Storm Justice

by Pamela Cowan

  “I am.”

  “Well, that's damned handy.”

  “Why, what's up?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. Just wanted to give Nicky a heads-up that one of her clients has gone missing. Got a call from a detective this morning. Said it looks like she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yeah. At least, that's what the sheriff's office thinks. They got a call from her boyfriend, saying she'd disappeared and the place was trashed. They went over her residence, and it looked like she'd cleaned it out, you know, like she was going somewhere.”

  “Uh-huh?” she said, maintaining eye contact, encouraging him to continue.

  “They found a floor safe in the bedroom. Thing had her birth certificate, social security card, some pictures from when she was a kid. No money or credit cards or anything like that, but still, who leaves without their important papers, I mean voluntarily, right?”

  “Right. That does sound strange. Though I guess, maybe if she was in a hurry . . .”

  “Yeah, or drunk, or stoned, or who knows what. Anyway, just wanted Nicky to know.”

  “Okay, I'll tell her if I see her. Oh, and Ed, what was the client's name?” Storm asked, though of course she already knew.

  “Helena. Helena Smith.”

  Keeping her face carefully neutral, Storm scribbled the name on a sticky note. “Okay, got it. I'll let her know.”

  “You know, it'll probably turn out to be the boyfriend,” said Big Ed. “It's always the boyfriend or the husband. He probably forgot about clearing out the safe, if he even knew about it.”

  “Yeah, that's probably it. I'll be sure to let her know if I see her before you do.”

  “Good. Okay. Thanks,” said Big Ed. With a nod, he left.

  Storm let out the breath she'd been holding. Damn it. She knew he was talking about Helena Smith from the start. Her heart had hammered so hard, she was sure he could hear it. Her hands were so icy, she'd had a hard time writing the name. She looked at it now, the shaky letters spelling Helena Smith, spelling out the name of the last person she would ever target.

  She was done. She was scared. And she had to get in touch with Howard. Let him know everything had changed. The other ones had gone so well. No one ever questioned that the last two targets had skipped town.

  People on probation, people who had to do things they didn’t want to do, knew they wouldn’t do, sometimes they did skip. But the police weren't buying it this time. This time, there was enough evidence to raise suspicion.

  God, who'd have thought that a drugged-out, used-up mess like Helena Smith would have had a floor safe or anything worth keeping inside one?

  The phone rang and Storm answered it from habit.

  “H-h-hell-o,” she said, her voice breaking like strings on a violin wound too tightly.

  “You okay?” Tom asked.

  Storm held the phone away, coughed, gathered her thoughts.

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry. Frog. What's up. Are the kids okay?”

  “Kids are fine. Do I call that seldom?”

  “No, just . . . I don't know. Just nervous, I guess.” Storm forced a smile, a big believer in the idea that people could ‘hear’ a smile through the phone.

  “I'm calling with good news, so no need to be nervous.”

  “What kind of good news?”

  “The best. You know that job me and Rylan have been working on? The proposal for the new county building?”

  “Of course. That's all you two have talked about the last few months.” Rylan Durst was Tom's sometimes-partner on larger projects. They'd worked together off and on since their days sharing a dorm room.

  “Hang onto your hat. We got it!” Tom practically shouted into the phone.

  “That's fantastic,” Storm enthused.

  “I know. It's insane. Rylan just called. We have to meet with the project manager, some guy with a hard to pronounce name. You know him?”

  “No,” she said, feeling amused. Just because I work for the county doesn’t mean I know everyone who does. I barely know half the people in the probation department.”

  “Sure. I just thought maybe you could help with the name.”

  “Sorry,” she said. Storm was glad Tom's thoughts were focused on a new project. He was less likely to notice her feigned enthusiasm. The only thing she could concentrate on right then was Helena Smith and the police. Had she or Howard left anything behind? Had the house been wiped free of fingerprints?

  “—doing some consulting too. So not just one of those, hand-it-over kind of jobs. Storm?”

