A Dangerous Affair (39 page)

"I did everything like you said."

"What about your husband's schedule?"

"He goes off duty for the next two days. No one will miss him."

Lloyd drove faster to make his curfew. "By the time anyone figures out he's missing, you'll be long gone."

Jamie searched her lover's eyes for strength, finding solace in the way Lloyd exuded such confidence. "What if something goes wrong?"

"It won't. Not if we stick to the plan. As soon as the pills take effect, grab all the video evidence you can carry from his study. When you leave the house, drive his car to this parking lot and find the tan Civic. It's a rental in Samantha's name. The key will be in the passenger wheel well. Drive straight to Orlando airport. Don't stop for anything. You're going to park in the short term lot. Samantha will meet you at the United gate."

"What if she's not there?"

"She will be."

"What if she changes her mind and refuses to testify?"

"She won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Lloyd put his arm around her shoulder. "Because you found the courage to leave your husband and Samantha found the courage to help you do it."

"What if Alan finds me?"

"You'll be safe in New York. He has no authority outside his own jurisdiction. This time you'll have the law on your side."

"I'm scared," Jamie confided.

"Don't overthink it. Just stick to the plan."

Jamie laid her hand in Lloyd's. "I feel like everything's happening so fast."

"One step at a time," said Lloyd. "I'll meet up with you as soon as I finish my parole."

"How will you find me?"

"As beautiful as the first time I saw you."

Chapter 58

Leslie huddled inside her pre-owned Lexus outside a busy 7-Eleven and dialed George's cell phone. "Come on, come on..." She scanned the road and the cars at the gas pumps, expecting Blanchart to reappear any second—but without his staff to intervene in his endeavors.

"Hello?"
George answered through the phone in a groggy voice, his tone barely lucid.

"George, it's Leslie. I need your help right away!"

"It's three-thirty in the morning. What the hell are you—"

"Hold on..."

Leslie watched a beer truck driver negotiate his rig beside a handicap spot, effectively blocking her view of the open road.

"You still there?"
said George.

"He tried to kill me," Leslie whispered in her Blackberry. "He murdered Manny Morallen and then he tried to kill me."

"Who?"

"Sheriff Blanchart."

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm scared, George. He was, he was chasing me. He was going to kill me. I saw Morallen dead with a needle in his arm. Blanchart made it look like an overdose. I'm a witness. I can't—"

"Are you sure it was Blanchart?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? He put a knife to my throat."

"Did you see his face?"

"No, but—"

"Then how do you know it was him?"

"He must have followed me to Morallen's motel room."

"
Morallen?
Jesus Leslie, I told you to leave it alone!"
His wife muttered in her sleep. He pushed her arm off his chest and rolled out of bed, trying to shake of the last vestiges of REM sleep and absorb the implications of what Leslie was saying.

"Morallen's dead. Blanchart killed him and then he went after me."

George tottered into his study and powered up his laptop.
"How did you get away?"

"One of his men showed up unexpectedly. Blanchart got spooked."

George logged into his email account.
"None of this makes any sense. Why would Blanchart try to kill you?"

"To hide the truth about the murders he's committed."

"
Murders? I went to school with Alan Blanchart. I've known him for years. He's one of the good guys."

"Not anymore," said Leslie. "I'm scared, George. I need your help."

"Did you call the police?"

"I can't trust the local police right now."

"Where are you?"

"I can't go back to my apartment."

"You can trust me, Leslie. But I can't help you if I don't know where you are."

"I want the FBI involved. Someone outside of Blanchart's jurisdiction."

George opened his email contact list.
"The FBI won't bite without evidence a federal crime's been committed."

"I have the evidence," Leslie uttered, her voice shaky and distracted before she ended the call and drove away.

* * *

George entered the courthouse building and placed his personal belongings on the X-ray belt. He walked through the scanner and collected his keys and change at the other end.

Disturbed by Leslie's accusations, he realized his prodigal attorney had found herself in a hole too deep to climb out of. Despite her impressive legal skills, Leslie had a knack for stepping in shit. And now the very skills that helped her thrive under pressure in a court of law were jeopardizing the integrity of the public defender's office—and pounding the last nail in her coffin.

He rode the elevator to the fifth floor and entered the lobby outside the state attorney's office. He opened the double glass doors flanked by Old Glory and the red striped flag from the state of Florida. "I need to speak with Jim Rosen immediately," he told the new receptionist.

"And who are you?"

"George Winston. From the public defender's office."

"Mr. Rosen is in a meeting."

"Tell him it's urgent."

The receptionist shook her head. "He's on a conference call."

George ignored the gate keeper and charged down the hall.

"Excuse me... Mr. Winston! You can't go in there!"

