Sullivan’s Justice

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Enjoy the party,” she said. “Some of us have to work around here.”

  Chapter 4

  Thursday, December 23—4:00 P.M.

  Neil Sullivan’s home was on top of a hill overlooking the ocean. He unlocked the glove box in his Ferrari and removed a small white envelope. Pulling down the visor, he slipped out the makeup mirror and placed it on the center console. He separated the crystal meth into two thin lines, using the razor blade he kept in the ashtray. Bending down with a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill in his hand, he snorted the white powder up his nostrils. Better, he thought, leaning back in the seat.

  He started to put the envelope back in the glove box when he noticed it was empty. How could it be gone? He’d just bought it yesterday. No, he thought, it must have been the day before. Then he remembered that he’d been driving his van, so he knew it had to have been Wednesday. He hadn’t picked up the Ferrari until after dinner. Someone had found his stash, maybe the valet at the restaurant he and Laurel had gone to last night.

  He didn’t use on a regular basis, only when things went wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong today.

  Images flashed in his mind. He remembered storming out of the house. Everything before that was muddled and frightening. No one had stolen his stash, he realized. This wasn’t the first time he’d snorted today. The ritual was so familiar, he sometimes used it twice without realizing it. He had to stop, but he couldn’t stop now. Now was never a good time to give up something you needed.

  When he backed out of his driveway, transparent sheets of rain splashed against his windshield. Reaching over, he turned the wipers on high. He hoped the storm would pass soon. The drugs made him jittery, and he had a miserable hour-and-a-half drive ahead of him. He had to see Melody. He couldn’t be alone. He was flying far too high. That’s why he’d snorted twice in one day. He didn’t want to go down that far again. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

  His eyes filled with tears. He’d planned everything perfectly. He and Laurel had had a lovely dinner at his favorite French restaurant, Le Dome; then he’d surprised her with the Ferrari. They’d been so happy together. Then came today’s lunch, and it all changed.

  He removed the two-carat diamond engagement ring from his pocket. Raising his hand to throw it out the window, he thought about how much he could get for it at the pawnshop. It wasn’t the money, it was the credit. Al’s Pawnshop was his drug connection. Not only that, it was on the way to Melody’s.

  So much for “happily ever after,” he thought bitterly, placing the ring back in his pocket. Nothing ever worked out for him. Just when he got a taste of happiness, it was ripped away. God hated him. Everyone hated him. His paintings weren’t selling. Laurel was supposed to make everything right. Instead, she made everything wrong.

  Neil downshifted as he navigated the winding road. He’d traded four of his best paintings for the red Ferrari. He hadn’t sold a painting in six months. His agent, Mark Orlando, had talked him into the deal, telling him that he could always sell the car later if business didn’t pick up. He swore only one 550 Barchetta Pininfarina Speciale had been manufactured. According to Mark, the woman who’d made the trade was a fool.

  Suffering from a midlife crisis, Lou Rainey had been having an affair with a twenty-three-year-old girl. His wife had caught him and thrown him out a few days after he took possession of the four-hundred-thousand-dollar car. To spite him, Mrs. Rainey got drunk and impulsively traded the car while attending one of Neil’s shows. Mark had told him the Ferrari was too valuable to drive all the time. Who wanted a car you couldn’t drive?

  Beautiful machine, Neil thought, hearing the powerful engine engage as he traveled down a treacherous decline. He wished people could be engineered. Then they might be able to live up to his expectations. He was a disgusting loser. Everyone else was worse, though. Everyone except Carolyn. His sister was an angel. He’d been worried when she had called him from the jail, particularly when the phone had gone dead. Thank God she had called him back later and let him know she was okay. She was tough like his mother, but right, always right, and always there for him. The first memories he had were of Carolyn. She used to stand by his bed at night until he fell asleep. She taught him how to ride a bicycle. She fought his battles for him, read to him, tutored him, nursed him when he was sick. No matter what he did, Carolyn would never abandon him. She was his security blanket.

