Sullivan’s Justice

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “I don’t think so, especially after tonight. I called her a slutty bitch. Like I told you, she blurted out another man’s name while we were having sex. She wasn’t serious about me. You think she was at my house earlier today. She was more than likely bouncing around in her bed with this Richard guy.”

  Was he telling the truth? His body language suggested he was lying. Perhaps he was just upset. She still had to confront him. “You said you got mad when Laurel refused to marry you. Did you hit her? Did she strike her head against a table or something and you panicked, then tried to make it look like someone else had murdered her?”

  Neil stood, slamming the chair against the table. “You’re not my sister,” he shouted, furious. “How can you accuse your own brother? Other than Megan, I’ve never hit anyone in my life. Christ, she came at me with a butcher knife. No one believed me. I had to spend six weeks in the nuthouse or the DA would have prosecuted me. Like then, you don’t believe me. I’m the one who always takes the beating. Remember when I was a kid? Chad and Bolly Cummings beat me to a pulp. I just laid there and took it.”

  “I’m trying to prepare you,” Carolyn replied. “These are the type of questions the police are going to ask.”

  “Don’t prepare me, okay?” Neil said, removing his shirt and throwing it at her. “If you wanted to make me sweat, you succeeded. Now I don’t have anything to wear.”

  She walked over to him. “I’m on your side, Neil. Clothes are the last thing we need to worry about right now, don’t you think? Anyway, you can borrow some things from John.” When he started to leave the room, she circled around and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Stay away from Melody. She’s trouble. You have to do what I say, understand? This girl may be a murderer. If she thinks you’re trying to shift the blame on her, you might be her next victim.”

  Chapter 11

  Friday, December 24—7:00 A.M.

  Outrageously handsome, John Sullivan stood six-one and had thick dark hair and luminous green eyes. His body was tan and muscular. When Carolyn had divorced his father, she’d taken back her maiden name. John and Rebecca had later become unhappy because they didn’t have the same name as their mother, which sometimes confused people. Because Frank, her former husband, had failed to pay child support, Carolyn felt justified in changing their children’s names to Sullivan as well.

  The teenager opened the door to his mother’s bedroom and found her asleep in her clothes, a stack of papers on the floor beside her. “Mom,” he yelled, “it’s after seven! Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  “What?” Carolyn said in a groggy voice. “I…I…forgot to set the alarm. Where’s Rebecca?”

  “She’s getting ready,” the boy said. “Don’t you remember? You told me to drive Rebecca to Grandma’s today. I’m going to the beach with Turner. Why is Neil here?”

  “He’s having his house fumigated,” Carolyn lied, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She’d have to tell them the truth, but she didn’t have time to do it now. “Did you talk to him?”

  “No,” John told her. “He’s asleep. Did you ask him why he didn’t come over and look at Rebecca’s drawings?”

  Ignoring him, Carolyn jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. How could she have overslept? If John hadn’t mentioned her mother, she would have thought the night before was a bad dream. What was she going to tell her? Merry Christmas, Mom, your precious son may end up in prison.

  Throwing on a black suit and a white shirt, Carolyn stepped into her shoes and headed to her daughter’s bedroom. Rebecca was thirteen going on twenty. John had warned her that his sister would be trouble. With long brown hair and fair skin, Rebecca had grown into a lovely young woman. The current fashion trends had turned teenage girls into provocative sex objects. Just last week, Rebecca had shown up at the breakfast table wearing a cropped top and low-rider jeans that exposed the waistband of her underwear. Carolyn thought the stores who catered to young girls today looked as if they were selling costumes for exotic dancers.

  Rebecca had her hair tied in a ponytail on top of her head. At least none of her body parts were showing. She was dressed all in black, though, with her feet clad in patent leather military boots she’d bought at a secondhand store. “Hi, sweetie,” Carolyn said, walking over and kissing her on the cheek. “It’s Christmas, not Halloween. See if you can find something a tad more cheerful.”

  “We’ve had this discussion a dozen times,” Rebecca said, holding a pocket mirror as she applied her lipstick. “Don’t bother me about my clothes.”

