Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 2

  Roberto grinned again. “Not like any damned cop I’ve seen,” he had to admit.

  “Then why are we wasting time here jawing?”

  He felt at ease again. His libido was admittedly in need of a quick fix.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why are we? Your place or mine?”

  “Neither.” She pointed toward the alley. “In there.”

  He looked into the darkened alley. It was hardly the ideal place to get laid. But who was he to argue? He could get his rocks off just about anywhere.

  “Lead the way,” he told her.

  He followed the whore to the back of the alley, where she leaned up against a wall and urged him on.

  “Come and get it, big boy,” she teased.

  Roberto could hardly contain himself as he rushed towards her. He only noticed at the last moment that she had picked up something with lightning quick speed and swung it hard at his head. He felt the impact as his skull cracked, sending him to his knees. The pain cut through him like a sharp knife. Make that a dozen sharp knives.

  “How does it feel?” she asked him, a suddenly wicked edge to her voice. Before he could even think past the pain, much less respond, she struck him again with what he now suspected was a wooden bat. This time it connected across his back, smashing into his spine, paralyzing him. “Does it feel good, asshole?”

  She swung the bat like an All Star baseball player, landing flush against his right cheek, dislodging his jaw and most of the teeth on that side of his face.

  “Isn’t this what you like to do to women, Roberto?” she spat, clubbing him across the top of the head, crushing his skull. “Well, how about a taste of your own medicine, you bastard!”

  She swung again and again, each blow shattering another part of him, sending blood, bone, brain, and body pieces flying everywhere.

  By the time she was finished, he was long dead. But it didn’t matter, for she received great satisfaction to see to it that even in death he would never be whole again. Just like the lover he had beaten to a pulp.

  She tossed the bloodied bat atop the corpse. Then she removed her wig, gloves, dress, and shoes. She put them in a duffel bag, slipped on some jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, leaving Roberto Martinez’s remains to rot like raw meat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The narrow alleyway had been turned into a crime scene as police rummaged through a dumpster for evidence while technicians gathered everything they could as standard procedure in a murder investigation. Portland Police Bureau Detective Sergeant Ray Barkley recoiled as his stone gray eyes gazed at the mangled body with more than a few pieces missing. It was the third time in the past five months a male had been beaten to death with a bat in the city—the weapon left each time courtesy of the assailant, as if to make a statement.

  Ray Barkley had been in homicide for the last ten of his twenty years on the force and thirty-seven years of life. Since then he had seen just about everything there was to see. But now he suspected he was seeing something entirely new. What it was he wasn’t quite sure. Except that it scared the hell out of him and most other men he knew—most of whom generally saw themselves as invincible.

  Till now.

  “Looks like someone’s having one hell of a time bashing skulls in,” remarked his partner, Detective Nina Parker. At thirty-four, she was a short, but imposing, fit and tough as nails, brown-skinned lady who had once briefly been his lover. Until they both realized it was a big mistake mixing business with intimate pleasure. They had used each other to get over bad marriages and rotten luck in the relationship department. In the end, they buried the sexual hatchet and rediscovered what it meant to be friends off the job and partners on the job.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” grumbled Ray, rolling his hand across his shaven bald head. Clad in his usual cheap on the job dark suit and loafers, he was six-four and sturdily built, though admittedly having slacked off somewhat of late with the weightlifting and aerobics. A black mustache accentuated his square-jawed oak complexion. “On second thought, don’t. I can see for myself that it doesn’t pay to be the wrong dude at the wrong time and place these days.”

  “Who says it was the wrong dude?” Nina sneered, her brown blonde-streaked Bantu knots bouncing against the shoulders of her olive blazer. “Or the wrong time and place? Seems to me that whoever did this knew exactly what man to go after, when, and where!”

  It was an observation Ray could hardly dispute. Which made it all the more frightening. It suggested that specific men were being targeted. But by whom?

  He looked at the corpse again. Clearly the perpetrator had battered him long after he was dead. Just like the others.

  As if to say death itself was not enough to release the rage felt by the killer.

  “We got a name yet?” Ray asked of the deceased, eyeing Nina.

  She pulled out a notepad from the back pocket of her slacks that were tight around her nice ass.

  “Name’s Roberto Martinez,” Nina said. “Lives on 8652 Andover. The killer never bothered to take his wallet, money, or anything else as far as we can tell. Not that he had all that much to take,” she added. “Unless you consider twenty-five bucks and a ring that was worth maybe half that as a king’s ransom.”

  “The man didn’t have to be a king to deserve a better fate than what he ended up with.” Ray glanced at the victim. “Roberto Martinez. Why the hell does that name sound familiar?”

  Nina batted big, bold, brown eyes. “Maybe because a Roberto Martinez was recently charged with assaulting his girlfriend... Lucie Garcia—”

  “Yeah, right.” They’d both heard the call come in about the domestic disturbance that had become so commonplace in Portland that many in the department considered them more nuisance cases than crimes. He imagined they would have to be taken more seriously as the body count continued to rise.

