Trouble (13 page)

“Show us where the shooting happened,” Mike said sharply, brushing past the two of them.

Johnson led them down a long hallway with several side doors, all of which were closed. At the end, almost to the back exit, he opened a door on the right, turned into it and flicked on the light.

Mike edged past him into the storeroom and Dara followed. It was large, with floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with all sorts of paper and cleaning products. Dara had wondered how anyone could possibly have shot someone in there without getting spattered by blood, but now she knew that there was more than enough space for such a thing to happen.

Someone had died a violent death in there.

She shivered.

After walking slowly around the room, Mike took out his digital camera. A furrow of concentration grooved down his brow as he shot the room from every angle. She watched him, engrossed, making sure to stay out of his way.

“Did Morgan argue with anyone else besides you that night?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Johnson said. “I've been meaning to tell you. I seen him arguing with some other guy. Couple hours before he was shot.”

Mike's brows shot up. “Someone else? Where?”

“Out front. Some brotha with a black leather jacket and a mustache. Dude waved his hand in Dante's face.”

Mike stared at him over the top of his camera. “Huh. You never mentioned it. That's the kind of thing I need to hear about immediately.”

“Slipped my mind,” Johnson said, shrugging. To Dara, he sounded as though he'd forgotten to buy milk and bread on the way home—or was someone who was a very poor liar—rather than a man desperate to clear his name in a murder case. “I never seen him before.”

Mike started taking pictures again. “We'll follow up on that.”

“Good,” Johnson said, his gaze shifting back to Dara.

She made a point of not looking at him, but his attention felt like a slimy tentacle slithering over her flesh.

“Want to come to the kitchen for something to drink?” he murmured.

Dara frowned. Every smile was a smirk with Johnson, every step a strut. He made asking about a drink sound like an invitation to engage in a sex act on the floor.

She opened her mouth to shut him down as professionally as possible.

“I need Dara to stay with me,” Mike said, still taking pictures.

Johnson's face reddened. He'd been leaning against the door frame, but at Mike's words, he stood up to his full height.

“Is there a problem, man?”

“Not at all.” Mike's voice was a quiet menace, the low warning of a rattlesnake before it strikes. Lowering the camera, he nailed Johnson with a gaze so flat and chilling it was like someone had siphoned off his soul in the last several seconds. “And there won't be one as long as you don't start hitting on my employees.”

A male standoff followed, filled with lowered brows, tight jaws and hiked-up chins.

Mike's expression never wavered.

Johnson blinked and looked away first. “Y'all do what you want. I'm getting a drink.”

He strode off.

Dara stood there, her heart hammering, and wondered why Mike's rough edges—and she'd been seeing a lot of them lately—thrilled her so much. If she had a big head, she'd almost think he was jealous, and that excited her. On the other hand, she knew how to deflect unwanted advances and didn't need to be treated like a bone china teacup sitting in a place of honor in some old woman's cabinet.

“I can handle myself, you know,” she said, watching as Mike snapped a few more shots. “You don't need to protect me.”

“You're welcome.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

Lowering the camera, he studied her coolly. Still no sign of his soul behind those eyes. “I know you well enough to know you'll do what you want no matter what I say or do. So feel free to join Johnson in the kitchen for a drink.” He paused significantly. “Or whatever else he wants to offer you.”

Dara glared, wondering if Mike would definitely fire her if she hit him, or whether there was some wiggle room there.

Some devil inside her made her take a step closer and stare him in the face. Given his mood, it wasn't the brightest thing she'd ever done—probably along the lines of the time she'd tried to iron the wrinkled hem of her dress while she was wearing it—but, with Mike, she was discovering that the thinking portion of her brain was no match against any of her instinctive responses to him.

Stiffening, he watched her warily.

“Apparently you don't know me at all,” she told him, tipping her face up until they were almost within kissing range. “Because if you did, you'd know that a man like Johnson could never be my type.”

As she marched off with her chin in the air, she had the fleeting satisfaction of hearing Mike's breath catch and seeing two bright patches of color appear on his cheeks.

A few days later, when Mike was unexpectedly called to court on another matter, he dispatched Dara and Jamal to interview Desiree Campbell, the hostess who provided Johnson's alibi, without him.

“Are you sure you trust me with this?” Dara asked anxiously. “I've never interviewed a witness before. What if I screw it up?”

They'd given each other a wide berth since their exchange at Johnson's club, which seemed like the best way to handle the prickling current of electricity that always seemed to flow between them, but now his lips curled with amusement as he packed up his briefcase to head to court.

