Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  “Let’s see what she has to say,” Blighe said. “Let’s get in there.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Steele knocked, then opened the door and stepped back. Jenni Blighe stepped into the cramped interview room. She sat across from Martina and Tatiana, crossing her arms. Steele noticed the tight definition of her biceps. He’d heard she’d been obsessed with working out since her ordeal with Jeter Wolfe. He retreated to the corner of the room.

  “I’m Jenni Blighe. I am a crown prosecutor. I understand you want to speak with me.”

  Martina stared at Blighe. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Blighe glanced at a file. “Martina, we’ve arrested you several times for prostitution and drugs. Perhaps you saw me in court?”

  “Nyet. Not there.”

  Blighe glanced at the other girl. Tatiana slunk back in the chair, trying to slip behind Martina. Blighe sat back, relaxed her posture and smiled.

  “Tatiana?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I need to know you are talking to me voluntarily, and the officers”—Blighe glanced at Steele—“have not in any way influenced your decision.”

  Martina stared at Steele. “We go to jail, no?”

  Blighe shook her head. “No, you will not go to jail.”

  “They not make us talk. I decide is okay.”

  “This is your and Tatiana’s choice,” Blighe said.

  Martina placed a hand on Tatiana’s arm. “Dah, we choose. I talk for both. We talk, no jail.”

  Blighe nodded. “Correct. No jail.”

  “You help us be safe?” She glanced at Steele. “No men?”

  “I guarantee that,” Blighe said.

  “Ask questions.”

  Blighe grabbed a pen and a yellow legal pad. “Were you two in the tattoo parlor when the murders happened?”

  “Dah,” Martina said.

  Blighe’s blue eyes darted between the teens. “Did either of you see the face of the murderer?”

  “Nyet.”

  Blighe cocked her head “Did the murderer talk to you?”

  “Dah.”

  Blighe straightened. “What did he say?”

  “Gave money. Tell us to go. Said if cops get us, say what we saw, but tell cop’s black car outside.”

  Blighe scribbled notes. “That’s all he said?”

  Tatiana whispered in Martina’s ear. “Ya, bird on front of car.”

  “A bird.” Blighe glanced at Steele. “Then what did you do?”

  “We go out to street.”

  “Did you see the black car with the bird?”

  “Nyet.”

  “No car?”

  Tatiana vigorously shook her head.

  “Did the man say or do anything else?”

  Tatiana whispered to Martina. “Why you think is a man?”

  Blighe’s head swung up from her legal pad. “I’m sorry? You said—”

  Martina shook head. “Nyet. You said man.”

  “It was a woman?” Blighe sat back in her chair. Steele’s eyes widened.

  Martina shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Voice sounded, uh, different.”

  Blighe glanced from one girl to the other. “How so?”

  “Like trying to be deep,” Martina said. “Some words not deep.”

  “How big was the killer?”

  “Big?”

  “Large.” Blighe gestured to Steele. “Like this man?”

  Martina shook her head and pointed at Blighe. “Nyet. Like you.”

  Zerr waited in the hall outside the interview room. No sense jamming the room with people and scaring the ladies further. He watched through the window in the door for two minutes, then decided that was a waste of time. He headed down the hall and talked to the desk sergeant. At this time of morning, even the criminals were tired, so there were few arrests and the booking area was quiet.

  The back door opened. Sergeant Toscana stepped in. “Hey, Zerr. What brings the TSU out in the wee hours of the morning? I heard nothing on the radio.”

  “Morning, Sarge. Steele and I were doing a follow-up. It took longer than we thought.”

  Toscana glanced around. “Where’s Steele?”

  Zerr jerked his head toward the interview rooms. “He’s interviewing two hookers with Blighe.”

  “You’ve got the crown prosecutor involved?” Toscana’s eyes widened. “At four in the morning with hookers?”

  Zerr shrugged. “We think they have information about the murders at the tattoo parlor.”

  Toscana sucked on her lower lip. “This is huge.”

