“Or because he’d refused to share it,” Hunter said. “We need to know which side of that line he played on.”
“It could be why he changed my Manville decision.” I wove back to my asbestos cases. “If Donnettelli had changed decisions on Laurel’s and Palene’s dockets, too, that equaled one big reason he would want me, Laurel, and Palene to be afraid of him all the time, too scared to question him, or even to be near him, his case files, and the truth. But that still didn’t really add up to Donnettelli being killed.”
“It could if we found out who was interested in that information.”
He had something. “But his changing my Orders still meant motive and guilt that led to me.”
Hunter agreed.
I clutched the top of the steering wheel.
“Let’s wait and talk this over with Sebastian and Dexter.” I waved goodbye.
Hunter leaned close. I could feel his warm breath. “I like it better when we’re alone.”
“It’s always about sex with you, isn’t it?” I tried not to notice how hot he smelled and the fusion of his scent with my sex-zones. Damnation.
“Toots. Why would your mind go there?” He leaned even closer. “I was talking about the investigation.”
“Out!” I ordered and pointed at the door. I hoped my firm tones didn’t alert him that my order equally applied to my rampant hormones.
“You’re sure? We could discuss your fixation on me.”
I revved the engine and glared. Or tried to. It’s hard to glare when your Victoria’s Secrets are melting into a leather seat compliments of your ex, and you’re seated in close proximity to another ex. Damn hormones. I’d have to work through my want-to-have-sex-now-yearnings and figured as busy as we were on Tuesdays, getting myself into the Salon would dump a cold bucketful over my unsatiated desire.
Minutes after arriving at the Salon, despite wanting to, I couldn’t just return home to further investigate and consider my plight. No way I could justify spending all day at home frittering with Donnettelli’s boxes now hidden in my secret storage or thoughts of his money-stash—correction: my money-stash.
Renee was wearing an apron and working with Margo. I was proud of Renee and her blossoming confidence. I wasn’t sure if it was because we were becoming friends, she was away from the Courthouse, or she was carrying pepper spray.
That evening, after the salon doors were locked and all the staff exited, I had just enough time for a meeting with Sebastian and Hunter. I sat at my desk, and the men pulled up the chairs so closely to the front desk edge that they could rest their elbows while they watched me lay the contents of the envelope I’d found tucked in the bottom of Donnettelli’s lapel-pin box in the center of the desk. There were a dozen Visa cards and a County ID card for Jurisa Haddes. More inside puzzle pieces. Somebody needed to give me a corner piece or at least an edge piece.
The Visa cards reeked of a move Donnettelli had doubtless learned from criminal testimony: spend large amounts of money by buying reloadable credit cards used as debit cards. No wonder he liked to buy his wife fancy dinners and gifts.
Was this asbestos-company-payoff money? The credit card Renee had used for the Missus’ apology gifts must have come from this pile.
Hunter dialed Walmart with the last four digits of the first Visa card with the code on the back and his phone number. A few minutes later he got the balance. Nine-thousand dollars. He did it for all the cards. Two hundred and sixteen-thousand dollars. Damn. Money grew from everything Donnettelli touched. We had to find out who was in it with him.
Sebastian was convinced the Detectives would dig deeper if we simply showed them where to start, so Sebastian tried to arrange a meeting with the Detectives. They couldn’t be persuaded to come to the salon or to set a time tomorrow but were willing to see us at 8 p.m. at the station.
But when Sebastian, Hunter, and I arrived—on time—we were shown into an interrogation room and left to wait so long, I started to worry about getting home before my tether turned into a pumpkin and exploded orange mush all over my ankle.
When the pair deigned to show up, they’d left their brains behind.
“Basically, there’s a tie to changing Judges’ Orders in multi-million-dollar asbestos cases,” I told Detectives.
Sebastian showed three solid cases that should have gone to trial but were dismissed. And it looked as if no one complained. “Something’s rotten in Ingham County.”
