Maintaining Justice

by

JP Kraft

 

If we do not maintain Justice, Justice will not maintain us

                             -Francis Bacon

 

          Ben Carter glanced into his rearview mirror and smiled.  In the time since

he started driving cabs, he'd seen it all, but the couple in the back seat

was something new.  They were making out like they were newlyweds.  Heck,

he thought, maybe they were.

          "Hey, you two," he said.  "We got laws about public displays of affection."

          The woman blushed, resting her head against her companion's shoulder.

          "Sorry," the man said.  "But I'm so crazy about this woman that I don't

know if I can wait until we get to the hotel."

          Carter laughed heartily at the remark.  "How long you folks been together?"

          "We're celebrating our fortieth wedding anniversary on Monday."

          "Forty years?  That's terrific.  So you're here on a second honeymoon, huh?"

          "Partly," the woman said. "Our son lives here, and we're visiting him."

          "But not until Monday."  The man put his arm around his wife, drawing her

into a tight hug.  "We decided to treat ourselves to a weekend in a fancy

Palm Beach hotel first."

          "And you didn't tell your son you were getting in early, right?"

          "Right," they answered in unison.

          Carter smiled, turning his attention to the road.  The two in the back

deserved their privacy.  Forty years together and still in love.

Maneuvering the taxi through the heavy afternoon traffic, he soon delivered

the couple to their destination.

          "Here we are," he said, pulling up the winding driveway of the luxury

hotel. 

          Unloading their baggage into the bell cart, he held the door open for the

two, following them into the plush lobby and heading for the bar.  He

watched as they checked in, holding hands as they walked to the elevator.

"Happy second honeymoon, folks."

 

          ***********

 

          "I think you're as beautiful now as the day we got married."

          "And you're every bit as handsome."

          "Rubbish," he scoffed, reaching into the pocket of his robe.  "Here.

Happy anniversary, darling."  He held out a rectangular box.

          She took it with a trembling hand.  "I thought this weekend was our gift

to each other."

          "I couldn't resist.  Besides," he grinned, "business is going great.  We

can afford it."

          "I know."  She moved into his arms.  "Can you believe two years ago we

were thinking our marriage was over?"

          "I was such an idiot.  Thank God we have such a smart son."

          "He's a wonderful man," she said, "just like his father."  She kissed him

passionately.

          "Mmmm, open your present."

          Quickly, she pulled off the fancy wrap, revealing a velvet box.  Opening

the lid, she gasped seeing the sparkling contents.  It was a bracelet, a

slim chain of diamonds set in platinum, and dangling off a loop was a tiny

number forty set with diamond chips.  "Oh my…."  Her eyes filled.

          "Here now," he chided, "no tears."

          She laughed, wiping at the drops sliding down her cheeks.  "You know I

always cry when I'm happy."

          His smile matched hers, and he pulled his wife into a tender embrace.  As

their lips met, there was a knock at the door.  "Damn," he muttered softly.

 "Who's there?"

          "It's Ben Carter, sir, your cabbie this afternoon.  You wife dropped," the

voice became indistinct, "in my cab.  I figured she'd want it back."

          "Oh, thanks."  Releasing his wife, he opened the door to death.

 

          *************

 

          "I hate working on Saturday," Tom Ryan grumbled.  "Especially when it's a

Saturday I was supposed to have off.   Tell me again why you called me to

come in."

          "Because we're doing a favor for friends," Cassy smiled sweetly.

          "Since when are Ballard and Burmeister friends?"

          "Since they sided with Harry and refused to file against you despite what

the commissioner told them to do."  Cassy picked up another file, flipping

it open.  "Besides, it's not like you had any special plans for today."

          "You didn't know that."

          "Yes, I did.  I checked your calendar."

          He glared at her.  "Unlike you, Ms. Franklin Planner, I do not notate

every minute of my day."  He leaned back in his chair, swinging his long

legs up so his heels rested on the desk.  "I still don't like doing favors

for those two."

