Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1 (30 page)

The guy had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a black kerchief tied over the bottom half of his face. A long-barreled pistol was in his right hand. He dropped lithely to the bricks and trotted almost silently down the patio, heading for her and Garland like a guided missile. The pistol in his hand came up in one smooth motion as he neared them, the barrel extended by a perforated silencer that made the small gun almost a foot long.

Garland had his back to the fence, his concentration fixed on her, he never saw the gun or the man wielding it, but he heard something at the last second and started to turn. Too late. The shooter touched the barrel of the silencer to the skin behind Garland’s ear and pulled the trigger.

The gun made a flat ‘pop’ that barely broke the hot stillness of the backyard and Garland’s head snapped sideways like he had been hit with a hammer. Two more ‘pops’ followed the first like a short string of firecrackers, each one knocking Garland’s head further and further to the left. But Garland didn’t go down immediately. He stayed on his feet for a protracted moment, blood leaking from the three small holes in the side of his skull, his expression one of deep confusion. Then his knees buckled and he lost his grip on the shotgun. It clattered to the bricks and Garland followed it down, landing on his back, his legs tucked up under him.

Victoria looked up quickly, fearfully, at the shooter, wondering if she was next, but he was already walking past her, heading for the kitchen door, moving fast and quiet. He stopped halfway through the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at her. Only a narrow sliver of his face was visible between the brim of the cap and the top of the kerchief, enough to make out that he was probably Hispanic or Asian.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared.

Ten seconds later gunfire came from inside the house. Two distinctive weapons, the low popping sounds that she recognized as the shooter’s silenced pistol followed by the roar of four large caliber rounds. One of the kitchen windows exploded and two bullets punched splintering holes through the kitchen wall, just feet from Victoria’s head. She leapt to the left as three more soft pops were followed by another four booming shots. Then silence.

The quiet lasted for several moments before the cicadas in the shrubbery started chirring, first one then a hundred of them, shrilly signaling the ‘all clear,’ but Victoria knew better. She was considering which way to run when the shooter reappeared in the kitchen doorway.

“He got away,” the man said, his voice disembodied behind the kerchief. He crossed the bricks to stand in front of her. “Turn around,” he told her as he tucked the pistol into his waistband and pulled his T-shirt down over it.

Wordlessly, Victoria did as she was told. The man’s hands worked at the cuffs for a second and she was suddenly free. He tucked the handcuffs into his back pocket, stooped, swept her possession into her purse, stood, and handed her the handbag.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He seemed to consider the question for a moment, but when he spoke he didn’t answer it.

“You all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “Who are you?” she asked again.

“An old friend of your husband’s,” he said with a chuckle. “Get out of here. And forget you ever saw me.” He turned and headed back the way he had come, vaulting himself easily over the ten foot privacy fence, disappearing like smoke.

Victoria looked down at Garland. A fly landed on one of the tiny wounds in the dead man’s head, its mandibles working greedily. Another fly buzzed in beside the first. The dinner bell had just been rung.

In the distance a siren wailed. Victoria turned away and hurried around the side of the house.

51

Valentine
turned into the driveway in front of his home and parked in the shade of the pecan trees that dominated the front yard, his thoughts churning. He had accomplished nothing that day. He was still a target for a pair of psychopaths. Still a danger to his own family.

With the air conditioner off, the Mustang’s interior started to heat up fast, but he made no move to exit the car. He was dreading the silence of the empty house. The boys were a non-stop soundtrack of babble and shouts, laughter and tears. You got used to it and, pretty soon, you couldn’t live without it. He rolled the window down, but that didn’t help the temperature much. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and still he sat there, his thoughts shifting from the twins back to the money. And the gold coins.

He couldn’t shake the thought that it
had
to be close to the Suttons’ last hideout. Mentally, he walked back through the house once again, then let his mind wander the neighboring streets, all ground that had been thoroughly covered by cops, insurance investigators and citizens with metal detectors. But other thoughts intruded. Flashes of memories from the basement. The blood and bodies. The smells of burning gasoline from the chainsaw. Of blood and feces—

And that’s when it hit him. He shot up straight in his seat. He knew where the money was. He was almost certain. The one spot that no one would have looked…

“I need a shovel,” he said aloud, thinking fast. There wasn’t more than a couple of hours of daylight left, and he’d need every bit of it for what he intended to do. He reached for the door handle, but reaching was as far as he got before a circle of cold steel touched him on the back of his sweaty neck.

Val jumped so hard his head hit the Mustang’s roof. He knew instantly that the spot of cold was a pistol barrel and that he was dead, but that knowledge didn’t slow his gun hand down. He had the .45 out and was working the safety when Deputy Henry Erath spoke, his breath humid in Val’s ear.

“You’re fast, Vicious, but you ain’t faster than a bullet,” he said like a TV show cop. But his gun was real enough. “Drop the pistol or your next stop will be the county morgue.”

