Courting Disaster (4 page)

He hurried forward and knelt beside me. “Are you all right?” When he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, a sensation like an electrical shock streaked through me. I could smell the warm, musky scent of his skin that was pure male, pure Jared.

Yep, I was definitely in the present. At least I hoped I was. Reliving the past was wearing thin.

“I’m fine.” I shrugged but couldn’t shake his arm loose. “I can stand.”

“I’m sure you can but I’m admiring the view.”

I followed the direction of his interested gaze and saw that my skirt rode up around my waist, exposing lots of bare skin. Like any sane woman in Florida, I shunned pantyhose during the summer.

“When did you start wearing thong panties?” Jared asked in a neutral tone, but his hand tightened on my shoulder.

“Pervert.” I jabbed my elbow into his midriff but couldn’t appreciate his grunt as I scrambled to my feet. When one’s wearing a short skirt, there’s no graceful way to rise from a sitting position on the floor.

From his bemused expression, Jared was enjoying the extended peep show. My legs weren’t too shabby, and daily morning runs ensured that I maintained a tight butt.

A flustered guard appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

Jared stood and smiled. “Ms. Dent and I were discussing a case when she tripped and fell. She’s fine.”

“Okay, Mr. Manning.” The guard nodded and withdrew.

I frowned at Jared. “What are you doing here?”

He reached out and brushed back my damp matted bangs. My skin tingled even at that abbreviated contact.

“You never did answer my question. Did you have another spell?”

Another perfect example of why he was a top-notch prosecutor. Jared never lost track during questioning. Like a hunter he kept circling back until he caught his prey in a lie.

Only one way to counter his inquisition. Attack.

“What was Borys to the Hedeon gang?”

All play and any hint of lust disappeared from Jared’s eyes. In their place slid the cold glitter of a predator. He gripped my upper arms. “What did you remember from that night?”

“Uh-uh. You answer my question first.”

He swore better than any sailor but released me. “He was the Russians’ primary accountant for their money laundry operations. He was a genius at setting up shell companies.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Millions.” Jared shrugged. “Maybe higher. It’s a very sophisticated operation.”

“It
is
a sophisticated operation? Present tense?” I zeroed in on his slip-up. “You haven’t filed charges against the Hedeon leadership yet?”

Jared’s lips thinned. “It’s complicated.”

Pressure clamped around my head like a vise. I should know whether or not Jared had tried the case after Borys’s death. Hadn’t Jared been in secret meetings with other law enforcement agencies?

Yes. Jared had introduced me to a very intense, straight-laced FBI agent before I’d taken on representing Borys. After that, I’d been practically sanitized from Jared’s life.

“I just bet it’s complicated. You’ve been too busy with hot-shot FBI agents to pursue justice for poor old Borys.”

“Dammit. You had another flashback, didn’t you?” He approached me. “The truth, honey.”

I tilted my chin in defiance. “So what if I did?”

“What did you remember? Anything your client said?” He pressed closer.

“If I did, I couldn’t tell you. Attorney-client privilege.”

“Your client’s dead. Killed right there.”

I winced. That image I didn’t want to revisit. “Death doesn’t terminate privilege.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re arrogant. There’s only one reason you want to know what Borys said. You haven’t gotten the mob leadership and it’s bugging the hell out of you.” Something familiar about this argument needled me.

“Wait a minute,” I stormed. “You gave me an ultimatum the morning I was shot. You said if I didn’t stop representing Borys our relationship was over.”

Jared’s jaw jerked as if I had slapped him. Annoyance flared in his eyes. “If you’re going to remember things after all this time, at least get them straight. I also immediately apologized for being an ass.”

His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. He let his gaze roam over my body again. “The make-up sex was exceptionally hot that morning.”

My mouth dried at the desire in his eyes and I swallowed. If I recalled, we hadn’t made it from the kitchen back to bed.

Jared braced his hands against the table on either side of me, effectively imprisoning me. “Get this through your thick skull, Carling. If you remember anything about that night—I don’t care if it’s what color panties you were wearing—I want you to come and tell me. You’re playing with fire.”

“You can’t order me—”

Jared’s kiss cut off any further protest. God, what a mouth the man had. Heat blasted through me clear to my toes. But before I could do something as idiotic as putting my arms around his neck, Jared raised his head and backed away.

