Fatal Judgment

by Irene Hannon

  Praising God for small favors, he pulled it off his belt and scanned the number.

  “It’s Cole. Give me a sec, okay?” Tapping the talk button, he put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

  “Good news. We’ve got our man.”

  7

  ______

  A bell was ringing somewhere.

  From her prone position, Liz struggled to open her eyes. As the shadowy, unfamiliar room came into focus, the bell rang again.

  A doorbell.

  Trying to jump-start her muddled brain, she pulled herself upright as the pieces began to fall into place. She’d been reading a brief in the condo where she was sequestered. It now lay on the floor beside the couch, where she’d fallen asleep. And based on the dimness of the room, she’d been out cold for a couple of hours.

  A knock sounded on the door. A loud knock.

  Loud enough to suggest the door might be kicked in if she didn’t open it. Fast.

  “Liz?”

  The tautness of Jake’s muffled voice propelled her to her feet.

  Her shin connected with the edge of the granite-based, glass-topped coffee table, and she yelped as she stumbled toward the door.

  “Liz? What’s going on?”

  A thread of panic wound through Jake’s curt question.

  “Hang on. I’m on my way.”

  In the foyer, she paused to peer through the peephole. Jake stood to the left, almost out of sight, gun in hand. One of the marshals from the CP was on the right, gun also drawn.

  Embarrassment warmed her cheeks as she slid the dead bolt back and opened the door.

  “Sorry, guys. I fell asleep on the couch and didn’t hear the bell.”

  The marshal beside Jake flashed her a grin and holstered his gun. “No problem.”

  As he returned to the CP next door, she stepped back to allow Jake to enter. Instead, he bent and picked up a foil-wrapped plate from the hall floor, which he handed her. A bouquet of flowers wrapped in newspaper rested beside it, and he retrieved that as well before joining her inside.

  Trying not to be unnerved by the disconcerting juxtaposition of his gun in one hand and flowers in the other, Liz closed and bolted the door. He was sliding the small pistol into a concealed holster on his belt when she turned back.

  “Sorry again for the delay in opening the door.”

  “Don’t be. I’m glad you got a little sleep. What was that startled exclamation I heard?”

  She wrinkled her nose and reached down to rub her shin. “A close encounter with the coffee table. What’s this?” She hefted the plate in her hand. “And that?” She waved her other hand at the newspaper-wrapped bundle.

  “A little gift from my sister. I noticed the pots of flowers at your house and the bouquet on your kitchen table, so I sweet-talked Alison into letting me raid her garden.”

  “They’re beautiful.” She took the generous, old-fashioned bouquet of roses, mums, zinnias, and feathery ferns from him. The aroma of the roses was like a balm to her soul, and she inhaled deeply.

  “She has a way with flowers. And with lasagna.” He tapped the foil-covered plate in her hand. “She made plenty and thought you might enjoy some. Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet. And homemade lasagna sounds great. Much better than a frozen entree. Let me warm it up for a few minutes.”

  He followed her to the kitchen. After she put one of the two pieces of lasagna in the oven and set the timer, she scrounged up a pitcher that worked fine as a vase for the flowers.

  Moving aside the contents of her briefcase, she set the bouquet on the dining room table. “These really help warm the place up. Thank you. And please thank your sister.”

  “I’ll do that.” He motioned toward the living room. “Let’s talk for a minute. I have some news.”

  At his serious tone, a surge of adrenaline shot through her. “You found Alan?”

  “Yes.” He moved to the couch and gestured for her to sit.

  Liz complied, perching on the edge as he took a chair at right angles to her.

  “Your sister’s husband showed up at his house today about 5:00. The Springfield police had it under surveillance and moved in immediately. According to their report, he seemed taken aback by the news of his wife’s death and claims he had nothing to do with it.”

  “I didn’t expect him to admit his guilt.” Liz clenched her hands in her lap. “Does he have an alibi?”

  “Not one he can prove. He claims he went fishing for the weekend. Camped out on some property owned by a friend of his. But no one saw him there.”

  “What a surprise.” Sarcasm dripped from her words.

  Twin furrows appeared on Jake’s brow. Resting his forearms on his thighs, he clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Here’s the thing, Liz. So far, nothing at the crime scene is linking him to your sister’s murder. The perpetrator left no trace evidence that we could find. And we’ve already run the prints the Springfield PD took of your brother-in-law. They don’t match any found at the house.”

  The meager contents of her stomach began to curdle. She knew what that meant.

  “You don’t have grounds to hold Alan for more than twenty-four hours, do you?”

  “No. But we’ll be keeping very close tabs on him. And my brother and I, along with an FBI agent, are going down to Springfield tomorrow to question him. He’s still our prime suspect. But we can’t bring charges without any evidence. You know that.”

  Liz tried to stay calm. Tried to be rational. But it took every ounce of her self-control to speak in a reasonable tone. “I don’t want him to get away with murder, Jake.”

  “He won’t. This case is being given the highest priority. We’ll solve it.”

  His words were steady. As was his gaze. She locked onto it, needing the strength she saw in his eyes. The only thing keeping her going was the conviction that Alan would be brought to justice. That he’d pay for what he’d done to her sister. If she didn’t have that to cling to . . .

