"You sure reacted quickly. If you hadn't knocked the gun out of the killer's hand, we'd both be dead."
"Amen to that. I guess my old instincts aren't too far beneath the surface."
"Lucky for us."
"Lucky isn't the half of it. I was seconds away from being an obituary. But it's not the attack that's bothering me; it's the reason I was attacked that has me worried."
Chapter Fourteen
Keith Evans had gotten home a little before six and nuked a TV dinner. It was chicken something with a side of something else, but ten minutes after he'd tossed the tray into the trash, he couldn't remember what he'd eaten.
After dinner, Keith channel-surfed for ten minutes before turning off his set. One mystery Keith wished the FBI could solve was how, with two million cable channels, there was never anything on TV that could hold his interest. He dropped the remote on an end table and wandered over to the bookshelf that stood against the front wall of the small living room in his small apartment. Keith could have afforded something a little bigger, but he was home so rarely that he'd decided it wasn't worth the money to upgrade. He looked at the titles of a few books he'd picked up from a used-book bin at a local mystery bookstore, but nothing excited him.
Keith hated to admit it, but he was bored. He had started his professional life as a cop almost twenty years ago in Nebraska, where an intuitive leap had helped him track down a serial killer who had baffled the FBI for five years. The agent assigned to the case had been so impressed that he'd recruited Keith for the Bureau. Keith had never duplicated his uncanny series of deductions in any other case since joining the FBI. His successes were the result of dogged police work. At forty years of age, he had given up on any dreams he may have had of being the Bureau's Sherlock Holmes, but his involvement in the D.C. Ripper case, which had ended Christopher Farrington's presidency, had revived him. Now that the case was over, he missed the excitement of being at the center of the law-enforcement universe.
Keith was trying to decide what to do next when his cell phone rang. The display identified Maggie Sparks, his partner. It had to be important if she was calling so soon after he'd left the office.
Brad was in the middle of a conversation with the judge when Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks walked into Justice Moss's chambers. The two FBI agents represented a study in contrasts. Evans was six two with thinning blond hair, streaked with gray, and tired blue eyes. He was carrying extra weight around his middle, and his once broad shoulders were stooped. Sparks was slim and athletic with glossy black hair, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion. She looked young and vigorous, and the grim tasks that had weighed down her partner's psyche did not appear to have touched her yet.
"What are you doing here?" Brad asked Keith.
"Maggie and I have been assigned to investigate the attempt on Justice Moss's life," Keith said. The agent pointed at Brad's chin. "What happened to you?"
"Mr. Miller was wounded in the line of duty," Moss said.
Brad turned to his boss. "You lucked out, judge. The FBI has put two of their best on this case. Keith was the head of the D.C. Ripper task force and his investigation was one of the threads that brought down President Farrington's presidency."
"I've seen Agent Evans on TV," Justice Moss said. "Pleased to meet you."
"This is Maggie Sparks, my partner. May we sit down?' Keith asked, indicating two armchairs positioned across from the couch on which Brad and Justice Moss were sitting.
"Please."
"I know you've already given a statement to the police," Keith said to the judge, "but would you mind telling us what happened?"
Justice Moss gave a detailed description of everything that occurred from the time the killer stepped from behind the pillar until her assailant fled into the Supreme Court Building.
"Has there been any luck finding this guy?" Brad asked when the judge was finished.
"The building is being searched, but it's pretty big. Hopefully, he'll be found, but he could have left the building before the search was organized."
"I'd be surprised if the person who tried to kill me is still here," Justice Moss said. "He seemed very professional."
"Why do you say that?" Maggie asked.
"I had the impression that he knew what he was doing, and I assume that includes working out an escape route. When you go to the garage, you'll see that he couldn't have planned on getting away by car. There are barricades at the top of the exit ramp that would have been up if the alarm was raised. So he must have worked out a way to get out of the Court once he was through with me."
"Why are you so certain your assailant was a professional?" Keith asked.
"It was the way he moved. He handled Brad and the guard easily, and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He definitely had some type of training."
"Can you think of any reason for this attempt on your life?" Keith asked.
"No, I can't. My assailant may just be a mental case or some right-wing fanatic."
"Are you considering a case this term that might set off someone like that?"
"No, we don't have any hot-button issues like abortion or gay rights before the Court this term."
"What about a case that affects an individual or a business?" Agent Sparks asked.
"That would be almost any case. They're all very important to the litigants, but I honestly can't think of a case that would get someone so upset they would try to kill me. And what would be the point. There are eight more justices. There have been instances where a justice has had to recuse himself or herself or has been unable to sit because of illness, and the Court has conducted business as usual."
"What about personal enemies? Can you think of a court employee who was fired or someone in your personal life with a grudge?"
Moss shook her head. "I'll give it some thought, but right now . . . No, I can't think of anyone who would want me dead."
Chapter Fifteen
Felicia Moss had lived alone for most of her life. There had been a brief marriage to a civil rights lawyer when she was in her late thirties, but that had only lasted two years, through no fault of her spouse. After the divorce, there'd been an occasional lover, but her work had been her real significant other. Felicia didn't regret the lack of companionship. She had decided long ago that she preferred to live alone, so the only tics and foibles she had to put up with were her own.
