* * *
“Do you have a gun?” Ray asked Carole during the drive.
“No,” she responded tersely. “My late husband collected guns. And I saw firsthand the results. I have no burning desire to keep one, thank you.”
“Maybe it’s time you reevaluate that,” he strongly urged. “At least while a serial killer is on the loose who could come after you—”
Carole bit her lip. “If this woman had really wanted to kill me, I’d probably already be dead. I’m sure she’s had her opportunities. I doubt that I fit the profile of the type of person she’s targeting.”
“Profiles can change,” Ray warned. “If she thinks for a minute that you’re no longer a serious suspect, then she just might decide you’re expendable, much like batterers.”
Carole certainly did not take the threat to her life lightly. But she refused to dramatically alter her view on guns. Too many people died needlessly when possessing one, including a man she once thought she could save from such a fate. She would not be intimidated into arming herself by a mentally unbalanced woman who blamed her for something she had no control over.
“I’ll make sure my doors are locked and alert building security,” she said. “I also keep pepper mace in my purse and condo.”
Ray cleared his throat and said: “You could always stay at my place until we get her—”
The offer was admittedly tempting—in more ways than one—but she wasn’t sure it was for all the right reasons. She needed more time to sort out her feelings. And allow him to sort out his.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she told him succinctly. “Besides, if it is Jacqueline Lewiston, hopefully we’ll find her and my safety will no longer be an issue.”
Ray faced her with a raised eyebrow. “We’ll find her?”
Carole held his gaze. “Damned right,” she said. “If you think I’m going to just sit around and be a potential target while someone tries to frame me for murder or make an attempt on my life, think again!”
Ray did think about it. He could have insisted she stay out of it as official police business. But he knew Carole had a right to at least be there when they snapped the cuffs on the suspect. He’d make sure she was well out of harm’s way.
Perhaps this would also be a good way to try and make amends with her, and salvage what they had. If the damage was not irreversible.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Looks like Jacqueline Monique Lewiston just might be our killer,” Nina said humbly, her gaze spraying regretfully to Ray and Carole. They were standing around Nina’s desk. “Found out some rather disturbing things about her...”
“Such as?” Ray prompted her.
“Nine years ago she snapped after being battered one time too many by her renowned civil attorney husband, Derrick Lewiston. She literally beat him to death with a wooden bat. She was charged with murder and found not guilty by reason of insanity. Spent nearly eight years in a mental hospital before being declared sane again. She was released six months ago.”
Ray looked stunned, as did Carole.
“She must have really done one helluva a con job on those shrinks at the hospital,” said Ray in disbelief.
Nina nodded. “Yeah, I’d say they screwed up big time on this one. I guess I did, too,” she said with an eye on Carole. “I’m really sorry for putting you through this, Judge Cranston.”
Carole managed a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Detective Parker,” she said diplomatically. “What’s done is done. You were only doing your job. Some people—or at least one person—seem to think I screwed up by allowing some accused or convicted batterers to go free. I was only doing what my job called for. I suppose the down side comes with the territory for us both.”
“So we’re cool then?” Nina asked hopefully.
“Yes, Detective,” Carole said evenly, peeking at Ray, “we’re cool.”
A smile of relief spread across Nina’s face.
“Now that we’ve made peace amongst us,” Ray said between them, “I think it’s time to focus our attention on the person behind the vigilante murders. Let’s go pick up Jacqueline Monique Lewiston—”
There were no dissenters.
* * *
They drove to an address on Philmore Street in the Hayworth District of the city. Backup units accompanied them. The suspect was considered armed and dangerous, but they still wanted to try and take her alive.
So long as no one’s safety was compromised.
The cottage style apartments were surrounded by well-kept shrubbery and walkways, resembling a college campus. Ray and Nina led the assault on the first story unit in question, leaving Carole at a safe distance in the car. Guns were drawn and in ready position.
The lights were on inside, indicating that someone was home. On the porch was some rotting leftover wood from winter and a couple of half-soaked newspapers.
Ray knocked once on the door, then yelled: “Police! Open up!”
Moments later the door opened and an elderly, frail, white man appeared, looking like he was about to have a heart attack.
“What is this about?” he asked in a frightened, thick German accent.
“We’re looking for Jacqueline Lewiston,” Ray blared, wondering if they might have the wrong address, but not taking any chances. He kept his gun pointed at the man, who was trembling badly.
“There’s no Jacqueline Lewiston here anymore,” he stated. “She moved out two weeks ago.”
Ray regarded his partner who hunched her shoulders, as if stumped.
“My wife and I just moved in last week,” the man stammered. He scratched his wide pate. “What did she do—rob a bank or something?”
“If only,” Ray muttered.
It took them about two minutes to verify the man’s story and vacate the premises, realizing that Jacqueline Monique Lewiston was still very much on the loose. She had, to no one’s surprise, left no forwarding address.
She was again one step ahead of everyone else.
