Courting Death (6 page)

I snapped my eyes open, catching his concerned expression as he gazed down at me. I wanted to sock him. Anger suppressed my demons. “So it’s my fault you’re such a jerk?”

Something flickered in his dark brown eyes for a moment, but Sam’s inscrutable police mask slipped into place before I could identify the rare revelation of emotion. He slowly dropped his hands and stepped away. Muscles bunched along his jawbone.

“No. I always end up being an idiot around you with no help from anyone.”

I bit my bottom lip. “I nearly lost my sanity as a prosecutor. I had to save myself.”

“So you decided to dump me at the same time?”

“I decided to go for a clean slate.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Just think of this, Nicole. How many lives did you save by putting away the bad guys during your years in the state attorney’s office?”

“Not nearly as many as I lost. I can’t go back to that life again.”

Sam’s iron jaw jutted in disgust. “I’d never have believed you would turn tail and run away because of one mistake. That you would lose belief in yourself. Not my Red.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I was damned if I would let Sam see he had struck a nerve. I fisted my hands at the sides of my body. “Listen, as you so kindly pointed out before, the criminal system isn’t perfect. Innocent people, believe it or not, get charged with crimes. Some are wrongly convicted. It’s my job to make sure people like Claire Whitman get a fair shake.”

I widened my stance. “And I’m not your
Red.”

“Not anymore.” Sam’s quiet pronouncement was more shattering than angry words. He turned and left. Seconds later the front door slammed.

Wrapping my arms around my waist, I again faced the window, watching the only man who could—and did—destroy me with a few words stride to his pickup. True to her promise to return and spend the night, Carling pulled up in the drive and tooted her horn, but Sam didn’t pause.

It was better to keep him out of my life. Fewer witnesses if I failed again.

Gone the next morning was the headache. Slithering into its place was guilt. As I gave Sophie an update on Mom’s condition, it coiled and contracted until I could scarcely breathe.

I grabbed my bag and keys and went out to the car. Carling had left earlier. Catching a glimpse of my mother’s silhouette in the window, I raised a hand even though I knew this was a morning where she was lost in a shadowy world.

Icy pellets of recrimination struck me. Mom was slipping away and here I was going off to work. And for what? I hadn’t kept the last monster I had tried off the streets. Pressure began to build in my chest.

With a sharp twist of the wheel I pulled the BMW over to the side of the street and squealed to a halt.
Stop it,
I ordered myself. No panic attacks allowed. Not today. Not ever again.

My hands fisted on top of the steering wheel. Maybe Sam had been right last night. Maybe I should remember the criminals I had taken off the street. While I couldn’t stop Alzheimer’s from taking my mother, I could prevent Claire Whitman from being falsely accused of murdering her baby.
That
I could control.

Expelling a breath, I flexed my fingers. I had a plan. After checking the mirrors, I pulled back into the street. Within minutes I was northbound on I-95.

Think about the case.
What kind of deviant would steal a dead infant’s organs? I hadn’t forgotten the fact that Sam had also been at the hospital for the baby’s records. Were the police trying to tie the mutilation to Claire? She was an EMT with medical know-how. As a prosecutor, she would have been high on my list of suspects.

I took one of the exits into West Palm Beach and headed east. From the time Claire’s baby had been rushed to the hospital, the child’s body had been in three known locations: the ambulance, the hospital and the funeral home. Logically, the mutilation either occurred in transit or at one of the three places. Although the funeral director, Colin Depp, claimed the surgical scars were already there when the body was delivered, the guy had a major creep factor going on.

Besides I had another legitimate reason to speak with him. Brian Whitman had left a message. After his wife opened the coffin, they had also noticed a silver rattle placed in the casket was missing.

My cell rang. I slid on my earpiece. “Nicole Sterling.”

“Nicole, this is Damian Quint.”

Damian who? I frowned as I concentrated on changing lanes. “Hello.”

His chuckle was low and rich. “I’m sure you’re wondering how I got your number. Brian Whitman gave it to me. I hope you don’t mind.”

Oh, the Whitmans’ friend.
“Not at all. Is everything all right with them?”

“As much as can be expected with the strain they’re under. I’ve offered to help with Brian’s practice until this is all over.”

“That’s nice of you. I’m sure they appreciate the gesture.” Wishing he would get to the purpose of his call, I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel.

“I know you must be busy so I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like to see you again.”

That came out of left field. “Excuse me? The connection isn’t great.”

A cautious note crept into his voice. “I was clumsily asking you out on a date. My impression was that you’re not involved with anyone, was I wrong?”

