Naked Justice

Chapter 23

DEANNA RUMMAGED THROUGH THE cluttered collection of teenage effluvia on the floor of Martha’s closet. She’d already searched her dresser, her desk, and the pockets of her dirty clothes. She found Martha’s diary, too, but so far she’d managed to resist that temptation. She had a hunch that resolution would not last long, however. Especially if she didn’t find what she was looking for.

Martha had been given permission to go to the movies—her first time out of the house, other than for school, since their big blowout over Buck. Martha had actually seemed slightly grateful, nice even, although perhaps she was just so relieved to be released from incarceration that she was willing to be kind even to the woman who had “destroyed the only love she ever knew.” Deanna had dropped her at the Eton Square Cineplex, then returned home to begin the search.

The pile on the closet floor was a mishmash of dirty and clean clothes, old book reports, posters, makeup, shoes, top-secret notes, all piled together like autumn leaves on the carpet. Deanna sifted through it quickly; indeed, it was not long at all before she had found what she wanted.

A red tank top.

Deanna had been almost certain Martha had one, but she wanted to be sure. This was important, after all.

She had thought she might find the blue headband as well, but realistically, that was probably impossible, because it was probably on Martha’s head. It always was. She wore it everywhere.

Deanna removed the newspaper article from her back pocket and carefully unfolded it. She reread the description given by one of Barrett’s neighbors of the strangers he had seen lurking in the neighborhood prior to the murder. Dark hair, skinny, shaggy, with a goatee and green fatigues. That fit Buck to a tee. And the girl with him? Short hair, five foot two or three, red tank top, blue headband.

Martha.

The only part of the description she had been remotely unsure about was the tank top, and now she had confirmed it.

Could it really have been Martha? Deanna knew the poor girl thought she was in love, and would probably have been easily influenced by Buck, thug that he was. But to do something like this? To have stalked the mayor and his family? What if the police were wrong? What if Mayor Barrett didn’t kill his family? What if—

She pressed her fingers against her mouth. She just couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t even imagine it. Not her Martha. Not her!

Her eyes returned unbidden to the newspaper article. Something about it clicked in her memory. Her eyes scanned the neighbor’s description. He also recalled that on at least one occasion the man had been carrying a black bag. Bigger than a handbag, smaller than a suitcase. Maybe a gym bag.

The suggestion, of course, was that the bag might have contained some kind of weapon.

And the reason it had clicked in Deanna’s memory was that she had seen that bag somewhere in this room.

Deanna brushed the dirty clothes off her lap and stood up. It wasn’t in the closet. The desk didn’t check out, so she tried the dresser. My God, my God, my God. She could feel the panic rising, her blood rushing to her head. What if Martha was involved with some gangster? What if he carried a gun?

What if the gun was hidden in Martha’s room?

She was fumbling now, rushing so fast and with such urgency that she was spilling things, knocking them over. She would never be able to put this back together again. Martha would know she had been searched, that her privacy had been invaded.

Didn’t matter. This was more important.

She found the bag under Martha’s bed, tucked away in the far corner. Its presence alone was an infraction of the house rules; Deanna had ordered the return or disposal of all Buck-related items. This meant she was keeping something of his that she planned to return or he planned to return for later.

Over my dead body. Deanna pulled the bag out from under the bed, unzipped the top flap, and looked inside.

It was not a gun or any other kind of weapon, at least not in the conventional sense. It was a camera.

Deanna reached for it, then stopped herself. God, maybe I shouldn’t put my fingerprints on this. She was embarrassed. Starting to think like a character in a dimestore detective novel. Still …

She grabbed a Kleenex from the bathroom, then picked up the camera, careful not to actually touch it. It was a .35-millimeter camera—high quality, from the looks of it. Not a snapshot camera. Too complicated, too many dials. This was for someone who was serious about it.

What was Buck doing with the camera? Did it involve Wallace Barrett? Did it involve Martha? Was he part of some conspiracy? Martha had never mentioned that Buck was a photographer, much less that he’d let her borrow his camera. Was he taking … pictures of Martha? Pictures they wouldn’t want her mother to see?

Enough. Her head was spinning with fear of possibilities. She was sick of speculation. It was time to know.

She advanced the film in the camera. Easy—there were only a few more shots left. She rewound it, then removed the film cartridge. She’d just get this developed. And then she’d see …

She clenched her fist around the film. Whatever there was to see.