Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (6 page)

Vivian sipped her coffee. “I’m not really
sure what I want to do.” She paused. “All I know is I just don’t
want to be pressured into doing something we’ll both end up
regretting. Does that make sense to you?” she asked nervously.

“Yes, it does,” Carole responded. “Maybe you
and Stuart should consider counseling while weighing all your
options?”

“This has to be a
personal
decision,”
snapped Vivian, as if under attack. “I wouldn’t want to put it in
the hands of some damned shrink whose only real interest is in the
bottom line or how much advice we can afford—”

“Well, I was thinking more of a family
counselor,” Carole said defensively, “rather than a psychiatrist.
They have experience with child and family issues and could assist
you in better understanding your options. Many offer reasonable
rates for their service. If you like,” she added reluctantly, “I
would be happy to recommend someone I know who’s very professional
and truly believes in what she does.”

Vivian tilted her head. “I suppose it
couldn’t hurt to give it a try,” she said unenthusiastically.

Carole gave her a hopeful smile. For some
reason the conversation made her want to reassess her own feelings
about marriage and children. Not necessarily in that order.

Only right now there seemed little time for
either.

Would there ever be time in her life for the
things she truly wanted or needed?

CHAPTER NINE

The bar was dimly lit and two blocks away
from where Roberto Martinez’s shattered remains were found. Ray
entered, suspecting Martinez had been there last night to celebrate
his unexpected freedom. Martinez’s blood alcohol level had been
high enough to make him legally intoxicated.

It wasn’t much of a place, but by all
indications Roberto Martinez wasn’t much of a man either. But that
still didn’t give someone the right to be his executioner.

Ray approached the bartender, a wide-bodied,
balding, dark-skinned man in his late thirties. “Do you remember
seeing this man in here last night?” he asked him, holding up a mug
shot.

The bartender studied the picture. He
scratched his pate and lifted bulging eyes. “Maybe,” he said in a
coarse voice. “You a cop or something?”

Ray showed his identification. “Homicide.
Portland Police Bureau.”

The bartender looked again at the mug shot.
“Yeah, he was here. What’d he do?”

“It’s what was done to him,” responded Ray
cryptically. “Name’s Roberto Martinez. Was found beaten to death in
an alley a couple of blocks from here.”

The bartender’s nostrils flared. “Damn,” he
muttered thoughtfully. “Too bad—”

“Did he have any trouble with anyone in
here?”

“Not that I recall. Had a few drinks and
left.”

“By himself?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Could he have left with a woman?”

The bartender considered this. “Not many
women hang out here, man.”

“So that would make it easier to remember any
who had, wouldn’t it?” Ray pressed.

The bartender grinned, sporting a shiny gold
tooth. “Now that you mention it, there was a lady here last night.
But she wasn’t with him.”

“Tell me about her.” Ray looked at him
intently.

“Tall, fine looking black woman,” he said.
“Stacked from head to toe. Had long blonde braided extensions. Wore
shades like she had eye problems or something, ‘cause it sure as
hell ain’t ever too bright in here. Sat right over there—” He
pointed to the end of the bar.

“Was she alone?” Ray asked.

“Near as I could tell, though she had plenty
of men who didn’t mind keeping her company.”

“Did that include Roberto Martinez?”

The bartender shook his head. “Nah. I think
the dude was too busy getting plastered to notice much else. Or
anyone else, including her.”

Ray regarded him. “Do you know when she
left?”

The bartender rubbed his nose that looked as
if it had been broken once or twice. “Come to think of it,” he
said, “I think she left right after he did—”

* * *

The Cool Breeze restaurant was in Southwest
Portland, specializing in ethnic cuisine. Cops and lawyers, along
with artists and writers, frequented it. This night most tables
were occupied.

Ray and Nina sat in a booth opposite the
window, platters before them filled with grilled chicken, collard
greens, yams, and buttered biscuits.

