Killer Love (55 page)

He’d arrived unannounced at her door and confronted her. As soon as she whirled to stalk away from him, he swung the gavel, putting all of his strength into the blow. There was a loud
thwack,
like the sound of a watermelon bursting open.
The impact traveled through his arms, vibrating through his muscles until he was momentarily paralyzed.

For one horrifying moment, he was afraid the blow hadn’t been enough and he’d have to hit her again. But he knew he couldn’t.

He started to freak out, nearly fainting with the enormity of what he’d done. If she didn’t die from the first strike, he was screwed. She would call the police, he’d be arrested for attempted murder, and the bitch would live on. Because there was just
no way
he could bring himself to hit her again.

His worries were unfounded because she dropped, face-first, and lay motionless. The back of her head looked like an overripe tomato, and he knew she was finished.

Standing here now, in the reality of broad daylight, he still couldn’t believe he’d done it. He thought maybe it had been a dream. A horrifying, unbelievable, never-happen-in-real-life, dream. After all, he wasn’t a killer.

He closed his eyes, then snapped them open because he couldn’t stand the images that appeared behind his closed lids. His stomach clenched and a wave of nausea swam upward, climbing into his throat. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he pushed through the crowd and stumbled to a row of hedges lining the sidewalk.

Now
this
might look suspicious
, he thought, as he puked violently into the bushes.

****

Mona Morrison’s assistant, Giselle Corinthia, was a stunning black woman with almond-shaped, topaz-colored eyes and perfect, straight white teeth that looked like they should be in an ad for responsible orthodontia care.

Mona’s bailiff, aptly nicknamed Moose, was close to seven feet tall. His bulk seemed to want to break free from the putty-colored uniform he wore. Tears streamed down his broad, flat face and his giant shoulders shook with sobs.

Giselle gave him a look that was part sympathy, part annoyance, then turned to Sam. “What can I help you with, Detective?”

They were seated in a reception area, Giselle perched daintily on the edge of the burgundy and emerald green striped sofa. Moose sat like a large clay lump in the adjacent chair.

Sam pulled out a notebook, her gaze taking in both of them. “Do either of you know of any enemies Judge Morrison may have had? Anyone who might want to harm her?”

The two of them shook their heads, although Moose didn’t look at Sam as he did so.

“Is there anyone you know of who argued with her lately?” Sam continued. “Someone who might have been angry with her?”

Giselle smiled. “Half of America was angry with her. She could be a bit harsh. But angry enough to kill her? I highly doubt it. Win or lose, the people on her show are paid and go home happy.”

“What about people other than those on her show? Anyone she may have had a disagreement with? Especially recently?” Sam looked at Moose, who hadn’t spoken, even though his snuffles had been a constant during the interview. “Would either of you know of anyone?”

Moose didn’t reply, but Giselle said, “Mona and her boyfriend fought a lot.” She sighed and shook her head. “Ironic how she continuously admonished the guests on her show for letting people take advantage of them, yet Calvin made a fool of her over and over, and she just took it.”

The boyfriend again. Sam was anxious to speak with the elusive Mr. Rollins, but hadn’t been able to reach him since Morrison’s body had been found yesterday. Rollins wasn’t home when she stopped by, and his roommate couldn’t tell her where to find him. He wasn’t employed, so she couldn’t very well track him down at work. For now, she’d concentrate on other leads, but she wasn’t giving up on lover boy.

“Anyone else you know of?” Sam asked.

“She also had frequent disagreements with our station manager, Carson Clayton.”

“Where can I find Mr. Clayton?”

“He’s out of town.”

“Was he out of town the night of the murder?”

Giselle shook her head. “He just left this morning and he’s due back Friday.”

“I’d like to take some of the show tapes with me. Specifically ones where the litigants were especially volatile.”

“I’m sorry,” Giselle said. “I’m not allowed to let them out of the building. Unless you get a warrant,” she added helpfully.

Sam nodded, trying to hide her frustration. She knew she could get a warrant, but she wanted to view those tapes immediately. “I’ll do that.”

