Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5)

by Renee Pawlish

  “Sanders, I don’t understand.” She blinked in confusion, her mouth downturned.

  Spats went to her. “If I could have a minute of your time?”

  Sanders nodded his head, and she pinched her lips at Spats. She seemed worried, and a little surprised, but underlying that was a sense of disgust with Sanders. I couldn’t tell if it was because her husband had murdered someone or because he’d been foolish enough to confess to it.

  “Um, okay,” she said.

  “Might we talk somewhere private, please?” Spats asked.

  She glanced at Sanders again, and he gave her another nod. Then she spun on her heel and marched out of the room. Spats hurried after her. Sanders looked at me.

  “Ryan is sending a criminal attorney, Wayne Fitzpatrick, to the house. We can go over everything then.”

  “I’ll call the DA,” I said.

  I watched him carefully as I dialed Christine Radcliff, the Denver District Attorney, and had a long conversation with her as I explained the situation. She said to find out what Sanders and his attorney proposed, and then call her with the details. When I finished, Spats and Blanche came back into the room.

  “Sanders, what is going on now?” she snapped at him. “I told this detective I didn’t know anything about that night. It was a long time ago.”

  “I need to help these detectives, or my life will be over,” he said.

  She started to argue with him, and he held up a hand. “I don’t have any other choice. Scott Bradley has killed three people already. You need to do whatever the police want.”

  She looked at us, then back at him. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to help them catch a killer,” Sanders said.

  She sank onto a leather couch. “I want to hear everything before I go.”

  Sanders clasped his hands together and regarded her. “Okay, then we wait.”

  We sat in an uncomfortable silence as the minutes ticked by. Then Ferguson returned escorting a middle-aged man with neatly trimmed red hair. He stood in the doorway and quickly took in the scene.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Ferguson announced.

  Fitzpatrick wore a dark tailored suit and tie, and he walked into the room with an imposing presence. “Sanders, I came as fast as I could.”

  Sanders tipped his head. “Thank you.”

  Spats and I introduced ourselves, then explained the situation. Fitzpatrick nodded thoughtfully and said, “I’d like a moment with my client.” If he had been fazed by what Sanders had said, he didn’t show it.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Spats and I left the room.

  “What do you think?” Spats murmured as we stood in the hall.

  “I feel like Sanders is playing us, but what can we do? He confessed and is offering to help catch Bradley. We have to see it through.”

  He nodded. I called Rizzo and filled him in, then we waited. Fitzpatrick came out a few minutes later.

  “He’ll cut a deal. Scott Bradley will likely come here, and you can arrest him then. In exchange for cooperating, Sanders wants leniency.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I said.

  Once we worked out a deal between Sanders and the DA, we had to act fast. Bradley had killed three people in a little over twenty-four hours. I was almost certain he’d be coming after Sanders tonight. My gut said he wouldn’t delay. There was no way we would let Sanders be a sitting duck, so Rizzo ordered a SWAT team to the house. Spats took Blanche Frost to the station, where she would be safe.

  Just as it was getting dark, Rizzo showed up, along with Ernie and seven members of the SWAT team. We set up the game room, put a half-full glass of whiskey and an open book on a coffee table. We pulled the window shades, dimmed the lights, and left unlocked the double French doors that opened onto the back patio. Two members of the SWAT team positioned themselves on either side of the doors. We had another man in the hallway, and four men hidden in the front and back of the house as well. Ernie was upstairs with Sanders Frost. Frost had seemed surprisingly calm. Rizzo and I stayed in the dark hallway outside the game room with Wayne Fitzpatrick. Rizzo and I had earpieces in to hear the SWAT teams members communicate. The house was quiet.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Fitzpatrick asked.

  I checked my watch. Almost nine. “Bradley isn’t going to come when he thinks he’ll be spotted, so it’ll be later, or possibly early in the morning.”

  “Like when he killed Nakamura,” Ernie muttered.

  I nodded. The minutes ticked by. The silence was claustrophobic. Unfailingly polite, Ferguson had set up folding chairs in the hall. Rizzo sat with his arms crossed, his chin down, but I knew he wasn’t missing a thing. We periodically got up and stretched. I glanced into the game room. The SWAT guys crouched on either side of the French doors, alert. Fitzpatrick fidgeted, and I finally looked at him.

  “Relax.”

  He grimaced and nodded. Then he tried hard to stay still. A few minutes later, a voice in my ear startled me, one of the SWAT team members.

  “I’ve got movement in the back yard.” The voice was low and terse. “Someone with a slight limp is approaching the house.”

  “Your hunch was correct,” Rizzo whispered. “Our suspect has shown up tonight.”

  He and I stood up. We all moved silently toward the game room door. I motioned for Fitzpatrick to stay back.

  The earpiece crackled. “The suspect is almost to the back door.”

  We waited. I thought I saw a shadow in a hoodie on the other side of the French doors. The SWAT team members heard something, and they tensed.

  “He’s opening the door,” the voice in my earpiece said.