  “Yes, I heard you, Tom. That's great.”

  “And it means I might even see you once in a while. We could do lunch when I'm out there.”

  “That would be awesome. I can't wait. When will you know everything?”

  “As soon as we meet with this guy, this project manager. The meeting's at one, so I'll call you right after, okay?”

  “Of course okay. You'd better call as soon as you know for sure.”

  “But we know we got the contract.”

  “No, I mean for sure about lunch. I mean you buying my lunches. That's so awesome.”

  “This is what you see as the thing to celebrate, me buying your lunch? Not your husband's talent being recognized. Not your husband's career taking off. No. Just a free lunch?”

  “Damn right,” Storm said with a note of glee—or was it hysteria in her voice. She hung up.

  She wanted to lower her head to her desk, close her eyes, and think. Instead, she picked up a pen and opened her daily planner with small innocent movements that anyone looking into her office would have found normal. The fact that she was simply tracing over the top of words that had already been written, that she was too anxious to even try to read, was not important. What mattered was keeping a calm demeanor and waiting until she could talk to Howard.

  Storm wanted to call him, but the risk was too high. Rule number four. No connections. That wasn't just no connections to the targets, it also meant no connections between Howard and herself.

  Over the last few months she had called him several times, calls made during the day that could be construed as calls to a client, until Helena Smith and the frantic one at three in the morning. How would she explain that?

  Her thoughts jumbled, her emotions in chaos, Storm considered her options. She wanted to be clear on what her next steps would be before she found an out-of-the-way pay phone to call Howard. She shad to warn him.

  Or did she?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT FIFTEEN TO FIVE, knowing she needed more time to think and might have been late getting home, Storm reached for the phone to call Tom. Before she could touch it, it rang, making her jump.

  “Washington County Pro—” Before she could complete the greeting, the receptionist cut in.

  “You've got a client in the front office. Says he hasn't got an appointment but was hoping you could fit him in.”

  “What's his name, Carrie?”

  “Howard Kline,” she answered.

  Unsure whether she was relieved or angry, Storm said she'd be right there and hung up. What the hell was Howard up to now? Did he need another travel permit? Was he going to deliver another version of ‘I told you so’ about her inability to handle Helena Smith?

  It didn't matter. At least she would be able to talk to him about what she'd learned from Big Ed.

  “Howard,” she said, standing at the door to the reception area. “Please, come with me.”

  Deceptively, like an obedient dog, he stood up and followed her to her office.

  Howard sank into the ugly gray chair on the opposite side of her desk. He looked relaxed, even pleasant. She noticed his normally cropped short hair was growing out. His clothes were clean, with a northwest flair. If she hadn’t known he was a sociopath with a penchant for torture, she'd have pegged him as a store clerk at some high-end outdoor store like REI or Cabela's.

  “W
hat brings you here today, Mr. Kline?” she asked, emphasizing the mister and trying to establish a professional distance between them.

  “Brought you a present,” he said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out something white, the size and shape of a playing card, and placed it on her desk.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, looking from the card to him.

  “Mag key,” he said softly, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. She also looked out into the hallway. It was empty. Many of her coworkers had already left for the day.

  “Just remember . . . security is there to make sure the employees make it to their cars from six in the morning until eleven at night. Give it a little more time to be sure, though. You should be good from midnight until five.”

  He pushed the key to the center of the desk. “There, now you got everything you need. And don't worry. No one is going to be looking for it. I liberated it from a guy who has never come in early or left late in his life. That key has been in his desk gathering dust a long time. Even if he figures out it’s missing, I doubt he'd report it. I mean, they're supposed to keep their keys on them, though I doubt half of them do.”

  “But why?” she asked. She slid her nails under the card, and picked it up. It seemed so harmless, but she knew it was anything but. With a quick series of motions she slid open the file drawer in her desk where she kept her purse, opened the purse, dropped the key inside and slid the drawer shut.

