Fatal Judgment

by Irene Hannon

  It was important not to leave any trace evidence. He knew all about that stuff from the television cop shows. It was amazing how they could nail a person with the littlest thing. A fingernail, even. That’s why he’d been extra careful when he’d gone to the judge’s house, wearing latex gloves and a stocking cap that covered his hair. Right before he went, he’d also washed the black clothes he’d worn, just in case any of Josie’s hair had been clinging to them.

  He’d found a piece of gum wedged under the heel of his shoe after he’d arrived home, though. And he’d wondered briefly if there might have been cat hair stuck to it. But even if there had been, thousands of cats in the city had gold hair. There would be no reason for anyone to link him to a stray cat hair found in the judge’s house.

  But to be safe, he’d put Josie in the basement this morning. No reason to take chances.

  Once he finished his taping job on the seat, he covered the carpet in the front with plastic too. After the job was finished, he’d dispose of it.

  Satisfied, he backed out of the car, opened the door between the garage and the house—and froze.

  The doorbell was ringing.

  His pulse began to hammer as he stepped inside. No one ever came calling on Sunday morning.

  No one ever came calling, period.

  Moving through the house, he sidled up to the front door and peered through the peephole.

  It was that young woman from next door. Looking for Patricia, he presumed.

  As he watched, she pressed the bell again.

  He could ignore her. But she was a bit of a busybody, always watching the comings and goings in the neighborhood. She probably knew he was at home. If he didn’t answer, she might think he was ill or injured. And she was the type to call 911, all in the interest of being a good Samaritan.

  A flutter of panic rippled through his stomach. Better to deal with her and send her on her way.

  “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds.” She gave him a perky smile as he opened the door. “I tried to catch your sister as she left, but it was too late. She offered to let me borrow a Bundt pan for a cake I’m making to take to a potluck dinner, and I wondered if I might trouble you for it. Those are the pans with the hole in the middle, you know? She said she saw one in a box in the basement at the foot of the stairs.”

  A Bundt pan.

  He did his best not to roll his eyes.

  “I’ll check for you.” He started to turn away, then hesitated. The polite thing to do would be to ask her in. The temperature had dropped into the upper thirties, and a wind was whipping her hair around her face. “You want to wait inside?”

  “If you don’t mind. It sure has gotten cold all of a sudden, hasn’t it?”

  She eased past him. The front door opened directly into the living room of the small bungalow, and she hovered just inside.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t offer her a seat.

  Without waiting for a response, he hightailed it to the basement door. Josie hated being relegated there and usually parked herself on the top step, meowing loudly until he let her out. She’d been quiet today, though.

  Easing the door open, he could see the coast was clear. She wasn’t waiting on the step, ready to rush past him and escape her shadowy confinement.

  It took him less than thirty seconds to find the pan. After moving in, he’d removed only the essential items from the boxes of kitchen stuff. But he’d had to rummage through every box to find what he’d needed, and he hadn’t done the best job repacking them. Patricia must have noticed the Bundt pan on one of her trips down here to do some laundry.

  As he grabbed the pan, he saw Josie by the wall a few feet away, wedged behind some boxes. She wasn’t paying any attention to him, which was unusual, and curiosity got the better of him. Squeezing between the cartons, he kept his distance but leaned over.

  She was playing with a dead mouse.

  Mystery solved.

  He backed away, ascended the stairs, and closed the door.

  Molly hadn’t strayed far from where he’d left her. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll save you and Patricia a piece. She sure is a nice lady.”

  “Yeah.” He opened the door.

  “See you around.”

  The instant she stepped through the door, he closed it behind her.

  Back in his bedroom, he pulled on the boots with the thick soles, left over from the square-dancing class Helen had dragged him to five years ago. He hadn’t liked the lessons, but he’d enjoyed being more than an inch and a half taller. Today the added height had a practical advantage as well.

  After putting two nylon restraints and a few strips of rags in his pocket, he carried his box of supplies to the car. Stowed it on the passenger seat. Locked the door to the house. Slid behind the wheel.

  It was D-Day.

  Martin smiled.

  Harold was right on time.

  Though the blustery wind was creating whorls of leaves along the gravel path in the deserted park, the judge’s neighbor was marching along at a good clip. He always made four circuits of the twisting path that wound through open fields and small wooded parcels. He was now halfway through the first one.

  As the man disappeared around a small copse of trees, Martin removed the spirit gum and mustache from the box beside him. He’d practiced at home, and it took him less than a minute to secure the small, neat mustache to his upper lip. Once it was affixed, he put on a pair of sunglasses and pulled a stocking cap low over his forehead. After snapping on a pair of snug-fitting latex gloves, he covered them with a pair of leather gloves. A quick touch to the pocket of his coat confirmed his gun was in place.

  Martin waited until Harold was less than a hundred yards away before exiting his car. He took a quick look around to verify they were still alone in the quiet park and palmed his revolver. Then he started down the path toward the approaching man, who was bundled up in a bulky winter coat with a scarf around his neck and a baseball cap on his head.

  He stopped as the man drew close. “Good morning, Harold.”

