A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  Leslie peered underneath the chassis of a white Monte Carlo SS and prayed for the black boots to move away from her. But the size fourteen soles stayed put like a pair of sentries stationed close enough to hear her breathing. She begged forgiveness for every sin she'd ever committed, as if the vetting of her own transgressions would resolve her predicament.

  Her muscles tensed when the boots stepped toward the Monte Carlo's rear quarter panel. Dark eyes peered through a black ski mask, searching for signs of movement, while the moonlight shimmered on the single-edged serrated blade.

  Spurred by the fight or flight impulse, Leslie sprang from her hiding spot and bolted across the slippery pavement toward the open road, waving her arms and screaming like a banshee at an oncoming car that swerved in front of her. A horn blasted in the waning seconds it took the driver to regain control of his fish-tailing vehicle.

  Leslie ran behind a gas station surrounded by stacks of used tires and skirted toward the railroad track. Lights from an oncoming train preceded a loud warning whistle.

  She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare and saw a large figure advance in her direction.

  "Who's there?" she shouted above the clamor of the approaching locomotive.

  Blanchart kept his hands at his sides.

  "What are you doing here?" Leslie called out, her voice strained with fear.

  "I caught a domestic disturbance call."

  "Where's your car?"

  Blanchart blocked Leslie's path while the southbound train rambled along the tracks. "It's dangerous to be out here alone."

  Leslie stepped backwards and limped on a twisted ankle. "You're not in uniform," she said, her world closing in from all sides.

  "I'm off duty," said Blanchart. He gripped the silenced revolver tucked in his belt behind his back. "You should be more careful."

  Leslie felt the rush of air from the fast-moving cargo train. She had nowhere to hide and no way to outrun the sheriff. This is it, she told herself, resigned to the hope that her teeth would match the bite marks on Blanchart's finger when the good guys found her body. "I spoke to the FBI," she blurted.

  "Good for you," said Blanchart when a deputy's patrol car approached with the lights flashing.

  "It's okay," Blanchart told the eager rookie who jumped out to assist him. "I'll take it from here."

  Chapter 56

  Varden followed Lloyd's Triumph for hours along a route that circled through town and back, until the last of the blinding sun disappeared below the horizon. He flipped his visor and grabbed a ham sandwich from an Igloo cooler. He chewed vigorously as if this meal were his last, washing down the sandwich with sour cream potato chips and cold coffee. In the door beside him, urine sloshed inside a plastic bottle wedged between a folded road atlas and a rechargeable flashlight.

  He knew more about Lloyd Sullivan than Lloyd knew about himself. Random room inspections, court records, and the ever-present surveillance cameras afforded him an omniscient view of the young convict who'd served ten years in the poky. He knew everything about Lloyd Sullivan, from the way he dressed, to the food he ate and drank, to how much time he spent on the shitter every morning after breakfast.

  In the span of his law enforcement career, Varden never saw an ex-convict who didn't fall back on old habits. Lloyd Sullivan was dealing drugs again. He could feel it in his bones.

  He followed the Triumph to the library and parked in the last row, close enough to keep his eye on the prize but far enough to avoid detection. He grabbed the SLR camera from the seat and deactivated the flash.

  Inside the building, he tracked his subject to the periodical section. There would be no more Mickey Mouse citations for speeding or skipping curfew. This time Lloyd Sullivan earned a bona fide parole violation that guaranteed him a one-way ticket back to life behind bars.

  Varden followed his target to the media center and mulled about in the fiction section, waiting for the drug exchange to happen. He knew from experience that whatever weight Lloyd was pushing, he kept it out of the house and off his person, opting for a quiet, secluded, and readily accessible location to conduct his business.

  Varden loitered near the end of the aisle, pretending to be engrossed in a book as the closing announcement came from the public address system.

  The lights dimmed. Patrons approached the checkout counter with their books.

  Varden peered through a gap in the bookshelf. He fit the camera lens between two hard-cover volumes and snapped a dozen photos of Lloyd, though the back of his helmet was towards the camera.

