Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1 (22 page)

Andrew crossed to the playpen and wrestled the boys out of it as Victoria stood, wiping her eyes with the tissue. She was stowing the tissue back in her bag when her phone rang. She fished it out, expecting it to be Jack Birch, but she didn’t recognize the number. She hit DECLINE. She was halfway to the kitchen, following Andrew who was whinnying like a horse to the boys’ delight, when her voicemail beeped. She pulled out her phone and pulled up the message as her father continued into the kitchen. She could already smell the enchiladas. The aroma alone packed ten pounds on her thighs.

The message was from Deputy Foster, the female jailer with the pink barrette from yesterday. “Call me,” was all Foster said after identifying herself. She sounded bad. Phlegmy. Like she’d been crying.

Victoria pulled up her recent calls menu and tapped Foster’s number. The deputy answered immediately, already talking in a rush.

“I want to apologize for what happened yesterday,” she said, but that was as far as she got before bursting into tears.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Victoria said into the gale of sobs, but she wasn’t sure that she believed it. Debbie Foster certainly didn’t seem to.

“I was Sandy’s partner! And now he’s dead!” she yelled hysterically, almost breaking Victoria’s eardrum. “I let him down. I should never have brought Rankin out of the visitation room while Rusk was in the corridor! I should have been helping Sandy with Rusk. But I was in a hurry to get home. I’m getting married and—and—and Sandy said it would be okay! And—and now he’s dead! He was—”

“You can still help Sandy,” Victoria said, cutting through the tears, her pulse quickening. “You can help me find out who did this. Who got him killed.” Andrew had warned her to forget about the knife and the handcuff key; to let Sheriff Swisher clean his own house. That was good career advice, but she wasn’t going to take it. A crime was a crime and someone had to pay. And making sure that happened was her job.

“How?” Foster asked, choking the word out. “Rusk killed Sandy, and Rusk is dead.”

“Rusk didn’t make that shackle key or plant the knife. Someone inside the jail did that. Another deputy, probably.”

“That’s not possible! No one would do that! I’ve worked here for five years. We’re like family. And there was no shackle key. Sheriff Swisher said—”

“Are you at Lew Sterret?” Victoria cut her off.

Debbie sniffed and swallowed. “Not for much longer. I’m on administrative leave. Sheriff Swisher just reprimanded me. He said I was a disgrace to the force. That my actions caused Sandy’s death. That I—” She burst into a fresh salvo of tears.

“Quit your blathering,” Victoria snapped. She felt bad for saying it, but she didn’t have time for Foster’s emotional breakdown. “This isn’t about you anymore. Or Sheriff Swisher. It’s about justice for Sandy. And I need you to do something.”

“What?” Foster asked hesitantly. “I mean my job’s already on the line. I can’t take any—”

“Sandy’s dead.” Victoria said. “And your job is history if you don’t help me. Nolan’s going to pile it all on
you.
Everyone will think it’s
your
fault.”

“It is my fault! I should never have—”

“No, Debbie, it isn’t your fault,” Victoria cut in. “And if you want to keep your job, you’ll help me.” She cringed as she spoke that last line, knowing it was a lie. Foster’s days as a jailer were over. The other deputies would never forget this. Even if she weren’t fired, they’d drive her out of the jail sooner or later. But Victoria needed the woman’s help. Still, she felt like a ruthless bitch. “I want the logs of every person who used interrogation room two before Rusk and Albert Pico yesterday. I need you to bring them to me, now, today.”

“I’d have to pull the logs,” Foster said reluctantly. “And use the copier in the office. If anyone caught me—”

“Just do it. Then meet me at Herrera’s at one o’clock. It’s on Maple a couple blocks west of Oak Lawn.”

“I don’t know if I can—”

“Do it. One o’clock.” Victoria clicked off, hoping Foster would comply. And if the deputy didn’t? Victoria would find another avenue to the information. She had a dozen contacts inside the jail, though she’d hate to put any of them in the middle of this. Foster, on the other hand, already was in the middle. Up to her neck.

Victoria headed for the kitchen. She had time for one cheese enchilada before she hit the road…

37

Valentine
was on Marilla Street, taking the surface streets through downtown to avoid a traffic jam on the Mixmaster, when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID. It was BoDean Gannon.

