Courting Disaster Read online

  I still needed to crack one password protected file on Borys’s disk. The one labeled Grease. Despite my deceased client’s penchant for old shows and movies, somehow I didn’t think the file had anything to do with the musical.

  Grease was slang for bribes. Was the secret file a list of people on the take from the Russian mob? Would I find a familiar name on it?

  The phone on the kitchen island rang and I picked up. “Hello?”

  “Whore!” a voice rasped. Was it the same as my attacker’s? I couldn’t tell.

  “So you say. Do you have a beef against women in general or do you hate someone in particular?”

  Come on, damn you, talk to me so I can identify you.

  His response was to hang up. I hit Redial but only got a ringing tone. I checked the display but no number appeared on the screen. Returning the phone to its stand, I considered the options. Perhaps the call was traceable, but probably not. I couldn’t bear another round of police tonight. I would report the call in the morning. Time for bed.

  However, I left the lights burning in every room and placed my cell phone on the pillow.

  Even I had my limits in the defiance department.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday afternoon I had an unexpected visitor. After glancing through the window at who had rung the bell, I wiped my hands and went to the door. Opening it, I glared. “I’m busy.”

  Casually dressed in faded jeans and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Jared looked good enough to eat. His hair curled damply on the collar, begging for my fingers to muss it up.

  He grinned and ran a finger along my nose. “Taken to wearing war paint?” He displayed a white smudge as he brushed past me.

  Rolling my eyes, I shut the door and walked over to the drop cloth covering my living floor. Jared gave a low whistle. White primer now covered three walls. “You’re painting?”

  I cast a disgruntled look over my shoulder. “Don’t sound so surprised. I can wield a paintbrush as well as a closing argument any day.” To prove it, I grabbed the roller and began working on the wall.

  “Good to know you’ve developed some practical skills.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him kneel by the can of paint I had bought this morning. “Yellow?”

  “Yep.” I continued sweeping the roller. I wasn’t about to explain the need deep inside me for light in my life again. I’d had enough of craziness. I wanted sunshine.

  “Reminds me of sunflowers.” Jared’s on target insight caused me to jerk, splattering a few drops. “It will look good in here. Getting rid of the furniture?”

  “No, but I’m going to make new covers.” With Mom’s help and a little sweet talk. Given the fact that I was still paying for the current set of furniture, I wouldn’t be buying anything new for a while.

  “Is there a reason you’re here?”

  “Ah, the Carling who was scared shitless last night has disappeared.”

  “I was not scared.”

  “Yes, you were. And nervous.”

  I glanced around and saw him contemplating me as he picked up a brush. “I was attacked in my own house. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?”

  “The intruder was looking for something—which he didn’t find.” He grabbed a plastic tray and poured primer into it. Rising, he crossed to the window and began edging it.

  “I thought the investigation was focusing on the disgruntled client theory rather than a break-in.”

  “Who said they had to be mutually exclusive?”

  What if there was a connection? I frowned as I rolled paint. Could Larry and Borys be linked? Droplets sprayed as I pressed too hard. Larry’s gang tattoo. Not the same one as the Rocket drivers had, but gangs could be affiliated.

  I faced Jared. “By the way, I called the police this morning.”

  He lowered his brush. “Why? Did you remember something about your attacker?”

  “I had a hate call after you left.”

  Jared set aside the brush, crossed the room in three strides and gripped my upper arms. “Why didn’t you call me?” Blue flames glittered in his eyes.

  “It was late and the call was most likely made from a disposable phone. I tried to redial but got nothing.”

  He shook his head in frustration. “Don’t you have caller ID?”

  “Do now.” First thing this morning I’d added the service. “All the creep said was ‘whore.’ When I tried to get him to talk more, he hung up.”

  Jared closed his eyes as if in prayer and let his head drop so his forehead pressed against mine. “I can only imagine what you said.”

  He lifted his head. “I don’t suppose you could resist pushing a few hot buttons?”

  “Well.” I wrinkled my nose. “I did infer he had mother issues.”

  Jared groaned and slipped his arms around me. I managed to hold the roller to the side as I allowed him to draw me close.

  I’d been waiting for this, I realized, as I pressed my cheek against his chest. The strong beat of his heart, the security of his embrace.

  “How am I ever going to keep you safe?” he murmured into my hair. “I can’t count the number of nights I’ve lain awake thinking what I could have done different to prevent you from being shot.” Guilt crusted his tone.

  Jared’s core values were to seek justice and protect. Once when I had complained to the psychiatrist about how my family and friends were stifling me with their concern, she’d warned I wasn’t the only one suffering from post-traumatic syndrome. A horrific incident had far-reaching impact.

  Had I been so self-absorbed that I hadn’t noticed Jared had also been affected?

  If we were to rebuild our relationship I needed to open myself to him now.

  I swallowed. My throat was dry as toast. “Jared, I found a CD Borys left me hidden in his cartoon collection.”

  “What! You didn’t tell me?” Hurt flashed across his face. How could I explain the need driving me to find Borys’s killer when I wasn’t sure myself?