“If you’d like, we can watch some now. I mean, it’s not like I have a lot to do these days.” A small, sad smile touched her lips. “It might be better, anyway, because I could answer any questions you have.”

“Sure, thanks. That would be great.”

Giselle led Sam to a small room with a large screen on one wall and various electronic equipment on the table next to it.

“I’ll begin with some of the more recent, heated ones,” Giselle said as she manipulated several buttons.

The screen lit up, then the opening credits of the program came on, showing Mona Morrison, very much alive and in different ‘judicial’ poses. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and although Sam knew she was close to sixty, she was youthful looking, even with her stern countenance.

On the screen, Moose stood next to the bench. After giving his spiel, beginning with ‘all rise’ and ending with the introduction of ‘the honorable Judge Mona,’ he folded his massive arms and commanded, “You may be seated.” This persona was quite a contrast to the blubbering mess Sam had encountered a few moments ago.

The first case was a woman suing her ex-husband for bail money. He’d been arrested for domestic violence he’d committed against her, then had the nerve to call her to post his bond.

“Why did you call her to bail you out?” the judge demanded.

“Because, I didn’t know who else to call,” he replied peevishly. “I mean, we were married for fifteen years, have children together. I figured it was the least she could do.”

“Even after you’d physically assaulted her?”

He shrugged. “I lost my temper. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Judge, he broke my jaw,” the wife cut in.

Mona Morrison looked at the woman, then swiveled her reproving glare to the ex-husband. “My question is,
why
did you want out of jail?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Because it was awful. There were all kinds of criminals in there. Hell, I was terrified.”

A gleam of satisfaction came into Mona’s eyes and her voice rose. “Just as, I imagine, your wife was when you beat her, Mr. Jamison. I don’t feel one bit sorry for you and you owe this poor woman the bail money. I wish she’d sued you for emotional damages, because I’d have granted her the maximum amount allowed. You’re a low life, sir, and I can only hope that one day you encounter someone who’ll teach you the lesson you deserve. In the meantime, pay the woman.”

She banged her gavel and rose, but the defendant wasn’t finished. “You can’t do that!” he screamed, his face mottled with anger. “This bitch deserved it. You don’t know what she’s put me through!”

Giselle explained that the expletives had been bleeped out before the show aired, but they were viewing the uncut version.

On the screen, Moose seized Jamison’s arm. “Out, sir.”

Livid, the man tried to break free, but he couldn’t budge Moose’s hold. Sam thought she saw a flinch of pain on his face, then he went still. Mona gave him one more stern look, lightly tinged with triumph, and left the courtroom.

The next case was also a woman suing her ex-husband and Sam wondered if these types of cases were the most common, or if Giselle was showing more of these because they were the ones that most frequently became violent.

A blonde, attractive woman with large breasts was suing her ex for taxes he was supposed to pay in the divorce settlement.

The defendant, Keith Brahern, had brought his best friend and his brother as witnesses. When the best friend took his turn at the mic, he told the judge about all the hell the wife had put his friend through during the marriage.

“What does that have to do with the case, Mr. Avery? If you can’t contribute information that’s pertinent, I’d suggest you sit down and keep your mouth shut.” Her tone grew louder and more strident with the last words and the man’s face tightened.

“You don’t have to talk to people like that,” he said, still standing. “I was—”

“Sit down, sir, before I have you removed from my court.”

“What the hell? You can’t treat me—” He started toward the bench and Moose moved to intercept him. “Let me go, she’s a fucking bitch! She doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. She’s just like—”

The remainder of his tirade was cut off as Moose jostled him out of the courtroom, returning in seconds, looking nonplussed.

“Why don’t you feel you should pay your share, Mr. Brahern?” Mona’s laser stare impaled the defendant.

“I wasn’t the one who wanted the divorce in the first place. It’s not fair.”

“What you want is not the issue, sir. The law is the law. Don’t be such a sissy, whiny little mama’s boy. Grow up and be a man.”

Brahern’s face paled and his fists clenched on top of the defendant’s table. He didn’t respond, but his eyes deadened, as if a light went out.

