A better part of valor, p.1
A Better Part of Valor, page 1
part #3 of Valorie Dawes Thrillers Series
A BETTER PART OF VALOR
Gary Corbin
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, incidents, and dialogue are either drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Gary Corbin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798201294762
In memory of my dear friend
Richard Gray,
1958-2020
Part One
Val Finds a Body
CHAPTER ONE
THE SUN SANK low over the Torrington River, peeking below the angry storm clouds threatening to ruin the last mile of Valorie Dawes’s evening run. Dressed in running shorts and a gray cotton sweatshirt with “Property of Clayton PD” stenciled across the chest, she’d keep warm enough if the rain held off. But mid-March storms in western Connecticut often turned brutal. She picked up the pace and considered the bright side. Maybe she’d even beat her best six-mile time.
She passed a couple of twenty-something men dressed in name-brand running outfits and ignored their catcalls. Why couldn’t guys her age keep rude comments about her ass to themselves? She dialed up the music volume, preferring the Jonas Brothers’ energetic riffs over their lewd shouts.
Approaching the pedestrian bridge over the river, she slowed to allow a mother pushing a stroller to exit first. The two men behind her gained enough ground to return within earshot, and one of them shouted something to the effect of thanks for reconsidering his offer. She sprinted onto the bridge without looking back. Reconsider this, asshole.
Halfway across, lightning flashed, reflecting off the green window glass of the food processing plant on the river’s far embankment. Seconds later, thunder exploded around her, and the skies opened up in a torrential downpour. The metal grates beneath her feet grew slick, and she debated slowing her pace. But the risk of lightning striking the steel structure outweighed the danger of a twisted ankle. The high-pitched shrieks from the men behind her made her laugh. Such tough guys. Afraid of a little rain.
Lightning flashed again as she approached the end of the half-mile crossing, accompanied a half-second later by a loud thunderclap. She stumbled and caught herself on the side rail, breathing hard. The last thing she needed was to fall into the frigid, choppy current of Berkshire snowmelt thirty feet down—or worse, the jumble of rocks that lined the embankment. Slowing down seemed like a much better idea.
Val took a few deep breaths and pushed herself away from the rail to resume her run, then stopped, and paused the music. Something caught her eye on the river’s rocky beach below. A pile of clothing—no, not a pile. A blue parka, backside-up, arms outstretched, with gloves protruding from them. Long blonde hair floated around the edges of the hood. Women’s slacks extended from the bottom of the parka. And bare feet.
A body—from what Val could tell, a woman’s body—appeared to have gotten snagged in the rocks, pushed there by the river’s relentless current.
The two runners slowed to a stop behind her. The shorter of the two, a once-athletic white guy in matching Adidas shorts, shirt, and shoes, shared a sweaty grin and wiped his brow. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. “I knew you’d stop and wait for me eventually. How about we head to my place and—”
“Call 9-1-1!” Val yanked out her earbuds and ran ahead, veering off the running path toward the riverbank.
“Something I said?” the guy asked. His buddy, a taller, thinner Black guy in Nikes, laughed and slapped him on the back.
Val picked a route among the rocks, a steep, slippery, fifty-foot descent toward the water’s edge. Before she could reach it, the body shook free and rocked in the river’s wake. If she hesitated, the current would wash the body away from her, and it would be lost downstream.
She wiped rain from her face and waded into the shallow water. The icy cold shocked her skin, and her teeth chattered. She slipped on the slimy rocks on the riverbed, and the strong current threatened to knock her down. She paused a moment to regain her footing and rubbed her arms for warmth. The body drifted farther away, picking up momentum. She reached for it, missed the woman’s arm by inches. Another step closer…her foot skidded out from under her and she fell on her butt, the water splashing up to her armpits and onto her face. So. Fucking. Cold!
Above, Mr. Adidas shouted down to her, holding a cell phone to his ear. Val couldn’t make out what he said and didn’t care. “Send an ambulance!” she shouted back.
