FAIR JUSTICE:

A Judge Willa Carson Mystery

BY

DIANE CAPRI

Presented By:

AugustBooks

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Praise for

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Diane Capri

“Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too.”

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“[A] welcome surprise….[W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.”

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“…offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.”

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“[A] fast-paced legal thriller…energetic prose…an appealing heroine…clever and capable supporting cast…[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].”

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“Expertise shines on every page.”

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Also by DIANE CAPRI

(Click each title to buy or download a sample)

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The Hunt for Justice Series:

Due Justice (Judge Willa Carson) Twisted Justice (Judge Willa Carson) Secret Justice (Judge Willa Carson) Wasted Justice (Judge Willa Carson) Raw Justice

Mistaken Justice

Cold Justice (Judge Willa Carson) False Justice (Judge Willa Carson) Fair Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:

Don’t Know Jack

Get Back Jack

Jack and Joe

Deep Cover Jack

Jack in a Box

Jack and Kill

Jack in the Green

The Jess Kimball Thrillers:

Fatal Enemy

Fatal Distraction

Fatal Demand

Fatal Error

Fatal Fall

Fatal Game

The Heir Hunter Series:

Blood Trails

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Fair Justice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 Diane Capri, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Published by: AugustBooks

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eISBN: 978-1-940768-73-1

Original cover design by Michelle Priest

Thank you to some of the best readers in the world: Beth Nagorsky (Desiree Rothchild) and John Kuvacas (Antoine Crowe) for participating in our character naming giveaways which make this book a bit more personal and fun for all of us.

DEDICATION

For Wilhelmina Boersma, trailblazer extraordinaire.

CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

Judge Wilhelmina Carson

George Carson

Mike Caldwell

Lydia Gregg

Roger Madsen

Annalisa Fantz

Dale Fantz

Bradley Fletcher

Walter Danbury

Chuck Bartow

Cathy Bartow

FAIR JUSTICE

BY

DIANE CAPRI

Presented By:

AugustBooks

CHAPTER ONE

Mike Caldwell stared at the jewel-colored bottles lined up behind the Sunset Bar at George’s Place and briefly wished he’d come an hour early to knock back a few before his date arrived…even though she was the same date he’d been lucky enough to have for the better part of a decade.

Sweet Lydia.

He almost never felt awkward or nervous around her. Except when he knew something he’d planned to say would piss her off, or, apparently, when he knew he was about to propose.

And he would do both tonight before he left town.

He winced and waved the bartender over. “Let me have your best whiskey, neat.”

His boss, News Director Roger Madsen, threw a major wrench in his plans an hour ago. An assignment too good to turn down. A story that would make his career, if he handled it right. A married man needed a good job. Lydia would see that.

“Caldwell, this thing may turn out to be a bust,” Madsen had said when he called Mike into the office to give him the assignment. “But after that water catastrophe in Flint, Michigan, and environmentalism run amok in the country…well, we can’t afford to ignore a potential story like criminal polluting.”

Mike’s heart skipped a beat. It was the first time Madsen had given him any assignment, let alone one that could have national news potential. “What’s the claim?”

“Fletcher Textiles, a carpet manufacturer up in Peru, Florida. Not far from the Georgia state line. A local woman says they’re dumping toxic waste into the drinking water. She says one of the workers found solid proof, and now he’s disappeared. She’s worried about him. Not exactly a whistleblower, but close enough to take a look.” Madsen held an unlit cigar between his fingers as if he could still smoke in the office like news directors of old. “Frankly, if I was sure it was a story, I’d send someone with more experience. But if I was sure it wasn’t a story, we wouldn’t go at all. Everybody else is covering the hurricane down in the Caribbean, and you’re always bugging me for an opportunity. So it’s yours.”

“I understand,” Mike said, nodding like the eager young reporter he surely was. “When would I need to go?”

“Tomorrow. Stay a few days. Dig around. See whether there’s anything worth investigating or not. Keep me posted.” Madsen waved him out the door as he reached for his clamoring phone. “Everything we know so far was sent to your email inbox.”

It wasn’t until Mike’s excitement slowed that he realized what he’d done. Lydia was going to kill him.

The bartender slid a crystal glass across the bar, and Mike glanced at his watch before powering down the amber liquid in one swallow. It burned a welcome path of warmth straight to his stomach. Liquid courage.

Everything would be fine. He’d explain to Lydia, and she’d be angry, but she’d get over it. Eventually. Maybe.

Judge Willa Carson walked into the Sunset Bar still wearing her business suit. She walked around like her husband owned the place. She came over and sat beside him. “Sapphire and tonic, and whatever my friend is drinking,” she said to the bartender before clapping a hand on Mike’s shoulder and giving him a friendly squeeze. “So tonight’s the big night? George has the pastry chef doing something amazing. Hand it over.”

She held out a palm and Mike couldn’t help but be swept up by her enthusiasm. He reached into his pocket and fished around, producing a gleaming black box. He handed it to her.

Willa cracked the box open and let out a gasp that settled Mike’s nerves some.

“It’s quite literally perfect, Mike,” Willa said, her eyes going suspiciously glassy.

The praise meant a lot coming from the notoriously tough federal judge, and his nerves settled a little more.

“Thanks.” Mike gave a halting nod and Willa’s brow furrowed.

“You don’t honestly think there’s a chance she’ll say no, do you?”

“I think there’s a chance she’ll say yes and then take it back once I give her the news,” he admitted ruefully.

“What news?” Willa closed the ring box and placed it on the bar.

“That I can’t go with her to Alabama for the week. Her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. They have a huge family thing planned. Been working on it for months.” He shrugged helplessly. “But opportunity came knocking, and I had to answer the door.”

Willa’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of opportunity?”

“A toxic waste story up in Peru, Florida. The kind of irresponsible corporate behavior that ruins communities and gets CEOs indicted.” Mike could hear the excitement in his own voice. He’d need to tone that down when he told Lydia. But dammit, this was big. Or it could be. He had a right to be excited.

“In other words, the kind of story that gives a young network reporter like you a chance to climb the ladder from live shots behind the camera to features.” Willa took another sip and shook her head.

“Exactly.”

“More likely to be a wild goose chase. CEOs are savvy enough not to get involved in shady practices that have potential criminal penalties attached. We levy big fines and put CEOs in jail these days.” Willa frowned and placed a hand on his arm.

“I know but—”

“Criminals are dangerous, Mike. You spent enough time in my courtroom to learn that much, didn’t you?” She patted her pockets as if searching for something.

“All I’m supposed to do is ask around. How dangerous can that be?” He’d never have had the nerve to argue with her in public, but it was just the two of them here.

“Don’t mess this up.” Willa shook her head as she pulled a Partagas cigar from her jacket. “There will always be tension between your job and your family if you’re halfway good at either. Lydia’s a special woman. You won’t find anyone who loves you more.”

“Believe me, I know,” he nodded, miserably. “But chances like this won’t come my way every day, either. It’s been two years since I stopped covering cops and courts here, Judge Carson. I’m ready for a bigger job, and this story can push me right into Eyes on Eight if I play it right.”

The bartender brought their drinks and Willa raised her glass in a toast. Mike raised his, too, and clinked the glasses before they sipped. The whiskey was starting to loosen him up.

“What’s the name of the business?” Willa’s tone took on the demanding quality he’d seen her use on the bench.