  There were no drugs to speak of to be seen and no cash exchanging hands. Just the smack of disbelief when the ex-con in the Triumph jacket removed his helmet to reveal the face of Marvin Tate.

  Chapter 57

  Lloyd planted the shovel head firmly in the graveyard soil and pushed with his foot. Hunched inside a box-shaped hole more than three feet deep, he scooped the clump of sandy dirt, swinging the uprooted earth toward the pile above the grave of a man he hoped he wouldn't find.

  He worked tirelessly, his sweaty palms blistered and sore from repeated contact with the shovel's wooden handle. Motivated by a looming curfew and the prospect of a third strike from Varden, he dug faster until he finally nicked the coffin lid.

  He clanged the spade a second time to be sure. Then he knelt down beneath the ominous night sky so vast and powerful that his own life seemed insignificant. A tiny speck in a universe of uncertainty about his place in the world and the tenuous relationships he maintained with his family and the married woman he'd fallen in love with.

  When a slow-moving vehicle approached the cemetery's gated entrance, he hit the ground above the coffin and killed the flashlight.

  A sheriff's deputy idled his car beyond the gate, panning a spotlight at the cemetery.

  Lloyd watched the focused beam shoot over his position toward the wooded area on the ten-acre property. White light blanketed rows of headstones in slow motion, illuminating everything above ground.

  He clutched the shovel in a prone position with his boots crammed against a wall of dirt. The green LED flashed on his ankle monitor. He heard a car door open and close, followed by the faint sound of footsteps as the officer inspected the gated grounds on foot. A second light, more narrow and less concentrated, scanned the headstones through the fence.

  Lloyd remained still inside the grave, fearful that the giant dirt mound would draw attention. Clouds drifted across the moon's path. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Earthworms slithered in and out of fresh soil.

  Lloyd wiped dirt on his face. Sweat oozed from his pores. Time passed slowly, then he heard a police radio squawk. After the spot beam panned the ground beside him, it was extinguished. He heard the crunch of gravel under tires as the deputy drove away.

  Lloyd poked his head out to verify the cop was gone. With his curfew looming, he pawed at the coffin with his bare hands, straddling the elongated box between his legs for leverage. He opened the lid and shone the flashlight at a black trash bag folded over itself. He tugged on the bag and flipped it upside down, spilling bricks of used bills secured with rubber bands. The money made him sick and elated at the same time, lending credence to Brenda's story about his father's effort to make the best of a bad situation.

  He stuffed the cash inside a black backpack and climbed out to refill the man-made cavity. When he finished, he patted the loose surface with the shovel and nudged sections of torn sod to conceal the disturbance.

  He carried the backpack on his shoulder and hiked through a clearing, where Jamie sat inside Marvin's pick-up. He tossed the shovel in the empty truck bed, unaware of the figure looming in the darkness beyond the trees.

  "What took you so long?" Jamie asked when Lloyd climbed in the driver's seat.

  "I had company."

  "Did he see you?"

  "I doubt it," said Lloyd. "If he did, he would have opened the gate." He drove out of the woods toward the main road and unzipped the bag on his
lap. He handed bricks of cash to Jamie. "Take these."

  "I can't."

  "You'll need the money."

  Jamie clung to his arm. "We'll need it. I can't do this alone."

  Lloyd laced his fingers with Jamie's and kissed her hand gently. "Samantha has everything in place. She'll call me when you're safe."

  "Did she say anything?" Jamie asked. She sounded afraid to hear the answer.

  "About what?"

  "Never mind..."

  Lloyd rubbed her hand. "Samantha's on board all the way. And so am I."

  "Then it's really happening?"

  Lloyd nodded. "Just like we planned." He could sense Jamie's apprehension. Understandable given the circumstances, but not insurmountable. "Are you okay with everything at your end?"

  "I think so," said Jamie. "I crushed enough pills to knock out an elephant."