  She cut off that line of thought. Ruthlessly. She wouldn’t go there. Couldn’t go there.

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. Let it out. “I’ll just have to trust you all to do your job.”

  “Count on it.”

  He leaned down to pick up a sheet of paper that had slipped off the coffee table. Her notes about another painful subject she needed to discuss with him.

  “I talked to the funeral director this afternoon.” She took the piece of paper from him and stared down at it. The words she’d jotted blurred, and she blinked to clear her vision. “I’d like to have the funeral on Wednesday. I talked to the pastor at Stephanie’s church, and he’s agreed to go to Kansas City and do a short service in the chapel at the cemetery. The funeral director is making all of the other local arrangements. Will that work for you?” Now that they had Alan under surveillance, she doubted the plans she’d made would present a security risk to her.

  “It should be fine. I’ll connect with our Kansas City office and line up coverage at the cemetery. Spence and I will drive with you from here, unless you have a strong preference for flying.”

  “No. Driving is fine.

  “What time is the service?”

  “At 1:00. I tried to plan it so we could drive there and back in one day.”

  “Would you like to stay longer?”

  “No. Everyone I loved in Kansas City is gone.” Her voice choked on the last word, and she dropped her gaze, struggling for control.

  When she finally looked up, however, Jake’s expression did nothing to help her rein in her emotions. Empathy—and sympathy—lent an unaccustomed softness to his features, and at the tenderness in his brown eyes she again felt the pressure of tears behind her own.

  In the next instant, however, his calm, professional demeanor slipped back into place. “Is there anything else we can help with in terms of arrangements?”

  “I’d like to have my sister’s suitcases. They’re in the guest room at my house. I need to pick out some cl
othes for the . . . to send to the funeral home.”

  “I’ll have them here first thing in the morning.”

  The timer in the kitchen began to beep, and Jake stood. “I know you haven’t been hungry, Liz, but you need to eat. Try a little, okay?”

  At his coaxing tone, she wavered. Usually, the aroma of Italian spices that was wafting through the condo would bump her salivary glands into overdrive. Tonight, it turned her stomach.

  But the gesture by Jake’s sister had been kind. She’d sample a bite or two after he left.

  “It smells delicious.” Rising, she pushed her hair back from her face. The uncombed mess must be a sight after her two-hour nap. She hadn’t bothered with makeup today, either. So much for the always-put-together image of the venerable Judge Elizabeth Michaels.

  She started toward the door, but Jake’s voice stopped her.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Angling back, she saw he hadn’t moved from his spot by the couch. “Aren’t you going to leave?”

  “Not if you offer me coffee. I only had one cup at Alison’s. She’s a great cook, but she never has learned how to make a decent cup of coffee. If you ever tell her I said that, however, I’ll deny it.” He flashed her a quick grin.

  She studied him. Was he being honest about wanting coffee . . . or just hanging around to make sure she ate?

  But who cared about his motive? She was glad to have some company. Once he left, the heavy, oppressive silence would descend again in the condo. She might even have to turn on the television—always her last-resort fallback when in need of distraction.

  “I’m not the world’s greatest cook, but I do know how to brew coffee. I made a pot before I fell asleep, although it might be too strong.” She retraced her route.

  “Strong is the best kind.”

  He followed her back to the kitchen, and as she poured the dark liquid into a mug, he took the lasagna out of the oven and carried it into the dining room.

  Sliding into her place, she eyed the generous portion—and tried to contain the revolution brewing in her stomach.

  As if sensing her dilemma, Jake began talking, asking about her work and the Morettis. In the end, she found herself sufficiently distracted to put a fair-sized dent in the savory pasta while she responded to his relaxed, conversational queries. It almost felt like a normal meal between two friends.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing Mrs. Moretti mention a shelter.” Jake took a sip of his coffee and cradled the mug in his hands. “Sounds like you’re involved in some sort of charitable work.”

  “Yes. People from a lot of area churches volunteer to help out a night or two each month at a shelter for abused women and their children. Serving meals, cleaning up, changing diapers, lending a friendly ear. Whatever needs to be done. It’s a temporary, safe place for them to stay until they figure out what they want to do about their situations. I could never get Steph to take that step, but at least I tried to support other women who did, even if only for one night a month.”

  She poked at the last corner of her lasagna, laid her fork on her plate, and did her best not to let the turn in the conversation to darker subjects depress her.

  “I’m surprised you have time for things like that.”

  The studied casualness of Jake’s comment told her he was more interested in her response than his tone indicated.

  She gave him a direct look. “In my experience, people make time for the things that are important to them.”

  A few seconds passed while he took another sip of coffee. He seemed to be debating how to frame his next remark. “I got the impression from Doug that your work schedule was intense.”

  She’d often wondered what the two men had talked about during their periodic phone conversations, and whether Doug had shared much about his marriage. Jake’s comment gave her a clue.

  Now it was her turn to choose her words with care. “My work is demanding, and I put in long hours. But I’ve always given time to causes I believe in. And to the people I love.”