* * *
“You want to do what?” boomed the voice of the man in charge of the homicide/robbery division. Lieutenant Vernon O’Neal was a twenty-five year veteran of the Portland Police Bureau. At five-eleven, he was built like a milk chocolate house and had a gravelly voice from years of smoking cigars.
“I want to act as a decoy,” repeated Ray tonelessly.
They were gathered for a strategy session aimed at capturing Jacqueline Monique Lewiston, now unanimously believed to be the psychopathic Vigilante Batterer Killer.
“You’ve either lost your damned mind, Barkley,” growled O’Neal, standing in front of the room, “or you’re one brave son of a bitch.”
A spatter of uneasy chuckles filled the room.
But Ray was not laughing. He had given this some serious thought. It seemed like the best way to flush this killer out into the open, without putting others at risk. At worst, he believed, if she suspected they were on to her, she’d probably disappear into the woodwork of any big city in America and continue her self-appointed mission. Or never be heard from again. Either way, it would be disastrous to the Bureau—not to mention men across the country. Including those who had never even harmed a fly, let alone the women in their lives.
“It makes sense,” he said confidently, eyeing Nina who had been vehemently against the idea. So had Carole. “If I’m set up as an abusive creep who gets off with a pat on the back, I know she’ll come after me. We can go the whole nine yards, including a rap sheet; a convincing battered wife or girlfriend, and a trial—anything it takes to make it seem legit. If we’re lucky, we’ll spot Monique in court or hanging around the building, and nab her ass right then and there.”
“And what if we’re not?” O’Neal’s brow creased in three separate places.
“Then I’ll make myself a target,” offered Ray succinctly. “When the bitch thinks she’s luring me into a trap, it’ll really be the other way around. It can work, Vernon.”
At least I
hope to hell it will. In truth, Ray knew it could just as easily blow up in his face. But he considered it worth the risk in trying to catch an elusive and maniacal killer.
O’Neal hesitated. “I don’t know, Barkley. If we keep this thing under wraps and she kills someone else instead of being taken down, it’ll be my ass on the line.” He peered. “Not to mention yours!”
Ray sucked in a deep breath. “If we publicly identify her, it may drive her over the edge even more. She could strike out at anyone who happens to be male. Even a female, if she gets in her way. Hell, she could even go underground, aided and abetted by people who believe she’s doing the right thing. I say we try it my way. If it doesn’t work, we still know who our suspect is.”
“Knowing who she is and finding her are two different things,” Nina said snidely, two chairs over in the front row. She glared at Ray. “This is my case, too, Barkley. I say we put out the word that we’re looking for Lewiston to our informants and the media. We can go house to house, door to door, if we have to. Even offer a reward. Someone would come forward. Once she knows she’s been identified, there will be too much heat to try and kill anyone else—except maybe herself.”
Ray scowled. He knew this was her way of looking out for his ass. Not to mention Nina’s damned stubbornness coming out in full force. He was not deterred.
“But why take the chance she might kill again or commit suicide?” he argued. “Why send the public into a panic and maybe a killer as well when there may be a better means to bring her to justice?”
O’Neal shuffled his feet. “Barkley’s right, Parker.” He angled his eyes on Nina. “Besides, we already tried things your way once and look what it got us—an innocent judge that we had all but locked up and thrown away the key.”
This silenced Nina and Ray felt for her. Just as he did Carole. He wished to hell it had never happened. Carole had simply been in the wrong situation at the worst possible time, making her a perfect suspect.
But all they could do now was look ahead. No one said it would be easy to mend fences. He wondered if Carole realized just how much he missed having her in his life. What he wouldn’t give to just be able to kiss and cuddle her.
Maybe they could when this was all over...
O’Neal turned his attention to Ray, grimacing. “One shot at this,” he said tersely. “We do it all by the book. No stepping out of line, Barkley. We don’t need any more dead heroes. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Ray responded, already putting the plan into action in his mind.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The cab dropped Carole off in front of the Rose City Women’s Shelter. The day was dreary and drizzly, the sky dark and threatening.
Carole made her way up the cobblestone walkway. The shelter reminded her of an old English castle that had been renovated. She could see faces peeking out from behind curtains, as if fearing their men had come to take them back into an abusive environment.
She had received a call from Esther asking her to come. The call came after they had spoken on the phone briefly for the first time in months. Their friendship had been strained in recent years, as both had put more focus into their jobs and less in strengthening the bond they had developed so long ago.
Neither had spoken much about Esther killing her husband since the trial. Both knew that it did no good to harp on what had happened. To Carole, her friend had been left with no choice, other than to be killed herself.
Carole had often wondered if she should have had the courage to fight her father, maybe saving her mother’s life. The image of her mother’s beaten, bloodied, lifeless body lying broken on the bed beside her drunken father would haunt her forever. Years of therapy had more or less convinced her that there was little a seven-year-old girl could have done against her brute of a father, aside from feel the sting of his fists herself. And perhaps be permanently silenced like her mama. He had confessed to the crime, sparing her from testifying against him. He died in prison from a heart attack.
