Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery (38 page)

She gave me a coquettish grin and seemed
genuinely flattered. Then her face became an angry machine. "I
dumped the bastard after he stole from me—every chance he got."

"Maybe the biggest mistake of his life," I
offered, almost feeling sorry for her. "Do you know where can I
find him?"

Her nostrils ballooned. "You askin' the
wrong person. I'm not his damned keeper—not anymore." She sighed
raggedly. "If there's nothin' else, I got things to do."

I was not altogether convinced that she had
no knowledge of Wylson's whereabouts, but gave her the benefit of
the doubt—for now. "Your ex-boyfriend's wanted on drug charges," I
said coldly. "I'm not a cop, but I've been hired to bring Wylson in
if I can find him." My eyes sharpened on her. "If you know where he
is, you'd better think twice about keeping it to yourself. He's not
worth going to prison for." I slipped my card in her cleavage for a
perfect fit. "Give me a call if you hear from Jessie or happen to
remember where he's hiding out."

* * *

By afternoon I had finished up some
paperwork from a previous case. I rewarded myself by running. There
was an unexpected joy in feeling the stress and strain course
through my entire body as I pushed myself to go the extra mile, so
to speak.

I took the long way home—about four miles
along the river—leaving me exhausted and regenerated. I finished my
run by cooling down and walking about the last quarter of a
mile.

As I approached the front of my apartment
building, I noticed a cab pull up to the curb.
My ideal
woman
, the attractive lady whose name I still didn't know, got
out of the back seat. She was wearing a gray business suit that
flattered her nice figure. She reached in the back seat and came
out with a painting that seemed nearly as tall as her. With obvious
difficulty, she began to carry it toward the brownstone.

"Let me help you with that." I took full
advantage of the moment, catching up to her in looping strides.
Maybe this was the break I
'
d been hoping for to get to
know this angel
.
I grabbed the painting before she could
say no thanks.

"Thank you," she said in a shaky, but
appreciatively soft voice. "I think this one was just a bit too
much to handle."

I looked at the painting. It was a scenic
landscape of Mount Hood and the surrounding area. I was not exactly
a connoisseur of the arts. I wondered if she was the artist. The
apartments in our building hardly seemed large enough to hold such
a painting.

"Where to?" I asked. For one of the few
times in my life, I was actually intimidated by someone. Her
attractiveness, grace, and sensuality really did a number on
me.

"I'm in 427," she said with a slight smile
that revealed small, straight white teeth and thin sweet lips.

She even smelled good, as I got a whiff of
her perfume. Definitely not the cheap stuff.

We took the elevator up and neither one of
us seemed to have much to say. For my part, saying the wrong thing
seemed worse than saying nothing at all.

"Do you live here?" she asked, seemingly out
of courtesy, and apparently oblivious to the fact that we had been
practically bumping into each other every other day for the last
two months.

I nodded. "Third floor."

She smiled ingenuously. "Thought I'd seen
you before. I suppose it's a good thing you came along when you
did."

"If it hadn't been me, it would have been
someone else," I muttered like an idiot.

She gave me a look to suggest that she
agreed.

The elevator doors opened and I followed her
to the apartment.

"Just set it there," she pointed to an empty
wall in the living room.

I did and we stared at each other for
seconds that seemed like hours. I started to ask her if she wanted
to go for a drink, but something told me I wouldn't like her
answer. So I kept my mouth shut. There was plenty of time to get to
know this lady.
Why rush a potentially good thing?

"Well, I'd better get going now." The words
crept from my mouth as if they were stuck in cement.

She did not argue the point. "Thanks again.
Maybe I'll see you around."

I nodded miserably, and left without even
finding out her name or telling her mine.

At the mailboxes, I discovered that her name
was Vanessa King. It seemed to fit her. This was another possible
step in the right direction for me.

* * *

DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake Mystery
is now available in print, and eBook through Kindle, Nook, iTunes,
as well as audio from Audible.com, Amazon, and iTunes.

