Courting Death (2 page)

I tapped the procrastinator’s rap on the steering wheel and stared at the discreet entrance to the Depp Funeral Home. Two meager lights in the front parking lot barely cast a yellow glow against the winter night. Glumly, I studied my pale reflection in the driver’s side window.

What on earth was I doing at this place of death on a dark November evening when I should be home?

Because you’re becoming a sap for hard luck stories.
As a prosecutor, I had viewed defendants in the abstract. My focus had been to prove their guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

No regrets, I warned myself as I grabbed my purse off the passenger seat. Think about the positive. Like the lifeline offered by my two closest law school friends: starting our own criminal defense firm. Because of Kate Rochelle and Carling Dent, I had a fresh beginning and a different side of criminal law to practice. The dark side.

Wrong. You’re defending the rights of the innocent.

I rolled my shoulders. Best to get on with my latest folly. I popped an antacid into my mouth. After locking the door, I crossed the packed parking lot to the front entrance.

Mercifully, the tiny foyer was empty. I took a deep breath and released it slowly to ease the growing pressure in my chest. I so did not want to do this. I wrinkled my nose at the cloying room freshener. Lily of the valley, of course. From the scent wafting from the air conditioning vent, it smelled like the funeral home had a gallon jug hooked up to the circulation system.

I wandered down the hall to the viewing room and leaned against the doorjamb. My latest sad luck client stood at the front of the subtly lit room with her husband, accepting condolences as the receiving line shuffled by the tiny closed coffin containing her baby girl’s body. On the overhead screen pictures of a smiling cherub with blond curls and blue eyes faded in and out accompanied by soft music. Countless flower arrangements circled the coffin and lined the walls while groups of people talking in low tones huddled throughout the room.

I turned my attention back to my client, Claire Whitman, a paramedic who had caved under the stress of the job and began drinking. Three days ago she’d awakened hung over, only to find her unconscious infant daughter lying face down in a tangle of blankets. After being rushed to the hospital, little Rebecca had been declared dead.

Yesterday a mutual friend had given me an urgent call when the distraught woman was taken down to the station for questioning. I arrived in the nick of time—the investigating officer had allegedly secured her waiver of Miranda rights.

Immediately, I had
unwaived
those rights and hauled Claire out of the station. Had her baby been the victim of sudden infant death syndrome or something worse? The police were at least investigating the possibility of foul play, if only to rule it out and close the case. Surprisingly, despite the questioning, the medical examiner’s office hadn’t intervened. The hospital had released the child’s body directly to the funeral home, enabling the services to be held tonight. I hadn’t been able to say no to the resigned despair in my client’s eyes when she asked me to attend the viewing.

“Sad when someone so young is taken from us.”

I started and spun around. A tall, dark-haired man stood behind me, his hands clasped in front of his body. Along with an appropriate charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, subdued maroon tie and a white carnation in his lapel, he wore a somber expression. However, his brown eyes sharply assessed me as if measuring for a coffin.

“I’m Colin Depp.” He extended a manicured hand, his cuff sliding to reveal the glint of a Rolex watch.

Compelled by professionalism, I shook hands but the skin of his palm was so smooth and soft that I had to resist an impulse to recoil from his touch. Instead, after an abbreviated firm squeeze, I released his hand. “Nicole Sterling. You’re the owner of the funeral home?”

He smiled, his bleached teeth flashing vivid white against his salon tan. “Guilty. I’m third-generation owner and director.”

A family that buries together stays together.
I swallowed hard, fighting to stay focused.

“Really? I hadn’t realized this building had been here that long.” This business district boasted mainly late 1990s construction.

“Oh, this wasn’t our original location.” He laughed with practiced lightness. “We started out in a two-story house on Dixie. In fact, I grew up living on the second floor over the funeral parlor.”

“How…nice.” I had an image of his family eating dinner at the embalming table.

“It had its moments.” He shrugged. “I once got into trouble for selling tickets to view the body of a baseball star killed in a car accident.”

Yuck.
I took a step back and motioned. “Um—”

“The little girls’ room is at the end of the hall to the left.” Depp winked.

“Thank you.”