  "And you're sure he'll drink it?"

  Jamie nodded slowly. "Alan has the same routine every night. He can't sleep without a drink before bed."

  Lloyd detoured from the highway and followed an alternate route to Jamie's car at the Winn-Dixie parking lot. "Did you pack the duct tape?"

  "Yes."

  "And the Super Glue?"

  "I did everything like you said."

  "What about your husband's schedule?"

  "He goes off duty for the next two days. No one will miss him."

  Lloyd drove faster to make his curfew. "By the time anyone figures out he's missing, you'll be long gone."

  Jamie searched her lover's eyes for strength, finding solace in the way Lloyd exuded such confidence. "What if something goes wrong?"

  "It won't. Not if we stick to the plan. As soon as the pills take effect, grab all the video evidence you can carry from his study. When you leave the house, drive his car to this parking lot and find the tan Civic. It's a rental in Samantha's name. The key will be in the passenger wheel well. Drive straight to Orlando airport. Don't stop for anything. You're going to park in the short term lot. Samantha will meet you at the United gate."

  "What if she's not there?"

  "She will be."

  "What if she changes her mind and refuses to testify?"

  "She won't."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Lloyd put his arm around her shoulder. "Because you found the courage to leave your husband and Samantha found the courage to help you do it."

  "What if Alan finds me?"

  "You'll be safe in New York. He has no authority outside his own jurisdiction. This time you'll have the law on your side."

  "I'm scared," Jamie confided.

  "Don't overthink it. Just stick to the plan."

  Jamie laid her hand in Lloyd's. "I feel like everything's happening so fast."

  "One step at a time," said Lloyd. "I'll meet up with you as soon as I finish my parole."

  "How will you find me?"

  "As beautiful as the first time I saw you."

  Chapter 58

  Leslie huddled inside her pre-owned Lexus outside a busy 7-Eleven and dialed George's cell phone. "Come on, come on..." She scanned the road and the cars at the gas pumps, expecting Blanchart to reappear any second—but without his staff to intervene in his endeavors.

  "Hello?" George answered through the phone in a groggy voice, his tone barely lucid.

  "George, it's Leslie. I need your help right away!"

  "It's three-thirty in the morning. What the hell are you—"

  "Hold on..."

  Leslie watched a beer truck driver negotiate his rig beside a handicap spot, effectively blocking her view of the open road.

  "You still there?" said George.

  "He tried to kill me," Leslie whispered in her Blackberry. "He murdered Manny Morallen and then he tried to kill me."

  "Who?"

  "Sheriff Blanchart."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "I'm scared, George. He was, he was chasing me. He was going to kill me. I saw Morallen dead with a needle in his arm. Blanchart made it look like an overdose. I'm a witness. I can't—"

  "Are you sure it was Blanchart?"

  "Are you fucking kidding me? He put a knife to my throat."

  "Did you see his face?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then how do you know it was him?"

  "He must have followed me to Morallen's motel room."

  "Morallen? Jesus Leslie, I told you to leave it alone!" His wife muttered in her sleep. He pushed her arm off his chest and rolled out of bed, trying to shake of the last vestiges of REM sleep and absorb the implications of what Leslie was saying.

  "Morallen's dead. Blanchart killed him and then he went after me."

  George tottered into his study and powered up his laptop. "How did you get away?"

  "One of his men showed up unexpectedly. Blanchart got spooked."

  George logged into his email account. "None of this makes any sense. Why would Blanchart try to kill you?"

  "To hide the truth about the murders he's committed."

  "Murders? I went to school with Alan Blanchart. I've known him for years. He's one of the good guys."

  "Not anymore," said Leslie. "I'm scared, George. I need your help."

  "Did you call the police?"

  "I can't trust the local police right now."

  "Where are you?"

  "I can't go back to my apartment."

  "You can trust me, Leslie. But I can't help you if I don't know where you are."

  "I want the FBI involved. Someone outside of Blanchart's jurisdiction."