“Fletcher Textiles. A whistleblower is missing. Guy named Chuck Bartow. People in the town are sick. Sounds like a textbook case of toxic waste dumping, doesn’t it?” Mike asked.

Willa nodded. “Which is why you have to figure it’s not.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t reply.

“I’ll ask around. I’ve got colleagues in that area. If there’s anything going on, they’ll know about it.” She took another sip of her gin.

Before Mike could ask her not to interfere, George came breezing through the double kitchen doors, the leather soles of his cap-toed brogue dress shoes clicking on the marble floor.

“Mike!” He closed the distance between them and shook Mike’s hand before slipping an affectionate arm around his wife’s waist. “Let’s have a look.”

Willa held up the open ring box, and George let out a low whistle. “Beautiful. She’ll love it.”

Mike frowned again, “I hope so.”

George cast a questioning glance toward Willa.

Before he could say more, the restaurant door swung open, and Lydia walked in, with a quick wave, she swept past Desiree at the hostess station. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, but her beaming smile warmed Mike to the core.

George slid the ring box into his pocket.

After small talk, and a warning scowl from Willa for Mike’s eyes only, George led them to their table for two with a view of Hillsborough Bay. Once they were seated, George excused himself to tend to other guests, leaving Mike and Lydia alone.

Mike almost wished he could call George back. He could use the buffer. Coward.

He asked, “How were things at the hospital today?” Lydia worked as a nurse at Tampa Southern, the only level-one trauma center in the Bay area. More than once, she’d helped him with access to victims in cases he’d reported. They made a good team, personally and professionally.

“Like every day. Crazy busy.” Lydia slipped her coat off. She’d donned his favorite red dress with the sweetheart neckline that made her look like a million bucks. “I swear, it’s the full moon or something driving people to do stupid stuff that gets them injured, you know?”

She opened the elegant leather menu and began scanning it quickly. “I’m starved. I skipped lunch because I love the food here.”

Mike opened his menu, but he wasn’t hungry. He’d planned to tell her about the assignment after he proposed, hoping her excitement over the engagement would soften her anger. Now, though, going through the whole dinner with bad news hanging over him seemed intolerable. He closed the menu with a snap.

“Look,” he said in a rush, “I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to be happy.”

Her head shot up, and her smile slid away. She cocked her head and waited.

The waiter came at that moment, bearing two glasses of red wine and an appetizer.

“Did you order ahead?” she asked, surprise taking the edge off her expected irritation. She eyed the fancy charcuterie board and all the selections, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth once again. “Brie and figs…and is that Stilton? You know me so well.”

She snatched up a fancy cracker and slathered it with soft, creamy cheese before setting a fig on top.

“When I put this in my mouth, you start talking. It will be like anesthesia for your bad news. Ready?” She popped the cracker in her mouth and groaned in pleasure as she chewed.

He launched in with no further hesitation. “Our best investigative reporter has the flu, and everybody else is covering the hurricane, so the boss offered me an Eyes on Eight slot for next week.” He cleared his throat. “I have to leave tomorrow morning.”

He broke off as her eyes closed and her body caved in on itself like she’d been sucker punched. He gave her a second to swallow her food before continuing softly. “I’d be gone for about three days, that’s all. I can meet you in Fair Hope as soon as I’m done. I’m so sorry, Lyd—”

“I know how important your career is, Mike,” she cut in, holding a palm out, fire flashing in her eyes. “I know how cut-throat it is, and how hard you work. But it’s my parents’ fiftieth. You promised me you wouldn’t bail on us.”

He’d expected her to be pissed off and now he almost wished for it. Because instead, she looked heartsick, which he simply couldn’t take.

Antoine, their waiter, passed by and Mike stopped him with a hand. “Can you thank George for selecting such a lovely bottle of wine for us?”

It was the pre-arranged signal sending Antoine into the kitchen to return with the ring. Only that wasn’t supposed to happen until dessert. Antoine eyed Mike in confusion. “Uh, yes, yes of course.”

“Thank you,” Mike added with an encouraging smile.

Antoine rushed off, and Mike turned his attention back to Lydia. He’d planned a thousand ways to say the words, but the right moment was now. He took a gulp from his water glass and leaned in to take her hand.

“You don’t want me to go? I don’t go. Because this?” he gave her hand a squeeze. “Us? Matters to me more than anything else. We’re both driven, and we both want to succeed. I wouldn’t change that. But I will choose you every time, Lydia. You have to know that.”

Antoine approached and hovered in the background. Mike waved him in. He set a gorgeous antique Herend plate in front of Lydia with a chocolate orb in the center, surrounded by raspberries and topped with a nest of golden, spun sugar. Nestled inside the chocolate was the engagement ring, kissed by the candlelight, a sparkling light show.

Mike stood and rounded the table to kneel before Lydia. Her face was white with shock and tears swam in her eyes.

“You are everything to me, Lydia, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He plucked the diamond from its nest and held it out, heart hammering. “Will you marry me?”

When her face crumpled and she began to sob, his hands went ice cold. What if she said no?

“We’ve been together five years, Mike.” She sniffled on a half-hysterical laugh, sticking out a trembling left hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He slid the ring on her finger, rocked with relief and joy.

“Oh my,” she said, staring down at her hand. “It’s beautiful.”

The room had gone silent around them, and Mike shot a glance over his shoulder to see Willa and George looking on from afar. He gave them a thumb’s up and grinned.

“She said yes,” he called.

The restaurant exploded with applause as Lydia held up her hand for all to see.

Mike rose to his feet and pressed a kiss to her lips. He’d landed the best girl in Tampa, and she’d already forgiven him. Over Lydia’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Willa’s troubled frown and his euphoria evaporated just as quickly as it had arrived.

Now, if only his luck would hold and he could get this story right. He’d need photographs, interviews. Fletcher Textiles was hurting the people of Peru, and he would prove it. He’d get the Eyes on Eight gig and everything would be perfect.

CHAPTER TWO

“You have arrived at your destination,” the cool, female voice announced from his phone as he glanced down to see the blinking house icon beside the address he’d entered into the GPS.

Mike looked out his window to find a tall but narrow brick building to his right. Once a private home, it was now a bed and breakfast. On the patchy lawn, nestled between tiny bushels of pink blossoms, sat a sign that read “The Fantz House.” He turned off his engine.

Inside, Annalisa Fantz would be waiting for him, ready to tell her story. He squared his shoulders, more than prepared to listen.

He’d spent most of his tenure at the television station in the background, behind the lens, but he knew this first interview could go a lot of ways. Some people were frank, matter-of-fact. Others were weepy. Some were spitting with rage.

But there was only one way to find out which type of person Annalisa Franz would be.

Plucking his video camera and microphone from the trunk, he marched up the flagstones across the wide, wrap-around porch, glancing only momentarily at the cheery little “Welcome” sign on the door before ringing the bell.

In less than an instant, the door swung open.

“How can I help you?” The woman was frail and thin, so pale that she was nearly translucent except for the angry purple bags beneath dark, sunken eyes. Gray hair peeked out in wisps from beneath the floral scarf wrapped around her head. She wiped bony hands on a stained white apron.

“Mike Caldwell. From EBC—”

She nodded before he could finish. “Yes, yes, of course. I start cooking, and the whole world just flies out of my head. Come in, come in.”

