[Lady Justice 05] - Lady Justice and the Sting Read online

  We had watched Blackhawk Down, the war story of the Delta Force invasion in Somalia.

  I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow.

  Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up freezing. There was a strong wind in my face and a loud WHAP, WHAP, WHAP, WHAP.

  At first I thought I was dreaming and that I was part of that Delta Force invasion with choppers flying all around me.

  Then I realized that WHAPing sound was the ceiling fan above our bed going full tilt.

  I looked over at Maggie. She was spread eagled across the bed with her nightie pulled up to her chin.

  "Maggie!" I screamed. "Are you all right?"

  "Hot flash!" was all she could mutter.

  It was at that moment that I made a grievous error.

  "Hot flash? I thought women your age were past all that."

  That night I learned a valuable lesson. Never mess with a woman in the throes of a hormonal surge.

  I had seen movies of women in labor cursing their husbands for getting them pregnant.

  I now firmly believe the same rules apply equally to both pre and post menopausal episodes.

  Needless to say, all the adjusting has been worth it.

  I love my feisty little Irish girl with all my heart and she is the joy of my life.

  I climbed the stairs to our apartment as quietly as I could. After a long grueling day, the last thing I wanted was to arouse the other four tenants in my building.

  My Dad and the Professor live in the first floor apartments and Bernice and Jerry live in the second floor apartments.

  I love them all but they all love to talk. I just wanted to get home, eat supper and relax with my Sweetie.

  I thought I was home free but Jerry popped out of apartment before I could hit the third floor landing.

  Jerry is seventy-three years young and has been with us about a year and a half now.

  He has become a good friend but he has one really annoying trait: he firmly believes he is the second coming of Rodney Dangerfield.

  He lives to tell jokes. Hence, the moniker we bestowed on him, Jerry the Joker.

  He nearly drove us nuts with his banter until we turned him on to the amateur night at the local comedy club. Now we only get an occasional gag line when he wants to try out some new material.

  "Hey, Walt!"

  "Yes, Jerry."

  "Ya got a minute?"

  "Yes, Jerry."

  "You're an old dude. You probably remember Buckwheat from the old Our Gang TV show."

  "Yes, Jerry."

  "Turns out that Buckwheat recently became a Muslim and changed his name to Kareem of Wheat."

  A pregnant pause.

  "Go on."

  "Well, Spanky and Alfalfa are really worried about him. They hope he doesn't become a cereal killer!"

  "Goodnight, Jerry."

  "Goodnight, Walt."

  I was just reaching for the knob when the door opened and I saw my sweetie standing there with a frosty glass of Arbor Mist.

  She handed me the glass and planted a big kiss on my cheek.

  "I know you've had a rough day. Come on in and relax. Your dinner is on the TV tray in front of our easy chair.

  Maggie is a wonder.

  Most women, especially a woman our age, would have had a conniption fit if their significant other had announced that he wanted to be a cop.

  Not Maggie.

  She has supported me from the very beginning and, unfortunately, as an innocent bystander, has been dragged into more than one of my crime-fighting escapades.

  In my three years on the force, she had been abducted by a psychotic real estate agent, a black drug gang, Hawaiian zealots and a religious nut.

  Lesser women would have said, "Hasta la vista, baby", and been long gone.

  As we sat, side-by-side in our two-seater recliner, she brought up the double murder.

  "I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Mitchell and Violet. It's just all so senseless."

  "Did you know them?"

  "I've actually been treated by Dr. Mitchell."

  "I thought you went to a female doctor."

  "I do now. It's just a woman thing. Dr. Mitchell is --- was --- a very good doctor. Do you have any leads?"

  "Not really. The detectives are thinking that it was some crack head looking for drugs."

  Maggie was deep in thought. "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Why not? It happens all the time."

  "Because Dr. Mitchell was a holistic physician."

  "A what?"

  "Although he was a medical doctor, he rarely used prescription drugs. He was a firm believer that the human body was more than capable of healing itself if given a chance. His treatments included herbs and other natural substances. Anything he might have had in his office is available at any health food store. Why would anyone kill two people over stuff that can be bought anywhere?"

  "That's a very good question. I'll certainly mention it to Detective Blaylock."

  Later that night, I laid awake thinking about what Maggie had said. Maybe drugs weren't the motive after all.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a few little snorts from Maggie's side of the bed.

  I got that warm fuzzy feeling again, knowing she was there beside me.

  I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  Then I rolled back over to my side, farted, and went right to sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  The hawk-faced man sat quietly in the elegant executive office suite of Warren Wescott, Attorney-At-Law.

  From his Corinthian leather chair he surveyed the array of photos displayed on the wall behind the massive desk. Wescott with Senator Griffin; Wescott shaking hands with the U.S. Attorney General; Wescott on the golf course with the chairman of the Food and Drug Administration: but most prominently displayed was Wescott with the President of the United States in the Oval Office.

  There could be no question; the man was well connected.

  He heard a flurry of activity in the reception area. The huge oak door swung open and Warren Wescott strode into the room.

