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

mouth, then out into the sink. He stuffed additional paper towel into his mouth, then rinsed again.

“Are you okay?”

He twisted his head toward the voice.

Sadie was standing beside the sink, a quizzical expression on her face.

“You are weird.” She shook her head and headed to the front door. “I’m going for a jog. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’ll be back in an hour.”

From under the tap, Brad watched her leave. At least it gave him an opportunity to clean up. He headed to the bathroom and stared at his image in the mirror. The left side of his lips and cheek were blue. He grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed. Soap seeped into this mouth. He gagged and filled his mouth from the tap. After five minutes the blue was faint, and his cheeks were red and sore.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He started the shower. He used soap and shampoo to get rid of the last of the ink. The bathroom was a cloud of steam. He wrapped a towel around his waist, opened the door and headed to the bedroom. He grabbed the bag on the bed, the shopping Sadie had done for him this morning. Underwear, socks, black T-shirts, black jeans, black sneakers, black coat and a black wool beanie?

She’d also picked up some toiletries. He debated if he should shave. Probably not. He grabbed the toothbrush, globbed some paste onto the bristles, and headed back to the bathroom. Although it was merely a few steps, he heard the deadbolt retract and the door open.

Sadie stepped in. They were face to face. Sadie in sweats and a hoodie. Brad in a towel.

Sadie tossed her keys into a glass bowl by the door. “By all means. Make yourself at home.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m just used to, well, other than Lobo, you see—”

“Forget it. But finish quick. I need to get ready to go to work.” Her jaw clenched. “I’m not used to sharing either.” She stomped to her bedroom and shut the door—not a slam, but damned close.

Brad spit out the toothpaste, rinsed the sink and went back to the room. He changed quickly and stuffed the clean clothes and toiletries into a gym bag. He grabbed, his notes, some fresh paper, and a handful of new pens. He started to leave but stopped. He grabbed the guns and ammunition out of the box, then loaded the guns and slipped spare magazines in the parka pockets. He slid the Hi-Power into his holster and slipped it into the small of his back. The CZ and holster were attached to his right leg. He grabbed his broken tactical knife, was about to toss it back on the table, then clipped it his left boot.

Brad stepped out of the apartment building into familiar territory. For four years he’d patrolled this area. He knew it like the back of his hand, day or night.

He followed Royal Avenue to Eighth Street, then headed north across Seventeenth Avenue. At Fifteenth Avenue he saw the perfect place to stop. He entered the Dairy Queen and ordered lunch. Seated in the back corner, he tore into his burger, hungrier than he’d realized. As he ate, he pulled out his notes, then tossed them aside. The bigger problem was who was doing the killing and why were they framing him.

Were they two separate problems that came together? The murders started before he was involved. A vigilante with a plan. Then, by luck of the draw, and out of boredom, he investigated.

As he drank his Coke, he worked on a plan and came up with two objectives—avoid the police and figure out who was framing him. To stay out of jail, he’d need to think like a criminal—which, technically, he was.

At what point did the killer target him? What was it he did that scared the killer and caused the killer to add Brad to the plan? It was brilliant. While the police hunted for Brad, the killer wasn’t under suspicion. No one was hunting anyone other than Brad. Would the murders continue? Why not, if Brad was on the loose? In fact, if another homicide occurred, it would be even better for the actual perpetrator. He had no alibi. Not even a bad alibi.

Chapter Forty-Six

Jackson burst into Sturgeon’s office and slumped into a chair.

Sturgeon glanced up. “You and Coulter, neither of you learned to knock. What the heck do you want?”

Jackson stretched out his long frame and placed his hands behind his head.

“Christ,” Sturgeon said. “You two even sit the same way. You bored?”

“Staff Sergeant in Homicide isn’t that busy of a job. Being the sergeant in charge of one cop—Coulter—shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Sturgeon raised an eyebrow. “But.”

Jackson leaned forward. “How the hell does he do it? He’s always in shit.”

“The shit finds him, he doesn’t go looking.”

“Maybe,” Jackson said. “But Christ, a vigilante?”

“You don’t believe that?”

“No. You?”

Sturgeon hesitated.

Jackson’s eyes widened. “Spill it. What have you found?”

Sturgeon shrugged. “Just the stuff you already know. The evidence points to Coulter. No matter how many times we analyze, it comes back the same.”

“You’ve known him a long time. Is it possible?”

Sturgeon shook his head. “Even with Maggie dying, I don’t see Brad doing the murders. He may tiptoe on the line, but he’d never cross over this far.”

“I don’t know.” Jackson pursed his lips. “He was a long way over the line when he forged the psychologist’s note to come back to work.”

“Sure. But he came back to work, not to go rogue.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “So you say.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Jackson asked.

Sturgeon gazed around his office. “Clearing his name ... I hope.”

Jackson fumbled around in a shirt pocket until he found a toothpick. He slid the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “He doesn’t have a lot of resources to do that. He can’t use his friends.”

“Are you sure?” Sturgeon wrinkled his brow.

“Shit.” Jackson sprung forward and spit out a piece