Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  “I’m Sadie.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you Annie?”

  She nodded.

  “You took my seat.” Sadie cocked her head.

  “I know.” Annie grinned. “I’ve seen you on TV a few times. You’re serious when you’re on the air.”

  Sadie sat across from Annie. “I’m serious all the time.”

  Annie sipped her drink. “I doubt that.”

  “Why?” Sadie reached for her coffee.

  “If you were serious all the time, Brad wouldn’t be interested in you.”

  Sadie’s hand stopped with her drink halfway to her mouth. “What?”

  “Oh, come on. Girl to girl.” Annie leaned over the table. “Surely that can’t come as a surprise to you.”

  “He … he treats me like a necessary evil.”

  “He’s never liked the press, that’s true. For some reason, he’s making an exception for you.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Sadie sipped the coffee. “Brad is guarded about what he tells me.”

  Annie grinned. “But he tells you stuff.”

  “Sure.” Sadie shrugged. “Not career-defining scoops, although god knows I’ve tried.”

  Annie laughed. “I always thought it was guys who were clueless.” She shook her head. “He’s in trouble, he could be charged with multiple murders, and who does he go to for help? Not me. Not his best friends. You.”

  “I don’t think he had a lot of options.”

  “True. But he would never go to someone he didn’t trust.”

  Sadie stared at the table. “I nearly reported him last night. Again this morning.”

  “But you didn’t.” Annie sipped her drink. “He knew you wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not so sure. He was defeated last night. I got a feeling that if they arrested him, he’d be okay with it. That he didn’t care anymore.”

  “And this morning?”

  Sadie sipped her coffee. “The sleep did him good.”

  “Sleep?” Annie grinned.

  “Yes, sleep.” Sadie glared. “That’s it.”

  “If you say so.” Annie’s grin widened.

  “Enough with the chitchat.” Sadie sat forward. “Brad told me about the code and what it means to you.”

  Annie nodded and stared at her mug. “It’s crazy we didn’t need to use it over the past eighteen months.” Annie’s eyes clouded over, then she stared out the window. “How much can a person take? How many times can their life go to shit and they’re expected to jump back up?”

  “Brad said you’ve been through some horrible stuff,” Sadie said softly.

  Annie’s eyes scrunched. “I wasn’t talking about me. Brad. Is he safe?”

  “He’s safe … for now. I don’t think anyone will search for him at my place. But he’s already going crazy. He wants to get out and clear his name.”

  Annie stared over Sadie’s shoulder. “He can’t go out until dark.”

  “He knows that. I get the feeling he doesn’t enjoy being cooped up.”

  Annie snorted. “He doesn’t.”

  Sadie sipped her coffee. “How’s Lobo?”

  “Wondering where his dad is.”

  “Brad is lost without him.”

  “Lobo is his support, his constant,” Annie said. “That dog is fine tuned to his emotions. Now what? As much as it’s a pleasure to meet you and have a chat, there’s an enormous problem to solve.”

  Sadie set her mug on the table and leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a place where Brad takes Lobo for a swim when it’s warmer. Tell Steele and Zerr to be there at midnight.”

  Annie nodded, set a wrapped present on the table. “Please give this to Sissy.”

  “A birthday present?”

  “Better.” Annie stood and headed out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Brad stood behind the curtains, staring at downtown. He knew cops out there were searching for him. They wouldn’t find him. But staying in this apartment wasn’t helping clear his name. He needed to find the killer. Something he’d been unable to do when he had free rein of the city and all the police resources at his fingertips. Staring out the window wasn’t accomplishing anything.

  He sat at the kitchen table and dumped out the contents of the knife repair kit. It was a mix of screws, miniature screwdrivers, glue, a slim container of a cleaning solvent and a tiny sharpening stone. He examined his blade. None of this stuff would help much. He used the stone to grind out a few nicks in the blade. He checked the kitchen and found a junk drawer with some white rope. He fashioned a loop out of the rope and glued it to the blunt end of the blade. That was the best he could do. He set the blade next to the leather sheath. Not that he needed that blade, he was carrying another tactical knife he’d bought at the store. Working on the knife was about exercising his brain. Now what? He clipped his new tactical knife behind his belt and, with nothing better to do with it, slid the leather sheath and broken knife into his boot.

