Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (15 page)

“I had to ask,” he said lamentably. “It’s my
job, Carole. If not me, it would have been another cop.” He
wondered if Nina would have handled things any better. Or would she
have wound up with even more mud on her face?

“Then maybe it should have been,” Carole
hissed. “I don’t like being interrogated by a man I just spent the
night with! Makes me think this was merely a police tactic to
soften me up for the shark attack!”

With that Carole stood, glaring at Ray as
though suddenly her sworn enemy.

“Goodbye, Ray. Next time you want to
interview me, we’ll do so at my attorney’s office!”

She stormed away and he was left
thunderstruck, unable to say a word in his defense.

* * *

Carole took the rest of the afternoon off.
Her meeting with Ray had unnerved her. And that was putting it
mildly. Had he truly believed she was a killer? Or was he only
grasping at straws for lack of more concrete evidence? Or suspects?
She wondered if he actually expected her to somehow break down and
confess to the crimes.

She had lost her cool. Her poise. Something
she almost never did in a public arena. Including a coffeehouse.
Would that cause Ray to dig deeper? Was she bound to have secrets
unearthed that were better left buried forever?

Carole’s mind turned to the man she had made
love to last night, rather than the cop she left this afternoon.
Was it all a charade? Could the way he made her feel have been part
of a calculated setup and nothing more? Had the possibilities that
existed between them less than twenty-four hours ago suddenly blown
up in smoke and flames like a condemned building whose time had
come and gone?

Carole knew she needed time to sort out her
feelings. To think of what needed to be done next.
I have to
keep a level head, even under fire.

And, yes, desire.

She could not allow her life to become
unraveled. She had been there, done that. This time, she would not
lose it. Not even for a handsome guy like Ray Barkley who Carole
believed was on her side in more ways than one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ray had driven around for an hour that night,
his mind absorbed with both the case and Carole. It had driven a
wedge between them—one he was not sure he could close. But he had
to try. Though knowing full well he was breaking all the rules
concerning becoming involved with someone who was still technically
a suspect in a murder investigation, he had to go with his
instincts on this one. Carole was no more of a serial killer than
he was, in spite of some rumblings and correlates to the
contrary.

Ray still wasn’t ruling out that someone
might have been using her courtroom in playing judge and jury to
the accused. If that were true, Carole was merely an innocent pawn
who deserved a hell of a lot better.

He drove to her downtown condominium, having
gotten the address from a friend in the department’s administration
office. He had no idea if she would even talk to him, much less
allow him to try and make amends. But it was driving him crazy
thinking about her.
The lady’s gotten under my skin.

Carole had reached something in Ray that had
him believing in the future again. A future that could include her,
if it wasn’t too late.

Ray buzzed the intercom. A moment or two
later, Carole said insipidly: “Yes?”

“It’s Ray,” he said tentatively.

She paused. “What do you want?”

“Can we talk?”

“Not sure we have anything left to talk
about,” she told him frankly.

I can think of a few things.
He sucked
in a deep breath before saying: “How about us?”

It was a while before Carole said anything.
“I’ll buzz you in,” she finally acquiesced.

A couple of minutes later, Ray stood at her
doorway. The door opened before he could knock. Carole, wearing a
crewneck sweater, striped capris, and mocs, regarded him with
caution. He felt the heat beneath his polo shirt and chino
pants.

“Come in.”

He followed her into a spacious apartment
filled with an assortment of plants, hanging from the ceiling and
on the floor, as if her own private botanical gardens. Pastel
paintings graced the walls and floor lamps complemented recessed
lighting. The French provincial furnishings in the living area fit
perfectly with the surroundings. He noted a large bay window behind
open faux wood blinds that seemed to almost overlook the entire
city.

Ray honed in on the lady of the house. Carole
had a hand resting precariously on her rounded hip, her gaze
centered on his face. For once he was at a loss for words. He
didn’t want to say the wrong thing that would only make things
worse between them. Or say the right thing that she might somehow
misinterpret.

