Naked Justice (8 page)

“Mike.”

It was Tomlinson. “What is it?”

He pointed through the front windows. “I think there’s something going on outside you should know about.”

Mike peered through the front windows. Prescott was still on the scene, standing on the front lawn, talking to several reporters and minicams.

“I don’t believe it,” Mike murmured. “He’s giving a goddamn press conference!”

Mike rushed out the front door just in time to hear the tail end of Prescott’s remarks.

“… because Lieutenant Morelli’s conduct has been questionable for some time, and this latest incident will only intensify the ongoing investigation. Rest assured, however, that the guilty man is in custody—”

Mike plunged between Prescott and the cameras. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just answering a few questions for the folks at home,” Prescott said wanly.

Mike faced the reporters. “Turn those cameras off. I said
off
!”

The cameramen wordlessly obeyed.

Mike whirled on Prescott. “I told you you were off the case!”

“So I’m off. Doesn’t mean I can’t answer a few questions.”

“You idiot. You can’t tell people who’s guilty before there’s been a trial. You’ll get the department sued, not to mention prejudicing the whole investigation.”

“I keep telling you, there’s no investigation. We have the killer in custody.”

“You stupid—Prescott, you’re on probation.”

“What!”

“You heard me. You’re suspended until further notice. Don’t come to the office. And don’t talk to the press!”

Prescott’s eyes narrowed. “I have a lot of friends, Morelli.”

“Well, you’d better, ’cause if you’re still in my face five seconds from now, you’re not going to have a job.”

“We’ll see.” He whipped around and stomped down the driveway.

“Sorry about that disturbance,” Mike told the reporters. “We’ll give an official press conference this afternoon in time for you to make the five o’clock news. Thank you.”

Mike hustled back to his car to call in the forensic teams. Jeez, what a day. At this rate, he’d have his first heart attack before he made captain.

Maybe it was sunspots, after all.

H
ARD AS SHE TRIED
, Deanna Meanders found she could carry only three of the four bags of groceries at once. She could go inside and ask Martha to help, she supposed. Argue and cajole and finally order her out. Martha would be put out and argumentative (“I’m not your slave!”); she’d say something that would irritate Deanna, Deanna would say something back, and they’d kill a couple of hours being crappy to one another.

Nah, she’d get it herself.

It was already after seven. Deanna had had a hell of a time getting out of the office. Mr. Coughlin dumped yet another one of his emergencies on her at the last possible moment. “We’ve got to have this faxed to San Diego before six!” And as well she knew, when he had an emergency, everyone in the office had an emergency. “We all have to pull together.” Translation: no one goes home till I do. “Emergencies come with the territory.” Translation: I put it off till the last minute.

When she finally escaped, she made an unavoidable run to Bud’s for groceries. And now she was late, damn it. It wasn’t so much that she worried about Martha; she was sixteen—old enough to look after herself. But the later Deanna got home, the less time she had to spend with her. Martha got older and older and busier and busier, and as the time passed they grew more and more distant.

Being a single mother was hell. Sometimes it seemed like all she ever did was work and worry, and neither did her much good. Certainly Martha didn’t appreciate either. “How come you can’t come to school today for the play like the other mothers?” Or, alternately: “Mother, get a life of your own, okay?” Sure, she was just a typical teenager. But it still hurt. Martha thought her mother had all these choices, that she could decide for herself what to do. The truth was, she had no choices. She had to work to keep this family unit afloat. Martha depended on her, whether she knew it or not. Not to mention the fact that, the second Deanna screwed up, that son of a bitch she divorced would be right back in her face trying to get custody again. And she couldn’t let that happen. No matter what.

Deanna walked toward the front door. The windows were open, and she could hear voices inside. Including one that wasn’t supposed to be there. Quietly she crept up to the window.

There he was. Buck, the banished boyfriend. Well, if not exactly banished, certainly keenly disapproved of. He hadn’t shaved, like always, and he was wearing those loose green fatigues, like always. He looked like someone you’d expect to hit you up for a quarter downtown. And this was Martha’s one true love. God, life was cruel sometimes.

