Supreme Justice

by Phillip Margolin

  "I don't see it," Dietz told Sarah when she was through. "Let's say the speed in the undershirt drawer was this Loraine's. She didn't cop to the package we found in the back room, did she?"

  "It's pretty obvious her boyfriend planted that."

  "Obvious to you, maybe, but not to me."

  Dietz had been leaning back in his chair. Now he sat up. "Don't go all bleeding heart on me, Sarah. This fucker is playing you. He pretends to be a retard, but the Marauders aren't going to let a retard deal for them. There's more to this guy than meets the eye."

  "I don't think so, Max."

  Dietz shrugged. "That's your problem, then. But seeing as this is my case, I call the shots. Come back and show me evidence that someone planted the shit in the back room, and I'll take another look at Elcock. Until then . . ."

  Dietz shrugged again and Sarah realized any further discussion with him would be useless. And he did have a point. Feelings weren't evidence, and all she had was a bad feeling about the case and a statement from a witness she'd stupidly failed to Mirandize who had now recanted.

  The Elcock case had started promisingly when an anonymous informant tipped off an officer in Vice and Narcotics that Harvey Elcock was going to receive a shipment of speed from the Marauders motorcycle gang that he would then sell. Shortly after receiving the tip, detectives conducting surveillance of Elcock's tiny Cape Cod observed two bikers in Marauders colors enter the house.

  Sarah started having reservations about the bust from the moment Harvey Elcock answered the door. He was bald with pale cheeks that were covered with salt-and-pepper stubble, and Sarah guessed he was in his late forties. He was wearing wrinkled tan chinos, a white, stained crew-neck undershirt, and a gray cardigan sweater over his undershirt even though the temperature was in the high eighties. Elcock stared at the officers through a pair of black plastic glasses with thick lenses.

  "Mr. Elcock?" Sarah asked.

  Elcock nodded.

  "May we come in?"

  Elcock looked puzzled. "Why?" he asked.

  "We have a warrant to search your house for drugs," Sarah said, holding up the document the judge had signed an hour earlier.

  "Drugs?" he asked dully. Sarah was starting to think that they were dealing with an ineffectual man with a low IQ, not exactly the type bikers picked to deal and protect their product.

  "Yes, sir," Sarah said.

  "I don't have any drugs, except my prescriptions. I have some for high blood pressure, and my cholesterol isn't too good so my doctor gives me some for that."

  "We have information that you have methamphetamine on the premises."

  "Is that like speed?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Elcock looked frightened. "I don't have that. There's none of that here."

  "We've been told that you were given these drugs to sell by a biker gang."

  "Oh no. Tony didn't give me nothing. He was just looking for Loraine. But she left. I think she's visiting her aunt. She might come back if her aunt won't let her stay."

  "Is this Tony in a biker gang?"

  "Yeah, Marauders. I don't like him."

  "Mr. Elcock, we do have to come in, but we'll be out of your hair in no time if we don't find any speed."

  Elcock let the search team in. The officer who searched Elcock's bedroom found meth under a stack of undershirts in Elcock's drawer. Sarah was disappointed. She had hoped they'd come up empty-handed. The stash looked like it was for personal use, and it wasn't anywhere near the amount the informant had sworn they'd find. Then another officer found a more substantial amount hidden in a back room.

  Elcock swore he didn't know anything about the meth, and he cried when he was booked in at the jail. Logic told Sarah that the drugs had to be Elcock's, since he lived alone, but she had an odd feeling about the bust, and it wouldn't go away.

  Two days after Elcock was arrested, Sarah remembered something he'd said. As soon as her shift ended, she drove back to Elcock's house. A very pregnant woman answered the door.

  "Are you Loraine?" Sarah asked.

  "Yeah. Who are you?"

  Sarah was in plainclothes, so she showed the woman her badge.

  "Do you know that Mr. Elcock is in jail?" Sarah asked as soon as they were seated in the living room. The color drained from Loraine's face.