George found the state attorney behind the lacquered oval table in the meeting room filled with legal staff. "We need to talk," George announced in front of the group.

"I'm on a call," the state attorney rebuked him. "You can't be in here."

"The call can wait. I've got something you need to hear."

Chapter 59

Jamie brushed her teeth at the bathroom sink where Alan kept his antique straight razor on the basin by his toothbrush holder. She could tell by the way he dawdled about the bedroom in his underwear that he wanted sex. The subtle hand gestures. The fleeting glances at her ass in the mirror. The way he hovered in the bathroom while she bent over the sink.

She rinsed her mouth and placed her toothbrush in the holder.
You can do this
, she told herself, holding a washcloth in the stream of warm water. She rinsed her face, rubbing the space between her nose and cheeks where the oil and makeup residue liked to hide. She cringed inside when she felt her husband's erection press against her. Cold hands touched her shoulders by her camisole straps.

Blanchart kissed the nape of his wife's slender neck, his knob pressing through his boxer shorts. "You feel tense."

"I'm just tired."

"Not tonight you're not."

Jamie squeezed the washcloth over the sink. "I want to feel pretty for you."

Blanchart groped her breasts from behind, undeterred by his wife's subtle redirection. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." She felt his presence suffocate her personal space. "How's your forehead?"

"The stitches come out tomorrow."

Jamie rubbed the washcloth on the sink to remove a toothpaste stain. Her breasts felt lifeless in Alan's hands. "You never told me what happened on your trip."

Blanchart eased a strap from her shoulder. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Jamie forced a smile in the mirror. "I have to pee."

Blanchart backed away.

Jamie sat on the toilet trying to force herself to urinate while her husband loitered in the bathroom. She kept her head down, concentrating on the simple task she'd performed a million times since birth but couldn't accomplish when she needed to most. She squeezed her bladder and covered her face with her hands to block the waves of nervous energy perpetuated by Alan's gaze. She pleaded for the phone to ring, for Alan's pager to beep, for a bolt of lightning to strike the house, or an earthquake to split the floor in half. Instead, she endured the silence, accompanied by a dripping shower faucet and the sound of her own voice screaming inside her head, berating herself for emptying her bladder ten minutes before she brushed her teeth. "I need some privacy," she said in a sullen voice laced with apprehension about the consequences of her actions if her plan should fail. She dribbled in the toilet bowl, her token effort signaled by the drops of urine squeezed under duress.

Blanchart conceded and granted his wife a moment of privacy.

Jamie stalled as long as she could before she flushed and got up to wash her hands. She could see Alan fumbling with his magazines in the dresser.

She wiped the basin and the faucet. She folded the bathmat over the tub and adjusted the towels on the rack above the toilet. She brushed her hair in the mirror until Alan appeared sufficiently distracted. Then she put on her robe to cover herself and reached inside her makeup drawer to retrieve the lipstick tube filled with powdered sedative she'd pulverized in her coffee grinder. She slipped the tube in her robe pocket and turned out the light. "I'll be right back."

"Come here," said Blanchart.

Jamie moved slowly toward the bedroom door. "Just getting a glass of water."

"Not now."

Jamie's confidence stumbled. Afraid to challenge Alan's order and jeopardize her agenda, she surrendered to her husband's wishes. She had everything in place except one final, disgusting task she hadn't counted on. Her price for a chance at freedom and the prospect of escaping an abusive marriage.

She knew Alan would drink the water if she offered it after sex. If he drank too little, the pills might not take effect, a risk she tried to mitigate by adding extra hot pepper to the red sauce she'd made for dinner.

"You look nice tonight," Alan offered. He propped his arm above the sheets and patted her pillow. "Lose the robe."

Jamie let her robe fall at her feet. Her camisole hid what remained of her dignity.

She climbed in bed and closed her eyes. Alan's naked torso pressed against her, his hands tugging awkwardly at her panties.

She endured the next few minutes on her back before Alan finished and rolled away. An eternity in her mind, but a necessary evil that brought her one step closer to the goal she risked everything to achieve.

"Bring me a beer when you come back," said Blanchart, reaching for the television remote on the nightstand.

Jamie gathered herself in her robe and cinched the front strap. Alan's seed drizzled down her inner thigh. "I'll be right back."

She twisted the cap off a long-neck bottle from the fridge and dumped the powder inside. Her hands trembled as she waited for the foam to settle. She poured herself a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the counter and gulped it to calm her nerves.
Keep it together,
she told herself, convinced the worst was over. She had Samantha and Lloyd on her side. She had a fresh start waiting for her more than twelve hundred miles away from Lakewood. No one knew Alan the way she did, and no one understood her conflict. In her heart, she'd made her choice the instant she met Lloyd Sullivan. Her lover. Her savior. And the man she yearned to share her life with.