Courting Disaster

by Carol Stephenson

  “So the judge is allowing the photographs?” Larry asked.

  I forced myself to focus on the case at hand.

  “Yes. I have to arrange for them to be cropped and let the judge inspect them again, but your birthmark made the photos probative of the victim’s identification.”

  “Good.” He studied his laced fingers. “When are you deposing her?”

  Another irritating thing about my client. He never said the victim’s name. Hell, he rarely said my name. It was as if by denying a woman’s identity, he could demean her.

  “I’m taking Ms. Sheree Greiner’s deposition Friday.”

  “Good. How do you plan to shake her testimony?”

  I had to give it to him on this score. He’d become a real jail house lawyer, reading legal how-to books and taking a closer interest in my handling of a case than any other client I’ve ever had. He wanted to know and plan every detail. We’d discussed that the discovery deposition of the victim would be crucial to throw her identification of the rapist into question. After all, there was no forensic evidence to convict.

  The attacker had been very, very careful, wearing a condom and apparently shaving his body before the attack. No forensic evidence to link Larry to the crime.

  The victim. Here I was depersonalizing her, but I needed to do so in order to do my job. But at least I knew Sheree Greiner was an eighteen-year-old concession stand worker who didn’t deserve to have her world tainted by a brutal rape.

  “I plan to establish clearly she never saw a birthmark on her attacker.” My gaze flicked to the edge of Larry’s tattoo showing from under the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

  “Unfortunately, the man wore long sleeves so the presence of your tattoo isn’t important. Shame. That would have been the clincher.”

  Larry leaned forward, intensity a cold fire in his eyes. “Ridiculous. You have to do more. I’m your typical American male.”

  “Not so typical that she was able to pick you out of a line-up,” I pointed out.

  “Only because there were only two blond men in the line-up. I also bet the police tainted it by showing her a picture of me ahead of time.”

  “Yes, I’ve requested a photograph of the line-up. I plan to question the lead detective about it at trial.”

  “Show this woman a college yearbook and I bet she’ll find a hundred pictures of me,” he said with derision.

  A college yearbook…no, but I could do something else at the deposition. Excitement thrummed through me. The idea was certainly within the guidelines and, in this case, just might rattle the identification enough for the state to want to make a deal.

  Larry cocked an eyebrow. “What? I can see you’re onto something.”

  “I need to think through it some more. I’ll see you next week after the deposition. Call me if anything comes up.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile, making him seem human and almost vulnerable. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  No, he couldn’t. The bond set by the judge had been based more on the news media’s intense coverage of a possible serial rapist than the evidence presented. Larry would be cooling his heels here until trial. Fortunately, that meant his case got priority on the judge’s calendar. Also, his prison time would be taken into account for his sentencing should he be convicted.

  But I wouldn’t think that way. My client would get a fair trial. Just because he was an unpleasant person didn’t mean he was guilty. If personality alone determined the fate of anyone charged with a crime, the jails in Florida would be maxed out during snowbird season.

  After the guard escorted Larry back to his cell, I left the conference room but paused in the hallway. Directly across was conference room number one. Though it had been empty when I arrived, the guard had shown me inside the smaller second room.

  I hadn’t been inside number one since Borys had been murdered. Whenever I met a client here, I was always escorted to any room but one.

  Mom always said you get more with sugar than vinegar, and I applied that bit of philosophy to the staff at the detention center. Whenever here, I always paused to chat with the officers, whether it was about the latest Miami Heat win or their kids’ good report cards. Were the guards sheltering me from any bad memories of that night?

  The door was ajar, offering a silent invitation. The on-duty guards were probably watching my every move via the video cameras. Yet on the night I’d been shot, the camera in this hall had been disconnected. No matter. If they came scrambling, I could claim that I wasn’t feeling well.

  I crossed and pushed the door open. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside.