  “Fine,” Carolyn said, not wanting to argue. She rushed down the hall to the kitchen, grabbing a handful of Balance bars, a bottle of water, and an apple, dumping them in a large canvas tote. John was outside hosing down his 1992 red Honda Civic.

  “What time are we supposed to be at Paul’s tonight?”

  “I forgot,” Carolyn said, her mind going in a dozen directions. “It’s dinner. Call Paul and then catch up with me later this afternoon with the time. He invited you and your sister for breakfast as well. Oh,” she added, pressing the button for the alarm on her Infiniti, “don’t speed with your sister in the car. Next year you’re going to be paying the insurance.”

  Her domestic duties fulfilled, Carolyn took off for work. Her personal cell phone rang just as she turned onto the ramp for the 101 Freeway. She took a deep breath, seeing her mother’s phone number on the caller ID. “Mother,” she said to Marie Sullivan.

  “Did you see today’s paper?”

  “Not yet,” Carolyn said, “but I know what it says. Don’t get all worked up and make yourself sick, Mother. I’ve got everything under control.” If only that were true, she thought. “Neil is staying with me right now. There’s going to be an investigation.”

  “Is he unstable again?” Mrs. Sullivan asked. “I’ve been worried. He didn’t look good the last time I saw him. He kept rattling on about some woman. Was she the one who was killed?”

  “Her name is Laurel Goodwin. Remember her? Neil dated her in high school. This is going to be hard on him, Mother. To be honest, it’s not going to be easy on any of us.”

  “She was a pretty girl.” Mrs. Sullivan fell silent for several moments. “Did he do it, Carolyn? Please tell me he isn’t responsible for this poor girl’s death.”

  Carolyn swallowed hard. If her mother felt strongly enough to voice her suspicions, her own fears were certainly warranted. “I don’t think so,” she answered honestly. “Or at least, that’s what Neil told me.”

  “If he didn’t kill her, then who did?”

  “That’s the big question,” Carolyn said, steering into the parking lot of the government center. “Please don’t say anything to the kids. I haven’t had a chance to tell them yet. We’ll talk more tomorrow when I come over to take you out for Christmas dinner.”

  Carolyn ran into Agency Chief Robert Wilson in the corridor leading to her office. She’d already noticed the furtive glances from her fellow probation officers, followed by the strange buzz when several people started whispering at the same time.

  After Neil had gone to bed, she’d finished the report on Raphael Moreno, then dictated it by phone. The word-processing pool had promised to have it completed by nine forty-five, giving her fifteen minutes to get to the courtroom. The report was supposed to be dispersed to the various parties at least a week prior to the sentencing hearing. Because Veronica’s baby had arrived seven weeks early, the judge had waived the time requirement. Moreno wouldn’t be on the bus to prison, however, as he was now facing additional charges of aggravated assault on a police officer.

  Wilson fell in step beside her. “I saw the paper,” he said, steering her by the elbow into his office.

  “Who didn’t?” Carolyn said, taking a seat across from his desk. She waited as he poured them both a cup of coffee.

  Being the chief certainly had its perks, she thought, blowing on her coffee to cool it. Wilson’s office was the size of her living room. A conference table was locate
d on the left side of the room. On the right was a miniature putting green. His chairs were real leather, and the office had wall-to-wall bookcases. Instead of looking out over the parking lot, Wilson had a view of the foothills. His desk wasn’t cluttered with files. The only things on it were a yellow pad, a pen holder, a stapler, and a neatly folded newspaper. His computer was located on a credenza behind him. The screen saver showed a man swinging a golf club. Other than practice his putting, she wondered what he did all day. She thought of study hall, where a teacher did nothing but sit there and occasionally answer a question.

  Wilson was in his late fifties, stood five-ten, and, except for a bulge around his middle, appeared to be in good shape. A dapper dresser, he was wearing a pale blue shirt with a white collar, a red power tie, and a navy blue suit with faint red stripes. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his skin was tan from the sun. He had a penchant for practical jokes, and he was often mistaken for the actor Gene Hackman. Instead of telling people the truth, he soaked up the attention, even going so far as signing autographs.

