Courting Danger

by Carol Stephenson

  His eyes widened before he burst out laughing.

  “Damn, Kate. I like you. You have quite a mouth on you.”

  “Out.” I opened the door and waited expectantly.

  He paused beside me and before I could react, pressed a hard, hot and all-too-brief kiss. “Yep. I like your mouth.”

  Then he was gone.

  I closed the door and ran my tongue over my lips. I could still taste him like a fine brandy—warm, spicy and all-too tantalizingly male. I couldn’t remember the last time that I had felt such a sexual tug, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  But since I couldn’t slap a restraining order against my hormones, I would do the next best thing and take a cold shower.

  Chapter 5

  People packed the first-appearance hearing room at the Criminal Justice Center. The criminal world of West Palm Beach must have been jamming last night.

  I made my way to one of the front benches and squeezed in beside a woman sobbing into a tissue. Despite the No Smoking order, the acrid odor hung in the air along with the miasma of colognes, deodorants and hairsprays. Any person sensitive to fragrances would be knocked dead entering the room.

  Judge Theresita Rodriguez entered and quickly began her docket. The sheriffs led in the accused as each case was called. When I saw Lloyd in his orange prison jumpsuit being escorted in, I rose and went forward to the podium where the young woman State Attorney already stood.

  We exchanged curious glances, weighing each other, while the bailiff read the charges. Dressed in a tan, inexpensive suit and her dark brown hair pulled back in a clip, the state attorney looked like she had just hung up her law school diploma. Not surprising. For these cattle-call first appearances, the State Attorney’s office would deploy only its inexperienced junior attorneys. Hopefully today, I would learn the name of the assigned prosecutor so I could make contact and begin the discovery phase.

  Judge Rodriguez peered over her reading glasses at Lloyd. “Do you have counsel?”

  “Yes, Judge,” I answered. “Katherine Rochelle for the defense.”

  “Good morning, Counselor. Mr. Silber, you’ve been charged with aggravated murder. Do you understand the charge?”

  I nodded to Lloyd. He cleared his throat and leaned toward the mike. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “What’s your plea?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Lloyd said.

  “We request a reasonable bail as this is my client’s first charged offense,” I added.

  The state attorney intervened. “Rachel Sachs for the prosecution. The State opposes any bail.”

  The judge leaned back in her high-back black leather chair. “Why’s that?”

  “A young woman was brutally murdered—”

  “Save the argument for trial, Counselor.”

  Rachel blushed, but I had to hand it to her, she plowed forward. “Given the heinous nature of the crime, Your Honor, the State considers him a danger to the community plus a flight risk.”

  “What’s the evidence?”

  “State Exhibit One is the arresting officer’s report. It details the preliminary findings that this was premeditated murder.”

  “Response?” the judge asked, turning toward me.

  “Your Honor, that report just draws conclusions. The officer sets forth no facts to warrant my client committed the murder let alone with premeditation.” I took a breath. “Moreover, my client is married and has been a long-time outstanding citizen. He’s received numerous citations for his service as outlined in Defense Exhibit One.”

  The judge’s brow furrowed in concentration as she reviewed the documents.

  The sheriff deputy whispered in the state attorney’s ear. She nodded and took the mike again. “Your Honor, if I may advise the court of new information?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The deputy tells me that the defendant attempted suicide last night.”

  Stunned, I turned to my client. A dull flush spread across his cheeks, and he looked down at his handcuffed wrists, plainly unable to look me in the eye. I leaned close to him, whispering so the mike wouldn’t pick up our conversation. “Lloyd, did you?”

  He raised his face and I saw how bloodshot his eyes were. If ever a man had gone to hell and back, he stood before me. “I thought it would be best for Meredith.”

  “What’s best for Meredith is to have her husband home again, with his name cleared.”

  His brow arched in disbelief, but he nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ve caused a problem, haven’t I?”

  “For now. But we’ll work it out.”

