[No Justice 01.0] No Justice Page 6

  But again, Jasper didn’t care.

  He lowered the flame to the wad of tape piled on Jeff’s crotch.

  It took a moment, but the tape began to melt, the flame’s red edges finally starting to spread.

  Jasper looked at the flame, shaking his head. “Hmm, not nearly as flammable as I imagined. That fire looks like it’s gonna burn itself out.”

  Jasper reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his can of lighter fluid. “This should help things along.”

  Jeff’s eyes bulged as he shook his head harder and faster, bellowing into the rag.

  Jasper sprayed fluid onto the burning tape.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9 - MALLORY BLACK

  They drove in silence on the way to Mal’s house.

  She just wanted to get home, take a few more pills, and leave the night behind her. She was hoping Mike would stay quiet, but with only about five minutes left, he finally spoke.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why don’t you just move? Why stay here? If I won the lottery, you’d never see my ass again. I’d be in Hawaii or better.”

  “Nobody knows what they’ll do until after they win. Hell, most people spend all the money and go broke again. I’m not gonna be that stupid.”

  “I’ll give you that, but I still wouldn’t hang out in this shit town. Come on, Mal. You can go anywhere: New York, Paris, Italy, Toronto, or hell, you can probably buy a freaking island. Why do you stay here?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied, then changed the subject, asking about her former co-workers. “How’s Lou?”

  “Crotchety as always.”

  “Gloria?”

  “Still a pain in the ass.”

  “Who they got you with now?”

  “Reynolds.”

  “Skippy Reynolds from narcotics? That asshole?”

  Skip’s real name was Stan, but the guys teased the hell out of him because of a story he once told about his ex-wife whom he said utilized a jar of peanut butter to get a dog to lick her nether regions. It didn’t matter that he never used the peanut butter. His nickname was Skippy, anyway.

  Skip was a loud-mouth muscle head — way too reckless a partner for Mike. Hell, Mike could barely keep up with Mal, and she was way more regulation than Skippy.

  “Yeah, Skippy.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s not you.” After a full beat, he added, “Thank God.”

  She laughed. “Well, we can’t all be Skippy.”

  It’d been a long time since Mal had been around other cops, or enjoyed busting the balls of her fellow deputies. As juvenile as some of them could be, she missed their company.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Mike said, “You can always come back and be my partner again.”

  Slightly slurred: “Watch out, I might take you up on that.”

  “As much as I’d love to see you back, you’d be crazy to come. I mean who the hell wins the lottery and keeps working? Hell, Gina and the kids might not ever see me again if that was my ticket!”

  Mal laughed. “I think Gina and her brothers would hunt your ass down.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. But I definitely wouldn’t go back to work. And I suspect if you came back, people wouldn’t know how to treat you.”

  “Because of me being rich and shit?” Mal said, still laughing.

  “That, but also … well, you know.”

  She wasn’t sure if Mike was referring to Ashley’s death or the panic attack six months later, which everyone politely referred to as “the incident” — an incident that nearly cost people their lives because of Mal’s inaction, and made her unable to trust herself enough to continue the job. Either way, she didn’t want to discuss it. Ashley was still dead, and her panic attacks hadn’t returned since she started taking the pills.

  After a full minute of silence, Mal asked, “What’s happening with the Jessi Price case?”

  “What?”

  “The missing girl. What’s going on with her? Any leads?”

  “We like the dad. Parents were in the middle of a nasty custody battle, and Dad picked the girl up from school. That was the last anyone saw either of them.”

  “The Feds involved?”

  “They’re coordinating search efforts, watching airports and stuff in case the father tries taking his kid back to England.”

  “Doesn’t anyone think the timing is funny? Two years almost to the day. And she’s turning ten on Saturday, just like Ashley was.”

  “We considered that. But we like the dad.”

  “Nobody’s looking into anything else? Cell phone pings? Talking to sex offenders and searching their homes?”

  “Gloria doesn’t want to cause a panic or waste resources.”

  “She ought to turn this thing over to the FBI. But noooo, wouldn’t want to fuck up her re-election bid.”

  “She’s a good sheriff. Better than Barry was.”

  Mal rolled her eyes. “That’s not saying much.” Claude Barry was a racist, crooked asshole who nearly bankrupted the county with all the discrimination and wrongful death lawsuits under his watch.

  They pulled up to her house.

  Mike didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t want to let the matter go.

  “I’m just saying, someone ought to be following other leads.”

  “I know this is close to home, so I won’t take offense, but you’ve gotta trust that we’re doing all we can to find her. This isn’t our first missing child case. We’ve had ten in the past year, all solved, and every one of them a relative or family friend. You know how these things go. The girl and dad will get busted in Georgia getting gas or something routine.”

  “I know. I just feel so helpless sitting on the sidelines.”

  “Then come back,” he offered, this time sounding more serious.

  Their eyes met. Mike looked as if this was something he’d given plenty of thought.

  “You forgot, people will be uncomfortable with me being rich and shit.”

