Courting Danger

by Carol Stephenson

  His smile was a flash of white against his dark skin. His sweat-drenched armless T-shirt revealed bronzed muscular arms and a broad chest. Snug, worn jeans showed strong, toned legs.

  Hot, hot, hot. He was primal male to the core.

  “You and me—” he pointed “—later?”

  I cocked a hip and planted my hand on it as I gave him a long, slow survey. The other men hooted and hollered. Then I shook my head.

  “No.”

  He clasped his hands to his chest. “Dios! Por qué? Why not?”

  “Because you don’t do it for me, baby.”

  The crew howled and the man touched his hand to his forehead in a salute. He turned and sauntered back the truck. I swallowed, hard, while I admired the view.

  I had to admit, Gabriel Chavez had one major cute butt.

  Looked like our plan had worked. He must not have had any problem in being picked up as a laborer this morning. The strategy was that I would rattle people by being on-site today, asking questions, and maybe he in his undercover role could shake free some useful information.

  Time for me to do more rattling. I turned and went to the area that was going to be the courtyard. Several groups of laborers were working on the landscaping. On one side was a towering pile of topsoil. Right next to it was…a canvas-covered gigantic penis pointing at me.

  I came to an abrupt halt and stared at it. A halfhearted breeze stirred the edges of the draped cover and I caught a flash of metal. Of course. The infamous statue “Fallen Justice” donated by a renowned abstract artist.

  His work was abstract all right. It lacked any resemblance to a woman. One end was narrower than the other, but whether that signified Lady Justice’s head or feet, no one knew, and the artist wasn’t telling because he was getting a lot of news coverage about his contribution to the old courthouse.

  Carling had dubbed the distorted piece of six-foot-long metal set on a massive pedestal base “The Flying Sperm.” Amazing how a piece of cloth transformed the monstrosity from being the ejaculation to being the ejaculator. Carling would die laughing if she saw it now.

  Reluctantly, I tore my attention from the statue and approached the man closest to me. “Francelus?” He shook his head and gestured to the next group. I approached them. “Francelus?”

  A man raking dirt paused and looked up.

  “I’m Katherine Rochelle. Your boss Turow said you were on the crew working on the courthouse fourth floor?”

  He shook his head and flashed a gold-tooth filled smile. “No speak English.”

  I repeated what I had said in French. “Understand me?”

  He nodded.

  I continued in pidgin French.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  At once Francelus’s expression became closed. Lawyer, law, police, authority. They were all synonymous to many immigrants from the turbulent island of Haiti. After years of brutality, those who had fled to America remained a tight-knit group. They lived together, often eight to ten people in a small apartment, patronized Haitian-owned businesses and went to church together. Outsiders were not welcomed and looked at with suspicion. As for any authority figure, forget it. The group clammed up tighter than Florida’s coastal borders.

  But they loved to bargain and dicker. I held up my hand. “Five dollars if you tell me about what you saw or heard on the top floor of the courthouse.”

  “Fifty,” said Francelus in English.

  “You understand English?”

  “Fifty dollars.” This time he spoke in thick Creole.

  So we had a game going. Let’s jerk the little lady around.

  “Ten,” I deliberately said in English.

  “Forty-five.”

  After a few minutes of intense negotiations, we arrived at a deal for twenty. Francelus extended his hand and I got a crisp new bill out of my tote. He pocketed the money and leaned on his rake.

  “What do you want to know?” He was back to Creole.

  “Anything unusual you saw or heard on the fourth floor?”

  “A restless spirit. I consulted the priest, and he told me a man walked the hallways, searching.”

  “Searching for what?”

  “Revenge. His is a lost soul trapped on that floor because of his sudden death.”

  “The priest told you all that?” The priest and probably a slaughtered chicken or two. Unless I was way off, Francelus practiced a form of Santeria.

  “Yes, but I also saw the man’s spirit walking the hallways. Very upset with our disturbing his peace. I told him that if he didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t work there anymore.”

