Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  “Now wait a minute—” Nina looked up, one brow cocked. “The judge isn’t off the hook yet. We still need to talk to this Jacqueline Monique Davis and see if her story jibes with Esther Reynolds’ account of the suspect—assuming the two women are one and the same.”

  “It all fits perfectly from where I stand,” Ray said, studying the suspect’s physical description. “Tall, shapely, attractive, light-to-medium brown skin, dark pixies... Esther pretty much described the same person you interviewed. Which is also damned close to the woman described at the bar the night Roberto Martinez was murdered. Minus the blonde wig and shades. I’d say that this is our woman—”

  Nina stood. “Well, let’s check her out,” she said noncommittally. “She gave us an address. Meanwhile I’ll have records run a check on the name Jacqueline Monique Davis to see if she has a criminal background.”

  “Good idea.” Ray had the feeling Monique was still one or two steps ahead of them—making her that much more dangerous.

  * * *

  The address the suspect had given was a vacant lot surrounded by tall weeds and littered with everything from beer cans to used condoms.

  “She was a witness,” Nina said defensively. “There was no reason to suspect she was feeding us a bunch of bull.”

  “No one’s blaming you,” Ray told her, driving back to the station. “She’s been playing all of us like a piano. We’ve seen it before. Killers get some kind of sick gratification out of being so-called innocent bystanders, while manipulating the police and press right under their noses.”

  “You think she could be a lawyer or a judge?” Nina asked keenly. “And who the hell is her husband?”

  “Well, so far she’s a battered woman, a witness to a crime, and currently a missing woman,” Ray said. “Yeah, I think it’s possible she could be a judge, lawyer, or some other public servant. Or none of those. The husband, if there is one, could be any one of these.” He shifted his eyes to Nina. “What seems pretty clear is she’s a very unstable woman. And that scares the hell out of me.”

  He thought about Carole. Had her life been placed in danger by her release from jail?

  Would Monique go after her?

  Ray wondered if Carole even knew the woman. Or was this more of a guilt by association thing? Who knew what this psychopath used to justify her actions.

  More distressing news came that afternoon from the records department. There was nothing on a Jacqueline Monique Davis. Which meant she did not exist, technically, insofar as police files. At least not by that name.

  “Could Davis be her maiden name?” Nina asked.

  “Maybe.” Ray twisted his lips. “Or maybe she just made it up in that sick head of hers.”

  “If she is our vigilante,” Nina said, “then I’d say the lady’s got one violent and sadistic imagination turned very real and deadly.”

  Ray ran a hand across his head. “Why don’t you see if we can get the sketch updated to include more details on Jacqueline Monique Davis, or whatever the hell her real name is? We can distribute it in legal circles and on the streets. Someone might recognize her.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’ll go see Carole,” he said, dispensing with the formalities when referring to her around Nina, as though a crime in and of itself to feel something for the lady. “She may know Monique under a different name. It’s obvious Monique knows her, which could spell trouble once she learns the plan to set up Carole has backfired.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Carole struggled in trying to decide upon chicken or pork chops for dinner. In the end she went with pork chops, picking up the package and putting it in her cart. She envisioned breaded pork chops, broccoli, and brown rice. She often turned to eating when struggling with cumbersome issues, and was thankful her metabolism and exercise regimen kept the pounds off.

  The supermarket was busier than usual and Carole wondered if it was a holiday she wasn’t aware of or if it was just other people looking for some escapist food, like her.

  She was still trying to come to terms with the various things that had happened in her life of late and what they meant in the larger picture.

  Her thoughts centered on Ray Barkley. Were she and Ray destined to be like two ships passing in the night, never to truly connect or find everlasting love and commitment?

  There were more pressing matters that stood in the way of any thoughts of romance. She could actually have to face a multiple murder trial as a defendant rather than judge. And with the press looking to sensationalize it, she couldn’t possibly hope for a fair trial in Portland. Or anywhere else, for that matter, as the so-called Vigilante Batterer Killer.

  Carole imagined herself being vilified as a seriously disturbed female serial killer of men. She knew there would likely be at least some public sentiment in support of her as an avenging angel in ridding the world of men who abuse women and children.

  I’m certainly against domestic violence in all its forms, but don’t advocate taking the law into one’s own hands in the name of justice. Though she could understand why someone might be motivated to take such drastic measures.

  Carole thought about Stuart and Vivian as she gazed absentmindedly at a row of cereal boxes. Could either of them be capable of committing these terrible crimes and attempting to pin it on her like a damned tail on the donkey?

  It seemed to Carole that if she had to point the finger, it would have to be at Vivian, who she hardly knew, in spite of the circumstances that had brought them together on several occasions. But that did not mean Stuart was totally innocent of the grisly murder spree.

  If Stuart were knowledgeable of Vivian’s guilt, would he be courageous enough to turn her in for the help she needed? Or would he allow another to take the fall for his wife’s misdeeds out of some misguided sense of love or protection?