I gripped the table. Better that than hauling off and punching him in the stomach.

“Don’t meddle in matters you don’t understand, Carling. I’m warning you. You’ll be in way over your head.” He strode toward the door, paused and came back.

This time I whipped a hand up, but he caught my wrist with ease. I didn’t think it was possible to notch up the intensity of a kiss, but he managed it.

The air-conditioned air stirred by the overhead fan was a relief when he finally turned and left the room.

Bemused, I touched my lips. Jared sure knew how to deliver a closing argument.

Never let it be said that a toe-curling kiss could reduce me to Barbie mentality. Jared’s warning meant he was in the middle of an active investigation.

Don’t interfere? He wasn’t the one being ripped apart in a nightmare of the past and present at war. He wasn’t afraid of the unknown. Jared knew who he was.

I didn’t, not anymore. Was I really the woman who drove red-hot Mustangs and loved garish décor? Or was I the woman who once dreamed of a life with Jared complete with white picket fences and babies? I wasn’t even sure if I liked either one now.

I needed to know what happened the night Borys was killed. Maybe then I could forge a brand new me.

In the short walk from the client conference room to the detention center’s reception area, I assessed my options and arrived at a strategic plan.

Ah, target in sight.

Leaning with one elbow propped against the counter, Deputy Bill Murphy laughed and gestured as he chatted with the female officer manning the desk. No doubt telling a joke. If there was a bad joke, Bill knew it. He had this special brain cell that could retain every punch line ever invented by a comic.

I sidled up next to him. “Hey Bill. Connie.” I smiled at the other woman.

“Hey, Counselor!” Bill turned toward me. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture?”

I could take a thousand blows to the head and still know the answer. As an attorney you couldn’t avoid being the butt of lawyer jokes at every public gathering. But when your mark for a huge favor wants to play the comic, you suck it up.

“You got me, Bill.” I spread my hands and yes, did the wide-eyed innocent routine. “What’s the difference?”

“Lawyers get frequent flyer miles.”

Oh for the good old days when we only lost out to snakes on the popularity contest. “Ha!” I forced a smile. “That’s a good one.”

Bill’s ruddy face lit up. You could almost hear his mind register that he had a sucker. Before he could empty his folder of jokes, I said, “Hey, Bill, could I have a word with you in private?”

“Sure, Counselor.”

Deliberately I led him toward the hall where the administrative offices were. Lowering my voice, I asked, “Bill, were you on duty at the front last year when I was shot?”

Immediately, his expression sobered. “Yes. To this day I don’t know how the bastard who shot you got by us.”

He obviously sided with the official verdict that an outsider got by security and pulled the trigger. While I couldn’t rule out a deputy was the shooter, I couldn’t tell Bill I was investigating my growing sense that it had been an inside job. I would start with the people who had to sign in at the front desk. Maybe I could cajole the firm’s PI, Gabe Chavez, to get me the list of officers in the building that night.

I gave the deputy a bright smile. “Hey, I’m fine now. No permanent damage to this hard head of mine.”

Keep the amnesia myth alive,
I warned myself. If Borys’s murder had been a gang hit, I couldn’t imagine a witness would normally be left alive. That left three possibilities: the killer had been interrupted, the killer didn’t think I saw him or news of my memory loss had made him feel safe. I ruled out the first because, in the past year, the hit man had ample time and opportunity to finish the job.

Bill’s love of the gab would carry this portion of our conversation near and far, perhaps to the ears of the shooter. Let him feel secure a while longer until I could learn his identity.

I rapped my knuckles lightly against my temple. “I can’t remember a thing about the shooting. I found some of my client’s personal effects, but can’t recall the names of his family. I was wondering if I could look at the visitor log from that night. I know several friends visited Borys that day.”

“You know I can’t do that, Ms. Dent.”

Back to formalities. Not a good sign.

“I feel so bad that I’ve had my client’s…” I allowed my voice to trail off as if I had to collect myself.

Had what? It couldn’t be something taken off him during the arrest, but I needed an item close to the truth.

Borys had collected anything related to his favorite show.

“He gave me his cartoon memorabilia to safe keep for him. He meant for his family to have it. Please, Bill?”

Speculation glinted in his eyes but the deputy scanned the corridor. I had him. “Wait in this office and I’ll see what I can do.”