  She looked up at him and cocked her eyebrow at the familiar, annoying half-smile he wore.

  “Well,” he replied. “I know you promised not to go it alone again, but if you're like me . . . and you are . . . I figure you'll do what you want. So if you’re going to go out there on your own, you might want a way to finish the job. Less chance I'll find my butt in a sling if I keep yours out of one, huh?”

  “I guess,” Storm replied. “Though I really did mean what I said. I'm not planning on doing that again. It was just an experiment. You know, in case you did move to Washington or wherever. Speaking of which, how did your job interview go? Have you heard anything?”

  Howard looked at her blankly for a moment, then, “Oh, it went okay, I guess. Haven't heard yet. Probably won't, but it was worth a shot, right?

  “Right.” Storm got up and peered into the hall. No one was in sight, though she could hear voices from a couple of the nearby offices. She returned to her seat, leaned forward, and in a low voice said, “Listen, something's happened. I was going to find you at work tonight to tell you. That woman—well, the police found a safe in her house. It was full of the kind of things you don't leave behind. They think her disappearance is suspicious, and they've opened an investigation. Think. Is there anything we left behind? Anything that could connect us to the house?”

  The smile left Howard's face, and a look of concern replaced it. Storm was pleased to see his brow knit with concentration as he gave the problem the attention she’d hoped he would. For several long moments, he stared down at the peeling surface of her desk. Finally, he looked up.

  “We wore gloves the whole time,” he said in a low voice. “I didn't get hurt when I hit the door. No blood anywhere.”

  “That's not entirely true,” she admitted.

  “What?”

  “She scratched me. At some point she grabbed my hair, and her nails dug into my scalp. When I got home and took a shower, I felt it stinging, and I found dried blood in my hair.”

  “Shit,” he exclaimed. “Well, they can't scrape her nails for evidence. I put her in the oxidizer and she's vapor. But I guess some of your blood could have transferred to something. Shit.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He thought about it for a moment, rubbing his fingers across his cheeks to his temples. Then he dropped his hands to his lap, shoulders slumping. “Nothing we can do. Just wait and hope.”

  “The good news,” he continued, “is that she wasn't anyone's favorite bitch. I doubt the cops will throw many resources at figuring this one out. Plus I hear all DNA stuff isn't as easy as they make out on those CSI shows.”

  Storm nodded, a headache starting at the base of her skull. “I'm not great at waiting, but you're right. It's all we can do.”

  “You're damn right I'm right, baby,” Howard cooed, falling into his predictable habit of coming on to her whenever a chance presented itself. “You just hang with me, and you know I'll take good care of you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kline,” Storm responded. “Let's keep in touch.”

  “Yeah, let's do that, let's keep in . . .touch. I feel like you haven't thanked me for your present yet. Maybe you'd like to do that later, huh? When we get in touch.”

  Gritting her teeth, Storm smiled. “You're a real funny guy, Mr. Kline. Now, why don't I walk you back to the reception area?”

  “That would be real nice, Ms. McKenzie,” said Howard.

  That afternoon, Tom called to let her know he'd picked up the kids from school and daycare and dropped them off at a different daycare, one they used for emergencies now and then. He'd be late getting home, as he was meeting with Rylan to discuss the county job. She'd picked up the kids and parked them in front of the electronic babysitter so she could get a shower.

  The shower was long and hot, and she scrubbed every inch of her skin until it was bright pink. Afterward, she dressed in comfortable, gray, yoga pants and a long-sleeved black jersey with a bright-orange Oregon State Beavers logo. Barefoot and with her hair in a high ponytail, she threw herself into creating a perfect ‘evening with the family.’

  She made a quick dry rub and put four chicken breasts into the oven to bake. Next, she got the kids busy snapping green beans while she diced some bacon to sauté with the beans. That night was a special night for Tom, and dinner needed to be special, too.

