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Authors: Leighann Dobbs

Burning Justice

BOOK: Burning Justice
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Burning Justice
Burning Justice
Leighann Dobbs
Contents
Chapter One

B
rooke City
, September, 2075

I
can spot
a liar a mile away. That’s how I knew Evangeline Barrows, the woman sitting on the other side of my desk, wasn’t telling me the whole truth. I’m not sure what gave her away. It might have been the way her aristocratic chin was tilted to the left, or the cloudy look in her gray eyes or the way she was fiddling with her fancy designer purse. Whatever it was, it had the needle on my internal lie detector pegged halfway past yellow and on its way to red.

“I think my husband is planning to kill me, and I want to hire you to stop him.” Evangeline pushed a thick, white envelope across the surface of my gray metal desk and looked at me with hopeful eyes.

My gaze flicked down to the envelope and then back up to Evangeline, who was perched on the edge of my guest chair. Her body was rigid with tension, and no wonder—I’d be tense, too, if I thought I was about to be murdered … or lying about it.

“What makes you think your husband is going to kill you?” I had no intention of accepting a case from a client who was lying. But I figured I should ask a few more questions just to be sure—it wasn’t smart business sense to turn away envelopes stuffed with money.

Evangeline sniffed, her gaze drifting to the window at the end of my small office. Maybe to buy some time to formulate an answer that would bolster her lie, or maybe because she just liked the view. I figured it was the former. The view from my second-floor window showed the other tall brick buildings on Main Street and wasn’t that great.

Since it was early fall, I had the window cracked open and the woody smell of dying leaves and crisp, fresh air drifted in. A car horn blasted. Tires whooshed on pavement. Back fifty years ago, I imagine the air would have smelled like exhaust fumes and my second-floor office would have been filled with the sound of car engines, but this was the year 2075 and all the cars were electric—quiet and pollution free.

“We haven’t been getting along. I think he might be having an affair with our domestic helper,” she said.

So that explained it. A jealous wife trying to make trouble for her husband. It was one thing to prove a spouse was having an affair. I’d taken plenty of those cases. but Evangeline was going deeper with this one. I suspected she was trying to get revenge. Figuring she could use me to get her husband in some sort of trouble. Alarm bells sounded in my head—this case had disaster written all over it.

I slid the envelope back toward her. Evangeline looked down at the envelope, her forehead creasing in a frown.

“Do you have evidence that he is fooling around? Just because he might be having an affair doesn’t mean he’s a murderer,” I pointed out.

“There’s been signs. I know he wants me out of the way.”

“Why wouldn’t he just divorce you?”

Evangeline cast a furtive glance around the room as if someone who could overhear us might have appeared in my office by magic. She leaned across the desk and lowered her voice. “I know things about his business. Things he might not want me to tell anyone.”

That got me a little more interested. But was she telling the truth? “What do you mean ‘things about his business’?”

Evangeline pressed her overly-pouty lips together and looked down at her fuchsia-tipped nails. “Let’s just say I think he might be into something illegal. I’ve overheard a few phone conversations. Something about moving money.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure
exactly
what is going on, but he caught me listening to him on the phone. So he knows that I know. Not to mention the life insurance.”

“Life insurance?”

“Yes. He upped the insurance on me just last week.” She pushed the envelope back to my side.

“How do you know that?” I had to admit the life insurance and vague reference to his nefarious business activities did legitimize her claim a little—if they were, in fact, true. But if her husband really was planning to kill her, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to let her find out about the life insurance, would he?

"They sent something in the mail. I opened it," Evangeline said with a shrug of her shoulders. "I guess he didn't realize they'd send a confirmation via snail mail. I mean who gets real mail these days?"

I took a closer look at her. She wore an expensive-looking teal cashmere cape secured with three gorgeous snailshell-shaped buttons on the shoulder. Were the buttons real platinum? And her long hair, feathered down past her shoulders in the most trendy fashion, was white-blonde with lowlights and highlights and lavender tips that I knew were quite expensive. Her face looked like it had had some work done, too—also expensive.