I hadn’t dated since Sam—and for good reason. I took a breath and released it. “No, I’m not seeing anyone, but Damian, now’s not a good time for me.”

There was a long pause. I wrinkled my nose.
Way to go, Nicole. Piss off every interested man that comes along.

“I understand. Maybe we can take it in smaller steps. How about a drink next week?”

I opened my mouth to say no and then clamped it shut. A drink wasn’t a lifetime commitment. Plus I could learn more about the Whitmans. They didn’t seem to have an extensive network of family or friends. “I would like that, but I need to check my calendar.”

“Great, I’ll call you later and we can firm up a day and time.” We said goodbye as I reached my destination.

Turning into the funeral home’s drive, I swung around to the rear lot. Might as well check out the entrance where bodies were delivered. I reminded myself to ask if they did their own pickup or hired an independent contractor to handle transport. It was amazing what a big business death was.

The tan stucco building winged out in a
V
shape with a large portico framing the back of the right prong containing the garage. A small white truck plastered with ice cream logos stood beneath it.
What the hell?
I frowned as I pulled into a spot facing the building. I hadn’t seen any vending machines the night of the funeral. Maybe that was the explanation for Depp’s “ick” factor. He packed bodies in ice cream instead of ice.

I hitched my shoulders to shrug off the unpleasant image and stepped out of the Beemer, pocketing my keys.

Hearing the hum of a motor, I crossed under the portico to the truck. No one was in the driver’s seat and the back doors were closed. I wandered around to the right side with the cutaway for doling out ice cream, but the accordion shutter was rolled down. I curled my fingers under the edge and gave an experimental tug to see if it would open. No deal.

I approached a door with a sign stating Deliveries Only tucked into the side of the garage. I tried the handle and it opened. Stepping inside, I saw two gleaming black limousines parked side by side. I went through another door and found myself in a dimly lit, wide hallway. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

Although lush, deep-piled carpet covered the floor in the reception, viewing rooms and chapel, here grey industrial-strength linoleum covered the floor. The better to roll the bodies along. The first room to my right had a wide steel door with a plaque marking it Prep Room, Staff Only.

My stomach twisted in protest as I pushed down on the latch handle and entered the darkened room. Even as I searched for a switch, fluorescent lights flickered on overhead. I released on a sigh the breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding. No bodies occupied the two gurneys.

Metal cabinets lined the one wall. The first one contained bottles, jars and tubes of makeup and hairspray along with sponges and brushes. When I tugged on the handle of a drawer next to the gurneys, it slid out smoothly, revealing the surgical tools lined up inside. My mouth tasted sour as I fought a wave of nausea. I shoved the drawer shut. No question the funeral home had the necessary equipment for embalming—or something worse.

I turned and quickly left the chamber of horrors. I followed the hall until I reached another door. Pushing down on the handle, I found it opened into a carpeted hallway. If I recalled the layout correctly, this one formed the top of a
T.
The business offices were straight ahead and the longer, intersecting hall led to the viewing room, chapel and front entrance. Although a patch of light spilled from the office the place was as quiet as a tomb.

Bad pun, Nicole.
I imagined working here could give anyone the willies. Shaking my head, I walked down to the other end. “Mr. Depp?” I called out. No one responded.

I checked the first room, which was fitted with a gleaming wood conference table, several chairs and three ornate coffins, two with the lids open. Several stands held large catalogs. The place where one selected how to be buried in style and dropped a ton of money for the privilege. Suppressing a shudder, I moved on. A second room contained several desks and computers but no people.

Frowning, I checked my watch. A little after nine. The cadaverous young man who helped Depp direct people at the funeral could have been a part-timer.

Last was the corner office, clearly the owner’s. My lips curled at the sight of the cemetery posters covering the walls and a model-sized coffin on a credenza. I retraced my steps to the hall leading to the front and then paused. Something niggled at the edge of my mind about the showroom. I returned to its door and studied the contents.

It struck me. The lid on the third coffin was closed while the others were open so customers could see how they would spend eternity in comfort. I could have sworn all the models had been open during the Whitman funeral. Unable to shake the sense of wrongness, I approached the coffin. For all I knew, the staff liked to play a sick game of hide-and-seek.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the lid’s handle. I thanked the exercise gods for all the push-ups I’d done the past year and wrestled the lid up. I bit back a scream.

Colin Depp was a true funeral home director even in death. His sightless eyes gazed back at me as he reposed with his hands crossed just below his breast bone. His tie was neatly knotted and the jacket of the banker gray suit buttoned closed. The lapel held a crushed white carnation. Beneath his head red ribbons of blood streaked the small pillow’s ivory satin.

