Now or Never (Brand of Justice #14)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts

Kenna Banbury had long considered clothing to be a form of armor.

These days she could use real armor—the kind of bulletproof vest designed with a pregnant mother in mind.

Horrible as it sounded, there were places in the world where that was necessary.

She wouldn’t have imagined it in her own life, but then so much of what had happened over the past few months was previously unimaginable.

Mostly she was just trying to forget her time as a captive of their enemy so she could feel normal. If that was possible. It seemed more like the essence of who she was had been left shattered on the floor of that deep-sea platform.

“Ready?” Jax stopped at the entrance of the restaurant, the backdrop of the downtown Boston skyline behind him. Lights everywhere. Traffic, even after nine on a Friday evening.

“I miss Wyoming.”

“No more hiding.” He smiled, reminding her of her own words—the ones she’d said to him just a few weeks ago. “Time to get back to work.”

He hauled open the door, and she stepped into this little alcove of humanity where surfaces were covered with white tablecloths and the lights and conversation were set to “low.” A ma?tre d’, slender and in her fifties at least, with a sharp bob and aggressively straight bangs, looked down her nose.

“We’re meeting someone.” Kenna scanned the dining room. “I see them. Thanks.” She passed the gatekeeper and headed for the expanse of tables. No idea where they’d find the Chief Medical Examiner. She kept scanning, aware of Jax behind her.

No matter what she did, where she went, or what they faced, her husband would be here with her. Behind her, watching her back. In front of her, protecting her and their baby from whatever threat came at them. Hopefully, nothing life threatening happened in this restaurant.

But then, that was why they were taking these cold cases.

Finding the lost and forgotten had become a way for her to try and put herself back together. Their child would be born into the kind of world where she would need her mother and father there to protect her every minute of every day.

Jax gently squeezed her hip, and she let him take the lead, threading through tables to the far corner.

He reached his hand back, and she clasped it with hers, needing that bit of connection as much as he did.

Neither of them had said as much out loud, but it was far better to work on cases anyway.

Saving other people and solving crimes that no one else had been able to solve had become a life’s work for Kenna over the years—from an FBI career to private investigator and now as a husband-and-wife team, and the friends who had become family along for the ride.

Away from the traffic of the kitchen door, the Chief Medical Examiner sipped a glass of wine, as though unwinding at the end of a long week.

She spotted their approach and watched them close the distance to her table.

At forty-seven, she was young for the position she held, though the wear and tear of the job was evident in her eyes.

Jax dropped Kenna’s hand and shifted to the seat on the right, so she could sit across from the Chief ME.

“I’m here to meet with someone.” The woman’s voice sounded like a rough northern sea. She still had her blazer on over a white blouse. No jewelry. Makeup that had worn off, but her bright lipstick outlined her displeasure.

She probably thought she was here for a date. Not that they were going to accuse her of professional misconduct.

“We’re the someones.” Kenna slid onto the chair, thirsty but not willing to drink something that could be tainted when the director of the CIA and the president had been killed that way just a few months ago.

“Kenna Banbury and Oliver Jaxton. We’re private investigators—unofficially, at least in the state of Massachusetts.

” She watched for a reaction to their names, but there wasn’t anything overt in the steady gaze of the other woman.

“We’re investigating a case you worked six years ago. ”

“So you know who I am? And somehow you think—what?—that I can help you?” She took a sip, and the crimson wine stained her lips. “More likely you’re reporters here to ask me about something entirely different so you can dig up dirt and discredit me. All for a salacious story.”

Kenna had worn slacks and a nice shirt with no sleeves, but which hung blousy around her middle—not really disguising her pregnancy, also not drawing attention to it.

She was six months along but didn’t really look it.

Over the blousy tank top, she had pulled a heavy jacket to ward off the winter chill in Boston and boots with tread, because no way was she going to risk slipping.

She reached in the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out the wallet she used as a cred pack. Back in her FBI days, she’d carried her badge and ID card in this leather fold. Now she pulled out a few of the private investigator licenses she held.

“Arizona, Utah, and Washington?” The Chief ME pushed those aside on the tablecloth and discovered Colorado and California under them. Her drawn-on brows rose.

“I get around. Which means I know what I’m doing, and I’m not a reporter.

” She glanced at Jax, who laid the file he’d brought with him onto the table.

“We know you’re Doctor Eleanor Walsh, and you’ve been the Chief ME for the City of Boston for over five years.

” She pulled the file over but didn’t open it yet.

“You aren’t married. You live alone. By all appearances you have chosen to dedicate your life to your career, which is an admirable thing.

You give a voice to those who can’t speak for themselves, and because of that, justice is served. ”

Dr. Walsh held Kenna’s attention with a steady gaze. She had blond hair, threaded with evidence of her years, and her reading glasses were probably tucked in her briefcase on the floor. She never left her work in the car where it could be stolen. She brought it with her always.