“Look,” he said in a level tone, “I don’t
want things to end between us—”

Carole took an involuntary step backwards.
“So what exactly do you want, Ray?” she challenged him.

He stepped closer. “I want you,” he made no
pretense, cupping her face in his hands.

She fluttered her lashes, but did not back
away. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Ray said positively, “I’m sure.”

Carole’s voice shook as she uttered: “I’m
sure I want you, too...”

Ray took her into his arms, feeling the
weight of their mutual need dripping between them like melted
butter. Their mouths touched. They kissed. The kiss was deep,
powerful, and long lasting.

It was Carole who broke away, licking her
lips desirously. She took Ray’s hand and wordlessly led him to her
bedroom. Ray allowed himself only a glance at the darkened room,
making out the antique furnishings and French doors that led to a
balcony, before returning his gaze to Carole.

They slowly began to undress one another,
taking in every inch of each other’s body as though their lives
depended on it. Both fell atop her bed where they resumed kissing
passionately, their tongues tasting and titillating each other.

Ray caressed Carole’s tautened nipples, his
body pressed tightly between her splayed legs. As Carole urged him
on with her cries and fingers running haphazardly across his back,
he responded, wanting only to please her in every way. He took in
her invigorating scent and body movements, driving him mad with
want.

They made tempestuous love, bodies molded
together and moving symmetrically and spontaneously, as if this was
the last day on earth and they intended to make the most of it and
of each other.

An hour later they lay still, enjoying the
air conditioning as their sweat drenched bodies cooled from the
fiery passion that had consumed them like lovers in a romance
novel.

Carole raised her head from Ray’s chest,
meeting his gaze. She hesitated, then said: “Baby, there’s
something about me I think you should know—”

Ray put a finger to her lips. “Don’t,” he
said, not wishing to spoil for even a moment what they had shared.
Besides, he could not truly imagine anything about Carole being
such that it would change the way he was rapidly starting to feel
about her. “There will be plenty of time later for us to talk about
our lives and pasts...and our future—”

Carole began to object in typical courtroom
fashion, but seemed to have second thoughts. Lying back on his
chest, she murmured: “I’m enjoying your company, Ray. I haven’t
been able to say that to anyone in a long time.”

“I’m enjoying spending time with you, too,”
he told her sincerely. “And I haven’t had anyone to tell that to in
longer than I care to remember.”

She reached up and kissed him. He returned it
with the same amount of energy.

“You taste so good,” Ray murmured, his
erection building again, his need for this beautiful, sensual woman
insatiable.

“So do you, baby.” Carole licked his upper
lip and mustache.

They made love again.

And again.

And once more, as if anyone was counting at
that point.

By the time Ray left, he no longer considered
Carole a viable suspect in the murders that rocked the city of
Portland like an earthquake.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Nina woke with a start, straining her tired
eyes. It was six a.m. She dragged herself out of bed, slipped a
terry kimono robe over her nude body, and padded into the kitchen
to make coffee.

During a hot shower, Nina wondered if she had
been too hard on Ray. Just because there was no man in her life at
the moment didn’t mean he had to live like a monk. Even if he was
seeing Carole Cranston, it was his choice, though ill advised under
the circumstances. As far as she was concerned the judge was not
off the hook yet, even if she seemed to have wormed her way onto
Barkley’s good side, and probably into his bed.

For now, Nina was prepared to keep an open
mind as they pursued all possible suspects. Her only hope was that
they could get to the killer before the crazy lady got to another
abusive man.

Ray picked Nina up at eight on the nose,
looking weary, but ready for another day on the trail of a
psychopath.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he told her with
his usual flare for the dramatic.

Or perhaps it was a carryover from their
brief stint under the sheets. Nina felt a tad self-conscious in
considering just how much of her beautiful body he’d gotten to
see.

