Storm Justice Page 4

  Not for the first time did Storm realize what an odd couple they were. Nicky was short and curvy and loved to wear anything pastel with lace and ruffles. She had blue-gray eyes and wore her blond hair in loose waves around her shoulders.

  Storm was tall and covered her boyish build with tailored clothing in somber tones. She had dark eyes and hair she wore pulled back in an almost severe style. Their personalities were different too. Storm was reserved; Nicky was flamboyant.

  As if to demonstrate, Nicky leaned forward and let go with a series of sentences at high speed. “I’m so glad you could do lunch. I just have to vent. I have a new client. Someone I . . . well, I don't want to say I don't want her on my caseload. I can handle her, it's just . . .”

  Storm listened silently, a half-smile on her lips. The miso soup was delicious, with chunks of tofu and bits of carrot and onion floating in the fishy broth, steam rising to tickle her nose as she took small sips.

  “Have you ever had a client you wanted to kill?” Nicky asked bluntly.

  Storm almost spit out her soup. She inhaled instead, and that was almost worse. She choked and sputtered.

  “Are you okay?” asked Nicky. “Do you want something to drink?”

  Storm shook her head, coughed hard, and was finally able to draw a breath. Why do people always offer you a drink, she wondered, when you already had what felt like a lung full of liquid? Taking another deep breath, Storm waved Nicky off.

  “I'm fine. I'm good. My soup just went down the wrong way, I guess.”

  Uncomfortably aware that others in the restaurant were looking at her, Storm was eager to lose their attention.

  She took a small sip of tea. When she didn’t choke or cough, she refocused on Nicky. She leaned in and whispered, “So, what do you mean, kill a client?”

  “Oh gosh.” Now it was Nicky’s turn to look embarrassed. “I didn't mean literally. Or at least probably not literally,” she corrected herself, smiling to make it a joke. “Did you hear about the Helena Smith case?”

  “Helena Smith? Oh sure. Isn’t she the nutcase who was living in her car? The one who kept her kid on a mattress under the car 'cause her boyfriends didn't want to hear it crying?”

  “Yeah, that's the one. And the kid didn't know how to walk or talk or anything when Child Welfare found him, even though he was almost three. I don't want to tell you all the things that were wrong with him physically.”

  “Thanks. I hear enough stories every day.”

  “Yeah, well, you can put this one in your top ten. I just don't get it. I don't get why she didn't put her kid up for adoption if she didn't want to take care of him. Food stamps, maybe? Anyway, I don't understand how this . . . this evil bitch can be out walking around. She should be in a deep dark hole in the basement of a prison somewhere or better yet, in a deep dark hole in the ground.”

  “I take it she's not locked up, or dead?”

  “Far from it. Somehow she got off on an insanity plea, even though the insanity was drug-induced and the drugs were self-administered. They put her in the state hospital in Salem for a while, but once she straightened herself out, they released her, and now she's on probation.”

  “And now she's yours,” Storm said.

  “Yes. Lucky me. Now she's mine. Got an appointment with her this week, and I don't want to set eyes on her. I've seen things in her file, and . . . all I want to do is find her and put an end to h—”

  The server interrupted with Storm's sashimi and tempura vegetables and Nicky’s chicken yakisoba. The conversation stopped, and Nicky, perhaps regretting her unprofessional rant or the dark desire she'd revealed, shifted the topic to Jackson, her troublesome ex.

  Storm smiled, nodded, and asked all the right questions, all the while gleefully considering whether she might have found a new partner, a better partner than Howard. Someone whose urges she would neither have to control nor fear.

  It was a prospect she'd have to examine more closely. She'd have to be careful though, take her time and be very, very sure before taking Nicky into her confidence.

  * * *

  Though the rain had slowed, the sky was even darker by the time Storm returned to her office. If she hurried, she might be able to sneak out a tad early and spend some time with Tom and the kids.

