Lady Justice

by Vicki Hinze

  The engine’s whine dropped to an idle and the boat eased into the slip. Its wake had water lapping at the pilings under the dock. Four grim-faced men dressed in street clothes stood on deck: Commander Conlee’s team. “Gentlemen,” Miranda said. “Any trouble finding us?”

  “None.” They followed her to the car, clearly not expecting introductions.

  That, Miranda considered wise and possibly helpful. They piled into the burgundy rental and Miranda passed each of them a Smith & Wesson .38. Then she cranked the engine and pulled away from the dock.

  Under the cover of darkness, she inserted the nasal tip of the clear tubing that ran through her sleeve into her nostrils, opened the valve to feed herself oxygen, and then turned on the air conditioner. “It’ll cool down quickly. The humidity here is hell.”

  None of the men responded.

  Obviously they wanted to do nothing to draw her notice or imprint in her memory. But she had taken a hard look at each of them, and gotten the one closest to Paige’s size to sit in the left rear seat, which would make Paige’s job easier.

  She checked the backseat in the rearview. Her palms were slick with sweat on the steering wheel. Three of the men were already out cold. Glancing over at the passenger seat, she saw the fourth’s head bob. Seconds later, it bobbed again. The third time, his chin stayed pressed to his chest. She took a two-block detour and then doubled back just to make sure they were all really out.

  Satisfied that they were, she exhaled a swooshed breath, picked up her cell phone, and called Paige. “We’re ready.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Miranda flipped closed her phone, turned off Highway 98, and continued onto Seashore Drive. Faulkner’s house was less than a minute away.

  The large Colonial was one door down from a streetlight—just far enough away to cast concealing shadows. Two neighbors with their leashed dogs, probably out for their last walk of the night, stood at the edge of the driveway across the street and three doors down—definitely within sighting distance—chatting and pretending not to notice the car. Miranda braked and pulled to the curb, directly in front of Faulkner’s house.

  The dogs started barking. Miranda’s heart raced. Candace would love the risks in this. Miranda hated them. She reached into the backseat and shoved two men into a forward crunch, including the man closest to Paige’s size, so they couldn’t be seen by the neighbors, who had to be able to report seeing three people in the car and a fourth one getting in at Faulkner’s. Then she turned away from the neighbors and opened the back door.

  The light came on. Paige picked up the signal and appeared from around the side of Faulkner’s house. Dressed in all black with a stocking hat, she got into the backseat and slammed the door. “Go, go!”

  Miranda hit the gas. The tires screeched, the neighbors cursed, fists raised, and she took the corner and sped away.

  Paige dumped Faulkner’s family jewels on the backseat. “Which one is me?”

  “The guy on the left.” Miranda turned back onto 98, headed for the bank. “Did you open the valve on your oxygen?”

  “Yeah.” Paige sniffed to double-check, as she stuffed a diamond choker into the man’s right slacks pocket and an aquamarine the size of a baby’s fist into his shirt pocket. “It’s eight forty. Haul ass or Darlene’s out of time.” She began stripping down to her underwear and putting her clothes on her “double.”

  “Did you switch the blanks to bullets in their guns?” Elizabeth had been ordered to provide them weapons in case they were intercepted en route, but no one wanted this team armed until absolutely necessary. And absolutely necessary translated to when Jackson found them.

  “Working on it.” Paige buttoned the last button on his shirt, changed out the bullets in one gun, shoved it into the waistband of one of the guys’ slacks, and moved on to the next gun. “What about the boat?”

  “Elizabeth’s taking care of it.” Miranda clicked on her turn signal and waited for the traffic light to turn green. At least there wasn’t a car in the lane beside them. Hurricane Darla had pretty much wiped out the lane closest to the gulf. What asphalt hadn’t been torn up was still covered with sand.

  The light changed.

