Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1 (16 page)

“If I’m not mistaken,” Birch reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers folded into thirds. He opened the bundle, looked at the first page and raised an eyebrow. “That’s what my warrant says too.” He turned it to show Erath. Erath barely glanced at it.

“All right, then,” Birch said as he folded the warrant and tucked it away, “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”

Erath just stared at Jack and said nothing. He looked like he was about to chew his own tongue off. Gruene replied for him.

“We got the word on your warrant,” she said slowly. “We’re working on the Confederate Syndicate task force. It’s related, so…” she ran out of steam.

“So, y’all thought you’d lend us a hand,” Jack said mildly. “Just being neighborly and all.” Neither Erath nor Gruene had anything to say to that, so Jack continued, “Well, we do thank y’all for the help, but I think we can handle this desperado from here on.”

Gruene started to say something then thought better of it. She might be rolling with the Sheriff’s Special Tactics Unit, but she was still a Dallas Police Department detective and Jack Birch was a senior officer. But Erath wasn’t under any such constraints.

“You’ll get him when we’re finished with him, Jack,” Erath said. “We’ve got some questions for Mr. Justice.”

Birch shook his head, his pale eyes peeling skin from Erath’s face. “Henry, I’m going to give you just ten seconds. If you’re still here when I count ten you’re going to be the one in handcuffs with blood on your face.”

Erath’s lips twisted into a snarl and for a minute it looked like there would be blood, but Erath blinked first. Silently, he dropped to one knee, un-cuffed Val, stood and turned to Gruene.

“Let’s go, Sally,” he said.

“Hold your ground detective,” Birch told Gruene. “You and I have a couple things to talk about.”

Gruene flushed. “I’m assigned to the STU—”

“I have a feeling that assignment is over,” Birch cut her off. “You might want to dust off your uniform.”

Gruene’s complexion turned gray. She knew what that meant: back to the street and goodbye gold shield. “I didn’t—” she began.

“That’s right, you didn’t,” Birch agreed.

“Yes, sir,” was all Gruene could squeeze out of her throat. She put her eyes on the ground. She looked like she might cry. Val almost felt bad for her, but just almost.

Birch looked at Erath. “You still here, Henry?” he said. “Tick-tock.”

Erath turned stiffly and stalked toward the gate. “Get your ass over here, Martin,” he yelled at the porch and the young sheriff’s deputy came running. Erath turned back when he reached the front gate.

“This ain’t over, Justice,” he yelled.

“Sorry you have to go,” Val called back. “I was looking forward to the bonus round where the scores can really change.”

Birch dropped a restraining hand on Valentine’s shoulder. “Let it go, partner,” he said too low for Erath to hear. Not that Erath was listening anyway. He and Martin had disappeared around the side of the house.

Birch looked at Gruene. “You can wait out front in my car,” he said. “You can sit up front. For the moment.” 

“Lieutenant—” she began, but Jack turned his back on her. She left the back yard, shoulders drooping.

Val stood. “Thanks, Jack,” he said.

Jack gave Val a slash of a smile. “Don’t go thanking me just yet, partner, you’re still under arrest.”

Val opened his mouth, but Jack held up a hand to cut him off.

“If you’re going to try to talk your way out of this, let’s go sit in the shade.”

25

For
the second time in two days, Victoria prepared to die.

As the jail’s alarm screamed, Randall Rusk charged down the narrow hallway like a freight train, his bald head lowered, massive shoulders thrust forward, the knife clutched in his right fist. With the four visitation rooms’ doors locked and the hallway door barred behind her, there was nowhere for her to run.

Behind her, Herby was still bellowing for help as he beat on the steel door’s wire-reinforced window. Beside her, Axel Rankin cowered against the closed door of visitation room three, defenseless in his manacles and waist chains. Debbie Foster, the only deputy alive in the visitation area, was still unconscious, her face pressed to the concrete, blood leaking from her nose. Victoria was on her own.