“Try this,” Fredericks said. “Chief Judge found out this 12-bank scheme of yours to hide your payoff bucks, and before he had a chance to report your misconduct, you shot him.” Fredericks flipped through his notes. “You had everything to lose.”
“Why else murder the Chief Judge and stop the perfect stream of illegal income?” Grayson asked.
I knew these guys. I’d seen them do outstanding investigative work, they were smart, and their testimony was always professional. They had to be deliberately being obtuse.
“I’m out.” I stood. I was weary. Detectives heard what they wanted to: the evidence pointed at me instead of away. This meeting absolutely affirmed that I had to solve this murder.
Sebastian tipped his hat to the Detectives. “A bit of hard investigative work and less double talk might put us on the same team and the killer behind bars.”
“Video of your client in and out of the Courthouse the week Donnettelli sucks his last breath is a gotcha, Counselor.” Grayson gripped the back of the chair.
Fredericks jabbed his pen in Sebastian’s direction. “You’ve watched the footage.”
I crossed my arms. “I picked Judges Briggs and Field up to visit my new salon.”
Fredericks pretended to write in his notepad and mumbled, “Judges forgot how to drive.”
“Ah, Judge Briggs.” Grayson’s voice could blister the paint on the wall. “She’s not a Judge Donnettelli fan.”
“A million people in the naked city are not Donnettelli fans,” I said. Talking to these guys was like a bad Brazilian wax.
“Read this.” Fredericks passed papers around the table.
I shivered. Cold familiarity. I’d read hundreds of similar reports. Coroner’s Report. I scanned it. It referenced Peter Cedric Dune. Cause of Death: Undetermined. “It hasn’t hit the news, yet. A Coroner’s Inquest needs to be scheduled.” Fredericks paused and scanned the table.
Our silence spurred Grayson to interject. “Perhaps you and Judge Briggs conspired to murder Dune? You’ve each heard enough cases to be educated on the how-to.”
“We’ll figure out your scheme,” Fredericks said.
In my head I recited the Bill of Rights. Congress shall make no law . . . Bags in hand, I turned toward the door. “Judge Briggs is not in the General Trial Division. She’s in the Family Division. You can’t tie any case manipulation to us, and we’ve declared every earned dollar to IRS.”
Fredericks pen-clicked. “Even though Judge Briggs was Chief Judge Pro Tem under Donnettelli? Even though you have twelve cash accounts?”
I ignored him. “Line up dates, deaths, and court files, and watch those flipping dominoes do The Wave.” I strode to the door.
Sebastian scooted his chair back, jumped up, landed in front of me, tipped his hat again, and opened the door.
My boots clicked through the open door and down the worn terrazzo in the old police station. I heard Hunter’s voice trail back at them. “You upset our girl. Be wise about what you do next.” His voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket. But the heavy door creaked and banged shut. And I shuddered.
Chapter Sixty-One
When we reached Hunter’s Escalade, I couldn’t crawl into the backseat quick enough. I snapped my seatbelt and sank into the soft leather. “Step on it before tether curfew blows my ankle off.”
I wasn’t worried about Hunter’s speeding. My overwhelming need was simple: home. As we whirred
through the streets, I counted trees, electric poles, hookers . . .
Suddenly a jolt crashed through me.
My body jerked forward; the seatbelt cut into my chest; even my voice hurdled into waves. Damnation. We’d been walloped, and my nerves unhinged.
I felt my head, stomach, and legs. I was intact. I reached into my bag and latched onto a can of hairspray and my Taser. I twisted around toward the rear window as much as my seatbelt allowed and peered into the shadowy night. “Get that damn beast.”
A black truck with monster wheels loomed over us.
My insides stiffened into a corset of terror, a lack of oxygen disoriented me, and I couldn’t get any air.
Dark-tinted windows, thunderous motor. Again, it rammed and jolted me into airplane crash position.
“Hang on,” Hunter shouted.
“Seriously?” I shouted with full-on, no regret, sarcasm. “Hit that ogre with all you got.”