  “We hope so. I should check on the third girl.” Zerr headed down the hall.

  Toscana followed. “A third girl?” She peered in the window where Blighe and Steele were conducting the interview. Her jaw tightened. The second room was empty. In the third room a lady sat in a chair, eyes closed, head on the table.

  “She won’t talk,” Zerr said. “I need to get her something to drink. I forgot about her when she said she wouldn’t talk. Can you keep an eye on her? I’ll be right back.”

  “No problem.” Toscana stared at the woman through the window as Zerr headed down the hall.

  The interview door swung open. Blighe stepped out and headed down the hall past Zerr.

  “Wait,” Zerr shouted. “What did they say?”

  Blighe stopped and peered over her shoulder. “I’m in a rush, it’s god knows what time. I need to write my notes, prepare a presentation for a judge, and, oh yeah, I’m in court at nine-thirty.”

  “I’m not asking for a detailed synopsis.” Zerr stepped in front of Blighe. “What did they say? Can they clear Brad?”

  “There’s enough to their story to suggest his car was not at the crime scene until after the murders.”

  “It’s all circumstantial,” Steele added, joining them in the hallway.

  Blighe shrugged. “Doesn’t change the ballistic evidence, though.”

  “There’s a lot of reasonable doubt,” Zerr said.

  “It’s up to a judge or jury to decide reasonable doubt.” Blighe put her hand on Zerr’s chest and pushed him away. “How about we talk this afternoon? I need to go.”

  Zerr stepped aside. “Sure, no problem.” His voice grew icy. “Forget that you owe your life to Brad.”

  Blighe kept walking and raised a finger.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Despite careful planning and agonizing over the tiniest details, the timetable would no longer work. The final act had to start immediately. It was an inconvenience. Not everything was in place. This was not a perfect time, but there was no option. With luck, it might work better. It would be Dice’s crowning achievement and Coulter’s farewell performance. With Coulter out of the picture, Dice would have to take a break, give things time to cool down.

  Dice drove to the southwest community of Lakeview and cruised the streets. The early hour and the biting cold kept most people inside. Other than tow trucks and taxis, few vehicles were on the road. From surveillance, the odds were better than fifty percent that the target would arrive soon. He’d come by taxi, so picking out the vehicle wouldn’t be as difficult as it would be if he caught a ride with a friend, although that was still possible—slim, but possible.

  When a taxi drew close, Dice’s heart beat faster, breath deepened and eyes focused. Several times it was a false alarm. It was interesting how many people were out and using taxis.

  Then brake lights shone as the yellow taxi pulled to the curb a block ahead.

  The occupant stepped out and stopped at the driver’s window. He waved as the taxi drove off. Dice pulled ahead and honked. The man faced the lights heading toward him. Dice rolled down the driver’s window and waved the man over.

  He stumbled through the snow and leaned into the window.

  Dice swung a lightning-fast punch out the window. The man staggered backward, grabbing his nose, then fell on his butt. Dice jumped out of the vehicle.

  They struggled in the snow, but not for
long. Dice rolled the man on his face, secured his wrists and legs, shoved a cloth in his mouth, and placed tape over the gag. Dice dragged the man to the back of the vehicle, opened the door and, after several attempts, finally pulled him onto the back seat. A quick search produced a baggie of heroin and all the paraphernalia.

  Chapter Sixty

  Kearse’s secretary opened the door and waved Archer and Jackson into the mayor’s office. Mayor Roger Kearse was pacing behind his antique oak desk. He was short and overweight with red veins weaving throughout his nose. Generally, his blue eyes sparkled, and his chubby face had a mischievous expression. His shaggy brown hair looked like he’d forgotten to brush it this morning. Kearse was pale, his eyes gray and dull, and his face sagged. He appeared twenty years older than his age of thirty-eight. Archer had never seen Kearse appear this ghastly.