  Laurel Goodwin taught English at Ventura High. He’d bumped into her at Barnes & Noble six months ago. A mutual friend had told him that she was divorced and had moved back in with her family. They began seeing each other every now and then for lunch or a movie. When they’d finally made love, Neil knew that she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

  Neil had known Laurel since his teens. He would have married her straight out of high school, had her father not interfered. Even today, the old goat despised him. Stanley Caplin had worked for State Farm Insurance for thirty-five years. He couldn’t understand how a man who painted pictures for a living could afford a million-dollar home.

  Laurel had laughed when she’d told him that her father thought he was a drug dealer. Neil didn’t think it was funny. Just because he used it occasionally didn’t mean he was a dealer. Crystal meth was his drug of choice. They lived in a chemical society. Everyone needed a fix. His friends who abstained from illegal drugs took antidepressants, tranquilizers, muscle relaxants, pain pills, steroids, or they drowned themselves in alcohol. The health nuts were just as bad. They mixed this herb with that and looked down their noses at people who used street drugs, while they ran around in their fancy workout clothes with their spray-on tans and liposuctioned fake abs. The doctors could do that now. Sit-ups weren’t necessary. For five grand, a guy could turn a beer gut into a six-pack. A few thousand more and he could have instant biceps.

  People were idiots. Where did they think speed came from? What about cocaine? He’d been raised by a chemist. If he wanted to, he could go down in his mother’s basement and make his own drugs.

  The speed allowed him to work for days on end, filling one canvas after another. Some of his best work had been done on drugs.

  Neil had studied at the most renowned art institutes in the world—Rome, Florence, Paris. He’d even restored priceless paintings inside the Vatican. How many artists had had the honor of so much as touching the tip of their brush to a Michelangelo? He laughed, thinking the Sistine Chapel could have been painted in a few months if Michelangelo had cranked himself up with meth.

  In contrast to conservative Laurel, Melody Asher was a gorgeous and seductive party girl. An heiress, she bought whatever she wanted. A newspaper story said she’d once paid fifty grand to buy a wedding ring right off a woman’s finger. When she walked into a room, everyone stopped and stared. Melody loved attention. She could never be happy with one man.

  Neil pulled into the driveway at Melody’s tri-level Brentwood home. The rain persisted. Using a newspaper to cover his head, he jogged toward the front of the house. When he knocked, the door swung open. Obviously, she’d been expecting him.

  “Melody,” he called out, “it’s Neil.” Stepping into the foyer, he turned to his left and passed through the archway into a long hall. He could hear the water running in the master bathroom. “Melody, I’m here,” he said again, glancing at the designer names on the unopened boxes scattered around the room. Melody didn’t use narcotics. She told him her scotch was medicinal. A robust girl, she was tall, thin, and blond, the kind of woman who could make a garbage bag look like it came from Saks Fifth Avenue.

  Neil had dated models who starved and barfed. He called them stick women. When he had sex with them, their hip bones dug into his stomach. Once they finished, they would smoke ten cigarettes in a row. He had to sleep with some of them in intervals. They either needed a cigarette break or their laxatives kicked in early. Quite a sight to see a girl who made a grand an hour run to the john with her hand over her crack.

  He went into the
marble-walled bathroom, and Melody waved at him. “Hi, baby.”

  He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.”

  Her voice echoed out of the shower. “No, don’t leave. Come in here…I have something important to tell you.”

  When Neil returned to the bathroom, his eyes locked on her naked body behind the opaque shower enclosure. She looked different without makeup, softer and more appealing. He stood silently, gazing at her tall, slender frame as the water cascaded off her white skin. His eyes focused on her genitals. Every month, she had her pubic hair shaped into a heart.

  She lathered her pale blond hair, letting the soap slither down onto her perfectly proportioned body. The scent of vanilla permeated the room. He felt a tingling sensation spread throughout his body. The drug made him horny. He was instantly aroused.