Val froze, the .45 at chest level, his mind spinning through the options. Every conceivable scenario ended with his brains splattered across the dash. Slowly he flipped the .45’s safety, relaxed his fingers and let the pistol drop. It hit his thigh then thumped to the carpet at his feet.

“Out of the car,” Erath said, “Slowly. Use your right hand to open the door.”

Val did as he was instructed. He popped the door open then eased out of the car. Keeping his hands out wide, fingers splayed, he turned to face Erath, who was backing away, his gun at hip level, tight to his body just in case Val got stupid. But Val had no intentions of making a move. Erath had an easy way with the pistol that suggested much practice, Val had little doubt that he’d be shot to doll rags before he could take a step.

“Come toward me slowly,” Erath said, crooking a finger at Val, as he continued to back away, out into the sunshine, his pistol leveled on Val’s belly.

Val silently did as instructed.

“Stop right there,” Erath commanded as Val emerged from the shadows of the trees, the head-on glare of the setting sun almost blinding him. But, even with the sun in his face, he could still see one of the Special Tactics Unit’s black Suburbans parked at the curb. There were no other cops in sight and no regular people either. The street was somnolent in the early evening heat; everyone with any sense was hunkered in front of their air conditioner.

“On your knees, hands behind your head,” Erath ordered.

Val complied, lowering himself slowly to the concrete and lacing his fingers behind his head. Erath kept his distance as he circled behind Val, then rushed forward and kicked him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach. A split second later, Erath had a knee jammed into the middle of Val’s back, pinning him to the concrete. Val didn’t resist as the stocky deputy jerked his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, cinching the bracelets down extra-tight. The whole process took less than ten seconds, Erath was as efficient as a rodeo cowboy bulldogging a calf.

Erath stood, looming over Val. “Get up on your knees.”

Val did as he was told, the process an awkward struggle with his hands pinned behind his back, but Erath helped by steadying Val with his free hand. When Val finally managed it, Erath dropped to a squat in front of him, his eyes level with Val’s, his pistol resting on his thigh, the barrel aimed casually at Valentine’s groin.

“Reminds me of our last meeting,” Erath said, giving the bandage over Val’s eye a meaningful glance.

“I remember it well,” Valentine replied dryly, fighting the urge to squirm, to shift his crotch out of the line of fire. Even a bullet in the head would be preferable to being castrated. “I wore gray, you wore black. It was a sunny day. The smell of fresh cut grass was in the air—”

‘Thock.’ Erath’s pistol moved too fast for Val to flinch away. The blow caught him above his right eye, reopening the cut and setting off a fireworks show inside his skull. He tumbled to the driveway where his forehead ricocheted off the concrete, setting off the Roman-candle grand finale. But he didn’t stay down for long before Erath grabbed a fistful of his shirtfront and hauled him back up into a kneeling position.

“Yep,” Val slurred, nodding his head as blood leaked from beneath the bandage into his eye. “That’s just like I remember it.”

“You’re a funny guy,” Erath said, but he didn’t sound amused.

Val heard a car door open and close. He blinked his eyes and looked toward the street to see Detective Gruene of the DPD striding quickly up the driveway, her coattails flapping. She stopped three feet off and turned half toward the street.

“Jesus, Henry, not out here,” she said, her eyes skipping from Val’s bloody face to scan up and down the block, squinting against the sun. There was still no one in sight.

Erath ignored her. His dark eyes bored into Val’s. “What were you doing out in Hudson?” Erath asked, but he answered his own question before Val could: “Looking for the money,” he said contemptuously. “I was out there myself this morning. Who busted up the walls?”

Val shrugged. “Termites?”

‘Thock’ the pistol rang off Val’s skull again, sending him tumbling back to the concrete.

“Henry,” Gruene said anxiously, but she made no move to intervene, and Erath made no sign that he had heard her. He jerked Val upright again.

The world spun before Val’s eyes, a merry-go-round of green and blue. Erath leaned in so close that Val could smell the man’s lunch. Beef loaded with garlic and onions.

“I’d suggest you start giving me some straight answers,” the deputy said, but Val was sick of playing Judy to Erath’s Punch. He snapped his head forward and drove his forehead into Erath’s nose, smashing the cartilage flat with a sharp ‘crack.’ Blood splattered and Erath went down on his ass, his pistol flying from his grasp to skitter down the driveway.

And then Val was looking up the barrel of Gruene’s 9mm, into her pale, pinched face.

“Don’t move,” she barked. Behind her, Erath clumsily began to rise.

Erath really was a tough guy, Val had to concede. Even with a broken nose spouting a steady stream of mucousy blood, the deputy got to his feet in less than an eight-count. He stalked unsteadily down the driveway to his gun, stooped and snatched it up then turned and made three quick strides back up the driveway, his pistol sweeping up, lining up on Val’s forehead.

“No! Henry!” Gruene screamed and knocked her partner’s gun hand wide, but Henry wasn’t listening and he wasn’t going to be stopped. He stiff-armed her, sending her sprawling on the concrete, and brought the pistol back up. Erath was breathing hard. Blood bubbled from his flattened nose and dripped from his chin, but the pistol was steady in his fist.

