Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (7 page)

Nina’s nostrils flared. “Listen, we’re not
the problem and I think we both know that! If you’re sheltering a
psychopathic killer, she’s making every woman here a victim all
over again. And each time she takes out a batterer, it will be on
your head. I just hope you’re prepared to deal with that!”

Ray felt he couldn’t have said it better
himself and thus did not even try. It would certainly give the
director something to think about.

Esther saw the detectives out the front door
and was left alone with her thoughts. She sensed trouble ahead.
They weren’t going to let up until they found what or who they were
looking for.

She was determined that they would not find
it there.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“What do you make of her?” Ray turned to his
partner as they made their way from the shelter.

Nina wrinkled her nose. “I’m not really sure.
Other than the fact the lady obviously has a chip on her shoulder
and is in sore need of a major attitude adjustment.”

He nodded. “Amen to that on both counts!”

She squinted at him. “She definitely doesn’t
have any sympathy for dead batterers. Not that I can blame her for
that. Alive, the assholes wouldn’t be very welcome at my house
either. Dead, they more or less dug their own graves.”

“The proof may have been in the pudding,” he
muttered uneasily, “so to speak. But the fact is none of those men
were actually convicted in a court of law of anything, much less
the crimes for which they may have been executed.”

Nina took her keys from her purse. “Come on,
Barkley,” she scoffed. “We both know they were probably as guilty
as hell.”

Ray sneered. “Since when have people in this
country been put to death based on probable cause rather than solid
evidence of guilt? Domestic violence, for all its brutality, isn’t
a death penalty crime in and of itself, short of murder. Not in
this state anyway.”

“You’re missing the point,” Nina said
lamely.

He glared at her over the hood of the car.
“No, you are! Those men no more deserved to die than the women they
allegedly abused. Someone forgot to tell that to their
executioner—”

Nina was suddenly at a loss for words.

During the drive each clung to their thoughts
before Nina said in a sorrowful tone: “Okay, those men didn’t
really deserve what they got, even if they gave nearly as
much.”

“Obviously there’s a killer out there who
would beg to differ,” Ray said sourly. “My guess is she’s somehow
affiliated, past or present, with that shelter. If it’s not Esther
Reynolds herself, then it’s somebody else there—”

“I can’t argue with you on that,” Nina said,
“since I agree wholeheartedly. The lady definitely knows something
she’s not saying.”

“If Reynolds wants to play games, she’ll
lose,” he declared. “I want to find out everything there is to know
about her and everyone who’s been in that shelter for the last six
months.”

“That could be a tall order.” Nina batted her
lashes. “Especially since many of the women are only there for a
few hours and quickly replaced by others. Even the staff, mostly
volunteers, probably only show up irregularly, or when there’s
nothing better to do.”

“True,” Ray conceded, “but I’ll just bet that
Esther Reynolds keeps detailed records of everyone who comes and
goes—residents and staff alike. I’m sure with the right persuasion,
like a court order, we can separate the maybes from the maybe
nots.”

Nina looked at him studiously. “In the
meantime, we have a very unstable woman out there who’s likely to
strike again at any time with deadly precision.”

Ray acknowledged this in his mind even as he
wondered if they could be way off base in their sense of direction
and possible suspects. He had seen more than his fair share of
cases where the culprit was the last suspect on everyone’s list.
Were they on the right track on this one?

* * *

Julian Frommer was waiting in his office when
Ray arrived. It was small and crowded with the tools of an
assistant district attorney’s office at his disposal. Frommer
leaned back in his desk chair, a frown creasing his alabaster
face.

“I was actually sorry to hear about
Martinez,” he said, running his fingers through greasy hair, then
wiping them on the wool jacket of his suit.

“It sure made your job a hell of a lot
easier,” Ray said, studying the prosecutor’s reaction.

