Goddess of Justice

by Dwayne Clayden

  Brad folded the paper over. Across the table sat Sadie Andrus, newly hired chief investigative reporter for CFCN TV—one of the youngest in the channel’s history at a fresh-faced twenty-eight. She slid a bright-red wool jacket off her shoulders, letting it pool on the booth at her waist. Her wavy auburn hair hung past her shoulders.

  During the sniper crisis a month ago, Sadie had hounded Brad for inside info on the shooters. Mostly, it didn’t work. But then the sniper started communication through her to Brad. They made an agreement where they respected each other’s careers, but there were times they could work together. Sadie was given the complete story and access to all components of the investigation. That brought her to national attention and her new job.

  “Thank you. I’d love a coffee.” She watched the waitress pour, her brown eyes mischievous as she slipped off black leather gloves one by one, laying them on the tabletop. She adjusted the low collar of her tight black blouse.

  Brad set the paper on the table. “How did you find me?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter.” She added two cream and two sugar to the coffee.

  “You’re stalking me.”

  Sadie tilted her head back and flashed a toothy smile. “You wish.” She took a sip. “Must be wonderful being a Homicide detective when there are no homicides. Dress in jeans and casual button-down shirt. Hiking boots. Start work late. Have breakfast, read the paper. What’s next? Manicure and massage.”

  Brad rolled his shoulders. “Oh, a massage. Great idea. I’m feeling tense.”

  She smirked over her white mug, smudging the porcelain with a blood-red lipstick print. “From your afternoon in court yesterday?”

  “You take your job seriously.”

  “Nah. I heard about it from our court reporter. The way he tells it, you were doing the questioning and Harry Townsend was on the defensive.” She tossed her hair over her right shoulder. “Were you just messing with Townsend or were you trying to deflect from his questions?”

  “Wow. Right to the jugular.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m all for street justice.”

  “Are you baiting me, waiting for me to confirm street justice?”

  “This isn’t about a story.” She smiled demurely. “As a member of the fairer sex, I’d be glad if you tuned up some asshat beating a defenseless woman.”

  Brad chuckled. “Asshat? Look at you, all grown up and using cop lingo. Besides, that’s not how it happened.”

  “I heard she was blond.” Sadie’s fingertips played with a strand of her hair.

  Brad shook his head and leaned back. “Wow. This is not the reporter of a month ago. Again, right to the point.”

  Sadie reached across the table toward his hand, then quickly withdrew it. She winced and swallowed hard. “Sorry, too personal.”

  “We have an agreement. Digging into my personal life is something I’d expect your predecessor Anus Ferguson to do. Not you.” He picked up the paper and flipped it open.

  On cue, the waitress set Brad’s breakfast on the table. Pen poised on her notepad, the older woman smiled at Sadie. “Have you decided what you’ll have?”

  “I’m not staying.”

  “She’s staying,” Brad said from behind the paper. “Take her order.”

  Sadie beamed at the waitress. “Brown toast and strawberry jam. He’s grumpy until he gets his breakfast.”

  The server glanced at Brad, shrugged, then headed to the kitchen.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Sadie said. “Sometimes, I don’t think before I talk.”

  Brad placed the newspaper on the table, took a few bites of the eggs, then tossed his fork onto the plate more vigorously than he’d planned. He leaned toward Sadie. “We agreed. My private life is off limits, always.”

  The waitress set the toast in front of Sadie.

  “Sorry, I guess I was leaving.” Sadie grabbed her black crossbody purse and wool jacket.

  The waitress rolled her eyes.

  Brad, eyes on his plate, said, “She’s staying.” He placed several strips of bacon on his toast.

  Sadie set her purse and jacket back on the bench. She grabbed a knife and spread strawberry jam on her toast, then peered across the table. “A bacon sandwich?”

  “That could be the lead on the evening news.” Brad continued eating, dipping the sandwich into the egg yolks. He glanced at the paper and began reading.

  They ate in silence for several minutes.

  “How’s the new job?” Brad asked.

