Private Justice

by Terri Blackstock

  Hours later, in Newpointe, Stan Shepherd sat at the table in Allie’s house looking glumly at Sid Ford—Ray’s brother, who therefore had a personal stake in the investigation—and Lynette Devreaux, a rookie cop who had Allie’s coloring and hairstyle, making her a good decoy. While they waited for something to happen, they were going over everything they knew about the murderer. There were too many missing pieces, too many problems with every lead they’d followed. Although they had lifted quite a few fingerprints from all three houses, they still knew little. The same firemen and police officers had been in and out of all three homes, and even though they’d been careful not to disturb evidence, some of them had touched things inadvertently. The same caliber bullet had been used for each of the women, and in all three homes, according to the fire inspector, the fires had been started with diesel fuel. Diesel fumes didn’t rise the way gasoline fumes would have, which had allowed the killer time to get out of the house unscathed after he’d set fire to it. There had been several shoe prints found—all belonging either to the residents of the homes or to the fire and police personnel who had come in afterward. The crime lab had examined all of the fibers vacuumed from the carpet of the Broussard house—since it hadn’t been set on fire, there was more evidence to collect—but again, the only supposed clues wound up being related to the Broussards or to the firefighters and police officers who had responded to the call.

  “What we don’t know,” Stan said, rubbing his tired eyes and staring down at the lists on Allie’s kitchen table, “is whether he rang the bell and was invited in—in which case, he’s someone they knew—or whether he picked the lock.”

  Sid stared quietly down at the papers spread out on the table. “My gut tells me there was an element of surprise. Susan was shot in the back, as if she was running away. Jamie was in bed. I can’t see her getting up to let someone in, then getting back in bed.”

  “And that diaper bag in the middle of the floor at Martha’s. Like she dropped it,” Lynette added.

  “Okay, then. Where does that leave us?” Stan asked wearily. “He may or may not know the victims. May or may not have been invited in. May or may not have worn gloves or shoe covers to keep from leaving prints.”

  “We know he’s not afraid of being seen,” Lynette pointed out. “Twice he entered homes in broad daylight.”

  “But both times there was some major event going on in town, so neighbors weren’t as likely to be home. The parade and the funeral.”

  “We need the guest books at both funerals,” Sid said. “We could at least use them for elimination. Whoever’s on those lists isn’t guilty.”

  “I’ll get George’s,” Stan said. “You’re right. But we need more than a process of elimination-we need a list of active suspects. And other than Hank Keyes, we don’t have a single name.”

  “Hank Keyes may still be guilty.”

  “I don’t think so,” Stan said. “It doesn’t fit. He’s just a punk who thinks he’s a big shot. Sure, he needs to be locked up for something, but I don’t think it’s this.”

  The radio they had turned down low on the table gave out a burst of static, and Stan reached to turn it up. “Yeah, this is Stan,” he said into the mike.

  “We might have some activity,” came the low voice of Anthony Martin, who was sitting in the car parked in the garage across the street, keeping an eye on the outside of Allie’s home. “Somebody’s walking up the driveway. He left his car four houses down at the vacant house.”

  Stan and the others sprang up and reached for their weapons. “Can you get a picture?” he asked.

  “No, the streetlight’s out and I can barely see him. He’s almost to the door.”

  Lynette was shaking as she went into the kitchen and pretended to wash the dishes she had put there earlier. Though the curtains were closed, they wanted the noises inside to be authentic, to make the killer feel sure that she was home, and alone. Stan and Sid got on either side of the door and held their breath, waiting.

  The doorbell rang, and a tentative knock followed. Lynette froze. “What do I do?” she mouthed.

  Stan shook his head, warning her to do nothing. Then he watched as, breathing hard, she pulled her gun with a trembling hand and held it at the ready, aimed toward the ceiling, as the bell rang again. He felt a bead of sweat trickle from his temple, down the side of his face.

