Accused Read online

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Janice Cantore’s website at www.janicecantore.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Accused

  Copyright © 2012 by Janice Cantore. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of police taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of warehouse taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of building copyright © Seth Joel/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Stephen Vosloo

  Edited by Erin E. Smith

  Published in association with the literary agency of D.C. Jacobson & Associates LLC, an Author Management Company. www.dcjacobson.com.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Some Scripture taken from the New King James Version.® Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cantore, Janice.

  Accused / Janice Cantore.

  p. cm. — (Pacific Coast justice ; 1)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-5847-5 (sc)

  1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.A588A66 2011

  813'.6—dc23 2011027477

  To Lauraine and all the reunioners: thank you for your help, support, and prayers over the years. The talking, laughing, critiquing, and brainstorming helped me tell this story. Love and God bless to you all.

  And thanks to Ramona Tucker, Jeff Nesbit, and Don Jacobson for believing in me.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  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

  About the Author

  An Interview with Janice Cantore

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge the men and women of Long Beach (California) Police Department, the people I worked with over the years in various situations who showed me compassion and courage, dedication and honor, and the capacity to see humor in any situation. I worked with many awesome individuals over the course of my career and several had an impact on my life. Too many people come to mind to name everyone, but I do look back on my time with the department with affection, and I often miss the daily interaction with those special people.

  Prologue

  “Any unit to handle, 2464 Orange Avenue, 417, man with a gun threatening apartment residents. Any unit to clear and handle, priority one.”

  “Isn’t that the address of the gang shooting last week?” Carly Edwards asked the question half to herself and half to her partner for the night, Derek Potter, as she slowed the cruiser. They were two blocks from the address given.

  “You’re right. Let’s take it; we’re close!” Potter grabbed the radio and responded to the dispatcher.

  “We should wait for backup. Two gangbangers were shot last week.”

  “They’ll be here! Come on, let’s go! We can get this guy.”

  Potter’s adrenaline rush flooded the car and infected Carly. She hit the gas. In seconds they were 10-97, on scene.

  “Drop me off in front. You take the back.” Potter didn’t wait for a response. He leaped out of the cruiser as Carly slowed.

  “Wait—” The slam of the door covered her angry shout. Potter should know better. He’d been on the police force longer than Carly had, and she was nearing her ten-year anniversary. Even though things looked quiet as she scanned the area, it was never a good idea to split up on gun calls.

  She wouldn’t be in this situation with her regular partner, Joe King. But he’d called in sick, and she was stuck with “Punch-Drunk” Potter, Las Playas PD’s troublemaker and fight starter.

  Against her better judgment, Carly continued to a rear alley and parked the black-and-white. As Potter worked his way back from the front, she’d work forward from the rear. With luck, they’d meet in the middle and be able to clear the call unfounded.

  Wind whistled with an eerie sound, funneled between apartment buildings. Tepid gusts flung trash everywhere. Lit only by the glow of parking structure lights opposite the dispatch address, the alley was deserted, strange for a hot night when people generally hung around outside.

  The problem address itself was silent—no TV noise—and all the windows overlooking the alley were open but dark. Carly strained to differentiate between wind noise and any people noise. A back gate connected the complex courtyard to the alley, but she was not going through it until she had more information.

  Carly pulled out her handheld radio. “Who called?” she whispered to dispatch.

  “Your CP is anonymous. He did not want contact.”

  This information opened the floodgates in Carly’s mind for a new set of concerns. Is this a setup?

  Glass crunched under her heels as she stopped to survey the gate and surrounding area.

  Sliding the radio back into its holder, she unsnapped her handgun and drew it from its holster. The radio cackled with the news that backup was close. Emboldened, she shone her flashlight into the semidarkness and moved closer to the gate.

  Movement near some trash cans to the right of the gate caught her eye, and she directed the beam of her light there. She saw a face.

  “Hey! Police!” Her gun and flashlight steadied on the target, and her heart thudded, straining the confines of her vest. “Show me your hands!”

  The man moved, and a bright object flashed in his hand. He lunged forward.

  Time slowed for Carly. Everything around her faded as tunnel vision took over. There was no time to call Potter, no time to get on the radio.

  Certain the object in the man’s hand was a gun and that her life was in danger, Carly fired twice.

  The crack of her .45 echoed like a bomb blast in the alley. The man crumpled in front of her, supporting himself on one hand to keep from falling flat on his face.

  Before she could speak or inspect the object the man had dropped, Potter burst through the back gate. On Carly’s left and several feet closer to the man, Potter fired.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  In rapid succession, the deafening sound of fifteen gunshots rang in Carly’s ears.