          "It's been six months, Tom, and they've done everything possible to make

it up to you.  When are you going to let it go?"

          He ignored the question.  Picking up a folder, he feigned interest in the

contents while letting his mind drift.

          Cassy had a point.  Ballard and Burmeister, once they heard Mundson's

story, corroborated by the bullets the forensics team finally found, and

the irrefutable fingerprint evidence that Harry collected, stood their

ground against the police commissioner's orders.  They listened to the tape

he'd made that night in Harry's office and bent over backwards to prove

that Tom was as much a victim of the scheme as Archer.

          They'd both come to see him while he was on leave and offered him sincere

apologies.  And while outward relations were cordial on the job, he went

out of his way to avoid them socially.

          He wanted to let it go.  Once upon a time he would have, as he'd let so

many other unpleasant things in his life pass.  But he wasn't the same man

he'd been six months ago.  Virginia had left a mark on his soul as

indelible as the bullet scar he carried on his right arm.

          He'd changed that day at the casino, into someone new.  Someone who struck

out at his best friend in a deliberate attempt to hurt her as badly as he'd

been hurt.  And for what?  For a woman who lied to him from the first

moment they'd met.  A woman who set him up, deliberately planned to destroy

him so that she could get what she wanted.

She even told him that she'd chosen him because he was reliable—meaning

vulnerable, wide open for someone like her.  Boy, she must have really been

laughing, probably thought God was smiling down on her when she met him.

Poor dumb Tom Ryan, so desperate to be loved that he believed her lies,

even after she told him about her husband.

          But no more.  He'd changed in the last six months, grew a hard shell around his heart and stopped dreaming about the future.  He lived in the now.  No more dreams of picket fences and 3.2 children.  He took companionship where

he could find it.  He'd open his wallet, and his bed, but not his heart.

He'd been hurt badly, twice.  He wasn't going to be stupid enough to go for

that third strike.

          He looked across his desk at Cassy, thinking he'd used up his last piece

of luck when she forgave him and agreed to work with him.  But their

relationship had changed.

          They'd made their peace in the weeks following his shooting.  The mayor

himself had forced Harry to return to the department, and Harry had forced

Tom and Cassy to work together.  But this wasn't like the first time he

pushed them back into a partnership.

          There was a wall between them, one that he'd built with his hateful words.

 And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.  Only Cassy could tear

down the barrier, and she wasn't about to.

          "Heads up, you two."  Harry's voice cut into Tom's thoughts.  "We've got

another one."

          The partners exchanged pained glances.

          "Same M.O.?" Cassy asked.

          Harry frowned.  "Looks that way."  He glanced down at a slip of paper in

his hand.  "The Palm Plaza, room 502."

 

          ************

          A uniform met them as they left the elevator.  "Same as before, Sergeants.

 Older couple, checked in last night, maid came in to clean and found them.

 From the bruises on the bodies, it looks as if they tried to put up a fight."

          "That's more than the others did," Cassy noted.

          This was the third case in as many months.  All the same.  An older couple

from out of town checks into a luxury hotel and are found murdered the next

morning.

          Tom started pulling on a pair of latex gloves, preparing to enter the

crime scene.  "Got an I.D. on them?"

          The officer shook his head.  "No wallets or luggage tags.  There was some

kind of computer glitch with the hotel's system.  The room's shown as

occupied, but they can't find the couple's name."

          "Well, maybe Morton's group can find something we can use to identify

them," Tom said, walking into the room and nodding greetings to the

forensics team.  He did a quick visual scan of the surroundings and then

turned his attention to the bodies on the floor.  "No," he whispered, his

heart hammering against his ribs.  "Oh, God, no.  No."

          He took a step backward, bumping into Cassy.

          "Hey, watch it," she grumbled.  Stepping around him, she got her first

look at the crime scene.  "Oh my God.  Get Harry down here now!" 

