And she meant that with all her heart and soul. When all was said and done, Carole could scarcely afford to abandon the few friends she had. Not even those who, at times, seemed determined to abandon her.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Monique watched as Carole left the shelter and got into the cab. She followed it.
She wondered what Judge Cranston and Esther had talked about. That bitch had probably sold her out. Monique fumed.
She knew about Esther and Carole’s long time relationship. How Carole had testified for Esther after she killed her old man, and then began sleeping with her attorney. She’d wormed it out of Esther when she had gotten her drunk. Esther had resented their intimacy, having secretly had her eye on Stuart Wolfe. Right up until he married Vivian, preferring younger stuff to someone closer to his age like Esther.
Monique even found out about Carole’s daddy beating her momma to death. Then her husband blowing his gutless brains out and leaving Carole to clean up the mess.
As far as Monique was concerned, men had abused them all in some way.
Yet they were also different in how they dealt with it. She was the only one with the balls to make those bastards pay for their sins in the only way they could appreciate what it meant to feel helpless, vulnerable, and get an ass whipping and face smashed in.
And no one would stand in her way.
Not Esther.
Not the detectives on the case.
And certainly not Your Honor, Judge Carole Cranston.
Monique watched as the cab let Carole out in front of her building. Carole was soon inside, back to her protected, sheltered world.
Don’t feel too comfortable in there.
“I know right where you are, bitch,” she said aloud. “I can get you anytime I want. I’ve been in your place right under your cute little nose and you never suspected a thing.”
She had stolen the cultured pearl bracelet from Carole’s jewelry box and put some of that asshole Blake Wallace’s blood on it that had splashed onto her clothing after his head exploded from her pounding it with the bat. It had been easy to plant the evidence in Stuart Wolfe’s car, particularly after she had given the police a description of his BMW and a partial license plate number. She knew it would only be a matter of time before they discovered the bracelet and linked it to Carole, especially since she was sleeping with the lead detective on the case. And it didn’t hurt matters that his spunky partner had stayed on his ass in pointing the finger at the judge.
Monique had counted on this rivalry thing when she put the bloody bat in Carole’s condo and waited for the detectives to discover it—further assuring that the honorable Judge Cranston would be charged with the crimes she had failed to prevent by putting those sons of bitches away.
“Enjoy the freedom while you can, Judge,” she sang satirically. “Because you’re going down! Just like the others—only you’re going to prison where your ass can rot away for the rest of your stinking life!”
But not before she made sure another battering bastard went down with her. It was the least she could do for the judge while she was out on bail. Not to mention for the women of America who were fed up with having their noses broken, teeth knocked out, faces caved in, and bodies used as punching bags and objects to slam against walls and toss down stairs.
Violence begets violence. Live by the sword, die by the sword.
Or in this case, live by the fists and die by the bat. What could be more appropriate payback for those who liked to beat up women? Being hit back thrice as hard. And where it hurt just like the hell they had put them through.
Monique drove off, suddenly feeling triumphant. Yet she was also unsettled, as she needed to look over her own shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The headline read: “Man Goes On Trial Today For Beating Wife.” Monique gazed at the article with interest. “Richard Kendall, a thirty-seven-year-old journeyman, was charged with brutally assaulting his wife, Whitney, two months ago. She suffered mild brain damage from the attack and faces years of physical and mental therapy.”
“Bastard!” Monique screamed, and muttered a few more expletives. He had to pay for what he did. Like all batterers.
She looked forward to the trial and trusted that someone other than Judge Cranston would take the appropriate measures to punish the dickhead.
If not, then she would.
* * *
The bald defendant, looking grizzled with several days’ beard growth, wore a cheap blue suit and a certain smugness about him. He was a tall, lighter than dark-skinned man, and in fairly good shape. A plump lawyer with a graying horseshoe shaped hairline sat beside him, looking like he would rather be anywhere else.
The prosecutor was a tough talking woman named Althea Payne. She laid out her case before the jury like she was running for political office. She promised there would be no room for doubt when it came to convicting the defendant. Her chief witness was to be the victim herself, who Althea promised would give a chilling testimony.
The jurors listened intently, seven women and five men.
The trial was taking place in the courtroom of Judge Carole Cranston, her duties on indefinite hold while under criminal investigation. The replacement judge was The Honorable Phyllis Dubois. She was African-American and in her early forties. Her dark hair was in an updo and she was on the heavy side, with a strong voice to match.
When the defense attorney’s turn came for opening statements, he outlined an entirely different case. He insisted his client was a law-abiding citizen and completely innocent of all charges. He even hinted the alleged victim may have been having an affair at the time and that such person, if anyone, was the one who should really be on trial.
Jacqueline Monique Lewiston watched on Courtroom TV as the lawyers called their witnesses and experts. She cringed as she listened to the victim describe the horrors of her life with the defendant, including that horrific night in question when he damned near beat her to death and left with brain damage and still visible scars.