  Sadie had a desk that faced the window. He sat and searched for a pen and paper. He opened the drawer in the middle of the desk. Plenty of pens. He pulled out a couple. Pens that were given out for promotions—Calgary Herald, CFAC TV, CKQR radio and CFCN News, to name a few. The top side drawer was filled with, well, junk. Not even worth searching for paper.

  He opened the second drawer—it was filled with notebooks. He picked one up and opened it to the front page, dated from June. It was a journal of the sniper case. More detailed than any notes Brad had written. The notes covered the crimes, locations, who she interviewed, questions she had about the case, names of people she wanted to interview. He found his name with red stars beside it. Well, she’d done her best to interview him. As interested as he was, he closed the notebook and put it back.

  He opened the third drawer. It held a package of loose-leaf paper and grabbed a handful of sheets. Then a file folder caught his eye. Good Brad said, “Close the drawer.” Bad Brad said, “Ooo. Cool.” He set the file on the corner of the desk.

  For the next ninety minutes, he wrote everything he could remember about the cases. It wouldn’t be as complete as his wall charts, but it kept him busy going over everything again. When he was done, he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He rocked back in the chair and spun it, peering around the apartment.

  When he’d swung back to the desk, the file folder caught his attention. He opened the folder and read. He flipped the pages faster and faster. When he finished reading, he closed the folder and slid it back in the drawer. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what he’d read.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Steele shifted in the driver’s seat of the Suburban. No matter which way he moved, something on his belt caught. They grabbed hamburgers at Peters’ Drive-In and parked facing the tattoo parlor.

  Steele stared at the converted house, willing a witness to walk out.

  “You know they boarded the place, right?” Zerr sucked hard at the straw in his milkshake.

  Steele dipped a few French fries into the ketchup up to his knuckles. He absently stuck the fries and his fingers in his mouth. “The girls in the porn den were the witnesses who said they saw a black Firebird outside when they escaped. But the cops didn’t pick them up until an hour later, then brought them back to the scene. Do you think that’s when they saw Brad’s car?”

  “Possibly.” Zerr’s cheeks pulled inward as he fought with the straw and shake.

  Steele glanced over. “Wait until it melts. You’ll give yourself an aneurism.”

  “I won’t admit defeat.”

  Steele rolled his eyes and dipped fries in the ketchup. “They hadn’t committed a crime, so they were released. Initially, they were picked up five blocks east and six blocks north. It can’t be random. They were going somewhere specific.”

  Zerr stabbed the straw repeatedly into the shake.

  “Would you put that down?”

  Zerr stopped mid-stab, then set the shake down. “I was
listening.”

  “How about offering some suggestions?”

  “Sure. The address they gave was fake, but they were found a few blocks from that address. So, Watson, the address was fake, but not the area.”

  “That’s brilliant, Sherlock. How does that help us?”

  Zerr took an enormous bite of hamburger, then pointed the burger at Steele. “They’re staying, living, squatting, whatever, in that area.” Bits of hamburger and bun sprayed. “As horrible as it is, they’re hookers. Not much prostitution happening on these streets. We have two options. First, we hang around that area tonight and see if we find them walking to catch a bus or cab. Or second, we cruise the stroll tonight. We can tell the downtown units to keep their eyes open for them. Shouldn’t be hard to spot a pack of hookers.”

  Steele munched the fries. He pointed to Zerr with a fry. “We could do both. We let the downtown guys know we’re searching for them, and we’ll hang around up here. If they show up downtown, we’re five minutes away. If they’re up here, we find them.”

  Zerr grabbed the fry and popped it in his mouth. “Then what?”