  I put my hand on the butt of my gun and drew in a quiet breath. My nerves jangled in anticipation. The light in the game room was dim. A dark figure stepped into the room and looked around. He took two steps, then the room exploded in shouts.

  “Drop the gun and get down! Now!” a SWAT team member yelled.

  As I looked into the room, I saw the man being pushed to the ground by two SWAT team members. The SWAT team was efficient, and in seconds, the man’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Rizzo and I dashed into the room. The man craned his neck up. Scott Bradley looked almost the same as the pictures I’d seen of him, except for the short hair and the twenty years of prison on his face. He looked up and glared at us and swore. The other SWAT team members burst through the French doors.

  “All clear,” one of them pronounced.

  “Sweep the house,” Rizzo said.

  They nodded and left the room. They searched Bradley and removed a 9-millimeter from his hoodie pocket. Ernie took the gun with a gloved hand. He nodded subtly. It was likely a match to the gun that had killed Nakamura and Halloran. I read Bradley his rights and called Spats to let him know we had Bradley. Then I heard voices in the doorway. The SWAT team members returned with Ernie and Sanders.

  “You set me up again, Sanders!” Bradley yelled, and then let out a string of profanities.

  Sanders shook his head and held up his hands. “I knew you’d be coming.”

  “A coward to the end.” Scott swore violently at Sanders as he fought against the men holding him down.

  Sanders backed up. Bradley swore again, and one of the SWAT team members yelled at him to calm down, or else. Bradley squirmed for a moment longer, then relented. Two of the SWAT team members pulled Bradley to his feet. The fight had gone out of him, and he stared at me sullenly.

  “We know you killed McCleary, Nakamura, and Halloran because you knew they’d all been paid off to make sure you were convicted,” I said. “But how did you find out? And how did you know it was Sanders who’d bribed them?”

  Bradley swore, the veins on his forehead popping. “During my trial, when I was meeting with my lawyer – McCleary – I overheard him talking to somebody about how he was being paid off, how he was setting me up to take the fall,” Bradley snarled.

  “Wait,” I said. “How’d y
ou hear that?”

  “We were in a room at the jail,” Bradley said. “He got a call and went into the hall, but the SOB didn’t notice the door wasn’t closed tight, and the sound just echoed right back into the room. He was talking about money, and how they had to ‘work together’ to make sure there was a guilty verdict.” He looked at Sanders. “I figured you paid them off. Then when I talked to McCleary the other night, I asked him if you were involved, and I knew by the way he looked at me that you were behind this whole thing. Nakamura and Halloran confessed to me, told me that they’d taken money. You did it. You’re the only one that had the money to pay everybody off.”

  Sanders stared at him with contempt, which made Bradley even angrier. He swore again and glared at me.

  “You want to know what he did?” Bradley said. “He paid them off so that I would go to prison. Do you know what it’s like to give up twenty years of your life?” He was furious, spittle on his face. “I was beaten up too many times to count, even had my leg broken, and it didn’t heal right.” He glowered at Sanders. “It should have been you. Not me! It was my turn to judge you!”

  Sanders stared at Bradley, but didn’t say a word. Bradley lunged at Sanders, but the SWAT team members held him back. Then Bradley’s fight suddenly left him.

  Sanders looked at me. “You have your man.”

  I nodded. “Yes, we have Bradley, and we have you.”

  Sanders frowned, then sank onto the couch. “Yes, for the moment.”

  I knew what he was implying. I knew he was going to do everything in his power to get out of any prison time. And with his wealth, I didn’t doubt that he might succeed. We walked over to Bradley. His nostrils flared, his eyes blazing.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?” Ernie asked.

  Bradley shook his head. “Nah. I never thought I’d get this far. And you,” he smirked at Sanders, “I wanted you the most. I shoulda … started with you.”

  “You can’t have me,” Sanders said. “Do you remember, a long time ago I told you, I always win.”

  Bradley hung his head, defeated. Something occurred to me.

  “Were you following Judge Nakamura’s office assistant?”

  “I wanted to know if he got the note, so I was watching the courthouse. I followed her, tried to listen to any conversations she had.”

  “Did you hear anything about the note?” I asked.

  He shook his head. He’d scared Sheila Noonan for nothing.

  Rizzo waved at Ernie. “Why don’t you go down to the station? You can get a full statement from Mr. Bradley there.”

  Bradley glared at Rizzo, and muttered something under his breath as the SWAT team members escorted him out of the room. Ernie followed.

  Rizzo turned to me. “Sarah, would you like to do the honors?”

  I nodded and turned to Sanders. “Sanders Frost, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alex Knight.”

  Sanders stared at me. He didn’t look scared, and I again had that feeling that he might end up getting away with murder.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The next day I had reports to write, and meetings with Rizzo and Follett, and with the district attorney. That kept me busy for the entire morning. Sanders Frost had become increasingly careful about what he said the rest of the evening, and his wife had turned uncooperative as well. He had a hearing scheduled for later in the day, and I was certain he would get out on bond. We now needed to build a strong case against him, and against Scott Bradley, who had also been uncooperative. I was at my desk when Ernie walked in with burritos from a street vendor across from the station.

