Courting Danger Page 10

  “Sleep tight, beautiful. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

  As I listened to static, I watched a dark pickup drive by. Whatever Dumb and Dumber had been up to, Gabe had broken off his hunt to see me home.

  My Jag lurched to a final stop on the rutted dirt lot. I took a deep breath, released it and grabbed my tote. Although a few pickups in various degrees of batteredness remained parked, I saw no sign of heavy equipment. In south Florida, the construction-industry day began early, which is why I timed my arrival for seven o’clock. I knew the caravan of laborers would already be making their way to the various sites while the office staff wouldn’t arrive until eight. For this first meeting, I wanted no prying eyes or ears.

  I picked my way along to the single-story stucco building and opened the heavy metal door. A blast of chilled air hit me, but, as I had hoped, the outer office was empty. Framed photos of buildings and equipment lined the walls in testimony of past successful projects. Arranged on the neat desk were a state-of-the-art computer, printer and fax machine. Although the linoleum floor at the entrance bore tracks of dirt, the waiting room was spotless with gun-metal-gray utilitarian chairs.

  The setup conveyed competence and dependability for any prospective customer—important qualities in the construction and restoration business.

  At least the high price of my innocence had been put to good use.

  The sound of a man’s voice drew me down a short hallway to the corner office. Leaning against the doorjamb, I studied the interior and its sole occupant. The man sat in a swivel leather chair, turned sideways to face a large window. He held a mobile phone propped between his shoulder and his ear as he flipped through papers in a folder.

  “Got it, Stan. The sod shipment’s been delayed but the drywall is to be delivered around noon today at the courthouse. We need a Bobcat and spreader crew ready to go.” He closed the folder. “Good. See to it. We need to be on schedule to get the next payment.” He disconnected the mobile and tossed it onto the desk.

  “Good morning, Juan.”

  He swung around and stared at me with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Then his tense expression cleared and he smiled. “Well, Princess, what an honor. What brings you out from your ice palace?”

  Disgust raked its claws down my back. I knew this encounter wouldn’t be pleasant, but my ex-husband’s opening volley indicated it was going to be downright nasty. Funny how two people who had once loved each other could turn into the filthiest fighters.

  But Juan Delgado had never truly loved me. He had loved only my money.

  I steeled myself. “The divorce was ten years ago, Juan. Can we at least be civil?”

  “Sure, Princess.” He rose and approached me. Years of sun exposure had weathered his once boyishly handsome face into a harder leathery mask. Lines scored into the flesh by his eyes and mouth lent him a look of perpetual discontent. But then again, he had never been a happy person. He’d always wanted more than he had.

  When I saw he meant to kiss me, I turned my face so his lips only brushed my cheek. Still the slight touch of his moist mouth sent a shiver through me.

  “Hey, I thought you wanted to be friends.”

  “Friends, not kissing buddies.”

  “Don’t worry, Princess. I know only too well what an ice cube you are. I would never expect an ounce of warmth from you.”

  His insult slashed at me, and ten years ago those same words had left ugly wounds deep within me. Had I heard those words even last week, I may have believed them.

  Our social orbits rarely crossed and when they did, our pattern remained the same. Juan would take his usual swipes at me while I maintained a shield of indifference, relying on Aunt Hilary’s philosophy of not stooping to another’s level. But today that particular advice didn’t cut it.

  Memories of my making out with Gabe in the shower curled like steam through me. I lifted my chin and stepped to the side.

  Time to air out the past and take no prisoners.

  “As far as I know, Juan, it takes two to tangle. You weren’t the only one left unsatisfied from our sexual activity. Hump, bang and not even a ‘thank you, ma’am’ don’t constitute intimacy.”

  A dark flush spread from his cheeks into his neck. “No woman has ever complained about my lovemaking.”

  “I doubt you would’ve heard them if they ever did. You weren’t much into pillow talk.”

  “You were the one who snuck out and let me take you in the pool house.”

  I winced. How tacky it sounded now. At seventeen with two glasses of cheap wine in me I’d thought stealing away in the moonlight to be with the gardener’s attentive, handsome son was romantic. Instead, my first time had been painful, messy but mercifully short. Still the crushing disillusionment after Juan had taken my virginity hadn’t been enough to open my eyes when he had proposed that we elope.

  Juan jammed his hands into his pockets while he studied me. “I often wondered whether you would’ve come to me if my father hadn’t been fired by Hilary that day. It often gnawed at me how much of your attraction was due to your feeling sorry for me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Slowly, I sank into one of the black leather client chairs. I had forgotten about Hilary flying into a rage at Juan’s father because he had overtrimmed a bougainvillea. How unfair it had seemed, to fire a man who had been the gardener for years over such a minor infraction. Months later, after my divorce, I had figured out that Hilary had been concerned about my growing attraction to Juan and by firing his father she meant to remove the temptation. Her plan had backfired when we had run away.

  What a miserable, expensive mistake. Even the three-day Caribbean cruise as our honeymoon—paid for by me—had backfired. When I had stepped off the ship, I had gone only too willingly with the waiting family representative.

