Rogue Justice (40 page)

Steiger shrugged. "The straight answer, Ms. Flynn, is... yes! Truth is, we've got nothing in the way of forensics, and there's no way to make a circumstantial case stick, not with the goddamn CSI factor hanging over our heads."

"CSI factor?"

"The television series. Changed the public's perception of what modern technology can and can't do forever. Things have now become so distorted, we better hand the DA a 'smoking gun,' or forget going to trial. Jurors walk into courtrooms expecting to be dazzled by the science, to see conclusive evidence for every crime. Doesn't matter that a whole lot of what folks see on TV is crap, they think we can make a case by trapping shadows. And those of us in law enforcement are guilty too, by the way. We all push the margins of science."

Zora's mind churned through the possibilities, landing on the only logical question. "Which leaves us pretty much nowhere, then, right?"

"Not necessarily. Like I told you on the phone earlier, Chandler's curious or he wouldn't bother to show up. He's not sure what we've got and it's a solid bet he doesn't trust the guy over at SIU. Pure conjecture at this point, but we think Towers might be attempting a little blackmail scheme on his own. So we're playing the FTMS card."

Zora sat back, held his gaze. "Follow the money, Sparky."

Steiger chuckled at the new twist on an old standby. "Yeah, you got it."

A minute or so later, Rosekrans's voice crackled over the voice box. Mitchell Chandler had arrived. And just as Steiger had predicted, he was alone.

No entourage. No attorney.

Zora felt her heart beating as fast as the rabbit in that story. She cracked the door, set her jaw, and peered through the opening. Chandler soon appeared at the top of the stairs, got his bearings, and strode down the hall like he owned the place. He was dressed in a custom-fitted jacket, dark sweater, and khaki slacks. It took everything she had not to go off the rails, rush out of that room, and kneecap him. She wondered if the DA would answer the bell. He was on his home turf and had left the conference room wearing his game face, but there was a better than even chance he'd get his ass handed to him.

Zora and Steiger listened as Rosekrans quickly dispensed with the formalities and began sifting through the evidence in Katrina's case. He hinted at some grand revelation from a park employee whose name, he said, must remain off the record. It was a perfectly choreographed performance, folksy and direct, yet Chandler met every move with abject detachment. If he was feeling any distress, there was no indication in his voice. His indifference and impatience seemed to grow with each exchange. He was a rock. Zora closed her eyes and pictured him sitting in that room—cold, unflappable, a card shark refusing to tip his hand.

He knows the DA's firing blanks. And Steiger knows it too.

The stilted conversation lasted less than ten minutes. Then, in a steely voice, Chandler thanked Rosekrans for his concern, offered his continued support, and promptly exited the office. Steiger shot a disheartening glance at Zora, shifted in his seat, and slammed his heavy arms down on the table. "Game-set-match." A moment later he was out the door, all other thoughts left unspoken.

Zora sat without moving, staring mindlessly at the wall. She was riddled with guilt, grief, and a burning desire for revenge. The man responsible for her mother's death, for the murder of her friend, had proved to be a criminal on a grand scale. In the eyes of the law, however, he would be held accountable for nothing.

But there will be justice!

Shaking with rage, she grabbed her cell and punched in a number programmed into the speed dial. Mickey picked up on the first ring. "Go!" she screamed. Zora then dashed from the conference room, and sprinted down the hallway. She took the stairs three at a time, all cylinders firing now. After reaching the landing, she burst through the lobby doors shouting Chandler's name.

He wheeled around, gave her a brief sizing-up glance, and with annoying calm said, "And who might this lovely creature be?"

Zora marched toward him taking long, angry strides. There was a hint of madness in her eyes. "You know damn
well
who I am, Chandler. And I'm in a really fucking bad mood, thanks to you. See, you took away the most precious thing in my life. Now
your
number is up. And guess what, I just appointed myself judge, jury, and executioner."

Chandler stood his ground. "Is that so?" he replied, adding smugly, "You know, I'm reminded of something Plato once wrote—'Spectacle is one of the basic elements of drama.' Seems to me you've taken his words to heart, young lady."

"Yeah, well, the Dalai Lama had a better line, Chandler. 'The enemy is a very good teacher.' So pay attention, you might just learn something here."

"Really. I doubt that. As for the rest of your little diatribe, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. And I'm a busy man." He turned, dismissing Zora with a condescending wave. "Now if you'll excuse me, I—"

An angry fire ignited in Zora's eyes. "Liar!" she screamed. She lunged toward Chandler, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. She then buried the toe of her boot in his crotch. It wasn't the most elegant of martial arts moves, but effective nonetheless.

Chandler gasped, collapsed to his knees, writhing in pain.

Rizzo instantly bolted from the Mercedes, waving a Sig Sauer pistol in the air and shouting obscenities. He charged Zora like a blitzing linebacker. She spun around. Where the hell was Mickey? The thought had barely registered when he suddenly materialized, carrying a two-by-four the length of a baseball bat. With one mighty swing he cold-cocked the much bigger man. Rizzo's nose exploded. He clutched wildly at his bloodied face as the weapon flew from his hand. It bounced off the sidewalk, and skittered into the grass. Staggering backwards, he fell hard into a pile of overturned dirt.