But she wasn’t going down without a fight.

Instinctively, thanks to ten years of judo classes, done more for exercise than self-defense, she dropped into a classic fighting stance, right leg back, left leg forward, left arm up to protect her body and face, right fist cocked at chest level, shoulders curled in. With her heart racing, knees shaking, she prepared to take the one shot she was going to get before Randall plowed into her, his weight advantage ending any hope of making a fight.

Randall covered ground fast for a big man. Blood splattered from the shank as his fist pumped in rhythm with his legs. He was almost on top of Victoria before she made her move: a blocking sweep at the knife with her left arm as she snapped the ball of her right foot at Rusk’s crotch, putting her hip behind it, giving it all she had. But Rusk twisted away just as she went into motion. Her block caught nothing but air and her foot bounced of Rusk’s muscular inner thigh, leaving her off balance and hopelessly exposed to the huge fist that clipped her jaw, popping a flashbulb inside her head, and knocking her sprawling. But Rusk didn’t pile in on top of her; he turned on Axel Rankin, looming over the smaller man.

Axel drew his knees up tight to his chest. He looked up at Rankin then his gaze jumped to the knife. “Back off,” he said, but his voice was quivering, “I ride with the Confederate Syndicate. You don’t need that kind of grief.”

Rankin shrugged that off. “It ain’t my call. This ain’t personal. You knew the rules before you turned snitch,” he said in his cartoonish voice, acting like he had all day as the siren continued to wail. Axel started to reply, but Rusk was done talking. He dropped swiftly to one knee, pulled the knife back and drove into Rankin’s chest.

With his hands manacled to his waist there was nothing Axel could do to stop the attack. He thrashed and bucked like a cow caught in the slaughterhouse chute as Rusk stabbed him again and again, ripping open Axel’s stomach and chest, slinging arcs of blood that splattered Victoria’s skirt and the floor around her. In desperation, Axel snapped his head forward and managed to hit Rusk over the right eye with his forehead, stunning the serial killer for a split second. The knife, slippery with blood, fell from Rusk’s hand to clatter on the concrete. But the blow didn’t stop Rusk for long. With the knife gone, he locked his hands around Axel’s throat and started to squeeze, lifting Axel clear of the floor, shaking him like a dog with a rat in its jaws, snapping Axel’s head left and right with a sickening click-clack.

Victoria’s eyes fell on the knife, eight inches of wickedly tapered steel, the handle wrapped in Scotch tape. She darted forward, snatched up the bloody blade then shoved herself backward across the floor, her heels skittering on the concrete, scooting along on her butt until her shoulders hit the wall. She held the knife in front of her as Rusk slammed Rankin to the floor one last time.

Rankin didn’t even twitch; he lay there like a broken doll, covered in blood, his neck twisted at a cruel angle.

“Nighty night,” Rusk said then looked over his shoulder at Victoria. She couldn’t see his mouth but his eyes were grinning. Slowly Rusk stood and turned to face her, blood dripping from his fingertips. She knew what was coming; she was as dead as Rankin, Albert and Big Sandy. Surprisingly, that knowledge didn’t push her over the edge; instead it brought on a sudden and eerie sort of calm. She held the knife out in front of her, waiting for Rusk to make his move. But Rusk just stood there, looking down at her, his rubbery lips curved up into a leer.

“That wasn’t nearly as much fun as killing women,” he said, “but better than nothing.” His eyes dropped to the knife then came back up to her face. His grin widened. “What are you going to do with that?”

Victoria didn’t reply, she showed him what she intended to do by lunging forward on her knees and stabbing upward, cutting through the orange jump suit and opening a narrow gash across Rusk’s midsection, barely more than a paper-cut. She made another lunge, but Randall skipped backward as agilely as a boxer and slapped the knife out of her hand. The poorly taped blade sliced her palm, giving her a cut twice as bad as the one she had inflicted on him.