  As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the paper in front of her. “What’s this thing with your brother all about? I’d planned on spending the day with my family.”

  “Why did they put my picture on the front page?” Carolyn exploded. Her eyes were so tired she was having trouble focusing on the lines below. “The woman was found in my brother’s pool, not mine.”

  “News,” Wilson said, cracking his knuckles. “Everyone loves it when the good guys get mixed up with the bad. When you stick an heiress in the middle, you’ve got yourself a whopper of a story.”

  “There were two homicides, remember? From what Detective Sawyer told me last night, they’re probably related. It may even be a serial killer. For obvious reasons, they don’t want officially to go public with it yet.”

  “I’m aware there was another murder,” Wilson said, a chill in his voice. “This Porter woman’s sister doesn’t work for my agency. As a probation officer, you have access to confidential court records. All I’m interested in is your brother. How do you think it’s going to fall?”

  “I have no idea,” she said, curling her fingers around her mouth. “I know Neil didn’t kill her. He was in love with her. They dated when they were in high school. When he went to Europe to study art, she married an officer in the navy.”

  “Ah,” Wilson said, taking a drink of his coffee. “So the woman who died was an old flame. I’ve had a few of those surface myself. Nothing but trouble. If your brother was in love with”—he reached forward and took the paper back from her, opening it to the second part of the article—“this Laurel Goodwin, why was he in LA with the Asher woman? Did she buy one of his paintings or something?”

  Carolyn didn’t answer. She started to pick up her coffee cup from the end table, then decided she was jittery enough as it was. “Who do you think is the best defense attorney in the county? Vincent Bernini?”

  “You’re talking big bucks. Sure you need such a heavy hitter?” He moved his coffee cup to the edge of the desk. “The police haven’t charged your brother yet. Word gets out you’ve hired Vincent Bernini and everyone will assume he’s guilty.”

  “I know,” Carolyn said, her brows furrowing as she thought. “But Neil’s got the money to hire a decent attorney, at least for the short haul. A trial, well, I’m hoping it doesn’t go that far. I’m beginning to suspect someone is trying to frame him.”

  “How so?”

  Carolyn’s eyes widened. “More ways than you could imagine.”

  Wilson came from behind his desk and picked up his putter, tapping a ball into the circular target. “I can imagine just about anything,” he told her. “I generally restrict my fantasies to making a hole in one or winning the lottery. I got a call this morning from the board of supervisors. Talk to me, Carolyn.”

  He was making her nervous. Carolyn thought about leaving. What happened to her brother could have easily happened to Robert Wilson or Brad Preston. The chief was a known womanizer. Brad moved in different circles, yet it was still what people would consider the fast lane. She thought of Paul, certain he would never find himself in such a position. The physics professor was brilliant, stable, and her children adored him. Theirs was a comfortable, enjoyable relationship. Brad had been an emotional roller coaster. As desirable as he was, she was relieved that their affair was over.

  “Why would the board of supervisors care?” she asked, a tinge of aggravation in her voice. “I’m not directly involved. As long as I can do my job, you shouldn’t have a problem.”

  “Forget it, I’ll run interference for you,” Wilson said, propping his putter against the wall. “Brad told me he assigned you that mayhem case. You know how long it’s been since we’ve had a mayhem? When it first came in, I didn’t recognize the code section.”

  “It’s aggravated mayhem,” Carolyn told him. The crime was intentional mutilation or disfigurement, or depriving a person of a limb, organ, or member of his body. The sentence was life with the possibility of parole. In this instance, the victim had been attacked with a machete, severing his right arm at the elbow. “Tupua Mea’ole, the defendant, is Samoan. He doesn’t speak English. I’m waiting for an interpreter.”

  “What’s the status on the victim?”

  “He’s alive,” Carolyn told him, pushing her hair back behind her left ear. “They’re fitting him with a prosthesis. The victim’s name is Harold Jackson. He has an extensive record. He served five years at Folsom for armed robbery. He was also a suspect in the LAPD shooting three months ago. They didn’t have enough evidence to convict him. Since he lost an arm, the DA decided not to file battery charges.”

