Justified

by Carolyn Arnold

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  POLICE PROCEDURALS RESPECTED BY LAW ENFORCEMENT.™

  “Carolyn Arnold provides entertainment and accuracy.”

  —Michael D. Scott, Patrolman (Ret.) Castroville, Texas, United States

  “For Police procedurals that are painstakingly researched and accurately portrayed look no further than Carolyn Arnold’s works. The only way it gets more real than this is to leave the genre completely.”

  —Zach Fortier, Police Officer (Ret.) Colorado, United States

  “Usually it’s hard for me to read cop books without picking them apart, but I read the entire Madison Knight series and I loved them all! The way Carolyn wrote Madison describes me and the way I work and even my personal life to a t.”

  —Deputy Rebecca Hendrix, LeFlore County Sheriff’s Department Poteau, Oklahoma, United States

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  www.carolynarnold.net

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  Justified (Book 2 in the Detective Madison Knight series)

  Copyright © 2011 by Carolyn Arnold

  Excerpt from Sacrifice (Book 3 in the Detective Madison Knight series) copyright © 2012 by Carolyn Arnold

  www.carolynarnold.net

  December 2016 Hibbert & Stiles Publishing Inc. Edition published at Smashwords.

  Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-301740-28-4

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN (e-book): 978-1-988064-11-6

  ISBN (paperback 4 x 7): 978-1-988064-12-3

  ISBN (paperback 5 x 8): 978-1-988064-30-7

  ISBN (hardcover 6 x 9): 978-1-988353-07-4

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  Dedicated to my grandmother.

  A sweet woman who I lost decades ago

  but who will never be forgotten.

  “A smile lights with but the warmth of the soul.”

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  Prologue

  HE HAD TO DO IT. He had no choice. Pushed into an unpleasant corner, he had no other option. How could he allow himself to be walked all over, manipulated? All that he had sacrificed for her, laid on the line.

  It was pitch-black, the wind moaned, and small flakes dared to precipitate. It was a bitter cold, the type he felt through to his bones.

  He knocked on the door.

  He had chosen the back side of the house for added seclusion. If the cover of the night wasn’t enough, surely this approach would diminish the possibility of a curious neighbor trying to play the hero. He didn’t need any cops showing up. This was to be a private visit.

  He knocked again, harder and more deliberate. A light came on inside followed by one on the back porch. Finally, he was getting some attention.

  She opened the door the few inches the chain would allow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to reason with you.” The chills left his body and a calm, radiant heat overtook him.

  The door shut. The chain rattled. The door reopened. “You can’t just show up whenever you feel like it.” She let him in, more likely for her own comfort given the way she was dressed. Arms crossed in front of her chest, an act of modesty over a lacy piece of lingerie. He had seen it before. Shivers trembled through her, and she gripped her arms tighter. “What is it?”

  He disregarded the tone in her voice, the condescending overture it carried. He ignored the body language that screamed for him to leave. He went to touch a ribbon that served as a strap.

  She stepped back. “Please don’t—”

  “Claire, we’re meant to be together.” His lack of control surprised him; his voice had risen in volume with each word.

  “You should leave.”

  There was more to her words. And the way she was dressed. “You move on already?” He took steps forward, heading for her bedroom.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. She didn’t deny his accusation, and she refused to look at him when she did speak. “It was your choice. I gave you the option.”

  He swore her eyes misted over. “Not really much of one.”

  “You should go.”

  He shook his head as if it would bury the jealousy. But the fact there was someone else here, lying in her bed, waiting on her to come back…

  He would do what he came to do, regardless. He had too much to lose.

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  Chapter 1

  THE COFFEE CAME UP INTO the back of her throat, and Madison Knight swallowed hard, forcing the acidic bile back down. This was a messy crime scene, the kind she did her best to avoid. She knew Weir, the first officer on the scene, was speaking, but the words weren’t making it through. Despite her revulsion, her eyes were frozen on what was before her.

  The victim lay on a crimson blanket of death, wearing nothing but a lacy camisole. The blood pool reached around her body in an approximate two-foot circumference. The blood had coagulated, resulting in a curdled, pudding-like consistency. The kitchen floor was a porous ceramic, and the blood had found its way to the grout lines and seeped through it like veins. Arterial spray had splattered the backsplash like the work of an abstract painter who had fanned a loaded brush against the canvas.

  Cynthia Baxter was hunched close to the body taking photos and collecting shards of glass that were in the blood. She was the head of the forensics lab, but her job also required time in the field. She looked up at Madison, nodded a hello, and offered a small smile. Madison knew her well enough as a friend outside of work that the facial expression was sincere, but the scene had dampened it from reaching her eyes.

