CARLY SAT BETWEEN NICK
and Alex in a packed courtroom. The trial of Galen Burke had taken two weeks, but the jury had only been out for a mere two hours of deliberation before they announced they had a verdict. The packed courtroom quieted as the jury filed back in. Carly tightened her grip on Nick’s hand even as the DA turned and flashed a confident smile.
After legalese that seemed to last a lifetime, they got to the meat, and Carly breathed a thankful prayer as “guilty” followed each and every charge read. She leaned back and closed her eyes, body relaxing as if she’d just had a wonderful massage.
Nick leaned close, and she felt his warm breath on her ear. “You did it, babe,” he whispered.
As soon as the judge accepted the verdict and set a date for sentencing, he banged the gavel, and the courtroom erupted in the noise of dozens of voices talking at once. Carly opened her eyes and accepted congratulations and thumbs-up from a lot of people. The DA stepped back, sat in the chair in front of her, and turned her way with a smile.
“We did it. And I bet now Correa will cop a plea.”
Carly tilted her head, ambivalent about that. She didn’t want him to get any kind of break, but she wasn’t interested in going through another stressful trial either. Correa was paralyzed from the waist down as a result of running his boat into the jetty. That in itself was a type of justice. Jarvis had died; his body was recovered a couple days after the crash.
Correa wasn’t talking but had said a lot to Ginny Masters when he took her captive. She’d been a wealth of information for the prosecutors. Even though Burke was in custody, Correa had told Masters that he’d been working closely with him. The money in the foundation accounts had been embezzled from the harbor business Correa oversaw. Correa was ready to use every last dollar to get revenge and free his friend Burke.
The pair’s desire for revenge set everything into motion. Correa admitted to arranging for the theft of the guns and explosives. He’d used contacts from high school—people both he and Barton knew—and since that had gone so well, when Barton was released, he brought him into the plan. He claimed shooting the gang members to start a gang war and
keep the police busy was Barton’s idea, but Masters didn’t believe him.
Like Potter had said, Correa hadn’t wanted to kill Carly right away. He and Burke wanted to discredit her first and make her testimony worthless. But Dean Barton made too many mistakes. He never did exactly what Correa asked; he always improvised. According to Masters, Correa thought Dean had ruined all his plans, and he told her himself that he was the one who killed Dean.
Carly knew that the FBI and the DA were working hard to find the evidence to charge Correa with everything they could. Besides the two dead gang members, two protestors had been killed in the explosion and fire in Sandy Park and dozens injured. He’d set that bomb in the hopes of attracting Nick. He had Potter’s scanner and was listening carefully to police traffic, so he knew exactly where Nick was that night. And of course there was the murder of Barton, the death of Jarvis, and last but never least in Carly’s mind, Jeff’s murder. The best call Carly had made in a long time was the call to Elaine to tell her that Jeff’s murderer was in custody.
All in all, Carly would be satisfied to see him get life in prison and never see the light of a free day again.
“Just make it the best deal in the interest of all his victims,” Carly said.
“Will do,” DA Martin said.
The courtroom had mostly cleared out. Carly and Nick stood.
“Can I buy you guys a victory lunch?” Alex asked.
“Not today. We have to get to the hospital.”
Alex slapped his forehead. “That’s right. I forgot. Hector gets out today.”
“Yeah, there’s going to be a little party for him before he leaves. Victor and his mother asked us to come.”
“I hear he’s a miracle.”
Carly nodded. “He’s walking and talking, and the hope is that his recovery will eventually be 100 percent. He doesn’t remember anything about the night he was shot and he’s still got a long road ahead of him, but he’s doing good right now.”
“You’ll be at the dedication this afternoon?”
Carly groaned.
Nick put his hands on her shoulders. “Yes, she’ll be there.”
•••
The nurses and doctors at the hospital had been so impressed with Hector, they’d gone all out for his send-off party. A section of the cafeteria was decorated with good-luck signs, and there was a large chocolate cake with his name spelled out in candles. He would still need physical therapy—his right side was weak and he had difficulty concentrating—but he was about 80 percent and able to function, and he wanted to go home.
Londy, Mary Ellen, and Victor were putting the finishing touches on balloon decorations when Carly and Nick stepped in. Along with the hospital personnel and all of Hector’s brothers and sisters, Pastor Rawlings was there and a couple of Ninjas Carly had seen in church with Londy once
or twice. Erika and Ned were there as well. Half Baked had donated the cake and the coffee. Ned understood traumatic brain injury and had gotten close to Hector.