  At a little after one, the phone rang. “You've got two guys here saying they have appointments,” said Carrie, the receptionist. “A Rick Ramirez and a Howard Kline. Did you overbook?”

  For a moment Storm was unable to speak. What was Howard doing there? He knew better than to go to the office unless it was urgent. Had something happened?

  “Storm?”

  “Sorry, Carrie. Checking my schedule. Yeah, I did double book, didn't expect Rick to show. Tell him I have to change his appointment, push it back half an hour. I'll come up and get Mr. Kline.”

  “Okay.”

  Storm pushed open the door to the reception area. Though he was seated with his back to the door, she recognized Howard immediately. She looked across the room, making eye contact with Rick Ramirez and gave him what she hoped was an apologetic smile.

  “Howard Kline?” she said.

  Howard stood up and moved toward her as she held the door open for him. “Please follow me.” She led him farther into the building and to her office.

  Storm indicated the chairs in front of her desk, matching gray metal chairs with woven gray-and-blue upholstery. Behind her faux-woodgrain desk was her chair, dark blue, ergonomically designed and able to swivel. If the difference in chairs was meant to give her a psychological advantage, a sense of control or of superiority, it failed miserably.

  Taking a seat, she stared across the desk at Howard. He said nothing; he just looked around her office with an air of fascination.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Haven't been in here a while. That a new plant?” He was looking at a philodendron, its vines covered with glossy green leaves hanging down the sides of a tall file cabinet.

  “Yes. Why are you here?”

  “Calm down. No big deal. Hey, nice picture. He had spotted a picture frame on her desk to the left of her monitor. He picked it up, turning it so he could see it more clearly. It was a picture taken at the last county fair: Tom and Storm, Joel and Lindsey holding four large cones of pink cotton candy, posed in front of a wash of neon lights.

  Storm loved the picture of her family. They looked so normal, so nearly Norman Rockwell happy and perfect. It annoyed her that Howard was looking at it, touching it. It seemed pushy, even rude. His nervous, twitchy movements were contagious. She wished he'd sit still.

  Reaching across the desk, she took the picture frame and set it firmly back in its place, this time making sure it was turned so that only she could see the photograph.

  “Last time, Howard. Why are you here? You don't have an appointment.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was going to call, but I thought it would be easier to just come in. I need a trip permit to leave Oregon, that's all. I want to run up to Washington. I got a line on a job up there, better job than this security thing, though it does have its perks,” he said.

  Storm hated the look on his face. It was the kind of look she imagined a blackmailer would wear as he handed

  over a copy of the evidence. She was probably imagining it. She forced herself to relax.

  “A trip permit, huh? That shouldn't be a problem.”

  “Didn't think it would be,” Howard said. Again the smirk and the tone bothered Storm, making her stomach feel cold and achy, like it was filled with chips of ice. She wondered, for about the hundredth time, whether this partnership was such a good idea.

  As if realizing he’d pushed things too far, Howard's attitude changed from demanding to apologetic. “I'm sorry I didn't call. This job just came up real sudden, and I didn't want to risk losing it.”

  “What sort of job is it?” Storm asked, leaning forward, her elbows on the edge of the desk, her chin resting on the back of her clasped hands.

&nbs
p; “Manufacturing, assembly line,” he said, his brown eyes lighting up. “Boeing,” he added, naming the aerospace and defense corporation.

  “That sounds great.” Storm didn’t really mean it. Directing Howard's pathology so that he was taking part in the justice killings was one thing. Letting him loose in Seattle was something else entirely. Besides, they had been in it together from the start. Despite her concerns, just what would she do if he left?

  “Yeah, they have a program where they hire felons. Could be a whole new start,” he continued. “Plus, it's not that far away, you know. I would still be able to get down here . . . from time to time.”

  “I see,” she said, nodding to show she understood that he'd just promised to continue helping her. She wasn't quite so sure he’d be able to follow through on that promise. If he got a job in Washington, if he left her jurisdiction, why would he bother to return? She had nothing she could use to hold him—at least, nothing that wouldn't reveal her own guilt. Once he transferred, he'd be gone from her life. She was sure of it. Well, she decided, as he rambled on about the possible new job, there was no sense in worrying. He didn't have the job yet.