“You plan on bringing my truck back?” Bo asked, “Or should I just report it stolen? One more charge to add to your current crime spree?”

“Not funny,” Valentine said, cradling his phone against his shoulder. He turned on Young Street and passed through the long shadow cast by the dramatically inverted-pyramid façade of City Hall. The plaza out front was empty of people. Heat shimmered up from the pavers and from the bottom of the empty reflecting pool. Dallas was suffering through its third year of drought; the pool’s fountain had been turned off as a water conservation measure.

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Bo replied. “Way I hear it there’s a murder warrant out for you. I know a half-honest bondsman and an almost-honest mortician. I’ll get you their cards.”

“It’s bullshit, Bo. I haven’t killed anyone.”

“Not lately,” BoDean said.

Val made no reply. Why did everyone think that kind of joke was funny? It was depressing.

BoDean continued, “Your car’s ready to go. I got the compressor working, replaced the fan motor and juiced up the Freon. Runs better than new.”

“How much did all that cost?” Val asked. His checking account was starting to look a little pale, and the next pitiful infusion of cash was two weeks away.

“I’d say a six-pack of Shiner ought to cover the labor,” BoDean said. “Fan motor and Freon was a hundred and seventy.” BoDean’s voice dropped as he added. “I got someone here that wants to have a word with you.”

“Who?” Valentine asked, instantly suspicious. There was no one he trusted more than BoDean, but with all that had happened in the past two days he was naturally wary.

“A guy that doesn’t like his name used on the phone,” BoDean answered cryptically and Valentine knew immediately who he was talking about.

“What does
he
want?”

“To talk to you. I think you ought to hear it, Val,” BoDean replied. “And I need the tow truck this afternoon. Gonna get the Malibu painted. Need to get it over to Holloway’s on Ross.”

Val quit arguing. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Gas it up before you bring it back,” BoDean said. “Front tank was full when you took it.”

Valentine glanced at the gas gauge and winced. Less than a quarter of a tank. He wondered how much he could get for one of his kidneys? Not much, he bet. Too many beers and tequila shots.

“Will do,” Val said and broke the connection.

It cost fifty-seven dollars to fill the truck’s front tank. Val put it on a credit card that was already carrying a balance his grandchildren would probably inherit and headed for Bo’s.

Slick
Hernandez’s BMW was parked beside Val’s Mustang in the thin shade of the trees outside BoDean’s shop. The dusty old Ford looked like a hobo begging change from the sleek German sedan. Crime really did pay, Val thought. A contract killer was driving a seventy thousand dollar car; Lamar and Lemuel had stashed away fifteen million dollars and he and Victoria were struggling to pay the electric bill every month.

Val killed the engine, grabbed the cold burrito from the floorboard and stepped down from the truck’s cab. His skin instantly popped out into a fresh skim of sweat as he crossed the gravel and stepped into the shade of the garage. The temperature dropped ten degrees. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred and forty. He pitched the burrito into the trash and continued on into the garage.

BoDean was under the hood of the Malibu with a roll of painter’s tape. Beyond Bo, Slick Hernandez leaned against the workbench, looking cool and comfortable despite the heat, his brow dry, clothes crisply pressed and unwrinkled. One more reason to hate the guy.

BoDean stood up and ran a forearm across his sweaty brow. “Your keys are on the bench,” he said. Val nodded and Bo ducked back under the hood, making it clear that this wasn’t his business. Convict-etiquette, Val thought, his annoyance deepening toward anger. Against his better judgment, he turned to face Slick.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“What’s up, copper?” Slick said with a sliver of a smile. His arms were crossed over his chest, the fingers of his right hand drooping toward the 9mm that bulged the thin material of his white silk shirt.

“You wanted to talk to me?”
Val repeated with an edge. He kept his own hands at his side, feeling the .45 tight against his back. Slick was a paid killer; that was something it would not pay to forget.

Slick lost the smile and got to the point. “Word is that the Dirty White Boys green-lighted you yesterday.” He didn’t have to explain further, Val knew what green-lighted meant: the White Boys had okayed his murder.

