A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  Chapter 13

  Leslie Dancroft wedged a yellow legal folder in her overstuffed cabinet and closed the drawer on her fourth felony case in three days. An assistant public defender, she worked the gamut from DUI arrests to attempted murder charges, representing indigent parties who lacked the financial wherewithal to buy their way out of a conviction. An average law school student, she'd passed the Florida Bar on her second attempt and joined the Public Defender's Office for a two-year stint. Fifteen years and several hundred cases later, she questioned her desire to continue the job with crazy hours, lousy pay, and minimal recognition from her peers who'd chosen the private partner track.

  Unlike the hired guns she countered in legal circles, she drove a used car and shopped at discount malls, trading materialistic wares for the chance to make a difference. Never one to back down, she fought hard with all the passion and tenacity of a high-priced attorney on retainer, making friends and enemies along the way.

  She blew her puffy red nose in a moisturized tissue and rubbed a dollop of hand sanitizer on her hands. She needed more than a few sick days to regain her strength—she needed a serious vacation. Not a sit-around-the-house-and-sulk vacation, but a big budget trip to a spa in Sedona or a bungalow retreat on the sugar-sand coast in Bermuda, where her biggest decision would involve a choice between a salted margarita or a frozen daiquiri.

  "You dropped this," Public Defender George Anderson announced, stooping to retrieve a packet of Tylenol Cold from the floor by Leslie's desk. He wore a paisley silk tie around his unbuttoned collar. An honors graduate and former law professor, he made his mark as a public defender who knew how to grease the wheels without getting his nails dirty.

  Leslie opened her desk drawer to grab her purse, ignoring the new case file in her boss's hand. "Have a nice evening."

  "I was hoping you hadn't left yet—"

  "Forget it, George."

  George stared in Leslie's direction with his wandering eye turned up at the ceiling—a genetic flaw most juries found unnerving despite his professional appearance. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

  "Yes, I do, George." Leslie gathered her purse and her attaché case. "I'm at the ass end of a fourteen hour day and halfway to a glass of cold Riesling with my Chinese take-out. Whatever you're hiding in that folder can wait."

  "I need a favor."

  "I'm all out of favors."

  "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent," said George.

  "Define 'urgent.'"

  George scratched at his shirt tag. "Would you be serious for a second?"

  Leslie motioned to the stack of accordion folders piled on her desktop calendar, marred with coffee ring stains and ink-smeared phone numbers. "I'll give you 'serious,' George. Drop another case in my lap and I'll strangle you. Slowly. Until your eyes pop out of your head."

  "I have another case I need you on."

  "And I need a date with Brad Pitt. That doesn't mean it's going to happen."

  "Leslie—"

  "I have ten open cases and a cold. I haven't slept three hours in three days. Find another lackey to do your bidding. I'm out of here."

  "I really need you on this one."

  Leslie sneezed. "What about Henderson?"

  "He's on medical leave."

  "Then give it to Jablonski. That slacker hasn't seen any action in months."

  "He's on vacation," said George.

  "So am I," Leslie countered.

  George parked himself on the edge of Leslie's desk and loosened his tie a little further. "I'm getting squeezed by the mayor on this one."

  "Sounds kinky," said Leslie with a hint of sarcasm.

  "The state attorney's pushing hard. If I had the resources—"

  "I wouldn't be here," said Leslie.

  "That's not true. You love this job."

  "I love the law," said Leslie. "This job can bite me."

  George stood up and put his hands on the desk in a more aggressive posture. "That time of the month already?"

  Leslie gave him the bird.

  George shook his head. "What's going on with you?"

  "Nothing. That's the problem. I'm forty-two years old. I don't have friends outside of work. I don't have hobbies. The last time I met a man for dinner, Clinton was still in office. I share a home with two small cats and a large rechargeable vibrator. What kind of life is that? What type of woman does this to herself?"

  George leaned across the desk. "The type who's passionate about her work. The type who puts her clients' needs before her own. That's why I hired you. That's why I need you on this. You're the best defense attorney in the county. Hell, in this state."

