Justice for None: Texas Justice Book #1 (5 page)

7

The
Frank Crowley Court Complex is located on the shabby side of downtown Dallas, across the highway from the skyscrapers and the sports arena where the Dallas Stars play, on Riverfront Boulevard, though you’d need a rocket strapped to your back to see the Trinity River from there. Surrounded by hourly-rate parking lots and clapboard bail bondsmen’s offices, the courthouse and the adjoining Lew Sterret Justice Center are the nicest buildings on the strip, but that isn’t saying much. With their fortress-like facades of brown brick and tinted glass they look exactly like what they are: machinery to process and incarcerate criminals on an industrial scale.

Victoria parked on the fifth floor of the garage next door to the Crowley building, took off her sneakers, slipped on her heels and took the stairs down, breaking instantly into a fresh sweat. The temperature was over a hundred degrees inside the garage, the air humid and stinking of exhaust fumes. But she barely noticed the heat. She was still thinking about the allegations Laroy and Erath had made out on the levee.

Val had shrugged off his killing of the Sutton brothers with an indifference that had been chilling to her and most of the City of Dallas, but Abby Sutton had been another story. He had insisted that he had not wounded the teenage girl. That the shot fired into her spine had come from outside the house. But no evidence had ever been found to support that claim. A fact that had left Val tried and convicted in the court of public opinion and excommunicated from the police department. And if Garland Sutton, Abby’s father, and the media had had their way, Val would have spent the rest of his life in Huntsville State Prison.

At the Crowley’s side entrance, Victoria showed her ID to the stone-faced deputy manning the metal detector then took an overcrowded elevator up to the ninth floor where she handed her ID to a second deputy named Job Rawlins. Though Job had passed her through to the DA’s offices day after day for five years, he gazed at her with all the warmth of a machinegun turret before wordlessly scanning her ID and waving her past. Security was uncompromising in the Court’s Building; the DA’s and judges didn’t make many friends in the course of their duties.

But she still thought Job was an asshole.

She continued on through a pair of glass doors, back into a warren of bland white corridors so narrow that she had to turn sideways when she crossed paths with Yolanda Heart, the Chief of the Specialized Crime Division, which handled financial fraud cases.

“Late for court,” Yolanda huffed as she squeezed past Victoria, a bundle of folders clasped to her chest.

Victoria reached her tiny office, dropped into her chair, drug Randall Rusk’s plea agreement out of a drawer and tried to get to work, but her mind stayed stuck on Abby Sutton. In the end she gave up, cancelled her two meetings and stowed Randall Rusk’s plea agreement, She spent most of the morning staring out her window, up into a blue and baking sky. She couldn’t shake the notion that Abby’s murder and Laroy Hockley’s attempt to pin it on Valentine might possibly have something to do with the death of Willy Henderson, the Confederate Syndicate member who had been killed by a Special Tactics Unit warrant squad. Had the STU executed Abby to eliminate a potential witness? Despite what she said on the levee, she still shied away from that conclusion, but she wasn’t naive enough to believe that it couldn’t happen. The alternative that Laroy had suggested was far worse.

Laroy Hockley. God, she had been so stupid. And he had been so damned good looking. Especially on a horse. He could ride a wild stud roped straight out of the scrub to a knee-quivering standstill. But when he had drunkenly tried to break her the same way, she had balked. He had slapped her and pressed on. That’s when she started throwing punches. That was a long time ago, but it still pissed her off. But she couldn’t dwell on the past and she couldn’t avoid Laroy any longer.

At a little after 1:00 PM, the office receptionist brought back a folder sent over by Jack Birch. Victoria dropped it on the center of her desk and flipped it open to find copies of the crime scene tech’s preliminary report, the crime scene photos and Jack and Phil’s notes. That was better than good considering it had been less than five hours since Abby had been collected from the levee, but a lot less than what was needed to start making a case.

She flipped through the file, bypassing the crime scene photos altogether. She didn’t need to see them to be reminded of the brutality that Abby had endured. Instead she turned to Birch and Bastrop’s notes, a woefully thin sheaf of typed documents that told her nothing that she didn’t already know.