Carly did a double take when she saw her supervisor, Sergeant Barrett, in attendance with his wife. Alicia Barrett was a physical therapist who’d been working with Hector. Carly had met her when Barrett brought her to church one Sunday. The couple was still separated but they were talking to each other—and seeing Pastor Rawlings.
While Carly and Nick were pouring coffee, Hector was wheeled in to applause. It was hard to decide who had the bigger smile, Hector or Victor. Londy had told her how the boy was so excited to have his brother home that he’d cleaned up the room they shared and sold his iPod to buy Hector a welcome-home present.
Hector was able to walk with a cane, so he got out of the wheelchair to take a seat at the table. The party went on, with hospital staff presenting various gifts to him that would assist in his rehabilitation. The last present he opened was the one from his brother Victor.
Carly murmured with surprise when she saw it was a Bible—a nice one with a leather cover engraved with Hector’s nickname, Crusher.
“That’s awesome,” she said to Londy.
“It is. And you know what else is? Hector remembers one thing from the night he was shot.”
“He remembers who shot him?”
“No, he remembers D. He was praying and Hector asked
D. to pray for him, too. D. said he would.” Londy choked up and took a minute to compose himself. “Anyway, he knows D. prayed for him and that’s why he’s alive. That made a huge impression on Victor.”
“Has Victor joined your youth group?”
“Not mine, but the one at his mother’s church. He’s learning. Now that Mr. Correa is in jail and the other guys are dead, and Crush is good, he figures prayer is cool. He wants his brother to help him learn to read the Bible, figures there’s more good stuff in there.”
“He’s right about that,” Nick said, gripping Carly’s hand. “It’s about time for us to go change for the dedication.”
Carly looked into his sparkling blue eyes, thinking she would try to talk him out of making her go. Being honored and given an award for doing her job would just make her feel uncomfortable. But in truth, she couldn’t say no to him. She’d follow him anywhere.
A FORMER LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA,
police officer of twenty-two years, Janice Cantore worked a variety of assignments, including patrol, administration, juvenile investigations, and training. She’s always enjoyed writing and published two short articles on faith at work for
Cop and Christ
and
Today’s Christian Woman
before tackling novels. A few years ago, she retired to a house in the mountains of Southern California, where she lives with three Labrador retrievers, Jake, Maggie, and Abbie.
Janice writes suspense novels designed to keep readers engrossed and leave them inspired.
Avenged
, the sequel to
Accused
and
Abducted
, is the third book in the Pacific Coast Justice series, featuring Carly Edwards.
Visit Janice’s website at
www.janicecantore.com
and connect with her on Facebook at
facebook.com/JaniceCantore
.
SEVENTY-FOUR PERCENT
of abducted children who are murdered are dead within three hours of the abduction.
The grim statistic rumbled around in K-9 Officer Brinna Caruso's brain like a hand grenade without the pin. There was no evidence that six-year-old Josh Daniels had been abducted, yet the statistic taunted her.
Brinna and her K-9, Hero, a four-year-old Labrador retriever, were part of a team of officers fanned out across El Dorado Park, the largest city park in Long Beach, California, searching for Josh. He'd disappeared from an afternoon family picnic two and a half hours ago.
The huge park successfully created the illusion of wilderness, dense in some places, open in others. There were a thousand places to hideâor be hidden. Brinna normally loved the park, the smell of pine trees and nature, the illusion of pristine innocence and safety. Today all she could think about was how quickly innocence could be lost or, worse, stolen.
Hero trotted ahead on a well-beaten path, panting in the summer heat. Brinna and Officer Maggie Sloan followed a few feet behind. Maggie had left her partner back at the picnic site with the boy's family.
“You are so intense it's scary,” Maggie said.
“What?” Brinna glanced from Hero to Maggie, who regarded her with a bemused expression. She wasn't just another officer; she was Brinna's confidante and best friend on the force.
“I'm just keeping an eye on my dog,” Brinna explained, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “He's definitely following a scent.”
“That's good news, isn't it?” Maggie asked. “It means we should find the boy. Why the frown?”
Brinna shrugged. “I want to find a boy and not a body.”
