The Fifth Justice (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 10)

by John Ellsworth

  “I won’t,” she promised. “I’m here for the duration. But there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned and removed her cotton gardening gloves. Then she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “My niece, Essine. She’s getting divorced.”

  “No way. I thought she and Vlad were crazy about each other.”

  “So did I. She called me this morning. Turns out Vlad’s fallen in love with an artist from his work. And this artist is pregnant. She swears it’s Vlad’s.”

  “Now, Essine, she’s the niece who can’t have kids of her own?”

  “Twenty-nine and unable to conceive. The bastard left her over that. He’s moved out. I need to go to Saint Petersburg and spend a week or two with her. She needs me but she doesn’t know it. Maybe I need her more. Maybe it’s just time for a visit. She’s also got a new beau. A Russian carpenter named Vasili.”

  “Maybe that scare in the hospital makes you want to see your family again, Verona. That would only be normal.”

  “What do you think of my flying over for a week or two?”

  “I think if you feel like it, you should go. You’d have to pace yourself and not tire yourself out day after day, but you’re a smart lady. You know your routine now.”

  “Lots of walking. Dr. Linday says that’s my best protection against another attack.”

  “And you’re doing that. What are you up to, now? Three miles?”

  “I’ve been doing three miles for some time now. It’s easy for me. At first, five-hundred meters had me winded. Now it’s three miles without a hitch. I think I’m recovered, Michael. I think I’m ready to go.”

  “Well, you have my blessings.”

  “Then I’ll get on Expedia and make some plans. Thank you, love.”

  “If I can help, let me know. Poor Essine.”

  “She’s probably better off without him while she’s still young. She can start over with someone new.”

  “Maybe you could bring her to Chicago for a second opinion on her ability to get pregnant.”

  She smiled. “It’s something to think about. I might mention that to her. She could stay with us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She pulled away from me and took two steps back. “And what about you? Can you keep the lion king in your pants while I’m gone?”

  Her pet name for my penis: the lion king. It neither fit nor delivered an honest assessment.

  “You have no worries with me. I only have eyes for you, toots.”

  “All right, then. I’ll go online when the dirt and fertilizer has me worn out. I’ll fly out a week from tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She didn’t know, but I was still back on the lion king and keeping that zipped up. It had been years since I’d strayed and I didn’t want to ever go back there again. So I promised myself I would stay straight while she was gone. The same promise I made myself every day. That stuff was all behind me.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Her eyes cut into me. Mindreader.

  “I’m sure. No drama out of me while you’re gone.”

  “Good, I like that. No-Drama-Gresham. Has a nice ring.”

  “No drama. That’s me.”

  Marcel and I spoke that night about his Reno observations, mainly the part about the young girls arriving in the van and going inside. We decided it sounded like sex trafficking. Now we could start looking around the edges for signs of Chloe. It didn’t add up that she would be with him voluntarily, but nothing about the guy added up.

  Except that I wanted to put a bullet in his head.

  That always added up.

  Chapter 13: Michael Gresham

  I hit Reno with a subpoena and notice of deposition. He thumbed his nose at us and refused to show up. So the court issued a contempt citation, and the sheriff brought him before the judge. He was sworn in and took the witness stand.

  “State your name for the record,” I said to the stolid lump of evil seated in the witness chair.

  “Reno Rivera. But you already know that, Mr. Gresham. Why the formality?”

  “Because the young woman seated below you is a court reporter and is taking all of this down in case you appeal again as you did after raping my client years ago. Does this help you understand?”

  He didn’t respond, but he understood. This one was for keeps.

  “Counsel,” said Judge Beschloss, “let’s stay on point here.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I replied. I needed that little prodding. Otherwise, I might have beat the guy up for the rest of the day while the sheriff made him stay and answer.

