Jennifer seated herself behind the big cherry wood desk. “So what brings you downtown today?”
“Let’s see,” Catrina started ticking off points on her fingers. “First, I had to congratulate my best friend. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.”
“Thanks, but that means you’ll have to find another attorney.”
“No disrespect, but that won’t be a problem. Chris Hardwick, Higuera’s friend, is starting to build himself a nice little practice and he’s ve
ry attuned to women’s issues.”
“You didn’t come all the way down here to tell me that.”
“Well, I wanted to see your new digs, too.” Catrina ticked off the second point on her fingers. “But the real reason is a case I’m working on.” She raised the third finger. “I think I have enough evidence to show the suspect killed two of his wives. I just need to get it to the DA.”
Jennifer tucked her short brown hair behind her ear. “Cat, why come to me? Can’t you just take this to the police? Murder is not in my jurisdiction.”
Catrina leaned forward and put both of her hands on Jennifer’s desk. “There’s been a shake-up at the DA’s office. Petrocelli is now in charge of sexual assault cases. You know what that means.”
Jennifer leaned back in her chair and let out a little chuckle. “That idiot. I get it. He’ll never take on a case you brought him.”
“That’s why I want to run the evidence by you. Get your opinion on whether or not this is solid enough to give to the police.”
“Okay, lay it on me,” Jennifer said. “Then when we’re done, you can buy me lunch. There’s a little Mexican bistro around the corner I’ve been dying to try.”
Catrina put on her reading glasses, pulled out her case file and presented the evidence. “We have Mr. Brody Barrett. He owns a business that gets donations for big-name charities. The only problem is that we can’t find any record of him passing those donations on to the charities.”
Jennifer pulled out a yellow legal pad. “Surely you’re not building a case on a charity scam?”
“That’s just background. Mr. Barrett lost two wives. Both deaths were ruled accidents, but there’s a lot of similarities.”
Catrina proceeded to lay out her evidence, piece by piece, making the case that an ADA would have to put before a jury.
“This is tough,” Jennifer said when Catrina was done. “This is mostly circumstantial and supposition. No eye witnesses. The defense will say that the police already ruled these cases accidents to build reasonable doubt. The big challenge is getting a judge to admit evidence about the first wife’s death in the trial for the second wife’s death.”
“So, how do you do that?” Catrina pulled off her reading glasses.
Jennifer put down her pen and looked at Catrina. “The first thing is to swear out a warrant for Barrett’s arrest on murder charges. We can’t do anything unless we have a case. Then the ADA needs to file the motions. You want to try to get a friendly judge. Carson or Jefferson might be good. The others will throw this out before it settles on their desks.”
“But you think it’ll fly?”
Jennifer glanced at her notes. “You know that there is no such thing as a sure thing. I think with a good prosecutor you can make a case.”
Catrina shook her head. “Yeah, but we’ve got Petrocelli. Do you think we can get it assigned to another ADA?”
“Not likely. You know Petrocelli is always looking for ways to get himself in the news. This will be a page-one story.”
“Okay, so where do we go from here?” Catrina put down her case file and settled back in the chair.
“My best suggestion is for you to turn all of this over to Tom. Let the SPD work it for a while, build a case and let him take it to Petrocelli. You’re going to have to step out of this as soon as it’s a police department case.”
“Well, we better move fast. It looks like our Mr. Barrett is getting ready to skip town.”
“How so?”
“He just found a little chippie who knows how to sail and bought a big sailboat. I’m guessing they’re going to take off before we can do anything.”
****
Catrina sat in the gallery section of King County Superior Court. A courtroom was a courtroom. Like all she had seen, there was the judge’s bench, the clerk’s desk, a place for the court reporter and a witness stand. The jury’s seats were in a boxed-off area to the judge’s left, the attorneys’ tables in front of the wooden partition separating the spectators’ gallery from the participants.
