For the Defense

by Maggie Wells

  Lori shuddered and shook her head. “Not this woman.”

  Julianne pried their coffee cups from the carrier. “Not you. But there are plenty of women who would consider trading in the afterlife for some hot times with a dangerous man,” she said matter-of-factly. Lori opened her mouth to justify her bias, but Julianne thrust a cup at her.

  Lori accepted the cup and sat back with a laugh. “From what I can tell, he is the devil himself.”

  “Bet you can think about gettin’ up to a little naughtiness with Simon Wingate,” Julianne teased.

  Lori’s eyes widened when she took her first sip of the delicious caramel macchiato. “Simon isn’t evil.”

  “Of course he’s not. I’m glad you’re coming around.”

  “Coming around on what?” Lori asked, exasperated.

  “Rumor has it Simon was mighty happy to see you at his cookout the other night.” Julianne gave her a smug smile.

  Lori set her cup down on the desk so hard coffee sloshed out of the tiny opening on the lid. “Whose rumor has what? I was barely there thirty minutes.”

  “Really? Darn.” Julianne’s hopeful expression slid from her face. “I told Camille Brewster she had it wrong. It’s too bad, though. Simon...he’s the whole package.”

  Lori wasn’t prepared to talk about Simon or the kind of package he might be, so she pivoted. “Speaking of packages...” Lori frowned. “What kind of package do you think Coulter had shipped to Simon’s office?”

  “No idea,” Julianne said, extracting her breakfast wrap.

  Lori scowled at her coffee cup, feeling put out. The better question was, how come Simon hadn’t mentioned anything about this delivery? Of course, what he did for his clients was his business and none of hers. But something had happened between them at his house on Saturday. Maybe that was why the thought of his keeping Coulter’s secrets bothered her so darn much.

  Chapter Nine

  Simon stared at the back of Samuel Coulter’s head when the man placed the heavily taped parcel on the Wingate Law Firm’s conference table. He slid a hand into his pocket and extracted a small multifunction tool dangling from his key ring. Panic flooded Simon’s chest. There was no way he was letting a box marked Perishable and Live Animals be opened in his office. Not by this man.

  “Whoa, wait. Are there snakes in there?”

  Coulter glanced back at him, his expression amused. “Of course.”

  “I have no desire to see what is inside.”

  Coulter fixed his dead-eyed gaze on him. Simon felt about as small as he had the day his professor insinuated his father’s involvement in politics made it difficult for Simon to identify with the concept of ethical behavior. “Scared?”

  “More like terrified,” Simon retorted.

  Flipping open the pocketknife, he slit the tape securing the box. “These are hatchlings.”

  He opened the flaps, then paused to point out the writing on one of them. It indicated the box contained four nonvenomous ball pythons and gave what Simon assumed was a Latin name for the species. When Dora had seen the labeling, she immediately almost doubled what was already her triple-overtime rate. She also insisted Simon place them in the storeroom, far away from her desk.

  There wasn’t anything technically illegal regarding the shipment of the snakes, but Simon’s gut told him there was something more going on here. Something he couldn’t be a part of if he wished to remain within the bounds of legal and social ethics.

  “As your attorney, I advise you to wait and open the box when you get home.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Coulter insisted. He lifted a piece of packing material from the top of the box and peered into the cavity. “Normally, I would unbox them immediately upon arrival, but this time I didn’t have the timing right.” He removed what looked to be a linen bag from the box and began to unwrap the tightly wound drawstring. “These should all be albino morphs,” he murmured, opening the bag to reveal a clear plastic container. “I hope they’re okay.”

  Simon swallowed hard, noting the lidded bowl looked disconcertingly similar to the containers in which he’d brought home deli salads for his party. His spine stiffened when he recalled Lori pushing those deli bowls deep into his trash can and making a joke about burying evidence.

