A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  Varden turned to Lloyd. "Is this what got you fired up this morning?"

  "I've never seen that before," Lloyd stated loudly.

  "Do you know what this is, Mr. Sullivan? It's strike number three for you. A ticket back to prison. Section nine, paragraph two, states—"

  "I know what it says," Lloyd belted out in frustration.

  Varden crumpled the glossy pages in his hand. "Are you trying to screw with me?"

  "I'm trying to educate you."

  A chuckle from the back of the room extinguished quickly in the heated confrontation.

  "Do you prefer the company of other men, Mr. Sullivan? Because as certain as the sun will rise, most every man in this room took a pole between the pillows at one time or another. But I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to enforce the rules."

  Lloyd kept his emotions in check. A fight with Varden would only blemish his jacket further and promote another obstacle to overcome when he challenged his parole violation in court.

  Varden pressed harder. "What you do outside of here is your business. What you do inside these walls is mine." He pointed his finger at the audience in the hall. "Let this be a warning to the rest of you. There is no expectation of privacy in this facility. Like it or not, you men are under my direct supervision. You are all on provisional status. My policies are zero tolerance. No discussion. No exception. Am I making myself clear? Or do I need to haul the rest of you out with Mr. Sullivan?"

  Varden put his hand to his ear. "I didn't hear you."

  "No Sir," came the collective reply from everyone but Lloyd and Marvin.

  Varden pulled his cell phone from his belt. "Get dressed," he told Lloyd. "I'll have the sheriff here in twenty minutes."

  Marvin blocked Varden's path.

  Varden stood firm with his hands on his hips. "You got something to say, Mr. Tate?"

  Marvin cleared his throat. "The magazine doesn't belong to Lloyd."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "Because it belongs to me."

  Chapter 35

  Jolted from oblivion by the sudden impact of garbage truck forks slamming into hollow dumpster sleeves, Sheila regained consciousness inside the pitch-black confines of her musical coffin. With her body pressed against the padded case, she imagined herself on an ambulance stretcher with her head and neck immobilized. In her mind, Logan cried above the low frequency drone from the diesel engine under load as she struggled to move her contorted limbs. Physically immobilized and oxygen deprived, she opened her eyes against the velvet lining with her nose mashed into her face.

  Her sense of time and space obscured, she grappled with a muddled recollection of events, oblivious to her concussion and broken ribs, but keenly aware that something was terribly wrong.

  * * *

  The front loader lifted the dumpster overhead and flipped it upside down, dropping the cello case and its human contents in the hopper with an avalanche of plastic trash bags and sticky refuse. Then the driver revved the engine to power the hydraulic press and compact the jumbled debris with crushing force.

  Chapter 36

  Lloyd rode the Triumph through heavy traffic, mindful of his speed and the dark blue Chevy Impala lingering several cars behind. He'd spotted the familiar vehicle two lights back, when the driver pulled a U-turn and tailed him on a meandering route through town. Now he recognized the tool behind the wheel, glancing back long enough to make sure Varden didn't lose him in traffic.

  Lloyd grabbed the clutch and downshifted with his left foot before he leaned the bike through another turn.

  The blue Impala hung back and followed Lloyd through a tree-lined neighborhood with cookie cutter mailboxes and manicured lawns.

  Lloyd slowed at the stop sign and checked his mirrors. He remembered the streets that ended with palm tree roundabouts designed to manage the flow of traffic between adjacent subdivisions governed by coercive Home Owner Associations. The nostalgic moment reminded him of a time when his father ran the HOA board for two years in a deed-restricted community before he lost his stomach to the bickering and draconian politics from elected members who made a career out of hassling their own neighbors over trivial covenant violations. The ignorant, highfalutin' mongrels ruled with a Stalin fist, enforcing fines or legal action against homeowners who failed to sweep errant blades of cut grass from their driveways.