Frommer shook his head. “Not really. No one
likes to see a suspect taken out like that. Nasty.” Frommer leveled
his eyes at Ray. “In fact, I was looking forward to hauling his ass
back into court for a second round. I was convinced that, given
time, I could have gotten Lucie Garcia to see him for the brutal
monster he really was.”

“Only someone beat you to the punch,” said
Ray humorlessly. “Or the bat.”

“Yeah,” the prosecutor muttered. “Something
like that.”

“It almost seems too coincidental when
standing in my shoes.” Ray used that moment to plant his hands
solidly on the metal desk and stare across it. “Martinez meets
Satan before he can do any more harm, much less face new charges
and possibly walk again.”

Frommer’s brows knitted. “What the hell are
you trying to say, Barkley? You don’t actually think I had anything
to do with that asshole’s murder, do you?”

Ray leaned forward, holding his gaze. In
fact, he didn’t see Frommer as a murderer, particularly since he
had not been the prosecutor in the other two vigilante-related
murders. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t familiar with the killer,
even if he didn’t realize it.

“Relax, man,” he told him nicely. “No one’s
accusing you of Roberto Martinez’s death. But you may be able to
help us nail the real perpetrator.”

“How so?” the prosecutor asked guardedly.

I’m so glad you asked.
“By providing
me with the names of everyone you talked to in your investigation
who might have had a beef with Martinez or his actions. There’s a
chance someone may have decided to go after him once the case was
dismissed.”

Frommer scratched the back of his hand.
“Yeah, I can do that. Only it will be a very short list. Martinez
had a history of domestic violence and other assault crimes. But
the only ones willing to come out on the record against him were a
known drug dealer with his own agenda and his alleged victim, Lucie
Garcia, who ran scared when it came to crunch time.”

Ray allowed his mind to wander. “What about
people who hung around the courtroom and seemed to take a keen
interest in the case?”

Frommer shrugged. “The actual trial lasted
less than a day,” he said. “Hardly enough time to develop a profile
of spectators or nuts posing as such.”

Ray showed him a composite of the woman seen
at the bar Martinez was at the night of his death. “Does she look
familiar?” Even as he asked, he knew the picture was based on a
vague memory of a tall black woman wearing dark glasses and
probably a blonde wig of some sort in a dim atmosphere. He wasn’t
sure he would be able to recognize his own mother in looking at
such an image.

Frommer studied it with something less than
intense scrutiny. “Not really.” He looked up. “You think she offed
Martinez?”

“Let’s just say I’d like to talk to the lady
about it.”

“Can’t help you, buddy,” Frommer said.
“Sorry.” He extended his arm to pass back the composite.

“Keep it,” Ray told him. “Just in case your
memory is jogged later or you happen to run into her—”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Frommer met his eyes head
on. “For the record, Barkley, I hope you get the one you’re after.
Justice belongs in the courtroom, not on the street.”

Ray felt a knot in his stomach, and said
musingly: “Someone who feels that the courts do a lousy job
dispensing justice would disagree with you.”

After he left Julian Frommer’s office, Ray
drove around town collecting his thoughts. He believed the killer
was someone within reach.
I can feel it in my bones.
They
only needed to put a name and face to her. Yes, he was convinced it
was a woman, possibly African-American, they were after. But he
didn’t rule out that a man could be the killer—perhaps dressed as a
woman—singling out other men for his own reasons.

Overall, Ray’s gut instincts told him this
was the work of someone who had been the victim of male battering
either directly or indirectly.

Someone who had no intention of stopping her
lethal vengeance on batterers.

Not till there were no more left to kill.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Carole read the verdict and then quietly
passed it back to the bailiff. She fixed her eyes on the defendant,
Blake Wallace. He stared back at her with eyes that were sinister
in their darkness. The forty-nine-year-old real estate tycoon was
just under six feet tall and solid as a rock in a tailored
double-breasted charcoal suit. He had thinning black-gray hair,
slicked backwards as if to hide the balding. It surrounded a jowly
face that was red like a pepper.

