Murder in Paradise Read online

  “We were watching both of them. Corzine’s the easy one, because he hangs around his club. But Valentine—”

  “Is in the wind. Can you blame him? You have to find him before Corzine’s crew does.”

  “Then help us.”

  “I can’t. I have no idea where Jimmy is, and no way to contact him. If he calls, I can tell him you’re looking for him. Whether he chooses to contact you is up to him.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “It has to be. Anything he says to me, including his whereabouts, falls under attorney–client privilege.”

  “You’re being obstructive.”

  “I’m protecting my client, which I’m damned well required to do, by law and oath. I’ll help if I can, Lieutenant, but not by selling Jimmy out.”

  “Is he still a client? You’re working as a lifeguard, for god’s sake. Are you even a practicing attorney anymore?”

  “I’m a lawyer because I passed the state bar, Lieutenant. Not because I had an office on Cadillac Square. I work for my clients, until they choose to take me off their cases.”

  “I doubt many judges will take you seriously if you show up in cut-offs and flip-flops.”

  “I take courtrooms seriously, Lieutenant. Besides, if I screw up a case, it can be appealed. On the beach, if some kid makes a little mistake, and I miss it? There’s no mistrial, no appeal. There’s only a funeral. So I take both of my jobs seriously. And if your guys had paid closer attention to theirs, maybe they wouldn’t have lost Jimmy.”

  Chapter 24

  Hilliard rose, glowering down at me, then wheeled and stalked out. I expected Chief Paquette to follow, but she just shook her head. “You don’t have enough enemies? Trying to add one more?”

  “Are you gonna bust my chops, too, Chief?”

  “Not about Valentine,” she said, pushing a police file and a mug shot of a haggard, red-eyed woman over to me. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Sure. Her name’s Sherry Molinere, and she’s a client who was recently busted for possession. That mug shot is six years out of date.”

  “And that’s all she is to you? A client?”

  “Here we go,” I sighed.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, you’ve received allegations of mental instability and illegal drug use. You’ve heard claims that she’s a danger to herself and others. Off the record? Maybe there have been a few suggestions of improper advances by her attorney, me, toward this client. All filed by her husband, Dexter Molinere, a ten-year corporal in the state police.”

  “So far, you’re batting a thousand.”

  “Let’s see what your average is. Does anything strike you odd about all this?”

  “Sure. The mug shot. Your client was what? Twenty when it was taken, and strung-out at the time. I doubt she looks much like this anymore.”

  “She was a college kid who got messed up on meth and oxy, and got busted for possession. While she was in Midland Rehab, the arresting officer, Corporal Molinere, visited regularly and brought her flowers. He seemed to be the only one who cared about her—a white knight. They were married three weeks after her release.”

  “But…?” the chief prompted.

  “Sherry thought he was a bit stiff at first, but it was a welcome relief after the life she’d been in. Then his white hat fell off. Dexter Molinere’s a control freak. He dictated every aspect of their lives, clothes, meals, friends. She was practically a hostage. And when she finally filed for divorce?” I gestured toward the mug shot.

  “She suddenly gets busted for possession again.”

  “For drugs that were planted by her husband.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Of course not. He knows the system, Chief. He’s part of it. The Staties gave Sherry a toxic screening when she was arrested, but then it disappeared.”

  “A buddy protecting a fellow officer’s wife?”

  “It wasn’t ditched to protect her. I think she tested clean, which would prove the charges are bogus. Look, I can understand you feeling sympathetic toward the officer’s situation—”

  “Sympathetic?” she echoed, raising her eyebrows.

  “A cop with wife trouble? Do tell. Divorce rates in law enforcement rank right up there with rock stars. You’re a career cop, who’s the widow of a cop—”

  “With a son on the force, and a nephew who’s applied to the academy,” she finished. “Which means I know cops a hell of a lot better than you ever will, sonny. My Arlo had a theory about cops. Wanna hear it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Some join the force because it’s a family business, the way citizens become butchers or coal miners. Others think it’s a good job—do your twenty-five, then collect your pension. Some want to serve and protect, and if they weren’t cops, they’d be firemen or EMTs. But an unhappy few, like Corporal Molinere? They’re bullies. They like pushing people around and the badge gives ’em a license to do it.”

  “You sound like you know him.”

  “Only the type. This mug shot tells me a lot more about him than it does her.” She tapped the photo with a fingertip. “No man who really loved a woman would ever want people to see his wife like this. Still, I’ve got an official BOLO request from the state police. I have to honor it.”

  “Are you going to arrest her?”

  “Oddly enough, the request is only procedural,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “We’re here to locate and inform. Is Molinere physically abusive?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Sherry’s afraid of being brought home. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He wants to own her.”

  The chief mulled that a moment, then shook her head. “He may not be a danger to her, but that doesn’t mean you’re bulletproof.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Most officers serve their whole careers without drawing a weapon. Corporal Molinere’s been involved in two shootings in the past three years. Both perps were armed. One was threatening to massacre his family with a machete, and the other had already fired on officers, probably hoping for suicide by cop. There’s no question both shoots were justified, but…?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice.