  Archer waited for Kearse to acknowledge their presence. Archer had been in this office a few times, but there were new photos on the walls. Kearse with the Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau, the Calgary Stampeders football players, some Calgary Stampede officials, in the Stampede parade, and even a photo of Kearse in the St. Louis Hotel Bar.

  Kearse spun away from the window and glanced at the men. “Take a seat.” He pointed to two stuffed chairs, remained standing, then stared out his office window again.

  Archer had no clue what this was about. All he knew was that the mayor’s office called. The mayor needed to see Jackson and him immediately.

  Archer sat back in the chair, crossed his legs, placed his hands in his lap and waited. Jackson was less patient. He sat back, then forward. He picked lint off his suit jacket, stared at his boots, then rubbed the toes on the back of his pants, satisfied that he’d gotten the slush and salt off and attained a shine.

  Finally, the mayor spoke. “I have a nephew. Michael Trant. He’s twenty-three. My sister’s kid. He had it easy growing up, didn’t want for much. He never learned to work because his parents gave him whatever he asked for. Somehow, that wasn’t enough. In his teens, what he wanted was drugs. Usual story. Smoked some grass in early high school.” Kearse shrugged. “Not a big deal then.”

  Kearse stepped back to the window.

  “Then it was heroin,” he said. “Before long, Michael was using in excess of the money he had, so he stole from his parents. Money at first, then he took stuff from the house and sold it or traded it for drugs. Small stuff to start. A pair of earrings—ones my sister didn’t wear. Then valuable possessions went missing. A gold watch, a pearl necklace and a vintage guitar. They both covered for him—my sister the most. I don’t know how many times I heard, ‘He’s a good boy.’”

  Archer waited as silence extended between them.

  Kearse let out a deep breath and his shoulders sagged. “Early this year, Michael was stopped at the Calgary airport and his luggage was searched. They found four kilos of heroin and charged him with importing illegal drugs. He was facing ten, maybe fifteen years in prison. My sister begged me to help. I tried to convince her he wasn’t a small boy, he was a man and needed to face the consequences of his actions. She was inconsolable. I contacted the crown prosecutor, the premier, and the RCMP. They kept it quiet. I brokered a deal. He provided the details of the drugs he received in Mexico and the operation here. In return, no jail time and mandatory rehab. The RCMP passed that information on to the Mexican Federales. The RCMP made dozens of arrests here, taking down an international smuggling ring. I’m not sure what happened in Mexico.”

  Jackson snorted. “Michael wasn’t charged?”

  “To make it appear legitimate, he was arrested and charged,” Kearse said. “His trial isn’t for another nine months to a year. By then, the other trials will be done and the smuggling gang in jail. Then Michael’s charges will be dropped.”

  “How does he explain that he’s not in jail?” Archer asked. “Surely, the dealers would come after him.”

  “Since it was his first serious crime, the court granted bail, ordered mandatory rehab, and he has a curfew.”

  Archer’s patience hit a wall. “I’m not sure how this has anything to do with us. It seems the court has this under control.”

  “Michael is missing.”

  Jackson’s head lifted. “How long has he been gone?”

  “He didn’t come home last night.”

  “With all respect, Mr. Mayor,” Archer said. “We have a major investigation going. I can get detectives over here to help find Michael.”

  “I’m not explaining this well.” Kearse sagged like an enormous weight had fallen on his shoulders. “He was kidnapped.”

  “That would have been a perfect place to start,” Jackson said, scowling. “When was he taken?”

  “Sometime late last night or early this morning.”

  “From his house?” Jackson asked.

  Kearse stared at his hands. “No. Probably not. He, uh, misses curfew a lot.”

  “So, anyone watching him would know that?” Jackson said.

  Kearse nodded.

  “How do you know he was kidnapped?” Jackson asked.

  “I received a phone call at seven telling me that Michael had been taken.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Roger,” Jackson said. “What other important stuff are you holding back?”

  “I thought it was important you knew the complete story.”

  “Did you record the call?” Archer asked.