  Holy hell, he hated this whole thing. Hated his creepy client with his Saturday shipments and sleazy backwoods operation. Hated having to accept delivery of a box that made him so uncomfortable he’d had to document every aspect of his involvement in its custody. Hated having to keep this man’s secrets, whether his dealings were aboveboard or not. Hated having to deny himself the pleasure of kissing Lori Cabrera because she’d loathe him if she discovered he’d signed his name on this man’s behalf.

  “She seems no worse for wear,” Coulter said, jolting Simon from his ruminations.

  For a minute, he thought Coulter was commenting on Simon’s forgoing his natural instincts where Deputy Cabrera was concerned, but the other man slipped the plastic container back into its drawstring bag and wrapped it tight again. To his relief, Coulter returned the tiny snake to her brethren, placed the packing material back on top and loosely secured the flaps.

  “I’ll check the rest of them when I get home.” He hefted the box in his left arm, offering his right to Simon to shake. “I’m sorry to have disrupted your Saturday.” He headed toward the office door. “Thanks, Wingate,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to bill me for any extra expenses.”

  Simon held his tongue until he was certain the man was gone. “Yeah, like I’m gonna forget,” he muttered.

  He strode down the hall to his office. Dora’s chair squeaked when she swiveled to glare at him, her animal-print reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose.

  “Tell me he didn’t open it in here.”

  “I wish I could,” Simon answered dully.

  “Wendell Simon Wingate, I told you I didn’t want him opening that box on these premises,” she scolded.

  “The man’s billables are what makes it possible for me to pay you quintuple overtime to snap a few pictures.”

  “Haven’t you seen Snakes on a Plane?” she asked, incredulous. Dora swiveled away from him. “And...you wouldn’t need to pay anyone quintuple overtime if you didn’t have men like him for clients.”

  “This is a vicious circle.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s a chicken-and-egg thing. This is a choice,” she insisted. “You don’t need to sell your soul to make a living here. There are plenty of people who need wills or land transfers done. I spoke to Marlee at the party, and I truly believe she would be happy to let you take some of the Masters family business back. The poor girl is overwhelmed.”

  “I planned to talk to Marlee myself,” he shot back. “I don’t need you drumming up business for me.”

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary.” Dora softened. “It was nice of you to tell Marlee to bring her mama and daddy along. I doubt Marlee would have been able to relax otherwise. It’s been a tough row to hoe for all of them, what with having to deal with Henry’s health issues on top of dealing with the loss of Jeff all over again.” She shook her head sadly. “I honestly can’t imagine which would be worse—believing your child committed suicide or discovering he’d been murdered.”

  “Yeah, no idea,” Simon agreed. Sighing, he perched his hip on the edge of Dora’s desk. “Listen, I’m not a Coulter fan either, but a part of me thinks it’s better this way.” When she opened her mouth to argue with him, he held up a hand. “Keep-your-enemies-closer sort of thing. Sometimes, it’s better to have the inside scoop on someone you don’t trust entirely.”

  “Yes, but it does no one any good when insider information is protected under attorney-client privilege,” she retorted tartly.

  Pressing his lips together, he exhaled long and loud from his nose. “You let me worry about what I need to k
eep quiet.”

  Dora pushed back from her keyboard and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Wendell. I have only three years until I can retire with full medical and pull from Dewayne’s railroad retirement. I need this firm to stay open and operating until such time. I’ve given your grandfather almost thirty years of my life. Longer than I had with my husband, God rest his soul.”

  “Dora—” he assured her.

  “I cannot be out looking for a job at my age. I have no desire to relocate.”

  Simon nodded solemnly, all too aware of all the ways Wendell and Dora were counting on him. “I understand.”

  “I cannot be your secretary if you get yourself disbarred,” she added. “And I cannot buy a place in Kissimmee if I don’t have a job.”

  Placing his hand over his heart, he held her gaze. “Neither Granddad nor I will do anything to mess up your plans.”

  “You need to find a way to get free of Coulter,” she said, nodding to the door.

