Nick raised a brow. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”
She shrugged. She used to swear like a drunken sailor in a whorehouse, but Nick knew her only as Kate Martin. “Now that we’ve shared our favorite flavors of ice cream, what’s a little profanity among friends?”
“Right. Friends.” He gestured with his hand for her to continue. “What was the reason for your expletive?”
“The bruising could help the prosecution build a case that the murder was an escalation of abuse.”
“He’s wealthy,” Nick added, joining Kate in anticipating the prosecution’s theories of motivation. “He could’ve hired someone to kill her.”
She closed her eyes and saw it play out like a movie in her mind. Jaxon sitting in a dark, upscale steakhouse with a hired hit man. Eating a steak and drinking bourbon as he calmly instructed the man on how to tie up a woman and torture her to death.
Her gut churned. Something didn’t fit with that scenario. “The killer has to be part of the kink scene. Whoever did it knew what he was doing. A single-tail isn’t an easy weapon to handle. This was personal to the killer. Thirteen cuts. Thirteen lines from the whip. Thirteen welts. The number means something to him. And unless he drugged her, she had to trust him enough to tie her up. Which means it’s probable she was having an affair.”
Nick swept up all the photos and tossed them back in the envelope. He dropped it on the desk and sat back in his chair, slightly rocking, his head tilted up toward the ceiling.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her for a moment. When he did, she saw the stress of the situation in his tired eyes. “If we don’t find the real killer, they’re going to put Jaxon away for the crime.”
She liked to believe innocent people didn’t go to prison, but she’d read the statistics in criminal law class. Up to 5 percent of the people in prison were innocent. Thousands of men and women were convicted each year for a crime they didn’t commit. She couldn’t say with 100 percent certainty Jaxon was innocent. But if Nick believed it, she’d hesitate on believing otherwise.
“So what do we do?”
“We do our job.” He gave her a small smile. “Welcome to the practice of criminal law.”
Chapter Eight
THERE WAS AN urgent knock on the door to Nick’s office before it opened a crack. “Mr. Trenton? We have a situation that requires your immediate attention.” Lisa, his mousy secretary, poked her head into the room. “Mr. Deveroux is here to see you, but the press has blocked his entrance inside.”
Nick swore under his breath as he shot to his feet. “Damn it. Call security and tell them to do their fucking job or I’ll make sure they don’t have one by the end of the day.” He unrolled his sleeves, snatched his suit jacket from his chair, and slipped it on. Back into professional mode. “Ms. Martin, come with me.”
She followed him down the hall, curious how he’d handle the situation. In her experience, reporters rarely listened to reason. They had a job to do, and nothing short of arrest would keep them from doing it.
While the Society of Professional Journalists maintained a Code of Ethics, rarely had she met a member of the media who adhered to those standards. Their bosses didn’t give a shit about ethics, so long as they got the story and didn’t get sued for defamation. False and misleading information was reported all the time, but since the injured party had to prove the extent of the reporter’s knowledge of the falsity or careless disregard for the truth rather than mere negligence, lawsuits were rarely won against the media. The reporters usually got away with a slap on the wrist.
She was certain there were decent reporters out there.
She’d just never met one.
When they got to the lobby, she saw three reporters with their backs against the glass doors, holding out microphones to a surrounded Jaxon. He’d have to use force to escape. Exactly what they wanted him to do.
Despite the chaos of the situation, the sight of him stole her breath away. Dressed in a navy suit, his crisp, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and no tie, Jaxon exuded the classic handsomeness of her favorite old-time movie stars: Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart. Since yesterday he’d shaven, leaving behind smooth, olive skin, which accentuated his chiseled, high cheekbones and the scar bisecting his thick, dark brow. He raked his fingers through the tamed curls of his raven hair, hair that had that sexy just-rolled-out-of-bed look that people spent fortunes on in Hollywood. But he wasn’t perfect. From this angle, she could see his nose was slightly uneven, with a small bump on the bridge, as if at some point he had broken it. To her, the imperfection managed to symbolize his rugged masculinity.