Court of Killers Read online

  Court of Killers

  Daniel Pike Series, Volume 2

  WILLIAM BERNHARDT

  Published by Babylon Books, 2019.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike novels

  The Burning Question

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Twittering Cloud

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  The Perception Filter

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Sneak Preview of Trial by Blood (Book 3 of the Daniel Pike series

  Dan’s Recipes

  About the Author

  Also by William Bernhardt

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  Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike novels

  “Court of Killers provides a mind-teasing investigation, vital courtroom conflict, and multiple perspectives on an issue that permeates all of our lives.”

  Rick Ludwig, author of Pele’s Fire

  “[Court of Killers] is a wonderful second book in the Daniel Pike legal thriller series...[A] top-notch, suspenseful crime thriller with excellent character development...”

  Timothy Hoover, fiction and nonfiction author

  “[The Last Chance Lawyer is] a brisk tale with a surprisingly sympathetic protagonist...”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “Bernhardt is the undisputed master of the courtroom drama."

  Library Journal

  “William Bernhardt is a born stylist, and his writing through the years has aged like a fine wine....”

  Steve Berry, author of the Cotton Malone thrillers

  Copyright © 2019 by William Bernhardt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  dedicated to the Oklahoma Center for the Book

  with gratitude for all it has done for Oklahoma writers

  “All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.”

  Gabriel Garcia Márquez

  The Burning Question

  Chapter 1

  “How much would you give for one moment of perfect pleasure?”

  “A great deal.”

  “Would you give anything?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Can you deliver?”

  “I can.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Doesn’t pleasure always hurt? In the end?”

  * * *

  She held his hand as they walked down the narrow hallway of Crislip Arcade, a testament to nostalgia and commerce, just as they were. Was his grip somewhat tentative? Obligatory? Under the circumstances, she was astounded he was willing to touch her at all. Perhaps this was attributable to the enormity of the promise she had made. Who wouldn’t take a chance to obtain the elusive butterfly they had pursued their entire life?

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the display in one of the shops. “Can you believe it? Old-style vinyl records. Everything old is new again.”

  “Vinyl probably seems more romantic if you weren’t there for it the first time around,” she replied. “All I remember are the skips, scratches, and hisses.”

  “But still.” He picked up an album. “Some of these are seriously old, not reissues.”

  “The owner only carries classics. Nothing later than 1985.”

  That caught his attention. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Oh yes. More recently than you might imagine.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Why bother?”

  “So true. Life is too short.”

  She just smiled.

  They continued strolling down the hallway. A sudden gust of wind brought a chill and he slid in closer, taking her arm. He was hers now, she knew it. Their shoes clicked on the Cuban floor tiles, creating a syncopated soundtrack to their long day’s journey into twilight. The tall ceilings, the iron chandeliers, the retro vendors, conspired to create an ambience suggesting all things were possible, failure could become success, and what seemed most hopeless might yet hold promise.

  “Oh no. It’s her.”

  They stopped. The soundtrack ceased.

  “Who?”

  “Her.”

  At the far end of the walkway, someone attracted a small crowd.

  “Did she spot us?”

  “I don’t know. She’s turning this way.”

  “Run!”

  They pivoted and bolted, still clutching one another’s arm. They burst through the crowd, carving a path through strollers and scooters and gangs. They spun and twisted, moving like ballerinas, maintaining poise while desperately fleeing. They panted and gasped and even laughed a little, not sure if they should be amused or terrified, happy to feel either emotion or both, delighted to feel anything at all.

  They passed through the tall iron gates onto Central Avenue, breathless and sweating and fully alive.

  “Do you—Do you—” He could barely catch his breath. “Do you think she saw us?”

  “No.”

  “Should we leave?”

  She shoved him against a brick wall, pressing close. “No.” Their lips were barely an inch apart, eyes locked tightly together. She spoke a language he could translate with ease.

  “We...don’t want to attract attention,” he said, not breaking her gaze.

  “I know a place. Thirsty?”

  “Very.”

  She pulled a small metal flask out of her jacket pocket. “Take a long swig of this.”

  He did, then winced. “That stings. What is it?”

  “Brandy.”

  “There was more in it than brandy.”

  “I enhanced it.”

  “With what?”

  “Paradise.”

  She led him to a bakery, currently closed. The doors were shut and the windows were shuttered. It looked as if it had been sealed for some time, but scaffolding nearby suggested some kind of work was about to commence.