  "What did he do?" she asked. Sarah thought Loraine looked very nervous, and she watched her face carefully for the reaction to her next statement.

  "We received an anonymous tip that Mr. Elcock was selling methamphetamine for the Marauder motorcycle gang." Loraine looked sick. "Our informant told us that we'd find a big shipment here."

  "That cocksucker," Loraine whispered.

  "The first thing we found was a small amount of speed under some undershirts in the dresser in Mr. Elcock's bedroom. That was your stash, wasn't it?" Sarah asked softly.

  Loraine buried her face in her palms. "I never thought . . ."

  "Is Tony your boyfriend, the guy who got you pregnant?"

  Loraine nodded. "Harvey is a sweetheart. Tony beat me up. He don't want the kid, and he got mad when I wouldn't get an abortion. I ran away, and Harvey's been letting me hide here. He even gave me his bedroom. I thought I was safe, but I got warned that Tony was on the way over, so I took off for my aunt. Only she wouldn't have me. I was so upset I forgot my stash. Then when I remembered, I seen Tony drive up, so I split."

  "We found a lot more speed in another room."

  "Harvey don't do drugs. Tony must have set him up to get back at him for helping me."

  "You think Tony was the informant?"

  "Oh, yeah, definitely. He's real mean. I wouldn't have had nothing to do with him, but he had the speed."

  "Will you tell this to the DA?"

  Suddenly, Loraine looked very scared. "I don't know. I got to think."

  "Harvey could go to jail for a long time. The feds might even go after him."

  Loraine put her hand on her stomach. "I can't have my kid born in prison."

  Sarah had been afraid Loraine wouldn't talk to her if she gave her the Miranda warnings. Since Loraine hadn't been Mirandized, her statements couldn't be used.

  "Maybe I can work a deal for you so you won't be prosecuted if you help Mr. Elcock. Would you talk to the DA if I can do that?"

  "I got to think."

  "OK. That's fair." Sarah paused. "Will Tony come looking for you? I can put you up someplace he won't find you while we sort this out. This place probably isn't safe."

  Sarah had paid out of her pocket for a week stay at a hotel with room service, over the river in Vancouver, Washington. When she'd visited the next day, Loraine had lawyered up, and her mouthpiece told Sarah that Loraine wouldn't testify even with immunity because of what she knew the Marauders would do to her. An hour later, Sarah was sitting in Max Dietz's office foolishly asking him to show compassion while he undressed her mentally and did God-knows-what to her in his fantasies.

  The more Sarah thought about the Elcock case, the more convinced she became that Loraine's boyfriend had set Harvey up, but Loraine had to talk if Sarah was going to have any chance of proving her theory. But her lawyer had made it clear that Loraine would not testify. Suddenly, Sarah grinned. There might be a way for Loraine to clear Harvey Elcock without testifying.

  Two days later, Jack Stamm summoned Max Dietz to his office. Dietz had no idea why he was being asked into his boss's inner sanctum, but he couldn't think of anything he'd done wrong, so he assumed it was to receive praise for something he'd done right. That thought disappeared when he saw Sarah Woodruff sitting on a couch against the far wall.

  Dietz forced a cheerful smile. "You wanted to see me?" he asked.

  "Thanks for coming, Max. You know Officer Woodruff?"

  "Oh, sure. We've had a couple of cases together. She's an excellent investigator."

  "She speaks highly of you, too, and it's her investigation in State v. Elcock I wanted to talk about. I spent an hour with a woman named Loraine Cargo this morning." />
  Dietz forced himself to keep a placid smile on his face.

  "From what I understand, part of your case against Elcock rests on the discovery of speed in his chest of drawers."

  "Yes, that's part of it."

  "Miss Cargo says it's hers, and she passed a polygraph on that."

  "We found a lot more speed, Jack. Elcock probably gave her the stuff in the drawer, so technically it would be hers, and she wouldn't be lying."

