“I need to stay in town.”
She nodded. “Understood. Any updates on your sister’s case?”
The fury circled like vultures over the dead. “Nothing.”
“I’ll transfer over some local cases in the next day or two. It’ll be a good change for you.” She hesitated an extra beat while her gaze floated over his face.
He’d seen that look before. Whatever she was about to tell him wasn’t good.
“I have an update on a case you worked two years ago,” she began. “Richard Allen Glazer was arrested for heading up a New York sex trafficking ring.”
“I remember. Glazer’s DNA was all over that house where the women were being held.”
“His trial ended. He was found not guilty and released a few days ago.”
The familiar jolt of anger slammed his chest. Instead of releasing a string of expletives and telling her what hereallythought about the criminal justice system—he stayed silent. What the fuck good would talking do?
“I heard he’s suing for wrongful arrest,” she added.
“What a cluster,” he ground out.
“We’re keeping an eye on him,” she continued. “We’re concerned he might go after the arresting officers.” Then, she quickly added, “But you’re not in danger since your testimony was videoed with your voice and appearance altered.”
Carrera wasn’t scared. He was pissed. And an angry Carrera was much more dangerous. “Thanks for the heads up.”
She rose. “I’ll be in touch about your caseload.”
He grabbed his leather bag, stood. “Thanks for your time.”
As Carrera made his way toward the elevator bank, he thought about Glazer. It had taken months, but Carrera had infiltrated that crime ring, gotten the evidence the Bureau desperately needed. Days later, they’d moved in for an arrest. Carrera actually believed it was a slam dunk. How could it not be?
Once outside, he inhaled the chilly March air as he called the detective. Just because he’d been out of town for the past nine months didn’t mean he’d been out of touch.
At present, there were no clues and no evidence. There had been no fingerprints at the house besides his and Mara’s. Her bedroom had been wiped down, same with all the doorknobs. Neighbors hadn’t heard or seen anything. Not one damn thing.
“Jurgenson,” the detective answered.
“It’s Carrera Santini. Anything new?”
“Let me pull the file.”
A growl shot from Carrera’s throat. His beloved Mara had been reduced to a goddamn case file.
“I’m back,” Jurgenson said. “Did I tell you Mara’s kitchen slider was unlocked?”
“No.”
“That’s pretty common, you know, for people to leave that door unlocked.”
“Not my sister.”
“I finally got the results from the second M.E. She ruled the intercourse as nonconsensual. I’m sorry.”
An explosion of fury ripped through Carrera. Pain shot through his chest, but it was nothing—nothing—compared to what Mara had been forced to endure. Sexually assaulted in her own bed, then shot and left to die.
A growl shot out of him. He wouldn’t just kill the motherfucker. He would rip his heart out and stomp on it.
“Months ago, the unsub’s DNA was sent to three database companies for any familial hits. Unfortunately, nothing came back.”