At the back of the file were the interview logs compiled by the uniformed officers who had canvassed the neighborhood around Canyon Street. Net result for their efforts? Zero. Not that the uniforms hadn’t gotten leads from residents who thought they saw something suspicious; they had gotten plenty and were running down every one, but Victoria doubted much would come of it. Suspicious activity was normal in that neighborhood. 

She closed the file in frustration, leaned back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut. Once again, she considered quitting her job and staying home with the boys. Being a mother and a housewife. But that idea scared her as much as it thrilled her. She had spent her entire life working to get where she was. Could she give it up? Should she?

Her maudlin train of thought was interrupted by a knock on her office door.

Jack Birch strode in without waiting for an invitation. He had a pair of thin manila folders in his right hand and an unlit cigarette in his left.

“Counselor,” he said as he crossed the room and laid one of the folders on her desk. “Updated copies of Abby Sutton’s case file. Not much new. Autopsy’s scheduled for seven tomorrow morning. The lab is processing the material from the scene as we speak. Got a rush on it thanks to Deputy Chief Ballast.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Victoria said as she flipped open the folder. The paper count had doubled in the last few hours, but she quickly saw that there still wasn’t one solid lead. That meant Valentine was still suspect number one.

Birch sat and fiddled with his cigarette as she paged through the file.

“What did Ballast say about Hockley and Erath?” she asked, looking up from the paperwork.

Birch shrugged. “It’s still my case, but I’ve been ordered to keep Laroy in the loop. That’s a decision I’m going to have to live with, but I don’t intend to be completely forthcoming. I’ll give Laroy enough to keep him out of Ballast’s office and out of our way.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” Victoria pointed out. “Laroy isn’t stupid. He’s been a cop for a lot of years and any good cop can smell a load of bullshit before it hits the ground behind the bull.”

Jack nodded. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Victoria dropped her eyes back to the page before her, the list of Abby’s associates, a list that included the entire membership roster of the Confederate Syndicate, some thirty-odd redneck grease-balls with long drug and assault rap sheets. She scanned down the list, recognizing some of them as career felons.

“So, she was still running with the Confederate Syndicate?” she asked, looking up from the page. The Confederates had been formed by Garland Sutton, Abby’s father, back in the eighties.

Birch nodded. “She stuck with the Confederates when her daddy jumped on the Jesus wagon and started preaching on the internet,” Birch’s tone made it obvious that he didn’t buy Garland Sutton’s prison conversion - a conversion that had been played up large in the newspapers in the weeks after his sons were killed and his daughter crippled. “She’s kept up the CS’s ties with the Dirty White Boys. Still running dope and guns.”

Victoria nodded, unsurprised. Thanks to Garland’s long stints in prison, the Confederate Syndicate had a close affiliation with the Dirty White Boys prison gang, an affiliation Garland had publicly foresworn after his last stay in Huntsville.

Birch continued. “Her boyfriend Axel Rankin’s a hang-around. He used to work out of a Syndicate dope house on Jefferson and Seventh. Meth, tar, weed, you name it. Place has been shut down for close to a year. Axel’s had three arrests for possession, but never enough weight for a felony bust. He was a small timer until he hooked up with Abby. She became the Syndicate’s top dog after her daddy decided that religion paid better than dealing dope. Kind of impressive when you consider how outlaw bikers treat their women,” he shrugged, “But Abby was one hard little girl.”

Victoria flipped the file closed. “So, Axel Rankin is the most logical suspect,” she said, stating the obvious. The husband/boyfriend/lover was always a prime suspect.

Birch nodded. “That’s where we’ve got to start anyhow.” He slid the second manila folder onto her desk. “Here’s Rankin’s sheet and mug shots.” He settled back and stuck the unlit cigarette between his lips.

