The judge, Harvey Winston III, was not a friend, but a colleague and acquaintance of Carole’s. The sixty-year-old African-American former Portland city councilman had clearly been torn in his decision on bail. Finally, he compromised between the prosecutor’s wishes for no bail and his inclination for a significant, but not unattainably high bail and set it at five hundred thousand dollars.
Carole had been required to put up ten percent, along with her personal guarantee she wouldn’t skip town while her case was pending. She had gladly agreed to such, tapping into her savings and being willing to beg, borrow, or steal, if necessary—anything to avoid spending one more second behind bars as a murder suspect.
Carole felt sick to her stomach that she had been demeaned this way. All her adult life she had stood for fair and honest justice. Now with one calculating move someone had managed to put a serious dent into her accomplishments and integrity with no guarantee she could ever right the wrongs. Or repair the great damage that had been inflicted upon her character.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” Vivian broke into her thoughts. “There’s a new Caribbean restaurant not far from here. Stuart took me there last week.”
“I don’t think so,” Carole told her. “I just want to go home, take a nice long hot shower, and go to bed.” And feel sorry for myself. Alone.
Carole almost expected Vivian to argue that she had to eat, but Stuart’s wife did not.
Instead she said: “I can understand that. It must have been awful in there.”
Carole bristled. “Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she grumbled. “Try a living hell.” Actually she knew she had been treated better than a typical jail inmate. Being a prominent judge who had put many others away had allowed her at least that much. But that did little to keep her from feeling like a damned caged animal during her short stay.
“I hear you, girl,” Vivian said. “Especially for something you didn’t do.” She turned the corner a little too sharply, causing the tires to squeal. “Sorry. Sometimes I drive a little crazy.”
Carole had on her seatbelt, but was startled nonetheless, gripping the seat impulsively. Her mind went beyond the unsteady driving, more piqued by Vivian’s words: For something you didn’t do. She wondered how Stuart’s wife could be so sure of her innocence.
Could Vivian have actually stolen the bracelet from her condo when she dropped by...and then planted it in the front seat of Stuart’s car? If so, why?
Could this possibly be about my past with Stuart and some sort of insane animosity?
Or might it have more to do with her being a judge and vindictiveness related to abusers who walked from her court as free—but still far from innocent—men?
Carole regarded Vivian thoughtfully. “I’m not guilty of these crimes,” she affirmed. “But someone is...”
“Yeah,” Vivian muttered in agreement. “I just hope the police get real smart before this killer has everyone in town accusing each other while she remains free to keep killing these bastards.”
Carole glanced at her suspiciously. She managed to sound nonchalant when she said: “Stuart and I were trying to figure out how on earth someone got my bracelet and put it in his car without the alarm going off or anyone being seen—”
Was this about jealousy? Carole recalled Vivian’s apparent outrage when she saw her and Stuart embracing. Could Vivian have misinterpreted Stuart’s show of friendly concern for romantic feelings? Even love?
But the most pressing question at the moment was whether or not Vivian could have resorted to murder?
Five times...
“If you ask me,” said Vivian with a catch to her voice, “someone who was clever and daring enough could have broken into your condo and stolen the bracelet. I’ve read that most locks can be picked in a matter of seconds, if you know what you’re doing. Of course, the person would also have to know your schedule—like when you wouldn’t be home.” She stopped at a light. “It wouldn’t take a genius or pro to plant evidence in Stuart’s car to try and set you up. I’m always getting on him about keeping it unlocked with the alarm off. But he never listens. He also likes to park away from other cars so his pretty BMW doesn’t get scratched. Can you believe that?”
Carole shuddered. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” she said without inflection.
Vivian shrugged. “Hey, it’s just a theory.” She pressed down on the accelerator. “I suppose every armchair detective has one.”
Carole was starting to get a bad feeling about Stuart’s no longer pregnant wife. Was Vivian being influenced by too many mystery novels and movies o was she speaking more from actual knowledge than theory?
“But I still haven’t figured out why this bitch would try and frame you,” Vivian said, shifting her eyes. “Must be someone has it in for you since you represent the system and men who beat their women half to death and seem to get away with it almost every time—”
“So it would seem,” Carole said through pursed lips.
But who?
Was it Vivian? A woman who acted like her friend, but also showed a darker side.
Or someone else I’m connected to?
Vivian drove up to the building. “I’d watch my step if I were you,” she said, concern in her voice. “Something tells me this vigilante broad may not stop here. You could become their target next—”
A target?
The thought unsettled Carole. Is she warning me about herself as a perpetrator?
Beyond that, Carole contemplated the notion that a serial killer of male batterers was really targeting her. What for? To punish me for their sins, real or otherwise? Hadn’t she already been punished enough for what her father had done to her mother?
Now someone is coming after me for just doing my job.
When will the madness end?
She unfastened her seatbelt and glanced over at Stuart’s young wife, wondering if Vivian was capable of orchestrating this entire thing. Could Stuart have actually been in on it, too?