  Carole had been so deep in her thoughts that she never even saw the cart she plowed into—or the woman on the other side of it, who went sprawling backwards into a shelf, knocking a few boxes over. However, she showed remarkable agility in maintaining her balance.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Carole stammered, embarrassed that this should happen. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” the woman said in a sure voice, a smile raising her high cheeks. “No broken bones.”

  The woman, about Carole’s height, build, and complexion, had long brunette Senegalese twists and almond-brown wide eyes. Carole imagined her to be in her mid to late thirties.

  “I’m usually not that clumsy,” Carole told her, feeling foolish. “I was distracted.” She offered another apology.

  “I think it was more my fault,” the woman surprised her by saying. “I have a bad habit sometimes of looking up rather than straight ahead.”

  Carole suspected she was just being kind. She noted that the attractive African-American woman’s cart was empty. Kind of odd.

  “I guess we both better try to avoid any more accidents,” she told her. “At least today.”

  The woman smiled, gazing steadily at her. “Yes, you’re right.”

  Carole found herself studying the woman. There was something familiar about her.

  Was it her well-defined face? The somewhat throaty voice? Carole honed in on the smile that almost seemed to be at you and not with you. The way the woman stood with an air of overconfidence. The way she wrung her hands as if a habitually nervous person.

  “Is it possible we’ve met somewhere before?” Carole asked impulsively.

  The woman did not flinch when she responded. “I don’t think so. I’m usually pretty good with faces. I’m sure I’d remember yours—”

  Carole nodded, wondering if everything that had happened was starting to get to her wherever she went. Including diminished cognizance and perception. She was imagining knowing people she’d never laid eyes on before. Was this part of the price of being falsely accused and put under the microscope by peers, police, and the general public? What other things would she have to endure al
ong the way?

  “Well,” Carole said politely. “I guess I’d better finish my shopping. Goodbye.”

  “Bye,” the woman responded with a cool smile before walking past Carole and leaving the empty cart there.

  By the time she had paid for her groceries and left the store, Carole had put the encounter behind her. Right now she hoped to get home and enjoy a quiet evening alone, away from all the distractions that had converged on her lately.

  * * *

  She watched from a distance as Carole went up to the checkout counter. The judge had nearly recognized her. Damn. But the bitch had not been certain, not believing her eyes and mind. She would have to be more careful next time...

  She couldn’t have her plan derailed. Not now. Not by anyone.

  Judge Cranston had been responsible for those abusing assholes being set free. After all, she was the presiding judge in every instance, and therefore had the final word. Didn’t she?

  So it was only fitting she be given the sentence they should have been dealt had she been stronger and more determined to see that justice was properly served. Life behind bars, if not death by lethal injection. The bitch deserved no less.

  First, though, there was one more bastard to be punished while Carole Cranston was out on bail and capable of being blamed. This one would not only serve notice to the world about the evils of abusive men, but would be the final straw for making certain the judge got her just due.

  The woman, having no need for groceries, calmly sidestepped shoppers, casting an artificial smile here and there. She left the store just in time to see Judge Carole Cranston climb into a cab.

  She watched as it drove off, its occupant guilty of allowing scum to walk away scot-free from their abusive crimes against women. For that she would pay dearly. Just as they had.

  The woman sucked in a deep, calming breath and walked away contemplatively.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Carole saw the familiar detective’s car parked in front of her building as the cab dropped her off. Ray was leaning against it casually. He looked at her with penetrating eyes that gave no clue of his purpose for being there.

  She wondered if it was as a friend or foe.

  Carole tensed. Had Ray come to arrest her again? Or was he here to tell he loved her with all his heart and this whole thing was nothing more than a bad nightmare? She didn’t allow herself to think too optimistically, for fear of another letdown.

  Carole tightened the grip on the bag and felt her heart skip a beat. “What do you want?” she asked cautiously.

  Ray moved towards her. “To talk,” he said in a low voice.

  She eyed him with misgiving. “Should I have my attorney present?”

  “Not necessary,” he assured her. “Let me carry that bag for you—”

  He reached his arms out, but Carole involuntarily stepped around him.

  “No, thanks. I can manage.”

  Carole had mixed feelings about being alone with Ray, as though they hadn’t already been in the most intimate ways. She decided to hear him out then show him where the door was. No matter what her sentiments for him were, Carole refused to be manipulated by a man she couldn’t trust. Much less, depend on. Or even love.

  In the condo, Carole put her bag on the kitchen counter, intending to put the items away afterwards, expecting his visit to be short.

  “There’s been a break in the case,” Ray told her, a hint of expectation in his voice.

  “Oh...?” She was all ears.

  “We may have found our killer,” he said. “Or at least tentatively identified her—”

  The way Ray shifted his eyes at her face, for an instant Carole wondered if he was referring to her. Then she thought of Vivian.

  “So who is she?” Carole asked with a sharp intake of breath.

  Ray ran long fingers across his mouth. “We’re looking for an African-American woman named Jacqueline Monique Davis. Trouble is, we’re not sure that’s her real name. She’s a volunteer at the Rose City Women’s Shelter, according to your old friend Esther Reynolds.”