“Stay down.” Sebastian’s voice was commanding and detached. He pulled out a silver long-barreled gun from somewhere and propped it between the seat and his legs. He grabbed a black Glock from inside his jacket and aimed it at the rear window. “Arseholes’ unlucky day to want a burst up.”
I shrieked. My bags had slipped to the floor of the truck and were covered in broken glass and bullet casings. Shattered glass bounced around me. “Aw, hell no,” I screamed up from my crouched position. “Swiss-cheese his wide-ass.” My voice curdled rendering me unable to speak as another spray of bullets fired at the truck and return fire whizzed through our vehicle above my head.
I checked myself for wounds and ratcheted up just enough to verify Sebastian and Hunter were without holes and spattering blood. My heart was exploding with such gusto against my inner chest wall, I ached. I kept reminding myself to breathe in between making a pact with myself to either obtain a concealed weapon permit or connect a long hose with a sprayer attached to a vat of super starch hair spray.
My body lurched forward again. The last time I felt like this I was at the carnival with my sons on the egg-beater ride. My back jerked away from the seat and slapped back again. I grabbed onto the seatbelt strap, but it didn’t stabilize the body-in-a-blender feeling. “Damn this villain.”
I hit 9-1-1. “Pull the damn trigger and make a U-turn before he shears us.”
A barrage of bullets bombarded us.
Sebastian fired the Glock. He blew out the rear window. “Fang it.” Two more bullets blared from his Glock.
“He means turn!” I shouted up at Hunter.
Between me and the world hung a shroud of high-pitched squeals. A whole new level of Supernatural. My goosebump-fear mixed with my adrenaline-rush caused me to spew with impatience. “Rotate the damn steering wheel before we get killed or drive over the SOB,” I screamed. I had sons to see and a life to live. I was truly scared.
“Gotcha covered,” Hunter yelled back, screeched the tires right, turned down a dark alley and thudded into and over worn boxes, bags, and other trash piled next to overstuffed dumpsters. Rubbish ricocheted in every direction, spinning like smacked pool balls. Refuse crash-landed on the roof of the SUV and slid off. The sudden stench of unleashed molten garbage immediately sifted through the unglassed windows, and I winced.
I couldn’t see if he’d struck anything else or what kind of minefield the boxes had left in our wake, but the rear-end jolting stopped.
Neighborhood dogs barked; a few howled. On both sides of the alley, windows lit. For a second I could see inside our vehicle. Apparently my 9-1-1 call couldn’t locate our moving target. Now neither could the shooters.
The Escalade made several more turns through the maze of tight apartment alleyways, finally cracking out the other side onto Brindle Road, which was well-lit and full of vehicles. My cocky men actually laughed.
Although I was grateful the thugs were vanquished, I was angry, nauseated, and confused.
“You okay back there?” Sebastian asked.
I looked up into the rearview and caught a glimpse of light in his eyes that comforted me. “I’m buying boots to match my joyride bruises.”
Sebastian set the safety on each weapon, tucked them discreetly away, and turned back to face me for a few seconds. “But you are okay?”
“Define okay?” I didn’t mean to sound angry, but I felt battered. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but okay wasn’t in my momentary vocabulary.
“Debrief at home,” Hunter said. “Your bewitched ankle needs to return,” Hunter said and turned toward Sebastian. “What did you see?’
“Blokes’ dark-tinted windows in their truck obstructed my view,” Sebastian said. “I did catch a quick glimpse through the window I blasted out. Two men, ball caps, ski masks.”
“I need five seconds to recuperate from flying glass, shrapnel, and garbage stench.” I was overwhelmingly appreciative, but I needed to climb into my bathtub and bawl.
Hunter maneuvered the last corner into the long road that led to my home.
“Nic, did you see anything else?” Sebastian asked.
“Seriously?” I gulped. “There’s some popcorn under the seat.”
Hunter turned back at me and winked.
We approached my house, and two black-and-whites clogged my front drive. “Now what?” Could the thugs have beaten us here? Am I under arrest for being with men with guns, a clear bond violation? Damn.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Renee and Dinkie-Do stood in my front yard facing off with three uniformed officers. A fourth uniform sat in one of the three police vehicles that flocked my driveway. He spoke into his radio.
