Deadly Justice (22 page)

“Discovery is ongoing, sir. We still hope to uncover—”

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me, counsel. I asked if you have any evidence. Now.”

Ben covered his smile with his hands. This was going beautifully. He glanced at his colleague in the back row; he could tell Rob was pleased.

“Your honor, these are very complex, technical issues. We need more time—”

“There is no more time, Mr. Abernathy. Summary judgment is a put-up-or-shut-up motion.”

“Still, your honor—”

“Mr. Abernathy, do you at least have affidavits from your clients? That might be enough to put a material fact into dispute. Surely you could get an affidavit from your own clients.”

“I hadn’t really considered that, sir….”

Roemer threw up his hands. “This is absurd. You have no evidence. Furthermore, you have no likelihood of finding any in the future unless it walks up and clubs you in the face. This case is ripe for summary judgment.”

“Judge, if I may—”

“In fact, it’s more than ripe. This is a perfect example of what summary judgment was designed to preclude. A frivolous lawsuit alleging unsupported claims dragging a faultless defendant through pointless, expensive litigation. Summary judgment is hereby granted.” He banged his gavel to solidify his decision.

Ben rose. “Thank you, your honor.”

“You’ll draft up the order and judgment, counsel?” Ben nodded. “I’ll expect to see it in fifteen days. This hearing is dismissed.” Everyone shot to their feet as Roemer exited the courtroom.

Ben whirled around, buoyant. What a coup. Even if Abernathy threatened to appeal, as he probably would, it would be futile. He’d been creamed.

The only thing that could be better than a major victory is a major victory while your boss’s informant is watching. He started down the aisle toward Rob—then noticed the Nelsons sitting motionless on the front row.

June Nelson’s lips were moving, but no words were coming out. Ben leaned in closer. She was murmuring something over and over, just on the edge of audibility.

“My son…my son…They took my son.…”

Carl Nelson gently took her by the arm. “The show’s over, June. Let’s move along now.”

She did not respond. “Nobody cares.… They took my son.…”

Gently, Carl Nelson raised June to her feet and steered her toward the door.

“Is she going to be all right?” Ben asked.

“She’ll be fine. She’s just upset. It’s hard, losing your son like that. And now, with the judge throwing our case out of court—” His voice choked. He paused, inhaled deeply. “It’s as if the judge was saying it was okay. It was okay for them to do what they did. It was okay and nobody cares that our son is gone forever.”

Ben was unsure whether he could maintain control of himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Carl Nelson patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right, son. You were just doing your job.”

They shuffled past Ben and left the courtroom.

T
OMLINSON WAITED OUTSIDE THE
Eleventh Street Denny’s, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his car. He’d been there since eight-fifteen. An overabundance of caution—perhaps. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He was close—very close—to catching the killer, and proving to Morelli once and for all that he had the right stuff to play on the Homicide team. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t fumble the ball in the last quarter.

He checked the clock on the dash of his car. It was five after nine. Trixie was late. He tried not to become concerned. She was a teenager, after all. When was a teenager ever not late? Still, it made him nervous. Too many potential witnesses had died already. He wasn’t going to let this one slip silently into the grave as well.

He fingered the outline of the revolver in the shoulder harness under his jacket. He’d catch all kinds of hell if anyone knew he’d removed a weapon from the station arsenal—guns weren’t generally required for switchboard duty. But Trixie needed protection, and he intended to provide it. She was a likable girl—charming, in her way. He hated to think about what could have driven her to the streets at her age. Her life had been tough enough already. It was going to stop here, if he had anything to say about it. He hoped Trixie didn’t take much longer. Nervousness aside, he’d promised Karen he wouldn’t be out all night, as he had been last night, and the night before, and the night before that. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spent a pleasant evening with Kathleen. These days, the only hours he was home were the hours she was certain to be asleep. He’d become exactly what he told himself he’d never be—an all-work, no-family fool. Just like his own father.

