Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

Batista. With his wife gone, Nikki expected to be the next Mrs. Dolan, but Dolan dumped her. Hell indeed hath no fury. Mrs. Batista knew Dolan was going to his lake house. She went there too, and rigged his death.”
    “There’s only one problem with pointing the finger at Mrs. Batista,” Ebanks said. “We did the background investigation for the prosecutor. Turns out she
was
having an affair, but not with Kenny Dolan. Apparently third basemen are more her type. They were in bed together fifty miles north. That explains the PhotoCop shot.”
    The judge slowly shook his head. “I must say, my brethren on the criminal bench have a challenging time sorting the sinners from the innocents.”
    Ebanks slapped the tops of his thighs. “Well, that’s it, I guess. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
    “I’m always happy to do whatever I can in pursuit of justice,” the judge said. “Let me ask you this: What about the forensics? Tire tracks, paint transfer …” The judge permitted himself a smile. “My wife is a fan of those television shows,” he said. “I suppose some of it has rubbed off.”
    Ebanks imagined the judge and his pretty blond wife in a large, tastefully decorated room, sitting in nice chairs like the ones he and Martinez were sitting in, watching TV. Sonia and he used to watch old movies every Friday night. He’d make popcorn and they’d curl up on the old plaid couch together. Sonia couldn’t watch TV anymore. Fast-changing images triggered the seizures.
    “Too bad we don’t have a lab like the one on
CSI,
” Martinez said. “But we need a lot more big-city crime before that happens. Right now, we have to process the crime scenes ourselves. If we want something tested for prints or DNA, we ship it off to the FBI.”
    “We better get going,” Ebanks said. He stood, and Martinez followed his lead. The judge pushed his long frame out of the swivel chair.
    While his partner shook hands with the judge, Ebanks bent over to tie his shoe. In the wastebasket beside the tray of flies, a partially constructed Parachute Adams lay on top of a piece of Kleenex. Both the fly and the Kleenex were stained with what looked like blood.
    Lucky break,
Ebanks thought. He hadn’t expected to find something literally soaked with DNA.
    Martinez and the judge had walked over to the wall, where the judge was pointing to one of the photos. After making sure they weren’t paying attention, Ebanks reached into the wastebasket and scooped up the bloody fly and the Kleenex. He slipped them into his pocket and straightened up.
    The judge showed them into the reception area. The secretary was on the phone. She waved and smiled at them.
    “Let’s catch some lunch,” Ebanks said, “but first I want to ask her something.”
    The secretary finished her call. “May I help you?” she said.
    “About those JNOVs,” Ebanks said. “Aren’t they usually kinda rare?”
    The secretary nodded. “They are, except for with this judge. You could almost say he’s famous for it — some of the lawyers call him the ‘thirteenth juror.’ He takes his work very seriously. He always says if the jurors don’t do justice, it’s up to him.”
    “The thirteenth juror,” Ebanks repeated. “Hmmm.”
    He and Martinez got into the elevator. As the mahogany-paneled box descended, Ebanks said, “Well, that was a bust. We didn’t learn anything we didn’t already know about Shadid.”
    “How’d you know about Dolan being a homicide?” Martinez said.
    “I got a text when we were waiting for the judge,” Ebanks said. “I thought you did too.”
    “Nope. But hey, no problemo.” A few seconds later, Martinez said, “You know, that got me thinking about some of the stuff the judge said.”
    Ebanks kept his eyes on the numbers over the door. They lit up as the car passed the floors. “Such as?”
    “Such as when you told him Dolan was murdered, he was pretty quick to finger Mrs. Batista, and when that didn’t pan out, he tried to hand us the Luccheses.”
    Ebanks shrugged. “You heard him. He was just playing at
CSI
or
Law & Order
.”
    “Maybe, but did you notice that his house is on that same lake as Dolan’s?”
    “So? I used to have a place near there too.”
    “Yeah, but the judge was at his house when Dolan was killed.”
    Ebanks folded his arms across his chest and made an effort to look thoughtful. “You know, you’re right.”
    The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. The two detectives