Deadly Judgment
Detective Sarah Spillman Mysteries Book 5
Renée Pawlish
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Author’s Note
This Doesn’t Happen in the Movies
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Renée’s Bookshelf
A Sarah Spillman Mystery
First Digital Edition published by Creative Cat Press
copyright 2021 by Renée Pawlish
Created with Vellum
Foreword
I have exercised some creative license in bending settings and law-enforcement agencies to the whims of the story. This is, after all, a work of fiction. Any similarities between characters in this novel and real persons is strictly coincidental.
Chapter One
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The killer clasped gloved hands together and stared at the man sitting in a wooden chair. The man gulped, and beads of sweat popped up on his brow. The room smelled faintly of air freshener, a woodsy smell to go with the dark paneled walls and bookcases. An iPod softly played classic rock from the ’70s. Otherwise, the house was still as a cemetery.
“You’re not too uncomfortable?”
The man in the chair moved a little, his bound hands behind his back, his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. He stared up at the killer.
“What do you want?” The man mustered as much courage in his voice as he could, but he couldn’t control the slight warble.
The killer smiled at him. “Oh, we’ll get to that. I want to make sure you’re comfortable first.”
The man in the chair glared. “My wife will be home soon.”
“No, she won’t,” the killer said. “She meets friends for cocktails every Monday night. She won’t be home until later. I’ll be long gone.”
The man ran his tongue across dry lips. So the killer knew his wife’s schedule.
“Don’t worry,” the killer said, as if reading the man’s mind. “If I wanted to hurt your wife, I would have.”
The man gritted his teeth. “You won’t get away with this.”
The killer’s smile grew wider. “On the contrary, I will. I’ve had time to think this through. My plans are flawless, and I’ve taken great care not to leave any evidence behind.”
The man noted the killer’s new clothes. Probably donned right before arriving at the man’s house. Less chance of leaving evidence. He glanced down at the booties covering the killer’s shoes. How could he have missed that when he opened the door? The door!
“I have a security system,” the man said.
The killer nodded. “Yes, and my hoodie and hat will shield my face.”
“The police will figure out who you are.”
The killer contemplated the man. “How?”
The man had no reply. He’d been bluffing, and it didn’t work. If the surveillance cameras didn’t capture the killer’s face, there was no other way to know who it was. The killer wore new clothes, a black baseball cap, and the aforementioned hoodie, all to avoid leaving evidence behind. Would the ploy work?
The man in the chair sneered anyway. “You can’t be that sure.”
The killer laughed, a wicked sound. “I think I can.” The killer seemed tempted to sit at a leather couch, but resisted. A glance around. “This is a lovely office. So nicely decorated with mementos of all of the things you’ve achieved.” The killer moved to a wall with several framed photos. “Is this you with the governor?”
“I met him a time or two,” the man in the chair said.
The killer studied other photos. “I don’t recognize these people, although this one,” a tap on one of the photos. “This man looks familiar.”
“That’s Charlie Monfort, the Rockies owner,” the man said.
“I don’t like the owners. They’ve ruined Rockies baseball.” The killer turned back to the man. “You set me up, a long time ago.”
“What you overheard was wrong.”
The killer slowly shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. I want to know now, were others involved?”
The man quivered and looked away.
“Was he involved?”
The man still didn’t answer.
“They were,” the killer said. “I thought so. It couldn’t have been just you.”
“What do you want?” the man repeated.
“You took something from me. It’s time to return the favor.” The killer paused. “That’s twice you’ve asked that. Two strikes, so to speak.”
“What does baseball have to do with anything?”
The killer turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”
The man shook his head, but lamely. He knew.
“I was made to suffer, now so will you.” The killer’s faux-lighthearted tone vanished.
The man in the chair squirmed a little, but the bonds on his hands and feet remained tight. The killer moved to the other side of the room, where bookcases were full of mementos, among them some signed baseballs. The killer took one from its stand and examined it.
“I didn’t know you were a sports fan.” A shrug of the shoulders. “Although, how would I have known that? You never shared that with me.”
“I like collecting memorabilia,” the man said. “I used to collect cards, when I was a kid.”
“The collection is important to you?”
The man nodded. “Yes.”
The baseball was put back on the shelf, and the killer turned around. “In retrospect, there was a lot you should’ve told me, like how you didn’t help me even though you knew I was innocent.”
