Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1

by Harvey, JM

  “On your knees, hands behind your head,” Erath ordered.

  Val complied, lowering himself slowly to the concrete and lacing his fingers behind his head. Erath kept his distance as he circled behind Val, then rushed forward and kicked him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach. A split second later, Erath had a knee jammed into the middle of Val’s back, pinning him to the concrete. Val didn’t resist as the stocky deputy jerked his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, cinching the bracelets down extra-tight. The whole process took less than ten seconds, Erath was as efficient as a rodeo cowboy bulldogging a calf.

  Erath stood, looming over Val. “Get up on your knees.”

  Val did as he was told, the process an awkward struggle with his hands pinned behind his back, but Erath helped by steadying Val with his free hand. When Val finally managed it, Erath dropped to a squat in front of him, his eyes level with Val’s, his pistol resting on his thigh, the barrel aimed casually at Valentine’s groin.

  “Reminds me of our last meeting,” Erath said, giving the bandage over Val’s eye a meaningful glance.

  “I remember it well,” Valentine replied dryly, fighting the urge to squirm, to shift his crotch out of the line of fire. Even a bullet in the head would be preferable to being castrated. “I wore gray, you wore black. It was a sunny day. The smell of fresh cut grass was in the air—”

  ‘Thock.’ Erath’s pistol moved too fast for Val to flinch away. The blow caught him above his right eye, reopening the cut and setting off a fireworks show inside his skull. He tumbled to the driveway where his forehead ricocheted off the concrete, setting off the Roman-candle grand finale. But he didn’t stay down for long before Erath grabbed a fistful of his shirtfront and hauled him back up into a kneeling position.

  “Yep,” Val slurred, nodding his head as blood leaked from beneath the bandage into his eye. “That’s just like I remember it.”

  “You’re a funny guy,” Erath said, but he didn’t sound amused.

  Val heard a car door open and close. He blinked his eyes and looked toward the street to see Detective Gruene of the DPD striding quickly up the driveway, her coattails flapping. She stopped three feet off and turned half toward the street.

  “Jesus, Henry, not out here,” she said, her eyes skipping from Val’s bloody face to scan up and down the block, squinting against the sun. There was still no one in sight.

  Erath ignored her. His dark eyes bored into Val’s. “What were you doing out in Hudson?” Erath asked, but he answered his own question before Val could: “Looking for the money,” he said contemptuously. “I was out there myself this morning. Who busted up the walls?”

  Val shrugged. “Termites?”

  ‘Thock’ the pistol rang off Val’s skull again, sending him tumbling back to the concrete.

  “Henry,” Gruene said anxiously, but she made no move to intervene, and Erath made no sign that he had heard her. He jerked Val upright again.

  The world spun before Val’s eyes, a merry-go-round of green and blue. Erath leaned in so close that Val could smell the man’s lunch. Beef loaded with garlic and onions.

  “I’d suggest you start giving me some straight answers,” the deputy said, but Val was sick of playing Judy to Erath’s Punch. He snapped his head forward and drove his forehead into Erath’s nose, smashing the cartilage flat with a sharp ‘crack.’ Blood splattered and Erath went down on his ass, his pistol flying from his grasp to skitter down the driveway.

  And then Val was looking up the barrel of Gruene’s 9mm, into her pale, pinched face.

  “Don’t move,” she barked. Behind her, Erath clumsily began to rise.

  Erath really was a tough guy, Val had to concede. Even with a broken nose spouting a steady stream of mucousy blood, the deputy got to his feet in less than an eight-count. He stalked unsteadily down the driveway to his gun, stooped and snatched it up then turned and made three quick strides back up the driveway, his pistol sweeping up, lining up on Val’s forehead.

  “No! Henry!” Gruene screamed and knocked her partner’s gun hand wide, but Henry wasn’t listening and he wasn’t going to be stopped. He stiff-armed her, sending her sprawling on the concrete, and brought the pistol back up. Erath was breathing hard. Blood bubbled from his flattened nose and dripped from his chin, but the pistol was steady in his fist.

