Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Fewer now than last week.” Owen brought the glass to his face and sniffed. Rich and mellow. Then he took a sip and swallowed slowly, savoring the taste. “Good scotch,” Owen said with a smile. “I’m glad you bought yourself a bottle.”

  “Better than the rotgut we used to drink in college, that’s for sure.”

  Owen thought he could probably sacrifice good scotch for a chance to be young again. “How are things with you these days, Jack?”

  “Good. I’ve started another book.”

  So that’s what this was about. “As a follow-up to the one we wrote on the Bayside Strangler?”

  Jackson shook his head. “This one’s a novel.”

  “A novel, huh?” Owen was relieved that it wasn’t another true crime book, though he was sure Jackson had his eye on a series of articles about the recent murders. “What’s it about?”

  “Politics and murder. And sex, of course. I’m drawing loosely on some of my experiences covering the crime beat.”

  “Should be a winner.” Half the people Owen had met lately were writing novels. It was a crapshoot as far as he could tell, which ones actually got published, much less demanded attention. Jackson had a leg up, though. Not only was he a journalist and someone who knew the crime field firsthand, he had a best-selling nonfiction book to his credit.

  “So what brings you here bearing gifts?” Owen asked.

  Jackson feigned insult. “Do I have to have an ulterior motive?”

  “No, but I’m sure you do.” He smiled.

  “Actually, I was curious about this most recent murder. A young woman, Ruby Wings.”

  So Owen’s instincts had been right all along. Jackson wasn’t about to let go of a story. “What is it about the murder that makes you curious?”

  “I understand she was found near a drainage canal. Strangled.”

  “Right.”

  “Hers was the house that was crawling with police a couple of days ago. Including Fortune and Keating.”

  “You telling me or asking?”

  Jackson ignored the question. “Is this connected with the Strangler copycat case?”

  Owen said nothing. Jackson wasn’t really looking for an answer anyway. What he wanted was details.

  “I won’t say anything until the word’s official,” he promised.

  “Sorry, Jack. You’ve got to get it from the cops in charge.”

  “Come on, we’re a team. We help each other out.”

  It was an arrangement beneficial to both of them. But Owen had always been careful not to interfere with an ongoing investigation.

  “I hear the victim had a dog collar around her neck,” Jackson said.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  Jackson focused on the amber liquid in his glass. “I’ve got my sources.”

  “I’m not going to confirm or deny anything.”

  “Neither of the other victims was wearing a collar, were they?”

  “Jack, when this thing goes to trial, if you want to follow it like you did before, that’s fine by me. You know I’ll share anything I can. But I can’t—”

  “You’re jumping the gun talking about a trial, aren’t you? Last I knew, you weren’t any closer to getting this guy than you were the morning of the first murder.”

  “Catching him is not my job,” Owen pointed out.

  “Funny how your name keeps popping up, though. Must be that pesky Bayside Strangler connection.”

  “Which the press continually shoves in people’s faces.”

  Jackson raised a hand in surrender. “I understand why you might be upset, but our job is to report the news, not rewrite it in order to make people feel better.” He poured himself another shot of scotch. “You want some more?”

  “I’d better not.”

  “I’ve interviewed friends and family of Jane Parkhurst. What strikes me is that she’s different from the other two.”

  The reference to “other two” wasn’t lost on Owen, but he let it pass. The more he protested the notion that the murders were linked, the more certain Jackson would be.

  “She’s older, for one. And as far as I’ve been able to determine, she had no involvement with or interest in the Bayside Strangler murders.”

  Owen frowned. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Anne Bailey was a lawyer with the prosecution, right? And Ruby Wings’s mother was on the jury that convicted Davis.”

  “What?” Owen rocked forward, spilling what little was left of his drink. “Who told you that?”

  Jackson grinned. “I’m an investigative reporter; my sources are confidential. But I’ll tell you one thing—you talk to enough people, you’ll eventually get answers.”

  “Do you know more than you’re telling me, Jack?”

  He looked suddenly drained, as tired as Owen felt. “No. I probably know less. All I’ve got are pieces of information with no logical connection.” He finished his drink and rose to leave. “But maybe next time you’ll remember this is a two-way street.”

  Owen noticed he’d left the bottle.

  <><><>

  Kali was sitting in her car with the engine off, a floppy-brimmed hat pulled down low on her head. She’d been there for fifteen minutes, watching the green stucco house across the street. The windows were still dark; there was no sign anyone was home.

  She’d finally connected with the DA’s investigator and gotten the registration name and address for the cell phone number Nathan had given her. The phone was registered to a Helen Branson at the address in Albany across from where Kali was now parked. The house was small and well maintained, like the other houses on the street. The kind of quiet, residential neighborhood populated by older couples and young families just starting out. There was a child’s bike, still with training wheels, on the front porch.

  Kali checked her watch. What was the purpose in staying longer? She’d already seen enough. Nathan had lied about more than where he worked. She felt anger bubbling in her chest. Anger at Nathan. Anger at herself for being part of it, however marginally.

