Goddess of Justice Dwayne Clayden (i read book .TXT) 📖

“Easier, but right?” Brad sighed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to be a lawman and work under those conditions. But until someone comes up with a better legal system, we’re stuck with this one. If I must stand and defend my actions in court, I’m pleased to. If the defense lawyers want to put on a show for their client, go for it. But I will continue to do what needs to be done, within the law, to bring the accused to you with high-quality evidence. You present the case as best as you can, then it’s up to the judge or jury. Our best is all we can do.”

“Are you sure about that?” Blighe finished her drink and ordered another round.

Chapter Twelve

Dice carried a mug around the kitchen island, into the living room, and stood in front of a wall covered with maps, photos of houses, photos of potential victims, and details of their daily routines. To make room, the couch was shoved to the side so the entire wall could be used for planning.

Dice sipped the hot drink—so many choices. They were all low-life scum-sucking pigs, all on the street, released by a corrupt court system.

Three targets were crossed out by a thick, red Sharpie pen. Three was a worthy start. It had been a mistake killing the second dealer the same way as the first. Lesson learned. In the future, the murders would be so dissimilar, they’d never be connected. Three victims, if they could be called that, who had never met, and whose paths had never crossed. Three crimes with no evidence pointing to Dice.

Knowing how the cops thought was an advantage. Understanding how the Crime Scene Unit did their job and what they searched for was essential.

Dice considered several options—someone as despicable as the drug dealer and the drunk driver, but dissimilar. Today, a new name made the list. He’d have to wait his turn until the surveillance was done. Dice knew about this piece of shit, and justice needed to be swift. The red Sharpie circled his name. But not tonight—other plans had been made. Tonight, Dice would take it to another level.

Chapter Thirteen

Early Friday morning Brad sat in the back booth at a truck stop restaurant, sipping coffee and reading the paper. With no court appearances scheduled for weeks, he was back to wearing jeans, a button-down navy shirt and hiking boots. His parka and gloves lay beside him on the bench.

What this place lacked in décor, it made up for with the best breakfast in Calgary. His workday-morning routine comprised a stop at Gerry’s Convenience for a coffee or two, then later breakfast or lunch at one of two locations. If he was hungry in the morning, breakfast. If he got hungry later, then lunch. If not, he’d survive on coffee for the day.

Nothing of significance in the morning paper—Mayor Kearse was still basking in his role in the apprehension of the snipers. Brad shook his head. He still couldn’t believe Kearse had gone from crime reporter to mayor in a few months. He flipped through the paper to the sports section.

Sugar Ray Leonard regained the WBC welterweight boxing crown in New Orleans when Roberto Duran quit in the eighth round, saying ‘no más.’

Brad was on the second page of the business section when his senses went on alert—not a threat, but something had changed in the diner.

He folded the top section of the paper over and peered toward the front. He recognized the man at the door.

It was Sergeant Kent Jackson.

Four years ago, when Brad was a constable on the street, Jackson had been his district sergeant. They had a love-hate relationship. Brad loved to push things to the line—right to the edge. Jackson dragged him back. Jackson had encouraged Brad to try out for the tactical support unit. Brad passed the testing, and Jackson was the first sergeant of the TSU.

Brad hadn’t talked to the man for close to two years. Yet here he was, at the truck stop diner Brad came to in order to be away from cops.

There was no doubt this was Jackson, but he had aged. Hair and mustache more salt than pepper, weathered face showing deep lines, and dark circles around his eyes. He still had the swagger Brad remembered. His shoulders were broad, long arms reaching past his waist, hands spread wide, like a marshal in the old west heading for the showdown on Main Street. His customary toothpick was protruding from the corner of his mouth. Although, today Jackson was wearing a black suit that hung loosely on his tall frame.

Jackson’s eyes roamed the diner, then came to rest on Brad. His long strides had him at Brad’s table in seconds.

“Coulter.”

“Sergeant,” Brad said.

“Mind if I join you.” Jackson hadn’t waited for an answer. He took a seat across from Brad.

The waitress rushed over, topped up Brad’s coffee, and filled a mug for Jackson.

“You look great, Sarge.”

“Cut the bullshit, Coulter. I look like hell. I know it, you know it, so let’s not BS each other.”

“What brings you to the restaurant?”

Jackson’s eyes held Brad’s, then glanced down. He reached for the coffee and took a sip, then glanced over the brim of the mug. “Searching for you.”

Brad wasn’t sure what to make of that and didn’t have a clue why Jackson would search for him. Heck, he wasn’t even sure what unit Jackson was working in. He wasn’t in uniform.

“You heading to an important meeting with the chief?” Chief Hamilton wore suits instead of a uniform.

“Interviews for district sergeants this week. Lucky me. I get to interview twenty-one candidates.”

“You were a great district sergeant. You’ll pick the right people.”

The two men stared at each other for a few moments. Staring contests were something Brad typically won. But not with Jackson. Brad was the one to break eye contact. He stared at his coffee, grabbed it and took a sip.

“Besides the delicious