Divine Justice (43 page)

"Your sister is doing her part for our country," Pop would grumble. "Don't know why you gave up so easily."

Brady and Pop always butted heads, about anything and everything. They'd sip beers out on the deck in the summer and bicker about Canadian and US policies and the war in Iraq. Pop had enough experience with deceitful politicians that even now he had nothing good to say about any of them. They were all
'thieves and man whores,'
as he called them. She'd grown up listening to him argue about policy and policing and how they never mixed.

She'd tried to stay on until after Brady left home. She couldn't imagine how Pop would cope once they were both gone, and it hurt to think of him in the house, all alone, with nothing but memories. But he'd made it impossible to stay. She'd had no choice but to pack her bags and leave home. It had never been the same there anyway. Not after her mother's death. And Pop was never the same either.

Jasi's lips curved into a soft smile.

No matter how overprotective he was, she loved her father. Pop was always there for her. He'd even come to accept her 'gift.'

It hadn't always been that way.

She shook her head, shedding the past with the motion.

"You can't live in the past, Jasi. What's done is done."

Since it was after midnight, the Britannia Yacht Club bar was closed and the parking lot was only half full. She pulled into a spot close to the entrance. Leaving the parking lot, she passed the clubhouse and manicured lawn headed for the entrance to the marina.

Descending the steps, she watched for movement along the floating piers below. Antique lamps atop iron posts lit the way, shining soft light on the various craft tied to their respective slips. Some vessels were permanent residents, while others enjoyed a brief holiday in the country's capital.

Her ankle high boots thudded along the damp wooden planks, announcing her presence in the quiet gloom. On high alert, she checked the shadows for sudden movements, but the only movements were restless waves lapping at the sides of vessels.

She found the
Freedom Surfer
berthed, nose in, at the end of Pier 6. About a hundred feet in length, the sleek white craft was lit on its starboard side by a dock lamp and two rectangular porthole windows along the side emitted golden light.

What was Zane doing on such a magnificent craft?

A flicker of movement in the cockpit caught her eye.

"Zane?"

"Down here, love." His voice rose from below the deck.

With a glance at the cockpit, she shrugged and walked the short gangplank to the gunwale.

"Permission to board, Zane?" she called, thinking of the boating lessons Zane had given her. Along with more intimate lessons.

"Granted."

She stepped onto the deck, then followed soft music down stairs that ended in the aft salon. A passage took her forward, past a closed door and stairs to the staterooms below and cockpit above. The passage opened into a luxurious and spacious salon. Beyond it was the galley with a dining room table and chairs on the port side. An ornate wood partition separated the galley from whatever lay beyond.

When a shirtless Zane stepped from behind the partition, Jasi held her breath. From the muscular calves to the tanned smooth skin on his bare arms, to the resilient angle of his jaw, the man was an Adonis, and Jasi couldn't stop the racing of her heart, or the warnings that flashed through her mind.

No man should look that good.

"I thought you'd never get here, my love." Zane smiled and moved toward her, holding two glasses of red wine. "It's Australian."

"I can't. I'm still on duty."

"But I thought the case was closed."

"We still have a few loose ends to tie up."

His blue eyes fastened on hers. "Cola or ice tea then?"

"Ice tea sounds good."

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a minute."

Jasi sat on the plush sofa. Classical music filtered through the speakers, but the music did nothing to calm her nerves. Her hands were sweating and she wiped them on her slacks. She had to put to rest the niggling suspicions that had bothered her ever since she'd confronted Deirdre.

She took a moment to survey the stateroom. The polished brass accents and African mahogany must have set Zane back a bit.

"Quite the posh setup, Zane."

"It does its job," Zane called from behind the partition.

When he reappeared, he handed her a heavy crystal glass and settled into the seat beside her.

"Cheers, love."

"To what, Zane?"

"To us being back together again."

She gaped at him. "Are we together, Zane?"

"I hope so." His mouth curved into a smile. "We are very good together."

"I'm sure you say that to all your women."

He gave her a hurt look. "You're the only woman for me, Jasmine."

"Really?" The glass hovered near her lips and she could smell the tartness of the tea. "Sometimes I wonder how many women are in your life."

He watched her intently.

"What?" she asked.

"You're so damned beautiful."

Her eyes were drawn to the partition. There was a bedroom back there. She was sure of it. If things had been different, she would have gladly gone back there with him. But everything had changed.

"I hope you aren't thinking I'm going to sleep with you."

He grinned. "While that's a very enticing thought, I have something else planned."

She cocked her head. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"You'll have to wait and see." He clinked his glass against hers. "Drink up."

"You know I don't like surprises, Zane."

"I know." He took her glass. "I'll get you a refill. Back in a minute, love. I have more ice tea in the pantry." He strode down the hall and entered one of the rooms.

