

### DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

### A Legal Suspense Short

By R. Barri Flowers

_Death by Trial and Error_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

A Legal Suspense Short

Copyright 2016 by R. Barri Flowers

All rights reserved.

Cover Image Copyright Racorn, 2016

Used under license from Shutterstock.com

CRIME AND THRILLER NOVELS BY R. BARRI FLOWERS

Before He Kills Again

Dark Streets of Whitechapel

Dead in Kihei

Dead in Pukalani

Dead in the Rose City

Fractured Trust

Justice Served

Killer Connection

Killer Evidence Legal Thriller 4-Book Bundle

Killer in The Woods

Murder in Honolulu

Murder in Hawaii Mysteries

Murder in Maui

Murder of the Hula Dancers

Murdered in the Man Cave

Murder on Kaanapali Beach

Persuasive Evidence

Private Eye Bestselling Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

Seduced To Kill in Kauai

Serial Killer Thrillers 5-Book Bundle

State's Evidence

* * *

**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

Death by Trial and Error

State's Evidence – Bonus Excerpt

Justice Served – Bonus Excerpt

Dead in Pukalani – Bonus Excerpt

About the Author

**DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR**

She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.

But how?

Should she run him down with her car?

She could imagine him begging for his life as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She would make him suffer before once more rolling the car over the damaged goods.

And again, and again, until the life had been snuffed out of him.

Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle soup with cyanide.

She would get a great thrill out of seeing him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.

She would dance with delight watching him squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil himself.

And in that final moment of distress between life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however long it had been since he'd decided sharing another woman's bed gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.

It was exactly one week ago that Harrison had told her about his affair. His intonation, usually deep with assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as flat and unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered into molten lava. Or told that she had a malignant brain tumor. The pain could not have been any worse.

"What—?" The word had shot from her mouth like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even if she had understood him correctly, he surely couldn't have meant that which she feared most.

Maybe he was only playing with her, looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her, telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl's dress merely for the sake of fun and frolic.

She hated that part of Harrison, the power he had over her to bring her to the brink of tears, to make her feel her whole world was about to collapse; then just as easily make her believe she had the whole world and all its blessings in the palm of her hand.

With him being her most cherished blessing.

Yes, he brought out the best and worst in her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, or some other manner of communication that could only exist between a husband and wife.

She looked at him standing in the doorway of the bedroom. For an instant, it was as if she had traveled back in time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid and fell in love with him the moment he flashed his megawatt smile at her. He was tall and solidly built, as if to her specifications. Dark, wavy hair was swept to the side and his eyes were a deep shade of blue. They were the kind of eyes that penetrated to the depths of your soul when he looked at you. She thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

And he still was.

It had been a childless marriage, borne as much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having children in favor of their careers and each other.

He had gotten up, careful not to wake her, and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison Kincaid: author, lecturer, philanthropist, and asshole. She wondered how long he had stood there watching her, probably replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison's faults, he had always tried to cushion the blow when he had something bad to tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy rather than the devil in disguise.

Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She saw herself as a forty-five-year-old hag with breasts that had begun to sag, hips that had expanded every year, and thighs that were beginning to resemble something akin to cauliflower. Her hair, once a lustrous shade of crimson, had become thin, flat, and seemed determined to remain a convoluted gray no matter how many different dyes she applied to it. Crow's feet had taken up permanent residence at the corners of her rich green eyes. Her taut porcelain skin was now dull and wrinkled.

She wondered if he saw her the same way. Had she grown too old and unattractive? Was she no longer enough for him now that he had begun to sense his own mortality at the age of forty-eight?

Had he really betrayed her in the worst way that a husband could ever betray a wife?

He seemed to be reading her mind as he stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say that much more difficult. His lips were opened slightly as if trying to say words that wouldn't come out. She noticed the deep furrow on his brow and couldn't help but think that he suddenly looked every bit his age and some.

Finally, he stepped into the room and up to the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.

"I said I'm involved with another woman—"

This time there was no mistaking his meaning. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone who was probably younger, sexier, able to bear his children, and brainless.

Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to make him tell her in clear English what he meant.

And tell her who this woman was.

She was wearing a nightgown—a blue silk gown he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary this very year. But she felt naked, as if she had just been violated, and pulled the covers up over her chest.

"I'm not a mind reader, Harrison," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "What the hell are you talking about? You mean you're involved with a woman on yet another committee for dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?" Aside from his writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to live.

Now she wondered if he had been thinking more about _his_ world.

His eyes hardened and his lower lip quivered. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

She felt the bile rise in her throat. Glaring at him, she said, "If you expect me to make this easy for you, you're sorely mistaken." She could feel her heart slamming against her chest like a hammer. Did she really want to hear what he had to say? Might this all somehow turn out to be a bad dream—someone else's bad dream—if she refused to listen to any more of this?

But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted to— _had to_ —hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.

And deal with him.

* * *

Maybe it would be better if she shot him between the eyes.

She had become an expert markswoman thanks to him and his fascination with guns. She would make sure that the last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.

Then, for good measure, she would shoot him down there between his legs where he had taken what was hers and given it to someone else.

Someone who had no right to him.

Someone who hadn't been through the ordeals, stresses, and strains he had put her through.

Someone who hadn't bankrolled his aspirations for years till they finally began to pay off.

Someone who hadn't invested years in a marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.

She found him in the study that morning, having said that he would wait for her there while she got dressed. She had not argued, having no desire to hear about his infidelity in the bedroom of all places.

_Their bedroom_.

Had she slept with him in there?

Had they made love in _their_ bed?

Over and under their sheets and blankets?

Harrison had taken the liberty of fixing them both a drink. Emma suspected that this was probably his third or fourth this morning. He wasn't a heavy drinker by and large. But that didn't stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy, usually to calm his nerves.

Or guilt.

She took the glass he gave her, but didn't drink from it.

"I never planned for this to happen," Harrison uttered pathetically. "It just did—"

Nothing ever just happens, Emma thought, seething. It takes two selfish people to make it happen.

She flashed hateful eyes at one of them. "How long?" she heard herself say, as if this would somehow make a difference in the way she felt.

Had it been going on for years without her ever suspecting?

Or had he decided practically overnight that having another lover was just what the doctor ordered to satisfy him?

Harrison put the glass to his lips thoughtfully. "Is that really important?"

"How long?" Her voice rose threateningly. She needed to know how long he had played her for a fool.

How long he had abused her love and devotion to him.

How long he had taken everything she had ever wanted in life and destroyed it in an instant.

"Six months," he said matter-of-factly.

Half a year.

One hundred and eighty days.

One hundred and eighty nights.

When he wasn't with her, he was with _her_.

When they made love, which wasn't very often in the past six months, had he really been making love to _her_?

And what about when they weren't making love? Had he been sleeping with _her_ when he claimed to be at his office or at the cabin writing?

Or when he was supposed to be on a book tour?

Or hunting?

Had she been the first? Or was she just the latest?

Emma felt sick to her stomach. She bent over in pain, as if she had been on the receiving end of a punch to the midsection. Harrison, feigning concern, put his hands on her.

"Are you all right?" His voice was coated with sincerity. Or perhaps pity.

She would accept neither. Whatever he was offering came too late.

She willed herself to put aside the nauseous feeling, straightening up, and slapping his hands away as if they were hot coals.

"Don't touch me, you _bastard_!"

He looked as if it was he who had been crushed, betrayed, and humiliated. "I know how you must feel—"

Her eyes became razor slits. "You can't possibly know how I feel! How could you? I've given my life to you. I've been faithful to you. I've allowed you to lead a life often separate of _our_ life. All I ever asked in return was that you remain loyal to me, in and out of bed. But you took advantage of my love and naivety and I hate you for it."

Did she really hate him?

Could she ever truly hate the only man she had ever loved no matter what he did?

But how could she ever love him again, in spite of her feelings?

Her mouth felt dry, as if she had been in the desert for a month. She lifted her glass of wine and took a sip, if only to wet her throat.

Though she wanted only to drown herself in sorrow, there were still other questions, other answers that she needed to concern herself with. Because she'd had no experience with a cheating husband, she had not been prepared to face all the implications that came with the territory.

Why had he told her of his affair? To absolve his guilty conscience?

To cruelly hurt her in the worst way possible?

Or was he was planning to leave her for this other woman?

The mere notion sent a shiver up and down Emma's spine. Somehow in her shock she had not considered that it was he who might want to dump her rather than the other way around.

Was he even worth fighting for? Or should she be grateful that he had revealed his secret life, thereby making him worthless to her?

Maybe he was telling her this because the affair was now over and he wanted her forgiveness.

Could their lives ever possibly be the same again?

Or had his admission made trust impossible from this day forward, no matter what else happened?

"Who is she?" Emma asked him pointblank, as if she needed to know in order to put a face and body to this nightmare where there seemed no escape.

Was it Doris Applegate, his editor that he had been spending an increasing amount of time with over the last year? She was an attractive bottle blonde, a few years younger than Emma, and couldn't seem to find enough reasons not to see Harrison.

Or perhaps it was Lena Richardson, the thirty-something vivacious organizer of the nonprofit group offering assistance to runaway children? Against Emma's wishes, Harrison had insisted on volunteering his services in raising money and counseling youth on the pitfalls of running away, though he himself had come from a functional family and never saw fit to run away. For this Lena Richardson was eternally grateful.

Then there was Samantha Winningham, their newly widowed next-door neighbor. She was barely forty, lonely, rich, and made no secret of her attraction to Harrison. He, of course, scoffed at the notion, insisting that she meant nothing to him. But that didn't stop him from feeling obliged to assist her with household maintenance now that she was left without a husband to do it. Or apparently the will to hire professional help.

Harrison hastily poured himself another drink. "It's not anyone you know," he said, as if she should somehow applaud him for this consideration. "We met at a book signing earlier this year and we hit it off right away. Like we were—"

He checked himself, as if the weight of his words was too haunting for even him to say.

"Meant for each other," Emma finished for him.

He drank more wine and sighed. "She's young...in her early twenties. She's actually read everything I've ever written. Even those pieces that appeared in obscure magazines—"

He was obviously flattered by the ego-tripping worship from his young tart, Emma thought disgustedly. She too had once fed his ego till it had become more accommodating than honest.

Harrison's eyes alighted as if he was floating on a cloud of energy. "She makes me feel young, alive...needed—"

But she needed him, Emma thought. She had always needed him. Why couldn't he see and respect that?

When had he stopped needing her?

"Do you love her?" The words played back in Emma's mind like a broken record. Waiting to hear the answer was like being strapped to the electric chair and waiting to see if there would be a last second reprieve or a violent, painful death by electrocution.

Did she want to hear his reply?

Could she stand it if he actually _loved_ this girl toy that had made him forsake his marriage vows?

The thought of not being loved was the worst thing Emma could think of, with the possible exception of loving a bastard who had ripped her heart to shreds.

* * *

She should hack him up into little pieces and send his remains to his starry-eyed little whore.

Along with the burned pages of his damn manuscripts.

Or perhaps it would be more appropriate and painful if it was he who burned to death. Emma was surprised by the wickedness of her thoughts. She could imagine pouring gasoline or cooking oil over him _and_ his mistress while they were asleep after making love. She would wake them so they could see the revulsion in her eyes, just before she dropped the match.

Their inflamed bodies would light up like a torch. Deathly screams would roar from their mouths while the flesh melted on their limbs. Soon they would be reduced to nothing more than charred bones and ashes.

All the while Emma would watch this horror unfold and curse Harrison for turning her into an unforgiving beast who no longer cared about life, living, and compassion.

"I hope we can still be friends," Harrison told her.

He was putting clothes in a bag atop the bed two days after telling Emma that he was in love with another woman. She had slapped him, but felt as if it was she who had been hit harder than she could ever have imagined. She had told him to get out, hoping that he might somehow come to his senses, tell her it was all a mistake, and beg her forgiveness.

