Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  The temperature was as frigid as Maine in winter and Marta shivered in the chilly truck. She hit the button for the heat and blue smoke leaked from the vents. Marta shook her head at the sight; she’d owned a Corvair Monza that used to do that, too. Things came full circle if you lived long enough and Marta wanted to live long enough. She switched the smoke off and zipped up her coat instead. Marta had gotten the outfit at Woolworth’s: a cap, a pair of long johns, a fake down coat in brown plaid, and matching plaid snowpants. She was toasty even though she looked like furniture.

  Marta found the radio and turned it on. Nothing. She spun the dial. Silence. So the radio didn’t work, either. Fuck. Marta wanted to find out what was happening with the cops. She checked the rearview again. No one was following her. Still she felt vulnerable. She needed protection.

  Look in the tool chest, Christopher had said. There’s tools you can use as weapons.

  Marta glanced behind her. Where was the tool chest? It was a pigsty back there; racks of horseshoes straddled a workbench and clanged together as the truck plowed through the snow. A small forge was tucked in the back with tanks of propane sitting next to it. A leather apron lay crumpled in a heap over a blackened anvil. Then Marta saw it. In front of the anvil were two tool chests, and the larger one was full of old chisels, hammers, and files.

  Look in the big tool chest. Take the pritchel.

  What’s a pritchel?

  It looks like a big spike, ten inches long. You can use it as a knife, for protection.

  Marta smiled to herself. Two months ago, she didn’t know what a farrier was. Now she was tampering with one. She stretched behind the seat and yanked the chest closer, then rummaged through the tools and found a small hammer with a pointed tip.

  If it has a pointy head, it’s a nail set. Don’t take the nail set. It’s too light.

  Okay, fine. No nail set. It wasn’t anything Marta had learned in law school. She shoved her hand to the bottom of the toolbox. The tools clinked as they tumbled together and she came up with a knife that had a long, oddly curved blade, like a miniature scythe.

  A hoof knife looks like that thing that the Grim Reaper carries. Forget about the hoof knife. You’ll stab yourself. Find the forge hammer, too. That’ll help.

  Marta tossed back the hoof knife. Never take a hoof knife when a forge hammer will do. She thrust her hand back into the tool chest. There were several hammers, but one was especially large and heavy with rounded ends and a bowed wooden handle. The forge hammer! One down, one to go. Marta put it in her lap, but couldn’t find the pritchel and gave up before she crashed the truck.

  The traffic was sparse as Marta headed out of the city and reached a blue bridge that spanned the Delaware River. It was being plowed, and she drove behind a Port Authority snowplow like she belonged there. Marta didn’t need a radio to tell her it was illegal for a civilian to be driving in these conditions, but once she’d tampered with a jury, the rest was downhill. She zoomed over the bridge a safe distance behind the snowplow and churned through the toll bridge into New Jersey.

  She motored by a sign for Cherry Hill, then a series of strip joints; a seamy place called The Admiral Lounge, which she’d bet had never been patronized by an admiral, and the Liquor Ranch. Yee-hah. The truck rattled along, giving Marta time to consider her next move. She was hoping she’d find something in the beach house, but what if she didn’t? She’d have wasted half the night. How much time did she have before Bogosian found her, or the cops did? The jury would reconvene first thing in the morning.

  Marta kept an eye on the rearview mirror. Still no one behind her, but there were a few cars ahead. She drove for over an hour on Route 70 to 72 east and went round and round a rotary at Olga’s Diner, which had a crowd despite the storm. Marta was relieved to see that the blizzard was lessening and the accumulation less in Jersey than it had been in Philly. The bare windshield wipers had a fighting chance. Marta sped up and passed a sign that said MEDFORD, then fields covered with only a thin blanket of snow.

  Suddenly a green minivan appeared out of nowhere, and cut her off. Marta shouted in alarm. A loud thud rocked the truck. It skidded out of control and spun crazily around. Marta squeezed the steering wheel and wrenched the wheel against the skid, struggling to stay upright. Her purse was thrown against the door. The truck pinwheeled and stopped in a snowdrift like a bumper car. Marta’s head snapped backward, then forward. The engine stalled. The truck fell still. The accident was over as abruptly as it had begun.

