Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (27 page)

He met Nina’s unblinking gaze. “You’ll just
have to trust me on this one.”

“Can’t do that,” she said dismissively. “I’ll
go to hell and back for you, Ray. You know that. But I won’t
jeopardize this case...my career...for a lovelorn whim of
yours.”

“It’s more than just a whim, Nina,” he told
her firmly. “Whoever is killing these men is someone who has no
respect for the justice system. And not a hell of a lot for men
either. Carole doesn’t fit that profile. She’s spent much of her
adult life trying to make the laws work for people like you and me.
She definitely respects males who earn her respect. I also
seriously doubt Carole would somehow find a way to lose her pearl
bracelet in the seat of a car she may never have been in, much less
driven.”

“Now you’re starting to piss me off,” growled
Nina disapprovingly. “Why don’t you just leave well enough alone
and forget the over psychoanalyzing crap?”

Ray’s brows descended. “Because you don’t
really want that any more than I do,” he responded with an edge to
his voice. “Especially if it means letting the real killer off the
hook in favor of one you simply hope is the culprit.”

Nina peered into her cup of cappuccino. “I’ll
pretend I didn’t hear that last part, okay? The only thing I’m
hoping for is to stop this madness and bring the murderer to
justice—whoever she is...”

“Yeah, all right.” Ray drank more coffee,
conceding that they weren’t getting anywhere by attacking each
other and their motivations.

After a moment or two, Nina said: “So if the
judge isn’t our killer—and I’m not saying I’m buying this
hypothesis of yours—then how do you propose we find the
real
killer?”

Ray stared at the question pensively. “I’ve
felt almost since the beginning that the key to this case was the
Rose City Women’s Shelter,” he said frankly. “Or, more
specifically, Esther Reynolds. I think she knows a hell of a lot
more than she’s said. Maybe it’s time we turn up the heat on
her—all the way...”

* * *

Esther Reynolds lived in a small, dull white
wood clapboard house with black shutters not far from the shelter.
An attached garage was open and filled with boxes, as if a storage
facility. Lights were on in the house when the detectives rang the
doorbell.

Esther opened the door, shock registering on
her face, as if seeing her late husband raised from the dead. She
was dressed more casually than her more professional shelter attire
in a pink v-neck top, jeans, and sandals.

“We need to talk to you,” Ray said
gruffly.

Esther adjusted her glasses nervously. “I’m
busy right now. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“Afraid not,” Nina responded. “It’s about
your old college chum who graciously once testified on your behalf.
Carole Cranston—”

Esther reacted, her voice faltering as the
detectives exchanged glances.

“Come in...” she finally uttered.

She walked them into a living room with sage
carpeting and African furniture. The acrid stench of cigarette
smoke permeated the air.

“What about Carole?” Esther asked
innocently.

Ray gazed at her. “Well, unless you’ve been
out of town for the last couple of days, you know she was arrested
on suspicion of being the Vigilante Batterer Killer.”

Esther lowered her eyes. “Yes, I heard about
it.”

“You don’t seem surprised?”

She raised her head. “Of course I’m
surprised. There’s been a big mistake. Carole could never have
killed anyone.”

“Not even if he battered her regularly?”
asked Nina.

Esther glared at her. “Carole would sooner
walk away than kill the bastard. Just like she did when her father
killed her mother.” She paused, as if giving away a family secret.
“I think that’s partly why she became a judge—so people like the
man I was married to could get what they deserved without making
the victims become perpetrators.”

“But it doesn’t always work out that way,”
hummed Ray thoughtfully, “does it?”

She sighed. “No. Not always.”

“And so someone other than Judge Cranston has
decided to be the judge she hasn’t been and is punishing these
batterers. Someone who is also trying to set her up to be the
killer.” He tilted his head, but maintained a fixed gaze. “I think
you
know who this person is.”

Esther’s lower lip trembled. “Think what you
like. But you’re wrong.”

