Vengeance Is Its Own Reward
Millie Dynamite
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Vengeance
Is Its Own Reward
A prequel to Vengeance Is Mine
Mille Dynamite
© Copyright 2024 by Millie Dynamite
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Vengeance
Is Its Own Reward
Offered for your perusal the early career of one Elizabeth “Shortcake” Dyer. A woman slight of stature, with an intellect of rare abilities. One who pursued righteous retribution with dogged determination through every means possible.
Placing her trust in God and the criminal justice system, prosecutor Dyre worked tirelessly for victims. When she ran into brick walls pursuing justice, she manufactured vengeance.
“The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”
Hamlet Act III Scene II
April 1986
Midway through the previous year, a snake of a human being bludgeoned to death his mistress with a heavy plastic ashtray. He became angry over a perceived slight and taught her a lesson. Danna Lancaster made an offhand remark about feeling sorry for the scoundrel’s wife.
Danna’s comment triggered something dark inside Enzo Bianchi’s unstable mind. Picking up the heavy ashtray, he dumped his cigar and ash on the carpet and struck her once across the back of her head. She teetered momentarily before falling to her knees, holding herself up with her hands. Enzo stood in front of her, kicked her, and knocked her to the floor.
Pouncing on top of her, he pounded her face into the consistency of butter. All the while screaming, “Still feel sorry for her?”
He left the small house he’d bought for Miss Lancaster, intending to burn the house and send all the evidence into an ash cloud. When a police car’s siren caught his attention, he fled the neighborhood without covering his tracks.
One day later, Detective Mike Corelli arrested him for second-degree murder in none too gentle a way.
He wiled away hours on end inside his jail cell until April of 1986.
****
A Muggy Night in Los Angeles
April 1986
The evening was as thick with tension as the LA smog. In a poorly lit alley, Detective Mike Corelli’s silhouette hardened against the glow of a solitary streetlamp. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trench coat. With practiced, wary eyes, Corelli scanned the men approaching him.
“Detective Corelli,” a man said. His voice oozed from the shadows like used and spilled 10W40 motor oil. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”
Corelli’s gaze narrowed on the figure emerging into the amber light. A fellow with a shark’s grin and eyes that hadn’t smiled in ages. He knew the type of gangster these men were. The ones who dipped their words in honey and covered their hands with blood.
“You know what the Boss wants. Disagree, and you’re already dead.”
The other two hoods pulled their heaters from their coats and pointed them at the detective.
“Let’s cut through the fucking threats, gentlemen,” Corelli said, no-nonsense in his tone. “What do you want?”
“Smart man,” the gangster said. Stepping closer with two goons flanking him. Dark-wing men ready to make a point with the bark of a pistol or the pounding of fists. “We want that little favor done tonight, that’s all. Something to ease our troubles with the law. Or your wife, well, she won’t be trying no cases no more.”
“Leave my wife out of this matter.”
“Plain and simple, get rid of the evidence you used to arrest him; do it tonight. Make them troubles go bye-bye, and it’ll be worth your while. If you don’t, you, the misses, and y’all’s daughter will all pay the price. Now, how about your little problem?”
“Troubles have a way of sticking around,” Corelli said in a flash of anger. Feeling the weight of his fear creeping up his spine.
“Ah, but you got to be our solution, detective.” The man reached into his coat, slow and deliberate, and pulled out an envelope thick with the promise of corruption. “The fucking evidence needs to disappear. A minor inconvenience for a man of your... shall I say, talents!”
Corelli eyed the envelope, feeling the serpent’s tongue of temptation flicker at his conscience. Money had always sung a siren song to him, and Elizabeth might not always be generous with him. His own tastes weren’t getting any cheaper. He took a shallow breath. The air had the flavor of grime and moral decay.
Or was it only his sweat and corruption?
“Say I do this. What’s keeping my name free of your little thing?” Mike Corelli asked. His voice was steady despite the internal disquiet.
“Discretion is the soul of our enterprise, detective.” The shark-toothed smile widened. “You’ll be taken care of quite well. Yes, sirree, a man like you with habits like yours, you’d be a good ace in the hole. Cards and dames are expensive hobbies. Sometimes, the former can pay for the latter. Most of the time, you’re in pussy and debt right up to your bushy eyebrows.”
“I’ve sworn off both.”
“Never last,” he said, handing the envelope to the cop.
Corelli accepted the bribe with a hand that didn’t shake, but might as well have. The envelope disappeared, a secret close to his heart; he shoved it into his inside pocket. One concealed payment he’d never share with Elizabeth. Because of the same of it all, Mike wouldn’t have the nerve to tell her.
“Consider it done.” The words cut the inside of his mouth, like chewing gravel.
The gangster pulled a pack of smokes from one pocket and a lighter from the other. Striking the pack against his thumb, a few cancer sticks bloomed. He pulled the one sticking out the most with his teeth and shook the others down. Lighting the smoke, he returned the instruments to their rightful place.
