Killing Justice Read online

  “You heard wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  He was pumping her for information. It was politics as usual. Andersen and Wyatt had a rivalry going from way back to their college years, and Wyatt had defeated Andersen the first time they both ran for the same seat. And now they were running against each other for Congress. Of course he would gloat over the tragedy.

  “What do you want, Kevin?”

  He put his hands up. “Nothing, nothing. Just wanted to talk about what happened, I guess.”

  “A woman is dead and you want to gloat over Bruce's downfall.” She shook her head, disgusted. Why had she expected any better? “Asshole.”

  Andersen's expression hardened. “He was having an affair with a lobbyist. That's not a crime, but murder is.” How did Andersen know about the affair? Had it leaked out that fast? She wouldn’t be surprised. Or Bruce wasn’t as discreet as he’d thought.

  “I don't believe for a minute that Bruce killed her. I don't know what happened, but I do know that the police are investigating every possible scenario.”

  “It doesn't matter. They might not be able to prove Wyatt killed her, but they can't disprove it. And he knows it. You need to convince him to resign. He won’t listen to anyone else, but he might listen to you.”

  “Detective Black is good at his job. He’s going to figure out exactly what happened. They have security tapes. They have witnesses; it’s just a matter of time. Bruce may be an adulterer, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

  Something crossed Andersen’s face, then he jumped up and slammed his fist on her desk. “Who's going to give him money after this scandal? And you, little lady, would be wise to distance yourself from that fool.”

  Little lady? She should kick the smug expression off that bastard's face.

  He walked out and she fumed. Asshole.

  But how did he know Bruce Wyatt was having an affair with Tiffany?

  XIII.

  Nighttime basement supervisor Benjamin Jackson normally came on duty at eight in the evening, but John asked that he come in earlier. It had already been a long, long day.

  Because the evidence proved Tiffany Zaren had been kept in the credenza for a full day before her body was moved to Wyatt's armoire, someone else had to be involved. John had pushed Robert Douglas and the rest of Wyatt's staff, but no one acted like a guilty accomplice.

  But there was one piece of evidence he couldn't reconcile, and he hoped Jackson had the answers. Jackson was sixty and had a sour expression, like Morgan Freeman in a prison film.

  “Mr. Jackson, I have a couple questions. On Wednesday night cameras show Senator Wyatt leaving the garage at 11:45 p.m.”

  “Yep, white Chevy Tahoe. He drives his district car, doesn't use a fleet vehicle.”

  “I also have cameras showing that Assemblyman Andersen came down to the basement just before eleven, but I don't have a time that he left. I'm still going through film, but I was hoping you might remember.”

  “Wednesday or Thursday?”

  “Both days.”

  Jackson rubbed his chin. “Well, on Wednesday he came down about eleven and sat in his car for a time. Then I saw him get out and go to the little boy’s room.”

  “Where?”

  Jackson pointed in a westward direction. “It’s near the stairwell. You can't see it from here, but there's a corridor that goes to the historic side. Only staff uses that bathroom, but I thought he might have been a little tipsy.”

  “And then?”

  “I saw him in his car after midnight. Don't recall the exact time, but there he was, sitting in the driver’s seat, sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Sure, eyes closed, just sitting there.” Jackson winked. “It's known to happen. They drink a little too much, don't want to be caught driving—the scandal of a DUI is more serious nowadays than ten, twenty years ago.”

  “Did you wake him?”

  “Naw, he got out a few minutes later and told me he'd drunk too much and was going to walk home. “

  “And Thursday?”

  “Came in at eleven, gone before midnight.”

  John went back to the CHP office and had Officer Smiley run the tape on Thursday during that time period.

  Sure enough, Kevin Andersen drove in at eleven. He parked, and the recording had him going up to his office. He left almost immediately, went into the staircase—

  —but the next time he showed up on tape was a full forty-three minutes later when he entered the basement. The CHP Commander confirmed that the hall had access to the historic stairwell. The stairwell without a camera.

  More than enough time to move a body.

  XIV.

  It was late when Lara was leaving the office. She had half-expected John to come in and suggest they have a drink or relax at his place.

  He didn’t. Of course he was working. She hoped he wasn’t still angry with her about how she handled confronting Bruce Wyatt. She’d apologized, he grunted an acceptance, and that was it. Or was it?

  Their relationship was complicated only because she made it that way. She saw that now. Why was she playing hard to get? The fear of a lifetime commitment? But life was too short. Shouldn't she take a chance now and then? She willingly risked her life for her country, why couldn't she risk her heart for the man she loved?

  She called John’s cell.

  “I’m about to talk to Andersen,” he told her. “Are you in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come up when I’m done.”

  When he hung up, she thought about that snake Andersen coming into her office and threatening her—calling her a “little lady” and telling her to distance herself from Wyatt. If he'd been a friend, she might consider it an act of kindness. But Kevin Andersen had never been a friend of hers. What a jerk.

  She had some questions for Andersen, and thought John should know that Kevin had known about Wyatt’s affair. She texted him the information, then signed letters, glancing at her phone while waiting for a response. John always responded to messages, even if briefly.