  George opened his email contact list. "The FBI won't bite without evidence a federal crime's been committed."

  "I have the evidence," Leslie uttered, her voice shaky and distracted before she ended the call and drove away.

  * * *

  George entered the courthouse building and placed his personal belongings on the X-ray belt. He walked through the scanner and collected his keys and change at the other end.

  Disturbed by Leslie's accusations, he realized his prodigal attorney had found herself in a hole too deep to climb out of. Despite her impressive legal skills, Leslie had a knack for stepping in shit. And now the very skills that helped her thrive under pressure in a court of law were jeopardizing the integrity of the public defender's office—and pounding the last nail in her coffin.

  He rode the elevator to the fifth floor and entered the lobby outside the state attorney's office. He opened the double glass doors flanked by Old Glory and the red striped flag from the state of Florida. "I need to speak with Jim Rosen immediately," he told the new receptionist.

  "And who are you?"

  "George Winston. From the public defender's office."

  "Mr. Rosen is in a meeting."

  "Tell him it's urgent."

  The receptionist shook her head. "He's on a conference call."

  George ignored the gate keeper and charged down the hall.

  "Excuse me... Mr. Winston! You can't go in there!"

  George found the state attorney behind the lacquered oval table in the meeting room filled with legal staff. "We need to talk," George announced in front of the group.

  "I'm on a call," the state attorney rebuked him. "You can't be in here."

  "The call can wait. I've got something you need to hear."

  Chapter 59

  Jamie brushed her teeth at the bathroom sink where Alan kept his antique straight razor on the basin by his toothbrush holder. She could tell by the way he dawdled about the bedroom in his underwear that he wanted sex. The subtle hand gestures. The fleeting glances at her ass in the mirror. The way he hovered in the bathroom while she bent over the sink.

  She rinsed her mouth and placed her toothbrush in the holder. You can do this, she told herself, holding a washcloth in the stream of warm water. She rinsed her face, rubbing the space between her nose and cheeks where the oil and makeup residue liked to hide. She cringed inside when she felt her husband's erection press against her. Cold hands touched her shoulders by her camisole str
aps.

  Blanchart kissed the nape of his wife's slender neck, his knob pressing through his boxer shorts. "You feel tense."

  "I'm just tired."

  "Not tonight you're not."

  Jamie squeezed the washcloth over the sink. "I want to feel pretty for you."

  Blanchart groped her breasts from behind, undeterred by his wife's subtle redirection. "I missed you."

  "I missed you too." She felt his presence suffocate her personal space. "How's your forehead?"

  "The stitches come out tomorrow."

  Jamie rubbed the washcloth on the sink to remove a toothpaste stain. Her breasts felt lifeless in Alan's hands. "You never told me what happened on your trip."

  Blanchart eased a strap from her shoulder. "Nothing you need to worry about."

  Jamie forced a smile in the mirror. "I have to pee."

  Blanchart backed away.

  Jamie sat on the toilet trying to force herself to urinate while her husband loitered in the bathroom. She kept her head down, concentrating on the simple task she'd performed a million times since birth but couldn't accomplish when she needed to most. She squeezed her bladder and covered her face with her hands to block the waves of nervous energy perpetuated by Alan's gaze. She pleaded for the phone to ring, for Alan's pager to beep, for a bolt of lightning to strike the house, or an earthquake to split the floor in half. Instead, she endured the silence, accompanied by a dripping shower faucet and the sound of her own voice screaming inside her head, berating herself for emptying her bladder ten minutes before she brushed her teeth. "I need some privacy," she said in a sullen voice laced with apprehension about the consequences of her actions if her plan should fail. She dribbled in the toilet bowl, her token effort signaled by the drops of urine squeezed under duress.

  Blanchart conceded and granted his wife a moment of privacy.

  Jamie stalled as long as she could before she flushed and got up to wash her hands. She could see Alan fumbling with his magazines in the dresser.