Chasing Suspect Three (3 page)

Slowly she opened it again. The page began to
describe occasions of intimacy in lurid detail. Her head started
feeling warm before she had finished the first page. This was
blatant erotica. Not particularly well-written. Nevertheless, it
was all there with no attempt at delicacy.

A tense feeling of shock and embarrassment
came over her. After a few pages, she felt light-headed. The words
began to blur. She slammed the book shut and jerked her hand away
as though it were hot. She glanced around even though she knew no
one was watching. She placed the book back in the trash and stood
there in the kitchen looking up at the ceiling and regaining her
breath.

A moment earlier, she had been embarrassed
for reading some other person’s erotic thoughts, now she was
uncomfortable recognizing it had excited her. Then the excitement
left her as quickly as it had come, as a disturbing thought rushed
into her mind. Could the exceedingly capable male whose activities
were described be Chip? Instantly, the diary was no longer
titillating—it was horrible.

Chip would never participate like that. It
couldn’t be him. He certainly had never asked Sandy to abandon
herself to the extent just described. Was this somehow her fault?
Was there another sexual level she should have taken him to? Where
was the edge of normal, the line you’re not supposed to cross?

It couldn’t be Chip in the diary. But if not,
why had the woman given it to him? Her head was then full of
images, and it was Chip with his faceless no doubt beautiful
partner.

After a moment, she reached back down drawn
like a magnet and again closed her fingers around the book. Did she
hold in her grasp an erotic log written after each steamy episode?
The uninhibited thoughts the woman had spent hours reliving and
carefully documenting? Happenings most women have never experienced
and most would never care to? The writer might well have kept it
bedside ready to relive the lascivious memories.

Considering the effort and emotional energy
needed to create such a personal document, it seemed incredible the
writer would let it leave her hands and so easily give it away.
Perhaps this replay of the sex they had shared was to be a clever
aphrodisiac given to Chip in the hope of arousing his interest
enough to desire her again. If she wasn’t writing about Chip, then
why give it to him? He’d read it and realize immediately that he
wasn’t the male depicted. She’d come off kooky and he would
distance himself from her even more.

This was becoming ridiculous. Get real. It
was none of her business. The male wasn’t Chip. So what if the sex
wasn’t mainstream? The diary characters were still consenting
adults enjoying each other’s body; why deny it? The episodes were
no doubt exaggerated. Indeed, the woman could have fabricated
entire fantasies. Even if true, Sandy didn’t know if Chip was the
man depicted.

He didn’t seem secretive about meeting the
woman and receiving the book. He might have thrown it away not
noticing the diary hidden under the poetry book cover. Perhaps he
did read it and was unmoved and disinterested, as it had nothing to
do with him.

She remembered he had graciously overlooked a
major indiscretion of hers some months ago; the least she could do
was accept this situation with a degree of trust.

All the rationalization didn’t clear her
mind. Her imagination was beyond composure at that point; the
images were still there. And now he was beckoning from the bedroom
for her to join him. She knew what was waiting for her, if she
wanted it. Why did she feel she’d be slipping into bed with a
stranger? What if his hands were no longer the familiar hands that
had always touched her? What if they were no longer special? What
if his naked body felt different, and the lovemaking was
unfamiliar. Should she take such a chance?

Silly, of course, yet she was not going into
that bedroom and onto the same king-sized bed where the described
performances might possibly have been staged. She didn’t want to be
in bed with the possible diary man.

She gave Chip an excuse for unexpectedly
leaving and escaping to the refuge of her safe little
apartment.

H
ow marvelous that
just looking out on a sunlit Florida morning can improve your
disposition. Having slept surprisingly well, Sandy felt better
waking up in her own twin-sized bed in the cozy nook of her studio
apartment. Nevertheless, soon after awakening, the players in that
erotic diary slipped back into her mind.

