Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  She only paid careful attention to body language in the courtroom but didn’t have the energy or patience for it in the rest of her life. However, her methods were scrupulous at work. She backed up a client’s claims with evidence, like pinning down alibis, leaving room for doubt, and positing alternative theories of the crime.

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Well, I don’t like you workin’ with the likes of him.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s my life.”

  “I don’t doubt your knowledge of the law, but someone with your condition has a hard time readin’ people. I worry about some scumbag harmin’ you.”

  Her “condition” had always set her apart from others, but as far as Jane was concerned, she didn’t have a disorder. So what if she saw the world differently than most people? It’d never held her back.

  “Don’t—I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t mean to make you angry. I’m concerned is all. This is comin’ from a place of love.”

  “I know.”

  “And I miss you, honey. We haven’t had a Sunday supper in ages.”

  Jane felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry. I promise we’ll schedule something soon.”

  “Good.” Jed sat back in his chair. “Since I’ve got you here, tell me what’s goin’ on in your life. You datin’ anyone?”

  Jane was wondering if this had been a ploy to see her again and the guilt returned with a vengeance.

  “No, not at the moment.” Not in two years, actually.

  “Maybe you should put yourself out there.”

  “There’s plenty of time for love.”

  “Life passes faster than you think. A career is a wonderful thing, but don’t miss out on real life while you’re chasin’ glory.”

  “And by real life, you mean a husband and children?”

  Working twelve-hour days six days a week didn’t leave much time for a personal life. Jane had a tendency to laser-focus on a goal until she accomplished it.

  Jane adored Brady, but she couldn’t see herself being a mother, even though Georgia made it look easy. Mothers were emotional creatures, who were warm and welcoming. They baked cookies and kissed skinned knees. She didn’t know how to comfort other people, let alone connect with them.

  “Gettin’ hitched and adoptin’ you were the two best decisions I ever made. I don’t want to see you miss out.”

  “Even though you wound up getting divorced?”

  “Just because it ended badly don’t mean the experience wasn’t worth it.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Jane stood. “Unfortunately, I have a prior appointment I’m running late for.”

  “With who?”

  “A client.” She knew better than to mention her destination. Jed’s reaction would put Georgia’s to shame. He’d probably insist on coming with her.

  Jane gathered her things, kissed her father goodbye, and took off for the lake house.

  As she drove, she fantasized about her career. Jane vowed she’d make partner soon, and then win a huge, prestigious case. Her father wouldn’t worry about her so much then.

  He’d see she was perfectly happy without a husband and children of her own.

  I am, aren’t I?

  Somehow, Jane wasn’t quite as sure now.

  Chapter Three

  Valentine’s cottage was at the end of Burr Lake off a bumpy gravel road.

  Without GPS, Jane wouldn’t have found it. The properties were all exclusive, gated with names marked by plaques—Applewood Cottage, Plum House, Pine Lodge.

  Come to think of it, Jane hadn’t seen this property listed on any search warrants the FBI had served. The Valentines made their money in real estate so the cabin might belong to another relative.

  Jane pulled up in front of a wooden frame cottage on the water’s edge. The house number was affixed to a painted oar beside the door.

  Jane got out of the car and grabbed her briefcase. She smelled smoke in the air. A campfire, perhaps?

  Her cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen.

  When are you getting here?

  Byron Beauregard. Insufferable, nosy, arrogant mobster.

  Jane thumbed a quick response about being in a meeting.

  She knocked on the front door.

  “Ms. Hunter, is that you?” This disembodied voice came from the gated back yard.

  “Yes,” she called. “Sorry, I’m a bit late, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Not a problem. Hope you don’t mind, I already started making supper. The door’s unlocked—come on through the house, I’m on the patio.”

  “Okay.”

  The cottage had a nautical theme—paddles on the walls, framed pictures of Burr Lake, along with lighthouses and anchors. The place was charming, but she couldn’t quite picture Valentine living here. Like her, he had a serious demeanor and the kitsch didn’t match his somber personality.

  Although it was very neat and tidy—no dust and everything in its place, which was very like him. Jane also detected the faint whiff of bleach in the air.

  In their prep sessions, he’d noticed her OCD tendencies and confessed he felt the same way about germs. Valentine said the prison conditions were filthy, and they’d bonded over their mutual eccentricities as well as Jane’s beliefs in prisoner’s rights.

  Outside, she found a fire pit surrounded by four Adirondack chairs situated near a wooden pier on the water. The wind rippled the water’s surface. Oscar Valentine stood beside a long wooden picnic table, scraping something on a board, but she couldn’t quite make it out due to the dim lighting. The sound was harsh—crackling.

  “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Thank you. Unfortunately, it isn’t mine.” The corner of his mouth lifted. Valentine was nearly six feet tall with black hair and mismatched eyes—one blue, one green. He wore a thin white sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans. “It’s been in the family for years, and I recently…acquired it.”

  What an odd way of putting it.

  Jane got a bit closer, and that’s when she saw the back fin of a fish slowly flapping, flailing beneath his hands.