  After the HOA fiasco, his new parents sold the house and moved the family from the planned community to a well water farmhouse on a two acre parcel, far away from the self prescribed dictators. A place where no one controlled how they lived their lives or what color they painted their shutters.

  He turned right, accelerated to twenty-five miles an hour, and followed the street through a roundabout that continued to a four-way stop. This time he sat on purpose, idling, waiting patiently for Varden's blue Impala to catch up and slow behind him.

  The trap was set.

  Lloyd drove straight ahead, guiding his bike through the narrow space between the shoulder and the island separation that blocked four wheel traffic from entering the adjoining neighborhood. Free to travel without a chaperone, he followed the residential street out to the main thoroughfare and continued toward his final destination.

  * * *

  Lloyd found a quiet spot near the back of the library, where a corner cubicle with a PC workstation provided Internet access. Thirty minutes before close, he placed the cursor on the search prompt and typed "Jules Verne."

  The screen returned several references to the book 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, written by Jules Verne. He clicked on a few hyperlinks and skimmed the text. Then he scrolled to a newspaper article for a Julian Verne obituary with the last name spelled the same as in his father's note.

  "Julian Arthur Verne, 73, of Lakewood, Florida, died Monday, December 3, 2003. Mr. Verne was born in Jacksonville, Florida, March 24, 1930. He is survived by a younger sister and an older brother, both from Rochester, New York. Mr. Verne's wife of 40 years, Adrian Lynn Verne, preceded him in death. Funeral services will be conducted at one p.m. on Tuesday at the Seaside Funeral Home."

  Lloyd unfolded the crumpled note his father gave him and read the words from a new perspective.

  Lloyd,

  I'm sorry for what has happened, but this was God's plan not mine. I accept what you have done, and I forgive you. No man is perfect. Sometimes we succumb to our temptations despite our best intentions. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good conscience. I wish I could offer you more. If you need an escape from reality, dig up Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Forgive me for not expressing myself to you in person, but as you know, I have never been a man of words.

  Love, Robert.

  * * *

  A hacking cough reverberated through the library, followed by the bark of a wooden chair leg on a tile floor. A wheelchair motor hummed in the background.

  Lloyd sensed someone watching him, a quiet presence stalking him from the rows of dusty books facing spine out. He stood up and stretched, curling his fists toward his shoulders.

  A subtle movement caught his eye as a figure spied him from across the room, hiding behind the literary masters bound in paper and ink.

  Lloyd strolled toward the emergency exit near the end of the aisle by the water fountain and a window looking out at the side of the parking lot. He recognized the car discretely parked behind a Salvation Army trailer on blocks. The cat and mouse routine had continued long enough. The time to confront his fear was now.

  He roamed the aisles one by one, working his way toward the nonfiction section by the wall, where he found his quarry hiding in the farthest corner of the empty room.

  "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

  Jamie trembled in her yellow sundress. "Just looking," she said, her shallow voice oscillating with every nervous fiber in her body.

  Lloyd moved toward her.

  Jamie stepped onto a librarian stool and rose above the floor. She gazed down at Lloyd, her breasts even with his
chin. She touched her hands to his shoulders, broad and deep—and strong as case-hardened steel. She lost herself in his eyes, enraptured by the energy radiating from his aura.

  Lloyd slid his hands along her slender legs. He lifted the bottom of her dress inch by inch, restraining his burning desire while his warm fingers met the back of her sculpted thighs.

  Jamie blushed in her vulnerable position. She pressed Lloyd's hands through her cotton dress in a token effort to impede his advance. Her heart raced. Wetness streamed to her delicate region, priming her body to accommodate his thickness. "Don't..." she moaned in protest, her ability to think and reason diluted in her own pool of lust.

  Lloyd maintained delicate pressure on Jamie's soft skin, his thumbs caressing her inner thigh, his warm breath and tender lips kissing the front of her belly as he slid her panties to her ankles and brought his smile inside her dress.

