Sullivan's Justice (15 page)

Wilson was in his late fifties, stood five-ten, and, except for a bulge around his middle, appeared to be in good shape. A dapper dresser, he was wearing a pale blue shirt with a white collar, a red power tie, and a navy blue suit with faint red stripes. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and his skin was tan from the sun. He had a penchant for practical jokes, and he was often mistaken for the actor Gene Hackman. Instead of telling people the truth, he soaked up the attention, even going so far as signing autographs.

As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the paper in front of her. “What’s this thing with your brother all about? I’d planned on spending the day with my family.”

“Why did they put my picture on the front page?” Carolyn exploded. Her eyes were so tired she was having trouble focusing on the lines below. “The woman was found in my brother’s pool, not mine.”

“News,” Wilson said, cracking his knuckles. “Everyone loves it when the good guys get mixed up with the bad. When you stick an heiress in the middle, you’ve got yourself a whopper of a story.”

“There were two homicides, remember? From what Detective Sawyer told me last night, they’re probably related. It may even be a serial killer. For obvious reasons, they don’t want officially to go public with it yet.”

“I’m aware there was another murder,” Wilson said, a chill in his voice. “This Porter woman’s sister doesn’t work for my agency. As a probation officer, you have access to confidential court records. All I’m interested in is your brother. How do you think it’s going to fall?”

“I have no idea,” she said, curling her fingers around her mouth. “I know Neil didn’t kill her. He was in love with her. They dated when they were in high school. When he went to Europe to study art, she married an officer in the navy.”

“Ah,” Wilson said, taking a drink of his coffee. “So the woman who died was an old flame. I’ve had a few of those surface myself. Nothing but trouble. If your brother was in love with”—he reached forward and took the paper back from her, opening it to the second part of the article—“this Laurel Goodwin, why was he in LA with the Asher woman? Did she buy one of his paintings or something?”

Carolyn didn’t answer. She started to pick up her coffee cup from the end table, then decided she was jittery enough as it was. “Who do you think is the best defense attorney in the county? Vincent Bernini?”

“You’re talking big bucks. Sure you need such a heavy hitter?” He moved his coffee cup to the edge of the desk. “The police haven’t charged your brother yet. Word gets out you’ve hired Vincent Bernini and everyone will assume he’s guilty.”

“I know,” Carolyn said, her brows furrowing as she thought. “But Neil’s got the money to hire a decent attorney, at least for the short haul. A trial, well, I’m hoping it doesn’t go that far. I’m beginning to suspect someone is trying to frame him.”

“How so?”

Carolyn’s eyes widened. “More ways than you could imagine.”

Wilson came from behind his desk and picked up his putter, tapping a ball into the circular target. “I can imagine just about anything,” he told her. “I generally restrict my fantasies to making a hole in one or winning the lottery. I got a call this morning from the board of supervisors. Talk to me, Carolyn.”

He was making her nervous. Carolyn thought about leaving. What happened to her brother could have easily happened to Robert Wilson or Brad Preston. The chief was a known womanizer. Brad moved in different circles, yet it was still what people would consider the fast lane. She thought of Paul, certain he would never find himself in such a position. The physics professor was brilliant, stable, and her children adored him. Theirs was a comfortable, enjoyable relationship. Brad had been an emotional roller coaster. As desirable as he was, she was relieved that their affair was over.

“Why would the board of supervisors care?” she asked, a tinge of aggravation in her voice. “I’m not directly involved. As long as I can do my job, you shouldn’t have a problem.”

“Forget it, I’ll run interference for you,” Wilson said, propping his putter against the wall. “Brad told me he assigned you that mayhem case. You know how long it’s been since we’ve had a mayhem? When it first came in, I didn’t recognize the code section.”

“It’s aggravated mayhem,” Carolyn told him. The crime was intentional mutilation or disfigurement, or depriving a person of a limb, organ, or member of his body. The sentence was life with the possibility of parole. In this instance, the victim had been attacked with a machete, severing his right arm at the elbow. “Tupua Mea’ole, the defendant, is Samoan. He doesn’t speak English. I’m waiting for an interpreter.”