  Valentine was cleaning his own fish. There was a nauseating crunch of bone and the scrape of metal.

  Her stomach rolled.

  Well, he’d mentioned fresh fish. Evidently, he’d meant very fresh.

  Jane ate meat, but she’d never seen anyone kill an animal. It made her a hypocrite of sorts, but she found the scene before her disturbing. The thing was trapped on his board, helpless as he hacked at it.

  Valentine chopped the head off and flung it into the water. There was something bottomless in his eyes when he turned back to her, something dark and empty.

  Involuntarily, Jane took a step back.

  What a strange thought. Where did it come from? Jane didn’t believe in anything as flighty as intuition or foreboding, and yet she suddenly had the urge to run back to her car and screech out of the driveway.

  Maybe Georgia’s and her father’s misgivings were clouding her judgment.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly, forcing herself to calm down and act sensibly.

  “Nonsense. You saved my life. The least I could do is make you a home-cooked meal.” He added the fish filets to a grilling basket and then dangled it over the fire. Another basket full of veggies hung beside it.

  “Join me by the fire. The food shouldn’t take long to cook.”

  Jane sat beside him, and he pulled two chilled bottles of Pellegrino from a cooler, wiped his fingerprints away with a paper towel, and handed one to her.

  How could Georgia find anyone so considerate disturbing? Unlike Beauregard, who imposed on her as much as possible, Valentine had made her feel at ease. She was being ridiculous—imagining danger when there was none.

  “We should have a toast.”

  “To what?”

  “To understanding one another?” He clinked his bottle against
hers.

  “How about to freedom instead? Let’s get these signed.” Jane opened her briefcase to retrieve the paperwork.

  “So, I’m free and clear, huh?”

  “Yes, the court has already dismissed your case. Your bail money will be returned to you, but my firm’s fees won’t be.”

  While she hadn’t gotten the courtroom glory, at least she’d been paid for her time—it was a small consolation.

  “Meeting you was worth any price.”

  A long moment passed, and Jane didn’t know what to say. Had he been flirting?

  Never taking his eyes off her, Valentine signed the documents and handed them back. “Now the case is officially behind both of us.”

  “Yes.” Jane wondered how much longer she had to stay to be polite. She tucked the papers away and tried to think of some plausible excuse as to why she had to leave.

  “I was hoping we could talk about personal matters.”

  Jane tensed. “Like…?”

  “Us.”

  “I’m confused. There is no us.”

  He chuckled. “Not yet, but I’d like there to be. Over these past few weeks I’ve gotten to know you better, and I want to take it even further. Don’t worry, though. I’m willing to take this slow and easy. For you, I’ll be a tolerant man.”

  Maybe Georgia was right—coming out here was a bad idea. Clearly, she’d given him the wrong impression.

  No more meetings outside the office, “personal touch” be damned. If she’d kept her professional barriers in place, this bizarre conversation wouldn’t be happening.

  And to think, when she finished with this awkward meeting, she had another one with Byron Beauregard planned. Handling people and their delicate feelings was exhausting. She’d much rather deal with laws.

  “Mr. Valentine, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t—”

  “Call me Oscar.”

  “I’d prefer to use your surname, Mr. Valentine.” The tone was sharper than she’d intended, but she had to get her point across.

  “I insist.”

  “Fine, Oscar, I’m afraid a personal relationship is out of the question because I’m your lawyer.”

  “Were my lawyer. You aren’t actively my attorney anymore.” He nodded to her briefcase. “Ergo, there’s no reason we can’t have a much more intimate relationship.”

  “It isn’t illegal, but ethically speaking, it’s a gray area—one I have no wish to go into. What if the government takes further action against you? I wouldn’t want my ability to represent you to be compromised in any way.”

  “I appreciate your moral fortitude.” Valentine didn’t touch her, but he placed a hand on the chair’s armrest, his fingertips a scant inch from her elbow, which made her anxious. “I think we’re a perfect match, and we shouldn’t let a little thing like an ethical dilemma stand in our way.”

  Jane was too distracted by the “almost touch” to respond appropriately.

  She clasped the infinity symbol necklace around her neck—three stainless steel figure eights suspended on a chain. People on the autistic spectrum engaged in repetitive physical movements or stimming, as it was better known. Jane always wore the necklace because it gave her something innocuous to stim when she was upset. It used to belong to her mother, and she considered it a touchstone. Touching the slick steel settled her nerves a bit, allowed her to focus on his words.

  “I disagree.”

  But he ignored her. “Most women are flighty. They only care about how they look, but not you. You’re demure, focused on your work, proper—the way a woman should be.”

  She took exception to the casual way he’d maligned her gender, but let it go. It was difficult to focus on anything besides her anxiety.

  “We’ll have to put a pin in this discussion for the moment.” He glanced at the fire. “Looks like our dinner’s done. Let’s eat, and I’ll try to talk you into a date afterward.”

  Oh, yes, this was going to be a long, painful evening.

  “Fine, but I’m going to say no.”

  “No, Jane, you’re going to say ‘yes’ to me.” He met her eyes across the fire, ensnared her gaze with his own. She might be mistaken but the look wasn’t the least bit friendly.

