Courting Disaster Page 8

  I gave up. How could I berate Jared for accepting her invite when the rest of us succumbed to her will? Even now we all scattered to do her bidding.

  Mom turned and went inside the kitchen. I followed her and the yummy smells. “All right, Mother. What gives?”

  She picked up a large prong fork and gestured toward the steaming pot. “Potatoes all ready for you to mash.”

  I turned and then staggered as a wave of dizziness struck. My vision blurred and I reached out to grip the edge of the nearest counter. My head throbbed with pain.

  I fought to breathe evenly and blinked a few times. I stepped toward the cabinet where Mom stashed the aspirin and bumped my hip against a hard object. Rubbing the sore spot, I stared at the granite-topped island. Where did that come from?

  I glanced around. Where walnut cabinets once had been, now stood cream-painted ones. Tiles replaced the worn linoleum flooring. Panic skittered down my spine as something shifted deep inside like two souls rubbing against each other.

  No, not souls. Memories. I had seen the kitchen of my childhood, even though I had personally helped my parents out with these kitchen renovations several months ago. I looked over at Mom, but she was pulling out the meat from the oven.

  She hadn’t noticed my little episode. Good. With the horror of finding Drew’s body, small wonder that I hadn’t had an earlier spell.

  I located the aspirin and swallowed two pills. From the other room came a burst of masculine laughter.

  “Mom, why did you invite Jared? You know we’re no longer an item.”

  She was intent on carving the meat.

  I switched off the burner, transferred the skinned potatoes to a metal bowl and set to mashing. “What are you plotting?”

  “We’ve always liked Jared, you know that. I don’t see why—just because you two broke up as a couple—we can’t see him on occasion. After all, if you told me once, you told me a hundred times that the break-up was civilized and you two would continue to work together.”

  Foiled by my very own words. An attorney’s worst fate.

  “Jared and I are just…” What? We hadn’t been exactly friends over the past year. “He’s my opponent in court.”

  “Then that should make for a lively debate over dinner.”

  “Mom, it’s over.”

  “If that’s what your stubborn head is telling you.”

  Fine. I pulverized the last potato. I could handle being civilized and get through a meal without making a fool of myself by running my fingers along the fine hair dusting his forearms. Time to change topics.

  “Mom?” I added milk to the bowl. “Last year did I give you a collection of Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons?”

  She looked up. “Yes, you did. The boys and their friends initially watched it to death. I meant to have you return the set, but then you were…”

  “Shot.”

  “Yes. That.” Carefully, she resumed the carving.

  Anticipation hummed. “Why were you going to have me return it?”

  “One of the disks was defective. Wouldn’t play. But then you were hurt, and I forgot about it.”

  Bingo.

  “All right if I take the set with me?” I spooned the potatoes into a serving dish.

  “Sure.” Mom shrugged. “The monsters have moved on to a new cartoon of the moment. Now it’s talking sponges.”

  “Sponges talk?” Jared asked from the doorway.

  I started and—splat!—dumped a heaping spoonful of potatoes onto the counter top.

  “Here, let me help you!” Jared set down the bottle of beer he was holding and crossed to where I stood. Instead of grabbing a towel from the rack, he scooped one of his long fingers through the steaming glob and tasted the potatoes. “Mmm. I didn’t know you could cook, Counselor.”

  I mulled over his comment as I grabbed a towel. I once loved to cook but it had become too easy to meet friends at a bar after work, have a drink and grab a quick bite. I hadn’t liked eating alone in my kitchen.

  I swiped at the mess. Jared leaned against the counter. “Maybe you can show me how to make mashed potatoes some time?”

  A warm, fuzzy glow spread inside me. “It’s all in the wrist action, Manning,” I said in an off-hand tone.

  His gaze heated, he bent his head and whispered in my ear. “You always did have a firm hand when it came to lovemaking.”

  The glow flamed into a darker, edgier hunger. My God, my mother was standing only a few feet away and this man’s double entendre was turning me on.