  Weir stood back at the doorway that was between the front living room and the kitchen. “Such a shame, especially on Christmas Eve.”

  Terry Grant, Madison’s partner, braced his hands above his holster and exhaled a jagged deep breath.

  “What’s her name and background?” Madison asked Weir with her eyes on the victim.

  “The vic is Claire Reeves, forty-three. Lived here alone. No record of restraining orders or anything out of the ordinary. Nothing noted as her place of employment. Her maid, Allison Minard, found her. She’s over at the neighbor’s. Officer Higgins is over there with her.”

  Madison managed to break eye contact from the body, glanced at Terry, and settled her gaze on Weir. His words came through as though out of context.

  “Detective Knight?” Judging by the softness in his tone of voice, Weir must have read her reaction to the scene. His eyes inquired if she was okay, but the silent probing would have been squashed by the wall she had erected. He continued. “The maid’s pretty shaken up.”
>
  Madison could understand that. She had experience in processing murder scenes, and she could barely handle this one. She did her best to keep eye contact with the officer, but her fear, her distaste for blood, kept pulling her attention to the dead woman.

  Claire Reeves. That was her name before she had been reduced to this. To be killed in this manner pointed toward an emotional assailant. Her lack of clothing was an indication that she likely had an intimate relationship with her killer.

  Madison scanned the room. There was no sign of a struggle, no overturned chairs or broken dishes. The only thing standing out was a tea towel bunched on the floor in front of the stove as if it had slipped off the front bar. “Any evidence of forced entry?”

  Weir shook his head.

  “She let her killer in.” Madison’s gaze returned to the victim.

  She was someone’s daughter, someone’s best friend, someone’s lover. Normally Madison didn’t have an issue with separating herself from crime scenes and keeping them impersonal. Maybe it had something to do with all that blood and the fact that Claire had been murdered just before Christmas.

  Claire was on her back, albeit slightly twisted, from the fall to the floor. Her legs were crumpled beneath her. A large slash lined her neck, and based on the angle and directionality, her killer had come at her from behind. Logic dictated the killing method as typically belonging to a male, but something about the maid finding the body didn’t make sense.

  “The maid was scheduled to work on Christmas Eve?” Madison asked.

  “Supposedly she got a text message from Claire. She called us right after she—” Weir pointed toward the vomit at the far entrance to the kitchen.

  Madison had noticed it on the way through. She took a shallow breath, hoping to cleanse her focus despite the stench of the crime scene having transformed to a coating on her tongue. “Did you see this text message?”

  Weir shook his head. “She couldn’t produce it. Said she must have accidentally deleted it.”

  “Anyone think to check Claire’s phone?”

  “I’ll go check on that now.” Weir’s cheeks flushed. “Anyway, Higgins is with her, and Richards should be here soon.” He excused himself with a wave of a hand.

  Cole Richards was the medical examiner.

  Cynthia rose to her feet, picked up her kit, and addressed Madison. “What are you thinking? Love affair gone wrong?”

  “It looks like it could be but rarely are things that straightforward.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? But I know you’ll figure it out.”

  “Hey, I’m here, too,” Terry said.

  Both women smiled.

  “Okay, both of you will figure it out.”

  “Better.” Terry smiled.

  Cynthia left the kitchen in the direction of a hallway that led to the bedrooms. Based on the vic’s attire, it would be a reasonable progression to search there.

  Madison moved toward the body. “Wonder where her underwear is.”

  “Maybe they were of the edible variety.” Terry gave her a goofy smile.

  “At a time like this, you’re going to bring out that horny grin of yours?”

  “I’m only a man.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s your excuse for everything.” Her gaze drifted to the backsplash and then the floor around the victim. She was looking for any cast-off blood spatters that could have come from the weapon or for any voids. “She was standing in front of the sink taking a drink when her killer came up from behind her. He would have wrapped his arm around her, holding her steady, when he slashed her throat.” Madison glanced back at the body. “It looks like the cut went from right to left.” She swallowed hard. Periodically, the smell of the blood hit in intensive waves equal in scale to tsunamis.

  Terry nodded. “We’re looking for a left-handed killer.”

  “Someone call?” Richards entered the kitchen.

  “Are you a left-handed killer?” Terry teased and received a mild glare from the medical examiner.

  “Hey.” Madison smiled. The man’s presence had the ability to make her happy—ironic given his job description. Too bad he was married.

  “There’s my favorite detective.” He returned the smile. His dark skin contrasted with the brightness of his teeth, which were a pure white.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Terry said.

  “I was actually referring to Knight.”

  “Ouch. She always gets the spotlight.”