  “I’m serious, Mal. We miss you. Hell, I miss you, and you drove me fucking nuts.”

  “Not like it was that long of a drive.”

  “Come on; you miss it. Why else would you hang out at dive bars waiting for trouble?”

  Mal wished she wasn’t drunk and extra lonely. Because as stupid as the idea sounded, a part of her wanted to jump at the offer.

  She smiled. “Thanks, but I can’t.”

  “I’m sure Gloria would take you back in a heartbeat. Believe me, everyone’s forgotten all about the incident. Hell, everyone was on your side. They understood. Nobody thought you should’ve been forced out.”

  “First, no one’s forgotten the incident. And second, not everyone was on my side. IA was looking for a reason to get rid of me ever since I betrayed Barry and helped Gloria get elected. I gave them everything they needed to get me out of there. But it wasn’t even just them. Gloria didn’t have my back, either.”

  “You’re right.” Mike nodded. “She should’ve stood up for you. Especially since you helped get her elected.”

  “It’s not even that. I didn’t help her because I expected favoritism. I believed she was the right person for the job. I’m just disappointed how quickly she turned into a politician, like the rest of them. Gloria hung me out to dry. So as much as I’d love to work with you again, Mike, I refuse to put myself in that position.”

  He sighed. “You’re right.”

  Mal was quiet for a long moment, watching fat rain drops beading on the window. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Mike asked.

  A part of her wanted to tell him about the pictures of Ashley, left on her doorstep from the killer last year. But she hadn’t reported it then and couldn’t do it now. Doing so would ruin everything.

  She met Mike’s sad brown eyes. She wondered if he was missing her and their friendship, or was maybe feeling the pain she felt for The Anniversary. Or some odd combination of both.
>
  “Yeah, I’m okay. Just … well, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “You want some company?”

  A part of her did want company. To hang out, drink some more, maybe talk about the old days, talk about Ashley. Get drunk(er) and cry.

  But that would ruin the evening’s other plans.

  “No, I’m sure Gina is waiting up.”

  “I can call. Let her know I won’t be home because my alcoholic ex-partner decided to beat the hell out of some other drunk asshole. She’d probably come over and congratulate you.”

  Mal smiled. “No, it’s okay. But thank you.”

  She withdrew her hand, opened the door, and climbed out of his car.

  She went inside the cold, dark house, closed the door, and let out a bottomless sigh.

  She wiped fresh tears from the corners of her eyes, then went to the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, and withdrew her bottle of pills. She palmed two, smacked them in her mouth, then chased them with water.

  Normally, she’d take the pills before drifting off to sleep. It was the only way to silence, or at least minimize, the reminders and regrets that haunted her night time.

  But there would be no relaxing tonight.

  She had to be ready for her daughter’s killer.

  If he returned with another gift, it would be the last thing he ever did.

  She grabbed the gun from her nightstand, turned off the safety, and headed upstairs to the third story loft.

  She sat in a rocking chair in front of the circular window, looking out at the rainy night and the creaking oaks blowing in the breeze. She remembered how many times she’d brought Ashley up here to watch the lightning.

  She’d been afraid of storms as a toddler until Mal brought her pink teddy bear — a bear named Pinky that she used to sleep with in her crib — to the loft and turned the storm into an adventure.

  “Pinky” would tell Ashley stories about the lightning, and how it was bears wrestling in the sky or some other nonsense that always earned a raspy giggle.

  Mal stood, went downstairs to the second story, entered Ashley’s room, and saw Pinky lying face up on the bed, waiting for the friend who would never play with her again.

  Mal grabbed Pinky and brought her upstairs to sit, waiting for Ashley’s killer and the gift he might bring.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 10 - MALLORY BLACK

  Mallory woke to warm sunlight on her face, gun on the floor.

  Shit!

  She looked out the window to see if there was anything on her porch, but couldn’t quite see the entire porch past the awning.

  She grabbed her gun, jumped up, then scrambled down the stairs, making a beeline to her front door.

  No, no, no!

  She couldn’t believe she fell asleep.

  Mal was twenty feet from her front door and fully expected to open it wide to another package. She would die knowing that the killer had the nerve to return and she’d somehow slept through it.

  Mal had been waiting a full year for this moment, and she let it slip through her stupid, drunken, drugged out fingers.

  She reached the door, seized the knob, and swung the door open.

  She looked down at the concrete porch.

  Nothing there except some leaves gathered against the wall on either side of the door.

  But there wasn’t any gift.

  Mal approached her sidewalk, looking around to see if maybe he’d left it somewhere else.

  But everything seemed to be in place.

  She glanced at the mailbox and felt a chill.

  She ran to it, flinging the door down so hard she nearly ripped it from its hinges.

  But the mailbox was empty.

  She saw two women, a lesbian couple from down the street, pushing a stroller with their adopted two-year-old daughter, Olivia. Mal didn’t know them well, outside of a lone conversation when they moved in a few months ago.

  They were looking at her in alarm.

