Justifiable

by Dianna Love

  Justifiable

  New York Times

  Bestselling Authors

  Wes Sarginson

  and

  Dianna Love

  Copyright First Edition – January 2013

  Wes Sarginson and Dianna Love Snell

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to institutions or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Interior and Cover design by

  The Killion Group

  www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  DEDICATION

  We’d like to dedicate this book to the

  Philadelphia Police Department

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We'd like to thank Philadelphia homicide detectives Timothy Bass and Stephen Buckley for answering our many questions. Thanks also for the tour of the Philadelphia police firing range and other locations that might otherwise have been off limits. We also appreciate the time and patience of longtime Philadelphia accountant Nelson Mishkin and his wife Barbara for giving us insight on the city’s many characters, one-of-a-kind dining establishments and its neighborhoods that are a unique blend of cultures and personalities not often seen. We’d like to thank Dr. William F. Gayton, the clinical psychologist who answered questions and shared insights on the mind of our villain. Sometimes details have to be altered for fiction so any mistakes are our own. And a special thanks to Hal Lichtenwald for the clever nickname Tusk.

  Much appreciation to Mary Buckham, whose very early read and brainstorm suggestions spurred the idea of a significant secondary character. Dianna works on no story without the sharp eyes of her amazing assistant, Cassondra Murray, whose feedback is always spot on. Thanks also go to early readers whose feedback made a tremendous difference in this book – Steve Doyle (thanks for the weapon notes), Danny Agan (thanks for the detailed feedback from a former homicide detective), Manuella Robinson, Joyce Ann McLaughlin and Michael McLaughlin. Kudos to Kim Killion for a great cover, to Jennifer Jakes for formatting and Judy Carney for copy editing.

  Last, and most important, thank you to Karl Snell and Ann Sarginson for putting up with two crazy writers who love them dearly.

  Thank you to all the readers who have emailed asking about this book. We appreciate your support. If you’d like a free Keeper Kase™ Cover card (glossy card with this cover image and signed by Wes and Dianna on the back), go to www.KeeperKase.com for details.

  We love to hear from readers –

  Snail mail either Wes or Dianna at 1029 N. Peachtree Pkwy, Suite 335, Peachtree City, GA 30269

  Email Wes – Wessarginson@gmail.com

  Email Dianna – dianna@authordiannalove.com

  Chapter 1

  “Didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to hurt my baby – ”

  “Sally.” Frigid air badgered his skin and snatched frosted breaths from his lips. The gas camping lantern beamed a pocket of light into the night. Everything else was swallowed by darkness.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry – ”

  Not sorry enough, Sally...but you will be. “I understand, and we’ll pray your son recovers quickly.” He offered her what she needed – a smile meant to reassure.

  The hefty thirty-two-year-old mother cowered at his feet, sobbing, eyes downcast and searching, as though the concrete foundation would open up and save her. Tree shadows waved across her hunched form wrapped in a dirt-brown coat. Renegade snowflakes sprinkled around them, whispering optimism for Philadelphia and a new year just twenty-five hours old.

  Sally had not started hers off well, but he’d give her a chance to prove she could do better. One chance for redemption.

  He shifted his numb feet on the frozen slab where a house had once stood years ago. Charred remains surrounded him, a testament to living too far out in the woods for a fire truck to reach. Too remote for rescue teams to save anyone.

  The perfect location for an honest confession.

  Sally Stanton babbled the same watery apology in a woe-begotten voice. “I didn’t. I didn’t . . .”

  More lies, like so many fabrications whispered in a confessional booth. He’d persevere against evil for the sake of the weak, even for pathetic lying women. He crooned to her in a soothing baritone. “It’s all right, my child, God understands your failures. He sees how difficult life is for you and your son. I’m here to ease your pain.”

  Her red-rimmed, button eyes glowed with a spark of hope, like stirred embers. Words sputtered from her lips in a choked gurgle. She wiped her runny nose with the back of her pale hand spotted with freckles.

  The vacuous mask of another sinner who lacked remorse.

  “It’s important for you to be truly repentant to receive absolution, Sally.” His jaw muscles ached from holding back what he really wanted to say.

  “I sorry...sorry, sorry – ”

  “Enough!” The constant lying bruised his ears.

  “Please, sir.” Greedy desperation crawled into her voice.

  “Sir? You dare to call me sir?” Wind gusted violently. His black cassock billowed. The linen robe snapped as if issuing a reminder of how to properly address the right hand of God.

  Even this dim-witted ox should be able to get it right.

  “I m-mean father.” She clutched her throat with pudgy fingers the size of Goliath’s. Filthy, broken fingernails.

  Standing upwind spared him her usual noxious odor. He could overlook a lack of hygiene, but not her sin.

  A child had been harmed, a penance due.

  As God said, woe to the man who harms a single hair on the head of one of these little ones.

  She coughed and peered up cautiously. Brittle wind lashed her limp hair that wrapped around her head, swatting her face.