  “Anyplace in particular he haunted?”

  Francelus shrugged. “He walked between the machine room and the great room.”

  Great room? For a moment I was stumped. “Do you mean the large courtroom?”

  “Yes, but of course.”

  One of the architectural points of interest in the old courthouse was a two-story courtroom that was being restored, adjoining my grandfather’s former office. I assumed the machine room had to be the air-conditioning and other equipment installed in the later years.

  The men around us laid down their tools and moved off. One called out to Francelus.

  He looked at me and pointed at the sun. “Time off.”

  “It’s time for your break?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. If you think of anything else, here’s my card.”

  He pocketed the card and slowly followed his buddies.

  Standing in the now empty courtyard, I tried to fit the newest information into the puzzle. I swiped at a bee dive-bombing at my ear. Behind me I heard the increasing whine and growl of a Bobcat.

  All right. I had done my job and stirred the pot here. I needed to go back to the office and return a few phone calls before tackling the next batch of witnesses.

  The Bobcat’s drone was quite close. The ground vibrated under my feet. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The ground wasn’t the only thing vibrating.

  I spun around. The mountain of topsoil stirred, as if coming to life. Then dirt began to slip and slide, gathering momentum—toward me. The Bobcat was driving into the mound.

  “Hey, someone is over here!” I yelled, but the soil continued to shift.

  When I had skied in the Switzerland Alps, my instructor had told me that if I was ever caught in an avalanche to pray. As the top of this mountain began to spill toward me, I prayed but I also turned and began running.

  The air turned brown, cloying. Dirt spattered over my head, clogging my nose. Sharp stones stung my back and the gathering force of the landslide flung me forward as if I were a limp doll. In desperation I stretched out into a headfirst dive, sliding for all my life like a major league baseball player. The earth trembled, the air roared and everything went pitch-black.

  I was buried alive.

  Chapter 10

  Disoriented, I stirred. Good, I could move the upper part of my body, despite the weight pressing against my legs. Although grit still stung my eyes, I opened my eyes and blinked. I was in a dark cavelike space, though the far side was backlit and fluttered slightly. The faintest breeze wafted against my face.

  Of course. I was under the penis statue. In that last burst of desperation I had flung myself at it. My grinding belly flop had carried me under the canvas. From the air and sunlight, the dirt hadn’t spilled over to the other side. If I could drag my legs free, I could get out.

  I first tried a flutter kick but no dice. Couldn’t move my feet an inch. With a grunt I raised myself on both elbows and then extended one hand. There. Warm metal. Curling my fingers over the edge, I tugged as hard as I could. I moved forward an inch.

  Sweat trickled down my face. Taking another deep breath, I reached farther along the metal surface, gripped and tugged. I could swear I moved at least two inches. Even the pressure on my legs felt lighter. Another foot and I should be clear. Taking another grip, I paused. The ringing in my ears hadn’t stopped but I could swear
I heard voices.

  “Here!” My shout came out a muffled croak. I swallowed and tried again. “I’m here!”

  I thought I was louder this time, but the effort sapped my energy. I dropped my head and willed myself to try again. This time I needed to say where I was, okay? Have to shout out where I am. On the count of three.

  One, two…I drew in a shaky breath.

  “Kate?”

  The canvas flapped up, allowing sun to flood the area under the statue. I narrowed my eyes against the blinding light and saw the silhouette of a man’s head. Arms reached forward and strong hands gripped mine.

  “Gabe,” I managed to gasp. “My legs. Trapped.”

  “Hold on to me, babe,” Gabe said as he pulled. Inch by inch, I slid forward. When I saw the gleam of metal, I ducked my head so I wouldn’t conk myself out on the statue.

  As I finally felt the sun on my skin, Gabe dropped my hands and gripped under me under my arms. With a grunt he dragged me clear, falling on his butt. I sprawled half on, half off him.

  I was alive. I was free.