  He was a portly man, in his late 50's. His hair was dark with touches of gray at the temples. Drooping jowls that gave him the appearance of a bulldog accented his wide face.

  He walked with the swagger of authority fostered by years spent in positions of power.

  Without a word of salutation, he stood behind his desk and glared at the hawk-faced man.

  "You failed! I sent you to do a job and you come back empty handed."

  The man's first impulse was to grab the fat prick by the neck and squeeze the life out of him, but he had played this game before.

  "I'm sorry, but the information you wanted was just not there. It seems that the clinical study is being held by a colleague of his."

  "And just who might that be?"

  "I'm working on it," he said holding up the doctor's laptop. "I'm convinced that he had been emailing the data with this computer. I'll know soon enough."

  "And when you find out, I trust the result will be better the next time. Our clients in New York would be greatly disappointed if the findings of that study are made public."

  "You can count on that, sir."

  "In the meantime, we have another problem."

  "What's that, sir?"

  "Scarpelli."

  "Wasn't Mr. Scarpelli the liaison between your firm and the New York clients?"

  "That's correct. Apparently, the greedy bastard wasn't satisfied with two million a year, so he got mixed up with some Columbian thugs and was involved with drugs and prostitution.

  "The DEA and FBI were both watching him and raided his house on Ward Parkway last week. They found a kilo of cocaine and two Columbian girls chained in his bedroom.

  "They've seized all his assets including the Ward Parkway house."

  The hawk-faced man set forward in his chair. "Are the authorities aware of his connection to your New York clients?"

  "Not according to my sources in t
he Attorney General's office. But that's not our main concern at this point."

  "Then what?"

  "Two things. First, they've got Scarpelli by the balls and he's ready to sing. He's offered to testify against the Columbians and their U.S. contacts in exchange for witness protection. My sources think he's saving the New York stuff to negotiate a better deal.

  "Second, Scarpelli has some --- uhhh --- very sensitive files relating to our New York clients hidden somewhere in that Ward Parkway house. Thankfully, they weren't found during the raid."

  "Do you want me to locate those documents?"

  "Not possible at this time. The FBI has had the house under surveillance since the raid. You couldn't get in without being seen.

  "But we do have a job for you."

  The hawk-faced man smiled. "Of course. Anything I can do to help."

  "If Scarpelli cuts his deal with WITSEC and disappears, we're screwed and so are our New York clients. Scarpelli has to be eliminated."

  Westcott leaned across the big desk and handed the man a folded slip of paper.

  "Scarpelli's being held in solitary at the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Contact the man I've given you on that paper. He can help you make Scarpelli disappear."

  He took the slip of paper and carefully tucked it in his pocket. "Consider it done."

  "Good!" Westcott replied. "And the next time we meet I want that clinical study. Do you understand?"

  "You'll have it."

  When the hawk-faced man was gone, Westcott picked up the phone and barked at his secretary, "Get me New York."

  CHAPTER 3

  I awoke refreshed and ready for a new day.

  Maggie's side of the bed was empty and I could hear her banging around in the kitchen.

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted through the door. I hurriedly finished my morning constitutional, pulled on my sweatpants and headed for the kitchen.

  I was hoping she had prepared a stack of flapjacks or at least some scrambled eggs, but what I saw on the table was a bowl of white lumpy goo.

  "Uhhh, what do we have here?" I queried.

  "I thought we'd try something different today." she replied. "It's cream of wheat."

  "Muslim cereal killer," I mumbled.

  "What?"

  "Oh, nothing. It looks delicious."

  Then my attention focused on the pile of little pills beside my coffee cup.

  This was another facet of our new life together that had required a period of adjustment --- at least on my part.

  Maggie has always been health conscious. Me, not so much.

  My dietary needs were met by most anything that tasted good at the time, and most of the time that included stuff that was either fried or smothered in gravy.

  While I was wolfing down chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, Maggie would be nibbling on a salad with grilled chicken.

  In the first week after we had returned from our honeymoon. I found two brown capsules beside my plate.

  She patiently explained that they contained natural ingredients that would promote a healthy prostate.

  When I put up a fuss, as she knew I would, she whipped out documentation showing that 80% of men reaching the age of eighty would develop prostate cancer. She said she had waited sixty-seven years for the right man and she'd be damned if she was going to risk losing me when it could be prevented.

  I took the pills.

  A week or so later, another pill big enough to gag a horse showed up along with my prostate stuff.

  "So what's that for?" I had asked.

  "That's a one-a-day multi-vitamin. Look, Walt. You just don't eat the right foods. You and Ox are either at Mel's, Denny's or Sonic every day of the week. I won't fuss about that as long as I know you're getting your minimum daily requirements of vitamins and minerals."

  Since I wanted to preserve my inalienable right to consume junk food, I dutifully swallowed the big pill.

  Another week passed and a new pill appeared.

  "OK, what now?"

  "That's a probiotic. Your colon will only work properly if it contains the right kind of bacteria. That little pill contains the bacteria you need for a healthy colon."

