Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (30 page)

Esther handed Carole the cup and sat beside
her. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice hollow.
“That I should have called you, if not gone straight to the police,
the moment I began to seriously suspect Monique might be a
killer—”

Carole raised her chin. “I’m not here to
criticize you, Esther. I’m sure you had your reasons for what you
did or didn’t do. I just need to try and understand what went
wrong.”

“Wrong?” slurred Esther as if in a
trance.

“Yes,” Carole voiced. “Since when has it ever
been a sound idea to kill off our problems—or men?”

“Since they wouldn’t stop ramming our damned
heads through brick walls,” Esther retorted sharply.

“What you did was in self-defense,” Carole
reminded her. “A jury agreed. But being a vigilante killer of
alleged, or even proven, abusers indiscriminately—that’s going too
far. And it does nothing to solve the problem of battered women in
this society. It only takes the lives of a few male batterers,
while leaving their women with the responsibilities of taking care
of their children, debts, chores, and even themselves. Does that
really sound like true justice to you?”

Esther’s face darkened and tears formed in
her eyes. “No,” she uttered weakly. “All I’ve ever wanted here was
a place where women could feel protected. Then Monique came along
and I felt an instant bond with her. Kind of like I have with you.
I could feel her pain and somehow made myself justify what she was
doing.” She sighed. “I wanted to come to you from the beginning,
but...you’re a judge, Carole. I didn’t want to get you involved in
this. By the time things got out of hand, I felt as if I had
nowhere to turn.”

Carole took a deep breath. “There was always
somewhere to turn other than inside,” she said lamentably. “And I
became involved, Monique saw to that. Maybe if you had trusted
yourself better we might have been able to avoid what’s
happened.”

Esther wiped at her eyes, and sobbed: “I’m so
sorry, Carole. I haven’t been nearly the friend to you that you’ve
been to me. I’ve brought this whole thing down on myself.”

Carole suddenly felt like a mother and put
her arms around Esther. Much like her mama used to do when she
needed to be comforted.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Esther asked
fearfully.

“I’m not sure,” Carole told her honestly.
“First they have to find Monique. If you can assist them, please
do. Aside from that, so long as you cooperate, chances are the
authorities won’t be interested in pursuing anyone other than the
murderer.”

Esther faced her. “What about us?”

Carole considered the question. “As far as
I’m concerned nothing has to change—except for the better. We’ve
been through far too much to turn against each other. Especially
now.”

And she meant that with all her heart and
soul. When all was said and done, Carole could scarcely afford to
abandon the few friends she had. Not even those who, at times,
seemed determined to abandon her.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Monique watched as Carole left the shelter
and got into the cab. She followed it.

She wondered what Judge Cranston and Esther
had talked about. That bitch had probably sold her out. Monique
fumed.

She knew about Esther and Carole’s long time
relationship. How Carole had testified for Esther after she killed
her old man, and then began sleeping with her attorney. She’d
wormed it out of Esther when she had gotten her drunk. Esther had
resented their intimacy, having secretly had her eye on Stuart
Wolfe. Right up until he married Vivian, preferring younger stuff
to someone closer to his age like Esther.

Monique even found out about Carole’s daddy
beating her momma to death. Then her husband blowing his gutless
brains out and leaving Carole to clean up the mess.

As far as Monique was concerned, men had
abused them all in some way.

Yet they were also different in how they
dealt with it. She was the only one with the balls to make those
bastards pay for their sins in the only way they could appreciate
what it meant to feel helpless, vulnerable, and get an ass whipping
and face smashed in.

And no one would stand in her way.

Not Esther.

Not the detectives on the case.

And certainly not
Your Honor
, Judge
Carole Cranston.

Monique watched as the cab let Carole out in
front of her building. Carole was soon inside, back to her
protected, sheltered world.

Don’t feel too comfortable in there.

