filing, Peck’s ex-wife alleges infidelity, along with mental and physical cruelty. She got a temporary restraining order against him.”
Ollie’s face didn’t change.
“It’s not going to look good if the defendant’s alibi witness is guilty of spousal abuse,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “Undermines his credibility.”
Ollie looked down at his phone again, and Kira gritted her teeth. She’d spent her afternoon combing through filings, and what she’d discovered could potentially sink Logan’s case, or at least damage it.
“Ollie? You listening?”
He rubbed his chin as he continued reading. “We’re dealing with something bigger right now.”
“Bigger than your alibi witness being a wife-beating dirtbag?”
“If this pans out, Peck won’t matter.”
“If what pans out?”
He looked up, and something flashed in his eyes. It was a look she recognized, and her pulse quickened.
Ollie had something.
The doorbell rang, and he glanced toward the foyer. “That’s our food. You staying?”
“I’m not leaving without my money.”
“You act like I’m some deadbeat. Jesus.”
He grabbed his beer and went to answer the door, leaving her alone in the huge kitchen. She hadn’t planned to stay for dinner, but she wasn’t going anywhere until she heard more about this new lead.
And met the Big Kahuna.
As if on cue, the back door opened, and Brock Logan stepped inside. The forty-something trial lawyer was tall and lean and had his sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. If he was surprised to find a strange woman in his kitchen, he didn’t show it.
“You must be Kira.”
“That’s me.”
The side of his mouth curved in a sexy half-smile, and she remembered all the rumors she’d heard about him. Logan was a player, and meeting him in person, it was easy to see why.
A crash came from the front door. Kira whirled around.
“Ollie?”
She rushed into the foyer and found him sprawled on his back, clutching his chest, a puddle of beer and glass beside him. Kira dropped to her knees. Had he had a heart attack? A stroke?
Blood seeped between his fingers, and Kira’s breath caught.
“Ollie! Oh, my God!”
Something moved in her peripheral vision. She swiveled toward it just in time to see a dark figure sprinting through the dining room.
“Hey!” Logan, who had followed behind her, bolted back into the kitchen to intercept the intruder.
A wet gurgle jerked her attention back to Ollie. Blood trickled from his mouth now. His eyes were wide with shock as he pushed his phone into her hand. The device was slick with blood, and it clattered to the floor before she managed to pick it up and call 911.
A crash in the kitchen. Then a sharp yelp, followed by two low sucking sounds that Kira recognized instantly.
Gunshots, but the gun had a silencer.
A vase shattered nearby. Something stung her cheek. She scrambled into the living room, diving behind a sofa and smacking her head on an end table.
The intruder was shooting at her.
Another crash from the kitchen, and Kira’s heart skittered. Was that Logan? The gunman?
She tried to think. The phone glowed in her hand, and she realized the call had connected. She muted the volume with her thumb and ducked low, trying not to make a sound. Where was the shooter? Inching to the end of the sofa, she peered around it. She could see Ollie in the foyer, and he wasn’t moving.
Kira crawled back to him, hoping he’d stay quiet and then hating herself for hoping that. His face was slack and ashen. She stripped off her blazer and pressed it against the crimson stain on his chest.
Ollie, please.
She heard more commotion at the back of the house as she desperately tried to stanch the bleeding, but the wadded fabric was already soaked through.
Kira’s stomach twisted, and she pictured the gunman walking up behind her and putting a bullet in her skull. Blood, warm and sticky, covered her hands now, and she felt a surge of panic. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the phone again, hoping they were tracing the call. The line was still open, but she had it on mute. If the shooter was nearby, she didn’t want to draw him in here.