  “Stop it!” I ordered with a desperate glance at my mother’s back.

  “Stop what?” Jared’s look was downright innocent as he took another dip into the potatoes and licked his finger.

  Simultaneously, both our phones went off. Irritation flashed through me as I put down my spoon and scrambled through my bag while Jared answered his. I turned away as I hit the green button. “Hello?”

  “Carling, it’s Nicole.” Her voice sounded thin as if she was agitated.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just got a call from a new client, Gonzalo Segura. He got picked up late this afternoon for burglary and his first appearance is in an hour. Mom is giving me fits and I—”

  “Not a problem. I’ll cover the appearance.”

  “Thanks, you’re an angel.”

  Now that business had thrown a bucket of cold water over my senses, I felt relief that I was getting out of an awkward situation. I got the details from Nicole and hung up, and noticed Jared doing the same.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Dent.”

  Frozen, Jared and I stared at each other. I swallowed. “Gonzalo Segura first appearance?”

  His smile was downright wicked. “Yes. The assigned prosecutor’s come down with the flu.”

  We burst out laughing. Mom simply sighed and reached for a loaf of bread. “You both just wait a minute. I’ll make you sandwiches to go.”

  Within short order Jared and I made our apologies and goodbyes. As we walked down the sidewalk with our dinners-to-go, including thick slabs of chocolate cake, Mom called out, “Carling, wait!”

  I paused, expecting more roast beef to be thrust at me. Instead, Mom carried a brightly colored DVD. “You forgot this cartoon you wanted.”

  “Thanks.” Keeping my back to Jared, I dropped the DVD into my purse.

  However, when I turned, his intense scrutiny could have scorched my skin off. “You’re into Rocky and Bullwinkle?”

  “Sure. Finding a good man is so tough nowadays that I thought I’d watch Dudley Do-Right save the day.”

  Jared studied me for a long moment. “I always thought Bullwinkle, for all his bumbling, was the true hero.”

  The observation intrigued me. The moose had been my favorite character as well. I gestured at our cars in the drive. “Race you to court?”

  “You go one mile over the speed limit, Carling Dent, and I’ll have a cop ticket you in a heartbeat.”

  Muttering “spoil sport” as I opened my door, I threw him a long look across the hood. He chuckled.

  “Don’t look so disgruntled. You’ve had enough car accidents for the month. If you’re nice to me, I may let you negotiate your client’s bail down.” He gave me a wink before getting inside his car.

  I threw my bag onto the passenger seat. With a twist of the key, the Mustang’s engine purred to life. Jared had barely cleared the drive before I backed out. I knew a nifty shortcut to Gun Club Road. I should have a good twenty minutes to meet with my client before the appearance.

  Give me a break in the bond, my foot. By the time I assimilated the facts of the arrest and argued before the judge, Jared would be forced to give my client a deal.

  Later that night, exhausted but exhilarated, I secured the front door to my house. Nothing like a bout of legal sparring to get the blood humming. It didn’t hurt that the judge had granted a lower bail than Jared requested without my having to negotiate with him.

  A very satisfy
ing experience, but all the while I had been anxious to get home so I could check out the DVD in my purse.

  Carefully, I went through every room to make sure all was well before I brought out my laptop. Setting it up on the coffee table, I tapped my fingers on the glass top as I waited for the computer to boot up. When the screen was lit and the little hourglass disappeared, I inserted the CD that Mom had said was defective.

  The drive whirled and a screen came up asking for a password. If Borys had wanted me to see this…

  I typed in Natasha Fatale.

  After more whirling, a document appeared on the screen. Puzzled, I studied a list of names—Dudley Enterprises, Rocket Fertilizer Inc., Peabody Holdings and Whiplash.

  The last name I recognized as a new theme park that had opened to resounding success in Palm Beach County, but what were the others? I clicked on the icon to open up the legal research website the firm subscribed to. After plugging in my password, I opened up the corporation search directory.