  “Henry!” Gruene yelled, popping back up almost as quickly as she had gone down. The sleeve of her suit coat was torn and there was a smear of dirt on her right cheek. She grabbed Erath’s forearm and dug her nails in. “He’s not worth it,” she said, flicking a glance at Valentine. A glance so twisted with loathing that it was clear that watching Val get gunned down wouldn’t exactly put her off her supper.

  Erath didn’t shift his aim. “The only thing lower than rapists and murderers is a dirty cop,” he said, chewing the words out with blood-streaked teeth. His finger stayed taut on the 9mm’s trigger, a fraction of an inch from sending a brass-jacketed round through Val’s skull. But the bullet never came.

  Slowly, Erath lowered the pistol.

  “Get his gun, Sally,” he snapped as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to blot his nose. The white square came away sopped with blood. He pressed it back to his nose, his voice taking on a quacking quality as he continued. “It’s on the driver’s side floorboard.”

  “The permit’s in my wallet,” Val said quickly. The thought of being left without a weapon with Jasper and Garland Sutton out there gunning for him made his gut coil tight. “You have no cause to confiscate it.”

  Neither cop replied. Gruene strode past Val, heading for the Mustang. A moment later she called out, “I’ve secured the weapon. It’s a .45 auto.” She rejoined Erath and Val, the .45 sealed in a Ziploc freezer bag.

  “You can’t take that gun,” Val said. “I have a concealed carry permit.”

  “Judge Pinto says different,” Erath interjected. “He’s got a thing about murderers having firearms.” Erath reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. “This is an arrest warrant for you for the murder of Abby Sutton.”

  “Bullshit.” Val said. “That’s a DPD case. Jack Birch told you—” he stopped right there. Jack had already placed too much on the line for his ex-partner, Val wouldn’t involve him further.

  Erath gave Val a rocky smile. “Jack’s not here to cover your ass anymore, Vicious.” he said. “Not that he could this time. We got a murder weapon with your prints all over it. Add that to a motive like fifteen million dollars and stir in your history with the Sutton family…” Erath shrugged. “You’re going to spend your few remaining years on death row.” He crooked his finger at Val. “Get on your feet,” he said, then added, “You got a hammer in the garage?”

  Val gave Erath a look of confusion in reply. Confusion laced with worry. What did Erath need a hammer for? Was he tired of using his guns to beat Val’s face in?

  “We had to bust your front door down,” Erath explained. “I’ll nail it shut for you if you’ve got a hammer. That’s procedure. Keeps the neighborhood kids honest,” he explained, making it clear that he wasn’t doing Val any favors.

  Val stood and nodded exhaustedly. “In the garage,” he said.

  “Show me.” Erath pointed at the front door and Val headed that way, Erath and Gruene trailing close behind.

  Erath hadn’t been understating when he said they had busted down the front door. The jamb was splintered and the door hung open on hinges held in place by bent screws. An air conditioned breeze gusted through the gap, making the porch ten degrees cooler than the front yard. Val shot the Sheriff’s deputy an angry look, but it ricocheted right off Erath’s rocky features. Val led the way inside without comment. The living room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. There was no more splintered wood, no real damage, but the contents of every drawer had been spilled, the sofa and chairs upended. Even the potted plants had been violated, the dark soil churned, spilled out on the carpet and tracked around the room.<
br />
  Val was smoldering as he picked a path through the mess to the kitchen to find the same shambles there. Every cabinet had been rifled. Cleaning products, cereal boxes and canned goods had been dumped on the floor. He went out to the garage.

  The garage had been tossed as well. Sports equipment had been thrown around, cardboard boxes dumped out on the floor. The tools were still pegged to the wall but the drawers of the workbench had been dumped and a can of nails had been spilled on the concrete.

  “Over there,” Val said, nodding at the pegboard.

  Erath stooped and grabbed a handful of nails then took the hammer from its peg.

  “Sally,” he said, turning to Gruene who had stopped just inside the doorway, Val’s pistol, in its plastic bag, dangling from her right hand. “Call this in downtown. Get an interview room ready at the Jack Evans Building and give DPD a heads up.”

