Justice for All Read online

  Wouldn’t she?

  UNLOCKING AND OPENING the door, Callie stepped inside the rambling beach house she’d inherited from her aunt Louise. Late afternoon sunshine poured through the windows, adding a golden glow to the cream-colored walls, honeyed pine furniture and vivid colors of the upholstered pieces. Pickering got up lazily from his spot in front of the back door and came to greet her.

  “Hello, boy. Did you miss me?”

  He licked her hand in answer.

  Callie slipped out of her shoes and left them at the door, loving the feel of the polished wood against her bare feet as she padded to the kitchen to drop off the white deli bags that held tonight’s dinner. Finger foods that she and Max could eat around the pool as the sun settled to a ball of fire and dropped into the Pacific.

  Taking a minute, Callie rummaged through the day’s mail, which she’d picked up on her way in. A few advertising circulars, a couple of catalogs, and an engraved invitation to a wedding reception. Which reminded her of another engagement. The Cravens’ annual garden party was Saturday afternoon. She’d have to remember to call her regrets tomorrow.

  Though the party would be nice—social affairs in Marjorie Craven’s beautiful English garden always were—Callie wanted to drive up to the center on Saturday and have a talk with Gail. Keeping the mother of twins healthy took precedence over tea and scones.

  Callie’s thoughts drifted back to Max as she chose an assortment of wine and arranged the food on serving plates. The last time he’d been to this house had been a rainy night eight years ago, just three weeks after she and Tony had moved in. Looking back, she’d never been sure why Max had stopped by that night. He’d never done it before or since.

  The room grew warm as the memories rushed in. Okay, if she kept this up, she was likely to hurl herself into Max’s arms again and he’d run off for another eight years.

  It was only six-forty. If she hurried, she’d have time for a quick swim before he arrived. That should cool her off.

  She slipped into a black bathing suit and was about to dive into the pool when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Mary Hancock. The swim could wait a few more minutes.

  “Hi, Mary.”

  “I was visiting a friend in San Diego today, and I just heard about Bernie,” Mary said, her voice hoarse and broken. “The newscaster said he’d been murdered.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. I had no idea you didn’t know or I would have called you earlier.”

  “They’re saying the Avenger killed him.”

  “That’s speculation.”

  “Not according to the news. The Avenger made a mistake. Bernie wasn’t involved in drugs. That was just a story concocted by his enemies. He explained it all to me.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe something bad about friends, especially…”

  “We were more than friends.”

  Callie’s spirits sank. “How much more?”

  “He’d asked me to marry him. I was thinking about saying yes.”

  Marriage. That did come as a surprise, and not only because of the age difference. “How long have you known him?”

  “Only about three months, but he was so thoughtful. And we had fun together.”

  “You certainly seemed to.”

  “Bernie’s collapse at my party may not have been an accident, Callie. Whoever shot him yesterday may have tried to kill him at my party.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” No reason to lie about that.

  “I may have invited this Avenger person into my home.”

  “You didn’t do it knowingly.”

  “No, but it makes me sick to think he could be one of us. I plan to find out for sure.”

  “I don’t think you should try to handle this yourself, Mary. Just cooperate with the police.”

  “I’ll cooperate, all right. I don’t want Bernie’s killer going free.”

  By the time she got off the phone with Mary, Callie really needed a swim. She dove in and tried to drive the images of murder from her mind with vigorous breast strokes. Instead, the troublesome thoughts merged and mingled with the old memories. Murder, mayhem and Max—a sure recipe for disaster.

  The doorbell rang as she pulled herself from the pool. Her guest had arrived.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MAX RANG CALLIE’S DOORBELL at exactly seven-ten. At seven-eleven, his heart was in his throat. Callie had said come as you are, but he hadn’t expected her to be quite this informal.

  Water dripped from her hair onto her shoulders, and the black bathing suit hugged her tiny waist and accentuated her perky breasts. Max inhaled sharply and averted his gaze. “Am I early?”

  “No. I took a quick swim, but it will only take me a few minutes to slip into something else,” she explained, drying the ends of her hair with a fluffy red beach towel. She led him into the kitchen, where a large golden retriever was lapping water from a green doggy bowl.

  “This is Pickering,” she said, stooping to give the dog a few reassuring pats. “He rules the house.”

  “Nice pad you got here, Pickering,” Max said, putting out his hand for the retriever to sniff.

  “I put out a few choices for wine,” Callie said. “Why don’t you pick out one and open it while I change?”

  “I can handle that.”

  Once it was only him and Pickering in the kitchen, Max breathed a little easier. It was crazy to let Callie get to him like this, but she always had, and there was no reason to think tonight would be any different. He was tough. He’d handle it, as long as what she changed into covered more than the skimpy bathing suit had.

  Concentrating on the wine, Max considered his choices. He was a beer man himself, but he selected a California Merlot, uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into the crystal decanter Callie had left on the counter. That done, he walked through the open back door and onto the deck with Pickering at his heels. The view was magnificent, an expanse of beach bordered by frothy waves lapping onto the sand.

