A Dangerous Affair (28 page)

Varden stood by the Triumph. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and opened the blade. "You said you had engine trouble?"

"That's right."

Varden inspected the bike. He turned the ignition on, pulled the clutch, and pressed the starter button. The motor came to life instantly. "Must have been something in the gas."

Varden looked at Lloyd, still spread on the hood of his car. He wrapped his fist around the knife handle and plunged the blade in the Triumph's seat, slicing back and forth to shred his way through the foam rubber core. He dug his hands inside the cushion and tore a chunk from the base plate.

"You can't do that," said Lloyd.

"It's called 'probable cause' Mr. Sullivan. I'll find what you're hiding eventually."

"That's personal property."

"Your problem, not mine," Varden said hotly. "I know your type. You're a bottom feeder. A parasite who ignores the law and stirs trouble for those around him. That's how you earned your first stint in prison. Tonight I'm going to earn you a second."

Varden smashed the handlebar mirrors. He dented the gas tank with the butt of the knife and unscrewed the cap to peek inside.

"Search it all you want," said Lloyd. "You won't find anything."

Varden stabbed the rear tire. Air hissed from the narrow puncture. "I'm just getting started." He squeezed the tubeless tire as he moved his hand along the tread and stabbed the sidewall. "You might be right about this bike. It's got some issues."

"That's enough!" Lloyd shouted. He got off the car and charged at Varden. "You don't have the right to do this!"

Varden pointed the knife at Lloyd. "You don't have the balls." He turned sideways and kicked the bike until it toppled on its side. "That's for lying to me again." He stowed the knife and retreated to his car. The tires spun wildly under his lead foot, kicking up sand and pebbles as the car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees.

Varden powered down the window. "I could violate you for trespassing on private property, but that would be too easy." Varden gunned the engine in neutral with his arm out the window. "See you back at the ranch."

"How am I supposed to get there?"

"Phone a friend," said Varden. "There's a 7-Eleven with a payphone a few miles from here. Curfew starts in one hour. Twenty bucks says you'll never make it back in time."

Chapter 41

Leslie ordered a large double latte from the coffee house barista sporting a silver nose ring and a pierced tongue. She paid the teenage clown with her debit card and dropped a dollar in the tip jar. Behind her, CNN aired on a plasma TV in the room populated by the usual late night patrons engrossed in a quiet conversation, a riveting book, or a last-ditch effort to finish an overdue homework assignment.

When her latte arrived, she claimed a table for two and parked her caffeine fix beside her laptop. She logged into her government account and turned her screen to face away from any wandering eyes. Working in a public place outside her office—and outside the purview of her boss—made her feel human again. She liked the atmosphere. Subdued, but not dormant, like her apartment.

She opened the case file on Manny Morallen and found the email address she had lifted from Deputy Carter's computer. The anonymous identity of xyzpdq22 perturbed her enough to lob a subpoena at the Internet service provider—courtesy of Judge Dugan, who reluctantly granted her request based on credible, if not slightly skewed evidence.

She sipped her latte, inhaling the steam through her stuffy nose to breach the roadblock between her taste buds and her sense of smell. She tapped her finger on the keyboard touchpad and opened the AOL message.

She read the name registered to the xyzpdq22 account. The name itself meant nothing to her, but the owner's occupation caught her attention.
How much did Deputy Carter really know about Blanchart?
she wondered.
Was it motive enough for Blanchart to kill him?

For the first time in days, her cold was dwindling to the point where she could almost taste her food and drink again. Her spirits were rising. And in her quest for justice, the pieces were finally starting to come together.

* * *

Varden drove the long way home. His desire to spend another night babysitting eight derelict convicts waned with every mile he put behind him. He imagined himself in bed with Doctor Lacy, a fine woman indeed. The type of woman who kept herself in shape and liked to flaunt her sex appeal. The good doctor needed a man in her life, and that man was him. Bold, virile, and ready to tackle any challenge she threw his way.

Approaching the halfway house, he found a dirty Lexus ES300 in his designated parking spot and pulled up alongside. "You're in my space," he told the petite brunette who got out of the Lexus to greet him.

"I'm looking for Ronald Varden," said Leslie.

Varden locked his car. "Who are you?"

"Leslie Dancroft. I work with the public defender's office. Are you Ronald Varden?"

Varden squinted at the pint-size inconvenience deflating his upbeat mood.

"I need to ask you a few questions," Leslie persisted, riding the caffeine wave from her double lattes.

"I'm busy," said Varden. He made tracks toward the house with his keys in hand.

Leslie followed him. "It's about Simon Carter."

"Who?"

"The sheriff's deputy killed in the line of duty two weeks ago. I'm sure you heard about it on the news."

Varden spied the men gawking at the female visitor through the windows. "Not here," he said to Leslie and brought her inside his office. "Shut the door."

Leslie handed Varden a police academy graduation photo of Deputy Carter in uniform. "Do you recognize this man?"

"I work in law enforcement, Ms. Dancroft. I knew about Simon Carter's death before his next of kin were notified."