“The People vs. Brody Barrett,” the court clerk called.
The judge studied the file the clerk handed him. He looked at the prosecution table with a pained look on his face.
The young attorney sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, Jan Dickerson for the people.” The young ADA. looked like he was still in high school.
They keep getting younger and younger every year, Catrina thought.
“Mr. Dickerson, what charges does the state bring against the defendant?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon, Your Honor. The defendant attacked a woman with a knife in the parking garage of his condo. We will show . . . “
“That’s enough, Mr. Dickerson, I think I understand the charge.” He turned to the defense table. “Is the defense ready to enter a plea?”
A tall, thin woman with short brown hair rose from the defense table. “Andrea Wilson for the defense, Your Honor.”
“Ah, Ms. Wilson, welcome to the Pacific Northwest. I dare say we do things a little differently here than in the Big Apple.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Brody pleads not guilty.”
“The plea has been entered.” The judge made a notation in the file. “The prosecution on bail?”
Mr. Dickerson flipped back his slightly long hair. “The prosecution requests remand.”
“Your Honor!” Ms. Wilson shot from her chair.
“Please be seated, Ms. Wilson. Let the prosecution say his piece, then you can have your say. That’s the way we do it here.”
“Humph.” Ms. Wilson returned to her seat.
“You were saying, Mr. Dickerson?” the judge asked.
“Ah . . . Yes, the prosecution requests remand, Your Honor. Mr. Brody is the prime suspect in two murder one cases and has the means to flee the country.”
“Now, Ms. Wilson.” The judge turned to the defense lawyer. “It’s your turn. You get to speak now.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. This is a simple assault case. Mr. Brody is a pillar of the community. He owns a charitable organization that collects donations for many worthwhile causes. He is a deacon in his church. He has ties to the community. He is no threat to the community, Your Honor.”
Ms. Wilson looked down at her yellow note pad. “This is a totally spurious charge, Your Honor. There is no evidence to support it at all. Mr. Brody was attacked by Ms. Flaherty. He merely defended himself. Ms. Flaherty and the police colluded to produce this charge to keep him from leaving town on another charge.”
“Your Honor!” Mr. Dickerson leapt to his feet. “This is obviously not true. The prosecution will prove . . .”
“Mr. Dickerson, save it for the trial. You will speak when you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Dickerson slumped into his chair.
“As I was saying, Your Honor,” Ms. Wilson continued, “There have been no other charges filed against my client. If the prosecution wishes to hold him for those charges, let him file them. Until then, my client is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Thank you both for the lesson in jurisprudence. The defendant is released on his own recognizance. Mr. Barrett will surrender his passport and will not leave the city without prior approval.”
He banged his gavel on the desk. “Next case.”
Brody Barrett walked out onto Third Street a free man. Andrea Wilson marched next to him in a long red coat with a fur collar.
“I guess that’s a good st
art,” Brody said. “How are you going to beat this rap?”
“You’ve been watching too much TV, Brody.” She shook her head. “That’s not the way it works. We’ll wait until they file the murder charges, then I’ll ask the judge to consolidate the charges. This will get lost in the shuffle.”
“Murder charges! Are they really going to file murder charges?”
The dark-haired woman looked at Brody like he was a wayward little boy. “That’s what this is all about. They want to keep you here in Seattle so they can sew up their case.”
Brody’s usual smile left his face. “But they can’t prove anything. Can they? I mean, they’ve already ruled both deaths accidents.”
“That will be the center of our defense. That alone should build reasonable doubt.”
The traffic light changed and Andrea crossed the street leaving Brody staring at his feet.
****
Detective Sergeant Tom Bremen sat in the driver’s seat of the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria parked across the street from the Pike Towers Condos. The once decrepit neighborhood was now some of Seattle’s most expensive real estate.
“How long we gonna sit here, Sarge?” Marty McGinnis asked.
Marty had been Tom’s partner for over seven years now. He had evolved from a rookie detective to a damn good cop.
