by Diane Capri
NIGHT JUSTICE
BY
DIANE CAPRI
Presented by:
AugustBooks
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Praise for
New York Times and USA Today
Bestselling Author
Diane Capri
“Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too.”
Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers
“[A] welcome surprise….[W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.”
Larry King
“Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present…[L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause…Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book].”
Top Pick, Romantic Times
“…offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.”
Library Journal
“[A] fast-paced legal thriller…energetic prose…an appealing heroine…clever and capable supporting cast…[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].”
Publishers Weekly
“Expertise shines on every page.”
Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President
Copyright © 2018 Diane Capri, LLC
Excerpt Fatal Distraction © 2012 Diane Capri, LLC
All Rights Reserved
Published by: AugustBooks
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Night Justice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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eISBN: 978-1-940768-49-6
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Reviews
Copyright
Dear Friends
NIGHT JUSTICE
Dedication
Cast of Primary Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
More from Diane Capri
About the Author
Excerpt from FATAL DISTRACTION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Dear Friends,
Welcome to my Hunt for Justice Series featuring one of my most popular (and favorite) stars, Judge Willa Carson. When I set out to create a new series star, I want them to be people like you—folks I’d enjoy inviting into my home for the evening. Judge Willa and her husband George certainly fit the mold for me. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time with them as much as I do.
Judge Willa Carson returns in Night Justice. Willa’s been working hard and is driving home late one night when she is thrust into every driver’s nightmare. A man darts out in front of her car and she’s unable to stop before hitting him. It could happen to anyone. And now she’s killed a man. Or did she?
As usual, Willa finds herself caught up in a mystery wrapped around what seemed like a simple situation. She can’t stop investigating until she finds the truth, no matter where it leads.
It’s an honor and a pleasure to write for you. I hope you’ll love this series of books filled with tense legal drama, courtroom overtones, twisty plots, and loads of Florida atmosphere as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.
Now sit back in your easy chair with your favorite beverage close at hand (for me, that means coffee or red wine—depending on the time of day) and dive in while I get back to work on more new books especially for you, the best readers in the world. One of these days, I hope to meet you and say thank you in person. Until then—
Caffeinate and Carry On!
p.s. I hope you’re on my reader group email list, where we let you know about new books, opportunities, contests, giveaways, and, well everything—first and exclusively. I certainly don’t want to leave you out! (And don’t worry—I’ll never, ever send you any spam. If it’s email from me, you can be sure it’s got something terrific to offer.) If you’re not signed up and you’d like to be you can do that here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/get-my-newsletter/.
NIGHT JUSTICE
BY
DIANE CAPRI
Presented By:
AugustBooks
DEDICATION
For Aunt Mary
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Judge Wilhelmina Carson
George Carson
Chief Ben Hathaway
Augustus Ralph
Chief Judge Ozgood Richardson
Kate Austin Columbo
Charles Evan Hayden
Kelly Webb
Tom Bradford
Cindy Allen
Genevieve Rogers
Mitch Rogers
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, November 8
10:15 p.m.
Tuesday night’s drive home began in total exhaustion and ended in tragedy. I was guilty of a moment’s inattention, and it changed our lives forever. I’ll never forgive myself for that mistake. That’s on me.
But what followed wasn’t my fault. Not even remotely. It could have happened to anyone.
I’d stopped at a red light on Kennedy Boulevard and glanced through the rain-soaked windshield at the dark November streets. A red-brick building on the corner was colorfully lit for the holidays. A party inside was in full swing. Revelers in business suits and ties were having a good time and toasting liberally. Proba
bly an office party. ’Twas the season.
It was past ten p.m., and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I was feeling hungry and a bit restless, my thoughts jumbled. Normally during a long trial, my assistant would have laid out a working lunch—tuna, iced tea—giving me time during the midday to breathe a bit.
Didn’t happen today, or any day in the last two weeks. Later, I wondered whether a midday respite might have made a difference.
Nothing but a snarl of phone calls and endless stacks of paperwork in the morning was followed by more dreary testimony and bickering lawyers late into the evening. Some were calling the case playing out now in my courtroom “the bank robbery trial of the century.”
Given how early we were in the century, that seemed a bit grandiose for my taste. And there were no guns and masks or explosives involved in the thefts. The case did involve stolen millions, and the trial might end with a bunch of high-profile bankers behind bars. I supposed we could hope this was the bank robbery of the century, and we wouldn’t have a more destructive one to look forward to.
Still, at this point, I simply found the whole thing exhausting.
The weather, of course, hadn’t helped. Tampa’s nearly perpetual sunshine had vanished. The night was murky and wet and generally foreboding, thanks to a lingering storm system from a late-season hurricane that had fizzled in the Atlantic.
All of which was why I wanted only to get home. I craved a few hours of peace and a good night’s sleep before I had to face down the snarling suits across my bench again tomorrow.
As I accelerated through the green light, moving along my usual route toward Bayshore Boulevard, my car seemed to know the way.
I couldn’t blame my car for what happened, though. Self-driving cars were still a dream of the future. My hands remained firmly on the wheel, and my foot was the one on the accelerator. No one else was responsible.
Like I said, the mistake was on me. I’d relaxed my vigilance. I shouldn’t have.
Vaguely aware of the traffic, my thoughts returned to the case that had consumed my working hours for weeks.
Campbell, et al., v. First Nation’s Bank, et al. was the official case name.