“Asshole! Son of a bitch!” Monique shouted rancorously at the screen. “You need to be taught a lesson you won’t forget!”
The defendant himself later took the stand. He denied everything in a toneless, smug voice, almost daring anyone to prove otherwise.
“Lying bastard!” Monique shrieked. “Anyone can see you’re as guilty as hell, Kendall! Just like the others.”
The trial lasted only three days. The jury took four hours to deliberate. They came back with a hung jury. The judge declared a mistrial.
The defendant was ordered to be released on bail pending a new trial—if the prosecution bothered to file new charges.
“No—!” Monique screamed at the TV in total disbelief, rage building in her like steam in a freight train. “How could you let him off? The man’s guilty and deserves to rot in prison! If not be put to death for his heinous crimes against poor Whitney.”
But Monique knew that her words had fallen on deaf ears. Judge Dubois had proven to be as inept as Carole Cranston.
It would be up to her to see to it that justice prevailed. Richard Kendall would pay dearly for what he had done.
And then he would rot in hell.
Just like his fellow women abusers.
Including the asshole who had robbed her of her dignity and anything resembling a normal life.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Dressed in a black leather bomber jacket, short-sleeved blue shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers, Ray sat at the bar casually surveying the premises. Undercover detectives occupied half the seats, including Nina who insisted she be part of any operation as his partner and friend. Others were in place at various locations outside, ready if needed to help snare a killing, calculating cobra.
The club, Alder Street Bar & Grill, was chosen because of its location and surrounding nooks and crannies. Ray was banking on the fact that it would be too irresistible to the woman who, no doubt, wanted him dead and dismembered.
&nbs
p; The trial had gone like clockwork. The D.A.’s office had fully cooperated, even supplying a jury composed of their staff. The victim, a vice squad detective, had given a performance worthy of an Oscar. Courtroom TV had agreed to show the trial in its entirety, increasing the probability that Monique had seen it. There had been no sign of her inside the courtroom or the building.
But Ray felt her presence, even if he saw no one who resembled the suspect in the bar, which had more detectives and undercover police than patrons present. And most of these were men or women who didn’t fit the general profile of Jacqueline Monique Lewiston in age, race, or physical build.
Had she been able to disguise herself so that she no longer fit her own description? The woman had already proven to be somewhat of a chameleon in her ability to easily move in and out of different circles without being detected for all her lethal intentions.
Perhaps she was lying in wait outside, away from their dragnet?
He ordered another drink from an undercover detective doubling as a bartender. The drink was only colored water made to look like the real thing.
Five minutes later Ray went to the bathroom, signaling others with eye contact. In his shoulder holster was a Glock .40 caliber pistol.
In the restroom, he checked underneath the stalls for any signs of occupancy. He saw no one.
He washed his hands as a man entered wearing a rumpled suit and scowl on his face. They stared at each other and, for an instant, Ray wondered if Jacqueline Lewiston might have had an accomplice.
Could she actually have a male partner helping her as a set up man?
But the man quickly dispelled such theories as he disappeared into a stall, giving no indication he wanted a piece of the undercover detective.
Ray made his way back to the bar where he downed a couple of more fake drinks and made his presence known, as if inebriated. On cue, he left the bar, without having seen the suspect, but almost feeling she was there.
Somewhere.
Close enough that he could practically touch her.
He moved clumsily down the sidewalk, hoping Monique would emerge and they would converge on her like ants on a piece of rotting fish.
It didn’t happen.
Ray made his way to a cheap motel where he was registered as Richard Kendall. Detectives occupied rooms on either side of him and on floors above and below. Others manned the front desk and doubled as maintenance workers.
The room was dingy yellow with a single sized bed and table, and a tiny bathroom off to the side. It had been wired for sound, not to take any chances on a surprise attack. A window overlooked the street. Below was a delivery truck with officers inside. On the other side of the street was an unmarked police sedan with two plainclothes detectives.
Ray lay down on the bed, waiting as if a lamb to be slaughtered. He knew he had a hell of a lot riding on this venture. It was his idea, his baby. If Monique did not show up, he would have to deal with the fallout.
That might even include his job.
His camaraderie with Nina.
And even whatever he might still have with Carole.
It made him wonder if it was time to take stock of his life. Maybe after this, no matter what happened, it was time to hang it up. Try something different. He was getting too damned old for this crap. Crimes had become more violent and bizarre than he could remember. This case was a good example.
Maybe the time was right to seriously think about settling down. Having a family. Children he could call his own.
Maybe he and Carole could talk about that.
First, they had to talk about each other again. And then try to reignite the passion and flame that had seemed to have been extinguished with the recent chain of events.
He hoped it wasn’t too late.
The quick hard knock on the door made Ray immediately spring up and go for his gun. On his feet he crept to the door on the squeaky floor. There was no peephole. He could feel his heart beating wildly as he asked: “Who is it?”
“It’s me, O’Neal,” the Lieutenant said, a pointed edge to his voice. “Open up.”