  Marta felt dazed, dizzy. Her ribs ached again and soreness returned to her head. She unclenched the wheel and regained focus in time to see the minivan reversing in front of her. She caught a flash of the minivan’s driver, a woman. The woman steered the minivan away and raced down the highway. Affixed to the back window was a sticker: WORKING PRESS. Fuck! It was a hit-and-run. The driver didn’t even stop. A reporter, it figured.

  Marta sat still and waited for the pain to subside. When it didn’t, she suppressed it and assessed the damage to the truck. The minivan had hit her on the driver’s side, but the windshield was still intact. The hood looked okay, even if the front was crunchier than before. Marta hoped that the engine still worked. She had no time to spare. Her watch said 12:35. She brushed the hair from her eyes and twisted on the ignition.

  “Start, goddamn you,” she ordered, and it did. Like a charm. On a dime. It was improved, if anything. About time she got a break. She threw the truck into reverse, spun the wheels futilely, then rocked the fucking thing back and forth until she’d worked her way out of the snowdrift and was heading the right way, down the same road the minivan had taken. Its red taillights glowed in the distance as Marta rattled behind. She passed strip malls and fast-food joints, and stopped for traffic lights at regular intervals. The minivan didn’t stop for a single red light.

  “You after the big story, you jerk?” Marta called after the minivan, though it hurt her jaw to shout. “It’s snowing, is that the story? It’s white? It’s cold? It falls out of the sky?”

  Another traffic light turned red, but the mini-van tore past it. If Marta had time, she’d stop the van and take the reporter’s name. She flashed on the face behind the wheel. A face framed by dark hair, with conventionally pretty features. Large eyes, upturned nose. Who did she think she was? Then Marta realized she knew the woman.

  It was Alix Locke, the reporter who’d covered the Steere trial. Alix had been all over Marta and reported about her every day in the newspaper. Alix was the one giving the mayor a hard time at his press conference. Why would Alix be rushing to the Jersey shore? She covered only the major news stories, like Elliot Steere and City Hall. Was there news that important at a beach resort? In winter?

  Marta turned the knob on the car radio again, but it was still dead. Maybe there was major flooding or a boardwalk washed away in the storm. But that wasn’t Alix’s type of story. She didn’t do weather or features, only hard news. What was going on?

  Marta ignored the traffic light and kept the mini-van in sight. A rotary was coming up fast. The mini-van chose the first exit without slowing down, even though snow covered the sign. Marta had to check the map but it was dark. She didn’t want to lose the mini-van, but she didn’t want to take the wrong turn. She fumbled for the flashlight as the truck approached the rotary and groped a cylinder rolling back and forth in the seat. She held it up. A stick of Old Spice deodorant. She threw it down. The rotary was coming up.

  Marta went fishing again and came up with the flashlight. By then, the minivan had disappeared into the snow flurries. Marta couldn’t read the sign even up close and was forced to come to a full stop to see the damn map. She rested the map on her lap and aimed the flashlight’s beam on the coastline to Long Beach Island. Surrounding it were the Pine Barrens, acres of them. The road Alix had taken led to Long Beach Island.

  Marta flicked off the flashlight, hit the gas, and followed down the highway. There was no one on the dark snowy road until Marta spotted Alix way ahead.
Marta thought as quickly as whiplash allowed. Why was Alix going to Long Beach Island? Why had she been so certain of where she was going, even with the sign obscured? Alix had evidently been to Long Beach Island many times before.

  Marta accelerated, hoping to catch the minivan. What did she know about Alix? That she was young, sexy, and pretty. That she was single, because she’d mentioned that to Marta once, trying to find some common ground to get the exclusive. No doubt about it, Alix was an aggressive reporter. A star.

  Marta tested her theory. Alix Locke and Elliot Steere; the two were a perfect match. Good-looking, driven, and successful. And Alix appeared to be heading for Long Beach Island, where Steere owned a beach house. It couldn’t be just a coincidence, could it? Was Alix Locke Elliot Steere’s lover?

  Marta hit the gas. It was certainly consistent. Alix had featured Steere’s defense in her articles and had even been criticized for favoring the defense. Marta had assumed the good press was because of her, but maybe it was because of Steere. He was the main beneficiary.

