“It wasn’t personal, officer.” Mandy cupped the mug and sipped, the caffeine replacing the adrenaline that had kept her going until now. “I represent clients to the best of my ability.”
“You certainly do.” His tone carried disdain. Not enough for her to complain to his superiors, but enough to let her know he wasn’t sympathetic that she’d almost died.
He glanced up at the bridge and frowned. “I’ll be filling out paperwork for hours.”
Muscles she didn’t know she had ached. Her hair dripped down her cheeks, and she tugged the blanket tighter around her, even as her tone grew fiercer with every word. “Officer Delgado, do you think I ran my car off the bridge to spoil your day? Because if so, I assure you—”
“You lost control of your car in the rain and skidded off the bridge. You’re alive. Ma’am, there’s no need for hysterics.”
Hysterics? She stood, the shock from the accident wearing off as coal-hot anger inflamed her. He had no right to patronize her just because his marriage had failed and she’d represented his wife and had looked out for his children. Some cops genuinely wanted to help people, but this one was on a power trip. “You want to see hysterics? I’ll call Judge Herschell. She’s tight with the mayor, and we’ll see how she likes one of her police officers browbeating a citizen—”
“Sorry, Ms. Newman.” Delgado combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “It’s been a rough day.”
“You’ve had a rough day?” She rolled her eyes. Her evening was shot to hell, the work she’d taken home with her was now grouper reading material. “Some whacko just tried to kill me.”
“Kill you?” Delgado’s glance sharpened. “This wasn’t an accident?”
“Du-uh.” She gestured to the Harbour Island Bridge and the crowd kept back from the edges with yellow police tape. “Someone must have witnessed a guy in a silver truck running me off the bridge.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re claiming attempted murder. That’s a serious charge. Right now it looks more like an accident.”
So now he was psychic and knew what had happened? She doubted he had the brains to read skid marks. She spoke through gritted teeth. “I . . . did . . . not . . . drive off the bridge. This was no accident. A truck rammed me three times.”
“You’re certain?”
She gestured to the diners at the restaurant and joggers and dog walkers alongside the bridge. “Someone had to have seen something.”
Like a hostile defendant on the stand, as if every word cost him, Delgado spoke into his shoulder radio. “Anybody talk to any witnesses?”
A voice crackled back. “A cab driver reported a late model silver pickup with a dent—”
“That’s him.”
“—fled the scene.”
He’d gotten away? And now she might never know who he was or why he’d rammed her through the guardrail. Maybe he was some psycho like that kid who’d shot a woman through her front windshield as she drove under the interstate overpass. Or maybe he’d mistaken her for someone else.
Or maybe he disliked her, like Delgado did, because she’d represented his wife in court. But she was still here. Battered, cold, and bruised, she was going home to Gabrielle tonight. As hard as Mandy tried to hold on to that pleasant thought, the idea that her attacker had fled—and might try again—made her stomach knot. Thankfully, nowhere in Tampa was safer than on Harbour Island, where security at the guard shack checked visitor IDs and didn’t allow strangers onto the island.
“Another witness got the license plate number,” an officer on the bridge joined the radio conversation.
After hearing her charge verified, Delgado regarded her with a tad more respect. Her spirits lifted, latching onto the hope that the law might actually catch her attacker—what a concept. But then the same officer added, “The truck was reported stolen last week.”
Damn. The upside was that at least she now had Delgado’s attention. “The truck followed me from my parking garage. Don’t those buildings have security cameras?”
“If he followed you, why didn’t you report him?”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. “I didn’t know he was dangerous until he rammed my car off the bridge.” Out of every cop in the city, why did she have to have represented this one’s wife in divorce court?
“But he followed you from the parking garage.”
She fisted one hand on her hip and wished she hadn’t lost her heels in the swim. She would have enjoyed towering over Delgado but would have to settle for looking him straight in the eye. “Officer, as far as I know, there’s no law against following another car. Besides, it was only for a few blocks. He could have lived on the island, and it could have been coincidence he was going my way. I don’t appreciate you insinuating—”
Delgado held up his hand. “Ma’am. Clearly, more happened here than I previously believed. I shouldn’t have given you any attitude. Your profession won’t stop me from doing my job. Let’s start over.”
She swallowed her ire. Lawyers were pretty much hated by the general population—until they needed one, of course. No one ever seemed to think lawyers wanted justice, that they fought for mothers and children.
“Thank you.” She didn’t know whether he was feeding her a line to prevent her reporting him to his superiors, but he sounded sincere enough for her to force a deep breath and calm down.
Delgado flipped to the next page of his notepad. In addition to noting the parking garage’s location, he wrote down her name, home and work addresses, and phone numbers.
“Can you describe the man you saw driving the truck?”
Mandy closed her eyes and tried to recall details. Memories of hissing black water and the claustrophobic feeling of the river closing over her head caused new tremors to rip through her. With determination, she shut down the images and focused on the guy responsible. “White. Long, stringy blond hair, medium build. He wore a baseball cap. Sorry, that’s not much help. I didn’t get a good look.”
