A Woman of Mystery

by Charlotte Douglas

  The judge waved them into their chairs and addressed Michael. “Now, Mr. Winslow, I’m ready to hear your reasons why this hearing has deviated from every regular procedure in this county. And, believe me, they had better be good.”

  Chapter Five

  Michael rose and straightened his double-breasted jacket with a purposeful movement that caught every gaze in the courtroom. Except Jordan’s. He couldn’t tear his attention from the dejected slope of Angel’s shoulders.

  Angel. He’d never be able to think of her as Sara.

  Zacharias, dubbed Old Blood and Thunder by the legal community, had intentionally bullied her with his infamous fire-breathing speech and hawklike stare. Jordan scooted forward in his chair and leaned across the bar to warn her of the judge’s notorious maneuvers.

  “Relax,” he whispered in her left ear, “Zacharias isn’t as tough as he acts.”

  The subtle fragrance of her perfume, a honeysuckle scent that conjured up soft breezes, summer nights and an enticing picture of Angel in his arms teased his nose. He wondered if she’d ever enjoy the freedom of a summer night again, and the thought tied a cold, hard knot in his stomach.

  Earlier he had located her apartment through the phone company’s directory assistance and gone there to collect her clothes for the hearing. Choosing the delicate crystal perfume bottle from her bedroom dresser, he had hoped the familiar fragrance would trigger her recollections, but the scent apparently hadn’t helped. All her memories remained locked away.

  While she had met with Dr. Rosenbaum, Jordan had selected her clothing according to Michael’s instructions—simple and understated in neutral colors. Choosing the suit and blouse had been the easy part. Picking through lacy undergarments and silky stockings as insubstantial as a cloud had been an intimate and erotic experience, an act a man usually performed only for a lover or a wife.

  Equally unsettling had been his futile search for clues to help in her defense. He had come away empty-handed, haunted by the poignant emptiness of little Brittany’s sunny bedroom.

  He forced his attention back to the proceedings when Michael stepped forward to address the judge.

  “The circumstances of this case are extraordinary, your honor. The defendant suffers from amnesia and is unable to participate in her own defense. I have an expert who will testify her amnesia was induced by psychological trauma, and that incarceration will only exacerbate her condition.”

  Judge Zacharias raised bushy eyebrows, lifted a long, bony finger and pointed at the attorney accusingly. “Are you suggesting, Counselor, that I release Ms. Swinburn simply because she finds our accommodations stressful?”

  Jordan empathized with Angel’s cringe at the sarcasm in the judge’s voice, but Michael, familiar with Zacharias’s methods, didn’t blink.

  “Not entirely. The sooner she regains her memory, the sooner she will be fit for trial. Without the stress of jail and with the able help of Dr. Rosenbaum, she hopes to overcome her amnesia quickly.” He paused, waiting for Zacharias’s reaction.

  “Is that all?” the judge asked.

  “There is another issue at stake besides the murder of David Swinburn.”

  “Please—” Zacharias waved his hand, causing the sleeve of his robe to flutter like a giant wing “—enlighten me.”

  “Ms. Swinburn’s two-year-old daughter is missing. The police believe if Ms. Swinburn can regain her memory, she can help locate her daughter.”

  Zacharias propped his elbows on the bench, steepled his fingers and scrutinized Angel over the tops of his bifocals. Jordan’s reluctant admiration grew when she straightened in her chair and met the judge’s gaze unflinchingly.

  “Very well, Counselor. Call your first witness.”

  “Jordan Trouble, former detective-lieutenant with the Sunset Bay Police Department.”

  Jordan rose, proceeded through the gate to the witness stand and raised his hand to be sworn in by the clerk.

  When he took his seat, Zacharias leaned toward him, compassion gleaming in his dark eyes.

  “Happy to see you’re still among the living, Lieutenant Trouble,” he muttered in a low voice.

  “Thank you, your honor.”

  The knot in Jordan’s stomach started to unravel. Zacharias hadn’t changed. A kind heart still beat beneath that crusty exterior. Michael’s plan for Angel’s release might work after all.