He rolled down the window of his car and listened to the dissonant sounds of the city. If he could just get past this one case, he thought to himself. If he could just get this psycho behind bars, get his promotion, and get on with his life. That was all he wanted. Why did it have to be so hard in coming?

At ten after, Trixie pushed open the front door of the building on the opposite side of the street. She was wearing tattered jeans with holes over the knees, a white T-shirt turned backwards, and gold hoop earrings. She looked almost normal—like any teenage kid you might see wandering around the mall. If only it were so.

She passed between two parked cars and started crossing the four-lane street. Just as she made it to the center, Tomlinson heard the squeal of tires. A large black van pulled away from the curb and peeled across the street. It careened down the center at an impossible speed; its target was obvious.

“Trixie!” Tomlinson screamed out.

Trixie looked up just in time to see the van’s headlights bearing down on her. She staggered backward, confused.

“Trixie! Move!”

Trixie skittered clumsily back the way she had come and jumped onto the hood of one of the parked cars. The van whizzed by, scraping the parked car as it passed. There was an electric, burning sound; sparks flew between the cars. The parked car shuddered. Trixie rolled with it and landed on the sidewalk.

“Trixie, wait!
I’m coming!”

Trixie did not wait. She fled back inside the building.” A few moments later, Tomlinson saw all the lights shut off.

Tomlinson ran across the street. There was no point in trying to follow the van; it could be halfway to Joplin by now. He entered the tall, narrow building Trixie and her buddies called home.

The entire house was dark. Faint traces of moonlight filtered through a few high windows, but provided precious little illumination. He couldn’t see a foot before him.

“Trixie! It’s Officer Tomlinson!”

There was no response. Of course not. She didn’t know who was prowling around down there. She hadn’t known him long enough to recognize his voice. For all she knew he was the maniac driving the van. Maybe she thought he had arranged this meeting so he could kill her. No, she wasn’t going to come out for anyone.

“Is anybody else in here?” If so, they weren’t answering. Probably there was no one—the other girls would be working, and their pimp lived across the street. In all likelihood, it was just him and Trixie.

Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could see the dim outline of a staircase leading upstairs. Through the foyer, he saw a parlor—nothing elegant, just a television and a ratty old sofa. He passed through the parlor, then through the kitchen, then back into the foyer, without finding anyone.

He mounted the staircase. The steps creaked beneath his feet. In the blackness, the effect was eerie. He watched his feet, trying to make sure he didn’t slip through a crack or fall off the edge. Even in the dark, he could tell this house was a rathole. Unclean, unfit, poorly ventilated—and Trixie’s boss probably charged her more for it than Tomlinson paid on his mortgage. Another piece of the boss man’s percentage.

He reached the top of the stairs. He spotted a light switch and flipped it; nothing happened. Trixie must’ve cut the breakers. She was taking no chances on being caught.

The top of the stairs unfolded upon a long hallway that stretched in two directions. Tomlinson saw several doors on both sides; the rooms must be the size of closets. Enough room for a cot and a change box—that was all that was required.

He opened the door to the first room on the left. “Trixie? Trixie, I promise I’m not—”

There was a sudden shrieking, and something hit him in the face. He staggered back, disoriented, panicked. Whatever it was, it was still there, clinging to him. Something cut him; he could feel blood trickling out. He flailed desperately, trying to break free, trying to see, reaching up for—

It was a cat. He grabbed the furry beast and tossed it across the room. He had to laugh, despite the fact that he was dripping with sweat and trembling from head to toe. It was just a damn cat, for Pete’s sake. A cat had jumped up and scratched him. And he’d practically had a cardiac arrest.

The darkness was definitely getting to him. He was breathing in short raspy breaths, and his shirt was clinging to his skin. If he could just find some candles, or a flashlight. Maybe he should go back to his car—

But if he did that, Trixie would leave, and he might never find her again. He had to track her down now, while there was still some hope of regaining her trust.

He heard a noise downstairs. He couldn’t quite identify it—probably the cat racing outside, trying to escape the tall, dark monster it had encountered in the dark. It couldn’t be Trixie. He would’ve heard her going down those creaky stairs.

