A Dangerous Affair Read online

  "That's why I'm coming down for your birthday."

  "Sam—"

  "It's not a debate. I felt bad when I missed your party last year."

  "I never had a party last year."

  "Exactly. And you didn't turn forty last year."

  "I don't want to turn forty this year."

  "Any woman would kill to have a figure like yours at your age."

  Jamie switched the phone to her other ear. "I'll put that in my diary."

  "Make sure you write in big letters," Samantha teased, "so you can read them without your glasses." She laughed to herself. "I'm serious about your birthday. We'll rent a limo in Miami and go club hopping. I'll take you to a Chippendales show."

  "Alan would never go for that."

  "What your hubby doesn't know won't hurt him."

  "It's not the strippers," said Jamie. She grabbed plates from the cabinet and set the table. Her neck hurt from craning it against the phone. "He's strict about other people staying over."

  "Forget about him. This is your birthday."

  "I should probably do something simple at home," said Jamie.

  "Why don't you come up here? We can see a show. Go out for Sushi. We'll have a girls' weekend in New York."

  "I can't afford it right now."

  "I'll buy your ticket. Call it an early birthday present."

  Jamie set the silverware by the dinner plates. "Alan won't let me."

  "Since when do you need his permission? It's one weekend, Jamie. You deserve it."

  Jamie paced back and forth. "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "Alan needs me at home. Work's been stressful for him lately."

  "Alan can survive one weekend without you."

  Jamie caught the headlights in the front bay window as Alan's cruiser turned into the driveway. "He's home. I have to go."

  "I'm serious, Jamie. Don't be a stranger. You're going to have fun on your birthday if I have to come down there and steal you away myself."

  Jamie heard the door open and hung up. "You're home early," she announced as the sheriff emerged from the laundry room entrance.

  Blanchart hugged his wife before he removed his duty belt and hung it in the closet. "Smells good," he said. He followed Jamie to the kitchen. "I'm starving."

  Jamie stirred the pot with her back to him. "How was your day?"

  "Predictable."

  "Did you make the funeral arrangements?" Jamie asked over her shoulder.

  "It's taken care of."

  "How is Deputy Carter's wife holding up?"

  Blanchart rubbed her shoulders. "You feel tense. You should take a hot bath tonight."

  Jamie turned down the burner and dipped a ladle in the stew. "How's your hand?"

  Blanchart kissed her nape. "Better, now that you're here."

  "I have salad to put out."

  "Leave it."

  "I thought you were hungry?"

  "I ate a big lunch."

  Jamie turned around and kissed him on the cheek. "Dinner's ready, silly."

  Blanchart checked the caller ID list on the house phone. "Who called?"

  "Samantha."

  "Your stripper friend from New York?"

  "She's a dancer."

  "What did she want?"

  "She wanted to talk about her new boyfriend."

  "What else?"

  "Nothing. She asked about my birthday. She wants to come down and spend the weekend with me."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "I told her I'd talk to you about it."

  Alan dipped the wooden spoon in the stew and licked it. The broth was bland. The potatoes overcooked. The house was clean, but his wife smelled dirty. "What did you do to your hair?"

  "I added some highlights."

  "You look cheap."

  "I can take them out."

  Blanchart glared at Jamie with piercing eyes. "You can't undo a mistake like that."

  "The color wears out."

  "So does my patience."

  Jamie cowered from her husband. "I'm sorry... I just thought it might be nice to try something different. I didn't think you would notice so much."

  Blanchart jammed the spoon in the stew. "Then why bother to mess with your hair at all?" He looked out the kitchen window and scowled at the pool boy with sandy blond hair and an easy smile. "Who are you trying to impress?"

  "No one."

  Blanchart closed the window shade. Veins twitched in his forehead. His eyes were red with fury. "If you're lying to me..."

  "I'm not," Jamie insisted. "I swear."