  For a long moment, he appraised her with guarded eyes. Intuitively, she sensed he was wrestling with some sort of disconnect. That her response didn’t jibe with information he’d been given by Doug.

  Wrong information, obviously.

  A deep sadness welled up inside her. She’d known her husband had been losing perspective near the end. And she’d tried her best to help him get his life back on track. Instead, as the weeks and months went by, he’d drifted farther away from her. Far enough to scare her. Far enough to convince her to take desperate measures.

  Far enough to make a tragic mistake.

  Based on the vibes she’d picked up at the funeral, Liz figured that Jake had suspected that. Had assumed that the blame for Doug’s demise rested on her shoulders.

  And the hard truth was, he was right about that. Even if he was wrong about other things.

  But that was a burden she couldn’t think about tonight. Not on top of everything else that had happened in the past forty-eight hours.

  No longer able to deal with the silence between them, Liz pushed back her chair and stood. “Please be sure to thank Alison for the lasagna. You’re right. It was fabulous.”

  If he thought her abrupt end to the evening was odd, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he rose too, his gaze flickering to her plate, where only a small piece of pasta remained.

  “You did it justice.” He drained his mug and carried it into the kitchen. “We’ll be leaving for Springfield early tomorrow morning. I’ll be in touch when we get back.”

  As he walked toward the door, Liz followed.

  “I don’t know what Doug told you about us, Jake, but after things calm down, I’d like to return to this conversation.”

  She hadn’t planned to bring up the subject again. And Jake appeared to be as surprised as she was by her comment.

  His step faltered, and he shot her a glance over his shoulder. His eyes were shadowed in the subdued light of the foyer, but she couldn’t doubt the sincerity in his tone. “I’d like that too.”

  He continued to the door and twisted the dead bolt. “I hope you sleep better tonight.”

  “Thanks. I do too.”

  After hesitating for a brief second, he let himself out. She peered through the peephole as she relocked the door, noting that he waited until it clicked before he walked a few yards down the hall to check in next door.

  Through the fish-eye lens, her view of him was distorted.

  Just as his view of her seemed to be distorted.

  But before his assignment with her was finished, she intended to set the record straight.

  “I’m not getting a good feeling from this.”

  At the comment by FBI Special Agent Mark Sanders, Jake frowned at the video screen. Cole had been questioning Alan Long for ten minutes in the nearby interview room at the Springfield PD headquarters, and Jake was fast coming to the same conclusion as Mark.

  Stephanie’s husband sat beside his attorney, Andrew Thomas, his hands tightly clasped on the round table in front of him. Mid-thirtyish with neatly trimmed light brown hair and dressed in a dark gray suit and tie, he didn’t look like a wife beater, let alone a killer.

  Then again, a lot of violent criminals appeared to be normal, ordinary people when first questioned by the police.

  It was the man’s demeanor, not his appearance, that unsettled Jake. His grief over his wife’s death seemed genuine. It could be an act. But Jake’s gut told him it wasn’t.

  “I’m not, either.” He turned to the tall, dark-haired man beside him, who was still focused on the screen.

  Mark looked his way. He had the seasoned eyes of a man who’d seen more than his share of violence and trauma. A man with finely honed instincts. A man whose judgment Jake already respected and trusted.

  “If he’s not the culprit, we have a whole different scenario to deal with.”

  Meaning Liz could have been the real target.

  Jake had already c
ome to the same conclusion.

  “Yeah. And it’s a whole lot messier.” Not to mention unsettling.

  “Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening! It’s a nightmare!”

  At the outburst from the video monitor, both men refocused on the screen.

  Alan’s elbows rested on the table, and he’d buried his face in his palms. His attorney put a hand on his shoulder and spoke too softly for the mike to pick up.

  After a few moments, Alan brushed his knuckles across his eyes and addressed Cole. “I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with this! I loved Steph, even if I didn’t always show it. And she knew I loved her. But when she told me on Wednesday she was leaving, I went a little nuts.”

  “You hit her.” Cole pinned him with a hard look.

  “Yeah. I did. And I’m not proud of that.”

  “So you acknowledge you have an anger management problem.” Cole maintained a neutral tone.

  “You don’t have to respond to that,” Andrew Thomas interjected.

  “I don’t mind answering. It’s no secret. Yeah, I have an anger problem. Steph bore the brunt of it. And she was a saint to put up with me! But she always believed I could overcome my issues. Believed I was capable of being better than I was. No one in my whole life ever believed in me like she did.” His voice broke, and Jake watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed and his irises began to shimmer. He swiped at his eyes again.

  When he continued, his words were ragged. “She’d been after me for a long time to get counseling. Had hinted it might be the only way to save our marriage. But I never thought she’d really leave me—until I came home Thursday night and found her note. It about killed me.

  “At first I was mad. I wanted to smash things. But I knew that was the exact kind of reaction that had caused her to leave. So I didn’t. I went to work Friday but took off at noon to drive to the lake. I camped there until Sunday afternoon. I’ve always been calmer, thought more clearly, out in the woods. And I realized I didn’t want to lose her. Or my child. That I wanted to be a better husband and father than my old man was. And I decided I was going to go to counseling, like Steph wanted. Only I never got the chance to tell her that.”