  After Marcel’s furtive glances into the windows of Reno’s house and after Marcel and I discussed, we decided that he was running a sex trade out of the house. At a minimum, a staging area where sex slaves were housed for a time before being moved to their final destination. Either way, I made it a priority to amend my original complaint in Chloe’s lawsuit against Jane- and John Does. It now is captioned Chloe Constance v. Reno Rivera; Jane Does 1-10, John Does 1-10, XYZ Corporations 1-10. For the curious, I file lawsuits against defendants whose names I don’t know at the time of filing, knowing I will amend the complaint, as I did here, once I get a name. Here, it seemed the right thing to do, if for no other reason than to harass Reno. There was also the chance we’d turn up clues as to Chloe’s whereabouts, so it was a win-win for me.

  “Mr. Rivera,” I continued, “the victim of your sexual assault has disappeared. Her name is Chloe Constance. Do you remember her, sir?”

  “Who was that again?”

  “Chloe Constance. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Andrew Constance. She is a lawyer in Chicago who’s missing. Her husband defended you at one time. Don’t play games, Mr. Rivera. I know you know who I’m talking about. My question for you is, have you seen or heard from this woman this year?”

  “Why drag me here, counselor? I paid for that by going to prison. I wasn’t even guilty.”

  “But a jury found you guilty. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “Judge,” he said, looking up to his right, “why do I have to come here and revisit something that happened years ago? I paid my debt to society, Judge.”

  “Just answer the question, Mr. Rivera. We’ll all get out of here faster if you provide us with what you know.”

  “What was the question?”

  The judge fielded this one, “What do you know about Chloe Constance since they released you from prison?”

  Reno turned around and grinned at me, no longer the put-upon victim.

  “I know she hasn’t called me and asked me out.”

  “Have you had any contact with Chloe Constance since you went away to prison, Mr. Rivera?” I asked.

  “Nope. Wouldn’t mind if she called me though. She’s got great legs.”

  I about came out of my chair on that one. Instead, Judge Beschloss cautioned him to stop with the theatrics.

  “What about all the young Asian women you’re keeping at your house? Have they got great legs, too?”

  “Counsel,” said the judge, upset with me. “Same goes for you as my admonishment to Mr. Rivera. I won’t tolerate any more of this.”

  I didn’t respond. I was keeping eye contact with Reno. We were trading icy knives.

  “Mr. Rivera, isn’t it true you’re engaged in sex trafficking young women?”

  “Nope. I’m a college teacher and tutor. Sex trafficking is a horror show.”

  “You’re saying you’d never do such a thing?”

  “I’m saying I’d never do such a thing.”

  “What about the young women my investigator saw at your house?”

  “He was trespassing.”

  “He was there to serve you with court papers.”

  “He was looking in my windows. Someone saw him.”

  “Who saw him, Mr. Rivera?”

  “A guest saw him.”

  “Please give us that guest’s name.”


  “I don’t know her name. She was only there a day.”

  “You had a houseguest for a whole day and don’t know her name?”

  “That’s right. A group of students from another university was passing through town. I put them up for the night.”

  “All young women?”

  “It was an all-girls’ school. Color me guilty but there you are. They were students is all.”

  “Did you perform any sex acts on any of them?”

  “Judge—”

  “Counsel, you’ve advised the court you’re after information on Chloe Constance. Please limit your questions to that.”

  “I haven’t seen or talked to Chloe Constance,” Rivera volunteered. “So can I go, Judge?”

  “Counsel? He’s testified he has no information. Are we about done here?”

  My mind was racing. I believed Reno was way connected to the disappearance of Chloe Constance. But what if I was wrong?

  “Judge, Mr. Rivera’s ability to tell the truth is always suspect. He’s a serial liar and a sex trafficker and a rapist. I would ask, if the court will adjourn, that I be allowed to reconvene this inquiry so I may further pursue this issue with Mr. Rivera at my discretion.”

  “I have no problem with that, Counsel. Mr. Rivera, you’re dismissed. You may go, sir. Counsel, my chambers, five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a much-needed break and a trip to the restroom, I hurried down an interior hallway and entered the judge’s office. His receptionist looked up and smiled.

