Justice (The Galilee Falls Trilogy)

by Jennifer Harlow

  “Can’t you just wear an old one?”

  “These people give you shit if you show up with your old face, never mind a dress. I’ll just stop by the consignment shop near my place.”

  “Something funeral black, maybe?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  My phone rings. “No, I’m saving that for the wedding,” I say with a sneer. I pick it up. “Det. Joanna Fallon.”

  “Jo?” Justin asks.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I haven’t heard from you since yesterday. Just wanted to touch base and see how things are. Still hard at work?”

  “Always. I did, however, have time to have lunch with your better half today which I am sure you’ve heard all about by now.”

  “Yeah, she told me. I’m glad. She said you’ll be at the party tomorrow.”

  “That is the plan.”

  “I had Shannon send you a few dresses and shoes from our new line. I know how much you hate shopping.”

  I smile to myself and lean back in the chair. He knows me so well it’s scary. “What is it about men sending me clothes today? One more person does it, and I’m gonna start taking offense.”

  “Who else sent you clothes?” Justin asks.

  “The great Justice sent me a Kevlar coat.”

  “Really? That was nice of him. Why did he do that?”

  “Who knows, who cares?”

  “Is it nice?”

  “Very. Hey, maybe he’s gay!”

  Cam narrows his eyes and shakes his head at me. “No way,” he mouths.

  “Yeah it’s…possible,” Justin says. “I have no idea.”

  “Anyway, quit your worrying. Unless something big comes up, I promise I’ll be there tomorrow. With a surprise even.”

  “A surprise? Should I be worried?”

  “No. You’ll like this one. At least, I’m pretty sure you will.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” I pause. “Say hi to the family. Send them my love. Bye.” I hang up the phone.

  “What’s the surprise?” Cam asks.

  “None of your business. Quit eavesdropping and finish your work. I want to get out of here before Harry changes his mind.”

  It takes an hour and a half to leaf through the clippings and compose a one-page report about absolutely nothing. There’s no rhyme or reason to the articles that I can tell. He just cut out everything he could on the man for his own reasons. Know thy enemy, I guess.

  Cam leaves before me, as do Mirabelle and Kowalski, who saunter in and out after chasing a false lead. A few of the uniforms have to remain behind for clean up, but I slip out. I grab dinner on the way home and find five dresses on my couch to choose from. Justin must have given Shannon his key. Considering the woman has no problems with my occasional demands for errand running, I let this invasion of privacy slide. I settle on the cerulean one with black netting underneath that flares in a bell skirt down to my knees. Brings out my eyes and skin, my two best features. As I’m putting the other four back into their garment bags, my phone chirps letting me know I have a text. When I read it, a huge smile stretches across my face.

  I pull up to his apartment building half an hour later. His doorman, Bruce, opens the door for me. “Spiffy coat,” he says. I smile and nod. Harry lives on the second floor at the end of the hall. I fluff my hair, check my breath, and knock on the door.

  He’s still in his work clothes, but his shirt is untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has a phone to his ear, but smiles and waves me in. “No, I’m happy with our progress. We know—”

  The sight of me almost makes him drop the phone.

  The now open coat falls to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my birthday suit and black knee high boots. His mouth drops open. “Um, Randy, can I call you back? Something just came up.” He hangs up the phone, and we more than make up for lost time.

  I just can’t get enough of that man.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Interviews

  I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon, in my opinion the second best way to wake up. The first is a variation of what Harry and I were up to all last night. There’s always tomorrow morning. I stir in his four poster bed with a smile.

  He’s fully dressed at the stove pushing the sizzling cholesterol around. I open the paper on the table. V’s story is on the front page, though it’s below the fold and doesn’t get the headline or space Gearhead does. Besides the information I gave her, she contacted the prison, a few of Alkaline’s old goons all of whom both she and I went to high school with, and a forensic psychologist. Good reading, but it doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Harry sets down the plate of bacon and eggs in front of me, and sits down across from me with the same on his. “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  We both dig into our meals and read our respective papers. “So, quiet night?”