  If I expected a repeat of yesterday’s unnerving experience in my home, I was disappointed. No blurring, no pain, no visions of the past. Nothing. Just a large conference room showing signs of wear and tear, with scuffed walls and a utilitarian table and chairs.

  I wandered over to a chair and placed my hand on its back. I would have sat there that night. People are creatures of habit and I was no exception. The chief public defender had instructed every new attorney to take the seat closest to the door in the event a client ever caused trouble, and I had followed the advice from day one. When you’re only five-three and on the slight side, you learn to use your brains as your primary defense mechanism.

  Plus I throw a mean left hook, courtesy of growing up with an older brother.

  I sat down. Although my back was to the door, I would have had easy access to it. Borys had been a nervous, non-threatening man, so over the course of meetings, he would have sat to my…left.

  I turned and studied the end of the table farthest from the door. I summoned up the image that had been haunting me since my latest hospital stay. Dressed in the jumpsuit color of the day—orange. Borys had worn orange—his skin, already pale, had been ashen. I could feel the waves of fear rolling off of him, filling the room.

  “The prosecutor is offering you a great chance, Borys. He’ll drop the charges if you give him information about the gang behind the money laundering operation.”

  I remembered that I had leaned forward toward my client. I did so now, letting the past unfold in the room.

  Although sweat beaded on his brow, Borys wore a set but hopeless expression on his face. “I’ll take my chances in jail. I’m probably already a dead man but as long as I keep my mouth shut, they may let me live.”

  “The state attorney, Jared Manning, is willing to put you into a witness protection program.” As required I had disclosed my relationship with Jared.

  Borys snorted. “Right. You have no idea how many paid eyes and ears within the police department and elsewhere belong to the Hedeon. They would know if I agree, just like they know that you’re sitting in here with me.”

  “For God’s sake, Borys, you make it sound like this Russian gang is all powerful.”

  I straightened. I needed to pace off my frustration. The jail population would devour someone like him alive. I needed to make him change his mind about the deal Jared was offering.

  Jared. Damn, I had it bad if even thinking about his name in a business context made my pulse race. I scraped back the chair. “Borys, please listen.”

  Borys wasn’t looking at me. White-faced, he stared at the door and held up a trembling hand. “Please, no.”

  “What?” I turned halfway.

  Pain. Blood. Cold.

  I jerked awake. I was lying on the conference room floor. I sat up and spotted the chair tipped on its side. Why had I fallen?

  “Carling!” Jared’s voice echoed in my mind.

  I twisted and saw a blurred image of Jared standing in the door. Was I still in the past or present?

  He hurried forward and knelt beside me. “Are you all right?” When he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, a sensation like an electrical shock streaked through me. I could smell the warm, musky scent of his skin that was pure male, pure Jared.

  Yep, I was definitely in the present. At least I hoped I was. Reliving the past was wearing thin.

&
nbsp; “I’m fine.” I shrugged but couldn’t shake his arm loose. “I can stand.”

  “I’m sure you can but I’m admiring the view.”

  I followed the direction of his interested gaze and saw that my skirt rode up around my waist, exposing lots of bare skin. Like any sane woman in Florida, I shunned pantyhose during the summer.

  “When did you start wearing thong panties?” Jared asked in a neutral tone, but his hand tightened on my shoulder.

  “Pervert.” I jabbed my elbow into his midriff but couldn’t appreciate his grunt as I scrambled to my feet. When one’s wearing a short skirt, there’s no graceful way to rise from a sitting position on the floor.

  From his bemused expression, Jared was enjoying the extended peep show. My legs weren’t too shabby, and daily morning runs ensured that I maintained a tight butt.

  A flustered guard appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

  Jared stood and smiled. “Ms. Dent and I were discussing a case when she tripped and fell. She’s fine.”

  “Okay, Mr. Manning.” The guard nodded and withdrew.

  I frowned at Jared. “What are you doing here?”