It had been years before Carole had been able to cry for the man out of love and pity. For as much as she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t. In spite of what he had done and how, he was still her father—the only one she’d ever have.
Her mother must have felt the same way, she’d imagined. She wanted only to have her family whole, willing to sacrifice her life to make a home for her daughter and be a good wife.
Family was something Carole had run away from ever since. First settling on a substance-abusing, unstable husband, then being in a few mostly meaningless, short-term relationships designed to disintegrate. Her work had become her family, pouring herself into it as though nothing else in the world mattered.
Only with Ray Barkley had she finally felt as if someone else did matter. He had given her cause to actually think she might want to be with someone long enough to create a life together with a family of her own.
But that had also come under fire recently, leaving Carole with doubts and second-guessing. Could they survive the strain placed on their relationship? Or would it prove to be their undoing at the end of the day?
Ray had urged Carole to stay behind locked doors as long as Jacqueline Lewiston was still at large. She had rejected this insofar as becoming essentially a prisoner in her home. Having already known what it was like to live in fear of someone, she refused to ever be placed in that position again.
Not even if it put her life in jeopardy.
Carole entered the shelter. She had always felt its warm ambiance set it apart from other shelters and helped give battered women hope and encouragement that they didn’t have to be victims.
But one of the women had managed to veer way off course and slip through the cracks of sanity and social behavior. She had become the person all battered women feared existed within them, waiting to be brought to the surface by violence perpetrated against them by their male lovers.
“Hello, Esther.” Carole looked at her friend who appeared tired and over burdened.
“Hi, Carole.” Esther licked her lips nervously.
After a moment of awkwardness, the two women embraced warmly.
“I’ve missed you, girl,” Esther cried.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Carole said, choking up.
“I know I should have called sooner, but...well...I just didn’t know what to say or do—”
“Maybe neither of us did.” Carole pulled back and smiled at her. “I think I could do with a good strong cup of coffee, if you have any.”
“I sure do.” Esther pushed her glasses up.
They went to Esther’s office where she made two cups of coffee, spicing hers with a shot of gin.
Carole sat down, wondering how Esther could have gotten mixed up with the likes of Jacqueline Monique Lewiston. Of course, she knew the answer. Jacqueline had been touched by violence in the same way Esther had, as well as most of the women passing through those walls.
It wasn’t hard to imagine Esther would feel a sense of loyalty to such a woman, even if she had gone over the edge. What was harder was the feeling that in some strange way it was she who had let Esther down rather than the other way around.
Esther handed Carole the cup and sat beside her. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice hollow. “That I should have called you, if not gone straight to the police, the moment I began to seriously suspect Monique might be a killer—”
Carole raised her chin. “I’m not here to criticize you, Esther. I’m sure you had your reasons for what you did or didn’t do. I just need to try and understand what went wrong.”
“Wrong?” slurred Esther as if in a trance.
“Yes,” Carole voiced. “Since when has it ever been a sound idea to kill off our problems—or men?”
“Since they wouldn’t stop ramming our damned heads through brick walls,” Esther retorted sharply.
“What you did was in self-defense,” Carole reminded her. “A jury agreed. But being a vigilante killer of alleged, or e
ven proven, abusers indiscriminately—that’s going too far. And it does nothing to solve the problem of battered women in this society. It only takes the lives of a few male batterers, while leaving their women with the responsibilities of taking care of their children, debts, chores, and even themselves. Does that really sound like true justice to you?”
Esther’s face darkened and tears formed in her eyes. “No,” she uttered weakly. “All I’ve ever wanted here was a place where women could feel protected. Then Monique came along and I felt an instant bond with her. Kind of like I have with you. I could feel her pain and somehow made myself justify what she was doing.” She sighed. “I wanted to come to you from the beginning, but...you’re a judge, Carole. I didn’t want to get you involved in this. By the time things got out of hand, I felt as if I had nowhere to turn.”
Carole took a deep breath. “There was always somewhere to turn other than inside,” she said lamentably. “And I became involved, Monique saw to that. Maybe if you had trusted yourself better we might have been able to avoid what’s happened.”
Esther wiped at her eyes, and sobbed: “I’m so sorry, Carole. I haven’t been nearly the friend to you that you’ve been to me. I’ve brought this whole thing down on myself.”
Carole suddenly felt like a mother and put her arms around Esther. Much like her mama used to do when she needed to be comforted.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Esther asked fearfully.
“I’m not sure,” Carole told her honestly. “First they have to find Monique. If you can assist them, please do. Aside from that, so long as you cooperate, chances are the authorities won’t be interested in pursuing anyone other than the murderer.”
Esther faced her. “What about us?”
Carole considered the question. “As far as I’m concerned nothing has to change—except for the better. We’ve been through far too much to turn against each other. Especially now.”
Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 22
