by Irene Hannon
Guardians of Justice #1
Fatal Judgment
A Novel
Irene Hannon
© 2011 by Irene Hannon
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
E-book edition created 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1422-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of
Congress, Washington, DC.
Published in association with MacGregor Literary.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To Sister Marie Blanche Marschner,
who taught me freshman English.
Thank you for inspiring me, encouraging me—
and teaching me how to diagram a sentence!
Your enthusiasm, appreciation, and respect for language
opened my eyes to the power, the passion,
and the possibilities of words.
1
______
At the vibrating summons from his BlackBerry, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Taylor clenched his hands on the steering wheel and stifled a groan. Except for the two hours of semi-restful downtime he’d enjoyed during the flight back to St. Louis from Denver, he’d been operating for almost twenty-four adrenaline-packed hours on high-alert status. His plan had been to head straight for his rented condo, ignore the boxes waiting to be unpacked, and crash.
But a quick glance at caller ID told him that plan was probably toast.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the talk button and greeted his boss. “Hi, Matt. What’s up?”
“Sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”
“No. The flight was delayed. I’m on my way home from the airport.”
“You might want to pull over.”
Not good.
A drive-through coffee shop came into view, and Jake swung into the parking lot, grateful for the providential timing and the establishment’s late hours. Since the LED dial on his dashboard clock was inching toward midnight and he suspected sleep wouldn’t be on his agenda in the foreseeable future, a hefty dose of caffeine was in order.
“I’m stopping for some coffee as we speak.” He pulled behind the car already at the order window.
“Good idea. Everything go okay?”
“Yeah. We had it covered. He didn’t even get off a shot.” Arresting a person on the U.S. marshals’ most-wanted list was always dicey. And as Jake had expected, Ray Carlson—whose string of warrants included murder, arson, narcotics trafficking, and firearms and explosives violations—had merited the deployment of a full contingent of deputy marshals from the service’s elite Special Operations Group.
“Good. That’s the way we like arrests to go down. Listen, I hate to pull you into another tough situation before you catch your breath, but Todd just left for Beauregard for some sniper training.”
Meaning Matt thought this job warranted SOG attention. Todd was the only other St. Louis–based member of the select tactical group headquartered in Louisiana.
“What’s the problem?” Jake extracted a small notebook from his pocket and balanced it on the steering wheel, keeping an eye on the car ahead of him.
“There was an attempted murder earlier tonight at the home of a federal judge. The judge’s sister was shot. She’s alive, but it’s not looking good. Until we have a handle on what happened, I want a protective detail on the judge 24/7. I’d like you to head it up.”
Not for the first time, he wished he’d had more time to prep before his transfer to St. Louis. Jake knew few of the judges here that the Marshals Service was charged with protecting. But no sooner had he arrived in town two weeks ago than he’d been called away to work the Carlson arrest. And during his prior six-month deployment to Iraq, he’d been focused on improving that country’s judicial and witness security—and staying alive. Future assignments back home hadn’t been on his radar screen.
“Who’s the judge?” Pen poised, Jake figured he could get the basics from Matt now and fill in the rest later.
“Elizabeth Michaels.”
He stopped breathing.
Liz Michaels? Doug’s wife?
No. It couldn’t be the same person.
Could it?
Even as that question echoed in his mind, he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.
“Jake? You there?”
“Yeah.” He took a breath. Kept his inflection neutral. “I haven’t done my homework on the Eighth District judges in this area yet, but the name is familiar. I knew an attorney years ago from Jefferson City named Liz Michaels.”
The car in front of Jake pulled away from the drive-through window, and he eased forward to place his order.
“Same person. She was in private practice there for quite a while, then served as a state circuit court judge for three years. She was appointed to the federal bench four months ago.”
A muscle in Jake’s jaw clenched as he pressed the mute button on his phone and addressed the barista. “Large Americano. And throw in an extra shot of espresso.”
The silence lengthened as he dug for his wallet, and when Matt spoke again he could tell from his boss’s tone that the man was frowning.
“Is there a problem?”
Yeah. A big one.
He’d rather go back to Iraq than head Liz Michaels’s protective detail.
But there was only one response a professional could give.
“No. No problem.”
“Good. I’ll get you some relief as soon as this thing is sorted out. But I’d like you to stick close for the first twenty-four hours. I’ll send Spence over to assist.”
“Okay. Where is she?”
“St. John’s. It was the closest Level I trauma center. Two police officers are with her in the ER. They’ll stay there until you arrive. What’s your ETA?”
Jake exited the drive-through and headed toward westbound I-64.
“Ten, fifteen minutes tops.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead.
After slipping the BlackBerry back onto his belt, Jake reached for his cup and took a swig of the potent coffee. Then another.
It was going to be a long, unpleasant night.