“I hear they have themselves a fresh talent hanging upstairs at the Roxy. Some you buy, some are free at the start. Just your kind of broads, Mikey.” As the man spoke, the vapor from his lungs hung around him.
The three men turned and walked away from Mike, one whistling a tune. The leader left a parting comment, “See ya later, gator.”
****
Mid-April brought with it a charade that needed to be played out. Corelli staged the scene meticulously, a maestro conducting a symphony of destruction. He tampered with the secure evidence-lock-up log at Parker Center, ensuring his alibi was airtight. With a few well-placed whispers and a strategic mishap, the evidence engulfed in flames during a seemingly routine night.
“Damn shame, ain’t it?” Corelli said aloud to the boys in blue, rushing about, feigning concern and disbelief. “Looks like someone botched the job.”
“Carelessness will be the end of us, Corelli,” one officer said. Shaking his head as they watched the smoke rise. “The fire chief says electrical.”
“Maybe,” Corelli said. The word laced with irony, but only he recognized it.
“Or maybe it’s just what someone needed to be done to stay ahead,” another cop said. “Sure as shit fucks your case in the ass.”
“My wife’s, too,” Mike said.
As the ashes of his integrity mingled with those of the incinerated evidence, Corelli thought the heat touched the edges of his soul. Mike pondered if he’d burned more than paper, blood, and a heavy plastic ashtray in the accidental blaze.
Guilt’s a strange thing. In time, it goes away. The first time Mike cheated on his wife, it tortured him for weeks. The second time, it made only a brief appearance. It only returned after his daughter, Dorothy, was born.
Dorothy was just six months old. Already, the itch for another woman pestered him.
At least his Shortcake and lil’ one are safe, he thought.
But more to the point, he was safe and had a grubstake. If they hadn’t threatened him, he’d still have taken the bribe. The anxiety of worrying about his wife leaving him penniless and alone didn’t eat at his gut as much. Money fixes many a problem.
The odds of that increased every time he dipped his wick in another’s inkwell.
And Mike Corelli recognized he’d have more opportunities to make money from the mob. As soon as he took the money, they owned him. The guilt would be as bitter and brief as the second time. He walked out of Park Center at 4:30 AM.
The morning came.
The courtroom air was thick with anticipation, and the stale aroma of a decade and a half of tension sweated into wooden benches. The gavel cracked like the bark of a revolver. It demanded silence from the murmuration of the crowd as Judge Richard Burr took his seat at the bench. His sharp gaze swept over those assembled in the gallery, the jury box, and the lawyer’s tables. Staring at the spectators, journalists, and lawyers alike—before resting his gaze on the defense table.
“We’ve heard from the prosecution. Proceed with your opening arguments, Mr. Hickman,” Burr said. His voice was soft. Yet carried the authority that comes with years of upholding the law in a city that often seemed lawless.
The attorney rose.
“My learned colleague has a knack for making iffy evidence seem like a smoking gun in her oh-so-polished openings. Fortunately for my client, opening arguments do not a trial by jury make.”
Posturing and pontificating, weaving narratives designed to sway, convince, absolve, or condemn. However, as the defense referenced, the prosecution’s crucial evidence of their case...
A man rushed into the room, came directly to Elizabeth Dryer, and whispered in her ear. Words that shocked and angered her for a moment. Regaining control of herself, she stood and interrupted Thomas Hickman’s remarks.
“Your Honor, may it please the court—sidebar?” A hush fell over the room. In that quiet, one might hear the courthouse’s support beams creak.
“Speak from where you are. Unless this is a matter that must be kept from the jury.”
“No, your Honor. It’s a matter of public record by this point. Your Honor, it appears there has been... an irregularity.”
“Be plain, counsel,” Burr said, his expression unreadable.
“The evidence, sir, is gone. Up in smoke as it were.”
The courtroom erupted into chaos, a cacophony of shock and outrage. The defendant smiled. The sun had come out, and his mood brightened. Burr’s gavel came down again, restoring a semblance of order.
“There was a fire last night, and several boxes of evidence, including those for this case, destroyed. All reports, the physical evidence, all burned up.”
“Given these circumstances, I am suspending the trial for forty-eight hours.” Burr announced his decision which hung heavy in the room. “Court is adjourned until Friday morning. MS Dyer, may I have a moment, please?”
She met the judge at the foot of the bench. “Elisabeth, you know what’ll happen if you can’t prove some connection to the Bianchi crime family.”
“Yes, Richard, you’ll have to let him go.”
“Well, get that husband of yours cracking on this.”
“I’m afraid this will be an IA investigation.”
“Then your case went up in smoke. Internal Affairs won’t even have a suspect list in a week, much less something I can use in two days.”
Two days passed like a slow exhale, the city holding its breath beneath a sky smeared with smog. When Friday dawned, it did so without fanfare. The sun rose, somewhat reluctantly, over Los Angeles as if it, too, sensed the gravity of what was to come.
Inside the courtroom, the mood was somber, the earlier frenzy replaced with quiet tension. Judge Burr entered with measured steps that belied his age, taking his place as the arbiter of fates.
