Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 8

  “It’s damned good,” Ray admitted, cracking a smile. “Look, why don’t you call me Ray, Judge Cranston,” he suggested, wanting very much to change the formal tone they had established.

  She wet her lips sensually. “All right, Ray. But only if you’ll call me Carole—at least outside the courtroom.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me, Carole.” He lifted his teacup to toast. She followed.

  “So tell me, do you have any suspects in these killings?”

  Ray ran his fork through the steamed veggies, wondering how forthcoming he should be. He decided there was little harm in sharing some information with the lady. After all, as far as he knew they were both on the same page with regard to the law and justice. And just maybe in other areas as well.

  “We’re looking to speak to an African-American woman who was seen at a bar Roberto Martinez was at the night he was killed. She may have also been seen driving away from the parking garage where Blake Wallace was murdered,” Ray added, for her reaction, though there was no proof to back that up.

  The reality was the witness could not be positive whether the driver was black or white, much less female or male. But Ray’s gut instincts told him that the woman in the bar and the driver were one and the same.

  He removed the sketch of the woman from his jacket. Studying it for a moment, Ray had to admit that at a glance there were some physical similarities between her and Carole Cranston. If you took away the blonde wig, weave, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it, and sunglasses, it didn’t take much of a stretch to believe the woman in the drawing could be the judge. But then it was just as likely, if not more, that any tall, built like a sexy brick house female in the city who happened to be African-American could fit the bill.

  He passed the sketch across the table, intrigued to see her take on the depiction. Carole lifted the sketch and examined it as one might an artifact from the Ming Dynasty.

  “Look like anyone you know?” Ray asked evenly.

  Carole shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said tonelessly. “But it isn’t a very good picture, is it?”

  “It’s the best we’ve been able to manage thus far,” he muttered.

  “I’ll keep this, if you like, and show it around,” she offered. “If she has any association with the court, someone may be able to identify her.”

  “Good idea.” Ray found his mind wandering. He wondered if the judge was seeing anyone. He didn’t see a ring on her finger, suggesting she was not married. But that didn’t mean there was not someone in her life. Why wouldn’t there be? She was certainly the complete package.

  He turned his thoughts back to the subject at hand, asking impulsively: “Are you familiar with the Rose City Women’s Shelter?”

  “Yes,” declared Carole without prelude. “It’s partly my business to be aware of the city’s shelters for battered women. I have recommended more than my fair share of women to that and other shelters, knowing it could well mean the difference between life and death to some.”

  Again Ray was impressed by Carole’s coolness and sincerity under fire. He wondered how he could have even considered that she might have somehow been the Vigilante Batterer Killer, as the press had dubbed the murderer. This lady had too much on the ball to be moonlighting as a serial killer.

  Carole almost seemed to be reading his mind. She smiled softly, glanced at her watch, and said: “Well, I have to get back to court. I’ve got a full schedule this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, I have my hands full too with this case,” Ray muttered, hating to see the lunch end. He’d enjoyed spending time with Carole Cranston. He waved for the waitress to bring the check.

  Carole frowned. “Listen, I probably won’t be able to get those names to you till tomorrow. I hope that’s all right?”

  “No problem,” Ray told her maybe a bit too agreeably as his mind was already conjuring up ways he could see her again in a less formal setting than his office. The courthouse. Or even a restaurant.

  “Great,” she said, finishing her tea.

  The waitress came and Carole pulled out her platinum American Express card.

  “I can take care of this,” said Ray, reaching quickly for his wallet and cold, hard cash.

  “I don’t doubt it, but it’s mine to take care of,” insisted Carole, handing the card to the waitress. “I invited you, remember?”

  Ray wasn’t used to someone else footing his bills. But then he wasn’t used to a woman like Carole Cranston.

  “I remember,” he conceded. When the waitress had disappeared, Ray took a bold leap, suggesting: “Maybe I can return the favor, Carole. Why don’t you let me make you dinner tomorrow?” He knew he was going out on a limb here—considering they’d barely gotten past first base in getting to know one another—but went for it anyway and hoped he didn’t fall flat on his face.

  Carole seemed surprised by the invitation, and was slow to respond.

  Feeling as if he was squarely on the spot and hoping to make the best of an awkward moment, Ray added: “I make a pretty damned good steak with all the trimmings. You can bring the list of names with you then. Save us both a trip to your office or mine.”

  A bright smile lifted Carole’s high cheeks. “Sounds like an offer that’s hard to refuse,” she said. “You’ve got yourself a date, Ray. But I get to bring the wine.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Your Honor,” he joked. “It’s a deal.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What did the good judge have to say?” Nina cornered Ray in the coffee room at the station that afternoon. “Anything interesting?”

  He thought about it and said casually: “Not really.”

  Nina sneered. “So what exactly does that mean? Did she or didn’t she?”

  Ray looked her directly in the face. “She’s clean, Nina,” he said positively. “If there is any courthouse connection to these killings, Carole’s not the source of it.”

  Nina batted her lashes. “Oh, it’s Carole now, is it? What happened to Judge Cranston?”

