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

“Nope,” Brad said. “The murder weapon is a 9mm, more common than the cold. I watched hours of television video trying to find witnesses, a familiar face or someone showing too much interest. But I struck out.”

“Excellent analogy.” Jackson stood. “Because if you screw up again, you’re benched. Is that clear?”

Chapter Twenty

Dice stood before the living room wall and used the red Sharpie to place a large X on two pictures—victims three and four. Dead. These killings had upped the game. The Homicide Unit was investigating. Not that they cared about the pimp and his driver, but the killings were out in the open and innocent people were around. A shooting scared the public. When the public was scared, Mayor Kearse felt he needed to protect and make promises the police would have to keep. Dice still couldn’t believe that a drunk TV reporter could become mayor. If the citizens knew half of what Dice knew, they’d run him out of Calgary. Heck, out of the province. Kearse thought his secrets disappeared when he became mayor. But Dice knew where the skeletons were.

Today, Dice had other problems. Despite not being on the roster for Homicide, Coulter showed up at the double murder. Everyone knew about Coulter. The local hero. The tragic death of his fiancée.

The problem was, he was an excellent cop. If he sunk his teeth into this, he wouldn’t let go. Not that there was anything for him to work with. Dice was meticulous in planning. The killings had gone exactly to plan. The gun was stolen from a drug dealer, who stole it from another dealer, who bought it from a pawnshop. The guy who pawned it stole it from a house he broke into so he could pawn stuff and have money for drugs.

Even if Coulter found the gun, it would trace back to the home robbery years ago. Coulter might waste time with the original owner, but that would be a dead end. Maybe he’d find the pawnshop, but the trail would end there. Coulter finding the gun wasn’t part of the blueprint, but the gun was part of the bigger scheme.

As for Coulter linking the murders—the three events had nothing in common. He probably didn’t even know about the two drug dealers. He would focus on the pimp and whoever he’d pissed off, which would be every girl turning tricks for him—likely a few other pimps he had put in the hospital and out of business. Maybe he’d had his driver teach a lesson to an aggressive customer about how to treat a lady.

The crimes broke most of the rules. Cops were anal on motive and method. Killers who murdered more than one person generally had a modus operandi, an MO. The killings may vary somewhat as the killer improved his technique but would have similarities. The weapon was the same—a knife, a gun. The victim was similar—a teen, with long brown hair, and green eyes or some such physical description.

Dice made sure the cops could not apply their tried-and-true methods of a homicide investigation.

No, even with Coulter investigating, all was well. Still, he was an unplanned factor, and his participation in the murders had to be addressed. He was now part of the problem. Dice placed his picture on the wall.

Dice slid a finger over the pictures. Who was next?

Chapter Twenty-One

Dice headed down the dark alley toward the tattoo parlor. They normally closed by nine, but Dice had begged for an appointment at nine-thirty, saying that because of work, the appointment couldn’t be earlier. Agreeing to pay extra for the time didn’t hurt.

The alley had been excellent cover, but now Dice, dressed head to toe in black, would be exposed to the traffic on Edmonton Trail for about fifteen seconds. Head down, Dice jogged to the door and knocked.

A guy with long hair, a beard, and full arm tattoos peered out the door window, then opened the door.

“You Aaron?” Dice asked.

“That’s me.”

Dice stepped forward, grabbed his shoulder, and thrust a knife under his ribs to his heart. His body shook as his hands tried to grab Dice’s neck. Blood spewed from his mouth, and he made gurgling sounds. Dice eased him to the ground, then stepped around him and behind the reception counter.

Dice opened the cash drawer and took the money—not a lot. Under the counter was a strong box. Dice tried to open it, found it locked, and used the knife to pop the lid. The box was full of cash. Dice stuffed the money into a plastic bag and shoved it in a pocket.

Dice headed down a hall. There were three closed doors, two to the left and one to the right. Dice listened at the one on the left—no sounds, then stepped to the right and listened at the first door. Muted voices. Perfect.

Dice drew a gun, slowly rotated the doorknob, and eased the door open. The room was lit by powerful lights aimed at a bed in the corner. No one heard the door open.

A camera situated to the right filmed the action on the bed. Beside the camera, a man gave directions. On the bed, a man, mid-thirties, was screwing a teen. To the left, two other women dressed in petite bathrobes watched, their eyes filled with terror.

One teen glanced at the doorway, saw Dice, and gasped.

Dice had already chosen targets. The first bullet struck the man on the bed in the back of his head. He collapsed on the screaming girl.

Dice swung to the right as the director glanced left. The bullet struck his jaw and exited behind his ear. As he collapsed, he knocked over the camera, exposing the cameraman to the third and fourth bullets, mid-chest.

Now the girls were screaming. The girl on the bed frantically twisted to get out from under the body. As she slid off the bed, she clawed at her face, trying to remove the blood, brains, and bone.

“Get cleaned, get changed, and get out of here.”