With the exception of her stint on Wall Street, the judge had never had an income comparable to those of men like Millard Price, but she had been a wise investor, and the returns from her portfolio allowed her to afford a pleasant apartment in an old and elegant high-rise in the Kalorama Triangle near Connecticut Avenue. Three policemen accompanied her home from the Court. One watched her door while the other two searched her apartment to make sure no one was waiting for her inside. When the search was complete, two of the officers left, leaving the third on guard in the hall outside her apartment.
Felicia could tell that Brad had been shaken by the attack in the garage, but she had always possessed the ability to shuck off the violent emotions that crippled others when they faced danger. She experienced no trembling of the hand or shortness of breath when the officers left her alone. However, she was overwhelmed by fatigue, and she dropped into an armchair and closed her eyes as soon as the door closed. She had always possessed an inordinate amount of energy, but she was in her midseventies, and age was catching up to her more rapidly than she would have wished.
After she'd been sitting for a while, Felicia became aware of a second sensation, hunger. With all the excitement, she had forgotten about eating. Her apartment building had been built in the early 1940s. An antique clock graced the mantel of the marble fireplace that was the centerpiece of the high-ceilinged living room. Felicia was shocked to see that it was after nine. She pushed herself to her feet and walked to the kitchen. Felicia was a talented chef, but she had only enough energy to slap together a sandwich made from odds and ends she found in her refrigerator. After pouring
a glass of milk, she sat at the kitchen table. She barely tasted her sandwich because she was preoccupied by the events in the garage. She was too old to fear death, but she was as curious in her seventies as she'd been in her teens. What was the motive for the attack? The assassin could just be a fanatic, but she didn't think so. There was nothing going on in her personal life that could have engendered such hate. She examined a number of possible reasons for the assault and kept coming back to the same one. The only odd things that had happened recently were Millard Price's overreaction during the discussion of the Woodruff case and the attempts by two of Price's law clerks to pump Brad Miller for inside information on her vote, but Felicia couldn't believe that someone would kill her to prevent cert from being granted in a case.
On the other hand, she really didn't know much about Woodruff's case other than the fact that the petitioner was facing execution in Oregon and that the most interesting legal issue concerned the state-secrets privilege, something she knew little about. Was it possible that Millard Price had some connection to the case? Felicia shook her head. Even if he did, it was absurd to think that her friend and colleague would try to kill her because of it. But as absurd as her theory was, Felicia couldn't shake the idea that she might be on to something. What to do, though? There was no way she could conduct an investigation personally. A Supreme Court justice was not allowed to go outside the record in a case that was before the Court. Even if she was permitted to play private eye, she didn't have the time or energy. Felicia smiled as a thought occurred to her. She couldn't play at being Sam Spade, but she knew someone who knew a real-life private eye.
Chapter Sixteen
Brad called Ginny just before he left for home and gave her a bare-bones sketch of what had happened. Ginny watched the evening news, and Brad was afraid she'd worry when she heard about the attempt on Justice Moss. The judge was concerned that her assailant might want revenge on Brad for foiling his plans, so she arranged for a policeman to drive him home and guard his apartment. When Brad opened the door, Ginny threw her arms around him, which balanced all the awful things that had happened but caused excruciating pain in his ribs where he'd been punched. Brad winced and Ginny backed off.
"What's wrong?"
"My ribs. They're a little sore."
A policeman followed Brad inside.
"This is Officer Gross of the Supreme Court police," Brad explained. "He's going to watch the apartment tonight. Officer Gross, this is my fiancee, Ginny Striker."
"Ma'am," Gross said.
"Why do we need a police guard?"
Brad decided to fudge the truth. "I don't think we do, but Justice Moss insisted. I think she wanted to protect us if reporters came around. The Court frowns on clerks speaking to the press."
Officer Gross made a cursory inspection of the apartment before borrowing a kitchen chair to sit on in the hall.
"Are you really OK?" Ginny asked as soon as the door of their apartment closed. She had noticed the large Band-Aid on Brad's chin and remembered Brad's reaction to her hug.
"Honestly, the cut on my chin didn't need stitches, and my ribs aren't broken."
"I was so worried when I heard the news. It said a clerk had been injured but the reporter didn't name him. Then you didn't come home on time."
"I'm sorry you were worried." Brad pulled Ginny back to him and held her tight. "The person who attacked Justice Moss is probably a nut case."
"I just can't stand the idea of you being in danger."
"Well, I'm not." Brad pushed Ginny to arm's length. "Now enough of this mushy stuff. Is there anything I can eat? I'm starving."
While Ginny heated up some takeout Chinese, Brad told her about the incident in the garage.
"You idiot," Ginny blurted out when Brad told her how he'd rushed the killer. "What were you thinking?'
Brad looked down, unable to meet Ginny's eye. "I wasn't. I just did it," he answered meekly.