  They heard the knob rattle slightly. Although the volume on his radio was turned down so that its static wouldn’t be heard, he whispered into it, “Back us up, Anthony.”

  The knob jiggled. They heard a key being inserted. Stan’s heartbeat flew into triple-time. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

  Then the knob turned. The door began to push open. Stan and Sid both stood back, guns drawn and ready.

  The second the intruder’s foot stepped over the threshold, Stan heard Anthony Martin’s voice outside. “Freeze! Put your hands over your head and get down on the floor!”

  The suspect jerked, startled, at the sound of Anthony’s voice, then did as he was told. Anthony followed him in.

  The intruder was face-down wearing a fireman’s hat and bunker coat. Sid frisked him roughly while the others kept their guns trained on him.

  “It’s me, you idiots.” The voice was muffled against the carpet. “It’s just me!”

  Stan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head up to get a look as Sid kept up his search for weapons.”

  Craig Barnes’s face was crimson, and he was gasping for breath. Stan turned him all the way over and gaped down at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was checking on Allie, you fool!” Craig cried. “I just came from a call and was feeling nervous about her after their fight at the courthouse today.”

  Sid pulled a .38 automatic out of Craig’s coat pocket. The fire chief sat up, cursing. “Yeah, I’m carrying a gun. Everybody and his dog is carrying a gun tonight.”

  “I asked what you’re doing here,” Stan bit out.

  “And I told you! I’m on duty tonight. I was coming from a call and I thought I’d drive by and check on Allie. This is as much on my mind as it is on yours, Stan, maybe more, because it’s my men who are losing their wives.” They let him up, and he slipped out of the hot bunker coat and tried to catch his breath. “When I came by here I saw Allie’s car and the lights on. I got concerned and drove around to Mark’s apartment, and it looked like he was home, too. I figured he had meant it today when he said she could fend for herself. I wanted to check to make sure she was all right, and see if I could help her find an alternative to staying here alone.” He looked around at them, one by one. “What are you guys doing here? Staking the place out?”

  “Yes.” Stan was getting confused, so he tried to shake his head free of the conflicting signals. “Craig, how did you unlock the door?”

  “With a key! he said, opening the door and showing them the key that was still in the lock. “When she didn’t answer the door, what was I supposed to think? She could have been lying dead in here. I decided to look for the key and come on in, but I have to tell you I was nervous. I know this guy is just killing women, but I didn’t want to wind up dead myself if I happened to catch him in the act. So I came in as quietly as I could—and then you guys scared the livin’ daylights out of me.”

  “Why’d you park so far down the street?” Anthony asked, obviously not convinced. “Why wouldn’t you want anyone to see your car here?”

  Craig gaped at them, as though in disbelief. “You guys think I’m the killer? Chief of the fire department? I just lost seventy-five percent of my force because of this. You think I’d orchestrate all that and put myself in this kind of bind? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Answer the question about your car,” Stan said.

  Craig rubbed his hand through his hair. “The sprinkler was running—getting the whole driveway wet, and the street in front, too. I didn’t want to get wet, so I parked in that driveway. I figured if I parked in front of any of the other hous
es, somebody would see me and call the police.” He sat down and slumped wearily. “Look, we’re all tired. We’re all a little on edge. I need to get over to Eastside, because they’ve only got two of the usual three on a shift over there.”

  Stan looked from one of the cops to another, and saw that they had relaxed and were buying the story. Even Anthony Martin. Stan still wasn’t sure, but after a moment, he nodded. “All right, Craig. But don’t go breaking into anybody else’s home, or I’ll haul you in.”

  “Believe me, I’ll never pull that again.”

  “You could have gotten your head blown off.”

  “Tell me about it.” He got up, dusted off his uniform, then started for the door. “I hope you catch the real guy tonight. I’m ready for this to be over.”

  They watched him go out and closed the door behind him.

  For a moment, all four cops stood looking at each other. “What do you think?” Stan asked.