  He sighed. “Lay off, Parker! I’m not in the mood.”

  “And you think I am?” She slammed her coffee mug so hard on the counter that half the coffee spilled. “This isn’t about your damned libido, Barkley, and how many conquests you can add to your list. It’s about catching a serial killer.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Ray spat defensively. Cool it. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.

  Nina narrowed her eyes. “I’m seriously beginning to wonder.”

  “Well don’t,” he told her firmly. “I know how to do my job, thank you very much. I’ve been at this just a little longer than you, Nina.” He stirred cream in his coffee. “Carole or Judge Cranston, if it makes you feel better, is no longer a suspect as far as I’m concerned. The lady is no more the vigilante killer than you are!”

  Nina gritted her teeth. “If you’re wrong about this, it’ll be your ass on the line, not mine!”

  You’re really pushing it. Ray tried hard to keep his temper in check. But he needed to get to the bottom of what he considered an unwarranted attack from his partner. “What the hell is this all about, Nina?” he asked bluntly “You jealous or what?”

  She rolled her eyes and snickered. “Don’t flatter yourself, Barkley. Nothing to be jealous over that I can see. What we had ended a long time ago. Who you choose to play house with is your business.”

  “Then why the pit bull act?”

  “You have to ask?” Her lower lip hung down in disbelief. “We’re searching for a psycho female killer who hand picks her victims right out of the judge’s courtroom! I just don’t want to see you screw things up by losing sight of that reality.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Ray told her, seeking to convince himself as well. “I want this killer as much as you do.”

  But there was no denying he also wanted Carole Cranston in another way.

  Were the two desires compatible?

  * * *

  Nina drove
in utter silence while her partner, quiet as well, seemed as if he was in deep space. Why had she jumped all over him, coming across as a bitch? Could she really be jealous of Carole Cranston? Admittedly, she had the type of body Nina could only dream of having. Not to mention, as a prominent judge, it made being a detective first grade seem like second hand stuff.

  Nina wondered if she would be naturally jealous of anyone Ray Barkley was interested in, even when not conscious of it.

  Was that what this was all about? Did she want Ray back for herself?

  No damned way!’ Yes, they had been good together for a short while. Maybe in another life and another time and place, they could have given it a go and run with it.

  But in this life, time, and place, there was simply no room for romance between them. I have to be honest about that, if only to myself. She was not about to wish for something that could only come between her and what she had worked so hard for professionally.

  Nina decided it was the pressure she was feeling from the top brass that had her acting like some stupid, crazy, jilted lover. They in turn were feeling it from the press and public. It was her and Ray’s case to solve or lose. She preferred to solve it and didn’t want that undermined by distractions neither of them could afford including an ill-advised romance between him and Carole Cranston.

  They had a search warrant for the Rose City Women’s Shelter. Specifically, they wanted to see if Esther Reynolds had found that killing one abuser was not enough for her.

  “My money’s on Reynolds or someone else who’s involved with the shelter as our killer,” Ray had flatly told Nina earlier.

  She was in general agreement, but decided to keep her options open.

  “Are we still on speaking terms or what?” Ray voiced, cutting through the dreary quiet.

  “Yeah,” Nina said in a friendly tone, realizing that was his way of trying to get back on her good side. She would let him. She glanced his way with something resembling a smile that quickly evaporated like water on a hot sidewalk. “I was just thinking that our vigilante broad could also be tuned in to the police band. That would automatically give her the jump on domestic violence situations, which she could see through to their conclusion. Making up her own justice whenever she felt the outcome of the case was unjust.”

  “You may have something there.” Ray looked at her. “Meaning she could even be hanging around the station when the suspect is brought in.”

  Possibly. But Nina still saw the courtroom as the more likely hangout of the killer—if not the Rose City Women’s Shelter.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ray served the search warrant as four uniformed officers accompanied him and Nina into the shelter. Esther Reynolds offered no resistance, aside from an arctic glare. Ray was not sure exactly what they expected to find. He doubted that Esther or anyone else would keep a closet full of bats or brain matter to be confiscated and used as evidence in a series of brutal bat attack murders.

  But if there were any other clues as to the identity of the killer, they hoped to discover them.

  “You’re wasting your time, you know,” Esther spoke defiantly, standing menacingly in her office as files were being carted off. “There’s nothing there except basic information on employees and battered women who need a place to stay.”

  “You could be right,” conceded Ray, going through her desk. “But we believe it’s a step in the right direction to prevent any more men from becoming victims of homicide.”

  Esther threw her arms up in the air. “You just don’t get it, do you, detective?” she growled. “Men are not the victims of domestic violence! They are the perpetrators! If they didn’t do what they did to women, they wouldn’t find themselves being targeted.”

  Ray looked up at her, his gaze sharp. “You don’t happen to have any hammers lying around anywhere, do you, Miss Reynolds?”

  She turned as dark as the night. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we know you hammered your husband to death,” he told her straightforwardly. “Do you get turned on by bats these days?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Esther’s face contorted into a scowl. “You don’t know the first thing about the hell that man put me through.”

