Courting Danger. Carol Stephenson

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      “Thanks for seeing me, Katherine.” His voice was rough. “Not many of my friends want that pleasure at the moment.”

      “They’ll call once we get you out of here.”

      “Am I getting out?”

      “You’ll have a first appearance hearing tomorrow morning. With your clean record, family and community ties, I anticipate the judge will allow bail. It may be high because of the murder charge.”

      Embarrassment flickered across Lloyd’s face before the shuttered expression resumed. “At the moment I don’t happen to have any spare change lying around.”

      Oh yes. His wife, Meredith, had been quite clear about their financial situation. In the past I had wondered why a man like Lloyd would take on a low-paying job such as the restoration project, but now I knew. At his age without money, he had been hoping to make prestigious contacts.

      “You do have friends, Lloyd. A few are raising the collateral for the bail.”

      He looked down at his hands clasped on top of the table. “Another debt to repay.”

      “It’s either that or stay in jail.”

      His lips twitched. “Always the pragmatist, Katherine.”

      I cleared my throat. “Speaking of being pragmatic, I have to advise you that I’ve never represented a client charged with murder. However, I’m quite an experienced negotiator. I reviewed the charges before meeting with you, and I’m confident that I can get you a good deal.”

      Without warning, he leaned across the table and snagged my wrist.

      My mouth dried. We were in a conference room without windows. If the on-duty officer wasn’t paying attention to the security cameras, Lloyd could break my right wrist and worse before help could arrive.

      With my left hand I carefully palmed my pen, prepared to jab him if need be.

      “I didn’t kill Grace.” His blunt nails cut into my tender flesh. “I wasn’t having an affair with her. I love Meredith too much to betray her like that. You must believe me.”

      I sensed the anger through his grip, I heard the conviction in his voice, and when I gazed into his haunted eyes, I recognized the truth. Hadn’t I looked into a mirror countless times during the U.S. Attorney corruption investigation and seen that same lost expression in my own eyes?

      Lloyd hadn’t killed Grace Roberts.

      I released the pen and laid my hand on top of his. “I believe you.”

      “Thank you.” He swallowed, blinking back tears. He released me and slowly leaned back into his chair.

      “Now what?”

      Under the cover of the table, I massaged sensation back into my right hand before I picked up my pen. “Now tell me everything you know about Grace, about the restoration project and any enemies you may have made.”

      Lloyd groaned and scrubbed his face. “How many hours do you have?”

      I flipped to a fresh page on my paper pad. “As many as it takes.”

      Chapter 3

      The stadium-size parking lot had emptied considerably during the time I had been meeting with my client. Only a scattering of patrol and civilian cars remained. The late-afternoon sun cast deep shadows in the corners. Of course, my car was parked on the far side so I cut a diagonal toward it.

      Halfway across the lot I heard the slight sound of rubber scuffing against the pavement. I glanced around but saw no one. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck lifted as if stirred by a nonexistent breeze.

      I picked up the pace and at the same time shifted the car key into my right hand. Although I heard nothing else, I still breathed a mental sigh of relief when I reached the Jag. Being a city girl, I flicked on the miniflashlight clipped to my key chain and panned the narrow beam into the back seat. No one.

      Who could blame me for having jumpy nerves? I’d had one miserable day. I inserted and twisted the key.

      Someone jerked my briefcase from my left hand, almost dislocating my shoulder.

      I spun only to see a hooded person running toward the street.

      “Hey!” I took off after the thief. “Give that back!”

      After a few steps I kicked off my shoes, wishing I could throw them like a knife and impale him right between the shoulder blades.

      In my stocking feet, I continued the chase, zigzagging among the cars. If I could maneuver him toward the south edge, then maybe I would be in luck and the security for The Donald’s golf course might be on patrol. The Trump course was more closely guarded than the jail any time of the day.

      I winced as a stone sliced my foot. There went another pair of hose! The kid was fast, I had to grant him that. In my tight skirt I wasn’t gaining any ground. Time for a different strategy.

      At the top of my considerable lungs, I yelled, “Take the bag but dump the contents!”

      The thief ignored me and cut around one of the county buses used to transport prisoners. I pumped my arms and put on a burst of speed, but by the time I reached the bus, he had disappeared. I paused, catching my breath, while I tried to gauge where he had gone.

      No movement, no sound, no clue.

      Now, like an idiot, I could stumble about in the gathering dusk, giving him an opportunity to jump me again, or retreat to my car.

      “Damn!” Turning, I gimped back to the jail parking lot, picking up my discarded shoes along the way. I rather liked that briefcase, but thank God, the jerk had gone for the blatant designer initials on the case and not for my more discreet Hermès tote. Although it was a pain in the ass, I could’ve easily recopied the court files contained in the case. Not so for the contents of my tote. Unzipping the top, I pulled out the slim leather portfolio.

      My notes from the Silber interview were irreplaceable. I’d dictate them up as soon as I reached the office. I opened my car door and slid inside.

      But first, I had a bone to pick with the sheriff’s office about the security of its parking lot.

      Nearly an hour later the Jag and I, mutually running on empty, crawled into the firm’s parking lot. Given the time, the staff was gone for the day although I could hear voices from Nicole’s office located diagonally across from mine. Without making a sound, I limped down the hall.

      Once I was inside the seclusion of my office, my aching feet demanded that I kick off my shoes. The next article of clothing to go was my jacket. With a mingled sigh of relief and groan of pain, I shucked off my ruined hose.

      “Hey, sweetheart. Don’t you think we should get business out of the way before we get down to hot and sweaty?” A man’s voice, as rich and smoky as aged whiskey, emanated from the depths of the Queen Anne chair I had placed beside a table in the corner for working at nights.

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