Rage Factor by Chris Rogers Read Free Book Online

hair, pale eyes, pale expensive designer clothes, and a strident determination to right wrongs. Clarissa had stumbled upon the rape scene in a suburban park after leaving her stalled car on the roadside. In search of a phone to call her husband, she arrived in time to see Coombs slink off through the trees. Later, she’d picked him from a lineup without hesitation. But now she seemed to cower from Coombs’ mocking stare. That cowering could translate as uncertainty.
    Yet, surely a jury could see through Coombs’ slick posturing. According to Brenda, the man was suspected of raping and beating at least five women in two years. His victims described him as charming, generous, and thoughtful—until sometime around the third date. Dixie had seen that charm at the Parrot Lounge. She’d seen his other side, too.
    Women admitted being willing to have sex with Coombs, but apparently he wasn’t interested in willing sexual partners. His game was to win a woman’s confidence, then come on rough, using his fists. Sometimes he used a knife.
    A jury was not privy to unsubstantiated reports, though, and the other victims were too terrified of Coombs, or too ashamed and frightened of cross-examination, to go to court with what they’d suffered. Dixie couldn’t actually blame them. A good defense lawyer could twist a rape victim’s words until she sounded like a whore.
    Brenda Benson had won tougher trials. She knew how to elicit strong testimony, and her final arguments never failed to touch a jury where it mattered. Brenda could convince a stone to roll over. Yet, lately, some of her big cases had gone south.
    “How was the prosecution’s cross?” Dixie asked Belle.
    “Benson was good. She was damn good.” Belle shook her head. “But that slimy bastard turned on his thousand-watt smile and dampened the crotch of every female on the jury.”
    It figured. “What about the men? Sometimes they’re more astute than we give them credit for. They’ll see right through Coombs.”
    Belle shrugged. “Trust me, all the men would kill to have Coombs’ style and money and good looks. Secretly, they admire the bastard.” Belle’s gaze shifted to a middle-aged couple sitting across the aisle. She lowered her voice. “Did you know about the girl who’s been catatonic since Coombs ‘allegedly’ finished with her? That’s her parents.”
    The couple appeared to be in their fifties, the man sad-eyed and shrunken, the woman dark and intense. She kept twisting the strap of her alligator handbag so hard Dixie expected to hear it snap. If a look of hatred could kill, Coombs would never hear the jury’s verdict.
    “Brenda’s counting on this conviction,” Dixie said.
    “I hope she gets it.” Belle plucked at a racquetball glove peeking out of Dixie’s pocket. “Tell me you aren’t nuts enough to attempt a game with a broken foot.”
    “A game, a workout, and a rip-roaring celebration, if the jury brings in the right verdict. The foot is healed.” Well, practically. “Why don’t you join us?”
    “I have to meet a client. Flannigan, call me when you’re finished at the gym. By nine o’clock at the latest. If you don’t take this job, I have to find someone to pick up the girl by seven A.M . tomorrow.”
    Dixie nodded vaguely. She hated bodyguard jobs almost as much as she hated sitting on her butt watching paint dry.
    “But about that cast,” Belle said, as if reconsidering, “when does it come off?”
    “Tomorrow.” Actually, tomorrow was pushing it, but Dixie had badgered the doctor into using ultrasound to hasten thehealing process. She was optimistic. She turned her gaze on Lawrence Coombs.
    “What do you think makes a man take pleasure from inflicting pain on women?” she asked Belle.
    “Who knows? Early abandonment by his mother? Punishment or humiliation suffered as a child?”
    “Or maybe a chunk of his neurological cells mutated while the bastard was still in the womb.”
    “You’re a cynic,