* * *
“Please sit down,” Carole directed her guests, having removed her robe to reveal an aquamarine silk suit. She watched the detectives sit in Maltese chairs on the other side of a square glass table. She then sat across from them in a high-backed Oxblood leather chair.
A quick regard of her visitors told Carole the female detective was an attractive woman in her mid thirties with luminous brown skin and a petite, athletic body beneath a dark gray blazer and matching pants with a coral sweater. She thought the Bantu knots looked nice on her. The male detective, wearing a brown suit, was in his late thirties, tall, bald, and solid in build. His skin tone was caramel and went well with a chiseled face. He had intriguing gray eyes with gold flecks and a not too thick mustache tapered neatly at the corners over an incredibly sexy mouth. All in all, she thought he was a good-looking man, who was probably married or, if single, had women falling all over him.
Only in meeting his eyes did Carole realize the detective was appraising her as much as she was him. This caused her a slight bit of discomfiture as she turned her gaze to the female detective, while thinking: Make a mental note not to stare too obviously, unless you want a dose of your own medicine.
“So how can I help you?” she asked equably.
Nina squirmed in the chair. “We’re not certain really, Judge Cranston,” she admitted. “Roberto Martinez is the third man to be found beaten to death in the Portland area in the past five months. Each victim had been charged with domestic assault and spent time in your courtroom before being released on technicalities or insufficient evidence.”
Carole strove to remain calm. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.” In fact she did, and was not amused.
Ray leaned forward. “Could be that someone—perhaps a court spectator—has decided to use your courtroom and the outcome of these cases to punish the freed men they believe were let off too easily.”
Carole repositioned herself unsteadily. “Well, I don’t know if I can be of much help to you, detectives, since I have little control over who decides to sit in on my cases.”
“Maybe your staff could provide us with a list of the court personnel,” he suggested, “and others, like reporters, who are regulars in your courtroom.”
“Yes, I can do that,” she reasoned. “I’ll have my assistant fax the information to your office.”
“Fine,” said Ray, content to leave it at that.
But Nina had other ideas. “Judge, if you don’t mind my asking, I was wondering what your feelings are on these men being released? I mean, many might say they’re getting out of the system prematurely.”
Carole took a steadying breath, sharpening her gaze at the detective. “If you’re asking me if I believe they were guilty, the answer is yes. But, as a judge, my hands are often tied as to what I can do to keep them from walking.”
“How about as a private citizen?” asked Nina boldly.
Carole took umbrage to the question that almost sounded like she was being accused of something, but answered it nevertheless. “I’m not sure I like the tone of that, detective,” she made clear. “As a private citizen, I’m bound to uphold the law just like any other member of the community, irrespective of my personal feelings.”
“And we wouldn’t expect anything less,” Ray intervened, before this got out of hand and he and Nina both ended up with desk jobs for the rest of their careers. He gave his partner a hard look, and then stood. “I think we’ve taken up enough of your time, Judge Cranston.”
Carole nodded at him, feeling a slight stirring of intrigue about the detective, if not his female counterpart.
Nina stood, her mouth a tight line. “If you happen to think of anything that might be helpful in our investigation, Your Honor, please let us know.”
“I will,” promised Carole politely, while seething inside.
“By the way,” added Nina, “we have reason to believe the person we’re looking for is likely a female—”
* * *
In the corridor Ray glared at Nina. “What the hell was that all about?”
She stood her ground. “It’s not like I was accusing her.”
“It sure as hell sounded like it to me.”
“Ease off, Barkley, okay!” Nina held his gaze. “So I wasn’t ogling all over the lady like you were. My apologies!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ray tossed at her, as if he didn’t know.
“It means I have no interest in getting in her pants,” she retorted bluntly, “like a certain someone I know—”
“You’re way out of line here, Parker!” He felt his blood boil, and his mind churn. Even though his libido was admittedly in high gear at the prospect of getting to know the judge on a more intimate level.
Nina sighed thoughtfully. “Forget I said that.”
How could he? “Maybe you should keep your damned mouth shut, if you can’t keep from putting your foot in it,” Ray scolded, if only for the sake of seniority on the job.
“Hey, I’m just doing my job,” Nina said defensively. “Our job. Sorry if I ruffled a few feathers. Remember, we leave no stones unturned. If these murders are connected in any way to the judge’s courtroom it means no one can be ruled out as a suspect, including the honorable judge herself.”
Deep down Ray knew she was right—at least where it concerned keeping an open mind about suspects. But that wasn’t to say they had to go overboard with their suspicions. Especially when they had absolutely nothing at this point to even be sure the killer was a female, much less a very attractive judge.
As for his serious interest in Carole Cranston, that was up for debate. He couldn’t dismiss being enamored by her. What sane, straight guy wouldn’t be, given her looks, presence, and position? But that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to get into her pants, or under her designer skirt. Did it?
“You’re going down the wrong road, Nina, if you think Judge Cranston is our vigilante,” Ray said flatly. “There are too many nuts out there capable of doing this to investigate before we start pointing fingers at people whose job it is to uphold the laws of this state. Not break them down.”