  The man
danced with the impact of several bullets, then went down all the way, but Potter kept shooting, emptying his gun.

  The next seconds were cauterized in Carly’s mind. Permanent impressions: the man wasn’t a threat, he didn’t have a gun, and still Potter reloaded.

  “Derek, stop! He’s down!”

  1

  “I swear it’s as if my life is caught in a riptide, Joe.” Carly hated the whine in her voice, but the frustration in her life that started six months ago had lately built to a fever pitch. “I feel like there’s a current pulling me under, and every time I try to raise my head, I get buried by a wave.” Her angry strides pounded an uneven path across the damp beach.

  “Don’t raise your head, then; you’ll just get water up your nose,” Joe responded. He walked alongside, dodging the sand Carly’s feet kicked up.

  She shot him a glare. He laughed, and in spite of her mood she managed a half smile. “What would I do without you? You always try to cheer me up even when I bet you think I’m just whining.”

  Matching her stride, Joe placed a calloused hand on her shoulder and said, “Hey, I know this isn’t you. Being wrongly accused sucks—doubly so when you can’t even defend yourself. I’m not sure I’d have handled the last six months as well as you have if I were in your shoes. If you need to vent, vent.”

  Carly stopped a few feet from the surf and blew out a breath as tears threatened. Emotions a jumble, she was touched by Joe’s unwavering support. He’d been her partner on the force for three years—until the incident six months ago—and they’d been through car chases, foot pursuits, and fights together, developing a partnership that was as comfortable as her favorite pair of sweats. She knew, no matter what, she could count on Joe. She was lucky to have him, and he deserved better than her current bad attitude.

  For a minute they were both silent, standing side by side watching the waves churn the salt water. The crash of the surf—a little rougher than she had expected—and the smell of the sea relaxed her a bit as the tableau soothed raw nerves.

  Joe broke the silence. “Anyway, nothing will happen until all the facts are in and the litigation ends. Request your transfer back to patrol then. For right now, relax and be patient.”

  Carly swallowed the tears and dropped her beach bag. “I’m a horrible bench sitter. You know me; when they handed out patience, I stood in the ice cream line.”

  At that, Joe laughed and Carly was glad to hear it. One of the things that made them a good pair was the divergent way they looked at problems, Carly ready to kick the door in and Joe willing to wait hours if need be. Other officers teased them, labeling them Crash and Control. Carly would jump into things with both feet, while Joe would test the waters first with his big toe.

  “I shouldn’t dump on you. I’m just frustrated.” Carly met his eyes and forced a smile.

  “I don’t mind listening.” He shrugged. “That’s what partners are for. You’ve listened to me enough over the years. We’ll work together again.” Joe tossed his bag next to Carly’s.

  Nodding, she bent to pull a towel out of her bag, biting down on her bottom lip, trying to swallow the frustration she felt and embrace the encouragement her partner gave.

  “You sure you need to celebrate your birthday with a swim in this kind of weather?” Joe asked, hugging his arms to his chest. “Can’t I just buy you a milk shake?”

  Glad for the subject change, she followed his gaze to the water. The Pacific was a stormy deep-green color, pinched by small but choppy swells, melding to a gray and overcast horizon. Far to the left, several surfers bobbed on their boards, riding the swells while waiting for a good wave. Though late February, Southern California’s mild water temperature made surfing and swimming possible. Dark, cloudy weather didn’t bother Carly; it simply mirrored her mood. And for her, water normally made things better—even when it was forbidding and cold.

  “It’s good training.” She looked down her nose at Joe. “You’re not going to chicken out, are you? And you can also buy me a milk shake.”

  “No chicken here. Just giving you a chance to back out gracefully.” He peeled off his sweatshirt and rolled his shoulders. “I mean, it could be embarrassing for you, the ocean star, to get an old-fashioned thrashing on your turf by a pool swimmer.”

  “Ha. I plan to give an old-fashioned thrashing. You haven’t been training.” She pointed to his slightly paunchy stomach before she pulled off her own sweats. The cold air brought on a shiver.

  Joe proudly patted his bit of paunch. “This will only make me more buoyant.”

  Casting Joe an upraised eyebrow, a cop glance reserved for obviously guilty crooks who protested innocence, Carly laid down the swim’s ground rules. “Okay, it’s a mile and a half to the buoy. Last one back to the beach buys lunch, milk shakes included.”