  When I regained my strength, I was going to have to do something celebratory, such as kiss Gabe. For now, I was content to lie on top of him.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  I managed to twist my head and look up. Stan the tattoo man stood towering above, his hands fisted on his hips.

  “What were you doing fooling around with the topsoil, lady? You could’ve been killed.”

  Below me I felt Gabe tense. I patted his arm in a silent warning. He levered up and for the next few moments we were a blur of flying elbows and knees as we sought to un-tangle ourselves. Finally, Gabe helped me to my feet but kept his arm around my waist.

  “Señorita, your knees.” He pointed at my ripped pant legs. “You okay?”

  For a second I stared at him, wondering why he was speaking in broken English, before I remembered he was undercover.

  I quit leaning into his side and stood. My legs, though wobbly, held. There wasn’t an inch of my body not aching or covered in dirt, but I didn’t appear to have any major injuries…nothing that a hot shower wouldn’t cure.

  I nodded at Gabe. “Thank you.”

  “It is nothing,” he murmured.

  “Gonzalez, isn’t it?” Stan asked.

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Well, we’re not paying you to stand around and flirt with the ladies.”

  “Oh really.” I stepped forward and got into Stan’s face. “Listen up, Mr. Turow. Someone on a Bobcat pushed that load of dirt on top of me—after I yelled that I was standing here. I would still be lying buried if this man hadn’t helped me out.”

  A muscle flexed along Stan’s jaw. “Look, Miss Rochelle. No one was working in this area. They were on break.”

  “Are you suggesting the avalanche happened all by itself?” I demanded indignantly.

  “Señor Turow,” Gabe called out. He had moved around the spill area.

  “What?”

  “The machine that moves the dirt.” Gabe made a gesture indicating the Bobcat. “It’s not here.”

  “What!” Stan rushed over and, after looking in all directions around the yard, stood scratching his bald head. He jerked out his walkie-talkie. “Someone call the police. One of the Bobcats is missing.”

  He glared at me. “I don’t suppose you can describe who the driver was.”

  “Never saw him. The bucket was up.”

  “Great. And since you’re a lawyer, I imagine you’ll march right across the street and file a lawsuit against us.”

  The idea had its merits, particularly since it would be Juan’s pride-and-joy company that I could sue, but our marriage had been my mistake, not his. He had known what he was doing; I hadn’t. Sometimes revenge meant accepting your part in a disaster and moving on.

  “No,” I answered. “But you might want to consider securing your equipment when it’s not in use.” I turned to leave.

  “Where are you going? The police will need to speak with you.” Stan moved to block my path, but with one cool look from me, he stepped aside.

  “Give the police my name and they can call me.”

  I looked at the statue gleaming under the sun. Carling was correct. Without the canvas it was back to resembling a silver sperm. “I should go thank an artist for that work of art.”

  Stan spat. “That ugly piece of crap?”

  “Ugly it may be, but it saved my life.”

  He shrugged and called out orders to get the dirt cleaned up. Through the thinning crowd, I caught a glimpse of Cindy Overbeck, hovering at the edge. Limping, I made my way to her. I didn’t want her to get too close to the disaster area. She had been infatuated with Gabe and could recognize him.

  “I was just on my way to see you,” I said.

  She darted a nervous glance around, but the few people remaining were intent on the dirt pile. “I have something for you.”

  Since Cindy appeared reluctant to hand it over in public, I gestured toward the street. “Let’s head toward my car.” This morning I had parked on the street, shunning the garage. I suspected it would be a while before I would park there again, if ever.

  She nodded and accompanied me to the sidewalk. Once we were in the throng of people heading to lunch, she relaxed. She pulled from a denim bag a crumpled envelope.

  “I made a copy of Grace’s phone messages that Gabe asked for. You’ll make sure that he gets them, won’t you? He told me they might help Lloyd.”