“Henry!” Gruene yelled, popping back up almost as quickly as she had gone down. The sleeve of her suit coat was torn and there was a smear of dirt on her right cheek. She grabbed Erath’s forearm and dug her nails in. “He’s not worth it,” she said, flicking a glance at Valentine. A glance so twisted with loathing that it was clear that watching Val get gunned down wouldn’t exactly put her off her supper.

Erath didn’t shift his aim. “The only thing lower than rapists and murderers is a dirty cop,” he said, chewing the words out with blood-streaked teeth. His finger stayed taut on the 9mm’s trigger, a fraction of an inch from sending a brass-jacketed round through Val’s skull. But the bullet never came.

Slowly, Erath lowered the pistol.

“Get his gun, Sally,” he snapped as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to blot his nose. The white square came away sopped with blood. He pressed it back to his nose, his voice taking on a quacking quality as he continued. “It’s on the driver’s side floorboard.”

“The permit’s in my wallet,” Val said quickly. The thought of being left without a weapon with Jasper and Garland Sutton out there gunning for him made his gut coil tight. “You have no cause to confiscate it.”

Neither cop replied. Gruene strode past Val, heading for the Mustang. A moment later she called out, “I’ve secured the weapon. It’s a .45 auto.” She rejoined Erath and Val, the .45 sealed in a Ziploc freezer bag.

“You can’t take that gun,” Val said. “I have a concealed carry permit.”

“Judge Pinto says different,” Erath interjected. “He’s got a thing about murderers having firearms.” Erath reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. “This is an arrest warrant for you for the murder of Abby Sutton.”

“Bullshit.” Val said. “That’s a DPD case. Jack Birch told you—” he stopped right there. Jack had already placed too much on the line for his ex-partner, Val wouldn’t involve him further.

Erath gave Val a rocky smile. “Jack’s not here to cover your ass anymore, Vicious.” he said. “Not that he could this time. We got a murder weapon with your prints all over it. Add that to a motive like fifteen million dollars and stir in your history with the Sutton family…” Erath shrugged. “You’re going to spend your few remaining years on death row.” He crooked his finger at Val. “Get on your feet,” he said, then added, “You got a hammer in the garage?”

Val gave Erath a look of confusion in reply. Confusion laced with worry. What did Erath need a hammer for? Was he tired of using his guns to beat Val’s face in?

“We had to bust your front door down,” Erath explained. “I’ll nail it shut for you if you’ve got a hammer. That’s procedure. Keeps the neighborhood kids honest,” he explained, making it clear that he wasn’t doing Val any favors.

Val stood and nodded exhaustedly. “In the garage,” he said.

“Show me.” Erath pointed at the front door and Val headed that way, Erath and Gruene trailing close behind.

Erath hadn’t been understating when he said they had busted down the front door. The jamb was splintered and the door hung open on hinges held in place by bent screws. An air conditioned breeze gusted through the gap, making the porch ten degrees cooler than the front yard. Val shot the Sheriff’s deputy an angry look, but it ricocheted right off Erath’s rocky features. Val led the way inside without comment. The living room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. There was no more splintered wood, no real damage, but the contents of every drawer had been spilled, the sofa and chairs upended. Even the potted plants had been violated, the dark soil churned, spilled out on the carpet and tracked around the room.

Val was smoldering as he picked a path through the mess to the kitchen to find the same shambles there. Every cabinet had been rifled. Cleaning products, cereal boxes and canned goods had been dumped on the floor. He went out to the garage.

The garage had been tossed as well. Sports equipment had been thrown around, cardboard boxes dumped out on the floor. The tools were still pegged to the wall but the drawers of the workbench had been dumped and a can of nails had been spilled on the concrete.

“Over there,” Val said, nodding at the pegboard.

Erath stooped and grabbed a handful of nails then took the hammer from its peg.

“Sally,” he said, turning to Gruene who had stopped just inside the doorway, Val’s pistol, in its plastic bag, dangling from her right hand. “Call this in downtown. Get an interview room ready at the Jack Evans Building and give DPD a heads up.”

Sally nodded but said nothing. She looked sea-sick, stressed out. With an over-amped partner like Erath that was no surprise.

Erath waved Val toward the kitchen door. “Let’s go, asshole,” he said, but Val hesitated. He had something to say. A question to ask.

“Where did you get the murder weapon? From Jasper Smith?”

Erath shook his head. “Phone tip. Anonymous. Guy said that he saw you out in Hudson stashing a gun under the front porch. And, what do you know, there it was. I took it downtown myself.” Erath started to say something else then stopped himself. Instead, he gestured at the door again.

Val didn’t move. “I’m being set up,” he said, “It’s not my gun.” The contemptuous look that Erath gave him brought a rush of blood to Val’s face. Erath had heard denials like that a hundred times, and so had Val. Not my gun, not my dope, not my butcher knife. Val pressed on anyway. “I’m betting Jasper Smith planted that gun. Or Garland Sutton. They’re after the money—”