  “Ms. Rochelle?”

  I realized the judge was speaking. “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “In light of your client’s instability, I’m going to deny bail for now and place him on suicide watch.”

  “I would like to request a psychiatric evaluation.” While I didn’t believe Lloyd was mentally disturbed, I needed to be sure that he understood what was happening.

  “Granted.”

  “I would also like to request that the defense be permitted to raise the issue of bail again at the preliminary.”

  “Not a problem. I order that Mr. Silber remain in custody and a psychiatric evaluation be arranged as soon as possible.”

  The state attorney scribbled a note. “We’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Who’s the lead prosecutor on this one, Ms. Sachs?”

  “Jared Manning.”

  The burning in my stomach increased. After only six years as a state attorney, Jared Manning was the department’s best prosecutor. Rumor was that he was preparing for a run for the top spot in the next elections.

  Figures. A headline case with all the trappings of murder, high society, sex. How could a glory seeker like Jared pass it up?

  I was in big trouble.

  Chaos reigned in the restoration committee’s office on the first floor of the old courthouse. Taking one look at a young woman weeping into a handkerchief behind the front desk, I kept going. I needed someone rational. In Lloyd’s office I found Derek Jones manning the phone. He motioned for me to take a seat. As I waited, I studied Lloyd’s lead assistant. Derek reminded me of a watered-down version of Johnny Depp: all intensity with no concern for his appearance. His ratty hair stood on end, his eyes were bleary behind his glasses, and his wrinkled, un-tucked T-shirt contained mysterious stains.

  Someone needed to give Derek a makeover and fast. The front man had to juggle dealing with the government red tape, the wealthy donors and the construction crew. Derek, in present mode, didn’t exactly inspire confidence. What he needed was an Aunt Hilary.

  I grinned, wondering if I could sic her on him to get her off my back for a while. Except that would increase her presence around here. My smile faded. Not such a good idea.

  Derek hung up. “Ms. Rochelle, what a pleasant surprise. Did your aunt need something?”

  Money carried a long stick and those with the restoration project knew my family had dumped a substantial sum to the extent that one exhibition hall would be called The Rochelle Wing.

  “No, Derek. I’m representing Lloyd.”

  His mouth tightened. “Why would you want to do that? We all loved Grace.”

  Hmm. Obviously, things weren’t as solid between the two men as Lloyd had indicated.

  “Including yourself?”

  He folded his hands on top of the desk. “Grace was a beautiful young woman, full of life and energy. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “On that we can agree. Did Grace know you had a crush on her?”

  He flushed and jerked a shoulder. “I never said a word to her. She was engaged.”

  “How was her relationship with Lloyd? Did you ever notice anything unusual?”

  “No, but they often worked late in the museum rooms on the upper floors. There were rumors…” His voice trailed off.

  “What type of rumors? That they were having an affair?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t believe them until her death. Why would she go f
or an old man when she could have—”

  “You or the younger man she was dating?”

  He shrugged.

  “How long have the rumors been going on?”

  “For the past few weeks. Grace had been spending more and more time volunteering.”

  So the rumors were recent. But what had Grace found so fascinating here? Spending time in a museum-to-be was no way to keep the flames blazing on a hot romance with the fiancé. Had she found a better opportunity? But with whom?

  “How did Grace get along with the rest of the volunteers?”

  “Fine. Everyone—”

  “Loved her. Yes, you already said that. But if people were gossiping about her, that means there was friction going on. People usually relish the negative if they’re jealous or don’t like someone. Nothing people like more to do than bring a person down from a pedestal.”

  Derek leaned back in the chair. “I’ve never thought of that.”

  “Anyone in particular who was into the rumors?”

  “I don’t even know who first mentioned the possible affair, but Cindy Overbeck took offense every time the topic cropped up.”

  Cindy was the weeping woman out front. I jotted her name down. “Anyone else?”