  Blanchart cupped a clammy hand on Jamie's mouth and squeezed her face hard enough to control her head movement without bruising her cheeks. He shoved her against the hot oven door. "Your appearance reflects on me. God knows what the hell you've been doing in this house all day besides playing with your hair, but you better pray your housework is done." Saliva frothed at the corner of his mouth. "A good wife knows her place."

  Jamie stood on her toes. Her eyes darted wildly back and forth. "You're hurting me," she mumbled through Blanchart's grasp.

  "Can you be a good wife for me? Can you?"

  Jamie nodded.

  "I can't hear you."

  "Yes," Jamie squeaked through fish lips.

  Blanchart let go. "I'm going out of town for a few days. Can I trust you while I'm gone?"

  Jamie wiped the smeared mascara on her teary face. "Of course."

  Blanchart brushed his hand against her hair. "Cancel the pool service. You can manage the pool by yourself from now on." He touched the stitches on his hand and made a fist. "And make sure you wash your car when I'm gone. It looks like shit in my garage."

  Chapter 7

  Lloyd nestled a rebuilt carburetor in his palm, admiring his handiwork like a transplant surgeon inspecting an artificial heart. He rubbed a clean rag over the aluminum body to remove any excess solvent and chose a box-end wrench from his late father's roll-away toolbox. Every tool served a specific purpose, and every tool had a place inside its designated drawer.

  He installed the carburetor on a '74 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. Despite decades of technological improvements lavished on newer models, the antique 750cc British bike had soul. And unlike similar rides, it distinguished itself as a bike that liked to be ridden hard, a trait his father often indulged.

  With the carburetor remounted, he unclipped the overnight charger from the battery terminals and turned the ignition key to the on position. The headlight glowed pale yellow inside the single, foggy lens mounted beneath the chrome handlebars.

  "You're still here," Brenda said in a raspy voice. She entered the garage in the same clothes she'd worn the night before. "How long have you been up?"

  "Since dawn," said Lloyd.

  "Why?"

  Lloyd notched the shifter in neutral. "I guess old habits die hard."

  Brenda scratched the back of her head. "That bike hasn't started in years."

  "Have a little faith," Lloyd replied.

  "I should have sold it when I had the chance."

  "But you couldn't."

  Brenda shrugged. She maintained her sodden expression. "It meant too much to your father. He spent more time with his bike than he did with me."

  Lloyd pressed the starter button on the right handlebar, a custom feature his father added to replace the original kick-start system.

  The parallel twin motor cranked through several revolutions, coughing and sputtering before the air-fuel mixture ignited inside the cylinders and sent a muffled roar from the polished chrome exhaust.

  Lloyd cracked the throttle.

  The motor revved, filling the back of the garage with blue-gray smoke.

  Brenda covered her mouth with her sleeve and pressed the garage door opener to evacuate the fumes. "How long are you going to tinker with that thing?"

  Lloyd killed the motor. "Until I'm finished."

  "Your father never rode it much."

  "That's what he wanted you to think," Llo
yd said sheepishly. "He rode it all the time when you were gone to visit family."

  Brenda unscrewed her flask. Her cheeks were flush. "He always was a sneaky bastard. I suppose he would have wanted you to have it."

  Lloyd wiped down the tools and placed them in their respective drawers. He wiped his hands with a rag and pointed at the back wall where dust and cobwebs collected on the floor. "What happened to the rest of Dad's stuff?"

  "I sold it."

  "What about his car?"

  "This house doesn't run on charity." Brenda gave Lloyd an envelope with his name written in block letters on the front. "Your father wanted to mail this to you, but he never got the chance."

  Lloyd folded the envelop and stuffed it in his pocket.

  "Aren't you going to open it?" Brenda asked.

  "My hands are dirty."

  Brenda scratched her neck.

  "You feel all right?" asked Lloyd. He figured the smell of solvents wasn't helping her hangover.

  "I'm dandy. It's you I'm worried about after all these years away from the outside world."

  Lloyd checked his mug in the handlebar mirror. His hardened muscles flexed with the effort to push the four-hundred pound machine from the cramped work station. "I can take care of myself."