But it was not to be.

He had left without so much as a meager attempt at reconciliation, having clearly anticipated such, and even making plans for living arrangements.

Plans that no longer included Emma.

"The moment you walk out that door," she told him, "you end any chance of us remaining friends. I have no intention of going from your wife and lover to someone you think you can come to for comfort when your little bimbo decides you are too old, unsatisfying, and too much of an asshole for her."

Harrison flung several pairs of slacks into the bag, and hit Emma with a contorted glare. "Sorry you feel that way. I was really hoping we could somehow end this more civilized."

"No you weren't," she challenged him. "You were hoping to get the best of all worlds, just like the characters in one of your damned novels. But it doesn't work that way in the real world. You made your uncivilized bed, Harrison. Now I hope you and your mistress lie in it and rot!"

Emma found that it had become increasingly easier to vent her feelings. She knew that she couldn't simply go away like the good wife who had been taken advantage of and mistreated. He didn't deserve to get off that lightly. She had worked too hard at making their marriage work to watch it come apart at the seams and dismiss it as if swatting away a fly.

Harrison zipped his bag, grabbed it, and said colorlessly, "I'll pick up the rest of my things in a few days. I'm sure we'll be able to work out a satisfactory arrangement regarding property and such. Goodbye, Emma—"

She said nothing, wanting only to hear him leave, for she could no longer stand the sight or smell of him. When she heard the front door click shut, Emma knew that the world she had come to know and love had changed forever.

And for the worst.

She sank down to the hardwood floor and cried for the first time. The tears stung her cheeks and seemed to embody all of the feelings that raced through her like a locomotive out of control. She no longer had a husband. Or a lover. Or a confidant. Or a best friend.

Another woman had inherited the man she had dedicated herself to in body and spirit.

But instead of being engrossed with self-pity, Emma found herself absorbed with anger.

Loathing.

Discontent.

_Revenge_.

She wanted to kill him.

It was the only way to free her from the feelings of betrayal and anguish.

And prevent him from taking what was hers and giving it to another woman unjustly.

She contemplated the many ways in which she could carry out the deed.

Carbon monoxide poisoning.

Strangulation.

Asphyxiation.

Castration.

That last thought clung to her like a second skin. She wondered how long it would take him to bleed to death from the source of his abandonment.

She hoped it would not come too swiftly, for it would only be equitable to what she felt if he were forced to suffer for some time before the end came unmercifully.

* * *

The woman sat impassively at the defense table beside her court-appointed attorney. She was on trial for the murder of her husband and the attempted murder of his lover. He had been shot ten times at pointblank range. His lover had been shot three times, miraculously surviving the assault though left a paraplegic.

Across the room, the prosecutor fidgeted nervously at his table, glancing occasionally at the defendant.

The jury sat tensely, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with anyone, as if to do so might tip the scales one way or the other.

The judge took all this in, sighed, and looked at the jury foreman. "Have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes, we have, Your Honor."

The verdict was passed from the bailiff to the judge, who glanced at it with no indication from her facial expression of what it said, before sending it back to the jury foreman.

"Will the defendant please rise," the judge ordered.

Her attorney stood first, and urged his client to stand. The prosecutor joined them.

The judge knew this was the moment of truth when life and death hung in the balance. She considered this raw power for a moment or two before regarding the foreman.

"You may read the verdict—"

The foreman licked his lips, refraining from eyeing the defendant, as if to do so would result in some form of punishment. "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of first degree murder and attempted murder—"

Judge Emma Kincaid quickly restored order to the court and immediately directed the newly convicted woman to be remanded to the county jail to await sentencing.

Emma gazed down at the woman as she was being led away by sheriff's deputies. For a moment, their eyes met and Emma felt empathy that she could never express to the woman or anyone else.

In court she was a judge, sworn to uphold the law to the best of her ability.

Outside of court, she was a woman. One who had all the frailties and vulnerabilities of a woman scorned.

This was the woman that possessed her now.

Emma left the courthouse a short while later and went directly home. She was still thinking about the case she had just presided over when she pulled up into her driveway. Waiting there beside a dark sedan were two men dressed in cheap suits. By their demeanor and respectful but uneasy expressions, Emma knew instinctively that they were police detectives.

She got out of her silver Lexus. They approached her.

"Judge Kincaid," said the older of the two, removing his identification from his pocket, "I'm Detective Buchanan and this is Detective Jefferson. We need to talk to you."

She lifted a brow, wondering if they had somehow been able to invade her thoughts.

"What is this about?"

The detectives looked at each other, as if carrying a great secret.

"Mind if we go inside?" Detective Jefferson asked.

"Has something happened to my husband?" Emma surprised herself by asking, her voice fraught with emotion.

Again the detectives exchanged glances and frowns.

She decided to take control. "Something has happened to him. Has he had an accident?" She wasn't sure why she chose to use the word "accident" instead of "heart attack" or some other reference to death or dismemberment.

Detective Buchanan looked at her grimly. "There was a plane crash. A twin engine Cessna went down in the Sierras. There were two people on board—Harrison Kincaid and a young woman who hasn't been identified yet." He paused. "I'm afraid that neither one survived."

Like the good wife, Emma turned white as a ghost and began to wail like a newborn baby. "Noooo," she cried out. "There must be some mistake." She knew there was no mistake. Harrison had told her that he and his mistress were going to the cabin for a couple of days.

Obviously he never made it.

When she finally got rid of the detectives a half an hour later, Emma retreated to the study. Admittedly, she was in disbelief over the shocking turn of events. It was almost as if she had willed the accident to happen.

Yes, it had been an accident.

She had never even contemplated Harrison's death by plane crash, though somehow it seemed fitting. She imagined the terror he and his ill-fated lover must have felt as the plane was spiraling out of control, knowing that death was imminent...mere seconds away that probably seemed like years.

She wondered if Harrison had thought of her just before the moment of impact.

Had he considered that the circumstances that would result in his death might never have occurred were it not for his own misguided choices?

Emma poured herself a glass of red wine. She drank it, laughing hysterically, while saying aloud: "To my darling late husband. May you and your whore rot in hell!"

She thought about how justice seemed to have a way of prevailing when all was said and done.

Suddenly she felt dizzy and her stomach tightened. Then her throat felt like it was on fire. She dropped the glass, spilling its contents onto the floor even before it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Clutching her throat, Emma felt as if her entire body was being invaded by a foreign enemy. One determined to make sure she did not survive. But not before she suffered horribly.

She fell backwards, her body wracked with pain, before she hit the floor with a thud. Her voice was raspy, but she was unable to scream. Yet her mind was still remarkably clear. She had laced the wine with strychnine.

It was intended for Harrison.

# # #

The following is a bonus excerpt from R. Barri Flowers' bestselling legal thriller

STATE'S EVIDENCE: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

Prologue

She was a real piece of ass...

He could feel his arousal through tight jeans. He had been watching her, following her, getting to know her every move till it was time to do what had to be done.

He could have taken her any time he wanted, crushing her pretty skull between his strong, calloused hands, as easily as one might flatten a piece of dough. But it was more fun and stimulating to bide his time like a shark might before going after a helpless fish. Or even a human. He knew exactly where she was every minute of the day.

And night.

Why rush a good thing?

He considered killing a person a work of art. Like the Mona Lisa. It required skill, finesse, courage, determination, and a vision.

He had been born with these talents thirty-two years ago in East L.A.'s Latino community. Surviving the mean streets there had required every bit of his artistic skills, and then some. With his mama a whore and his daddy a wife-abusing heroin addict, he had literally been left to fend for himself as early as he could remember.

Joining a gang had allowed him to sharpen his skills. He imagined he had taken out or seriously injured maybe a dozen or more rival gang members by the time he was fifteen. He considered it all in a day's work. It was either them or him, which was a real no-brainer.

But he knew he was going nowhere fast in L.A.'s war zone. Between the rival Latino gangs and the black gang bangers fighting for territory, respect, or just for the hell of it, he saw no future there. Sooner or later he figured a bullet or blade would have his name written on it in blood—unless he quit while he was ahead.

Which was precisely why he had given up the hood and gang life and fled the city before he turned eighteen. He ended up in Northern California in a town called Eagles Landing. By comparison to the urban jungle he'd left behind, it was fairly laid back and boring as hell.

Still, he didn't miss his homeboys one bit. No damned way!

He'd hooked up with distant relatives and was cool with a few dudes in Eagles Landing.

But even that was fleeting. It didn't take long for him to realize he operated much better on his own, apart from keeping a roof over his head in living with a broad. This way he got to keep all the profits and pleasures from doing what he did best—killing people.

It was a rush like no other. Even better than getting off inside a bitch. Or the almost orgasmic feel of cocaine going into his veins. He killed for hire or just plain old desire. It made no difference to him. What counted most was that once he had targeted someone for death, it was just a matter of when, where, how, and sometimes how much.

He contemplated those very things as he studied the nice looking broad through the window of her fancy home. She was maybe thirty, slim, with a big ass and even bigger breasts. Her yellow hair was permed with fluffy curls and she had full red lips. He imagined kissing that mouth, then sticking his tongue inside. Or better yet, having that mouth go down on him and do its thing.

Before he gave her a taste of death.

She was sitting at the dining room table with her husband. He was a few years older than her, dark haired, and seemingly uncomfortable in her presence, as though he didn't belong.

He looked away from the man back to his wife, watching a while longer, as he devised his strategy for her demise. A rush of adrenalin poured through him at the prospect, knowing the time was getting near to put the plan into action.

But first he wanted to allow her a bit more false sense of security. It was always that much more exhilarating when his victim realized that the perfect little world she or he had created was about to come crashing down around them and there wasn't a damned thing that could be done to prevent it.

Except maybe hope you got run over by a bus first. Or dropped dead of a heart attack, sparing yourself from meeting up with him.

Short of that, the person was his for the taking. And he fully intended to do just that.

Only a matter of time.

Yes, let her feel secure in her comfortable house. With that husband of hers there to protect her. Wouldn't do her one bit of good.

She would never live to see the light of day.

Chapter One

The jury foreman looked tense as she responded to the judge's terse question, "Have you reached a verdict?"

The juror, an attractive Jordanian professor and mother of five, risked a furtive peek at the other jurors, as if for final confirmation. Then she raised her big brown eyes to the bench. "Yes, we have, Your Honor—"

Judge Sheldon Crawford was in his mid-fifties, but looked younger with a cappuccino-toned face that was without wrinkles save for a barely perceptible crease stretching across his forehead. He had short salt and pepper hair, and deep gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink. Focusing them on the juror, he instructed her to hand the verdict to the bailiff.

Judge Crawford had a reputation as a tough judge, routinely doling out the stiffest penalties the law would allow. Needless to say, prosecutors and their constituents loved him and the justice rendered. Whereas, defense attorneys and their clients feared coming before the judge, often doing all they could to avoid his court, including plea bargaining at virtually every opportunity.

Beverly Mendoza, co-counsel for the State, fidgeted in her seat. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Her intense green eyes studied the faces of the jurors, trying to get a hint as to what direction they had taken. Admittedly she hadn't a clue and was too smart to make any presumptions.

The case involved a woman accused of murdering her lover by pushing him off a 320-foot cliff. Her defense was that they were just fooling around— _love play_ , she had called it—when he accidentally fell to his death. The fact that she didn't report him missing for two weeks seemed incidental. As did his million dollar life insurance policy, which had only recently named her as the beneficiary.

Beverly gazed at the thirty-year-old defendant who sat there cool, calm, collected, and incredibly confident.

Does she know something I don't?

Could this jury have possibly let her off the hook?

Meaning the prosecution would have failed to prove its case. _And I'd have a loss on my record that would be hard to swallow and harder to justify_.