  She made the turn, whipped into the bank’s parking lot, and stopped next to a Mercedes, praying Darlene was right. Carl Blake had told Jackson the bank’s security system was operating on reduced power, which meant only the surveillance cameras were working until full power to the bank was restored. According to Miranda’s research, the car was parked out of the security camera’s field of vision and Darlene had hidden Jackson’s truck behind a cluster of palms, obscuring it from the street. Miranda switched cars and cranked the Mercedes’ engine.

  Paige sat one of the men in back upright, so he’d be captured on film at the appointed time, then crawled into the front seat. She pulled the mask in the stocking cap down over her face, pulled the car up to the front of the building, and parked directly in front of the ATM—in full camera view. Grabbing a ball bat from the floorboard, she got out of the car and walked up to the ATM machine, then sidestepped the camera’s view, praying Miranda’s research on what was and wasn’t in view proved accurate.

  Darlene replaced her, slamming the bat against the ATM machine and emptying it of cash, which she handed to Paige.

  Paige took it, ran back to the rental car, got in, and sped away—out of camera range to the other side of the parking lot, where Miranda sat waiting in the Mercedes.

  Darlene took off in Jackson’s truck. Paige jumped in Elizabeth’s Mercedes, and checked her watch. “Elizabeth has to be back at Candace’s by now. Darlene’s going to the police station. I don’t know, Miranda. The timing is just too close.”

  “Don’t panic, Paige. I’ve taken care of it.”

  “Of what?” Paige looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You’re good, okay? But you can’t control time.”

  “No, I can’t,” Miranda admitted, pulling out to the street and smoothly into traffic. “But I can control when the bank alarm is triggered. And that won’t be for another ten minutes.”

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “I have a knack with computers, darling. Remember?” Miranda shifted topics. “Elizabeth is in position at Candace’s. She sank the boat. A shame, it had great twin Yamahas and the youth center needs a new motor for its ski boat.”

  “Good God, Miranda. You’d be crazy to do that. Think serial numbers. Think Leavenworth.”

  “Point taken.” Miranda shivered and passed her cell phone to Paige. “Call Darlene.”

  A minute later, Paige smiled. “She’s there.”

  “Good. We’ve got to meet Sissy Blake at the Silver Spoon.”

  “Tonight? What for?” Paige gritted her teeth. “Miranda, you know I have no patience with that woman.”

  “She’s our alibi. Can you think of a better one?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, then. She’s the head of the altar committee and we’re going to help her get restocked for communion, because that’s what she happens to be doing.”

  “And just how do I explain this? I’m not even Catholic.”

  “You’re filling in for Gabby.” Miranda gave Paige a wicked grin. “Don’t worry. She’s not Catholic either.”

  Gabby lay motionless.

  Max sat in a chair beside her bed, watching her breathe in the soft lamplight to reassure himself she was all right. A crew from Mississippi Power had finally restored electricity just after dark. The air conditioner had been working overtime for the last three hours, dragging the humidity out of the house and cooling it down.

  Grateful for that, he tapped the remote and turned the TV on to the local news. A redheaded reporter stood in the bus yard, holding a microphone in Mayor Faulkner’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “We divided Carnel Cove into four quadrants for spraying. FEMA’s overseeing it personally and they’re working on Area One now.”

  “Why is FEMA handling it, Mayor?” she a
sked. “City employees are starting up pretty late tonight. Is there something unusual about this spraying?”

  “Nothing at all,” he quickly assured her. “Mosquito activity is always worse right after a storm. All the standing water, you know. It’s hot, and since so many Covers are still without power, they can’t keep their houses closed up, so we have to make a special effort to get the mosquito population down fast. FEMA has the resources and has generously agreed to help.”

  Gabby groaned. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she lifted a hand.

  Max automatically reached for it, to keep her from pulling the IV tubing out of her arm. “It’s okay, Gabby. I’m right here.”

  “Watching me sleep, Max?” She clasped his hand and looked at him strangely.

  So strangely at first he couldn’t tag what he saw in her eyes. Then he did, and half wished he hadn’t recognized it. Gabby was looking at him with love and trust, and seeing it made him feel like a lowlife slug. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  She closed her fingers around his. “I’m glad you’re home. I’ve missed you.”