  Brenda sipped her flask. She propped one hand on the workbench to maintain her equilibrium. "I wrote when I could. You know that, don't you?"

  "I thought you gave up on me. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

  "No one gave up on you," said Brenda in a maudlin voice. "You're a survivor."

  "If I could change what happened—"

  "You can't live in the past." Brenda grinned. Her lips looked tight and dry. "It's important you leave the bad behind you."

  Lloyd straddled the bike and brought it to an upright position, balancing the weight between his legs. "I wish I could have been at Dad's funeral."

  "It wasn't much. A cheap casket in a big hole. Smelled like earthworms."

  "I miss him."

  Brenda shook her head. Her stiff, arthritic fingers maintained a tentative grip on the pewter flask. "There's nothing you can do for him now. Go see your brother and spend some time with the living."

  "I haven't talked to Josh in years," Lloyd professed. "What am I supposed to say?"

  "He's the only brother you'll ever have."

  "Adopted brother," Lloyd corrected her. "We don't share the same blood."

  "You didn't share your father's either. That never stopped him from loving you like his own."

  Lloyd erased a fingerprint smudge on the bike's handlebar and rubbed the rag along the gas tank. "This bike was Dad's baby."

  "Are you going to ride it or burp it? You've been fiddling with it all morning."

  Lloyd raised the kickstand. He pressed the starter button and twisted the throttle. "Get on," he shouted above the noise.

  Brenda shuddered, aghast at the notion of riding on two wheels. "That thing is a death trap."

  "Just a short ride," Lloyd insisted. "Down the driveway and back. The fresh air will do you good."

  "What if something happens?"

  Lloyd revved the motor some more. "At this point, Mom, what have you got to lose?"

  Chapter 8

  Ronald Varden charged through his halfway house armed with a clipboard and a set of flex cuffs. A former Florida State Police Trooper, he embraced his new role as parole officer and commander-in-chief to a group of paroled ex-convicts. At five-foot-four and a hundred and fifty-five pounds soaking wet, Varden compensated for his lack of physical stature with strict discipline and zero tolerance for anyone who broke the rules.

  He snapped on the lights in the men's sleeping quarters and garnered a collective groan. When no one moved, he blew the whistle attached to a string around his neck.

  As if on queue, seven rousted men assembled themselves in lackluster formation to prepare for the routine inspection. An eighth man, Terrence Montgomery, hugged a pillow on his head to shield his eyes and ears from the morning assault on his senses. His large feet extended beyond the end of the bunk.

  "Let's go," Varden barked. His voice resonated with disdain. He approached Montgomery's bunk while the other men formed a single-file line outside the hall.

  "Move your fat ass," a rebel-rouser hollered.

  "Maybe he bought the farm," an older ex-con piped up.

  Varden silenced the crowd with a threatening glance. "Time's up, Montgomery. You know the drill."

  Montgomery hummed The Star Spangled Banner. He bent his legs to draw his knees from the end of the bed. "Pick on someone your own size."

  No stranger to verbal abuse, Varden parried most insults with his thick-skinned temperament, which more often than not, kept his own response in check.

  But this time was different.

  Varden bastinadoed Montgomery's bare feet with the clipboard.

  Montgomery threw his pillow and snapped, "Fucking Jheri curl cracker! Can't a brother get some sleep in here?"

  The audience of peers chuckled.

  "Move your ass!" Varden blasted the insubordinate parolee. "And I mean now!"

  "Why don't you kiss my black ass."

  The room went silent.

  Varden toyed with the flex cuffs. "Your black ass is why I'm here."

  Montgomery looked up from the bottom bunk. "What are you saying?"

  "You had your shot."

  "I'm not going back," said Montgomery. "No sir. Not now. Not today. Not ever."

  Varden laid the clipboard on the top bunk. He lacked sympathy for the men in his care, especially someone like Montgomery who beat the system on a four-year stint for rape by convincing a brain-dead jury he was under the influence when it happened. "The judge signed the warrant, Montgomery. Get on your feet."