She snapped her head back, causing her long, straight brunette hair to bounce against the gray jacket of her Anne Klein linen suit. Her eyes landed on her co-counsel, Deputy District Attorney Grant Nunez. His Afro-Latino profile was classic with chiseled, caramel colored features and a round head that was shaven bald. He wore a tailored dark brown suit that fit well on his muscular, tall frame. Grant was forty—eight years older than her—and in line for a judgeship by all indications. Losing this case would not help his chances.

Nor would it bode well for Beverly's career. Sensationalized cases would always be remembered for the winners and losers, no matter how many other battles were fought and won, especially when lawyers were always looking ahead in their careers. She had aspirations of being a district attorney someday. Or maybe even a judge.

Right now, assistant district attorney for Wilameta County would have to suffice.

Sensing her stare, Grant swiveled his head, slanting his cool sable eyes at her. If he was worried, he didn't show it. Instead, he gave Beverly a devilish smile that she knew was less about the proceedings than it was about them. They had been dating for four months now, though it had only become sexual in the last four weeks. Both had survived bad previous relationships and, once they had overcome their fears of failure and the unknown, had succumbed to mutual desires that left Beverly shamelessly wanting him every chance she got.

But getting her twelve-year-old son to approve of Grant had proven to be a far more formidable task. Jaime was very protective of her and did not want to see his mother get hurt—again. To him, Grant was someone who threatened the life Jaime had known for most of his young life, where it had pretty much been just the two of them.

Perhaps even more difficult for Beverly to deal with was losing her mother five years ago to breast cancer and now watching her father wasting away with Alzheimer's disease. It left him but a shell of his former and proud self as a Latino who was used to being a macho man in command of his life and times. Sometimes she wished it would be over with for him so her father wouldn't suffer anymore; other times Beverly wanted him to hang on for as long as he possibly could. After all, having part of a father and grandfather to her son was preferable to none at all.

Wasn't it?

Beverly's mind shifted back to the attention Grant was giving her, as if they were the only ones in the courtroom. She willed herself to avert his lascivious gaze that had managed to cause her temperature to rise, and focus on the important matter at hand. Judge Crawford read the verdict to himself. He passed the slip back to the bailiff, giving no indication by his dignified facial expression as to what it said.

Beverly felt butterflies in her stomach as she usually did whenever a case was about to be decided. It represented weeks or months of hard work and in an instant would culminate for all parties concerned. Later there would be the penalty phase. And then, in all likelihood, appeals, and more decisions to come.

But for the moment it didn't get any more exciting and tension filled than this.

Once the bailiff had returned the verdict to the jury foreman, the judge faced the defense table and stated levelly, "Will the defendant please rise—"

She obeyed him, springing to her feet and running thin fingers through short crimson hair before taking a breath and awaiting the judge's words that would change her life for the better or worse. Standing alongside her was her attorney, Cassandra Fielding, a forty-something, ex-prosecutor, who had put up a strong, sympathetic defense. No doubt she had an eye on a hefty percentage of the insurance payments, mused Beverly. Provided they ever came.

Judge Crawford nodded at the jury foreman. "You may read the verdict."

The woman put on her glasses, almost for effect, took a deep sigh, and looked down at her trembling hands. "We, the jury, find the defendant, Suzanne Landon, to be guilty of murder in the first degree—"

The courtroom erupted in cheers from the family of the victim. Beverly let out a sigh of relief and saw victory spread across Grant's face in a big grin. The two hugged as co-counsel might be expected, formally and professionally. There would be time later for a much more private celebration.

The newly convicted murderess was led away in handcuffs, tears of disbelief or disappointment flowing down her reddened cheeks. Before leaving the courtroom, she shot Beverly a contemptuous gaze, which the prosecutor dismissed for all it was worth.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but hateful glares won't hurt me.

Justice was not always blind. Not today anyway.

* * *

"We did it!" Grant Nunez declared magnanimously. He had Beverly cornered in his office, right between two file cabinets. The door was locked and might just as well have had a DO NOT DISTURB sign on it. He certainly had no intentions of being interrupted till they were done.

At six-three, he hovered over Beverly by almost seven inches. But that didn't detract from the presence she had as a woman. With her Selma Hayek looks and a hot, taut body all her own, it was all Grant could do not to want to be with Beverly 24/7.

He'd settle for twenty-four minutes and seven ways to make love to this woman who turned him on like no other with both her mind and sexuality, inside and out of the courtroom.

"Never thought for a minute we wouldn't," Beverly declared between kisses.

"You're not a very good liar." Grant put his hands on her firm breasts through her silk blouse, causing Beverly's nipples to tingle.

"So sue me," she murmured, "but only after you make me come."

"Whatever you say, Counselor." He put his tongue in her mouth. "Never let it be said that I don't believe in the spirit of cooperation."

"Maybe that's why we make such a great team."

"Maybe."

Beverly tasted spearmint from his tongue, and gave him hers to play with. She put a hand to his pants, feeling the hardness of Grant's erection begging to be released. She was only too happy to oblige, unzipping him, even as his hand went under her skirt and began to caress between her legs. She pulled him out and held firmly as if her own, stimulating the shaft.

"Umm..." She heard the sound utter between their mouths, unsure who it had come from.

Her back stiffened when Grant slipped fingers inside her panties and then into her. She spread her legs while leaning against a file cabinet, urging him on and giving back as much in touching his penis. Beverly bit her lip as he began to stimulate her, causing her to nearly scream with pleasure.

Instead, mindful they were somewhere where noise could be easily heard, she managed barely more than a whimper. While still holding his throbbing erection, Beverly looked Grant ravenously in the eye. "Condom?"

He removed one from his pocket and placed it in her palm, content to see her take the lead. She quickly removed the foil and slid the latex over him and climbed atop Grant's sturdy hips, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Beverly inserted him inside her. "Make love to me," she demanded in a desperate voice, the sense of urgency spreading across her body like a bolt of lightning.

"It would be my pleasure, baby," he husked, and held onto her slender waist while plunging himself deep into her as she absorbed the thrusts while slamming herself back against him with equal zest.

Her orgasm came quickly and a second one shortly thereafter at about the same time that Grant climaxed with a rush of breath and a violent shudder. Both were breathing heavily, and Beverly could feel Grant's heartbeat pounding as they clung to one another till the experience had come to a mouths smacking, bodies perspiring, satisfying conclusion.

"We need to win as a team more often," Grant said contentedly, giving Beverly another long kiss.

She kissed him back and climbed off him. "That may not be possible," she teased, "if you're a judge."

"True," he said, removing the condom and zipping his pants. "But look at the bright side, baby. When and if that day ever comes, just imagine what fun you and I could have in the judge's chambers."

Beverly pushed him playfully. "You're insatiable!" She put her clothes back into place; then brushed her hair.

He laughed. "And you're not?"

She blushed. "Maybe it's the effect you have on me, darling, that makes me crave your body."

He chuckled again. "I have been known to have that effect on women."

"Oh, really?" Beverly met his eyes with a touch of jealousy. As far as she knew they were exclusive. If they weren't on the same page there, she wanted to find out before this went any further.

Grant sensed that he'd used the wrong choice of words and quickly sought to rectify that. The last thing he wanted was to ruin this relationship, something he'd managed to do too easily in the past. Only none of the previous women in his life could hold a candle to Beverly Mendoza and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"What's important is that this is the first time it's really meant something to me," he said in earnest. "I don't take that lightly, Bev, and I'm definitely not looking at anyone else."

She smiled, feeling a sense of relief and maybe a little left over insecurity. "But you will tell me if you change your mind."

"I won't change my mind," he promised. _Not as long as there's the possibility that we can really go somewhere with this_.

"Neither will I," she added. She was enjoying his company more than she had any man's company in some time. She was in no hurry to ruin a good thing.

Grant straightened his tie. "So how about if I take you out to dinner for a victory celebration? Sex always leaves me famished."

"Can't," Beverly said apologetically, putting fresh lipstick on after he had taken it all off. "I promised Jaime pizza tonight." She couldn't help but think that though only twelve, her son sometimes seemed like he was twenty-five with his maturity and rapidly growing body.

Grant grinned wistfully. "Did I tell you that I love pizza?" _And would love to get to know your son better, if you'll let me._

Beverly squirmed guiltily, knowing he wanted more than what they had. And so did she. But right now her son was still her top priority. As were his feelings on the subject.

"Jaime just needs a little time adjusting to someone else in my life," she offered contritely.

Grant looked like a wounded puppy. "How much time does he need—the rest of _your_ life?"

Beverly touched her nose thoughtfully. "Not much longer, Grant," she hoped. "It's been just the two of us for so long, he's trying to come to terms with the fact that someone else is now in my life who's very important to me."

Beverly realized that along with wanting to protect Jaime, she was also trying to protect herself, from being hurt and abandoned, as they had been by his father.

Grant furrowed his brow while trying to be understanding. "Seems to me it's time you let someone else take down that wall you've built around the boy."

"Please be patient, Grant," Beverly implored softly, not wanting to spoil what just happened by applying too much pressure either way. "I just want what's best for everyone—you included." She kissed him on the mouth. "Call me."

Even as she said that, Beverly knew that it sounded like she was afraid of commitment. Was she? Not that Grant had ever suggested he wanted a commitment in so many words. Or maybe she was confused over the terms _commitment_ and _exclusivity_. Didn't they mean the same thing in a relationship? Like her, Grant had been married once before. He had no children and didn't seem entirely comfortable at the prospect of ever marrying again. But she was pretty sure he cared for her, beyond their sexual compatibility.

Beverly wondered if that was that enough to constitute a real and trusting relationship at the end of the day—a relationship that included her son as an intricate part of the team.

Would it ever be enough?

* * *

Grant showed Beverly out the door, waved good-bye, and settled back into his office musingly. She was the first woman he'd been with who gave as much as she took—both sexually and as a prosecutor. He was damned glad to have her on his side in both departments.

Should he be offered a judgeship, as expected, it would be all the more reason for them to mesh, without the competitive thing as trial lawyers that brought them together and could potentially tear them apart.

Grant's focus shifted to other issues on his mind. He picked up the phone and buzzed his secretary.

"Get the D.A. on the line," he ordered.

A moment later, the heavy voice said, "Yeah, Grant, what's up?"

He sighed and glanced out the window musingly. "We need to talk—"

Chapter Two

He watched from the bushes as she left the office building, wearing an aqua jogging suit that looked a size too large on her streamlined frame. He watched as she sucked in a deep breath of the cool October air and then stretched her limbs in preparation for what was a normal jog through the park across the street. She always ran alone, almost as if she considered company an invasion of her privacy.

That played right into his hands because he liked to do his thing alone, too.

A slight rustle of the bushes off to the side of the building drew her attention. For an instant in the waning sunlight, he saw fear in her face and thought he'd been detected. But that fear disappeared when she apparently decided it was nothing but the wind.

He sighed and maintained his low position, careful not to even twitch. He watched as she glanced up at a window. The light was on and the blinds were closed. If she expected someone to open them, she was disappointed. She seemed to become deeply absorbed in thought for a moment or two, before crossing the parking lot in a lazy jaunt.

He gave her a couple of minutes to enter the park, and then emerged from his hideaway. Looking around, he saw no one. Good. Now it was just him and her.

Like an addict needing a fix, he pursued her eagerly, fully expecting to be relieved of his urge.

She was in excellent shape, he admitted to himself, trailing her from a short distance as she moved at a brisk pace. But so was he. He had been lifting weights and running for years in his determination to stay fit and firm. It was the best way to survive on the streets and in the joint, if it came down to that.

For now fitness would serve him well in tracking down someone who had become his sole obsession of late.

The park was very quiet this evening. It was almost as if others had decided to stay at home, so as not to get in her way.

Or his.

Slowly, but surely, he began to close the distance between them. When she realized he was behind her, she instinctively increased her speed, determined to simply outrun him. But he countered, moving even faster, his long legs giving him the advantage. His blood was pumping like crazy and he loved the feeling. It was like building up to a mind-blowing climax. The climb was always more rewarding than the result, he knew.

Not that the result would be disappointing. On the contrary, it would be very satisfying.

