“So you think the killer could be someone who stayed there?” Ray asked.
Nina eyed him. “Or is even staying there now—” she responded dramatically.
It made sense. A battered woman who got to see firsthand other battered women and took it upon herself to exact payback for all of them—making sure the batterer did not come back for more ever again.
He nibbled on a piece of chicken. “Let’s go pay this shelter a little visit.”
Nina smiled wryly. “That’s the best suggestion you’ve had all day, Barkley.” She tossed money down on the table and was on her feet. “Let’s hit the road while you’re on a roll.”
Ray grinned, standing. “Yeah, let’s.” He put more money on the table. “We need to get serious and see out who’s spending time at the shelter and why. Maybe someone has more than one reason to seek refuge there.”
At this point he wasn’t prepared to rule out anything, while keeping everything on the table.
CHAPTER TEN
The Rose City Women’s Shelter sat atop a hill in Northeast Portland. It was the largest shelter for battered women in the city. Once home to a philanthropist, the Victorian property had been donated to the Portland Domestic Violence Foundation to be used as a battered women’s shelter. Its three stories and refurbished architectural elegance belied its intent as a temporary home for women escaping domestic violence.
Esther Reynolds had been the director of the Rose City Women’s Shelter for the past ten years. The thirty-eight-year-old widow had dedicated her life to helping battered women, as she had once been helped to break the cycle of violence, helplessness, and hopelessness.
She extended a thin hand with long, carnation polished nails at the detectives—who had just been invited in by one of her assistants—greeting each warmly. “How can I help you?” she asked, though she already knew full well why they were there. Indeed, she had expected them long before now.
“We’re investigating a series of murders,” Ray told her, sizing up the tall, shapely, attractive lady clad in a purple African dress with embroidery. She wore silver-rimmed glasses in front of sloe colored eyes, was dark complexioned, and had burgundy cornrows draped over her shoulders.
He took a sweeping glance of the premises with its high ceiling, rounded archways, angled bay windows, and hardwood floors. The first floor furnishings, though sparse, were wicker and looked as though they belonged.
The place was impressive, no matter the purpose. Ray noted several women moving about like zombies, as if on drugs, alcohol, or maybe both. Some looked as if they had been worked over one time too many. Could one of them also be a murderess? Maybe it was time for payback in a big way.
Favoring the director again, Ray said: “Three men charged with domestic abuse have been beaten to death with a bat over the last five months.”
“Oh dear,” mumbled Esther for effect, putting her hand to her mouth.
“We have reason to believe the women they allegedly battered all stayed here at some point.”
“And what if they did?” she asked abruptly. “We’re not responsible for what goes on outside the walls of this shelter.”
Was this an admission of knowledge of the murders? Or a plain disregard for what some vindictive abused women may have been capable of?
“You may be responsible,” Nina said unkindly, “if it’s proven that you or anyone who works here conspired or participated in any of these so-called vigilante killings.”
Esther flung a wicked gaze at her. “I can assure you, de-tective, that no one on my staff would be a party to murder.”
Nina batted her eyes skeptically. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she said boldly. “And I certainly am not prepared to rule out that one of your guests may be doubling as a serial killer.”
Esther felt her chest heave. She had to steady herself to keep from losing her balance. “Follow me,” she uttered in a barely audible voice.
She led them through the downstairs to an office which Esther had decorated herself with textured wallpaper, sheer yellow curtains to let the sunshine in, hanging baskets with ferns, and country furnishings. She hoped to make it appear as open and comfortable to outsiders, such as these detectives, as the women who came there seeking protection.
“Can I offer you some coffee?” Esther felt her confidence returning. “Tea? Or maybe a Coke?”
The detectives declined as they sat in leather chairs opposite Esther’s rustic cedar desk. She joined them in another chair, resisting the urge to sit at her desk, so as not to make this visit seem too official.
After gathering her thoughts, Esther informed them: “Our purpose here is to do all we can to try and protect women from abuse at the hands of the men in their lives. You may not be aware of this, but two million women are battered in the United States every year. More than one in four women murdered in this country died at the hands of a husband or boyfriend. Some believe as many as eighty percent of all domestic violence goes unreported.” She took a deep breath, pleased with her lecture to the detectives. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that these women are the real victims of battering. I only wish you showed as much diligence in going after their abusers as you seem to in going after them—”
Ray and Nina met each other’s eyes thoughtfully.
“Let me assure you, Ms. Reynolds, we don’t take lightly women or children being beaten, or otherwise mistreated in any way,” stated Ray compellingly. “But we also don’t condone murder or anyone taking the law into her or his own hands.”
Esther pushed her glasses up. “Neither do I,” she insisted. “Unless it’s justified—”
“By whose standard?” Nina challenged her, nearly rising from the chair. “Yours? Or some other woman in here with an axe to grind against all the accused batterers in Portland?”
“By a higher authority than either one of us,” she responded tartly. “Men who hit women to make themselves feel big and powerful don’t deserve to live.”