The sound of a door closing brought my head up. Whether it was the staff, the murderer or both, I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I made a beeline for the door and peeked around the corner. A man cursed in the hall leading to the front. He was close.

Praying the thick carpet would muffle the sound of my shoes, I dashed to the door I’d entered through. I pressed down on the handle but metal was metal, no matter how well maintained. It screeched.

I slammed it open and then ran past the preparation room into the garage.

“Hey!” At the hoarse exclamation, I looked back and saw a man dressed in white standing in the door. He dropped a small cooler. Plastic bags with dark contents spilled onto the pavement. The man reached for the gun sticking out of his waistband.

Oh shit. I ducked around the first limousine and the windshield shattered in a spray of glass. Keeping low, I raced to the exit and burst through the door. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the keys as I ran in a zigzag pattern to my car. I ripped open the door, flung myself into the seat and jammed the key into the ignition.
Come on, baby, start.

Sweat trickled an icy path down my spine as the engine roared to life. I spared a glance through the windshield and saw the man taking a wide-legged stance in front of the car and raising the gun. My thundering heart told me to go in reverse; my head said to go forward.

I put the BMW in drive, ducked down and floored the accelerator. Glass shattered and the passenger seat cushion exploded into bits of foam. I tightened my grip in anticipation of contact, but the gunman dove to the side seconds before I reached him.

Dammit.
Missed him.

I sped along the drive, peering through the spidery cracks in the windshield. At this time of the morning traffic was light on the side street. Tires screeched in protest as I made a sharp right turn toward the nearest main road, Military Trail.

Behind me a horn blared. Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw the ice cream truck careen onto the street. I canceled any thought of losing him in the traffic on Military Trail. Too many stop lights, too much congestion could work against me as easily as for me.

Maneuverability. That was my advantage.

Without slowing, I turned left, machine screaming in protest, but the Beemer held the pavement. As I raced down the side street, I dared to take my right hand off the wheel for a moment and rummaged in my purse. I breathed a sigh of relief as my fingers brushed the smart phone tucked as habit in the side pocket.

I pulled it out and touched the number 1.

Sam’s tone was brusque. “Nicole, I can’t talk—”

“Sam.” Tires squealed behind me. I made another right.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was now alert.

“Colin Depp is dead and his killer is trying to ram an ice cream truck up the rear of my BMW.”

“Where are you?”

“On Kirk Road, one block from making a right onto Gun Club.”

“That’s my Red. I’ll alert the sheriff’s department. Keep me on the line.”

“Will do.” I put the phone in its holder.

Oh God.
I could see traffic on the road ahead of me and nothing but the truck’s grill and headlights in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t stop.

Praying, I gunned the gas and spun the steering wheel. Horns clamored, metal screamed. The rear of the Beemer fishtailed as I fought to control the turn. My heart stopped for a moment when one side of the car lifted due to the over-correction, then righted and shot down Gun Club Road.

Sweat plastered my blouse to my back and rolled down my face. My eyes burned from the salty drips. I hunched my shoulder and swiped my forehead, checking the mirror. Although the last turn had gained me some distance, the truck was still behind me.

There. The large complex loomed ahead on the right. I waited until the last minute and yanked on the wheel. The Beemer shuddered but I sped along the drive to the back of the building. Spotting a ramp by a bank of doors, I pulled up, slammed the car into Park, opened the door and bailed out.

I stumbled but a strong hand grabbed my elbow and steadied me. I barely had time to register that my savior was Sam before he propelled me to the side of the ramp. I looked over my shoulder just in time to watch the truck plow into the side of the BMW. Metal collapsed with a sickening sound. Glass crackled, exploded. Rubber burned as my car flipped.

Gears ground as the other driver tried to put the truck in reverse, but khaki-clad deputies holding guns and rifles emerged through the doors and surrounded the truck. My assailant put his hands up. Moments later he had been pulled out of the truck and was lying spread-eagled on the ground.

“Are you all right?” Sam sounded agitated as he ran his hands over my shoulders.

“I’m fine.” My smile was tremulous. “I guess he was so determined to take me out that he didn’t notice I was leading him straight to the detention center.” Gun Club Detention Center was the large jail complex for Palm Beach County.

Suddenly, Sam’s miraculous presence hit me. I frowned. “How did you get here so fast? I was booking it and only a few blocks away when I called you.”

“I was meeting with a suspect and his attorney.” He lifted a hand and stroked a damp tendril of hair from my temple. “Let me tell you, Red. I ran to get out here and almost wasn’t in time. You must have broken every speed limit.”