by Irene Hannon
The line went dead.
As Jake waited for Mark to get back to him, he gently tugged the Reynolds file out of the stack and skimmed through it. The man had filed the malpractice suit on behalf of his wife, who had died at a hospital in rural Missouri when they were visiting the area. Liz had directed a verdict in favor of the doctor because Reynolds’s attorney had failed to meet the burden of proof.
Jake stared at the file. Why had Liz included it in her second-round pile? Had Reynolds been angry with her verdict? Had she considered him capable of violence? Was he their man?
Probably not, Jake cautioned himself, trying to rein in a sudden surge of hope. If Clair said the ERT had messed with the files, he was back to square one.
If, however, they’d been in disarray when the ERT arrived, there was a slim possibility they were about to get their first solid lead.
“Sorry I’m late.” Bill slid into the booth across from Cole in the noisy diner. “It was one of those mornings, you know?”
Cole took a sip of coffee from his heavy crockery mug and grinned at his best buddy from high school. Even though their lives had taken different directions, they’d remained close. He looked forward to their twice-a-month breakfast get-togethers.
“No problem. Did somebody’s furnace give up the ghost overnight?”
“I wish.” Bill signaled to the waitress and pointed to Cole’s mug, then himself. “Dad called to make sure everything was copacetic before he and Mom headed to the airport for their cruise.” He shook his head and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve been married for almost a decade. I have three kids. I’ve been working with him for twenty years, learning the ropes from the ground up. You’d think he’d trust me by now.”
The waitress set his coffee down. “I’ll be back for your orders in a minute.”
“Thanks, Judy.” He shot Cole a wry look as he added two packets of sugar to the dark brew. “Oh, the joys of being part of a family business.”
Cole chuckled. “You love working with your dad.”
With a sheepish grin, Bill stirred in the sugar. “Yeah. I do. He’s a good guy. Say, speaking of family, how does it feel to have your brother back in town?”
“I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen him. He’s working a high-profile case.”
“Yeah?”
The waitress reappeared. “The usual, guys?”
“Sounds good to me.” Bill handed her back his unopened menu.
“Me too.” Cole followed suit.
She shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother to give you menus. I always place your standard orders the minute you walk in the door.” She smirked at them and headed for the kitchen.
“Cute, Judy,” Bill called after her, then turned his attention to Cole. “So can you talk about your brother’s case?”
Cole wrapped his hands around his mug. “Nope.”
“Too bad.” He stirred his coffee. “Your stories are usually better than those law enforcement shows on television. The way you guys piece together clues is amazing.”
“There’s a fair amount of luck involved. And we don’t always figure things out. Some mysteries go unsolved.”
“Say . . . speaking of mysteries, here’s one you might be able to clear up for me, given all the weird stuff you run into in your line of work. I was at a lady’s house yesterday, and when she was writing out a check for the service call she showed me an odd notation on some of her brother’s check stubs. She asked me if I knew what it meant, and I didn’t have a clue. It was above the signature line, and it said something about prejudice. Then there were the letters UCC followed by some numbers . . . 308, I think. Any idea what that means?”
Cole’s antennas went up. He’d been following the Michaels kidnapping case through the media and the law-enforcement grapevine, since Jake wasn’t returning his calls. He knew the FBI profilers suspected that a member of a sovereign citizen group was the perpetrator. While there were lots of those around, it was an odd coincidence that his friend had encountered one yesterday.
“Yeah. UCC stands for Uniform Commercial Code. It’s a system of law that deals with taxing and commerce. I can’t give you a technical explanation about what it means, but there are groups of people out there who believe certain kinds of documents constitute a contract with the government that undermines their freedom. So they use the 308 thing when endorsing checks or applying for driver’s licenses or car registrations. It’s related to the 14th Amendment.”
Bill gave him a skeptical look. “They sound like nutcases.”
“They consider themselves patriots.”
“Right.”
The waitress delivered their breakfast, and Cole picked up his fork. “The scary thing is, some of what they say makes sense. But a lot of the stuff they do is plain silly, like signing legal papers with red crayon because they think that keeps the documents from being subject to United States law. At the other extreme, though, they’ve been known to use guns and bombs when it suits their purpose. What was this guy’s name, anyway?”
“Hey, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Or lose a customer.” Bill poured a generous portion of syrup over his pancakes. “His sister was a real nice, normal lady. I don’t think this guy was one of your more radical groupies.”