“Please be seated,” he instructed, and the room complied, sitting in a chair or bench with a rustle of fabric and a chorus of wooden creaks.
“Having reviewed the matter of the evidence,” he said, his voice steady. “And considering the inability of the prosecution to proceed without it, I have reached a decision.”
He paused, and at that moment, you could almost believe that the scales of justice balanced, almost.
They weren’t.
“Under the laws of this state and the principles of due process, I am dismissing all charges against the defendant, Mr. Enzo Bianchi, without prejudice. Mr. Bianchi, see the clerk, and then you’re free to leave. Madam prosecutor, if you can introduce new evidence at a future date, I’ll be happy to re-evaluate the situation.”
There it was. The twist no one saw coming but should have expected in this town. A place where right and wrong were bought and sold like a cheap whore sells herself. Corelli believed the eyes of the wounded survivors glowered at him, bored through his lies. And he imagined the weight of their judgment and suspicion might crush him.
He met none of their stares and settled his eyes on the elderly judge who’d freed a guilty man.
“Order! I will have order in my court!” Burr’s command sliced through the uproar, and slowly, begrudgingly, an order of sorts was restored.
Corelli stood amidst the throng of victory and defeat. His hollow victory churned inside and left a bitter bile in its wake. Outside, the city moved on, indifferent to the farce played out within the worn walls of justice. While inside, Mike Corelli felt the first stirrings of a reckoning that was sure to come.
This, too, would pass.
Enzo Bianchi stared at Corelli, bobbed his head once, and left the room with his lawyer. His father, Antonio Lorenzo Bianchi, walked out of the courtroom, his chest swelled in pride. The price would’ve been cheap at twice the amount.
Don Bianchi had a homicide cop in his pocket, firmly squeezed between his thumb and forefinger. If the money wasn’t enough, the threat to wife and child would do the trick, at least for the foreseeable future.
Maybe next time, Little Don will have to sit in Jale for more than the better part of a year. There was one thing Bianchi’s were sure of. There would be a next time.
****
The air in Gil Garcetti’s office was thick with tension. It’s the stuff that builds up when justice takes a back seat and leaves honest folks standing in the alley. Elizabeth ‘Shortcake’ Dyer stood across the room, arms crossed over her chest, her blue eyes flashing like neon signs in a storm.
“Damn it, Gil! We had Little Don Bianchi, fucking dead to rights,” she said. She spat her words fast and angry, her voice calm but laced with a fury that could ignite dry tinder. “Bianchi is guilty as sin, and you know it.”
Garcetti leaned back in his chair, the picture of a man who’d played this hand too many times. “It’s out of our hands, Liz. Without the evidence—”
“Out of our hands?” Ira Reiner said. Inserting himself into the conversation between his underlings. With his tone final, like the sound of a cell door slamming shut. “We play by the rules. We lost the evidence, we lost the case.”
“Not lost nor misplaced. Turned to cinder and ash. I don’t care what the fire department report says. Electrical short, my pale white ass. Inside job. The fucking sprinkler failed, the smoke detectors failed.” Elizabeth’s accusation hung in the air, suspicions twining around them like smoke from the fire that consumed the evidence.
“Careful, Shortcake,” Garcetti said. His tone held a rumble of thunder following the lightning strike of her words. “That’s a dangerous line of thought.”
“Justice is dangerous,” she shot back, her petite frame a deceptive shell for the dynamite of her conviction.
The tension continued as a standoff where words replaced bullets shot at victims. But as the clock ticked away, marking time like a judge’s gavel. Elizabeth knew the law’s limits too well. She took a breath, let it out slow, and made her play.
“Fine,” she conceded, her voice icy. “But this isn’t over. Not by a freaking fer-piece. Someday, I’ll find the rat they bought and paid to set that fire. For him or her, at best, the bastard will be outside kicking rocks. The worst, for him or her, they’ll be inside a prison cell.”
“If and when you do, we’ll prosecute him. Prison ‘t’sn’t a pleasant outing for a dirty cop,” Ira Reiner said. Standing, he moved to the door and turned back. “Let’s try to not fuck up any other cases, Gill. At least for a few years.”
****
The evening had draped Los Angeles in its sultry embrace when Elizabeth found herself outside the door of a washed-up ex-cop turned Private Investigator. Victor Raymond’s office assaulted Liz’s nostrils with cigarettes, broken dreams, and Old Spice, the perfect aroma for the business of digging up dirt.
The door swung open, revealing the man with the receding hairline and eyes with crow’s feet flowing like hot tears had burrowed into his flesh.
“Victor, my dear old friend, I have a job for you,” Elizabeth said.
Raymond sized her up. A look of skepticism creased into the lines of his face.
“I haven’t done an honest day’s police work for coon’s age. So, what’s a Deputy DA want with this has-been PI?” His voice was gravelly and sounded like worn-out tires on an unpaved, forgotten road.
“Enzo Bianchi. I need someone to tail him. Someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty,” she explained, her gaze steady and unwavering.