  Montgomery rolled out of his bunk and stood toe-to-toe with Varden. "This is bullshit, man. I did my time." He motioned to the seven housemates who stood at attention, transfixed by the scene that some had already witnessed and a few experienced for the first time. "Which one of you motherfuckers ratted me out?" He shoved Varden aside with minimal effort and lunged at the group—until a pair of barbed electrodes hit him in the back, applying forty thousand volts to his neuromuscular system. The result was instantaneous and pronounced, inducing convulsions and large muscle twitching.

  Sheriff Blanchart released the Taser trigger and plucked the electrodes from the big man's back. He rolled Montgomery onto his belly and handcuffed his arms behind his back. "Show's over," he told the crowd.

  Varden helped Blanchart escort the dazed parole violator to the unmarked cruiser outside.

  "What took you so long?" Varden asked.

  "I stopped for gas."

  "I still have his paperwork."

  "I'll take him from here," said Blanchart. He pushed his hand on the crown of Montgomery's head and guided him into the back seat. "That's two this month," Blanchart said to Varden. "Fifty bucks says you won't break the record."

  Varden shook the sheriff's hand. "I'll take that bet." He watched the sheriff leave the parking lot as a black motorcycle approached with a smoke trail in its wake.

  "Get inside," Varden ordered the men gathered out front.

  The rider parked the bike and dismounted.

  "Can I help you?" Varden asked.

  Lloyd unzipped his father's Triumph leather jacket and ran a hand through his wind-blown hair. "I'm Lloyd Sullivan. I'm supposed to report to my PO this morning."

  "You're late." Varden gestured toward the house.

  Lloyd followed him to an upstairs office inside the converted two-story home and handed Varden his prison paperwork. "I was told to report by nine."

  Varden slid his reading glasses on and scrutinized the court-ordered document. "This release was dated yesterday. If you learned anything in prison, I hope you mastered the art of reading."

  "I was told—"

  "Save it. I give every convict who comes through my house one chance to screw up without penalty. You just spent yours. Yo
u may have played your get-out-of-jail-free card, but you still have a long way to go. The state of Florida has granted you a conditional release, pending successful completion of your supervised probation. Are we clear?"

  "I understand."

  "I see you did time at Marion and Leavenworth. That's a tough schedule. You must have fucked up pretty bad to get transferred out of state."

  "I did my time."

  "So I see." Varden scrolled through Lloyd's file on his computer. "Are you a tough guy, Mr. Sullivan? I get a lot of tough guys through here. Most are back in prison within a week."

  Varden removed his glasses and pulled out a packet of stapled papers from the hulking sixties-era metal desk with an integrated file cabinet. A bulleted list descended from the title, HOUSE RULES, at the top of the first page. "This copy is yours. Read it, remember it, and obey it. Keep it under your pillow with your bible. Treat it with the same respect, and you might complete your sixty days without violating your agreement with the state."

  Lloyd flipped through the stapled pages. Each section outlined specific rules and regulations and the sanctions imposed for not following them. "Is there a test at the end?"

  Varden frowned at the feeble attempt to humor him. He opened a closet drawer and retrieved a plastic bag with clothes and essential toiletries. "These clothes are state property. Two pair of jeans, two shirts, two pair of socks, and two pair of underwear. These items are clean and inventoried. You will return them in the same condition you received them. You pay a one time fee for the hygiene products whether you use them or not. I suggest you use them. Any questions?"

  Lloyd shook his head.

  Varden pointed to the House Rules packet in Lloyd's possession. "Leave your John Hancock on the last page. You keep the original and make a copy for me. The library has a machine you can use."

  Lloyd followed Varden downstairs to the recreation room, where men groused about Montgomery's unexpected departure and the new guy's arrival.

  The conversations ceased in Varden's presence.

  "For those who haven't figured it out yet, we have a new guest in our house. Lloyd Sullivan. He'll be joining us for a while."

  "A short while," a convict chimed in.

  "What happened to Montgomery?" another convict asked.