She led him through the narrow halls toward the very back of the house and into a small, tidy kitchen. The appliances were old—cheap white models from decades before, chipped but clean. Just in front of the windows sat a tiny white table and chairs. After a moment, Mike noticed that they were not alone.

Perched in front of the table was a child. He was sitting in a wheelchair that was nearly as old as everything else in the kitchen and, without a doubt, much older than the boy.

“Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Mike Caldwell.” Mike extended his hand.

The boy took it, offering a weak smile.

“Dale, introduce yourself,” Annalisa murmured and stood behind the cutting board full of half-chopped root vegetables. He glanced at her for a moment before turning his attention back to Mike.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Caldwell. I’m Dale Fantz.” His voice was wheezy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“My son.” Annalisa nodded, picked up her knife, and resumed chopping.

But Mike had figured that much out for himself. Dale was the reason for this interview.

From the files his boss had forwarded, he knew only a few details. Dale was thirteen, but he seemed much smaller than a boy his age should be. About four years ago, he had developed an illness that had ravaged his body and still couldn’t be explained. Mrs. Fantz blamed the textile plant’s new carpet mill. A few months after production started, she claimed more kids were absent from school and flocking to doctors than the town had ever seen before.

Like his mother, Dale was pale and thin, but the vitality that exuded from Annalisa, hard-boned as she was, was absent from her son. He sat hunched over, his clothes much too big for him, a husk of a person. If Mike allowed the silence to continue, he would be able to count the boy’s breaths from his rattling inhales and whistling exhales.

Mike’s chest ached in sympathy, and it was an effort not to chatter just to fill the room with another, less heart-wrenching sound.

The doorbell rang. Annalisa looked at her son. “Dale, would you mind answering the door and then going to your room and finish your homework?”

The boy wheeled himself from the room without a word of protest, and Annalisa let out a little sigh.

“He’s never going to do that homework unless I stand over him and watch him do it, you know. That’ll be Cathy Bartow at the door. It’s her husband, Chuck, who’s missing.” She offered Mike a small smile, then something clicked behind her eyes, and she said. “Oh, goodness, how rude I’ve been. You must be thirsty after your long trip. What can I get for you?”

“Water is fine,” Mike said.

Annalisa pursed her lips for a moment and then nodded. From the fridge, she pulled a two-gallon water tub and filled three glasses before setting one in front of Mike.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. Tap water is—” He heard Dale’s quiet murmur and a woman’s louder voice in the foyer. The boy’s wheelchair rolled down the hallway, and soft footsteps came toward the kitchen.

“It’d be better not to drink the water while you’re here.” Annalisa nodded at the glass as she shoved her hands into her apron pockets.

“Something wrong with your water?”

A young woman walked into the room just as Mike asked the question. “Docs say no way of knowing what caused Dale’s condition. Could be the soil. The food. The milk. Better safe than sorry, though. That’s for sure.”

Annalisa shrugged. “Mr. Caldwell, this is Cathy Bartow.”

The younger woman was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, sneakers on her feet. Her hair was gathered into a messy knot at the base of her neck. She shook his hand briefly and turned to her friend. “I can’t stay, Annalisa. I’ve got to pick up Charlie at my mom’s. I would have called to let you know, but something has happened to my damn cell phone…”

“Maybe I can come by and talk to you tomorrow, Mrs. Bartow?” Mike asked.

She nodded absently.

He gave her his business card.

She stuffed it into her pocket without reading it. “I’ll call you, Annalisa,” she said on her way out.

Annalisa clucked her tongue as Cathy dashed from the room. “She’s beside herself. Chuck isn’t the kind of guy to just go on a lark without telling his family.”

“Anybody call the police? Make a report?” In Tampa, calling the police would have been the very first thing a wife would have done.

Annalisa shrugged again and sipped from one of the water glasses. “You’ll need to ask Cathy. I’m not sure what she’s done. I just know something’s not right at that factory. We’ve all begged Chuck to stop sticking his nose into places where it doesn’t belong…”

He wasn’t going to get any more answers on that score, so he tried a new approach. “Mrs. Fantz, how long have you lived here?”

“In this house, a little better than a year.” She returned to her chopping.

“Where’d you live before? When Dale first got sick?”

“Over in Peru. About seven years ago, right after my husband passed, I moved from Texas into my mother’s boarding house over there. Made sense. I was alone with Dale. We could help each other out.” She’d returned to her chopping, punctuating her words with the knife blade against the board. “Back then, of course, mother’s place was mostly for migrant farm workers. Short-term. So that families had a cozy place to stay before they moved on to the next crop in season somewhere else, you know?”

“We have migrant workers like that in the Tampa area, too.” Mike nodded again.

“Before the factory expanded, the town was pretty much split in two groups, farmers and textile workers. Since the expansion, not many farms anymore.” She chopped the veggies in a mesmerizing rhythm as the big knife blade whacked the cutting board. “Not a whole lot of towns around like Peru, but we felt lucky to have the factory. It brought jobs and a bit of security to all of us back then.”

Mike had driven through lots of farmland on the way up here “So what happened to the farmland over in Peru? The factory bought up the acreage for the expansion?”

Annalisa paused in her chopping and leaned back on her worn laminated counter. She shrugged again. “About a year after the factory began producing the new carpet, the crops were gone. No more farm workers.”

“What do you mean?” Mike felt a twinge in his gut and pushed the water glass aside.

“Nothing grew.” She frowned and shook her head. “I remember going to the town council, right back when Dale started with his cough, and city council would say the craziest things just to get people to stop suggesting that the factory had anything to do with what was happening with the crops, with Dale and the others. Well, of course, I knew better.” She clicked her tongue.

His mouth dried up. He sipped the water, but it didn’t help. “And what exactly was happening with Dale?”

“Well, at first the docs thought he had meningitis. But by the third trip to the hospital, they said no.” Annalisa shook her head. “Never figured it out, really. His organs were just shutting down. And he wasn’t the only one. A few kids were worse off, but their parents… Let’s just say we all learned real quick not to go poking around.”

Mike felt the small hairs rise on his neck and gooseflesh on his arms. Good grief, man. Get a grip. “What happened when you questioned the situation at the town counsel?”

“I went back to one of those council meetings. Spoke my piece. Even tried to get a reporter from Jacksonville involved.” She shook her head and looked at the floor. “Then it was months of odd little problems with my electric, my water, anything you can name. And the bank called in my mortgage on the boarding house out of the blue. I couldn’t pay it.”

Mike frowned. “So that’s when you moved here?”

“We didn’t want to leave our friends. Peru’s only five miles away and this is about twice the mortgage of the old place, but…” She met his gaze. “When your child’s life is on the line, there’s nothing you can do, you know?”

“And has Dale’s health improved? Since the move, I mean?” He heard the hope in his voice.

Annalisa’s face somehow managed to blanch from pale to ghostly. “Docs say the decline has slowed.”

She meant the damage was already done. “Honestly, Mrs. Fantz, I’m not sure we’ve got much to go on here. I’ll do what I can. Ask around—”

Annalisa held up her hand. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Caldwell, but you might want to consider keeping your reasons for visiting Peru to yourself.”

Mike opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him with a wave.

“You don’t know what it’s like. What they can do. Just be safe. Think about Chuck Bartow gone missing and don’t tell a soul why you’re here.”

He frowned at the warning in her voice and wondered how she expected him to dig up anything incriminating without asking the right people the right questions. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They talked a little more, and she fed him a surprisingly good home-cooked meal, and he left for his hotel.