          "Cassy—what?" Morton gaped.

          "Just do it!"

          Grabbing Tom's arm, she pulled him into the hall.  Pushing him against the

wall, she looked up into his ashen face.  His expression frightened her.

Never had she seen such raw pain on anyone's face.  "Tom?"

          He looked at her.  His mouth opened, but no words came forth.  Then his

legs gave out and he slipped down the wall to the floor.  She knelt beside

him, taking one of his hands in hers.  "Tom, can you hear me?"  His eyes

looked right through her.  He was still back in that room.

          Morton came out, concern etching his face as he saw them.  "Harry's on his

way."  He looked at Tom.  "Cassy, what happened?"

          She looked at him, tears sliding down her face.  "Oh, God, Sterling.  The

victims—they're Tom's parents

 

 

          Harry Lipschitz walked out of the hotel room and looked at his Homicide

team.  They hadn't moved from their positions on the floor since he'd

gotten off the elevator ten minutes earlier. Cassy sat holding Tom's hand,

talking softly to him.  Tom didn't respond.

           Shaking his head, he knelt down beside them.  "I'm so sorry, Tom," he

said softly.  "If there's anything Frannie or I can do…."

          Tom nodded.  "Thanks, Harry."  It was the first time he'd spoken since

Cassy pulled him from the room.

          Lipschitz gave Tom's shoulder a compassionate squeeze before rising and

moving down the corridor.  With a quick jerk of his head, he motioned for

Cassy to join him.

          "What is it?" she asked, her eyes never leaving her partner's face.

          "I've put out a call for Ballard and Burmeister.  I'm assigning this case

to them."

          "No!"  Tom pushed up to his feet.  "You are not taking this case away from

us."

          "Tom," Harry began, "listen to me."

          "No!"  Tom's eyes were wild, his nostrils flaring.  "This is our case.

Some bastard murdered six defenseless people and we're going to get him

before he can kill anyone else."

          Cassy stepped forward, resting her palm against his chest.  "Maybe Harry's

right."

          He shook his head.  "I have to do this, Cassy."  His voice dropped to a

whisper.  "Please, help me."

          She turned to their captain.  "We're going to do this.  With or without

your help."

          "Harry," Tom said quietly.  "I know I have no right to ask after

everything you've done for me, but please, let me do this."

          Lipschitz shook his head.  "Tom-"

          "I know it's against regulations, but-"  He swallowed down the tears and

pulled himself up straighter.  "It's the last thing I can do for them."

          The elevator doors slid open.  Two teams from the coroner's office stepped

off, pulling empty gurneys between them and walking swiftly into the room.

          Cassy held Tom's hand again, adding her own plea to his.  "Please,

Captain, don't take this one away from us."  She felt Tom squeezing her

hand as they waited.

          Morton stepped out of the room.  "Tom, we're ready to transport.  I

thought, maybe you'd…."

          Tom stood like a statue, his eyes locked on Harry's face.

          "Okay," Lipschitz nodded.  "Okay, but you two do this exactly by the book,

understand?"

          "We promise," Cassy said quickly.

          Tom nodded.  "By the book, all the way.  I want justice, not revenge."  He

turned, stepping back to let the crime team leave, and then walked alone

into room 502.

 

 

          The bodies had been bagged and placed on gurneys for transport.  The

zippers weren't fully closed, leaving the victims' faces exposed.

          Tom bent over his mother, tears falling from his eyes onto her lifeless

face.  The detective noticed the bruise on her jaw and the bloodstains

spreading across the back collar of her robe.  The son saw the woman who

gave him life, bandaged his torn knees, cheered herself hoarse at his

football games, and kissed him, wishing him good dreams, every night he

slept under her roof.  He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, as she'd

done to him more times than he could begin to count.  As she would never do

again.  "I love you, Mom."

