Goddess of Justice Read online

  The judge leaned forward on his bench. “Counselor.”

  Brad glanced at the judge. “Your Honor, I will answer that question.”

  “Very well, Detective.”

  “On July 15, my fiancée, Maggie Gray, a paramedic, was murdered by Jeter Wolfe in our home. Our unborn child also died that night. In the confrontation, I was shot by Wolfe, and I returned fire.”

  “Killing Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Yes. After counseling, I returned to work. October 4 was my first night shift back at work.”

  “About the counseling—”

  “Stop right there, Mr. Townsend,” the judge said. “I warned you.”

  Townsend held up a hand. “Just trying to establish a state of mind.”

  “Find another way.”

  “Were you angry the night of my client’s alleged assault?”

  Brad shrugged. “No.”

  “I understand the alleged victim was blond.”

  “You know that,” Brad said. “The photos reveal a blond lady, Sylvia, severely beaten by your client.”

  Townsend rolled his eyes. “Your Honor.”

  “He answered your question. Move on.” The judge sat back.

  “Your fiancée was—”

  Blighe was on her feet. “Objection. Mr. Townsend has been counseled.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Townsend, if you have questions regarding the assault, please ask them. Questions will be considered a breach of my directions, and you will be penalized. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Townsend continued his questioning for another thirty minutes, asking the same questions in different ways, but Brad’s answers remained the same.

  The judge set a date for sentencing in two weeks, and the accused was released on bail.

  After court, Brad and Jenni Blighe headed to a corner pub, the Jolly Judge, that was perfect for lunches and dinners as they worked late into the night on the sniper case. Despite the name, it was not in the courthouse but in an old sandstone building that was converted into apartments. On tap were several Scottish beers, but Brad had developed a taste for fine Scotch.

  Brad ordered two Scotch and headed to a booth in the back corner. The waitress delivered the drinks as Blighe slid into the booth.

  Brad hung his suit jacket on a hook at the top of the booth, loosened his tie, then sat.

  Blighe grabbed her drink and held it out. “That went well.” They clinked glasses.

  Brad sipped the Scotch. “We had the judge on our side.”

  “That’s not happening so often nowadays.” She told Brad about the rape case.

  Brad shook his head and sipped the Scotch. “How does that happen? Where is the accountability?”

  “If you think it’s awful today, wait a few years. The scales of justice are already tipping toward the accused. If you think you were on trial today, just wait. Cops will have to defend every action, and any perceived mistake will cause an acquittal.”

  “That’s a real cheery thought after you won a case. I’d hate to drink with you when you lose.”

  “We haven’t won yet.” Blighe twirled her drink. “I’m not naïve anymore. We’ve talked about this. Jeter Wolfe changed our lives four months ago. Yours more than mine.”

  “It’s not a competition,” Brad said. “Jeter Wolfe affected a lot of lives and none in a moral way. He’s gone. Good riddance.”

  “I live in fear every day.” Blighe took a drink, then stared at the table. “I always carry mace, even when I jog. I’m taking self-defense courses and bought a gun. My house has more alarms and cameras than a jewelry store. If I’m lucky, I sleep for two hours at a time. My husband has custody of the kids because I’m terrified to have them in the house with me. They know I’m scared, but they don’t understand. They want their mommy.”

  Brad leaned across the table. “Jenni, that’s no way to live. Wolfe is dead. He can’t hurt you.”

  “But to stop his revenge plan, you had to shoot him. It shouldn’t get to that.” She took a sip of the Scotch. “The courts should protect people. Prison isn’t the answer for everyone, but when you have a record like Wolfe, or rape a teenage girl, or get your twentieth impaired charge, you should be in jail. Not out so you can strike again.”

  “The system isn’t perfect, but it’s better than the public hangings of the last century.”

  “Are you sure?” Blighe snorted. “I’ll bet that was a deterrent.”

  “Was it?” Brad drank some Scotch. “What if you stole food so your children didn’t starve? Does that mean you deserve to hang as a punishment? Or get your hands cut off?”

  “I’m talking about violent offenders.” She leaned forward and tapped the table with a finger. “The ones with a trail of destroyed lives. That shithead Burke Baldwin and Tony Bevan. I don’t see the Goddess of Justice agreeing that severe punishment in those instances is too harsh. I like the code of the old west—wanted, dead or alive. Dead is easier.”

  “Easier, but right?” Brad sighed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to be a lawman and work under those conditions. But until someone comes up with a better legal system, we’re stuck with this one. If I must stand and defend my actions in court, I’m pleased to. If the defense lawyers want to put on a show for their client, go for it. But I will continue to do what needs to be done, within the law, to bring the accused to you with high-quality evidence. You present the case as best as you can, then it’s up to the judge or jury. Our best is all we can do.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Blighe finished her drink and ordered another round.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dice carried a mug around the kitchen island, into the living room, and stood in front of a wall covered with maps, photos of houses, photos of potential victims, and details of their daily routines. To make room, the couch was shoved to the side so the entire wall could be used for planning.

  Dice sipped the hot drink—so many choices. They were all low-life scum-sucking pigs, all on the street, released by a corrupt court system.

