Writing

A misprint in the initial run of Poetic Justice has come to my attention. There is missing dialogue starting at the end of page 207, which you will immediately notice since the last sentence is cut off in the middle. I apologize for this inconvenience, and I hope that the printer who mocked up the book for my publisher will rectify this in future versions. In the meantime, please enjoy the following excerpt which encompasses the seven pages missing from the hardback version. Thanks in advance for your understanding in this matter, and I hope you continue to support the novel regardless of this inconvenience.

“I’ve got to get to court. Come out, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing and disturbing the peace. I’ve had enough games for one day,” said Beau Harriston.

With my head held high, I stepped into the cold and onto the busy sidewalk. Harriston locked the door without acknowledging my presence and rounded The Quad toward the courthouse. As I watched his back moving through the crowd, a fire welled in my stomach. He couldn’t get away with ignoring the issue. I raced after him.

“I know you’re up to something, Harriston,” I panted when I’d reached his side. “I don’t believe the Wannamakers would harass you if you weren’t harassing them first. Whatever you’re into needs to stop. Innocent people are getting hurt. Did you know Chance—another one of your unsavory clients—attacked me yesterday? He and Phyllis Dodd threw me into a dumpster. Don’t you think it’s a little odd that his wife weasels her way out of a drug conviction and now he’s running around with the state chemist who was supposed to testify in her case?”

At that point, Harriston stopped and turned on me so quickly the trio of parking enforcement officers walking behind him had to stop short. One of them even muttered a few curses at Harriston’s expense. The old attorney, constantly aware of his public image, smiled at the women and inclined his head in polite regret. Once they’d passed, he glared at me and cut a hand through the air in a sharp hacking motion that signaled for me to shut up and get lost.

I ignored him. Emboldened by the safety of having witnesses to any possible malice, my words bubbled over.

“If you or your clients had something to do with that drug switch or the judge’s murder, I am going to find out about it. Corporal North already told me Chance has been dealing drugs for years. And despite that pious sob story you’re pedaling, I know you think you have a chance to replace Ms. Freddie now that she’s gone. Just don’t be surprised if whatever you and your clients are hiding blows up in your face.”

“Listen to me, young lady.” He pointed a fat finger at my nose. “I understand you’ve now had—shall we say—challenging encounters with two of my clients, and I sympathize with your predicament. However, I rebuke your attempts to put them on trial through innuendo and conjecture. Your allegations about drug tampering and distribution are scurrilous. Have you ever seen Chance or Langley sell drugs? Talk about drugs? Do drugs? You’d do best to check your sources.”

He took a step to depart but stopped and leaned down to whisper a cryptic message in my ear. “Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, including me. Don’t be so quick to suggest I’m part of some grand conspiracy just because I do not care for your Judge Wannamaker. No matter what you think of me. I’m not the only person with skeletons in their closet. Maybe you should look a little closer at some of your so-called friends.”

With that, he swaggered toward the courthouse and left me adrift in a sea of suspicion.

Three scones, two laps around The Quad, and one cell phone purchase later, I walked into the sterile marble lobby of the industrial complex where The Bugle and several other news outlets lived. The goal was to gain access to The Bugle’s sole investigative reporter, Mike Slocum, and share my concerns about Ms. Freddie’s and Mr. Stevenson’s deaths.

I’d Googled Mike the moment I got my replacement phone and found he was an even-handed journalist who seemed ahead of the curve when it came to the dirty dealings in Bickerton. More importantly, he had no personal ties to the deceased and no obvious motive that would keep him from hearing me out. After the one-sided conversation with Harriston earlier that morning, a civil exchange of facts was what I craved.

I approached the information kiosk in the center of the lobby and found the same amber-haired receptionist I’d encountered on my visit with Ashton. The hour was too early for lunch, but she gazed at her computer with the same steely concentration she’d given her cheese curls throughout my last visit.

I leaned across the counter to get her attention. She didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, miss.” I said to the crown of her head. “My name is Victoria Justice. I’m here to see Mike Slocum. I have some information I’d like to share.”

“Tip line’s over there.” She raised a hefty arm to point at a white phone on the wall by the restrooms. “If you want to talk to Mr. Slocum, dial star eight two five five.” Her voice was so flat, I wondered if she was animatronic. “If he likes your story, he’ll come down.”

I followed her instructions and found myself on the phone with the reporter.

“Hello. Mr. Slocum? My name is Victoria Justice, and I’d like to talk to you about—”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Well, we met the other day when I dropped off the Langley Mulligan trial transcript, and my mother just got elected mayor so you might have seen me at—”

“No, no. Well, yes and yes, but you’re the one…aw, man, I could kick myself for not recognizing your name when you came by before.” His voice pitched upward in excitement. “You’re the one from Tuesday morning—from when we were trying to set up interviews outside the courthouse. You’re the woman the crowd wrangler told us about. You discovered the murdered judge, right?”

“That’s correct.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue, and I hated him asking the question as if it were a celebrated mark of distinction—though I hoped the recognition garnered me a receptive audience.

“Tell the receptionist I’m letting you up. Take the elevator to the third floor. I’ll be there when you arrive.”

I did what I was told.

“What’s on your mind, Ms. Justice?” Mike said as the elevator slid open to reveal his gangly form.