“When you get back, perhaps I could show you the casket room. We have some lovely new models. I have a nice bottle of wine in the mini-fridge in my office.”

He wanted to show me his caskets? Nice. “Later, perhaps. I need to pay my respects to the family.”

“Pardon me.” A blonde in a skin-tight black dress shimmied past us.

Depp did a double take, his gaze following every bump of the woman’s hips. “If you would excuse me.”

“Sure.”

I walked down the hall toward the entrance. I’d give the director a few minutes to catch up with the blonde and then I would go back, give my condolences to Claire and make good my escape. I glanced through an open door and paused. Although the one window in the room was faux stained glass, the muted light cast by the wall sconces made its colors glow. A simple altar and cushioned bench seats were the only other furnishings in the small chapel.

The quiet retreat beckoned but I snuffed the urge. I’d always preferred action to reflection and introspection. While the room might offer refuge for the bereaved, I didn’t particularly want to go down that path right now. Not when I couldn’t predict what memories might come crawling out.

Turning away, I spotted a small hall table with a display of brochures. Advertising even in a place of mourning. Idly, I picked several up and flipped through them. At least the flyers were appropriate for the business at hand. Cemeteries, bereavement counselors.

I folded and tucked into my jacket pocket a tasteful brochure about an organization dedicated to helping families prepare for death of a loved one. I picked up another high gloss flyer about the new research and development medical clinic that had opened in western Palm Beach County and slipped it also into my pocket. Keeping abreast of medical experts never hurt in my line of work.

A woman emerged in the hallway. “Ms. Sterling?” Claire Whitman walked toward me.

“Nicole, please.” I wasn’t in my professional environment so I didn’t know quite what to say or do for this woman. We’d only met a few days ago. Relying on those deep-seated instincts that come to us in times of sorrow, I gave her a quick embrace.

“I’m so sorry, Claire.”

“Thank you.” She drew back, self-contained behind a wall of grief. Her red-rimmed eyes held a vacant though haunted look as if she had been sedated. If she were lucky, all she would remember from this night would be a blur of faces and the heavy scent of flowers.

Dressed in a simple black dress, Claire wore no makeup and had barely bothered with her hair. Her hand trembled as she gripped a locket on a slender gold chain around her neck. I knew it contained a photograph of her holding the baby.

“Have you met my parents yet?” she asked.

“No, but I will,” I assured her. I did want to meet the family to help me assess Claire’s credibility. Although the police questioning might have been routine, something about her account of the interview nagged at the back of my mind. When I’d arrived, the detectives had already asked her several times about there being no baby monitor. I needed to speak with the relatives to learn what, if any, questions had been asked of them.

Two men dressed in a dark suits exited from the viewing room and hurried down the hall. One was the husband, Brian. I’d met him at my office. Nice guy, a podiatrist.

“Ms. Sterling, I’m so glad you could come. It means the world to Claire.” He motioned to the man standing beside him. Brian’s voice held a brittle edge of forced joviality. “I’d like you to meet an old college buddy, Damian Quint.”

I extended my hand. “A fellow podiatrist?”

With wavy blond hair, blue eyes and refined, patrician bone structure, Quint was what my partner Carling would call a “hubba.” When he smiled, a dimple flashed. “Well, a grade up. I’m board certified in reconstructive surgery.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brian’s mouth tighten.

Rather than shaking my hand, Quint grasped it in both of his. Uncomfortable at the contact, I managed not to jerk in response. “I’m so grateful that you’re helping Claire in this difficult time. If there is anything you need, I’ll be happy to help.”

Behind me the front door opened and a draft of night air chilled me to the bone. Brian wrapped a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders and stared at the newest arrival with a hostile expression. “What are you doing here?”

I tugged my hand free, spun around and squinted in the dim light to make out the identity of the tall, rangy man sauntering toward us. His swagger was so familiar…

I bit back an oath.

My past year and a half of the Sam Bowie starvation diet disappeared and desire thudded with unexpected force in the pit of my stomach. True, I had been the one to walk—make that run—for the pancake-flat hills of Florida, away from our blazing affair. Apparently my deprived hormones hadn’t forgiven me yet.

Not that I blamed them for caterwauling over the loss.