  “I don’t think it’s open.”

  “I can get us in.” She slid a key into the lock. The door complained but ultimately yielded. She closed the door behind them and secured it.

  The interior was dark and fusty. A bit of sunshine trickled in from the skylights, but not much
. She could see the counter where the bakery once sold its goods, and tables of various sizes where people consumed them.

  “How long has this place been closed?” he asked.

  “Not that long. The machinery still functions. New management is revamping.” She grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled him close. “Are you ready for that moment of perfect pleasure?”

  “What, here?”

  “Why not? Don't you feel it? Stirring inside you? Something new, something exciting. An aching from the core. A yearning.” She pressed her lips against his, hard and rough. “You want me.”

  “I do.” He swung her around, slammed her against the wall and hoisted her skirt.

  “Not like that.” She swept the napkin holder and salt-and-pepper shakers off a table, clearing it. “Here.” She lay down on top and invited him in.

  He ripped off his trousers and climbed aboard. Once they connected, he gasped. “Oh. Oh. Yes.”

  “Tonight will be different. Like nothing you’ve ever done before.” She rocked her hips, pulsing. He moaned in rhythm. “Starting now.”

  She flipped him around and in an instant, she was on top of him, astride and in control.

  The thrusting was urgent and furious, but not fast, not fleeting. His eyes rolled back into his head. She could read his thoughts. He had never experienced anything like this, never felt anything so intense in his entire life. This was perfection, this was the sanctuary he had sought for so long. This was worth the danger, perhaps enhanced by the danger, being with her again, putting everything on the line, throwing caution and common sense to the wind. This was being alive.

  When he finished, it was not so much a release as a full-body nirvana. He cried out, loud and unrestrained.

  “Was it all you hoped it would be?” she asked, snuggling beside him.

  “More. Much more.” He laid his head on her chest, ready to rest.

  “One moment of perfect pleasure?”

  His eyelids fluttered and closed. “So good. So hot.”

  She patted him gently till he fell asleep, which did not take long. She knew he would be out for at least an hour. Enough time to accomplish her next task. While he slept, she bound his arms and legs and lowered him onto a sheet so he would be easier to move.

  You thought that was hot? She was unable to suppress her pleasure.

  Wait till you see what comes next.

  * * *

  “What’s going on? Why am I tied up?”

  “So you can’t leave, obviously.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You said you’d give anything. Everything. Now you will.”

  “What is this?”

  “The moment of perfect pleasure.”

  “We already had that.”

  “No. You had yours. Now I’m going to have mine.”

  Chapter 2

  Dan bounced a bit as he approached the witness stand. His Air Jordans always gave him an extra lift, and he would need that to bring off this cross-examination. His client, a twenty-year old USF student with no record, was accused of assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. The charges hung on this witness. If he discredited the witness, the charges would disappear. If he didn’t, her college career would be interrupted, probably derailed, by a three-year stint with the Florida Department of Corrections, no chance for parole.

  A video screen stood at the edge of the courtroom, on the jury side. Currently turned off.

  He scrutinized the witness. Crewcut. Duty uniform. About fifteen pounds overweight. Pale white skin. Nervous.

  He started the cross-examination. “One thing I don’t understand, Officer Porter. What caused you to interrupt that pool party on Burlington Avenue?” The party was in the 801 Conway neighborhood, a downtown district that in recent years had become a haven for young urban professionals. “I assume you weren’t invited.”

  Porter cleared his throat. “I heard screaming. So I pulled over, left my vehicle, and investigated.” His words were even and measured. He was taking no chances, using the time-honored “just-the-facts-ma’am” approach. Police officers were trained to avoid the smart-aleck attitude you sometimes saw on television shows because real-life jurors found it off-putting. “I immediately saw signs of illegal activity. Fighting, plus illegal drug use.”

  “You could tell from a distance that the drugs were illegal?”

  “When you see people passing a bong, you know they’re not sharing Marlboros.”

  “Was my client, Grayson Grant, using drugs?”

  “I didn’t see that. I first saw the defendant when she challenged me, suggesting that I had no right to be there. Threatening me.”

  He scrutinized Officer Porter carefully. Many years before, his favorite law professor had told him he could learn everything he needed to know if he watched people carefully. That had become his mantra. Any time he saw someone, he gave them a head-to-toe scan, carefully drinking in as much as he could. Often those initial insights proved useful—if not immediately, then later, when his subconscious connected the dots, made the smaller observations add up to something larger.