“I’d like to share some information about the deaths of Judge Wannamaker and DAG Stevenson. The festival may have been a setup—”

“Ha. That’s the word of the day. Everybody in town’s been calling and claiming they saw strange things during the festival.”

“What kind of strange things?”

“Not so fast. You’re on my time. I get to ask the questions.” He stayed polite, but his raspy voice was firm. “Now, I love a good tall tale, but why come to me? Why not go to the police?”

“I’ve already talked to the police. I told them I think the deaths are related and Stevenson was murdered too, but the detective in charge won’t listen.”

He breathed heavily for several heartbeats. When I’d almost given up on a reply, he cleared his throat. “What makes you think Stevenson was murdered?”

I stepped away from the elevator, deeper into the cramped waiting room of The Bugle, but he placed a sinewy arm in my path as if to suggest I couldn’t go farther until I’d earned the right.

“Stevenson’s suicide letter confesses to the judge’s murder,” I stammered, “but I think it’s all a cover-up for the real killer—well, I guess I should start by saying, there is a suicide letter, and I read it. I don’t know if the police have released that information yet but—”

“Yeah, yeah. We already know about the note and the confession.” He stood firm but used his hands to wave away my words. “Some city councilman is running his mouth all over town about finding it. He even managed to snap a picture on his cell. WSYS will beat us to press on that with their noon broadcast, but we got the scoop. The info is already up on our website. What else you got?”

I told him my theory about Stevenson’s signature, showed him the PDF of the receipt from Cake & Kettle, and explained the real killer may very well be one of the people in court at the time of Langley Mulligan’s trial.

With that, Mike led me to his cubicle.

“Sorry to break it you,” he said over his shoulder as he rounded the grungy tabletop that was his desk. “The Wannamaker investigation is basically closed.”

“What? Seriously? If that’s true, why did you put me through all—”

“I wanted to hear your story. Helps to verify my other sources. Don’t take it personally. Sit down.”

I plopped into the canvas chair wedged between his desk and the padded wall of his miniscule workspace. Ringing telephones and the voices of other reporters clamored from all directions.

“Wannamaker’s official cause of death,” he sorted through the papers on his desk, “murder via traumatic asphyxia caused by aggressive thoracic compression. The cops are following through with the idea that Stevenson killed the judge and hung himself. The way I hear it, he’s the only solid lead they had.”

“If the details of the suicide letter are hitting the street, everyone in town is going to know about the confession. They’re going to think it’s real.”

“Maybe it is. The bathroom where they found Judge Wannamaker held no fingerprints. All they found was some suspicious talc, which could have come from latex gloves used by the killer. And word is, surveillance footage puts Stevenson near the murder.” Mike opened his laptop. “But then again, maybe the note is a hoax. Without any witnesses to the murder itself, the killer could be anyone.”

“That’s exactly my point,” I said. “Especially since, as far as the cops know, Beau Harriston was the last person seen with the murder weapon and at least three other people were near the crime scene. Shouldn’t that be enough to keep the investigation open?”

“Maybe. But when a government official is murdered, a quick confession trumps all that.” Mike’s boyishly round face crumpled into a series of distressed grooves. “Of course, the cops can’t make the official declaration about Stevenson’s suicide or his role as the killer until they receive a complete autopsy to rule out foul play.”

Mike stopped to type a few commands on his keyboard. “My source at the ME’s office says results are still pending, but initial findings indicate Stevenson’s neck as the sole point of trauma. No scratches. No defensive or offensive marks. It could be just a matter of days before the cops close both cases.”

“In other words, I just wasted ten minutes of your time?” My voice was so small I surprised myself.

“Nah. I wouldn’t have let you up here if I didn’t agree with you on a gut level. With the suicide note in circulation, I think your side of the story might be worth exploring. I mean, a confession that gets the judge’s murder solved in the most public way possible—before an investigation can really even begin? All of it comes off as a little too convenient, if you know what I mean.” He leaned back. “Talk to me about what else you think you know, and I’ll decide what’s worth following up on.”

“I’m happy to share.” I clasped my hands. “But the signature and a brief conversation with Stevenson before his death are all I have, and I don’t—” I thought about my run-ins with Langley and Chance. “I don’t want to be accused of making stuff up. I’ve already had enough trouble this week.”

“Don’t worry. You’re an anonymous source. We’ll stick with the facts. With a little more investigation, I’ll ask my editor if he’d consider this for print with the slant that maybe….” He narrowed his dark eyes and the ebony skin around them crinkled, “…the state police are rushing through both investigations because of the political ties and the public display.”

That sounded reasonable to me. Definitely the conclusion I’d come to thus far.

“I’m curious though,” he grinned wide like a hungry cartoon shark, “just between you and me, if Stevenson isn’t the killer, then who? Talk me through the players. What’s the angle?”

I considered the events of the last three days: the missing drugs, Ms. Freddie’s body on the bathroom floor, Maggie’s cynicism about the murder, Ashton’s obsession with Chance, Phyllis’s questionable alliances, the Mulligans’ duplicity, Harriston’s evasiveness, and the hours I’d spent the night before pouring through audio. A long, exasperated breath escaped my lips.  

“That depends. How much time have you got?”

CHAPTER 26 begins on the next page.