  Leslie blew her nose. "Save the platitudes for your paralegal servants. I want a life outside this office, George. Nothing fancy or extravagant. Just a chance to feel human again. This place owes me that much. Just because my social life is nonexistent doesn't mean I should be the one saddled with all the heavy lifting around here."

  "Judge Dugan requested you by name."

  "DUI Dugan? I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

  George opened the file. "The defendant is thirty-four-year old Manny Morallen. He's scheduled for arraignment in three days. Dugan appointed us when Manny's attorney pulled a no-show at pretrial. Morallen wants to cut a deal in exchange for information."

  "Information on what?"

  George dropped the file on her desk. "That's what you're going to find out."

  "What are the charges?"

  "Illegal possession of a firearm during the commission of a felony, possession of a controlled substance, and first degree murder of a deputy sheriff."

  Leslie rubbed her nose. The swelling in her nasal passages made it harder to breath. "Sounds like a train wreck. What do you expect me to do with this?"

  "Find out what Morallen's offering. Talk to the state attorney's office and see if we can hammer out a deal. I think they'll bend on this one."

  "How do you know?"

  "Morallen has something they want. Whatever it is he's offering, it's got the state's attention."

  "So I work the plea bargain and push Morallen toward a lighter sentence. Then what?"

  "Then get on with your vacation. You need some downtime. You've earned it."

  "What if he's innocent?" Leslie asked almost rhetorically. She skimmed the police report and the defendant's prior convictions. "I won't sign a deal until I see what the state puts on the table."

  "Manny Morallen killed a cop."

  "Allegedly," said Leslie.

  "The evidence supports a conviction. Morallen's a career criminal. He served eight years for cocaine distribution. He did a nickel in Pelican Bay for armed robbery. He has a laundry list of priors going back to his juvenile record. Everything from petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon."

  Leslie skimmed the rest of the file. "I say he's a long way from murder. Especially a cop killing."

  "Maybe he's on the fast track," said George.

  "Do you think this is gang-related?"

  "In our county?"

  "We've seen it before."

  "Not since Blanchart took office. This case smells like a drug bust gone bad. Morallen panicked and made a poor decision. It happens."

  Leslie took a minute to let the facts sink in. She'd read a hundred jackets on career criminals like Morallen. Clients resigned to a life of crime in lieu of any formal education or a normal work routine. But this time, something in the file didn't click. Nothing she could point to specifically, yet. Just a strong intuition honed from years of doing battle with the legal system.

  "Wrap it up and put a bow on it," George prodded.

  Leslie saw a spasm of pain in his face. She knew he had a stomach ulcer. "You're unbelievable."

  "I owe you."

  "I want a window office," Leslie stipulated while she had her boss on the ropes. "I need a little more sunshine in my life. This office is such a downer."

  "Done."

  "And my own parking space."<
br />
  "I'll have to check with building maintenance," said George. "I don't make the rules."

  "And another week of paid vacation."

  "You're killing me..."

  "I'm just getting started."

  George frowned. "Don't push it. You may be the best attorney I have, but no one's irreplaceable."

  Leslie stuffed the file in her bloated attaché case. "Don't tease me. Getting fired could be the best thing I've done all year."

  Chapter 14

  Awakened by loud hammering, Brenda Sullivan swiped her arm at the clock radio on her nightstand. She rubbed her swollen eyes, shielded from the midmorning sun by overlapping velvet drapes blocking any vestige of light from the windows.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  She covered her head with her pillow. The clock showed 11:45. Too early to get up, and too late to pretend it was all a bad dream.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  She kicked her leg out and smacked the mattress. Her body ached for more sleep and a shot of something stronger in her coffee.

  She sat up and blew her puffy nose with a tissue the color of her gaunt complexion. Strands of fallen hair clung to her nightgown. The pain in her head reverberated from the constant pounding.

  Still half-asleep, she pushed the comforter aside and slid her callused feet into her flip-flop sandals. A lizard scampered under the bed.