  "So I'm swallowing bacteria?"

  "Yes, but it's the good kind."

  "Oh, swell."

  Then came the vitamin D; then the vitamin C, and some other stuff I can't really identify. But I was assured that it was all natural and all good for me.

  As I surveyed the pile of pills by my coffee cup, I was reminded of a story my grandpa told me when I was just a kid.

  It was about two country boys. The older one had just cleaned out the bottom of his rabbit hutch. He put the little pellets in a coffee can and took them to his younger brother.

  "Here," he said. "Eat these."

  "What are dey?" the brother asked.

  "Dey's smart pills. You eat 'em, you'll get real smart."

  The boy popped a handful in his mouth.

  "Eeeeewwww! De's ain't smart pills. Dis is rabbit poop!"

  "See! I told you!" the older boy said. "You is gettin' smarter already!"

  Maggie was dutifully watching me swallow the pills.

  "Any chance these will make me smarter?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  I guess I should be thankful that she loves me enough to make me take the stuff.

  Hey! Maybe I am getting smarter.

  A grim-faced Captain Short addressed the squad meeting.

  "Gentlemen, our priority today is the double homicide of Dr. Mitchell and his nurse.

  "Unfortunately, we don't have much to go on. The lab boys found no fingerprints or other DNA evidence other than that of the victims.

  "With the office being torn apart the way it was, our current theory is that it was the work of a junkie looking for drugs that went bad."

  I remembered Maggie's statement that Mitchell kept few, if any drugs on the premises and I made a mental note to bring this to the captain's attention after the meeting.

  The captain continued. "So far, we have found no witnesses. Our focus today will be to canvass Westport Road and the surrounding neighborhoods. Maybe we'll find someone who saw something out of the ordinary.

  "Your assignments are posted. Good luck!"

  I held back as the other officers filed out of the squad room. I was about to speak to the captain when I heard the desk clerk call my name.

  "Walt, I have a message for you. Sounded important."

  I looked at the message slip that the clerk had handed to me. It simply said, "Call Dr. Bart Johnson." The phone number was added.

  I guess if someone asked me who my doctor was, it would be Doc Johnson.

  Fortunately, I have been blessed with very good health and have seldom required the services of a physician.

  In fact, the last time I remember darkening the doors of Doc Johnson's office was about two years ago when I passed a kidney stone.

  I thought I was going to die, but Doc calmly told me to just drink a lot and pee a lot and everything would come out all right.

  And it did.

  I have friends who visit their doctors regularly for check-ups. I know people my age who have colonoscopies every couple of years as regular as clockwork.

  I just don't buy it.

  I know, I know; an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

  My personal philosophy, however, is that if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

  Oh, I've had a physical or two in my life. A nurse takes my temperature and my blood pressure. Then I sit in an ice-cold exam room for thirty minutes in one of those god-awful gowns that open down the back.

  Finally, the doctor arrives, snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, coats it with Vaseline and probes the neither parts of my rectum.

  Doc Johnson then usually smacks me on the butt and says, "Everything looks fine, Walt. See you in a couple of years."

  Sometimes I think maybe I should do more, but then I remember my gr
andpa. He lived into his nineties, and to my knowledge, he did so without ever having a camera shoved up his butt or down his throat.

  All this was going through my mind as I dialed Doc Johnson's number.

  Naturally, I was put on hold, but the Doc answered right away.

  "Walt, is there any chance you could stop by my office this afternoon?"

  "Why? What's wrong?" I stammered. "Am I dying?"

  "No, no. This isn't about you. It concerns Dr. Mitchell. I may have some information that will help."

  Ox and I canvassed our assigned area with no luck.

  There was still an hour before our shift was over so I asked Ox if he wanted to accompany me to Doc Johnson's office. He said, "Sure."

  The Doc led us into his private office.

  "Martin --- Dr. Mitchell was a personal friend of mine. I've known both of them for years."

  "I'm so sorry, Doc," I said. "It's such a tragic loss."

  "Walt, I read in the paper that they think it was somebody looking for drugs."

  "Well, that's the working theory right now. We really don't have much to go on." Then I remembered what Maggie said.

  "Maggie told me that Dr. Mitchell kept few drugs at his office."

  "Hardly any at all," he replied. "It wasn't someone looking for drugs."

  "What then?"

  "I'm afraid it's a lot more complicated --- frightening, really."

  I looked at Ox who had been sitting quietly.

  Finally, he spoke. "Please tell us what you know, Doctor."

  "It's about a study --- a clinical study that Dr. Mitchell had been conducting for the last two years. They killed him trying to get the results of that study."

  "Why would someone kill for a clinical study?"

  "Because it's worth twelve billion dollars!"

  Ox and I just sat there dumbfounded.

  "Twelve billion?" I stammered. "Did they find what they were looking for?"

  "They did not."

  "How do you know that?" Ox asked.

  "Because I know where it is. A colleague of mine was working with Dr. Mitchell. He has it."

  "Why hasn't he come forward?"

  "He's afraid for his life. If they find out he has the study, they will kill him too."