  Sally nodded but said nothing. She looked sea-sick, stressed out. With an over-amped partner like Erath that was no surprise.

  Erath waved Val toward the kitchen door. “Let’s go, asshole,” he said, but Val hesitated. He had something to say. A question to ask.

  “Where did you get the murder weapon? From Jasper Smith?”

  Erath shook his head. “Phone tip. Anonymous. Guy said that he saw you out in Hudson stashing a gun under the front porch. And, what do you know, there it was. I took it downtown myself.” Erath started to say something else then stopped himself. Instead, he gestured at the door again.

  Val didn’t move. “I’m being set up,” he said, “It’s not my gun.” The contemptuous look that Erath gave him brought a rush of blood to Val’s face. Erath had heard denials like that a hundred times, and so had Val. Not my gun, not my dope, not my butcher knife. Val pressed on anyway. “I’m betting Jasper Smith planted that gun. Or Garland Sutton. They’re after the money—”

  “You’re never going to see that money,” Erath cut him off. “And neither will your partners. I’ve got warrants for both those shit-heads, too. We’ll see which one of you talks first. The winner gets life, no parole,” he winked at Val. “That’s something to think about down at Lew Sterret.”

  “I did not kill Abby,” Val said, knowing it was pointless. He paused, sighed and shook his head wearily. He had only one option left. He had to trust Erath. “But I do know where the money is. I can take you to it.”

  Erath barked a laugh and more blood leaked from his nose.

  “Save it for your lawyer. Maybe if you give up the cash he can get the charges reduced to murder two. You might just get to see your grandkids someday. Of course you’ll be squinting through the bars.” Erath pointed at the kitchen door again then noticed Gruene still standing there. He frowned.

  “Go on, Sally,” he said to her. “The sooner we get this over with the sooner we can get home.”

  Gruene didn’t move. She was staring at Val, her eyes out of focus, lifeless, her lips a brittle line.

  “Sally,” Erath snapped, blotting his nose with the bloody handkerchief. Gruene shifted her eyes to her partner, but her expression remained zombie-like. “Go on,” he said impatiently. “I got him covered.”

  “No, Henry,” she said, shaking her head in slow motion as her gaze returned to Valentine.

  Erath cocked his head in confusion. “Just make the call, Sally. We’ll pile him in and you can go home and get some rest. You look like crap.”

  “No,” she said again. She took a step toward her partner, but her eyes never left Valentine. That’s when Val noticed that Gruene had taken the .45 out of the Ziploc bag. She was gripping it by the butt, her finger on the trigger.

  “What?” Erath said, his confusion deepening. He looked at the pistol in Gruene’s hand then back at her face. “Sally—”

  Gruene cut him off. “I have business to transact with Mr. Justice. Henry.”

  “Business?” Erath said, sounding suddenly wary. “What—” that was as far as he got before Gruene aimed the .45 from the hip like a gunfighter, straight at Erath’s belly.

  The color drained from Erath’s face. “Jesus, Sally, put that gun down.”

  Gruene didn’t comply. She took another step closer to her partner.

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” she said as she stepped forward, jammed the .45 into his ribs and pulled the trigger twice.

  With the muzzle pressed tight to Erath’s flesh, the sound of the gunshots wasn’t much louder than a pair of very large firecrackers, but Erath spun around like he had been hit with a wrecking ball. His feet got tangled and he went down, crashing face-first into the concrete floor, already dead. At that range, Val knew, the .45’s concussion would have instantly ruptured every organ in Erath’s body.

  Gruene dropped to a squat beside her dead partner, reached under his coat and jerked his pistol from its holster.

  Val was too shocked to make a move.

  “Jesus, you killed him,” he said, mystified.

  “No, I didn’t,” Gruene said as she brought Erath’s gun up in her left hand, cocking it in the same motion. She aimed it at Val’s chest. “You did.”

  Gruene pulled the trigger, the single shot sounding like a cannon inside the narrow confines of the garage, her aim point blank.