“I know right where you are, bitch,” she said
aloud. “I can get you anytime I want. I’ve been in your place right
under your cute little nose and you never suspected a thing.”

She had stolen the cultured pearl bracelet
from Carole’s jewelry box and put some of that asshole Blake
Wallace’s blood on it that had splashed onto her clothing after his
head exploded from her pounding it with the bat. It had been easy
to plant the evidence in Stuart Wolfe’s car, particularly after she
had given the police a description of his BMW and a partial license
plate number. She knew it would only be a matter of time before
they discovered the bracelet and linked it to Carole, especially
since she was sleeping with the lead detective on the case. And it
didn’t hurt matters that his spunky partner had stayed on his ass
in pointing the finger at the judge.

Monique had counted on this rivalry thing
when she put the bloody bat in Carole’s condo and waited for the
detectives to discover it—further assuring that the honorable Judge
Cranston would be charged with the crimes she had failed to prevent
by putting those sons of bitches away.

“Enjoy the freedom while you can, Judge,” she
sang satirically. “Because you’re going down! Just like the
others—only you’re going to prison where your ass can rot away for
the rest of your stinking life!”

But not before she made sure another
battering bastard went down with her. It was the least she could do
for the judge while she was out on bail. Not to mention for the
women of America who were fed up with having their noses broken,
teeth knocked out, faces caved in, and bodies used as punching bags
and objects to slam against walls and toss down stairs.

Violence begets violence. Live by the sword,
die by the sword.

Or in this case, live by the fists and die by
the bat. What could be more appropriate payback for those who liked
to beat up women? Being hit back thrice as hard. And where it hurt
just like the hell they had put them through.

Monique drove off, suddenly feeling
triumphant. Yet she was also unsettled, as she needed to look over
her own shoulder.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The headline read: “Man Goes On Trial Today
For Beating Wife.” Monique gazed at the article with interest.
“Richard Kendall, a thirty-seven-year-old journeyman, was charged
with brutally assaulting his wife, Whitney, two months ago. She
suffered mild brain damage from the attack and faces years of
physical and mental therapy.”

“Bastard!” Monique screamed, and muttered a
few more expletives. He had to pay for what he did. Like all
batterers.

She looked forward to the trial and trusted
that someone other than Judge Cranston would take the appropriate
measures to punish the dickhead.

If not, then she would.

* * *

The bald defendant, looking grizzled with
several days’ beard growth, wore a cheap blue suit and a certain
smugness about him. He was a tall, lighter than dark-skinned man,
and in fairly good shape. A plump lawyer with a graying horseshoe
shaped hairline sat beside him, looking like he would rather be
anywhere else.

The prosecutor was a tough talking woman
named Althea Payne. She laid out her case before the jury like she
was running for political office. She promised there would be no
room for doubt when it came to convicting the defendant. Her chief
witness was to be the victim herself, who Althea promised would
give a chilling testimony.

The jurors listened intently, seven women and
five men.

The trial was taking place in the courtroom
of Judge Carole Cranston, her duties on indefinite hold while under
criminal investigation. The replacement judge was The Honorable
Phyllis Dubois. She was African-American and in her early forties.
Her dark hair was in an updo and she was on the heavy side, with a
strong voice to match.

When the defense attorney’s turn came for
opening statements, he outlined an entirely different case. He
insisted his client was a law-abiding citizen and completely
innocent of all charges. He even hinted the alleged victim may have
been having an affair at the time and that such person, if anyone,
was the one who should really be on trial.

Jacqueline Monique Lewiston watched on
Courtroom TV as the lawyers called their witnesses and experts. She
cringed as she listened to the victim describe the horrors of her
life with the defendant, including that horrific night in question
when he damned near beat her to death and left with brain damage
and still visible scars.

“Asshole! Son of a bitch!” Monique shouted
rancorously at the screen. “You need to be taught a lesson you
won’t forget!”