Deanna hadn’t known what to do the first day she came home and found Buck in her living room, feet on the sofa, snuggling up to Martha and drinking a beer. A beer, for God’s sake! Did they meet at school? No, turns out Buck isn’t in school. He got expelled a long time ago and he never went back. Not to worry. He had plenty of money. Except that worried Deanna even more—how did a high school dropout with a crummy no-talent job manage to have so much cash all the time?

Deanna had never uncovered Buck’s true age. He claimed to be twenty, but she suspected he was older. What did it matter? Twenty was too old to be seeing a sixteen-year-old. Martha hadn’t really dated before, and now she was going with some guy old enough to … well, to drink beer, among other things.

Deanna considered this pairing totally unacceptable, but at the same time, she knew what would happen if she made a big thing out of it and forbade Buck to come around any more. Tempers would escalate, lines would be drawn, and this budding romance would turn into some Romeo-and-Julietesque grand passion. Deanna knew quite well how headstrong Martha could be. She’d rebel, and soon she’d run off with him, maybe even get married. Or worse, get pregnant. And Martha’s whole future would be ruined.

She couldn’t risk it. So after much deliberation, she had said that Martha could continue to see Buck, but only during certain hours, and only when they were chaperoned. That way, she hoped, the romance would run its natural course. Eventually Martha would become disenchanted with his ignorant insolence; she would realize that his half-grown goatee was really pretty ugly; and she wouldn’t think it was funny anymore when he belched in her face.

So Deanna had hoped, anyway. But the relationship had been raging on for three months now, with no sign of abating. And now he was in their house when he wasn’t supposed to be, when Deanna wasn’t home.

Buck. Jesus Christ, what kind of a name was that for a human being, anyway?

Martha and Buck were sitting at the kitchen table playing a card game, that strange one with the special illustrated cards. Magic: The Gathering, they called it. All Deanna knew was that the game was ungodly complicated and it cost a fortune to collect enough cards to have a good deck.

Martha laid a red card in the center of the table. “I’m going to use my red mana to summon a Fireball and do nine damage to you.”

Buck’s eyebrows knitted together. “Against me? Why me, woman?”

Deanna winced.

“Don’t attack me,” he said. “Go after my Juggernaut.”

“I don’t want your Juggernaut. I want you, handsome.”

“But I’ve only got ten life points left.”

“And now you’ve got one. I’ve already done it.”

His voice acquired an edge. “And I’m telling you not to, woman.”

“C’mon, Buck. Play the game. You have one life point.”

“But I told you—”

“Buck, take your turn!”

“You stupid
bitch
!”

Deanna felt the air rush out of her lungs.

“Calm down,” Martha said.

“Don’t you tell me what to do, woman. You stupid, stupid bitch!” He threw all the cards in his hand at her. “You screwed up my whole game.”

“I tried to win, if that’s what you mean. Aren’t you supposed to try to win? Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah, well, fuck you. Bitch,” he added again, as an afterthought.

Deanna clutched at her chest. Omigod, omigod, omigod. How did I let this happen?

“Same to you,” Martha snarled back at him, and for added emphasis, she shot him the finger.

Buck’s lips pressed together. “Don’t you point that finger at me, woman.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” The finger remained.

“I told you not to do that!” He jumped out of his seat, reached across the table, and swung at her. He might have been aiming at her hand, but the blow passed barely an inch from her face.

Deanna had seen enough. Too much, actually. She bolted into the house and ran into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on in here?”

Both Martha and Buck jumped out of their seats. “Mom! How long have you been here?”

“Long enough. Buck, I want you out of my house.”

“M
o-
om
!”

“Now!” She pointed toward the door. “Out!”

Buck settled into the kitchen chair. “Like, isn’t it Martha’s house, too? Doesn’t she have any say in this?”

“No.” Deanna marched forward till she was standing right over him. “Get out! Or I’ll throw you out!”

A small smile crossed Buck’s lips. He looked Deanna up and down, as if conducting a smug appraisal. “You’re going to throw me out?”

“Damn straight.” She picked up the kitchen phone and punched 911.

“Mo-om! Stop this! Buck is my guest.”