Nina averted his stare. “You’re right,” she relented. “Maybe I am a hound dog sniffing up the wrong tree. Wouldn’t be the first time. Guess I can be overzealous sometimes in an investigation where a vicious serial killer is cutting down men left and right.”
Ray recognized it worked both ways. He made a teasing face. “How about overzealous all the time, Parker!”
She poked him hard in the side, causing Ray to wince. “Don’t press your luck, Barkley. It can run out at any time.”
He chuckled, rubbing his suddenly sore side. “I think it already has. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Ray couldn’t help but think about Carole Cranston, the woman behind the judge. He imagined it wouldn’t take much to get to like her in a big way, if given the chance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cab pulled away from the courthouse and cruised down the boulevard towards its new destination. Carole sat in back, pondering her day. Fresh on her mind was the encounter with the two homicide detectives. Part of her was unnerved by the gist of their investigation. The other part was somewhat piqued. Mostly by Detective Barkley. She sensed that he also felt drawn to her. She wondered if they would have the opportunity to meet again under more favorable circumstances.
I think I’d like that.
The cab pulled up to the Jamaican restaurant on Broadway. She had suggested the place for her meeting with Vivian Wolfe. Surprisingly, Stuart’s wife had enthusiastically agreed to it. Whereas Carole had remained dubious about becoming involved in her ex-lover’s marital troubles. What right did she have to tell Vivian, or any woman for that matter, she should bring a child into this world if her desire was to terminate her pregnancy?
What if things failed to work out between Vivian and Stuart? Carole pondered. Would Stuart be able to properly care for his child, if called upon to do so?
She could well imagine the child becoming lost in the shuffle. Abandoned. Neglected. Abused. Dysfunctional. Like so many others who were in situations beyond their control.
By the time the cab zoomed off, Carole had decided to play it by ear and whatever happened, happened. Either way, she considered this the very last marker Stuart could call in. From here on, she considered them even in their debts and left to fend for themselves in their personal trials and tribulations.
* * *
Vivian was already seated at the table when the maitre d’ led Carole to it. Immediately she thought that Vivian Wolfe was younger than she had imagined, perhaps in her mid twenties. This made Carole feel positively ancient at thirty-five. Vivian rose, and was nearly Carole’s height, and every bit as shapely. She wore a light brown cap sleeve dress and sandals.
Vivian Wolfe had a curly sandy colored shag and brilliant café au lait eyes, matching her smooth complexion. High cheekbones rivaled Carole’s and pouty lips were opened just slightly in a sensual way. Carole felt almost envious in that moment of appraisal.
“Nice meeting you,” said Vivian sweetly, as though she meant it.
“You, too,” Carole said, forging a bright smile.
The two shook hands. Carole couldn’t help but notice Vivian’s small hands were cold as ice, in spite of the fact the room itself was almost lukewarm. She wondered if Stuart’s wife had a chilly disposition in more ways than one.
Seated, they both ordered coffee.
“Stuart’s told me so much about you,” Vivian remarked.
Carole raised her brows. “Really?” I know almost nothing about you.
“Yes. He says you’re one of the criminal justice system’s bright lights when it comes to dispensing justice.”
Carole took a breath. “I don’t know how bright my light is,” she downplayed it. “I try to do my job to the best of my ability. Sometimes it isn’t always enough.”
“Tell me about it,” muttered Vivian. “There must be people who manage to slip through the cracks all the time, no matter what.”
“Not as many as you might think,” Carole said thoughtfully. “Most of the bad people have a way of getting their just rewards one way or the other.”
Vivian licked her lips, staring across the table. “You’re probably right. Anyway, it’s cool to know that you’re a judge. I’m not sure I have what it takes to put the fate of people, good or bad, in my hands.”
“It certainly isn’t for everyone,” Carole understated. “Being a judge wasn’t my life’s goal. I just kind of evolved into it. A long story, really.”
“I’d like to hear it sometime.”
They were interrupted when the coffee arrived. This suited Carole just fine. She felt uneasy talking about herself, especially since she had gone there specifically to discuss Vivian’s pregnancy. She had wanted to dislike the woman for some reason, but found herself feeling just the opposite.
After ordering, Carole approached the subject gingerly. “Stuart mentioned you two were thinking about maybe having a child—”
Vivian reacted as though she had been slapped. “Is that what he said?”
Carole hesitated, knowing it wasn’t quite what he told her. “Ever since I’ve known Stuart, he’s talked about having a family someday.”
“We agreed when we got married that there would be no children,” Vivian said gruffly. “Don’t get me wrong. I love kids and believe they’re the hope for the future. But—” she checked herself, as if having run into a brick wall.
“You’re not ready to bring a child into the world?” Carole asked intuitively.
“Something like that.” Vivian batted her lashes noncommittally. “I guess I’m afraid I just won’t be a good mother. Or that maybe he won’t be a good father.”