  A sick feeling pitted his stomach. “Gabby, where did you put the evidence?”

  “What evidence?”

  “The evidence you said I’d get whether or not you were alive.”

  “What are you talking about, Max?”

  She really had no idea. What should he do? Was it safe to push her? Would it cause more challenges? Gabby never had responded well to being pushed. “Look, bad stuff is cracking around here and I need help, not games. So if you’re—”

  “Games?” Anger flickered through her eyes. “I’m on my deathbed, you son of a bitch. You may not be happy to be home, but I am glad you’re here.” She hiked her chin. “At least I have been. Don’t make me regret it.”

  She sounded sincere and looked it, too, as if she were torn between being angry and hurt. Not much liking being the cause of either, he remembered Keith Burke’s advice, and backpedaled. “I’m sorry, honey. Listen, this is important, so I have no choice but to be frank.”

  “I think that would be wise. I deserve better than I’ve gotten. I am your wife, Max.”

  His wife. God, help him. He leaned forward in his chair. “Gabby, look. We need to talk. I wish this could wait until you’re feeling better, but—”

  “I’m not going to get better,” she interrupted him. “This isn’t just the flu. It doesn’t feel like the flu. It feels … stronger. So say what you have to say.” She stretched her neck, rotated it to work out a kink. “Except that you want a divorce. Feeling as rotten as I do, I will not be told that. Not now. So if that’s it, hold your peace, or you’ll wish you had.”

  “No, I don’t want a divorce,” he said, humoring her. What he wanted was for her to remember he didn’t need one because they weren’t married. He cupped her hand in both of his. “Gabby, I—I—um, we’re not—” He couldn’t say this. She was calmer when he was with her—Elizabeth had said so—and Gabby looked at him with love in her eyes. He’d seen lust in women many times, but love … it was different.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a divorce?” Gabby asked, unaware of his internal war. She stared at him, her eyes guarded, her emotional shields firmly in place.

  “I’m sure.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Absolutely not.”

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “I have to tell you something. It’s going to sound strange, but it is the truth, and it’s critically important.”

  “You’re making me nervous.” She gave him a halfhearted smile.

  He was nervous. “Do you remember Commander Conlee?”

  She gave him a negative shake.

  “SDU?”

  “SDU?” she repeated, genuinely baffled and uneasy.

  He grabbed her memory box and pulled out her wings. Holding them up, the lamplight caught them and set the shiny metal to glimmering. “Do you remember these?”

  “Your wings?” She smiled. “Well, of course, Max. From your days in the military.”

  His wings. Not hers. “Gabby, tell me what you did before you sat on the bench.”

  She repeated her background cover verbatim. Not so much as one slip.

  “And what about college?” He dropped the wings back into her memory box, put it back in the closet on the shelf, and then returned to her bedside. “Did you have a roommate?”

  “Of course, darling. Sybil. You know that.” Sounding a little impatient, she prodded, “Why are you asking me these silly questions, Max?”

  He heard Elizabeth call out from the living room, “I’m back.”

  “Keith said to ask them,” Max lied, and then kissed her fingertips again. “Nothing to worry about. You’re fine.”

  Gabby closed her eyes. Her lashes tickled her cheeks. She was not fine—and knew it down to the marrow of her bones—but she was confused and very sick. If she lay really still and quiet maybe Max and Elizabeth would think she had fallen asleep again and they would talk about what was wrong with her. Maybe then she could make some sense of what had gotten into Max. Who was this commander he had spoken of, and what did SDU mean?

  If she was fine, then why had he quizzed her as if she weren’t in her right mind? Keith had said to do it. But why? And for that matter, who was Keith?

  Did it matter? She was dying; she felt her body shutting down. It was too late to change.

  Shhh, don’t tell.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Darlene walked into the sheriff’s office and let the glass door swing closed behind her, confident that Jackson’s truck was in plain sight.

  “Hey, Mrs. Coulter,” Christie, the night receptionist, said from behind her desk. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut.

  “Are you sick or just worn out like everyone else?”