After all, she had been targeted for death. And now it was time to wipe the slate clean.

Collect his just rewards.

She tried to dart in a different direction amidst tall, old Douglas fir trees, as if he somehow would simply bypass her altogether. Anticipating such, he had countered her move with one of his own, taking a short cut to beat her to the clearing on other side of the park.

She didn't realize it, but the dumb bitch had run right into his trap like a rat.

They came face to face and he saw the stark terror in her baby blue eyes. He even detected a hint of recognition as she tried to make out his face. His eyes. His sly grin. His taut, virile body.

He pulled out a switchblade, springing it open and moving it from hand to hand with the ease of a magician.

He might have pitied her, had he not applauded himself for a job soon to be well done. They had reached the point of no return. At least she had.

The fun this night was only beginning.

* * *

Sheldon Crawford huffed and puffed while atop his wife, Maxine, feeling as if he had run out of breath. He was getting too damned old for this. But at the same time, he was determined to keep up with her. A daunting task indeed. She was twenty years his junior and in her sexual prime. Meaning she wanted to be satisfied constantly and had esoteric tastes that at times tested his limits, ability, and stamina. Not his resolve, though. The worst thing he could do was ignore his young wife's needs, causing her to leave him for a younger man as his first wife had done.

Sheldon gazed into Maxine's brown eyes staring up at him from her beautiful butterscotch complexioned face. He nibbled on one of her large breasts, as she loved him to do. She winced and then murmured, taking his cheeks between her hands and attacking his mouth with fervor in hard kisses.

He propelled himself deeper into her splayed legs, feeling her constrict around him. She clawed at his back and he grunted from the pain, even while their kissing intensified.

"I'm coming..." Maxine warned him, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Don't stop, darling."

Sheldon couldn't even if he wanted to. He heard a muffled cry as Maxine seemed to feed off his orgasm to release her own. His chest heaved against her flattened breasts and they climaxed together and loudly, as the sounds of sexual gratification took center stage.

Afterwards Sheldon collapsed onto Maxine's body, keeping most of his weight on his knees so as not to crush her. He was exhausted, but gratified in the knowledge that he had pleased her. As a judge, he wanted only to please himself and his brand of justice. Sometimes he would bend the rules, if called for in the name of law and order—or the preservation of his career and satisfying certain obligations.

But as a man, he wanted to feel needed and loved. Maxine gave that to him. More than anyone had before. So the least he could do was provide her the financial and physical comforts she deserved.

Sheldon had barely felt her warm breath upon his cheek when a sharp pop rang through the air like a firecracker. A millisecond later he experienced a dull pain in his back. There was a piercing scream, which almost sounded as though it were coming from a distant place. Then he realized that it had come from the person beneath him.

Sheldon Crawford had been shot before, back in Vietnam. It was an experience you never forgot. He had been caught in an ambush and took two bullets in the chest. Both had missed his heart by scant inches. He had considered it divine intervention, and promised himself that he would make something out of the second life he had been given.

That life had carried him to the judicial bench, where he had presided over the scum who threatened to one day become free to wreak havoc on the lives of other innocent victims. Not if he could help it. He didn't believe violent criminals could ever be rehabilitated. Not in his court. They needed to be kept behind bars as long as possible to ensure public safety. And be punished severely for their crimes.

But even with the best of intentions in his heart, Sheldon knew that these desires sometimes came into conflict with powerful forces beyond his control.

In the process of passing judgment over others, Sheldon Crawford had come to believe he was somehow secure from the very dangers he devoted his life to fighting.

He was wrong.

The second scream roared into his ear like a siren gone out of control even as Sheldon felt another sharp pain explode into his body. He kept a loaded .357 Magnum in the nightstand, but had never had to use it before. And though now in excruciating pain, he knew that it was the only chance he or Maxine had to survive this night.

But his assailant, seemingly toying with him, allowed the judge to crawl halfway out of bed and lunge for the nightstand, before firing another bullet at point blank range. This one hit Sheldon Crawford in the face, killing him instantly.

* * *

Maxine Crawford, immobilized by fear, watched incredulously as half her husband's head separated from his body in something akin to a horror movie. Without time to even contemplate the terror she had just witnessed or the fact that she was now fully exposed for the shooter to see, Maxine could only think that she was next to die. She was utterly powerless to do anything about her seemingly unchangeable fate as a witness to an execution, but pray like she never had before.

Through a shaft of diminishing sunlight filtering through the window, Maxine was afforded a surprisingly clear look at the killer, lessened somewhat by the tearful haze of her eyes.

She took an instant to study the person that stood at the foot of the bed like he was standing guard. He was a Hispanic male in his early thirties, powerfully built, and short. He had coarse black hair; dark, frightful eyes that never took themselves off her nakedness, and a scowl that almost seemed to be a wicked smile.

Wearing gloves, he held the gun at his side like in an old Western movie and she wondered why he had not lifted it and pulled the trigger by now.

Suddenly all she could think about was that she wanted to live and see another day. She'd worked too hard to get what she had for it all to end like this.

Commanding her mouth to speak, Maxine said in a desperate whisper, "Please, don't kill me..."

The man said nothing, but continued to enjoy his voyeuristic show at her expense, grinning. She wanted to cover up with the satin sheets, but did not want to provoke him.

He moved to the side of the bed and she saw that his mouth had become a scowl. He raised the gun and pointed it at her.

"Please," she gasped helplessly. "I don't want to die."

"Well, you're gonna die, _bitch_!" His words were hollow and menacing.

Maxine felt she had reached the point of no return, just as Sheldon had moments earlier. There was apparently no reasoning with a cold-blooded murderer.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine how painful death would be.

Would she even know when she was dead?

Was Sheldon aware that he had gone to the other side?

Would there be the light at the end of the tunnel or would they both drift off into some horrible abyss, uncertain as to where or why?

Then Maxine heard her husband's killer say in a chilling tone, "But not yet..."

* * *

He stared at the good-looking black chick on the bed. Raven hair in box braids formed a halo around her frightened face. Pouty lips had suddenly been silenced. Her breasts and body glistened from sex, and her long, lean legs were still spread wide as though her old man was still on top of her. He could only imagine how hard the good judge had to work to satisfy her. On the other hand, _he_ was younger, hungrier, and definitely more energetic for the task.

In truth, it had been a while since he'd had a woman, at least not one who looked like her. The notion turned him on like a dam ready to burst. Only he intended to do so inside the bitch's mouth and vagina. He glanced at the bloody corpse on the floor, while thinking, _There sure as hell ain't nobody gonna stop me from taking what I want from the lady._

She certainly couldn't stop him, not even when he took the gun out of her face.

Who knows, she might even enjoy what they were about to do.

He knew he would. Every lingering moment of it.

* * *

Read the entire State's Evidence, available in eBook, print, and audio.

# # #

The following is a bonus excerpt from R. Barri Flowers' bestselling legal thriller

JUSTICE SERVED: A Barkley and Parker Mystery

Prologue

She hid under the bed, carefully controlling her breathing. She didn't move, not even a twitch. Her pink dress was dirty from the pine hardwood floor and her pink shoes were scuffed. The curls of her raven hair billowed around her head like a halo. She could see their shoes, moving around as if dancing to a tender love song.

Only she knew it was no dance.

And it was no love song.

She heard the sound of his fist as it smashed against her mama's cheek. Her mama immediately crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, dazed and moaning. Blood spilled from a corner of her swollen mouth like a red stream.

Her mama's face ballooned, her cheek shattered from the blow. One eye was swollen shut, protruding like a golf ball. With her good eye, mother and daughter made eye contact in a moment of sorrow and sheer terror.

She wanted to help her mama and save her from him. But she knew that she would be no match for his brute strength and drunken rage. In that moment of mental connection, her mama told her to remain still as the night so that she too would not face the fists and battering he had inflicted upon her.

With all of her willpower she closed her eyes tightly; her instincts telling her nothing would ever be the same again. Not that she ever wanted things to be.

Not this way.

Not with him.

When her eyes opened, her mama was no longer on the floor. She had been dragged to her feet and thrown onto the bed like a sack of soiled clothes.

"Bitch!" She heard him roar like a lion, hovering over her mama as if her shadow.

Then he hit her again. The blow must have been tremendous, for her mama's dentures went flying across the floor like a bird, landing harmlessly beneath a chair in the corner. She was pounded several more times. Her mama's blood curdling screams had turned to faint whimpers.

Then the bed suddenly sank to the point where she thought she might be crushed or cut by the jagged springs nearly touching her. It was all she could do not to make a sound, though inside she was crying as loudly as she could muster.

He had gotten on the bed with her mother.

"This ain't over, bitch," he spat. "Not by a long shot!"

She listened as she heard him unbuckle his pants.

"I'll show you to smart mouth me. When I'm done with you, you'll know who's boss, and who ain't nothin' but a damned ugly assed whore!"

She could hear some rustling noises, heavy breathing, and groans—the last coming from him by the wicked deepness of it. She couldn't bear to think of what he was doing to her mama. But she knew it was something awful. Something that would make her curse him even more than she already did.

When he was finished, she heard him roll over. Moments later he was snoring like a bear, the sound coming from deep within his throat, punctuated by labored breathing. She could hear no sounds from her mama, but suspected she was too afraid to even breathe—afraid he would wake up and continue hurting her.

She was also afraid. After waiting there paralyzed with fear for what seemed like an eternity, she nudged her way beneath the springs till she was out from under the bed. Her pink dress was covered with dust and blood from where her mama had fallen.

She stood up, intent on taking her mama away from him forever. But it took only one look at her to know this would never be. Her face was almost unrecognizable—horribly discolored and at least twice the size as normal. Her clothes had been ripped apart, exposing a frail thin body, marred with marks and bruises both fresh and from other beatings he'd inflicted upon her. Her legs were spread wide, blood oozing from between them, seeping onto the sheet like red dye.

Her mama's eyes were wide open, as if held that way by toothpicks. Whatever life was in them had vanished forever.

Beside her, he lay naked in a drunken sleep, his breathing erratic and uncertain.

She felt the hatred in her build like steam in an engine. This was softened only by the love for her mama and hardened again by her feelings of helplessness and guilt.

She climbed atop her mother's battered, broken, and bloodied body and lay there with her thumb in her mouth like it contained magical properties. It was as if she would be rocked to sleep and would wake up and find that everything was all right.

Deep down she knew that would never be the case. He had seen to that.

She began to hum a song she made up on the spot, somehow soothing her, no longer caring if he woke and hurt her as he had her mama.

After all, she could feel no greater pain, bleak darkness, or emptiness than she felt at the moment.

Chapter One

Judge Carole Cranston sat on the bench and banged her gavel. The courtroom immediately came to order on this late July afternoon. She was a no-nonsense judge who only wanted to expedite things as quickly as possible from trial to trial, preferring to be in the comfort of her condo overlooking the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon. It was especially nice at this time of year when the summer breeze came in and the sun bounced off the water as if too hot to remain in one place. She was reminded of trips to the Bahamas where she had fallen in love with Grand Bahama Island in particular. She could imagine herself maybe one day retiring to the Bahamas, Jamaica, or even Hawaii, and drink in its beauty and perennial sunshine each day for the rest of her life.

Carole returned to the present, realizing that at thirty-five years of age and three months, she was hardly able to begin thinking about retirement just yet. _I wish._ Not when she had a job to do—no matter how maddening and disillusioning at times—and people who depended on her to dispense justice to the best of her ability.

She turned her espresso eyes on the prosecutor. His name was Julian Frommer. He was in his early thirties, but looked about twenty-one with dirty blonde hair a bit too long, and a small goatee that looked almost taped under his chin. His wool navy suit was ill fitted on a tall, lanky frame.

"Are you ready?" she asked him routinely.

"Always, Your Honor." He pasted a flirtatious smile on his lips.