“Am I...?” Ray could feel the blood pumping
through his veins. This woman was lying through her teeth. “If
anyone at the shelter is in a position to know all and hear all,
it’s you! Carole Cranston’s life and freedom may rest on your
shoulders. She helped you out once when you needed it most. Maybe
it’s time you do the same before someone else is killed and the
wrong person gets blamed. We need a name, Esther—”

She put her hands to her face, as if to hide
a tremendous burden. Taking her glasses off, Esther was
teary-eyed.

“I only know her as Monique,” she said in a
voice barely audible.

“Monique,” repeated Ray almost to
himself.

“She’s been coming to the shelter for a few
months now,” Esther stated. “I never kept an official record of her
visits because she begged me not to. She said her husband was an
important man and would kill her if he ever found out.”

Ray and Nina looked at one another,
piqued.

“How long have you known about Monique?” Nina
asked.

“I suspected she might be involved after the
first murder,” Esther admitted shakily. “There was something about
the way she knew all the details.” She drew a long breath. “I only
wanted to try to help her. I hoped she would stop at one. Then two.
But it became like cocaine to her—the more she killed the greater
her urge to kill again. It got out of control. Monique lost
whatever sanity she started out with.”

“And you just let this go on?” Nina’s mouth
hung open in disbelief of what she was hearing.

Esther wiped tears from her cheeks. “I
couldn’t stop it...stop her. I was too deeply involved to go to the
police. And I didn’t want to end up losing the shelter and maybe
going to prison in spite of myself—”

“Maybe you won’t have to,” Ray said, “if you
cooperate with us fully. Where can we find this Monique?”

“I-I, uh, I don’t know where she lives,”
Esther stuttered. “I only know she’s involved somehow in the legal
profession...or maybe her husband is—”

Ray’s finger brushed the tip of his nose.
That would help explain the killer’s intimate knowledge of the
goings-on in Carole’s courtroom. And place her in direct contact
with the shelter.

But where the hell was she now? What was her
next move?

He wondered what she hoped to gain by setting
up Carole to take the fall for her killing spree. Did she really
think she would get away with it?

Ray turned his thoughts to the important man
to whom the killer was married. A cop maybe? Or even a judge?

And who the hell was she behind her killing
mask?

They not only needed to find this serial
murdering bitch, but it had better be damned quick. Before she went
after someone else and took deadly batting practice on him.

Ray looked at Esther with some compassion.
“We’ll need a good description of Monique,” he ordered. “And
anything else you can think of that might help us find her...and
soon—”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“I thought that name sounded familiar,” Nina
said, sitting at her desk. She looked at the statement from a crime
witness. “A Jacqueline Monique Davis was at the scene of the Blake
Wallace murder. She was the one who gave the description and
partial license plate number of the car that allegedly left the
scene.”

“Let me see that.” Ray hovered over her. He
studied the statement and frowned. “Looks like Jacqueline Monique
Davis, if that’s her real name, calculated all her moves. Spoon
feed us what she wanted to and we swallowed it like some damned
cyanide.”

“Now wait a minute—” Nina looked up, one brow
cocked. “The judge isn’t off the hook yet. We still need to talk to
this Jacqueline Monique Davis and see if her story jibes with
Esther Reynolds’ account of the suspect—assuming the two women are
one and the same.”

“It all fits perfectly from where I stand,”
Ray said, studying the suspect’s physical description. “Tall,
shapely, attractive, light-to-medium brown skin, dark pixies...
Esther pretty much described the same person you interviewed. Which
is also damned close to the woman described at the bar the night
Roberto Martinez was murdered. Minus the blonde wig and shades. I’d
say that
this
is our woman—”

Nina stood. “Well, let’s check her out,” she
said noncommittally. “She gave us an address. Meanwhile I’ll have
records run a check on the name Jacqueline Monique Davis to see if
she has a criminal background.”

“Good idea.” Ray had the feeling Monique was
still one or two steps ahead of them—making her that much more
dangerous.

* * *

The address the suspect had given was a
vacant lot surrounded by tall weeds and littered with everything
from beer cans to used condoms.