Minutes later he appeared with a slender volume. “I’ll be outside. Don’t take too long,” he warned before leaving the room.

Alone, I wiped my sweaty palms against my skirt, took out my legal pad and flipped to the week before the attack. As I scanned the pages, I recognized names of fellow attorneys. One name appeared so frequently I had to wonder if he was the criminal version of an ambulance chaser. When I spotted Jared’s name, I ignored the spurt in my blood pressure.

No visitors for Borys other than myself in the week before his death. I flipped to the day of the shooting and ran my finger by each name. Nothing leaped out until the end of the list. Andy Lopez had been visiting late, like a lot of the prosecutors often did. Then there was my name and Jared’s right underneath. We must have just missed each other that day.

Wait a minute.
I ran my finger back up the page. Drew Powell. Why was that name so familiar? An image of a tall, outdoorsy man who should have been a professional football player rather than an accountant appeared in my mind.

Borys’s lover.

I jotted down his name although I already knew where I could find him. With the hat tricks my head had been pulling, I wasn’t about to chance committing anything to memory. I also noted the names of all the guards and other visitors. I closed the book and went outside.

“Thanks, Bill.” I handed the book to him. “I owe you one.”

“Carling!”

I spun and found Andy Lopez standing behind us. His curious gaze swung from me to Bill. “What’s going on?”

I ratcheted a smile to killer intensity. “Hey, Andy. Just in time. I just learned a new joke from Bill. How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road?”

Andy gave me a pained look. “I have no idea.”

I winked as I moved past him. “The vultures aren’t gagging over the skunk.” I kept walking and did a wave over my shoulder. “See you gents later. Gotta go.”

As I hurried down the hall, I heard Bill tell Andy another lawyer joke. Score one for me. Bill had another joke for his repertoire and a new victim.

Rock music blasted from my cell phone, and I dug through my purse to pull it out. Spotting my office number on the caller ID, I hit the green call button.

“Carling, it’s Maria,” my secretary said.

“What’s up?” I exited the building.

“I just got a call from Rocket Fertilizer. The police have arrested Mike Staminski for drug possession.”

“What? How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

“Then I’ll head straight to the police station. I assume Rocket has contacted their bail bond company?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll check in later.”

I walked quickly toward my rental Mustang, gleaming black and beautiful under the hot Florida sun. I felt my pulse kick up a notch, whether in anticipation of the Mustang’s power or the action at the police station, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that there was no going back to a sedate sedan for me. I’d refused any other make or model at the car rental place.

However, not even the zippiest car could avoid the never-ending road construction in West Palm Beach. A ride that should have taken fifteen minutes crawled into thirty before I parked at the station. Add the fact that the desk sergeant took her sweet time dragging her feet to take me back to the holding room, and a good two hours had passed since the Rocket driver’s arrest. Plenty of time to work him over if he hadn’t held firm in asking for an attorney.

Sure enough, when I entered the room two detectives in street clothes sat on one side of the table facing my client. I recognized both officers. The older, gray-haired detective had been on the force for years, while the younger man with a top-notch muscular physique had been his partner only several months. They worked well as an interrogation tag team. At present they gave all the appearance of engaging in a casual conversation, leaning back in their chairs. They both shot me a look of irritation at having their game interrupted.

On the other hand, Mike Staminski was pale and sweating, the epitome of a man with secrets just begging to be revealed.

“Gentlemen.” I smiled as I walked over to Mike. “I assume my client’s been properly Mirandized?”

“Carling.” Detective Bob Sherwood, the older officer, stood up. “Sure. The arresting officer read him his rights, but Mr. Staminski never said he had an attorney.”

“Uh-huh.” I squeezed Mike’s shoulder before I took the seat next to him. “He didn’t mention I was representing him as to the accident he had with his truck last week?”

“He did say his company had retained a lawyer for an accident.” The younger detective, Marcos Hurtado, answered with an easy smile.

“So it didn’t occur to you that he might want to call me?”

Hurtado shrugged. “He said he didn’t need one. He might get fired by his boss if he knew he was in trouble again.”

I glanced at my client. “Mike, is that right?”

The driver squirmed, looking miserable. “I make no trouble. I need the job.” He spread his big, heavily callused hands. “Now this.”