But Carole had not even noticed as she turned her attention to the defense. George McArdle, fortyish, African-American, and built like a house, was already on his feet and showing off a three-piece tailored gray suit. His closely cropped dark hair had a slightly crooked part off to the side. He acknowledged her with a twinkle in his eyes.

"The defense is ready to present its case, Your Honor."

She nodded and looked at the defendant. Roberto Martinez—a thirty-six-year-old, muscular, Hispanic construction worker—had been charged with beating his live-in lover half to death. The medical report said that she had sustained multiple fractures, including a shattered nose, broken jaw, broken arm, and broken leg. But she would live. And so would the memories.

Martinez grinned crookedly, as if to say: "It would have been more fun had you been on the other end of my fists, _Your Honor_."

Carole glared at him. She could feel the tiny hairs stand on the nape of her neck. But this was invisible to those before her who saw only the cool, calm, and collected attractive judge. Her russet colored individual pixies curved under her chin and onto slender shoulders, contrasting a beautiful butterscotch complexion. Beneath the black robe was a tall, shapely body with long, runner's legs.

She faced Julian Frommer again. "You may call your first witness, Counselor—"

* * *

It turned out his first witness, the victim, was a no-show. She was going to be wheeled in from the hospital where she was still recovering from her injuries. She had apparently had a change of heart and now refused to testify against Martinez. The State's case further began to unravel when it was revealed that the only other witness was a known drug dealer whose testimony came as a result of a plea bargain that would keep him from doing hard time.

Meanwhile the defense had produced witnesses who would testify that the defendant was seen at work at the alleged time of the assault. It was a shaky alibi at best that left a window of opportunity for Roberto Martinez to have committed the offense and returned to the job. But given that the victim was unwilling to refute this, the prosecution had little choice but to go along with George McArdle's request that the charges be dropped.

And neither did Carole, though this pained her more than she was willing to admit. The thought that a scumbag batterer like Martinez should get off so easily was disturbing. But then, that was the system for you. Justice often needed help to be dispensed properly.

Looking Roberto Martinez straight in the eye, Carole announced unaffectedly: "The charges have been dropped. You're free to leave, Mr. Martinez."

He grinned lasciviously, gave his attorney a hearty bear hug, and headed for the door without so much as a slap on the wrist.

Growling at Julian Frommer, Carole snapped: "I would strongly suggest that in the future you not waste the court's time—or mine—with a case you were clearly unprepared to make!"

On that note and without giving him a chance for a lame response, she headed for her chambers, disappointed that another woman beater, who was obviously guilty, had found a way to beat the system. Much in the same way he had his lover.

* * *

At Portland General Hospital, Lucie Garcia winced from the pain that wracked her entire body like it was being assaulted all at once. This in spite of the painkillers she had been given. They told her she was lucky to be alive. She didn't feel so lucky.

The Hispanic twenty-three-year-old rolled her large ink-black eyes, as if to ward off danger. Her brunette hair splayed across the pillow soaked with perspiration. An irregular line of blood had seeped across it from her mouth, which had been cut and was swollen to twice its normal size. A tube was helping her to breathe. Her fractured bones were held together with pins and casts. The rest of her was held together through sheer willpower.

She thought about Roberto. She'd been told he had been released from custody. Without her testimony, the case had gone out the window. Like a parakeet freed from its cage.

When it came right down to it, Lucie knew she couldn't testify against Roberto. Though she was afraid of him, and the beatings had become more frequent and more violent in recent months as his alcohol abuse grew worse, she loved him. She couldn't help it any more than a mother could help loving her son, no matter what he did to hurt her.

Roberto was the only man she had ever loved. The only one who didn't run away at the first opportunity another piece of ass came into view. For that she was grateful. The rest just came with the territory as far as she was concerned.

Still, Lucie wondered what awaited her when she got home. Would Roberto take it out on her because he had been in police custody? Would he want her back now that she was badly bruised and broken and didn't look anything at all like the pretty Latina who had captured his attention in the beginning?

Lucie winced again before the sedative began to take effect and she drifted off into a restless sleep. Her last thought was that maybe she would awaken and find it had all been an awful dream.

Deep down inside she knew otherwise.

Chapter Two

Roberto Martinez was counting his blessings as he sat in the bar getting drunk. He had been staring at twenty to life, according to his Afro American public defender. He figured that he'd be lucky if he ever saw the light of day again while he was young enough to be able to appreciate it.

But the devil must have been watching over his shoulder. Here he was out amongst the living again, and there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do about it.

He thought about his old lady. Yeah, he'd beaten the hell out of her. But, dammit, she deserved it. They all did. Especially when they opened their big mouths too much and their legs too little. It was the only way to keep them in line. All whores needed to be kept in line, one way or the other.

Roberto Martinez finished off his last shot of whiskey before winking at the sweet looking black broad wearing shades in the corner while imagining what he could do with her, then moseying out of the bar. The night was cool for this time of year and darker than most. Stars seemed to have disappeared, as if relinquishing their place in space for other solar systems.

Roberto had half staggered about a block when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw a tall, stacked, dark skinned woman with a blonde wig of box braids almost on top of him. He remembered she was the broad in the bar sitting all by her lonesome at the end of the counter. Only she was without the sunglasses, so he could see her eyes. They were deep, dark, enchanting. Just like the bitch herself.

"You looking for some action, honey?" she asked in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

He studied her. She had on a tight red dress that hugged every curve of her statuesque body, red gloves, and stiletto shoes. She was obviously a hooker. Why the hell not? It wasn't like his old lady was at home waiting to greet him or anything.

He grinned. "Yeah, I'm looking for some action, baby. How much will it cost?" He figured she was worth maybe twenty. Twenty-five if she was real good to him.

"Keep your money," she said curtly. "Let's just say I'm in a generous mood tonight."

Roberto regarded her uneasily. Was this some kind of a setup or something? Were they trying to get him back behind bars? Trying to trick him into doing something stupid on account of what he did to Lucie and got away with it?

"You ain't a cop, are you?" he asked tentatively.

She placed a hand on her rounded hip. "Do I look like a cop to you, sugar?"

Roberto grinned again. "Not like any damned cop I've seen," he had to admit.

"Then why are we wasting time here jawing?"

He felt at ease again. His libido was admittedly in need of a quick fix.

"Yeah," he said. "Why are we? Your place or mine?"

"Neither." She pointed toward the alley. "In there."

He looked into the darkened alley. It was hardly the ideal place to get laid. But who was he to argue? He could get his rocks off just about anywhere.

"Lead the way," he told her.

He followed the whore to the back of the alley, where she leaned up against a wall and urged him on.

"Come and get it, big boy," she teased.

Roberto could hardly contain himself as he rushed towards her. He only noticed at the last moment that she had picked up something with lightning quick speed and swung it hard at his head. He felt the impact as his skull cracked, sending him to his knees. The pain cut through him like a sharp knife. Make that a dozen sharp knives.

"How does it feel?" she asked him, a suddenly wicked edge to her voice. Before he could even think past the pain, much less respond, she struck him again with what he now suspected was a wooden bat. This time it connected across his back, smashing into his spine, paralyzing him. "Does it feel good, asshole?"

She swung the bat like an All Star baseball player, landing flush against his right cheek, dislodging his jaw and most of the teeth on that side of his face.

"Isn't this what you like to do to women, Roberto?" she spat, clubbing him across the top of the head, crushing his skull. "Well, how about a taste of your own medicine, you bastard!"

She swung again and again, each blow shattering another part of him, sending blood, bone, brain, and body pieces flying everywhere.

By the time she was finished, he was long dead. But it didn't matter, for she received great satisfaction to see to it that even in death he would never be whole again. Just like the lover he had beaten to a pulp.

She tossed the bloodied bat atop the corpse. Then she removed her wig, gloves, dress, and shoes. She put them in a duffel bag, slipped on some jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, leaving Roberto Martinez's remains to rot like raw meat.

* * *

Read the entire Justice Served, available in eBook, print, and audio.

# # #

The following is a bonus excerpt from R. Barri Flowers' bestselling mystery series

**DEAD IN PUKALANI: An Eddie Naku Maui Mystery**

Prologue

Hawaiian music filtered through the speakers on this humid August evening as Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau sat in the Great Room of her contemporary home on Hololani Street in Pukalani, a census-designated region in Maui County, Hawaii. Located on the slopes of the East Maui Volcano, Haleakalā, in an area that natives of the island refer to as Upcountry, the upscale residence was bordered by swaying palm trees and close to the Pukalani Golf Course and Country Club.

Suzette sipped a Mai Tai beneath the swirling ceiling fan as a cool breeze brought forth the aroma of eucalyptus. She brushed away a strand of curly brunette hair from her face, barely listening to the conversation in progress. In truth, her mind was elsewhere. There were many things going on in her life at once, some of which she had never meant to happen, others that were beyond her control. Nonetheless, she had resigned herself to make the best of both worlds, just as her husband Patrick had.

"Can I get you another drink, Suzette?" asked one of the three men she had allowed into their home. He was white, bald, and stocky, with a deep tan, having helped himself to the wet bar, as had the other two men.

"No, I don't think so," she told him. She'd never been able to handle her alcohol very well, and now was not the time to test it, as she'd already had one drink before the men arrived. "But feel free to help yourself to another," she offered. "Patrick should be home any time now."

Her husband, Patrick Bordeau, the successful lawyer. _Right._ _What a joke_ , Suzette thought. He'd called earlier and said he was at the office and would be a bit late, even though he was expecting the visit from his associates. She had no doubt he was busy, but it was not with work. She'd learned long ago to accept his infidelity, along with everything else that was wrong with their marriage. It was all part of the total package she'd become caught up in, mostly due to circumstances. Suzette wasn't sure if she still loved Patrick, or even if she ever truly had, but she was no longer committed to staying with him and pretending to be the dutiful wife who would always look the other way. Not when she now finally had another choice that gave her hope for something that had eluded her for a long time: happiness in a relationship. Or was that even possible? Maybe she was only deluding herself that there really could be a happy ending for two people who loved each other, no matter the obstacles standing in their way.

The ringing of her cell phone jarred Suzette from her thoughts. She pulled out the phone, looked at it for a moment, then glanced toward her visitors. The bald, stocky one had just come back with two drinks in hand, passing one to a white, tall, thinner man with sandy hair. The other man was Asian and small with a short black ponytail, still holding a drink. All three were in their thirties and chattering amongst themselves as though she were invisible. They barely seemed to notice her phone ringing.

"I need to get this," she said anyway, as if she needed an excuse to step away from the men. She moved toward the gourmet kitchen, out of their line of vision. She could hear her Rottweiler named Cherry whimpering behind the door of a spare room, anxious to get out. As soon as her guests were gone, she would let the dog out to roam freely throughout the house.

She engaged in a short conversation with the caller, while peeking out at the men, who were still huddled together, before disconnecting and rejoining them.

The Asian man gazed at her. "Everything all right?"

"I have to go out," she said tersely.

"Where?" asked the tall, thin one.

"To see someone," she responded.

"Tucker Matsumoto?" the bald one asked perceptively.

Suzette cocked a thin brow. How could he have known that? But then she quickly realized they were probably familiar with some of their other business associates through Patrick.

"Yes," she responded, knowing that their interests were indirectly represented here.

"I think we should follow you," he said, "just in case you need back up."

She swallowed thickly. "That really won't be necessary."

"We insist." The bald man's dark eyes narrowed. "Matsumoto's not to be trusted. We wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

Reluctantly, Suzette relented, feeling she didn't have much choice. Nor was there time to wait for Patrick to return home from his latest tryst.

Or course, their presence would change the nature of the meeting a bit. But if she was able to accomplish her primary goal, other things could wait till later.

* * *

Suzette drove her gray Lexus through the streets of Pukalani, glancing in the rear view mirror at the three men following her in a red F-150 pickup. She was a bit tense, under the circumstances, but tried to remain calm.

Soon she pulled into a shopping center parking lot on Old Haleakala Highway, well away from the stores, and parked near a light. It was seven fifty-five p.m. She had been told the meeting would take place at eight.