  She stood up and turned to the file drawers behind her desk. She slid open a drawer, ran her forefinger across a row of tabs, found what she was looking for, and removed a document. Turning back to her desk, she sat down and placed the form in front of her on the desk. “When and where is this interview?”

  Howard smiled like Christmas morning and gave her the details. She filled out the trip pass, signed it, and handed it over. “Good luck. I'll walk you out.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for the pass and for the luck,” he said. Storm wondered how someone who seemed so normal and who could act so pleasant could have developed such a need to inflict pain. Aware that she would probably never know the answer, she mentally shrugged and led him back to the reception area. “Rick,” she said to her client. “Sorry you had to wait. Could you come with me now?”

  Storm strode down the hallway, halfway to her office with Mr. Ramirez. She didn't see Howard tear the pass in half and toss it into a trash can.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “MOM!”

  “What now, Lindsey?” Storm asked, sending an exasperated look at Tom, who was driving and apparently unwilling to enter the fray.

  “Joel is changing the channel again.”

  “Joel, your sister is watching a movie. Why can't you settle down and watch it, too?”

  “Dunno,” said Joel, with an exaggerated shrug.

  The salesperson who had enthused about the portable DVD player, claiming it would eliminate fighting between siblings, was either misinformed or lying. The thing created more, not less, conflict.

  They had come as a pair mounted behind the front seats so the kids could each control what they watched. Within the first week, Joel's player had stopped working. Since sticky fingers were all over it, like fingerprints at a crime scene. Storm didn't think the warranty would still be valid.

  “Please try to behave. We're almost there, and you're getting your dad all rattled.”

  Tom, driving at his usual grandfatherly speed and whistling silently between his teeth, looked as rattled as a drowsy well-fed pup. Storm wondered if he was able to remain so calm because she was a stress sponge, absorbing all the tension and leaving him free to drift worry-free through a cotton-soft world with no sharp edges.

  “Are we there? Are we there?” demanded Joel as the car slowed and pulled off the road and into the gravel parking lot.

  “We're here,” said Tom. “Everybody out.”

  Within moments the entire McKenzie family had piled out of the van. The kids charged toward the open gate set in the short cyclone fence that circled the park.

  Tom and Storm paused to survey the area. “How'd you find this place?” Tom asked.

  “Someone at the office told me about it. Said it would be a good place to bring the kids, let them burn off some energy. Nice, huh?”

  “Very.”

  It was a cool, clear Saturday afternoon. The sky was the soft color of blue chalk. Just inside the fence surrounding the park was a row of maples, their leaves beginning to turn from green to red and yellow. A few had already fallen and now tumbled across the grass as a cool breeze gusted across the field, carrying the smell of burning leaves with it.

  “Watch for puddles,” Storm called. The playground equipment stood in a far corner of the park, and the kids were heading straight for it. Shrubs blocked the view, so she couldn't tell how muddy the ground was under the monkey bars or swing sets.

  Storm supposed it didn't really matter. The kids would have a great time no matter how wet or muddy they got. She might have ended up with dirty car mats, but that was a small price to pay for their fun, especially considering she had a completely selfish reason for bringing them, and it had nothing to do with play.

  Two blocks away was the current home of Helena Smith, no doubt somewhat better than an abandoned car parked under a bridge. True, Helena had not been Storm's next target, but sometimes you had to be open to change.

  That Thursday, upon returning to the office after her lunch with Nicky, Storm had logged into the database and quickly found all she needed to know about Ms. Smith. Though released, the court determined she would not regain custody of her son. That was something, at least.

  Storm read the entire file and learned Ms. Smith's son was living in a foster home specializing in the care of high-needs children. He had made some progress, was now able to sit up by himself, and no longer screamed when someone entered the room.