He wrote up his notes from the interview and emailed them to his boss. He said it seemed like further investigation of her claims was warranted. There was something going on here, and the coincidental timing didn’t pass the smell test.

He hadn’t learned anything about the missing man, so his email emphasized the dying crops and the sick kids. The environmental story could be newsworthy, assuming he could find any real evidence. Either the regulations were inadequate to protect the people of Peru, or the regulations existed and were violated. Similar environmental tragedies had been surfacing around the country in recent years. Peru could be another one, he told Madsen.

Mrs. Fantz said there had been no reports about any of these troubles on local or national media, which should make the story more enticing to his boss. He promised to send video and still shots tomorrow.

Mike was feeling pretty good, though, because he hadn’t spoiled Lydia’s plans unnecessarily. Something was going on here in Peru. But what?

CHAPTER THREE

Before the sun peeked over the horizon the next morning, Mike was already climbing into his car, ready to document whatever he found when he drove into the town of Peru. He needed enough of something, anything, to make further investigation worthwhile. Madsen had made that much perfectly clear.

Peru was the kind of town where strangers would be noticed. But today was Sunday, and the Fletcher Textiles factory was closed. It was a good time to check out the area. He’d shoot his raw video without interruptions or interfering with operations. The factory was on private property, so he’d need permission to go inside, anyway. Which meant he’d come back tomorrow to finish up.

The drive into Peru wound through what had been farmland for generations. The fields lay fallow, just as Annalisa Fantz said. Even a mile away, as he passed the “Welcome to Peru, where everyone is family” sign, a faint smell permeated the air and grew stronger as he approached Fletcher Textiles. A stringent, chemical smell, and something caustic and sour that stuck in the back of his throat. He opened his mouth to breathe. Better to taste the noxious fumes than to feel them burn inside his nostrils.

Grass and weeds along the shoulders of the road and in the ditches were dead brown and disappeared altogether as the factory came into view. Bare trees made the scene foreboding.

He wasn’t a gardener. Most of the houseplants he’d tried to grow over the years died away. Dead plants alone didn’t necessarily mean illegal polluting was the cause. Could be a bunch of lousy farmers, like him.

“Objectivity is key,” he mumbled Madsen’s mantra under his breath, pushing away the nagging memory of Annalisa Fantz’s voice and Dale Fantz in his old wheelchair. Mike turned onto the cross street in front of the factory.

As he’d expected, the area was vacant at this hour, every window of the brick building darkened. He parked, stepped out of the car, and made his way over. He looked around before ducking under the mechanical armed security gate to traipse up the winding driveway to the factory itself. He was trespassing, but he didn’t intend to harm anything. He just wanted to see the place. Get a feel for it.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. As he moved, he used his camera phone, careful of his angles and settings to get the clearest shots. None of these photos could be published without permission, but if Fletcher Textiles had nothing to hide, their permission should be easy enough to get later. Besides, he worked in TV. Still photos would be of limited use on the air. When he got permission, he’d come back for video.

He moved into the rising sun, juxtaposing a rolling green hill behind the factory against the barren land in front of it for context.

From the outside, Fletcher Textiles was a factory like any other, complete with smoke stacks and an employee-only patio. But there was no way of photographing the eerie calm that enclosed the place like a bubble. The total, unnerving silence. Sure, it was Sunday and the place was closed and lacked whooshing cars and chattering people, but the silence was unnerving for a different reason, one he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

He followed the walking trail on the grounds until he reached a small pond and the wood beyond on the edge of the property. Leaves rustled at his feet, and he stopped short, struck suddenly by what was missing.

No chirping. The first rays of sun were blazing paths of light through the trees, but there were no birds to greet the new day. No gentle hum of crickets or buzz of insects. No mosquitos, even.

He glanced at the line of trees, then picked up a rock and threw it into the mass of leaves.

Nothing moved.

Nothing skittered or croaked or rustled.

Just a crunch of leaves and then the dense, complete silence resumed. As if there were no living creatures anywhere.

Bending low and contorting his body, Mike photographed it all. The pond, which was covered by a weird shimmering film, the strange pockets of mud on the ground, everything he could shoot. The sun was already higher in the sky than he’d planned by the time he finished.

Soon, people would be heading to church and opening their businesses, and he wanted to be back in his hotel room when they did, carefully studying his photos so he could figure out his next step. And he wanted to interview Cathy Bartow today, too.

When he reached the wrought iron gates again, he glanced around one last time before ducking below the security postern and walking toward his car.

From behind him, a chipper male voice called out, and Mike turned, careful to look just as friendly as the voice sounded as he dropped his phone into his oversized jacket pocket.

“Hey buddy, you lost? Can I help you with something?” The man walking toward him was built like a snowman with a mustache. His tiny head sat perched on his rounded body without a neck to speak of, and when he waved a chubby hand, Mike was left with no option but to stop and reply.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. Visiting town and out for a hike.” Mike pointed to his hiking boots as proof.

“Ah, well. I was thinking you might’ve come by looking for work,” the man said.

Mike considered for a moment, weighing his options, but then he heard Annalisa’s voice in his head again, and he couldn’t ignore her warning to keep the reasons for his interest in the factory to himself. “Are they hiring?”

“Just so happens, we are.” He stuck his hand out to Mike. “Bradley Fletcher, CEO of Fletcher Textiles.”

“Wow, quite the honor.” Mike took his hand, pumping it twice before releasing him.

Fletcher chuckled. “Now, you’re a flatterer.”

“What brings the CEO here on a Sunday morning?” Mike asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“I imagine most men with two-year-old twin boys would find themselves running to work whenever they can.” Fletcher chuckled again. “Easier job by far.”

“Oh,” Mike nodded, then, more carefully, “Do you and your family live here in Peru?”

Fletcher’s eyebrows shot up a fraction, but his easy smile returned in a quick moment. “Unfortunately, no. Easier for the wife to have a short commute to her office. Besides, I’m sure my employees are happier not running into the boss on their personal time.”

Mike forced a smile. “I’m sure.”

Fletcher shrugged. “Would you like a tour of the place? I have a bit of time before I need to get to work.”

Mike shook his head. “I’d better get going.”

Fletcher shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “And hey, the offer stands. If you’re interested in a job, be sure to stop back during business hours, okay?”

His jolly demeanor never faltered, but Mike felt he’d chosen his words carefully throughout the conversation.

Business hours. Got it.

Mike nodded and smiled and then jogged back to his car. Had Fletcher seen him taking pictures? Not likely. If he’d seen, he’d have said something, right?

Bradley Fletcher was probably just like every other person on earth. He didn’t care about a damn thing unless he knew for a fact it directly affected him. Fletcher was probably there doing exactly what he’d said. Taking a break from his twin toddlers for a few hours.

Mike hurried back to his hotel. So far, he had nothing solid to support a story. Nothing but creepy feelings and guesses. He needed to find proof before Madsen would okay the project. But what?

After uploading the pictures to his laptop, he scrolled through each one, careful to take note of the strange coating on the surface of the pond when the light hit it the right way, the way even the dirt on the ground looked discolored, unnatural.

He wrote a quick note to Madsen and selected the best of the images and pasted them into the email. He double checked the three images. A picture of the factory. A photo of the skeletal trees and bare ground. And an image of the iridescent film on the pond.

The last image was the most striking of the images, and he looked at it a little longer before scrolling over to send the email.