  Three targets were crossed out by a thick, red Sharpie pen. Three was a worthy start. It had been a mistake killing the second dealer the same way as the first. Lesson learned. In the future, the murders would be so dissimilar, they’d never be connected. Three victims, if they could be called that, who had never met, and whose paths had never crossed. Three crimes with no evidence pointing to Dice.

  Knowing how the cops thought was an advantage. Understanding how the Crime Scene Unit did their job and what they searched for was essential.

  Dice considered several options—someone as despicable as the drug dealer and the drunk driver, but dissimilar. Today, a new name made the list. He’d have to wait his turn until the surveillance was done. Dice knew about this piece of shit, and justice needed to be swift. The red Sharpie circled his name. But not tonight—other plans had been made. Tonight, Dice would take it to another level.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early Friday morning Brad sat in the back booth at a truck stop restaurant, sipping coffee and reading the paper. With no court appearances scheduled for weeks, he was back to wearing jeans, a button-down navy shirt and hiking boots. His parka and gloves lay beside him on the bench.

  What this place lacked in décor, it made up for with the best breakfast in Calgary. His workday-morning routine comprised a stop at Gerry’s Convenience for a coffee or two, then later breakfast or lunch at one of two locations. If he was hungry in the morning, breakfast. If he got hungry later, then lunch. If not, he’d survive on coffee for the day.

  Nothing of significance in the morning paper—Mayor Kearse was still basking in his role in the apprehension of the snipers. Brad shook his head. He still couldn’t believe Kearse had gone from crime reporter to mayor in a few months. He flipped through the paper to the sports section.

  Sugar Ray Leonard regained the WBC welterweight boxing crown in New Orleans when Roberto Duran quit in the eighth round, saying ‘no más.’

  Brad was on the second pag
e of the business section when his senses went on alert—not a threat, but something had changed in the diner.

  He folded the top section of the paper over and peered toward the front. He recognized the man at the door.

  It was Sergeant Kent Jackson.

  Four years ago, when Brad was a constable on the street, Jackson had been his district sergeant. They had a love-hate relationship. Brad loved to push things to the line—right to the edge. Jackson dragged him back. Jackson had encouraged Brad to try out for the tactical support unit. Brad passed the testing, and Jackson was the first sergeant of the TSU.

  Brad hadn’t talked to the man for close to two years. Yet here he was, at the truck stop diner Brad came to in order to be away from cops.

  There was no doubt this was Jackson, but he had aged. Hair and mustache more salt than pepper, weathered face showing deep lines, and dark circles around his eyes. He still had the swagger Brad remembered. His shoulders were broad, long arms reaching past his waist, hands spread wide, like a marshal in the old west heading for the showdown on Main Street. His customary toothpick was protruding from the corner of his mouth. Although, today Jackson was wearing a black suit that hung loosely on his tall frame.

  Jackson’s eyes roamed the diner, then came to rest on Brad. His long strides had him at Brad’s table in seconds.

  “Coulter.”

  “Sergeant,” Brad said.

  “Mind if I join you.” Jackson hadn’t waited for an answer. He took a seat across from Brad.

  The waitress rushed over, topped up Brad’s coffee, and filled a mug for Jackson.

  “You look great, Sarge.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Coulter. I look like hell. I know it, you know it, so let’s not BS each other.”

  “What brings you to the restaurant?”

  Jackson’s eyes held Brad’s, then glanced down. He reached for the coffee and took a sip, then glanced over the brim of the mug. “Searching for you.”

  Brad wasn’t sure what to make of that and didn’t have a clue why Jackson would search for him. Heck, he wasn’t even sure what unit Jackson was working in. He wasn’t in uniform.

  “You heading to an important meeting with the chief?” Chief Hamilton wore suits instead of a uniform.

  “Interviews for district sergeants this week. Lucky me. I get to interview twenty-one candidates.”

  “You were a great district sergeant. You’ll pick the right people.”

  The two men stared at each other for a few moments. Staring contests were something Brad typically won. But not with Jackson. Brad was the one to break eye contact. He stared at his coffee, grabbed it and took a sip.

  “Besides the delicious food, great coffee and wonderful conversation, what’s up?”

  Jackson took another sip, eyes still on Coulter. “I told you I was looking for you.”

  Brad held his hands wide. “Well, you found me.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yup, I did.”

  Brad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t understand why Jackson was making him so nervous. He would like to think he had matured and was confident. Something about Jackson finding him here, the fact he was here, had Brad’s Spidey senses tingling.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Jackson sat back, pulling his long arms across his chest. “This is a shitty year for you, Coulter.” Before Brad could answer, Jackson continued, “A lot happened. Not a lot of it pleasant. The thing is, as much as I hated to admit it four years ago, you are a moral man and a great cop. It’s a shame sometimes that life deals us shit sandwiches too hard to choke down.” Jackson leaned forward, put his meaty hands on the table, and shifted. “No polite way to say this, so I’m just gonna tell it like it is. You are fucking lucky you’re still a cop. You know you crossed the line last month. The reason you’re still carrying a badge and a gun is because of Mayor Kearse. Deputy Chief Archer is tired of babysitting you—tired of covering up your messes. That’s my job now. I did it before, and I can do it again.”

