Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1

by Harvey, JM

  Andrew sat down in an overstuffed leather chair, a boy on each knee. They started tugging at his mustache so hard that his eyes watered, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “So…?” he said, cocking one wild gray eyebrow at her.

  Victoria dropped onto the footstool in front of his chair, needing his proximity. Drawing comfort from it. Her mother had died when Victoria was only seven years old. She had been raised in a household of men, but she had never felt a lack of love. Her father had been her best friend, her mentor and her confidant. And she needed a confidant right now. She felt sure her marriage, and possibly her career, were going down in flames, but she hadn’t come here to talk about Valentine. Andrew and her husband had enough issues without adding to them. She had come to talk about Sheriff Swisher, a subject she had broached with her father the night before. She had voiced her suspicions that Sheriff Swisher’s men were killing every Syndicate member they could find in an attempt to cover up the murder of Willy Henderson, but her father had thought the theory was farfetched to say the least. Actually. He thought she was crazy. Andrew had been the Chairman of the State Republican Party for more than twenty years; he was well aware of the machinations that occurred behind the walls of courthouses and statehouses, but he had offered her little comfort last night, keeping his comments to cryptic warnings, seeming unwilling to talk about it on the phone.

  “I’ve been thinking about the murders of Axel Rankin and Randall Rusk,” she said and her father pulled a face. There was no hope she could ever prove that charge and he knew it, but that wasn’t going to make her drop it. And, while she wasn’t going to restate her unsubstantiated suspicions that Sheriff Swisher’s men might be killing Confederate Syndicate members, her accusation that the Sheriff’s men had murdered Rusk was more than just suspicion. She had watched Rusk die as he tried to surrender. “Someone set up Rankin. Someone inside the Sheriff’s Department. Those rooms are supposed to be thoroughly searched and so is everyone that goes in them. Who else could get a knife and a shackle key past the screening without a search?”

  “You might as well forget about this,” Andrew said. “Nolan Swisher knows how to clean up his own messes. He’s been doing it for more than thirty years.” Nolan and Andrew weren’t exactly friends, but they were as close as you could get without using the word. Her father had backed the old sheriff in more than one campaign.

  “He’s lying about four homicides,” Victoria said. “Covering them up. He knows someone inside the jail was involved. I’m telling you, Daddy, not all the crooks down at Lew Sterret are wearing orange jumpsuits.”

  Her father shook his head. “Nolan ain’t what I’d call a liar. Oh, sure, he’ll cover this up. Hell, that’s his job.”

  “Daddy, that’s bullsh—” she bit it off with a quick look at the boys. Max was already enamored with the word ‘shit,’ she didn’t want to reinforce it into his permanent repertoire, but the boys didn’t look up from their grandpa. They were playing with the mother of pearl buttons on his shirtfront. Max was trying to eat one.

  “That’s bull-flop,” she continued. “We’re the guardians of justice. The people deserve honesty and integrity.” she said indignantly, knowing how pompous she sounded, but feeling the truth of it all the same.

  “Elected officials are the guardians of the people’s trust,” Andrew corrected. “That and justice ain’t always the same thing.”

  “Daddy—”

  He held up a hand, cutting her off. “What good comes from releasing that information? I’m betting that the worst anyone down at Lew Sterret is guilty of is incompetence. That’s a long way from murder. My guess would be that Nolan’s running a quiet investigation right now. People are going to lose their jobs. Even worse, they’re going to be blackballed right out of the business. Lost pensions and ruined careers are enough punishment for stupidity.”

  “Sheriff Swisher—”

  “Let Nolan have his last six months,” Andrew said cryptically. “You’ll be free of him soon enough.” He looked at her significantly, baiting her, but Victoria wasn’t interested in playing games.

  “Just spit it out, daddy.”