  Madison laughed. “Oh someday, Terry. Someday, when you grow up, you can be a—”

  “Ah quiet. You and I are not even talking right now.” Terry continued the show with a dramatic crossing of his arms.

  “Moody like a female.” Richards shook his head.

  “Excuse me? Moody…like a female? Are you implying that we’re moody? That I am?” Madison challenged him.

  “Never.” He waved his hand in a gesture of making peace.

  “Uh-huh.” She laughed, but it faded fast. Small talk was often used to ease the intensity of a scene, but doing so here caused her a few seconds of guilt.

  “Hey, I’m with Richards on this. Only thing is, he’s afraid of you, Maddy, whereas I’m not. If anyone can attest to the mood swings of a woman—”

  “I know you can,” Madison began, “and only you can get away with that comment right now.”

  Terry’s wife was two months pregnant, and according to him, she was somewhat temperamental.

  “I should be a good husband and dispute what you’re implying, but I can’t. She’s driving me nuts. Drove all around town the other night looking for black cherry ice cream only to come home and be asked what took so long.”

  “Nice to know they’re all the same.” Richards’s joviality ended abruptly as his focus went to the victim. “It’s pretty safe to conclude COD was exsanguination. Based on the amount of blood loss, her carotid artery was severed.”

  His comment drew Madison’s attention to the red expanse on the floor. Her coffee threatened a repeat showing.

  Richards continued. “The blood pressure in her brain would have dropped so rapidly that she would have lost consciousness pretty much immediately. She would have bled out in less than a minute. The blood separation testifies to the fact that it had left her body some time ago. She’s also coming out of rigor, so it puts time of death over twelve hours ago. But I’d estimate closer to fourteen or sixteen. Somewhere between two and four this morning. Of course, I’ll take her temperature and conduct other means before I verify with certainty.”

  Richards bent down beside the victim, put a rubber-gloved hand on her face, and continued. “The killer was no professional, I can tell you that.” He traced a finger along the jagged edges of the slash. “He was hesitant.” Richards carefully turned the body over, handling it with care as if it were a priceless china doll. “Lividity shows she was killed here.” He pressed fingers to the skin, and even under the touch, it remained a bluish color. “This also confirms that she’s been dead for over twelve hours.”

  Madison had to step back from the body just for a few seconds. She moved to the doorway near the vomit, a normally potent scent, yet all she could smell was blood.

  She looked out the window in the back door. The walkway was buried under eight to ten inches of snow, but that wasn’t what had her attention. It was the boot prints leading to the door. She knew Weir had said something about which entrance the maid had used, but her focus had been on the blood at the time. “Did Weir say which door the maid came in?”

  “The front,” Terry answered.

  She stepped aside to let Terry see out. “Let’s put it this way. Either the maid’s lying or we know where our killer came in.”

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  Chapter 2

  SAM THOMPSON AND HIS WIFE Linda owned the home next to Claire. Although a man of easily six foot four, his height seemed
to buckle under the intense glare of his wife. She stood in the doorway of a neighboring room where numerous people went about their evening conversing with light chitchat and laughter.

  Madison and Terry were in the dining room with the husband.

  “I promised Linda this won’t take too long.”

  Madison could imagine him wiping his forehead, as if sweat formed there, or flexing his fingers on a temple to ease the concentration of his wife’s controlling stare. Madison glanced at her again. The scowl, the arch of her brow, and her narrowed eyes, said it all: Our dinner is ruined.

  The table was set for eight with full place settings. A carved turkey sat in the middle of the space on an antique platter, possibly passed on through generations and only brought out for special occasions. Mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce were set out in three bowls. They had all the fixings of a perfect holiday dinner. Yet despite the spread of food, all Madison could smell was the blood that was lodged in her sinuses.

  “Where is she?” Madison was referring to the maid, Allison Minard.

  Thompson directed them to another side room and gestured with his head, In there.

  “I promise we’ll be as fast as we can.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  A woman was on the couch, leaned back, arms crossed, and head shaking. Her long, black ponytail swayed with the movement. She stopped and looked at Madison and Terry.

  An officer was in the room with her and sat braced on the edge of a recliner. He quickly rose to his feet when he saw them.

  Madison sat where he had been, but Terry hung back and leaned on the doorframe.

  Seconds passed in silence, but words weren’t always needed. Energy, body language, and facial expressions usually communicated plenty. Allison’s chestnut eyes weren’t puffy and her cheeks and nose weren’t red, so she hadn’t been crying. If she did feel bad about her employer’s death, it hadn’t physically manifested yet. The head shaking could have been in response to several things—recounting her shock of discovering Claire dead or in reaction to something the officer had said.