  "She says she got the meth from her boyfriend, Tony Malone, who is a member of the Marauders motorcycle gang. We had Elcock's house under surveillance. One of the detectives positively identified Malone as a biker who visited Elcock on the day of the search. Mr. Elcock has no criminal record, and he's also passed a polygraph. I think we've made a mistake arresting him. An understandable mistake, but one we should correct as soon as possible, unless you have evidence that contradicts what Officer Woodruff has uncovered."

  Jack Stamm had given Loraine Cargo immunity and a guarantee that no one would learn about their meeting, her statements, or the polygraph. He'd also guaranteed in writing that she would never have to testify against any member of the Marauder motorcycle gang. Her statements had led to the dismissal of all charges against Harvey Elcock.

  Sarah knew that Max Dietz bore grudges forever, but she wasn't worried about him, and she'd left the courthouse with a smile on her face.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A loud noise jerked Sarah Woodruff upright out of a deep sleep. When she was certain that someone was in her condo, she grabbed her Glock 9mm and slipped out of her bedroom. Something heavy crashed into a wall on the first floor with enough force to knock over the table in the entryway. A man cried out in pain. Sarah edged down the stairs, her gun leading the way. When she was halfway down, she saw a man in a peacoat and watch cap wrestling with a man in a black leather jacket.

  Sarah yelled, "Freeze!" and extended her gun over the banister. The man in the watch cap turned his head.

  "John?" Sarah said as she rushed down the rest of the stairs.

  A gun butt smashed into the back of her skull. She dropped to her knees. A second blow landed and Sarah's finger squeezed the trigger.

  Sarah sat up slowly. Her head was aching and her vision was blurred. She touched the back of her head. Pain lanced through her skull and made her jerk her hand away. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she saw that her fingers were covered with blood. She picked up her gun, gritted her teeth, and struggled to her feet. She was alone, and there was blood spatter on the wall. The entryway end table was on its side, and a newspaper, a magazine, a lamp, and some envelopes were strewn across the floor. The rug in the foyer was a small Persian, heavy with red tones, but a damp red liquid, tough to spot at first, had soaked in at several spots.

  The pain grew dull enough for Sarah to think. She remembered John Finley fighting with a man in a black leather jacket. Then . . . she couldn't remember what happened next, but there must have been someone else in the house, because the pain in the back of her head was proof that someone had hit her from behind. The intruders must have taken John.

  Sarah staggered upstairs and into jeans, running shoes, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. It was October, and a cold front had swept in, bringing an arctic chill to Portland. Sarah grabbed her car keys and rushed downstairs as fast as her aching head would let her, pausing midway down so she could bend forward while a wave of nausea swept through. Then she straightened, sucked in a mouthful of frigid air, and made her way to her pickup truck.

  What was John Finley doing in my house in the middle of the night? Sarah asked herself as she cruised the streets in her neighborhood looking for any trace of him or the men she assumed had taken him. What was he doing at my house at any time of day? After what had happened the last time they were together, Sarah had been certain she'd never see Finley again.

  Last summer, Sarah had vacationed in Peru so she could climb Nevado Pisco, a nineteen-thousand-foot-high peak in the Andes. Two days after her ascent, she'd met Finley in a bar in Huaraz. He was handsome and smart, and they'd hit it off. Finley was a pilot, and they'd flown to an island resort in his rickety two-seater. For the rest of her vacation, Sarah and Finley scuba dived, sunbathed, dined in elegance, and fucked like rabbits. Then Sarah flew back to Portland.

  Two months ago, Finley had called to say he was in Portland for business, and Sarah invited him to stay at her condo. Everything had gone swimmingly until Sarah began to wonder about Finley's business. He'd told her it was import-export, but he was evasive every time she tried to get him to be specific. During a weak moment, Finley had mentioned the name of his company. Sarah had investigated and found that it existed only in a post office box in the Cayman Islands.

  Cops cannot afford to associate with people who operate on the wrong side of the law, so she'd confronted Finley and saw a side of his personality she'd never seen before. There had been yelling and an attempt to hit Sarah. The brief scuffle ended when the combatants realized that they could both end up seriously injured. Sarah had held her gun on her guest while he packed his gear and then stormed out.