The brother sat behind him, not moving. It was as if the two of them were frozen. Sam wondered if she’d missed something, wasn’t sure why they suddenly looked like hot air balloons that had been shot with a missile.

“If there’s nothing further, I’ll make my ruling after examining these documents.” Judge Mona stood and exited the courtroom, her billowing black robes sweeping behind her.

She returned moments later, after what would be aired as a commercial break, Sam surmised. Somehow not surprisingly, Judge Mona banged her gavel and said, “Judgment for the plaintiff.”

When the episode was over, Giselle said, “This actually turned out to be the worst one of all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mr. Brahern, the ex-husband, committed suicide not long after it aired.”

Sam drew in a quick breath. “Suicide? Because of the show?”

Giselle shrugged. “We don’t really know, but that’s why Mona and Carson had such a terrible fight a few days ago. She didn’t want him to air it, out of respect for the family, but he insisted. He said it was good for ratings.” She gave a grim smile. “Whatever sells, you know?”

Sam nodded, her mind filing away the information. She had a gut feeling there was something relevant here but wasn’t sure exactly what. After all, Keith Brahern couldn’t be their killer, he was dead. But the friend...

Before Sam could finish the thought, her cell vibrated. It was the Coroner’s office. The autopsy was scheduled for tomorrow.

Chapter Three

Sam had been dreading the autopsy since she’d received the call. She hated attending, but it was a necessary part of her job. She didn’t observe them all, but certain cases demanded she put herself through the unpleasant task.

Years ago, just moments into her first autopsy, she’d thrown up all over the ME’s Salvatore Ferragamo oxfords. He’d attempted patience and understanding, but she could tell he was pissed. The scarlet that suffused his face and the tick in his left eye had been dead giveaways.

On one hand, she’d felt bad, on the other, she wondered what kind of idiot wore five-hundred-dollar shoes to cut up a dead body.

That had been fifteen years and countless autopsies ago. While she couldn’t say she liked them now, she could say she hadn’t thrown up since. Felt like it, yes, actually done it, no.

When Sam and Frank arrived at the morgue, the attendant, a young man with cornrows and mocha-colored skin, instructed them on how to suit up.

Once they were attired in gowns, shoe covers, gloves, masks, and goggles, he led them into the autopsy suite, where the body was laid out on the stainless steel table. A body block had been placed underneath the corpse, raising her chest and making her head loll back.

“Good afternoon, Detectives,” Hawkins said, his words muffled by the mask.

She and Frank returned his greeting, and Sam noticed that, behind the goggles, Hawkins’ eyes were missing their usual mischievous glint. He seemed respectful, subdued. It wasn’t what she’d anticipated. She’d half expected him to be wearing leather, blaring
Born to be Wild
on the stereo, and preparing to cut open the cadaver with a switchblade.

Sam braced herself as Hawkins made the Y incision with a scalpel and peeled back the chest wall. An odor like raw meat wafted through the air and Sam swallowed against the bile filling her throat. She moved her gaze to Mona Morrison’s face, not able to directly watch as he removed the organs.

The woman’s skin was gray and waxen. On television, she seemed powerful and invincible. But lying here, silent...exposed, she didn’t seem powerful at all. She seemed small, helpless, tragically victimized.

Alone.

Sam felt an unexpected wave of sorrow.

“Are you okay?”

She lifted her head at the softly spoken words and it was only then that she realized her hands were shaking. Hawkins’ gaze was filled with concern and it made Sam want to shed the tears that were inexplicably crowding her throat, pushing back the nausea lodged there.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

He nodded slightly in return and continued, using a bone cutter to open the rib cage, then removing the chest plate, exposing the heart and lungs.

“This part always makes me want to hurl,” Frank said, his voice sounding thin and watery.

Sam didn’t respond, still close to tears without knowing why. She’d only cried once on the job in her entire career. It had been during a case where a routine drug bust had led to the discovery of a dead child. The little girl had been five years old and the daughter of one of the suspects. She’d been beaten to death and left in a back room for several days.

Sam had lost it, sobbing uncontrollably, so affected by the tragic loss of the innocent child, that she hadn’t even felt embarrassed about her show of weakness.