Sullivan's Justice (7 page)

Neil had dated models who starved and barfed. He called them stick women. When he had sex with them, their hip bones dug into his stomach. Once they finished, they would smoke ten cigarettes in a row. He had to sleep with some of them in intervals. They either needed a cigarette break or their laxatives kicked in early. Quite a sight to see a girl who made a grand an hour run to the john with her hand over her crack.

He went into the marble-walled bathroom, and Melody waved at him. “Hi, baby.”

He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.”

Her voice echoed out of the shower. “No, don’t leave. Come in here . . . I have something important to tell you.”

When Neil returned to the bathroom, his eyes locked on her naked body behind the opaque shower enclosure. She looked different without makeup, softer and more appealing. He stood silently, gazing at her tall, slender frame as the water cascaded off her white skin. His eyes focused on her genitals. Every month, she had her pubic hair shaped into a heart.

She lathered her pale blond hair, letting the soap slither down onto her perfectly proportioned body. The scent of vanilla permeated the room. He felt a tingling sensation spread throughout his body. The drug made him horny. He was instantly aroused.

“What are you staring at?” Melody asked, putting her knees together and moving her hands down to cover her genitals in mock shyness. “It’s not like you haven’t seen a woman before.”

Neil placed his hand on his head, flustered. “It’s just . . . I came here to . . .”

“Get laid,” Melody answered for him. “All you have to do is spend less time painting those pictures that nobody seems to want and spend more time with me. Then your dick wouldn’t be so lonely, sweetie. You know I’m always ready for you.”

“I have to paint,” Neil argued, raising his voice in an attempt to prevent what he suspected was inevitable. He was stung by her remarks about his work, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing. “I’m an artist, okay? It’s what I do for a living.”

“Shoot, I forgot to get a washcloth,” Melody said, acting as if she hadn’t been listening. “Can you get me one?”

Neil sighed, wondering if she turned all of her lovers into errand boys. When he returned, Melody opened the shower door. As he handed her the washcloth, she grabbed his hand, pulling him into the running water.

“Now you’re all wet,” she said, giggling. “Why don’t we have some fun?”

“No, damn it,” Neil told her, “I don’t have a change of clothes. Besides, I didn’t come here to play games. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Calm down, let me release some tension.” Melody dropped to her knees. Unbuttoning the single button, she unzipped him. With both hands latched onto the sides of his jeans, she yanked them hard, exposing his tight-fitting Calvin Klein underwear. His penis was barely contained within the white fabric. A moment later, he felt himself inside her warm mouth. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. He succumbed to the pleasure. Besides, seeing this princess on her knees was emotionally gratifying. Melody Asher didn’t get on her knees for just anyone.

She slithered up, rubbing her breasts against him as she looked into his lust-filled eyes. Lifting the bottom of his soggy shirt, she exposed his muscular chest. Neil quickly removed the rest of his clothes and tossed them into the empty Jacuzzi next to the shower.

Their lips met. Melody placed her hands on his buttocks and squeezed. His body was pulsating.

“Why don’t we continue this in the bedroom.” She reached behind him and pushed the door open. He carefully stepped back onto the plush carpet. He thought it was odd that she’d positioned her right leg behind him until she moved forward, causing him to fall. She caught him with her right hand and they tumbled to the carpet in a collage of flesh.

The next thing Neil remembered, he was fighting Melody for position. A hair under six feet, she made love like a man, forcing him onto his back and riding him like a horse. He’d been surprised that a slender woman could have such strength. Her body was deceptive. Her muscles were lean but incredibly powerful.

Melody’s mouth fell open as she reached orgasm.

“I have an idea,” she whispered into his ear a few minutes later. “Come with me.”

Neil followed her into the bedroom.

“Don’t move, I need to position the cameras.” She went to the other side of the room and opened a floor-to-ceiling wall unit that housed two JVC digital cameras.

“Melody, I don’t—”

“Shut up and do me,” she said, stretching out on the bed with her legs open.

Neil thought about leaving, but his body wouldn’t let him. She’d teased him since he’d walked in the bathroom. The drug was driving him. He was living moment to moment, his mind washed clean of thought. With his back to the camera, he thrust himself inside her. He began perspiring, the beads of moisture reflecting in the lens of the cameras.

Melody cried out, “Harder . . . harder, Richard.”

Neil jerked his head up. The day’s events resurfaced and he felt a hard ball of rage deep in his stomach. Who in the hell was Richard? He rolled off her, going to the bathroom to retrieve his soggy clothes. When he returned, he shouted,

“You’re nothing but a slut. You could have all the money in the world and you’d still be trash. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.”

Melody flipped over onto her stomach, bracing her upper body with her elbows. Her lips spread in a broad smile. “Night, night, baby,” she said in a breathy little girl’s voice.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is your sister still dating that physics professor?”

“None of your business.” Neil glared at her for a few more minutes, then spun around and stomped out of the house.

 

 

 

 

 

“W
here’s Bobby?” Carolyn asked, stepping up to the window at the jail.

“Hold on,” Joe Powell said, “I’ll go get him.”

Veronica had contacted most of the relatives of the Hartfield family, except for Mrs. Hartfield’s sister. She had made no attempt, however, to complete the most crucial part of the investigation—the interview with Raphael Moreno. The only explanation Carolyn could think of was that the crime was simply too gruesome for a woman in Veronica’s condition.

After filling Brad in on where they stood, Carolyn had dictated the details of the various crimes from Veronica’s notes. This portion of the report was compiled from arrest reports, trial transcripts, forensic evidence, and pathology reports. In crimes of this magnitude, a report could run up to fifty pages. Veronica had written four pages. Because the defendant was allowed to plead guilty to seven counts of second-degree murder, there were no trial transcripts. All they had to work with were the police and evidentiary reports. The only way anyone would ever know what really happened was to hear it from the defendant himself.