  I resisted rolling my eyes. Instead, I smiled and took the envelope. “Thank you. I’ll make sure Gabe sees them.” Only after I was finished with them.

  I placed the bundle in my tote. “I’ll also make sure Lloyd knows how much help you’ve been.”

  A smile lit Cindy’s face. When animated she was almost pretty. With different clothes and hairstyle and confidence, she would be attractive.

  “Thank you. I have to go now before I’m missed.”

  “Don’t you get a lunch hour?”

  She blushed and shook her head. “I brown-bag it and eat at my desk.”

  Translation, she had no friends to meet. I said goodbye and watched her walk away. In a hurry to be somewhere, people flowed around Cindy, but no one noticed her. She was invisible on the streets of West Palm Beach. When this case was over, I was going to change that. A makeover and hairstylist would do wonders for her.

  Two hours later I gimped into the cool, large foyer of an office building on Flagler Drive. Although a hot shower and change of clothes had gone a long way to restore my appearance, my knees hurt like hell.

  While I had given consideration to calling up Armando’s Spa and Retreat for an afternoon of massage and pampering, a message from my office had alerted me that my quarry had landed back in West Palm Beach. I crossed the green marble floor around the huge water fountain and checked the directory. After stepping into the glass elevator, I watched the ground floor recede as it whisked me up three flights. The curving hallway took me to the last bank of offices.

  As I entered, the receptionist behind a security enclosure was chattering in Spanish on the phone. She waggled her fingers at me, which I interpreted to mean she would be with me shortly. “Shortly” turned out to be five minutes. The conversation, punctuated often with exclamations and the waving of an arm covered with bangles, was about her friend’s no-good husband. When the receptionist hung up, she gave me a practiced smile.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Chase.”

  She glanced down at a sheet of paper and frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.” I handed her my ivory embossed business card. “Tell him it’s about Grace Roberts.”

  The receptionist’s mouth tightened but she dialed a number. Turning away, she spoke on her headset. When the conversation concluded, she looked at me and pushed a buzzer. “Mr. Chase will see you.”

  I opened the door and she escorted me down a short bank of offices before gesturing at the
corner one. I thanked her and entered a spacious office outfitted with black leather and chrome. A man rose and came around a massive glass table set on a diagonal.

  “Ms. Rochelle.” He extended a hand. As we shook, I had to admit, Charles Taylor Chase, no hyphen, was not what I had expected of Grace Roberts’s fiancé.

  Dark-haired, medium height and slender, he came across as a somber man. Not a lot of laugh lines around his mouth or brown eyes. Although dressed in an Italian-made wool suit and leather shoes, his overall appearance was discreet, no flash. Even his Rolex watch was a mere glint of gold on his wrist. Nothing ostentatious.

  His mouth twitched as he observed my study of him. “Not what you would expect of Grace’s boyfriend?” He gestured for me to take a client chair.

  Boyfriend, not fiancé. “To be honest, no.”

  Chase resumed his seat behind his desk and propped his elbows on the arms, his hands forming a steeple. “We were the classic case of opposites attracting.”

  At the smell of money, Grace would have always been attracted, but why set her sight on Chase in particular?

  He swiveled his chair so he could look out on his view of the Intracoastal Waterway and the boat traffic moving up and down it. “Grace was a vibrant woman. So alive. I was immediately attracted to her.”

  “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Enemies?” His mouth pursed as if he found the word distasteful. “How do any of us know that until murder is solved?”

  Good point. “Did she ever complain about anyone, seem apprehensive?”

  “Complain? Yes, Grace did that a lot. She tended to be jealous of others. She was a bit insecure.”

  Grace insecure? “Anyone in particular she was jealous of?”

  “You for one. That’s why I agreed to see you. I can see why now.”

  “Me?”

  “Cool sophistication. Class. Family name. Qualities Grace strived for but never could obtain.”

  I pointed out the obvious. “She could have married into a family name.”

  “True, but apparently she decided ‘Chase’ wasn’t good enough.”