Cole used the edge of his fork to break off a bite of his ham and cheese omelet. “Did you meet him?”
“No. He’s out of town on a hunting trip. His sister said he’d be home tonight sometime.” He set the syrup back on the table, grimacing as he eyed his sticky fingers. “That thing leaks.”
He reached forward to pull a few napkins out of the holder—and knocked his fork off his plate. It clattered to the floor.
“Sheesh.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I said, not my day.” Bending down, he snagged the fork.
At his muttered grumble, Cole leaned sideways to look down. “What’s wrong?”
Straightening up, Bill examined his hand in disgust. Several gold hairs clung to his sticky fingers. “I’ve been pulling these off my pants legs since yesterday. I knew there was a reason I disliked cats. This one was a real pest. The guy’s sister tried to shoo her away, but she kept coming back.”
Cole stared at the cat hair. Thought about the UCC code on the checks. Reached for his cell phone.
“Bill, I need the name of that guy with the funny checks. And I need it now.”
As his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Jake glanced at caller ID. Mark.
“Jake? I’m in Clair’s office. I’m going to put you on speaker.” He heard a click. “Okay, we’re good. Clair . . .”
“Good morning, Jake. I pulled the photos we took Sunday of the dining room table before we moved anything. There were two piles of files. Which one are you asking about?”
“The pile on the far side of the table, across from the computer. I need to know if it was messy or neatly stacked.”
“Messy. Is that important?”
His pulse kicked up a notch. “Maybe. That pile had been sitting there for two weeks, perfectly aligned. Liz likes things neat.”
“The kidnapper could have knocked it off the table.”
“That’s possible. But I can’t see any reason why he would have been in that part of the room. And a sheet from one of the files looks as if it could have been pulled out on purpose.”
“What file is it?” Mark asked.
“It’s for a malpractice case she heard a couple of years ago. Martin Reynolds versus Dr. John Voss.” When silence greeted his response, Jake frowned. “Are you guys still there?”
“Yeah. Who won that case?” Mark asked.
“She directed a verdict in favor of the doctor.”
“Okay . . . this may be pure coincidence, but one of the guys I met recently at a Patriot Constitutionalists meeting is named Martin.”
A surge of adrenaline set Jake’s nerve endings tingling. “I think it’s time to pay Jarrod Williams another visit.”
“I’m heading out the d
oor for Luke’s office to fill him in as we speak,” Mark responded. “I can meet you in the lobby of Mr. Williams’s office in fifteen minutes.”
“Sounds good. I’ll give Matt an update too.”
As Jake rang off and strode toward the door, preparing to dial his boss, his BlackBerry began to vibrate again. Checking caller ID, he saw it was Cole. This was the second time in the past twenty-four hours his brother had tried to call him. But he let it roll to voice mail. Talking to his boss was more critical.
Once in the hall, he pulled the door of the condo shut behind him and headed for the elevator.
Once more, his BlackBerry quivered to life.
A glance at the screen told him this was a page, not a call. From Cole.
He frowned. Cole never paged unless it was an emergency. Maybe something had happened to his mom or Alison.
Putting the call to Matt on hold for sixty seconds, he keyed in his brother’s number, then punched the down button beside the elevator.
Cole answered immediately. “Sorry to bother you. I know things must be crazy. But I might have a lead on the judge for you.”
That got his attention. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I’m having breakfast with Bill Lewis, my high school buddy. He was doing some work at a house yesterday for a guy who’s out of town. After the sister wrote him a check, she showed him some of her brother’s check stubs. Above the signature line, he’d written ‘without prejudice UCC 1-308.’ That fits with the whole sovereign citizen thing the FBI profilers came up with. And get this . . . Bill was picking gold hairs off his pants legs. From a cat that kept brushing against him at that house.”
Jake stopped breathing. “What’s this guy’s name?”
“Martin Reynolds.”
His breath whooshed out of his lungs.
Bingo.
The evidence might all be circumstantial, but Jake knew they’d found their man.
“Do you have an address?” He dug through his pocket for a notebook as he jabbed the elevator button again.
“Yes.”
He jotted it down as Cole recited it. “We’re on it. If this pans out, I owe you. Big time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. By the way, Alison said to let you know she’s praying for the judge.”
“Tell her I said thanks.” The words came out raspy, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll be in touch when this is over.”
As the elevator door opened, he punched in Mark’s number.