“Is that what you preach to the women who come here for shelter and security?” Ray questioned. “That they should get rid of the men who beat them and suffer the consequences later?”
Esther felt hot under the collar, but refused to be broken. That was what they hoped would happen. She was stronger than that. More than they knew.
“This is not a church, detective!” Esther retorted sarcastically. “I don’t preach anything in here. My job is merely to offer a safe retreat for women escaping domestic violence, and advice I believe can help these women to better themselves and their children afterwards.”
“Would that advice include getting a damned wooden bat and beating to death their abusers?” Nina asked with narrowed eyes.
Esther stiffened. “I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say I’ll shed no tears over the deaths of these men coming as they did. It sounds as if they only received what they gave. But I played no part whatsoever in their deaths.”
“If you didn’t, then someone else in here probably did,” Ray told her brusquely.
“Proving that might be quite a task,” Esther said brashly. “You see, we’re all victims here—the staff and occupants alike. You’ll get no help inside these walls in trying to nail someone who would be viewed by us as a hero.”
Ray glanced at Nina. The look on her face told him she reluctantly agreed with Esther’s assessment.
“Maybe we will be stonewalled,” he conceded, “for now. But that won’t stop us from eventually bringing the killer to justice, wherever she might be holed up—along with anyone who helped her.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, detective,” said Esther courageously, “save it for someone who is easily intimidated by police tactics...or perhaps brutality. I understand enough about the law to know search warrants and court orders are necessary to get information that otherwise won’t be volunteered to you. On that note, I think I must now ask you both to leave.”
“We were kind of hoping to have a chat with some of the residents
and staff,” Nina uttered sanguinely.
“You’re welcome to,” Esther stated colorlessly. “Just not inside the premises. I won’t have anyone here being made victims again—not by you!”
Nina’s nostrils flared. “Listen, we’re not the problem and I think we both know that! If you’re sheltering a psychopathic killer, she’s making every woman here a victim all over again. And each time she takes out a batterer, it will be on your head. I just hope you’re prepared to deal with that!”
Ray felt he couldn’t have said it better himself and thus did not even try. It would certainly give the director something to think about.
Esther saw the detectives out the front door and was left alone with her thoughts. She sensed trouble ahead. They weren’t going to let up until they found what or who they were looking for.
She was determined that they would not find it there.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“What do you make of her?” Ray turned to his partner as they made their way from the shelter.
Nina wrinkled her nose. “I’m not really sure. Other than the fact the lady obviously has a chip on her shoulder and is in sore need of a major attitude adjustment.”
He nodded. “Amen to that on both counts!”
She squinted at him. “She definitely doesn’t have any sympathy for dead batterers. Not that I can blame her for that. Alive, the assholes wouldn’t be very welcome at my house either. Dead, they more or less dug their own graves.”
“The proof may have been in the pudding,” he muttered uneasily, “so to speak. But the fact is none of those men were actually convicted in a court of law of anything, much less the crimes for which they may have been executed.”
Nina took her keys from her purse. “Come on, Barkley,” she scoffed. “We both know they were probably as guilty as hell.”
Ray sneered. “Since when have people in this country been put to death based on probable cause rather than solid evidence of guilt? Domestic violence, for all its brutality, isn’t a death penalty crime in and of itself, short of murder. Not in this state anyway.”
“You’re missing the point,” Nina said lamely.
He glared at her over the hood of the car. “No, you are! Those men no more deserved to die than the women they allegedly abused. Someone forgot to tell that to their executioner—”
Nina was suddenly at a loss for words.
During the drive each clung to their thoughts before Nina said in a sorrowful tone: “Okay, those men didn’t really deserve what they got, even if they gave nearly as much.”
“Obviously there’s a killer out there who would beg to differ,” Ray said sourly. “My guess is she’s somehow affiliated, past or present, with that shelter. If it’s not Esther Reynolds herself, then it’s somebody else there—”
“I can’t argue with you on that,” Nina said, “since I agree wholeheartedly. The lady definitely knows something she’s not saying.”
“If Reynolds wants to play games, she’ll lose,” he declared. “I want to find out everything there is to know about her and everyone who’s been in that shelter for the last six months.”
“That could be a tall order.” Nina batted her lashes. “Especially since many of the women are only there for a few hours and quickly replaced by others. Even the staff, mostly volunteers, probably only show up irregularly, or when there’s nothing better to do.”
“True,” Ray conceded, “but I’ll just bet that Esther Reynolds keeps detailed records of everyone who comes and goes—residents and staff alike. I’m sure with the right persuasion, like a court order, we can separate the maybes from the maybe nots.”
Nina looked at him studiously. “In the meantime, we have a very unstable woman out there who’s likely to strike again at any time with deadly precision.”
Ray acknowledged this in his mind even as he wondered if they could be way off base in their sense of direction and possible suspects. He had seen more than his fair share of cases where the culprit was the last suspect on everyone’s list. Were they on the right track on this one?
