Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller (14 page)

Nina backed off, as if she had been pushed.
“Hey, lighten up, man, will you? I’m just playing with you. There’s
nothing in the manual that says
you
can’t get laid if you
get lucky.”

Ray thought about the night he and Carole had
just spent together. He wouldn’t exactly call it luck—though he
sure as hell felt like he was living a charmed life in her company.
In truth, it had been one of the most productive, quality nights
he’d had in recent memory. She was everything he could possibly
have hoped for in a dinner date, lover, and a lady, and much
more.

If he had he had his way, they would already
be well on the road to a full-blown relationship. But sensing
Carole was not ready to declare this as anything more than a one
night stand or, at the very least, wanting to take a wait and see
approach, he had exercised restraint in going along with it—for now
anyway.

He didn’t want to screw this one up if he
could help it. He knew a damned good thing when he saw and felt
Carole Cranston, and was determined to give it everything he had to
make something out of what they’d started. The jury was still out
on exactly what.

This feeling ruled Ray, in spite of believing
that Carole was holding back on him, as if she were being weighed
down by something dark and onerous. Did it have anything to do with
the fact she was not in a relationship? Had come out of a bad one?
Or was it more professional in nature?

He sat at his desk, eyeing Nina still
standing there with her mouth half open as if unsure what to
say.

“Is there something else on your mind?” he
asked brusquely.

“Yeah, there is,” she responded with an edge
to her voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, there is the little matter
of a serial killer bitch we’re investigating.”

A tiny smile brushed his lips. “I haven’t
forgotten. What have you got?”

Nina sighed, pressing her palms into the
desk. “What we don’t have is Esther Reynolds,” she said
disappointedly. “She has a fairly solid alibi for the time frame
each of the men were killed. Not to mention there’s no physical
evidence thus far to link her to the crimes. The search of her home
turned up nothing.”

Ray wasn’t surprised. Reynolds seemed too
obvious a choice, as far as he was concerned. Too hardened. Too
bitter. Too visible. He still didn’t rule out that she knew more
than she was willing to tell about the murders. Proving it was
another story altogether.

“What about the other women connected to the
shelter?” he asked.

Nina leaned forward, the Bantu knots getting
in her face. “There’s a few interesting ones to look into,” she
replied. “Some have records for assault or attempted murder,
usually of their abusive significant others. A couple of them were
in mental institutions for a while, related to physical or
emotional abuse. One was only six years old when she saw her daddy
strangle her mother after inflicting a serious beating—”

Ray stared at the possibilities. “Well, I
suppose any of these women could be our serial killer. Or none of
them.”

Nina looked at him hesitantly. “There’s
something else I think you should know. I ran a check on
contributors to the shelter’s financial coffers—”

“And...?”

“Looks like one of the largest donations in
the last year came from none other than Judge Carole Cranston
herself!”

Damn
. Ray swallowed hard, though he
tried his best not to waver under the scrutiny of Nina’s gaze.

“Oh, Ray. Please tell me you’re not sleeping
with her,” she said bluntly.

Without responding directly, he lied when he
said: “I already knew about Judge Cranston’s financial
contributions to the shelter.”

Nina’s eyes ballooned. “You knew, and you
never said anything?”

“What was there to say?” Ray tried to sound
nonchalant. “She told me when she delivered the list of names of
people from her courtroom. She also admitted she often suggests the
shelter to battered women as an alternative to being beaten. That
hardly makes the judge a serial killer.”

“It points to another possible link between
her and the crimes,” Nina contended. “That makes her a suspect in
my book! If you can’t see that, Ray—or are blinded by her long
pixie braids and big breasts—then maybe you don’t belong on
this
investigation!”

Their eyes locked for a long moment. It was
Ray who averted his gaze, realizing his objectivity may well have
been compromised where it concerned Carole Cranston. Even then he
refused to believe Carole had anything to do with the bat murders.
Other than being the judge who was forced to release the
defendants-turned-victims. But he doubted he could get Nina to see
things from his point of view.