  Mal realized how she must look — a disheveled mess, standing in front of the mailbox with a crazed expression, holding a gun.

  One of the women, a redhead named Felicia, asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Mal’s face felt flush as she stammered, “Yeah, um, false alarm.”

  She closed her mailbox, smiled awkwardly, and went back inside.

  A sudden realization: she’d never unlocked the front door.

  She paused in the doorway, trying to remember coming home. Had she forgotten to lock the door? She never forgot to lock her doors or set the alarm.

  But then again, last night was fuzzy.

  She looked at her door jamb for any signs of tampering. Seeing nothing, she stepped back inside, closing the door softly behind her, moving in slow motion, trying to remember last night’s steps.

  She locked the door, turned around, and looked at the hallway leading to the dining room. Seeing her surroundings might trigger a missing memory.

  Her heart froze.

  There was a gift box on her dining room table. It wasn’t wrapped, but decorated in pink with white unicorns and cupcakes, a bright blue bow atop it. Not a wrapping bow, but the one Ashley was wearing when she vanished.

  She swallowed, her eyes tearing up.

  He came in here?

  He was in my house?

  She stared at the box, her heart pounding.

  She couldn’t move.

  Could barely breathe.

  The box was about a foot wide, and maybe two feet high.

  Her mind was dizzy, imagining what he might have put inside. Last year, he’d sent photos of Mal’s daughter in an unfamiliar pink bedroom. They were close-ups, Ashley’s eyes haunting for their lack of life.

  Mal never brought the photos to the police or told them that the killer had left them on her porch because they hadn’t managed to do anything with a full year and the FBI’s help. Mal took matters into her own hands instead, trying to track down everything from the paper to the printer that had spit out the photos, but she’d come up with nothing. Just like the department.

  Mal also didn’t want the police to consider that the killer might come back a year later. She wanted to be alone, waiting to dispense a justice that the bastard would never get in their custody.

  If he broke in, she could legally shoot him.

  But she failed. And fell asleep. If she’d told the police, at least they would have him in custody.

  But now Mal had nothing.

  The killer was still free.

  And she wanted to vomit.

  Mal stared at the box.

  Then another thought: What if he’s still in here?

  Gun in hand, Mal checked the bottom floor, then the top, hoping the killer was crazy enough to hang around.

  But her home was empty.

  Mal remembered her security system.

  After the killer brought her a gift last year, she installed cameras all over her yard and in every room. Recordings were stored locally and to the cloud. There wasn’t a way inside that he wouldn’t have been seen.

  She raced to her office, sat at the huge L-shaped desk which occupied a wall and a half, then turned on her computer and scrubbed through the security footage.

  She found the spot in the recordings where Mike had dropped her off. Saw herself stumbling to her door, then coming inside. She’d locked the door for sure, which was a small relief.

  Mal scrolled through her movements until she saw herself fall asleep in the loft chair, still holding her gun.

  She slowed the speed to 5X, watching every frame, waiting to see someone other than herself.

  At 3:11 AM, a figure appeared in her front yard, box in hand.

  She slowed the recording to regular speed and watched as the man — she assumed he was male given his height and movement — approached her home.

  He was wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a black ski mask. He stepped onto the porch, looked up at the camera hidden above her door in a
light fixture, and waved.

  He knows the camera is there.

  What else does he know?

  A chill filled her.

  A second camera, hidden in the bottom of a bird feeder in her tree, captured footage of the man at her doorstep. She couldn’t see how he opened it, whether he picked the lock, or had a bump key, but it didn’t take him long to enter.

  She watched as the interior cameras recorded him entering her house. He wasn’t slow or cautious as one might be when breaking and entering into a dark and unfamiliar home. He moved with confidence, as though he knew the lay of the land and was sure that he wouldn’t run into anyone.

  How many times has he been in my house?

  Did he know I was asleep?

  He set the box on Mal’s table, and paused as if deliberating the best placement. He moved it a few times, then stood back to admire his work.

  Then he headed to the second floor.

  Mal could hear the camera’s audio picking up the creaking stairs.

  She leaned forward in her chair watching, her heart still racing.

  Where is he going?

  She watched him pass every room in her hallway, heading straight to the third story loft.

  She held her breath; eyes still fixed on the footage.

  He opened the door and stepped toward her sleeping body.

  He was right here!

  She watched the man, staring down at her as she slept in the chair.

  What the hell is he doing?

  The clock lost three full three minutes as he silently stood there.

  And then, he finally moved.

  The man bent down, pulled the gun from Mal’s hand, held it to the back of her head, whispered, “Bang,” then put it on the ground, turned, and looked up at the camera on his way out of the room.

  Mal watched in horror as the man descended the stairs then walked out the door and into her yard before vanishing into the night past her fence.

  The air felt suddenly icy.

  The room foreign.

  Her home unsafe.

  Mal stood, ran to her bathroom, then fell beside the toilet and puked.

  Once her stomach was empty, she stood on wobbly legs then went to the sink and washed her face.