# # #

Bonus excerpts of the bestselling police
procedural and legal mystery JUSTICE SERVED (A Barkley and Parker
Thriller) by R. Barri Flowers

JUSTICE SERVED: A Barkley and Parker
Thriller

PROLOGUE

She hid under the bed, carefully controlling
her breathing. She didn't move, not even a twitch. Her pink dress
was dirty from the pine hardwood floor and her pink shoes were
scuffed. The curls of her raven hair billowed around her head like
a halo. She could see their shoes, moving around as if dancing to a
tender love song.

Only she knew it was no dance.

And it was no love song.

She heard the sound of his fist as it
smashed against her mama's cheek. Her mama immediately crumpled to
the floor like a rag doll, dazed and moaning. Blood spilled from a
corner of her swollen mouth like a red stream.

Her mama's face ballooned, her cheek
shattered from the blow. One eye was swollen shut, protruding like
a golf ball. With her good eye, mother and daughter made eye
contact in a moment of sorrow and sheer terror.

She wanted to help her mama and save her
from him. But she knew that she would be no match for his brute
strength and drunken rage. In that moment of mental connection, her
mama told her to remain still as the night so that she too would
not face the fists and battering he had inflicted upon her.

With all of her willpower she closed her
eyes tightly; her instincts telling her nothing would ever be the
same again. Not that she ever wanted things to be.

Not this way.

Not with him.

When her eyes opened, her mama was no longer
on the floor. She had been dragged to her feet and thrown onto the
bed like a sack of soiled clothes.

"Bitch!" She heard him roar like a lion,
hovering over her mama as if her shadow.

Then he hit her again. The blow must have
been tremendous, for her mama's dentures went flying across the
floor like a bird, landing harmlessly beneath a chair in the
corner. She was pounded several more times. Her mama's blood
curdling screams had turned to faint whimpers.

Then the bed suddenly sank to the point
where she thought she might be crushed or cut by the jagged springs
nearly touching her. It was all she could do not to make a sound,
though inside she was crying as loudly as she could muster.

He had gotten on the bed with her
mother.

"This ain't over, bitch," he spat. "Not by a
long shot!"

She listened as she heard him unbuckle his
pants.

"I'll show you to smart mouth me. When I'm
done with you, you'll know who's boss, and who ain't nothin' but a
damned ugly assed whore!"

She could hear some rustling noises, heavy
breathing, and groans—the last coming from him by the wicked
deepness of it. She couldn't bear to think of what he was doing to
her mama. But she knew it was something awful. Something that would
make her curse him even more than she already did.

When he was finished, she heard him roll
over. Moments later he was snoring like a bear, the sound coming
from deep within his throat, punctuated by labored breathing. She
could hear no sounds from her mama, but suspected she was too
afraid to even breathe—afraid he would wake up and continue hurting
her.

She was also afraid. After waiting there
paralyzed with fear for what seemed like an eternity, she nudged
her way beneath the springs till she was out from under the bed.
Her pink dress was covered with dust and blood from where her mama
had fallen.

She stood up, intent on taking her mama away
from him forever. But it took only one look at her to know this
would never be. Her face was almost unrecognizable—horribly
discolored and at least twice the size as normal. Her clothes had
been ripped apart, exposing a frail thin body, marred with marks
and bruises both fresh and from other beatings he'd inflicted upon
her. Her legs were spread wide, blood oozing from between them,
seeping onto the sheet like red dye.

Her mama's eyes were wide open, as if held
that way by toothpicks. Whatever life was in them had vanished
forever.

Beside her, he lay naked in a drunken sleep,
his breathing erratic and uncertain.

She felt the hatred in her build like steam
in an engine. This was softened only by the love for her mama and
hardened again by her feelings of helplessness and guilt.

She climbed atop her mother's battered,
broken, and bloodied body and lay there with her thumb in her mouth
like it contained magical properties. It was as if she would be
rocked to sleep and would wake up and find that everything was all
right.