“As long as it takes. I know that creep is gonna run for it. Just wait.”
Marty pulled out a stick of gum and offered one to his partner.
“Naw, thanks.”
Putting ear buds in his ears, Marty found a play list on his iPhone, lowered his seat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Wake me if anything happens.”
This wasn’t Tom’s first stake out. He reached for his Styrofoam cup of coffee and pried off the lid. He glanced at his partner and sighed.
It was just after ten PM when the garage doors rolled up and a silver Mercedes S-Class turned onto the street. He was headed east.
Tom picked up the microphone and keyed it. “Units one and two, the suspect is headed east on Virginia. Do not make contact.”
When the Crown Vic started up and followed the Mercedes, Marty snapped to attention.
“What we got?”
“Suspect is headed east on Virginia. He’s driving the speed limit. I don’t think he’s made us.”
Marty took over the microphone. “Suspect turning south on Second.”
“Roger that,” a voice said over the radio.
“South on Second,” another voice said.
The Mercedes continued its leisurely pace parallel to the waterfront on Second Avenue. It moved into the left lane and halted at a red light. An instant before the light turned green, the big German sedan lunged forward, tires squealing and made a sharp right turn in front of a bus.
“Suspect’s made us.” Tom grabbed the gum ball machine and attached it to the roof. Marty hit the siren. The 4.6 liter V8 roared as the Crown Vic shot into the intersection and made a hard right onto Spring Street.
“He’s headed for Alaskan Way,” Marty screamed, his voice full of excitement.
“Units one and two, we’re following him onto Alaskan Way. Seal off all southbound off-ramps and on-ramps.”
“Ten four,” two voices said over the radio.
The Mercedes hit the on ramp at fifty miles an hour and accelerated like a rocket.
The air along the waterfront filled with the screech of sirens.
Tom swung onto the on-ramp and floored the Vic. The force pushed him back into his seat. A smile crossed his face. “Hold on, cowboy.”
The Ford was fast, but it wasn’t catching up to the fleeing Mercedes.
“Careful, Tom, I think that German-engineering marvel has a top speed over one-eighty,” Marty said.
“This old boat is lucky to hit one-hunddred. Downhill. With a tail wind,” Tom said.
The speedometer in the Ford passed one hundred miles an hour. The long straight stretch of road was perfect for airing it out.
“Central, this is Sergeant Bremen, badge number 610. I’m involved in a high speed chase. The suspect is considered armed and dangerous. I need all on and off ramps on Alaskan Way south of Spring closed off. I need nail strips laid at Atlantic Street.”
“Roger that, Sarge. They’re on their way.”
The silver Mercedes was a thing of beauty. It flew down the causeway at speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour. The road was mostly straight, but the big car negotiated what curves there were without slowing down. The Ford couldn’t match it.
Alaskan Way Viaduct stood on concrete pillars high above the waterfront. Tom didn’t have time to admire the views of Elliot Bay, the docks or the giant Ferris wheel. Marty felt dizzy seeing the buildings flash by below him.
“Damn, this guy can drive.” Marty was holding onto the handle above his head. “They gonna get the strips laid before he blows past ‘em?”
Sweat was pouring down Tom’s brow. “They sure as hell better.”
The causeway dropped down to street level past downtown Seattle. It was more dizzying seeing the industrial buildings flying by when they were at the same level.
“Sarge, unit one,” the voice said over the radio. “We’ve got the on and off ramps locked down. You gonna get this guy before his gets past our trap?”
“Don’t know.” Tom heard sirens close by and looked in his rearview mirror. Three black and whites were desperately trying to catch up with him.
“Central, how they comin’ on those strips?”
“Working on it Sarge; what’s your twenty?”
“Pioneer Square. Your guys better hurry up; we’re flyin’.”
