When Joe Grace, an assistant DA in Los Angeles, discovers the best friend he had growing up has been taken in for questioning on a murder investigation, he drops everything and flies to Chicago. To help, he tells himself.
The last person Israel Jones ever expects to show up in his defense is a blast from his past, but now that Joe’s in town, Israel is convinced the truth will surface. Someone out there killed his son’s murderer, and though the police believe he was seeking vengeance, Israel claims he’s innocent. Together, Joe and Israel have to unearth the real killer, but to do that, Joe needs to find out about the life Israel has had without him.
Even if it means facing all his own ghosts as well...
EXCERPT
...From his seat on the small couch, Joe drank in the broad expanse of Israel’s back, outlined against the gossamer curtains at his hotel suite’s wide window. The edge of a black tattoo snaked beneath the collar of Israel’s T-shirt, unseen, unknown. At some point in the last eighteen years, he’d inked his skin. Joe would bet everything he had Israel had created the design himself.
“Chicago looks different from up here,” Israel noted quietly. “I must’ve driven past this airport a hundred times and not even thought about what the perspective might be.”
Joe smiled. “You still talk like you’re in art class. It’s good to know some things haven’t changed.”
“That’s because that’s what I do. Or did, anyway.”
The low declaration reminded Joe of just how little they’d spoken since leaving the police station. They had sipped their coffees in near silence, waiting for the cab, and the only exchange in the car had been when Joe told the driver to take them back to the hotel.
Israel had glanced at him and said, “I have to go home sooner or later.”
“I know. Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”
That had been that. And now, sitting in the luxury of a suite Israel could probably never afford, Joe realized just how many bridges stretched out in front of them, not to mention how many other ones rested between them.
“We need to talk about what happened, Iz.”
The broad shoulders collapsed, and Israel finally abandoned the view to return to the small sitting area. Taking the chair perpendicular to the couch, he slumped down, resting his head on the low cushioned back to stare up at the ceiling.
“You saw it on the news, you said. What did it say?”
“Not much.” Israel Jones, the father of gang violence victim Theodore Becker, has been taken in for questioning regarding the murder of sixteen-year-old gang leader Glen Marsh. While no charges have yet to be filed, inside sources are convinced the grief-stricken Jones wasn’t willing to wait for Marsh to face justice and decided to take the law into his own hands. Marsh was found shot in his home two days ago… “Other than the obvious, why are the police so sure you did it?”
Israel sighed. Each breath out of him made him seem smaller and smaller. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll like it even less if you hold back on me. What do they have?”
“The gun. It’s mine.”
Joe tamped down the curse that rose automatically to his lips. “But you didn’t shoot him.”
“No. They did that test on me, the one where they spray your hands? Came back negative. Ott wasn’t too happy about that.”
A GSR test wasn’t nearly enough to exclude Israel. “They must have something else.”
“Yeah. A smudged fingerprint, Ott said. And it wasn’t mine or Glen’s or anybody else in the system.”
As quickly as the fear had latched onto its heart, this tidbit slashed it away. Physical evidence put the gun in someone else’s hand. That was reasonable doubt for any jury.
“So who had access to your gun?”
Israel shrugged. “I didn’t think anybody even knew about it. I only have it for emergencies, and I sure as hell don’t keep it loaded.”
“Could it have been stolen?”
“It would’ve had to be, if the killer used it on that kid.”
Which meant someone could be setting Israel up. Joe sank back into the couch, rubbing at his jaw as he mulled it over.
“Ott said you were one of them.” Israel’s soft question pulled Joe out of his reverie. His pale eyes were now fixed on him instead of the ceiling. “What did he mean?”
“I work for the DA’s office in Los Angeles.”
Israel whistled under his breath. “And now I have you on my side? Someone up there really is looking out for me.”
The implication made Joe shift awkwardly in his seat. Unable to completely meet Israel’s eyes, he stood and started to pace, rather than fidget in front of him.
“If by some long shot this ever got to trial, I might not be able to defend you, Iz.”
“Why not? Oh. Because you’d have to go back to LA.”
“That, and the fact that I can’t actually practice law in the state of Illinois.”
“What? But you’re—”
“In the state of California, yes. And in states that have reciprocal agreements, yes.” Joe shook his head, still marking out the perimeter of the room. “Illinois and California don’t. I’d have to petition the court for an exception, most likely.”
“But, back at the police station…” Israel looked like he had when they’d sat next to each other in American History in their junior year of high school. Facts would fill his head, but applying them to theories or grander pictures was not his strong suit. “If you can’t defend me, why did you come, Joe?”
Because I thought maybe you needed a friend, not just a lawyer...