The man in the chair bit his lip. “It wasn’t what you thought.”
The killer stared at him for a long moment. A grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. The killer moved to a display rack and picked up a baseball bat.
“Signed by Todd Helton. Very nice.” The killer turned and moved closer to the man in the chair.
“I’m sure we can work things out,” the man said.
The killer twirled the bat. “Yes, this is perfect. A bat.” A smile. “Did you ever see the movie the Untouchables, the one with Kevin Costner?”
The man in the chair nodded. “A long time ago.”
The killer continued. “Do you remember the scene with Al Capone? That was Robert De Niro, you know.”
The man in the chair gritted his teeth. “What does that have to do with me?”
The killer took a step back, st
ill fondling the bat. “Robert De Niro talks about the baseball players of the time.” The killer’s voice took on an imitation of Robert De Niro. “Babe Ruth. Ty Cobb. I get nowhere unless the team wins.”
The quote wasn’t quite right, but the man wasn’t going to point that out. “This is about us being a team?”
The killer leaned in, mouth close to the man’s ear. “We were supposed to be.” A whisper. “But you let me down.”
“No, I didn’t.”
The killer stood straight, bat dropped to the side. “That whole scene was created for tension; you knew that a gangster in that room was going to get it.”
The man stared at him. “Do you want money? I can pay you.”
The killer paused. “Wouldn’t that be stooping to your level?”
The man in the chair drew in a breath. “You’ve got it all wrong. I was only doing what I had to.”
A shake of the head as the bat rose above the man’s head. “You didn’t have to participate, but you did.”
The man fought against his bonds, but it was useless. He swore at the killer. “What about the others? What will you do to them?”
The killer smiled. “What do you think?”
The man in the chair knew time was running out. “What do you want?” he asked.
The killer’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the third time you asked that. Third strike. You know what that means? You’re out.”
With that, the killer raised the bat and swung with ferocious force.
Chapter Two
When I walked through the door, I knew something was up. Harry had called me earlier in the day to see if I would be home for dinner. For what seemed like one of the few times in my career as a homicide detective, I’d been able to leave the station at a reasonable hour. I’d had a relatively calm day, a meeting with the DA on another case that morning, and an afternoon spent working on some reports. It was six o’clock when I came into the kitchen. Smooth jazz played softly, and the kitchen had a faint garlic smell. Two wine glasses sat on the counter, along with an expensive bottle of wine.
“Hello?” I called out.
The back door opened, and Harry came in along with a gust of cold November air. He looked at me and smiled, his dark eyes sparkling. He wore black slacks and a white shirt, cuffs folded back.
“Hey, hon, are you ready for dinner?” He held up a plate with two filet mignons on it. “Your favorite, cooked just the way you like it.”
“It smells great.” I arched an eyebrow. “When you said you’d have dinner ready, I wasn’t expecting this.”
He smiled, set the plate on the island, and pointed to the wine. “Would you like a glass?”
I nodded. “A Pinot Noir.” An expensive bottle that he’d purchased the other night. “What’s the occasion? Our anniversary isn’t for a couple of weeks.” Our first date, over ten years ago, had been on the Friday after Thanksgiving. We’d gone to dinner and had planned to go to a movie, but we’d enjoyed each other’s company so much, we talked right through the movie time.
“You’ll see,” he said mischievously.
He poured two glasses, walked over, and handed a glass to me. Then he leaned over and kissed me. There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite place.
“To us,” he said. He held up his glass.
I lightly clinked his. “To us,” I repeated.
I took a sip and sighed contently. “That’s good.”
He took my hand. “Come with me.”
He led me into the dining room. The table was covered with a white tablecloth, and on it were two place settings of my grandmother’s china, which I kept displayed in a simple china hutch. Candles lit the dimmed room, and a vase in the middle of the table held red roses.
“Have a seat.” He pulled a chair out for me and waited until I sat down. His hand lingered on my shoulder, then he put his glass down. “Wait right here.”
The jazz continued to play, and I looked out a window toward the darkening sky. Harry returned a moment later, with the plate of steaks and a salad bowl. Then he winked at me, left, and returned with scalloped potatoes and squash that he’d grilled. He put the dishes on the table and sat down across from me.
“This looks delicious,” I said.