Fourteen minutes later, the buzz from the espresso beginning to dent his fatigue, Jake found a parking spot near the ER and walked past the media vans. He drew no more than a few disinterested glances from the news crews milling about in the chill of the October night. Dressed in jeans, a wrinkled cotton shirt, and a scuffed leather jacket, with twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble roughening his jaw, he assumed the reporters didn’t consider him anyone worth noticing.
They might have revised their opinion if they’d seen the SOG-issued .45 caliber Springfield tucked in the holster on his belt.
Unlike the media, however, the police officers at the door gave him their full attention as he approached.
Hand hovering near his holster, the older of the two officers stepped forward. “May I help you, sir?”
“Deputy Marshal Jake Taylor.” He’d already withdrawn his credentials from his pocket, and he flipped them open.
The officer examined them, then nodded. “We were told you were on the way. Your brother
is waiting to brief you. I’ll take you back.” He led the way inside, motioning for another officer to take his place at the door.
So Cole was on this case. Meaning the crime had happened in the jurisdiction of the St. Louis County PD. That was one piece of good news, at least. His brother was an excellent detective. But he’d have preferred a different venue for their first get-together since his homecoming. One that included a loaded pizza and a few laughs.
A midnight rendezvous in an emergency room didn’t even come close.
As Jake followed the officer down a brightly lit corridor, blinking against the glare while his eyes transitioned from real-world darkness to a world that never slept, the acid from the coffee gurgled in his stomach, sending a vague wave of nausea through him.
He hated hospitals. Had for four years. If he could have avoided this one, he would have.
For a lot of reasons.
He caught sight of one of them as he passed a doorway flanked by two more officers. While his glimpse through the half-ajar door was fleeting, and though he hadn’t seen her in five years, Jake had no problem recognizing the sole occupant of the room.
One quick, assessing sweep was all he needed to conclude that Liz Michaels hadn’t changed much. She had the same long, honey-blonde hair parted to one side. The same lithe figure, bordering on too thin. The same preference for classic, elegant attire. Except tonight the silky, cream-colored open-necked blouse tucked into her dark brown slacks had maroon stains at the cuffs and splotches of the same color on the front.
Blood.
Her posture also suggested uncharacteristic defeat. He remembered her as the chin-up, look-the-world-in-the-eye-with-confidence type. Tonight, no hint of that self-assurance was evident. She sat head bowed, eyes closed, her fingers laced as she rested her elbows on the arms of the plastic chair. There wasn’t a trace of color in her cheeks.
He almost felt sorry for her.
“Detective . . . Marshal Taylor is here.”
Realizing he’d slowed while passing the room where Liz sat, he picked up his pace to join his brother a few yards away.
Cole raised his disposable coffee cup in salute and gave him a wry smile as the escorting officer returned to his post. “Welcome to St. Louis.”
Sarcasm twisted Jake’s lips. “Thanks a lot. I’d rather be home in bed.”
“Join the club.” Cole gave him a sweeping appraisal. “But I must admit you look like you need the sleep more than I do. A lot more, in fact. Must be your advanced age.”
“I’m only three years older than you.”
“Yeah. But thirty-eight is a lot closer to forty than thirty-five.” Cole grinned. “How come you didn’t let me know you were back?”
“I just got in an hour ago.”
Cole grimaced. “Ouch. I take it you didn’t get any shut-eye on the flight home.”
“Nope.” As they both knew, dozing off on a plane was against the rules for armed marshals.
“When’s the last time you slept?”
“I can’t remember.” Jake surveyed his brother. Cole’s dark hair was a bit disheveled, and the white shirt beneath his sport coat had lost most of its starch. “You look like you’ve put in a long day too.”
“That’s why we get paid the big bucks, right?” Cole smirked and hefted his cup again. “You want some coffee?”
“I had an Americano with three shots of espresso on the way here, thanks.”
“Smart choice. You’re going to need it.” He drained the dark dregs and made a face. “And I thought the coffee at the office was bad.” Tossing the cup in a nearby trash can, he gestured toward a darkened room. “We don’t have much yet, but I can brief you on the basics in there.”
Without waiting for a reply, he entered, flipped on the light, and shut the door behind Jake. Settling into one of the two hard plastic chairs, he withdrew a small notebook from his pocket. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Jake cast a skeptical eye at the rigid chair. “Right.”
“I hear you.” Cole shifted in his seat. “They ought to make the people who design these things sit in them for an hour every day.”
Blowing out a resigned breath, Jake sat. “Okay. What do you have?”
“According to Judge Michaels, she arrived home from the courthouse about 7:30, as usual. She checked on her sister, who had been lying down. The sister got up, and the judge ran across the street to get a FedEx package that had been dropped off at her neighbor’s house. She was gone about ten minutes. Her neighbor carried it back for her, and after he left she found her sister slumped on the couch in front of the television in the family room. She’d been shot in the head from behind at close range.”