  Sweat dribbled between her shoulder blades and dampened her blouse, and a shiver rippled down her spine. The thick and unforgiving wet lake air seeped into her lungs, making her cough. Again, she felt the urge to run for her car, but she had a professional relationship at stake so she stayed put.

  Half an hour later, they’d finished their food. They currently sat on opposite sides of the picnic table, and Jane was grateful for the large wooden structure separating them. She had picked at the fish but ate most of the veggies. When she glanced up, she found Oscar studying her.

  “You have lovely hair, but maybe you could use a change. Ever thought of going blonde?”

  Her thoughts went winging to the crime scene photos all of those blonde women.

  “Never.” Jane shook her head, dispelling the unwanted images.

  “I think it’d look eye-catching on you. You’d be even more beautiful with long, golden curls.”

  Jane didn’t agree. She liked her dark hair and wasn’t about to change it.

  He reached for her, and Jane backed away. Something about his demeanor perturbed her, though she didn’t know why exactly. Beneath the romantic interest, there was something unnerving.

  “Earlier, you didn’t say you weren’t attracted to me.”

  “I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

  “Indulge me—tell me what you think of my appearance.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Jane didn’t know how to get out of the situation, so she scanned his features once more. He had a lithe, muscled body and a handsome face.

  “Well, I don’t find you repulsive.”

  He smiled. “You say such sweet things.”

  “I’m only being honest.”

  “Which I appreciate, and, like I mentioned, I find you attractive.”

  “Why?” Most people found her demeanor off-putting.

  “Many reasons.”

  “Give me one?” Jane was curious, despite herself.

  Perhaps she was sending signals to men that she wasn’t aware of. If Valentine identified the problem, she could fix it. Maybe it would solve her Beauregard issue as well.

  “For one, you believed in me when no one else did.”

  “Yes, because it’s what you paid me to do—very handsomely, I might add. And I merely went with the facts. While I have remarkable skills, don’t give me too much credit. The detective work was shoddy.”

  “Still, you listened to me, took everything I said at face value. Everyone thought I was guilty.”

  “A defense attorney doesn’t.”

  “It’s more than that. You see the good in me, Jane. The man I want to be, the man I could be—with you at my side.” Once again, he watched her in a troubling, intent way.

  It was time to go.

  “Thank you for dinner, but I have another meeting this evening, so I should be on my way.” Jane stood and grabbed her briefcase, placing it in front of her body as though it were a shield.

  “Not yet.” He sighed. “I know you’re ambivalent about men, but I want you to think about this, about us. And before you can make a decision, I need to be completely honest with you.”

  Jane didn’t need to think, she’d already made up her mind. Although she supposed it would be polite to hear him out.

  “About what?”

  “You’re no longer my lawyer, but does privilege still apply?”

  Jane had a pat answer for whenever a client asked her the question—and they often did. “Attorney-client privilege is sacrosanct and whatever you say to me in a professional context can’t be used against you. There are a few exceptions—if we are colluding together as part of a criminal enterprise, or you say something in front of a third party, or if you tell me about a crime you haven’t committed yet.”


  His smile was smug. “Then we’re safe to have a real discussion. I want you to know me, Jane, the real me, not the façade I show the rest of the world.”

  “What do you mean?” He wasn’t making much sense.

  “I could tell you, but I think it would be best if I show you instead.”

  “Okay….”

  “Let’s go to my dark room—it’s inside—downstairs in the cellar.”

  Despite the whispered warnings in the corners of her mind, Jane followed him.

  He was an amateur photographer, so she wasn’t surprised Valentine had a dark room. In a small shadowy space, photographs were pinned on a plastic spinning rack. The space had a vaguely chemical smell—acrid, slightly sweet.

  “Go on, take a look around.” Jane meandered around, taking it all in, while he remained silent, observing her. Some of the pictures had a melancholy quality—an abandoned rowboat, a fish laying on its side in the water, an abandoned house with a carpet of leaves on the floor.

  And then there was a picture of April Sanders standing at a bus stop.

  Jane gasped, though she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

  “It’s the first victim.” She’d only seen the crime scene photos. Seeing her alive and laughing in photographs was disturbing.

  Valentine had a connection with the girl—he’d been a regular at the diner where she worked. It’s what led the police to hone in on him as a suspect. Although she hadn’t realized he’d taken photos of her. Valentine hadn’t mentioned the pictures to the police, and they hadn’t searched this property, so they hadn’t been turned over.

  “Yes, it is. Keep going.” While she couldn’t see Valentine behind her, she could sense him, watching her, waiting for a reaction.

  Jane slowly turned the plastic picture hanger. More casual images—April smoking a cigarette outside the diner, sitting on a park bench with a book. She wasn’t looking at the camera directly.

  Had she been unaware the photographs were being taken? Had Oscar been stalking her?

  “You took all of these?”

  “I did.”

  And then she saw April in a porcelain bathtub, blood spilling from her wrists, head lolling on the back of the tub—it was obvious, she was minutes from death.