Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  For now, though, all I wanted was to see George and my dogs and enjoy a good night’s sleep.

  Ben yawned, then asked, “Whatever happened with that case, the Stingy Dudes?”

  “Oh, last I heard, they settled.”

  He chuckled. “Just like Evan Hayden and Johnny Rae, eh?”

  I exhaled, sinking down into my seat. “Yep. Except nobody died.”

  Ben pulled up in front of Minaret.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Ben,” I said as I opened the door and stepped out.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Willa. Give my best to George.” He added, “Oh. And Rinaldo Gaines is back in town. He was at Shannon’s Irish Pub tonight. But he’s more likely to stick like glue to the Rogers family than to bother you again.”

  “We can hope,” I replied before I closed the door and trudged into the house.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sunday, November 27

  7:00 p.m.

  Rain pattered gently on the roof of the veranda, competing with the sound of waves against the shore. On Thursday, after a few hours’ sleep, we’d enjoyed a quiet Thanksgiving with Kate and Leo and the rest of our family. They had lots of questions, but at Kate’s request, they held them all for another time. Which was something else to be thankful for. A loving family who knew when to butt out.

  It had been three days since Mitch Rogers had been arrested at Shannon’s Irish Pub, and things were settling into a regular routine again.

  I still woke up at night sometimes, imagining I was trapped in that dark back room with Mitch Rogers, his knife pressed to Kelly’s throat, Tom’s body sprawled on the floor.

  I jumped at the sound of George coming in the door of our flat. It was nearly midnight now, and I turned in my chaise lounge to peer over the back. Even after all these years, the sight of him in his sport coat and jeans, clean shaven and hair freshly trimmed, made my heart flutter. He smiled as he puttered around in the kitchen, knowing I was looking at him.

  “How were things at the restaurant tonight?” I asked, facing forward again.

  “Good.” The sound of ice tinkling into a glass followed by the glug of liquor pouring gently from the bottle reached my ears. “Full house again.”

  “Excellent.” I swirled my gin and smiled in the darkness. “Did you bring me a snack?”

  “Well, if you consider this a snack.” He leaned over my chair to kiss me. He’d shed his sport coat now, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, lightly dusted with dark hair.

  He settled into the chair beside mine and sipped his scotch. “What did you do up here while I was working?”

  “Let’s see. I played with the dogs. Finished typing up my written response to the committee. And I took a nap.”

  “All good things.” He toasted me with his tumbler. “Do you think the committee will side with you on this one?”

  “No idea.”

  “But you’re not worried about it tonight?” George reached over and took my hand.

  Concern pinched the corners of his eyes, and there was a seriousness to his mouth that belied the casual tone of his question.

  “No,” I said. “Not tonight.”

  George tugged me closer. He rested his cheek against the top of my head and pressed a kiss into my hair.

  We sat like that for a long time, with the dogs snuggled at our feet, and all was right with our little world.

  “If I ask you a serious question,” George murmured against my ear, “will you give me an honest answer?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’m not sure what it is about my husband, but George can piss me off, turn me on, make me question my judgment, and, in general, provoke inconvenient emotions. Which was what his question did now. I didn’t want to deal with tough questions tonight, honest or otherwise.

  “What will you do if the impeachment investigation doesn’t go your way?”

  I wasn’t ready to make this decision yet. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make it at all. And I didn’t want to say that, either.

  “Be a lawyer, I suppose.”

  “Really? After all this time?”

  “Unless we’ve won the lotto lately.” I tipped my head back to look at him. He shook his head. I smiled. “Hey, I did it before; I can do it again.”

  “No doubts here.” His smile had returned.

  George was extremely protective of me. But would he kill to protect me, like Mitch Rogers did to protect his wife? The thought horrified me. I was responsible for myself. I didn’t need or want a knight in shining armor racing to my rescue, with honorable intentions or evil ones.

  George gave my hand a squeeze. “I just know if Oz loses this round, he’ll try harder next time. He won’t give up.”

  “Neither will I.” I kissed him again, grinning. “Neither will I.”

  If you loved the Hunt for Justice series, I highly recommend you read my Jess Kimball series next!

  FATAL DISTRACTION

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  Available now on Kobo

  ~ An excerpt of Fatal Distraction appears at the end of this ebook, following the About the Author section. Keep reading to enjoy this sneak peek of this exciting series featuring investigative reporter Jess Kimball! ~

  Join Willa Carson and her colleagues as their Hunt for Justice continues!

  The Hunt for Justice Series:

  Due Justice

  Twisted Justice

  Secret Justice

  Wasted Justice

  Raw Justice

  Mistaken Justice (novella)

  Cold Justice (novella)

  False Justice (novella)

  Fair Justice (novella)

  True Justice (novella)

  Night Justice

  ~Keep reading for more from Diane Capri~

  MORE FROM DIANE CAPRI

  I hope you enjoyed Night Justice as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. I hope you’ll recommend my books to your friends who might like them, too. The best way to share your honest review of my books is to post a quick two or three sentence review where you bought this copy and give the books some stars. Please do that. I promise I won’t forget it! And now that we’ve found each other, let’s keep in touch. Readers like you are the reason I write!

