Divine Justice (4 page)

For weeks afterward, thousands of people gathered on Parliament grounds across Canada, some in support and some in protest. The pro-gun crowd wanted fewer restrictions on licensing, while the anti-gun crowd protested Canadians carrying weapons at all. Ironically, three people were injured two months ago outside Ottawa's Parliament Hill. They'd been shot by an enraged pro-gun advocate, while the anti-gun crowd carried around massive signs showing dead teenagers in a high school cafeteria and a blood-soaked Toronto alley sealed off with crime tape.

One particularly gruesome sign was a screen capture of Brett Laughlin slumped on his bed, brain matter pooling on the blanket beneath him. After being taunted mercilessly by a group of cyber-bullies, the shy, overweight sixteen-year-old had logged into an online video chat room, then sat down on the bed with his stepfather's newly purchased Walther PPX semi-automatic pistol hidden behind his back.

"Today is my last day of suffering. And I'm glad."

Brett spoke about his persecutors, about the beatings in the boys' change room, about the time he'd been forced to lick one boy's feet clean. Sobbing uncontrollably, he told the world how difficult it was to not fit in.

"It's not easy being the most unpopular kid in school. I'm afraid every day of what they'll do to me. But no more. I can't do this anymore."

He described how he'd suffered at the hands of his stepfather, who beat him for being weak and not fighting back.

"I just wanted to be liked. I didn't care if I was super popular, but maybe just some respect. Instead I was treated worse than an animal, and no one gave a shit. Not my mother, and especially not that asshole she married." He swiped at the tears on his face. "So why should I care? I'll never be popular. I'll never even be liked."

With millions of horrified people―mostly unsuspecting teens―watching live, Brett Laughlin put the gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening.

In a matter of seconds, his grisly death had become the most popular cyber-suicide video to hit VidWurld, with over thirty million world-wide views before the Laughlin family got a court order to shut it down.

It was ironic. Brett had gotten his wish to become popular. But what a price he paid for it.

Jasi still couldn't get the kid's face out of her mind. He reminded her of her brother Brady―young, impetuous, troubled and filled with resentment. The perfect recipe for disaster.

Pro-gun supporters didn't seem to care what guns were doing to the youth on the street, and no one bothered to look at what gun rights had done to the USA. The United States of
Arms
, as some called it.

She sighed. "No one outside of law enforcement would be carrying if it weren't for Winkler and that other MP. What was his name?"

"Ravinder Sharma," Ben replied. "They sure surprised everyone with their votes."

"Wonder what made them change their minds."

"Who knows? Some people believe they have a God-given right to protect themselves at all costs."

"Well, they're half-right," she said dryly. "They just don't realize they increase the chance of violence by simply having a gun in their possession. The people shot at the Ottawa protest have proven that."

Ben nodded. "Nothing worse than an angry mob."

Jasi thought of the corpse lying in the morgue.

"I don't think Monty Winkler would agree."

3

The Embassy Hotel & Suites, a regal hotel located
on Cartier Street, was cradled in the heart of Ottawa. It had served military and government officials for decades, and the security was impeccable. Security guards and cameras made it virtually impossible for someone to walk into the hotel, carry out any nefarious plan and then get away without being detected.

The sun had gone down by the time Jasi and Ben checked in. They took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor. Their rooms were side-by-side, with windows facing Parliament Hill and the Rideau Canal.

When Jasi opened the door to her room, she eyed the two queen-size beds. Recycled airplane air always made her tired and she'd give anything to just crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the day away.

"First things first."

She locked the door behind her and tossed her tote bag and backpack on the bed near the window. Shrugging off her jacket, she hung it on the back of a chair. She removed her shoulder harness and quickly inspected the
M9 Beretta holstered in it. The double-action semiautomatic was ancient compared to the newer Glock models most agents were fitted with, but Pop had given it to her when she graduated from CFBI training. She'd cleared it with Matthew under the strict rule that she'd have it inspected by a weapons tech every three months.

She slipped the gun into the holster and draped the harness over her jacket. "Time to check out the view."

Crossing to the window, she pulled the cord and the gold satin drapes parted, revealing a sensational night skyline and the Ottawa River. City lights
glinted off the Rideau Canal, the 125 mile long waterway that was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site back in 2007.

Jasi recalled that in the winter the canal was closed down and turned into the world's largest skating rink, but because global warming had initiated an earlier spring, a warm spell during the first two weeks of April had melted most of the river ice. Ships and personal watercraft now dotted the Ottawa River, which was back to business as usual.

She left the drapes open and moved to the bed where she opened the backpack and took note of the field supplies in various pockets. A full canister of
OxyBlast
, two flashlights, extra batteries, bottled water, evidence markers and other items. Everything was in order, so she unpacked her tote bag and hung her clothes in the wardrobe.

She was about to toss the tote bag in a corner when she spotted a gourmet truffle on the pillow.

"Dark chocolate. My favorite."

Paying no heed to the inner voice that reminded her she hadn't gone for her run yet, she removed the wrapper and stuffed the decadent candy into her mouth before her conscience could argue. She let it melt, slowly, savoring the treat.

She ate the chocolate from the other bed too.

I'll add ten more minutes to my morning run.

She tossed both wrappers into the wastebasket.