“I think we may be on to something,” hummed
Ray, having already discussed his visit to the bar. And, in
particular, the hot to trot black woman who could be labeled at
this point a person of interest. “I want a sketch artist out there
right away. Maybe we can find out who she is—and where we can find
her.”

“Will do,” Nina noted dutifully, as the
junior partner of the two. “Of course, since she was almost
certainly wearing a blonde wig and dark glasses, a positive I.D. is
practically out of the question.”

“I know,” he moaned, chewing on a biscuit.
“But at least it’ll give us more than we’ve got now, which is
zilch. If this lady is our killer, then someone, somewhere just
might recognize her.”

Nina wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin.
“That someone might just be at the Rose City Women’s Shelter,” she
said. “I did some digging around today and it seems that all the
battered women victims of the murdered men sought refuge there at
some point before going back to their batterers for more of what
they ran away from.”

“So you think the killer could be someone who
stayed there?” Ray asked.

Nina eyed him. “Or is even staying there
now—” she responded dramatically.

It made sense. A battered woman who got to
see firsthand other battered women and took it upon herself to
exact payback for all of them—making sure the batterer did not come
back for more ever again.

He nibbled on a piece of chicken. “Let’s go
pay this shelter a little visit.”

Nina smiled wryly. “That’s the best
suggestion you’ve had all day, Barkley.” She tossed money down on
the table and was on her feet. “Let’s hit the road while you’re on
a roll.”

Ray grinned, standing. “Yeah, let’s.” He put
more money on the table. “We need to get serious and see out who’s
spending time at the shelter and why. Maybe someone has more than
one reason to seek refuge there.”

At this point he wasn’t prepared to rule out
anything, while keeping everything on the table.

CHAPTER TEN

The Rose City Women’s Shelter sat atop a hill
in Northeast Portland. It was the largest shelter for battered
women in the city. Once home to a philanthropist, the Victorian
property had been donated to the Portland Domestic Violence
Foundation to be used as a battered women’s shelter. Its three
stories and refurbished architectural elegance belied its intent as
a temporary home for women escaping domestic violence.

Esther Reynolds had been the director of the
Rose City Women’s Shelter for the past ten years. The
thirty-eight-year-old widow had dedicated her life to helping
battered women, as she had once been helped to break the cycle of
violence, helplessness, and hopelessness.

She extended a thin hand with long, carnation
polished nails at the detectives—who had just been invited in by
one of her assistants—greeting each warmly. “How can I help you?”
she asked, though she already knew full well why they were there.
Indeed, she had expected them long before now.

“We’re investigating a series of murders,”
Ray told her, sizing up the tall, shapely, attractive lady clad in
a purple African dress with embroidery. She wore silver-rimmed
glasses in front of sloe colored eyes, was dark complexioned, and
had burgundy cornrows draped over her shoulders.

He took a sweeping glance of the premises
with its high ceiling, rounded archways, angled bay windows, and
hardwood floors. The first floor furnishings, though sparse, were
wicker and looked as though they belonged.

The place was impressive, no matter the
purpose. Ray noted several women moving about like zombies, as if
on drugs, alcohol, or maybe both. Some looked as if they had been
worked over one time too many. Could one of them also be a
murderess? Maybe it was time for payback in a big way.

Favoring the director again, Ray said: “Three
men charged with domestic abuse have been beaten to death with a
bat over the last five months.”

“Oh dear,” mumbled Esther for effect, putting
her hand to her mouth.

“We have reason to believe the women they
allegedly battered all stayed here at some point.”

“And what if they did?” she asked abruptly.
“We’re not responsible for what goes on outside the walls of this
shelter.”

Was this an admission of knowledge of the
murders? Or a plain disregard for what some vindictive abused women
may have been capable of?

“You may be responsible,” Nina said unkindly,
“if it’s proven that you or anyone who works here conspired or
participated in any of these so-called vigilante killings.”

Esther flung a wicked gaze at her. “I can
assure you,
de-tective
, that no one on my staff would be a
party to murder.”