Judging by her appearance and the size of the stuffed envelope on the desk in between us, Evangeline had money. Was she a bored, rich housewife trying to get back at a cheating hubby and looking for excitement? Maybe she was trying to use me to help trump up an attempted murder charge so she could get out of a pre-nup she’d signed and take off with hubby’s money. These days, pre-nups had all kinds of strange clauses. If that was the case, I didn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole.

The envelope sat on the desk between us, waiting for me to make up my mind. If I accepted it, that would mean I would take the job and all the problems that might come with it. Easier to push it back at her and she’d go away, leaving me free to work with the next, hopefully less problematic, client.

I decided to test her. “So what has your husband done that makes you think he’s trying to kill you? Has he attempted anything?”

She shook her head. “No, but I know he plans it. I can feel it.”

I looked at her skeptically. “So why don’t you just move out? Is there a pre-nup?”

She looked startled at my question, as if she hadn’t expected me to ask. Which told me what I needed to know. My instincts were right—she
was
up to something.

“If it was just the affair, I’d be out of there in a heartbeat. But he thinks I know about his business secret and he’d hunt me down. I’m not safe anywhere.” Evangeline pulled a hankie out of her purse, dabbed the corner of her eye and gave a little sniff. What an actress.

My eyes flicked to the envelope. She’d told too many lies and the case sounded like trouble. My better sense told me to pass it up.

I pushed the envelope back over to her side.

“Well, then, I’m sorry, but I can’t take your case. It’s not the type of work I do.” I lied, thinking to let her down easy. Plus I figured if she could lie to me, I could do the same.

Her wide eyes registered surprise. “It’s not … but I thought you did everything.”

I shrugged, pushing myself up from the desk. “Not everything. Some things I can’t be bought for.”

She looked at me funny, but I was already on the other side of the desk and holding the door open for her.

“Don’t forget this.” I swiped the envelope from the desk and held it out to her.

She took it, her eyes registering resignation. Almost as if she expected I might have seen through her ruse. I congratulated myself on making the right decision.

I cast one last, regretful look at the envelope before she stuffed it back in her purse. In this business, one never knows when the next case will come along, so it’s not too smart to turn down money. But some cases just weren’t worth the trouble.

“I hope you don’t regret this.” Her cashmere cape swirled around her, and she turned suddenly and hurried away down the hall, leaving me frowning at her back.

Regret it? I doubted that.

I shut the door and went back to sitting behind my desk and waiting for another client. As I sat there, tapping the eraser end of my pencil on the shiny surface, doubt started to settle in. What if Evangeline wasn’t trying to play me and her husband really did try to kill her? Nah, all the signs pointed to her lying to me. I just had too much time on my hands waiting here. I needed a new client to take my mind off Evangeline’s trumped-up story.

I heard a noise in the hallway and my spirits perked up. I stared at the door in anticipation of my new potential client. But it wasn’t a new client that showed up. Instead, the old-fashioned brass mail slot flapped open and a white envelope slid through, landing on the floor with a thud. It look suspiciously like the white envelope Evangeline and I had been playing tug-of-war with. I ran over and picked it up. Written on the front were the words ‘In case you change your mind’.

A tingle of apprehension played with the hairs on my neck—why was she being so persistent? And why me? She could go across the street and hire Harry Brenner. He’d probably do whatever she wanted and for less. Maybe I should tell her that because I definitely didn’t want the case. Evangeline was obviously high maintenance … and probably a little crazy.

I ripped the door open to give her back the envelope. The hallway was empty.

Shoot!

I’d never had a client force money on me before and I was unsure of what to do. But I knew that I didn’t want the money. If I had it, I’d feel compelled to work for it. I ran down the hall to catch her. Taking the stairs two at a time, I whipped open the front door in time to see the taillights of an upscale personal transportation vehicle hovering in the air before it shot off, disappearing around the corner.