Ray regarded his partner again. “I’m with you
on this one, Parker,” he declared unsteadily. “Judge Carole
Cranston can’t be ruled out as a suspect.”

“Good,” Nina said. “Because I’d really hate
to see you go down with her—if it turns out the good judge is
really a cold-blooded murderer!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Father John Leary sat in the confessional
without judgment as the woman sat on the other side of the window.
He could not make out much of her through the narrow and low-lit
opening. She was African-American, wearing dark shades and what
looked to be a blondish hairpiece of sorts. He could feel a great
aura about her, one that was as powerfully intriguing as it was
menacing.

“Father,” she said in a clear, yet shaky
voice, “I have sinned—”

“How have you sinned, my child?” he asked
routinely.

She paused, wondering if he could understand
if he confided in him.

As if reading her thoughts, he said: “You can
tell me. I am here to listen and not to judge.”

She took those words to heart, knowing she
had to tell someone. After a moment or two, she said: “I have
killed, Father.”

He paused, unsettled. “Killed?”

“Yes.”

“Who have you killed?”

She felt herself trembling. “Batterers.
Abusers. Bastards. Assholes,” she responded tartly. “Men who beat
the hell out of their women and think they can get away with it. I
have stopped them when others could or would do nothing.”

Father Leary sighed, more than a little
alarmed. He had heard of this purported Vigilante Batterer Killer
in their midst. It had been speculated the perpetrator was an
African-American female. Was this truly her? He strained to get a
better look at the woman through the obstructed view, but was
unable to.

“Why do you feel the need to take the law
into your own hands?” he asked, unsure if he believed her or how to
handle it if he did.

She could feel her heart racing like a
locomotive. “Because they’re monsters!” she spat. “Each and every
one of them. I couldn’t allow them to go free after committing the
most heinous of crimes—abusing and debasing women.”

“You have been abused by such men?” he asked
presumptively.

She hesitated. “Yeah, such a man.”

He looked through the window. “Does killing
these men make you feel better about yourself?” he asked. “Or the
man who hurt you?”

She considered this. “No,” she admitted, “not
really.”

“Then why do it?”

“For justice, Father,” she answered tersely.
“My own brand of justice.”

Father Leary did not know what to say at this
point. Was she telling the truth or a distorted form of the truth?
Even a gross exaggeration was not out of the question. Perhaps to
identify with the real killer. Someone who, in her mind, answered
her prayers of vengeance against those who physically and perhaps
psychologically violated women.

“Would you like my help?” he asked her.

“No!” The woman’s voice was resolute. “I
don’t need any help, Father. Not the type you’re offering. I only
came to confess to you my sins...to someone who I thought might be
understanding—”

“It was good of you to come to me,” he told
her, though wondering how good it was for him. “I can understand
what you must be going through to have driven you to take such
actions. But this isn’t something you should deal with alone.” Was
she killing people all by herself? Or were there others involved?
“There is a legal system in place—”

“Are you listening to me,
Father
?” She
felt her temperature rise. “The legal system
is
the problem.
They can do nothing to stop these bastards—at least not the ones
with smart lawyers or dumb assed prosecutors. Don’t you see? If I
don’t make them pay for their crimes, no one will!”

He gulped. “Are you saying you plan to kill
again?”

She didn’t hesitate, knowing this was her
calling. “I have no other choice,” she responded, her confidence
returning. “These men, if you can call them that, don’t deserve to
live—not in my neighborhood. Or yours, Father. They must be
punished in a way that fits their crimes against women.”

Shifting his body, Father Leary again tried
to get a better look at the woman who had just confessed to being a
serial killer, but to no avail. In truth, what could he do even if
he could see her clearly? Was it up to him to try and save her
victims? Or even save her from herself?

His role here was one of a listener, no
matter the nature of confession or the stability of the confessor.
He was bound by his vows as a priest.