  “I didn’t have the chance. The call was brief. The person said Michael would be killed unless—”

  “Unless what?” Archer asked.

  “He said there are a few demands. Michael is publicly charged and returned to jail. I admit what I did to get the deal and resign.”

  “That’s it?” Archer asked.

  “There’s one additional thing,” Kearse said. “We have to give them the four kilos of heroin, as well.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Jackson shouted.

  “They want their product back, and revenge for snitching,” Archer said.

  “Michael is a screwup, but he doesn’t deserve to die,” Kearse said.

  “We’re not putting four kilos of heroin on the street,” Jackson snarled.

  Kearse put his hands together like he was praying, his eyes pleading.

  “But my nephew is dead if we don’t.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Jackson was the last one to arrive at the truck stop restaurant. He tossed his parka on a chair and slid in next to Steele, who was sitting across from Zerr.

  “What’s so important we had to meet early this morning?” Steele asked.

  “It’s eight-thirty.” Jackson rolled his eyes. “Shit is hitting the fan.”

  “You think?” Steele said. “We haven’t been to bed yet.”

  Zerr hunched over his coffee. “Coulter is about to end up in jail.”

  “Coulter isn’t the pressing problem anymore,” Jackson said.

  “What the hell do you mean?” Zerr asked.

  The waitress poured coffee and dropped three menus on the table.

  “The mayor called Deputy Chief Archer and me to a meeting.” Jackson glanced around the restaurant, then leaned over the table and whispered, “Mayor Kearse’s nephew, Michael Trant, was kidnapped.”

  “What?” Steele said.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Why kidnap him?” Steele asked.

  Jackson related the story of the drug smuggling, the deal made, and the disappearance of the heroin.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Zerr said.

  “When did they take him?” Steele asked.

  The waitress came by and refilled coffees. “Decided yet, boys?”

  Jackson waved her off. “Kearse got the call this morning. Trant disappeared late last night or early morning.”

  “We haven’t heard about this,” Steele said. “We should be working on a hostage rescue plan.”

  “Kearse wants this kept quiet,” Jackson said.

  “No way Archer agrees with this,” Steele said
.

  “He doesn’t, but he hasn’t figured out a game plan yet.” Jackson sipped his coffee. “Keep in mind we learned about this thirty minutes ago.”

  Steele stirred some cream into his coffee. “What does the kidnapper want?”

  Jackson sipped his coffee again.

  “Well?” Steele said.

  Jackson didn’t meet his eyes. “The four kilos of heroin.”

  “No shit,” Steele said. “They know there’s no way we’ll turn the drugs over to them.”

  Jackson nodded. “True.”

  “Who is the kidnapper?” Zerr asked.

  Jackson shrugged. “Best guess is the kidnappers are the drug dealers that Michael was carrying the drugs for.”

  “Are we talking about the bikers?” Zerr asked. “Pickens and the Hells Angels? Pickens controls a lot of the crime in this city.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, not local dealers or the Hells Angels. Those drugs were part of an international drug smuggling ring. He smuggled the drugs from Mexico, but no telling for sure where the heart of the operation was.”

  “What if it’s a new gang?” Zerr asked.

  “Possibly,” Steele said. “The guys at the tattoo parlor were Russian. The hookers are Russian. It’s possible the pimp and his chauffer were working for the Russians.”

  “No one will take on the Hells Angels,” Zerr said.

  “They might if they had backing, say a Russian mafia,” Steele said.

  “Oh shit. Another street war.”

  “I like your idea that it’s the Russians,” Jackson said.

  “We can start checking into this,” Steele said.

  Jackson held up a hand. “Archer will get the drug squad and Tommy Devlin working on that side of it. You two need to find Brad.”

  Steele took a quick peek at Zerr.

  Jackson peered at Steele, then Zerr. “You two assholes know something, don’t you?” Jackson’s face went from red to purple. Veins pulsated at his temples. He chewed a bottom lip and shook his head. “I’m stupid. I should have known. Tell me, now.”