  “They lied,” Steele said. “They didn’t see a Firebird when they left, or they saw it when the cops brought them back. Or someone told them to say they saw the car.”

  “Who’d tell them that?”

  Steele rolled his eyes. “The killer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Sherlock, it’s all part of framing Brad. The audio from the video that we couldn’t make out said to tell something to the cops. I bet that was it.”

  Zerr chewed his hamburger and stared at the tattoo parlor. “That’s elaborate.”

  Steele swiveled in his seat toward Zerr. “Not if the plan all along was to frame him.”

  “Okay, say I go along with that. Who’s the killer?”

  “That, my friend, is what we have to figure out.”

  Zerr nodded and sucked on the straw. “I’m in. Where do we start?”

  Steele dipped the last of his fries. “I don’t have a clue.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Brad heard steps in the hallway. He eased away from the desk, then stepped to the hinge side of the door and waited. A key entered the lock, then the deadbolt retracted. The knob rotated, the door opened, and a shadow stepped past. Brad shouldered the door shut.

  Sadie screamed and dropped a box. Brad clamped his hand over her mouth. “It’s me.” He let go.

  She swung around and punched him on the jaw. The blow caught him off guard and he stepped back into the wall.

  “Don’t ever fucking do that again.” Her glare was icy cold. Her eyes flashed bolts of lightning.

  He held his hands out. “Sorry, I need to be cautious.”

  Sadie stepped over to him and grabbed his shirt lapels. “Who the hell did you think had a light footstep and opened the door with a key? TSU? They don’t fucking knock. You know that.”

  “Sadie, I’m sorry. You’re right. My mistake.”

  She pushed him against the wall. “What?”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  She let him go. “That’s better. I like it when a man apologizes and grovels.”

  She spun away from him, removing her red wool cap and jacket, untied her boots and kicked them into the closet. She strode past Brad and down the hall to her bedroom and slammed the door. His brain was still trying to figure out what just happened. Was she pissed at him or not?

  He picked up the parcel wrapped in birthday paper. A tag had the name Sissy on it.

  He took the box to the desk and opened it. Inside, packed in wax paper, was his first Browning Hi-Power 9mm and a holster that he’d used in TSU. Tucked underneath was a CZ75 9mm pistol in an ankle holster, and two boxes of 9mm ammunition. He grinned. Thank you, Annie.

  When the Gypsy Jokers and Satan’s Soldiers were at war two years ago, Brad had feared Maggie might be a target. So, for her birthday, he bought her a CZ75 and Briscoe had trained her to shoot. She’d killed two armed men holding her parents hostage. Now the gun he bought to protect Maggie might be the weapon that protected him. Thank you, Maggie.

  He set the guns back in the box and closed the lid. Then rifled through the dozen pages of notes. He’d started with the stabbing earlier in the year, the hesitation stabbing. The next murder was the dealer. No hesitation this time. What changed? How did the killer gain confidence? Training? But how do you train for that? Military operation? Possibly. Where was the Airborne deployed? A reason to be away for a month. Some of Giles’ and Torres’ friends. Angry ex-military with attitudes. Or deployed Airborne, with bigger attitudes. The gap between the first two killings was because of deployment and the killer was back for an extended time.

  That explained the dealer murder, and the killings at the tattoo parlor.

  But none of this explained the knowledge of homicide investigation, how evidence is gathered and preserved, or the intricate planning of setting him up. That practically shouted cop. Yet combining the characteristics of the military with the police procedure knowledge brought up a handful of suspects—and if it wasn’t him, then it was his friends, Steele and Zerr. Not a chance. Jackson? No way.

  There were other cops who’d had the tactical training, but except for the newest team, Brad knew them all. Knew them well. What reason could they have for setting him up?

  He sat back and flipped through his notes again. There was no bolt of clarity. He set the notes aside and slid a half-dozen clean sheets of paper in front of him. He tapped the pages with his pen, reviewing the evidence against him.

  Dog Hair

  He was always covered in dog hair.

  Car at the Scene

  Not possible.