  Jamie balanced herself with one hand on the bookshelf, her other hand cupping the back of Lloyd's head. Her rational mind felt indecent and exposed, terrified by the thought of someone watching—and the consequences of her tryst. But involuntary actions prevailed, governed by a chemical reaction that promoted an overwhelming desire to experience a physical connection with the stranger she'd fantasized about. Now the moment was hers to indulge, if only for an instant outside the confines of her miserable married life.

  She ached for the fantasy she felt compelled to live without, her mood rigid but unguarded, teetering on the verge of insanity from the delicate pressure of Lloyd's tongue. "Don't stop," she groaned, yearning for the moment to last forever.

  Lloyd continued his advance, employing slow, deliberate motions on her delicate flesh until he felt her quivering orgasm come to pass. Then he stood up and loosened his belt buckle to relieve the pressure in his pants. His heart pounded with anticipation.

  Jamie stepped down from the stool and discovered the intensity of Lloyd's physical prowess. She glanced down the aisle of books before she swallowed the head of Lloyd's perfectly sculpted penis, warm and smooth inside her mouth.

  Lloyd savored the sensations in his loins from the amateur, yet proficient ability of the woman who devoured him. When the tingling sensations became unbearable, he tightened his fists and fought the urge to spill himself too soon.

  His knees weakened until his willpower collapsed from the strain of agonizing pleasure. Unable to hold out any longer, he gently, but firmly, pulled Jamie's head away and negotiated her backside toward him with her legs spread apart.

  Breathless with anticipation, he pressed his warm tip at her entrance, intensifying his desire for a physical connection that transcended a casual encounter and embraced an animal instinct.

  He entered her slowly from behind, his fingertips caressing her nipples through the front of her dress while he guided himself in and out, slowly at first, then more assertively.

  He moved with graceful thrusts, deep and shallow and deep again. He held her hips in his powerful hands and directed her movements the way a skilled equestrian controlled a spirited ride, pulling her tightness against him before he glimpsed the point of no return, unable to sustain his resistance any longer. He felt her come a second time, his body melting with pleasure as he rocked his hips to glide smoothly within her, pulsing with long, rhythmic strokes until his entire body shuddered in a mind-bending climax.

  Chapter 37

  Leslie drove west outside Orlando until she reached the outskirts of a small town she knew by heart; a town she grew up in with two younger brothers and an older sister in her family's two bedroom condo overlooking a lake with more alligators than fish; a town Deputy Carter's widow called home.

  "My name is Leslie Dancroft." She introduced herself outside Theresa Carter's screen-door. "We spoke on the phone this morning." She held up her government ID card.

  Theresa Carter cradled her newborn in her arm, cupping the baby's head in her hand to adjust the hungry mouth over the nipple poking through her maternity bra. She glanced at the laminated identification card and the dirty Lexus in her driveway.

  "Is this a bad time?" asked Leslie.

  "It's as good a time as any," Theresa offered. She invited Leslie to the living room and sat on a faded love seat with a pillow under her arm and a burp cloth over her shoulder. "Will this bother you?"

  "Not at all," said Leslie, somewhat squeamish about the infant's aggressive sucking posture on her mother's breast.

  "Some people get offended," Theresa said in a solemn voice.

  "What's your baby's name?"

  "Amelia. We named her after my great grandmother."

  "She's beautiful."

  "Thank you."

  "How often does she feed?"

  "About every couple hours."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "You adapt to it. I take it you don't have children?"

  "Not yet." Leslie folded the page in her legal pad. Doped up on cough syrup and nasal decongestants, she fought to keep her concentration. "Thank you for your time Mrs. Carter. I'll keep this brief."

  Theresa adjusted the baby's posture to facilitate the flow of milk. "You said you wanted to ask me about Simon. About the insurance money?"

  "Indirectly, so to speak. I'm an attorney—"

  "What kind of attorney?"

  "I work with the public defender's office."

  "Are you telling me you represent the bastard who shot my Simon?"

  "I work for the county. I'm trying to learn the truth about what happened."