  “Yeah. You know, I’m beginning to think he did leave the city. He would have put his plan into effect by now.”

  I sip my coffee. “You do realize you just jinxed us, right?” I smile and nudge him with my big toe. “He’s probably setting charges at city hall as I speak. That’s on you.”

  “Cute.”

  “You know, there are other cases out there we can work. Murder doesn’t stop just because James Ryder busted out of prison.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m going to call the commissioner and see if I can get Kowalski and Mirabelle released from the task force.”

  “Why them?” I whine.

  “Because you’re the face of the investigation. If he does wreck havoc, and the press finds out we reneged on our promise, it’ll be a political bloodbath.” He drinks his coffee. “Speaking of faces, you’d better put yours on. You have another press conference this morning. The press office faxed the statement you’ll give a few minutes ago.”

  “They still want me to do that? Nobody cares anymore. If I speak, and there’s nobody around to listen, did I ever speak at all?” I lean back, all proud of myself for deep thinking. “Think about it.”

  He smirks. “You’re quite philosophical this morning.”

  “I will try anything not to have to put on make-up. You know that.”

  “Well, I don’t think you need it. You’re gorgeous just the way you are.”

  “Aww,” I say. “I’m glad you think that, but I’ve been on the Galilee worst dressed list far too many times to believe that. Sorry.”

  He blinks a few times, shakes his head, and then sighs. “You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” Harry asks, both sad and shocked.

  “Shut up,” I say, blushing. “I am not. I’m short. I need to lose ten pounds. I have cellulite. My hair’s frizzy and wild. I’m the color of paper. My nose is crooked. I can get away with many adjectives, but not beautiful.”

  He leans across. “You just named every aspect about you that drives me wild.” He kisses the bump on my nose. “You’re beautiful. And trust me, I am not the only one who thinks so. You should hear some of the comments the men make about you.”

  “Do you defend my honor?”

  “Well I will, starting tonight.”

  “You still want to go through with it?” I ask.

  “Do you?”

  I bridge the gap between us and kiss him. “More than anything.”

  And we prove our sentiments on the table.

  Later, he leaves while I gussy myself up for the cameras. When I get into the office, Cam and Kowalski sit behind their desks reading files and Harry’s door is closed when I saunter in. The press statement is on the top of my desk, and after a quick glance I push it aside. This is a happy zone and insipid writing is not allowed.

  “Jesus Christ, are you actually smiling?” Cam asks.

  I guess I am. I stop. “I got a good night’s sleep.”

  “Naw, that’s an ‘I got laid’ smile,” Cam says. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “His name is Mr. Rabbit and
I met him at my local sex shop, okay?”

  Cam grimaces. “Girl, I know you’re my partner and all, but sometimes you over share.”

  “You asked.”

  “I will never do it again.” He leans back in his chair. “You ready to face the cameras again?”

  “Never,” I say. “But I will. Anything come up last night?”

  “The dead guard’s wife is on her way in. The accountants found something interesting an hour ago.”

  “He had a secret bank account?”

  “In Switzerland of all places. The transfers originated from an account in the Caymans, so we can’t get the name of the person who holds that account.”

  “Naturally,” I say. “I told you.”

  “Fat lot of good it does us. The man’s dead. He can’t tell us jack.”

  “True, but I was still right. Makes me feel better.”

  A middle-aged woman with short hair, glasses, and suburban chic clothes is escorted in by Mirabelle. She’s nervous, glancing around the room like a skittish mouse. I guess I’d be the same if I was dragged out of bed and more or less strong-armed by the police to come in. She’s gonna need a friend. Kowalski gets up and joins his partner.

  “Who’s handling the interview?” I ask.

  “Kowalski and Mirabelle,” Cam says. “They got here before we did.”