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  For a complete list of Diane Capri Books visit:

  http://dianecapri.com/books/

  (Click each title to buy or download a sample)

  The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:

  (in publication order with Lee Child source books in parentheses)

  Don’t Know Jack • (Killing Floor)

  Jack in a Box (novella)

  Jack and Kill (novella)

  Get Back Jack • (Bad Luck and Trouble)

  Jack in the Green (novella)

  Jack and Joe • (The Enemy)

  Deep Cover Jack (Persuader)

  Jack the Reaper • (The Hard Way)

  Black Jack • (Running Blind / The Visitor)

  Ten Two Jack • (The Midnight Line)

  Jack of Spades • (Past Tense)

  The Jess Kimball Thrillers Series:

  Fatal Enemy (novella)

  Fatal Distraction

  Fatal Demand

  Fatal Error

  Fatal Fall

  Fatal Edge (novella)

  Fatal Game

  Fatal Bond

  Fatal Past (novella)

  Fatal Dawn

  The Heir Hunter Series:

  Blood Trails

  Trace Evidence

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Diane Capri is an award-winning New York Times, USA Today, and world-wide bestselling author. She writes several series, inc
luding the Hunt for Justice, Hunt for Jack Reacher, and Heir Hunter series, and the Jess Kimball Thrillers. She’s a recovering lawyer and snowbird who divides her time between Florida and Michigan. An active member of Mystery Writers of America, Author’s Guild, International Thriller Writers, Alliance of Independent Authors, and Sisters in Crime, she loves to hear from readers and is hard at work on her next novel.

  Please connect with Diane online:

  http://www.DianeCapri.com

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  Investigative journalist Jess Kimball embarks on a thrilling adventure in Fatal Distraction. Available now!

  Prologue

  Thornberry, Florida

  Monday 2:00 p.m.

  Even as humid July heat strangled the small central Florida country church, its sanctuary overflowed with bodies drawn by scandal’s stench like vultures to carrion. Whether they were genuine mourners or nakedly curious, Governor Helen Sullivan had lured them with her only son’s open burial service, hoping to unmask her son’s killer, for only then could Eric rest in peace.

  Since the death of her son and his best friend Ryan Jones three weeks ago, media of every stripe had branded sixteen-year-old Eric a drunk driver, spoiled by indulgent parents, ruined by wealth and privilege. “Governor’s Son Kills Best Friend in Early Morning Crash,” read the worst of the headlines, though none granted Eric any presumption of innocence as they fueled the scandal.

  Publicly, Helen had not contested the lies; instead she implemented today’s desperate plan.

  While lines of strangers filed past her husband and Helen, Special Agent Frank Temple of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement stood close by, hands within easy reach of his weapon, scanning the church, seeking anything unusual or out of place. Valencia County Sheriff MacKenzie Green’s deputies stayed in constant visual and electronic contact with Temple’s security detail.

  After filing past Eric Sullivan’s reconstructed body, the spectators approached his parents. “I’m so sorry,” they said. Or, “He’s in a better place.” A few dared to pat Oliver’s shoulder or caress the governor’s arm.

  “Thank you,” Helen responded each time, accepting full blame with every false condolence.

  Be strong, she thought, standing rigid behind her black veil, braced against waves of grief renewed by those few offering sincere compassion. Helen had lived her entire life in Thornberry, the small town in Valencia County some forty minutes northeast of Tampa, not far from Lakeland. In this thin slice of old Florida, threatened by the ambitions of politicians and developers and largely populated by residents holding fast to their simpler way of life, people chose to think the best of their neighbors. To these friends and colleagues, Helen could not trust herself to speak with composure, so only nodded and endured.

  But most spectators came from more remote locales and for ignoble reasons. She studied each stranger in turn, divining whether they paid only mock respect, committing features to ineradicable memory using all six senses. She noted and analyzed their features, the dark perspiration circles under arms and on shirtfronts, makeup melted and congealed in creviced faces. Body odors mixed with deodorants and perfumes thickened the heavy air and forced short, rapid breaths, leaving her asthmatic lungs starved for air and her balance unsteady. She paused her mission only to raise her inhaler to her mouth or wipe her palms on her husband’s soaked linen handkerchief.

  During a brief pause between attendees, Oliver put his hand on her shoulder and directed her attention to Ryan’s grandparents, who sat in a pew with a tall, sandy-haired man Helen didn’t know.

  “I don’t see Milton,” Oliver whispered.

  Milton Jones, Ryan’s father, was consumed with misdirected grief that pierced Helen’s heart all the more because of their long-shared history. She’d spent the better part of four years helping Milton while his wife Ruby died of cancer. His sorrow had been endless then, and seemed bottomless now.