“What’s the status on the victim?”

“He’s alive,” Carolyn told him, pushing her hair back behind her left ear. “They’re fitting him with a prosthesis. The victim’s name is Harold Jackson. He has an extensive record. He served five years at Folsom for armed robbery. He was also a suspect in the LAPD shooting three months ago. They didn’t have enough evidence to convict him. Since he lost an arm, the DA decided not to file battery charges.”

Wilson smiled. “Sounds like we should give your Samoan a medal. Wasn’t Jackson about to rape his wife?”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Carolyn said, sighing. “The woman wasn’t his wife. She’s a prostitute. She claims Jackson was beating her. The defendant lived next door, heard the ruckus, and came to the rescue with his machete. The public defender tried to plead self-defense. The DA didn’t buy it. Just because the victim is a criminal doesn’t change the facts. You can’t chop off a person’s arm if they don’t have a weapon.”

Wilson returned to his desk. “Can you handle the unit for a few weeks?”

“A few weeks?” she said, tilting her head. “I was told Brad would be laid up for at least six.”

He smiled, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle. “Idiot doctors,” he said, turning so he could see his monitor.

“That’s Tiger Woods, you know.” When Carolyn ignored him, he swiveled his chair back around. “The doctor you talked to was probably an intern. I stopped by the hospital on my way to work this morning. The X ray showed only one broken vertebra. Brad isn’t a pantywaist. He won’t let a little thing like that throw him out of the box.”

Carolyn looked down as she thought. If she became acting supervisor, her pending cases would have to be reassigned. The mayhem case was a nightmare. Due to language and immigration problems, the investigation would take twice as much time. Stepping into Brad’s shoes would increase her responsibilities. On the other hand, it might be easier than her present position. She wouldn’t have to deal with dead-lines, victims, or defendants. Overall, it would give her more time to help Neil.

“So,” Wilson said, “can you handle it? You know, with the situation with your brother.”

“Yes,” she said with confidence, deciding to make light of the situation. “What can I do? You know, outside of trying to keep his spirits up?”

“Sounds good.”

Carolyn headed for the door, then stopped. “Tell me something,” she said. “Why did you promote Brad instead of me? You obviously think I’m qualified or you wouldn’t ask me to fill in for him.”

Wilson pointed his finger at her. “You caught me with my pants down,” he said, chuckling. “Damn, you’re good. Brad warned me about you.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Carolyn said, wondering what else Brad had told him.

“Men don’t have babies and all that PMS stuff,” he said, scrunching his nose up. “My wife drives me crazy. I’d prefer not to deal with female problems at the office.”

Carolyn was speechless.

“Hey,” he said, seeing the look of shock on her face, “ninety days and I’m out of there. Do a good job while Brad is gone and I’ll bump you up before I retire. I hate to admit it, but a woman like yourself may end up running this agency one day.” He smiled as he intentionally shivered. “Scary thought for a guy like me. Glad I won’t be around to see it.”

Carolyn could see why Brad felt comfortable acting the way he did. The head of the agency was prejudiced against women. The man was a dinosaur, she thought, glaring at him in disgust. If she had the time, she’d report both of them.

“Oh, by the way,” Wilson said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “everything I said was just a joke. Thought you could use a laugh. Brad said you were a good sport. Have a happy Christmas.”

“How?” Carolyn said, disappearing through the doorway.

 

 

Lawrence Van Buren was sipping coffee in the lobby restaurant of the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara, enjoying the view of the ocean. The day was so clear, all five of the Channel Islands could be seen. When weather permitted, they could also be seen from Ventura. Channel Islands National Park consisted of more than two hundred thousand acres, half of which were underwater. Over two thousand species of plants and animals could be found, and 145 of these species were unique to the islands and could be found nowhere else in the world. Archaeological and cultural resources spanned a period of over ten thousand years.

A historic Santa Barbara structure, inside its stucco exterior, the Biltmore Hotel had mission-style doors, curved archways, dark tiled floors, and outstanding service. Everyone flocked to its restaurants, and its Sunday brunch was one of the hottest tickets in town.

