Fatal Justice Read Online Free Page B

as a taxi ferried her to the southeast corner of the city. They had waited so long for a break in her father’s case. Could this be it? After many disappointments, she refused to allow herself to hope.
    Just over two years ago, Deputy Chief Skip Holland had been on his way home from work when he pulled over an erratic driver on G Street. The last thing he remembered was reporting in to dispatch and then approaching the car. A bullet lodged between the C3 and C4 vertebrae had left him a quadriplegic with just one slightly functioning finger on his right hand. A week after the shooting, a mild stroke rendered the left side of his face paralyzed.
    They hadn’t a single clue—no witnesses, no ballistics since the doctors decided removing the bullet could kill him, the car hadn’t had a license plate, and they had no description of the driver since Skip was shot before he saw the driver’s face. A long time ago Sam and her colleagues concluded that the only way the case would be solved now was if someone bragged about shooting a cop and one of their snitches passed it along. As the case went cold, Sam had learned not to get her hopes up.
    If her newfound media notoriety had any upside it was the opportunity to remind the press that her father’s case remained unsolved. Someone knew something. If only they’d come forward. They just needed a thread. One thread to pull and the whole thing would unravel. Her sisters and even her father, to some extent, were resigned to the fact that they might never catch the shooter. Sam would neither rest nor retire as long as the case was unsolved.
    Skip had been just ninety days shy of retirement at the time of the shooting. The months that followed were filled with fear and frustration as his family and friends did what they could to help him adjust to his new reality—confined to a wheelchair by day, hooked to a respirator by night and reliant upon the specially outfitted van the union bought for him.
    When the taxi pulled up to a dilapidated row house on First Avenue in the violent, poverty-stricken neighborhood of Washington Highlands, Sam retrieved her 9 millimeter handgun from her purse, tucked it into the back of her skirt, and clipped her badge to the lapel of her coat.
    Ignoring the crowd of onlookers gathered outside the yellow police tape, she tossed a twenty to the driver and wove her way between cop cars, an ambulance and the medical examiner’s van on her way to the chain-link front gate. Pushing the rusty gate open, she hurried up the sagging stairs and almost bumped into Freddie as he emerged from the house looking pale and drawn.
    Sam ached for her kind-hearted, compassionate partner who would suffer more than most over a scene like this. She rested a hand on his trench coat-clad shoulder. “Take a few breaths.”
    He did what he was told, but his complexion was ashen, and his brown eyes were flat with grief and anger. “I just can’t imagine how anyone does that to helpless kids. A dad is supposed to protect his kids.”
    “It’s always harder when it’s kids.” A memory of the child who was killed when she ordered a shootout at a crack house resurfaced suddenly, sending a shudder rippling through her.
    “He shot the mother in the kitchen,” Freddie said. “Seems like he took her by surprise. No defensive wounds. Point of entry on the back of her left shoulder. McNamara said the bullet probably hit her heart. We found a gun thrown into a box in the back of the bedroom closet. There was another box in the closet that had the clippings about your dad.”
    Sam watched him struggle with his composure as he proceeded with the rote recitation of the facts.
    “The kids were beaten. We found a baseball bat with brain matter on it.”
    Sam winced. “Do we know him?”
    “Clarence Reese, thirty-nine, long list of priors, mostly B&E and drug stuff. Juvie record, too, but nothing violent.”
    Sam wished she could say she recognized the name. “Next of kin?”
    “Gonzo