She watched as the pickup truck pulled into a spot a few feet away from her. The men remained inside.

Suzette hoped their presence didn't scare off Matsumoto. Or was that their plan?

She took out her cell phone and called Patrick. It went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, she didn't bother to leave a message.

"Damn you, Patrick," she muttered irritably, jealous that he was likely bedding another woman at that exact moment. She couldn't help herself, in spite of the fact that her own romantic feelings and sexual yearnings lay elsewhere. She took comfort in knowing that soon her life would change for the better and she would no longer need to tolerate the pain Patrick had caused her.

The knock on the partially open driver's side window caused Suzette's heart to skip a beat. She turned and saw Tucker Matsumoto's face. He was Hawaiian and had a thin mustache.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped.

She caught her breath. "I think you know."

Matsumoto cocked a brow. "He sent _you_ to bring the money?"

She almost hated to disappoint him. "No, I'm here to _collect_ money—from you."

He frowned. "I owe you nothing."

"The merchandise you have says otherwise, Matsumoto," she said boldly. "If you think you can screw us out of payment—"

"You'll do what?" he said, cutting her off. "Go to the cops?" He laughed derisively. "I don't think so."

Suzette was furious at his arrogance and clear intention to stiff them. Just as she contemplated her next move, a shot rang out, striking Matsumoto, who doubled over. Another shot hit him and he went down.

Fearful that she might be next, Suzette reached in her purse for her gun, which she kept for protection. But it was too late. The crackling sound of gunfire, seemingly louder than ever, rang through her ears. The sudden realization that she'd been shot left her numb, then she felt her head spinning, and suddenly everything was pitch black.

Chapter One

The vibrancy of laughter echoed throughout the bedroom as Eddie Naku playfully nibbled on the neck of his current romantic interest, Gayle Luciano, a flight attendant. They were naked in bed making love on a steamy night. It was one of those on again, off again relationships, where neither was ready to make a real commitment and both were the better for it. Instead, they got together when their conflicting schedules allowed and their bodies lusted for one another.

Now was one of those times as Naku pushed aside his life as a private investigator in favor of a good romp in the sack.

The ringing of his cell phone put a crimp in that. He tried to ignore it, as did his lover.

"Don't answer it," Gayle pleaded. "Remember, this is your day off—and mine."

For a moment, Naku found her incredible powers of persuasion too much to ignore as she claimed his lips with her own.

But the damned phone ringing persisted. Against his better judgment, he decided he better answer it. He pried their mouths apart and hoisted his muscular six-foot-three-inch body from the bed. Seeing the disappointment in Gayle's face, he said, "Don't worry. Whoever it is, I'll get rid of them."

"You better," she said, pouting.

He dug the cell phone out of his jeans that had ended up on the floor. The caller was his secretary, Vanna.

"I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time," she said.

Naku gazed at his lover, ready and waiting. "As a matter of fact, you did."

"Sorry, but there's a lady here, a Ms. Higuchi, who—"

He cut her off. "It's my day off. She can come back tomorrow."

"Well, the thing is, she insisted on seeing you _today_ ," Vanna told him. "She said it can't wait."

_Higuchi_. The name had a ring of familiarity to it, and not because it was common on the Hawaiian Islands. He remembered now. A week ago, a Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau was shot to death in Pukalani. The shooter was still at large. Coincidence?

"She says she was referred to you," Vanna said. "She seems really desperate."

He glanced at Gayle, who seemed a bit desperate herself to finish where they left off. But since he was in the business of private detective work and prided himself on never turning down a paying customer, he felt he should at least see what this potential one wanted of him.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he told Vanna.

"I'll pass that along," she said happily.

Naku disconnected and turned to his bed mate. "I have to go," he said regrettably.

She frowned. "Why am I not surprised?"

"It's work." He ran a hand through his long dark hair. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."

She sprang out of bed, her large breasts bouncing, and her tight ass barely moving. "Don't bother!"

He watched as she started to get dressed. "Where are you going?"

"To work!"

"But I thought you had the day off..."

Gayle sneered. "Yeah, and I thought you did too."

Naku was speechless, but understood that their little tit for tat was pretty much par for the course in their relationship. She was pissed at him now, but by the time she got back in town, that would likely pass and they could resume whatever it was they had going on.

For now, he had to take things for what they were between them and get to his office.

* * *

He beat Gayle out the door of her small plantation house in Napilihau, located in West Maui, and got into his Subaru Forester for the short drive to Lahaina, the most populated area of Maui County during the peak tourist season. As a third generation Native Hawaiian, Eddie Naku was happy to carry the torch of his ancestors in being a free spirit and respecting the land. At thirty-six, he had given up a career as a homicide detective for the Maui Police Department two years ago in favor of being his own boss and solving cases that sometimes required working the edges of the law.

Though Maui wasn't exactly New York City or Honolulu for that matter, when it came to criminal activity, there were still enough lawbreakers and other types of investigative work to keep him busy. When that failed, he was more than happy to indulge in his other passions, which included drinking, working out, riding horses, reading thriller fiction, and women. Gayle flew the international routes, mostly to and from Japan, Singapore, New Zealand, and Australia. He had no idea when she'd be back and she was probably in no hurry to see him, but neither of them made any promises to one another, so they could go whichever way the wind guided them.

His thoughts turned to the woman who had taken him away from Gayle at the worst possible time. What was her story? Who referred her to him and why was she so damned intent on seeing him this afternoon?

He'd find out soon enough. He pulled onto Keawe Street and parked in his customary spot in front of his office. Painted on the window were the words: Eddie Naku Investigations.

Naku stepped inside the dusty, beige-carpeted, white walled place that was divided into three sections: a small waiting area; the office of his dependable secretary, Vanna Dandridge; and his own office. He observed the attractive, slim, long blonde-haired Hawaiian woman in her mid-thirties sitting in the waiting area. She was nicely dressed in a blue dress with high-heeled sandals.

As he met her bold, brown eyes, she stood up.

"I'm Eddie Naku," he introduced himself.

Before she could speak, Vanna bounded out of her office. "You're finally here," she said. "Good."

He grinned while giving her the once over. Vanna was forty, twice divorced, and not bad on the eyes. She was petite and wore her crimson hair in a bob. She had just moved to Maui from Honolulu at the same time he opened up his private investigation business. The timing had worked out well for both of them.

He looked back at the other woman.

"This is—" Vanna started to say.

"Kathryn Higuchi," the woman finished.

Naku extended his arm to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Higuchi."

She proffered a small hand with perfectly manicured nails and they shook. He tried to read her, as he'd done so many other potential clients, but failed miserably.

"Why don't we step into my office so you can tell me why you're here?"

She nodded and he waved Vanna off with eye contact, as if to say he'd take it from there.

His office was pretty nondescript: wooden desk, leather chair, laptop, printer, flat panel television, two stacking guest chairs, and a window with a view of the street.

He invited her to have a seat and he did the same, opting to sit beside her rather than at his desk.

"So how can I help you?" he asked evenly.

"I'd like to hire you."

"To do what?"

"Find out who murdered my sister—" She paused. "Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau. She was shot to death last Friday."

He nodded. "I heard about that and I'm sorry for your loss. But it's an ongoing police investigation."

She frowned. "I don't want to wait until the police get around to solving the crime, if they ever do."

"I can appreciate that you want answers quickly," he told her, "but it doesn't always work that way."

Kathryn frowned. "My sister and I were very close. She didn't deserve to die that way. I need answers. And I think you can give them to me. Money is no object. Please..."

Naku had always had a hard time turning down a pretty face where money was not an issue in paying his fees. It was even more difficult when she was as striking as this one. However, he usually refrained from working on active police cases, so as not to bump heads with his former colleagues.

Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule. Maybe this would be one.

"Tell me about your sister and what you know, if anything, about her death."

He listened as she described Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau as the unhappy wife of a prominent Maui attorney, Patrick Bordeau, and the shooting that took her life and seriously wounded a man named Tucker Matsumoto. Three men were taken into custody briefly in connection with the crime, but were released for lack of evidence.

"There's not much else I can tell you, other than I believe my sister was set up the night she was murdered," Kathryn finished.

Naku regarded her with curiosity. "I take it you have someone in mind who set your sister up?"

She met his eyes sharply. "Yes, her husband, Patrick—"

Naku recalled reading that the husband lawyer had previously represented two of the men who were taken into custody, and he was also the current attorney for Tucker Matsumoto. Though it was strange for sure, it hardly meant that Bordeau was behind his wife's murder. At the same time, the spouse was often the first suspect in such cases, which surely the police were looking into.

"What makes you think Bordeau had anything to do with this?" Naku asked.

Kathryn sighed. "He may not have been the one to pull the trigger, and even that's suspect, but he certainly had a very good motive for wanting her dead. Suzette often confided in me about what was going on in her life. Patrick's been involved in a gunrunning scheme, which brought in a good deal of money and just as much debt. He had a life insurance policy on Suzette for half a million dollars—an amount that would probably cover his obligations, and then some, if she were out of the picture. I also know that Patrick was having an affair with another woman and Suzette wanted out of the marriage. She was prepared to blow his whole arms trafficking operation wide open, ruining his career and likely sending him to prison."

"Those are certainly some compelling reasons for killing one's spouse," Naku acknowledged, having seen intimates murdered for far less. "Have you told the police any of this?"

"Yes, of course I did. They basically dismissed it as insufficient or hearsay."

He agreed, but also understood that such things would not likely be made public, even to family, until the case could be made one way or the other. Still, something told him that there was more to the story.

"So I take it there's no love lost between you and Bordeau."

She wrinkled her nose. "Why would you say that?"

"Call it instincts."

She paused. "I never thought he was good enough for my sister," she admitted. "Patrick is a control freak and never treated Suzette right. I think he's more than capable of killing her, if he thought he could get away with it."

"We'll see about that," Naku said, keeping an open mind.

"Does that mean you'll take the case?" Kathryn pressed. "I don't want my sister's death to end up as another unsolved homicide while her killer runs free."

Naku didn't have to give it much thought at this point. Since the police hadn't made any arrests yet, and the case was still open, why not look into it. Also, there was something about Kathryn Higuchi that piqued his interest and made him want to keep the connection alive.

"My fee is five hundred dollars an hour, plus any unusual expenses I incur in the course of the investigation," he told her, in the event she had any second thoughts. "I typically require a five thousand dollar retainer to take on a case that looks like it could take a while."

"As I said, I have no problem with your fees, if it means getting to the bottom of why my sister lost her life."

Naku knew he couldn't guarantee results, but he told her sincerely, "I'll do my best to find the answers you're looking for."

Kathryn pulled out her checkbook and wrote a check, handing it to him. "That should cover a week and any added expenses."

"Indeed," Naku told her after gazing at the check. "Mahalo."

"Thank you for taking the case," she told him, then dug in her handbag and pulled out a card containing her address and cell phone number. "Please keep me informed as to what you learn."

"I will," he promised, meeting her lovely eyes.

She stood. "I better go."

Naku rose and walked her to the outer door, when curiosity got the better of him. "By the way, who referred you to me anyway?" He would be sure to thank the person.

Kathryn looked him straight in the eye. "Why it was Lieutenant Ortega of the Maui Police Department."

Naku nodded with a smile. He and Ortega had worked together during his days on the force and were on good terms. Still, it wasn't every day that the man sent business his way. Why?

He showed Kathryn out just as Vanna stepped out of her office. "Looks like we've got ourselves a client," she said.

"Yeah, I'd say so," Naku responded.

"And she's a hot lady too," Vanna said with a wink. "I hope you'll be able to concentrate on the investigation."

He grinned, conceding that Kathryn was definitely his type. But then, so was Gayle. He wasn't too picky about women, as long as they were energetic and fun loving.

However, Kathryn Higuchi had hired him to do a job and that had to come first.

"I think I can manage," he said, "with your help of course."