Or was she looking at the wrong suspects, simply because they were in the right place with the right opportunity?
With a forced grin, she told Vivian: “Thanks for the advice and ride. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Could she really be so certain of that, given the dangers that suddenly seemed to lurk around every corner? Carole feared that she was caught up in the classic tale of denial that so many potential victims used to try and escape what was staring them so clearly in the face.
She got out of the car and waved as Vivian drove away.
As she headed towards the building, Carole knew she had a lot to think about. One was getting back her good name.
Another was seeing if what she and Ray had was real or if it was just a figment of her imagination and her body’s reaction to his touch.
Most of all, she had to try and figure out who hated her enough to want to take the fall for the vicious and malicious murders of abusive men.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?” Nina asked Ray.
“Would it make you feel better if I said I was?” he asked. They were at a coffee shop in the heart of downtown Portland.
She shrugged. “I’d just rather hear it from you, rather than speculate that my partner hates my guts because I caused his judge girlfriend to go down on this one.”
“I don’t hate your guts, Nina,” he told her sincerely over the rim of his coffee cup. “You did your job the way you thought it had to be done. As far as Carole is concerned, I wouldn’t put this down as a done deal just yet.”
Nina raised her eyes. “Oh, really?” she said skeptically. “Why not? She’s got motive, opportunity, and working knowledge of the dead batterers and their living victims. Not to mention her association with both the court and the shelter. Throw in some strong circumstantial and direct evidence with the lady’s signature all over it, and I’d say it looks pretty damned convincing to me.”
“It looks like a
nything but that to me,” Ray countered, realizing he was going out on a limb here. He was confident it was with just cause. “We’ve got a bat with no fingerprints tying it to Judge Cranston that could have been put there by anyone. It just happens to conveniently have Roberto Martinez’s blood on it, though we both know the bat that was used to kill him was left at the scene. Add to this a cultured pearl bracelet, which Carole never denied was hers, that mysteriously shows up inside the seat in a car both she and the car’s owner claim she’s never even been in. If this doesn’t smack of a damned setup, I don’t know what.”
Nina sneered. “Don’t fight me on this one, Barkley,” she warned. “You’ll lose.”
Ray gripped the table. The last thing he wanted was to screw things up between them and put in jeopardy what had, for the most part, been a good partnership as well as friendship. But even that was not as important to him as righting what he saw to be a terrible wrong. He wasn’t about to sit idly by and watch Carole take the rap for something he felt certain she was innocent of.
“I went to see Carole,” he admitted, knowing it was not advisable under the circumstances.
“You what—?” Nina’s head snapped back as if she had run into a door. “Have you lost your damned mind, Barkley? The lead investigator in a serial killer case does not play footsies with the lead suspect...not at this stage of the process anyway. You know that, Ray! What the hell’s gotten into you anyway? This can’t be all about falling for the judge to the point that you’ve lost all perspective—”
Ray stiffened. “It’s far from that, Parker!” he insisted, even if knowing that feeling as he did about Carole had definitely figured into his thinking. “My gut tells me that Carole’s not the Vigilante Killer! I don’t give a damn what the evidence suggests...”
“And how can you be so sure of that?” Nina’s voice had a cynical lilt to it.
How can I be so sure of anything these days? Including the judgment of his partner. Maybe Nina had lost some objectivity in her pursuit of Carole at all costs. Whatever he didn’t know about Carole Cranston, in his heart of hearts Ray could not believe this lady was capable of one murder, let alone multiple homicides.
He met Nina’s unblinking gaze. “You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”
“Can’t do that,” she said dismissively. “I’ll go to hell and back for you, Ray. You know that. But I won’t jeopardize this case...my career...for a lovelorn whim of yours.”
“It’s more than just a whim, Nina,” he told her firmly. “Whoever is killing these men is someone who has no respect for the justice system. And not a hell of a lot for men either. Carole doesn’t fit that profile. She’s spent much of her adult life trying to make the laws work for people like you and me. She definitely respects males who earn her respect. I also seriously doubt Carole would somehow find a way to lose her pearl bracelet in the seat of a car she may never have been in, much less driven.”
“Now you’re starting to piss me off,” growled Nina disapprovingly. “Why don’t you just leave well enough alone and forget the over psychoanalyzing crap?”
Ray’s brows descended. “Because you don’t really want that any more than I do,” he responded with an edge to his voice. “Especially if it means letting the real killer off the hook in favor of one you simply hope is the culprit.”
Nina peered into her cup of cappuccino. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last part, okay? The only thing I’m hoping for is to stop this madness and bring the murderer to justice—whoever she is...”
“Yeah, all right.” Ray drank more coffee, conceding that they weren’t getting anywhere by attacking each other and their motivations.
After a moment or two, Nina said: “So if the judge isn’t our killer—and I’m not saying I’m buying this hypothesis of yours—then how do you propose we find the real killer?”
Ray stared at the question pensively. “I’ve felt almost since the beginning that the key to this case was the Rose City Women’s Shelter,” he said frankly. “Or, more specifically, Esther Reynolds. I think she knows a hell of a lot more than she’s said. Maybe it’s time we turn up the heat on her—all the way...”