“Harrumph.” Maggie waved a hand dismissively. “There's no indication Josh was snatched. The best guess is he got lost playing hide-and-seek. El Dorado is to parks what Disneyland is to carnivals. He could be anywhere. You always imagine the worst where kids are concerned.”
Brinna gritted her teeth. “Because you know as well as I do, if a kid is abducted, the chances are overwhelming that they will be a victim of murder.”
Jaw set, Brinna returned her full attention to the dog. She'd had this conversation before, with Maggie and others, almost every time a child went missing. The guys on her team liked to say that since Brinna didn't believe there was a God watching out for kids, she'd given herself the job.
“The operative word is
if
. You're such a glass-is-half-empty person.” Maggie slapped Brinna's shoulder with the back of her hand. “What about the ones found alive? Elizabeth Smart, Shawn Hornbeck, Brinna Caruso?”
“For every three of us rescued, there're nine who die,” Brinna shot back. “You know my goal is 100 percent saved.”
Maggie snorted in exasperation. “All the time you spend riding rail on registered sex offenders and monitoring any missing kid case flagged suspicious.” She shook her head and wagged an index finger. “You can't save them all.”
Brinna said nothing, hating that truth. Hero came to a stop, and like dominoes, so did Brinna and then Maggie.
“Maybe I can't save them all,” Brinna conceded. “But it certainly won't be for a lack of trying.”
Maggie followed Brinna's gaze to Hero, then turned back to her friend and smiled. “You sure earn your nickname, Kid Crusader.”
Brinna watched the dog. His nose up, testing the air, Hero trotted off in a more determined fashion than before. When he caught a scent, the hackles on the back of his neck rose ever so slightly. Brinna felt her own neck tingle as if there were a sympathetic connection between her and the dog.
“He's got something stronger.” She stepped up her pace after Hero, Maggie on her heels.
They jogged to the left, into an area thick with tall pines and full oaks. After about a hundred feet, Hero barked and sat, turning toward Brinna. It was his practiced alert signal. Brinna's heart caught in her throat. If her dog had just found Josh, the boy wasn't moving; in fact, he wasn't even standing.
She followed the dog's gaze to a pile of leaves and held her breath.
When she heard muffled sniffling coming from the
leaves, Brinna exhaled, rolling her eyes in relief. Then she saw the toe of a small tennis shoe sticking out. The boy was hiding. Turning to Maggie, she pointed at the shoe. Maggie smiled.
Brinna spoke to the quivering mass. “Josh, Josh Daniels. It's the police. Is that you?”
A half sob and an intake of breath emanated from the pile. The leaves moved, and a dirty-faced blond boy peered out at her.
“The po-police?” He cast an eye toward Hero. “That's not a coyote coming to eat me?”
Kneeling, Brinna bit back a chuckle. The boy's fear was plausible. He'd wandered into a particularly dense section of the park. The only things absent were dangerous animals. She understood a lost boy's imagination getting the best of him.
“Nope, it's my dog, Hero. Hero is a police dog. He doesn't eat little boys. He helped me find you.”
Josh sat up and the leaves fell away, revealing a boy smudged with sweat, soil, and grime. He sniffed. “I was playing and I got lost. I called and called, but my mom didn't come. Then I heard noises. I was afraid of wild animals, so I hid.”
“Well, your mom and dad sent us to find you,” Maggie said. “Are you ready to go home?”
Josh nodded vigorously and stood, brushing off dirt and leaves as he did so. “Can I pet your dog?” he asked Brinna, the tears already drying.
“Sure,” Brinna said as she stood, ignoring the triumphant smirk Maggie shot her. Brinna pulled out her handheld radio
and notified the command post that the situation was code 4, all over and resolved. “We're on our way out.”
Brinna smiled as she took the boy's hand. The statistic tumbling around in her mind disappeared in a poof, like a dud.
â¢â¢â¢
“Officer Caruso! Officer Caruso!”
Brinna groaned. Tracy Michaels, the local police beat reporter, was hailing her. Brinna had almost made it to her car avoiding all contact with the press. She wished Maggie were still with her. Maggie always knew how to talk to the press. But Maggie was with her own partner, seeing to the happy family reunion.
“Officer Caruso! I have the okay for an interview.”
Brinna stopped at her K-9 unit, a black-and-white Ford Explorer, and turned, counting to ten so she wouldn't say anything she'd regret. Reporters only wanted bad news. They thrived on tragedy. She faced Michaels, a young, eager woman who approached with a pad and pen in her right hand.