  The house was in an exclusive part of Courage Bay, expensive as all waterfront property was, but not as isolated or protected as Bernie Brusco’s home in Jacaranda Heights. There was no steep, rocky hillside leading up from the water’s edge, no natural barriers to keep someone on the beach from walking right up to the black privacy fence that separated Callie’s pool and house from the rest of the beach.

  Thinking like a cop, he reminded himself. The truth was, this area was privately patrolled and had one of the lowest crime rates in the county.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. One look at Callie and thoughts of crime and safety flew out of his mind. He was back to square one, turned on to the point that all he could do was stare.

  Her tanned, shapely legs looked even longer in a pair of white shorts. Her yellow shirt was open at the neck and her reddish-brown hair curved about her naturally blushed cheeks.

  No woman should look that good.

  “Are you starved?” she asked.

  Famished, but not for food. “Not particularly.”

  “How about a walk along the beach before we get down to business? A walk always helps me relax and clear my mind after a hectic day at the hospital.”

  He hesitated, pretty sure that a sunset walk with Callie wasn’t going to do a thing toward clearing his mind or keeping his libido in check. But she had an expectant look in her eyes and he’d sound like a jerk if he said no.

  “A walk sounds good,” he lied. There he was in his chinos, pulled right from the rack of the local department store, while Callie wore a pair of white shorts that fit so perfectly they looked as if they’d been tailor-made. Even her toenails were dressed for the occasion, painted red in a finish that made them look wet and shiny.

  It struck him once again as he slipped out of his brown leather loafers and cotton socks that his cousin Tony was an absolute fool.

  THE COOL, SALTY BREEZE tossed Callie’s hair and she skipped through the surf for a few yards like a kid on summer vacation. Seeing he
r like this, Max found it difficult to imagine that she was a physician, much less chief of staff of a hospital the size of Courage Bay. She picked up a stick and threw it, and Pickering ran off to fetch it.

  A few minutes later, she settled into an easy gait beside Max while Pickering raced ahead, stopping every so often to make sure his mistress was still behind him.

  “I’ve been thinking about Bernie’s murder all day,” she confessed. “I’m beginning to see how detectives get so caught up in their cases. The Avenger case must have cost you a few sleepless nights.”

  “More than a few,” he admitted.

  “The news report said that at least four revenge-type murders can be tied to one killer. Is that accurate?”

  “The link is all speculation, but probably accurate. There was Dylan Deeb back in November.”

  “I remember that,” Callie said. “Strangled, wasn’t he, and left to go down with his house in the mud slide?”

  “Right. Then in January, you alerted me to the suspicious bruises on Bruce Nepom.”

  “No way to forget that one. A roofing scam artist bludgeoned to death just before his own roof collapsed on him during the storm of the century.”

  “Another guy guilty of murder who walked,” Max said. “His defective materials killed the Mahoneys as surely as if he’d shot them with a pistol. We all knew Nepom was guilty. We just couldn’t get the evidence on him.”

  “I wondered if one of the Mahoneys’ grown kids might have killed Nepom,” Callie said.

  “None of their children were even in the state when Nepom died. And while we’ve found plenty of people he scammed who admit to being glad he’s dead, none of them checked out as viable suspects in his death.”

  Pickering darted into the surf, then out again, spraying them with water.

  “Who’s the third victim?” Callie asked, finding another stick that had washed up on the beach and tossing it for Pickering.

  “Lorna Sinke.”

  “She died in the hospital after being shot in the hostage situation at City Hall.”

  “The bullet didn’t come from the hostage takers’ guns, nor from the SWAT team. The weapon that fired the fatal shot was never located.”

  “Then doesn’t that narrow down your suspects considerably?”

  “It does, if in fact Lorna was killed by the Avenger. But there’s always the possibility that Lorna was shot by someone who wanted her dead for reasons other than her suspected guilt in her parents’ murder, someone who just took advantage of the situation and thought the death would be blamed on crossfire between the police and the hostage takers.”

  “She was a little strange,” Callie admitted, “and she worked at City Hall as an aide to council, so she had ample opportunity to make enemies there.” Callie stooped to examine a large shell that had washed onto the beach, then resumed walking at her same brisk pace. “Do you think Lorna was actually guilty of shoving her parents down the stairs?”

  “Evidence indicated she gave them a drug that made them so disoriented they fell to their death on their own.”

  “But she walked,” Callie said. “Makes you wonder how many guilty people get off scot-free.”

  “Won’t need a scorecard to keep that record in Courage Bay if the Avenger keeps killing them off. The guilty will soon start begging for prison terms just to stay alive.”

  “That leaves Carlos Esposito,” Callie said. “I can almost understand why the Avenger killed that guy. When I heard how he stole children from their parents in Mexico and brought them into the States as migrant workers, I wanted to kill him myself.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Which is what sets the Avenger apart from the rest of us.”

  “What did cause the plane crash that killed him?”

  “The plane’s engine had been tampered with.”

  Callie slowed, and something hard and determined crept into her voice. “We have to stop him, Max, or he’ll just keep killing, and someday he’ll kill an innocent person.”