Val thought about that for a moment. The White Boys were a prison gang with affiliates scattered across the country, inside and outside of prison, including the Confederate Syndicate. Hell, Jasper Smith was a member as had been Lamar and Lemuel and their daddy, Garland. Still, the green-light didn’t make sense. The White Boys sold guns and dope, a booming business, and killing a cop, even an ex-cop, was bad for that business. But it didn’t take Val long to figure it out: Garland and Jasper had probably promised the White Boys a cut of Lamar and Lemuel’s fifteen million.

But that didn’t explain how Slick had acquired the information.

“You have an in with the White Boys?” Val asked incredulously. The White Boys were hardcore white supremacists, not the kind of guys you’d see hanging out with a Mexican Mafia assassin.

Slick shrugged. “La Eme gave it a nod. Dallas is their turf and killing a cop is going to cause problems, but they figure it’s worth it to do a favor for the skinheads.” He shrugged again. “You know prison. Gotta live and let live. Give and take.”

Yeah, Val understood; a La Eme shot-caller had worked out something with somebody on the White Boys top tier. Nothing unusual there. While the prison gangs’ soldiers fought it out with shanks and fists, the gangs’ leaders made drug deals with each other and outsourced murder contracts on their own membership. Green was the only color that mattered at the top of any corporation, criminal or legal.

“Are you a part of that favor?” Valentine asked, his hand drifting toward the .45 tucked in his waistband. With fifteen million dollars floating around, every hired killer in Dallas would be after him, and the most efficient La Eme assassin was standing right there in front of him.

Slick caught the move toward the pistol. He lifted his hands, palms out, and shook his head. “No. Just a friendly heads-up.”

“Why?” If Slick was expecting some kind of reciprocation, a word in the ear of a cop or an ADA from a retired officer, he could forget it. Val wasn’t offering IOU’s to gangsters.

Slick shrugged. “Sandra Baptista,” he said. “You could have hung that on me. Sandra set me up pretty good.”

Val had worked the murder of Sandra’s husband, Alberto, a crime she had ultimately been convicted of. She had tried to pin the murder on Slick, who had been having an affair with the married woman. Sandra was clever, but not clever enough. Her husband’s maxed-out life insurance policies were as good as a bloody fingerprint.

“You didn’t do it,” Val replied. And that was all there was too it. He wasn’t looking for flowers or a thank you note. Not from Slick.

“Lots of cops wouldn’t have given a damn,” Slick said.

He was right about that. When the fingerprints on the gun had come back to Slick, Val had been tempted to let it ride. To take a known killer off the street, but the notion had been fleeting. He’d never seriously considered it. He was a cop. One of the good guys. It was that simple.

Val didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He grabbed his keys off the workbench, nodded once at Slick and headed for the Mustang.

BoDean rose from under the Malibu’s hood, laid the tape aside and trailed Val out into the sunlight. Val was opening the Mustang’s door when Bo spoke.

“Where you going with that gun, Valentine?”

“Chasing ghosts,” Val said after a moment’s hesitation.

“You don’t need a gun for that,” Bo replied, “You need a psychiatrist.”

Val shrugged. “Better to have it and not need it…”

BoDean looked less than impressed. He sighed and shook his head. “If you’re gonna play cowboy you’ll need someone to watch your six,” he said. “Give me five minutes.” He turned back to the shop, but Val stopped him.

“No,” he said, the single word coming out more harshly than he had intended. If BoDean violated his parole he’d find himself back in Huntsville serving the remainder of his original twenty-year sentence. Val wouldn’t be responsible for that. “But I appreciate it,” he continued, his tone softening.

Bo started to protest, but Val wasn’t listening. He slid into the Mustang, the vinyl seats singeing him straight through his jeans and T-shirt. His sweat output skyrocketed as he cranked the car and shifted into reverse. He backed the car through a U-turn and headed back the way he had come, leaving BoDean staring after him.

He flipped on the air conditioner when he reached the end of the driveway and was rewarded with a gale force blast of cold air. BoDean must have put the fan motor from a Greyhound bus under the Ford’s hood. It was enough to blow Val’s sweat-damp hair back from his face. But he wasn’t complaining. He turned out onto the street, his expression grim, and headed south for IH 45.

Toward the Sutton brothers’ last hideout.

Hunting ghosts.