  Harold stopped too, his expression quizzical. “I’m sorry . . . do I know you?”

  “No. But you’re about to do me a big favor.” Martin angled his hand so the man could see the gun.

  The color drained from Harold’s face, and he took a step back. “Look . . . I-I don’t have much cash with me, but what I have is in a money clip in the pocket of my pants.”

  “I don’t want your money, Harold.”

  Panic gripped the man’s features, and he did a quick scan of the park.

  “There’s no one here today, Harold. And I don’t plan to hurt you or Delores, as long as you cooperate.”

  Harold’s head snapped back toward him, and the fear in his eyes was almost palpable. “What have you done with Delores?”

  “Nothing yet. And I won’t, either, if the two of you cooperate. Now let’s walk nice and casual over to your car, like you just met up with an old friend and we’re having a little chat.”

  The man complied, though his gait was stiff as Martin fell in beside him.

  When they arrived at the car, parked as usual at the far end of the lot, Martin gestured to the trunk. “Open it.”

  Harold fumbled in his pocket for his keys and fitted one in the lock as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and began to trail down his temples. The trunk lid swung up.

  For a moment, Martin felt bad. Harold was just an innocent bystander in all this. It didn’t seem fair to cause the man such distress.

  On the other hand, plenty of people had caused him distress these past few years. And he’d been innocent too. At least Harold’s distress would be brief. Unlike his.

  “Get in. Lay on your side, facing away from me, hands behind your back.”

  At the command, Harold sent him a pleading, terrified look. “Please, mister, don’t do this.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Harold. I just need you out of the way for a couple of hou
rs. But if you don’t get in, I’ll have to use this.” He hefted the gun.

  “Okay, okay.” The man lifted his hand in a placating gesture and awkwardly climbed in.

  Once he was in position, Martin holstered his gun and bound Harold’s wrists behind his back with one of the plastic restraints. Then he twisted the other around the man’s ankles and wound a long strip of cloth around the man’s mouth, tying it behind his head. Finally, he tugged the man’s wedding ring off his finger and slipped it in the pocket of his coat. He’d have taken the man’s keys if the ring hadn’t come off, but this was more personal. And persuasive.

  “Relax, Harold. You’ll be out of here in time for dinner. Just lay nice and quiet until someone comes to let you out. Because if you cause any problems before then, you’ll never see Delores again. Got it?”

  The man gave a jerky nod.

  “Good.”

  Closing the trunk lid, Martin once more checked out the park. Considering the biting wind and the cold, he doubted anyone would venture into the corner of this little parking lot anytime soon. Even if Harold tried to attract attention, there’d be no one to hear him.

  But given the fear on the man’s face when Martin had threatened Delores, he didn’t figure he had to worry about the man causing any trouble.

  As he slid into his own car, he shot a quick glance at the bouquet in the vase on the floor beside him, all wrapped up in that fancy paper florists used. That had been his only stop en route to the park.

  And now it was time for the flowers to play their role.

  At the ring of the doorbell, Delores set down the knife she was using to cut up the potatoes for the pot roast and wiped her hands on her apron. Odd. She and Harold never had callers on Sunday morning.

  She peeked around the semi-sheer curtains in the living room, which gave her an angled view of the front porch. A man was standing by the door, juggling a flower arrangement wrapped in green floral tissue.

  Liz. They had to be from her. That was exactly the kind of gesture her lovely neighbor would make as a thank-you for the treats she’d been dropping off at the condo.

  Smiling, Delores bustled toward the door and swung it open.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” The delivery man was half hidden behind the tall bouquet. “These are for Delores Moretti.”

  “That would be me.” She reached for the arrangement. “My, what a nice surprise on a gloomy Sunday. No one’s sent me flowers in years. Thank you for . . .” The words died in her throat as she looked back at him.

  The man was pointing a gun at her!

  “Move back, Mrs. Moretti.”

  Panic surged through her. Yet one thought was clear: she couldn’t let this man into her home. If she did, she’d be at his mercy.

  Tightening her grip on the vase, she inched it up, took a deep breath, and prepared to heave it at him and slam the door in his face.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mrs. Moretti. Not if you want to see your husband alive again.”

  Stunned, she watched as he withdrew Harold’s wedding ring from the pocket of his coat and displayed it in his palm.

  “Dear God!” She choked out the whispered words, her gaze riveted to the familiar wide band of burnished gold with the tiny nick on one side.

  “Move back, Mrs. Moretti.”

  Too shocked to think, she stumbled back a few steps. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, the gun never wavering.

  “Set the flowers down, Mrs. Moretti.”

  She complied numbly.

  “Your husband is fine. For now. Whether he stays that way depends on you. Why don’t you have a seat while I tell you what I want you to do.”

  As the gun-toting intruder laid out his plan, an icy chill settled over Delores. This wasn’t about her and Harold. They were simply pawns in his nefarious plan to get to Liz. And the thought of betraying her neighbor by aiding and abetting this man twisted her stomach into a knot.

  Yet what option did she have? All she could do was go along with his plan and pray that before he was able to carry it to its conclusion, she’d think of some way to thwart him.