  It was a trial lawyer’s hunch, but Marta sensed her theory was right. Alix was a thorn in the mayor’s side, and the mayor was Steere’s nemesis. Marta remembered the press conference on TV, at which Alix had badgered the mayor. Maybe that was to further Steere’s goals. And Alix and Steere would have to keep their affair a secret for fear of compromising Alix’s job and jeopardizing her reporting on Steere.

  Marta sputtered past sugar-frosted maple, pine, and scrub oak trees. She felt certain she was heading in the right direction. Alix was going to lead her to Steere’s beach house and maybe to the clues she was looking for. At the very least, Marta could confront Alix. Demand the truth. Demand justice.

  Marta’s spirit surged. She felt energized. Justice! She hadn’t known that was what she was searching for, but since the murder of the guards, something had changed. If it had been jealousy in the beginning, it was different now. Now she wanted the truth about the murder Steere had committed and she had defended. Now she wanted to bring Steere to justice. Working his mistress over would be icing on the cake. Marta could still have fun, couldn’t she?

  The truck barreled ahead. Beside the highway, white birch trees dipped their heads, their branches laden with wet snow. Marta used to love birch trees. She grew up among them in the woods. Slender and warmly white, their bark etched with lines as inky and precise as a fountain pen’s. Marta tried to remember the last time she’d been in the woods or, for that matter, anyplace that didn’t have valet parking. Her life had changed so much and she’d left so much behind, the good with the bad. It took the birches to remind her of what was good.

  The truck plowed forward under a starless black dome of sky. In time, there seemed to be more sky than before. Marta knew why: she used to enjoy studying nature until she realized it wasn’t billable. The trees were getting shorter, the scrub pines punier by the mile. It meant the amount of sand in the soil must be increasing. She was getting closer to the beach.

  Marta kept her eye on Alix’s minivan and trailed her through the Pine Barrens, then past hospitals, gas stations, and marinas, and finally over a concrete causeway to Long Beach Island. Unless Marta missed her guess, Alix Locke would lead her to the front door of Elliot Steere’s beach house. The only thing Marta didn’t know was:

  Why?

  27

  Penny Jones was trying to aim his hunting rifle out the white Grand Cherokee, but his hand was shaking too much. The dope he’d smoked had worn off and he wasn’t totally into this job. Shit, he’d hunted since he was a kid. Deer, pheasant, all kinds of shit, but not a person. Penny never killed nobody before. This time he had to. He had to prove himself to get back with Bogosian. It was once in a lifetime.

  Penny rested his rifle in the crook of his arm, steadied his elbow on the door, and squinted down the sight. There was a shitload of snow and his eyes kept watering on account of the cold. He told himself not to think. Just cap her and not think. The snow was coming down but Penny thought he could get a clean shot. He’d only get one shot with the noise this motherfucker would make.

  Penny blinked his eyes clear. There were two lawyers in the street, skiing. The lawyer in the front was tall and the one in the back was short. The big lawyer was already out of range because Penny had dicked around. He targeted the short one in the back, closer to him. She couldn’t ski anyway. Survival of the fittest, right? If Penny took one out, it would keep the other busy. Two birds with one bullet, right?

  Penny waited for his shot. He told himself it was no big deal to whack this broad. Fuck, she was a lawyer. They should give him a medal. Penny got a bead on the blue coat at the end of the barrel. He aimed through the snowflurries at the middle of her coat, directly at her heart.

  Fuck. Wait. He wasn’t ready. He needed the Jeep in a better position to make a fast getaway. Plus it was too fuckin’ quiet. He set the rifle on his lap, pulled nearer the side street, then braked, leaving the car in drive. He took aim with the .30-.30 stuck in the crook of his arm, feeling the weight. Bearing down. Watching the target through the snow. The short lawyer was still in range, skiing into the light of a streetlight. Good. The blue coat reminded him of a bull’s-eye. A nice, easy target.

  Penny pulled the trigger partway back. His hand was still shaking. Pussy. He should just shoot. Nothing to be jittery about. No reason to stall. It wasn’t like he’d get caught or nothin’. He’d have plenty of time to get away. Penny’s eyes darted around to make sure, his finger cold on the trigger. There was nobody on the street. It would take the cops forever to get here. It was fish in a barrel. Except for how quiet it was.

