Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [4]
Chapter Two
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