  “It’s great.” Sadie’s face brightened, highlighting freckles across her aquiline nose. She leaned forward on the table. “Most of the time I pick my assignments. When there’s a breaking story, I’m offered it first. Since shit follows you, you’ll see me frequently.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “You can play gruff, aloof cop all you want. You don’t fool me. You like the attention. I know you like action. If appalling stuff didn’t find you, you’d go hunting for it. That’s just how you’re wired.”

  Brad licked his lips and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You think you’ve got me all figured out.”

  Sadie grinned. “Yup.”

  “I’m not that complicated. Just a cop doing his job.”

  “You would have made a great marshal in the old west.”

  Brad smirked. “Funny, just the other day I thought that about someone else.”

  Sadie set her napkin on her plate and pushed it farther onto the table. She finished her coffee and slid to the edge of the booth.

  “I should get going.”

  “What? No further interrogation?”

  “Nope.” She beamed. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  Brad glanced around. “Listen. A drug dealer was killed Saturday night in Vic Park. It didn’t get any press. It might be a story worth pursuing. Then check back about two months ago. You might find something similar.”

  Sadie slipped on her red jacket, black fur pom beanie and gloves, then grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “That’s not much of a tip.”

  “The best I have. Thanks for buying breakfast.”

  “Wait, I bought it last time.”

  “True, but I gave you a story to follow.” He sipped his coffee and went back to reading the paper.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday night, Dice parked across from the federal building and headed to Third Avenue, known as the hooker stroll, the worst-kept secret in Calgary. While Dice had done surveillance over the past two weeks, dozens of police cruisers had slowly driven down the avenue, stopping to talk to the hookers, exchanging jokes, and on a warm night, some hookers lifted their shirts and flashed their tits. It wasn’t unusual to see an ambulance cruise by occasionally.

  The bus bench had been the perfect place to sit and watch. That bus stop was used by at least a half-dozen different bus routes, so it was normal for someone to sit there for a while waiting for the bus they needed. Dice wore dark oversized pants, a dark T-shirt, a dark hoodie and a dark baseball cap with the bill pulled down low. Sitting in the open, Dice was invisible.

  The hookers gathered in groups across the street. Maybe for safety. Some hookers were young, so perhaps the older hookers were looking after the young ones. Motherly, in a disturbing way. Old or young, they were the victims as far as Dice was concerned. Victims of the men who brought them into prostitution slavery. Victims of the men who preyed on them.

  They were victims, but Dice had no interest in them. The plan wasn’t to save every hooker, but to eliminate men who abused them. It was close to eleven—shift change for the cops. Police presence in the area would be limited for the next twenty to thirty minutes.

  Dice picked up a garbage bag of bottles and cans and lumbered to the intersection. When the light said walk, Dice ambled across the avenue toward a trio of hookers. The oldest, likely early twenties though she looked late thirties, stepped toward Dice.

  “You want a lady or three for the night? We’ll give you a s
pecial deal.” She glanced at the other girls who laughed.

  Dice had watched them on other nights when it was slow, teasing the homeless men who wobbled past digging in the garbage for cans for recycling and their next drink.

  “No thanks,” Dice said. “I’m looking for a guy.”

  “A guy.” The hooker put both hands over her mouth. “Well, break our hearts, right, girls?”

  The girls laughed again. The youngest one said, “Give us a chance. You won’t regret it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You change your mind, you know where to find us.”

  The black Lincoln Town Car was easy to find; there weren’t that many of them downtown at this time of night and just one on the hooker stroll. Dice waited in the shadows for a couple of minutes. The driver’s window was open a few inches, and smoke floated out into the night. The driver was having his every-half-hour cigarette.

  Dice pushed away from the wall, staggered toward the car and placed a hand on the hood. Dice choked with a sound like vomiting.