Nina batted her eyes skeptically. “I wouldn’t
be too sure about that,” she said boldly. “And I certainly am not
prepared to rule out that one of your guests may be doubling as a
serial killer.”

Esther felt her chest heave. She had to
steady herself to keep from losing her balance. “Follow me,” she
uttered in a barely audible voice.

She led them through the downstairs to an
office which Esther had decorated herself with textured wallpaper,
sheer yellow curtains to let the sunshine in, hanging baskets with
ferns, and country furnishings. She hoped to make it appear as open
and comfortable to outsiders, such as these detectives, as the
women who came there seeking protection.

“Can I offer you some coffee?” Esther felt
her confidence returning. “Tea? Or maybe a Coke?”

The detectives declined as they sat in
leather chairs opposite Esther’s rustic cedar desk. She joined them
in another chair, resisting the urge to sit at her desk, so as not
to make this visit seem too official.

After gathering her thoughts, Esther informed
them: “Our purpose here is to do all we can to try and protect
women from abuse at the hands of the men in their lives. You may
not be aware of this, but two million women are battered in the
United States every year. More than one in four women murdered in
this country died at the hands of a husband or boyfriend. Some
believe as many as eighty percent of all domestic violence goes
unreported.” She took a deep breath, pleased with her lecture to
the detectives. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that these women
are the
real
victims of battering. I only wish you showed as
much diligence in going after their abusers as you seem to in going
after them—”

Ray and Nina met each other’s eyes
thoughtfully.

“Let me assure you, Ms. Reynolds, we don’t
take lightly women or children being beaten, or otherwise
mistreated in any way,” stated Ray compellingly. “But we also don’t
condone murder or
anyone
taking the law into her or his own
hands.”

Esther pushed her glasses up. “Neither do I,”
she insisted. “Unless it’s justified—”

“By whose standard?” Nina challenged her,
nearly rising from the chair. “Yours? Or some other woman in here
with an axe to grind against all the accused batterers in
Portland?”

“By a
higher
authority than either one
of us,” she responded tartly. “Men who hit women to make themselves
feel big and powerful don’t deserve to live.”

“Is that what you preach to the women who
come here for shelter and security?” Ray questioned. “That they
should get rid of the men who beat them and suffer the consequences
later?”

Esther felt hot under the collar, but refused
to be broken. That was what they hoped would happen. She was
stronger than that. More than they knew.

“This is not a church, detective!” Esther
retorted sarcastically. “I don’t preach anything in here. My job is
merely to offer a safe retreat for women escaping domestic
violence, and advice I believe can help these women to better
themselves and their children afterwards.”

“Would that advice include getting a damned
wooden bat and beating to death their abusers?” Nina asked with
narrowed eyes.

Esther stiffened. “I’d be less than honest if
I didn’t say I’ll shed no tears over the deaths of these men coming
as they did. It sounds as if they only received what they gave. But
I played no part whatsoever in their deaths.”

“If you didn’t, then someone else in here
probably did,” Ray told her brusquely.

“Proving that might be quite a task,” Esther
said brashly. “You see, we’re
all
victims here—the staff and
occupants alike. You’ll get no help inside these walls in trying to
nail someone who would be viewed by us as a hero.”

Ray glanced at Nina. The look on her face
told him she reluctantly agreed with Esther’s assessment.

“Maybe we will be stonewalled,” he conceded,
“for now. But that won’t stop us from eventually bringing the
killer to justice, wherever she might be holed up—along with anyone
who helped her.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, detective,”
said Esther courageously, “save it for someone who is easily
intimidated by police tactics...or perhaps brutality. I understand
enough about the law to know search warrants and court orders are
necessary to get information that otherwise won’t be volunteered to
you. On that note, I think I must now ask you both to leave.”

“We were kind of hoping to have a chat with
some of the residents and staff,” Nina uttered sanguinely.

“You’re welcome to,” Esther stated
colorlessly. “Just not inside the premises. I won’t have anyone
here being made victims again—not by you!”