  “What the heck does that mean?” Brad asked.

  Jackson leaned over his coffee and whispered, “What it means is there will be no bullshit from you. If you were a cat, you’ve used all nine of your lives. If you were on a sinking ship, your life preserver is missing. If your toenails touch the line, you are done. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sure. I guess so.” Brad chewed a lip, then shook his head. “Actually, I’m not sure what that means.”

  “What that means, Coulter, is that you report to me.”

  “I’m still confused. Are you my partner, or my boss?”

  “Right now, I’m your worst enemy. I have been assigned as the staff sergeant for Homicide.”

  “Sarge, we have a staff sergeant in Homicide.”

  “Yup, you’re right. There’s a need for another. I got the job.”

  “How does this work?” Brad asked.

  “Everything you do, plan to do, or haven’t thought about doing, goes through me. You will always keep me informed on where you are, what you are doing, who you are talking to, and what your next steps are. No freelancing and no running operations off-the-cuff. No fudging the system or playing fancy with the rules—none of that. Think about it as being on double-secret probation. I want to know when you wake up. I want to know what you have for breakfast. I want to know when you leave for work, and when you arrive. I want to know when you pick up a file or set the file down. You take a shit, I get to know. Questions?”

  Brad licked his lips, surprised how dry they were. “Ah, yeah. You are the sergeant. No problem.”

  Jackson leaned back, but his large hands gripped the edge of the table. “What are you working on?”

  Brad grinned because the answer was easy. “Well, Archer doesn’t want me working on the street, so he had me going to training classes for the last seven days.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I learned a ton.”

  “You pay attention to any of it?”

  “Sure, you know I did.”

  Jackson’s face soured like he had bitten into a lemon the size of a watermelon. The sourness quickly changed to disbelief. “Right at the start, I said no bullshit. I meant it.”

  Brad cringed. “All right, there was one first-rate course. Sturgeon’s Crime Scene Management was excellent. I heard most of it before, but it made sense.”

  “Out of the seven days of classes, you learned one thing?”

  Brad cocked his head to the side, pressing a finger to his lips as if he were concentrating. “That about sums it up, Sarge.”

  “And you have no cases?”

  “Not officially.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes. “Oh god, give it to me straight.”

  Brad nodded, took a long drink of coffee and set the cup down. But no sooner had the cup hit the table than the waitress was over with a refill for them.

  “No official cases. Sergeant Sturgeon told me about a drug dealer who was killed earlier this week in Victoria Park. Other than the training classes, I had nothing going on. He suggested I investigate. I did.”

  “So?” Jackson’s hands spread wide.

  “Nothing to say. There aren’t any leads.”

  “Really?”

  “There is one suspicious thing,” Brad said. “About two months ago, there was a similar homicide. A drug dealer in Victoria Park was killed in the same way—the knife under the ribcage to the heart. Couple things. One, it’s a specific way of killing somebody. Two, neither the drugs nor the money were taken. Three, in the first case a few months ago, there were several cuts on the abdomen, a lot like the hesitation marks we see in suicide. I think this was the killer’s first murder. The killer knew what to do, knew how to do it, but that’s a long way from doing it. It’s a long way from understanding the upward force required. The first murder was practice, or the first one in a series.”

  Johnson leaned back. “That’s interesting. What are your next steps?”

  Brad leaned back and shrugged. “I don
’t know. I went to the crime scene and looked around. This crappy November weather messed with anything that might be at the crime scene. By the time Sturgeon and his Crime Scene Unit arrived at both scenes, the cops and paramedics and god knows who else, trampled over the scene. Any evidence that relates to the killing was lost in the tons of forensic evidence left by thousands of drug deals.”

  “No shit.”

  “I don’t think that investigation is going anywhere.”

  Jackson slowly nodded, eyes boring into Brad. “Any of that story changes—and I mean any part of it—you let me know.”

  “Got it, Sarge.”

  Jackson slid his police business card over to Brad. He picked it up and checked the back where there were two phone numbers.

  “Day or night, 24/7, you let me know.”

  “Got it.”

  Jackson slid out of the booth, stood, slipped on a parka, and picked up his gloves. His lips pursed. “Sorry about what happened to Maggie. I liked her a lot. I don’t care what you do in your personal time, but when you’re at work, you’re dialed in.” Jackson took a last sip of coffee, put the cup back on the table, and glanced at Brad. “Thanks for the coffee.” Jackson spun on his heel and strode to the entrance.

  Brad watched Jackson leave, then ordered breakfast. If Archer decided that Brad needed a handler, Jackson was a sound choice. He was a straight shooter. Like he’d said to Brad, no bullshit. He could live with that. Jackson was at the top of the list of men Brad admired, and as hard as it was to admit, he could use some mentorship.

  He flipped the paper open and reached for his coffee.

  The server asked, “Refill?”

  Brad replied, eyes never wavering from the paper. “Thank you.” He heard the coffee pouring into the cup and smelled the tantalizing aroma. For the second time his Spidey sense kicked in. So much for a peaceful breakfast. “And for the lady.”