Restless, Jasi wandered around the salon, picking up a knickknack here and there. Her fingers trailed across a shelf, over the stereo system and toward a horizontal metal rack filled with CDs. She pulled one out.

Bach. The same music Sampson said he heard.

"I thought this was your yacht," she yelled.

"I borrowed it from an old friend," Zane called out.

A CD protruding from behind the music rack caught Jasi's eye. She plucked it out and stifled a gasp when she read the label.

Mind Over Matter Productions
.

She reached behind the rack and withdrew a dozen more CDs, all with the same label, all undoubtedly carrying the same hypnotic suggestions responsible for manipulating men and women in power. She slipped a CD into her inside jacket pocket and tucked the others back in their hiding place.

She was about to sit down when a curio cabinet in the corner drew her attention. A light inside illuminated a six-inch brass bell. It was inscribed with the name of a sailing race and a date. More importantly, a name was engraved on the bell. A name she recognized.

"Chief Justice Victor Cahill."

Zane's "old friend" and the father of young Paul who worked at the Britannia Yacht Club. The day bartender had said Victor Cahill was a judge who owned three yachts.
Freedom Surfer
was obviously one of them.

Below the bell was an object in a satin-lined box.

A silver gavel.

She opened the glass door and withdrew the gavel. It was pure silver from the weight of it.
She held it up to the light and blinked at the brightness.

What have we here?

Someone had taken care to clean the gavel and polish it, but they'd missed the groove where the head met the handle. Embedded in the groove was a line of crimson.

Blood.

She knew without a doubt she was holding the murder weapon, the one that had killed Winkler and Sampson. But was the murderer really who she suspected?

Jasi returned the gavel to the cabinet and shut the
door. After a quick look over her shoulder, she examined the walls of the cabin. Above a window, she found a small spray of crimson.

Blood spatter.

She'd bet her next paycheck that Monty Winkler and Porter Sampson were killed right here.

She recalled Victor Cahill telling his son to buy a new dingy. Something had happened to the old one. It had been used as a fiery coffin. Winkler's body would have been cramped, which would explain the burn pattern. And since there wasn't a dingy for Sampson, he'd been set on fire on the beach, not far from a dock.

But Victor Cahill wasn't the murderer.

She didn't like where her mind was going. She wanted desperately to be wrong.

A small table with a single drawer sat beside the cabinet.

"Well, let's see what's in here," she murmured.

The drawer held a variety of items. A deck of cards, a set of keys, some change, a pack of cigarettes with three left and a package of nicotine gum. There was only one person she knew of who was trying to quit and she'd bet her badge that the saliva on the gum found near Sampson's remains would match Deirdre's DNA and this brand.

Underneath the gum was a rectangular piece of plastic.

The missing IHD.

She slipped it into her purse, at the same time catching sight of the Gemini lighter someone had sent her.

Had Zane sent it? If so, what did it mean?

Footsteps approached.

"What are you doing, love?"

She turned, smiling innocently. "I love the décor."

His brow arched as he studied her. "It's okay, I guess."

"Why be so modest?" She laughed stiffly. "You're moving up in the world."

He handed her the glass of iced tea. "Maybe you should move with me."

Ignoring the innuendo, she said, "Did you send me a lighter a few weeks ago?"

"A lighter?" A look of genuine confusion crossed his face. "No. Why would I? You don't smoke. Unless you've changed your habits. "

She shook her head. "Forget it. I'll figure it out eventually."

"You must be disappointed this case is over. I know how you love a good mystery."

"Actually, I'm
glad
it's over," she said, taking a tentative sip of the tea. "I just wish we'd been able to find Sampson's missing blue binder."

Zane glanced at the TV. "I guess it's gone now."

"Too bad. If we'd known what bill Sampson was working on last, we'd have a better idea of what Deirdre was trying to accomplish."

"I still find it hard to believe that she was the mastermind behind the Parliament Murders."

"Don't forget," Jasi said, "someone also put you in the hospital."

He seemed caught off guard. "Yeah, of course. I guess that goes to show that women really
can
do anything if they set their minds to it."

"She's a lot smarter than we gave her credit for, Zane. She's been studying high frequencies and communication satellites far longer than even her sister was aware of. Deirdre got caught up in the power." She stared him right in the eye. "But she wasn't the mastermind behind everything."

"Why do you say that?"

She took a long sip of iced tea. "Deirdre wasn't smart enough to think up something this devious, much less pull this off alone. Someone had to convince her she could use satellite transmissions to infiltrate the human brain."

"Sounds complicated."

"It would be for the average person. And Deirdre was average. Her partner, on the other hand, is far above average."

"If you say so."

"I do. Deirdre needed someone to help precondition each victim. They had to be programmed somehow to turn the television on every night at the same time in order to receive the transmissions."