  Andrew sighed and shifted the boys around. Kyle wanted down, so Andrew placed the boy on the floor. Kyle toddled off to the playpen, dug his fingers into the plastic mesh and tried to chin himself up. He obviously wanted the toys piled inside. Andrew rose, gave Kyle a boost into the playpen then plopped Max down beside him before returning to his chair. He sat down heavily, his knee joints popping like firecrackers. Not for the first time, Victoria realized that her father was getting old. He had been just past forty when she was born. Now, he was pushing eighty and starting to show it. He wouldn’t be around long…she shook that thought right out of her head. It was too much to bear. She leaned forward suddenly and planted a kiss on his weathered cheek.

  He flushed. “I’ll be here for plenty more years, Sweet Pea,” he said, reading her thoughts. “Breeding fine horses and drinking finer whisky,” he laughed, then frowned and turned serious. He pointed a finger at her. “Stay out of Nolan’s way,” he warned. “Six more months. Anyone can ride it out for six months.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s going to lose the election?” Victoria asked. “He’s popular with the voters.”

  “With the wrong kind of voters,” Andrew said sourly. “The big money’s lining up against him. They didn’t back him in the last election, and I don’t know how he managed to get the cash without their support, but they didn’t throw money at the opposition either. This time they’re out for his hide. Being tough on crime is one thing, but killing handcuffed suspects?” He shook his shaggy gray head. “This federal investigation is making people nervous. It’s going to be Nolan’s undoing.”

  “I heard it was just an informal review,” Victoria said. That’s what Hockley had said out on the levee. “Is it going to go to a formal investigation?”

  “It already is a formal investigation. Nolan hasn’t got the word yet, but he will soon.”

  Victoria was unsurprised that her father had better information on the Dallas County Sheriff’s Department than Sheriff Swisher did himself. Andrew Montague, even in retirement, was still a powerful and well-connected man.

  “You think Nolan will be charged with anything?” she asked.

  Andrew shook his head. “No. There’ll be sanctions and threats about federal funding, that’ll be about it. But it’ll be embarrassing as hell at a time when Nolan can least afford it. This mess with that peckerwood biker is going to bring Nolan down.”

  Victoria dropped her head, thinking about Willy Henderson, the Confederate Syndicate’s Road boss again. And Abby Sutton and her boyfriend, Axel Rankin, two more dead Confederate Syndicate members. The more she thought about it the harder it was to believe that those three murders weren’t related - linked by Sheriff Swisher’s goon squad, the Special Tactics Unit. And Valentine was right in the middle of it, now. He was probably out there right this minute killing Suttons.

  Or being killed by them…

  “Hey, there darling,” Andrew said, leaning forward and resting his hand on her knee. It was only then that she realized that she was crying. Andrew scooted forward and took his daughter in his arms. She pressed her face into his shirtfront, embarrassed by the tears.

  “Is this about Valentine?” he asked, his voice taking on an angry edge. His daughter was no crier, except when it came to that man she had married. A man Andrew had liked just fine when Valentine had been merely a homicide cop with a quick trigger finger.

  Victoria nodded against his chest. She stayed there, taking comfort from his proximity, as she related everything Jack Birch had told her, from Val’s attack on Zeke Sutton to his almost-arrest at the hands of the Sheriff’s men.

  Andrew’s response when she finished was not at all what she had expected.

  “You should have let me shoot that son of a bitch four years ago,” he said then sighed and shook his head. “But, I can’t fault a man for wanting to
protect his family.”

  Victoria jerked away from her father. Her eyes felt hot and gritty and her nose was clogged.

  “He’s going to get himself killed! He—”

  But Andrew wasn’t listening. “You go on out on the front porch and count the bullet holes,” he said. “Your great granddaddy and two cousins died in that dooryard, shot down by the Comancheros.”

  “Those were different times—” Victoria began, but Andrew shook his head, his expression grave.

  “Garland Sutton and his kind are murdering thieves,” he said. “Dying’s too good for them.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. More macho crap, which is what she should have expected; Valentine and her father weren’t all that different.

  “Valentine has a responsibility to me and the boys,” she said with finality as she dug in her purse for a tissue. “I won’t tolerate this. I won’t.” She wasn’t going to argue about it. It was insanity to chase around the city looking for a confrontation. Worse, it was damned childish.