There was no time to replace the Taser in my updo, so I buried it under my hairspray cans in the bottom of my bag.
Sebastian volleyed me a stern look. “Use your right to be silent.”
Like Old West sheriffs dismounting their horses, the men stepped out of the truck and slammed their doors in unison. I imagined Ole Hunter and Ole Mr. Sebastian, hands on holsters, spurs jangling, with dusty jeans and day-old beards. Maybe I needed a hit-slap, at least an ice cube between my breasts.
I fished my house key from the zippered compartment in my bag, balanced my things on my arms, and slid out of the truck. At first I had a bad case of Bambi legs, but I commanded them to get it together. I wasn’t sure how to pull off the silent-woman bit. I voted for womanpower and made a power-line for Renee.
I focused on her forlorn presence.
A young stubby-ponytailed female officer stepped aside to allow Renee to wrap her arms around me. I separated myself from her long enough to hand my shoulder bag of contraband to Dinkie-Do. He absconded inside my house and quickly returned. What the hell were they doing here? I hadn’t heard helicopters filming our near-death experience, but then, my ears were still ringing.
Renee’s smeared makeup looked like she’d just cleaned my chimney. “My apartment’s been ransacked, plundered, and crunched into oblivion—my things are barely recognizable.” She held up a phone charger. “This is all I could salvage, except for my clothes. They apparently didn’t like my wardrobe.” She tried to grin, but the corners of her mouth turned under faster than she could pull them up. A small paisley pouch gathered by a ribbon at the top, dangled from her wrist.
“Bag of magic tricks?” I smiled. Poor joke, but I was curious. What had she rescued that she hadn’t listed?
“Magical credit cards. I hide them in a ceiling tile above my bathtub.” Renee held up her wrist. “I only carry the ones I need. These are all my others.” Tears fell.
“Smart,” I said with applaud in my voice, but the curious Judge in me—who wanted to remain free—wondered if any of those cards were Visa credit cards from Donnettelli.
“Not so smart. I had another bag behind the toilet. It’s gone.”
After introductions with four onlooking officers, Hunter and Sebastian were motioned to the b
ack of the running cop car. I waited until Sebastian, several feet away, finger-flagged permission to speak.
Relief crawled over me like the bubbles I hoped to sink into. Selfishly I was jubilant this new mess wasn’t about me, and I was immediately remorseful. My gut told me the break-in had to be related to my arrest or Donnettelli, or both. Were they looking for the money he’d hidden? Why would they think Renee had it? “Renee, begin further back.”
“After work, Dinkie-Do and I stopped by my apartment to water my plants. We found the door unlocked.”
“I didn’t let her go in. Honey, I’m no stranger to this kind of thing. Learned all sorts of things living in New York.” Dinkie-Do aired all ten fingers stiffly.
“How did you know?”
In the moonlight Dinkie-Do’s wide eyes glowed. “Always push on the door, Sweetheart, before key insertion. If it’s solid, check the knob. Make sure it’s locked. Two simple rules. If either one is broken—it’s a break-in. Run and dial, Honey. Run. And. Dial.”
Renee jumped in, “Quick as his fingers turn the knob, he drops it, grabs my arm and pulls out his cell. We run into the stairwell. He hit 9-1-1. When the scream of the sirens were close, two men ran out of my apartment.”
“You saw them?” I couldn’t believe their luck.
“We propped the door open just a crack with the operator on the line.” Renee’s voice squeaked.
I squeezed her hand.
“Oh, they were a definite fashion No, Not Ever, Honey. Dressed in baggy black sweatpants and black tee shirts with—”
“Black ski masks and ball caps?” Sebastian called over his shoulder.
“Good guess, attorney man. Guess you’ve seen a lot of bad men in Fashion Drab.” Dinkie-Do said. “No passion for criminal fashion.” He shimmied all over.
“No guess. We just had a run-in with those two. They’ve had a busy night.”
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