          He turned to his father.  Ugly bruises purpled Lyam Ryan's face.

Mercifully, the bag was zipped high enough to cover the bullet holes ripped

through his chest.

Lifting a trembling hand, Tom touched his father's hair, stroking the thick

waves.  He looked at his mother, seeing the silver strands encroaching on

the chestnut brown of her hair.  When did his parents get old?  But they

weren't old.  They should have had many more years.  They deserved to grow

old together, to play with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

They didn't deserve to spend their last moments together in pain and terror.

          "I'll get him, Dad.  I promise.  If it's the last thing I do on this

earth, I'll get the sonofabitch who did this."  He bent, kissing his

father's bruised cheek.  "I love you."

          Then he knelt on the floor and for the first time in years, crossed himself and prayed.

 

 

          When he walked back into the hotel corridor, Tom's voice was firm, and his

eyes were dry.  He nodded to the coroner's teams.  "You can take them now."

 Then he turned to Morton.  "I want a complete inventory of everything in

that room."

          Cassy stepped forward, resting her hand against his arm.  "Most of the

contents is standard hotel room stuff."

          "I said everything."  He shrugged off her hand.  "Do you want to drive

back to the station or should I?"

 

          **********

 

          Cassy looked across the desks at her partner.  He'd spent the last two

hours going through the files from the other two cases while she'd looked

at the initial background checks on the hotel employees.  Outwardly, he was

the picture of the perfect detective.  Inwardly, she didn't even want to

think about how he was feeling.

          It was odd, seeing him so still, methodically going through the files.

She was usually the one who stuck to procedure, looking at everything

through coolly logical eyes.  But not now.  Their roles had somehow

reversed, and she was the one feeling twitchy and thinking about cop hunches.

          Morton walked in carrying a manila folder.  "Here's the list of everything

in the room."  He looked uncomfortable as Tom snatched the folder and

started scanning the pages. 

          "Go ahead," Cassy said.  "Give us the highlights." She'd decided that the

only way she could get through this investigation, the only way to help her

partner get through it, was to be exactly what he expected her to be:  a

damn good detective.

          Morton pulled in a deep breath and began.  "She was killed by a blow to

the back of the head.  We found blood and tissue samples on the corner of

the dresser.  Add that to the bruise on her jaw, and I'd say the blow threw

her into the furniture."

          Cassy looked at Tom.  His whole attention was focused on what Morton was

saying.

          "Cause of death to your father was two bullets to the chest.  One went

right through his heart.  Death was almost instantaneous."

          Tom nodded.  His eyes were fixed on the list in his hands.

          Cassy could see the muscles clench along his jaw before he spoke.

          "Are you sure this is everything?"  He held out the paper he'd been studying.

          Morton nodded.  "I did the inventory myself."

          "Something's missing," Tom muttered.

          "What?" Cassy asked.

          "I'm not sure."  He shook his head.  "I just know something's missing.

We've got to go back there."  He pushed away from his desk and stood to leave.

          "Tom," Morton protested, "my team scoured every inch of that room."

          Lipschitz stood in his office doorway.  "Tom, can I see you for a minute?"

          The tall detective nodded.  "When I'm done with Harry," he said to Cassy,

"I want to have another look at the crime scene."

          "Okay."  Slowly she straightened her desk and pulled out her purse.

          "Pull up the background checks on the employees again." He checked his

watch.  "Maybe we missed something."

          "Sure."  She didn't think they'd get any more information than they

already had.

          At this stage, the last thing she wanted to do was argue with Tom.  They'd

play it his way for awhile.

 

 

          Harry stepped back, allowing Tom to walk past him into the office then

closed the door.  "How are you holding up?"

          "I'm fine.  Cassy and I were about to go back to the scene."

          Harry peered over the top of his glasses.  "You sure you're okay?"