He had been charged with assaulting his wife,
who had run from the house naked, badly bruised, and bleeding.
Victoria Wallace now sat supportively behind her husband. She wore
sunglasses, shielding the scars left from the vicious attack that
left her partially blind in one eye.

Next to Blake Wallace sat his high-priced,
confident attorney, George von Dorman. He whispered something in
his client’s ear causing him to smile. That quickly vanished when
the defendant’s gaze centered sternly on Carole’s face.

She turned away, showing no emotion to the
verdict. After asking the defendant to rise, Carole directed the
jury foreman to read the verdict.

The yellow-haired, thirty-something woman
glanced in the direction of Blake Wallace before nervously looking
down, and saying: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty on
the charge of first degree assault—”

Carole closed her eyes for a moment, not
wishing to see the jubilation at the defense table or the
begrudging acceptance of the verdict by the prosecutor. The defense
had gambled and won on an all or nothing verdict, opting for the
one serious charge rather than lesser charges that might have made
it easier on the jury to convict.

Blake Wallace would get to go home, probably
to beat his wife again when the victory dance had long died down
and the urge to inflict damage on her grew in him again like a
tumor. For her part, in testifying on his behalf, Victoria Wallace
had sacrificed her personal safety and that of her three children
to keep the family intact, as well as her stake in her husband’s
considerable business interests and their estate.

Carole opened her eyes in time to see Blake
Wallace with his arm wrapped around his wife’s waist as they headed
out of the courtroom. She could not help but think that justice had
once again been denied the People. Particularly those who believed
wife abuse should neither be tolerated nor rewarded.

She left the bench, feeling empty, as if she
had run out of fuel or the will to carry on for another day. It was
another case of domestic violence that fell short of desired
results.

* * *

Victoria Wallace had lived in terror of her
husband since the first day he hit her. It was on their wedding
night when he had accused her of not being a virgin. He had broken
her nose and then raped her. He had told her if anyone found out
the truth he would kill her and himself.

Now some twenty-five years later she had
learned never to take his threats idly. The beatings were less
frequent now that he had his mistress and other interests to keep
him occupied, but they were more intense and seemingly came with
more pleasure on the part of her husband. This last time had come
without warning. He had flown off the handle because of a deal gone
sour and decided to take it out on her. She had suffered a detached
retina, bruised kidney, lost three teeth, and received other
injuries.

Neighbors had called the police and she had
raced to them in fear of her life, not caring that she was naked
for any sick lustful kicks the two male officers might have
received. She only wished to survive the night for her children and
live to see another day.

Blake had been arrested.

He had hired the best lawyer money could buy.
There was even talk of bribing a juror or two, if need be. Victoria
had seen the writing on the wall. Were she to go against Blake, she
could lose everything. Including her life. Maybe even the precious
life of her children.

She had decided, for the sake of her children
and the life they were accustomed to living, that she had to
support her husband through the trial while continuing to live
under the veil of secrecy, shame, and apprehension.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Blake Wallace drove his white-on-white
Mercedes to the townhouse he kept when he needed to get away. More
specifically, when he needed to be with his mistress, Rebecca. The
bitch couldn’t figure out left from right if you didn’t point her
in the proper direction, but she knew which buttons to push in bed
better than most. Something Victoria hadn’t accomplished in
twenty-five years of marriage.

It was her damned fault he had lost his
temper so many times. Right from the very start she had deceived
him. Made a fool out of him. Only because she had gotten herself
knocked up almost right away did he even bother to stay. Later,
with more kids and a prospering career in real estate acquisitions,
it was no longer good business sense to divorce her. He would be
damned if he let that bitch wind up with the better part of his
earnings and assets.

Right now Blake was just happy that prick of
a lawyer he’d paid a fortune had succeeded in getting him acquitted
of assault. The moment he’d made eye contact with the blonde woman
on the jury whose kid he would put through college with some
spending money on the side, he knew he was home free from a
unanimous verdict against him.