Evangeline was gone.

I slipped the flap open on the envelope. It was full of hundreds. There must have been thirty of them in there. Even with the electronic chip payments used for most everything in 2075, cash was still king.

The envelope burned in my hand like a hot potato. I couldn’t wait to return it and be relieved of any responsibility I thought I had toward Evangeline Barrows.

I went back into the building. Common sense told me to look Evangeline up first thing and return the money right away. But my investigator’s curiosity kept wondering why she seemed so insistent on hiring me and, more importantly, why she hadn’t been telling me the whole truth.

Chapter Two

M
y name is
Callie Justice and, in case you haven’t already guessed, I’m a private investigator. One of the top female investigators in the area, I might add. I had been in practice since I turned thirty, for seven years when Evangeline Barrows walked into my office, and I'd had my share of domestic cases, but Evangeline's request was definitely a strange one

I slapped the envelope down on my desk as a reminder that I didn’t want to keep it. I figured if it was out in the open, I wouldn’t forget to look up her address so I could return it.

But first, I needed coffee. When I first hung up my shingle, I’d found myself making several trips to the coffee shop. It got expensive, so I decided to spring for a ‘Mr. Caffeine’ and brew my own right in the office. It sat in the corner on a small table, all shiny and ready to make me the caffeinated beverage of my choice.

Unfortunately, electronically controlled gizmos and I did not get along. Mr. Caffeine was no exception.

I approached cautiously. The machine sensed my approach and whirred into action.

“Can I help you?” Its mechanical voice had an aristocratic accent.

“A cinnamon dolce latte with a shot of caramel.” I slipped a restaurant grade ceramic mug under its spout. Sure, lattes were girly drinks meant to be enjoyed in something more dainty, but I felt comfortable with my thick old mug.

Silence. But not just any silence. I could sense Mr. Caffeine was waiting for something, or maybe it was having trouble processing my order. I glanced at the side, checking the pods of ingredients which all seemed to be there.

“Please?” I added.

“That’s very fattening. How about a vanilla latte with skim milk?” Mr. Caffeine’s green ‘ready’ button blinked at me as if sizing me up.

“Ummm, no, I’ll take the cinnamon—”

“I noticed you’ve gained a few pounds,” Mr. Caffeine interrupted me, his voice dripping with disapproval. Nice to know he was watching out for my health, but creepy to think that he could actually ‘see’ me.

I squinted into his reflective chrome surface. My blueish-green eyes peering back at me looked gigantic in distortion, my blonde, shoulder-length hair appeared as if I'd forgotten to brush it. I probably had. My eyes drifted down to the rest of me. Flat stomach, slim hips … wait, was that a little bulge of fat popping out over the top of my jeans?

“How about a cinnamon vanilla? Two percent milk,” I bargained.

“Suit yourself.” It whirred into action, making grinding, hissing and perking noises, then a stream of dark liquid followed by thick white. When it was done, I reached for the cup. Just as my hand got under the spout it sputtered and shot out a few drips of scalding steam.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry. Thanks for using Mr. Caffeine.”

I jerked my mug out and eyed the drink. It looked good, if a little watery. I walked the three steps to my desk, sat in my olive green Naugahyde chair, leaned back and put my feet up. The chair groaned as if to agree with Mr. Caffeine’s assessment of my weight gain.

The drink was velvety smooth, creamy with the right amount of bitter coffee after-taste. I sipped it thoughtfully while I rubbed my burned hand.

The envelope nagged at me from the top of the desk. I had a decision to make.

I had to admit that I was curious about Evangeline. Was her husband really planning to kill her? She had seemed convinced he was, but most people never thought the person they married could be capable of such evil, even in the worst of times. Maybe Evangeline wasn’t in her right mind. Maybe she was delusional about her husband’s affair, his nefarious activities and work and his plan to do her in.

