Supreme Justice

Chapter Eighteen

Normally, Dana Cutler turned down matrimonial work. It was sordid and boring, and her clients were usually angry no matter what she reported. But Mark Shearer referred a lot of business her way, and he was genuinely worried about his client. Rachel Kelton, a sweet, plain-looking woman in her late thirties who had never been married, had inherited a fortune when her parents died in a plane crash. Eight months ago, she had met Erik Van Dyke, the president of a hedge fund, at a charity fund-raiser. Van Dyke was five years Rachel’s junior. He had wooed her for five months before proposing. On the surface, he appeared to be an ideal prospect for matrimony, but something about her fiancé bothered Rachel, and out of an excess of caution, she had asked Mark to conduct a discreet investigation into his background.

That was why Dana found herself following Van Dyke in the inconspicuous brown Toyota she used for surveillance. She had begun detecting a sour smell shortly after looking into Van Dyke’s business dealings. Although she couldn’t prove it, she suspected him of running a Ponzi scheme, in which he gave initial investors excellent returns by paying them with money he received from newer investors. Rachel’s fortune would be very attractive to a con man.

Dana also had a funny feeling about Van Dyke’s social life. He didn’t appear to have any. When he wasn’t courting Rachel, he worked or stayed in his apartment. That would be normal if Van Dyke was the genuine article. But it would be abnormal if he was a predator. On a few occasions, Dana had followed Van Dyke into a seedy part of town known for street prostitution, but he had not made a move. This evening, he did.

The girl was young and had the reedy, waiflike build of a woman with a serious jones. She was pale and could have passed for twelve. There were dark circles under her eyes, which were constantly scanning the street, and her stringy blonde hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in days.

Van Dyke usually drove a flashy sports car or an expensive sedan. Tonight, he’d chosen a low-end Chevy, which he pulled to the curb. The girl leaned into the car through the open passenger window. After a brief negotiation, she got in the front seat, and Dana followed them to a by-the-hour motel.

Dana was worried. The girl looked very vulnerable. Van Dyke could afford high-priced, sophisticated call girls. What was he doing with a junkie who could be loaded with a sexually transmitted disease? Dana suspected that missionary position sex was not on Van Dyke’s mind.

The girl waited in the car while Van Dyke secured the keys to a room at the far end of the building. The parking-lot lights were out near the room, and Van Dyke parked in the shadows. The girl got out and he followed. Dana noticed the navy blue gym bag he carried in his right hand.

Dana was five ten, lean and muscular, and she was always on edge. She looked hard and dangerous in her leather jacket, tight jeans, and black T-shirt, but there was something about her that would make a man think twice even if she was wearing a cocktail dress.

There was a reason for the aura of violence that enveloped Dana. She had spent a year in a mental hospital dealing with post-traumatic stress after she had butchered three men who’d tortured her in the basement of a meth lab while she was working undercover with the D.C. police. Since her release from the hospital, she always went armed and had shown no reluctance to resort to extreme violence during her involvement in the affair that had brought down President Farrington.

Dana was carrying two guns and a hunting knife, but she rejected these weapons in favor of a tire iron she kept under the driver’s seat. Dana didn’t think Van Dyke would be much of a physical threat to someone with her training, and she decided that she could always escalate if she was wrong and things got out of hand.

There was a window at the front of Van Dyke’s room and another at the side of the building. Dana took her camera out of the car and knelt by the side window. Unless someone parked in the lot across from the room she would not be detected. The shade was up enough for Dana to see into the bedroom. So far, Van Dyke was acting the part of the perfect gentleman. Dana couldn’t hear what the couple was saying, but Van Dyke was smiling as he pulled out his wallet and handed some bills to the girl. As soon as she tucked the money in her purse, the girl started to disrobe. Van Dyke watched her but made no move to take off his clothes. As soon as the girl was naked, Van Dyke smiled broadly and hit her in her solar plexus. The girl flailed for air. He slapped a piece of duct tape across her mouth to keep her from screaming. She was already oxygen deprived, and her eyes bugged out when her mouth was sealed. Van Dyke had no trouble turning her face down and handcuffing her arms and legs to the bedpost with restraints he pulled from the gym bag.

Dana could have rushed in immediately, but she decided that the girl would be safer secured to the bed where she wouldn’t be a distraction. Van Dyke took a whip from his bag. Dana slipped on a ski mask, walked to the front door, and pounded on it.

“Open up, police,” she barked in the authoritative voice she’d used when she was with Vice and Narcotics.

Dana thought she heard the door to the bedroom slam shut, and she pounded and shouted “Police” again.

“One second,” a voice called. Dana guessed Van Dyke had covered the girl with a blanket and bedspread and had ditched the whip, which she noticed he’d held in his right hand. As soon as he answered the door, Dana broke Van Dyke’s right collarbone and kicked him in the crotch. He collapsed on the floor. Dana took out one of her guns and closed the door behind her. Then she grabbed Van Dyke by the hair and pulled him into the bedroom.

“Get all of your clothes off,” she commanded.

“You broke my shoulder,” he whined as he rolled on the floor in agony.

Dana pistol-whipped him hard enough to get his attention before repeating her order. She enjoyed seeing the pain Van Dyke suffered as he struggled to take off his clothes with his collarbone broken. She hoped his pain exceeded the pain he had intended to inflict on his helpless victim.

Dana walked over to the girl. “I’m here to help you. I’m taking off the tape. Don’t scream. You’ll end up with every penny this asshole has before I leave, and he won’t be able to hurt you, so please do as I say.”

The girl nodded and Dana removed the tape so she could breathe. Dana pulled off the blankets that covered the girl before returning her attention to Van Dyke.

“Pick up the whip in your right hand and stand by the bed as if you’re going to beat her,” Dana ordered, knowing that the girl was in no danger from the whip because of Van Dyke’s broken collarbone. As soon as Van Dyke obeyed, Dana snapped off several shots of the naked man that made it look as if he was going to flay the helpless girl. When she had enough pictures, Dana removed the girl’s handcuffs and used them to secure Van Dyke faceup on the bed.

“I’m going to leave in a minute,” she told the girl. “This creep won’t be able to hurt you. I’ll leave his car keys on the dresser. If you want to, you can drive somewhere, ditch the car, and take the money to your dealer. Or I can take you somewhere safe and get you into rehab. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not your mother. You’re sick. The first step in getting better is to start making the right choices. Think it over while I finish with this pervert.”

Dana turned to Van Dyke. “I want you to refund the money you stole from your clients. Then I want you to leave Washington. I’ll give you one week to take care of business. If I find you haven’t followed my orders, I will publish these pictures on the Internet after I send them to the police. If you’re still here after I publish the pictures, I will hunt you down and kill you. Tell me you understand.”

Van Dyke was crying from the pain in his shoulder. “I understand,” he managed.

“Good,” Dana said.

Dana had a brief flashback in which she was lying on the cold cement in the basement of the meth lab after she’d been gang-raped. Rage raced through her. She slapped duct tape across Van Dyke’s mouth and broke his left kneecap.

“You make me sick,” she told him when Van Dyke’s muffled screams stopped. Then she went through the man’s wallet and handed his money to the girl.

“Heroin or rehab?” she asked.

The girl’s head was down. She was crying. “Get me out of here,” she gulped in a voice so low Dana could barely hear her.

“Good choice,” she said.

Dana turned her back on Van Dyke and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. She would send Mark Shearer the photos and a report. The report wouldn’t mention what she’d done to Van Dyke. That was private. Dana smiled. Saving the girl and humiliating Van Dyke had made this one of the most enjoyable evenings she’d spent in a while.