  “Then again—” I looked at him “—did you ever see me for anything other than as a bankroll?”

  His throat muscles worked before he shrugged.

  “I see.” I stared at my clasped hands. “Well, enough reminiscing about the good old days.”

  “Why are you here, Katherine?” He sat behind his desk.

  “Lloyd Silber’s my client.”

  “Still hell-bent on trying to find justice?”

  “You bet.”

  “Justice doesn’t exist, Princess. This world’s about the strongest surviving.”

  “Another matter we differ on. I understand your company was brought in to help meet the grand-opening deadline on the courthouse project.”

  “That’s right. So?” Juan picked up a spike that was being used for a paperweight and flipped it through his fingers.

  “Who’s your field supervisor on the job?”

  “Stan Turow. He’s been with me for eight years. Good man.”

  “What do you know about all the construction delays?”

  He scowled. “None due to my work.”

  “I didn’t say they were. I asked what you knew about them.”

  “The usual. Weather, shipping delays, unreliable labor, equipment being stolen from the site.”

  “Nothing to indicate sabotage?”

  He slammed the spike down. “What are you getting at, Katherine?”

  “You’re the expert. Do you know of anyone who’d want to keep the project from being completed?”

  “Hell, no. This job is costing the general contractor a ton in overruns. He’s putting the nails to all the subs’ thumbs to get this restoration back on schedule. The last thing any of us want to see is another delay. If we don’t get paid, we can’t pay our workers and they find another job.”

  “Any reports from your crew of seeing or hearing mysterious things inside the courthouse?”

  “You mean those rumors that the top floor is haunted?”

  I nodded.

  “A couple workers complained of hearing the clip, clap of footsteps in the hallway. Stan sent them immediately to be tested for drugs and then we fired their asses. Don’t w
ant some bozo spooking the entire crew.”

  “Would you mind if I talked to Stan?”

  “No, but don’t get in the crew’s way, Princess. We’re on a tight schedule and I can’t afford any more delays.”

  “Stretched a little tight?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, but another major contract is bogged down in litigation. Some sleazeball attorney,” he leered at me, “filed a stay against the construction because of a nest of some damn turtles. I need the courthouse contract to go smoothly. Grace isn’t worth all the fuss.”

  I had started to rise but sat again. “You knew Grace Roberts?”

  He chuckled. “She was kind of hard to miss around the courthouse. She was a real pleasure to watch.”

  “Did you do more than watch?”

  His mouth tightened. “I’m not the one charged with her death. That old aristocrat is.”

  Translation: his answer was yes. Grace’s list of potential lovers was growing by the yard. I stood. “Thanks, Juan.”

  “How about dinner?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’ll be in touch if I need any further information about the construction.”

  He followed me to the door. “Be careful, Princess. You know how your nose for the wronged always lands you in trouble. A construction site is no place for you. Accidents happen all the time.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I made it to my car before I popped three antacid tablets. I stared at the half-finished tablet roll and realized it was two days old, a record for me. While the past few days had been a roller coaster, the nerve-racking excitement had been a good kind. Trust twenty minutes with my ex to reduce me to my bad habit.

  My cell phone rang and I unclipped it from my tote. “Hello.”

  “Yo, Kate.”

  “Good morning, Carling.”

  “Jared the Weasel just called.”

  “What is it with you two? Did he step on your toes in court once?”

  “That gutter-hack of an attorney?” Carling’s snort rang in my ear so loudly that I had to hold the phone out. “There’ll never be a day I can’t whip his tight ass in court.”

  “Tell me how you really feel about Jared Manning,” I commented dryly.

  “Weasel left a message that Judge Rodriguez wants to see you in chambers at eight-thirty sharp about the motions you filed.”

  I shot a quick glance at the dashboard clock: seven-thirty. Although I had an hour to drive ten miles, at this time of the morning I-95 resembled a game-day parking lot at the Dolphins’ stadium. I’d better take back roads to get to the courthouse on time.

  “Thanks, Carling. I’m on my way.”

  “Tell your opponent to drop dead, will you?”

  “Absolutely.” I hung up and started the engine, keeping the Jag at a crawl. As I lurched out of the driveway, I popped another tablet for stomach insurance.

  The first round of legal warfare was about to begin.

  Chapter 8

  I stood in the presiding judge’s chambers, warily sizing up my competition as he entered the room. With black wavy hair, high forehead, and ascetic features, Jared Manning looked like a cross between a poet and a pirate. As a lead prosecutor, he brought traits of both to a courtroom. He could slash a witness to death while at the same time persuade a jury to enter a guilty plea.

  Jared extended his hand. “Ms. Rochelle.” But when I returned the shake, he released my hand immediately as if he couldn’t stand the contact. His manner was cool and remote, but the hard expression in his glacial-blue eyes could have cut me in half.

  Stunned, I cocked a brow. “Do you have a problem, Mr. Manning?”

  He crossed his arms. “As a matter of fact I do. You. On this case.”

  No doubt about the acid in his tone. Jared Manning hated my guts. But why? “I’m sorry…” I inwardly winced. Why was I always apologizing? I wasn’t the offender here. “Have we met before?”

