Courting Disaster

by Carol Stephenson

  No visitors for Borys other than myself in the week before his death. I flipped to the day of the shooting and ran my finger by each name. Nothing leaped out until the end of the list. Andy Lopez had been visiting late, like a lot of the prosecutors often did. Then there was my name and Jared’s right underneath. We must have just missed each other that day.

  Wait a minute. I ran my finger back up the page. Drew Powell. Why was that name so familiar? An image of a tall, outdoorsy man who should have been a professional football player rather than an accountant appeared in my mind.

  Borys’s lover.

  I jotted down his name although I already knew where I could find him. With the hat tricks my head had been pulling, I wasn’t about to chance committing anything to memory. I also noted the names of all the guards and other visitors. I closed the book and went outside.

  “Thanks, Bill.” I handed the book to him. “I owe you one.”

  “Carling!”

  I spun and found Andy Lopez standing behind us. His curious gaze swung from me to Bill. “What’s going on?”

  I ratcheted a smile to killer intensity. “Hey, Andy. Just in time. I just learned a new joke from Bill. How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road?”

  Andy gave me a pained look. “I have no idea.”

  I winked as I moved past him. “The vultures aren’t gagging over the skunk.” I kept walking and did a wave over my shoulder. “See you gents later. Gotta go.”

  As I hurried down the hall, I heard Bill tell Andy another lawyer joke. Score one for me. Bill had another joke for his repertoire and a new victim.

  Rock music blasted from my cell phone, and I dug through my purse to pull it out. Spotting my office number on the caller ID, I hit the green call button.

  “Carling, it’s Maria,” my secretary said.

  “What’s up?” I exited the building.

  “I just got a call from Rocket Fertilizer. The police have arrested Mike Staminski for drug possession.”

  “What? How long ago?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Then I’ll head straight to the police station. I assume Rocket has contacted their bail bond company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll check in later.”

  I walked quickly toward my rental Mustang, gleaming black and beautiful under the hot Florida sun. I felt my pulse kick up a notch, whether in anticipation of the Mustang’s power or the action at the police station, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that there was no going back to a sedate sedan for me. I’d refused any other make or model at the car rental place.

  However, not even the zippiest car could avoid the never-ending road construction in West Palm Beach. A ride that should have taken fifteen minutes crawled into thirty before I parked at the station. Add the fact that the desk sergeant took her sweet time dragging her feet to take me back to the holding room, and a good two hours had passed since the Rocket driver’s arrest. Plenty of time to work him over if he hadn’t held firm in asking for an attorney.

  Sure enough, when I entered the room two detectives in street clothes sat on one side of the table facing my client. I recognized both officers. The older, gray-haired detective had been on the force for years, while the younger man with a top-notch muscular physique had been his partner only several months. They worked well as an interrogation tag team. At present they gave all the appearance of engaging in a casual conversation, leaning back in their chairs. They both shot me a look of irritation at having their game interrupted.

  On the other hand, Mike Staminski was pale and sweating, the epitome of a man with secrets just begging to be revealed.

  “Gentlemen.” I smiled as I walked over to Mike. “I assume my client’s been properly Mirandized?”

  “Carling.” Detective Bob Sherwood, the older officer, stood up. “Sure. The arresting officer read him his rights, but Mr. Staminski never said he had an attorney.”

  “Uh-huh.” I squeezed Mike’s shoulder before I took the seat next to him. “He didn’t mention I was representing him as to the accident he had with his truck last week?”

  “He did say his company had retained a lawyer for an accident.” The younger detective, Marcos Hurtado, answered with an easy smile.

  “So it didn’t occur to you that he might want to call me?”

  Hurtado shrugged. “He said he didn’t need one. He might get fired by his boss if he knew he was in trouble again.”

  I glanced at my client. “Mike, is that right?”

  The driver squirmed, looking miserable. “I make no trouble. I need the job.” He spread his big, heavily callused hands. “Now this.”