“Jesus,” he said, laying one huge palm over his wound, but he didn’t sound angry, he sounded offended. Like she had just spit in his soup.
“What the hell are you doing?”

“I was trying to kill you,” she told him as she fell back, pressing her shoulder blades into the wall. Blood leaked from her wounded hand but she barely felt the pain.

Rusk stared at her with his mouth hanging open. And then he laughed so hard that his shoulders shook.

At the end of the corridor, Herby shot a look over his shoulder then redoubled his efforts at the door, pounding it with his fists and kicking it with his rundown cowboy boots, screaming for help that didn’t appear to be coming.

Rusk looked at Herby and laughed again. “Don’t be in such a hurry!” he called out, “Looks like I’m gonna need me a new attorney!” He turned back to Victoria and dropped into a crouch, facing her, his arms propped on his thighs like a gorilla at rest.

Victoria drew her legs in tight and tugged her skirt down over her knees with trembling hands.

Rusk’s grin grew broader. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I ain’t got no time for that. Though, I gotta say, you’d be a tasty bite.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. Her stomach heaved, but she fought not to show it. She had to keep Rusk talking until help came. If it ever did.

“Why did you kill Axel?”

Rusk glanced at the withered pile of blood-drenched orange that had once been Axel Rankin. “A favor for some new friends,” he said cryptically as he turned his muddy eyes back on her. “But that’s got nothing to do with us. We still got a deal, right? I mean, this,” he hooked his thumb at Rankin then waved down the hall to were Albert and Big Sandy lay in a lake of blood, “don’t change nothing, right?”

“Deal?” Victoria said. The man had just killed
three people
, one of them a deputy sheriff, and he was talking about a
deal?

At the end of the hallway the REACT team had arrived. She shot a glance down the corridor and could see them through the door’s reinforced glass, but they appeared to be having a problem getting the door open. There was a lot of yelling and cursing, Herby’s voice louder than the rest.

Rusk looked toward the door then back at her. “What’s a couple more bodies?” he said and laughed. “Deal?” he held out a bloody palm.

Suddenly the door burst open, knocking Herby flat on his ass, and the REACT team came barreling in, dressed in Kevlar and riot helmets, batons and plastic shields in their hands. But the guy in the lead wasn’t carrying a baton or a shield. He had a large caliber pistol in his fist, though firearms were not permitted inside the jail complex.

“Freeze, Rusk!” the deputy with the pistol yelled as he raced down the hallway, his face hidden behind his helmet’s Plexiglas shield.

Rusk stood and turned to face them, his hands going up over his head. He showed the REACT Team his palms, fingers splayed wide. Blood ran in rivulets down his forearms.

“I’m done!” he yelled as the wave of deputies bore down on him. “I’m done!” He dropped to his knees, his hands still over his head. “I’m done!”

“You got that right, Rusk,” the guy with the pistol said as he skidded to a stop, the pistol just inches from Rusk’s face.

Randall started to say something else, but the words were knocked back down his throat by two 9mm slugs as the deputy fired twice straight through Rusk’s teeth.

26

Jack
Birch led Val to the porch. Gary Griggs and the Hispanic cop followed. When they reached the shade, Gary stuck out his hand to Val.

“How’s it hanging there, Vicious,” he asked, grinning with a mouthful of yellow teeth that would have better suited a horse. He eyed the blood running down Val’s face. “Looks like deputy Erath didn’t find your sense of humor nearly as amusing as you seem to think it is. I agree with him, but I’ve learned to restrain myself from beating your face in.”

Police officers, Val thought wryly, were not the sympathetic sort. Get your right hand chopped off and you’d pick up the nickname Captain Hook in around ten seconds.

“Been a while, Gary,” Val said, shaking Griggs’ beefy hand. Griggs was a twenty-five-year street cop who snubbed every chance of promotion. A true hard drinking, hardheaded patrol officer, he was a junkie for the kind of action you couldn’t find behind a desk.