  Ray sighed. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  Esther put her weight on one foot, her focus hard and unyielding. “He beat me till I damn near couldn’t even eat or walk almost every day we were together. The police did nothing but give him a slap on the wrist, if that, and only after I had to beg them to help me. The restraining orders were a joke!” She snorted derisively. “All they did was make him more angry, more determined, more violent. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I knew it was either him or me—”

  “So you chose him?” Ray was thoughtful.

  “You’re damned right I did,” she retorted peevishly. “Haven’t lost a night’s sleep over it since.”

  “Maybe you decided killing your husband wasn’t enough.” Ray went after her with full force, hoping she might crack like an eggshell when too much pressure was applied. “Maybe this seemed like the right time to take some of that rage and use it against other battering men. Or should I say alleged batterers. How good are you at swinging a bat, Esther?”

  “Go to hell!”

  Ray got in her face. “I’m already there, so long as this nut is on the loose in the city,” he retorted. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and confess to murdering four men in the image of your husband?”

  Esther sneered. “You really think that you can just come in here and accuse me of murder without proof—proof that you’ll never find?”

  “Why won’t we find it, Esther?” He kept tightening the screws, hoping she was either their culprit or knew who was. “Where is it? Where the hell do you keep the bats that are left behind as a calling card by the killer?”

  One of the officers came in the room, a Hispanic female in her late twenties. “We’re all finished, Detective Barkley. No bats anywhere. Not even so much as a stick.”

  Ray nodded disappointedly. “Thanks.”

  After the officer left, Ray turned to Esther who had not backed up an inch. He realized the hard assed approach had done little to shake the suspect. In fact, it had done more of a number on him. If he had hoped to intimidate her into a confession or some information, it wasn’t working.

  He took a breath and said to her quietly: “Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me, Ms. Reynolds, while you have the chance?”

  Esther glared and said in a strong voice: “Yes, I have something to say. How dare you come in here, accuse me of murder, and scare my residents and staff half to death with these Gestapo tactics. I plan to file an official complaint with your superiors, Detective Barkley!”

  “You’re entitled to,” he said unaffectedly. “I don’t think it’ll do you much good, though. We had a search warrant and probable cause to believe this shelter may be connected to a vigilante run amok.”

  “That’s rubbish!” she assailed. “You’re grasping at straws, detective. We both know you have nothing but vague and misguided suspicions.”

  Ray backed away, realizing she would not buckle. Not yet. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he stated. “Sooner or later, the truth will come out. For your sake, I hope you or this damned shelter aren’t caught in the middle of it. In this state, female serial killers don’t get a free ride from death row—”

  * * *

  “I talked to some of the women,” Nina told Ray after they had left the shelter. “Or let’s just say I did most of the talking and they did most of the listening. Seems as if there’s a gag order in place. If anyone knows something—or someone—they’re not saying.”

  “Same thing with Esther Reynolds,” groaned Ray, behind the wheel. “Couldn’t get the lady to budge from her hard as granite stance. If she’s not our killer, she sure as hell knows something. I can feel it!”

  “You don’t think they’re carrying out these murders b
y committee, do you?” Nina widened her eyes. “All for one, one for all?”

  “At this point, I’m not prepared to rule out anything,” he said. “Who knows, they may well have decided collectively to pay back all the men who have done them and others like them wrong, taking turns swinging the death bat.”

  Nina turned in her seat. “I suppose if caught, they would all claim temporary insanity or use the battered women’s syndrome defense.”

  “Or maybe the battered women’s shelter syndrome,” said Ray dryly. “We’ll see if we can shake some of them up when we get them to the station one on one. In the meantime, maybe the files we took on the people who passed in and out of there in the last six months or so can yield some interesting results.”

  * * *

  Long after the detectives had gone, taking away everything they could like a tornado, Esther Reynolds sat in her barren office. There were two glasses on the table. She filled both with scotch, passing one to the woman sitting on the other side of the desk.

  “They’re not going to stop digging until they find who they’re looking for,” Esther warned.

  The woman tasted the scotch, seemingly relishing its bitter taste on her tongue. “Let them dig all the way to hell,” she said confidently. “They won’t find anything. I covered my tracks too well.”

  “Maybe you should lay low for a while,” Esther suggested.

  “Why should I?” The woman rolled her eyes. “Did they lay low for a while? Hell no! They beat the crap out of us whenever it suited their fists, which was daily for most of us. I’ll be damned if I take pity on them when their time comes to meet their maker in a most appropriate way.”

  Esther brought her arched brows together. “I’m not talking about for their sake, I’m talking about yours! Those detectives are clever. Sooner or later they’re going to put two and two together—and they won’t come up empty handed. Don’t give them a straight path right to your door.”

  The woman’s mouth tightened, tiny lines deepening all around it. “I’m on top of the situation,” she insisted. “Barkley and Parker don’t frighten me one bit. But you do, Esther. Don’t let them get to you. It could ruin everything. Do you understand? For all of us—”