  I leaned in, too.

  “The thing is, Counselor? Molinere was on the force eight years before his first shooting. Only nine months before the second. He knows how easy it is to pull a trigger now. Maybe he’s developing a taste for it. If you get crossways of him, you’d best keep that in mind.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  “You’d damned well better,” she said.

  Chapter 25

  That night, I snapped awake in the dark. My eyes were wide open as I sat motionless in bed, listening. Then I heard it again. A muffled thump and voices that were coming from downstairs.

  Molinere?

  If so, he wasn’t alone.

  Slipping out of bed, I padded silently to the closet, and picked up the Louisville Slugger I’d bought with beach bottle money when I was ten. It’s still perfectly balanced and swings like it’s part of my arm.

  I carefully tiptoed down the stairs, keeping close to the wall to avoid squeaks. Not that I needed to. I could see two figures blundering about the kitchen in the dark. They clearly didn’t care if I heard them.

  I switched on the light, startling the crap out of both of them. It was a bad idea, because one second later, both men had guns aimed at my head.

  They were wearing jeans, boots, and black leather vests over their sleeveless T-shirts. Both were decked in Iron Disciples colors. Bikers.

  Crazy Jack Bruske’s blond mane fell to his shoulders and tangled in his scruffy beard.

  The second man looked like Attila the Hun’s cousin. He might as well have been a berserker who’d stepped out of a ninth-century time warp. He had wild hair and a beard that would impress ZZ Top.

  “Hey, Brian,” Jack said, sliding his weapon back into a concealed-carry shoulder holster. “What’s the bat for? Gonna pop up a few flies?”
/>   I’d forgotten I had the Slugger in my hand. The Hun hadn’t. His gun was still aimed at my head. I put the bat down.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Jack? It’s two in the morning.”

  “We need to talk,” he said. “Had to wait for your watchdogs to nod off.”

  “What watchdogs?”

  “Two guys in a blacked-out van, off the road, maybe a hundred yards from the house,” the Hun said. “They got you staked out. We stashed our bikes beyond them, and walked in. Are they cops?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Somebody tried to kill me a week ago. I could be on somebody’s watch list.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jack said doubtfully. “I’ve seen that van before. They’ve been on you for a while, brother. And I ain’t so sure they’re law.”

  “License plate’s muddied up so you can’t make it out,” the second biker added. “They’re pros, whoever they are.”

  “This here’s Cujo,” Jack said. “He’s with the Iron Disciples, too. An enforcer.”

  The Hun nodded. Neither of us offered to shake hands.

  “You got beers?” Jack asked.

  “In the fridge,” I said. They helped themselves. We sat at the kitchen table, warily facing each other.

  “What’s so important it couldn’t wait till morning, Jack?”

  “You were gonna talk to that ADA about my case? Schulz?”

  “Stolz,” I said. “Look—”

  “No deals,” Cujo growled.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Jack can’t take no deal.”

  “Stolz didn’t offer one.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “Stolz wants to put you away on the six o’ clock news, Jack, and wants to slap the cuffs on you himself. So unless you’ve got something to trade…?”

  “I said no deals,” Cujo said.

  “You’re not my client, pal, and you won’t be the one doing the time.”

  “How much time?” Jack asked.

  “At most, it’ll be a year.”

  “Okay, look, I can do the year, Brian. Hell, it’ll probably give me some street cred in the group. Besides, I’d only be, what? Twenty-three when I get out?” He shook his mane slowly as he accepted his fate.

  “It’s tough, kid,” Cujo said. “But if you trade in anything on the crew, you’ll get shanked before you hit your bunk. And I’ll get clipped for being your running buddy.”

  “You’re saying your own crew will kill you?” I asked.

  “It’s the life we’re in, man,” Jack shrugged. “You’re my lawyer. What’s your hotshot legal advice?”

  “Do the time. It’s only a year, and if you’re on your best behavior while you’re in there, you stand a good chance to get out early.”

  Jack nodded again. “Thanks, Brian. I’ll go with your advice then.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said, as I walked them out. “Jack? You said something earlier about seeing my watchdog van before. Did you mean before the bombing?”

  “Yeah. I stopped by your office last week, but I seen the truck on the street and kept goin’. Thought they might be cops, looking to pick me up, but now? They’re definitely on you, Brian. Watch yourself.”

  Chapter 26

  At first light, I was up and at ’em. I didn’t have breakfast because there wasn’t any time for it. Instead, I stalked out to the garage at the rear of the property and uncovered the battered Jeep CJ-7 we keep there as a beach buggy. I fired up the old L6 engine as though it had been run yesterday, instead of sometime last summer.

  I came roaring out of the garage, racing down the back trail to the rear of the property where Jack and Cujo had said the black van had been parked the night before. I was hoping to take them by surprise.

  But there was no one in sight.

  Somebody had been there, though. I saw tire tracks that led off the road into an area concealed by brush, one that offered a clear view of the cottage. There were oil spots on the ground. A vehicle had definitely been parked there.

