by Harvey, JM
Victoria gathered the paper from the table, folded it and stuffed it into her purse. She rose and looked down at Foster.
“I need that information, Foster. Today.”
“He’s following me!” Foster whispered, darting a glance at the cop. He never looked up from his menu. “I can’t—”
“When I sit down at his table, you hit the door.” Victoria fished two twenties out of her purse and tossed them on the table. She looked at Foster one more time. “And don’t spend any of Herby’s five hundred dollars. You put it in an envelope and put it away. We’ll deal with that later.” She didn’t wait for a reply; she shoved out of the booth, turned and strode across the room, heading directly at the cop who pretended to be a janitor. She had almost run him down twice, this time she was going to plow right over him.
“Long way from the courthouse for lunch,” she said as she slid into the booth across from him. “And you’re out of uniform, though I’m not quite sure which uniform.”
His eyes came up from the menu. “Excuse me?” he said, giving her a confused smile. He was good looking and young, maybe late twenties, with dark hair cut close to his scalp, but the look of confusion he plastered on his face gave him a comical cast. Victoria had seen enough good acting in the courtroom to be able to spot the bad. “I’m not sure what—”
“Cut the crap she said. “I know you’re not a janitor. Why are you following Deputy Foster?”
The guy kept smiling. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he said with a shake of his head.
“So, you really are a janitor?” From the corner of her eye, Victoria saw Foster moving quickly and unsteadily toward the front door. Victoria hoped Foster could drive to the jail without killing someone.
The man across from her didn’t even glance Foster’s way. He shrugged. “Have to pay the bills. It’s honest work.”
“Then show me some identification,” Victoria said and tapped the table with one fingernail of her bandaged hand. “If you have a courthouse ID, let’s see it.”
The guy lost his smile. He looked annoyed. “I don’t have to show you anything. Why don’t you let me enjoy my lunch?”
“You’re right, you don’t have to show me,” Victoria agreed as she dug her cell phone out of her purse. “But I can have a DPD detective down here in ten minutes to turn your pockets out.” It wasn’t a bluff.
The man’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. But he didn’t say anything until she started dialing.
“Not a good idea, Mrs. Justice,” he said. “Make that call and things only get worse for you. And for Jack Birch.”
“Is that a threat?”
The guy shook his head. “That’s a fact.” The waitress approached but Victoria impatiently waved her away. The girl looked annoyed, but she went.
“Let’s start over,” he said.
“Your ID,” she repeated.
A look of annoyance flashed across his face, but he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a business card and slid it across the table to her. Victoria expected to see a Sheriff’s Department logo on the card, but the guy hadn’t been lying. He wasn’t a cop. She looked up from the card. He even looked like a lawyer.
“Why is an Assistant US Attorney following Debbie Foster, Mr. Logan? Not to mention skulking around the Crowley building with a broom?” she asked as she tucked the card into her wallet. His first name was Cory. That seemed wimpy for the hard-ass routine he was putting on. Then again, she was married to a man named Valentine who had killed seven men…
“There’s something we have to get out of the way first,” he said. He stowed his wallet and pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket. He placed it on the center of the table, turned it on and leaned forward. His tone turned formal. “This is agent Cory Logan, Assistant US Attorney. The interviewee is Victoria Justice, Felony Trial Division Chief for the District Attorney’s office, County of Dallas.” He flicked his eyes at Victoria. “Mrs. Justice, I’d like you to listen to what I’m about to tell you and acknowledge verbally when I have finished. Understood?”
“What—” Victoria began, eyeing the recorder, but Logan wasn’t done.
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at State expense. Do you understand these rights?”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Victoria was stunned. How many times had she spoken those words herself? It wasn’t as much fun from the other side of the table.
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes,” she leaned across the table. “Now answer my question. Why are you following Deputy Foster?”
Logan looked at her for a long moment before he finally decided to reply. “I wasn’t following Deputy Foster,” he said. “I was following you.”
Victoria rocked back in her seat. “You’ve got to be joking,” she said. “Following me? What—”
Logan held up a hand. “Let’s start from the beginning,” he said as his eyes drilled into hers. “The very beginning. Let’s start with the murders of Lamar and Lemuel Sutton.”
39
Val parked across the street from the house where Lamar and Lemuel had died.
The home’s wood siding had the rotten gray look of old bones. The front door hung half-open, sagging on hinges that were rusting away. The windows were glassless and the porch eaves bowed under a weight of dead leaves. To Val, the house looked like a corpse; the empty windows like eye sockets, the door a leering square of a mouth. Still, it didn’t look much worse than the other houses scattered along the block, separated by empty lots where crumbling house foundations poked up through the weeds.
This far-flung little neighborhood of two bedroom bungalows had begun life as a blue-collar suburb in the 1930’s, but by the ‘70’s it had descended into cheap rental properties. In the ‘90’s it had been abandoned all together, good for nothing but fodder for the County’s bulldozers.