  “What did my client say that was threatening?” This was important. Contrary to what people thought, assault was not physically striking someone. That was battery. Assault was putting someone in apprehension of being struck. Hence the phrase “assault and battery.”

  “It wasn’t what she said. It was more...her manner. She didn’t want me to be there.”

  “Is that surprising? You crashed their party and pulled out your gun.”

  “I did not draw my weapon until I saw signs of imminent danger.”

  “Which were?”

  “I already told you. Screaming. Fighting. A young woman behaving in a confrontational manner. With many friends backing her up.”

  “I don’t doubt that you attracted their attention. But is it possible you imagined the threat?”

  “I was seriously outnumbered.”

  “So you were intimidated. But that’s not the same as being threatened.” He paused to let the jury soak that in. “Was the fact that most of the party guests were African-American a factor?” Out the corner of his eye, he saw the prosecutor, Jazlyn Prentice, raise her head. He’d known Jazlyn for some time. She wouldn’t let him accuse an officer of being racist unless he could back it up.

  “That had nothing to do with it,” Porter said.

  “Didn’t heighten your fear? Cause you to overreact?”

  “I didn’t overreact. I acted to defend myself, as St. Petersburg police officers are trained to do. As you know, the defendant did in fact tackle me. Knocked me to the concrete.”

  He was tackled by a much younger woman half his weight, which is probably what really got his dander up. “My client did that after you pulled your gun. You looked like you were about to shoot her friends.”

  “I posed no threat to anyone obeying the law. But when attacked, a police officer has no choice but to respond. We are the thin blue line. We serve and protect. People depend on us.”

  “I agree that we need police officers, and most do their difficult job well and honor the rules. The question is whether you were thinking clearly at this pool party.”

  “Objection,” Jazlyn said, rising. Slender. Mid-thirties. Shoulder-length brown hair. Ballpoint pen in left hand. “Motion to strike. That’s not a question. That’s argument.”

  “Sustained.” Judge Petersen had little patience for showboating. “If you’re out of questions, counsel, please sit down.”

  He didn’t argue. This would be the wrong time to get crosswise with the judge. He needed to bring this witness down, and he needed to do it quickly. “Officer Porter...you like firing guns, don’t you?”

  He could feel Jazlyn’s hesitation. She wasn’t sure whether to object or to let the witness handle it himself.

  “I never draw my weapon unless I must. It’s a last resort.”

  “But when you’re off-duty. You like to shoot. For fun, right?”

  He could see Ja
zlyn’s eyes narrow. She wasn’t sure where this was going. But she knew it was going somewhere, probably somewhere she wouldn’t like.

  “I like to target shoot, on the weekends. Keeps my skills up.”

  “Do you personally own any weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Several?”

  “Yes.”

  “Semi-automatic weapons?”

  “No.”

  “What exactly do you do on the weekends? Skeet shooting? Trap shooting?”

  “When I can. I don’t have that much spare time.”

  “And of course you’re a member of the NRA, right?”

  “Okay, now I have to object,” Jazlyn said. “I was willing to give Mr. Pike some latitude, but now he’s just prying into the witness’s private life and raising matters that are not relevant and potentially prejudicial.”

  “Not true,” he rejoined quickly, before the judge could speak. “This all goes to understanding the officer’s motivation for pulling his weapon at a kid’s pool party.”

  “Very adult kids.” Judge Petersen frowned. “I suppose I’ll allow it. But I expect you to tie this up fast.”

  “I will, your honor.” He proceeded. “I noticed the ring on your right hand, officer. That’s a collector’s item, isn’t it? An NRA Collectors ring?”

  For the first time, the witness looked uncomfortable. “So?”

  “So you’re a member of the NRA. Are you in any other...organizations?”

  “Like what?”

  “Rifle clubs? Survival groups? White supremacist associations?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But you’re a hunter, right?”

  “Objection,” Jazlyn said. “Being a hunter hardly proves he’s a white supremacist.”

  “And I never suggested it did.” But thanks for suggesting that association to the jury. The more extreme the witness appeared, the better. “My goal is to understand the officer’s thinking, so we can understand why he reacted as he did at the pool party.”

  “Not liking it,” Judge Petersen grumbled. “But the witness may answer.”

  Officer Porter replied. “I like to exercise my Second Amendment rights.”

  “And the Second Amendment, of course, relates to militias.” He laid the heaviest possible emphasis on the word. “Do you hunt for food or for sport?”