“Why do you think I'm sending Jamal along?”

She grimaced.

“Just kidding,” he said quickly, sliding his arms into his suit jacket. “You'll conduct the interview. Don't worry about screwing anything up. She's a friendly witness, so she won't give you a hard time.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He studied her for a long moment, a mocking little smile on his lips. “You're not nervous, are you?”

“Of course not!”

This was a complete lie. Her belly was a churning mess of greasy butterflies made all the more anxious because she didn't want to disappoint him. During her weeks at the firm, she'd been a firsthand witness to his brilliance and backbreaking work ethic.

She wanted to measure up. More than that, she wanted to impress him.

“Good.” Admiration gleamed in his eyes. “Break a leg. I'll see you back here later.”

Desiree's apartment was a sleek affair in one of the new high-rises on the river. Dara looked around at the plush carpets, mirrors and glass in silent wonder. What was Johnson paying her to be his hostess, for God's sake? How much could a woman earn for saying
this way to your table
a hundred times a night?

“Mark was with me that night.” Desiree said when they settled onto the sofa. She was young, pretty and skanky, with the kind of overdone hair and nails, amped-up breasts and butt, painted-on dress and tottering fuck-me heels that'd be right at home in a hip-hop video.

“Where were you?” Dara asked.

“In Mark's office, going over the seating arrangement.”

“How long were you there?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Then what happened?”

“We went back out to the main room together. That's all I know.”

Yeah, okay
, Dara thought, starting to get the picture. Desiree was either not telling the truth or not telling the whole story. Possibly both.

“Did you see or hear anyone at that end of the hall?” Dara persisted.

“Nope.”

“Did you hear Mark's argument with his partner?”

“No,” Desiree said, checking her glittering nails for chips.

Dara kept trying, but the interview was a waste of time.

Desiree pressed Dara's arm when they rose to leave. “Will your boss take care of Mark?”

“Mike always does the best he can,” Dara replied, surprised by Desiree's obvious concern.

She waited until they'd walked back to the car before she turned to Jamal. “What do you think?”

He looked starstruck. “I think I need a cold shower. And I think Johnson's doing her. How else could she live in that crib with those clothes unless she had a sugar daddy?”

“Bingo,” Dara said glumly. Their client, a married man with a pregnant wife, had a mistress. Not good. Wouldn't the jury just love him to death if the truth came out? Not.

Mike, who was back from court already, looked up from his work as Dara and Jamal strode back into his office. “How'd it go?”

“Johnson's doing Desiree,” Jamal announced.

“Great.” Mike scowled, blew out a breath and thought for a minute as he drummed his fingers on his desk. “What's the bottom line? Credible alibi or not?”

Dara and Jamal looked at each other for a long beat, weighing and considering.

“She's been trained not to volunteer information, that's for sure,” Dara said. “She didn't tell us everything. Obviously. But I'd say we have a fighting chance.”

“Fighting chance,”
Mike said, his eyes crinkling at her. “I can work with that.”

Arrested, Dara stilled, her gaze fused with his until she felt Jamal's attention, sharp and amused, swing between them.

She ducked her head, put her hands in her lap and studied them, wondering why she was so attuned to Mike's reactions. Why did every freaking move Mike made or didn't make had such a profound effect on her? This was no way to live, but, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out a way to be indifferent to him. Maybe she should try harder. At the rate she was going, she'd give up breathing soon if it didn't seem to please him.

The spell broken, Mike cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said hoarsely, “you two need to go do some work and make me some money while I'm still young.”

Dara had no idea when it happened, or how, but one day she came to the startling realization she couldn't stay away from the office.

“You're never around anymore,” Monica complained during one of the rare afternoons when Dara joined her and Sean at their usual table in the law library.

“That's not true,” said Dara.

But it was true. She loved the small conference room at work, where she could spread her books, notes and study guides all over the large table and leave them there, undisturbed, when she left to do her work for Mike. One day she'd come back to the office to resume her homework, then the next, until it dawned on her that she returned to the office every afternoon after class.

She usually stayed until six or seven, long past the point when everyone but Mike had gone home.

“Dara's kicked us to the curb,” Sean said. “Guess she doesn't need our help with con law anymore. We'll see how she does come finals.”

“You've got some nerve.” Dara tapped him on the hand with her blue highlighter. “You barely even go to classes anymore. What are your grades going to look like?”

“Ouch!” Monica said.

Then they shushed each other and went back to their reading.