Page 147 of Stolen for Keeps
Dom offered a bland smile. “And that informant was a man in a ski mask threatening my client?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor snapped. “Hearsay!”
Dom kept walking when he said, “Withdrawn.” Then his next question landed. “Have you located the necklace, detective?”
“No,” Harlow said.
“Was anyone physically harmed in this alleged incident?”
“No.”
“Unlike, say, an incident from nearly five years ago? One that involved Miss Annamaria Belrose and an alleged assault?”
“Objection. Relevance,” the prosecutor said.
“Sustained.”
“Withdrawn, Your Honor.” Dom paused just long enough for the silence to settle. “Final question. Did you, Detective, receive any form of compensation or incentive, financial or otherwise, from either David or Annamaria Belrose to pursue this case?”
“Objection!”
The judge’s voice was sharp now. “Sustained. Mr. Powell, consider yourself cautioned.”
So much for Dom knowing this judge. It hadn’t made a difference, at least not yet. Or maybe that’s exactly why he was on the case. He was the real deal, the kind of judge who couldn’t be swayed by anyone or anything.
“No further questions,” Dom said, adjusting his cuffs one more time as he returned to our table.
He sat down quietly beside me. I could see the glint of frustration in his eyes, but his posture remained controlled and professional. Brilliant. But the prosecution had thrown more punches than he’d expected.
And then it got worse.
A name was called. One that hadn’t been on the list.
Dom’s head jerked up, and his hand froze mid-note. He looked at the judge. “Your Honor, this witness wasn’t disclosed in pretrial.”
The judge adjusted his glasses. “It’s rebuttal testimony. Allowable.”
Dom looked at me, then over my shoulder at Noah. Noah didn’t move, but the heat rolling off him felt combustible.
There was nothing we could do.
A woman took the stand. She was in her mid-fifties, with neat hair and pearls too big for her neck. She had nervous hands, but her voice carried like she’d rehearsed it.
“I saw a woman walking alone down the edge of the road in Bridger Canyon. Wearing a red plaid shirt and jeans. Small build.”
The prosecutor lifted a printed photo. “And were the clothes you saw similar to these?”
“Yes,” the witness replied.
He turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution offers this into evidence as Exhibit B, a recent photo of Maya Lucas taken at Buffaloberry’s town park.”
Once the judge gave a nod, the prosecutor handed the image to the bailiff, who carried it over to the jury box.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
That photo? It was me, strolling after doing errands. That witness? She’d really seen me. I’d gone to Bridger Canyon in the same clothes, parked far from where I ended up. I’d thought I was alone. Turns out, I’d been wrong.
When Dom stood for the cross, he began, “Did you see her face?”