Of course, there was that little tingle at the back of my neck that told me she wasn't telling the whole truth. Could there be some other reason she wanted me to follow her husband? I couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be. She’d mentioned suspicious goings-on at this company. Maybe she thought she could be rid of him if my investigation revealed what he was up to at work. But if so, why not just ask me to investigate that?

I was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, I thought she was a little crazy and sensed that I would regret accepting her offer. On the other hand, what if her suspicions were correct and something happened to her? Could I live with the guilt?

I wasn’t keen on the way she’d forced the envelope back through my mail slot. Almost as if she knew it would make me feel responsible for following her orders. As if she wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. It rubbed me the wrong way.

I finished my latte and slid my feet off the desk, casting furtive glances at the envelope. I’d return the money, but first I wanted to consult with my unofficial consultants.

The decision being made, I sat back in my chair and waited for the next client to come through the door.

N
o client came
through the door, so it was just me, the envelope and Mr. Caffeine all afternoon. By the time five p.m. rolled around, I was more than ready to leave. I hadn’t done any research on Evangeline. As I said, computers and I don’t get along. Luckily I didn’t have to do the research myself, I had someone who would do it for me.

I headed out of the office, the envelope tucked securely in the blue and white striped tote bag I carried in lieu of a purse. I took the monorail fifteen minutes to the outskirts of town where I lived in a six-story condo building in the middle of a block of other six-story condo buildings.

I had a personal transportation vehicle—PTV—but it was so small and cramped that I preferred to take public transportation. I could sit back and get a birds-eye view of the meandering city streets giving way to the green fields of one of the few farms still left in New Hampshire, and then into the suburban area where the concrete apartment buildings sprouted up.

This area was nice, as suburbs go. I guess it was once more spacious out here with single-family homes on large lots, but that had given way to apartment buildings decades ago. They were nice buildings, though, not more than six stories as per building code regulations and each building had nice grounds with trees, shrubs and even flowers. I was thankful to live in Northern New Hampshire, where the huge swell of population hadn’t yet migrated. Back south, the buildings loomed twenty stories in the air and there was nary a plant to be found.

This is what suburban life was like in 2075. Not many people had homes on large plots of land anymore. Only the rich people. Like Evangeline Barrows. She probably had a big, old home on a big plot of land. But most of those were further out, away from the city.

I’d done fairly well for myself and my condo was in one of the nicer buildings. Condo life suited me just fine because I didn’t have to deal with lawn mowing, snow removal or any messy exterior maintenance. I’d even splurged on a domestic helper. Mine was a robot, though, not a real human like Evangeline’s. Although I probably should have known better than to have picked him up at a discount auction. Like most technology driven devices, he didn’t work as expected.

And, so it was, when I opened the door to my apartment, I found my domestic helper, Artemis, with his feet propped up on the coffee table and a martini glass in hand. The apartment was a mess, the olive green shag carpet—the latest in color trends when I’d had the apartment re-decorated two years ago—lay down flat, the shag fingers tangled like a hairdo that had been slept on all night. It needed to be raked and probably vacuumed.

Mail was piled up on the walnut, Danish modern credenza. A pile of clothes lay on the Herman Miller side chair. I hoped they’d been washed and were just waiting to be folded.

Artemis was watching a soap opera on the projection wall. The only evidence that he actually was a domestic helper was that he was wearing an apron over his faded blue jeans. His faded, slate-gray T-shirt showed off his bulging biceps—a bonus feature that supposedly made it easy for him to wrangle the vacuum that he never used as well as rearrange furniture and tend to other household tasks that required strength. It was hard to believe that he was just a robot. He was so human-like, sometimes even I forgot.

He raised his dark brows at me over the rim of his martini. His amber eyes—okay, I’ll admit the eyes were one of his features that caused me to bid on him—had just the right amount of welcome home in them. Even though I knew that was computer generated, it still felt good to have something act like it was happy to see me.

“Welcome home, Cal! How was your day at work?”

He greeted me as if we were roommates, or maybe even boyfriend and girlfriend. He had a nice raspy, deep voice even though his speech could get somewhat robotic at times. It was disarming the way he looked
and
acted so human. Truth be told, I actually liked him better than most of the humans I knew.

