False Witness (John Steel series Book 3)

False Witness

By P S Syron-Jones

Copyright © P S Syron-Jones 2015

P S Syron-Jones has the right to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact,

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art & interior design by
IndieDesignz.com

To all the brave Men and Women
in Law enforcement and the Tri Services.
Who risk their lives for our way of life.

I thank you.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank My Amazing Wife Ani
for her constant support.

Also: Julia Gibbs my Proofreader.

Geoffrey West my Editor.

And IndieDesignz for the artwork and interior design.

Without these people this book would have never
have seen the light of day.

Black clouds loomed over
the city like a warning of an incoming storm. A chill wind hurried down the streets, picking up bit of wastepaper or anything light enough to be swept away in its path. Steam rose up from the vents in the manhole covers which enveloped the passing cars as they drove over them.

The night was calm with not many people filling the streets. This was a quiet part of town, all the tourists and partygoers were blocks away, or they were tucked up at home avoiding the biting breeze.

But the still of the cold New York night air was broken by loud screams of an argument. The heated words between the husband and his wife were muffled by the restaurant’s red-brick walls and half frosted windows. However, the people inside got the full view of the fight.

As the restaurant’s door swung open a tall dark-haired woman stepped out onto the empty street. She stopped and bent slightly at the waist as she held her head in her hands and let out a small yell to vent her frustration.

The woman turned around and saw her husband arguing with the manager through the restaurant’s window. The other customers were watching, throwing meaningful glances at the commotion the man was making.

His words were distorted by the distance and the glass between them, but what he wanted was clear to the woman standing outside. He wanted to leave the place to check up on her, to apologise for being an ass.

She could see his face that was full of regret. But the look slowly changed the more the manager insisted that he had to pay their bill first. This would have seemed perfectly reasonable to rational people, but he was not being rational.

Julie Armstrong had come out for some fresh air and to put some distance between them. Her hope was that he would calm down enough for them to talk. However, the incident with the manager had just made things worse. She didn’t want to fight in the street, hell, that was the last thing she needed the press to pick up on.

She pictured the newspaper headline:
Supreme Court Judge Battles with Husband in Street.

Such publicity would mean that she wouldn’t be able to preside over any cases concerning disputes between couples, that was for sure. The lawyers would have a field day saying she was not being
objective in her decisions.

She knew she had to put some distance between them for a while. He had been drinking a lot of the wine. Mostly out of anger. Julie looked over the road and spied the perfect place to hide: an alleyway.

It looked safe enough but then she wasn’t going in that far, just enough so he couldn’t find her.

Her long hair was carried up by a sudden gust of a chilled breeze as she crossed to the other side of the street towards the mouth of the alley.

As she looked back on the fight she could see his point. He had accused her of cheating, seeing it now through his eyes she came to realise how he had come to the conclusion he had.

The long hours at work, the odd phone calls late at night. The odd look here and there from other men in her line of work. Sure, she was a Supreme Court judge who was close to becoming a Chief Justice of the United States.

She had thrown benefits and parties, anything to attract the right people. Julie had worked hard and rubbed shoulders with powerful and influential folk, hell, she was one step away from that Presidential seal of approval. But then her husband had also been working long hours at the school, where he taught. But his lengthy work hours were due to cutbacks and the shortage of teachers. He had left the Army and a damned good career so that he could spend more time with her, but that never worked out the way they had hoped.

Recently she had become secretive and distant and for him that meant only one thing. Julie Armstrong was in her mid-forties and a very attractive woman with a model’s figure that many men had stared at lasciviously.

She looked back with hazel brown eyes that were red with the sting of fresh tears, to see if he had followed her, but the dimly lit alley was empty behind her. Part of her hoped she would hear him call her name so she knew he still cared, but no sound came. A cold chill bit the air, causing her to push up the collar on her long coat and pull the waistband tighter.

The cool air had calmed her down. With an awkward smile Julie started to walk back towards the restaurant. She hoped her husband was still at the table waiting for her. She searched her purse for the car keys just in case he had gone: Julie had wisely taken the keys off of him just in case he decided to drive back. She had seen him down half the bottle of red wine at dinner, probably for Dutch courage.

A noise in front of her made her look up. Before her stood a shadowed silhouette of a man.

“I am glad you found me,” she said to the figure, assuming it was her husband. “Look we need to talk, just please let me explain—” Her words stopped abruptly as she felt the knife pierce her stomach, aware of a sudden pain as the large blade punctured her flesh.

Julie stumbled backwards and looked down at her blood-soaked hands, the shock of the situation still trying to compute in her brain. She wanted to scream but it was as though her vocal cords had been sliced. Her mouth moved in hope of some sound coming out, but nothing came. She had a look of confusion and fear on her face.