After all, getting over Detective Sam Bowie was a tall order. His lean but well-toned body still had the power to make my mouth go dry. His ruthlessly hewn face showcased sharp features. Silky black hair that never managed to stay combed back begged to be mussed by a woman’s fingers. Those sinful chocolate brown eyes made one long for endless summer nights.

“Well, hey, Red. What are you doing on this side of the tracks in West Palm? Trolling for a stiff to date?”

Then again, his sexy, gravelly voice said the most obnoxious, teeth-grinding things.

I plastered on my you’re-an-idiot-but-I’m-too-professional-to-let-it-bother-me smile. “Detective. Charming as always, and it’s
Nicole.
”

Sam’s chiseled jaw jutted at a dangerous angle. “Sure thing,
Red.
” He nodded at the tight-lipped Whitmans and gave Quint a narrow-eyed stare. “Evening, folks.”

Quint stirred. “Claire, Brian, I wish I could stay but I have an early morning surgery.” He lowered his head to kiss Claire on the cheek, but she seemed almost too frightened to look at him. Her gaze remained locked on Sam.

Quint straightened. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, bud.” Brian managed only a formal nod. “It was a
pleasure
meeting you, Ms. Sterling.”

I internally winced at the way he emphasized the word
pleasure.
But seeing Sam’s stony expression, I amped up my own smile. “Nicole, please.”

“Nicole. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” Quint turned and, with a deliberate move, bumped his shoulder against Sam’s as he walked down the hall.

Sam cocked an eyebrow at me and, without missing a beat, zeroed in again on the Whitmans. “Do you have a moment?”

I wasn’t about to let this transplanted Texan circle around me to hone in on his target. “I represent the Whitmans, Detective, as I’m sure you’re aware. Did you need me to call you tomorrow?”

“No need to get a burr up your beautiful ass, Counselor. I’m just paying my respects to little Rebecca. After all, I missed the funeral for the Whitmans’
first
child.”

A roar of hurricane-driven ocean waves filled my ears. Claire had had another baby who’d died? They’d never mentioned it during our first interview. I had asked about other children, hadn’t I?

I hadn’t had time to recover from that afternoon’s court fiasco. A fresh onslaught of the self-doubt no one knew haunted me, not even my friends Carling and Kate, swept over me.

Sam’s lips twisted as his sharp glance took in my reaction. “What? Your clients forget that little detail?”

Moaning, Claire swayed. Brian tightened his grip even as he cursed at Sam. “You bastard. You don’t know what my wife’s been through.”

Rocking back on his heels, Sam narrowed his eyes. “I know that having two babies die in the first year of life smacks of infanticide, not SIDS.”

Claire thrust out a trembling hand as if to stop the onslaught of accusations. “Please. Don’t. The paramedics told me Rebecca was still alive when she arrived at the hospital. I didn’t,
couldn’t
kill my babies.”

“So you claim, Mrs. Whitman.” Sarcasm laced Sam’s tone. “We’ll just wait to see what the medical examiner has to say…as well as the ME in Chicago.”

Brian paled. “Wh—what?” he stammered.

“We got a court order allowing us to exhume Sarah’s body in Illinois. We’re going to see if both babies struggled for breath before they—”

Claire’s low wail was heart wrenching. I understood all too well the breaking point a person could reach.

“Bastard.” Brian threw a punch and struck Sam’s jaw.

Sam rubbed his chin. “I figure you have a right to that one.”

“Enough.” I stepped between the grieving couple and Sam. “I’m reporting your actions to your captain. My client hasn’t been charged with any crime and hounding her at her child’s funeral is inhumane.”

Glancing over my shoulder at the husband, I snapped an order, “Get her out of here.” Already fragile, Claire’s expression was wild-eyed. Whatever deep, dark secrets she hid, now was not the time to reveal them.

“What’s all the commotion?” Colin Depp rushed down the hall. He flapped his hands in an agitated manner. “You’re disturbing the guests.”

Then he saw the Whitmans and made a
tsking
noise in his throat. “Oh, my dear.” He grabbed up a box of tissues from the table. “I know this has been a terrible ordeal for you. Come into my office for a moment to compose yourself.”