"That's what you pay me for," she said dryly.

"You can earn your keep by getting me everything you can find regarding Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau's murder as well as the lady herself."

"Will do." She looked at him. "What are you going to do now?"

"I think I'll pay Lieutenant Ortega a visit to see if he can fill in some blanks for me," Naku told her thoughtfully.

Chapter Two

The Maui Police Department was located in Wailuku, the county seat of Maui County. Eddie Naku felt at home and a little weird at the same time as he made his way through the corridors, speaking briefly with ex-colleagues, en route to the office of Lieutenant Paul Ortega.

He came to a halt as homicide detective Leila Kahana blocked his path.

"What brings you back here, Naku?" she asked.

He grinned, recalling their brief fling back in the day, before both wisely realized they weren't right for each other. "I came to see Lieutenant Ortega," he told her.

"Oh?" Her lashes fluttered. "Anything I might be interested in?"

He imagined she was interested in any ongoing homicide cases for the department. "Yeah. The Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau case."

"What's your interest in it?"

"Her sister hired me to look into it," he said.

"And you're seeking Ortega's permission to run with it?" Leila asked.

He smiled. "Not exactly. But I do need to talk to him, so..."

"So I'm slowing you down. I get it." She smiled. "I would say don't be a stranger, but something tells me you won't be."

Naku wondered if she was coming on to him, then decided she was only being polite. "I promise I won't step on any toes," he told her, though he wasn't sure it was a promise he could keep.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she responded, before stepping aside.

When he reached Ortega's office, Naku found him sitting at his desk. The fifty-something lieutenant was medium build with receding gray hair and blue eyes. He was talking on the phone, clearly preoccupied. A few raps on the door got his attention. He waved him in.

Ortega cut his conversation short. "Guess Ms. Higuchi took my advice," he said.

"Yeah, she showed up at my office," Naku told him.

"Did you take the case?"

"I did." He paused. "I have to admit, though, I was a bit surprised that you sent her my way, considering it's still an active police investigation."

Ortega smiled. "Maybe I figured that since Ms. Higuchi is beautiful, well-to-do, and divorced, she'd be right up your alley, Naku."

"She is," he conceded. "But, then again, we are talking about her as a business client and not someone to take to bed."

"Who says the two can't go hand in hand?" Ortega said, and grinned lasciviously. "Have a seat." He waited for Naku to sit in one of two tattered chairs in front of the desk, then got up and closed the door.

Ortega sat back down. "You're right. The Higuchi-Bordeau case is currently being investigated by the department."

Naku met his eyes. "So why have me run a parallel investigation?" He assumed there was a valid reason other than trying to enhance his love life.

Ortega leaned forward. "Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau is a friend of a friend's. I want this case solved one way or the other. My detectives will do their best to bring the killer to justice but, frankly, we're spread a bit thin and I don't want to see this one dragged out. Since you're pretty good at what you do, I figured that tackling it from a different angle might get results a bit quicker."

"I see," Naku said. It made sense to him, all things considered. And he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "What have you got on the case so far?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Ortega said glumly. "The slugs pulled out of the victim came from a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. I'm guessing the firearm wasn't registered, but we're trying to locate it. As far as identifying the killer, surveillance cameras at the shopping center where the murder occurred just show a grainy image of someone who appeared to be running away from the scene of the crime, apparently wearing a hoodie. We can't determine if it's a male or female. We're still reviewing security cameras from nearby businesses to see if they show anything useful."

Naku leaned back in the chair. "What can you tell me about the three men who were questioned about the crime?"

"They were acquaintances of Higuchi-Bordeau and her criminal defense attorney husband, Patrick Bordeau. They witnessed the shooting and have been cooperating with us. Apparently, they followed Higuchi-Bordeau from her home to the shopping center parking lot on Old Haleakala Highway. According to them, she received a phone call from someone prior to going to meet with the other victim, Tucker Matsumoto. The shooting took place shortly after the men arrived and parked nearby."

"Did the call come from Matsumoto?" Naku asked.

"Not according to Matsumoto. He claimed he was just there picking up a few items from the shopping center when he spotted her car."

"Do you believe him?"

"Not really," Ortega said. "But if he was there for something illegal, he sure as hell isn't going to admit to it. In any event, we traced the number to a burner phone."

_Figures_ , Naku thought. "So it's possible both she and Matsumoto could have been set up."

"Maybe," Ortega said. "Or maybe one or both were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Naku rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Just like the men who followed her there, but somehow managed to come out of it unscathed."

Ortega frowned. "I've thought about that, especially since none of the men have a clean rap sheet. Bordeau represented two of them—Shawn Wilkerson and Rex Lee—on illegal gun possession charges." He passed Naku a sheet of their records, which included mug shots, and then handed him a third criminal record and mug shot. "Clark Oldham has a record for dealing drugs. And Bordeau's also the attorney for Matsumoto, a smalltime illegal gun dealer, who faces similar yet unrelated charges. So far, there's no indication that any of the men at the scene of the crime, including Matsumoto, were the shooter. With nothing to hold them, we had to let them walk."

Naku studied the rap sheets and then looked up. "How's Matsumoto doing?"

"He'll live," Ortega said as though that was a bad thing.

"You think he was the intended victim?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe the shooter was gunning for both of them. If Matsumoto was the intended target, given his criminal activities, Mrs. Bordeau could've been killed to eliminate any witnesses—assuming the shooter was unaware that the three men were watching the whole thing unfold from another vehicle. Right now, we have to assume that Higuchi-Bordeau was also targeted, if not the primary target. By the way," Ortega added, "she had a loaded .32 caliber pistol in her purse, but it hadn't been fired."

Naku silently mulled that over. _Why would she need to carry a gun? Did she have reason to fear for her life? If so, what or who was she afraid of?_

"Have you questioned Patrick Bordeau?" he asked, assuming this had been the case.

Ortega nodded. "We asked him to come in and he did. He answered all our questions without the presence of an attorney, other than himself."

"I'm sure you know that my client thinks he was responsible for his wife's murder," Naku said.

"Yeah, she mentioned that more than once," Ortega acknowledged. "Unfortunately, Bordeau has an alibi for the time of the shooting."

"Which was...?"

"He was working at his office. It checked out. His secretary vouched for him."

Naku couldn't argue with the alibi, unless he was to assume that the secretary was in on the murder as well. He saw no reason to go down that road at the moment. However, murderers weren't always at the scene of the crime. It was just the opposite in many instances, with the ringleader clever enough to stay far away, but close enough to smell blood.

"What about the substantial insurance policy he supposedly had on his wife?" Naku asked. "And the fact that he's allegedly heavily in debt. That gives him two possible reasons to want her out of the picture."

"We're looking into both of them," Ortega said. "But, as you know, these things take time to sort out. Right now, there's no evidence that Bordeau was involved in his wife's murder for profit. The man is a well-respected attorney, and it seems like there's no shortage of low-life's with high earnings seeking his services."

"All the more reason why he may have orchestrated his wife's murder," Naku said. "He could easily hide behind his career and let others do the dirty work for him."

"So prove it and make my job a helluva lot easier," Ortega said bluntly.

Naku accepted the challenge, for better or worse. He stood up. "If you get anything from the security cameras or anything else relevant to the case, let me know."

"Will do," Ortega promised. "And if you run into any problems that don't involve breaking the law, I'm here to help."

Naku made a note of that, wondering if he could truly count on him, even it if meant stepping on the toes of police detectives working the case. "Mahalo," he told him, before leaving.

* * *

Naku got in his car and called his office. "Hey, Vanna. So what do you have for me on Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau?"

"Hang on, let me pull up the info... Mrs. Higuchi-Bordeau was thirty-seven when she died. She and Patrick Bordeau had been married for ten years. Before that, she taught grade school, but retired to become a stay-at-home-wife to an up and coming attorney. I couldn't find anything to indicate their marriage was in trouble."

"That's not the type of thing that would necessarily be plastered all over the internet," Naku said wryly.

"Probably not," Vanna concurred.

"But her sister believes the marriage had problems," Naku said. "And since she's paying us, we'll have to assume all was not right behind closed doors till proven otherwise."

"I can't argue with that," Vanna said. "After all, I've been down that road twice, with no one the wiser that my marriages were a total disaster until I was practically signing the divorce papers."

"Well, Higuchi-Bordeau never got that chance," Naku said. "Someone took her out before she could walk away from Bordeau—if, in fact, that was her plan."

"And I'm confident you'll get to the bottom of it," she said.

Naku chuckled. "I'll certainly try. Did you come up with a connection between Higuchi-Bordeau and anyone else, other than her husband and the men who were at the scene of the crime?"

"Not yet, but I'll keep looking."

"So will I," Naku said, and then caught up on some prior business issues with her before hanging up.

He headed home as he pondered his latest investigation. At this point, he could only wonder why Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau was killed and who might have done it or been responsible for it. He fully expected to get to the gist of it one way or the other. After all, this was how he made his living and he never liked to come up short, if only to earn his pay.

He turned into the driveway of his Craftsman bungalow on Ipukula Way in Lahaina. It had come on the market just when he was looking to get out of his last house right after he left the police force. This one had appealed to him for its charm and the location—not too far from the hustle bustle of Front Street, yet still peaceful, laidback, and close to his office. He also liked that the backyard contained a number of fruit producing trees, including mango and papaya.

After entering the front door, Naku headed across the hardwood floor of his Great Room and went straight to the kitchen. There, he opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. After guzzling down a generous amount, he changed into a tee shirt and shorts before heading to his exercise room for a workout.

Later, he called Gayle and got her voicemail after several rings. He figured that meant she was still pissed and didn't want to talk to him. It was something he would have to live with, while hoping they could at least stay friends at the end of the day.

In the meantime, he had a case to keep him occupied and a dead woman whose sister wanted to keep her alive, in a manner of speaking.

* * *

The following morning, Naku decided to pay Patrick Bordeau a visit at his office in Kahului, where the island's main airport and the Kahului Harbor were located. Bordeau's office was in a complex on East Wakea Avenue.

Naku took the stairs to the second floor and spotted the print on a door, which read: The Law Office of Patrick L. Bordeau. He opened it and went inside.

A young woman with short blonde hair sat at a desk in the lobby. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm here to see Mr. Bordeau," Naku told her, noting from the name plate on her desk that she was Tanya Johansson.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but it is important that I speak to him," he stressed.

Just then, a salt and pepper haired, tall, trim, well-dressed man came out of an office. He seemed preoccupied, but stopped in his tracks as his deep blue eyes locked with Naku's eyes.

"He would like to talk to you, Mr. Bordeau, but doesn't have an appointment," the secretary said apologetically.

While her boss considered this, Naku seized the moment and stuck out his hand. "My name's Eddie Naku."

Bordeau gave him a wary look, but shook his hand. "How can I help you, Mr. Naku?"

"I'm a private investigator looking into your wife's murder..." Naku watched as surprise—or perhaps it was ill at ease—registered on his face.

Bordeau sucked in a breath and turned to his secretary. "Hold my calls." He regarded Naku. "Why don't we go into my office and talk?"

Naku followed him into the large office with a big window that overlooked palm trees and a pond. Bordeau closed the door and rounded on him.

"My wife's death is a police matter!"

"It's also an unsolved case, and sometimes private detectives can achieve better results," Naku pointed out.

Bordeau's thick brows drew together. "Who hired you?"

"Your sister-in-law, Kathryn Higuchi."

"I should have guessed as much." He bristled. "So Kathryn decided to hire an investigator to look into Suzette's death? Well, I'm afraid you're just wasting your time and her money."

"Maybe," Naku allowed. "Or maybe not. The point is, your wife is dead, and her killer is still at large. I would think you'd want to move heaven and earth to bring such person to justice."

"Of course I would." Bordeau's face softened. "I've already told the police everything I know."

Naku couldn't help but think that he was holding back. For what reason? "Why would your wife meet with a known illegal gun dealer? And why were those other men—two of whom are clients of yours with criminal records—there?"