Which was when he saw it.

At first, he thought it was a misshapen branch, something that had fallen into the pond along with the autumn leaves.

He leaned closer, his heart pumping faster as he stretched the image to twice its size.

No tree—not even the sickly ones he’d seen all over Peru—had coloring like this one. Almost gray, and withered. And no branch had such a thick trunk with such close, tiny twigs.

Five of them.

All reaching blindly for something Mike couldn’t see.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mike drove all the way into the city to find a printing shop. By four o’clock, he had everything he needed to visit the Peru Sheriff’s office.

When he walked through the glass doors and into the little reception area, a middle-aged woman greeted him by holding up a finger and continuing her discussion with whoever was on the other end of her phone call.

“No, Mama, I know that.” She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes as the phone buzzed against her ear. She hung up the receiver with a bang.

“What can I do you for?” she drawled with a harried smile.

“My name is Mike Caldwell. I sent an email earlier today and—”

She held up her impatient finger again and flicked through a few papers on her desk. “So you did. It’s Sunday. If you could come back tomorrow—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that won’t work.” He shook his head. “I need to speak to the Sheriff today, while we still have daylight.”

She pursed her lips, then picked up the phone again and punched in the number with practiced speed. “That reporter from Tampa, Caldwell, is here asking to see you.”

A pause.

“He says it’s important.”

Another pause.

She slammed down the phone, pushed away from her desk, and held the door open for him. “The office that says Sheriff on the door. Go right in.”

Mike ignored the snap of the door closing behind him as he walked past a couple of bored-looking deputies scribbling on paperwork.

When he reached the right office, he knocked before pushing the frosted glass open and stepping inside. An older man, looking as bored as his officers, but with that extra air of annoyance that made talking to him even less inviting, sat behind the desk. He ran a palm over his bristly salt-and-pepper goatee before gesturing to the hard seat in front of his desk.

Mike sat down. “Thanks for seeing me, Sheriff—”

“Danbury,” he added gruffly. “Walter Danbury. You’re Michael Caldwell. With EBC Network News, out of Tampa.”

“Right.”

“What was it you needed?” He glanced at the clock. “I haven’t been home on time for dinner in about two weeks, and I either make it home tonight or find myself a new wife. Mind you, it wouldn’t be a half-bad prospect if there was another woman on earth who could cook like she does.”

Mike offered him a little smile. “In that case, I think I have bad news for you.”

The Sheriff blew out a sigh and then, apparently catching his own rudeness, added, “Look, I’m sorry Mr. Caldwell, but I’ve had people barging through my door, banging on about that factory since the day it opened, so if you think you’re going to tell me something new—”

“Let me show you.” Mike reached into his bag and slid the enlarged photograph of the pond across the worn desk between them.

“What? The retention pond? It’s always a little murky. Same as near any other industrial factory.”

Mike pointed to the photo. “This.”

Sherriff Danbury blinked down at it for a fraction of a second. “Why, that’s just a branch.”

“I believe that is a human hand,” Mike said quietly.

Danbury looked, narrowing his eyes until he blanched. “I do see what you mean.” He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. He reached over to pick up the phone and dialed. “Before we get everybody all excited, let’s go out to the site. You can show me exactly where you were standing when you shot this picture.”

Mike followed the Sherriff’s cruiser back to the factory, and two hours later, the eerie silence was filled with the eerier sound of a crane lifting what was left of a human body from the water.

Sheriff Danbury said he could watch, but no video or still photos on the factory property were allowed. Mike argued and lost. Officials milled around, processing the scene, conferring with each other over cooling cups of coffee as Mike looked on, shocked.

Although the corpse was in terrible condition, Chuck Bartow’s nametag was still visible on his shirt. According to what Mike could hear from his spot right behind the sawhorses and crime tape, Bartow’d been a heavy machine operator at the plant who had gone missing a few months before.

As the drama unfolded, Mike stood back, careful not to get in the way of the investigators, no matter how much he wanted to shadow the Sheriff and hear exactly what was said.

CEO Bradley Fletcher arrived with an older man at his side. Fletcher’s rosy cheeks turned ashen as he and the older man answered the Sheriff’s questions. He walked the pair closer to the pond. When they saw the body, the older man’s face twisted in despair and he let out a low wail.

One of the deputies came close enough, and Mike called out quietly, “Any ideas what might’ve happened?

“Off the record, but looks like a tragic accident. The shop foreman over with Mr. Fletcher said the deceased worked with heavy machinery. Probably his sleeve got caught and got dragged inside. Machines forced him through with the rest of the chemicals and debris, and he got pushed out with the biodegradable scrap.” The cop shook his head and walked away.

But Mike wasn’t so sure this was a tragic accident. Why had no one heard Bartow’s screams? Or noticed that he hadn’t left work that day? His wife had surely called the factory. Didn’t anybody check?

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Mike shot off a quick text to Madsen asking for background research about carpet mill machinery. He wasn’t familiar with the manufacturing process, but he didn’t remember reading anything about job fatalities while he was doing his research.

While no one seemed to be watching him, he snapped a few pictures of the body and the responders. Just as the coroner’s marked SUV arrived, a beaten down station wagon pulled in front of the SUV. The station wagon skidded onto the dirt and screeched to a halt.

“Shit,” Bradley Fletcher muttered loud enough for Mike to hear.

The older man’s face fell. Tears that had finally ceased rolled again as he stepped toward the woman exiting the station wagon. Cathy Bartow.

“Tell me, Larry. Just tell me!” She cried, panting, her eyes wild. She wore pajamas, and her hair sprang free of its messy ponytail.

“Cathy, I’m so sorry,” the old man said, pulling her into his arms.

She caved against him and wailed as two police officers walked toward them.

“Mrs. Bartow, I’m so sorry. You don’t want to see him like this,” one officer soothed, urging the pair of them back toward her car.

“I do, though,” she snarled as she pulled away from the man she’d called Larry and wheeled around to face Bradley Fletcher. “I need to see…I want to see exactly what you did to him.”

The harsh edge in her voice dissolved into racking, heaving sobs and Mike watched as Fletcher stood stock still, his face impassive.

The officer ushered Mrs. Bartow back to her car, and Mike watched as a deputy settled into the driver’s seat to take her home. Mike might have snapped a few quick photos of the station wagon and its license plate, but he already knew where Cathy Bartow lived.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mike waited until the next afternoon. He walked up the pathway toward the door, contemplating with every step whether or not he should turn back. But Madsen had told him to interview the widow. Try to find any angle other than an accident to explain her husband’s death. Otherwise, he’d been ordered to pack up and clear out. Chuck Bartow’s death was a police matter now, and Mike had found no hard evidence of any wrongdoing by Fletcher Textiles.

He hated this part of the job. Imposing on grieving people. He always felt like a jackal feasting off the carcasses left in tragedy’s wake.

Chuck Bartow may have died because of whatever Fletcher Textiles was trying to cover up. It was Mike’s job to find out, one way or another. He stepped over a broken bottle and onto the front stoop of the ramshackle old house.

Before he had a chance to knock, the wind pulled the storm door out of his hand. It swung open and crashed against the crackling gray house paint, sending a shower of dry paint exploding into the air like a puff of smoke.

A low, female voice called out, “Coming.”

He wrestled the storm door into place and waited.