          "Stop looking at me like that," Tom snapped.  Sighing, he ran a hand over

his face and through his hair.  "Sorry.  Look, I'm not okay.   I walked in

on the crime scene and lost it for a minute."

          "You walked in?  You didn't know?"

          "There was a glitch in the reservation system.  They didn't have an I.D.

on the victims when I got there."

          Harry paled, leaning back in his chair.  "Jeez, I didn't know that."  He

rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose.  "What were they doing at The

Palm Plaza?  I thought they usually stayed with you when they were in town."

          "They do—did.  But I wasn't expecting them until Monday."

          "So why come two days early and not tell you?"

          Tom shrugged.  "I don't—their anniversary.  It's their anniversary."

          "And they decided to spend the weekend in a fancy hotel and then show up

at your place on Monday as if they'd just arrived."

          Tom snatched up the phone, punching in an extension.  "Morton?  That

inventory list, you mentioned some crumbled pieces of gift wrap.  Do you

have the paper? … Good, can you bring it down?"

          Harry leaned forward, he'd seen Tom like this before.  Something had

clicked in that smart detective brain.  "What is it?"

          Tom didn't answer.  He just ran through the bullpen, meeting Morton at the

stairs.  Without a word, he snatched the paper from the man's hands and

examined it carefully. 

"That's it!"

          "What?" Cassy asked, coming up to him.

          "Look at it."  He thrust the paper into her hand.

          Talking it back to her desk, Cassy examined the crumpled wrap.  It was a

dull silver color with the words Barrows of Boston printed in small raised

letters.  "Barrows," she said, looking up at Tom.  "That's a jewelers,

isn't it?"

          "Yes."

          "So there's wrap from a jewelry store," Harry said.  "How does that help?"

          "Where's the box?" Tom asked.  "Where's what was in the box?"

          Morton shrugged.   "We inventoried several pieces of jewelry.  It was

probably in with those."

          "No."  Tom ran an impatient hand through his hair.  "I know what it was.

My Dad-"  He stopped, needing to swallow down the lump in his throat.

"He-he told me he was having something special made.  A bracelet."  He

turned to Cassy, his voice picking up speed and strength.  "It was a

diamond chain.  What do they call those?"

          "A tennis bracelet?"

          "Yes, that's it."  His eyes filled with tears at the memory of his

father's excited voice describing the special gift over the phone.  "A

tennis bracelet with a tiny charm, the number forty set with diamond chips."

          "So," Harry said, "find the bracelet and we find the killer."

          Cassy picked up her purse.  "So we go walk the fences."

          "Tom, wait," Harry called as the team hurried out.

          "What is it?"  He was annoyed at being stopped just when they figured out

an important lead.

          Harry walked up to them, not wanting to talk across the room.  "Nobody's

been notified yet.  Is there someone you want me to call?"

          Tom shook his head.  "No, thanks.  I'll call my brother tonight."  He

tried to force a small smile.  "Maybe I'll have something positive to be

able to tell him.  Let's go, Cass."

 

          *********

 

          Four hours later, the two detectives walked into Tom's apartment.

          "Nothing," he spat, throwing his keys on the breakfast bar.  "We must've

talked to every fence in the city and nothing."  Reaching into the

refrigerator, he pulled out a beer for himself and bottled water for Cassy.

          "I'll take a beer, too."

          His eyebrows lifted.  "That's a switch.  Since when do you drink beer?"

          "I have the occasional bottle every now and again."

          "Okay."  He switched the water for beer and took the two bottles over to

the couch.

          She was sitting on the sofa, looking up at him expectantly.  Handing her a

beer, he deliberately sat in a chair.  He recognized the look on her face.

The last time he saw it was five years ago when he was sick with the flu.

She'd been so overprotective and smothering that he'd wanted to kill her.

Cassy had a compassionate side.  She didn't often show it.  It didn't go

with the tough, Jane Wayne image she usually projected.  It was tempting,

he thought, to just let go.  To give in to the anger and the grief, but he

couldn't afford to do that yet.