  Just then a car pulled into the driveway. A dented, older-model Toyota. A woman and a little girl got out and headed into the house. The woman appeared harried, walking several steps ahead and pulling the girl by her arm. No sign of Nathan. Was he out driving his cab? Did he, in fact, drive a cab? Kali wasn’t sure what to believe. Nor did she care, except for the fact that she found his behavior disgusting. And she intended to tell him so.

  <><><>

  Home again, she fed Loretta, sorted through the mail and contemplated her own dinner. She wished she’d thought to pick up something ready-made on her way. She wasn’t in the mood to cook, and a dinner of cereal was a little too much like a dinner of kibble.

  “Okay, already,” she said to the prancing dog, who’d finished her meal before Kali had finished the mail. “Let me change into my walking shoes.” Her own dinner would have to wait.

  The street was winding and without sidewalks, which made nighttime walking difficult. Kali carried a flashlight, both to warn cars and to keep from tripping in the evening blackness. She didn’t intend to go far in any case.

  Passing Margot’s house on her way home, she veered up the steep driveway. If Margot hadn’t eaten yet, maybe she’d join Kali for pasta and salad. Cooking wasn’t so bad when you were doing it for someone besides yourself.

  Kali rang the bell. When there was no response, she knocked. “Margot? Are you home?”

  Nothing but the scuffing and barking of the dogs inside. Margot’s car was there, so maybe she was in the shower, or simply not interested in company.

  As Kali turned to leave, she heard a moan coming from the far side of the carport. She rounded the side of the car, sweeping the area with her flashlight. The beam connected with something out of place and Kali froze.

  Margot’s crumpled form was slumped on the pavement. Her clothing was torn, her face bloodied.

  “Margot?” Kali knelt down and put a hand on Margot’s neck. Her pulse was
weak, her skin clammy. “Hang on,” Kali said. “I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

  Yanking Loretta by the leash, she raced next door and told a neighbor to call 911, then hurried back to Margot’s side. Margot groaned again and mumbled a few words Kali couldn’t make out.

  Kali held her hand. “You’re going to be okay. Just hang in there.” It seemed an eternity before she finally heard the sirens in the distance.

  The paramedics arrived first, followed not long after by two uniformed patrol officers. They were strapping Margot onto the gurney when Bryce showed up.

  “What are you doing here?” Kali asked, surprise overshadowing all other emotion.

  “Victim’s alive, Bryce,” said the taller of the cops. “No need for homicide detail.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He turned to Kali. “I heard the call on the police band and recognized the street as yours. I thought you might have been hurt.”

  The paramedics began moving Margot toward the ambulance. Her eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Kali asked.

  “We’re not the ones who can answer that.”

  “Which hospital? I’ll follow.”

  “What happened?” Keating asked.

  Kali had given a brief account to the responding cops, but she told the story again. There was little she could add to what was patently obvious.

  The taller patrolman listened in, interrupting once to clarify a point. “What can you tell me about the victim?” he asked when she’d finished.

  That was always a wide-open question, and especially so with Margot. “What do you want to know?”

  “She keep a lot of valuables in the house?”

  “Not that I’m aware. She has a pair of diamond earrings, but she was still wearing them just now.”

  “Married or single?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Bad feelings?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you happen to know her ex-husband’s name and address?” The cop had his pen poised to take the information down.

  “Ex-wife, actually.”

  Both the cop and Keating stared at her.

  “Margot used to be a man,” Kali explained. “Still is, sort of.”

  “You and . . . she are, uh . . . “ The cop finished the question with a vague sweep of his hand.

  “Neighbors and friends.”

  “What do you mean ‘sort of?” Keating asked.

  “I need to get to the hospital,” Kali said. “You figure it out.”

  <><><>

  It was close to midnight before Kali was allowed to see Margot. She was in a room near the nurse’s station, lying flat on her back in the large hospital bed. Her head was heavily bandaged, one eye was swollen shut and she was hooked up to an IV, but she was conscious and able to talk, though hoarsely.

  “The police said you were the one who found me.” She even managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Right now, just dandy. They gave me a shot of something that worked magic. When it wears off, I’ll probably hurt like hell.”

  “But you’re going to be okay?”

  “Nothing’s broken, if that’s what you mean. They’re keeping me overnight because of the head injury. A concussion, the doctor says. And they want me to stay flat, which is no fun. But am I okay?” Margot bit her lower lip. “I don’t know. I guess this was an introduction to the dark side of being female. I’m not used to looking over my shoulder.”

  Kali touched her hand. “Men get attacked, too.” But she knew what Margot was talking about. Women’s experiences were different from men’s. “What happened anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. I remember getting out of the car, reaching for my purse . . . and then suddenly there was someone there. He’d been hiding in the shadows, I guess. He came from behind me. Next thing I knew, his hands were on my neck. . . .” Margot touched her neck, which Kali could see was chafed and bruised. Her eyes filled with tears. “It was so awful, Kali. That pressure on my throat, the panic, the disbelief. All at once. I couldn’t breathe. I was sure I was going to die.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Very lucky. It probably helped that I’m stronger than most women. I struggled with him. I don’t remember anything after that, but I do remember fighting back. I think I got one pretty solid punch in.”