Victoria opened the folder and scanned the booking photos. Axel had a broad forehead, a narrow jaw and a wispy mustache and goatee. There was a close-up of a black swastika that was tattooed across his Adam’s apple. She flipped through additional photos, more close-ups of tattoos, arms, chest and stomach, until she found his rap sheet. Lots of traffic violations and the three possession busts Jack had mentioned. Typical white trash biker. None of his arrests had earned him more than a few months in the county jail, but the murder of Abby Sutton would definitely push him into the big leagues.

She looked up at Jack again. “You think Axel is the type to kill his girlfriend?”

Jack shrugged. “Everybody’s that type, just need a good enough reason.” Typical cop cynicism.

“Think you can run Axel down?”

“We’re trying, but Axel has pulled a Houdini. One of his buddies is a snitch for the vice detectives. His girlfriend works the stroll on Harry Hines. I ran him down last night doing the same old thing, getting drunk while the girlfriend hustled. He says Axel took a bus to Los Angeles a few days ago. Right about the time Abby was murdered.”

“Axel has family out there?”

“Everyone but Axel and his older brother, Caesar, live right around there.”

“Where’s his brother?” Victoria wasn’t above putting a little pressure on Axel by going after his brother. She knew she couldn’t count on any help from the LA cops. They had way too many murderers of their own to look for a fugitive out of Texas.

“Serving twenty-to-life in Huntsville. He’s a top tier Dirty White Boy, so don’t go looking for any help there. He’s right where he wants to be.” The Dirty White Boys were run from inside the walls of Huntsville State Prison, though their reach extended far beyond the perimeter fences and barbed wire. If you hoped to become a shot caller, a life sentence was almost a prerequisite.

“Great.” Victoria said. Any further discussion on the topic was prevented by the buzzing of her desk phone. She hit the speaker button.

“A Laroy Hockley is here, Mrs. Justice,” the office receptionist told her.

Victoria grimaced. What the hell was Laroy doing here? There was only one way to find out.

“Send him back, please,” Victoria said and broke the connection. She fished her cell phone out of her purse, pulled up the microphone app and hit record before placing it on the near corner of her desk. She wanted a record of this conversation.

“Let’s play this tight to the vest,” she said to Jack as she stood and headed for the office door. “I don’t want to tell him any more than we have to.”

“Sure,” Birch said, Hhe stood and tucked the unlit cigarette into his breast pocket.

Victoria opened the door to find Laroy on the other side, his right hand raised to knock. Laroy started to say something then saw Jack and stopped. The two men locked stares, just as they had earlier that day out on the levee. Something passed between them. Something dark and hostile. She saw it in Hockley’s eyes. A shifting of gears, a tightening of the facial muscles. She glanced at Birch to check his expression, but he looked like he always did: like something carved out of a slab of granite.

“Jack,” Hockley finally said, his jaw working stiffly, like he was chewing barbed wire. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Laroy,” Jack replied evenly.

“Have a seat, Laroy,” Victoria said, wondering exactly what the hell was going on between the two men? It was obvious they had some history. She wondered why Birch hadn’t mentioned it?

As she circled her desk, Laroy settled into the chair beside Birch and placed his briefcase carefully across his knees.

“Thank you for seeing me, Victoria,” he said. He tried on a smile, but it looked a little thin, like a pit bull playing at being friendly.

Victoria nodded noncommittally. “What can I help you with?”

“I just came by to tell you that Chief Ballast has agreed to keep the Sheriff’s Department in the loop on the Abby Sutton homicide,” he said. “But I guess you already know that,” he added with a sidelong glance at Jack.

Victoria nodded. “I understand Detective Birch is still the lead investigator,” She took pleasure in pointing out that Jack was still on the case, despite Hockley’s maneuvering. “So, what can we help you with?”

Hockley shrugged. “Where are we at?”

Victoria glanced at Jack who took the cue readily enough.

“Abby Sutton appears to have been shot twice in the torso and then stabbed to death. Most of the knife wounds appear to be postmortem. Frenzied. Your standard overkill. Our prime suspect is Abby’s boyfriend, Axel Rankin. Axel’s a dope dealer who runs with the Confederate Syndicate Motorcycle Club. We’re trying to track him down without much luck. We think he’s headed for Los Angeles”