  I gave him a reassuring smile. “It will be all right.” I faced Sherwood, who had sat down again. “What’s the charge?”

  “We haven’t officially charged him yet. He was detained for suspicion of drug trafficking. An officer stopped him for a busted taillight. When he acted suspiciously, the officer searched the truck and found a bag of cocaine lodged behind bags of fertilizer.”

  “It’s not mine!” Mike yelled. “The truck is loaded at the yard. Anyone could have put it there.”

  “Mike, do not say another word,” I warned.

  “And what would you have done when you unloaded the delivery?” Hurtado asked. “Chalked it up as another bag of fertilizer?”

  “I drive the truck. That’s it.” Mike leaned forward, pounding his fist on the table. “There are always others to help with the loading and unloading.”

  “How convenient.” Hurtado sneered.

  “All right.” I stood, tugging on my client’s arm to do the same. “Interview’s over. Either charge Mr. Staminski or release him.”

  Sherwood rose. “We’ll be in touch, Carling.”

  “You do that.” I sailed out of the room with Mike in tow. I didn’t stop until I was outside the building.

  “Here.” I pulled out a business card and thrust it at the driver. “You keep this on you at all times. If you even spot a police officer looking at you funny, you call me. Immediately.”

  Mike’s thick brows furrowed. “Look at me how?”

  “Never mind. You see a badge coming at you, you call. Clear?”

  “Yes.” He stuck the card in his shirt pocket but then reached out and grabbed my hand—hard. Since we were on the front steps of the West Palm Beach Police Department, I wasn’t too worried. Still, I gave a quick tug and he released me.

  “Miss Dent. Please.” Fear glittered in the driver’s dark eyes. “You will not tell Rocket I said anything.”

  Tricky thing about retainers and the extent of attorney-client privilege. However, Mike was the actual client I represented, as far as I was concerned. Rocket merely footed the bill. They would get a report marked Confidential but no privileged information shared by Mike or any other driver.

  “Not to worry, Mike. Whatever passes between us is confidential. I have to warn you, though, that restriction doesn’t apply to those officers who questioned you. They could say something to Rocket during their investigation. Unlikely if they’re trying to determine the source of that coke, but it’s possible.”

  Sweat beaded along his brow and he swiped his arm across his face. “I can deny whatever they say to Rocket, yes?”

  My “bull” antenna went on alert.

  “That’s between you and your conscience. But remember, the more lies you tell, the harder it is to keep them straight. If it gets back to Officers Sherwood and Hurtado that you’re spinning a different tune to people at Rocket, they could haul you in for more questioning.”

  The driver paled but he merely nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dent. I must get back to work. We’re paid bonuses by the load.”

  “All right. Be careful.”

  I watched him walk away and turn the corner toward a parking lot.

  The man was terrified. Why?

  I glanced at my watch. My calendar was, unfortunately, clear for the rest of the day, probably the remainder of
the week. Either Maria had done it to give me time to rest or I simply didn’t have any new clients. That meant I wouldn’t carry my weight in the partnership again.

  I didn’t feel like facing my empty townhouse so I might as well occupy myself with a few personal ghosts. I re-entered the station. Luck was with me. Detective Sam Bowie was in the station.

  Twenty minutes later I was shown to a room jam-packed with desks and people. Ringing phones competed with people talking and yelling. Through the milieu I spotted Sam’s familiar rangy form and skirted around a detective carrying two overfilled cups of coffee as I made my way across the room. Leaning against the desk, Sam had a phone receiver braced between his ear and shoulder as he jotted down notes. He gave me a wink and gestured to an aluminum-framed chair that had seen better days. I gingerly sat in it. Moments later he finished his call.

  “Well, Carling, long time no see,” he drawled with a Texas twang. “How’s that red-haired hellcat partner of yours?”

