A Dangerous Affair (25 page)

"My name is Leslie Dancroft." She introduced herself outside Theresa Carter's screen-door. "We spoke on the phone this morning." She held up her government ID card.

Theresa Carter cradled her newborn in her arm, cupping the baby's head in her hand to adjust the hungry mouth over the nipple poking through her maternity bra. She glanced at the laminated identification card and the dirty Lexus in her driveway.

"Is this a bad time?" asked Leslie.

"It's as good a time as any," Theresa offered. She invited Leslie to the living room and sat on a faded love seat with a pillow under her arm and a burp cloth over her shoulder. "Will this bother you?"

"Not at all," said Leslie, somewhat squeamish about the infant's aggressive sucking posture on her mother's breast.

"Some people get offended," Theresa said in a solemn voice.

"What's your baby's name?"

"Amelia. We named her after my great grandmother."

"She's beautiful."

"Thank you."

"How often does she feed?"

"About every couple hours."

"Does it hurt?"

"You adapt to it. I take it you don't have children?"

"Not yet." Leslie folded the page in her legal pad. Doped up on cough syrup and nasal decongestants, she fought to keep her concentration. "Thank you for your time Mrs. Carter. I'll keep this brief."

Theresa adjusted the baby's posture to facilitate the flow of milk. "You said you wanted to ask me about Simon. About the insurance money?"

"Indirectly, so to speak. I'm an attorney—"

"What kind of attorney?"

"I work with the public defender's office."

"Are you telling me you represent the bastard who shot my Simon?"

"I work for the county. I'm trying to learn the truth about what happened."

"What does this have to do with insurance money?"

"The person responsible for your husband's murder—"

"The person who killed my husband is in custody. Unless you came to bring me a check, I want you to leave."

Leslie forced a smile. "Mrs. Carter, the man the police arrested might be guilty of other crimes, but murder isn't one of them. That means your husband's killer is still at large, jeopardizing the lives of other innocent people—of other law enforcement officers. Your husband wouldn't want that. Would you?"

Theresa eased the baby girl from her breast and hugged her against the burp cloth on her shoulder. She patted her daughter's back with a gentle hand. "How do you know this man didn't kill Simon?"

"I can't disclose the details. You have to trust me. For the sake of argument, even if I am wrong, and I strongly believe I'm not, your husband's benefits will be paid to you, in full, regardless of who the jury convicts. I want to see justice served as much as you do, but convicting an innocent man won't bring your husband back."

Theresa waited for the baby's burp before she continued feeding. "What do you want to know?"

Leslie reached inside her purse and activated her digital voice recorder. "Anything you can tell me about Simon, specifically about the night he died."

"I can't remember much, except he never came home. I got a phone call that he was hurt. Dead is dead. No need to sugarcoat the words."

Leslie turned her head and coughed away from Theresa and the baby. Her throat felt achy, scratchy, like she swallowed broken glass. "I'm sorry. I know this is difficult. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

The baby gave a loud burp, followed by a stream of creamy white spit-up.

Theresa wiped the baby's mouth and propped her face on the burp cloth draped over her shoulder. "I call her my little piglet. All she does is eat and poop. And sleep, sometimes." She stuffed a pillow at the small of her back. "Simon used to teach middle school algebra. He burned out after a couple years and wanted a career change. I begged him not to go into law enforcement. I told him I didn't care what he did for a living as long as it didn't involve people shooting at him. The school kids missed him. They were hard on him at times, but they loved him. Teaching was in his heart, not playing cops and robbers."

"Did he have friends in the sheriff's department?"

"A few. He took me to the policemen's dance last year. I was pregnant at the time and didn't feel much like dancing."

"Was there anyone in particular that he liked to socialize with after work? A partner maybe, or a mentor?"

Theresa thought for a moment. "He rode solo like everyone else in the department. His rookie year he rode with the sheriff from time to time. Said it was part of his training plan."

"Sheriff Blanchart?" Leslie asked to confirm her notes.

"Yes."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Only the one time, at a charity event. Simon introduced me to him. I could tell Simon liked him by the way he spoke about him. Simon was proud to work for Sheriff Blanchart. He said Blanchart taught him everything the academy didn't. Simon reached out to him like a big brother. Only white. No offense."

"None taken. How well did you know Sheriff Blanchart?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was he friendly outside of work?"

"He seemed like any other boss, I guess. I know he liked Simon. I can't speak to what he thought about me."

"Did your husband ever complain about Sheriff Blanchart?"

"If he did, he didn't do it in front of me. Simon loved his job, except for the overnight hours. He felt bad about leaving me with the baby at night. I told him it didn't matter. He wasn't equipped to feed her anyway." Theresa forced a smile. "I miss him so much." She propped the baby on her shoulder to start the burping process again. The infant squirmed in her hands, crying in fits and starts.