  “If you will recall, we’ve had issues. I’m telling you now so that’s a big step for me.”

  To my surprise, he nodded. “Okay, where is it?”

  “This way.” I walked down the hallway with Jared close behind and pulled a large plastic tub from the closet. Popping the top off, I rummaged through the contents.

  “You hid it with your hurricane supplies?” Jared asked dryly.

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” I tossed aside a small bag.

  “Tootsie rolls?”

  “Chocolate, chewy,” I explained. “Perfect for nerves.”

  I found the blue tarp and yanked it free. “Only one tarp, Carling?” Jared’s voice was exasperated. “If your roof goes, you’re going to need more than one.”

  One was all I figured I could handle. “You going to get on my roof and tie the tarps down if I need them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll get more.” I held up the DVD case.

  “I’ve printed out a summary of every episode of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show.” At Jared’s quizzical glance, I added, “Based on Borys’s obsession with the cartoon, I figured he may have coded the disk with numbers or names from the series.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I turned into the second bedroom that served as my office and sat on the swivel chair at the desk with my laptop. I loaded the CD and plugged in the initial password. Quickly I pulled up the main directory.

  “Could you hand me that folder?” I asked Jared. He smiled and obliged. I pulled out the sheet listing shell companies and hesitated.

  “Honey.” Jared placed his hands on my shoulders, rubbing them. “Because I’m in the midst of an investigation, I may not be able to disclose certain information.”

  “Like what you were doing with the jockey at the racetrack?”

  His fingers tensed and then resumed kneading. “Exactly. But what you may not realize is that we’re on the same side for once. I want the people who ordered the hit on you and Borys.” His
fingers flexed on my shoulders. “You’re in danger and I can’t stop them if I don’t have all the facts.”

  I groaned. “No fair. I was always a sucker for the ‘align yourself with the witness’ ploy.” A tactic I commonly used myself. When questioning a hostile witness, I would align myself with his beliefs and opinions, relaxing him so he would spill his guts.

  “Well—” Jared switched to kneading the sides of my neck, “—did it work?”

  Not nearly as much as his touch did, but I handed him the list. “Borys set up a series of companies, including Rocket Fertilizer and the racetrack. What’s the overall connection, I don’t know. But there was another file on the CD that I wasn’t able to access.”

  Jared gave me a final rub before letting his hands drop. “Why? I thought he wanted you to have the information in case something happened to him?”

  I twisted on the chair to face him. “Not sure. Maybe he got interrupted? Thought someone knew about the disk and would get their hands on it before he could give it to me?” I shrugged. “We’ll never know.”

  “When did he give it to you?”

  “I don’t know.” Jared’s brow lifted. “I don’t! I still don’t remember everything. My memory’s like a kaleidoscope. The pieces shift, change and suddenly an image comes into focus. Sometimes I feel disoriented like…”

  “Like what, Carling?” His quiet voice prodded me. “Tell me what you’re going through so I can understand.”

  Uncomfortable, I tried to turn away but his hand shot out and gripped my wrist in a gentle but effective handcuff. “Please, honey, talk to me.”

  “There are times the imagery is so vivid that I feel like I’ve been transported to the moment. That I’m reliving it.”

  “Is that what happened to you in the prison conference room?”

  “Yes. I think my subconscious buried events of that night so deep that when one image does tear loose, it’s traumatic.”

  He nodded at the laptop. “I could have one of our experts work on the disk.”

  “No way. Borys entrusted this to me.” I turned back to the screen. “The file I’ve been trying to access is labeled Grease.”

  “‘Grease’ as in bribes?” Jared asked. God, I loved how nimbly his mind worked.

  “That was my guess. Logically, Borys’s murder had to be an inside job. There weren’t that many visitors who had signed in.”

  “Someone could have created a distraction at the check-in point so our killer could get inside,” Jared noted. So he had explored that option.

  “But my guess is the surveillance cameras picked up nothing,” I answered.

  “No one who didn’t have a reason to be in the detention center.” His mouth twisted as if he were tamping down on frustration.

  “So we’re back to the inside man theory. And if the killer was an insider, he had to be on the take. I’m sorry, Jared, but several state attorneys were there that day.”

  “Including myself.”

  “Yes. Let me study this for a minute.”

  The password possibilities were astronomical. The Bullwinkle cartoon segments totaled three hundred and twenty-six. Some websites sequentially numbered the episodes while the DVD collections listed them as shows with different numbers. Then there were all the spin-off characters, such as Dudley Do-Right, the bumbling Canadian Mountie, and the infamous…

  “Hold on.” I sat forward and typed in a name. The screen blurred and then a directory opened. “Yes!” I pumped a fist.

  Jared leaned over my shoulder. “What did you figure out?”

  I tapped my finger on a list of Dudley Do-Right shows. “Episode three featured a bear called Stokey that was hypnotized by the villain into setting fires rather than putting them out.”

  Jared’s mouth curved. “I can’t imagine the Forestry Service being happy.”

  “They weren’t. The episode never aired again until the release of the DVD collection. Borys used Stokey for this file’s code.”