  “What are you staring at?” Melody asked, putting her knees together and moving her hands down to cover her genitals in mock shyness. “It’s not like you haven’t seen a woman before.”

  Neil placed his hand on his head, flustered. “It’s just…I came here to…”

  “Get laid,” Melody answered for him. “All you have to do is spend less time painting those pictures that nobody seems to want and spend more time with me. Then your dick wouldn’t be so lonely, sweetie. You know I’m always ready for you.”

  “I have to paint,” Neil argued, raising his voice in an attempt to prevent what he suspected was inevitable. He was stung by her remarks about his work, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing. “I’m an artist, okay? It’s what I do for a living.”

  “Shoot, I forgot to get a washcloth,” Melody said, acting as if she hadn’t been listening. “Can you get me one?”

  Neil sighed, wondering if she turned all of her lovers into errand boys. When he returned, Melody opened the shower door. As he handed her the washcloth, she grabbed his hand, pulling him into the running water.

  “Now you’re all wet,” she said, giggling. “Why don’t we have some fun?”

  “No, damn it,” Neil told her, “I don’t have a change of clothes. Besides, I didn’t come here to play games. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Calm down, let me release some tension.” Melody dropped to her knees. Unbuttoning the single button, she unzipped him. With both hands latched onto the sides of his jeans, she yanked them hard, exposing his tight-fitting Calvin Klein underwear. His penis was barely contained within the white fabric. A moment later, he felt himself inside her warm mouth. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. He succumbed to the pleasure. Besides, seeing this princess on her knees was emotionally gratifying. Melody Asher didn’t get on her knees for just anyone.

  She slithered up, rubbing her breasts against him as she looked into his lust-filled eyes. Lifting the bottom of his soggy shirt, she exposed his muscular chest. Neil quickly removed the rest of his clothes and tossed them into the empty Jacuzzi next to the shower.

  Their lips met. Melody placed her hands on his buttocks and squeezed. His body was pulsating.

  “Why don’t we continue this in the bedroom.” She reached behind him and pushed the door open. He carefully stepped back onto the plush carpet. He thought it was odd that she’d positioned her right leg behind him until she moved forward, causing him to fall. She caught him with her right hand and they tumbled to the carpet in a collage of flesh.

  The next thing Neil remembered, he was fighting Melody for position. A hair under six feet, she made love like a man, forcing him onto his back and riding him like a horse. He’d been surprised that a slender woman could have such strength. Her body was deceptive. Her muscles were lean but incredibly powerful.

  Melody’s mouth fell open as she reached orgasm.

  “I have an idea,” she whispered into his ear a few minutes later. “Come with me.”

  Neil followed her into the bedroom.

  “Don’t move, I need to position the cameras.” She went to the other side of the room and opened a floor-to-ceiling wall unit that housed two JVC digital cameras.

  “Melody, I don’t—”

  “Shut up and do me,” she said, stretching out on the bed with her legs open.

  Neil thought about leaving, but his body wouldn’t let him. She’d teased him since he’d walked in the bathroom. The drug was driving him. He was living moment to moment, his mind washed clean of thought. With his back to the camera, he thrust himself inside her. He began perspiring, the beads of moisture reflecting in the lens of the cameras.

  Melody cried out, “Harder…harder, Richard.”

  Neil jerked his head up. The day’s events resurfaced and he felt a hard ball of rage deep in his stomach. Who in the hell was Richard? He rolled off her, going to the bathroom to retrieve his soggy clothes. When he returned, he shouted, “You’re nothing but a slut. You could have all the money in the world and you’d still be trash. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.”

  Melody flipped over onto her stomach, bracing her upper body with her elbows. Her lips spread in a broad smile. “Night, night, baby,” she said in a breathy little girl’s voice. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is your sister still dating that physics professor?”

  “None of your business.” Neil glared at her for a few more minutes, then spun around and stomped out of the house.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, December 23—3:04 P.M.