          He'd learned that anger gave him an edge.  As long as he kept it under

control, he could use his fury to stay focused.  He'd done it before, with

Tremayne, used his rage to overcome his fear when Jason attacked.  He'd

done the same at Key Nuevo when he fought Sidney.  Now, he was going to use

it to catch a killer.

          He had to keep the edge, and he knew he'd lose it if he let Cassy get

close.  Staying focused on the case was the only thing he could do.  He

took a long pull at the beer bottle before setting it down on the coffee

table.  "I still want to go back to the scene."

          "Why?  Morton's collected all the evidence."

          "Maybe his team missed something.  I want to see for myself."

          "Tom-"  The telephone cut her off.

          Two long strides brought him to the instrument.  "Ryan. … Hey, Sean, how

you doing?"  Sean, his older brother, Sean who'd set the example for him to

follow throughout their years of growing up together, Sean who decided to

stay in Boston and look after their parents so Tom could pursue his dream

of a pro football career at FSU.  It was Sean who backed him up when he

told their folks he was going to stay in Florida and become a cop.  And it

was Sean who married his high school sweetheart and produced four children

in ten years thereby relieving Tom of the responsibility of providing

grandchildren.

          "No," Tom responded to his brother's question.  "I didn't forget that

Monday's their anniversary."  Funny, he never realized how much his brother

sounded like his dad on the telephone.  His throat started to close up, and

he knew if he didn't end the conversation he'd beak down.  "Look, Sean, I'm

not ten years old."  He let the anger bleed over into his voice.  "I won't

forget. … Yes, I promise to do something special for them. … Okay… Okay.

Look, I'm sorry, but I've got to go.  Cassy's here and we're working on a

case.  I'll call you soon.  Bye."  He punched the disconnect button before

his brother could say another word.

          "You didn't tell him."

          He felt the anger begin to rise again.  "No, I didn't tell him."

          "Why the hell not?"  She crossed swiftly to where he stood.  "He has to be

told."

          "Not now."

          "When?"  Snatching the phone from him, she hit *69 to redial the number.

          "No!"  Tom slapped the phone out of her hands.

          She lunged after it, pushing him out of her way.  Grabbing up the

receiver, she started dialing, then turned back to him and froze.  **Oh,

God.**

          Tom was bent forward, his arms folded across his middle as if he were

trying to stop himself from breaking apart.  "Please, Cassy," he whispered.

 "Please don't call him.  Please."

          He was begging.  Never in all the years they'd known each other, not even

that terrible night in Harry's office when he stood bleeding in front of

her, desperate for her forgiveness, had he begged.  He needed her, as his

friend, but even more importantly as his partner.

          Their relationship these days was tenuous.  She'd said she'd forgiven him

for what he'd said in Key Nuevo, but she hadn't.  Not really.  And he knew it.

He knew it, but he never pressed, never even tried to make things the way

they'd been.  He saw her reticence and respected it.  He'd never asked her

for anything—until now.

          They'd reached a fork in the road of their lives together, and it was up to her to choose the direction.  She could tear down the wall between them and

welcome him back into her heart or she could complete the call and end

their personal relationship forever.

          "Tell me why you didn't tell Sean."

          Tom straightened and walked to the window near his bed, gazing out into

the early evening sky.  When he spoke, Cassy had to strain to hear.  "I

couldn't tell him."  He turned back to look at her.   "What could I say?

That our parents were brutally murdered, and I don't know who did it?

          "For godsakes, Cassy, I'm a cop.  I'm supposed to catch the bad guys.

This bastard's killed before.  We should've caught him then."  His voice

rose with his fury.  "But because I fucked up and didn't do my job, our

parents are dead!"

          "Stop it!  This isn't your fault!"

          "Yes, it is!"  He spun on her, his eyes blazing cold fire.  "And it's

yours, too."