Jake’s lips compressed into a grim line. Not a pretty image. No wonder Liz looked shell-shocked.
“Any suspects?”
“The sister’s husband. Judge Michaels says he was abusive, and that she’d been after her sister for years to leave him. She finally did. Yesterday. After he beat her up again. We alerted her local PD in Springfield, and they’ve been to the house. No one’s there. We issued a BOLO alert about an hour ago.”
Jake frowned. An abusive husband who was angry enough to kill his wife might also be inclined to seek revenge on the woman who’d offered her shelter.
Cole read his mind. “We had the same thought.” He tucked his notebook back in his pocket. “And trust me, we’re more than happy to turn the good judge over to you guys.”
“Thanks a lot.” Any lingering hope of getting some shut-eye tonight evaporated. “How’s the sister?”
“Critical. Not likely to make it. She’s in surgery now. We kept the judge here instead of moving her to the surgical waiting room because it was easier to secure.” He rose. “I need to ask her a few more questions. Might as well introduce you.”
“We’ve met.” Jake stood too. “She’s Doug Stafford’s wife.”
“Whoa!” Cole’s eyebrows rose. “The connection didn’t register.”
“No reason it would. Michaels isn’t an uncommon name. And I doubt I’ve mentioned her to you more than a couple of times.”
“Well, at least you’re acquainted. That might make things easier.”
Jake let that remark pass. He’d never shared his opinion of Doug’s wife with Cole.
But as he followed his brother down the hall, easy wasn’t the word that came to mind about this assignment.
Not even close.
This can’t be happening.
Elbows resting on the arms of the uncomfortable plastic chair, Liz leaned forward and massaged her temples. She felt like she was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Five hours ago, she and her sister had been getting ready to share a spaghetti dinner.
Now Stephanie was fighting for her life.
From a gunshot wound.
It was surreal.
But she was alive, thank God. Although she wouldn’t be if she hadn’t sensed a presence behind her and shifted at the last instant. At least that was the speculation of the doctor who’d spoken with her hours ago, then left her alone to wait. And worry. And lament the day Stephanie had ever said “I do” to Alan Long.
She hoped that once the police found him, he rotted in prison for the rest of his miserable life.
As a surge of anger ripped through her, she rose suddenly—startling the officer stationed at the door.
“Everything okay, Judge?” He gave her a worried scan and wrapped one hand around the edge of the half-closed door, blocking her exit.
Her anger spiked up a notch. What kind of stupid question was that? The only way to make everything okay was to rewind the clock. Start the day over. Edit out the bad stuff.
But none of those things were going to happen. And that wasn’t this young cop’s fault.
“Would you like a soft drink or some coffee, ma’am?”
Shoulders slumping, she sank back into her chair. “Coffee would be good.”
And see if you can round up a miracle while you’re at it.
&n
bsp; Two minutes later, when the door swung open again, she expected a coffee delivery. Instead, the detective stepped through. She searched her memory for his name. Gave up. If he’d told it to her, it hadn’t registered. Besides, she wasn’t in the mood to talk to him again. She’d already told him everything she knew.
“I have a few more questions, Judge. And I wanted to let you know the U.S. Marshals would be taking over your security.”
Liz knew such protection was protocol for federal judges. She’d just never expected to need it. And she wasn’t sure she did now. Obviously, Alan had . . .
Her train of thought derailed as a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the room behind the detective.
Jake Taylor.
Her husband’s best friend from college.
Shock rippled through her.
Though their paths had only crossed twice—once when he’d been the best man at her wedding, the second time at Doug’s funeral five years ago—there was no mistaking those intense brown eyes nor his formidable presence.
She also recognized his dispassionate gaze. It was the same cool, aloof manner he’d displayed toward her at the service for Doug, and it hadn’t warmed one degree over the years.
She’d never understood what she’d done to incur his antipathy—and had long since given up trying to figure it out. The more important question was, what was he doing in St. Louis?
“I understand you know my brother, Jake,” the detective said.
The tall, dark-haired detective and Jake were brothers. She studied them, seeing the obvious resemblance now that they stood side by side. They had the same perennial-tan coloring, same strong chin, same athletic build—though the detective was about an inch shorter than Jake’s six-one, six-two height.
“Yes. Hello, Jake.”
“Liz.”
The officer returned with her cup of coffee, edging around the other two men in a room that had suddenly grown crowded. “I hope black is okay.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
As she reached for it, she saw Jake’s focus shift to the stains on her long-sleeved blouse.
She’d been trying to ignore them all evening. And she did her best to do so now as she took the coffee. But she couldn’t control the tremors in her fingers, and the steaming liquid sloshed dangerously close to the edge. She wrapped both hands around the flimsy cup.