“Tracy, we found the kid in a pile of leaves, alive and unmolestedânot much excitement in that story.”
The reporter shook her head. “I don't want to talk about Josh Daniels. I want to talk about your upcoming anniversary.”
“My anniversary?” Brinna frowned.
“Don't tell me you don't mark the day in some special fashion,” Tracy said, hands on her hips. “Next week, it will be twenty years to the day since you were rescued after being abducted.”
â¢â¢â¢
At 4 a.m., Jack O'Reilly awoke from the dream as he normally did, screaming his wife's name and clutching his pillow as if he could somehow use it to drag her back from the dead.
The cries died in his throat as he opened his eyes to the dark living room, and the terror of the dream faded. Since Vicki's death, the couch had become his bed. The bedroom he left untouched, preserving it as it was on the last day his wife left it.
He sat up, breathing deep, heart pounding. For the briefest of moments he imagined he caught a whiff of his wife's scent, and he inhaled deeply, hoping to prolong the illusion, but it evaporated.
The dream was always the same. He and Vicki were walking and smiling. He held one hand while she rested her other on her expanding belly as if hanging on to the life growing there. The first feelings associated with the dream were those of profound happiness. The bleak reality of the last year disappeared in the pleasant subconscious illusion.
But it didn't last.
At some point Jack was aware of an approaching car. He wanted to tell Vicki to watch out, to move, but his voice was suffocated by dream-state paralysis. The car roared by and took Vicki with it. Her hand was wrenched from his as his screams wrenched him from sleep. He awakened to the empty life he'd lived for almost a year.
Tossing the pillow aside, Jack headed for the shower. To sleep again so soon after the dream would be like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube.
Standing in the shower with hot water pounding into his chest, Jack stared at his hands. He clenched and unclenched a fist, touched the cool tiles, and wondered how it was that he was still alive.
I don't feel alive,
he thought.
Maybe I'm dead, and I just don't know it. If it weren't for the pain, I'd feel nothing.
Toweling off, Jack grabbed a robe and padded barefoot into the kitchen to start coffee. He glanced at the calendar stuck to the refrigerator and saw what was keeping him alive. The date circled in red was a little more than two weeks away. It was the date of the sentencing.
Vicki had been driving to an afternoon doctor's appointment in her economical Honda. She'd called Jack before she left the house, bubbling with excitement about how active the child inside her was. “He'll be big and strong like his daddy,” she'd gushed, though they didn't know what sex the baby was yet. Jack knew now. A little girl had died with his wife.
Fresh from a wet lunch, Gil Martin had started up his brand-new Hummer. Ignoring at least seven vehicles who'd honked a warning at him, Gil got on the 710 freeway going north in the southbound lanes. Investigators estimated his speed was close to sixty when he crested a small rise and hit Vicki head-on. She never had a chance.
Martin had already been found guilty of gross vehicular manslaughter. All that was left was the sentencing. Jack hated the man as much as anyone could hate.
The hate,
he thought.
That's what's keeping me going,
keeping me alive. I just need to be sure he gets what he deserves. If the court doesn't give it to him, I will.
Jack sipped coffee in the kitchen, staring at nothing, until it was time to get dressed and go to work. He put on his suit and tie, clipped his badge and duty weapon to his belt, and climbed into his car.
Hanging from the rearview mirror was the cross he'd given to Vicki on their second wedding anniversary. It had hung around her neck until the coroner removed it and placed it in an envelope for Jack. While Jack no longer believed in what the cross symbolized, he cherished the necklace because it had been near Vicki's heart when it had beat its last.
Half-listening to the radio, Jack would reach up from time to time and rub the cross between his thumb and forefinger as he drove. There'd been an officer-involved shooting last night. If he'd felt alive, he thought, the news would have given him a jolt. Homicide investigators handled all officer-involved shootings. But Jack felt no excitement, no drive to learn the details.
He'd asked six months ago to be taken off the normal homicide rotation. Now he filed paper and reviewed cold cases all day. But not the pictures. Jack couldn't stand the bodies anymore. In every female victim Jack saw Vicki's mangled body and in every dead child the little girl they'd never had a chance to name.
I'm a dead man working homicide,
he thought.
But only for two and a half more weeks. I just need to hang on for two and a half more weeks.