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

It wasn’t a robbery or a drug theft. The murder was up close and personal. Who? Why?

Brad swung his legs off his desk, stood, grabbed his winter parka, and headed out of the office. Lobo slipped out from under the desk, stretched, then jogged to catch up.

“I’m going to a crime scene.”

The secretary didn’t glance up from her typing.

Brad parked his black Firebird on Eleventh Avenue just east of Macleod Trail and headed to the light pole. As he hiked, he slipped on a black beanie and matching gloves. The police tape was gone, but it wasn’t hard to identify the large brown stain on the sidewalk under the streetlight. He studied the dilapidated houses. Once the pride of Calgary, they were an eyesore and the hub of the drug culture.

He snorted at the thought of finding a witness. Uniformed officers had gone door to door. He’d been assigned that task hundreds of times. First, you seldom got any information worth using. And second, you got a ton of abuse. Worse in this neighborhood.

“I was minding my own business.”

“No, Officer, I didn’t see or hear anything.”

Insult the cop. “Get the hell off my porch, pig.”

And his personal favorite, because it was used the most: “You got a warrant?” Idiots. He didn’t need a warrant to ask questions. They watched too many 70’s TV cop shows like Columbo and Streets of San Francisco. Although, Starsky and Hutch didn’t worry about needing a warrant.

Brad studied the scene. If he’d stabbed the dealer, which direction would he escape? West was back to busy Macleod Trail. A chance to fit in, but there had to be a lot of blood on the assailant’s clothes. Even in this area, a bloody shirt would stand out. North was out for the same reason. South would take you to the Stampede Grounds. Also, if there were no events on the grounds, the probability of security spotting you was high. They wouldn’t be asleep yet.

That left east. A few blocks east, you’d come to the Elbow River with many wooded pathways. Further east led into Inglewood, which wasn’t a much better neighborhood than Vic Park. Decision time. Did the killer go east, because that was the smart direction to go? Or did the killer go north and was the one who made the 911 call? If so, why would the killer call 911? Despite the 911 call, Brad’s gut said the killer went east.

He headed back to his car and let Lobo out. They checked the drainage gates and sewers where a knife could be tossed. After ninety minutes of Lobo sniffing ditches, drains and sewers, they’d struck out as far as a murder weapon was concerned. At the river, he followed the paths, not sure what he was searching for, but hoping he would know when he found it. No luck.

Brad shivered and flexed his gloved hands. Despite evidence having been collected from around the scene the night before, Lobo found at least twenty baggies that no longer contained drugs, dozens of syringes and needles, and various pieces of clothing including a disproportionate number of bras and panties. The farther they searched from the site of the murder, the more crap they found.

Well, they’d given it a shot. Brad dumped the garbage into a box in the trunk and poured a bottle of water into a bowl for Lobo. Next would be a bath for the dog to get the grunge off.

While Lobo drank, Brad leaned against the car and again envisioned the murder. Someone got close and personal. No defensive struggle by the dealer. Someone he knew. A user? That narrowed it down to the entire neighborhood. He gritted his teeth and opened the back door.

“Lobo, hup-hup.”

Lobo took one last slurp of the water and jumped into the car.

Chapter Four

The courtrooms were all the same—pale wood paneling on the walls, uncomfortable cherry-wood spectator benches, then the bar, past which were tables for the prosecution and defense, a witness stand, jury box, and the judge’s bench. In the left corner were the Canadian flag and Alberta’s provincial flag. A portrait of the Queen was hung behind the judge’s bench. It was the third day of the trial. Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe had completed the prosecution’s case yesterday. As she waited for the judge to reach a verdict, she picked lint off her navy-blue skirt and brushed wrinkles on her jacket. With this case, she’d been too busy to get her clothes to the dry cleaners. At least she’d had time to wash and iron her white blouse. She crossed her toned legs, dangled a black shoe off her toes and glared at the judge.

The victim, Laura Turner, a petite, blond, sixteen-year-old, sat behind Blighe. She was sobbing and being comforted by her mother.

The judge was taking his sweet-ass time deciding the verdict. Blighe stared at her notes in the folder on the prosecution table, tapping one French-tip nail against the pages. The seventeen-year-old, accused of raping his high school classmate at a party, was going free. Blighe’s blue eyes blazed in his direction.

The accused was Burke Bailey Baldwin, a handsome young man with a firm jaw, dimpled chin and wavy jet-black hair. All of that concealed the sick person he was inside. Smarmy little bastard.

During the trial, he had leaned back in his chair at the defense table, lips twisted into a smirk as his lawyer brought the girl to tears. His parents, seated behind him, showed no emotion. On the visitor benches in the courtroom were a dozen of his high school friends, who spent most of their time whispering and laughing as they stared at the victim. One teen rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then blew a kiss to the girl. Another repeatedly stuck the index finger of his right hand into a circle created with the thumb and index finger of the second hand. This had the other