  I smothered a smile. For long as I’d known both Sam and Nicole, they had circled around each other like wary wrestlers waiting for the first lunge. Although they had never dated, I had no doubt I wanted to be ringside with a bag of popcorn for the fireworks if they ever did.

  “Nicole’s fine.”

  “And you?” Reaching out, Sam took my hand and squeezed it. “I heard about the car accident.”

  “I fortunately have a hard head and nine lives.” I was down to seven, though. A shiver raced through me.

  “Hey, you’re not all right.” He gave my hand a harder squeeze before releasing it. “Let me get you something.”

  “I’m fine, Sam. Really. I have a few questions about the night I was shot.”

  “Oh?” The homicide detective’s black eyebrows arched. Then he glanced across the room and anticipation lit his eyes. Before I could look over my shoulder, he said, “That file’s been closed.”

  “What? My client was brutally murdered within the detention center and I was nearly killed.”

  His gaze flicked to my temple, where I knew the black fringe of bangs didn’t quite conceal the scar. Nothing could ever hide the mark. His expression softened.

  “I’m sorry, but without any leads and you with no memory…” He shrugged.

  “You simply gave up?” Dismay tinged my voice. I was a cold case? But I had lived. Didn’t anyone care who had done this to me?

  “Hello, Carling.” Jared’s smooth voice sent a different kind of tingle through me.

  He came around me to assume a lounging pose, much like Sam’s, against the desk. Talk about testosterone bookends. Although opposites in some ways, both men possessed the edgy maleness that could make a woman’s mouth water.

  Focus, Carling, I ordered. You’re about to undergo a good cop-bad cop routine. Sam probably called Jared as soon as he heard I was asking for him. Jared must have booked it to the station from his office.

  I folded my arms, presenting a defensive shield. “What a surprise seeing you here.” I gave Sam a hard glare but the rat didn’t even squirm. His answering smile was pure bedevilment. It occurred to me that he was getting a ringside view of the sparring match between Jared and me. I made a point of glancing around.

  Sam frowned. “What are you looking for?”

  “Popcorn. And a diet soda would be lovely before the show starts.”

  Sam bent over with laughter. A ghost of a smile even played about Jared’s lips before he could firm them. “Sam, don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  Straightening, Sam swiped his eyes. “Nope.”

  “How about getting me a cup of the sludge that passes for coffee around here?”

  Sam crossed his feet at the ankles. “Machine’s in the hallway.”

  The pressure that had been building in me since I’d heard my case had been closed exploded. I knew I should remain calm but the control techniques I’d learned went straight out the window when it came to Jared. I bounded up and stabbed my finger into his chest.

  “How could you, Jared Manning! You quit investigating my shooting as if I no longer mattered.”

  His blue eyes blazing, Jared caught my hand before I could drill through his heart. “That’s not how it is.”

  Sam pushed himself clear from the desk. “I guess I’ll go mosey up that cup of coffee after all.” Pausing beside me, he gave me a sympathetic pat on my shoulder. “Facing death’s a bitch, isn’t it? Tears a lot of good people up, changes them. Some never regain their balance. I hope you make it, Carling.”

  He arched a brow at Jared. “It would do you some good to remember what she’s been through. Cut her some slack.” Then Sam tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled across the room.

  I drew in a long breath. My voice was almost normal when I spoke again. “That hit was an inside job. You’re still actively investigating the Russian mob, so how can you give up on my case?”

  When Jared ran his thumb across my palm, I suddenly realized he still held my hand. I tried to tug free but couldn’t. He kept up the comforting gesture.

  “Don’t you mean why did I give up on us?”

  I shrugged.

  “You changed, Carling. You were no longer the same woman. Moody, unhappy, reckless. It was as if you were daring the gods to take your life. Nothing that you used to care about mattered, including me. But when you began losing your principles about cases, wouldn’t listen to my warnings, I couldn’t bear it anymore.”

  I blinked back the tears burning in my eyes and held my head up high. “It’s one of the fundamental principles of our criminal system that a person is innocent until proven guilty.”