"God, I hate this. I thought we were through with guns and killers."
"We are, believe me. They'll find out this guy is a member of some right-wing fringe group that hates African Americans or liberals. I was never the target."
The microwave dinged. Brad carried his food into the living room while Ginny brought him some tea. It was time for the late news, and Brad switched on the TV. A blonde anchorwoman was looking at the camera with her most serious expression.
"The Supreme Court dominated the news today as an assassin tried to kill a justice inside the historic building and President Maureen Gaylord nominated a woman to replace Associate Justice Ronald Chalmers."
A picture of Felicia Moss took over the screen.
"Never in our nation's history has an assassin struck at a sitting justice inside the walls of the Supreme Court Building," the anchorwoman said. "But that changed this evening when an assailant tried to shoot Associate Justice Felicia Moss in the Court's garage. Only quick thinking by one of her law clerks prevented the tragedy. The identity of the clerk has not been revealed, but Brad Miller, who figured prominently in the recent scandal involving former president Christopher Farrington, is employed as a clerk by the justice."
"Great," Brad said. "Prepare to be besieged by hordes of reporters again. Shit! I so wanted to be done with being a news story."
Ginny squeezed Brad's hand. "I'm not any happier than you are, but we weathered the storm once, and we'll do it again. Thank goodness, Justice Moss had the foresight to get you a person to guard the apartment. All I need is some reporter banging on our door in the middle of the night and--"
Ginny stopped talking suddenly. "I know her."
"Who?"
Ginny was pointing at the TV. "That woman."
On the screen, President Maureen Gaylord was introducing her nominee to fill the vacancy on the Court created by Justice Chalmers's resignation. The woman standing next to the president was a little over five feet tall, very skinny with pinched features and mousy brown hair. Her thin lips were drawn into a tight line and her eyes stared straight ahead. Brad thought that she looked completely humorless.
"Audrey Stewart is a graduate of Yale and its law school," President Gaylord was saying, "and has been a respected professor at Harvard and New York University law schools for several years. More important for these trying times, Miss Stewart spent several years in a high-ranking position at the Central Intelligence Agency. Her experience will give her a unique insight into many of the issues that will come before the Court."
"How do you know Stewart?" Brad asked.
"I don't really know her. Do you remember calling me a few nights ago and asking me to meet you for dinner and I couldn't go because I had to work late?"
"Yes."
"When I was leaving the office, Dennis Masterson came out of the elevator with Stewart. I thought it was an odd time to meet with a client, but Masterson must have been helping Stewart get the nomination. He was the head of the CIA, and I bet she served with him."
"That makes sense. Masterson is a major player in this town."
Audrey Stewart stepped to the podium and gave a saccharine thank-you speech.
"She looks a little scary," Brad said. "I wonder how she'll fit into the Court."
"If she worked at the CIA, I'm guessing she's going to beef up the conservatives."
"You can't always tell," Brad said. "Hugo Black was a member of the Ku Klux Klan, and he ended up being a big supporter of civil liberties, and everyone thought Harry Blackmun would be very conservative and he authored Roe v. Wade."
"If Dennis Masterson helped her get the nomination, Audrey Stewart is not a closet liberal. Trust me on that. I've learned enough about Masterson's politics during my short time at the firm to know he'd only help a dyed-in-the-wool right-winger get on the Court."
"Tomorrow, the bloggers and the newspapers will have plenty of articles analyzing her views."
The phone rang and Ginny and Brad stared at it.
"Let the answering machine take it," Brad said.
"Hi,
this is Wendy Fellows from the Washington Post," the caller began.
Brad walked over to the wall and disconnected the phone just as Ginny's cell started to ring. They looked at each other and powered down their cell phones.
"Are you sorry you took up with me?" Brad asked Ginny.
"My life would certainly be more peaceful with almost anyone else as a fiance. I just think of you as one of those trials God puts us through to test us."
Brad smiled. Then he took Ginny in his arms and kissed her. "We're not going to get any calls tonight, and there's nothing on TV. What do you want to do?"
"Are you sure your ribs can take it?" Ginny asked, only half joking.
"Why don't we see?"
Chapter Seventeen
Brad was so exhausted that he overslept, but the policeman who'd relieved Officer Gross drove him to work so he wasn't too late. Normally, the security guard at the employees' entrance nodded at Brad when he walked by, but this morning he said, "Good work, Mr. Miller."
Brad blushed and mumbled something inane before rushing off. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to think he was a hero when he didn't think of himself like that. He'd read interviews with men who had been awarded the Medal of Honor and citizens who'd rushed into burning buildings or leaped into turbulent rivers to save a life. Many of them were humble and embarrassed at being labeled a hero. Brad could see why. If he'd had time to think, he believed he would have run away from Justice Moss's assailant as fast as he could. But, like many other real-life heroes, he had acted on instinct, and it bothered him that he would be given credit for saving the judge's life when he was on automatic pilot when he did it.
"Thank you," Carrie Harris told Brad when he walked by the door to the judge's chambers on his way to his office.
"I really didn't do much, Carrie."
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