Bordeau sighed. "Suzette went to meet with Tucker Matsumoto to try to collect money he owed us for the sale of some weapons I owned. It was a perfectly legitimate transaction, I assure you. As for Matsumoto being a known illegal gun dealer, as you put it, that hasn't been proven. The other men are indeed my clients and had come to my house for legal advice. They offered to follow Suzette to the meeting place in order to protect her from any harm that might come from street hoodlums who are known to prowl that area."

"Right. And how did that work out for her?" Naku asked sarcastically.

"Not very well," he acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean the attack had anything to do with Suzette's purpose for being there—or the men who were present, no matter their background or present circumstances."

Naku gave him a direct look. "From what I understand, your clients never bothered to call 911. Instead, they drove around with your wife and a seriously wounded Matsumoto for a while before going to the hospital. That probably cost your wife her life," he added, if only to make a point.

Bordeau frowned. "They told me Suzette was dead before they put her in the vehicle, and the autopsy seems to back it up. My clients admitted they panicked out of fear that they would be charged with the crime. Fortunately for them, the authorities didn't pursue that angle and are looking for the real killer now."

"Who do you think murdered your wife?" Naku asked pointblank, while wondering if this could possibly have anything to do with his alleged love life outside the marriage.

"I have no idea," Bordeau said as he ran a hand across his mouth. "If I had to guess, I'd say it was someone who had it in for Tucker Matsumoto, and Suzette was caught in the crossfire."

"So you're saying that Matsumoto has enemies?" Naku asked.

"I'm saying that in his line of work as a licensed gun dealer, he could have come across some people who didn't want to play by the rules."

"Maybe it was Matsumoto who didn't play by the rules," Naku tossed at him, while thinking: _Or your wife_.

Bordeau wrinkled his nose. "I'll leave it up to the police to figure out." He paused. "Or perhaps you..."

"I guess I won't take up any more of your time," Naku said amusingly. When he got to the door, he turned around and asked, "By the way, do you know who your wife might have been talking to on the phone the night of her death? Apparently, that's what sent her out to meet with Matsumoto."

Bordeau flashed him a pensive stare. "I wish I did know. My wife had many friends—some of whom she didn't share with me. Could be the call had nothing to do with her death."

"Or it could have had everything to do with it," Naku said, "since this person made sure to use a virtually untraceable burner phone. What do you make of that?"

Bordeau shrugged. "Not much. Many people use that kind of phone for different reasons." He paused. "If the caller turns out to be involved in my wife's murder, I hope the authorities can prove it."

"You and me both," Naku muttered, "whoever it happens to be..."

Bordeau's brows bridged. "If you're suggesting it was me, you're way off base. I have an iPhone that I use regularly and have no reason to hide that fact."

Naku didn't believe for one second that meant he was above using a disposable phone on the side for any conversations he wanted to keep off the grid. Including one in which he could have been setting up his own wife to be killed.

"Thanks for talking with me," he said kindly.

"You didn't exactly give me much choice," Bordeau said. "Next time, you should make an appointment."

"Yeah, I'll try to remember that."

He walked out of the office, but Bordeau didn't follow him.

Naku turned toward the attorney's secretary as he heard her saying on the phone, "You have a delivery, Mr. Bordeau." She listened to his response as Naku took note of the large envelope. "I'll bring it right in." She listened again and replied in a low tone, "He's still here—"

Naku realized she was talking about him. He gave a little grin while caught eavesdropping, and said, "I was just leaving..."

She smiled and said, "Aloha."

Naku wondered if Bordeau had played any role in his wife's death.

* * *

In his car, Naku checked in with Vanna, took a few messages, and gave her the rest of the day off. He headed for the hospital to pay Matsumoto a visit. He had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the shoulder. Neither wound had been life threatening, leaving Naku to believe he likely wasn't the primary target. Either that or he was damned lucky, which was something that couldn't be said for Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau.

Matsumoto was a patient at Maui General Medical Center in Wailuku. Naku stepped into his room and saw him sitting up in bed, eating, and watching television, clearly not the worse for wear, in spite of being shot twice.

"Do I know you?" he asked, putting his sandwich down.

"Not yet. Name's Eddie Naku. I'm a private investigator looking into the death of Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau."

He furrowed his brow. "Sorry. Can't help you."

"Can't or won't?" Naku asked sharply.

"Same thing. We were both shot by an unknown assailant. End of story."

"Actually, it's only the beginning of the story," Naku said. "Why were you there?"

"I already told the police—I was shopping and came upon her by chance."

"We both know that's a boatload of crap," Naku said, "considering you didn't have anything on your person that was purchased from the shopping center. You were there to see Higuchi-Bordeau or someone else and got shot, but lived to talk about it. Same thing can't be said for her."

Matsumoto looked at him suspiciously. "Who hired you? Or were you banging Suzette and doing this because you miss her so much?"

Naku wondered if Patrick Bordeau would take kindly to his client speaking ill of the dead. Or was he too busy with his own alleged adultery to give a damn?

"Never mind who hired me," he told him. "I can assure you that I wasn't involved with Suzette. However, I am determined to honor her memory by seeing to it that her killer is brought to justice."

Matsumoto sipped his drink. "Good luck with that."

Naku narrowed his eyes. "So what was it—an illegal gun deal gone bad?"

"I'm a _legal_ gun dealer," he said with a straight face.

"And that's why you've retained Bordeau as your lawyer?" Naku asked skeptically.

"I'm just trying to protect myself."

"Or maybe you're trying to protect yourself _and_ Bordeau," Naku suggested.

"I don't know what you're talking about, man."

"Whatever you say." Naku furrowed his brow. "Whoever killed Suzette is still out there," he warned. "Just because you're still alive, doesn't mean you don't have an X on your back."

"Yeah, well, I think I'll take my chances," Matsumoto said defiantly. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my meal, even if it is terrible."

Naku took out one of his business cards and set it on his tray. "If you change your mind and want to talk, let me know."

He left on that note, and was pretty sure that Matsumoto knew a hell of a lot more than he was letting on. But did he see the shooter? And was the person gunning for him too?

* * *

Naku went to see Brett Kawachi, the deputy prosecuting attorney of Maui County. He had done some work for Kawachi when he first started his private investigation business so he was hoping to get some insight into Patrick Bordeau from him.

The Department of the Prosecuting Attorney was located in Wailuku. Naku took the elevator to Kawachi's third floor office, sure to find him there. After all, the man he'd worked with hardly ever took a day off, as if trying to prove something to someone, if not himself.

Kawachi greeted Naku at the door to his office as if they were old friends, after the deputy PA's secretary had sent him in.

"Eddie Naku," Kawachi said in a husky voice, "Aloha 'auinalā."

Naku smiled, repeating the words back to him, which meant good afternoon. He looked up at the shorter, wider deputy prosecuting attorney with receding gray hair.

"Does this mean you're ready to work full-time for the Prosecuting Attorney's office?" Kawachi asked, gazing at him.

"Afraid not," Naku told him. He preferred being his own boss as an investigator.

Kawachi frowned. "That's too bad. So what brings you to my office?"

"I've been hired to look into the death of Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau. I'm sure you're familiar with the case..."

Kawachi nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm familiar with it. Terrible thing that happened to her. The police are working the case."

"Yes, but not fast enough for Ms. Higuchi-Bordeau's sister," Naku told him. "She's my client and we're looking for answers."

"Well, you have to make a living somehow," Kawachi said. "Not sure I can be much help to you, as this case hasn't reached us yet."

"What can you tell me about Patrick Bordeau?" Naku asked. "I take it you've crossed paths from time to time?"

Kawachi nodded. "We have, both in and out of the courtroom." He glanced over at some chairs around a small table and pointed in that direction. "Let's sit."

"Okay." Naku sat down, while wondering if Kawachi could provide anything useful in his quest to get more information on the man his client held responsible for her sister's death.

Kawachi leaned back in the chair. "So what do you want to know about him?"

"What type of guy is he?"

"Well, he's a damn good lawyer, a gun enthusiast, charming, and someone who can look you in the eye without blinking."

Naku sneered. "Why would he defend a crook that might have had something to do with his wife's murder?"

"The pat answer to that is everyone deserves a defense, no matter their position in life," Kawachi responded. "Having previously been a defense attorney, I've taken on clients who were less than ideal in their particular circumstances, but asked for my help. I assume the same is true for Patrick Bordeau, especially with no charges being filed yet implicating anyone in his wife's death."

"My client believes Bordeau is involved in an arms trafficking operation," Naku told him.

Kawachi cocked a brow. "That's a serious charge."

"Yeah, it is," Naku said. "Problem is she only has her sister's word on that and, of course, her sister is no longer around to corroborate it."

"So she thinks Bordeau was involved in his wife's murder?"

"That's right," Naku said. "My client believes her sister was about to blow this operation out of the water, but was killed before she could do so. It wouldn't be the first time a man offed his wife to keep her quiet."

"And why would the wife try to ruin Bordeau?" Kawachi asked. "Is there something I'm missing here?"

"He was cheating on her," Naku said, though it hadn't been proven yet. "Maybe this was her payback, big time."

"Infidelity is a good motive," Kawachi said as he smoothed his jaw line. "Bordeau has a reputation for being a womanizer, marriage aside. But that doesn't make him a killer, much less an arms trafficker. Besides, I understand that he had an alibi."

"As a lawyer, Bordeau's smart enough to get someone else to do his dirty work for him, if needed," Naku suggested.

"True enough. But I need a lot more than innuendoes and possibilities to go after Patrick Bordeau."

"I understand." In fact, Naku felt the same way. He wasn't about to pin a murder and an attempted murder on Bordeau without solid evidence to back it up. That was something the police clearly did not have at the moment, and neither did he.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you," Kawachi said, eyeing him.

Naku agreed. "That's how I earn my pay."

"You could probably earn more as one of my investigators," the deputy prosecuting attorney reminded him.

"Probably, but then I wouldn't get to call all the shots."

Kawachi lifted a brow. "Is it that important to you?"

"Damned right, it is!" Naku met his eyes. "Something I'm sure you can relate to," he added, knowing that his role with the prosecuting attorney's office pretty much gave him such leverage.

When he left Kawachi's office, Naku found he still had more questions than answers in this case. In the meantime, whoever shot to death Suzette Higuchi-Bordeau was still out there and likely in no hurry to confess to the crime without pressure to do so.

* * *

Read the entire Dead in Pukalani, available in eBook, audio, and print.

# # #

**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

R. Barri Flowers is an award winning criminologist and bestselling author of more than eighty books, including mystery and thriller fiction, relationship novels, young adult mysteries, and children's books.

Fiction titles include Before He Kills Again, Dark Streets of Whitechapel, Dead in Pukalani, Dead in Kihei, Forever Sweethearts, Fractured Trust, Killer in The Woods, Murder in Maui, Murder in Honolulu, Murdered in the Man Cave, Murder on Kaanapali Beach, Murder of the Hula Dancers, Persuasive Evidence, Seduced to Kill in Kauai, State's Evidence, and Justice Served.

Young adult fiction includes Count Dracula's Teenage Daughter, Danger in Time, Daughter of Count Dracula, Ghost Girl in Shadow Bay, Out for Blood, Teen Ghost at Dead Lake, and Summer at Paradise Ranch.

The author has also written a number of top selling true crime titles, including Murder of the Banker's Daughter, The "Gold Special" Train Robbery, The Sex Slave Murders 1, 2, and 3, The Pickaxe Killers, Murder at the Pencil Factory, Killers of the Lonely Hearts, and Dead at the Saddleworth Moor.

As a sought after expert on true crime, R. Barri Flowers has appeared on the Biography Channel, Investigation Discovery, and Oxygen television series.

Follow R. Barri Flowers on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Pinterest, YouTube, Flickr, Goodreads, and LibraryThing. Learn more about the author in Wikipedia and www.rbarriflowers.com.

