Justice for All. Joanna Wayne

      The attendant drove up with his car. Jerry started to walk away, then turned back to Callie. “The world would have been a better place if you’d let him die.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You do know how Bernie Brusco makes his money, don’t you?”

      “I heard he owns a chain of convenience stores.”

      “To launder the cash he makes supplying drugs to half of southern California.”

      “What makes you think that?”

      “Not a matter of thinking it. It’s fact.”

      “Even if what you say is true, it wouldn’t have mattered. I took an oath to save lives. All lives, not just the ones I deem worthy.”

      “Too bad. You probably sentenced a few hundred adolescents to death by keeping Brusco alive.” He turned and walked to his car, leaving the sting of his accusation hanging in the still night air.

      MAX ZIRINSKY BIT the end off a cold French fry and stared at the names he’d scribbled on the napkin. Dylan Deeb, Bruce Nepom, Lorna Sinke and Carlos Esposito. Four unsolved murders in one year. Different MO in every case but with one common factor. They were all suspected of having committed a criminal act.

      Max reviewed the evidence in his mind, the way he did dozens of times a day. Deeb had made one hit movie, which was preceded and then followed by a string of marginal successes and a few bombs. He’d bought a home in Courage Bay after the box office hit, claiming he’d wanted a place where he could flee the Hollywood publicity circus.

      More often than not, he’d brought the circus with him, to the disdain of his privacy-loving neighbors. Deeb was known for his wild parties and a parade of very young, big breasted babes who came and went, frequently in groups.

      He’d been brought up on charges of soliciting sexual favors from underage female actresses in exchange for parts in his movies. But all Deeb had to do was give his unhappy starlets the promise of a role in one of his movies, and they merely smiled and refused to testify. Deeb was scum, but he’d walked away from the charges a free man.

      Someone had changed that by paying a visit to Deeb’s Courage Bay house in the midst of one of the worst series of rains to hit the area in years. Warnings had gone out for everyone in the area to evacuate.

      Deeb’s house had been swept away in a mud slide with Deeb still inside it. Severe bruising on his neck indicated foul play, and an autopsy revealed that he’d been strangled before his house had taken the plunge.

      Then there was Bruce Nepom. An unlicensed contractor, Nepom was taken to the E.R. at Courage Bay Hospital after his roof collapsed on him during the storm of the century back in January. Nepom died while in hospital, and an autopsy showed his injuries stemmed from trauma to the base of his skull with a blunt instrument. He’d been facing possible charges in the death of an elderly couple after the roof he’d built for them collapsed, but the case was dropped due to lack of evidence.

      The third case involved an aide to city council named Lorna Sinke. The woman had escaped prosecution in the death of her elderly parents when evidence was ruled inadmissible after an improperly executed search warrant. Sinke had been shot in a hostage situation at city hall and died later in the hospital.

      And finally there was Esposito, a scumbag who abducted Mexican children from their families and put them to work as migrant workers. Esposito had died instantly when his small plane had crashed into the ballroom of the Grand Hotel. An investigation had found evidence that someone had deliberately tampered with the plane’s engine.

      Bottom line was that some damned avenger was creating a crime wave of his own and he was doing it right under Max’s nose. That would have been tough if he was still just a detective on the homicide squad. But now that he was chief of police, it was driving him over the edge.

      “Want another beer?” Jake asked, wiping a wet spot off the bar just left of Max’s elbow.

      “Nah. I’ve had enough.”

      “You’ve only had two. It’s Friday night. Live a little.”

      “I’m living, hip hoppin’ big time. Just keeping a low profile so it doesn’t make everyone else jealous.”

      Jake leaned over the bar and stared at the names Max had printed on the napkin. “If you were living, those would be foxes’ names and phone numbers on that wrinkled old napkin, not victims.”

      “Victims are easier to deal with. They don’t expect flowers.”

      “But women have curves and don’t smell like those sweaty cops you were talking to earlier tonight.”

      “Could be, but the cops will still respect me in the morning.”

      “That’s not funny, Max.”

      And not true, either. If the department didn’t solve these murder cases, no one was going to respect him in the morning, least of all himself.

      He glanced at his watch. Nearly 1:00 a.m., and he was still wide-awake. Not much point going back to his empty apartment and tossing around in that king-size bed all by himself. “Okay, Jake, one more beer.”

      “You got it, Max. The night is young. And you see that table of hotties sitting over there sipping margaritas…”

      Max swivelled around on the bar stool and stared at the three young women flirting with a couple of the department’s newer and fortunately unmarried recruits sitting at the table next to them.

      “I see them. Now what?”

      “Hell, Max. Do I have to tell you everything? Send them a drink. Go over and talk to them. You might just get lucky tonight.”

      “I’m old enough to be their father.”

      “But you aren’t their father.”

      “If I was, I’d tell them to stay the hell away from those cops they’re working so hard to pick up. Cops make lousy husbands.”

      Jake shook his head and walked away. By the time he returned with the beer, Max was deep in thought about getting lucky. Luck for him would be arresting the Avenger—before he struck again.

      CALLIE FINISHED WRITING out the orders for a thorough toxicology check on Bernie, handed it to the nurse on duty and walked back to the small cubicle where the patient was stretched out on the examining table. Ordinarily the E.R. doctor who had taken charge of Bernie when he arrived at the hospital would take over at this point, but Callie had decided to be Bernie’s doctor of record since she’d treated him at Mary’s.

      “So how much longer do I have to stay here?” Bernie asked, shifting his weight to his right side and sticking one bare foot from beneath the bleached white sheet.

      “Only about ten more minutes in here, but I’m admitting you to the hospital.”

      “Don’t even think about it.” He waved his hand as if dismissing her last statement. “I can’t stay in the hospital. My business doesn’t run itself.”

      “Which makes it all the more important that you stay here long enough for us to find out what caused your problems tonight.”

      “I know what caused it. Stress. And if I don’t get out of here, the stress will double.”

      “Stress could have brought on tonight’s episode,” she admitted, “but it’s not likely.”

      “It doesn’t matter what caused it. I’m fine now,” he insisted. “I saw my blood pressure reading. It’s 140 over 100. That’s practically normal.”

      “Much closer to normal than it was, but I’d still like to run a few tests, and you need to see a cardiologist.”

      “So, what are we looking at? One day?”

      “Possibly. Maybe more depending on when a cardiologist can see you