  “You’ve got the missing woman case?”

  “That would be me.”

  “Good luck with that. Hope you find her.”

  “Thanks. Is he ready for me?”

  She answered me by keying the intercom on her phone. She said, “Ready?”

  Then she turned. “You can go on in, Mr. Gresham.”

  I did as she told me. Pushing open the door, I was greeted with the strong scent of Prince Albert pipe tobacco. Yes, I’d tried the pipe over the years, always with Prince Albert, so its fragrance was familiar. That and the fact it was hanging in layers, sheets of cloud cover across the office ceiling. His Honor was at his desk, thumbing through a stack of file folders, never looking my way until I had taken leave of his silence and just seated myself across the desk from him. His molars clenched a briar pipe, curling smoke along his face.

  “Counsel, where are we going with Constance?”

  “Your Honor, can I speak in full confidence?”

  He looked up. “Counselor? Ask me that in my office?”

  “Judge, Chloe Constance is a well-known Chicago lawyer.”

  “I know the name. Practices with her husband, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re in the Bar Journal often. Always accepting some award or other. One of those firms.”

  “Truth is, Judge, before Chloe disappeared, we’d heard through the grapevine that President Salinas plans to appoint her to the district court.”

  His head jerked up. “The U.S. District Court in Chicago?”

  “Correct. Except she’s disappeared. I’ve bought a little extra time, but he’ll appoint someone else if I don’t put her in touch with his chief of staff this month.”

  “Well, that’s a god damn bummer.”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Too, too bad. How can I help?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I only shrugged. I was fresh out of ideas.

  “Well, your Mr. Rivera was zero help. But what is it with the young females in his house? Am I missing something? Or are they students passing through?”

  “Judge Beschloss, if there’s some way that asshole can abuse a woman he’s open to it. I would never give him the benefit of the doubt. I would never believe in his innocence.”

  “Thanks for warning me. You were giving me signals in court, but I wanted to wait and talk back here, first. From now on, you’ll find me in your corner, Mr. Gresham.”

  “I appreciate that, Judge.”

  “Okay, clear on out of here. I’ve got a million files to read before the afternoon calendar.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Ted. Call me Ted in here.”

  “Thank you, Ted.”

  “You’re welcome. Goodbye.”

  Chapter 14: Reno Rivera

  Reno pulled his Escalade under the portico of the Cowboy Motel on York Street. He climbed out and walked past the first floor rooms. At number 12 he stopped and rapped his knuckles on the door four times. A voice cried out from within, asking for a name. Reno swore and hit the door with the palm of his hand. It sounded like a gunshot echoing across the parking lot. But it did the trick because Rodolfo opened the door and stood aside so Reno could enter.

  “So, what happened?” said Rodolfo. He was a tiny Mexican man wearing huaraches with wool socks, blue jeans, and a vertical-striped shirt of yellow and orange. Blue sunglasses perched on his head, silver frames glinting even in the dull light of the seedy room. He walked around and sat on the bed. Reno pulled the spindly chair away from the phone table and sat back. He crossed his legs, intent on putting Rodolfo at ease.

  Rodolfo added, “You went to court. What happened?”

  “What happened was he made me answer stupid questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like have I seen this woman or that one. He’s lost someone, or his client has lost someone, and they came from Chicago to Alton to find them. Instead, they found me.”

  Rodolfo lit a cigarette, waving the match back and forth until it extinguished.

  “Hold on. Stop and think about what you said. They came from almost the top of the state down to almost the bottom looking for a lost woman, but instead, they found you? What are they, just super lucky?”

  “Agree. Which tells me they’re looking for someone who knows me, or whose ass I sold, something.”

  “Right, you’re connected to this woman somehow. But how did they find you?”