Carolyn understood Veronica’s position, but she felt her friend had been negligent. Her disinterest was disrespectful to the victims. If she had tried to interview Moreno and failed, it would be acceptable. She had never tried. Anyone who was unable to confront criminals and the aftereffects of crime had no business being a probation officer.

She had spoken to Bobby Kirsh after lunch. When she heard what he had to say, she decided to let Moreno stew a few more hours.

“He didn’t move?” Carolyn asked when Bobby’s shaved head appeared in the window. “All this time and nothing happened? He didn’t ask to go to the bathroom or want something to eat? He’s been in there over five hours.”

“Listen,” Bobby told her, “I told you this guy was scary. He didn’t so much as blink an eye. He hasn’t even changed his position in the chair.”

“Humph,” Carolyn said, wondering what she should do next. “I want to talk to the men he assaulted.”

“No way,” he answered, his dark eyes blazing. “A few guys start mixing it up and the whole facility goes crazy. Last night was a disaster. You want to see Moreno again, I can’t stop you. But you’re not going any further than that, Carolyn. You have no legal right to talk to the inmates he assaulted.”

“Keep him on ice, Bobby.”

His face became stony. “No!” he said. “What’s wrong with you, woman? Do you have a death wish or something? See him now or we’re moving him back to solitary.”

Carolyn reached out and touched his sleeve. “I’ve been looking at autopsy reports all day,” she said, speaking softly. “Moreno isn’t going to spend his life in prison. It’s our last chance to document his behavior, find out who his contacts are on the outside. I’m almost positive he murdered the Hartfield family simply to ensure he was safe. Don’t you understand? We didn’t arrest Moreno, he arrested us.”

“Why didn’t the homicide guys figure that out?”

“Maybe they were too close to the case.”

“Talk about wild speculations,” the sergeant told her, letting forth a nervous chuckle.

Carolyn continued undaunted. “He wasn’t afraid of the cops, Bobby. Someone was after him. How many mass murderers do you know who lead the police to their hiding place?”

“I don’t know any mass murderers.”

“You do now.”

“You’ve got an hour.”

“Take me back,” Carolyn asked him, walking over to the door leading into the jail.

“But I thought you didn’t want to see him right now.”

“I don’t want to interview him,” she told him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see him.”

They walked in silence. Several times, the sergeant looked over to say something and then stopped when he realized Carolyn was deep in thought. When they reached the room where Moreno was being held, she tapped on the window with her knuckles. Moreno looked up. A flicker of recognition was followed with a grimace. She smiled brightly, then waved. She could see a puddle of what she assumed was urine under the small table.

Bobby yanked her away. “You’re intentionally inciting this man. Don’t come back, because I’m not letting you in. It’s over, Sullivan.”

Carolyn ignored him, her eyes roaming around the quad. “Are all three cells and the interview room on the same air-conditioning and heating system?”

A dark-haired young deputy was standing next to her. “No,” Norm Baxter told her. “The interview room runs on the left thermostat. Because it’s so small, it’s always stifling in there.”

“Good,” she said. “Turn up the heat.”

Before Bobby could react, she headed off down the corridor. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Carolyn saw him shaking his head, while the young deputy unlocked the thermostat box on the wall. “Thanks, Bobby,” she yelled. The fact that she would risk her life to get a few more words out of a murderer had finally impressed him.

Deciding to take an early dinner, Hank Sawyer was chatting up his favorite waitress at Denny’s when the dispatcher told him to respond to 1003 Seaport Drive on a report of a homicide. At forty-six, he was slightly under six feet and about twenty pounds overweight, most of it in his midsection. He had thinning brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

The detective was a shrewd and highly esteemed investigator. He’d tracked down and apprehended a murderer several years before. In the process, he’d taken a bullet to the abdomen, one of the most painful places in the body to incur a gunshot wound. He had been back at work in less than three weeks.

By the time Hank reached the address on Seaport, four patrol units were already on the scene. A crowd of onlookers had formed on the sidewalk and adjacent lawns. Trevor White and another officer, Daryl Montgomery, were stretching yellow police tape and attaching it to poles they had placed in the ground.

Spotting Detective Mary Stevens in the kitchen, Hank headed in her direction. At thirty-six, Mary was a striking woman. The only female assigned to homicide, she had ebony hair that hung to her shoulders in tight ringlets. She had a long, elegant neck, gorgeous maple-colored skin, and a dynamite body. She was dressed in jeans and her customary red shirt. She kept it in her car, calling it her “murder shirt.” He had to admit it made her easier to find in a crowded scene. “What do we have?”

“The victim’s name is Suzanne Porter. White female, thirty-five years old, five-three, a hundred and fifteen pounds. Last seen around one o’clock by the nineteen-year-old boy who lives next door. Husband came home from work and couldn’t find his wife in the house.” Mary stopped and yelled at one of the crime scene technicians. “Collect all the silverware, dishes, and pots and pans. Oh, and don’t forget the dishwasher.”

“Neat, huh?” Hank said, taking in the spotless kitchen.

“Extremely.” Mary removed a rubber band from her wrist and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “And I’m talking about the killer, not the victim. No signs of a struggle. No fingerprints. He must have worn gloves and wiped everything down just to be certain. Husband found the body in the backyard when he got home from work at four. One puncture wound in the left arm. Cause of death could be some type of lethal injection. Of course we won’t know until the toxicology report comes in. Nude except for a bra and panties.”