She rolled forward onto her knees, reaching again for the body. Almost. She crawled toward the woman, scraping her knees on the rocky bottom, frigid waves soaking her hair and neck. When she got close enough, she grabbed the woman’s arm, stopping her journey into the center of the river. The current tugged back, knocking Val over, and her entire body went underwater for a moment. Her mouth filled with water, choking her. She broke the surface and spit it out, gagging on the water’s bitter, mineral taste. But she held onto the woman, somehow. She regained her footing and dragged her back to the shore.
The other runner, Nike-man, met Val on the rocks and helped her pull the body to the grass along the path. Val thanked him and checked for signs of life.
“Is she…do you think she’s dead?” Nike-man asked, wide-eyed.
“I don’t feel a pulse, and sh-she’s not breathing,” Val said. “Do you have a phone? Mine just got soaked.”
The man nodded, unlocked an iPhone, and handed it to her. “I never touched a dead body before,” he said, then ran a few feet away and fell to his knees, retching.
Val sympathized. She’d never forget the first dead body she’d ever touched. Then again, it happened only five months before. It was also the first person she’d ever killed, a gang member who’d shot at her first, whom she’d stopped from raping a teen-age girl. But she couldn’t dwell on that at the moment.
She dialed her boss’s number from memory. “Clayton Police, Blake here,” her sergeant answered. “How can I help you?”
“Travis, it’s Val Dawes,” she said. “I just pulled a body from the Torrington, east of the ped crossing. A young woman, possibly a teenager. White, about five-five, one-forty to one-fifty, blonde hair, dark brown eyes. Dressed for winter, other than being barefoot.”
“No shoes, huh?” Travis said. “I’m guessing no flippers, either.” He chuckled, suddenly grew serious again. “Any signs of foul play?”
“Some bruises on her face. Is anyone missing that meets her description?” Val’s entire body shivered. As the excitement of the moment abated, bitter cold crept deeper into her bones.
“I’ll check missing person reports,” he said. “Dawes, are you okay?”
“I’m soaking wet,” she said. “The sooner you get someone out here, the sooner I can change into dry clothes.”
“On it,” Travis said. “Actually, it appears someone else called it in, too.” Sirens sounded, as if on cue. “Shouldn’t be more than a minute. I’ll send fresh clothes out to you ASAP.”
Val waved thanks to the white guy, still leaning over the rail on the bridge overhead and talking on his cell phone. She strolled over to his buddy, still puking on the riverbank. “You gonna be okay?” she asked him.
He rolled over to a sitting position on the wet grass, rain splashing his face. Lightning lit up the sky again, and thunder rumbled in the distance. “I guess I need to get used to this,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to UConn Med School in the fall.”
“It gets easier, I’m told,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Diego Collier.” He took a deep breath. “Up there, that’s my friend Kent Mercer. Sorry about what he said to you earlier. He can be kind of a jerk sometimes.”
Val waved it off. “Thanks for your help tonight, Diego. Can you stick around for a few minutes? Detectives will want to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” Diego said. He pointed to the logo on her sweatshirt. “But aren’t you a cop?”
Val sighed. “Believe it or not, this is my day off.”
***
Val hustled into the Liberty Heights Precinct break room the next evening, a few minutes before the start of her 5 p.m. shift. The aroma of burnt coffee almost, but not quite, overwhelmed the sour smell emanating from the garbage can in the corner of the cramped room, dimly lit by overhead fluorescent lights. Someone on day shift had sloughed off on cleanup duty again.
She set her cap on one of the four empty laminate-topped tables and double-checked the duty roster posted on the wall. No surprises there: patrol duty, swing shift, Thursday through Monday, no overtime. She sighed. The life of a rookie.
Rico Lopez, Val’s patrol partner since January, ambled in and poured coffee into two chipped mugs, each sporting Dunkin' Donut logos. “I heard you had a fun day yesterday,” he said. He handed her one of the mugs and leaned his compact, muscular frame against the counter, facing her. He rubbed the white scar that stretched across his forehead, a souvenir of a domestic violence case six months before that put his then-partner, Brian Samuels, on long-term disability with a gunshot wound.