The Hispanic cop was grinning too as he stuck out his hand. His brass name tag said J. Rodriquez. Joseph, Val remembered. Rodriquez had silver tabs on his collar and silver buttons on his shirt, the accoutrements of an administrative lieutenant. Val remembered him as a quiet kid with more guts than brains who had been sent up to SWAT Team Two just a few weeks before Val had been promoted to detective and moved over to Homicide.

“Joe,” Val said. “You’re looking prosperous. I figured you for a SWAT lifer.”

Rodriquez flushed. “Reassigned three months ago. I got three kids now. The wife doesn’t want me kicking in crack house doors. They got me working out of South Central. That’s dangerous enough.”

Val glanced at Griggs. “You’re still working Faulkner, old timer?” he asked. Faulkner Estates was the most violent housing project in the city. It was located on the far south side and surrounded by hourly-rate hotels, tote-the-note car lots and furniture rental stores. The land that the developers forgot as they pushed the suburban sprawl farther and farther north and east. Things had gotten better since the city built the South Central station house. A little. At least the criminals weren’t playing Wild West in the streets any longer.

Griggs scratched the back of his bullish neck, wincing as his fingers hit the fresh sunburn. “I go where duty calls,” he said with mock-humility.

“Does your wife know you’re riding around with this guy?” Val asked Rodriquez, hooking a thumb at Griggs. “That’s gotta be ten times more dangerous than SWAT. Griggs BO alone should be enough to qualify for a disability pension.”

“I smell like a flower,” Griggs said through his horsy grin. “Sniff my ass and guess what kind.”

Val laughed again, thoroughly enjoying himself. It was just like old times at an arrest scene. Except that he was the one under arrest.

That thought killed his laughter.

“This is a long way from South Side. What brings you guys here?” he asked.

“We were down at Jack Evans when Birch was rolling out. Thought we’d tag along,” Rodriquez explained. “Let me get the First Aid kit out of the car,” he added, eyeing the blood oozing from Val’s eyebrow. “You’re bleeding pretty good.” He headed off across the yard.

Val touched his fingertips to the wound. Not a good idea. A rocket went off inside his skull. He sat down on the porch steps, it was that or fall down.

Jack went up the steps past Val and crossed the porch to the playpen where the boys were watching the proceedings with wide eyes. The kids didn’t seem to notice the blood smearing their father’s face, but they were too young to know blood from ketchup. Val was thankful for that.

“Hey there Max,” Birch said, chucking Max under the chin and Val wondered how Birch could tell the boys apart? Jack had only seen the twins two or three times and sometimes Val had a hard time doing that himself. Max giggled and tried to bite Jack’s finger.

“You saved my butt there, partner,” Valentine said, nodding his thanks.

“Been a time or two you did the same for me,” Jack replied. He leaned against one of the porch posts and took out a crumpled pack of Pall Mall Reds. He started to shake a cigarette out, looked at the twins and reconsidered. He tucked the smokes back into his breast pocket.

“What the hell—” Valentine looked over at Max and Kyle and backtracked, “What the
heck
is going on?”

“You know about Abby Sutton?” Jack asked as Griggs dropped down onto the step beside Valentine, his weight making the whole porch shiver.

Val nodded and Birch continued.

“Abby was stabbed to death.” Birch explained, “The killer did a lot of other stuff, including shooting her twice in the belly. I got a call from the Medical Examiner this morning. Not Samuel, the lady ME, Eustace Cantor. Eustace pulled those bullets out of her yesterday morning. Those two and one other.”

“The one lodged in her spine?” Val guessed.

Birch nodded. “She bagged and tagged all three for the lab. Standard procedure. They got a ballistic match this morning.”

“That fast?” Val was impressed. When he’d been on the force a ballistic comparison could take days to process.