Val’s eyes lingered on the house next door. At the time of Lemuel and Lamar’s deaths, a landscaping company had been using it as a squat. A dozen illegal Honduran laborers had lived there, but the Hondurans were long gone. The house’s windows were boarded over and weeds grew tall in the lawn. A red cardboard notice had been stapled to the front door indicating that it was scheduled for demolition, but the notice had already faded to pink.
Val put the Mustang in gear, turned into the Honduran’s driveway and bumped over the broken concrete to a rusted-out metal carport where he parked the car. The aluminum roof had buckled under the weight of broken tree limbs from a lightning struck oak that overhung it; the Mustang barely fit.
Val dumped his cell phone into the glove compartment, took out the flashlight then pulled the .45 out of his waistband and chambered a round. He did all this without conscious thought, habits learned during his time on SWAT when even the buzz of a silenced cell phone or the ‘click-clack’ of a weapon being loaded might be enough noise to get you killed. He exited the Mustang and took a quick look up and down the street. Warped asphalt pavement shimmered in the heat. Nothing moved. He tucked the .45 back in place, stepped out of the shadows and crossed the side lawn, circling wide around a patch of sunken ground where the grass was still green despite the drought, marking the spot where the house’s septic tank was buried. Four years ago the smell from that overflowing tank had permeated the crime scene and turned the area into a fetid swamp.
A row of redbud shrubs were planted along the property line. The redbuds were tall, but almost leafless, withered and wilting. Val found a gap in the row and squeezed through, dry branches crunching to dust under his feet.
Oak trees grew close to the Suttons’ house, shading it from the nuclear blast of the Texas summer sun. The smell of mildew and decay tickled his nose as he approached the front porch and climbed steps that sagged under his feet. He stopped at the top and looked th
rough the open front door before reluctantly crossing the rotten floorboards. It was only as he stepped over the threshold that he realized that he had the .45 in his fist, the hammer back. He didn’t even remember drawing it.
That was spooky, but he didn’t put the gun away.
The living room had been gutted. The plaster walls had been battered down to bare studs and broken lathing, the floorboards had been ripped up in random locations by what had to be an axe. The undamaged portions of the floor were covered with more broken lathing and chunks of plaster from a ceiling that had been gored and pitted. At first Valentine thought that the damage must be the work of copper thieves. With soaring copper prices and unscrupulous scrap metal recyclers, thieves had stripped most of the homes in this neighborhood of their wiring long ago, but the destruction was just too thorough. Every wall had been ripped open, every one. The thieves didn’t do that. They broke through at light fixtures and wall sockets, then followed the wiring, ripping it out as they went.
Val stooped and fingered the plaster dust. It was dry and white while the floor beneath it was mildewed. That mean the destruction was recent. He stood, his eyes moving involuntarily to the hallway that led back to the home’s two bedrooms, his gaze falling on the door to the left; the door that led down to the basement where Lamar and Lemuel had died.
It all came flooding back. All the memories he had suppressed for so long hit him like a punch in the gut. The screams. The roar of the chainsaw. He could smell the blood and the fear in the air. It was more than a memory, it was visceral, real. He was back in the basement again, fighting for his life. His heart raced and his vision stuttered, draining of color, going to black and white. It got harder to breathe, then almost impossible. He lurched around and staggered back out the front door, onto the porch. He crossed to the steps and leaned into the newel post.
It was several long minutes before his heart rate slowed and his stomach unknotted. He almost turned away at that point. Almost ran away. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t go back to that basement.
But he had to.
Val shrugged off the post, turned and faced the door. He stared at it for a long moment, bracing himself, before he walked back into the house.
Into the darkness.
40
“What are you talking about?” Victoria asked. “Lamar and Lemuel Sutton weren’t murdered, they were murderers. And why are you digging into a four-year old police shooting?” She didn’t let Logan answer; she plowed forward, her anger and indignation growing with every word. “The DA’s office, the Police Review Board and the US Attorney’s Office all no-billed that case. After ripping my husband’s reputation to shreds.”
“Charges were not preferred based, in part, on your intervention,” Logan pointed out, his eyes intent on hers, looking for a reaction. “That and Jack Birch’s sworn testimony.”
“Intervention?” she said through her teeth, her anger flash-firing into an inferno. She had heard enough of that allegation. “I was asked for an opinion and I gave it: there wasn’t enough evidence for a prosecution. Is the Justice Department accusing me and Jack of covering up a homicide for Valentine?” she asked.
Logan shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not making accusations. I’d just like to ask a few questions. Clear a few things up.”
“Why is this suddenly such a hot issue?” she asked. “Is this about Abby Sutton? I want an explanation or we’re done here.”
Logan slumped back into the booth and looked at her speculatively for a long moment. Finally he sighed, shook his head and proceeded with evident reluctance, like he knew he was going to regret it one day.
“I’ve been doing a lot of background on you and lieutenant Birch in the last few weeks,” he said. “They say you’re a real ball-buster, but fair and honest, and Jack is a living legend. Imply anything negative about that man and people act like you just spit on the flag.”
“Jack has a loyal following,” Victoria agreed. “He’s the best cop I know.”