The defendant himself later took the stand.
He denied everything in a toneless, smug voice, almost daring
anyone to prove otherwise.

“Lying bastard!” Monique shrieked. “Anyone
can see you’re as guilty as hell, Kendall! Just like the
others.”

The trial lasted only three days. The jury
took four hours to deliberate. They came back with a hung jury. The
judge declared a mistrial.

The defendant was ordered to be released on
bail pending a new trial—if the prosecution bothered to file new
charges.

“No—!” Monique screamed at the TV in total
disbelief, rage building in her like steam in a freight train. “How
could you let him off? The man’s
guilty
and deserves to rot
in prison! If not be put to death for his heinous crimes against
poor Whitney.”

But Monique knew that her words had fallen on
deaf ears. Judge Dubois had proven to be as inept as Carole
Cranston.

It would be up to her to see to it that
justice prevailed. Richard Kendall would pay dearly for what he had
done.

And then he would rot in hell.

Just like his fellow women abusers.

Including the asshole who had robbed her of
her dignity and anything resembling a normal life.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Dressed in a black leather bomber jacket,
short-sleeved blue shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers, Ray sat at
the bar casually surveying the premises. Undercover detectives
occupied half the seats, including Nina who insisted she be part of
any operation as his partner and friend. Others were in place at
various locations outside, ready if needed to help snare a killing,
calculating cobra.

The club, Alder Street Bar & Grill, was
chosen because of its location and surrounding nooks and crannies.
Ray was banking on the fact that it would be too irresistible to
the woman who, no doubt, wanted him dead and dismembered.

The trial had gone like clockwork. The D.A.’s
office had fully cooperated, even supplying a jury composed of
their staff. The victim, a vice squad detective, had given a
performance worthy of an Oscar. Courtroom TV had agreed to show the
trial in its entirety, increasing the probability that Monique had
seen it. There had been no sign of her inside the courtroom or the
building.

But Ray felt her presence, even if he saw no
one who resembled the suspect in the bar, which had more detectives
and undercover police than patrons present. And most of these were
men or women who didn’t fit the general profile of Jacqueline
Monique Lewiston in age, race, or physical build.

Had she been able to disguise herself so that
she no longer fit her own description? The woman had already proven
to be somewhat of a chameleon in her ability to easily move in and
out of different circles without being detected for all her lethal
intentions.

Perhaps she was lying in wait outside, away
from their dragnet?

He ordered another drink from an undercover
detective doubling as a bartender. The drink was only colored water
made to look like the real thing.

Five minutes later Ray went to the bathroom,
signaling others with eye contact. In his shoulder holster was a
Glock .40 caliber pistol.

In the restroom, he checked underneath the
stalls for any signs of occupancy. He saw no one.

He washed his hands as a man entered wearing
a rumpled suit and scowl on his face. They stared at each other
and, for an instant, Ray wondered if Jacqueline Lewiston might have
had an accomplice.

Could she actually have a male partner
helping her as a set up man?

But the man quickly dispelled such theories
as he disappeared into a stall, giving no indication he wanted a
piece of the undercover detective.

Ray made his way back to the bar where he
downed a couple of more fake drinks and made his presence known, as
if inebriated. On cue, he left the bar, without having seen the
suspect, but almost feeling she was there.

Somewhere.

Close enough that he could practically touch
her.

He moved clumsily down the sidewalk, hoping
Monique would emerge and they would converge on her like ants on a
piece of rotting fish.

It didn’t happen.

Ray made his way to a cheap motel where he
was registered as Richard Kendall. Detectives occupied rooms on
either side of him and on floors above and below. Others manned the
front desk and doubled as maintenance workers.

The room was dingy yellow with a single sized
bed and table, and a tiny bathroom off to the side. It had been
wired for sound, not to take any chances on a surprise attack. A
window overlooked the street. Below was a delivery truck with
officers inside. On the other side of the street was an unmarked
police sedan with two plainclothes detectives.