  She used her arms to guide herself to the screened porch without her glasses. She squinted to see Lloyd climbing down a ladder propped against the gutter along the edge of the roof. "What are you doing?" she asked her uninvited guest.

  Lloyd slid a claw hammer in his tool belt. "Did I wake you?"

  "You could wake Jimmy Hoffa with that racket."

  "I replaced most of the missing shingles but some of the wood's rotted."

  Brenda rubbed her bloodshot eyes. She saw the Triumph leaning on its kickstand in the driveway. "I didn't ask you to do that."

  "Didn't have to."

  "I can't pay you."

  "I don't need your money." Lloyd hoisted a sheet of plywood over his head. Sheathed in sweat from the humid air, he propped the four-by-eight section across a pair of sawhorses from his father's garage. He drew a tape measure across one end and marked a line with a pencil. Pressing the wood with one hand, he used deep, aggressive thrusts to work the handsaw with his powerful arm.

  Brenda cinched the belt on her robe. "How long is this going to take?"

  "A few more hours. There's a lot of wood to replace."

  "You're going to wake the neighbors."

  Lloyd stopped sawing. "It's almost noon."

  "I'm on West Coast time..."

  Lloyd continued the straight cut along the red chalk line. "I couldn't find Dad's power tools."

  "I sold them." Brenda scratched her head. "How long is this going to take?" she asked a second time.

  "As long as it takes."

  Brenda hovered near Lloyd's work space.

  "Do you need something?" Lloyd asked her. "You're in the way."

  Brenda stepped back and put her hand on her forehead to block the sun. "When you're done out here, I have a running toilet you can fix."

  * * *

  Lloyd searched the bookshelf in his father's study. Books on fly fishing and bird-watching stood spine out against a collection of Ernest Hemingway novels. On the shelf below, he found textbooks on photography, criminology, latent fingerprint analysis, and the physics of flight. At the bottom, a stack of National Geographic magazines formed a bookend for a hard cover series on motorcycle touring.

  He found his father's desk neat and orderly the way he remembered it, with framed photographs along the edge. He picked up a five-by-seven inch image of himself and Josh posing outside the house with their arms around each others' shoulders. He thought about his high school years, sneaking beer and chasing girls. Arguing over who could take Dad's car on Friday night. Being grounded for skipping school. Mowing lawns to buy his parents a new TV for Christmas.

  "Coffee's ready," Brenda announced outside her late husband's study. She handed Lloyd a steaming mug of black java.

  Lloyd put the photo down and grabbed his old college football from the top bookshelf. Despite his thirst for water, he craved the taste of real coffee.

  "I miss him too," said Brenda, her breath marinated with Columbian breakfast blend and Wild Turkey.

  "I went by his grave yesterday," said Lloyd. His fingers touched the stitching on the worn pigskin. "It felt weird to be there."

  "Are the flowers still in place? They should be. I paid extra for those."

  Lloyd set the ball down. "It looked real nice. I read the note he left me."

  "Your father was a strange bird. He never said what was on his mind. Always kept it bottled up like some kind of national security secret."

  Lloyd sipped the coffee, black as tar with all the flavor of hot asphalt. "Did Dad ever read Jules Verne?"

  "Who?"

  "The author."

  "What author?"

  "Forget it. I was checking Dad's books and it reminded me of something." He followed Brenda to the patio, his thoughts still tied to the note his father wrote him.

  Brenda sat on the end of a moldy chaise lounge. She refilled her cup from the carafe and added a splash of whiskey from her flask. "You want some?" she offered Lloyd.

  "No thanks."

  "This stuff'll put hair on your chest."

  "I have hair on my chest."