  In concise, simple terms, Jordan described meeting Angel and her subsequent amnesia. Her gaze never left his face during the telling, and he stared at Michael to avoid the distraction of her luminous eyes.

  When Jordan finished his testimony, Dr. Rosenbaum took the stand and presented his diagnosis that her amnesia had been induced by emotional trauma.

  Rosenbaum stepped down and exited the courtroom, and Michael again addressed the judge. “Given the circumstances of Ms. Swinburn’s amnesia, which renders her incapable of participating in her own defense, I ask that the court set bail, so that she is spared further anxiety by incarceration and can receive treatment, including stimulation of her memory by familiar surroundings.”

  Zacharias scowled. “Bail in a capital case is highly unusual.”

  “I agree, your honor, but the circumstances of this case are also unusual. And there’s Ms. Swinburn’s missing daughter to consider.”

  “We’ll take a short recess while I consider my decision.” The judge rapped his gavel and left the bench in a rustle of black fabric.

  Michael returned to Angel at the defense table, and Jordan joined them.

  “There’s a soda machine down the hall,” the attorney said. “Sit tight and I’ll bring you something to drink.”

  He strode up the aisle toward the exit, and Jordan sat beside Angel. “How are you holding up?”

  She shrugged, outwardly nonchalant, but a white line of apprehension edged her lips, colored now with a subtle coral lipstick that suited her quiet elegance better than Reckless Red. “I’m numb. None of this seems real.”

  “It’s almost over.”

  She clasped her hands on the tabletop until her knuckles went white and rubbed one thumb over the other. “Looks like I’m headed to jail.”

  “Zacharias could grant bail.”

  “What good would that do? I don’t have any money. The balance in the checkbook you brought from my apartment shows I’m almost broke.”

  She wasn’t exaggerating. After she had written Michael a modest check for his retainer, her funds had been pitifully small.

  “We’ll find a bail bonds agent to guarantee your bail.”

  “Just like that? Don’t they need some kind of collateral, in case I skip the country?”

  “The collateral doesn’t have to cover the entire bail. You can use real estate—”

  “The lease you found says my apartment’s rented.”

  “—or a car.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where my car is. Neither do the police.”

  He cradled her clenched hands and gently kneaded the tightness from them. “Zacharias could set bail so low, you might not need collateral.”

  Fifteen minutes later, back in his seat behind the bar, Jordan was less confident when the judge returned to the courtroom to announce his decision.

  The ruling would be a tough call. Bail was almost never granted in capital cases. Because Florida law allowed the death penalty for first-degree murder, a judge had to consider that the accused might flee prosecution rather than risk execution in Old Sparky, the state’s infamous electric chair.

  The soda Jordan had drunk during the break ate at his insides, and anxiety congested his throat. The idea of Angel sentenced to die in Old Sparky had made his heart ache and initiated his queasy stomach.

  But maybe events wouldn’t come to that. Angel’s circumstances were unique. If Zacharias refused to grant bail, the media would rip him to shreds over his harsh treatment of a mother who couldn’t remember and his apparent disdain for her missing child.

  The judge, his gloomy expression g
rimmer than usual, climbed to his seat. Crossing his arms on the bench, he bent toward Michael with the mournful look of a kid who’d lost his dog. His refusal to look at Angel sent a chill through Jordan, and he had to hold himself back from reaching out to reassure her.

  “You’ve presented me with an interesting dilemma, Counselor.” The judge’s bleak voice echoed in the almost empty room. “To grant bail in a capital case would set a dangerous precedent.”

  Michael remained silent, and everyone in the room, from the bailiff to Angel and a handful of spectators, seemed to hold their breath.

  “But I’m not a heartless man,” Zacharias continued with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I recognize that Ms. Swinburn cannot participate in her defense without her memory, and I feel for the loss of her little girl. I have a granddaughter that age.”

  Jordan’s hope rekindled. Maybe Zacharias was going to grant bail.