  Reno spread his hands. “I don’t understand, Rudy. No one up north knows where I went. Most of them think I’m in Southern California where I grew up. They wouldn’t guess in a million years I’m in Alton.”

  “So did they say her name?”

  “Chloe Constance.”

  “The bitch who claims you raped her. That the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, you went to prison for her.”

  “He asked me about her like I might’ve forgotten. Let me tell you something. I’d like to find that bitch. I’d cut her face off.”

  “Wouldn’t blame you.”

  “So here’s what I’m thinking. The other night, this Gresham’s investigator came snooping around my house. One girl saw him peeking through a window and screamed. I came running, but the guy disappeared down the street. I didn’t follow: he has a gun, plus we don’t want the cops coming around there, not while there’s inventory.”

  “Is the inventory still there?”

  “No, we moved them to St. Louis, as you wanted.”

  “Good. Friday’s girls go where?”

  “You said Chicago. That hasn’t changed.”

  Rodolfo studied the ember on his cigarette. The dull overhead light cast a deathly pallor over the room, the smoke curling its way upward. Reno patted the breast pocket of his white dress shirt, the one he’d worn to court. The lure of the copycat cigarette still plagued him; whenever he saw someone smoking, he reached for one too. But he had quit when the girls complained for the millionth time about his breath.

  Rodolfo said, “I want the Friday girls in Chicago. There’s a boat show on Saturday with a huge private party that night. They want a dozen girls, no less.”

  “Can do! We’re busy, amigo.”

  “Yes, we are. So what do you do with this investigator?’

  Reno smiled. He opened his eyes wide and whispered, “What do you think?”

  “You mean here, in Alton? I don’t think so. Take the girls up to Chicago you
rself and then pay him a visit in Chicago. That’s better.”

  “Except I don’t know where he is in Chicago.”

  “You know where he is in Alton?”

  Reno touched the side of his head. “I waited around and followed the lawyer after court. He went back to his hotel in St. Louis. The investigator met him in the bar. He’s waiting for me to come shoot him, only he doesn’t know that yet.

  Reno finished up his talk with Rodolfo then returned to his Escalade. The parking lot was virtually empty; all blinds in all the rooms appeared to be closed; he felt confident that no one was watching him just then. He pulled open the rear door of the SUV and reached inside, retrieving a vest which he ducked into and pulled down. It was bulletproof. He then pulled a light gray sweatshirt down over the vest. The final clothing flair was a black baseball cap emblazoned with the St. Louis Cardinals’ STL. Pulling it low across his forehead, he checked himself in the outside mirror. Where he was going was very busy, a nightlife lounge, full of loud talk, constant laughter, and packed to the hilt with young people.

  He looked round. He looked bulked up. But it didn’t matter how he looked. The investigator would never see him coming. He completed his preparations with a small handgun slipped into an inside-the-waistband holster. Then he was ready.

  He made his way through city traffic for a half-hour and pulled onto the bridge between Illinois and Missouri, depositing him in downtown St. Louis on the western side.

  He drove along well within legal speed limits, crooning to himself, navigating the heavy traffic all the way to Clayton. On Carondelet Plaza, he turned and pulled into the Ritz-Carlton. Beyond the passenger loading area he drove to the parking lot furthest from the entrance.

  He entered the hotel through a side entrance and stopped to pull a pair of latex gloves from his rear pocket. These he pulled on, snapping them tight.

  Up one flight of stairs he climbed, turned left, and headed for the nighttime hangout the hotel called the Lobby Lounge. Reno knew Marcel liked to hang out there, close by the Sushi Bar, with a different woman each night.

  Reno reached The Lobby Lounge and slipped inside. He steered well clear of the Sushi Bar, taking the first empty chair where three tables had been shoved together for the crowd that came and went with the music that called them to the dances they knew. Reno waved the cocktail waitress away. The entire scene was about coupling, an endeavor that made Reno want to vomit. He had no social graces to speak of and thought such to be a waste of his time.