  My phone rang. Grousing over the interruption, I rose and went over to the kitchen island where it sat. “Hello?”

  Dead silence. Except for the hiss of breathing.

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. Then I heard clanging and someone yelling in the background. A jailhouse call. Occasionally, a client or random prisoner would make harassing calls.

  “What, slow night in jail? Your favorite TV show not on?”

  Now I would have been the first person to say that silence can’t have qualities, but I could feel my caller’s anger pulsating over the line. Good. If he had buttons to push, then let me push another.

  “Listen jerk. If you’re going to bother me with phone calls, the least you can do is to give me the thrill of heavy breathing.”

  I slammed down the receiver.

  Chapter Seven

  Peabody Holdings was a fascinating corporation, parent to about twenty other companies at last count. Not that I had untangled its tentacles all by myself. After hitting a dead end on the computer research, I had placed an early morning call to an old law school classmate who not only owed me a gigantic favor but also worked at the Department of Corporations.

  It had become clear with my friend’s help that I possessed the names of shell corporations Borys set up for the Russian mob. Apparently they hadn’t cared what names he used so long as he created a labyrinth of businesses to launder money.

  After clearing my schedule for the afternoon, I pulled into the gigantic parking lot of the most interesting of those Peabody companies—Kirwood Racetrack. I tucked the Mustang into a tree-shaded spot along the lot’s side. There had been a huge outcry from environmentalists when the racetrack site had been first proposed for this southwest corner of the county, resulting in numerous commission hearings. However, Palm Beach residents loved their gambling and finally money had won out.

  Within short order another tourism mecca had been born. Besides the trackside seating, the main building housed a restaurant with tiers of tables. I entered the front entrance and headed up to the betting level bracketed with bars on either side. After grabbing a high top table and placing an order for burger, fries and a diet cola, I pretended to study my program while I surveyed the place. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find. After all, I could be on a wild horse chase.

  As a public defender, I had never represented money launderers. When you hit that level of the criminal world, you could afford to get the best. I suspected even Borys ultimately would have obtained a private attorney. But I knew the basics of Money Laundering 101.

  First, illegal gains, such as drug money, are used to fund a legitimate business in what was called placement. Then, in the layering stage, the monies are stockpiled while waiting for the conversion. Finally the illegal monies are integrated by mingling with legitimate money.

  What better way to convert cash than at a racetrack? But was it through the restaurant, the bars or the betting? All three?

  Or was I totally out of my mind and imagining bad guys where there were none?

  Don’t go down that path, I warned myself. To occupy my mind, I studied the mix of bar patrons. A young woman, who hardly looked old enough to be out of school except for the wink of a gold wedding band on her left hand, fidgeted at the end of the bar. Was she a housewife here on the sly? An elderly couple sitting at the table next to mine carefully counted out a few dollars. Were they hoping to supplement their retirement income?

  Maybe the racetrack’s only evil was holding out the hope of winning big time to those who could ill afford to lose.

  The canned trumpet did its ta-ta’ing call over the speaker system for the first race. Sipping my soda, I idly considered the horses listed in the program. Nine horses running. Prime numbers in reverse were seven, five and three. Good a bet as any. I grabbed my purse and headed to the first window. I bet a trifecta and returned to the bar.

  Munching on over-seasoned fries, I watched as the gates opened and the horses sprang forward. Their coats gleamed under the Florida sunshine. Toned muscles bunched and stretched as the horses hit their stride while their riders, decked in brilliant collars, clung to their backs like burrs.

  As they neared the last quarter pole, I found myself caught up in the thrill of the animals’ race around the track. I stood, like everyone else in the bar, yelling for my favorites. They passed the finish line in a blur. When the numbers were posted, I stared in disbelief at the ticket in my hand. I had won!

  Swallowing back a “yippee,” I grabbed my program and purse. Next to me the old man sadly tore up a ticket. I headed to the second line. I waited my turn and scanned the next race’s entries. This time the even numbers two, four and eight appealed to me. I handed the cashier my ticket and experienced a spike in blood pressure as she counted out five hundred smackaroos.