  “However—” with one word, the judge dashed his expectations “—I have a responsibility to this community. I can’t just turn an accused murderer loose. She must be remanded to the custody of someone who can assure she is no threat to the people of this state.”

  In a flash of precognition, Jordan felt the noose of inevitability cinch a notch tighter.

  “Therefore, I set bail at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars and remand Sara Swinburn to the custody of former Detective-Lieutenant Jordan Trouble, who will guarantee that she receive therapy for her amnesia and be responsible for her conduct until she returns for trial, the date of which will be set at an arraignment hearing three weeks from today.”

  Zacharias banged the gavel, rose and, without another glance at Angel, disappeared into his chambers.

  Jordan sat in stunned silence.

  Michael twisted in his chair and spoke to him across the bar. “We won. Why do I feel like we lost?”

  Jordan shook his head in disbelief. “The old fox is playing both ends against the middle. Because he set bail, he can’t be accused of being unsympathetic to a mother with amnesia and a missing daughter.”

  Michael grimaced. “But he set it so high, there’s little likelihood Sara can make it. Essentially he’s assured that she’ll remain behind bars.”

  The bailiff moved forward to claim his prisoner, and Jordan recognized Biff Langdon, a veteran police officer who’d turned bailiff when his knee went bad.

  “Give us a couple minutes, will you, Biff?”

  Biff nodded and moved away.

  Angel’s face had lost its color, but she stood with her shoulders back, head high. Her gaze met Jordan’s, but without reproach. He blamed himself enough for both of them. If he hadn’t encouraged her to surrender to police, she’d still be free.

  Only a slight tremor in her full bottom lip belied her poise.

  “I’m sorry.” Michael placed his hand on her shoulder. “I—”

  “Ahem.”

  Jordan turned at the sound of a throat clearing behind them.

  A short, balding man in gray slacks and a pink sport shirt pulled tight over a rounded paunch hovered in the aisle. He thrust a soiled business card toward Michael. “Joe Spacek. Maybe I can help.”

  Jordan remembered Spacek as a bail bonds agent who had guaranteed bail for some of the worst slime to pass through the courts of Sunset County. He was alleged to have mob connections and obviously had some tie-in to the police department, since even the media hadn’t known about Angel’s advisory hearing. Spacek’s presence raised nagging questions about how he had obtained his information.

  “What are you doing here?” Jordan asked. “Nobody knew about this hearing.”

  Spacek shuffled his feet. “I had a matter to attend to in the courthouse and noticed this room was in use. Figured I’d drum up some business.”

  Jordan didn’t believe him. “Not even you would risk posting a three-quarter-million bond.”

  Angel glanced sharply from Jordan to Spacek. “It’s no risk. I don’t intend to run away.”

  “That’s not the point.” Michael’s expression reflected Jordan’s distrust. “Spacek needs big collateral to insure that much money.”

  Joe shook his bald head, and late afternoon sunlight slanting in the tall windows glinted off his oily scalp. “Not necessarily. I can tell Mrs. Swinburn is a class act. I got no worries about her not showing up for trial.”

  Jordan appraised Spacek with skepticism. “When did you get to be such a trusting humanitarian?”

  “Hey.” He shrugged his meaty shoulders and offered his card again. “I ain’t pretending the publicity on this won’t be good for business.”

  Spacek was lying through his yellow teeth. With his connections, he didn’t need advertising. Jordan met Michael’s gaze. “What do you think?”

  This time Michael grabbed Spacek’s card before he could withdraw it again. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  THAT EVENING, ANGEL STOOD with Jordan in the apartment where the police said she’d lived for the past year and a half. Nothing seemed familiar, neither the restful blue-and-green color scheme of the living room, the all-white bedroom with its curtains, bedspread and pillows edged in Battenburg lace, or the cozy kitchen with cabinets of bleached oak.

  None of the clothing she’d packed in suitcases for Michael to deliver to Jordan’s boat in dry dock had brought back any memories. Neither could she explain the overwhelming sense of satisfaction the strange garments with which she’d filled the bags had given her.