Val toasted him with her mug and took a sip. “Any word from the medical examiner on the victim’s identity or how she died?” she asked. “She had no ID on her when she washed up on the riverbank. No phone, nothing.”
“The vic’s name was Olivia Lambert,” intoned a deep, rumbling baritone from the break room door. Sergeant Tr avis Blake, a 6’5”, barrel-chested white man in his early forties, took up the entire doorway, and his voice occupied any space his hulking frame didn’t. “We matched the body to a missing persons report this morning, and the family identified her a few hours ago. Cause of death: drowning, according to the ME.”
“Suicide, homicide, or accidental?” Rico asked.
“Three guesses,” Travis said with a sardonic smile. He shuffled in, holding a manila envelope under one arm.
“Give me a hint,” Rico said. “Any evidence of foul play?”
Travis elbowed Rico aside so he could access the coffee pot. “Plenty. Choking, sexual abuse, even some mutilation.”
The room fell silent, each officer paying their own private tribute to the young woman’s suffering. “What else do we know about her?” Val asked to break the silence.
“Seventeen years old, a junior at Liberty High School—your alma mater,” Travis said to Val. “Varsity volleyball, honor roll, student body treasurer. Volunteered on weekends with the mayor’s literacy program. Oldest of three girls, parents still together.”
“That rules out suicide, doesn’t it?” Rico mused aloud. “She had the world by the ass on a downhill pull.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Val said. “You never know what a teenager’s going through. Sometimes the people you think are the absolute happiest suffer from depression.”
“But something has to trigger it, right?” Rico said. “Break-up with a boyfriend, maybe? Or trouble at school?”
“Nope and uh-uh.” Travis stirred four scoops of sugar into his coffee. “Her parents said she wasn’t dating, and her sister confirmed it. Apparently, she was too busy with her extracurricular activities. And the girl had a 3.8 grade point average. You found yourself a smart one,” he added with a smirk. “And high profile.”
Val and Rico exchanged glances. “Why ‘high profile’?” Val said. “I’ve never heard of her, so—”
“Because Mayor Iverson made it so,” he said. “Which is why I’m here, Dawes. There’s an emergency meeting at City Hall to brief her on it. Lieutenant Gibson wants you there.” He handed Val the sealed envelope with “Olivia Lambert” scrawled across it. “That’s the ME’s report. Memorize it. You have twenty minutes.”
“The mayor?” Val frowned. “Why is Megan Iverson all worked up about this case?”
“Lost future voter?” Travis said, his eyes twinkling.
Rico grimaced. “That’s not as far-fetched as you think. Iverson’s considering a run in next year’s governor’s race on a law-and-order platform. She’s looking for a headline to ride into the primaries.”
“Whatever the reason, we’d better get on the road,” Travis said. “Rico can drive us over while we read.”
“Beats desk duty,” Rico said. “I’ll get the car.”
Travis rode shotgun, leaving Val no option but the back seat—where perps ride. She and Travis scanned the ME’s report while Rico fought Clayton’s rush hour traffic jams. That gave them plenty of time, as it turned out. Despite the region’s declining population and economy, the city’s narrow, decaying streets clogged daily with the vehicles of the nearly 100,000 bankers, mill workers, and restaurant staff inching their way to or from work. Rico blipped the sirens a few times to scoot past the ugliest backups, but they remained stuck in traffic at 5:30 when the meeting was supposed to begin.
Val didn’t mind. She appreciated the opportunity to dive deeper into the report. The M.E. had ruled out accidental death, but not suicide or homicide. He laid out his reasoning deep in the background pages—an explanation that left Val numb and silent for several moments.
“Check this out,” she said when she could speak again. “Bruising on the thighs in various stages of healing—some fresh. Scar tissue and traces of semen and lube in the vaginal canal.”