  Damn that irresistible Harry. Almost makes the orgasm not worth it. Almost. I stand up. “I need coffee,” I say, standing up.

  “They’re not going to let you in there,” Cam calls as I walk away.

  “Yes, they will,” I shout back.

  “You have a press conference!”

  I ignore him. The press can wait while I do my job. Mirabelle and Kowalski are in the control room with Chip, our computer tech, while Mrs. Moore is on the monitor from Interview One. She bites her nails, on the verge of tears. Mirabelle examines the file with his partner looking over his shoulder.

  The control room has four computer monitors, each hooked up to the video feed from the interview room. Like this one, all the interview rooms are the size of a prison cell and beige without windows. There’s nothing in them but two to four chairs, and a tabletop with a steel hook toward the edge in case we need to restrain someone. They’re depressing and cold for a reason. If you want out, just tell us what we want to know. I’ve gotten used to the rooms, but I don’t like spending any more time in them than I have to. Great motivator for the people on both sides of the table.

  “Morning, gentlemen.”

  “Fallon,” Kowalski says. “Is that the famous jacket?”

  I’ve gone all black today with the silver buttons providing the only color. I run my hand over it. “Yep. But don’t worry, I’m sure yours is on its way.”

  “What do you want, Fallon?” Mirabelle asks.

  “We’ve worked together for years now. Thought I’d be transparent by now.”

  “You are. We’re doing this interview,” Kowalski says.

  “It’d be better if I did,” I say.

  “Because you’re a woman?” Mirabelle asks.

  “I am the face of this investigation. I chased after the villain who killed her man. I am personally trying to find her husband’s murderer.” I pause. “That and we both have boobs. It helps.”

  “No,” Kowalski says.

  “She’ll open up to me. Mirabelle, you just dragged her from her breakfast and fatherless children. We can do good cop/bad cop best. You scare her, I tend to the widow. You both know I’m right.”

  Kowalski sighs. “She is. Fine.”

  “Okay, Mirabelle go in there and just start pounding on her. I’ll come in a minute later and save her. Sound good?”

  “Sounds fine,” Mirabelle says before leaving.

  A few seconds later, he reappears on the screen with the widow. She does not seem happy to see him. She rubs her right temple as if she has a headache. As Mirabelle sits, I reach into the desk and retrieve two aspirin, putting them in my pocket.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Moore,” Mirabelle says.

  “Didn’t have much of a choice,” she says, still rubbing.

  “This is Det. Lawrence Mirabelle with Kelly Moore. It is Friday, May eighteenth, at approximately nine AM.” He opens the file. “You were married to C.O. Stuart Moore, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a happy marriage?”

  “As much as anyone else does, I guess.”

  “Guess it’s easy when your husband keeps secrets from you.”

  “I’m sorry?” she asks.

  “Your husband. Did he keep a lot of secrets from you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

  Mirabelle scoffs. “Okay, I got an easier one for you lady. A yes or no. Was your husband a good man? Law abiding?”

  “Of course!” she says, looking bewildered. “What is this about?”

  “I’m just trying to understand what kind of man your husband was. You know, was he an asshole? The second coming? Someone who cheats on his wife and taxes?”

  “Why are you asking me these things?” she asks, now as hostile as he is. “Why am I here?”

  “Oh. He getting a hero’s burial? They going to give that traitor a twenty-one gun salute?”

  I take that as my cue. I walk out of the control room with a bottle of water, take a moment to get into character, and then “barge in.” Mirabelle is sneering and Mrs. Moore is on the verge of tears. “Det. Mirabelle, why don’t you go get a cup of coffee?”

  “What? How dare—”

  “Now, please,” I say, my voice hard. As he walks past me, he glares hard. I just shake my head and shut the door behind him. I smile sympathetically at Moore, handing her the water and aspirin. “You looked like you could use this. It’s just aspirin.”

  She looks at the offering, no doubt wondering what the catch is, but takes it anyway. “Thank you.”