Recognizing his authoritative voice, Ray put his gun away and opened the door. O’Neal barged past him, his face contorted with indignation.
“It’s been over three hours since this operation began, Barkley,” he huffed. “I’m calling it off.”
“You can’t,” Ray tried to argue in vain. “I need more time. She’ll show up. I know it. The sicko wouldn’t want to see me get away with beating my wife senseless.”
“Looks like you already got away with it,” O’Neal declared without humor. “If she saw the trial, she wasn’t impressed. Your plan backfired!”
“Why don’t I go back to the bar?” Ray said, a note of desperation in his voice, unwilling to give up. Not when he was this close to nailing her ass. “Maybe she was being extra cautious. I can start the whole thing over—”
O’Neal shook his head so hard it seemed like his neck would snap. “Nope. I don’t think so. I’ve already sent everyone packing. Now I’m telling you to go home, too, Barkley. It’s over.”
“Not until Monique’s behind bars or dead, man,” Ray said defiantly.
“Yeah, right,” O’Neal shot back. “And because of you we’ve lost ground on that objective.” He fixed him with crinkled eyes. “I want to see you in my office first thing tomorrow!” With that, he stormed out and slammed the door.
Ray stood motionless for a moment. He had been so sure this would flush Jacqueline Monique Lewiston out of the woodwork like the rodent she was. But it hadn’t. She had remained as invisible as she had since the murders began. Except when she wanted to make her presence felt. Then it was too late for some hapless bastard. It was as if the killing machine was working with someone on the inside, keeping her one step or more ahead of the game.
Where the hell is she? Ray’s brow furrowed with frustration.
He considered that she might have recognized him beneath the hair on his face as Detective Sergeant Ray Barkley of the Portland Police Bureau’s Homicide Division. Could she have remembered him from the night of Blake Wallace’s death?
Could be she have been tipped off that they were onto her? If so, she might have already left Portland for greener pastures.
He hated to think that Jacqueline Monique Lewiston had managed to escape the net they had placed around the city and was headed to unknown parts to continue her self-appointed mission.
Ray left the room, wondering if their window of opportunity on this killer had closed for good.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Ray unlocked the door and stepped down into the houseboat. The moonlight shone into the passageway and the illumination was enough that he avoided turning on the foyer light. Instead he headed directly to the bedroom. It had been a long day and all he wanted now was some sleep in his bed.
Ray had phoned Carole on the way home and told her about the botched plan. She had expressed sorrow and uneasiness that they were unable to capture the female serial killer. He offered to come over, but Carole hesitantly assured him it wasn’t necessary, noting she had locked her doors and wasn’t planning to go out till morning.
They left it at that.
No talk of reconciliation, renewed romance, or even maintaining a friendship.
He didn’t even want to think about what that meant. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow when the light of day might cast a brighter perspective on things.
Ray entered the bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the vertical cellular shades. He removed his jacket, tossing it on a chair. Then the gun and holster came off, which he set on the dresser.
Ray thought he heard a sound, causing him to turn around. Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement.
A woman’s harsh voice said: “Bastard! Did you really think you could get away with what you did to Whitney?”
Without saying a word, Ray immediately pivoted to go for the gun. But the intruder was quicker, and to his surprise, more determined. He felt
the blow slam into his side and he knew it had cracked several ribs.
“Asshole!” She taunted him. “Did you think I was so stupid to fall for a dumb trap? It’s you who has to die—not me!”
Ray had barely a moment to regard the woman. Even in the low light he could see that she was tall, statuesque, and wore a short blonde wig with baby locs. She wore black gloves and held a wooden baseball bat up and to her side. Wearing a menacing look, she swung the bat at his head like a home run slugger.
Ray, sensing it was coming, dove at the last instant. But not before it grazed the side of his head. The pain was deafening, made worse when he crashed to the floor. It left him dazed.
“That’s right, Kendall,” she ridiculed him, “try to get away. Just like the others. Won’t do you a damned bit of good. You can crawl, dickhead, but you can’t hide. Not from me!”
She raised the bat and struck him flush on the leg. Ray let out a piercing scream as the bone snapped just above the ankle. He felt like a trapped and wounded animal, defenseless against the likes of a madwoman—and running out of time. He ached all over and suspected that unless he made some sort of move now the next blow would be the one that took him out permanently.
“Wait, Monique,” Ray gasped in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Jacqueline Monique Lewiston, isn’t it—?”
Ray saw the shock in her face that he actually knew her name. Maybe that could work in his favor. He tried to push out of his mind the throbbing pain he felt all over.
Her shock was quickly replaced by pure, unbridled hatred. “So you get bonus points, asshole, for knowing who I am,” she cursed. “It won’t make one bit of difference. You’ll never survive to tell a living soul. Or a dead one, for that matter.”
“I’m a cop, Monique,” he managed to say, knowing he had to buy some time with her. “And so was the woman you saw in court as the victim. The whole thing was a setup designed to flush you out in the open.”
Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller Page 23
