Goddess of Justice Dwayne Clayden Contents Also by Dwayne Clayden 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 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 To The Reader About the Author Copyright © 2021 Dwayne E. Clayden All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at: DwayneClayden.com Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. Published in Canada by Bad Alibi Press Printed and Bound in Canada Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers Editing by Taija Morgan Proofing by Jonas Saul Formatting by Dwayne Clayden Goddess of Justice/ Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed. ISBN: 978-1-989912-04-1 (pbk), 978-1-989912-05-8 (e-book) Created with Vellum Valerie West My continual support through the craziness of living with an author. Here we are, at six novels! Also by Dwayne Clayden The Brad Coulter Thrillers Crisis Point Outlaw MC Wolfman is Back 13 Days of Terror Goddess of JusticeThe Brad Coulter Thrillers Continue in 2022 Bonded LaborThe Speargrass Thriller Series Speargrass Opioid Speargrass Vengeance (Fall 2021)Short Story Hell Hath No Fury AB Negative. An Anthology of Alberta Crime Chapter One November 22, 1980 A streetlight flickered, illuminating the road for a moment, then plunging it into darkness. The drug dealer, in his early twenties, leaned against one of the broken streetlights. His cigarette glowed intermittently, giving away his location. Cigarette in his mouth, he rubbed his hands together, then wrapped his arms around his thin body. Dealing on a cold November Saturday night required dedication, or maybe, desperation. He had a product to sell and junkies willing to venture out to get their fix. He stomped his feet, shivered, and took a long drag. The smoke, mingled with his breath, formed a cloud in front of him on his exhale. Dice watched from the shadows of the crack houses across the street. Once an affluent area of Calgary, Alberta, Victoria Park had become the armpit of the city. House after house, block upon block of crack dens. Dice had to admire the dealer’s choice of location. He’d have steady business until well into the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, tonight would be his last night in business. Sirens, wailing from several directions, broke the silence. A police cruiser raced past, then another. Seconds later, an ambulance passed, followed by another cruiser. The emergency vehicles stopped outside a house a couple of blocks past the dealer. When he’d heard the sirens, he’d slipped back into the shadows. But not so far that Dice couldn’t see him. Unfazed by the police presence, the dealer moved from the shadows. As crackheads popped out of the houses to see who’d overdosed this time, the dealer made further sales. Such was the life cycle in Vic Park. An hour from now, the scene would be repeated with another overdose, a fight over drugs, or a domestic assaults, and knifings were common. Dice waited in the shadows until the ambulance sped away. A few minutes later, the cops came out of the house with three men in handcuffs. The cruisers left, and the addicts headed back to their homes. This was the time to act. The streets would be quiet for at least half an hour. Sliding his beanie low, jacket collar up, Dice staggered toward the dealer, who was working on another cigarette, making him easy to find—just follow the glow. The dealer heard the footsteps and pushed away from the streetlamp. “You got guts. The cops were just here.” Dice nodded, pretended to trip on the curb, and lurched toward the laughing dealer. “Seems you’ve got a head start. Whatever you need, if I don’t have it, I’ll get it. Name your poison.” Dice whispered, “Crack.” “Jeez, you’ll have to talk louder than that.” Dice staggered toward the dealer and stumbled again. Before Dice hit the street, the dealer reached out a stabilizing hand. “Maybe you don’t need nothin’ right now.” Dice’s hand came up holding a hunting knife. The long blade thrust upward, just under the sternum, pointed toward the dealer’s left shoulder. The blade pierced the dealer’s heart. With one hand on the knife, Dice shoved the dealer back against the pole, twisted the knife, then let his body slide to the sidewalk. The dealer grabbed his chest with his right hand, blood spewing between his fingers. Eyes wide, he mouthed, Why? His eyes stared past Dice as life spurted out of his body. Dice wiped the knife on the dealer’s hoodie, slid it back into a sheath, and headed north toward downtown. Chapter Two Detective Brad Coulter sat at the back of a classroom in the hotel conference center. He stretched his lean six-foot-one body out, legs well under the table, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. He wondered why these places put up fancy chandeliers, yet the sliding walls were a dull gray cloth. Sure, it was practical, they could make the rooms bigger or smaller, but who cared about the lighting. He was in the sixth row of tables. He always sat at the back. Each table had a crisp white tablecloth, a jug of water and, best of all, a bowl of Jolly Ranchers. Twenty-three other detectives were in the class. Today was the second day of the Crime Scene