  Helen looked around the church. “Over there.” She gestured by inclining her head, noticing that Milton’s wrinkled suit barely touched his scrawny limbs. He looked as fragile as an incompetent scarecrow amid the murder of crowing reporters.

  Milton had already granted several interviews to the tabloid press and scandal shows. They’d flattered him, seeking to learn what Helen refused to reveal. He’d used each as an opportunity to blame Eric and Helen for Ryan’s death, vicious accusations that remained without rebuttal.

  Neither Milton nor the public knew that the crash was not Eric’s fault—that he had not ignored or missed the stop sign. Within the first forty-eight hours investigators found an inexpensive but sophisticated tracking device on the bottom of Eric’s vehicle, purchased with cash and therefore untraceable. A partial fingerprint on it matched none in law enforcement databases.

  Shortly after that, Helen’s friend, Sheriff Mac Green, found the killer’s video camera mounted at the crash site. Helen flinched each time she watched the monstrous semi mash the CRV’s passenger side and wrap the smaller vehicle around its bumper in a deadly embrace, knowing a few seconds more and the CRV would have crossed State Route 50 safely, and Eric and Ryan would be alive. The sick bastard had recorded Eric’s murder in sharp hues and high-fidelity sound, every second of the fatal crash meant to torture his parents with vivid images they could never escape.

  Two things became crystal clear from the discovery of the video:

  First, the perpetrator had deliberately removed the stop sign, pulling it out of the ground before the crash and putting it back again after. The tracking device must have been used to signal the precise timing required to make the governor’s son’s crash most likely to occur.

  Second, the man who’d murdered Eric and Ryan was cunning and dangerous.

  She only hoped he wasn’t clever enough.

  Oliver had begged her to release the truth, but Helen thought otherwise: By keeping the nature of the crash secret, she sought to inflate the killer’s hubris, enticing him to come closer and gloat, to reveal himself here at the funeral today.

  As a mourner murmured, “Eric looks so good,” Helen let herself glance at her son in his casket, his smooth, childish jaw and curly brown hair so like her own, as unruly in death as in life. Each glimpse of Eric’s innocent face fueled her rage, her determination, and held despair at bay.

  It did not, however, keep her from worrying about Oliver. Eric’s death had crushed his spirit; maintaining his silence when every instinct Oliver possessed urged him to defend his son weighed especially heavy.

  Only two years older than she, Oliver seemed to have aged a decade in the three weeks since their son had died. His suit, too, hung loosely on his frame. Weary lines furrowed his brow and fatigue seeped from every pore. His plain gold wedding band glinted in the light when he raked broad, flat fingers through his sun-bleached hair.

  Still, Oliver touched each mourner in turn, kindly offering comfort and accepting rote sympathy from strangers. “Thank you for coming,” he said, meaning the words. Or, “Helen and I appreciate your support.”

  Helen looked away from the coffin and extended her hand to the next mourner before realizing who it was. Startled, she tasted something warm and salty flood her tongue. She lifted the damp handkerchief to her lips, her gaze firmly focused on Ryan’s father.

  Milton Jones swayed on his feet, the scent of poorly metabolized alcohol emitted from his skin. Patches of stubble had escaped his razor along the knob of his Adam’s apple. The well-dressed, sandy-haired stranger she’d seen earlier with Ryan’s grandparents now stood by Milton’s side.

  “You could have prevented this,” Milton said more loudly than necessary. His voice carried beyond their immediate circle to the sanctuary’s far reaches.

  “Milton,” the man accompanying him cut in, “this is not the time. Please.” He put one palm on Milton’s shoulder and reached out with the other t
o shake Oliver’s hand, then Helen’s. “I’m Ben Fleming, Milton’s grief counselor. He’s distraught. Please forgive him.”

  Milton shook Fleming off, glaring drunken hatred at Helen. “My boy would be alive if Miss Helen here wasn’t up in Tallahassee making enemies every chance she gets.”

  “Ben’s right. That’s hardly fair, Milton,” Oliver intervened in the same gentle way that he handled all living things. “Our Eric’s gone, too.” His voice cracked and he stopped a moment to gather his composure.

  “I loved Ryan,” Helen managed to say after a long, uncomfortable silence, all too aware of eavesdroppers.

  Milton stared at Helen as if he’d never seen her before. “My boy is dead.” His voice broke as his eyes filled and tears spilled onto his hollow cheeks. “You’ll pay for this, Helen. Don’t think you won’t.” His last word ended on a keening sob that shook his entire body before Ben Fleming steadied him and moved him away from Helen.

  Frank Temple, who’d stepped forward protectively, seemed to relax a little as he retreated to his place close behind her, once again scanning the church.

  Oliver squeezed Helen’s hand and released it, then left to follow Milton and Ben Fleming. Helen watched as her husband approached them, put a comforting hand on Milton’s arm, and murmured gentle words that she knew would not soften the hard lines of Milton’s judgment.

  The way Oliver addressed Fleming so familiarly, by his first name, she wondered if Oliver already knew him and where they might have met.