“But you’re certain he wasn’t anyone you know?”
She sighed, wondering how anyone past the age of ten could think in absolutes. “I’m not certain of anything. You’re aware I practice family law and I meet numerous people through my work. Many hate my guts,” she admitted, cutting off another apology from the officer with a shrug. “It comes with the job. For all I know, you could have hired the guy to kill me.”
Delgado laughed.
Glancing up at the bridge, Mandy winced at the sight of more flashing blue and red lights as additional police officers headed their way, along with Department of Transportation workers and a tow truck, yellow light whirring, that blocked one side of the road. Car horns blared as residents turned back into the city, forced to use a different route. Meanwhile, not only had the cops shut down the bridge, the Coast Guard was redirecting river traffic. She wondered if the fine print in her insurance policy covered the likely expense of fishing out her vehicle.
Delgado’s tone warmed a few degrees. “What about your personal life? Any ex-boyfriends after you? Lovers’ spats? Angry husband?”
“None of the above.” Between Gabrielle and work, her every hour was full, and she could prove it with her day planner—if it hadn’t been stashed in her briefcase at the river’s mucky bottom.
“Can you think of any specific cases where opposing counsel’s clients might want you in a watery grave?” Delgado asked.
Often her job turned ugly. When love turned to hate, blame and acrimony flared and any bystander could be caught in the resulting conflagration. It had happened to her—more than once. “Two years ago I put a man reputed to have mob connections in jail. Before the divorce he’d forged his wife’s name, mortgaged all their assets, and placed their joint funds in his name in a Bahamian bank, leaving her bankrupt. When I proved his actions in court, the judge came down h
ard on him.”
“You think he decided to retaliate . . . from his jail cell?”
As a gust of chilly wind blew off Tampa Bay, she shrugged and drew the blanket more tightly around her. “He’s appealing and out on bail. Besides, he’s not the only ex-spouse who might be gunning for me.”
“Anything specific come to mind?”
“Only yesterday I arranged for a former client to hide from an abusive ex-husband in a local women’s shelter.”
“Did the spouse fit the description of the guy in the garage?”
“I’ve never met her husband. I’d have no way of knowing for certain which of my clients’ spouses might hold a personal grudge.” At the doubt on his face, she explained, “Look, my firm handles hundreds of cases. Two years ago I received death threats. Last year, in court, an irate husband attacked me, but the bailiff intervened before I was hurt. Since then my clients’ spouses have been better behaved, but several have violent pasts—a stockbroker who battered his wife and a pediatrician accused of child abuse. Even if I gave you a list, it would be so long it wouldn’t do any good.”
“No one in particular sticks out, no one at all?” In his now-respectful tone, Delgado pushed for an answer, but she’d been an attorney too long to divulge information without thinking carefully first.
If she gave the names of the pediatrician and stockbroker, he’d ask for motive and she couldn’t reveal details without violating attorney-client privilege. Yet it wasn’t the women she represented who might want her dead, but their soon-to-be exes.
Yikes. This might get sticky.
“No,” she spoke resolutely, staring at Tampa’s impressive skyline, where lights had begun to wink on as the sun’s last rays disappeared to the west. “No one in particular sticks out.”
Delgado closed his notepad. “I’ll give you a lift home.”
“I’d appreciate it. Thanks.” She wasn’t about to turn down a ride just because of his previous bad manners. In her line of work, she accepted that allegiances shifted, and the cop who might be an eyewitness for a battered spouse might the following week testify against a wife who violated a restraining order. She tried not to hold grudges. Besides, Mandy couldn’t wait to shuck her wet clothes, take a hot shower, and hold her baby.
But as much as she longed to go home, thoughts kept circling like the sea gulls overhead. If Gabby had been in the car with her . . . oh God. That thought made her suck in a deep breath and close her eyes.
“Ma’am,” Delgado said. “You okay?”
Mandy forced herself to meet the man’s concerned gaze. She couldn’t think about Gabby in that car or she’d fall apart. She nodded.
But she wasn’t okay. Every muscle ached, and she couldn’t stop the tremors that shook her. Meanwhile, she couldn’t stop worrying. Had the attack on the bridge been random or something more sinister? She prayed that she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Maybe, just maybe, her brush with death was simply the result of really bad luck.
Chapter Three
MANDY OPENED her condo’s front door with her key-coded lock and slipped inside her dream home. Despite her clothes, reeking of river water, sticking to her skin, and every muscle protesting, she felt lucky to be here. The high ceilings and spacious tile foyer with the stained-glass chandelier welcomed her. Tension slid off her shoulders. After taking a deep breath, Mandy called out to her mother, hoping she could delay telling her how close her only child had come to dying until after she’d cleaned up.
“Hi, Mom. I’m home.”
“You’re late.” Her mother’s voice carried over the sound of banging pans accompanied by the squeak of dishwasher trays. The delicious scent of fried chicken from dinner lingered and made Mandy’s stomach rumble. Since her mother hadn’t come barreling out of the kitchen in hysterical tears, she clearly had no clue about the wreck.
“Where’s Gabrielle?” Mandy called out.