  Andrew chuckled. “Plenty of geldings looked over the fence at you, but you just flicked your tail at them and showed them your hooves. You had to have you a stallion. And now you’re mad ‘cause you can’t break him.” Andrew fell back on horse metaphors whenever the subject of Victoria’s romantic life came up. It was a habit left over from all those awkward father-daughter talks during her motherless youth. The worst comparison had occurred when she was in the delivery room in labor with the twins and she could hear him in the waiting room shouting, “She’s fixing to foal!”

  “If you compare me to a mare one more time,” Victoria warned him, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, I’ll geld you.”

  “Now, that’s my baby girl,” he said happily then stood and smoothed the damp wrinkles in his shirt. He ran an appraising eye over the twins who were bashing two plastic trucks together like a pile up on the freeway. “Those boys are getting skinny on that health food junk you feed them,” he said, changing the subject. “Hector is making cheese enchiladas for lunch. Let’s go see if they’re ready.”

  Andrew crossed to the playpen and wrestled the boys out of it as Victoria stood, wiping her eyes with the tissue. She was stowing the tissue back in her bag when her phone rang. She fished it out, expecting it to be Jack Birch, but she didn’t recognize the number. She hit DECLINE. She was halfway to the kitchen, following Andrew who was whinnying like a horse to the boys’ delight, when her voicemail beeped. She pulled out her phone and pulled up the message as her father continued into the kitchen. She could already smell the enchiladas. The aroma alone packed ten pounds on her thighs.

  The message was from Deputy Foster, the female jailer with the pink barrette from yesterday. “Call me,” was all Foster said after identifying herself. She sounded bad. Phlegmy. Like she’d been crying.

  Victoria pulled up her recent calls menu and tapped Foster’s number. The deputy answered immediately, already talking in a rush.

  “I want to apologize for what happened yesterday,” she said, but that was as far as she got before bursting into tears.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Victoria said into the gale of sobs, but she wasn’t sure that she believed it. Debbie Foster certainly didn’t seem to.

  “I was Sandy’s partner! And now he’s dead!” she yelled hysterically, almost breaking Victoria’s eardrum. “I let him down. I should never have brought Rankin out of the visitation room while Rusk was in the corridor! I should have been helping Sandy with Rusk. But I was in a hurry to get home. I’m getting married and—and—and Sandy said it would be okay! And—and now he’s dead! He was—”

  “You can still help Sandy,” Victoria said, cutting through the tears, her pulse quickening. “You can help me find out who did this. Who got him killed.” Andrew had warned her to forget about the knife and the handcuff key; to let Sheriff Swisher clean his own house. That was good career advice, but she wasn’t going to take it. A crime was a crime and someone had to pay. And making sure that happened was her job.

  “How?” Foster asked, choking the word out. “Rusk killed Sandy, and Rusk is dead.”

  “Rusk didn’t make that shackle key or plant the knife. Someone inside the jail did that. Another deputy, probably.”

  “That’s not possible! No one would do that! I’ve worked here for five years. We’re like family. And there was no shackle key. Sheriff Swisher said—”

  “Are you at Lew Sterret?” Victoria cut her off.

  Debbie sniffed and swallowed. “Not for much longer. I’m on administrative leave. Sheriff Swisher just reprimanded me. He said I was a disgrace to the force. That my actions caused Sandy’s death. That I—” She burst into a fresh salvo of tears.

  “Quit your blathering,” Victoria snapped. She felt bad for saying it, but she didn’t have time for Foster’s emotional breakdown. “This isn’t about you anymore. Or Sheriff Swisher. It’s about justice for Sandy. And I need you to do something.”

  “What?” Foster asked hesitantly. “I mean my job’s already on the line. I can’t take any—”

  “Sandy’s dead.” Victoria said. “And your job is history if you don’t help me. Nolan’s going to pile it all on you. Everyone will think it’s your fault.”