  Sally deserved so much more than a slap on the cheek for not taking care around a child she could crush. Her skinny five-year-old boy had gone to the hospital with cracked ribs.

  “Father?” Sally whimpered, wild eyes staring past him, confused. Her chest lifted and fell with one shaking breath after another. “I-I’m sorry I hurt Enrique when I fell on him. He should’na made me run after him. He was crying...lost my job today...not my fault...I need money.”

  Another ridiculous confession. “Cease!”

  This woman would sin again and again and...patience, he had to be patient. First they repent then they pay penance.

  Still kneeling, she posed in meek supplication. Her soggy voice dribbled out a pitiful whisper. “Don’t let police take me. Please. We got no family. Enrique needs me.”

  Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

  But St. Catherine’s Outreach Center would never survive and thrive unless the sinners atoned for their actions.

  Sally quivered, an earthquake in a coat.

  He had a responsibility to everyone – God, the community, even this woman and certainly her child. She needed help, relief from lugging her cross.

  Come to me, all who are burdened, and I will give you rest.

  She’d broken a commandment. Thou shalt protect the children. Not one of the original ten, but one he was sure God demanded every adult obey.

  “You gonna talk to police, fix this?” she begged.

  “Yes, my child. I shall fix this, but you must repent and pay penance.” He had to go through all the steps, assure the sinner
was given every chance to prove true remorse.

  “Accident, just an accident...love my Enrique.” Her voice jumped a pitch higher, hysterical. “Not my fault. Not my fault.” Sally’s hiccupped sobs rocked her body. The keening noise squeezed from her lungs might be another “sorry.”

  He tried to see her as one of God’s creatures instead of maternal vermin that bred like rats then killed their young when food became too scarce. He lifted his hand palm out to quiet her, but fury clenching his muscles whipped along his arm.

  His fingers curled into a tight fist.

  Her eyes caught the movement. Her gaze slashed upward to meet his then her face flared with surprise, fear, panic. She dropped down on all four limbs and scrambled backwards on her knees, moving quickly for a big woman on rough concrete. Her doughy palms dragged across rusted nails sticking up through the foundation. She cried out, scooted faster, leaving a bloody streak. “Love my baby, love Enrique – ”

  Even an animal knows its baby is fragile and needs to be sheltered from harm. He stepped toward her. “Calm down, Sally. I understand and so does God. I’m going to help you.”

  Ignorant relief etched deep vertical lines between her eyebrows. “Now? You help me now?”

  “Yes, now.” He reached through a slit in the side of his robe to feel cold wood and metal. Withdrawing his hand, he raised the .38 Smith and Wesson, pointing the barrel at the center of her forehead.

  Sally’s mouth fell open. Six rotten teeth chattered soundlessly behind her quivering lips.

  He gently squeezed the trigger. Just like practice. The explosion rocked across the empty foundation and echoed against the trees.

  She crumpled into a brown heap. Garbage.

  He took a moment as she drew her last breath then shoved the weapon through the opening in his robe and inside the waistband at the back of his pants. From a hip pocket, he fished out the vial of oil and poured a drop on his latex-gloved finger.

  First, he drew a cross of oil on her forehead then a second cross in oil on the inside of her open wrist. He offered a prayer for her soul.

  Sally lay still as dead wood, eyes stuck wide open, pleading for mercy. Now, she could ask God for mercy in person.

  Time to return to St. Catherine’s Church.

  So little time.

  So many deserving sinners.

  Chapter 2

  Does pulling off the perfect murder count if the victim is a welfare mother?

  Riley Walker stared out the foggy passenger window of the news van where early morning traffic slugged toward downtown Philadelphia with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march.

  What if I’m right about the killer? What if...

  The hell with that. What-ifs came with a high price tag.

  Don’t dwell on the past.

  He focused on the cars caked in winter grime, the low-hanging clouds and water streaks fingering the dirty glass inches from his nose...anything to block the gruesome images that barged into his mind at any reminder of one hideous day he’d never live down.

  What he wouldn’t give to be just another working stiff with a normal life, like the ones jockeying for position along Martin Luther King Drive today. To have spent yesterday recovering from a New Year’s Eve celebration, piled around a television watching football games with friends.

  To turn back time and feel human again.

  This time last year, he’d had plenty of reasons to celebrate as the number one anchor of the top television station in Detroit.

  That life was gone. Taken by a killer’s bullet.

  And my stupid drive to do what I believed was right when everyone else just went for a story.

  That was yesterday’s news for everyone in the world except one family – and me – who would never forget.

  Dwelling on that wouldn’t help Riley get through today or save this bottom-of-the-barrel job.

  He needed to break a major story. Now.

  And damn if the news fairy hadn’t dropped a big fat juicy one in his lap just after midnight.

  Dumb luck and opportune timing was more like it. All he had to do was get to the freakin’ press conference in time to question the DA and force her hand the minute she tried to dismiss the Sally Stanton killing as domestic violence.