"I'm sorry," Leslie offered. "I know this is hard for you."

Theresa wiped away a tear. "The last day I saw my husband he left the same time he always did. I packed a supper for him and kissed him good-bye. He seemed distant, quiet, like he had a lot on his mind. The night shift did that to him. He never really took to sleeping in the daytime. That's all I can think of."

"I appreciate your time, Mrs. Carter, especially under the circumstances. You've been a big help."

Theresa stood up and bounced gently with her baby. "It smells like we need a diaper change."

"May I use your restroom?" Leslie asked.

"It's down the hallway on the left."

Leslie gathered her notes in her attaché case. She reached the end of the hall and turned on the bathroom light. Instead of entering the bathroom, she closed the door from the outside and slipped into the adjacent office while Theresa brought her baby to the nursery.

Leslie started with the desk, searching the lateral file drawers for anything that might offer new direction. She found lesson plans, student evaluation forms, and several empty folders leftover from Carter's teaching career but nothing tangible to help her case.

She searched the crumpled printer pages in the trash can. She found a menu for a Chinese restaurant, directions for a breast pump machine, a home equity loan application, and several newspaper articles on methamphetamine abuse detailing the rise of drug labs in suburban neighborhoods. She stuffed the articles in her pocket and powered on the computer to search Deputy Carter's email.

She scrolled through the "Sent" folder and checked the "Deleted Items" box, skimming the email titles arranged by date. When a title caught her eye, she opened the message and read:
I talked to Blanchart. He suspects there's a snake in the house. Need to be careful. Can you meet tomorrow?"

She read the email date and noted the recipient's email address—[email protected]

"Can I help you?" Theresa asked from outside the study.

Leslie jumped. "I was just searching for directions. The computer was on so I—"

"No it wasn't. I never gave you permission to go in there."

"I'm only trying to help your husband."

"My husband is dead, Ms. Dancroft. Ain't nobody helping him right now but God."

"Was your husband in trouble?"

"I would like you to leave now."

Leslie moved away from the study. "Your husband died under suspicious circumstances. I'm only trying to find the truth about what happened."

"Then search somewhere else. If I find you on my property again, I'll introduce you to the sheriff myself."

Chapter 38

Jamie parked in her driveway and kept the Volvo's engine running. The turn signal indicator flashed in the dashboard display. The smell of sex lingered on her person.

She stared at the pair of dark porch lights, each mounted on opposite sides of the two car garage. Convinced she'd turned them on before she left the house, she surmised one of two things must have happened: either both lights burned out at once—or Alan came home early from his trip and turned them off.

She pressed the transmitter button on her visor and watched the garage door open to reveal the absence of Alan's car. She drove inside, relieved to find the sanctuary of an empty garage.

The door rattled shut behind her while she sat with the engine running. Exhaust fumes polluted the air.

Befuddled, ashamed, and somewhat stunned by the indelible mark she cast on herself and her marriage, she could never undo what was done. Yet despite the guilt, part of her wanted to rewind the tape and relive the forbidden act of giving herself to another man. At the same time, her sensible side demanded she purge the whole experience from her memory as if her rendezvous with Lloyd never happened. And so the tug of war raged on, feeding from raw emotions she endeavored to suppress in her complacent married life. Alan offered food and shelter, at a price. Lloyd offered a new beginning and a reawakening of her senses.

Light-headed from the fumes vented inside the car, she killed the ignition and got out. She headed for the laundry room to throw her clothes in the washing machine. Extra soap. Extra rinse. And an extra dryer sheet to mask any hint of impropriety.

She settled her nerves in the shower, letting the water cascade down her hair and back while she relived the sensuous encounter in her mind. Whatever spell Lloyd Sullivan had cast upon her, he did with skillful acts of pleasure, stoking her fire to the edge of climax and back so many times she thought her vagina would explode. If her body was covered in a billion nerve endings, Lloyd tingled every one of them. His eyes, his touch, the very sound of his voice in her ear stirred a passion deep within her.

She quivered at the thought of his erection inside her. Warm and solid to the touch, but thriving with a life all its own. A masterful piece of human design intended for procreation but capable of delivering such delicious satisfaction.

She rubbed a washcloth on her face, basking in her prolonged afterglow from the exotic exploit that opened a gateway to another world—a place where she felt uninhibited and empowered. A place she yearned to explore again.

Chapter 39

Blanchart waited outside Uri Costa's gated Victorian mansion in a rented Pontiac G6 with New York plates. Dressed in a chauffeur's uniform with a faux beard and a custom wig, he parked behind a wall of maple trees and a wrought iron fence with spear-tipped railings. The radio played hits from the '80s while his thoughts played out a home invasion robbery gone bad.