  Because if she didn’t, Harold might live.

  But Liz would surely die.

  16

  ______

  “What! When did this happen?” In the marshals’ command post next door to Liz’s condo, Larry Olsen vaulted to his feet, shock rippling through him.

  BlackBerry pressed to his ear, he listened as his sister-in-law recounted the hemorrhage that had sent his pregnant wife to the ER. At the same time, the Morettis appeared on the hall video monitor. The security cameras had picked them up coming in the front entrance, bundled up against the cold, so he’d known they were on their way up to visit Liz. But the timing couldn’t have been worse.

  To complicate matters, Dan was deep in conversation with their boss in the kitchen, discussing an upcoming trial that would present the marshals with some major security challenges.

  Grabbing the hand-held metal detection wand off the foyer table, he spoke into the phone. “Trish, I need to put you on hold for thirty seconds. Don’t hang up.”

  As he stepped into the hall, the couple stopped. Harold bent his head and fiddled with the lid on the latest tin of goodies they’d brought for the judge, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Delores had told the judge he’d had cataract surgery on Friday, and Liz had alerted the marshals to expect the sunglasses. The man also had a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. But his distinctive gray mustache was clearly visible.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti. The judge is waiting for you.” He swept the wand over them quickly, his mind focused on his wife. They’d lost their first baby late in a pregnancy. Neither of them were prepared for a second loss. As soon as he cleared the Morettis, he needed to find someone to replace him in the CP, then get to the hospital. Fast.

  The wand began to beep as he ran it over the tin of cookies. Nothing new there. The food containers Delores brought set it off every time.

  “Mr. Moretti, may I take a quick look in there?”

  “Sure.”

  He pried open the lid, and Larry glanced at the sugar cookies. “Thanks. Go right on in, folks.”

  With a wave in the direction of Liz’s condo, he returned to the CP.

  Dan was strolling into the dining room, where the monitors were arrayed, as he came through the door. “What’s up?”

  “The Morettis are here.” Larry motioned to the monitor, where the couple could be seen standing at Liz’s door. “Give me a minute.” He finished the conversation with his sister-in-law, then filled Dan in. “Bottom line, I need to find a sub ASAP.”

  Dismay flattened Dan’s features. “I’m sorry, Larry. I’ll help you make some calls.” As he spoke, he was already pulling out his BlackBerry.

  “Thanks.” Larry scrolled down his speed-dial list of deputy marshals. Maybe he could tap a newer guy who was anxious to make points. They didn’t need one of their top people for this gig.

  Because if the pattern held, it was going to be a long, boring Sunday.

  At the ring of her doorbell, Liz smiled. Now that she’d finished the case file review, she’d been at loose ends for much of the weekend. Jake was gone to Chicago for his mother’s birthday, so there’d been no impromptu visits from him or pizza parties with his siblings. Although she’d filled much of her Saturday and Sunday reading briefs for upcoming cases and catching up on law review articles, eventually her mind had refused to focus. The unexpected offer of a visit from the Morettis had been a godsend.

  Peeking through the peephole, she saw Delores frowning beneath her floppy-brimmed, oversized rain hat. That didn’t bode well. In general, the woman bubbled with unbridled optimism. But she’d also sounded a little tense on the phone. Had there been a glitch in Harold’s cataract surgery? He was standing behind Delores, head bent, and she could see his sunglasses. Funny that Delores hadn’t told her anything about the surgery until today. She was usually chatty about such goings-on in the
ir lives.

  After flipping the dead bolt, she opened the door and ushered them in.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you called, Delores.” She waited until the couple cleared the door, then shut it and flipped the dead bolt. As she started to turn, she heard the top being popped off the tin of cookies. “It’s been really quiet here all . . .”

  Her words died in a sharp gasp. Harold tossed the cookies to the floor, lifted a revolver from underneath, and pointed it at her.

  Only . . . it wasn’t Harold. The mustache wasn’t quite right, and his body build was more angular than her neighbor’s.

  “I’m sorry, Liz.” A tremor ran through Delores’s words. “But he’s got Harold, and he said unless I cooperated I’d never see him again.”

  At the tearful apology, Liz focused on her neighbor. The woman was quivering, and her complexion had a gray cast.

  “That’s right, Judge,” the intruder interjected. “And the same goes for you. Harold’s fate is in your hands. So is Delores’s. You cooperate, they live. You don’t, they die.”

  Between the glasses and the baseball cap and a muffler wrapped high around his neck, not much of the man’s face was visible. Liz had no idea who he was.

  But one thing was clear.

  She was looking at the man who’d killed her sister.

  The man who still wanted her dead.

  As fear clawed at her throat—and her composure—she struggled to rein in her panic. She had to keep her wits about her. To think clearly.

  Her life depended on it.

  She forced herself to examine the facts, just as she did in the courtroom, doing her best to take emotion out of the equation.

  And the facts were straightforward.

  The intruder was intelligent; he’d devised a plan that had gotten him past the marshals in the CP, which was no small feat.

  He was committed to finishing the job he’d set out to do in her house three weeks ago; otherwise, he wouldn’t have risked coming back.