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

“Perfect example. He was a danger to everyone—he should have been locked away.”

“Thank goodness for karma. It killed him before he killed someone.” Steele held out his bottle, and they clinked bottlenecks. “Hey, uh, I heard a rumor this morning.”

“Uh-huh. If you don’t hear a rumor by ten, start one? What did you hear?”

“A few cops from downtown were talking about this reporter who was, uh, especially friendly with a detective.”

Brad’s hand stopped mid-flip of a steak. “What did they say?”

Steele sipped his beer. “I’ll slow it down for you. Apparently … this reporter … mentioned … she hadn’t seen the detective … since that morning.”

Brad tossed the steak back on the grill. “Ah, crap.”

Steele’s eyes widened. “It’s true?”

Brad’s shoulders slumped. Damn Sadie. He did not need this shit floating around. He’d have a talk with her. Then he realized that was what she was hoping for. Or maybe she was just messing with him. Who knew what that woman thought?

“No, it’s not true.”

“There were rumors about you and Sadie during the sniper case. This appeared to fit.”

“Stinking rumors.” Brad drained his beer. “None of their goddamned business. Nothing is happening, and nothing happened before. She’s a reporter hunting a story, and I’m always in the middle of a shit show. That’s all.”

Steele sipped his beer and smirked. “Wow, I touched a nerve.”

“Just get me another beer.”

When Steele went inside, a pregnant Emma Steele slipped out onto the chilly deck. In the last month of pregnancy, her face was pale with dark circles around her eyes. She appeared exhausted. She’d pulled her dark brown hair back in a ponytail and wore a police-issue black beanie.

“Get back in the house,” Brad said. “I don’t want to deliver your baby on my deck.”

“I don’t either.” She rubbed her belly. “I’ll wait another month.”

Brad glanced at her bulging blue down parka. “How are you feeling?”

“Enormous as a house and waddling like a duck.”

“You’re gorgeous.” Brad winked.

“You’re such a smooth-talking liar.” Emma leaned against the house. “Have you talked to Charlie lately?”

Brad shook his head. “Some, why?”

“Annie has said nothing?”

Brad set the BBQ fork down. “What’s up?”

Emma stepped closer to the heat of the BBQ. “Charlie tells everyone he’s fine, and he’s healed from the helicopter crash, but Sam says that’s not so. Sam frequently sees Charlie rubbing his leg and limping. Especially after a long run. Charlie’s complained about the cold affecting the leg.”

“Ah, shit.” Brad sighed. Six weeks ago, when they were hunting the snipers, Charlie Zerr’s helicopter was shot down. It crashed into the Bow River and Charlie had serious injuries including a damaged spine, fractured femur and broken hand. “I should have known he came back too soon.”

“You’d know.” Emma smiled.

“Touché. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

Emma gave Brad a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks.” She glanced at the BBQ. “I don’t know how you do this. I’m going back inside.”

Chapter Nineteen

After an early jog with Lobo in the dark, chilly December morning, Brad was warming up with coffee from Gerry’s. He slid between desks in the detective office, heading to his cubbyhole in the back corner. He stopped five feet from his desk, coffee halfway to his mouth. Staff Sergeant Jackson sat in Brad’s chair, dark boots on his desk, giving a toothpick a thorough workover. His black suit jacket was open and a striped, red tie, too wide for fashion, lay on his white shirt.

“Hey, Sarge. You’re up early.”

Brad slumped into a chair across from his desk.

Jackson swung his long legs to the floor and leaned over the desk. “I tried to make it simple for you. Let me remind you. Tell me everything you do, including when you take a shit.”

“I thought you were just being colorful. But since you want to know, I had a great shit this morning, right after my jog. I rarely take a crap until after I’ve had coffee, but today for some reason—”

Jackson pounded a fist on the desk, then pointed a shaking hand at Brad’s chest. “Not today, Coulter. No backtalk, no comedy act, no innocence. On Saturday night—that would be about thirty-four hours ago—you attended a double homicide. Not a burglary. Not someone passing counterfeit money. A fucking double homicide. Do you call me? Let me know what’s happening? No. I arrive on scene and you have already left. I had to get my information from Briscoe and Sturgeon. But I think, no problem. Coulter will call me Sunday. This morning, I’m walking down the alley and the chief’s driver drops him at the back door. The chief talks to me like I know what happened thirty-four fuckin’ hours ago. I play along like I know all about the murders. I tell him I’ll see you this morning and get an update. I can’t find you.”

“Ah, Sarge. I didn’t want to wake you up in the wee hours of Sunday morning. The guys were dead, so there wasn’t anything you could do.”

Jackson’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes ready to pop. His finger was shaking uncontrollably. “I see. Tell me about Sunday mid-morning, and no, I don’t go to church. Afternoon, Evening? What about first thing this morning? Heck, I would have visited your new farm Sunday, but apparently you were entertaining.”

Brad looked away. “I’m sorry. You are invited the next time I have friends over.”

Jackson’s large hands slammed onto the desk, eyes ablaze. “Coulter, that was not the point. We are not friends and I don’t need to hang out with you in my off-duty hours. I’m not even thrilled about sitting here with you now. But those were the orders to me from Deputy Chief Archer. I plan to follow his direction. My orders to you are that you keep me informed every second of every day. Is that clear enough?”

Brad nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about this double homicide.”

Brad slid his chair close and told Jackson everything from the initial call to the autopsy.

“Any leads?” Jackson