She would dismiss them, of course. In the
light of morning, they were at most exaggerated cartoon characters
who had no place in her world. Too bad, they didn’t stay out of her
mind.

A smiling Martin Bronner unexpectedly greeted
her at the law office door when she arrived. He eagerly waved a
pink message slip as though it were a winning lottery ticket. The
two young lawyers were not officially law partners; yet they did
share the office and an increasing slice of each other’s life. Not
the romantic part. Early on, she had gently squelched his hopes for
a romance. Even so, he would catch himself having dreamy thoughts
about her.

They definitely had become friends in spite
of being mismatched. she could be audacious and brash. Martin, in
every sense of the word, was a gentleman. He kept his world
well-ordered. She took the world as she found it. He would politely
walk passed a closed door. She wouldn’t hesitate to listen at the
door and then peek inside—especially if it were marked “Private.”
He was comfortable with crime only in the abstract, and would walk
a wide circle around a dead body. She’d step over it. They were
complementary forces and made a remarkable though unlikely set of
office mates.

He was ten years older—around forty, and nice
looking in a button-down sort of way: neatly trimmed short hair and
inevitably dressed too conservatively for Florida. He had never
worn a collarless shirt of any type out in public in his entire
life, not even in grade school. Back when they first met, he had
recently taken over the small office building from his father and
was using one office in the suite of offices for his modest one
lawyer practice. She had moved in while they pursued their one and
only important lawsuit, a wrongful death case they had recently
won. They were waiting for the sizable settlement money to
materialize and their fame to spread. After that, multitudes of
important clients would surely be pounding on their door.

That settlement money better show up soon, as
she had violated her carefully crafted budget rules by occasionally
hitting her credit card to cover day-to-day living expenses.
Fortunately, her expenses were low.

Her small studio apartment cost almost
nothing. Her clothing would possibly last considering she regularly
ran around in jeans, sometimes in the office. Eating regularly was
overrated. She did owe Martin for untold lunches. He didn’t know
she was keeping score. He was also covering her office rent and
expenses. He was calling it a gift. She had a careful record of how
much she owned him.

Her primary hit was the monthly payment on
her precious Mazda MX-5. Even if financial disaster struck, it
would be the last to go. She’d give up her apartment and live in
the car, if necessary. Of course, she had no business driving a
late model sporty convertible, but logic was beside the point.

In the process of pursuing that one big
lawsuit, they had become friends, and the office arrangement was
good for them both. She stayed on renting a small office from him,
even if she could have afforded something else, because she liked
it there. And good for him, because he’d be pleased to be around
her 24/7.

“Don’t often get phone messages. Someday,
I’ll waltz in here and there will be a pile of lucrative messages
waiting for me.” She took the pink slip from him. “Anyone wanting
my money is out of luck.”

“It’s a call from the Inmate Advocate at the
county jail. A prisoner specifically asked for you. Shall I have it
bronzed?”

“Not yet, it’s probably another DUI.”

“No, they said the prisoner was being held
for murder.”

“Frame it!” she yelled. She stared at the
number for a moment before reaching for the phone. “This might be
it, Martin. Finally, the serious case I’ve waited so long for.”

Just a few months had passed since she
received her law license, yet Martin knew that becoming a
successful criminal defense lawyer was her lifelong dream. “I‘ll
cross my fingers for you,” he said.

She rushed out of the office eager to meet
with the prospective client and stopped only to grab a takeout
coffee on the drive to the county jail. In the jail parking lot,
she sat in her Miata convertible and considered the building. She
had been there many times, most recently to talk with one client
arrested for DUI, and another who wiped out a phone pole while
driving with a suspended license.

Today, she’d walk in, show her ID, get a
visitor’s badge, and all would be the same except this time eyes
would be watching her. This time everyone knew she was the defense
counsel for a murder suspect. This time it was a big deal. She was
ready. She loved it. She sipped the last of the coffee and got out.
She’d leave the top down—it hadn’t rained in weeks. If her car was
safe anywhere, it would be there with a dozen deputies milling
about.