  Ray took a hard look at the face that was so disfigured it was hard to imagine it was human. “You think this is the same Roberto Martinez?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Nina responded sardonically, “just this afternoon all charges were inexplicably dropped against Martinez and he walked.”

  “Just like that?” Ray cocked a brow.

  “Just like that.”

  “How?” As if he had to ask. It happened all too often in domestic violence cases. Reluctant victims and some reluctant police and prosecutors who still saw domestic violence as something that belonged in family court not criminal court.

  “Girlfriend refused to testify,” Nina informed him. “Need I say more?”

  “Looks like somebody’s already spoken for the girlfriend,” he said, taking one final look at the badly assaulted remains. “Loud and clear.”

  Ray signaled the team from the medical examiner’s office that they could take the body. He had seen all he cared to of it for the moment.

  * * *

  During the drive back to the station, Ray sat in the passenger seat while Nina drove their department issued late model dark sedan.

  “So what are we looking at here, a vigilante?” he asked, but already knew the answer. The first two victims had recently been charged with abusing a woman, but had managed to beat the rap without having to do time. Shortly thereafter they had been found in much the same fashion as this latest victim.

  Nina glanced at him. “You got a better idea? It’s obvious someone’s decided to create the justice that doesn’t seem to be coming from the system.”

  Ray’s nostrils flared. “Hell, just what we need—some bat wielding do-gooder, battering batterers. What’s next, rapists being raped to death?” The thought made him twitch.

  “You’ve got to admit, there’s a certain irony to the manner of death chosen by the killer.” She rounded a corner sharply. “Don’t get me wrong, Barkley, I’m definitely not in favor of people taking the law into their own hands. Especially like this. But let’s face it, there hasn’t been nearly enough attention paid to domestic violence in this country. If nothing else, maybe this will tur
n some heads.”

  “Let’s just hope they’re not turned by hard swinging bats,” he said humorlessly.

  Nina stopped at a red light, giving him the full attention of her soulful eyes. “I think our killer is a woman.”

  Ray had reluctantly come to the same conclusion, though he still found it hard to accept. From his experience, women were not usually cold-blooded killers. Not like men. Furthermore, virtually all serial killers were men. As well as spree killers. Psychotic killers. And even death by spousal abuse killers.

  But this was different. It was hard to imagine a man beating to death other male woman beaters. At least it was harder to imagine than a vengeful minded woman who had probably reached the breaking point after years of physical and psychological torment and decided to take out her frustrations on any man labeled an abuser and not fortunate enough to have been locked away.

  “Well whether female or not,” Ray said firmly, “this person is a walking time bomb, waiting to go off any time the opportunity strikes.”

  “We actually found something we can agree on, Barkley,” Nina said, smiling. “What a concept.”

  “Ouch, that hurt.” He bowled over as if in pain.

  “Good,” she said with a pleased chuckle. “I’ll sleep a lot better tonight.”

  Ray glanced at Nina’s profile. Tiny moles dotted her cheek like freckles. He still found the lady attractive. Maybe too much for his comfort.

  For an instant he felt a trickle of desire, but quickly extinguished it like a low flame. Whatever chemistry still existed between them, it was best left to doing the job. Anything else would only complicate a good working relationship. Something neither of them wanted or needed.

  Not when there were far more pressing matters that needed attending.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Carole carefully watered her weeping fig, aglaonema, and ivy plants, treating each like family. She had loved plants since she was a little girl, reading about and growing different types in her backyard garden. There was something about nurturing plants and watching them sprout to life that fascinated her. Their existence was not subject to extraneous factors like other living creatures. Nor were they prone to human frailties that could destroy their soul through misuse and mishandling.

  The doorbell buzzing startled Carole, who had been in deep concentration. She put down her watering can and went to the intercom, thinking with amusement: Now who on earth could that be disturbing me and my darling plants?

  She pressed the talk button.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “It’s me. Stuart,” the husky voice said. “I need to talk to you, Carole.”

  “It’s kind of late,” she said, annoyed.

  “Yeah, I know. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Carole thought about it for a moment before relenting and pushing the button that unlocked the door downstairs to her condominium. While waiting for him, it gave her a chance to make herself a bit more presentable. She tucked her blouse back in her cropped pants and stepped from bare feet into some flats. At five-nine, she had inherited her height from her father, while the metabolism that gave Carole an hourglass figure came from her mother, along with plenty of exercise and a sensible diet.

  In the bathroom she wiped away dirt that had somehow ended up on her high-cheek boned face. She decided to keep her pixies tied in a ponytail, seeing no reason to make it seem like anything other than a purely social call.

  That was what you called it nowadays when an ex-lover paid you an unexpected and not particularly desirable visit at night, wasn’t it?

  Carole had dated Stuart Wolfe off and on for about a year. She’d met him when she was a prosecutor and he a criminal defense attorney. It was hardly a match made in heaven, but they gave each other something they both needed at the time—a warm body to cuddle up to on cold, rainy Northwest nights, and a pleasant dinner companion when one was called for.