  He reached out and brushed back my damp matted bangs. My skin tingled even at that abbreviated contact.

  “You never did answer my question. Did you have another spell?”

  Another perfect example of why he was a top-notch prosecutor. Jared never lost track during questioning. Like a hunter he kept circling back until he caught his prey in a lie.

  Only one way to counter his inquisition. Attack.

  “What was Borys to the Hedeon gang?”

  All play and any hint of lust disappeared from Jared’s eyes. In their place slid the cold glitter of a predator. He gripped my upper arms. “What did you remember from that night?”

  “Uh-uh. You answer my question first.”

  He swore better than any sailor but released me. “He was the Russians’ primary accountant for their money laundry operations. He was a genius at setting up shell companies.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about?”

  “Millions.” Jared shrugged. “Maybe higher. It’s a very sophisticated operation.”

  “It is a sophisticated operation? Present tense?” I zeroed in on his slip-up. “You haven’t filed charges against the Hedeon leadership yet?”

  Jared’s lips thinned. “It’s complicated.”

  Pressure clamped around my head like a vise. I should know whether or not Jared had tried the case after Borys’s death. Hadn’t Jared been in secret meetings with other law enforcement agencies?

  Yes. Jared had introduced me to a very intense, straight-laced FBI agent before I’d taken on representing Borys. After that, I’d been practically sanitized from Jared’s life.

  “I just bet it’s complicated. You’ve been too busy with hot-shot FBI agents to pursue justice for poor old Borys.”

  “Dammit. You had another flashback, didn’t you?” He approached me. “The truth, honey.”

  I tilted my chin in defiance. “So what if I did?”

  “What did you remember? Anything your client said?” He pressed closer.

  “If I did, I couldn’t tell you. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “Your client’s dead. Killed right there.”

  I winced. That image I didn’t want to revisit. “Death doesn’t terminate privilege.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And you’re arrogant. There’s only one reason you want to know what Borys said. You haven’t gotten the mob leadership and it’s bugging the hell out of you.” Something familiar about this argument needled me.

  “Wait a minute,” I stormed. “You gave me an ultimatum the morning I was shot. You said if I didn’t stop representing Borys our relationship was over.”

  Jared’s jaw jerked as if I had slapped him. Annoyance flared in his eyes. “If you’re going to remember things after all this time, at least get them straight. I also immediately apologized for being an ass.”

  His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. He let his gaze roam over my body again. “The make-up sex was exceptionally hot that morning.”

  My mouth dried at the desire in his eyes and I swallowed. If I recalled, we hadn’t made it from the kitchen back to bed.

  Jared braced his hands against the table on either side of me, effectively imprisoning me. “Get this through your thick skull, Carling. If you remember anything about that night—I don’t care if it’s what color panties you were wearing—I want you to come and tell me. You’re playing with fire.”

  “You can’t order me—”

  Jared’s kiss cut off any further protest. God, what a mouth the man had. Heat blasted through me clear to my toes. But before I could do something as idiotic as putting my arms around his neck, Jared raised his head and backed away.

  I gripped the table. Better that than hauling off and punching him in the stomach.

  “Don’t meddle in matters you don’t understand, Carling. I’m warning you. You’ll be in way over your head.” He strode toward the door, paused and came back.

  This time I whipped a hand up, but he caught my wrist with ease. I didn’t think it was possible to notch up the intensity of a kiss, but he managed it.

  The air-conditioned air stirred by the overhead fan was a relief when he finally turned and left the room.

  Bemused, I touched my lips. Jared sure knew how to deliver a closing argument.

  Chapter Four

  Never let it be said that a toe-curling kiss could reduce me to Barbie mentality. Jared’s warning meant he was in the middle of an active investigation.

  Don’t interfere? He wasn’t the one being ripped apart in a nightmare of the past and present at war. He wasn’t afraid of the unknown. Jared knew who he was.