  Jared glanced at me. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did Borys think you would get Bullwinkle trivia? You’re a sports fanatic.”

  I squirmed. “He had a special name he called me.”

  Jared gripped the back of my chair and swung me around to face him. “We were dating and he flirted with you?”

  I sighed. “Get real, Jared.”

  “What was the special name?”

  Heat swept across my face. “Natasha.”

  Jared’s lips twitched. “The femme fatale.” A darker emotion replaced the annoyance in his gaze. I shrugged.

  He placed a finger under my chin. “The only femme fatale role you’ll be playing from here out is mine, clear?”

  I nodded. He dropped his hand. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”

  Releasing a puff of breath, I turned back to the computer.

  Disappointment swelled in me as I scanned the screen. “The names are all initials.” But the numbers were significant. A lot of money was being paid…but for what services?

  “I’ll have to compare this to our list of suspects to see if we have a match.”

  My brow lifted. “You haven’t investigated anyone’s bank accounts yet?”

  “Of course I have, but if these people have set up accounts in other names…” He shoved a hand through his hair.

  “Then this list is going to be meaningless.”

  I considered the list again. “We’re assuming these are initials for proper names. But what if the letters stand for jobs?”

  I bent closer and tapped the screen. “Look at this column, PG1, PG2. Prison guards?” My pulse quickened. “KR must be Kirwood Racetrack. There’s five entries for J and three for T.” Realization dawned.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That day at the track I won a lot of money.” My head began to throb and I lifted a hand to it. I could hear Borys’s voice.

  “Natasha, you want to win a lot of money? Then go to the racetrack on Thursdays. If these jockeys are racing—” he rattled off several names, “—don’t bet on their horses. Bet on the longest shot there is.”

  My hand trembled as I lowered it. “Jared, Borys told me not to bet on certain jockeys. My subconscious must have picked up on the names as I studied the program.”

  He nodded. “My informant indicated certain jockeys are holding back their horses so that the odds will be higher the next race they run.”

  I swallowed hard. “But I was so sure that day—I couldn’t lose. I even had an elderly couple betting their Social Security check along with me.”

  Jared’s strong fingers lifted my chin so I was forced to meet his gaze. “Chance is a slippery devil. For all the race fixing the Hedeon were pulling, Lady Luck made an appearance that day in the form of Carling Dent.”

  Tears stung my eyes as the tension eased. However, I would never again intervene in others’ play.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I turned my attention to the laptop. “I think this series of initials indicate various law enforcement agencies.”

  “I think you’re right.” Jared squinted. “What’s that last column?”

  “SA. That could stand for…” My voice trailed off as I saw Jared’s face drain of all expression.

  “State attorney,” he finished my sentence. “Care to see my bank statements?”

  The late evening storm issued one belly-wrenching roar of thunder announcing imminent arrival. I hugged a pillow and ate popcorn as I watched the Marlins-Braves game.

  I was in lockdown mode. Literally and figuratively. The locksmith had arrived, interrupting our computer session. With Jared taking charge, every window and door now had a sturdier lock or had been rekeyed. The locksmith had even outfitted the patio door off my bedroom with a security bar. A virtual fortress—even I might not be able to get out.

  But the gleaming new locks pleased Jared. After giving me a bone-melting kiss that had left me breathless, he had taken a copy of the CD with him. I su
spected warrants for bank account searches were flying fast and furious at the state attorney’s office.

  Another boom of thunder exploded right over the house, rattling the glass. Already edgy, I jumped. Swallowing back my heart, I opened the drawer to the end table and pulled out a slender flashlight. This time of the year, Florida’s storms could be mean and nasty. I placed it next to my cell phone on the table. After last night, I planned on having a phone on or near me at all times.

  I eased back onto the sofa.

  The wind whooshed outside and moments later the rain struck the windows and roof like a spray of bullets. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

  Then I heard the sound. A rattle.

  Grabbing the phone and flashlight, I crept into the hall and listened. The kitchen phone rang. No number on the display. My heart hammering, I lifted the receiver.

  “Whore.” The harsh voice rasped. “I’m coming for you.”

  I slammed the receiver down. I snuck down the hall to the bedroom. Outside, lightning flared. A dark form stood by the patio door.

  Dammit, not again. I didn’t care if it was a false alarm. I hit the pre-coded number for 9-1-1 and yelled, “I’m calling the police, you moron. You just stand there and let the lightning fry your ass!”

  Calling the perp a moron probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I was mad.

  “Hello?” Through the red haze of anger I realized the emergency operator was speaking to me. I explained the situation and she promised to send an officer right over.

  I heard a crash that sounded as if one of my potted palms had been knocked over. Oh hell, he was going to throw one of those stupid plants through the glass. I hated gardening, but Kate had foisted several on me for my patio, claiming it made it homier. I was going to “homey” her if I lived through this night.

  I ran into the bathroom where Jared had the locksmith install an industrial-strength deadbolt lock. Slamming the door and throwing the bolt, I crouched inside the tub. I then placed my second call.

  “Jared, guess what? That bathroom lock is proving useful.”