  At Maggie’s grave. No proof. No alibi.

  Death of Biker Arnie Fletcher &

  Vinnie Bevan Attack on Girlfriend

  Coincidences, but there’s no such thing as coincidences.

  Bullets Matched to Gun

  Not a chance.

  The ballistic match was the most damning evidence. He didn’t understand how this was possible. Aside from the fact that if he were the killer, which he wasn’t, he’d never use his service pistol. Not that he’d say this out loud, but he had daily access to guns from shitheads on the street. None of them were traceable. So why use his own gun to commit a crime and risk having it tracked back to him? Why have that gun on him when Archer asked for it?

  If anyone but Sturgeon had verified the ballistics, he’d have shouted that they tainted the evidence. But he couldn’t deny Sturgeon’s results.

  He sat back in the chair and chewed the pen. His gun was the murder weapon. But it wasn’t. He knew the feel of that gun. The grips fit into his hand like a handcrafted glove. He would know in a second if someone had switched guns.

  The grips could be switched, but that was a lot of work and Brad’s gun was never out of his sight, unless it was locked up, either at home, in his locker at work, or at arrest processing.

  His work locker was the logical choice for tampering with his gun. But he couldn’t remember the last time he used the locker. He hadn’t worked out at headquarters in six months. There’s no way this was planned that long ago. Unless it was?

  He felt liquid in his mouth and then a horrible taste. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and it came away blue. Shit. He’d chewed through the pen.

  He raced to the kitchen sink and grabbed a handful of paper towels. He stuffed them into his mouth, then spit the rest into the towels. He ran the water, rolled his head under the tap and let the warm water run into his mouth, then out into the sink. He stuffed additional paper towel into his mouth, then rinsed again.

  “Are you okay?”

  He twisted his head toward the voice.

  Sadie was standing beside the sink, a quizzical expression on her face.

  “You are weird.” She shook her head and headed to the front door. “I’m going for a jog. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’ll be back in an hour.”


  From under the tap, Brad watched her leave. At least it gave him an opportunity to clean up. He headed to the bathroom and stared at his image in the mirror. The left side of his lips and cheek were blue. He grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed. Soap seeped into this mouth. He gagged and filled his mouth from the tap. After five minutes the blue was faint, and his cheeks were red and sore.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He started the shower. He used soap and shampoo to get rid of the last of the ink. The bathroom was a cloud of steam. He wrapped a towel around his waist, opened the door and headed to the bedroom. He grabbed the bag on the bed, the shopping Sadie had done for him this morning. Underwear, socks, black T-shirts, black jeans, black sneakers, black coat and a black wool beanie?

  She’d also picked up some toiletries. He debated if he should shave. Probably not. He grabbed the toothbrush, globbed some paste onto the bristles, and headed back to the bathroom. Although it was merely a few steps, he heard the deadbolt retract and the door open.

  Sadie stepped in. They were face to face. Sadie in sweats and a hoodie. Brad in a towel.

  Sadie tossed her keys into a glass bowl by the door. “By all means. Make yourself at home.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m just used to, well, other than Lobo, you see—”

  “Forget it. But finish quick. I need to get ready to go to work.” Her jaw clenched. “I’m not used to sharing either.” She stomped to her bedroom and shut the door—not a slam, but damned close.

  Brad spit out the toothpaste, rinsed the sink and went back to the room. He changed quickly and stuffed the clean clothes and toiletries into a gym bag. He grabbed, his notes, some fresh paper, and a handful of new pens. He started to leave but stopped. He grabbed the guns and ammunition out of the box, then loaded the guns and slipped spare magazines in the parka pockets. He slid the Hi-Power into his holster and slipped it into the small of his back. The CZ and holster were attached to his right leg. He grabbed his broken tactical knife, was about to toss it back on the table, then clipped it his left boot.

  Brad stepped out of the apartment building into familiar territory. For four years he’d patrolled this area. He knew it like the back of his hand, day or night.