  Then Penny heard it. A racket from a couple streets over, like a snowplow creaking. The noise would cover the gunshot. The snowplow driver would think he’d popped a chain or hit a manhole cover. Everything was going Penny’s way. There was no one around. He would be a hero. An asshole buddy of Bobby Bogosian’s, rich as shit. All Penny had to do was pull the trigger. He was an excellent hunter.

  And it was lawyer season.

  Judy planted the tips of her poles in the snow and turned around. Mary had fallen again. That was twice she’d fallen so far and they hadn’t even gotten off Twenty-fifth Street. Poor thing.

  “Mare!” Judy called out, but she knew Mary wouldn’t be able to hear her. She was too far away and the snowplow was noisy.

  “Mary!” she called again anyway. Judy didn’t want to ski all the way back to her if she didn’t have to. They’d never get home if she had to backtrack, and her ankles were wet. Judy squinted down the dark street into the driving snow. Mary was taking a long time to get up. Time for the cavalry.

  “Up and at ’em, Atom Ant!” Judy turned her skis around, telemarking, and started to ski back. What was she doing, lying there in the snow? Clowning around. Typical DiNunzio.

  “Come on, lazy. Get up!” Judy shouted as she skied. The snow hadn’t let up, and the wind was a killer, lashing Judy’s cheeks. The wind chill must be a record. Mary shouldn’t be lying in the snow like that. She’d only soak her snowpants and feel clammy the whole trip back. A rookie’s mistake.

  “Mary, get up!” Judy yelled, but her friend didn’t move. Snowflakes collected where Mary’s legs lay on the ground, scissored in her skis. Her poles were still looped around her wrists. She wasn’t making any effort to get up, and the snow from the ground had to be blowing right into her face. What the hell?

  Judy skied harder. Her throat tightened. Instinct told her what her brain wanted to deny. Something was wrong. Judy skied so fast she almost tripped forward, then threw down her poles, popped her ski bindings, and ran the last few feet to Mary. She fell to her knees beside her. “Mary? Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Mary’s eyes were open but unfocused. She seemed dazed. She lay on her side in the snow. Her poles were still strapped to her hands. “Sure.”

  “Why are you lying here?”

  “I’m skiing.” Mary’s eyelids fluttered. She breathed heavily. “Here I come. I’ll catch up.�
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  “What?” It made no sense. Judy bent over her friend, who appeared not to react to her closeness. She touched Mary’s cheek. It felt clammy, and cold.

  “I’m thirsty. Got milk?” Mary giggled, and Judy bent closer and caught sight of her friend’s back. A circle of crimson oozed in the middle of her parka. Blood dripped onto the snow. It was the reddest red Judy had ever seen against the whitest white. She tore the hat from her head without knowing why.

  “HELP!” she screamed. Judy looked wildly around. “HELP, SOMEBODY, PLEASE!” she screamed again at the top of her lungs.

  Sirens screamed as two paramedics exploded from the back of a fire rescue truck and set upon Mary. Red emergency lights bathed the falling snow in crimson. Snow like drops of blood showered Judy, who stood shivering with cold and fear. She held fast to Mary’s skis, just for something to hold.

  The rescue driver leapt from the front seat, raced to the back of the chunky red truck, and yanked a stretcher out. Its wheels bounced off the patterned steel of the vehicle’s floor and vanished in the deep snow.

  “She was shot in the back,” Judy called to the paramedics, her eyes blurry with tears. Mary had lost consciousness waiting for the ambulance and looked lifeless even though she was still breathing. Her eyes were closed and her face was pale in the lurid red light. Her head rocked to the side as the paramedics checked the wound on her back and covered her with a thin green blanket. They lifted her onto the gurney on a hurried three-count.

  Judy couldn’t bear to see it. She couldn’t bear not to. She dropped the skis and hustled after the paramedics as they hoisted the front of the stretcher into the truck. One of the paramedics scrambled in beside the stretcher and the other paramedic rolled it in from behind. The driver dashed back to his seat and tore open the door. They were leaving. “I’m coming,” Judy shouted.