When Cathy Bartow stepped into view, her tear-ravaged face a testament to her grief, he wished he’d thought to bring something. Flowers or a card. Instead, all he had was a half-baked conspiracy theory that would send her world into yet another tailspin.

Real nice, Caldwell.

“Look, I can’t afford to buy nothing right now, mister, so—”

“I’m not here to sell you anything, Mrs. Bartow. You remember me? We met yesterday at Annalisa Fantz’s house? Mike Caldwell. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I was the one who, uh, discovered your husband’s body and I wanted to talk to you about Chuck.”

She drew back and flicked a look over his shoulder, glancing up and down the empty street. She seemed too emotionally drained to bother arguing and waved him in with a defeated sigh. “Come out of the chill for a few minutes, then.”

She led him to a small dining room littered with empty envelopes and pink paper slips. He’d been broke enough after college to recognize the past-due notices. Lots of them.

Perched on the very top of the pile, sat a slick looking business card that stood out because of its sheer opulence in comparison to everything else in the shoddy little house. The embossed, black letters outlined in gold leaf spelled out Bradley S. Fletcher. CEO of Fletcher Textiles.

Fletcher had paid Mrs. Bartow a visit recently. Strange, after the reception she’d given him at the factory yesterday. The hairs on the back of Mike’s neck rose as she gestured for him to have a seat.

“Coffee or something?” she asked, almost reflexively.

He shook his head, and she sat across from him, slumping in her chair like she was a marionette and someone had just cut her strings. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but I got a funeral to plan and—”

“Maaa!” A child’s voice bellowed, and her eyes snapped shut like she’d reached the end of her rope.

“I’ll be there in five minutes!” She took a moment to collect herself and then opened her eyes. “That’s my son, Charlie. He’s three. Now his daddy’s gone and—” Her voice broke, and she sucked back a sob. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without Chuck.”

She stared at a spot over Mike’s shoulder as she collected herself. Then, sitting straighter, she held up both hands. “State your business so I can tend to my son, Mister…”

“Mike Caldwell,” he said again, wishing he were anywhere but here, watching this woman’s private hell. “I don’t want to make things harder for you, ma’am, you’ve clearly suffered enough.” He leaned in to meet her gaze. “But I’m worried that your husband’s death wasn’t an accident. Did Chuck ever talk to you about the rumors? Did he believe Fletcher Textiles was dumping toxic chemicals?”

She drummed her knobby fingers on the table as she considered his question for a long moment, keeping her eyes locked on a plate of mostly uneaten toast between them. “Everybody was talking about it a few years back.”

“Maaa!”

Her son’s screams sent her gaze behind her. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to—”

He had precious little time. Beating around the bush wasn’t an option. “Is that why you moved away from Peru?”

“Partly.” She stared at him, nodding slowly. “Houses are cheaper in Peru, so we had to downsize when we came here. But the schools are better, so…” she trailed off, but her fingers were tap-tap-tapping against her jeans, and he could tell he’d struck a nerve. “Seemed like the safest bet just in case. Mr. Fletcher hired a whole bunch of scientists to make sure those rumors were not true. I was upset out there at the factory. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

He’d hired scientists. Scientists kept records. “What kind of things shouldn’t you have said?”

She shot a glance to the purse that was sitting next to the stack of bills and then shrugged. “Just looking for someone to blame, is all.”

She wet her lips and looked away again.

His instincts were blaring a red alert, but he knew desperation when he saw it. He had to tread lightly. “Mrs. Bartow, you know Annalisa Fantz and her son Dale.”

She nodded slowly, pity and guilt written all over her face.

“We were neighbors. In Peru. I was in school with her younger sister.”

Mike pressed on. “Annalisa believes that Dale’s condition is due to toxic dumping by Fletcher.”

The long silence that stretched between them was broken by another wail from the bedroom. “Maaa!”

Cathy’s tension ratcheted up a notch, and her eyes went wild. “Look, I’m sure you feel like you’re doing the right thing here. But families rely on Fletcher to put a roof over their heads and food on their tables. Rumors—”

He was losing her. He could feel it. So he made a choice. Took a risk. “But they’re not rumors, are they? Your husband knew the truth, and that’s why he’s dead now. So help me, Cathy.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s get justice for your husband.”

Her fingers were cold and clammy, and she gripped his hand as if he was her only lifeline.

“Fifty-thousand,” she whispered miserably. She reached for her purse and pulled out a check, laying it on the table between them. “Fletcher gave me fifty thousand dollars for a down payment on a new house in another state.”

Mike nodded, afraid to break the spell.

“I said yes because I have a son to take care of. But what Fletcher’s doing isn’t right.” Her voice was flat with a sadness that went too deep for tears. “Not right at all.”

Mike stared at the check with all those zeros and that elegant, lilting signature that fairly oozed money, and felt a fierce stab of pity for the widow. A terrible spot to be in. Almost untenable…which was exactly what that bastard Fletcher had counted on.

“If we can prove that Fletcher is dumping toxic chemicals that are contaminating the town water supply—you and I together—you’re due far more, ma’am. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d like you to consider sharing your story with EBC viewers. You can cash that check, and I won’t tell another soul anything until I can back it up with solid proof.” He squeezed her hand and urged her to meet his gaze. “I’m asking you to trust me here. Can you do that?”

His fiancé always said he had a kind face. A face that made old ladies at the grocery store comfortable and drew children to him at the park. He only hoped Cathy Bartow could trust him. He wouldn’t let her down.

His pulse hammered as she nodded, sitting straighter in her chair.

“Okay. Okay, let’s do it. He had the nerve to roll up here in a fancy Bentley, would you believe? That car cost more than he wants to pay me for my husband’s life!” Cathy straightened her spine. For the first time since Mike had arrived, she didn’t look quite so defeated. “Fletcher doesn’t care about Charlie or me. He didn’t care about Chuck or Annalisa or Dale, either. Or any of the other people who live here. All he cares about is lining his pockets.”

Mike said a silent prayer as he asked the question he’d been holding back since he walked in. “Did your husband know exactly what Fletcher is dumping and where?”

“He knew it all.” She sounded stronger and fiercer by the second. “He wanted to go to the press or the police but he felt like he didn’t have enough proof yet. He was afraid he’d get fired trying to get evidence that would make anyone listen. But I know where the proof is. We’ll go get it together. Let me put on a pot of coffee and get Charlie to sleep. You can read Chuck’s notes until I get back.”

Mike nodded. Finally, something solid. Partial proof and a solid motive for murder. Chuck Bartow had died before he had a chance to be a whistleblower, but his wife would close that gap.

CHAPTER SIX

Mike stood with Cathy Bartow beside the now-mostly-empty pond where her husband’s body had been found. The midnight hour and night-vision goggles that gave everything an eerie yellow pallor contributed to the overall creepy factor. A full onset of gooseflesh all over his body had erupted the moment they’d pulled up to the place and got worse when Cathy used her husband’s key to unlock the padlock on the new fence.

He couldn’t believe he was actually trespassing at Fletcher Textiles again. Judge Willa Carson would most definitely not approve.

But Cathy had Chuck’s keys, and she’d surely have made good on her threat to come here without him if he’d refused to help her. He’d argued until he could argue no more, and Cathy won.

She’d said Chuck was afraid to go to Sheriff Danbury because he was too close to Bradley Fletcher. They were friends. Played poker together once a week. Danbury would give Fletcher plenty of warning. He’d get rid of the evidence, and then no proof would ever exist.