  * * *

  Brenda sipped the warm concoction and leaned herself back in the chair. "Smartass," she mumbled. A morning buzz kept her going and helped her forget about the blood she found in her urine the night before. Over the years, she'd cared for several girls in the foster system before adopting her two boys. But of all the children she'd cared for, none perplexed her more than Lloyd and his stubbornness. He'd gone to good schools. He'd made the right friends. For the most part, he'd stayed out of trouble. Until the cops showed up to arrest him. She remembered the scene like it was yesterday. Lloyd broke the law and broke her heart. Whatever demons possessed him to throw his life away, God forgave him and so had she. "You still like my coffee?"

  "It's great," said Lloyd with his best poker face.

  "You're a lousy liar."

  "It's fine."

  "I have a friend at the supermarket who gets me the beans for free. I grind them myself at home."

  Lloyd choked down another swallow. "It's strong."

  "Did you have coffee in prison?"

  "You could call it that," said Lloyd.

  "You want hot cocoa instead? Your brother always liked the way I made it."

  Lloyd nudged the rope hammock. "I saw Josh yesterday. Met his girlfriend and her baby."

  "You mean the tramp? She's served more meat than Burger King. She's using Josh to support her kid. He's using her for sex." Brenda grabbed her stomach and bent over in a wrenching cough. She covered her mouth with her hand, but red saliva seeped between her fingers.

  Lloyd scanned the labels on the empty prescription bottles on the patio table. "Are you okay?"

  Brenda fanned him away. "I'm fine," she grunted. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

  "You're sick."

  "You think?"

  "You shouldn't be in this house alone. You need to be where people can take care of you."

  "I'm not dying in some piss-ass nursing home. Besides, I'm broke. Your father worked to pay the bills. My government checks don't cover much any more. If the bank doesn't take this house, the termites will."

  * * *

  Lloyd carried his coffee mug inside and discreetly dumped the contents in the sink. He gathered the trash and stuffed the bag in the rolling can outside. "When's trash pick-up?"

  "Tuesday and Friday."

  "I'll come by and take it out the night before."

  "I can take care of myself," said Brenda. She sloshed coffee on her robe, her gnarled fingers clenched tight around the handle.

  "I'm just trying to help."
<
br />   Brenda ran cold water on a paper towel. She dabbed the coffee stain on her robe. "Before you and Josh came along, I raised four girls in this house. Can you believe that? Two families adopted, all of them before the oldest turned sixteen. Those girls were a handful, but not like you and Josh."

  "You and Dad did a lot for us. Let me return the favor, at least until you get your strength back."

  "Don't patronize me, Lloyd. Your father always did that. I shouldn't have to hear it from you. There's no getting better for me. My days above ground are numbered. I've come to accept that and so should you."

  Chapter 15

  Jamie stood barefoot on the scale inside the doctor's office and nudged the balance bar to the right. She knew without reading the hash marks she'd lost five pounds overnight. She could almost feel the weight melt away from the back of her legs where her slender thighs met her hips, the part she worked hardest to keep firm by jogging every morning after Alan left for work.

  Convinced the scale was never calibrated properly, she stepped down from the base plate and sat on the crinkly white paper stretched across the doctor's examination table. An otoscope with disposable plastic ear speculums hung on the opposite wall beside a poster on lung disease that warned about the dangers of smoking.

  She scooted back on the table and checked her watch. She had errands to run, a house to clean, and dinner to prepare by six. The car needed gas. The bills needed stamps. She needed chemicals for the pool and fabric softener for the washing machine. She had shirts at the dry cleaners and a basket of laundry to fold.

  She kept every facet of her life on schedule, right down to the time she ventured outside for the morning paper in the driveway. Her life existed not as Jamie Blanchart but as the wife of Sheriff Alan Blanchart. She loved him for the man who once showered her with attention; who brought her flowers every weekend and worshiped the ground she walked on. But over time, her love had turned to fear. She missed her parents. She missed her friends. Most of all, she missed the Jamie Blanchart she used to know—and cringed at the woman she barely recognized.

  A soft knock preceded the doctor's entrance. "Good morning," he offered Jamie as he entered the room with her patient file. A third generation dermatologist with four grandchildren and a head of silver hair, he conveyed a warm demeanor.