Travis stared at her. “And our all-American girl allegedly has no boyfriend.”
Val nodded, a lump rising in her throat. “No boyfriend,” she said, exhaling a long, uneasy sigh, “but what this tells me is, she does have a history of violent sexual abuse.” She gazed out the window, unable to focus further on the details of the case. It all hit too close to home, conjuring memories she fought daily to forget. The invasion of her bedroom by the large, sweaty man, a family friend entrusted to provide safety while her parents rushed her brother to the hospital. His hot, whiskey-laden breath on her, making it nearly impossible to breathe. His massive frame, pinning her to the bed—
For most of her teenage years, notions of suicide flared up inside her, temptations she resisted with therapy and the unflagging support of her older brother, Chad. Did Olivia Lambert have that type of support?
Travis’s deep voice brought her back to the present. “Sexual abuse? Where’d you see that?” He flipped through the report’s pages.
“Page seven.” Her voice sounded dull—as preoccupied as she felt.
Travis let out a long, low whistle and dove back into the report. For the rest of the ride, only Rico’s muttered curses at Clayton’s idiot drivers broke the somber silence.
***
Val and Travis joined their precinct commander, Lieutenant Laurence Gibson, in the hallway outside the mayor’s office at City Hall. Gibson’s bearlike figure seemed small only compared to Travis. His dark brown skin, broad nose, bulbous eyes, and untamed salt-and-pepper hair gave the impression of an impatient man, always ready to explode. But his gentle, intelligent demeanor and sonorous baritone put even the most skittish observer at ease—a key attribute in a high-profile political meeting.
“You ready?” he asked them.
“Like a village idiot with cash,” Travis said. “Dawes?”
“Not speaking unless spoken to,” she said with a mock salute.
A receptionist showed them into the meeting room, already occupied by enough people in suits to staff a small bank. A long mahogany table, with eight chairs on each side, filled most of the rectangular space. Windows took up most of one wall, filling the room with the soft glow of evening light reflecting off the tall, glass buildings lining the river to the east. The opposite wall featured a crisp, clean whiteboard, bordered by cork panels and a handful of upcoming event announcements, news releases, and policy statements affixed with push-pins.
At the head of the table stood a woman in her forties with bright green eyes and perfect skin—tanned, unblemished, and wrinkle-free. Val had never met the mayor, but she recognized her from television. Tall—at least 5’10”, Val guessed—and runway-model-slender, Megan Iverson wore a conservative blue suit and, on closer inspection, a little too much makeup, as if she expected to go on camera any second. She sported a politician’s smile and a diamond ring that—if real—would make Elizabeth Taylor proud. Only the woman’s shoulder-length, chestnut-colored hair seemed authentic.
“Welcome, officers,” she said, extending her hand. Gibson shook it and introduced Travis, Val, and himself.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you all. Especially you, Ms. Dawes.” Iverson held onto Val’s hand for several seconds, shaking it with a firm grip. “I’m so grateful for all the work you’ve done to rid the streets of violent thugs like Richard Harkins.”
Val shuddered at the mention of the name. She’d shot and wounded Harkins three months before, but only after he’d raped multiple women and girls in the area. “The whole team contributed,” Val said, stammering. “But thank you, Madam Mayor.”
A tall man wearing a tailored black suit offered his hand next. “Curtis Iverson, Vice President of Constitution Finance,” he said, smiling. “I help Meg out from time to time.”
“My most trusted unpaid advisor for over twenty years,” the mayor said, beaming. “And we all see through that false modesty, Curt.”
“That’s the first time she’s ever called me modest,” Curtis said, grinning. “Except in reference to my looks.”
Val chuckled along with the others. No one would criticize Curtis Iverson’s appearance. His athletic build, bronze tan, and black hair, graying at the temples, reminded Val of a TV sports personality. But she found his presence in the meeting bothersome. Local pundits called him “the power behind the throne” for his fundraising acumen. Many criticized the mayor for providing her husband unfettered access to city government, despite holding no official title.