When he thought back to the day before when Fletcher had pulled up, he remembered how quickly the Sheriff went over to talk to him, the length of their chat, and how close together their heads had been during the course of it. At the time, Mike couldn’t reconcile their behavior, but it supported Cathy’s theory.

Could be Cathy was just paranoid. Or, could be her husband had been murdered, Fletcher paid her hush money and expected her to cover up the crimes. She had good reason to be paranoid.

In the end, the best he could do was extract her promise to get into the plant, gather the evidence Chuck said was stored there, and get out as quickly as possible. And he certainly couldn’t let her go in alone.

She tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to keep moving. She knew the layout of the factory and the grounds because she’d also worked here until her son was born. He slung his backpack higher and followed her around the pond, crossing the barren lot toward the back entrance of the main building.

Chuck’s notes said that there was a hidden room beyond the boiler room in the basement where the noxious chemicals were kept. He had discovered the room containing unmarked barrels about six months before his death. The barrels were covered with warning labels. He had been afraid to open any of them to get a sample because the concentrated contents and fumes were fatally toxic.

Chuck had taken pictures of the barrels and their labels using a vintage Polaroid camera, which might have been enough to get a search warrant. But Cathy refused to wait. Mike had those pictures on him now, and his backpack contained gas masks and other safety equipment along with collection vials for the samples.

A branch crackled behind him and he wheeled around with a start.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his heart galloping.

Cathy gasped.

He watched a skinny possum scurrying away. He turned to Cathy and shrugged. She continued toward the building. Mike trained his gaze on the building again as they crept closer.

No floodlights blasted on, no sirens blared. Cathy had said that even at the height of the dumping rumors a couple of years ago, Fletcher’s security was lax. Maybe because Fletcher had the local cops on the payroll. Or all of the evidence was already destroyed.

Or maybe Chuck had been wrong.

Cathy said there had to be damning evidence inside that building or Chuck would still be alive. She was sure of it, and Mike wanted to believe her. For both their sakes. Otherwise, they’d be in jail before the night was through. He refused to think about what Judge Carson or Lydia would have to say if he got arrested for this.

Cathy reached the side door. The single window pane had been broken and temporarily covered over with a piece of plywood. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Chuck’s set of keys. She’d just inserted the right key into the deadbolt when another branch crackled behind them. Mike turned, prepared to curse out their foolhardy little marsupial friend, but before the words left his mouth, a bright light flashed in a shower of red, blinding him behind his goggles.

Pain exploded in his temple, and his vision went black.

He became aware of a steady throbbing, like a stomach-churning drumbeat in his head. He was no longer outside but seated on a cold concrete floor. He fought through the pounding pain and forced his eyes open a crack.

Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him hard enough to make his stomach heave. He closed his eyes again and raised his fingers to touch his temple, gingerly.

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

He sheltered his eyes with his hand and blinked, trying to clear his vision, as two blurry figures stepped into sight. He blinked again, and the two slowly became one.

Larry Sumner. The Fletcher Textiles shop foreman. Mike had found his picture online after he showed up at the pond when Chuck’s body was found.

The old man swiped at his sweat-dotted brow with the back of his arm as he stepped closer. Now that Mike could see his face more clearly, he realized the man was crying. What the hell was going on here?

As he tried to make sense of it all, the pain in his head was joined by a wrenching ache in his shoulder, and he shifted to ease it but stopped short. He was tied. Trussed up like a game hen and leaning against a massive, metal post in a small room of the warehouse.

“You can’t get away, Caldwell.” The genuine regret on the old man’s lined face was enough to squeeze pain out of the way and make plenty of room for icy terror as clarity returned. “I wish we could let you go, but things have gone too far for that now.”

“Is Fletcher making you do this, Larry?” Mike asked, tugging to free his hands from the cord that bound him to the post. “You can still save yourself. I can help you.”

“You can’t talk me out of it, son. I’m in too deep.” The old man blew out a sigh and stared off into the distance.

Mike struggled against his bindings. He wasn’t chained. It felt more like a nubby kind of fabric, but Sumner knew how to tie a solid knot.

Just keep him talking. Buy some time to think.

“I can’t believe you would kill Chuck in cold blood, Larry. Please…if I’m not getting out of here alive, I need to know the truth. It’s the least you can do.” Mike held his breath and waited.

“Do you come from a small town?” Sumner asked, finally.

Mike swallowed the knot in his throat and shook his head, ignoring the white-hot pain that blazed through him every time his head moved. “No, sir.”

“See, the Fletcher plant here is all we got anymore. All the other places closed up. We have a few local stores, but Fletcher employs eighty percent of the able-bodied people, now that the farms are all gone. No Fletcher, no paychecks.” He raked an agitated hand through his thin gray hair. He shook his head slowly.

Another blurry figure walked into Mike’s field of vision. He blinked. Twice. “Cathy?”

“Sorry, Mike.” Cathy Bartow stood five feet away, holding a pistol aimed at his chest. “When a bunch of city lawyers came sniffing around last year, talking about a few sick kids and chemicals, Fletcher had already cleaned up his act. Stopped the dumping. Got rid of the chemicals. But Chuck wouldn’t let it go. Annalisa is my sister-in-law. Did you know that? And what happened to his nephew just ate Chuck up inside.”

“That’s right. Mr. Fletcher didn’t have nothing to do with this. This is a hundred percent on Chuck.” Sumner started pacing, mopping at his brow with his shirtsleeve again despite the chill in the air. “It will take some years before the water and soil gets right again, but things are on the mend. Chuck had to go snooping around, digging all this up again, flapping his gums all over town.”

Cathy shook her head in mock despair. “It’s a shame, is all.”

The fabric around Mike’s wrists finally seemed to give a bit, and he tugged frantically while trying to keep his voice even and steady. “Is that why you killed him in cold blood, Larry?”

“Of course not.” Sumner drew back, stung by the accusation. “No. I caught him same as I caught you. Red-handed. Then I called Cathy.”

Cathy grimaced. “You should have weighted him down better, Larry.”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t stay sunk. I’ll do better this time.”

Mike expected Cathy to shoot him then, but she didn’t. Sumner moved toward a door to the far right, barely visible in the dim light.

Mike craned his neck, straining to see what Sumner was doing in his periphery. He heard the crackle of electricity and an engine chugging to life.

“What is that?” he asked, dread forming a snowball in his belly.

Sumner continued fiddling with something a few feet away. When coils on the wall began to glow a soft amber, Mike gave up trying to stay calm and started struggling in earnest, yanking his hands hard as he rocked forward, desperate to get free. What the hell was this room?

“Cathy, please don’t do this.” Mike leaned toward her. “You want to protect Peru, keep Fletcher Textiles alive. This isn’t the way to do it. The mill will not survive news of two bodies found on the premises in two weeks. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

The coils that covered the walls glowed hotter and the chill in the room had already begun to dissipate. Understanding dawned. This wasn’t a room. It was some sort of incinerator. The entire room was designed to burn every bit of its contents to ashes.

“Not really a problem. There won’t be anything of you to find, Mike,” Cathy said as Sumner pushed open a hatch-style door. She backed through the hatch out of the incinerator and squatted, keeping the pistol pointed at Mike. “I’d rather not shoot you first. They might find the bullet.”

“Let me knock him out again. It’s the humane thing to do.” Sumner ambled over to Mike and picked up a blackened brick from the floor.