  “What the—” The driver opened the door. Before he could exit, Dice pushed off the hood and fired two shots into the driver’s head. The blast propelled him back into the car, leaving a red stain on the passenger seat and window. Dice leaned into the car and fired two shots into the back-seat passenger. One shot entered under his chin and exited through the back of his head, shattering the rear window and creating an explosion of maroon with bits of bone and hair on the remaining glass. Dice tossed the driver’s legs back into the car and closed the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Briscoe had just left headquarters after the evening briefing for the Saturday night crews when the call came in.

  “All units downtown. Third Avenue and First Street SW. Not sure what to call this, but caller from payphones says, to quote, ‘something hinky goin’ on in a Lincoln Continental.’”

  A couple of units booked on the radio, and Briscoe figured he would head that way. Sergeant Caterina Toscana was going to be late, and Briscoe was covering her area and his own. It wasn’t unusual for ‘something hinky’ to be going on near the stroll on the weekend. Hell, every night. That was part of the charm.

  Briscoe was the second unit there. He slipped out of his van and jammed the fake fur hat onto his bald head. He slid on gloves as he ambled over to the Lincoln. Constable Robson arrived at the Lincoln first, had a baton out, and was about to tap on the driver’s window when he stopped, groaned, and stepped back. Briscoe shoved past him. “You never seen a hooker and her john—”

  “Ah, shit.” Briscoe was not prepared for the two frozen red spatter patterns on the car glass. The two dead men were a lot different from a hooker servicing her client. Way different. Briscoe was a veteran cop, and he made the adjustment instantaneously.

  He keyed his mic. “Dispatch, 401. We’ve got a double homicide at this location. We’re gonna need additional manpower to shut this area down, and the Crime Scene Unit.”

  “Roger, 401. Calls being made. I’ll contact Homicide.”

  “Negative, dispatch.” Briscoe glanced around the scene. “I’ll notify Homicide.”

  Briscoe swung and bumped into Robson.

  “Get your partner and push these people back.”

  The buzzing was becoming annoying. Brad brushed at his ears, hoping to chase away the mosquito. He pulled the quilt up around his neck. Lobo jumped on the bed and lay close to Brad. What the farmhouse lacked in character, it also lacked in heat. Winter was going to be brutal living here.

  The buzzing started again. Brad sat up, pissed off, and shrugged off the covers. He started shivering. Lobo groaned and rolled over, eyes closed. What the heck was that? Beside his head, his pager buzzed and bounced. Brad snatched the pager off the nightstand and glanced at the display. From dispatch—Briscoe wants you to attend a homicide. He swung his feet off the bed onto the icy floor and sat on the edge.

  “Get up, sleepy mutt. We’re going to work.”

  Lobo stood, yawned, and stretched his front paws. He followed Brad around the house while he changed, got his gun, badge, and a black ball cap to keep his longer-than-regulation hair in check.

  “All right, boy. Game on.”

  The drive downtown took twenty-five minutes over snow-covered roads and black ice. He could have been to the scene sooner, but he needed a coffee to wake up and warm up. It would be a long night. Brad swung onto Fifth Avenue and quickly came to a police roadblock. Ahead, a bank of lights around a dark car. From the curb across the street, other bright lights pointed toward the car. Ah, lovely. The media is here. He parked behind the accumulated police vehicles and rolled down a couple of windows so Lobo would have fresh air. “I’ll be back, buddy.”

  Lobo snored in response.

  Brad slid out of the car. It was colder than when he left the farm. Storm coming in. He grabbed his blue parka from the trunk, slipped it on, and replaced his ball cap with a black beanie and gloves. He sipped his coffee as he wandered to the squat form of Briscoe.

  “Hello, Sergeant.”

  Briscoe stared out from under the fake fur hat at the coffee. “Kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

  Brad sipped the coffee again. “Ah, that tastes so delicious. Did the victims get deader?”

  “What?”

  “Are they deader now than when you first called for me?” Brad sipped his coffee.

  “No.”

  Brad pointed to the Lincoln. “Did you solve the murder?”

  “No.”

  Brad shrugged. “Then I guess it doesn’t matter whether I got here earlier. You still need me.”

  “Fuckin’ rookie.” Briscoe smirked. “My coffee?”