“Morning, Barkley,” she said, keeping her
voice unemotional as she got into the car.

“Got some news,” Ray told her. “Based on the
witness’s recollection of part of the license plate number of the
BMW that drove off from the garage where Blake Wallace was
murdered, we’ve been able to narrow it down to ten possible
vehicles. Meaning we could be closing in on our killer—”

Nina refused to get her hopes up, knowing an
eyewitness’s memories were often unreliable and dubious at best,
especially when trying to remember license plate numbers they had
no reason to remember at the time. But at this point she would take
any lead they could get. No matter how small.

“What do we have on the owners of the cars?”
she asked.

Ray frowned. “Not much,” he admitted. “None
of the owners have criminal records. Nor have we been able to match
any of them to police reports of domestic violence or the names
taken from the Rose City Women’s Shelter.”

“Sounds like we’re definitely on the right
track,” Nina scoffed sardonically.

He chuckled. “Yeah, well, we both know most
crimes are solved not because of hard evidence, but a series of
lucky breaks.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she muttered. “So
why is it I don’t feel so lucky today?”

“Could be it’s your natural pessimism kicking
in,” Ray quipped. “Must be a woman thing.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right...probably
because of the grief we have to put up with from men like you.”

Ray laughed. “Guess I deserved that one.”

“I guess you did.”

Nina’s thoughts turned elsewhere—or more to
someone, in particular. She faced Ray. “You wouldn’t happen to know
what type of car Judge Cranston drives, would you?”

He shook his head and glared at her. “You
just won’t let it go, will you, Parker?”

“Is there any reason I should?” Nina
countered, though wishing she had let it go.

A vein bulged in Ray’s temple. “Yes, dammit!
Because she’s the
last
person in Portland we should be
looking at as a murder suspect.”

“Oh, really?” Nina couldn’t believe what she
was hearing. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“I know that Carole—Judge Cranston—doesn’t
even own a vehicle. She walks, jogs, and cabs her way around the
city. Beats looking for places to park when there never seem to be
any. Not to mention saving on those damned car repairs.”

Nina wanted to ask how he knew these little
details about the judge’s private life, but decided not to. She
wasn’t sure she wanted to know, though one didn’t have to be
Einstein to put two and two together.

Instead she said dryly: “Well, it looks like
you’re way ahead of me on this one, Ray.”

“So what else is new,” he said, grinning
crookedly at her.

“Don’t press it, mister,” she warned, poking
him in the side, causing him to groan.

“I won’t.” Ray shrugged, peering out over the
steering wheel. “Consider it a dead issue, no pun intended.”

From Nina’s point of view, the issue of
Carole Cranston as a possible killer was still on the table.
I’m
just not willing to let the judge off the hook simply because
Barkley’s got the hots for her.

“Who’s first on the list?” Nina asked.

“An attorney by the name of Stuart Wolfe,”
replied Ray. “The first three letters the witness made out on the
license plate are a match for those on his black BMW. It’s probably
a long shot, but you never know. We could hit the jackpot on this
lawyer dude, or someone who uses his car.”

“Maybe he’s a cross dresser,” Nina said half
jokingly.

“Don’t laugh,” Ray shot back. “Why the hell
not a cross dressing serial killer? We’ve seen just about
everything else in this business. There isn’t much left to shock
me—except maybe a cunning female killer who preys on men and isn’t
afraid to really sock it to them.”

Nina grunted. They both knew that in all
likelihood they were looking for a female killer—one who had felt
the sting of a man’s fist more often than not—who was seeking
vengeance in an emphatic and suitable way.

* * *

The black Mercedes with the license plate
number SLW 402 sat in plain view in the circular drive of a large
Victorian house. It was in the West Hills, a section of the city
known for its exclusive homes and breathtaking mountain views.
Large bay windows occupied much of the two-storied residence with a
gabled roof and Corinthian columned porch. Tall, manicured bushes
and very old magnolia trees bordered a wide lawn.