A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  She pulled the picture away to check the hook and noticed a small electrical wire extending from the nail hole in the wall to the back of the framed canvas. She followed the wire with her fingers and inspected the front of the painting. A tiny camera hidden in the thick oil strokes stared back at her.

  She yanked the wire out and set the frame on the floor. Perplexed by her discovery, she opened the closet and rubbed her hand along the wall behind a rack of winter clothes. The wire fed into the wall, and from there it disappeared.

  She noticed the attic access panel above her head, where a length of two-by-four had been screwed in the ceiling to cover the entrance—and the gateway to a section of the house she'd never seen before. A section she'd never cared about until now.

  She opened her pink toolbox under the kitchen sink and returned to the guest bedroom closet with a Phillips screwdriver. She stood on a shoe rack with one hand on the wall for balance and reached up to undo the first screw. The overhead task proved considerably harder than she thought at first, as she wrestled with the large screwdriver in her hand.

  With the two-by-four down, she pushed the attic access panel through the opening and lifted herself up far enough to peek inside. She reached her hand out and grabbed a jointed truss to pull her skinny figure through the rectangular space. Inside the attic, she braced her feet on the roof joists, careful not to step on the drywall. Rows of fiberglass insulation lined the gaps between the rafters. A web of electrical wires ran the length of the dark confines, carefully intertwined by someone with a skillful and cunning hand.

  She traced several wires from the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the ceiling above the garage where dead mice occupied a pair of traps in the corner. The smell of dust and insulation set her allergies in motion, prompting a sneeze attack and the dreaded itchy eyes.

  Dismayed by her discovery, she lowered herself back down until her feet touched the wobbly shoe rack. She stepped to the floor with her arms extended above her head for support. Any semblance of trust she had with Alan dissolved completely. She felt disgusted. Betrayed. Cheated by the man who swore an oath to uphold the law—and the sanctity of their marriage.

  She searched the bathroom and unscrewed the lights above the vanity. She checked the mirror on the wall beside the dresser and the picture hanging above the headboard. She searched her own bedroom and the remainder of her house, inspecting picture frames, lampshades, electrical sockets, and any other viable crevice she could find.

  When her anger and curiosity brought her to Alan's study, she pressed the door handle and found it locked as expected. She ignored the warnings in her head and used the key Alan kept above the door frame. The house was hers as much as his. Whatever else Alan hid from her, she had a right to know about it.

  Inside the study, a computer desk blocked the window overlooking the neighbor's yard. A tungsten gray file cabinet with a combination lock occupied the opposite corner. A custom bookshelf contained pornographic DVDs.

  She stared at blank monitors flanked by a stack of digital video recorders with red LEDs staring back at her like rabid eyes. The house was wired from top to bottom, giving Alan unfettered access to her personal life, and to that of anyone who bothered to visit.

  She pressed play on the unit labeled as "guest bedroom one" and forwarded to the previously recorded footage of Samantha in the shower.

  She watched Samantha on the toilet; Samantha undressing in the bathroom; and finally, Samantha raped on the bedroom floor.

  She closed her eyes, convinced the woman in the film was someone other than Samantha. But the camera didn't lie. The image, as vivid and real as the pain on Samantha's face, revealed yet another truth about the man she'd married.

  Startled by the sound of the garage door, she left the study the way she found it and replaced the key above the door frame with the teeth facing out.

  She darted back to the guest room and pressed the picture hook in the wall with her thumb. She adjusted the gaudy oil painting and left the laundry basket on the carpet above the freshly scrubbed stain.

  She ran the shower and steadied herself on the shoe rack to screw the two-by-four back in place. She held the screws in one hand with the screwdriver and the wood plank in the other. Tiny flecks of sawdust fell in her eyes. Her heart raced. Her forearms trembled with fatigue.

  When her foot slipped, she fell against the wall and dropped the last three screws on the carpet.

  "Hello?" Blanchart called out from the laundry room entrance.

  Jamie pushed the shoe rack against the wall and hid the hardware behind it. She pulled her shirt off and laid it on the bed.

  "Jamie?" Blanchart called outside the guest bedroom.

  Jamie took a deep breath. Her shoulder throbbed from her collision with the wall. "You're home early," she said, straining to mask the panic in her voice. She covered her chest with her arm. "I was just getting ready to shower."

  Blanchart studied the room and the unmade bed with pillows on the floor. "Why are you showering in this room?"

  "I just cleaned ours. I wanted to keep it fresh for you."

  "Turn around."

  Jamie swallowed. "What's wrong?"

  "Turn around," Blanchart said more forcefully the second time. He touched the bandage that covered the tattoo surgery on Jamie's shoulder. "You've got something in your hair," he said matter-of-factly. He pinched a sawdust flake and rolled it between his fingers.

  "I've been cleaning," said Jamie. She ran her fingers through her hair and granted Alan full view of the cleavage in her bra.

  "Why are your eyes bloodshot?"

  "Allergies."

  "In November?"

  "It happens."

  Blanchart studied her expression and the bead of sweat trickling down her face. He stepped toward the closet and noticed the shoe rack tilted against the wall.