“You’re not allowed to have guests anymore.” Deanna spoke into the phone receiver. “Yes, I’m calling about a trespasser. Housebreaker. Whatever. An unwanted person who won’t leave. Can you send out a patrol car? We may be in danger.”

“Christ, all right already.” Buck stood up and pressed the interrupt button. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“Good.” She pushed him toward the door. “And don’t come back!”

“Look, woman, Martha and I are going steady.”

“Not anymore. Your relationship is over.” She pressed a finger against his chest. “And don’t you ever—
ever
—call me
woman
!”

He ambled toward the door, smirking. “Martha, your old lady is crackers.” He winked. “I’ll call you.”

“Don’t even think about it!” Deanna shouted.

Buck sauntered out the door. A few moments later, she heard his motorcycle rev up and saw him zoom down the street.

Martha ran into the living room and flung herself onto the sofa. “I am never speaking to you ever again. Never!
Never!
”

“Honey, it was for your own—”

“I have never been so humiliated in my whole life! My life is ruined!” Deanna saw tears trickling in the corners of Martha’s eyes. “I can’t believe you made him leave.”

Deanna flopped down at the foot of the sofa. “Honey … he’s a jerk.”

“I happen to love him, Mother, for your information.”

“Oh, you do not. You just think you do.”

“Who are you to tell me whether I love someone?” She pounded her fist into a sofa pillow. “What’s so bad about Buck, anyway?”

Deanna stared at her, flabbergasted. “Are you kidding? I saw the way he talked to you, the way he treated you.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He called you—the b-word. I won’t stand for that.”

“He can’t help it. He grew up around his dad, a dumb metalworker who can barely read. It’s what he learned. You always said we shouldn’t treat underprivileged people like they were worse than us. Right?”

“Honey … he tried to hit you.”

“He did not.”

“I saw it.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have given him the finger.”

“True, but that’s no excuse for him trying to hit you.”

“Where do you get off telling me what I can and can’t do, anyway?” Martha leaped to her feet. “It’s not like you’ve made your life such a giant success.”

Deanna mentally counted to ten. “Martha, I’m only doing this because I love you.”

“Bull. I think you do it because you’re jealous. Jealous!”

“Sweetheart, please calm down.”

“That’s why you were spying on us through that window. Is that how you get your cheap thrills? Are you that hard up?”

“Honey, I looked through the window because I heard Buck, who as you know perfectly well is not supposed to be over here when I’m not around.”

“You said he could come over after dinner.”

“Right. And we haven’t had dinner.”

“Wrong. I have. You haven’t, because you’re late.”

“I had to work late.”

“You always have to work late. You care about your job more than you care about me. You don’t even like me. You only got custody to spite Daddy.”

“Martha!”

“I hate you!” she shrieked. “I
hate
you!” Martha ran across the living room toward her bedroom. “And I’m never speaking to you
again
!” She disappeared inside the interior hallway.

Well, Deanna told herself, you certainly handled that well. God, why didn’t anyone ever tell me parenting would be so hard? And thankless. And why can’t I ever, just for once, handle something right?

Best to let Martha cool off, she decided, before she tried to talk to her again. She’d listen to reason later. Perhaps Deanna was overreacting, but she didn’t think so. That kid was a potential abuser. Potential—hell, he was there already. She’d seen the look in his eye when he talked to her. Contemptuous, superior. Violent. It was a look Deanna had seen before.

She would not let Martha have her life ruined by some abusive son of a bitch.

One time in this family was enough. Two was too damn many. This was a vicious cycle she was not going to allow to repeat.

She walked outside to recover the groceries. She thought she was handling this right, she really did. She had to be tough. Still, something about Martha, something about the look in het eye when she tan out of the room, chilled her to the bone. What if she did something stupid?

She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Please, God. Please, no. Take care of my little girl. Because I’m not sure I can do it alone.

And if she spends any more time with that bastard Buck—anything could happen.

B
EN WAS LATE GETTING
to his office the next morning, not that that was unusual. What was unusual was that his entire office staff—Christina, Jones, and Loving—were standing shoulder to shoulder just inside the front door waiting for him.