  “Peter Robbins. He’s one of our newer volunteers. An attorney.”

  Was he the greener fields? I added his name. “Did Peter hit on Grace?”

  “No, yes.” Derek ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”

  Yes, Derek did, and the answer to my question was yes. I noted “possible romantic competitor?” after Peter’s name.

  “Can you tell me who else is on the committee?”

  Derek listed ten other people and gave me their usual schedules. I flipped to a fresh page on my notepad. “Lloyd mentioned there have been recent problems with the restoration work.”

  Derek groaned. “Problems? More like catastrophes.”

  “How so?”

  After getting a rundown of basically the same incidents Lloyd had mentioned, I thanked Derek and left. Next up, a visit to the construction company. As I cleared the cubicle’s corner, I collided with a man. Reaching out to steady him, I gasped with surprise. “Paul! What are you doing here?”

  Smiling, I gave my godfather a hug. When I saw the man standing behind him, I stiffened. “Good afternoon, Judge Winewski.”

  “Ms. Rochelle.” Avid curiosity burned in his gaze.

  Paul kept his arm around my shoulders. “Kurt, you know my goddaughter?”

  “She appeared before me in court yesterday.”

  “Good.” Paul gave me a squeeze before releasing me. “I’m very proud of Katherine.” His message that I had his blessing hit its mark.

  Winewski’s brows lowered so I couldn’t see his eyes, but he muttered, “She did okay.”

  Although I was grateful for Paul’s gesture, Winewski’s grudging comment gave me a pain.

  “Thanks, Paul. What are you doing here?”

  “I was meeting Kurt for lunch and thought I would stop by and check on the progress. The restoration board is naming one of the courtrooms after me, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. I think that’s fabulous.”

  Paul studied me. “I heard that you took Lloyd’s case after all.”

  “Yes.” Straightening my shoulders, I braced for the expected criticism.

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best. If you need to bounce any ideas off of me, I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “Thank you, Paul.” I rose and brushed my lips across his cheek. “That means a lot to me.”

  “Why don’t you have lunch with us?”

  Over my dead body. Sitting that close to Winewski was enough to make me lose my appetite. “Thanks, but I can’t. Gotta go. I have several people to interview.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Nope, I’m parked in the garage.”

  “All right, honey. Call me no matter what.”

  “Will do.” Nodding to Winewski, I made good my escape. Minutes later I reached the garage.

  Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I took the stairs. Although the subcontractor had a trailer on site, the main office was on Blue Heron Boulevard, and I needed to start my questioning there. According to Derek, the owner rarely came to the courthouse project, letting his field supervisor handle everything. I also needed to track down Peter Robbins, the new volunteer.

  Strains of Perry Mason’s theme song emanated from my tote. Pulling out my cell phone, I answered. “Katherine Rochelle.” I pushed on the door bar to the third floor.

  “Hey beautiful, where are you?”

  While I could blame the spike in my blood pressure to climbing the stairs, unfortunately I was in top physical form. What was it about Gabe’s sultry voice that brought to mind afternoon delights on a workday?

  “Gabriel.” Even I was impressed by how repressive I sounded. “If we’re going to work together, we need ground rules.”

  “Sure.” I could see Gabe shrugging those yummy shoulders. “But I’ll just break them.”

  Had to give the guy points for being honest. Since there wasn’t a wall against which I could bang my head, I started toward my car.

  “Did anything come up on the background searches?”

  “I got one hit so far. A Cindy Overbeck.”

  The lovesick volunteer. “What do you have?”

  “A misdemeanor conviction for shoplifting.”

  I blinked and then narrowed my eyes. “What on earth?”

  “What’s wrong, Kate?”

  “My car windows are smashed.” My poor Jag. The front windshield was now a spiderweb with one gaping hole in the center.

  “Where are you?”