  Jamie coughed on the lump in her throat and unfastened her bra. "The water's running," she said. "If you'd like to join me..."

  Blanchart weighed the overt invitation for sex with the impulse to get what he needed and get out. "Another time," he said when a call came over his police radio. "Right now I have more important things to do."

  Chapter 54

  Leslie waited in George's office with her boss on the phone. She had enough trouble trying to pick apart Blanchart's story. The last thing she needed was her boss trying to poke holes in hers. "You pushed me to take the Morallen case," she said the second George hung up. "Now you're telling me to drop it?"

  "No," said George. "I told you to drop this case days ago." He put his hand up as if to block the verbal onslaught of bitter retorts. He loosened his tie around his unbuttoned collar. "I think I caught what you have." He sipped his coffee and glanced at his daily planner. "If you'd gone on vacation like I had asked you to, you could have taken your sick germs with you."

  "I have a gut feeling about Morallen," said Leslie. "I've been compiling evidence to support—"

  "Save it. Stop playing games with me, and stop playing games with this case. You're a public defender, not a private detective."

  "You told me I was the best attorney you had. So let me do my job."

  "You have too much on your plate already."

  "That never stopped me before. Right now I'm the only thing between Morallen and a wrongful conviction."

  "Leave it alone," George warned her.

  "You can't expect me to recuse myself this late in the game."

  "I wouldn't have to if you'd listened to me the first time. You could have stayed on as co-defendant."

  "That's bunk," said Leslie, "and you know it. I don't co-defend my own cases."

  "Leslie—"

  "Morallen's innocent. And I have a moral obligation to bring this case to trial."

  "Regardless of what's best for your client?" said George.

  "I know what's best for my client. I have an ethical obligation—"

  "Which I recognize and respect," George acknowledged. "But you wouldn't be in this predicament, n
o, your client wouldn't be in this predicament if you'd pleaded his case from the get-go. You don't run this office. I do. The sooner you accept that, the better for both of us."

  Leslie kept fighting. As long as she had air in her lungs and a steady pulse, she refused to concede her position to George. Whatever politics he aspired to achieve with the Morallen case would have to wait for the next stooge to come along. Morallen's case belonged to her and her alone. Nothing would change that. Not even a mulish boss who refused to admit his own lapse in judgment. "I'm still lead council."

  "Not anymore."

  "This is my case."

  "It was never your case, Leslie."

  "Morallen is the victim, not the perpetrator."

  "He killed a cop."

  "Allegedly. Or doesn't that term mean anything to you anymore?"

  "Don't go there."

  Leslie shifted into high gear. "That was Blanchart on the phone, wasn't it."

  George focused his good eye on her, obviously determined not to back down. "He's threatening to press charges against you."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Trespass. Interfering with an ongoing investigation. Threatening an officer."

  "Are you drinking from the same Kool Aid? Blanchart's an idiot."

  "You accused him of murder."

  "I asked him some hard questions. Questions I should have asked him from day one."

  "Back away from this, Leslie. I'm serious. For once in your career, I need you to do what you're told."

  "And what if I don't?"

  "Blanchart's threatening to have you disbarred."

  "On what grounds?"

  "It doesn't matter," said George.

  "He's bluffing."

  "Are you willing to gamble your career? Blanchart has the right connections."

  "So do I," said Leslie. "I hurt Blanchart's ego the other night and now he's trying to hit back by throwing his weight around."

  George swallowed more of the bitter coffee. "Blanchart has influence in the mayor's office, especially with the state attorney."

  Leslie could tell by looking at George that he felt like shit and things were getting worse. But she felt no sympathy for him. "I'm not intimidated by Blanchart. He's the one who should be worried if my evidence goes to court."

  "You're picking a fight you can't win," said George. "Now I'm telling you as a friend and not your boss, stay away from Blanchart's crime scene. Stay away from Blanchart himself. And stay away from Manny Morallen. I appreciate your passion for your work, but this ends right here. Right now. Are we clear?"

  Leslie stood up and shook her head at the rows of leather-bound law books on the shelving along the wall. "What happened to the man who used to stand for something? The sheriff barks and you tuck tail and run, tossing your principles to the curb along the way. I can't tell which one you serve more—the public's interest or Blanchart's ego."

  George swiveled his chair and stared through a gap in the blinds. "The world's changed. It's time you learned to adapt." He turned his chair back to Leslie. "The state filed new charges against Morallen."

  "Based on what?"

  "New evidence ties Morallen to another recent homicide."

  "What homicide?"

  "A low-level drug dealer named Vince Parr. The sheriff's department found Morallen's prints on an unregistered revolver left at the scene."

  "Morallen didn't kill Vince Parr. The case was a hit and run. And Morallen was in custody when it happened."

  "The evidence supports a different story."

  "Morallen's innocent."

  "How can you know that?"

  Leslie sighed. Despite her adrenaline boost, her energy waned. "Sometimes a little faith goes a long way."

  "Or the wrong way," George countered. "The judge revoked Morallen's bail late this afternoon and issued a bench warrant for his arrest. That's why I called you in here."