  "What does this have to do with insurance money?"

  "The person responsible for your husband's murder—"

  "The person who killed my husband is in custody. Unless you came to bring me a check, I want you to leave."

  Leslie forced a smile. "Mrs. Carter, the man the police arrested might be guilty of other crimes, but murder isn't one of them. That means your husband's killer is still at large, jeopardizing the lives of other innocent people—of other law enforcement officers. Your husband wouldn't want that. Would you?"

  Theresa eased the baby girl from her breast and hugged her against the burp cloth on her shoulder. She patted her daughter's back with a gentle hand. "How do you know this man didn't kill Simon?"

  "I can't disclose the details. You have to trust me. For the sake of argument, even if I am wrong, and I strongly believe I'm not, your husband's benefits will be paid to you, in full, regardless of who the jury convicts. I want to see justice served as much as you do, but convicting an innocent man won't bring your husband back."

  Theresa waited for the baby's burp before she continued feeding. "What do you want to know?"

  Leslie reached inside her purse and activated her digital voice recorder. "Anything you can tell me about Simon, specifically about the night he died."

  "I can't remember much, except he never came home. I got a phone call that he was hurt. Dead is dead. No need to sugarcoat the words."

  Leslie turned her head and coughed away from Theresa and the baby. Her throat felt achy, scratchy, like she swallowed broken glass. "I'm sorry. I know this is difficult. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

  The baby gave a loud burp, followed by a stream of creamy white spit-up.

  Theresa wiped the baby's mouth and propped her face on the burp cloth draped over her shoulder. "I call her my little piglet. All she does is eat and poop. And sleep, sometimes." She stuffed a pillow at the small of her back. "Simon used to teach middle school algebra. He burned out after a couple years and wanted a career change. I begged him not to go into law enforcement. I told him I didn't care what he did for a living as long as it didn't involve people shooting at him. The school kids missed him. They were hard on him at times, but they loved him. Teaching was in his heart, not playing cops and robbers."

  "Did he have friends in the sheriff's department?"

  "A few. He took me to the policemen's dance last year. I was pregnant at the time and didn't feel much like dancing."

  "Was there anyone in particular that he l
iked to socialize with after work? A partner maybe, or a mentor?"

  Theresa thought for a moment. "He rode solo like everyone else in the department. His rookie year he rode with the sheriff from time to time. Said it was part of his training plan."

  "Sheriff Blanchart?" Leslie asked to confirm her notes.

  "Yes."

  "Did you ever meet him?"

  "Only the one time, at a charity event. Simon introduced me to him. I could tell Simon liked him by the way he spoke about him. Simon was proud to work for Sheriff Blanchart. He said Blanchart taught him everything the academy didn't. Simon reached out to him like a big brother. Only white. No offense."

  "None taken. How well did you know Sheriff Blanchart?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Was he friendly outside of work?"

  "He seemed like any other boss, I guess. I know he liked Simon. I can't speak to what he thought about me."

  "Did your husband ever complain about Sheriff Blanchart?"

  "If he did, he didn't do it in front of me. Simon loved his job, except for the overnight hours. He felt bad about leaving me with the baby at night. I told him it didn't matter. He wasn't equipped to feed her anyway." Theresa forced a smile. "I miss him so much." She propped the baby on her shoulder to start the burping process again. The infant squirmed in her hands, crying in fits and starts.

  "I'm sorry," Leslie offered. "I know this is hard for you."

  Theresa wiped away a tear. "The last day I saw my husband he left the same time he always did. I packed a supper for him and kissed him good-bye. He seemed distant, quiet, like he had a lot on his mind. The night shift did that to him. He never really took to sleeping in the daytime. That's all I can think of."

  "I appreciate your time, Mrs. Carter, especially under the circumstances. You've been a big help."

  Theresa stood up and bounced gently with her baby. "It smells like we need a diaper change."

  "May I use your restroom?" Leslie asked.

  "It's down the hallway on the left."