  The bikers were right. Somebody was watching the cottage. The black van they’d mentioned sounded ominous, because it indicated that more than one person was doing it. Maybe it was a crew—a band of cops, protecting me? Or maybe it was a posse looking to finish the job the bomber botched?

  As I roared out the long dirt road to the highway, a blue sedan pulled out of a brushy area, spraying gravel. It quickly gained speed, tailgating me. Once the lights went on, I knew exactly who it was.

  I pulled off on the shoulder and he did the same. He was driving a navy-blue sedan, unmarked, but equipped with a full bank of flashing LEDs in the grille. The cop stepped out in full uniform, including his equipment belt. A Glock automatic, flashlight, and a nightstick, which he drew as he walked up to the Jeep. He paused to casually smash the taillight, then sheathed the stick.

  “That’s the official reason why you’ve been stopped,” Dex Molinere said, not bothering to conceal a smirk. “Broken taillight. Don’t feel too bad. The videocam on my cruiser’s broken too.”

  Up close, Molinere was smaller than I’d expected, barely above the five eight department minimum, and a hundred and fifty pounds. But the gun and nightstick gave him all the weight he needed.

  “Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

  “Corporal Molinere,” I sighed. “The famous taillight breaker.”

  “I can break a lot more than that—”

  “Actually, you can’t,” I said.

  “Why? You think being a lawyer gives you some kind of immunity?”

  “The law’s got nothing to do with it. Over the past week, every scratch and dent on my body has been X-rayed, photographed, and catalogued. If I have one more bruise after this conversation? You’ll be swapping that uniform for a jailhouse jump suit.”

  He looked away a moment, considering that. He was weak jawed and watery eyed, and seemed to be the type that probably got pushed around every damn day back in grade school. And that probably made him what he was now.

  Armed and dangerous.

  “You’re assuming you’ll be around to tell ’em we talked,” he said, resting his palm on his gun butt. I didn’t bother to answer.

  “I’ll make it simple, pal. Just tell me where my wife is—”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take a quick look through your place, just to be sure—”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “How do you sleep at night? You’re breaking up a marriage—”

  “She practically spits when she says your name, Dex. All she wants is to get away. It’s called a divorce. They happen about half the time nowadays. Deal with it. Let her go.”

  “She’s bangin’ you already, isn’t she?”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “What I know is, somebody tried to kill you and missed, which is lucky for you. But even luckier for me.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because it makes you fair game now, Counselor. I could pop you right here, right now. The local yokel cops will assume it’s connected to the last time. My name wouldn’t even come up.”

  “Sure it would. The Port Vale police have already questioned me about you, Dex. Framing Sherry with a bogus possession bust was a mistake. It’ll blow back on you eventually. You’re going to lose everything. Your job, maybe your freedom. Unless you let her go.”

  “Jesus, you don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “Whoever tried to take you out probably ain’t done trying. My Sherry, your family, everybody around you is in danger because you’re still breathing. I won’t let you put my wife in danger. I’ll put you in the goddamn ground first. You understand me?”

  I understood that Molinere was only one wrong word away from losing control and putting a bullet in my skull. So I didn’t say a word. I looked away, avoiding his eyes. I wasn’t proud of it, but it beat the alternative.

  And m
aybe it worked.

  “Think it over,” he said, stuffing a business card in my breast pocket, “and if you decide you want to hand her over, call me.”

  It took every ounce of my self-control to keep from punching him in the face.

  “And better make it real soon,” he said. “The next time I see you? I’ll break a helluva lot more than a taillight.”

  Jerking out his nightstick, he smashed the Jeep’s other taillight before he stalked back to his cruiser.

  Chapter 27

  Port Vale PD headquarters is housed in a Greek Revival temple in the heart of the Olde Towne district, surrounded by retro shops and offices that date back to the nineteenth century. It’s quaint, cute, and touristy.

  None of that mattered as I stormed up the stone steps three at a time, blew through the heavy oak doors, and ran straight into trouble. Lieutenant Bev Hilliard was making a call at a desk a few steps from the greeting counter. She slammed down her phone as soon as she saw me.

  “Mr. Lord? I need a word. Now.”

  When a cop uses that tone in the middle of a police station, every head turns. The sergeant at the counter rested his hand on his weapon, but Hilliard waved him off, motioning me to her desk.

  “Has Valentine contacted you?” she asked.

  “Not yet. If you want to know where Jimmy is, ask Bruno Corzine. I’ve got troubles of my own. Where’s the chief?”

  “She’s in a meeting upstairs and should be down in a minute. Can I show you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a video. It’ll only take a minute. In here, please.”

  I followed her into a glassed-in office with Chief Paquette’s name on the door. There were file cabinets in the corner, a wall full of framed awards and photographs, and a Spartan metal desk with a laptop on top of it. She switched on the laptop, then swiveled the screen toward me.

  It took me a moment to grasp what she was showing me. It was a dining room in a crowded restaurant, a bar in the background lined with blue-collar types. Bruno Corzine was at a table in the far corner, playing cards with three other goons.