  Wilson smiled. “Sounds like we should give your Samoan a medal. Wasn’t Jackson about to rape his wife?”

  “That was a misunderstanding,” Carolyn said, sighing. “The woman wasn’t his wife. She’s a prostitute. She claims Jackson was beating her. The defendant lived next door, heard the ruckus, and came to the rescue with his machete. The public defender tried to plead self-defense. The DA didn’t buy it. Just because the victim is a criminal doesn’t change the facts. You can’t chop off a person’s arm if they don’t have a weapon.”

  Wilson returned to his desk. “Can you handle the unit for a few weeks?”

  “A few weeks?” she said, tilting her head. “I was told Brad would be laid up for at least six.”

  He smiled, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle. “Idiot doctors,” he said, turning so he could see his monitor. “That’s Tiger Woods, you know.” When Carolyn ignored him, he swiveled his chair back around. “The doctor you talked to was probably an intern. I stopped by the hospital on my way to work this morning. The X ray showed only one broken vertebra. Brad isn’t a pantywaist. He won’t let a little thing like that throw him out of the box.”

  Carolyn looked down as she thought. If she became acting supervisor, her pending cases would have to be reassigned. The mayhem case was a nightmare. Due to language and immigration problems, the investigation would take twice as much time. Stepping into Brad’s shoes would increase her responsibilities. On the other hand, it might be easier than her present position. She wouldn’t have to deal with deadlines, victims, or defendants. Overall, it would give her more time to help Neil.

  “So,” Wilson said, “can you handle it? You know, with the situation with your brother.”

  “Yes,” she said with confidence, deciding to make light of the situation. “What can I do? You know, outside of trying to keep his spirits up?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Carolyn headed for the door, then stopped. “Tell me something,” she said. “Why did you promote Brad instead of me? You obviously think I’m qualified or you wouldn’t ask me to fill in for him.”

  Wilson pointed his finger at her. “You caught me with my pants down,” he said, chuckling. “Damn, you’re good. Brad warned me about you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Carolyn said, wondering what
else Brad had told him.

  “Men don’t have babies and all that PMS stuff,” he said, scrunching his nose up. “My wife drives me crazy. I’d prefer not to deal with female problems at the office.”

  Carolyn was speechless.

  “Hey,” he said, seeing the look of shock on her face, “ninety days and I’m out of there. Do a good job while Brad is gone and I’ll bump you up before I retire. I hate to admit it, but a woman like yourself may end up running this agency one day.” He smiled as he intentionally shivered. “Scary thought for a guy like me. Glad I won’t be around to see it.”

  Carolyn could see why Brad felt comfortable acting the way he did. The head of the agency was prejudiced against women. The man was a dinosaur, she thought, glaring at him in disgust. If she had the time, she’d report both of them.

  “Oh, by the way,” Wilson said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “everything I said was just a joke. Thought you could use a laugh. Brad said you were a good sport. Have a happy Christmas.”

  “How?” Carolyn said, disappearing through the doorway.

  Lawrence Van Buren was sipping coffee in the lobby restaurant of the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, enjoying the view of the ocean. The day was so clear, all five of the Channel Islands could be seen. When weather permitted, they could also be seen from Ventura. Channel Islands National Park consisted of more than two hundred thousand acres, half of which were underwater. Over two thousand species of plants and animals could be found, and 145 of these species were unique to the islands and could be found nowhere else in the world. Archaeological and cultural resources spanned a period of over ten thousand years.

  A historic Santa Barbara structure, inside its stucco exterior, the Biltmore Hotel had mission-style doors, curved archways, dark tiled floors, and outstanding service. Everyone flocked to its restaurants, and its Sunday brunch was one of the hottest tickets in town.

  The hotel’s holiday decorations were lavish. A towering tree stood in the entryway, its lights twinkling. A sleigh full of brightly wrapped packages was a few feet away, complete with life-size reindeer and an animated Santa Claus. Christmas music softly played in the background, and a crackling fire burned in the fireplace. Unlike Los Angeles, Santa Barbara had seasons. The air outside was brisk enough to wear winter clothing. Van Buren came here because it got him into the holiday spirit.