  “I believe him,” Lynette said. “It made sense. Everybody’s so strung out about all this, I guess nobody’s really acting all that rationally.”

  “He’s got to be concerned about his men and their families. I buy it,” Sid said.

  Stan looked at Anthony, who had gotten a distant look in his eyes. “Anthony?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I don’t know. He sure did look suspicious walking up to the house. But he’s right about the sprinkler.”

  Stan had his doubts—but he needed more than doubts to justify an arrest. “All right, Anthony. Go back across the street, and let’s try it again. Let’s just hope that little fiasco didn’t scare off the real guy, or we’ll have wasted this whole night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Because Mark was unwilling to take a room any higher than a ladder truck could reach in the event of a fire, their room at the Marriott was on the third floor, making all of the ground noise of Canal Street audible during the night. Allie lay awake in her bed on her side of the room as flashing blue lights occasionally colored the walls and sirens screeched by. Now and then, she could hear a jazz band somewhere in the Quarter, its music fading in and out like a dream.

  Across the room, Mark lay in his own bed, tangled in the covers. He wore a T-shirt and white boxer shorts, and his hair was in disarray. He appeared to be sleeping soundly, though he didn’t make the soft, snoring noise he usually made when he slept. It had taken her three weeks after he’d moved out to get used to sleeping without that sound. Now she longed for it. She turned on her side and watched him in the moonlight spilling in through the window. It was the first time she’d known him to sleep in a T-shirt, but she supposed their estrangement had created an unnatural modesty between them. She had always slept in his T-shirts, but tonight she wore a big LSU jersey and white leggings. Now she wished she’d worn something a little more attractive. As angry and hurt as she was at him, it hurt her to think that all of the attraction and chemistry were gone.

  She got up quietly, went to the big picture window, and peered out into the night. She could see the lights of cars passing by on Canal Street, and establishments lit up in neon. Some were raunchy, decadent places that sold unspeakable things, and as she often had before, she asked herself how one city could have so much beauty and so much ugliness at the same time.

  She heard a siren not far away and wondered if someone had been murdered. How often did those police cars have to rush to the scene of a homicide? Was life less valuable here than it was anywhere else? Was it growing less valuable in Newpointe?

  She tried to picture what Martha, Jamie, and Susan must have gone through. Had they seen his face? Had they spoken to him, pled for their life? Had the two deaths been instant, or had they suffered that lingering awareness that it was all about to end and there was nothing they could do?

  She covered her face with both hands and tried to muffle her sobs. Then she heard the creaking of the mattress behind her. She didn’t turn around.

  Warm, familiar, comforting arms turned her around, and she let herself relax into them. Mark held her for a long time, letting her weep against his chest, letting her cry out all the fear and rage and confusion that plagued her. After a while, the fear and rage were gone, and she cried, instead, out of grief, not for her friends, but for her husband. Even as he held her, she missed him.

  When he kissed her, she had no power to resist, and all the old feelings came rushing back on a tidal wave of memory. The campfire where they’d first kissed, being carried in his arms to their car after the wedding, her long veil dragging the ground, the overwhelming love she’d felt for him as they’d moved into their first home and set up housekeeping, the conversations and plans and anticipation of children…all of those things were still there, in that desperate kiss, and her heart raced with hope. But there was sadness, too. And that sadness was grounded in reality, whereas the hope seemed as empty as a child’s balloon.

  When the kiss broke, she looked up at him, her face wet and her eyes swollen, and her eyes swollen, she felt more vulnerable than a toddler standing in rush-hour traffic. She knew she should say something, but nothing came to her.

  “It’s been a long time,” Mark whispered, his fingertips cupping her chin. “I’ve missed you.” There was deep emotion in his face as he spoke, and she wanted to trust him. But Mark had always been a charmer. He had charmed her when she’d met him at a youth camp her senior year of high school. He had told her he loved her then, and had held her just this way when she’d had to go back home to Georgia. He had whispered that he would miss her, just as he whispered it now.