  “Not personally, but your reputation precedes you.”

  Unless he was an avid fan of the Palm Beach society column, how could he know me? Then a memory clicked into place.

  Of course. Jared. Harold had often talked about his buddy Jared from law school days. They met every Thursday night at a bar for a beer. No doubt Harold had filled Jared’s ear about what an ungrateful bitch I was for turning him in to the authorities.

  Sliding my hand into my jacket pocket, I curved my fingers around my security roll of tablets. I was sick and tired of the legal community’s distortion as to what had happened at the U.S. Attorney’s office. With our profession you’d think whistle-blowers of unethical conduct would be congratulated with a slap on the back. Instead, I’d received nothing but distain.

  “I’ve heard, Mr. Manning—” I likewise folded my arms “—that you’re a killer in the courtroom. You have more notches on your legal bedpost than any prosecutor since the days of my godfather Paul Schofield.”

  He inclined his head. “I’ve had a few good results.”

  Now I knew why Jared irritated Carling so much. His halfhearted modesty made me want to smack him with my tote.

  “Rumor also has it that you may be in the running for Chief State Attorney.”

  He shrugged.

  “Then tell me. Will you hire your good old buddy Harold to be on your staff?”

  A dull flush spread across Jared’s cheeks.

  “I thought as much. So don’t sit as judge and jury as to my actions. I did what was right.”

  His lips twitched. “Touché. I see why you and Carling Dent are friends.”

  “More than friends. We’re partners.”

  He shot me a hooded look as he twitched his jacket cuff into place. “I had the pleasure of speaking with your partner, Ms. Dent, this morning. Charming as always.” Underlying his sonorous voice was a rough edge.

  Oh no. Dealing with his Harold Lowell connection was more than enough for this outing. The last thing I wanted to do at this juncture was to get caught up in the ongoing dispute between Carling and Jared. My money was on Carling being victorious anyway.

  “She said the same about you.”

  He winced. “Ouch. I bet.”

  The door opened and Judge Theresita Rodriguez walked in with several folders under her arm. I’d been thrilled when the luck of case assignments had given us the same judge who had handled the first appearance hearing. Judge Rodriguez was tough but compassionate.

  “Good morning, counselors.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Jared and I answered in unison as we rose.

  The judge sat behind the bench. “Thank you both for responding to my office’s call.”

  “Not a problem, Judge,” I said.

  “Ms. Rochelle, I reviewed your motions and the State’s responses. On the motion to dismiss for insufficient evidence and for failure to properly Mirandize your client, I’m going to deny them. Insufficient showing.”

  Tension knotted my stomach. I knew those two motions had been pro forma. From the information disclosed to me, it appeared the State had probable cause to charge my client and the police had read him his rights. If I hadn’t filed the motions, the issues would have been waived. Still it never hurt to dot every i and cross every t for appellate purposes.

  But I desperately needed a favorable ruling on the third motion.

  The judge held up a document. “On your motion to suppress any evidence or testimony that your client attempted suicide in jail, I’m inclined to grant.”

  “Your Honor, if I may respond?” Jared asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Manning?”

  “The defendant’s suicide attempt clearly evinces his state of mind from which the jury can draw an inference of guilt.”

  “Counter from the defense?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor. Whether my client tried to commit suicide or not is after the fact and is irrelevant to whether he is culpable of murder. Any reasonable person hearing that my client attempted suicide is going to make a quantum j
ump to the conclusion he murdered Grace Roberts.”

  “Precisely the State’s point.” Jared nodded.

  “This is why I’m granting the defense’s motion to suppress.” The judge picked up her pen and signed the blank orders my secretary had attached to the motions. “I have one more matter.”

  I threw a questioning look at Jared and he shrugged.

  The judge set aside the folders. “I’ve learned that I need surgery. I’ve put off the procedure as long as possible, but my doctor has put down her foot and scheduled the operation for mid-May. I may be out of commission for a few months.”

  My mind raced. The period the judge would be out encompassed the period during which, in theory, my client’s right to a speedy trial should occur.

  The reality was a felony case rarely went to trial within the statutory framework due to a multitude of problems, the primary one being discovery. The opportunity to obtain depositions, documents and other evidence and then exchange the discovery with the opposition never went smoothly.

  “Of course, I’m granting any motions for extension of time within reason. For those who want to go to trial, I’m farming those cases out to other judges.” She glanced at her notes. “This one would be assigned to Judge Marvin Stein.”

  Over my dead body, I thought. Judge Stein wasn’t known as “Hangman Stein” for nothing. He consistently ruled against the defense. Many of his decisions were overruled and returned on appeal, but enough murder cases slipped through to death row. Too dicey to risk.

  “There’s a third option,” Judge Rodriguez continued, looking at me.

  “Yes, Your Honor?” I asked.

  “I haven’t received a demand for speedy trial from you.”

  For good reason. When a defendant filed such a demand, it meant you were prepared to go to trial on the drop of a dime. You could be called anywhere from five to sixty days.

  “Due to several plea bargains, I do have time available at the end of April and early May.”