  Max took her arm and tugged her to a stop. “We don’t have to stop him, Callie. I agreed to talk to you about the case tonight. That’s all. You’re not putting yourself in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “Technically the Avenger dragged me into it when he slipped the ephedra overdose into Bernie’s food right under my nose,” Callie said. “Now I’m just acting as any concerned citizen.”

  “There were lots of citizens at Mary Hancock’s party the other night. None of the others are involved in the investigation.”

  “I know, but I feel responsible somehow. After all, I released Bernie from the hospital and he walked straight into the path of a bullet.”

  “Get that thought out of your mind. No one’s responsible for the murder except the killer.”

  She hugged her arms about her chest. “Still, if I can help, I want to. Why don’t we go back to the house,” she said, “and get down to dinner and business?”

  He nodded, but when their eyes met, a bewildering sensation skidded along his nerve endings. It had been a mistake to let Callie become even this involved in the investigation. And now he had to wonder if it hadn’t been his desire to see her again that had caused him to agree to have dinner with her tonight.

  If so, he’d really stepped over the line. Police work and romance didn’t mix. Hell, romance and anything had never mixed too well in his life. Most of all, he would not pull her into any kind of danger. And the Avenger was a very dangerous man—or woman.

  THEY ATE AT A SMALL table by the pool, and fortunately Max didn’t have to juggle the forks. There were none. The meal was simple, but good. Crusty bread, several kinds of cheese and deli meats, pickles, deviled eggs and fruit, all accompanied by a fruity wine.

  They talked very little until the meal was finished. Max stretched out and stared at the disappearing sun. “Great view.”

  “Isn’t it? I love living on the water. What about you, Max? You surely aren’t still in that same tiny apartment you were in when I was married to Tony?”

  “Same place, but I don’t do much more than sleep there.”

  She tilted her head and arched her brows. “You must have a pretty hot social life.”

  “Super hot. You saw it firsthand Friday night. All alone at the bar.”

  “You should take up a hobby or at least get away once in a while.”

  “I do every now and then. Tony and I and a couple of his doctor pals from Los Angeles did some fishing in Mexico last summer—just before the heat wave hit Courage Bay.” Max swallowed hard, afraid after the fact that the mention of Tony might upset Callie, but if it did, she showed no signs.

  Callie sipped her wine. “How is Tony?”

  “Same old, same old. On his third wife. No kids. Still rather play than work and complains all the time because he doesn’t make the kind of money he thought he would as a doctor.”

  “You’re right. Same old, same old.”

  Callie excused herself, then returned a minute later with a legal pad and a pen. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on the beach about Lorna Sinke. At least two of the people still at the party Friday night when Bernie collapsed were in the room with the hostages at City Hall when Lorna was killed.”

  “D.A. Lalane?”

  “He’s one. I know Henry was still there, because I had just been talking to him.”

  Max nodded. She’d hit that squarely on the head.

  “Judge Craven was still there as well,” Callie told him.

  “He and Henry were both on the scene when Lorna was shot,” Max admitted. “But tell me about this Jerry Hawkins that you mentioned.”

  Callie toyed with her wineglass, letting her perfectly manicured nails travel up and down the stem. “I met him when we were both getting our cars to leave the party. He informed me that Bernie Brusco made his money distributing drugs in the Los Angeles area and that I should have let him die.”

  “So that’s how you knew
about Bernie’s background. What else do you know about Jerry Hawkins?”

  “His mother is Abby Hawkins. She lives in the old section of Paramont Estates. I know her from the hospital. She volunteers a couple of days a week, but I also run into her frequently at fund-raisers and parties. She never mentioned having a son.”

  “I take it she has money.”

  “She divorced well.”

  Max listened to Callie’s concerns that Jerry had seemed bored and disinterested at the party, and had to agree that the guy did warrant being checked out. But Max doubted he was the Avenger. For one thing, he lived in Sacramento, and Max had a strong hunch that even if the Avenger hadn’t been in City Hall the day of the hostage situation, he probably still lived here in Courage Bay. This type of killer usually had strong ties to the community where he operated.

  Callie went through a dozen more names, people she knew who were in the area when Bernie collapsed. If Max had been on the scene himself, he doubted he could have done better.

  When she finished her spiel, she reached beneath the table and gave Pickering’s ears a good scratch. She stretched her feet beneath the table and her bare toes brushed his. The touch set off pangs of awareness that settled painfully in his groin.

  Murder and lust. Suspects and wine. Business and Callie in a pair of shorts that hit high on her thighs.

  “I think it’s time we call it a night,” he said, willing the stirring of arousal to settle down so that it wasn’t obvious when he stood.

  “I do have an early day tomorrow,” she said.

  He thanked her for dinner again as she walked him to the door. The moment was awkward. Extending his hand seemed too formal. A kiss seemed too…Too damn tempting.

  But Callie didn’t leave the decision to him. She leaned in close and pressed her lips to his cheek. He lifted his arms to put them around her, then let them drop back to his side.

  “I’m glad you came,” Callie murmured, pulling away again.

  “Yeah. Thanks for dinner and the info. See you.” Max knew he sounded and looked like a green high school kid. He quickly turned and left Callie standing in the doorway.