- Author: Dwayne Clayden
Book online «Goddess of Justice Dwayne Clayden (i read book .TXT) 📖». Author Dwayne Clayden
Goddess of Justice
Also by Dwayne Clayden
To The Reader
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 Dwayne E. Clayden
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at:
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Published in Canada by Bad Alibi Press
Printed and Bound in Canada
Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers
Editing by Taija Morgan
Proofing by Jonas Saul
Formatting by Dwayne Clayden
Goddess of Justice/ Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed.
ISBN: 978-1-989912-04-1 (pbk), 978-1-989912-05-8 (e-book)
Created with Vellum
My continual support through the craziness
of living with an author.
Here we are, at six novels!
Also by Dwayne Clayden
The Brad Coulter Thrillers
Wolfman is Back
13 Days of Terror
Goddess of JusticeThe Brad Coulter Thrillers Continue in 2022
Bonded LaborThe Speargrass Thriller Series
Speargrass Vengeance (Fall 2021)Short Story
Hell Hath No Fury
AB Negative. An Anthology of Alberta Crime
November 22, 1980
A streetlight flickered, illuminating the road for a moment, then plunging it into darkness. The drug dealer, in his early twenties, leaned against one of the broken streetlights. His cigarette glowed intermittently, giving away his location. Cigarette in his mouth, he rubbed his hands together, then wrapped his arms around his thin body. Dealing on a cold November Saturday night required dedication, or maybe, desperation. He had a product to sell and junkies willing to venture out to get their fix. He stomped his feet, shivered, and took a long drag. The smoke, mingled with his breath, formed a cloud in front of him on his exhale.
Dice watched from the shadows of the crack houses across the street. Once an affluent area of Calgary, Alberta, Victoria Park had become the armpit of the city. House after house, block upon block of crack dens. Dice had to admire the dealer’s choice of location. He’d have steady business until well into the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, tonight would be his last night in business.
Sirens, wailing from several directions, broke the silence. A police cruiser raced past, then another. Seconds later, an ambulance passed, followed by another cruiser. The emergency vehicles stopped outside a house a couple of blocks past the dealer. When he’d heard the sirens, he’d slipped back into the shadows. But not so far that Dice couldn’t see him.
Unfazed by the police presence, the dealer moved from the shadows. As crackheads popped out of the houses to see who’d overdosed this time, the dealer made further sales. Such was the life cycle in Vic Park.
An hour from now, the scene would be repeated with another overdose, a fight over drugs, or a domestic assaults, and knifings were common.
Dice waited in the shadows until the ambulance sped away. A few minutes later, the cops came out of the house with three men in handcuffs. The cruisers left, and the addicts headed back to their homes.
This was the time to act. The streets would be quiet for at least half an hour.
Sliding his beanie low, jacket collar up, Dice staggered toward the dealer, who was working on another cigarette, making him easy to find—just follow the glow.
The dealer heard the footsteps and pushed away from the streetlamp.
“You got guts. The cops were just here.”
Dice nodded, pretended to trip on the curb, and lurched toward the laughing dealer.
“Seems you’ve got a head start. Whatever you need, if I don’t have it, I’ll get it. Name your poison.”
Dice whispered, “Crack.”
“Jeez, you’ll have to talk louder than that.”
Dice staggered toward the dealer and stumbled again. Before Dice hit the street, the dealer reached out a stabilizing hand.
“Maybe you don’t need nothin’ right now.”
Dice’s hand came up holding a hunting knife. The long blade thrust upward, just under the sternum, pointed toward the dealer’s left shoulder.
The blade pierced the dealer’s heart. With one hand on the knife, Dice shoved the dealer back against the pole, twisted the knife, then let his body slide to the sidewalk.
The dealer grabbed his chest with his right hand, blood spewing between his fingers. Eyes wide, he mouthed, Why? His eyes stared past Dice as life spurted out of his body.
Dice wiped the knife on the dealer’s hoodie, slid it back into a sheath, and headed north toward downtown.
Detective Brad Coulter sat at the back of a classroom in the hotel conference center. He stretched his lean six-foot-one body out, legs well under the table, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He wondered why these places put up fancy chandeliers, yet the sliding walls were a dull gray cloth. Sure, it was practical, they could make the rooms bigger or smaller, but who cared about the lighting. He was in the sixth row of tables. He always sat at the back. Each table had a crisp white tablecloth, a jug of water and, best of all, a bowl of Jolly Ranchers. Twenty-three other detectives were in the class.
Today was the second day of the Crime Scene