  It was Carole who had decided it wasn’t what she wanted. Or more that he wasn’t really what she wanted. Stuart had acquiesced to her desire to end their relationship, but insisted on remaining friends. She had agreed, recognizing that it was not unreasonable and perhaps even desirable. For she had few friends, and even fewer people she could trust.

  She padded across the bamboo hardwood flooring, unlocked, and opened the door.

  Stuart stood there in an Italian designer sage colored suit that fit snugly on his six-one, solid frame. A silk tie was loose around the collar of his ivory shirt as though he couldn’t decide whether to keep it on or not. He was forty years old, but didn’t look it. His unblemished fudge skin tone was a perfect match for his closely cropped black hair and sable eyes. He pasted a hesitant smile on his handsome face.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  “Hey.” She waved him in thoughtfully.

  “So how’s everything with you?” Stuart asked while sizing Carole up as they stood in the spacious living room with its warm, muted gray coloring, French Provincial furniture, and African decorative art. Along with her array of plants.

  “Everything’s just fine, Stuart.” Carole turned her body away self-consciously, as if he hadn’t already seen all of it. “How about you?” She was mildly curious about this unexpected visit.

  He placed his hands in his pockets, as though looking for change. “Oh, hell, I don’t know. I suppose things could be better. All right, a lot better.”

  “Things could always be better,” she said rather impatiently. “Maybe you should just tell me what you came to talk about Stuart.”

  She figured that it had something to do with his new wife. He had married her five months ago, after only knowing her for a few weeks. The suddenness of the marriage had surprised Carole. At first she had felt a twinge of jealousy, as if he had somehow betrayed her—them. Just as quickly she had come to her senses, realizing there was absolutely no need to be jealous. Their relationship had ended a long time ago. He deserved to be happy with someone else, if not her.

  Only it appeared as if he was anything but happy. She had found herself more often than not in the undesired role of being his marriage counselor, as if she qualified. But as his friend she did what she could to offer him sound, practical advice. At least she believed that was the case.

  Stuart licked his lips. “You know, I could really use a drink, Carole,” he said. “Or would that be asking too much?”

  Actually it was. Particularly when she wasn’t in the mood for company.

  Nevertheless, she said in an understanding voice: “No, it wouldn’t be. You want a beer? Wine? Brandy?”

  She knew that he liked them all at one time or another. Which was probably why she kept the choices on hand for such an occasion, preferring wine herself.

  “Beer sounds good, thanks.”

  “Be right back,” she told him, and went to the gourmet kitchen.

  Carole glanced at its state-of-the-art appliances, custom-made maple cabinetry, handset slab granite countertops, and ceramic tile flooring. She grabbed a cold beer from the sub-zero refrigerator, then poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, before rejoining her uninvited guest.

  Handing him the bottle, she asked directly: “What’s going on, Stuart?”

  He gulped down the beer as if dying of thirst; then creased his brow. “Vivian’s pregnant,” he said sullenly.

  Carole decided to skip the perfunctory congratulations, considering it was obvious he wasn’t looking for any. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  At least it had been something he had often talked about when they were seeing each other. But she had not wanted to bring a child into the world, not believing she was mother material. Some things never changed.

  But maybe they had with Stuart. Was he now singing a different tune?

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes cast downward as if shamefully. “It is...”

  “Then what’s the problem?” She gazed at him. “Or am I missing something here?”

  Stuart looked up. “She
wants to have an abortion.”

  “Oh, I see.” Carole wasn’t sure exactly where to go with this one. She didn’t know how she would react if pregnant; only that it was an extremely personal choice—one that should ultimately be left to the person having the baby.

  I’d certainly want to be the master of my body under those circumstances.

  “What should I do?” His lower lip quivered. “What shouldn’t I do?”

  “Talk to her, Stuart,” she advised him. “Tell your wife exactly how you feel.”

  “I have,” he muttered. “It doesn’t seem to do a hell of a lot of good. She can be a stubborn bitch when she wants to be.”

  “Maybe you aren’t saying the right things,” Carole suggested, though admittedly uncertain if there were any magical words to keep a determined woman from aborting her unborn child.

  “I’m not sure what they are anymore.” Stuart scratched the tip of his broad nose. “I love her, Carole, and I don’t want to lose her—or our baby. But if she goes through with this, I swear—” He shook his head mournfully.

  “You should try counseling,” she recommended. “Both of you. And I mean real counseling.” Not the counsel of a judge friend, ex-lover like me.

  “Will you talk to Vivian?” Stuart blurted out, as if it refused to stay put in his mouth.

  Carole widened her eyes at him in disbelief and a bit of anger. “And say what? I’m hardly the one to lecture someone on the merits of having a baby.”

  Stuart twisted his face. “Just tell her how much it would mean to me,” he pleaded. “If anyone can—”

  She cut him off sharply. “Don’t even say it, Stuart. I will do no such thing. The last person in the world your wife needs advice from is your ex-girlfriend. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to figure out this one all by yourself.”

  He glared icily at her, quickly thawing out. “I’m asking you as a friend, Carole. Not an ex-lover.” He sighed. “There’s no one else I feel comfortable enough with to even broach the subject.”