“She was a witness,” Nina said defensively.
“There was no reason to suspect she was feeding us a bunch of
bull.”

“No one’s blaming you,” Ray told her, driving
back to the station. “She’s been playing all of us like a piano.
We’ve seen it before. Killers get some kind of sick gratification
out of being so-called innocent bystanders, while manipulating the
police and press right under their noses.”

“You think she could be a lawyer or a judge?”
Nina asked keenly. “And who the hell is her husband?”

“Well, so far she’s a battered woman, a
witness to a crime, and currently a missing woman,” Ray said.
“Yeah, I think it’s possible she could be a judge, lawyer, or some
other public servant. Or none of those. The husband, if there is
one, could be any one of these.” He shifted his eyes to Nina. “What
seems pretty clear is she’s a very unstable woman. And that scares
the hell out of me.”

He thought about Carole. Had her life been
placed in danger by her release from jail?

Would Monique go after her?

Ray wondered if Carole even knew the woman.
Or was this more of a guilt by association thing? Who knew what
this psychopath used to justify her actions.

More distressing news came that afternoon
from the records department. There was nothing on a Jacqueline
Monique Davis. Which meant she did not exist, technically, insofar
as police files. At least not by that name.

“Could Davis be her maiden name?” Nina
asked.

“Maybe.” Ray twisted his lips. “Or maybe she
just made it up in that sick head of hers.”

“If she is our vigilante,” Nina said, “then
I’d say the lady’s got one violent and sadistic imagination turned
very real and deadly.”

Ray ran a hand across his head. “Why don’t
you see if we can get the sketch updated to include more details on
Jacqueline Monique Davis, or whatever the hell her real name is? We
can distribute it in legal circles and on the streets. Someone
might recognize her.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’ll go see Carole,” he said, dispensing
with the formalities when referring to her around Nina, as though a
crime in and of itself to feel something for the lady. “She may
know Monique under a different name. It’s obvious Monique knows
her, which could spell trouble once she learns the plan to set up
Carole has backfired.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Carole struggled in trying to decide upon
chicken or pork chops for dinner. In the end she went with pork
chops, picking up the package and putting it in her cart. She
envisioned breaded pork chops, broccoli, and brown rice. She often
turned to eating when struggling with cumbersome issues, and was
thankful her metabolism and exercise regimen kept the pounds
off.

The supermarket was busier than usual and
Carole wondered if it was a holiday she wasn’t aware of or if it
was just other people looking for some escapist food, like her.

She was still trying to come to terms with
the various things that had happened in her life of late and what
they meant in the larger picture.

Her thoughts centered on Ray Barkley. Were
she and Ray destined to be like two ships passing in the night,
never to truly connect or find everlasting love and commitment?

There were more pressing matters that stood
in the way of any thoughts of romance. She could actually have to
face a multiple murder trial as a defendant rather than judge. And
with the press looking to sensationalize it, she couldn’t possibly
hope for a fair trial in Portland. Or anywhere else, for that
matter, as the so-called Vigilante Batterer Killer.

Carole imagined herself being vilified as a
seriously disturbed female serial killer of men. She knew there
would likely be at least some public sentiment in support of her as
an avenging angel in ridding the world of men who abuse women and
children.

I’m certainly against domestic violence in
all its forms, but don’t advocate taking the law into one’s own
hands in the name of justice.
Though she could understand why
someone might be motivated to take such drastic measures.

Carole thought about Stuart and Vivian as she
gazed absentmindedly at a row of cereal boxes. Could either of them
be capable of committing these terrible crimes and attempting to
pin it on her like a damned tail on the donkey?

It seemed to Carole that if she had to point
the finger, it would have to be at Vivian, who she hardly knew, in
spite of the circumstances that had brought them together on
several occasions. But that did not mean Stuart was totally
innocent of the grisly murder spree.

If Stuart were knowledgeable of Vivian’s
guilt, would he be courageous enough to turn her in for the help
she needed? Or would he allow another to take the fall for his
wife’s misdeeds out of some misguided sense of love or
protection?