A Dangerous Affair (11 page)

"I played a little college ball."

"You must have played linebacker. You got the shoulders for it."

Lloyd thought about his brother's offer at the car wash. "Can you spot me some coin?" he asked Marvin straight up.

"You lose your wallet in the rain?"

"I'm good for it."

Marvin closed the book and reached under his pillow, producing a billfold. He folded a Jackson in half and passed it down to Lloyd. "A white dude asking a brother for a loan? Never thought I'd see the day. Keep this on the down low. I don't want every motherfucker in here trying to tap me for some paper."

Chapter 13

Leslie Dancroft wedged a yellow legal folder in her overstuffed cabinet and closed the drawer on her fourth felony case in three days. An assistant public defender, she worked the gamut from DUI arrests to attempted murder charges, representing indigent parties who lacked the financial wherewithal to buy their way out of a conviction. An average law school student, she'd passed the Florida Bar on her second attempt and joined the Public Defender's Office for a two-year stint. Fifteen years and several hundred cases later, she questioned her desire to continue the job with crazy hours, lousy pay, and minimal recognition from her peers who'd chosen the private partner track.

Unlike the hired guns she countered in legal circles, she drove a used car and shopped at discount malls, trading materialistic wares for the chance to make a difference. Never one to back down, she fought hard with all the passion and tenacity of a high-priced attorney on retainer, making friends and enemies along the way.

She blew her puffy red nose in a moisturized tissue and rubbed a dollop of hand sanitizer on her hands. She needed more than a few sick days to regain her strength—she needed a serious vacation. Not a sit-around-the-house-and-sulk vacation, but a big budget trip to a spa in Sedona or a bungalow retreat on the sugar-sand coast in Bermuda, where her biggest decision would involve a choice between a salted margarita or a frozen daiquiri.

"You dropped this," Public Defender George Anderson announced, stooping to retrieve a packet of Tylenol Cold from the floor by Leslie's desk. He wore a paisley silk tie around his unbuttoned collar. An honors graduate and former law professor, he made his mark as a public defender who knew how to grease the wheels without getting his nails dirty.

Leslie opened her desk drawer to grab her purse, ignoring the new case file in her boss's hand. "Have a nice evening."

"I was hoping you hadn't left yet—"

"Forget it, George."

George stared in Leslie's direction with his wandering eye turned up at the ceiling—a genetic flaw most juries found unnerving despite his professional appearance. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do, George." Leslie gathered her purse and her attaché case. "I'm at the ass end of a fourteen hour day and halfway to a glass of cold Riesling with my Chinese take-out. Whatever you're hiding in that folder can wait."

"I need a favor."

"I'm all out of favors."

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent," said George.

"Define 'urgent.'"

George scratched at his shirt tag. "Would you be serious for a second?"

Leslie motioned to the stack of accordion folders piled on her desktop calendar, marred with coffee ring stains and ink-smeared phone numbers. "I'll give you 'serious,' George. Drop another case in my lap and I'll strangle you. Slowly. Until your eyes pop out of your head."

"I have another case I need you on."

"And I need a date with Brad Pitt. That doesn't mean it's going to happen."

"Leslie—"

"I have ten open cases and a cold. I haven't slept three hours in three days. Find another lackey to do your bidding. I'm out of here."

"I really need
you
on this one."

Leslie sneezed. "What about Henderson?"

"He's on medical leave."

"Then give it to Jablonski. That slacker hasn't seen any action in months."

"He's on vacation," said George.

"So am I," Leslie countered.

George parked himself on the edge of Leslie's desk and loosened his tie a little further. "I'm getting squeezed by the mayor on this one."

"Sounds kinky," said Leslie with a hint of sarcasm.

"The state attorney's pushing hard. If I had the resources—"

"I wouldn't be here," said Leslie.

"That's not true. You love this job."

"I love the law," said Leslie. "This job can bite me."

George stood up and put his hands on the desk in a more aggressive posture. "That time of the month already?"

Leslie gave him the bird.

George shook his head. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing. That's the problem. I'm forty-two years old. I don't have friends outside of work. I don't have hobbies. The last time I met a man for dinner, Clinton was still in office. I share a home with two small cats and a large rechargeable vibrator. What kind of life is that? What type of woman does this to herself?"

George leaned across the desk. "The type who's passionate about her work. The type who puts her clients' needs before her own. That's why I hired you. That's why I need you on this. You're the best defense attorney in the county. Hell, in this state."

Leslie blew her nose. "Save the platitudes for your paralegal servants. I want a life outside this office, George. Nothing fancy or extravagant. Just a chance to feel human again. This place owes me that much. Just because my social life is nonexistent doesn't mean I should be the one saddled with all the heavy lifting around here."