  “Those smell good,” I said as he handed me one.

  He gave one to Spats, who, after his pre-meal wardrobe ritual, joined us. We ate for a minute in silence.

  “I talked to Ryan Jones at Jones Limited,” Spats said. “He said Sanders withdrew some large sums of money around the time of the Bradley trial.”

  “Did Jones know what was going on?” Ernie asked.

  Spats shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Hard to prove that he did know,” I said.

  “True.” Spats finished a bite. “I’ll put the details of my conversation in a report.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Ernie said as he finished his burrito. He licked his fingers and looked at both of us. “I’m going to work on some reports, and then if no one objects, I’m going to go home early. I want to take Liz to dinner.”

  I smiled. “She deserves that. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Going to her parents.” He wiped his hands on a napkin and threw it in the trash. “Should be good. I’m lucky, I like my in-laws.”

  Spats laughed. “Yeah, me too. Well, technically Trissa’s family aren’t my in-laws.”

  “When are you going to change that?” Ernie asked.

  “Maybe sooner than you think,” Spats said.

  Ernie made eye contact with me. “And you?”

  “Maybe sooner than you think.” I stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Ernie eyed me.

  “I’ve got to talk to Olivia Hartnell, and then I hope to go home early. Spats, if you can, leave early, too.”

  He grinned. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  I smiled at both of them. They were great detectives, and good friends, too. Then I headed out the door. I had two more things to do.

  “Oh, Detective.” Olivia Hartnell’s face said it all, her eyes wide in surprise, with more than a trace of apprehension. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  My smile wasn’t a pleasant one. “Tell me about the two notes you sent to Judge McCleary.”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I shook my head slowly. “You had Felix’s friend, Marko, help, didn’t you?” She shook her head. I wasn’t buying it. “You and Felix met at the Starbucks and talked about notes.”

  Her jaw worked as she tried to think of what to say. Her eyes were those of a trapped animal. Then she looked to the street and stepped back. “You need to come inside.”

  She went to the living room and sat in the same chair as the last time I talked to her. She put her hands in her lap.

  “I need to read you your rights,” I said.

  Now her face flushed with fear. She gulped and nodded. When I finished, I stared at her, then recited the notes that McCleary had received that I surmised Bradley hadn’t sent. “‘I’m coming for you,’ and ‘I will get you.’”

  She bit her lip. “Felix just wanted to scare the judge,” she said. I waited on her. “You have to understand, Felix was angry about everything. He’s not this hard-core criminal that everybody thinks he is. He’s trying to do good; he’s tried to help me.”

  I didn’t have to understand anything, and I didn’t believe a word about Felix, but I stayed quiet and let her go on.

  “Felix wanted the judge to be afraid, and he asked me to help. He told me to get in touch with Victor, and that Victor would handle everything.”

  I took a guess. “Why didn’t you just send the notes? Why have Victor help?”

  She shrugged. “Felix didn’t want me directly involved, and he didn’t want direct contact with Victor. So he had me tell Victor what to do. So I met with Victor and told him what Felix wanted. As far as I know, that was all that would happen. Felix would never have actually killed the judge.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed that, and I would continue to look into Victor Marko.

  She looked up at me with fear in her eyes. “I know Victor didn’t kill the judge.”

  I nodded. “No, he didn’t. But he did break the law. He threatened a judge, and that’s illegal. And you’re an accomplice.”

  She gulped again. I stood up.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  She wasn’t happy as I cuffed her, then drove her back to the station. On the way, I sent a detective to arrest Victor Marko. A couple of hours later, I was fini
shed with them, and I left the station. Then I had only one more thing to do.

  “What’s this?” Harry asked as he walked into the kitchen.

  It was six o’clock, and once I’d dealt with Olivia and Marko, I’d come home. Fleetwood Mac, Harry’s favorite, played in the background. Two champagne flutes sat on the counter. I smiled at him.

  “Would you like some champagne?”

  He leaned his computer bag against the counter and eyed me. “Sure, that sounds great. What’s the occasion?”

  I leaned across the island. “You know how much I love you?”

  His eyes danced. “Yes, I do. And I love you, too.” The sentiment was sincere, but there was still a trace of confusion in his eyes. He leaned in and we kissed.

  “The champagne,” I said.

  I went to the refrigerator and got the bottle, and he took it from me.

  “Let me do this.” He took off the wrapper and expertly uncorked it, then poured two glasses. I held up my glass.

  “To us,” I said.

  He clinked my glass lightly. “To us.”

  We sipped the champagne, then I put the glass down.

  “I’ve got twice-baked potatoes in the oven, and the broccoli is steaming. And, I have ribeyes.” I went to the refrigerator and took them out.

  Harry arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re going to grill? I didn’t think you knew much about cooking the perfect steak.” There was no insult in that; it was true. He was the grill master, not me.

  I pointed to my laptop on the counter. “Online videos are amazing. I looked up how to grill the steaks.” I held up the plate. Let’s see how I do.”

  “I can do it.”

  I shook my head. “You relax, get settled, and let me do this.”