  Joe nodded, and they both pulled on their goggles and shook out their arms. She counted, and on three they ran together into the surf and dove into a wave. The cold winter water took her breath away, but Carly wasn’t worried, even when Joe pulled ahead. Joe was taller—five-ten to Carly’s five-seven—and took longer strokes, but he also carried a good sixty pounds more than she did. In spite of her teasing, it was mostly muscle, which made him denser in the water, not more buoyant. All she needed to do was settle into her stroke. This race would go to the one with stamina.

  Carly warmed up fast and swam hard, determined to leave her frustration on the beach. Joe was right; this wasn’t her. She rarely indulged in pity parties. But today, as she woke up to her thirty-third birthday, everything in her life seemed to converge in a perfect storm of failure.

  The divorce had started her funk; the final papers had arrived two days ago, and reading them abraded Carly’s still-raw heart. Now was the time she always imagined she would be starting a family, not filing away the proof that one had disintegrated. Nick had taken so much of her with him that she felt hollow. As good a partner and friend as Joe was, he didn’t understand.

  And Carly felt like a failure when she faced her mother. No one in the family had ever divorced, until now. Mom’s solution was church, as though that would somehow fix a busted marriage. Her roommate Andrea’s response was more realistic but even less doable: “Forget about him and find a new man.”

  Work used to be her respite, a place of security, support, and camaraderie, but lately her assignment in juvenile was more a black hole of boredom, sucking her life away. Compared to LA, a neighbor to the north, Las Playas was a small city, but it had its share of big crime. Carly wanted to be back on patrol, crushing her portion of it. Joe hadn’t talked about it, but she knew the entire force was on edge over Mayor Teresa Burke. The popular and high-profile mayor had been missing for four days. Carly wanted to be out in a black-and-white, chasing clues and leads, not stuck inside babysitting juvenile delinquents. She kicked the water with a vengeance.

  Carly caught and passed Joe just before the buoy. Ignoring his presence, she made the turn and sliced through the swells with her best training stroke. Her shoulders heavy with fatigue, she pushed harder. She conjured up an image of Joe as a shark bearing down on her heels, his fin parting the water in hot pursuit, a mind game to keep her from slowing.

  A local celebrity in rough-water swims, Carly laid claim to a perfect record: undefeated in eighteen races. “Whenever life closes in, retreat to your strength” was an adage she lived by. Lately the ocean was a second home.

  The shoreline loomed before she was ready to stop punishing the water. But the ache in her shoulders and lungs forced surrender, and as she eased up in the waves, pushing her goggles off to look back for Joe, she realized she did feel better. The ocean was magic. She’d beaten an imaginary shark in Joe, and even though there were still real ones on land threatening to drag her down, she felt energized by the swim.

  Carly glided to where she could float and relished a peace she hadn’t felt in a while. She willed it to last. Joe was right on his second point as well—there was no reason to be impatient. Between the
buffeting swells and the pounding of her heart, she wondered if she should just take a few days off, get away from her current assignment in juvenile, with all the reminders of what she couldn’t be doing, and relax somewhere far away. She breathed ocean air and tasted salt while floating, the water a rolling cocoon, protecting her from life’s demands and drains.

  Joe soon joined her, and together they treaded water, facing one another.

  “Boy,” Joe gasped, “you swam possessed. Bet that would have been a record.”

  Carly splashed her friend, the smile now not forced. “Thanks for the swim. I feel better.”

  He splashed her back. “My pleasure. Just call me Doctor Joe.”

  She laughed and it felt good. “Anytime you want a swimming lesson . . .” Carly turned with another splash and kicked for the shore.

  “Ha,” Joe called after her. “You missed your calling. Instead of a cop, you should be a sadistic swim coach somewhere, yelling, ‘One more lap, one more lap.’”

  Carly headed straight for her towel as the cool air turned her skin to gooseflesh. Joe followed.

  “You need to get back into competition again,” Joe said as he reached for his towel. “Admit it, you’re half fish.”

  “I’d like to, but working an afternoon shift makes it difficult.” She quickly slid into the comfort of dry sweats and wrapped her thick auburn hair in the towel. “But you’re right; the water helps my mood as much as good ole Doctor Joe does.”

  The shrill chirp of a work BlackBerry cut off Joe’s rejoinder. He looked toward his bag. “Yours or mine?”

  “Mine.” Carly dug the offending device out of her pocket, eyebrows knit in annoyance. The BlackBerry, or “TrackerBerry” as most officers who were issued the phones called them, rarely brought good news. The text message flashing across the small screen read, CALL THE WATCH COMMANDER ASAP, 911, 911. Her pulse quickened with a jolt. What kind of emergency?

  “Look at this.” She showed Joe the message.