  “Allergies,” Christie said. “Everything is so stirred up my meds aren’t even touching them, much less working.” She pulled a pink tissue from a box on her desk and blew her nose.

  “Go home.” Darlene rounded the desk, seizing the opportunity. She hated it that Christie was sick, but this worked out as well as if Elizabeth had planned it.

  “I can’t. There’s no one to fill in.” She punctuated that pitiful statement with a sniff.

  “I’ll fill in.” Darlene hooked a thumb through the glass wall toward Jackson’s office, where he sat talking on the phone. “It’s the only way I’ll see my husband for the next few days.”

  Hope lighted Christie’s eyes. “I do feel raunchy, but are you sure, Mrs. Coulter?”

  “Positive.”

  “Oh, you’re a guardian angel.” Christie looked over her shoulder at Jackson, who had come up behind Darlene. “Is it okay, Sheriff?”

  Jackson nodded. “Go on.”

  Christie left the building on winged feet, and Jackson hugged Darlene, kissed her on the forehead. “You are a guardian angel.”

  Darlene smiled up at him and claimed a kiss. “I love you, too.”

  The phone buzzed. Line one flashed. Darlene stretched and answered it. “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Someone’s stolen my jewels!” a woman screeched, positively hysterical.

  Darlene cringed and passed the phone to Jackson. “You’d better take this one. It’s Mrs. Mayor. She says someone’s stolen her jewelry—again.”

  Darlene couldn’t resist the dig. Every time Mrs. Mayor got ticked off at Mr. Mayor, she “lost” a bauble and went bat-shit. He’d buy her a new one and within a few days, the old one would miraculously appear. Sooner or later, you’d think the man would catch on.

  “What did he do to her this time?” Jackson asked Darlene.

  She shrugged. “Could be looters, honey.”

  “Yeah, right. Out of everyone in town, some jewel thief just happens to hit the mayor’s house. Not bloody likely.” He took the phone. “Coulter.”

  Darlene shot him a sympathetic look and took her seat at Christie’s desk, then patiently waited for the bank alarm to trigger.

  It took every ounce
of energy Gabby could muster to open her eyes. She was hot. Raging fever. Camel dry. Max sat beside her bed, sleeping, his head crooked at an odd angle. She reached over and touched his knee. “Max.”

  Startled awake, he jumped. “What?”

  “Max, I’m dying. I can feel it.”

  Wide awake now, Max stiffened, his heart knocking against his ribs. “Gabby, no.” Pain flashed through his chest, settled in like a ten-ton weight. Considering her memory, he was a bastard for telling her this, but he felt it, and if she was really dying, he might never again have the chance to tell her. Worse, she’d die never knowing. “I don’t want to lose you. I feel like I’ve just found you.” And he had. Lord, but he had. “I love the way you look at me and the way you make me feel. I love what I see in your eyes when I look at you. You’re special, Gabby. To me, you’re special.” He swallowed a hard knot from his throat. His voice cracked. “Don’t give up, honey. Please, just don’t give up.”

  “I don’t want to.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Don’t. You choose, Gabby. Remember? You choose.” Smelling her fear and his own, he brushed a kiss to her forehead, and then called Elizabeth.

  Minutes later she arrived, dressed in her fluffy pink robe and slippers, and joined Max at Gabby’s bedside. “I’ve got to get Erickson,” Max said.

  “Erickson?” She asked, a frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows.

  Only he could help her. “I’ll explain later.” Stabbing a finger in Gabby’s direction, he issued an order. “Don’t you die on me, Gabby Kincaid. I mean it.” Then he rushed out of the house to the Jeep. Seconds later, it was spewing rock down the driveway.

  At midnight, Max stomped the gas and drove around a row of seven long-bed trucks. They were working around the clock, hauling off debris. He cut a sharp left and swung around a hedgerow of cut-up limbs and tree trunks stacked alongside the road, waiting for pickup, and then hooked a hard right past the beached Daddy’s Toy into L.I.’s parking lot.

  Minutes later, he found Erickson in the lab, washing his hands at the sink.