Free Straw Men by Martin J Smith Page A

sure Milsevic let Teresa Harnett know what had happened.”
    Teresa knows.
Christensen choked back the words, remembering his promise, struggling with a silent surge of fear. He was struggling, too, against an impulse to confront the most explosive issue between them: Could he trust Brenna to make unselfish choices? She enjoyed the spotlight’s glare—and the glare had never been more intense than during DellaVecchio’s original trial—but at times it had blinded her to danger, both to herself and to their blended family. Once, during the Underhill case a year before, she’d put the kids in harm’s way. Christensen wasn’t sure their relationship could survive something like that again. Lately, he wasn’t sure it could survive, period.
    For nearly six years, he had loved her intelligence, her powerful sense of right and wrong, and her extraordinary passion as both a lawyer and a lover. He knew Brenna loved him to the best of her ability in ways that only someone who knew her well could appreciate. She loved him as much as she would ever love any man, and that he never questioned. But he’d known for some time that he ranked third behind Taylor and her role as one of the city’s most sought-after criminal-defense attorneys. Was it enough?
    â€œSo, you think Milsevic will follow through? I mean, crank call or not, do you think he’s taking it seriously? We’re all exposed here, you know.”
    She slid some panties on and turned away from him as she tugged on a well-worn T-shirt. Her movements grew sharp as she stood before their dresser’s mirror and pulled a brush through her hair. Suddenly, she wheeled on him.
    â€œIf you’ve got something to say, just say it,” Brenna said. “Don’t give me twenty questions.”
    He stared. “The only dumb question is the one you don’t ask.”
    â€œBut why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?”
    He crossed the room and tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.
    â€œBren, it’s just weird, is all. I mean, whoever left that message is smart. No spoken words, just a recording. Nothing that could identify who it came from.”
    â€œYou think I haven’t thought of that?” she said.
    â€œSo what if it wasn’t just some crank? What if it was somebody worried about you recognizing their voice?”
    â€œYou think it’s DellaVecchio, don’t you?” she asked.
    â€œNot necessarily.”
    â€œBut you think it could be. Just like Milsevic.”
    Christensen paused. “What did Milsevic say?”
    Brenna circled him, out of range, stopping at the head of their bed to strip back the covers.
    â€œYou’re not convinced the police are going to investigate this, are you?” he said.
    She didn’t look up, busied herself setting her alarm. Her hands were a blur as she moved from task to task, a study in agitation.
    â€œPlease talk to me,” he said.
    Brenna took a long, deep breath. Her hands slowed, and she ran one through her hair, pulling it back from her face. A single tear had rolled down her cheek. It fell onto her shirt, leaving a translucent mark in the cotton above her heart. He approached again, and this time she stood still as he took her in. He waited for a sob that never came.
    After a while, she said, “Don’t you see how this plays perfectly into their theory about DellaVecchio? He’s dangerous, and now he’s out. I just handed them something they can use against us at the hearing, or before the hearing if they decide to push it.”
    â€œBut you called the police anyway,” Christensen said.
    â€œI wouldn’t take a chance with the kids, with you. Never again. Even if it’s just some idiot getting his giggles.”
    Christensen hesitated, thinking again about Teresa. “And if it’s not?”
    She tried to pull away, but he held her. She tried again, feebly, then put her arms