  “Your concerns have been heard and noted.” Heaving a sigh, he slid from the desk and made his way to his office. “When you note the billable hours for Saturday, add in about half of your quintuple overtime into the incidental expenses. If I have to pay your extortionist rates, he’s gonna split them with me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lori was surprised to see Ben’s door closed when she came in that afternoon. Julianne looked up from the salad she was stabbing with a plastic fork, but her expression was hard to read.

  “What’s going on?” Lori asked, moving to her desk.

  “There’s someone from the DEA in there. Ben said they used to work together.”

  Lori frowned. It was common knowledge that Ben’s forced exit from federal duty had left a trail of hard feelings on both sides. Julianne wasn’t the only one surprised a DEA agent had ventured all the way to Pine Bluff. Then again, the town had garnered its share of attention from the agency. Lori’s stomach rolled when she cast a glance at the closed door.

  “How did he act? Do things seem to be going okay in there?”

  Three lines appeared on Julianne’s forehead. “Well, there’s been no yelling,” she said cautiously. “Special Agent Simmons is a woman.”

  “So?” Lori wasn’t as surprised by the agent’s gender as she was by the accusation embedded in Julianne’s statement. “Does that matter?”

  Julianne shot another look at the closed door. “I suppose not, but... He said they were coworkers, but he didn’t greet her the way he would greet you or me,” Julianne said, slanting a pointed look at Lori. “There was hugging and a kiss on the cheek.”

  Lori fought the impulse to laugh at the condemnation in Julianne’s sober assessment. “Dear God, hugging?” she said, playing up her effrontery.

  Julianne wadded up a paper napkin and tossed it at Lori. “Don’t mock,” she snapped.

  Lori snagged the napkin from her desk and redeposited it into the trash. “Okay, I won’t. I don’t think Marlee has anything to worry about. Ben’s not about to do anything to jeopardize what he’s got going on with her.”

  Holding her Tupperware container, Julianne swiveled her chair toward Lori. “You don’t think he’d ditch the job of backwoods sheriff for another go at being a hotshot federal agent?”

  Lori matched Julianne’s scowl with one of her own. “You think they’re here to lure him back?”

  Julianne shrugged. “They’ve been in there with the door closed ever since she got here.”

  The door in question opened and both women gave a guilty start. Ben loomed large in the opening. “I thought I heard voices out here. Hey, Lori, would you come in here? I want you to meet Alicia Simmons.”

  Lori nodded. Shooting a glance in Julianne’s direction, she rose from her desk. “Marlee said to tell you she’d call you later this afternoon.” She spoke in a voice loud enough to carry well beyond Ben’s ears. Behind her, Julianne let out a small hiss of approval.

  Ben ducked his head and he stepped aside to let Lori pass into his office. “Uh, okay...”

  Lori willed her cheeks not to burn with a telltale flush at the embellishment. “Yeah, sorry. Julianne and I were just—”

  Ben closed the door behind them.

  A tall, dark-haired woman rose from the chair opposite Ben’s desk. She wore gray slacks and a white blouse. Lori figured the pieces would look completely nondescript on any mere mortal, but on this woman they had a certain I-mean-business flair. The woman’s smile was cordial but not quite warm. She extended a hand and Lori grasped it.

  “You must be Deputy Cabrera,” she said in one of those husky Hollywood-siren voices. “I’m Alicia Simmons. Ben and I go way back.” She nodded in his direction as he reclaimed his seat behind the desk. “He speaks highly of you,” the agent continued as she and Lori sat in the chairs in front of the desk.

  Lori inclined her head. “Gratifying to hear. I think highly of him.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Okay, lovefest over,” he announced, clearly discomfited by their vocal admiration. “Lori, Alicia has some information I think you might find interesting.”

  Lori fixed a polite gaze on the other woman. “What kind of information?”

  “I hear you’ve been taking a particular interest in the activities undertaken by a Samuel Coulter,” Special Agent Simmons said, pursing her lips. She’d played her trump card.