  She had been swept away then, certain that he was her life partner, the one God had chosen for her. But God wouldn’t choose a man who could forsake his vows so easily. He wouldn’t have set aside a man who professed to be a Christian but drank too much and avoided the church they had both loved. She had made a mistake in marrying him. Somehow, without realizing it, she must have deposed God and followed her own agenda. And now she was paying with the deepest pain she’d ever felt.

  She backed away, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose, deliberately breaking the mood. He stood in his boxer shorts and T-shirt, watching her, waiting for the response she wasn’t able to give. She pressed the wadded tissue to the inside corners of her eyes, trying to stop the tears. But she couldn’t speak, and she couldn’t look at him.

  Finally, he moved into the bathroom. She heard water running, and in a moment he was back at her side, holding out a glass for her. “Here,” he said softly. “Drink this.”

  She took it gratefully, drank it until it was empty, then set the glass down on the table next to her bed. She sat down, looking at the floor. Mark stooped in front of her and looked up into her eyes. He, too, seemed to be at a loss for words. Gently, he swept her hair behind her ear.

  “Do you think you can sleep now?” he asked finally.

  She drew in a deep breath and decided to lie. “Yes.”

  “If you can’t, tomorrow we’ll see about getting something to help. Maybe a mild tranquilizer just at night.”

  She nodded and slipped back into the bed. It seemed so big, so cold, without him beside her. She realized as he covered her that she would like nothing more than to have him slip in beside her and hold her until she fell asleep. But she couldn’t let that happen. Not when their marriage was nonexistent. Not when there was another woman in the picture.

  She closed her eyes and listened as he got back into his own bed. She couldn’t wait for morning.

  Across the room, Mark lay in his bed with his back to her, fighting the longing to climb into her bed and hold her so tight that the memories of the last two months would flee. That kiss had been a mistake, he thought. It had almost done him in. As if it had opened the floodgates, it had brought back a rush of feelings that he wasn’t sure he could control.

  He had felt her reaction, too, but then he’d felt the hesitation, the despair, then the separation.

  Confusion dominated his mind as his heart mourned for the woman who was within
his grasp, yet so far away that he feared he would never reach her again. Had their marriage been ruined beyond repair? In the words of the ceremony that had bound them, had they been torn asunder? Or were they still one, as his heart seemed to claim?

  He honestly didn’t know.

  He thought of turning over, looking to see if she was still awake, hoping that maybe she was still distraught and needed him again. Only then could he go to her. Unless he knew that she needed and wanted him too, his fear of rejection was too great.

  But he didn’t hear her crying, didn’t hear her wrestling with the bed covers…

  She didn’t need him, he thought miserably. Without that, he couldn’t go to her. They were destined to spend this time together…all alone.

  And as the night ticked by, he realized that he already knew the answer to his question about whether they were still one. He felt as though his soul had been ripped in two. Yes, they had been torn asunder. And it was probably too late to put them back together again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  At two-thirty A.M., Officer R.J. Albright, who was patrolling Newpointe, drove down Purchase Street, which housed the Midtown fire station, police department, city hall, and courthouse, then turned onto Jacquard Street, where the Blooms ’n’ Blossoms shop was. Allie’s flower van was there, and a dim light shone from the back room. He turned into the parking lot. Had the rumors been true, about Mark abandoning her tonight? As his headlights lit up the small gravel parking lot, he saw someone coming from behind the building.

  He radioed his location to the dispatcher, then pulled his car further in to get a better look. He got out, his hand on his gun, his heart pumping hard, and saw the man stop in the shadows, waiting for him.

  “Hello, R.J.” It was Dan Nichols’s voice, and as the tall man walked out of the shadows, he saw that he was dressed in his fireman’s uniform and carrying a crowbar. “I was just about to call you guys.”

  “Yeah?” R.J. asked. “What for?”