  Five minutes later, she frowned and called him. No answer. It might be nothing—he was interviewing a possible witness. Yet her instincts told her something was fishy. It wouldn’t hurt to check out the Leader’s office.

  She walked down one flight of stairs, favoring her bum leg, and opened the main door. Though the door was unlocked, the office was empty.

  “Hello?” she said.

  No answer. Then she heard John’s voice in Andersen’s office. The door was ajar, but she couldn’t see anything from the angle.

  “You don’t want to do this, Kevin,” she heard him say. “Put the gun down.”

  Lara moved quietly to the door and peaked in. Anderson was behind his desk, holding a revolver. She couldn’t see John from this angle, but she heard his voice.

  There was no other way into the office. She tiptoed to the secretary’s desk and pressed the panic button to alert the Assembly Sergeant-at-Arms when there was a security problem in the office.

  Kevin Andersen was definitely a major security problem.

  “Get your handcuffs. Cuff yourself to the chair. I don’t want to kill anyone. I just need time to think.”

  “Let’s talk about this,” John said.

  “It was a mistake, and I fixed it!”

  “I'm sure you had a very good reason for killing Tiffany—”

  “I didn’t kill her! Wyatt did it.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “Did he buy you off?”

  Lara could almost feel John bristling from the accusation.

  Everything clicked. Andersen's previous relationship with Tiffany, Bruce's affair, the security tapes. “I fixed it.”

  Andersen’s finger was on the trigger. His eyes were wild, and his perfectly coiffed hair was hanging in front of his face.

  “You knew about Bruce's affair, didn't you?” John said.

  “His wife called me. Told me they we
re in the building.”

  Lara was stunned. Cindy Wyatt? Why on earth would Cindy Wyatt call her husband's biggest rival? A woman scorned . . . she must have known about the affair. What had she planned to accomplish if Andersen found out about it? Did she really want her husband to lose the congressional primary?

  “You didn't mean to kill her.”

  “I didn't. Bruce did. I saw him.”

  “You saw him kill her?”

  John was buying time. Good. When were the Sergeants going to get here? Lara feared Andersen would act rash.

  Andersen nodded frantically, sweat on his brow. “They were having sex in the committee room. I was just going to get pictures, threaten him with exposing the affair. He went for me, Tiffany got in the way, and he killed her.”

  “Well, let’s get your statement on the record then. Why don’t you—”

  “I see through your game! I know what you’re doing! You’re trying to get me to come down to the station.” He barked out a laugh. “I didn’t kill Tiffany. I loved her!”

  Lara kicked open the door and startled him enough that he shifted the gun from John to her.

  That was all John needed. He leapt over the desk and tackled the Assemblyman. Andersen kept hold of the gun and hit John upside the head.

  Lara grabbed Andersen’s wrist and slammed it against the corner of his desk. He yelped in pain and the gun fell from his hand. She kneed him in the groin with her good knee, then retrieved the gun from the floor while John cuffed him.

  Two Sergeants rushed in and John flashed his badge. “Sac PD.”

  To Andersen he said, “You're under arrest, Kevin Andersen.”

  “My career is over.”

  “Your freedom is over,” Lara said. “And to think that I spent nine years of my life fighting for it.”

  “You don’t understand! I loved Tiffany. I would never have hurt her. Not on purpose. It was an accident. An awful accident.”

  Lara leaned forward. John had pushed Andersen into a chair, cuffed, and was calling for a car to transport the prisoner to the city jail.

  “Let me tell you what I think happened,” Lara said. “Cindy Wyatt was furious with her husband about his affair and wanted to hurt him. The best way to hurt Bruce would be to damage his career. She called you and told you about Bruce and Tiffany. You snapped. You were already in the building. You had to see for yourself.” She tapped his sterling silver pen set, which, not surprisingly, had an empty slot for a matching letter opener. “You grabbed the letter opener on your way out.

  “You then caught up with her in the stairwell. Maybe fought with her, maybe confessed your undying love. You got her into the committee room and stabbed her—”

  “No.” He shook his head back and forth, his hair falling into his eyes. “Bruce has taken everything that was important to me. My first election. My girlfriend. And he moved into my Congressional District just to run against me! And Tiffany . . . I loved her. I loved her and she slept with him! I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Suddenly he closed his mouth, looked at the Sergeants filling the doorway, his eyes wide, then from Lara to John. “I want a lawyer!” he demanded. “And a doctor! I think you broke my wrist, Lara. I’ll sue you.” He glared at John. “And I’ll sue you for false arrest! Bruce Wyatt set me up.”

  Lara glanced at John. He looked weary, but elated. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Anytime.” She winked.

  “Think Wyatt’s still going to run for Congress?”

  Lara nodded. “Yeah. Probably be a bloodbath with the scandal and the affair, but ironically, the more people in the race, the better chance Wyatt has of squeaking out a victory.”

  “Over my dead body,” Andersen spat out.

  John motioned for the Sergeants to keep an eye on the prisoner. “I’ll be right back.” He took Lara’s hand and escorted her from the office. He stepped around the corner and kissed her.

  “Ready to go home after I book him?” he asked.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Your house or mine?”