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “The police asked me the same thing. All I remember is that he was Caucasian, and his hands were soft. It all happened so fast.”

  “How tall?”

  “Taller than me, maybe six feet. I keep trying to call up other details. I almost get there, then poof, they’re gone.” Margot paused. “The funny thing is that after all that, he didn’t even take my purse.”

  Not funny at all, Kali thought, if the purse wasn’t what he was after.

  CHAPTER 38

  You mean the woman who was mugged is actually a man?” Lou choked on his doughnut. He looked at Keating, trying to decide if his partner was pulling his leg.

  “Apparently so. Or maybe a little of both.”

  At least Nikki hadn’t tried to change herself into a man. Lou supposed there was something to be grateful for in that. Just thinking about it gave him the jeebies. “The guy who attacked her—uh, him must have gotten a real surprise.”

  “Certainly not what he bargained for.” Keating polished off what was left of his banana and tossed the peel into the trash.

  “Who’s handling it?”

  “Montera. Crimes against persons. I doubt there will be much in the way of follow-up, though. The victim is apparently going to be okay, and there were no witnesses.”

  Your garden-variety mugging didn’t rate much investigative attention. Especially when there were no witnesses and no evidence. “How’d you end up there anyway?” Lou asked, reaching for a second doughnut. Someone from the night shift had left practically a whole box.

  “I was listening when the call went out from dispatch.”

  “Dispatch handles lots of calls, Bryce. How often do you go out of your way to offer backup?” Lou didn’t get a response, which didn’t surprise him. He’d more or less figured it out as soon as he’d learned the victim was a neighbor of Kali’s. On some levels, Keating wasn’t all that hard to read.

  Just then Maureen Oliver approached them from across the room. As usual, there was the enviable spring of youth to her step. “I’ve got something here that might interest you two.”

  “What’s that?” Lou took a bite of chocolate glaze. How could Keating be satisfied with a banana when there were doughnuts to be had?

  “I’ve been going over the phone records for the three victims, like you asked. No overlap that I’ve seen. I also compiled a list of commonly called numbers for each of them. There was one number Ruby Wings called at least daily.” She paused to make sure she had their attention. “It’s Jack Jackson,” she said. “His cell phone, not his work or home number.”

  “Jackson?” Lou looked at his partner. “What’s that about, you think?”

  “He’s been hounding us for information on this. And never once did he let on that he’d known her.”

  Maureen Oliver cocked her head. “I can’t think of anyone I call every day, even among my friends.”

  Lou couldn’t either. And then to keep quiet about it. Something didn’t set right. “Guess we’d better ask him.”

  They went to the newspaper office first. The woman behind the front desk told them Jackson was working from home.

  “You got an address?” Lou asked. It would save them the trouble of looking it up.

  “Just a minute.” She checked a directory and wrote the information out on a slip of paper.

  The woman was middle-aged and appeared bored, something that was increasingly common, in Lou’s experience. Were perky young receptionists a thing of the past? They were probably working in dot-com land now, making twice what he wa
s.

  The address was in Montclair. Older homes, nice neighborhood. Somehow Lou had expected something a bit flashier from Jackson.

  A woman answered when they rang the doorbell. Dark hair, a round face, a few pounds too heavy for the blue velour pants and shirt she was wearing.

  “We’re looking for Jack Jackson,” Lou explained.

  “He’s working and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  Lou held out his badge. “Oakland Police.”

  Her face brightened. Not the usual reaction. “I’m sure he’ll make an exception for you,” she said. “He’s been complaining about what trouble he’s had reaching anyone there.” She stepped back from the door. “Come in. I’ll go get him.”

  Several moments later, Jackson came down the stairway. Lou could hear his wife running water upstairs.

  “Hey, this is what I call service,” Jackson said. “You’ve been stonewalling me for days and now I get a personal visit. Why the change of heart?”

  “We’re here about Ruby Wings,” Keating told him.

  “Good, that’s the case I’ve been calling about.”

  The guy still didn’t get it. “How come in all these calls to us,” Lou asked, “you never mentioned you knew her?”

  Jackson’s face collapsed. It wasn’t often you saw a journalist at a loss for words, but Jackson seemed unable to find the ones he wanted. Finally, he shrugged. “I’d met her. Didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

  The guy must think they were stupid. “When did you meet her?” Lou asked.

  “She called me about a year ago. It was when there was a lot of stuff in the news about Davis and the Bayside Strangler because the conviction had just been upheld on appeal.”

  “Why’d she call you?”

  “She was trying to line up a speaker for a Rotary luncheon. She’d read my book, as well as some of my newspaper pieces, and thought the subject would be of interest to the members.”

  That didn’t explain the pattern of phone calls. “When did you last talk to her?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Why?”