Carole couldn’t imagine Stuart not being a good father. But how could she really know what type of father he would make? Many men presented themselves to be good potential family men on the surface and turned out to be lousy fathers and husbands when the façade was peeled away like old wallpaper.
Could Stuart be one of these types?
She certainly couldn’t knock Vivian for fearing motherhood. After all, wasn’t that one of the reasons she was reluctant to have children? Not knowing if she had the patience and understanding to make a good mother. Or even enough love to give to her child.
“I’m pregnant,” Vivian announced unceremoniously. “I guess Stuart didn’t mention that to you—”
Carole sighed, not sure how to respond. “Are you thinking about terminating the pregnancy?”
Vivian sipped her coffee. “I’m not really sure what I want to do.” She paused. “All I know is I just don’t want to be pressured into doing something we’ll both end up regretting. Does that make sense to you?” she asked nervously.
“Yes, it does,” Carole responded. “Maybe you and Stuart should consider counseling while weighing all your options?”
“This has to be a personal decision,” snapped Vivian, as if under attack. “I wouldn’t want to put it in the hands of some damned shrink whose only real interest is in the bottom line or how much advice we can afford—”
“Well, I was thinking more of a family counselor,” Carole said defensively, “rather than a psychiatrist. They have experience with child and family issues and could assist you in better understanding your options. Many offer reasonable rates for their service. If you like,” she added reluctantly, “I would be happy to recommend someone I know who’s very professional and truly believes in what she does.”
Vivian tilted her head. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to give it a try,” she said unenthusiastically.
Carole gave her a hopeful smile. For some reason the conversation made her want to reassess her own feelings about marriage and children. Not necessarily in that order.
Only right now there seemed little time for either.
Would there ever be time in her life for the things she truly wanted or needed?
CHAPTER NINE
The bar was dimly lit and two blocks away from where Roberto Martinez’s shattered remains were found. Ray entered, suspecting Martinez had been there last night to celebrate his unexpected freedom. Martinez’s blood alcohol level had been high enough to make him legally intoxicated.
It wasn’t much of a place, but by all indications Roberto Martinez wasn’t much of a man either. But that still didn’t give someone the right to be his executioner.
Ray approached the bartender, a wide-bodied, balding, dark-skinned man in his late thirties. “Do you remember seeing this man in here last night?” he asked him, holding up a mug shot.
The bartender studied the picture. He scratched his pate and lifted bulging eyes. “Maybe,” he said in a coarse voice. “You a cop or something?”
Ray showed his identification. “Homicide. Portland Police Bureau.”
The bartender looked again at the mug shot. “Yeah, he was here. What’d he do?”
“It’s what was done to him,” responded Ray cryptically. “Name’s Roberto Martinez. Was found beaten to death in an alley a couple of blocks from here.”
The bartender’s nostrils flared. “Damn,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Too bad—”
“Did he have any trouble with anyone in here?”
“Not that I recall. Had a few drinks and left.”
“By himself?” Ray asked.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Could he have left with a woman?”
The bartender considered this. “Not many women hang out here, man.”
“So that would make it easier to remember any who had, wouldn’t it?” Ray pressed.
The bartender grinned, sporting a shiny gold tooth. “Now that you mention it, there was a lady here last night. But she wasn’t with him.”
“Tell me about her.” Ray looked at him intently.
“Tall, fine looking black woman,” he said. “Stacked from head to toe. Had long blonde braided extensions. Wore shades like she had eye problems or
something, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t ever too bright in here. Sat right over there—” He pointed to the end of the bar.
“Was she alone?” Ray asked.
“Near as I could tell, though she had plenty of men who didn’t mind keeping her company.”
“Did that include Roberto Martinez?”
The bartender shook his head. “Nah. I think the dude was too busy getting plastered to notice much else. Or anyone else, including her.”
Ray regarded him. “Do you know when she left?”
The bartender rubbed his nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I think she left right after he did—”
* * *
The Cool Breeze restaurant was in Southwest Portland, specializing in ethnic cuisine. Cops and lawyers, along with artists and writers, frequented it. This night most tables were occupied.
Ray and Nina sat in a booth opposite the window, platters before them filled with grilled chicken, collard greens, yams, and buttered biscuits.
“I think we may be on to something,” hummed Ray, having already discussed his visit to the bar. And, in particular, the hot to trot black woman who could be labeled at this point a person of interest. “I want a sketch artist out there right away. Maybe we can find out who she is—and where we can find her.”
“Will do,” Nina noted dutifully, as the junior partner of the two. “Of course, since she was almost certainly wearing a blonde wig and dark glasses, a positive I.D. is practically out of the question.”
“I know,” he moaned, chewing on a biscuit. “But at least it’ll give us more than we’ve got now, which is zilch. If this lady is our killer, then someone, somewhere just might recognize her.”
Nina wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin. “That someone might just be at the Rose City Women’s Shelter,” she said. “I did some digging around today and it seems that all the battered women victims of the murdered men sought refuge there at some point before going back to their batterers for more of what they ran away from.”
Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 4