  I smile again and sit where Mirabelle was, and he is now where I was. She swallows the pills and sips the water. “I’m sorry, about him. We’re just all under a lot of pressure to find Alkaline. We’ve barely slept in days. He shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  “It’s fine,” she whispers.

  “No, it’s not,” I insist. “It’s not. You’re the victim in this just as much as Logan Dodd, Grace Pickering, or anyone that monster has touched. Your husband was just trying to keep us safe from him. It cost him his life. And that’s seriously fucking unfair.”

  The widow looks down from my gaze. I think it’s the first time a person has vocalized something she’s thought a hundred times. “I guess.”

  “How are your children doing?”

  “They’re fighting. A lot. With me, their grandparents, each other,” she says, exhausted even from the memories.

  “It’s tough losing a parent at such a young age. I was only twelve when my Pop died. I hated everything and everyone that reminded me of him. It was too much having to deal with the unjustness of it all, let alone the realization that he’ll never hug me again, talk about my day, stupid stuff like that.”

  “How did you get over it?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t. Not really. It’s always there. But time and people who loved me helped. They didn’t give up on me. That’s about as good as it gets.”

  “I don’t know what to say to them. Everything just becomes a battle,” Kelly says.

  “They’re angry, and rightly so. They’re mad at Alkaline, they’re mad at you, they’re even mad at your husband. It’s not fair, but it is what it is.”

  Kelly contemplates this, saddened even more. My heart goes out to this woman, it really does. Her husband has been murdered, her kids are a wreck, the press is hounding her, and now she’s stuck in a police station. Just one of those things could send a person over the edge. And it’s not her fault. She’s not the one who took a bribe from a convicted murderer. She’s not the one who killed him either, but she’s the one who has to clean up the mess. I more than know
how that is. “I think I’m just still in shock. I’ve been going through the motions. With everything. My mom’s helping out.”

  “That’s good.” I smile sympathetically. I pause. “So, you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe you caught him or something, but…”

  “Sorry. Not yet, but you may be able to help us on that end.”

  “How?”

  I glance down at the file, scanning it while she watches. “Who handles the finances in your family?”

  “I pay the bills. Why?”

  “Do you know anything about an account in Switzerland? Have you ever set one up for your son Michael?”

  “A what?” she asks.

  I pass her the file. There’s account information in her son’s name, social security number, and several deposits totaling $250,000, the last one the day before the escape. She reads it, confused as hell. “I take it you knew nothing about this,” I say.

  The widow looks up, eyes bugging out of her head. “$250,000? What? How?” Her voice is so desperate I can’t help but believe her. “I—I’ve never seen this before in my life.”

  “Could your husband have?”

  She gazes back down at the file and it dawns on her. The realization seems to begin at her eyes which grow again, then moving to her mouth which shrinks, then down her back which straightens. From the look she gives me, I believe the mouse is about to roar. “Absolutely not. I know what you’re implying, and how dare you? My husband was the best man I ever knew,” she says, her voice breaking. “He was proud of his job. Proud he was helping to keep us all safe. You said it yourself, it cost him his life. There is no way in hell he would help that psychopath. Not even for a million dollars.” She shoves the file back at me.

  “Then how do you explain the account? And the fact that the other C.O., Logan Dodd, said your husband was the only one in the room when Ryder was let out?”

  “He’s lying!”

  “Mrs. Moore, you have to see this from our point of view. A limited number of people had access to James Ryder. Of those, only two were there the night he escaped, and only one of those has a secret account with hundreds of thousands of dollars.” I lean back in my chair. “Now, I know you loved your husband and what I’m suggesting is unthinkable, but you have to face facts. This,” I say, pointing to the file, “is the only lead we have right now. So anything suspicious, anything you might know or suspect, no matter how small, might be the key to finding him. Did he act out of the ordinary at all? Buy extravagant gifts?”