Why was this happening to her?

She stumbled backwards until she fell over a pile of abandoned cardboard boxes. Julie looked up from her position and an expression of terror came over her face as her assailant walked calmly forwards, gripping the blood-soaked knife tightly. As the dreadful reality of what was about to happen sunk in, she finally found her voice before the knife quickly silenced her with a slash to her throat.

*

After witness statements and forensic evidence the investigation had taken less than a week. For the detectives in charge of the case there was only one guilty man and they were coming for him.

The media frenzy was like nothing the small suburban community had ever seen. Cameras and news teams who had gathered outside the blue-and-white family home had turned the residents’ normal, tranquil lives upside down.

Reporters and camera teams lined the pavement outside Brian Armstrong’s house, all ready to get what they thought might be that ‘money shot’.

At first they stood poised awaiting any action, only the anchor crews stood in front of the cameras telling of the horrors that had befallen Brian’s wife. The press had already cast their dice to predict their verdict: he was guilty.

A slight easterly breeze cooled the warm midday sun and the odd bird darted playfully around in the pale blue yonder breaking up the cloudless sky. Two squad cars and a black unmarked Ford that was sandwiched between them came round the corner and down towards the expectant hordes.

Inside the Ford, Detectives Carter and Doyle just looked out at the sea of hungry reporters as they turned their attention to the detectives.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Carter smiled as he spoke. Detective Alan Carter was tall with broad shoulders and a face that was chiselled and stern. He was a career cop, groomed by the powers that be, all he had to do was be
that public figure
. As they got out of the car, the crowds automatically headed for Carter, who nudged his way through towards the house.

Doyle held back slightly. He was Carter’s partner but only so far as work was concerned. Jack Doyle was a different kind of cop to his colleague; he was a good man and a damned good cop. Jack was shorter than his partner was, but only by a couple of inches, his brown hair was trimmed close and he wore jeans and a black leather three-quarter length jacket over a black T-shirt. He always thought of himself as a cop not a fashion model.

Moving through the procession of flashes from cameras and microphones, the two detectives proceeded towards the driveway, and four uniformed officers followed close behind to assist with the crowds.

Doyle looked up at his partner who swaggered as he strode along, thinking,
what an asshole
and shaking his head. The crowd loved the taller man, and he knew it and relished the attention.

Reaching the front porch Carter stood up tall and waited for a moment. Some might have thought it was so that Doyle and the others were in position just in case of trouble, but Doyle knew otherwise. Carter made a fist out of his small hand and held it poised, ready to slam against the glossy white door. He could feel the hundreds of faces craned in his direction, and he closed his eyes and wallowed in the moment. Soon the door would open and the imminent high-profile arrest would mean that his life would change forever.

In that split second he had recalled the trip over to the house from the precinct. How he had rehearsed what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. Everything had led to this moment. Hell, he had even broken into his savings and got a new suit especially for the occasion!

Sucking in a huge breath, Carter slammed his fist against the door, calling out, “Mr. Armstrong, this is NYPD. Open up and come out with your hands up.” Doyle just stood to the side of the door waiting, for they didn’t know what was on the other side of it.

Part of the jaded detective hoped that Armstrong had a 12-gauge in there and that he would shoot through the door and blow his schmuck partner away. Doyle looked back at the crowd to see the press silent and open-mouthed, as if they were an audience watching a trapeze act.

There was no answer to Carter’s knock, and the arrogant officer could feel his moment slipping away, but as he raised his fist once more the door slowly opened, and a little girl with brown hair in a pretty pink dress moved out shyly. Carter froze at the sight of the girl, who appeared to be no more than ten years old.

“My daddy said that he has to go away and that I have got to go and live with my aunty,” the child announced to him. “Why? Do you know where Daddy is going?”

Carter said nothing—he couldn’t. The puffed-up law man had everything arranged in his head and this had thrown him. He had lost his moment of glory, and he was angry.

Quickly, Doyle grabbed the little girl and picked her up before Carter almost trampled her into the hallway carpet.

“Hi there, young lady, what’s your name?” Doyle asked softly as he walked with the child towards a neighbour’s house.

“I am Megan Armstrong,” she told him. “Are you a policeman too?”

Doyle nodded and smiled. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the uniforms who happened to be a female officer, and beckoned her over.

“Yes I am. My name is Jack, and I’m pleased to meet you, Megan.”

The little girl smiled, and her blue eyes were large and inquisitive. As the officer approached, Doyle carefully put the ponytailed girl down and knelt in front of her to speak: “Megan This is Officer Morgan and she is going to take you to your neighbour’s house. you can wait for your aunt there, okay?”

Megan looked up at the blonde-haired female Officer Morgan, who was tall and had a nice smile.