"Judge Dugan requested you by name."

"DUI Dugan? I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

George opened the file. "The defendant is thirty-four-year old Manny Morallen. He's scheduled for arraignment in three days. Dugan appointed us when Manny's attorney pulled a no-show at pretrial. Morallen wants to cut a deal in exchange for information."

"Information on what?"

George dropped the file on her desk. "That's what you're going to find out."

"What are the charges?"

"Illegal possession of a firearm during the commission of a felony, possession of a controlled substance, and first degree murder of a deputy sheriff."

Leslie rubbed her nose. The swelling in her nasal passages made it harder to breath. "Sounds like a train wreck. What do you expect me to do with this?"

"Find out what Morallen's offering. Talk to the state attorney's office and see if we can hammer out a deal. I think they'll bend on this one."

"How do you know?"

"Morallen has something they want. Whatever it is he's offering, it's got the state's attention."

"So I work the plea bargain and push Morallen toward a lighter sentence. Then what?"

"Then get on with your vacation. You need some downtime. You've earned it."

"What if he's innocent?" Leslie asked almost rhetorically. She skimmed the police report and the defendant's prior convictions. "I won't sign a deal until I see what the state puts on the table."

"Manny Morallen killed a cop."

"Allegedly," said Leslie.

"The evidence supports a conviction. Morallen's a career criminal. He served eight years for cocaine distribution. He did a nickel in Pelican Bay for armed robbery. He has a laundry list of priors going back to his juvenile record. Everything from petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon."

Leslie skimmed the rest of the file. "I say he's a long way from murder. Especially a cop killing."

"Maybe he's on the fast track," said George.

"Do you think this is gang-related?"

"In our county?"

"We've seen it before."

"Not since Blanchart took office. This case smells like a drug bust gone bad. Morallen panicked and made a poor decision. It happens."

Leslie took a minute to let the facts sink in. She'd read a hundred jackets on career criminals like Morallen. Clients resigned to a life of crime in lieu of any formal education or a normal work routine. But this time, something in the file didn't click. Nothing she could point to specifically, yet. Just a strong intuition honed from years of doing battle with the legal system.

"Wrap it up and put a bow on it," George prodded.

Leslie saw a spasm of pain in his face. She knew he had a stomach ulcer. "You're unbelievable."

"I owe you."

"I want a window office," Leslie stipulated while she had her boss on the ropes. "I need a little more sunshine in my life. This office is such a downer."

"Done."

"And my own parking space."

"I'll have to check with building maintenance," said George. "I don't make the rules."

"And another week of paid vacation."

"You're killing me..."

"I'm just getting started."

George frowned. "Don't push it. You may be the best attorney I have, but no one's irreplaceable."

Leslie stuffed the file in her bloated attaché case. "Don't tease me. Getting fired could be the best thing I've done all year."

Chapter 14

Awakened by loud hammering, Brenda Sullivan swiped her arm at the clock radio on her nightstand. She rubbed her swollen eyes, shielded from the midmorning sun by overlapping velvet drapes blocking any vestige of light from the windows.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She covered her head with her pillow. The clock showed 11:45. Too early to get up, and too late to pretend it was all a bad dream.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

She kicked her leg out and smacked the mattress. Her body ached for more sleep and a shot of something stronger in her coffee.

She sat up and blew her puffy nose with a tissue the color of her gaunt complexion. Strands of fallen hair clung to her nightgown. The pain in her head reverberated from the constant pounding.

Still half-asleep, she pushed the comforter aside and slid her callused feet into her flip-flop sandals. A lizard scampered under the bed.

She used her arms to guide herself to the screened porch without her glasses. She squinted to see Lloyd climbing down a ladder propped against the gutter along the edge of the roof. "What are you doing?" she asked her uninvited guest.

Lloyd slid a claw hammer in his tool belt. "Did I wake you?"

"You could wake Jimmy Hoffa with that racket."

"I replaced most of the missing shingles but some of the wood's rotted."

Brenda rubbed her bloodshot eyes. She saw the Triumph leaning on its kickstand in the driveway. "I didn't ask you to do that."

"Didn't have to."

"I can't pay you."

"I don't need your money." Lloyd hoisted a sheet of plywood over his head. Sheathed in sweat from the humid air, he propped the four-by-eight section across a pair of sawhorses from his father's garage. He drew a tape measure across one end and marked a line with a pencil. Pressing the wood with one hand, he used deep, aggressive thrusts to work the handsaw with his powerful arm.