She sensed his uneasiness, which in turn made
her begin to question coming to him.

“When?” he asked her directly. “When do you
plan to kill again?”

Her temples throbbed. “I can’t tell you that,
Father,” she replied with a catch to her voice. “How do I know you
won’t rat me out to the cops? How do I know you won’t betray my
trust as
they
have done to me and other women?”

He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I would
never betray your trust,” he avowed. “Or rat on you to the
authorities. I just want to try and—”

When he looked again she was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ray chose a coffee shop as a neutral site to
meet with Carole. He didn’t want the temptation of his place or the
austere and intimidating judge’s chambers to talk. He was certain
that she could explain any concerns he had. Or concerns Nina had,
for that matter. As much as he wanted them to go away, he knew they
wouldn’t. Not so long as a ruthless killer remained on the loose
with no suspects in custody.

The place was crowded at the noon hour, but
Ray still managed to find a little corner table with a window view.
He had already finished half a latte when he saw Carole. She gave a
little wave and weaved through other bodies toward the table.

He stood to greet her. “Hello, Carole.”

She was huffing and puffing. “Hi, Ray,” she
offered with a smile. “Sorry, I’m late. Court ran over a bit when
the prosecutor and defense attorney locked horns like bulls. Pit
bulls is more like it.” She chuckled. “I let them go at it longer
than I should have.”

Ray smiled, noting that Carole was as lovely
as ever. She wore a tailored amethyst suit and black pumps. Her
pixie braids were gathered together and tied in a bun behind her
head. He couldn’t help but feel aroused in her presence,
remembering their night together. The mere thought she could be a
killer made his stomach turn and his skin crawl.

After they were both seated with their
coffee, Carole remarked: “You sounded tense on the phone.”

“I was,” he admitted reluctantly.

She raised a thin brow. “What is it,
Ray?”

He paused, looking her in the eye. “Why
didn’t you tell me you gave money to the Rose City Women’s
Shelter?”

She batted her eyes. “Was I supposed to? I
give money to several local organizations whose purpose I care
about. So what?”

“So it doesn’t look too damned good that
you’re financially supporting a shelter connected to all the
victims of men who have appeared in your court—only to wind up
beaten to death themselves.”

Carole’s mouth was a straight then crooked
line. “I’m not quite sure what to say,” she muttered. “If you
really think I’m this vigilante killer, you have a strange way of
showing it. Or do you make a habit of sleeping with
all
your
suspects?”

Ray bit his lip, knowing he had that coming.
“You’re not a suspect, Carole,” he said weakly. “This is just
routine follow up I have to do as a detective investigating these
murders. I’m sorry—”

Her eyes flared with anger. “No you’re not.
But I sure as hell am! You’re not turning out to be the man I
thought you were,
Detective
Barkley. And as for my
charitable gifts to the shelter, they are strictly tax-deductible
contributions for a worthy cause. If you check your records
carefully, I’m sure you will find that several other donations come
from some of my colleagues in the court system.” She ran one hand
steadily across the other. “If this somehow makes me guilty of
multiple murders, then arrest me right here and now...”

“Look, baby—” he tried to say on a personal
level.

Carole cut him off with the sharpness of a
knife. “I don’t have any control over the women who go to the
shelter. I have recommended shelters to hundreds, if not thousands,
of battered women, but don’t keep track of who goes where and who
doesn’t. I have no role whatsoever in how the Rose City Women’s
Shelter is run, nor do I profit from it in any way.” She took a
quick breath. “I certainly can’t be blamed as somehow engineering
the release of defendants brought to my court for abusing their
wives and girlfriends. You should know as well as I do that these
kinds of trials can be dismissed for a variety of reasons, most of
which are up to the lawyers and jurors. Not the judge.”

Ray knew there was truth in everything she
said. He had attacked the woman he was really beginning to care
about and may have lost her in the process.
Damn, sometimes this
job really sucks.