  I didn’t, not anymore. Was I really the woman who drove red-hot Mustangs and loved garish décor? Or was I the woman who once dreamed of a life with Jared complete with white picket fences and babies? I wasn’t even sure if I liked either one now.

  I needed to know what happened the night Borys was killed. Maybe then I could forge a brand new me.

  In the short walk from the client conference room to the detention center’s reception area, I assessed my options and arrived at a strategic plan.

  Ah, target in sight.

  Leaning with one elbow propped against the counter, Deputy Bill Murphy laughed and gestured as he chatted with the female officer manning the desk. No doubt telling a joke. If there was a bad joke, Bill knew it. He had this special brain cell that could retain every punch line ever invented by a comic.

  I sidled up next to him. “Hey Bill. Connie.” I smiled at the other woman.

  “Hey, Counselor!” Bill turned toward me. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture?”

  I could take a thousand blows to the head and still know the answer. As an attorney you couldn’t avoid being the butt of lawyer jokes at every public gathering. But when your mark for a huge favor wants to play the comic, you suck it up.

  “You got me, Bill.” I spread my hands and yes, did the wide-eyed innocent routine. “What’s the difference?”

  “Lawyers get frequent flyer miles.”

  Oh for the good old days when we only lost out to snakes on the popularity contest. “Ha!” I forced a smile. “That’s a good one.”

  Bill’s ruddy face lit up. You could almost hear his mind register that he had a sucker. Before he could empty his folder of jokes, I said, “Hey, Bill, could I have a word with you in private?”

  “Sure, Counselor.”

  Deliberately I led him toward the hall where the administrative offices were. Lowering my voice, I asked, “Bill, were you on duty at the front last year when I was shot?”

  Immediately, his expression sobered. “Yes. To this day I don’t know how the bastard who shot you got by us.”

  He obviously sided with the official verdict that an outsider got by security and pulled the trigger. Whil
e I couldn’t rule out a deputy was the shooter, I couldn’t tell Bill I was investigating my growing sense that it had been an inside job. I would start with the people who had to sign in at the front desk. Maybe I could cajole the firm’s PI, Gabe Chavez, to get me the list of officers in the building that night.

  I gave the deputy a bright smile. “Hey, I’m fine now. No permanent damage to this hard head of mine.”

  Keep the amnesia myth alive, I warned myself. If Borys’s murder had been a gang hit, I couldn’t imagine a witness would normally be left alive. That left three possibilities: the killer had been interrupted, the killer didn’t think I saw him or news of my memory loss had made him feel safe. I ruled out the first because, in the past year, the hit man had ample time and opportunity to finish the job.

  Bill’s love of the gab would carry this portion of our conversation near and far, perhaps to the ears of the shooter. Let him feel secure a while longer until I could learn his identity.

  I rapped my knuckles lightly against my temple. “I can’t remember a thing about the shooting. I found some of my client’s personal effects, but can’t recall the names of his family. I was wondering if I could look at the visitor log from that night. I know several friends visited Borys that day.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Ms. Dent.”

  Back to formalities. Not a good sign.

  “I feel so bad that I’ve had my client’s…” I allowed my voice to trail off as if I had to collect myself.

  Had what? It couldn’t be something taken off him during the arrest, but I needed an item close to the truth.

  Borys had collected anything related to his favorite show.

  “He gave me his cartoon memorabilia to safe keep for him. He meant for his family to have it. Please, Bill?”

  Speculation glinted in his eyes but the deputy scanned the corridor. I had him. “Wait in this office and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Minutes later he appeared with a slender volume. “I’ll be outside. Don’t take too long,” he warned before leaving the room.

  Alone, I wiped my sweaty palms against my skirt, took out my legal pad and flipped to the week before the attack. As I scanned the pages, I recognized names of fellow attorneys. One name appeared so frequently I had to wonder if he was the criminal version of an ambulance chaser. When I spotted Jared’s name, I ignored the spurt in my blood pressure.