  “I’ll stencil your name on my mailbox first thing in the morning.”

  Now or never, Lara thought. John was worth the risk. More than anyone she’d known.

  “I don’t cook,” she said. “Except breakfast.”

  “I like breakfast.” He stepped forward. “You make breakfast, I make dinner. Sounds good to me.”

  She smiled. “Sounds good to me, too.”

  ###

  Dear Reader:

  My first book, The Prey, was released in 2006. I joined International Thriller Writers as a debut author and was thrilled to attend the first ThrillerFest in Phoenix, Arizona. At this amazing conference, I met other debut authors who would become my closest friends in this business.

  A group of new authors with their debut thrillers coming out the following year banded together into ITW’s first Debut Author Class and asked me to be one of the mentors. Though I felt I was still too new to mentor anyone, I agreed, and one of the projects was an anthology that Lee Child—yes, the Lee Child—agreed to edit.

  Mentoring turned into writing a story for the anthology, and I didn’t feel up to the challenge. Honestly, I was terrified. I’d never written a short story before.

  Writing short isn’t easy. The more I wrote, the more fearful I became that I was doing it wrong, that I’d never get this story under five thousand words (it ended up six thousand), and worse, that I’d fail. But I wrote and edited and finally finished. I faced my fears, and “Killing Justice” became my first short story.

  The easiest part of writing was taking real-life legislation and situations as the backdrop of my fictional scenario. A variation of the child predator legislation discussed in this story was really killed in the public safety committee, and shenanigans like swapping out committee members to assure certain vote results has long been practiced in the California Legislature. I created State Senator Matt Elliott to be someone I’d want fighting for what’s right and just.

  “Killing Justice” was originally published in 2008 by St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur in the anthology Killer Year. You might remember Matt Elliott as the District Attorney from Playing Dead and Sudden Death; he’s the brother of FBI Agent Megan Elliott. Someday, I’d like to write a book about him. He’s led a very interesting life.

  Happy Reading!

  Allison Brennan

  2012

  Killing Justice

  I.

  Senate Pro Tem Simon Beck sat in his high-back leather chair signing letters, the tall, narrow window behind him framing the Tower Bridge at the far end of Sacramento’s Capitol Mall, the morning sun making the elevator bridge appear golden. His secretary Janice escorted Senator Matt Elliott into the office, offered him coffee—which he refused—then quietly retreated.

  Simon had been expecting the confrontation since Elliott called him at six in the morning and said nothing, allowing the tension to build.

  It didn’t take long. Elliott slammed his fist on the antique desk and leaned forward, his knuckles white. “You bastard. You stacked the committee!”

  Simon placed the pen precisely on the blotter, sat up straight, and clasped his hands in front of him.

  “Sit down, Senator Elliott.”

  The pulse in Elliott's neck throbbed. He pushed away from the desk and paced, running both hands through his dark hair. “You promised you wouldn't fuck with my bill package.”

  That was true. Simon had always planned to quash the so-called “children’s safety” legislation on the Senate floor at the end of session when it would be too late for Elliott to raise the money and qualify an initiative. Simon hated the fact that in California, when the legislature—which had been given the power to pass or defeat legislation—didn't cater to the cause of the year, the rich and powerful would raise a few million dollars to put their pet project on the ballot.

  He hated it except when it benefited his interests.

  The truth was, if Senator Matt Elliott had the time, he could have qualified an initi
ative in time for the November ballot, the worst time for their party to be forced to take a position on so-called “tough on crime” legislation. Didn't Elliott see that? Wasn't the future strength of their party more important than one bill?

  Kill the bill now, Simon.

  Jamie Tan's words came back to him. The head of the Juvenile Justice Alliance, which operated nearly two hundred group homes for juveniles in the criminal justice system, had made it perfectly clear that if Elliott's bill passed, they'd pull all support. It was an election year and they wanted to take no chances on a vote by the full Senate. The bill had to die in committee.

  Worse, Tan had brought the head of a prison reform group and one of the two major trial lawyer organizations into the meeting. The warning was clear: screw them, his election well would run dry.

  That was the biggest problem with term limits, Simon realized. Before the electorate put in limits, the leader had real power. Now, special interests had the power. Jamie Tan would be around longer than Simon Beck, and Tan knew it.

  Simon had no choice but to back down. If he lost even one seat this election cycle, he’d be unceremoniously dumped as leader.

  “Put Paula back on the committee,” Elliott demanded, stopping in front of his desk.

  “Forget it, Elliott. My decision is final.”

  “I'll bury you, Beck.”

  “You? You're the outcast of our party. A maverick. Ha! No one trusts you. You're just as likely to vote with the Republicans as vote with us. So you won Paula over to this issue, but you know damn well she'll never agree with you on your other pet projects.”

  “This isn't a pet project. My bill will save lives.”

  Beck waved his hand in the air. “Don't believe your own press releases.”

  “Damn you, we can make a difference!”

  “Do you realize what's at stake? Do you know how many people will lose their jobs if your bill passes? Do you understand that the state is under court order to decrease the prison population? All your bill would do is make the crisis worse.”