  “Where’s Bobby?” Carolyn asked, stepping up to the window at the jail.

  “Hold on,” Joe Powell said, “I’ll go get him.”

  Veronica had contacted most of the relatives of the Hartfield family, except for Mrs. Hartfield’s sister. She had made no attempt, however, to complete the most crucial part of the investigation—the interview with Raphael Moreno. The only explanation Carolyn could think of was that the crime was simply too gruesome for a woman in Veronica’s condition.

  After filling Brad in on where they stood, Carolyn had dictated the details of the various crimes from Veronica’s notes. This portion of the report was compiled from arrest reports, trial transcripts, forensic evidence, and pathology reports. In crimes of this magnitude, a report could run up to fifty pages. Veronica had written four pages. Because the defendant was allowed to plead guilty to seven counts of second-degree murder, there were no trial transcripts. All they had to work with were the police and evidentiary reports. The only way anyone would ever know what really happened was to hear it from the defendant himself.

  Carolyn understood Veronica’s position, but she felt her friend had been negligent. Her disinterest was disrespectful to the victims. If she had tried to interview Moreno and failed, it would be acceptable. She had never tried. Anyone who was unable to confront criminals and the aftereffects of crime had no business being a probation officer.

  She had spoken to Bobby Kirsh after lunch. When she heard what he had to say, she decided to let Moreno stew a few more hours.

  “He didn’t move?” Carolyn asked when Bobby’s shaved head appeared in the window. “All this time and nothing happened? He didn’t ask to go to the bathroom or want something to eat? He’s been in there over five hours.”

  “Listen,” Bobby told her, “I told you this guy was scary. He didn’t so much as blink an eye. He hasn’t even changed his position in the chair.”

  “Humph,” Carolyn said, wondering what she should do next. “I want to talk to the men he assaulted.”

  “No way,” he answered, his dark eyes blazing. “A few guys start mixing it up and the whole facility goes crazy. Last night was a disaster. You want to see Moreno again, I can’t stop you. But you’re not going any further than that, Carolyn. You have no legal right to talk to the inmates he assaulted.”

  “Keep him on ice, Bobby.”

  His face became stony. “No!” he said. “What’s wrong with you, woman? Do you have a death wish or something? See him now or we’re moving him back to solitary.”

  Carolyn reached out and touc
hed his sleeve. “I’ve been looking at autopsy reports all day,” she said, speaking softly. “Moreno isn’t going to spend his life in prison. It’s our last chance to document his behavior, find out who his contacts are on the outside. I’m almost positive he murdered the Hartfield family simply to ensure he was safe. Don’t you understand? We didn’t arrest Moreno, he arrested us.”

  “Why didn’t the homicide guys figure that out?”

  “Maybe they were too close to the case.”

  “Talk about wild speculations,” the sergeant told her, letting forth a nervous chuckle.

  Carolyn continued undaunted. “He wasn’t afraid of the cops, Bobby. Someone was after him. How many mass murderers do you know who lead the police to their hiding place?”

  “I don’t know any mass murderers.”

  “You do now.”

  “You’ve got an hour.”

  “Take me back,” Carolyn asked him, walking over to the door leading into the jail.

  “But I thought you didn’t want to see him right now.”

  “I don’t want to interview him,” she told him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see him.”

  They walked in silence. Several times, the sergeant looked over to say something and then stopped when he realized Carolyn was deep in thought. When they reached the room where Moreno was being held, she tapped on the window with her knuckles. Moreno looked up. A flicker of recognition was followed with a grimace. She smiled brightly, then waved. She could see a puddle of what she assumed was urine under the small table.

  Bobby yanked her away. “You’re intentionally inciting this man. Don’t come back, because I’m not letting you in. It’s over, Sullivan.”

  Carolyn ignored him, her eyes roaming around the quad. “Are all three cells and the interview room on the same air-conditioning and heating system?”