  52

  Victoria drove a shaky ten blocks away from Herby’s before turning into the parking lot of the Super Mercado on Columbia Avenue. She parked facing a bank of plate glass windows with ‘Velasquez Fruteria y Taqueria’ painted across them in flowing script. She killed the engine then sat there gulping down breath after breath. Her heart was rattling against her ribcage and her hands were trembling as she fumbled her phone out of her purse and started to dial 9-1-1. But she only got to the first 1 before she stopped, having reached the same conclusion that she had reached when she found Herby and Foster. She couldn’t call the cops! She had just fled the scene of three homicides! She had been a prosecutor for far too long not to see the end result of such a 911 call. To see how her story of Laroy Hockley, Garland Sutton and a mysterious gunmen would play out. She’d be cuffed and booked before she got ten words out. And Laroy would be laughing at her from the wrong side of the prison bars.

  “No,” she said aloud. No cops. Not yet. Not until she had something to give them. Instead, she punched up Jack’s number again, but she got only his voice mail. She left a terse message, explaining what had happened in as few words as possible and warning Jack to be on the lookout for Laroy. She hung up and stowed the phone in her purse.

  That’s when she remembered the PAC paperwork she had found hidden under Herby’s butt.

  She dug the paperwork from her back pocket, unfolded it, propped it on the steering wheel, and skimmed through it again. The absurdity of Herby Lubbock being the treasurer of Nolan Swisher’s PAC jumped out at her again. Even an idiot could have seen the conflict of interest in a defense attorney working on the County Sheriff’s reelection campaign. But what did it have to do with Valentine and the Sutton family, if anything? It all seem linked, the money, the murders and now political corruption, but it was like a connect the dots puzzle without any numbers; if you worked at it hard enough you could draw any picture you wanted. She needed help, but she had nowhere to turn…

  Except Cory Logan.

  Yes! Something like this would have the US Attorney’s office salivating, and with the Justice Department behind her…

  Victoria ditched the paperwork and grabbed her purse off the seat. It was a mess, everything jumbled together, but she found her wallet and dug out Logan’s business card. She pinned the card to the steering wheel with her thumb and grabbed her phone again. She dialed but Logan didn’t answer. It was Saturday, almost six o’clock in the evening. Victoria left a message after the beep.

  “This is Division Chief Victoria Justice,” she said, knowing that she might not have that title for much longer. “Herby Lubbock is dead. Call me.” She rattled off her cell number and hung up, hoping that her message had been cryptic enough to be explained away in court, if it came to that.

/>   Jesus, now she was thinking like a felon. How much lower could she possibly go?

  Her phone rang almost immediately. She answered without checking the caller ID.

  “You’ll have to explain that message,” Logan said tersely. “Lubbock’s dead? How?”

  “Not over the phone,” she said. “I have something for you. Just you,” she added, cringing at the way that sounded. She was thinking more and more like a crook with every passing minute.

  Logan went silent, but she could hear him breathing into the phone. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “Meet me at the courthouse. I’ll be in the basement cafeteria. And this better not be bullshit, counselor.”

  Victoria didn’t argue. “Give me fifteen minutes,” she said and hung up.

  It took her closer to twenty minutes to make it to the Crowley Building. She parked on the first floor of the garage, which was packed with cars. Even on a Saturday the building was busy. Justice never sleeps, she thought wryly as she crossed to the side entrance. She was digging for her ID card when the glass door swung outward and Nolan Swisher emerged, his Stetson in his hand. He was still wearing the same saggy brown suit he’d had on when she’d seen him at the jail the day before.

  “Hello, Victoria,” he said, his voice as dry as West Texas. “I was just fixing to call you. About your husband.” He stopped there and sniffed the air as his eyes traveled over her rumpled and torn clothing. “Is that gasoline I smell?”

  Victoria ignored the question. “What about Valentine?” she demanded. “What the hell have you done?”

  The skin on Nolan’s face went tight to the bone, giving his shriveled face an even more skeletal cast. He took the time to settle his hat on his head and straighten the brim before he replied.