* * *
Julian Frommer was waiting in his office when Ray arrived. It was small and crowded with the tools of an assistant district attorney’s office at his disposal. Frommer leaned back in his desk chair, a frown creasing his alabaster face.
“I was actually sorry to hear about Martinez,” he said, running his fingers through greasy hair, then wiping them on the wool jacket of his suit.
“It sure made your job a hell of a lot easier,” Ray said, studying the prosecutor’s reaction.
Frommer shook his head. “Not really. No one likes to see a suspect taken out like that. Nasty.” Frommer leveled his eyes at Ray. “In fact, I was looking forward to hauling his ass back into court for a second round. I was convinced that, given time, I could have gotten Lucie Garcia to see him for the brutal monster he really was.”
“Only someone beat you to the punch,” said Ray humorlessly. “Or the bat.”
“Yeah,” the prosecutor muttered. “Something like that.”
“It almost seems too coincidental when standing in my shoes.” Ray used that moment to plant his hands solidly on the metal desk and stare across it. “Martinez meets Satan before he can do any more harm, much less face new charges and possibly walk again.”
Frommer’s brows knitted. “What the hell are you trying to say, Barkley? You don’t actually think I had anything to do with that asshole’s murder, do you?”
Ray leaned forward, holding his gaze. In fact, he didn’t see Frommer as a murderer, particularly since he had not been the prosecutor in the other two vigilante-related murders. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t familiar with the killer, even if he didn’t realize it.
“Relax, man,” he told him nicely. “No one’s accusing you of Roberto Martinez’s death. But you may be able to help us nail the real perpetrator.”
“How so?” the prosecutor asked guardedly.
I’m so glad you asked. “By providing me with the names of everyone you talked to in your investigation who might have had a beef with Martinez or his actions. There’s a chance someone may have decided to go after him once the case was dismissed.”
Frommer scratched the back of his hand. “Yeah, I can do that. Only it will be a very short list. Martinez had a history of domestic violence and other assault crimes. But the only ones willing to come out on the record against him were a known drug dealer with his own agenda and his alleged victim, Lucie Garcia, who ran scared when it came to crunch time.”
Ray allowed his mind to wander. “What about people who hung around the courtroom and seemed to take a keen interest in the case?”
Frommer shrugged. “The actual trial lasted less than a day,” he said. “Hardly enough time to develop a profile of spectators or nuts posing as such.”
Ray showed him a composite of the woman seen at the bar Martinez was at the night of his death. “Does she look familiar?” Even as he asked, he knew the picture was based on a vague memory of a tall black woman wearing dark glasses and probably a blonde wig of some sort in a dim atmosphere. He wasn’t sure he would be able to recognize his own mother in looking at such an image.
Frommer studied it with something less than intense scrutiny. “Not really.” He looked up. “You think she offed Martinez?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to talk to the lady about it.”
“Can’t help you, buddy,” Frommer said. “Sorry.” He extended his arm to pass back the composite.
“Keep it,” Ray told him. “Just in case your memory is jogged later or you happen to run into her—”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Frommer met his eyes head on. “For the record, Barkley, I hope you get the one you’re after. Justice belongs in the courtroom, not on the street.”
Ray felt a knot in his stomach, and said musingly: “Someone who feels that the courts do a lousy job dispensing justice would disagree with you.”
After he left Julian Frommer’s office, Ray drove around
town collecting his thoughts. He believed the killer was someone within reach. I can feel it in my bones. They only needed to put a name and face to her. Yes, he was convinced it was a woman, possibly African-American, they were after. But he didn’t rule out that a man could be the killer—perhaps dressed as a woman—singling out other men for his own reasons.
Overall, Ray’s gut instincts told him this was the work of someone who had been the victim of male battering either directly or indirectly.
Someone who had no intention of stopping her lethal vengeance on batterers.
Not till there were no more left to kill.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carole read the verdict and then quietly passed it back to the bailiff. She fixed her eyes on the defendant, Blake Wallace. He stared back at her with eyes that were sinister in their darkness. The forty-nine-year-old real estate tycoon was just under six feet tall and solid as a rock in a tailored double-breasted charcoal suit. He had thinning black-gray hair, slicked backwards as if to hide the balding. It surrounded a jowly face that was red like a pepper.
He had been charged with assaulting his wife, who had run from the house naked, badly bruised, and bleeding. Victoria Wallace now sat supportively behind her husband. She wore sunglasses, shielding the scars left from the vicious attack that left her partially blind in one eye.
Next to Blake Wallace sat his high-priced, confident attorney, George von Dorman. He whispered something in his client’s ear causing him to smile. That quickly vanished when the defendant’s gaze centered sternly on Carole’s face.
She turned away, showing no emotion to the verdict. After asking the defendant to rise, Carole directed the jury foreman to read the verdict.
The yellow-haired, thirty-something woman glanced in the direction of Blake Wallace before nervously looking down, and saying: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty on the charge of first degree assault—”
Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 5