  After hearing Nicky’s rant against the criminal justice system in regard to the woman, and after reading her file and considering her parenting skills, Storm had decided Ms. Smith deserved to move to the top of the list.

  As she strolled through the park, Storm shuddered, thinking about Ms. Smith's child and the life he had lived on a filthy mattress under a rusting pile of cold metal. She rubbed her arms as if the chill was from the cold.

  Tom had moved ahead and was now helping Joel up the stairs of the slide. She watched her sweet son careen down, yelling at top volume, landing on both feet with a thump. He quickly raced back to the stairs so Dad could help him up for another turn.

  She imagined him as a baby, trapped under a maze of corroded metal, cold, hungry, his skin covered in urine burns and bed sores. Anger began to grow, a soft glow, an ember, but it was there. It would be there when she needed to call on it.

  Pushing the dark thoughts away, Storm dragged herself out of her vivid imaginings and back to the here and now.

  Lindsey had found a swing and was studiously pushing herself back and forth, her concentration focused entirely on her goal. She had always been the more serious of the two children. The one Storm felt needed her least. It was funny how two children from the same parents could be so different.

  Tom laughed, the sound starting an old familiar ache in her heart. She wished she could laugh like that, join them in play so fully and effortlessly.

  Lindsey and Joel would be like him. She was sure of it. Despite Lindsey's serious nature, she would be open to happiness and to laughter. Storm took no credit for that. It was Tom, the good parent, the son of good parents. That was something worth passing on. Much better than the inheritance she'd received.

  Walking up to watch her family play, Lindsey came upon a trio of picnic benches. Finding the soaked wood too damp to sit on, she leaned her hip against one and stood quietly, feeling the warmth of the sun across her shoulders.

  The motion of Lindsey's swing was hypnotic. It should have been lulling, but Storm couldn’t relax. The smell of something burning grew stronger—not just leaves anymore, something like insulation, plastic.

  Unexpectedly, she wanted to go home, escape this place that was nothing more than a means to an end for her, an end her family would never understand or condone. How could they? They had no idea what was out there, of the cruelty and the evil of people. Even Tom, who was older than she
, had no idea. She hoped he never would.

  What if she just forgot why she had gone there, let herself pretend it was really just to let the kids play? She could do that. She didn't have to make a wrong turn on the way home, drive slowly until she spotted the house, confident no one would look twice at a family cruising past in a ten-year-old SUV with a ‘Friends of Oregon Zoo’ sticker in the window.

  They left fifteen minutes later, both kids pretending reluctance, but also a little chilled and damp. Neither of them argued much as they settled into their seats.

  “That was nice,” said Tom, after they'd buckled the kids in. He took Storm's hand and kissed her fingers. “Cold,” he said, blowing warm air against her finger tips.

  “Mmm,” she agreed. “But you're colder and you look sleepy. “Mind if I drive?”

  “Of course not,” he said, handing over the keys. “Anything else on the agenda?” He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt.

  “What do you mean?” she asked nervously.

  “You know, pick up a movie and maybe some fried chicken.”

  “Your night to cook,” she said, relieved. “Of course we'll eat out.”

  “Hey, you make that sound like a common occurrence.”

  Storm just rolled her eyes and started the car.

  “Did you ever stop to think this is not a bad thing?” he continued. “Have you ever really tasted my cooking?”

  “You are a perfectly fine cook,” she told him. “You can pretend otherwise all you want. But I'm not going to argue about going out. It means I won't have to do dishes.”

  “Hey, I think you took a wrong turn,” Tom pointed out helpfully. “You were supposed to go left coming out of the parking lot.”

  “Oh, really? Well, since we're heading this way anyway, might as well go down a few blocks. Never been in this part of town. Maybe there's another park or, who knows, maybe a store that sells Oregon Ducks stuff.” Tom was a huge fan and collector of University of Oregon football team memorabilia.

  “Now you're just teasing me,” he said.

  Storm drove slowly past the mid-century ranch-style homes painted in predictably pastel shades.