  Carole listened intently even as she replayed the name Jacqueline Monique Davis in her mind.

  “Appears she’s the same Jacqueline Davis who was at the scene of Blake Wallace’s murder,” Ray informed her. “It was actually her statement that led us to Wolfe’s car and eventually to you—”

  Carole didn’t know whether to be elated or angry. The fact that he and the whole city had all but convicted her before the facts could come out left her a bit numb and more than a little disillusioned, not to mention pissed off.

  Ray gazed at her studiously. “We’re hoping you can tell us who Jacqueline Monique Davis is,” he uttered. “My guess is she’s someone you’re acquainted with as a judge, if not outside the court.”

  “Jacqueline...Monique—” Carole thought out loud, trying to recall the names. “Hmm... Doesn’t ring a bell—”

  Ray began describing her. “About your height, build, and skin shade; darkish, long, individual pixies, good looking...maybe in her late thirties—”

  The description instantly made Carole think of the woman she had all but knocked over at the store. Only her hair was in Senegalese twists. She had seemed eerily familiar.

  “What is it?” asked Ray viscerally.

  “Jacqueline Lewiston...” the words rang out of Carole’s mouth almost in song. “She was a temporary court stenographer for me about six months ago while my regular stenographer had some personal problems to attend to.”

  Ray reacted. “When did you last see her?”

  Carole stared into his face. “I may have just seen her a short while ago...today—”

  After she explained her brush with the woman at the store, Ray said worriedly: “Hell! She must be stalking you. Or at the very least, she’s toying with you while she plays out this deadly game of killing male batterers and setting you up as the villain.”

  Carole found her legs growing wobbly. She might have fallen had Ray not grabbed hold of her, wrapping his strong arms across the small of her back like a lover.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, concern etched across his face.

  “I think this whole damned nightmare is just starting to catch up with me,” she admitted, her hands trembling. “As a judge, I’m used to just about everything you can imagine in a courtroom. But lately my real life has been a soap opera all its own. Having a sociopath out to ruin me just tops it all—”

  Ray continued to hold her, their bodies pressing together. “I’m sorry, baby,” he spoke tenderly. “Hopefully the nightmare will soon be over for us all.”

  Then what? Would life ever go back to normal for her again?

  She wasn’t even sure what normal was anymore. Or if she wanted things to go back to exactly the way they were.

  And that included a sexual relationship with Ray.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an address for Lewiston, would you?” he asked.

  “I’m sure it’s on file at the courthouse,” she told him.

  “Feel up to a drive?”

  “Try and stop me,” Carole said, just as anxious to get to the bottom of what had turned her life upside down.

  * * *

  At the Criminal Court Plaza personnel office, an administrator gave Ray and Carole access to the employment file on Jacqueline Monique Lewiston. It listed her as a temporary court stenographer, age thirty-six, along with dates of employment. For further information, it referred to the Legal Temps Agency.

  “I hope I’m not leading you on a wild goose chase,” said Carole as they headed for the agency. She was beginning to wonder if this actually was the same woman she had seen at the store. The woman had given no indication they had ever met before. Or that their run-in was anything more than a coincidence. Just the opposite, in fact.

  But then even a madwoman—or especially one—could orchestrate a convincing set up.

  Ray seemed to read her mind. “I don’t think so,” he said knowingly. “This psyc
ho broad’s certainly clever and daring, but also very dangerous. If there is a goose to be caught, she’s the one.”

  The Legal Temps Agency was in downtown Portland. They supplied temporaries for virtually all support functions in the legal field, including stenographers. The office was large and sectioned off into cubicles with desks and computers. Phones rang off the hook as employees tried to keep up with the demand.

  The manager was a short, slim, white woman in her fifties named Rosalyn Bradford. Ray used his police I.D. and a commanding presence that betrayed his sense of determination to get what they wanted.

  “Here’s Ms. Lewiston’s personnel file,” Rosalyn said. “What kind of trouble is she in?”

  “Right now we just need to find her for questioning, Ma’am,” said Ray evasively, taking the folder.

  “Actually, Jacqueline hasn’t worked for us for some time,” she remarked. “We called her about jobs, but there was no answer. It was like she just dropped out of sight.”

  “But not out of mind,” Carole muttered thoughtfully.

  Ray studied the file. It included a phone number and home address, an apartment in Portland. Jacqueline Monique Lewiston’s marital status was listed as single, he noted. Was that true? Had she manufactured an abusive, important husband for the sake of justifying her targets for murder?

  He glanced at Carole, wondering if things could ever be right for them again once this was all over. He knew he had his work cut out for him to regain her trust.

  Her affection.

  And whatever else they had going on, till he’d destroyed it.

  Favoring Rosalyn, Ray handed her the folder, but kept the documents. “I’ll need to hold onto this for a while, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said nonchalantly. “Everything’s on computer these days anyway. If we need another file on Jacqueline, we’ll simply print it out—”

  Ray imagined that should they ever get their hands on Jacqueline Lewiston, her employment history and everything before, during, and after, would no doubt be useful in a psychiatric case study of the crazy woman.