The Mercedes hit a bump in the road and went airborne. Tom and the Ford followed it into the sky. The Mercedes touched down as lightly as an airliner kissing the runway. Tom’s Ford hit hard, bottomed out the shocks and went into a skid.
Tom turned into the skid and brought the car back under control.
“Shit, Sarge, you tryin’ to kill us?” Marty asked.
Tom looked in his rearview mirror to see the three squad cars go airborne.
“This ain’t no road to drive this fast on.”
They blew past Pioneer Square.
“Royal Brougham comin’ up. You’ve only got a few seconds,” Marty said into the mic.
Tom saw the flashing red and blue lights on the road ahead. Three squad cars blocked the road with three more lined up behind them.
The Mercedes braked hard, hit the nail strips and spun out of control. The silver car turned two three-sixties and smashed into the crash barrier.
Tom hit the brakes. The heavy Ford slowed in a straight line.
“We gonna make it?” Marty screamed.
“Damn if I know.” Tom stood on the brakes. The intelligent part of his brain told him this was better than the old days, but the emotional part wanted to hear the tires screeching so he knew they were stopping.
The car still screamed forward. The patrol cars were too close.
Someone over there had a brain in his head. The parked squad cars scattered.
Tom blew through the space they had occupied only seconds before and came to a stop a few yards past the impact point.
“That was close,” Marty yelled, as he unfastened his seat belt.
Tom was already out of the car, drawing his gun.
Several officers were crouched down behind their cars, weapons drawn. There was one with a shotgun and one with an M-16.
“Alright, Barrett. Open the door and show me your hands,” Tom yelled, adrenaline still coursing through his blood stream.
Nothing happened.
The three cars following Tom dashed onto the scene and the doors flew open. Officers jumped out, guns in hands.
“Barrett, we’ve got you surrounded. You don’t have a chance. Open the door, show us your hands and come out peacefully.”
Tom looked at Marty and shook his head. Marty started to move towards the Mercedes.
“No, he’s mine.” Tom
held out his hand. “Cover me.”
Moving to the driver’s side door, Tom moved like a wraith. With his gun firmly in his right hand, he reached down and opened the door.
“What the fuck?”
An angelic face with bright blue eyes stared up at him.
“I’m sorry Officer, was I speeding? This car is just so powerful it’s hard to slow it down.”
****
Brody Barrett hated driving the beat up old Volkswagen Rabbit. Even worse were the loose fitting jeans and fisherman’s sweater. No sense of style at all.
He drove south down Stone Avenue as carefully as he could. He stopped for every light and stop sign, even if there was no one coming the other way.
When Stone dead ended at Lake Union, he turned left on Northlake Way.
Almost there. If Hailey did her job, I should be home free.
Driving past yacht brokers, boat yards and crummy little Mom and Pop stores, he passed Gas Works Park. There it was, the sign for Seattle Marina.
Brody turned on his right turn signal, slowed down and made a law-respecting turn into the parking lot. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere on the docks.
Hot damn. This place is as quiet as Blondie told me.
He found a parking spot close to the gate and punched in his pass code. The door opened and he stepped out onto the dock.
I made it. I’m free. Now I just gotta get that boat through the locks without killing anybody.
The thought made him smile. He would be killing someone soon, but not until she got him out of the country.
These cunts are so trusting.
He walked down the dock, his new boat shoes squeaking with every step he took.
“Hi, Brody, going somewhere?”
He recognized the female voice. It was low and scratchy, like someone who smoked for a hundred years.
“Over here.”
He turned to look at the house boat moored next to his Hans Christian 40.
“You!”
He saw a tall, attractive blonde sitting on a lawn chair sipping an ice tea with the fat cow that lived on the houseboat.
He ignored the woman and raced to his boat. Before he could unlock the hatch, the woman was in the cockpit with him.
Murder Strikes Twice: A Catrina Flaherty Mystery, Book 2 (Catrina Flaherty Mysteries) Page 9