Mercy(White Collared Part 1)(3)
Mr. Trenton turned the car into the parking lot of a police station, which was inconspicuously nestled between two office buildings made of the same dark-brown brick. Had it not been for the crammed lot filled with police cars and media vans, she would’ve never guessed they’d reached their destination.
Of course the media had jumped on this. A white woman from the suburbs was murdered. That kind of juicy story trumped the mundane coverage of the upcoming November elections.
As her boss searched for a place to park, she watched four local news crews rushing around, several of them on cell phones, no doubt calling their contacts for more information on the murder.
Vultures.
Mr. Trenton gripped the door handle. “Did you take advanced criminal procedure in school, Ms. Martin?”
“No, sir. Why?”
“Some of the details you’ll both hear and witness today may be graphic. Since the class prepares students by desensitizing them with real crime photos of stab wounds and gunshots, I thought you might be more prepared for what you’re about to encounter.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, tamping down the vivid image of blood-splattered leaves and the sulfuric scent of gunpowder. “It won’t bother me.”
There was no mistaking that her answer had caused him to grin. “I didn’t think it would. I wouldn’t have allowed you to accompany me if I hadn’t thought you were up for it, but I needed to confirm. It wouldn’t look good if my intern fainted over a couple of crime scene photos.”
They departed the Mercedes, and this time Mr. Trenton walked beside her, escorting her inside the police station to the information desk, where he handed a young male officer a business card from his pocket. “Please let Mr. Deveroux know his attorney is here.”
The cop picked up a desk phone and pressed an extension. “Is Mr. Deveroux expecting a Nicholas Trenton?”
She hadn’t stepped into a police station in ten years, but the memory of that harrowing day crashed into her with the force and velocity of a gunshot. Her chest tightened as she tried to breathe. In an attempt to ward off the anxiety attack, she counted backward from one hundred.
Her boss leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You’re okay. Breathe through your nose.”
Pressing her lips together, she sucked air through her nose, expanding her lungs with precious oxygen. How had he known?
“Thank you,” the officer said into the phone. He hung up, picked up a notebook, flipped it open, and handed Mr. Trenton a pen. “You two need to sign in.”
Her boss signed his name before giving her the pen. Hands shaking, she supplied her barely legible information. After she gave back the notebook, the officer buzzed them in and pointed behind him. “Go through those doors to room three, second room on the left.”
As Mr. Trenton stepped in front of her, she surreptitiously obtained a small pill from her Tic Tac dispenser in her purse and slipped it in her mouth. When they got to the interrogation room, he knocked on the door.
Anticipation boiled in her blood. Something was wrong with how eager she was to meet her client, a man who would find himself under suspicion of his wife’s murder even if he was innocent of the crime.
Could she defend a man if she believed he was guilty?
As the door opened and her sight fell on the man hunched over a table, she had a feeling she’d soon find out.
Chapter Three
IF JAXON DEVEROUX had killed his wife, he was one hell of an actor.
He lifted his head, the despair and strain from the tragedy evident in his bloodshot brown eyes and pallid face. His thick, wavy black hair was in desperate need of a cut, and, judging by the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, he’d obviously skipped shaving this morning. A faded, jagged scar through his left brow added to his allure.
He was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
She hadn’t made the connection from his name, but she recognized him as one of the men standing next to Mr. Trenton in a picture she had clipped from a magazine. A local children’s hospital had dedicated a wing in the Deveroux name after his venture capital firm had donated $20 million. The confident glint in his eyes had captivated her even through the photograph.
He eyed her warily before his tortured gaze rested on his friend, communicating a silent plea for help. “Nick. Lyssa’s dead. Someone—”
“Jaxon, don’t say another word.” Her boss marched ahead of her into the room as if he’d done it a thousand times before. “Nicholas Trenton, attorney for Jaxon Deveroux.”
A gray-haired, potbellied detective stood to greet him. “Detective Lawrence.”
He shook her boss’s hand and then gripped the door handle, preparing to close it. She edged her way into the room seconds before it shut with a reverberating click.