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

“Muffin,” Steele said. “Archer is doing the right things. He’s getting immense pressure from the chief. They’ve got your farm, Annie’s apartment, Briscoe’s house, and Maggie’s grave under surveillance.”

“That’s hardly original thinking,” Brad said.

“They’ve got guys following us,” Steele said. “It’s fun leading them all over the city until we want to ditch them. That takes about fifteen seconds. They follow Briscoe home. Even at work he’s got someone tailing him.”

“He’s not gonna like that,” Brad said.

Steele grinned. “Oh, yeah. He enjoys messing with them by racing up Fourth Street and into the cemetery. They follow and then block all the exits. Briscoe sits there for about ten minutes, then leaves. They can’t get the roadblocks out of the way fast enough, and he waves at the cops as he drives around them.”

“Did you bring the stuff?” Brad asked.

“Yup.” Steele swung a duffel bag in front of Brad.

“You got everything?”

Sam shrugged. “Annie gave us the list—older clothes for the homeless style, but not the ‘jeez, you stink’ kind. Binoculars, notebooks, cash, dimes for the payphone—everything.”

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Zerr asked.

Brad said, “I know a place.”

“The accommodations of last night didn’t work out?” Zerr asked.

“Too many people are getting caught in my wake. It was a mistake last night. I’m not putting Sadie or anyone else in danger.”

“We’ll find you someplace to hide,” Zerr said.

Brad shook his head. “You guys are already too involved. Better if you don’t know where I am. If I don’t figure this out soon, I’ll have to turn myself in.”

“We’re a long way from that happening,” Zerr said.

“Maybe.” Brad shrugged. “I need to find the hookers. Something’s not right with what they said.”

Steele nodded. “We thought that, as well. When we leave here, that’s what we’ll do. Leave it to us.”

Zerr tossed over a plastic bag. “Subs, milk, water, juice, and toothbrush and paste.”

“How do we get ahold of you?” Steele asked.

“You don’t, too risky,” Brad replied. “We meet here every night around nine. If either of us are followed, it’s off. Otherwise, I’ll get messages to you through Sadie and Annie.”

“Reconsider your options,” Zerr said. “You were safe at Sadie’s place.”

“That’s a last resort.” Brad clipped a leash onto Lobo’s collar. He knelt and roughed up Lobo’s head. “Be a good boy.” Brad handed the leash to Steele, grabbed his stuff and headed out of the park to Lobo’s frantic barking.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Brad parked behind the stone-and-brick building. A single light shone from a window facing the back parking lot. Brad sat in the truck staring at the window, wondering if this was a good idea. Maybe not the best, but he was out of options. After he’d left the park, he’d never felt so alone. Leaving Lobo behind was the hardest. Especially when Brad needed him.

A shadow passed over the window. Brad opened the truck door and headed to the church. He hesitated at the back door, then knocked. Not his usual, ‘police’ knock, but a friendly, hesitant knock. He heard noises from inside, then the door opened.

“Reverend Branton,” Brad said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was—”

“Of course, I remember you, Detective.” Branton’s smile was wide. His blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t typically get visitors at this time of night. Is everything okay?”

“Would you mind if I came inside?”

“Not at all.” Branton stepped aside. “Where are my manners? Please, come in.” Branton, wearing a powder blue button-down shirt, navy pants and black wing tip oxfords led Brad down a short hall to an office with an antique desk littered with papers, books and magazines. “I’m working on a sermon for this Sunday. Doing research.” Branton pointed to one of two recliners. “Please, have a seat.” Branton hesitated at the other chair. “Can I offer you a coffee? Water?”

“I’d love a coffee. I know it’s late.”

“No problem. I have a pot on. I do my best work at night.”

A few minutes later, Branton was back with two steaming mugs of coffee.

“Most cops I know take their coffee black. I made an assumption.” Branton handed a coffee to Brad and sat.

“Good call.” Brad sipped the drink and sighed. “That is what I needed.”

Branton sat back and sipped his coffee. His soft eyes observed Brad.

They sat in silence for several minutes, neither willing to disturb the relaxed atmosphere.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” Branton said. “But from what I’ve watched, you are famous—or is it infamous?”

Brad slid forward to the edge of his chair. “I’m sorry. I’m putting you in a compromising situation.”

Branton waved him back down. “Priest and parishioner confidentiality.”

“You’re not a priest and I’m not your parishioner.”

Branton chuckled. “Minor details.” He held his arms wide. “This is a house of God. There’s a reason we call it a sanctuary. You are safe here.” He sipped his coffee and crossed his legs. “How can I help?”

For the first time in a long time, Brad felt comfortable, at peace. Mandatory sessions with the police psychologist Hans Keller had been adversarial. Talking with a psychologist he’d picked, Darlene Fricker, had gone better. He leaned back in the comfortable chair and closed his eyes. Then he started talking about Maggie.

Branton listened intently, never interrupting, eyes locked on Brad, fingers folded in his lap. Brad slumped in the chair when he’d finished his story.

Branton let a few quiet minutes pass. “Would you like me to offer my observations?”

Brad nodded.

“For someone so young, you have experienced more than 99.9 percent of people experience in a lifetime. Your chosen profession guarantees that. Your personal loss is extreme. One thing you haven’t mentioned is your belief in God.”

Brad leaned forward, but Branton waved him off with a smile.

“That doesn’t matter,” Branton said. “I’m not here to save or convert you. Suffice to say, you came here for sanctuary. If you believe in God, your faith is questioned. ‘How could a loving God allow this to happen?’ If you don’t believe in God, then you believe you are the unluckiest person in the