A beeping sound caught her attention. Unclipping her portable data-communicator from her belt, she read a message from Ben.
Have a good sleep, Jazz.

"You too," she texted back. "Tomorrow the investigation begins."

She peeled off her jeans and blouse and sniffed them. They smelled of death. From the morgue. She stuffed the clothes into a laundry bag and set it by the door.

In the bathroom, she stripped completely and opened the glass door to the double shower. Inside was a digital panel set up for touch or voice command. Most modern hotels had these showers now. Jasi had one recently installed in her apartment, a luxury most people couldn't afford. She'd learned a long time ago to splurge on the few things that brought her comfort or pleasure.

"Shower on."

The shower obeyed, but the water was cold.

"101 degrees."

She stepped inside and heaved a sigh of relief. As steaming water washed away the morgue blues, she took a deep breath and released it, watching her tense morning swirl down the drain.

She reached for the shampoo bottle. "Damn."

In her haste to catch the flight from Vancouver to Ottawa, she'd forgotten to pack shampoo and conditioner. She picked up the hotel's mystery sample, opened it, gave it a sniff, then shrugged.

"Note to self," she said as she lathered her shoulder-length hair. "Buy shampoo and conditioner in the hotel gift shop."

She wondered how much Monty Winkler had spent on hair care products. Any time she'd seen him on TV, he'd always appeared immaculately groomed, as if he'd just stepped out of a Vidal Sassoon salon.

As she rinsed her hair, she thought about his wife. Marilyn Winkler had supported her husband, followed him everywhere. The woman would be devastated.

At least she doesn't have any kids to break the news to.

She instantly recalled her own father's grief-stricken face the day he had taken her aside and told her that her mother was dead. Her life had changed forever after that. She couldn't recall events from her childhood before that, much less what happened exactly on the day her mother was brutally murdered. There was only one thing she could remember with perfect clarity. The sound of her mother screaming.

That sound still haunted her at night.

On that horrible day so many years ago, eight-year-old Jasmine was the only witness to a home invasion gone wrong. It had happened on Brady's second birthday. Everything she knew was from what her father had told her years later. He had returned from an outing with Brady and found Jasmine on the floor. She was covered in blood, holding her mother's limp hand, singing a lullaby. Her father had placed Brady in his playpen, then pulled Jasmine into his arms and carried her into her bedroom, where he broke down, sobbing.

Jasmine had said nothing. She was in shock, nearly catatonic. Realizing he needed to also tend to Brady, Pop tucked her in bed, kissed her forehead and left the bedroom. Ten minutes later, while uniformed officers and a crime scene unit invaded their home, Pop had sat on her bed, stroking her hair. He tried to explain that her mother was gone, that she'd never be coming back. Ever.

Her mother's death had left a gaping hole in Jasi's heart. Over the years she'd tried to remember, but every time she thought of that horrible day, all she could recall was her mother's scream.

And the blood. There had been so much blood.

In the shower, Jasi blinked away the tears and tipped her head back under the cleansing spray. But all the water in the world couldn't wash away that memory of death.

4

Monday, April 16, 2012

~ Ottawa, ON

While waiting for Jasi to arrive, Ben used the in-room
menu on the touch screen plasma TV to place a breakfast order from room service―two omelets, crisp Canadian back bacon, toast and coffee.

He set up his laptop on the small table near the window. Attaching a short cord from the laptop to his data-com, he transferred the secure files he'd received from Divine Ops to the laptop.

While waiting, he removed his leather gloves, massaged his hands and frowned at their paleness. He rarely removed his gloves during the day. The last time he'd been careless and left them off, he'd had an unexpected vision. Jasi had caught him off guard and he grabbed at her ponytail to give it a teasing pull. With a bare hand.

Big mistake.

He had an instant vision, a flash of a woman lying on the floor, her body bruised and beaten beyond recognition. It haunted him. As did the image of large black shoes. Something about them gnawed at his mind, like an irritating sliver that wouldn't dislodge itself.

"You saw my mother," Jasi said when he told her what he'd seen. "The night she was murdered. A night I can't remember clearly and one I desperately want to put out of my mind."

They'd spent the evening together, lying side-by-side, not touching, just talking. It was the beginning of a deep friendship.

Ben was reading the file on Monty Winkler when the door opened. Jasi entered, looking flustered but refreshed. Her hair was damp and she wore no makeup. Then again, she didn't need it.

"Hey," he said. "I was about to call you."

"Sorry, I was sleep-showering after my morning run. I could've stayed in there for another hour."

"You'd come out looking like a shriveled prune."

"With ratty hair." Jasi smoothed her ponytail. "This hotel needs to get new blow driers."

He smiled.

"What are you grinning about?" she muttered.

"Nothing."

Jasi's
pet peeve was her hair. She preferred it straight, but she grumbled that it took too long to straighten with a hot iron. The natural waves always crept back as soon as the humidity soared. So every morning, up it would go into a ponytail that swung when she walked.

"You look great," he said, pulling on his gloves.

Jasmine McLellan always looked great, as far as he was concerned. She was a beautiful woman with striking green eyes and flaming red hair. A Scottish wench with a wicked temper, he thought with a smirk. He should know. He'd been on the receiving end of that temper many times.