I gave him a reassuring smile. “It will be all right.” I faced Sherwood, who had sat down again. “What’s the charge?”

“We haven’t officially charged him yet. He was detained for suspicion of drug trafficking. An officer stopped him for a busted taillight. When he acted suspiciously, the officer searched the truck and found a bag of cocaine lodged behind bags of fertilizer.”

“It’s not mine!” Mike yelled. “The truck is loaded at the yard. Anyone could have put it there.”

“Mike, do not say another word,” I warned.

“And what would you have done when you unloaded the delivery?” Hurtado asked. “Chalked it up as another bag of fertilizer?”

“I drive the truck. That’s it.” Mike leaned forward, pounding his fist on the table. “There are always others to help with the loading and unloading.”

“How convenient.” Hurtado sneered.

“All right.” I stood, tugging on my client’s arm to do the same. “Interview’s over. Either charge Mr. Staminski or release him.”

Sherwood rose. “We’ll be in touch, Carling.”

“You do that.” I sailed out of the room with Mike in tow. I didn’t stop until I was outside the building.

“Here.” I pulled out a business card and thrust it at the driver. “You keep this on you at all times. If you even spot a police officer looking at you funny, you call me. Immediately.”

Mike’s thick brows furrowed. “Look at me how?”

“Never mind. You see a badge coming at you, you call. Clear?”

“Yes.” He stuck the card in his shirt pocket but then reached out and grabbed my hand—hard. Since we were on the front steps of the West Palm Beach Police Department, I wasn’t too worried. Still, I gave a quick tug and he released me.

“Miss Dent. Please.” Fear glittered in the driver’s dark eyes. “You will not tell Rocket I said anything.”

Tricky thing about retainers and the extent of attorney-client privilege. However, Mike was the actual client I represented, as far as I was concerned. Rocket merely footed the bill. They would get a report marked Confidential but no privileged information shared by Mike or any other driver.

“Not to worry, Mike. Whatever passes between us is confidential. I have to warn you, though, that restriction doesn’t apply to those officers who questioned you. They could say something to Rocket during their investigation. Unlikely if they’re trying to determine the source of that coke, but it’s possible.”

Sweat beaded along his brow and he swiped his arm across his face. “I can deny whatever they say to Rocket, yes?”

My “bull” antenna went on alert.

“That’s between you and your conscience. But remember, the more lies you tell, the harder it is to keep them straight. If it gets back to Officers Sherwood and Hurtado that you’re spinning a different tune to people at Rocket, they could haul you in for more questioning.”

The driver paled but he merely nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dent. I must get back to work. We’re paid bonuses by the load.”

“All right. Be careful.”

I watched him walk away and turn the corner toward a parking lot.

The man was terrified. Why?

I glanced at my watch. My calendar was, unfortunately, clear for the rest of the day, probably the remainder of the week. Either Maria had done it to give me time to rest or I simply didn’t have any new clients. That meant I wouldn’t carry my weight in the partnership again.

I didn’t feel like facing my empty townhouse so I might as well occupy myself with a few personal ghosts. I re-entered the station. Luck was with me. Detective Sam Bowie was in the station.

Twenty minutes later I was shown to a room jam-packed with desks and people. Ringing phones competed with people talking and yelling. Through the milieu I spotted Sam’s familiar rangy form and skirted around a detective carrying two overfilled cups of coffee as I made my way across the room. Leaning against the desk, Sam had a phone receiver braced between his ear and shoulder as he jotted down notes. He gave me a wink and gestured to an aluminum-framed chair that had seen better days. I gingerly sat in it. Moments later he finished his call.

“Well, Carling, long time no see,” he drawled with a Texas twang. “How’s that red-haired hellcat partner of yours?”

I smothered a smile. For long as I’d known both Sam and Nicole, they had circled around each other like wary wrestlers waiting for the first lunge. Although they had never dated, I had no doubt I wanted to be ringside with a bag of popcorn for the fireworks if they ever did.

“Nicole’s fine.”

“And you?” Reaching out, Sam took my hand and squeezed it. “I heard about the car accident.”

“I fortunately have a hard head and nine lives.” I was down to seven, though. A shiver raced through me.

“Hey, you’re not all right.” He gave my hand a harder squeeze before releasing it. “Let me get you something.”