  Brad nodded to his black Trans Am. “Over there. Be careful. Lobo is in the back sleeping. You might lose an arm if you disturb him. He hasn’t had a decent bite in months. You know I’m not technically on the roster for homicides.”

  “Yup. That’s why I paged you. You need to be doing actual work, not going to classes.”

  “Archer will have your ass,” Brad said.

  “He’s welcome to it.” Briscoe headed toward Brad’s car, then stopped. “Oh, you might want to get to work quickly. Staff Sergeant Jackson is on his way.”

  Brad shouted after Briscoe. “What about an update?”

  “You should have thought about that when you left my coffee in your car. Walk around, do your detectiving thing. Then we’ll talk.”

  Brad wandered toward the Lincoln. After each step, he re-analyzed the scene. Six- or eight-year-old black Lincoln Continental. The outside was clean, which, in November, was difficult to do. Someone cleaned the car every day. The winter tires had deep tread. Snow and slush had drifted around the tires, so the car hadn’t moved in a few hours. A light skiff of snow had gathered on the roof. Finally, he was at the open driver’s door. Its window was down a few inches. He’d have to ask Briscoe, but Brad had heard that all doors were closed when the cops arrived. So, maybe not as when they found it.

  The driver’s upper body was tilted to the right, partly on the passenger seat, his jacket open and showing a shoulder holster and gun. His feet were both to the far left, not a place you would have your feet. That made little sense. If he were the driver and saw the shooter, he’d do one of a few things: reach for his gun, put his hands up hoping to stop the bullet or the shooter, or try to get out.

  Brad stepped back. Something else was wrong. His brown eyes swept the inside of the car again. Someone had closed the driver’s eyes. That meant there was contact with the body. He would have to let Sturgeon and his Crime Scene Unit know. Probably the paramedics.

  He dialed the clock back an hour. The pimp is in the back-passenger seat of his fancy car. The driver is both chauffeur and bodyguard. If someone approached the vehicle, the driver might roll down his window. If he wasn’t expecting the person, he’d tell them to fuck off. Maybe show off the gun, so they got the message.

  Why was the window down a few inches? Brad peered at th
e pavement beside the car. Cigarette butts. So, the driver was blowing the smoke out the window. Still made little sense. Then why didn’t the killer shoot through the glass?

  Because the shooter didn’t have to. The driver opened the door but wasn’t threatened. Who could that be? Hooker? Drug dealer?

  Brad surveyed the crowd gathered behind the police tape. A nighttime mix for downtown. A few twentyish adults dressed for a night at a bar, the homeless watching the excitement, and in the shadows, hookers wondering if they’d be able to work again tonight. A couple news vans were pulling in behind the crowd. Briscoe wandered over, sipping his coffee.

  “Okay, you’ve had your coffee. Give me an update.”

  “Sure.” Briscoe sipped the coffee a few times.

  “Today?” Brad crossed his arms.

  “Oh, right. 911 calls started coming in after eleven. The 911 calls were vague, and the call taker thought it sounded like a hooker and john were going at it in the car.”

  “How did they come to that conclusion?”

  “Most of the calls came from the payphone by the liquor store. No one gave their name. The callers knew what had happened but didn’t want any part of it. They didn’t want a dozen police cruisers racing up here.”

  Brad glanced around. “Yeah, I get that.”

  “When we got here, the car door was closed. We were about to tap on the driver’s window when I saw the bodies.”

  Brad held out a hand. “When I arrived, the door was open, and the driver’s eyes were closed. Who screwed with my crime scene?”

  “That, your highness, god of detectives, was the paramedics. There is this thing we do when someone is hurt or maybe dead. We call the paramedics, because I don’t know anything about paramedic shit.”

  “Okay. That makes sense, sorry.”

  “I got the area cordoned off, and we waited and waited for you. We waited so long the media is already set up across the street. They were waiting for you, as well.”

  Brad took a deep breath, exhaled, and took a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. “You’ve got guys interviewing everyone here?”