In the time they had spent following her and researching Eleanor Walsh, Kenna and Jax had learned she was meticulous. Which was what made this particular case so intriguing.

Kenna continued, meeting Walsh’s steady gaze right back.

“Six years ago, you performed an autopsy on Samantha Ambrose. Fifteen years old. She’d been missing for over a year when she was discovered deceased in an alley on the other side of this city.

That case has long since gone cold, though not for lack of trying on the part of Detective Withers. ”

“And you’re here to solve it?” Walsh sipped her wine. “When no one else can? There simply isn’t enough evidence to find the killer. That’s what cold cases are. And despite the local news and media, there’s no grand conspiracy going on when a young woman is murdered. It’s simply a tragedy.”

“That’s where we come in.” Jax took the top sheet of paper. “This is a copy of the autopsy report you completed at the time. I’ll let you see for yourself, but you reported the cause of death as ‘Hemorrhagic shock due to penetrating injuries.’”

“If I listed that as the cause of death, it’s because it was the cause of death.” Walsh shifted in her seat. “I didn’t come here for…whatever this is.”

Kenna had more questions and didn’t want to do this on the street outside. “It’s been a long day for you, I’m sure. We won’t take up too much of your time.”

Dr. Walsh stared at the sweating water glass.

“Please look at the autopsy.” Kenna paused. “We’d like to ask you about a theory we have.”

Walsh reluctantly took the papers and the photos they had printed off, images they deemed relevant. “It’s not my business to deal in theories. I report the truth of what is evident at the time of the autopsy. Anything else isn’t in my purview.”

“I take that report, extrapolate theories, and investigate,” Kenna said, “hoping I’ll discover what really happened and who is responsible for the death of a…child.” Her throat tried to close on that last word.

A lot of people might not consider a fifteen-year-old a child, but it depended on perspective.

Samantha Ambrose might have considered herself to be practically an adult.

She might’ve lived life independent of her parents, and whether that was what started her on the path that led to the end of her life wasn’t something Kenna could draw conclusions on—at least, not yet.

Bottom line, an adult should have protected her, but no one did. Her vulnerability made her the target of a predator, and she wound up dead.

“We know she didn’t bleed out in that alley,” Kenna pressed.

She swallowed against the dry feeling in her throat.

“The police never found the place where she died. All we have is this.” She tapped her index finger on the stack of photos.

“One of those stab wounds killed her. No hesitation, just a quick stab and twist.”

“She fought back,” Dr. Walsh said, her tone guarded.

“The other stab wounds were more random. The one that killed her was precise.”

Walsh looked like she was trying not to squirm. “What are you saying?”

“You reported what you saw in front of you on the body. And noted what you didn’t see.”

Kenna couldn’t fault her solely. Not when each of the parties involved had failed Samantha Ambrose.

The officers who arrived on scene first, Dr. Walsh, and the investigating detectives.

Every superior officer or boss. Every person who handled evidence testing.

All of them, combined, had a part to play.

Kenna continued, “She had defensive wounds on her arms, but no abrasions on her knuckles. Given the evidence in front of you, would it be reasonable to conclude she might’ve been killed with that first stab wound, and then each of the other wounds could have been applied after the fact?”

Walsh frowned.

“The defensive wounds are simply slices to the underside of her forearms. Those random stab wounds on her torso were far shallower than the one that killed her, a quick in-out motion.” Kenna leaned forward in her chair.

“Is it possible Samantha Ambrose was murdered by someone meticulous who then used the knife to cover up the lethality of that first strike by making it look like she was killed by someone out of control? That she could have fought back, or that the murder might’ve been committed in rage and anger instead of cold calculation? ”

Walsh flipped through the pages, her wine forgotten. “However it can be interpreted doesn’t change my recounting of the facts of the evidence.”

“She’d been fed only bread and water for days. Her weight at the time of her death was nearly twenty pounds lighter than what her parents told the police.”

Walsh looked up from the papers. “You think she was held captive.”

Kenna had read the detective’s report after interviewing a couple of school friends. Samantha Ambrose had pulled away from them and started to hang more with people she worked with at the coffee shop—a place open until two in the morning on weekends.

Walsh eyed her, flustered—her face pink. “You just came here to run a theory by me?”

“No.” Kenna shook her head. “I came here to ask why you concluded she was the victim of an attack that the detectives took as random violence. The result of a teen pushing boundaries and getting herself into trouble. Why you disguised the truth that she might’ve been killed by someone with military training. ”

A server in a crisp black shirt and black pants stopped beside their table, a white apron tied around his waist. What would be chin length hair was tied back behind his head, the bottom half shaved. “Are these people bothering you, ma’am?”