Early on, behind the scenes, my clerks began calling it Big Deal Money Men who lost everything v. Tons of Giant Banks who could pay if they wanted to but would rather not. When my staff had tired of repeating that mouthful, they’d abbreviated it to Stingy Dudes Behaving Badly—which was a pretty accurate description of the conflict. Eventually, the joke became simply Stingy Dudes, which was what we’d called the case privately for several months.
My gut said there was plenty of fault to go around in the behavior of all parties. My gut was very reliable. But justice was supposed to be blind, so I made every effort to conceal that these guys, and their lawyers, got on my last nerve.
I wasn’t succeeding in my efforts, though. I shrugged. Judges are human, too.
A squad car passed me in the next lane, and my thoughts shifted back to the drive again.
Soon, I would be switching lanes so I could eventually make a left onto the bridge. I eased Greta’s accelerator down, going a bit faster despite the weather, loving the purr of her engine around me as I rumbled down the slick roadway. I was traveling at the speed limit, which was still forty, although it was set to change in a couple of months.
We moved into the left lane after we passed the ramp to the Davis Islands Bridge.
Minaret, the house my husband George had inherited from his eccentric Aunt Minnie, reigned on Plant Key, our own private island in Hillsborough Bay. I was pleased to see its twinkling lights welcoming me in the distance.
I’d be home in less than ten minutes, and I was looking forward to getting there.
A weird sense of unease had plagued me all day. Normally, I made the drive home before nightfall and relished the trip. I loved the sparkling turquoise water off the Florida coast and the warm tingle of sunlight on my skin. But the dreary weather, November’s shorter daylight hours, and the Stingy Dudes case meant I’d seen none of that lately.
My plan was simple. Get home, have a nice hot bath, and enjoy a quiet dinner. My mouth watered and my stomach growled as I pondered my choices. George’s Place, my husband’s restaurant that occupied the first floor of our house, employed some of the best chefs in the country. Diners traveled from up and down the coast to feast on gourmet dishes to rival any served at a royal table.
The dinner special this Tuesday night was steamed lobster. I’d looked it up online. My stomach gurgled, and I suddenly couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into the succulent, buttery seafood drenched in rich and creamy cognac sauce. I could almost taste it, which only made my stomach roar loud enough to be heard two counties away.
I grinned. Maybe I’d even splurge and have a crème brûlée for dessert and—
Suddenly, a shadowed solid something appeared a few feet in front of my car, as if it had materialized from the ether, like spacemen beaming down via one of those transporters in a sci-fi movie.
“What the hell was that?” I said, squinting through the windshield.
A big, shiny, black trash bag?
Everything happened all at once after that, in a micro-second.
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday, November 8
10:25 p.m.
I slammed on Greta’s brakes, and her tires squealed.
Time slowed as I skidded on the wet pavement.
The Mercedes’s traction control kicked in, automatically pumping the pedal beneath my foot like a phantom driver.
My fists grabbed the wheel, clenched so tightly they ached.
The skid seemed to go on forever.
My neck and shoulders felt sore from the strain as I prayed fervently to avoid the obstacle, even as I braced for impact.
Then came the sickening thud.
Soft flesh meeting hard metal.
The mass tumbled up across my hood, then rolled back down onto the asphalt.
A single loud beep issued from Greta’s dashboard before dying away, though the airbags did not deploy.
My seatbelt snapped like a rubber band, jerking me back as my heart pounded, a thundering herd of runaway cattle. My chest ached already from the pounding and the seatbelt and the tension. But I wasn’t the one who had absorbed the bulk of the blow.
After we stopped, I sat there, too stunned to move, too shocked to think clearly. An eerie silence enveloped the cabin as I gathered myself together.
I felt like I was moving through viscous air for a long time, even though only a couple of moments passed.
A quick bodily assessment confirmed that I was shaken up but uninjured.
I hoped I could say the same about whatever I’d hit.
Slowly, I turned to squint out the window. Greta had ended up diagonally across both lanes of traffic, her nose mere inches from a huge steel light pole near the curb. Several other cars had stopped nearby.
Some must have witnessed what happened. Others had arrived just shortly after the impact.
A knock on my driver’s-side window.
In a daze, I pressed the button to lower it, blinking up into the face of an older gentleman I didn’t recognize.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?” he asked, his expression as shocked as I felt.
Adrenaline coursed through my body, causing sweats and tremors and an almost uncontrollable desire to vomit. I closed my lips tightly and tried to breathe.
Numbly, I nodded, unfastened my seatbelt, and fumbled for the door handle with shaking fingers.
What had I hit?
From the size and shape as it crossed the hood, I guessed it was a person. But I desperately wanted to be wrong. The mass had come out of nowhere, almost like it had jumped or been shoved into traffic. I’d tried to stop, but I couldn’t and—
I stumbled from the car, ignoring the gawking onlookers as I made my way around the front of the vehicle.
My car’s hood ornament had been stolen from the valet parking at one of the posh ho
tels a few weeks earlier. Which now seemed like a blessing. The metal ornament had projected up from the hood about five inches. It was heavy and substantial enough to have done serious damage to soft tissue. It might have even impaled a human body.
The center of Greta’s hood, over the Mercedes logo, was crushed from the impact, and her front bumper was dented. But the damage to my car barely registered as I stared at a foot sticking out in front of the right front tire. A water-logged shoe dangled from sock-clad toes.