This was his last chance. His head still weighed a thousand pounds and nausea still coated his belly, but he couldn’t just give up. No way was his life going to end like this. Lydia deserved better.

Sumner lifted his brick to knock Mike out.

Mike gave one last, hard tug and the fabric handcuffs broke.

He fell to one side as Sumner’s brick descended.

The brick landed hard and solid on his shoulder.

He let out a roar as he struggled to his feet.

He was too weak. He lost his balance. He stumbled.

Sumner was old, but he was strong. He used that split second to send an uppercut straight to Mike’s jaw.

Pain screamed through him, but he managed to remain on his feet.

He weaved sideways and blocked Larry’s path with his body. Sumner pushed him. Mike had been a wrestler in high school, but that was a long time ago. He remembered the moves. Could he still execute them?

He reached out and wrapped his arms around the man’s torso and tried to bring him down. The pain in his head and his shoulder would not quit.

He saw Cathy, still outside the incinerator, aim still steady. But the two men were knotted together in a grotesque dance. She didn’t have a clean shot.

“Come on, Larry! Let’s go!”

“Go on! I’ll catch up!” Sumner shouted back.

Cathy shoved the gun into her waistband and ran.

In an instant, Sumner shoved Mike hard to the side. Mike, still too unsteady, stumbled off balance. He let go of Sumner’s body rather than fall on the concrete.

The air inside the incinerator was hot and getting hotter. Sweat ran down Mike’s face.

Sumner hustled toward the hatch and darted out.

Mike followed, weaving on his feet like a drunken sailor.

Just as Sumner shoved the hatch to close it, Mike pushed his arm through the opening and clutched Sumner’s ankle on the other side.

Sumner fell onto the ground floor on the other side and slammed the rusty hatch on Mike’s arm. “Let go!”

Mike hung on.

Sumner slammed the door again and again.

Mike bellowed with agony. His arm was surely broken, but he wouldn’t let go. With his last ounce of fading strength, he yanked hard on Sumner’s ankle and jerked him off balance.

Sumner let out a cry as his leg flew out from under him. He toppled to the ground in a heap. Mike heard a sickening crack when Sumner’s head hit the ground and the older man went suddenly silent.

Stars exploded behind Mike’s eyelids as he tried to maintain consciousness. He had to get out of here. The incinerator’s heat was well over a hundred degrees and fast becoming unbearable.

Mike let his right arm hang uselessly at his side and used his left to pull himself up through the hatch door. He slammed the hatch closed and collapsed on the ground next to Sumner’s unconscious body.

Mike’s legs quaked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

The last thing he had heard before he blacked out again was, “9-1-1, please state the nature of your emergency.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Fletcher Textiles criminal dumping scandal had garnered so much bad press in North Florida that the criminal case had been transferred to Tampa. Two months after he’d nearly been cremated alive, Mike sat in Judge Willa Carson’s courtroom as Bradley Fletcher was arraigned on twenty-six counts of criminal misconduct.

Cathy Bartow was already in jail in Jacksonville, awaiting trial for the murder of her husband, Chuck. Larry Sumner was in another cell in the same jail. Mike planned to testify at both trials. The prosecutors told him all three would be in prison for a very long time, which was just fine as far as Mike was concerned.

After the hearing and Bradley Fletcher was led away, Mike answered Judge Carson’s summons to her chambers. Her law clerk buzzed him through. The Judge was at her desk when he entered and closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Mike,” she said, scribbling her name on some papers. It wasn’t an invitation.

He did as he was told.

It took him a few moments to get settled. His right arm was still in a sling because of the injuries Sumner had inflicted to his shoulder. And his left arm was casted for a while longer. The doc said the damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been, considering how many times Sumner had slammed his forearm in that heavy hatch door. The headaches had subsided, too. When he was fully recovered, Madsen had promised him the Eyes on Eight gig.

“How are you feeling?” Judge Carson asked.

“Better every day, thanks to Lydia’s good nursing care.” He nodded as if she needed extra emphasis to believe him.

“I’m glad you’re on the mend. I called the judge up in Jacksonville handling Cathy Bartow’s case.” She paused and cleared her throat. “There’s been a development and I didn’t want you to hear about it third hand.”

Mike sat up a little straighter in his chair. He remembered one of the images of Chuck Bartow he’d used in his Eyes on Eight story about Fletcher Textiles. Bartow was around twenty in the shot, wearing his dress blues popping a salute. Standing adoringly next to him, one hand on his arm, with love gleaming in her eyes was the girl who would become his wife. Obviously, Cathy had adored him back then. What had gone so horribly wrong for those two?

Willa finished signing the orders and laid down her pen. “Cathy Bartow pled guilty this morning on all counts of the indictment. In exchange for testimony against Fletcher and Sumner, she’ll receive a life sentence instead of the death penalty.”

Mike nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. And he had no idea what he would say, anyway.

“You achieved some justice for Chuck Bartow.” Willa folded both hands on her desk. “Fletcher Textiles was well insured. The civil cases will return some money to the people in Peru. Annalisa Fantz and her son will finally be able to afford the medical care they need. I thought you’d want to know. You did a good thing here.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. “And you’re damn lucky you didn’t die in the process.”

“It’s too little, too late, though.” Mike flexed his fist and then winced. “Chuck Bartow is still gone, and his son without a father. Dale Fantz is still disabled.”

“You’re right. It’s not perfect. Justice rarely is. But you’ve done all you can for those families. Now it’s time to do something for yours.” Willa smiled. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”

THE END

I hope you enjoyed Fair Justice as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. Judge Willa Carson stars in the bestselling Hunt for Justice Series. Read more Judge Willa Carson books to spend some time with Tampa’s feisty federal judge. Here’s the full list in order of publication!

The Hunt for Justice Series:

Due Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Twisted Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Secret Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Wasted Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Cold Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

False Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Fair Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

I hope you’ll recommend my books to your friends who might like them, too. The best way to share your honest review of my books is to post a quick two or three-sentence review where you bought this copy and give the books some stars. Please do that. I promise I won’t forget. And now that we’ve found each other, let’s keep in touch. Readers like you are the reason I write.

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Have you read all of Diane Capri’s books? Maybe it’s time to give them a try!

CLICK HERE for a complete list of Diane Capri Books

(Click each title to buy or download a sample)

Also by DIANE CAPRI

(Click each title to buy or download a sample)

The Hunt for Justice Series:

Due Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Twisted Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Secret Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Wasted Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Raw Justice

Mistaken Justice

Cold Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

False Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

Fair Justice (Judge Willa Carson)

The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series:

Don’t Know Jack

Get Back Jack

Jack and Joe

Deep Cover Jack

Jack in a Box

Jack and Kill

Jack in the Green

The Jess Kimball Thrillers:

Fatal Enemy

Fatal Distraction

Fatal Demand

Fatal Error

Fatal Fall

Fatal Game

The Heir Hunter Series:

Blood Trails

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Diane Capri is an award-winning New York Times, USA Today, and world-wide bestselling author. She writes several series, including the Hunt for Justice, Hunt for Jack Reacher, and Heir Hunter series, and the Jess Kimball Thrillers. She’s a recovering lawyer and snowbird who divides her time between Florida and Michigan. An active member of Mystery Writers of America, Author’s Guild, International Thriller Writers, Alliance of Independent Authors, and Sisters in Crime, she loves to hear from readers and is hard at work on her next novel.

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