  No other reporter knew what he had on this story and Riley would use that leverage to turn this into a blockbuster.

  And because Sally Stanton deserves a voice. Deserves justice.

  He closed his eyes to silence a conscience he hadn’t yet forgiven for getting him involved the last time. He needed to just get the damn story. Nothing else.

  What about Sally? You just going to let this go once you get your story? Let the DA bury the investigation?

  A conscience with a motor mouth. Damn it. Shut. Up.

  If he hadn’t gone into the WNUZ archives last night to dig around in the news files for something he could turn into a story with teeth, he wouldn’t have this problem.

  But working beat sleeping, where nightmares waited to ambush him.

  Riley stifled a yawn, but he was ready for the press conference, and DA Van Gogh. She’d try to bury this killing as another unfortunate death. But she’d have a tough time brushing off why the body had been left on the front lawn of a prominent judge’s home.

  Sally Stanton’s death had to premeditated. Not a domestic violence incident. Riley had more information than the other newsies, something exclusive that would throw a kink into the DA’s domestic violence angle, too.

  All he had to do was toss out a few suspicions at the press conference to make it tough for her office to back off this case.

  That wouldn’t happen if the traffic didn’t start moving. Even the clock had it in for him these days.

  A low curse seared the quiet. Riley glanced at his driver.

  Cameraman Ron “Biddy” Bidowski maneuvered their news van from lane to lane, jockeying for any forward position. Buzz-cut black hair and six-foot-one, Biddy carried his two hundred and twenty pounds in all muscle and attitude.

  Scowling at snarled traffic, he was in no better mood than Riley after getting called to cover the early-morning homicide tip. Except Biddy blamed Riley for dragging his ass out of bed to film a crime scene in the bitter cold.

  Frigid air wailed through the cab from the driver’s side. Biddy had rolled down his window, proving ice water ran through his veins.

  Riley hunched his shoulders. “Dammit, Biddy, shut that pneumonia hole. You trying to freeze my ass?”

  “Nope. Trying to clear the windshield and not ram the picture of that grinning jackass.” Biddy nodded forward as if Riley hadn’t noticed the image advertising the anchor of WNUZ’s fiercest competition in the city. “When you getting your picture on the back of every bus in Philly?”

  Riley ignored how the question had come out thick with sarcasm. “One more ratings point and four more share points should loosen Lehman’s choke hold on the advertising budget. Then the only place you’ll see his – ” he lifted his chin toward the bus poster “ – ugly mug will be on garbage trucks.”

  “So you say.”

  “Don’t think I can do it?”

  Biddy’s chest moved with a heavy sigh. “Shit, I’m banking on you doing it. Literally.”

  That made two of them and Riley’s time was running out. He had to jack WNUZ’s ratings before next week when his contract came up for renewal. He needed to keep this deal so he could stay near his foster father, Jasper Owens, who was going blind – the main reason Riley had accepted this job.

  That and this being the only station to offer him an anchor position three months ago after his career crashed in Detroit.

  Not like he was trained to do anything else.

  No regrets. He’d have dug ditches to be here for Jasper, the one person he’d never be able to repay, but digging ditches wouldn’t cover home care costs.

  Biddy muttered a pungent curse under his breath when someone cut him off. “You really think this Stanton death’s a story?”

&
nbsp; I know it is. “Got a feeling about this killing.”

  The nod Biddy gave him said he’d heard Riley but was reserving judgment. Biddy had busted his tail for the past three months to boost ratings, too. Had more than earned the pay hike that would filter down to the team responsible for a jump in the station’s revenues.

  And Riley would make sure Biddy got his due, no matter what.

  The cameraman had some kind of money problems he kept to himself, which suited Riley. He’d made the mistake of becoming friends with coworkers in the past.

  That had blown up in his face.

  But lumping Biddy in with that spineless bunch in Detroit would be wrong. He was one of the only people at WNUZ, or in Philly for that matter, who didn’t treat Riley like he butchered kittens for a pastime.

  The only person who didn’t give Riley a daily jaded look to remind him that Detroit had destroyed his career and shredded his sanity.

  No, the blame fell to me, not Detroit. A bad decision for the right reason didn’t change the outcome.

  One that had broken a family’s heart and left him hollowed out. He might have a chance to rebuild his reputation some day, but he’d never outrun the nightmares because...nothing would bring back a dead child.

  He rubbed his temple where an ache had set up camp.

  Wondering about that little boy they’d never found kept Riley awake at night.

  Always the boy.

  Amazing how one decision could go so hideously wrong.

  Can’t go back and change the past when it’s written in blood. Just get through another day. Right now he had thirteen minutes to make downtown and drop an oh-shit bomb on the DA. Get the story. Let others worry about justice.

  Nobody else cares about a dead welfare mother. Why should I?

  Because he still felt an ember of passion for helping the victims of crimes. But for the first time in his life, getting involved scared the hell out of him. Someone else would have to champion the pitiful woman found dead in a ragged brown coat.