  “Third floor of the courthouse parking garage—”

  I heard a sound, the rasp of someone inhaling. I spun but saw no one. The sun cast shadows across the floor. Was someone hiding behind the second car to my right? The shadow shifted and there wasn’t a breeze to be bought today.

  “Gotta go,” I murmured, and switched off the phone. Since I didn’t know how damaged the Jag was, my only option was back toward the stair exit. I slipped out of my shoes and prayed for smooth concrete.

  A man wearing a ski mask and carrying a baseball bat stepped into view. “I’ve got a message for you, girlie.”

  The guy had a paunch. Hopefully he was as out of shape as he appeared. Then I saw the gun handle sticking out from his waistband. Now a bullet I couldn’t outrun, that is, if he decided the bat wasn’t a sufficient communication tool.

  “Great. Send me a letter.” I turned and made a beeline up the slope to the exit on the next level.

  The man yelled and I heard his grunt as he took after me. The sound of wood clattering and then rolling on concrete reverberated. So much for any faint hope that he intended to use only the bat. I ran harder.

  Almost too late I saw the orange cones and sign Closed For Repairs as I approached the exit. Great. I would have to loop back the way I came. But that meant a nice easy shot. I didn’t fancy being a sitting duck.

  Putting on a burst of speed, I snatched a cone as I sped up around the corner. Interspersed among the sedans and compact cars was a healthy smattering of SUVs and vans. Not the first one, I warned myself. Not the second.

  But the third.

  I flung one shoe as far as I could toward the next exit door. The years of javelin throwing during gym class in Switzerland served me well. The pump fell with a soft thud close to the opposite line of cars near the end of the incline.

  I dropped behind a dirty white utility van and squeezed against the side by the wheel cage. If the guy dropped to look for feet, his view would be blocked. Or so my theory went. Although my adrenaline pounded, my breathing remained light.

  On the other hand, my attacker’s was labored as he rounded the corner. That didn’t keep him from being quite the chatterbox.

  “You bitch. I know you’re hiding behind a car. I was supposed to only rough you up, but now I’m g
oing to have some fun with you.”

  Wheezing and a pause in his talking marked his progress.

  “You’re going to lose a lot more than that shoe. Maybe if you come out now, I won’t scar that pretty face of yours.”

  Fat chance. I lifted the cone.

  “The message is to get off the Robins…um…that dead broad in the courthouse case.”

  Moron. He couldn’t even remember his instructions.

  His labored breathing came closer. I pressed against the van.

  “You can’t outrun a gun so you might as well come out.”

  The man appeared in the gap. He was on my side of the garage, peering between the cars opposite us.

  As he stepped past me, I swung the cone in an arc, smacking its base right across the man’s knees.

  He howled and stumbled, dropping the gun. I brought the cone over my shoulder and then down at the back of his head. He slumped forward to the floor.

  I released a long, slow breath. Moving forward, I kicked the gun across the garage floor. With a loud metallic noise, it skittered under a car. I gave the man’s body a wide berth as I had seen enough heart-stopping moments in horror films where the dead guy wakes up and seizes his unsuspecting victim. Leaning against the van’s front grill because my legs suddenly were wobbly, I pulled my phone from my pocket.

  The roar of an engine, the squeal of tires of a car careening up the level sent a red light off in my head. I scrambled and threw myself into the protective cover behind the van again.

  Praying my white silk suit would blend in with the van, I slid back into the shadows.

  A dark, nondescript car—was it a Chevy or Oldsmobile or a Buick?—roared up the slope. It barely slowed when the dark-tinted driver’s window lowered and white flashes blossomed. A split second later the cracks of gunfire ripped through the garage. The window of the car next to me shattered in a spray of glass. I threw my arms up to protect my face.

  The unseen driver gunned the motor and sped off. Only when I heard it circle around and head down toward the exit did I step shaking from my hiding spot.

  I almost lost my breakfast.

  I had never seen a dead person before. No question my attacker was dead from the head shot he had taken.