Harry Sousen loves to cook on the grill. He’d recently bought an expensive grill, and he’s like a master chef with a good cut of meat. He and I had been to plenty of nice restaurants, but we both were just fine with a night in. But this … so special. I still wondered what he was up to.
“How was your day?” he asked as he cut into his steak. He gestured for me to do the same. “Is it cooked right?”
I checked the steak, even though I knew it would be just right. “Perfect. And my day was fine, most likely the calm before the storm.”
He glanced up. “No new investigation yet?”
I shook my head. “You know it’s coming.”
He smiled sadly. “Yes, it’s too bad, when you think about it.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. I love being a homicide detective, and yet I would love nothing more than for there to be no need for my profession.
“I fixed your favorites,” Harry said.
“I know. Thank you.”
We served ourselves potatoes, squash, and salad, and we ate in companionable silence for a moment. Then Harry gave me another look I couldn’t quite read.
“What?” I asked.
He contemplated me for a moment. “We have a good life together, don’t we?”
I looked at him, with his steel gray hair and firm jaw. I think he’s devastatingly handsome. And he’s right. We do have a good life. Harry has his own computer consulting company, and we live in a nice ranch-style house not too far east of downtown Denver. We live well, and I have no complaints. I nodded. “Yes, we do. I feel very fortunate for the things I have, including you.”
His face lit up. “Sarah, I can’t imagine my life without you.”
I smiled. “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
“Really? I was hoping we might get away around the holidays. Maybe the Bahamas? Think you can get the time?”
I sipped some wine. “Oh?” Was that the reason for the dinner?
He wiped his hands with his napkin. “Think about it while I get dessert.”
“May I help?”
“Nope. I just need to get it. I’ve made your favorite.”
I sat back, impressed. “Tiramisu? Did you get it from Olive Garden?” It may sound surprising, but of all the places I could get tiramisu, I love theirs the best.
He nodded and stood up. “I came home early.”
I smiled. “You left work early to do all this? Harry, what’s going on?”
“You’ve been working hard lately. I thought a nice dinner was overdue.” He took our plates and stepped back. “Hang on a second.”
I watched him leave the room, then heard him bustling about the kitchen. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the jazz music. I was in a trance when my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was my commanding officer, Calvin Rizzo. I was tempted not to answer, but I couldn’t. It was the job. I swiped to answer the call.
“Hello sir,” I said. I tried to hide the irritation in my tone, but I wasn’t successful.
“Did I interrupt something?” The hum in the background told he me he was driving.
I glanced toward the kitchen. “Well, yes, you did.”
“Sorry about that.” The apology was genuine: however, he moved on quickly. “We’ve got one. You’ll need to head out now.”
I felt a surge of adrenaline. “Where to?”
He rattled off an address that wasn’t too far from my house. “I’ll text it to you, too. The victim is Raymond McCleary.”
“Judge McCleary?” I was incredulous. “What happened?”
“His wife found him in his den. His skull was smashed in with a baseball bat. I’m headed there now.”
I swore under my breath. Harry came into the room with two plates of tir
amisu. He saw me talking on the phone, and his face fell and he clenched his jaw. I shook my head and shrugged. He nodded and set the plates down, then took his seat.
“Someone broke into his house and used a bat on him?” I asked Rizzo.
“Not quite. The judge collected baseball memorabilia. Someone tied him to a chair, took a signed bat that the judge had, and killed him with that.”
“What the hell?” I said. Harry’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” Rizzo said. “What I’ve gathered so far is the wife screamed and ran out of the house, and a neighbor heard her yelling. He called 911. A squad car showed up, assessed the scene, and called for homicide. I hate to interrupt, but …”
I glanced at my watch. “I should be there in about ten minutes or so.”
“I’ll see you there. Ernie and Spats are on their way, too.” Ernie Moore and Roland “Spats” Youngfield are my partners. Before they’d left the station this evening, Ernie had said he was going to enjoy a night in front of the TV, and Spats told us he was going out to dinner with his girlfriend, Trissa. Those evenings were being interrupted as well. Rizzo sighed. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“Yes.” I ended the call and looked at Harry.
“New case?” he asked. His mouth turned down, disappointed.
I nodded and looked at the table and our dessert. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”
He waved a suddenly weary hand in the air and shrugged. “Don’t be. I knew when we got together what your job was. It’s part of the deal.” The words sounded forced, though. He shrugged.
Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Page 1