  "I haven't seen Morallen in days."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  Leslie felt her Blackberry vibrate. The caller ID displayed anonymous before she answered, "Hello?"

  "Don't talk, just listen," said Morallen in a frantic voice distorted by bad reception.

  Leslie kept a neutral expression. "I'm in a meeting right now. Can I call you back?"

  "Meet me at the Sandpiper Motel, room 19, at ten sharp. I have something you should see."

  "Can it wait?"

  "It's about that cop's murder. I can prove Blanchart killed him."

  "How?"

  "Not on the phone."

  "I'll be there as soon as I can," Leslie offered. She ended the call and checked her watch. She knew the Sandpiper by reputation. A pay-by-the-hour dump frequented by prostitutes, drug dealers, and a few of her former clients.

  "Who was that?" asked George.

  Leslie forced a smile. "My neighbor's dog got out. She's worried he'll run away."

  "That's not your problem."

  "She's eighty-two years old. The police have better things to do."

  "You can't save the world, Leslie."

  "Maybe not, but a girl has the right to try."

  Chapter 55

  Leslie drove to the Sandpiper Motel hoping to find Manny Morallen before the cops did. If Morallen had something tangible on Blanchart, she'd use it to navigate the bureaucracy of federal law enforcement more concerned with fielding terrorist tips than investigating allegations of a crooked small-town sheriff. She had a tough pitch to implicate Blanchart in the death of his own deputy. And she needed more than circumstantial evidence. She needed irrefutable proof to convince herself and the FBI that Sheriff Alan Blanchart was involved in a murder conspiracy.

  If Morallen came up empty, she faced an uphill battle armed with nothing but anecdotal evidence and a flighty witness with weak credibility. She also faced a hard decision—drop Morallen's case and forfeit her investigation into Blanchart or continue along the path of career suicide and pursue an underground investigation in spite of George's verbal warning.

  In a court of law, procedure had its place. On the street, she had to think on her feet and make decisions based on the facts presented. George was another matter. If Morallen's case blew up in her face, her career with the public defender's office would end abruptly, and she would finally have the impetus to leave the public domain and land a private law position. With her Atlanta connections, she could earn twice the salary and put herself on a partner track where she belonged, litigating cases she believed in, not slinking through city hall to hash out last-minute plea bargains for clients guilty of one crime or another.

  In her heart, she knew what she wanted. And it wasn't about the money or a corner office with a view. It was her own dogmatic desire to find the truth at whatever the cost. The truth never discriminated. The truth never bought its way out of a jail sentence. It simply was what it was. Black or white. Good or bad.

  At nine fifty-eight, she parked outside the empty motel office and stashed her purse in the back of her car.

  She climbed the stairs to the motel's second floor landing and read the room numbers one by one until she came upon room 19.

  Lamplight radiated behind closed shades. Television noise blasted through the walls.

  She knocked softly, waited a few seconds, and knocked again.

  A man's voice inside the room asked, "Who is it?"

  "I'm looking for Manny Morallen."

  The chain lock slid free. A frail man with glazed eyes and track marks stuck his head out far enough to check both directions for cops. "What do you want?"

  "Is Manny Morallen here?"

  "Who?"

  "Sorry," Leslie offered. "Wrong room." She backed away, curling her fingers around her keychain mace.

  "Wait—you got any spare change? I ain't eaten in two days."

  Leslie shook her head.

  "I just need a little somethin'. I'm starvin' in here."

  "Sorry," Leslie told him.

  The door slammed in her face.

  The room numbe
r jiggled on a loose screw.

  Leslie touched the plastic 9 and turned it clockwise to read 6. She counted the number sequence on the adjacent rooms, baffled by her own inattention to detail.

  She advanced to the real room 19 and found the door ajar with the blinds drawn and the lights out.

  She felt the urge to run, convinced Morallen was either halfway to Mexico or dead in an alley somewhere. Don't cower from your fears, confront them. You didn't come this far to give up now.

  She nudged her way inside the room and flicked the light switch. A desk lamp revealed an unkempt bed and soiled carpet with fast food wrappers in the trash.

  "Manny?"

  A tapping sound drew her attention toward the bathroom, where she caught the reflection of Morallen in the mirror, slumped on the floor with a needle in his arm and a trail of white foam oozing from his nose and mouth. She checked his pulse and recoiled in horror when she felt the dead body twitch.

  A masked figure with gloved hands muted her scream, smothering her face from behind, with a knife pressed to her throat.

  Leslie sprayed the air with Mace and bit down hard, sinking her teeth into an index finger. The action prompted a swift response from her attacker, who lost focus for an instant and relinquished his grip.

  Leslie slammed her elbow in a backward motion at her attacker's groin and bolted for the door, barking her shin on the bed frame as she ran.

  Half running, half hobbling, she scurried along the second floor banister and clattered down a flight of stairs. She hustled to the edge of the parking lot beyond the vending machine area. She ducked between two pick-up trucks and clutched her keychain Mace, cursing herself for leaving her Blackberry in the car. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time, but her survival instincts took over, compelling her to stay low in a cramped position on her hands and knees.

  Heavy footsteps descended the motel stairs. Light rain dotted the parking lot.