“Trixie! Please come out. Turn the power back on so we can—”

And that’s when it occurred to him. Maybe that hadn’t been the cat he heard downstairs. Maybe—

He froze. His chest heaved, but other than that, he couldn’t move. Maybe the noise hadn’t been the cat slipping out, he thought. Maybe it had been someone else slipping in.

Tensing all his muscles, he forced himself into action. He ran to a window overlooking the front door. Sure enough, a black van with smoked glass windows was parked not twenty feet down the street. He couldn’t read the license plate.

He cursed himself bitterly. The driver hadn’t sped off. The driver was right here with him. In the dark.

As quietly as possible, Tomlinson sidestepped back into the hallway. It was so quiet—was there something outside, some noise, some hint, some echo? Something soft and regular? Footsteps? Breathing? Or just his imagination?

“Trixie?” he whispered. “Is that you? If it is, please come here. We’re safer together. I can protect you.”

Abruptly, the soft sound stopped. It was the absence that proved its existence; Tomlinson was only certain he had heard a noise when it ended.

“Trixie?” he repeated.

If it was her, she wasn’t coming any closer. Could it be—the other? He was sure the driver of the van couldn’t be upstairs yet. Those stairs creaked so badly; he couldn’t possibly have come upstairs without being heard.

Tomlinson placed one hand on the handle of his revolver. He pressed himself flat against the wall. He scanned the hallway as well as possible in this killing obscurity.

There was nothing there. Nothing, nobody. He released his breath in an outpouring of relief. How long had he been holding his breath? He walked to the head of the stairs. That would be the safest, smartest place. The driver couldn’t get upstairs without being heard, and Trixie couldn’t leave without going through him. “His confidence began to return. This was a workable plan. Foolproof, really. He was embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner. He’d been letting the dark get to him, letting it affect his performance as a police officer.

There was nothing here to worry about. Nothing that could hurt him—

The hands wrapped around his neck in a tight choke hold, cutting off his breath. Something hit him hard in the stomach. Tomlinson grabbed his gun, but one of the hands applied crippling force to his palm. He heard his fingers snap; his gun fell to the floor. The pain was unbearable. He felt dizzy and sick.

Suddenly, it was even blacker than before. Something had been pulled over his head, something cold and thin. It crinkled like plastic. He tried to catch his breath, which made the plastic cling to his mouth and choke him all the worse. He tried to struggle, to move, to get away, but his assailant held him tight. Whoever it was must be incredibly strong; Tomlinson couldn’t move at all.

He lost his footing and stumbled off the top stair. It didn’t matter. The strong hands held him upright.

He felt something tighten around his throat. He knew he was fading. He tried to kick, but his feet only touched empty air. He tried to shout, but he couldn’t make a sound. He was absolutely helpless.

Trixie!
he wanted to cry out, but the words would not come. He could barely think, his chest throbbed so. He felt his consciousness escaping as the world swirled around him. Bright white lights flashed before his eyes. What would happen to Karen, and Kathleen? He fell to his knees, wanting to cry, wanting to beg for mercy, but helpless to do anything at all.

And then everything turned to black.

T
HE DRIVER OF THE VAN
exited on the Eleventh Street side of the corner. His black boots tapped along the pavement, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. The wind tousled his meticulously styled hair. Annoyed, he pushed the errant strands back into place.

He opened the glass door to Denny’s and approached the counter. He waved at the waitress, smiling a handsome smile.

“Excuse me. Did you work here last night?”

“That I did.” She placed her order pad inside her apron and leaned against the counter. “Why? D’you fall in love and come back to marry me?”

“No,” the man said, grinning. “But I may yet. I’m looking for someone.”

“ ’Zat right?” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Why would you be doing that? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. Not by a long shot.” He took a Polaroid photo out of his pocket and passed it to the woman. “This is the girl I’m looking for. I believe she goes by the name Trixie.”

The woman glanced at the photo, men passed it back. “What you be wantin’ with Trixie?”