  “What about him?”

  Simmons sank back in the chair, practically lounging in the hard wooden seat. She stretched her long legs out and crossed them. “Ben thinks you would be interested to learn we’ve been watching Coulter for quite some time.”

  “Watching him for what reason? And for how long is quite some time?” Lori asked, firing off the questions in rapid succession.

  Simmons threaded her fingers and let them rest on her flat stomach. “Five years. We picked up on him when he was living in Miami, started to take a closer look when he moved up Jacksonville way. We got even more interested when he moved up here into the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s not the middle of nowhere,” Lori responded, instantly defensive. When she caught Ben’s amused glance, she blew out a breath. “Sorry. I hate to break it to you big-city folk, but anywhere outside of Atlanta is not the middle of nowhere.”

  “My apologies,” Special Agent Simmons said with a regal nod. “He moved here to the most rural corner of southern Georgia.”

  The correction didn’t do much to assuage Lori’s ire, but the DEA agent went on.

  “Coulter isn’t exactly a country boy. As I’m sure you know, he was born in Miami and lived there and made an excellent living there. Enough to indulge his...eccentricities,” she said, letting her distaste twist her lips. “The Securities and Exchange people took a shot at him, but couldn’t make anything stick. But then old Samuel fell in with a new crowd of highfliers. And I do mean high,” she said with a pointed look at Ben.

  “You think he was dealing?” the sheriff concluded.

  “We think he was...is moving inventory,” she corrected. “We were pretty close in South Florida, but he had someone inside who tipped him off. He migrated north to Jacksonville to let things cool off, but he wasn’t particularly great at keeping a low profile.”

  “Probably not one of his strong suits,” Lori concurred grudgingly.

  “From what we’ve seen, and what Ben’s been telling me, he hasn’t exactly managed to blend in here either.”

  “No, he hasn’t.” In the blink of an eye, the agent sat up and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. She gazed at Lori intently. Startled by the sudden movement, Lori pushed back deeper into her own seat. Special Agent Simmons gave the impression of an animal about to pounce.

  “Samuel Coulter is a dangerous man. Volatile. Demanding. He surrounds himself mainly with young, impressionable people who are more than willing to do his b
idding.” She pursed her lips. “Mostly runaways or petty troublemakers. The kind of people few will make a fuss over missing when he’s done using them.”

  “Young people,” Lori repeated, horror rippling through her like a shock wave.

  Simmons leaned forward in her seat. “Tell me about the girl you found walking along the highway.”

  It was an order, but the underlying softness in the other woman’s request compelled Lori to speak.

  “Bella Nunes,” Lori said, enunciating the girl’s name. Speaking it out loud because, whether they could prove it or not, Lori was convinced she was a victim. “She claimed she was held captive at Coulter’s compound. Locked up inside one of the cages with a snake. She was young. A runaway,” she said, glancing at Ben as they connected the dots.

  Simmons wet her lips and nodded, sliding back in the seat once more. “Would it make you feel better or worse to discover she’s not the first young woman to claim such a thing?”

  Lori paused to reflect on the question. The truth was, there was no good answer. Nothing was going to make her feel better, and hardly anything could make her feel worse for not being able to do more for the frightened young woman she’d found walking along the side of the highway.

  “Neither,” she answered at last.

  Special Agent Simmons stared at her appraisingly. “Exactly.”

  Lori’s brow furrowed. “Why is the DEA involved? Are you all dabbling in human trafficking these days?”

  Simmons chuckled and resumed her slouch, the picture of relaxed repose. “Not exactly,” she said in a drawl so soft it sounded dangerous. “We have plenty on our plate with the drugs, but when you add allegations that he’s collecting and detaining young women, it becomes even more sinister.”

  Lori sat straighter. “It certainly does. Do you think he’s having them move drugs for him?”

  “It’s possible. Or they could be another revenue stream for him in addition to whatever product he’s funneling through his contacts in South Florida.”