  Jared released my hand and cupped my face. “Yes, but you used to represent those who you really believed were innocent. I bet you couldn’t swear on a bible that’s the case anymore.”

  I thought of Larry, the accused rapist. I thought of the Rocket drivers with their various criminal records. My throat went dry on me and I couldn’t speak.

  Jared must have seen the truth in my eyes because he let his hand drop. “Just as I thought.”

  He walked away, every inch of space driving a stake through my soul. He turned and looked at me. “I didn’t give up on you, Carling. You gave up on yourself.”

  Chapter Five

  I spent the next day in waiting rooms. In the morning, I underwent a battery of diagnostic tests at the neurologist’s office, only to get a clean bill of health. Other than an adjustment in my headache meds, I was good to go and released to only periodic visits. However, as I left the doctor joked that I needed to wear a football helmet 24/7.

  That afternoon as I sat in the Rocket reception room, I flipped through a local magazine featuring the new horse track that had opened in the southwest corner of Palm Beach County. I hadn’t visited it yet, but understood it was making rapid inroads on the business held by the Miami and Fort Lauderdale tracks. Whatever gamblers saved on gas was spent in the restaurants and at the betting windows.

  The door to the inner offices opened and a drop-dead gorgeous man in a tan linen suit strolled out. He gave me a slow, appraising glance and an appreciative smile before he exited the reception room.

  I blinked and checked out the glossy photograph in the magazine I held. Yep, I had just seen Vladimir Petrov, the owner of the new Palm Beach County racetrack. Was he making a deal with Rocket for horse manure?

  “Mr. Navka can see you now, Ms. Dent.” Dressed in a form-fitting silk suit that was a bit incongruous given our surroundings, the secretary flashed me a smile.

  Relieved to get out of the reception area where the unholy smells of chemicals and other unmentionables wafted from the fertilizer plant below, I grabbed my briefcase, rose and followed her into a hallway lined with offices. From my one previous visit I knew sales, marketing and accounting personnel were housed on the second floor.

  In fact, the first postage-sized office to my left used to be Borys’s when he worked on the company’s accounts. While Borys had handled most of his clients’ work from h
is office or home, for Rocket and a few others, he had performed on-site services. Given what I knew now, for good reason. I slowed and glanced inside out of curiosity, expecting the room to be stripped of his personal effects.

  I almost stumbled to a stop. Sitting at the desk in front of a large flat-screen computer monitor was the man I recognized as Borys’s former lover. I knew the two men had run an accounting firm, but I hadn’t known Drew Powell took over the Rocket Fertilizer account.

  Glancing up in a distracted manner, Drew looked as startled to see me as I was to see him. He placed a finger across his mouth. Clearly, he didn’t want anyone else to realize I recognized him. What was he up to? My questions would have to wait for a more opportune moment.

  “Carling?” Rocket CEO Greg Navka stood at the door of his corner office along with the secretary. Without missing a beat, I continued down the hallway.

  I extended my hand. “Greg, how are you?”

  “Good.” After shaking my hand, the CEO showed me inside and the secretary closed the door. I took one of the leather client chairs while Greg sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He folded his hands on top.

  “How’s my boy Mike?” Although Greg was actually Grigori and Russian, he had been in the United States so long that he’d picked up and enthusiastically used all idioms and colloquialisms.

  With a start I realized Jared once warned me about Grigori after I’d been shot.

  He had gripped my shoulders, shaking me lightly as if he could shake some sense into me.

  “Don’t take the Rocket account. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “You have no proof.” Irritated, I pulled away. “Borys never named Grigori or his company as being involved.”

  Frustration etched Jared’s face. “Not only is the owner Russian but one of Borys’s clients. Borys’s forte was setting up money-laundering operations. He did it in both Poland and the Soviet Union and he’s done it for years in Florida. If you weren’t being so stubborn, you would realize there’s no leap of faith or logic here, honey.”