LITMIR.BIZ

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sight since her eighty-five-year-old mother had decided to throw one hell of a shindig for the judge’s sixtieth birthday.

      “Brent?”

      Brent turned and found the ever-polished Gerald Hennings, Chicago’s highest-profile defense attorney, weaving through the crowd. Accompanying him was a petite blonde in a floor-length bright blue gown. She had to be over fifty, but may have had a little work done to preserve her extraordinary looks. Her perfect cheekbones, the big blue eyes and sculpted nose were duplicates of the ones Brent recognized from Hennings’s daughter, Penny. Didn’t take a genius to figure out this woman was Mrs. Hennings. Brent held his hand out. “Mr. Hennings. Nice to see you.”

      Five months earlier, Brent had been assigned to protect Penny Hennings after yet another nut—plenty of nuts in his world—had attempted to kill her on the steps of a federal courthouse. Penny had nearly put Brent into a psych ward with her relentless mouthiness and aggressive attitude, but he’d formed a bond with her. A kinship. And, much like Judge Kline, they’d remained friends after his assignment had ended. For whatever reason, emotionally speaking, he couldn’t let either one of them go. The fact that they’d all experienced tragedy might be the common denominator, but he chose not to think too hard about it. What was the point? None of them would ever fully recover from their individual experiences. All they could do was move on.

      Hennings turned to the woman at his side. “I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Pamela. Pam, this is Marshal Brent Thompson. He was the marshal.”

      She smiled and—yep—he was looking at Penny in twenty-five years.

      “I know,” Mrs. Hennings said. She stepped forward and gripped both of his arms. “Thank you.”

      The gesture, so direct and heartfelt, caught him sideways and he stiffened. Freak that he was, he’d never gotten comfortable with strange women touching him. Most guys would love it. Brent? He liked his space being his.

      But he stood there, allowing Penny’s mother to thank him in probably the only way she knew how. He could go on about how he’d just been doing his job, which was all true, but even he understood that he’d worked a little harder for Penny. She reminded him too much of his younger sister, Camille, and he hadn’t been able to help himself. “You’re welcome. Your daughter has become a good friend. And if I ever need legal advice, I know who to call.”

      Mrs. Hennings laughed.

      Mr. Hennings swooped his finger in the air. “You’re not working tonight?”

      “No, sir. Judge Kline is a friend.”

      “How nice,” Mrs. Hennings said.

      “Yes, ma’am. I worked with her for two years. She would always tell me if my tie didn’t match. That happened a lot.”

      “As the mother of two sons, I’m sure your mother appreciates that.”

      Mother.

      Mr. Hennings cleared his throat and, in Brent’s mind, the room fell silent. He glanced around, looking for...what? Confirmation that the room at large wasn’t listening to his conversation?

      Maybe.

      All around people gabbed and mingled and pretty much ignored Brent. Imagined it. He exhaled and once again the orchestra music—something classical—replaced the fog in his brain.

      He’d fielded comments about his mother almost his entire life. It should have been easier by now.

      Except for the nagging.

      Twenty-three years of gut-twisting, anger-fueled obsession that kept him prisoner. “My mother died when I was five, ma’am.”

      Social pro that she must have been, considering her husband’s wizardry with the press, Mrs. Hennings barely reacted. “I’m so sorry.” She turned to Gerald, shooting him the stink-eye. “I didn’t know.”

      Moments like these, a guy had to step up and help his brother-in-arms. “No need to apologize. I think about her every day.” And knowing how this conversation would go, the curiosity that came with why and how such a young woman had died, Brent let it fly. “She was murdered.”

      Social pro or not, Mrs. Hennings gasped. “How horrible.”

      Brent sipped his club soda, gave the room another glance and came back to Mrs. Hennings. “My sister and I adjusted. We have a supportive family.”

      “I hope they caught the person who did this.”

      “No, ma’am. It’s still an open case.”

      A case that lived and breathed with him and had driven him into law enforcement. If the Carlisle sheriff’s office couldn’t find his mother’s killer, he’d do it himself.

      “Are the police still looking into it?”

      Brent shrugged. “If they get a tip or some new information. I work it on my downtime, but downtime is short.”

      Mrs. Hennings, obviously still embarrassed by bringing up the subject of his dead mother, turned to her husband. “Can’t one of your investigators help? You do all sorts of pro bono work for clients. Why not this?”

      “Pam, those are cases where we’re defending people. This is different.”

      Brent held up his hand As much as he’d like help, he didn’t want a domestic war started over it. “Mrs. Hennings, it’s okay. But thank you.”

      Still, down deep, Brent wanted to find the person who’d wrecked his family and had saddled him with a level of responsibility—and guilt—no five-year-old should have known. Every day, the questions haunted him. Could he have helped her? Should he have done something when he first heard a noise? Was he a crummy investigator because all these years later he still couldn’t give his mother justice?

      At this point, if he couldn’t find this monster on his own, he’d take whatever help available. Ego aside, justice for his mother was what mattered.

      Mrs. Hennings kept her gaze on her husband. “You were just complaining that Jenna is bored with her current assignments. After what Brent did for Penny, give Jenna his mother’s case to investigate. It’ll challenge her and keep her out of your hair. Where’s the problem?”

      Mr. Hennings pressed his lips together and a minuscule, seriously minuscule, part of Brent pitied the man. If he didn’t agree with his wife, his life would be a pile of manure.

      Mrs. Hennings shot her husband a meat cleaver of a look, then turned back to Brent. “My husband will call you about this tomorrow. How’s that?”

      With limited options, and being more than a little afraid to argue because, hey, he was no dummy either, he grinned at Mr. Hennings. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

      * * *

      JENNA SLID ONTO one of the worn black vinyl bar stools at Freddie’s Tap House, a mostly empty shot-and-a-beer joint on the North Side of Chicago.

      How the place stayed in business, she had no idea. On this Wednesday night the sports bar down the block was packed, while the only people patronizing Freddie’s were an elderly man sitting at the bar and a couple huddled at a table in the back.

      The bartender glanced down the bar at her and wandered over. “Evening. Get you something?”

      You sure can.

      “Whatever’s on tap. Thanks.”

      He nodded and scooped a glass from behind the bar, pouring a draft as he eyed her black blazer and the plunging neckline on her cashmere sweater. “Haven’t seen you in here before. New in town?”

      As much as she’d tried to dress down with jeans, she hadn’t been able to resist the sweater. When dealing with men, a little help from her feminine wiles—also known as her boobs—never hurt. “Nope. New in here, though.”

      “You look more Tiffany’s than Freddie’s.”

      Already

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