  “It is my fault! I should never have—”

  “No, Debbie, it isn’t your fault,” Victoria cut in. “And if you want to keep your job, you’ll help me.” She cringed as she spoke that last line, knowing it was a lie. Foster’s days as a jailer were over. The other deputies would never forget this. Even if she weren’t fired, they’d drive her out of the jail sooner or later. But Victoria needed the woman’s help. Still, she felt like a ruthless bitch. “I want the logs of every person who used interrogation room two before Rusk and Albert Pico yesterday. I need you to bring them to me, now, today.”

  “I’d have to pull the logs,” Foster said reluctantly. “And use the copier in the office. If anyone caught me—”

  “Just do it. Then meet me at Herrera’s at one o’clock. It’s on Maple a couple blocks west of Oak Lawn.”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Do it. One o’clock.” Victoria clicked off, hoping Foster would comply. And if the deputy didn’t? Victoria would find another avenue to the information. She had a dozen contacts inside the jail, though she’d hate to put any of them in the middle of this. Foster, on the other hand, already was in the middle. Up to her neck.

  Victoria headed for the kitchen. She had time for one cheese enchilada before she hit the road…

  37

  Valentine was on Marilla Street, taking the surface streets through downtown to avoid a traffic jam on the Mixmaster, when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. It was BoDean Gannon.

  “You plan on bringing my truck back?” Bo asked, “Or should I just report it stolen? One more charge to add to your current crime spree?”

  “Not funny,” Valentine said, cradling his phone against his shoulder. He turned on Young Street and passed through the long shadow cast by the dramatically inverted-pyramid façade of City Hall. The plaza out front was empty of people. Heat shimmered up from the pavers and from the bottom of the empty reflecting pool. Dallas was suffering through its third year of drought; the pool’s fountain had been turned off as a water conservation measure.

  “Wasn’t meant to be,” Bo replied. “Way I hear it there’s a murder warrant out for you. I know a half-honest bondsman and an almost-honest mortician. I’ll get you their cards.”

  “It’s bullshit, Bo. I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “Not lately,” BoDean said.

  Val made no reply. Why did everyone think that kind of joke was funny? It was depressing.

  BoDean continued, “Your car’s ready to go. I got the compressor working, replaced the fan motor and juiced up the Freon. Runs better than new.”

  “How much did all that cost?” Val asked. His checking account was starting to look a little pale, and the next pitifu
l infusion of cash was two weeks away.

  “I’d say a six-pack of Shiner ought to cover the labor,” BoDean said. “Fan motor and Freon was a hundred and seventy.” BoDean’s voice dropped as he added. “I got someone here that wants to have a word with you.”

  “Who?” Valentine asked, instantly suspicious. There was no one he trusted more than BoDean, but with all that had happened in the past two days he was naturally wary.

  “A guy that doesn’t like his name used on the phone,” BoDean answered cryptically and Valentine knew immediately who he was talking about.

  “What does he want?”

  “To talk to you. I think you ought to hear it, Val,” BoDean replied. “And I need the tow truck this afternoon. Gonna get the Malibu painted. Need to get it over to Holloway’s on Ross.”

  Val quit arguing. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “Gas it up before you bring it back,” BoDean said. “Front tank was full when you took it.”

  Valentine glanced at the gas gauge and winced. Less than a quarter of a tank. He wondered how much he could get for one of his kidneys? Not much, he bet. Too many beers and tequila shots.

  “Will do,” Val said and broke the connection.

  It cost fifty-seven dollars to fill the truck’s front tank. Val put it on a credit card that was already carrying a balance his grandchildren would probably inherit and headed for Bo’s.

  Slick Hernandez’s BMW was parked beside Val’s Mustang in the thin shade of the trees outside BoDean’s shop. The dusty old Ford looked like a hobo begging change from the sleek German sedan. Crime really did pay, Val thought. A contract killer was driving a seventy thousand dollar car; Lamar and Lemuel had stashed away fifteen million dollars and he and Victoria were struggling to pay the electric bill every month.

  Val killed the engine, grabbed the cold burrito from the floorboard and stepped down from the truck’s cab. His skin instantly popped out into a fresh skim of sweat as he crossed the gravel and stepped into the shade of the garage. The temperature dropped ten degrees. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred and forty. He pitched the burrito into the trash and continued on into the garage.