  Fifteen minutes after Finley left, matters got worse. Two patrolmen showed up in response to a neighbor's complaint. The cops left quickly when they recognized Sarah and learned that no one had been harmed, but the confrontation had been embarrassing.

  Now Finley had broken into her condo and had been attacked. What was going on?

  A police car was parked at the curb when Sarah pulled her pickup into her driveway twenty-five minutes later. She got out of the cab, and a chiseled young officer with a buzz cut walked out of the house, aiming a gun at her.

  "Don't move," he yelled. "Drop the weapon."

  Sarah's gun was hanging limply from her hand. She was so tired and woozy from the blow to her head that she hadn't realized she was holding it until the officer shouted.

  "I'm a Portland cop," Sarah said. "I'm putting the gun down."

  Sarah bent her knees and placed the gun on the driveway.

  "Move away from the truck and show your hands."

  "A man was kidnapped from my house. I've been out looking for him," Sarah said as she backed away from the gun.

  "What's your name?"

  "Sarah Woodruff. I work out of Central Precinct. Bob Mcintyre is my sergeant."

  A hefty African-American officer who looked to be in his forties walked out of the house just as the younger cop scooped up Sarah's gun. Sarah reached into her jacket pocket slowly and pulled out her badge. The black officer examined Sarah's ID while the younger officer examined her gun.

  "I'm John Dickinson, Sarah," the older man said. "Why don't we go inside, but be careful. There's blood on the carpet and the techs haven't arrived yet."

  "Are you hurt?" he asked as Sarah passed by and he saw the blood that matted her long black hair.

  "I got hit." Sarah was exhausted. She closed her eyes. "Can I sit down? I don't feel so well."

  "Yeah, go ahead."

  Sarah collapsed on the couch. She was nauseous and would have given anything to be able to go to sleep. The younger cop whispered something in his partner's ear. The older man nodded.

  "Call for an ambulance," Dickinson said. "Officer Woodruff might have a concussion. And get a forensic team over here."

  "Tell me what happened," Dickinson said as soon as his partner was out of the room.

  Sarah touched the back of her head gingerly and grimaced.

  "Do you want some water?"

  "There's no time for that. John Finley's been kidnapped."

  "Who is Mr. Finley?"

  "A . . . an acquaintance. I was sleeping. I heard noise downstairs. I saw John fighting with another man. When I ran downstairs, someone knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone. I've been driving around trying to find them."

  "Did you call for backup?"

  "I should have. My head. I'm not thinking too straight."

  "Did you recognize the man fighting with Mr. Finley?"
<
br />   "I never saw him before."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Not really. Everything happened so fast, and it was dark. I think he was wearing gloves and a leather jacket but I never saw his face."

  "Did you fire your weapon?"

  Sarah tried to remember what had happened after she was hit. She had no recollection of firing her weapon, so she told Dickinson that she had not.

  "Were you surprised to find Mr. Finley in your apartment?"

  "I was. He owns an import-export business, and he travels frequently. I thought he was on a business trip. He hadn't called me, and he'd been gone a while."

  "How did he get in?"

  Sarah hesitated. "He has a key. He was living with me before he went on his trip."

  "I don't want to embarrass you, but . . ."

  "Yes, we were sleeping together."

  Sarah leaned back and closed her eyes.

  "Don't do that," Dickinson said. "It's not smart to sleep if you have a concussion. I hear the ambulance. Let the EMTs examine you, and they'll tell you what to do."

  Sarah nodded and grimaced immediately. The wail of the siren grew louder, and within minutes two EMTs were in the living room. A few minutes later, Sarah was strapped on a gurney and they were wheeling her out of the house.

  "What did she say about the gun?" the younger cop asked Dickinson.

  "Said she didn't fire it."

  "Someone did," the young cop said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The first thing John Finley noticed when he came to was the pain. His side was on fire where he'd been shot, and he felt like someone had slammed a hatchet into the back of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. When the pain was bearable, he tried to figure out where he was.