I glanced around the apartment with disapproval. “Great. How was your day?”

His eyes flicked back to the projection. “Pretty good, I was just taking a little rest. You know Sonny and Carly are getting married again.”

I squinted at the projection wall. He was watching General Hospital, one of the longest-running TV shows ever, which had been in production now for a hundred and twelve years. I stepped closer. Was that actually the same actor that had been playing Luke Spencer all along? No, it couldn’t be. Probably just a good look-alike, maybe even a robot.

“Sonny and Carly are still around? Wouldn’t they be a hundred years old by now?” I asked.

He nodded. “Just about. But you know how soap operas are, totally unrealistic. This is the third actor to play Sonny and that’s the fourth Carly.” He gestured with the martini glass toward the wall. “I mean, look at them. They look great, don’t they?”

I looked. They did. I craned my neck to glance in the kitchen. When I’d had it redone in sunny harvest gold, my elderly neighbors had laughed at me. They’d said the colors were outdated by a hundred years, but the interior decorator had said these were the latest colors along with the avocado rug. She mentioned something about styles coming back around again. Whatever. I wasn’t really much into fashion or interior decorating anyway. But I did like my place clean, which the kitchen was not. Dishes were piled in the sink and spilling onto my white star-stone countertops.

I raised a brow at Artemis. “So, I guess you didn’t get a chance to do any cleaning today?”

He swiveled his head around almost one hundred and eighty degrees. I’d asked him not to do that before. It was creepy and I cringed as he did it.

“Oh, sorry. I haven’t had much of a chance. You know I’m feeling a little run down. I think I need my batteries charged.” He favored me with a charming smile.

I would have glanced at his battery pack, but it was on his butt which was firmly planted on the sofa.

He patted the sofa beside him. “Enough about the cleaning. Sit down and tell me what you did at work today. Did you get a new case?”

That was the thing with Artemis. He much preferred butting into my cases to doing the actual job of cleaning for which he had been purchased. But the truth was, he often came in handy. Unlike most domestics, he had an incredible amount of artificial intelligence and a huge database programmed in his computerized brain. Not only that, but he had built-in Wi-Fi, so he could access the internet from pretty much anywhere and an aptitude for quick and accurate research.

I'd often wondered if he'd been at auction because he was some sort of a hybrid. Maybe some kind of an screw-up happened at the factory and he got the wrong programming and electronics. Either way, I had to admit he did come in handy. Instead of looking things up on my computer, which insisted on rebooting and opening the wrong screens on me all the time, I could simply ask Artemis. He would have the answers in seconds and he had initiative and problem-solving skills that you just couldn’t get out of the laptop or a wrist-top.

His brow knit together as I told him about Evangeline Barrows’s visit. I ended with my dilemma as to whether I should keep the money and follow the husband or not.

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” Artemis clinked his glass onto the titanium coffee table. “It sounds like she is up to something.”

“Either that or crazy.”

Artemis’s handsome face contorted into a bunch of different expressions which I recognized as him consulting his database. I watched, fascinated. He really was very handsome. I was told by my elderly neighbors he looked like some movie star from the 1980s, some guy named Clowney or Cloney or something. He had dark hair, distinguished with just a smattering of gray, a strong chin and chiseled features. A little dimple on the chin. And he was wholly supportive and protective of me. I only wish I could find a real human that looked and acted like him.

“Her husband is part owner of Barrows Investments. They handle retirement investments. My scans of current news articles do not show any hint of scandal.”

“So whatever she overheard is not public.”

“Possibly. Or she’s making it up. Your own instincts have told you something isn’t right. I think you’re smart to give back the money and wash your hands of the whole thing.”

He looked at me, and an emotion alarmingly like human concern flickered through his eyes and made my heart do a little flip.

“I might be just a computer, but my electrodes tell me this sounds like something you will regret getting involved in.”

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