"How well do you know Sheriff Blanchart?"

"I've worked with him. Why?"

"And you and Carter were friends?"

"What are you driving at Ms. Dancroft?"

Leslie presented a copy of the AOL email. "I found this on Carter's computer. It was sent to you."

Varden read the email. "I've never seen this before."

Leslie showed him a print-out with his customer contact information circled in red. "Maybe this will jog your memory. I subpoenaed your ISP. You and xyzpdq22 are one and the same."

"So Carter sent me an email. What does one thing have to do with the other?"

"Tell me what Carter meant by '
a
snake in the house
.'"

Varden leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling for several seconds. "Why do you care?"

"I can have you subpoenaed to testify in court."

"About what?"

"The truth. I have reason to suspect Sheriff Blanchart is dirty. So did Deputy Carter."

Varden fed the email print-out to the shredder beside his desk. "Those are dangerous accusations, Ms. Dancroft."

"I'm not afraid of Sheriff Blanchart," said Leslie. "Are you?"

Varden crossed his arms. He stared at the picture on his desk with his daughter holding a black lab puppy surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper and an artificial Christmas tree with an angel on top. "Carter came to me a few months ago. Said he had concerns about Blanchart."

"What kind of concerns?"

"Carter suspected Blanchart of running some sort of underground methamphetamine operation, which is ludicrous. I've known Sheriff Blanchart for twenty years. He can be a hard driver, but he's a good cop. He didn't get to be sheriff by sticking to the rules. There are lots of politics involved. Actions can get misconstrued. Words taken out of context."

"Why did Carter come to you?"

Varden shrugged. "His mother and my sister were tight in high school. Carter was like the nephew I never had."

"And his concerns about Blanchart didn't bother you?"

"They bothered me, sure, but it's not my place to stick my head where it don't belong. Whatever ideas Carter had about Blanchart, they were groundless. Besides, Carter had a habit of crying wolf."

"What do you mean?"

"Carter liked his attention. The more drama in his life the better. He was always finding problems that never really existed."

"What kind of cop was he?"

"He failed the academy the first time around. A good kid. Just wasn't cut out for the job."

"There's no mention of this in his records," said Leslie.

Varden shook his head. "Simon Carter had book smarts. But he was dumber than a bag of sand when it came to life on the streets. He had the brains but no common sense. When he washed out of the academy, he dropped the race card and claimed the county discriminated against him based on his ethnicity. He filed a lawsuit and threatened to expose what he called '
a corrupt system
.'"

"Is it?"

Varden gave Leslie a sideways glance. "The judge threw the case out."

"But Carter became a cop."

"So he did. And a damn good one. In a way I guess he proved us all wrong. But he didn't do it alone. If it weren't for Blanchart himself, Carter would have been swabbing floors at Wal-Mart, begging to get his old teaching job back."

Leslie dug through her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose and noticed the family photo of a little girl on Varden's desk. "Is she your daughter? She's beautiful."

"I think we're done here," said Varden.

"You still haven't told me what Carter meant by '
a
snake in the house
.' His email also alluded to a meeting with you."

"Let it go, Ms. Dancroft."

"Not until you tell me what Carter knew about Blanchart."

"What's your angle in this?"

Leslie wiped her nose. "My client's facing life for the first-degree murder of a Lakewood deputy. My
angle
is trying to keep an innocent man out of prison and off death row."

"You can't prove Blanchart's dirty."

"Carter was killed in a meth lab along with another man who chose suicide over facing Sheriff Blanchart alone."

"Sometimes bad things happen to good people," said Varden. "You can always find dirt on someone if you look hard enough. Doesn't mean Blanchart's a bad cop."

"Did Carter look hard enough?"

Varden tapped his fingers on the desk. He'd dealt with the public defender's office before, but not with a pit bull like the one in front of him. "Has your client ever been in the system?" he asked emphatically.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a convicted felon tried to save himself by pointing fingers where they don't belong. No one likes a snitch, Ms. Dancroft."

"I have strong reason to believe my client is truly innocent."

"Because he's puttin' it to you?"

"Because he's innocent." Leslie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, more embarrassed than insulted by the sexual implication. "And I resent your accusation. My case could use your help. If you know something more, you have a moral obligation to tell me."

"I have a house of obligations, Ms. Dancroft. The last thing I need is more trouble coming down on me."

"Even if an innocent man goes to jail?"

Varden encroached on Leslie's personal space. "Every man who comes through this house was tried and convicted of crimes the state could prove. These men are also guilty of crimes the state could not. If your client killed Simon Carter he'll get what he deserves. If he didn't, then let him suffer for the sins of his past."

"How can you be so cynical?"

"I don't pull punches, Ms. Dancroft. I view the world through a different lens than most. If you're looking for sympathy, you've come to the wrong place."

"I'm looking for justice," said Leslie. "You work in law enforcement. Do the words 'protect and serve' mean anything to you anymore?"

Varden checked his watch. "I have a curfew to enforce."

Leslie blocked his exit. "At least tell me what Carter suspected. My client aside, you owe Carter that much."