Logan frowned but made no immediate reply. Another long moment passed before he finally said, “What I’ve heard about your husband isn’t as complimentary. From what I’ve learned he’s a stone cold killer. A human lawn mower.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” she said, feeling her face grow hot.
Logan shrugged and let it go. He turned officious again. “I’d like to go back on record now,” he said, reaching for the digital recorder. “If you could answer my questions without prevarication or evasion, I would appreciate it.” He clicked the machine back on.
Victoria shook her head, reached across the table and snapped the recorder off. “Un-uh. I’m a prosecuting attorney in this county, Logan, not some citizen. It’s quid pro quo or it’s a no-go.”
“I could get a subpoena.”
Victoria snorted. “I’m sure you could,” she agreed, “and after a few months of legal wrangling you might get me under oath and on the record. Might. I’m pretty damned good at courtroom games, you know; I’ve been playing them for a very long time. So, roll the dice and get that subpoena or be up front with me. Call it professional courtesy if you like.”
Logan’s frown deepened. “Courtesy? More like coercion,” he replied, but he took the recorder off the table and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He signaled the waitress over and ordered the beef burritos and an iced tea. Victoria asked for another Diet Coke. After the waitress left, Logan continued.
“We never had this conversation,” he said and looked pointedly at her without going further. Victoria realized he was waiting for her to agree. She nodded and he continued. “The US Attorney’s Office is looking into Abby Sutton’s murder,” he said. “We have information that indicates the bullets that killed Abby were fired from your husband’s service weapon.”
“There’s no proof that those bullets came from my husband’s gun,” she said defensively. “Only that they all came from the same gun that crippled her. If the ballistics test from the Sutton shootout hadn’t been mishandled this wouldn’t even be an issue. Val didn’t shoot her four years ago, and he sure didn’t kill her.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Then why hasn’t he turned over the weapon to DPD for ballistics testing?”
“He doesn’t have it. He sold all of his guns to Gus—”
“Perdido,” Logan finished for her. “Who just happened to get firebombed along with all of his records right after Abby went missing.”
Victoria shook her head resolutely. “Valentine might be a lot of things,” she said, “but he’s not an idiot. He was a cop for more than twenty years. A homicide detective. Do you think he’d use his own gun, a gun that you believe fired the shot that crippled Abby, to kill her? Four years later?”
Logan shrugged, but she could see that her point had hit home. She pressed on.
“And then he firebombed poor old Gus Perdido to cover it up?”
Logan shrugged again, this time a little uncomfortably.
“What’s the motive?” Victoria kept at him. “Why now?”
“Our information indicates that your husband is in possession of the money stolen by Lamar and Lemuel Sutton. The gold and the cash that were never recovered. The theory is that Abby Sutton knew your husband had it and was pressuring him to give her all or a portion of it. A theory that’s bolstered by the fact that two days ago your husband assaulted her brother, Zeke Sutton, then drove to Garland Sutton’s place of business where he assaulted two more men, then drove a tow truck through the front gate, almost killing a third man in the process.”
“Zeke was following Valentine. With a gun,” Victoria said, realizing that she had only been told half the story. Birch had left out the trio of assaults and the so-called attempted murder. And Valentine sure hadn’t supplied any additional details. “And Garland told Val the same harebrained story about Abby looking for the Sutton brothers’ loot. It’s crap. A dope-head’s fantasy.”
“Fifteen million in untraceable cash and gold coins,” L
ogan said pointedly. “Lots of cops have crossed the line for a lot less. Lots of prosecutors, too,” he added with a chilly smile.
“If you’re accusing me of something, don’t be a pussy, Logan, spit it out.”
Logan flushed and his smile vanished. He stared at her for a protracted moment, unblinking. A stare that he maintained when he finally spoke, his tone didactic, cold. “I have sworn testimony that you were arguing with Axel Rankin just moments before he was murdered. That Axel accused your husband of stealing the gold and cash. That a deal was offered. One-hundred thousand dollars and a twenty-year sentence in exchange for silence.”
Victoria’s teeth ground as she listened. What Logan was saying was a twisted version of real events. And only one person could have concocted that story.
“Herby Lubbock,” she said angrily. With the video feed from the interview rooms destroyed, only someone who had watched the discussion live could have gotten so close to the facts while still skewing them.
Logan nodded. “He’s accused you of setting up Axel Rankin’s murder. In fact, he’s accused you of slipping Rusk the knife while you were in the consultation room with Rusk and his attorney.”
That rocked her. She was almost too shocked to reply. What Logan was suggesting was ridiculous. She had never even sat down at the table with Rusk and Albert, but, thanks to the ‘malfunctioning’ video cameras, she had no proof of that. But that didn’t make her contrite; it only pissed her off more.
“You think I gave a six-foot-six serial killing maniac a knife and a handcuff key?” she demanded. “A man I was sending to prison for life without parole? Are you insane or just stupid?”
Logan shook his head. “I didn’t say that’s the way it happened. I—”
Victoria barreled on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know you Feds like the headlines, but this one is straight out of the National Tattler. They could put it right above the ‘UFO Ate My Baby’ story.”