“They didn’t have to look far for the match,” Birch said then paused significantly, like it pained him to go on. “The slugs that killed her last week matched the one that crippled her four years ago. The brass downtown is betting that they came from your service weapon, Valentine.”

“Holy shit,” Gary Griggs said.

“Bullshit,” was Val’s less reverent comment.

Birch put up a palm. “I believe you. Believed you back then, too,” he said. Val nodded stiffly and Jack continued, “But Sheriff Swisher isn’t as trusting. He convinced Deputy Chief Ballast to go to Judge Pinto for a warrant for your arrest.

Val opened his mouth, but Jack held up a palm.

“All this is easy enough to clear up. I hate to say there might be a bright side to this, but this could prove that you didn’t cripple her. That there was another shooter outside the kitchen that day. Let me take your gun downtown. Have a ballistics test run on it.”

“The ballistics should be on file,” Val said. “It was my service weapon. I submitted it for testing after the Sutton shooting.”

Birch shook his head. “Having a little trouble finding that report. Some computer glitch, they tell me. So, if I could get that gun…”

Val’s face went hot. “I sold it,” he said. Just saying it made him feel guilty. How many times had he and Birch heard a line like that from some dirt-bag murder suspect? “Almost two years ago, but I still have the receipt.” Thank god that after years of chasing down murder weapons, Val had a healthy respect for the paperwork necessary to cover your ass when you bought or sold a gun. “It’s in the gun safe.”

Jack nodded. “That’s good news. Who’d you sell it to?”

“Gus Perdido.” Gus was a gun dealer favored by the Dallas city cops. “He might have sold it by now. Been two years.”

“Gus Perdido,” Jack said thoughtfully. He looked out across the yard and said nothing more.

Griggs filled the silence. “Gus got firebombed three days ago, Val. They robbed the place then burned it out. After locking Gus in the back office. Poor bastard cooked to death.”

“Along with all his sales records,” Birch added. “I’ll look into the state and federal records. See if I can find anything.” In Texas, a private citizen could sell a gun to whomever he pleased, no ID or paperwork required, but gun dealers didn’t get off that easy. If Gus had sold the gun there’d be a record of it.

Joe Rodriguez came through the gate and crossed the yard, carrying a red and white first aid kit. Val didn’t object when Joe opened the case and went to work on his eye, dousing it with alcohol as a first step. That hurt, but Val refrained from tears. Just barely.

“It’s not that bad,” Joe said. “Bled a lot, but I don’t think you need stitches.”

“The closer to the bone, the more the cut bleeds,” Valentine said. Was that from the book of home remedies he and Victoria had received as a baby shower present or a lyric from a rock ballad? Probably both. Joe put a gauze pad over the cut and taped it down.

“Any suspects in the firebombing?” Valentine asked Jack.

Jack shook his head. “Looked professional. Reminded me of Lamar and Lemuel. The Martinson’s robbery. You remember.”

Val nodded. He would never forget it. Millions of dollars in gold coins had been stolen and a father, son, daughter and mother had all been gagged and bound then doused with kerosene and set ablaze. And that wasn’t the worst thing that Lamar and Lemuel had done during their spree.

Val stood. “Arrested or not, the boys need to have their lunch.”

“I’m starving,” Griggs said as he heaved himself up from the steps. “What’s for lunch, Mr. Mom?”

Val gave Gary a cautioning look from under lowered brows. “I’m warning you, Gary, I’m starting to feel like resisting arrest. So, you’re not only risking an ass kicking, you’re talking yourself out of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Justice,” Griggs said with a stiff little bow that was abbreviated by his massive gut. “I would love several grilled cheese sandwiches.” Griggs didn’t keep his portly build on moderation.

Val looked at Jack and Joe. “If you guys are up for tomato soup and grilled cheese, you’d be welcome.”

“I could eat,” Joe admitted.

Jack gave Val a sliver of a smile. “You might want to have something better than grilled cheese, Valentine. Your next meal might just be a bologna sandwich down at Lew Sterret.”