  After posting her bail through Joe Spacek, Michael had whisked Jordan and her away in his luxurious car and driven north to St. Petersburg and an early dinner in a quaint, exclusive restaurant off Beach Drive, where the maître’d had greeted Michael by name.

  Still shaky from her encounters with the Sunset Bay police and the irascible Judge Zacharias, she had remained quiet and eaten little. What little appetite she’d had disappeared entirely at her companions’ conversation over their entrées.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Michael insisted. “Spacek’s a businessman. Unprincipled and disgusting, but still a businessman. Why would he risk three-quarters of a million dollars?”

  Jordan grinned with the appealing charm she remembered from their first meeting, and she welcomed its return. Neither of them had found much to smile about in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Since the judge remanded Angel to my custody, maybe Spacek’s putting his money on my sterling reputation,” Jordan said, “knowing I’ll make certain she shows up for trial.”

  “It’s possible,” Michael said thoughtfully.

  Jordan’s grin faded. “But I don’t think so. Spacek doesn’t trust anybody, least of all a cop.”

  “If he isn’t certain I’ll appear for trial, why was he willing to post such a huge bond?” Angel asked.

  Jordan’s blue eyes were hard with anger. “Because Spacek doesn’t really care whether you keep your court date.”

  “You think somebody’s providing Spacek’s collateral for Sara?” Michael asked.

  Jordan nodded grimly “Somebody who doesn’t want Angel in jail. Could be the same person who paid those two thugs who tried to grab her in Mary Tiger’s.”

  “Whoever it is,” Michael said thoughtfully, “has to have big bucks to guarantee that large a sum.”

  Jordan tossed his peach-colored napkin on the table in frustration. “That certainly narrows the field. Sunset County has the highest median income in the state. We’ll need more than wealth to identify a suspect.”

  Their deductions frightened her. “Isn’t it possible some anonymous friend arranged for my bail?”

  Jordan exchanged an unreadable glance with Michael across the table before covering her hand with his. “Let’s hope you’re right. But if I’m to keep you safe, I have to consider the worst-case scenario and be prepared for it.”

  “What is the worst-case scenario?” she asked, not really wanting to know.

  Michael frowned. “That whoever guaranteed your bail wants you out of jail where you’
re accessible.”

  “Accessible? Why?”

  He shifted uneasily on the leather banquette, and his reluctance to answer sent a chill down her back. “You could have information this person needs—information he doesn’t want you to share with anyone.”

  “Are you saying he wants me dead?” She had endured so much already, the idea of a hired killer coming after her brought no surprise. She braced herself for more fear, but all she felt was exhaustion.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “Jordan will protect you.”

  Jordan had squeezed her hand in encouragement, but doubt had flickered through his eyes.

  Now, as he rummaged through her apartment for a second time that day, collecting names and addresses of anyone who might help his investigation, she wondered about the source of his uncertainty.

  Michael obviously believed in Jordan’s ability to safeguard her, but Jordan apparently wasn’t convinced he could keep her from harm. Had he guessed who was after her and assessed her pursuer’s strength and resources? Or did his doubt spring from shattered confidence? Perhaps the bullet that drove him off the police force had wounded more than his shoulder.

  She shut her mind against more unanswered questions. Because of her lost memories, she knew Jordan Trouble better than anyone else on earth, and, ironically, she hardly understood him. The next three weeks, at any rate, should teach her a great deal about her rescuer. Thanks to Judge Zacharias, for the next twenty-one days, until the arraignment hearing, Jordan couldn’t leave her side.

  She took a last look around the bedroom and turned off the light. When she entered the living room, Jordan looked up from the desk he was searching. His tousled, sun-streaked hair tumbled across his high forehead, a devilish grin formed a deep dimple in his tanned cheek, and approval shone in the night-sky blue of his eyes.

  She had already learned he was more than just a handsome face and sexy body. In spite of the uncertainty she’d witnessed earlier, she had no doubt he was a man she could rely on, a friend who would be there for her and a trained protector who would guard her with his life.