  I was hooked. I doubled my bet with another trifecta. This time I forgot all about eating my hamburger as my picks once more crossed the finish line. If I was calculating the odds correctly, I had just won a thousand dollars. On shaky legs, I made my way to the third window and pocketed my winnings but tripled my next bet.

  When I returned to my seat, I paused by the older couple and handed them a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, bet the seven, three, four trifecta in this race.”

  The woman flushed. “No, we couldn’t possibly—”

  “For luck,” I interrupted and waved off the man’s attempt to return the money. The woman nodded, grabbed the bill and went to bet. “For luck” was a concept she understood.

  As for me, I had this thing about the karma of good fortune, probably due to the superstitious Celtic blood of my ancestors. If the fates chose to smile kindly on me for whatever reason, I had to pass it on. If I won a big case, I’d hand a ten to the corner beggar or go online and make a charity donation. Spread the fortune so it would continue to treat me kindly.

  I won again and again, and so did my elderly couple as I fed the bets to them.

  It was at window number ten that I ran into a problem with the cashier.

  “This window is only for certain customers,” explained the girl, who could barely have been of legal age. “It’s reserved for high rollers.” While I wasn’t an international traveler, Florida gets snowbirds and tourists from every corner of the earth. I placed the girl’s thick accent as being Eastern European.

  I rolled my eyes and slid the ticket toward her. “Check it out. If I’m calculating the odds correctly, this is worth ten grand. How much more of a high roller do you need?”

  The cashier’s smile was polite but firm. “If you would step aside and go to the next window, ma’am.”

  Irked, I moved away. The man behind me gave me a nod and stepped up. If he was a high roller, I was a monkey’s aunt. Having a Palm Beach debutante as your law partner, you learned to recognize expensive duds and bling. He had neither. In off the rack chinos and a no name polo shirt, he looked like a regular Joe off the streets. But he received a wad of bills from the cashier.

  The woman
next in line was equally nondescript in her appearance. Wearing sunglasses, she stepped up to the window and handed over a chunk of change to place a bet.

  High rollers either lost it all or…

  “Is there a problem?” asked a heavily accented male voice from behind me.

  I turned and came face to face with a trio of men dressed in high-end suits, possibly Armani. I immediately recognized the man in the center. Dark-haired, dark-eyed with Slavic cheekbones, he was a looker and, from the way he smiled, he knew it. “Don’t I know you? I’m Vladimir Petrov. I own this track.”

  “Carling Dent.”

  While I would have given anything to not disclose my real name, I’d spied the discreet surveillance camera placed over the betting cages. It wouldn’t have taken Vladimir long to discover my identity if he pursued the matter. Then there was the small matter of his shrewd eyes. If he hadn’t placed seeing me at Rocket Fertilizer, he would eventually.

  Mother always said honesty was the best policy. As an attorney, I couldn’t always follow her advice—a good white lie or other manipulation of the truth was often necessary—hopefully giving my real name wouldn’t screw me up now.

  I raised my voice just a hair so it would carry over the noise, playing the frustrated gambler.

  “Good. If you’re the owner, maybe you could help me. I was trying to cash in my ten thousand dollar winning ticket and was told that this line is only for certain customers.”

  I glanced meaningfully at the other long lines and tapped my foot. “And I didn’t want to wait forever to collect my money and place my next bet.”

  “I can understand your frustration, Ms. Dent,” Vladimir soothed and touched my arm. Oh yeah, lay on the charm, dude. “So much money, such good fortune.”

  I gave him a saucy grin. “I’ve had a banner afternoon. I must come here more often.”

  The cha-ching sign went off in his eyes. “Well, I couldn’t be more pleased. To see a lovely woman like you as a frequent guest will be a delight. Let me personally help you.” He cupped my elbow and guided me to the front of the line.