Once checked in and given a visitor badge,
she followed a deputy out of the booking area. There were no
permanent cells in this section of the facility; however, inmates
checked her out as she passed the row of glassed-in rooms holding
those in the process of admittance or release.

The deputy led her into one of the conference
rooms. The room was ringed with windows and the deputy stood
outside by the door. She entered and found herself standing across
from a reasonably-attractive, fortyish, dark-haired woman running
her palms up and down the legs of her orange jumpsuit eager for
anyone to listen to her complaints. Sandy knew trouble when she saw
it.

“Margo...Larena, is that right?” She said
after checking her yellow legal-size pad. “I’m Sandy.” She held out
her hand.

“I’m screwed.”

Sandy slowly pulled her hand back. “Okay, why
don’t we skip the formalities?” She understood a night locked up
behind bars could ruin your day. “Hey, you want me to get you one
of those vending machine coffees?” She was still hoping to start
the relationship. “No? Okay. I read about the case in the
newspaper.”

The woman didn’t waste any time coming out
with the attitude. “So you’re Sandra Reid, huh.” The woman stared
at the visitor’s badge. “And you are what I’ve got on my side?”

“Hey, you called me.” Sandy had done enough
smiling. “How’d you get my name?”

“I don’t remember. Everything happened so
fast.”

“Did you choose me because I’m involved with
Detective Goddard?”

“No, I remember now. One of the cops who
arrested me whispered that I should call you.”

“So, tell me what happened.”

“I got arrested, what do you think? Next
thing I know I’m out here in jail, and some uniformed bitch is
feeling me up and peeking in my bra. Someone’s going to pay for
this.”

“I mean before that.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. The cops came
to my place. They’d been there the day before and were nice, so I
let them in again. This time they say I’ve done something wrong.
All of a sudden they say they’ve got a right to push me around,
they’ve got a right to put handcuffs on me, and I’ve got a right to
eat shit.”

“It’s terrible what you’ve been through.”
Sandy couldn’t hold back a long sigh. She would earn her money on
this case assuming the woman wanted to engage her. “Look, all I
know is you’ve been arrested for first degree homicide. Tell me
your story from the start.”

The woman was beginning to settle down. “What
is this, Friday? Well, the police found John murdered two days ago.
That is, I found him, but I got the hell out of there when I heard
the sirens.”

“Why did you leave?”

She gave Sandy a strange look. “You’re
joking, right?”

Sandy said, “I read the newspaper story. So
that was your husband. I’m sorry for your loss.” She was afraid to
ask if the woman had killed him. “You sent for me, because you want
me to defend you, right?”

“Whatever to get me the hell out of
here.”

Someone had violently murdered her husband,
and this was all about her. “You’ve been arrested for first-degree
homicide. You can’t bond out on that, not in Florida. You might be
here for many months.”

For an instant, Sandy wondered if this was in
fact happening. This would be her first murder defense case—not
counting the client who took out his neighbor’s dog with an assault
rifle. She hoped Margo was innocent; regardless she’d gladly take
her as a client and defend her.

She was afraid to ask point blank if she was
hired. She hoped the woman couldn’t detect the slight tremor in her
hand as she started writing down details such as name and address.
She’d keep writing and acting as though it was a done deal. Maybe
the woman would go along with it. “How long were you married?”

“We are separated...divorcing.”

Sandy didn’t hear the answer. She was
picturing herself in the courtroom standing in front of the judge.
Your Honor, although this is my first case, I move that the
charges against my client be dismissed on the grounds my
sensational defense is going to totally devastate the state
attorney regardless of the evidence he comes up with.
She made
a hard blink and said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Larena, what did you just
say?”

“Call me Margo. We are
separated...divorcing.”

“Of course, was the separation amicable or
hostile?”

“He wanted me dead.”