* * *
Esther Reynolds lived in a small, dull white wood clapboard house with black shutters not far from the shelter. An attached garage was open and filled with boxes, as if a storage facility. Lights were on in the house when the detectives rang the doorbell.
Esther opened the door, shock registering on her face, as if seeing her late husband raised from the dead. She was dressed more casually than her more professional shelter attire in a pink v-neck top, jeans, and sandals.
“We need to talk to you,” Ray said gruffly.
Esther adjusted her glasses nervously. “I’m busy right now. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”
“Afraid not,” Nina responded. “It’s about your old college chum who graciously once testified on your behalf. Carole Cranston—”
Esther reacted, her voice faltering as the detectives exchanged glances.
“Come in...” she finally uttered.
She walked them into a living room with sage carpeting and African furniture. The acrid stench of cigarette smoke permeated the air.
“What about Carole?” Esther asked innocently.
Ray gazed at her. “Well, unless you’ve been out of town for the last couple of days, you know she was arrested on suspicion of being the Vigilante Batterer Killer.”
Esther lowered her eyes. “Yes, I heard about it.”
“You don’t seem surprised?”
She raised her head. “Of course I’m surprised. There’s been a big mistake. Carole could never have killed anyone.”
“Not even if he battered her regularly?” asked Nina.
Esther glared at her. “Carole would sooner walk away than kill the bastard. Just like she did when her father killed her mother.” She paused, as if giving away a family secret. “I think that’s partly why she became a judge—so people like the man I was married to could get what they deserved without making the victims become perpetrators.”
“But it doesn’t always work out that way,” hummed Ray thoughtfully, “does it?”
She sighed. “No. Not always.”
“And so someone other than Judge Cranston has decided to be the judge she hasn’t been and is punishing these batterers. Someone who is also trying to set her up to be the killer.” He tilted his head, but maintained a fixed gaze. “I think you know who this person is.”
Esther’s lower lip trembled. “Think what you like. But you’re wrong.”
“Am I...?” Ray could feel the blood pumping through his veins. This woman was lying through her teeth. “If anyone at the shelter is in a position to know all and hear all, it’s you! Carole Cranston’s life and freedom may rest on your shoulders. She helped you out once when you needed it most. Maybe it’s time you do the same before someone else is killed and the wrong person gets blamed. We need a name, Esther—”
She put her hands to her face, as if to hide a tremendous burden. Taking her glasses off, Esther was teary-eyed.
“I only know her as Monique,” she said in a voice barely audible.
“Monique,” repeated Ray almost to himself.
“She’s been coming to the shelter for a few months now,” Esther stated. “I never kept an official record of her visits because she begged me not to. She said her husband was an important man and would kill her if he ever found out.”
Ray and Nina looked at one another, piqued.
“How long have you known about Monique?” Nina asked.
“I suspected she might be involved after the first murder,” Esther admitted shakily. “There was something about the way she knew all the details.” She drew a long breath. “I only wanted to try to help her. I hoped she would stop at one. Then two. But it became like cocaine to her—the more she killed the greater her urge to kill again. It got out of control. Monique lost whatever sanity she started out with.”
�
�And you just let this go on?” Nina’s mouth hung open in disbelief of what she was hearing.
Esther wiped tears from her cheeks. “I couldn’t stop it...stop her. I was too deeply involved to go to the police. And I didn’t want to end up losing the shelter and maybe going to prison in spite of myself—”
“Maybe you won’t have to,” Ray said, “if you cooperate with us fully. Where can we find this Monique?”
“I-I, uh, I don’t know where she lives,” Esther stuttered. “I only know she’s involved somehow in the legal profession...or maybe her husband is—”
Ray’s finger brushed the tip of his nose. That would help explain the killer’s intimate knowledge of the goings-on in Carole’s courtroom. And place her in direct contact with the shelter.
But where the hell was she now? What was her next move?
He wondered what she hoped to gain by setting up Carole to take the fall for her killing spree. Did she really think she would get away with it?
Ray turned his thoughts to the important man to whom the killer was married. A cop maybe? Or even a judge?
And who the hell was she behind her killing mask?
They not only needed to find this serial murdering bitch, but it had better be damned quick. Before she went after someone else and took deadly batting practice on him.
Ray looked at Esther with some compassion. “We’ll need a good description of Monique,” he ordered. “And anything else you can think of that might help us find her...and soon—”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“I thought that name sounded familiar,” Nina said, sitting at her desk. She looked at the statement from a crime witness. “A Jacqueline Monique Davis was at the scene of the Blake Wallace murder. She was the one who gave the description and partial license plate number of the car that allegedly left the scene.”
“Let me see that.” Ray hovered over her. He studied the statement and frowned. “Looks like Jacqueline Monique Davis, if that’s her real name, calculated all her moves. Spoon feed us what she wanted to and we swallowed it like some damned cyanide.”
Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 20