The hotel’s holiday decorations were lavish. A towering tree stood in the entryway, its lights twinkling. A sleigh full of brightly wrapped packages was a few feet away, complete with life-size reindeer and an animated Santa Claus. Christmas music softly played in the background, and a crackling fire burned in the fireplace. Unlike Los Angeles, Santa Barbara had seasons. The air outside was brisk enough to wear winter clothing. Van Buren came here because it got him into the holiday spirit.

His eight-year-old son, Zachary, ran up to him. “Mom needs money,” he said excitedly. “We’re going shopping. She said we could pick out two toys. I want a Spider-Man suit and those sticky gloves he uses so I can climb walls. Felicity wants more stupid Barbie dolls. She already has hundreds of them. As soon as she gets them, she rips their heads off.”

“What are you running around by yourself for?” Van Buren said, his brows raising. “It’s dangerous for a kid your age. This is a public place. Where’s your mother and sister?”

“In the gift shop.”

“Tell her I said it’s okay to use her credit card.”

“But . . . she needs money for taxicabs and things.”

He reluctantly reached into his pocket, pulling out three one-hundred-dollar bills and placing them in his son’s outstretched hands. His wife was a spender. He preferred cash because it left no paper trail. The only problem was that he didn’t know if she was handing out his money to some no-good beach bum or tennis pro. Their sex life was terrific, but a man should keep track of his wife, particularly one as young and beautiful as Eliza. Ruffling his son’s hair, he said,

“Run along now, champ. Daddy has a business meeting. Tell your mother to be back by lunch so we can beat the traffic. You don’t want to miss Santa Claus, do you?”

“I’m not a baby, Dad,” the boy said, trying to look tough.

“I know Mom is Santa Claus. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Felicity.”

After his son ran off, Van Buren saw a tall, striking blonde striding rapidly toward him. Her movements were stiff, almost robotic. She leaned forward slightly when she walked, and her head swiveled from side to side as she constantly checked her surroundings. He wished his men were this alert. If they’d kept their eyes open, he wouldn’t be in the present predicament. He stood and pulled out a chair. “How did you like the new helicopter?”

“Fine,” she said, sitting down and crossing her shapely legs. “It would have been nice if you’d met me in the city, Larry. To make me fly to this godforsaken town on Christmas Eve is bullshit, let alone inconvenient. I have a family, you know, and the last few days haven’t been pleasant.”

In all the years he had known her, Van Buren had never seen her smile. She was the coldest woman he’d ever known. When he looked into her eyes, it was as if he were staring at a slab of concrete. No emotion, fear, humor, compassion, basically no human characteristics whatsoever. How could she possibly have a family? Just the thought of it was ludicrous. Her work was excellent, though, and her services were in great demand. She had worked in Russia, Iran, China, Africa, and all over Europe. No matter how difficult the job, she always performed flawlessly. Through no fault of her own, this time she had failed. What had kept him awake the night before was whether or not he should allow her to continue. What he’d asked her to do was so simple, it was almost laughable for her degree of talent. That’s what made the situation unbearable. Dismissing her was a sticky situation. His nerves forced him into small talk. “Are you still living in Vegas?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “I never lived in Vegas.”

“What have you got against Santa Barbara? We come here every year around Christmas. Most people think it’s paradise. Hardly any crime, pristine beaches, even a polo field. Look at this place,” Van Buren said, gesturing. “The ambience is magnificent. You can’t find this in LA.”

She flagged a waiter over and asked him to bring her a glass of orange juice. The look on her face said Van Buren had dropped down another notch for not asking her if she wanted anything. “I don’t live in LA.”

“Oh,” he said, “when you mentioned meeting there, I assumed—”

She cut him off. “Never assume. And where I live is confidential. It’s not a game, Larry. You know the rules.”

“Absolutely,” Van Buren said, fearing she might get angry and throw him across the room. She was as strong as most men, but she dressed as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. On a rare occasion when he’d caught her intoxicated years back, she’d explained that women didn’t bulk up like men, regardless of how much weight they lifted. The only time a woman’s muscles showed was when she flexed. The majority of female bodybuilders took steroids. Even then, most of them resembled an ordinary woman in street clothes.