  The recipe called for almond slivers. There was a bag around somewhere. But where? She'd gone through the pantry, the bread drawer, the snack bowl. Where the hell were they? She was almost in tears. “Where are the almonds?” she asked the kids. “Did you eat the almonds?”

  “No, Mom,” said Lindsey, her eyes wide at her mother's unusually frantic tone.

  “What almonds?” asked Joel.

  “The slivered almonds. The bag of slivered almonds I bought at the store to make your father's favorite—”

  “Smoke,” said Joel.

  Storm spun from the table to see smoke rising from the sizzling pan of bacon. She rushed to the stove and pulled the pan away. Bacon grease sloshed over the side and ignited.

  She froze for a millisecond, mesmerized by the low flames dancing across the stove’s red-hot burner and then turned, set the pan in the sink, took a cast iron lid from a cabinet, and calmly placed it over the burner. She left it there a moment then lifted it, releasing a puff of smoke. The fire was out.

  “Wow!” shouted Joel. “That was cool.”

  “That was scary,” argued Lindsay. “Fire is dangerous. It can burn you up. Tell him, Mom.”

  “Your sister’s right,” Storm said. “Fire is dangerous. That's why you have to learn how to control it. You have to stay calm and put the fire out.”

  “That's why kids don't play with matches,” explained Lindsay to her brother.”

  “That's right too, Sugar Pop. You can't use matches until you've learned all about fire safety, but that won't be until you're a little bit older. Now, since you guys did such a great job with the beans, how about you get a special extra TV hour?”

  “Woohoo!” Joel shrieked, his usual enthusiasm, and sometimes wearing energy, diverted from the kitchen to the family room.

  “What about you? Don't you want to watch TV?” Storm asked her daughter, who had unexpectedly stayed behind.

  Lindsay rolled her eyes. “I don't want to watch the stuff he watches, but if I don't, he whines like a baby.”

  “Then, how about helping me finish dinner?” asked Storm, opening the back door and waving the smoke from the room.

  “Can we make a cake
?”

  “Cookies,” Storm compromised, thinking about the roll of dough she'd tucked in the freezer after the last shopping trip and how much less messy it would be than a cake.

  “Okay. Cookies.” Lindsay walked into the kitchen and stared curiously at the grease-and-ash covered stovetop. Storm shut the door, crossed the space, and bent to kiss the top of her oldest child's head. “You're growing up way too fast,” she told her.

  Later, Tom congratulated his family on putting together ‘The best chicken, beans, mashed potato and chocolate chip cookie dinner, ever!’

  He'd also appreciated the banner they hung over the table. True, it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, which wasn't quite right, but the color and excitement it added made it work.

  Storm spent the evening laughing at Tom's witticisms and trying to keep it light and airy for the kids, but by the end of the evening, her headache was raging. By the end of the night, she was rubbing her temples and rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder to work out the tension.

  “Mommy doesn't seem to be feeling well,” Tom told the kids.

  “It was the smoke,” said Lindsay.

  “Smoke?”

  “From the fire.”

  In all the excitement of preparing a special dinner to celebrate their father's news, the kids had momentarily forgotten the fire. Tom turned to Storm with a quizzical expression. “Fire?”

  “Just a little grease spill. I was frying something and got distracted.”

  Tom's brows rose. He might not have known the entire story around Storm's childhood accident, but he knew she was not one to become distracted around a potential source of fire.

  After the kids had gone to sleep, Tom found Storm in the kitchen, drying and putting away the dishes. He lent a hand, companionably quiet at first, but then he said, “Even the kids have noticed you're not yourself lately. What's going on, Stormy? You're hardly ever here, and when you are, you seem light years away.”

  Storm shrugged. “I don't know. Just a busy time of year, I guess. Holidays are coming up. Lots of planning to do.”

  “I hear you, but you know, this new project—it's huge. The money it brings in will make this a pretty good Christmas. Plus, it will allow me to bid on other bigger projects. This is a real important time for me. I hate to ask you, but can you try just a little harder to get home on time, spend more time with the kids?”