Mickey glared at him for just a second, dropped the crude weapon, and rushed over to a still-writhing Chandler. In a series of rapid-fire moves, he yanked his arms behind his back and bound his wrists with a plastic zip tie. Mickey then pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. He bit off an eight-inch strip, slapped it across Chandler's mouth. Zora scooped up the gun and together they dragged the big man to Mickey's pickup. They shoved him into the rear compartment and jumped in front. Moments later Mickey fired up the engine and slammed the gearshift into drive. The truck roared out of the parking lot, laying thirty feet of rubber as it fishtailed down Cass Street.

"You don't mess around, do you?" Zora said, clamping the buckle of her seat belt.

"What, the two-by-four, you mean?"

"Yeah, the two-by-four. A home run swing."

"Hey, do I look crazy enough to
fight
that dude?"

Zora had to agree. She managed a crooked smile.

"Okay, coach... where to?"

"North Beach," Zora said, emphatically.

"Why there?"

"Houdini."

"What about him?"

"You'll find out soon enough, Mickey."

* * *

Inside the Courthouse, a small crowd of onlookers stood dumbstruck, staring out tall banks of windows across the front lawn. Only after Mickey's truck had peeled around the corner and disappeared down the block did they react. Steiger and Rosekrans were huddled outside his office when a doughy woman wearing a flowery red dress came puffing down the hall. She was waving her arms frantically and chattering like a squirrel. It took stenographer Hazel Rafferty several moments to catch her breath, but when she finally calmed down she blurted out what had happened.

Most of it she got right.

After Hazel finished speaking, Steiger reached for his phone and punched in a number. The Commanding Officer of the SWAT unit in Seattle picked up on the second ring.

The team would be airborne in less than sixty seconds.

Chapter 43

4 April, 1:45 PM PDT

Port Townsend, Washington

Zora drew a quick breath as she poked her head around the corner of the 4-H building. It was one of several freestanding structures at the Jefferson County Fairgrounds. The expansive property sat on the north end of town, half a mile from the beach. The place was a ghost town most of the year, and it was deserted now. She and Mickey had decided to hide out here in hopes of shaking Chandler's security detail. His three bodyguards had roared into action within seconds of their boss's abduction, but lost the trail after Mickey rifled through Chandler's pockets. He'd found an iPhone with built-in tracking technology, and tossed it out the window.

Keeping low to the ground, Zora darted back to Mickey's truck. She knew there was no time to waste. She then placed a quick call to Houdini, a move that shifted their improbable plan into high gear. Moments later she spotted the SUV crawling past the entrance to the fairgrounds. The tinted windows were rolled down, three pairs of angry eyes scanning the whitewashed buildings. The vehicle inched along 49
^th
Street and rounded the bend toward San Juan Avenue.

Stepping into the cab, Zora said, "They'll be back... and soon. Let's roll."

Mickey nodded, pulled the Sig Sauer from his belt. He turned and shoved the pistol under Chandler's chin. "We haven't met asshole. I'm Mickey Kincaid. Katrina was my kid sister."

Chandler squirmed in his seat, mumbled something incoherent.

"What's that, you useless prick?" Mickey said, gritting his teeth.

The man had no way of answering.

Mickey lowered the pistol, squared himself in his seat, and handed the gun to Zora. "Sig Sauer P220. Nice weapon. You can fire 10,000 rounds a day, every day, with this thing without a single failure. I'll bet you know how to use it, too?"

"Yeah. When you grow up around coyotes and mountain lions, you damn well
better
know how to shoot."

"Good. I prefer my trusty Beretta." He tapped the glove box.

Zora glanced at Chandler and then at Mickey. "Well, I have a feeling you might need it."

Mickey drove out of the fairgrounds, turned left on Kuhn Street, and headed toward North Beach. Less than a minute later, he skidded to a stop beside a small park. Looking north, the location offered dazzling views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Whidbey Island, and snow-peaked Mt. Baker. To the east, a narrow trail looped over a rolling field of high grass. It disappeared into a wall of fir trees on the edge of Fort Worden State Park.

Zora stepped from the cab of the truck and looked around. The wind was whipping off the Sound in all its glory and a gentle rain began to fall. The beach was deserted. "Stay with the truck, Mickey, okay? Keep our friends in the SUV occupied, if they show up. I prefer to handle this sack of shit by myself." She opened the back door and waved the pistol in Chandler's face. "Get out."

Chandler fixed her with an angry stare. Shaking his head, he slid awkwardly across the rear seat and out of the vehicle.

Zora placed her free hand on his shoulder and shoved him toward the boat ramp, a wide concrete slab that angled some thirty feet down to the water. Chandler stumbled, nearly fell, then staggered to stop ten feet from the rocky shoreline. When he turned around, Zora was inches from his face. She glared at him for an intense moment before reaching out and ripping the duct tape from his mouth.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Chandler shouted, flexing his jaw back and forth. "This is kidnapping. I'll have you—"

Zora pointed the gun at his head. "You're breaking my heart here. Now shut the fuck up."

"Or what, you'll shoot me in cold blood? If you think you've got the horses for that, captain, bring it on."

"No, Chandler, a bullet to the head is too easy, too quick. A flash of pain and then it's over. So that's number one. Number two. You're going to come clean here. If you lie, I'll know. Number three. I talk, you listen. And I'm not in the market for bullshit. Understood?"

Chandler shook his head defiantly.

"Good," Zora said, lowering the weapon. "And just for kicks, I'll be recording all this." She pulled a smartphone from her pocket, activated the voice recorder, and set it on the ground next to her. "First question: The dead guy at the park. He's the weasel you sent to Sitka, right?"