Deep down she knew that would never be the
case. He had seen to that.

She began to hum a song she made up on the
spot, somehow soothing her, no longer caring if he woke and hurt
her as he had her mama.

After all, she could feel no greater pain,
bleak darkness, or emptiness than she felt at the moment.

CHAPTER ONE

Judge Carole Cranston sat on the bench and
banged her gavel. The courtroom immediately came to order on this
late July afternoon. She was a no-nonsense judge who only wanted to
expedite things as quickly as possible from trial to trial,
preferring to be in the comfort of her condo overlooking the
Willamette River in Portland, Oregon. It was especially nice at
this time of year when the summer breeze came in and the sun
bounced off the water as if too hot to remain in one place. She was
reminded of trips to the Bahamas where she had fallen in love with
Grand Bahama Island in particular. She could imagine herself maybe
one day retiring to the Bahamas, Jamaica, or even Hawaii, and drink
in its beauty and perennial sunshine each day for the rest of her
life.

Carole returned to the present, realizing
that at thirty-five years of age and three months, she was hardly
able to begin thinking about retirement just yet.
I wish.
Not when she had a job to do—no matter how maddening and
disillusioning at times—and people who depended on her to dispense
justice to the best of her ability.

She turned her espresso eyes on the
prosecutor. His name was Julian Frommer. He was in his early
thirties, but looked about twenty-one with dirty blonde hair a bit
too long, and a small goatee that looked almost taped under his
chin. His wool navy suit was ill fitted on a tall, lanky frame.

"Are you ready?" she asked him
routinely.

"Always, Your Honor." He pasted a
flirtatious smile on his lips.

But Carole had not even noticed as she
turned her attention to the defense. George McArdle, fortyish,
African-American, and built like a house, was already on his feet
and showing off a three-piece tailored gray suit. His closely
cropped dark hair had a slightly crooked part off to the side. He
acknowledged her with a twinkle in his eyes.

"The defense is ready to present its case,
Your Honor."

She nodded and looked at the defendant.
Roberto Martinez—a thirty-six-year-old, muscular, Hispanic
construction worker—had been charged with beating his live-in lover
half to death. The medical report said that she had sustained
multiple fractures, including a shattered nose, broken jaw, broken
arm, and broken leg. But she would live. And so would the
memories.

Martinez grinned crookedly, as if to say:
"It would have been more fun had you been on the other end of my
fists,
Your Honor
."

Carole glared at him. She could feel the
tiny hairs stand on the nape of her neck. But this was invisible to
those before her who saw only the cool, calm, and collected
attractive judge. Her russet colored individual pixies curved under
her chin and onto slender shoulders, contrasting a beautiful
butterscotch complexion. Beneath the black robe was a tall, shapely
body with long, runner's legs.

She faced Julian Frommer again. "You may
call your first witness, Counselor—"

* * *

It turned out his first witness, the victim,
was a no-show. She was going to be wheeled in from the hospital
where she was still recovering from her injuries. She had
apparently had a change of heart and now refused to testify against
Martinez. The State's case further began to unravel when it was
revealed that the only other witness was a known drug dealer whose
testimony came as a result of a plea bargain that would keep him
from doing hard time.

Meanwhile the defense had produced witnesses
who would testify that the defendant was seen at work at the
alleged time of the assault. It was a shaky alibi at best that left
a window of opportunity for Roberto Martinez to have committed the
offense and returned to the job. But given that the victim was
unwilling to refute this, the prosecution had little choice but to
go along with George McArdle's request that the charges be
dropped.

And neither did Carole, though this pained
her more than she was willing to admit. The thought that a scumbag
batterer like Martinez should get off so easily was disturbing. But
then, that was the system for you. Justice often needed help to be
dispensed properly.

Looking Roberto Martinez straight in the
eye, Carole announced unaffectedly: "The charges have been dropped.
You're free to leave, Mr. Martinez."