“Asleep in her room.”
Of course she was. Between leaving court late, the accident, and giving her statement to the cops, Mandy had come home way past the baby’s bedtime. By now, Gabby would be asleep, tucked between her stuffed lime-green alligator and her favorite book, Swim, Baby, Swim.
It was unrealistic to hope Gabby would be awake, standing in her crib, arms held out to her and demanding, “Up. Up. Up.” That Mandy had failed to realize it was past her daughter’s bedtime showed how rattled she still was.
“I’ll check her and then hit the shower, okay?” she called to her mother, who was still busy in the kitchen.
“I’ll warm your chicken.”
“Thanks.” One of her mother’s many part-time jobs had been as a short-order cook, and her deep-fried chicken, even reheated, sounded really good right now—cholesterol be damned.
Mandy padded across the hall to Gabrielle’s room. She’d always wanted the best for her daughter, and last year she’d gotten a steal on this condo. Living in a gated community was a long-time dream Mandy had finally achieved, and she was pleased she could provide her daughter with an extra measure of security. The place had been a mess, but nothing that soap, water, and hard work couldn’t fix. For the nursery, her mother had sewn the bright pink and yellow curtains, and Mandy had sponge-painted the walls. She’d purchased an antique dresser in a shop downtown, sanded and varnished the old wood, and stenciled it with huge daisies. A lamp shade her mother bagged at a craft show received the same treatment, and Mandy had been so excited to find crib sheets in a pale gold that matched the walls. They’d created a beautiful room for Gabrielle, and together they were raising a happy child. Gabby had a two-parent household, even though she didn’t have a father.
Mandy made a beeline for her daughter, a heavy sleeper. Next to her stuffed green and gold alligator, she lay on her side in her crib, sucking her thumb, and Mandy ached to pick her up. Still damp and grimy from her dunk in the river, Mandy grabbed a baby wipe and cleaned her hands. If she couldn’t hold her baby, at least she could touch her. Lightly, she smoothed the short curly blond hair that framed Gabrielle’s chubby cheeks, pulled the blanket to her chin and tucked it around her tiny body, which was clad in her favorite yellow pajamas with the panda bear embroidered on the front.
A lump of love and pride rose in Mandy’s throat. She ached to give her baby all the things she’d never had—financial security, a safe and happy home, and all the comforts that implied. Her daughter would never be evicted. She would never go to bed hungry, or so hot from lack of air conditioning she feared she might melt.
Mandy couldn’t have loved Gabrielle more if she’d been planned. Or if Mandy had been married or in any kind of relationship with Zachary Taylor, her baby’s father.
Yet, at the thought of him, her heart ached. A little less than two years ago, after she’d received a death threat during a nasty divorce case, the firm’s senior partner, Catherine, had hired her son Zack as Mandy’s bodyguard. Although Mandy had known Zack for several years, having met him through his sister and her best friend, Dana Hansen, in law school, she’d never spent any time alone with him. But during their two weeks together, their attraction to one another had ignited during one night—then burned out the next day after Zack had returned to his job in California. Still, Mandy had amazing memories of Gabrielle’s conception, and, as a single mother, she’d never regretted that incredible night.
“Dinner’s on the table,” her mother called from the other room.
After a light kiss on Gabrielle’s forehead, Mandy closed the baby’s door and hurried across the hall to her own bathroom. If her mom caught one look at her shoeless daughter in damp clothes and runny mascara, she would have freaked out.
“Give me five more minutes.”
Mandy shucked her wet clothes, hit the shower, washed her hair twice, careful not to dislodge the bandage on her forehead. She was about to slap on con
ditioner when her mother pounded the bathroom door.
“Amanda. Come out of there, right now.”
Mandy shut off the water and shrugged into a robe mere seconds before her mother barged into the spacious strawberry and cream master bathroom.
Five inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier than Mandy, her mother appeared wan, as if she, not Mandy, had almost died a few hours ago. Her worried eyes, the exact same shade of green as Mandy’s, were wide with fright. The last time her mother had looked this upset was when Gabrielle had fallen while learning to walk and required three stitches in her knee.
Had her daughter awakened and hurt herself trying to climb out of her crib? Fearful, Mandy knotted the belt of her robe. “Gabrielle? Is she okay?”
At the mention of her granddaughter, her face softened. “She’s safe and asleep in her crib.” But then her lips tightened. “And luckily she’s too young to understand what I just saw on the ten o’clock news.”
Mandy stared at her mother, surprised and concerned, until she realized the accident must have been on TV.
“How could you fail to tell me before I heard about you on the news?” Her mother demanded, confirming Mandy’s suspicion.
“I didn’t—”
“When I saw the crane pull your car from the water . . .” Her mother’s eyes welled with tears. “You could have died.”
“I’m sorry.” Hearing her mother sniffling, Mandy reached for a tissue and handed it to her. “I didn’t want to scare you. I wanted to clean up first . . .”
Her mother dabbed her eyes with the tissue and frowned at the bandage on her forehead. “Are you all right?”
Kiss Me Deadly Page 2