After he relayed the news, they agreed to meet at Reynolds’s house. While Jake placed a second call to Matt to bring his boss up to speed, Mark got a search warrant in the works. Not that they needed it. They had grounds to search on the basis of exigent circumstances. But it never hurt to cross all the t’s and dot the i’s.
Five minutes later, as he slid behind the wheel of his Trailblazer and fumbled for his key, he realized his hands were shaking. That had happened only once before in his career. In Iraq. When he and two other SOG members had been ambushed en route to the courthouse by a band of militant jihadists intent on disrupting a high-profile trial. They’d been badly outnumbered, and he’d expected to die.
But he and his colleagues had fought hard. And they’d survived.
Today, he intended to fight just as hard for Liz.
Because as the tremors in his fingers proved, saving her life was as important to him as saving his own.
The judge’s moaning was getting on his nerves.
Martin glanced over at her from his seat at the wooden table. She was still slumped against the support beam, and the right side of her face had taken on a purple hue. The edges of her eye were also turning black. For a brief instant, a tiny flicker of remorse licked at his conscience. Hitting a woman went against everything he’d ever been taught. He’d been raised to respect the opposite sex.
But this wasn’t about gender. This was about ridding the world of tyrannical, corrupt judges. Defending the Constitution. Saving America. It was about preserving freedom and liberty and God-given rights.
The anger he’d directed at her when she’d whacked him with that piece of wood had been justified.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he turned his back on her.
Besides, she didn’t have long to suffer.
In less than four hours, she would be dead.
Mark was waiting in his car when Jake pulled up in front of Martin Reynolds’s house. The agent met him on the sidewalk near the concrete path that led to the front door, falling into step beside him as he picked up his pace to escape the steady rain that showed no signs of abating.
“Luke sent Nick and one of our other agents to have another chat with our friend Jarrod. And two of our people are on their way to the copy shop where the meetings are held to talk to the owner. We’re also running intel on Reynolds.”
“Okay. Let’s see what the sister has to offer.” Jake pulled out his badge and pressed the bell.
A sixtyish woman with cropped silver hair and a deep tan answered. She was wearing a coat, as if they’d caught her about to leave.
“Ms. Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
Jake flashed his badge. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Taylor. This is Special Agent Mark Sanders from the FBI.” He waited while Mark displayed his creds. “Is your brother at home?”
The woman’s eyes widened, and a flicker of panic sparked in their depths. “No. He won’t be back until this evening. Is there a problem?”
“May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Her hand tightened on the edge of the door, and Jake had a feeling she was going to refuse.
“Ma’am, it’s a matter of life and death,” he pressed.
At his grave tone, she drew in a sharp breath, and the color drained from her face. Pulling back the door, she moved aside and gestured for them to enter.
“The furnace is out. The kitchen is the warmest room. We can talk there.” A tremor ran through her words as she closed the door and started toward the back of the house.
Jake eyed her stiff back. She was way too nervous . . . suggesting she knew—or suspected—something. He glanced at Mark as they followed her. The other man quirked an eyebrow, confirming he’d picked up the same vibes. He also pointed to a photo on a side table in the living room as they passed, then nodded. It showed a man with salt-and-pepper hair standing beside a middle-aged woman on a beach.
Jake interpreted that gesture to mean that the man Mark had met at the Patriot Constitutionalists meeting and the owner of this house were one and the same.
Conclusion: they needed answers from Patricia Reynolds.
Fast.
As the two government men followed her into the kitchen, Patricia slid into one of the wooden chairs around the table, perched on the edge, knotted her hands, and tried to suppress the shiver that rippled through her. She couldn’t blame her sudden chill on the room temperature, either. The small electric space heater she’d picked up at Walmart was doing a stellar job of keeping the kitchen warm. This ominous coldness came from deep in her heart. And it was accompanied by a paralyzing dread.
“Ms. Reynolds, do you live with your brother?” the FBI agent asked.
“No. I’m in the Peace Corps. In Sierra Leone. I’m just here on vacation.”
“Where is your brother, ma’am?”
“I don’t know.” She tightened her clasp, whitening her knuckles. “I thought he was on a hunting trip, but when the furnace went out yesterday I called the wife of the man he said he’d gone with and found out his buddy died three years ago.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?”
“Sunday morning. Before I left for church. He was gone when I got back.”
Josie padded into the room, surveyed the scene, and jumped into her lap. The warmth of the little body was welcome, and she cuddled her close. Stroking the cat helped comfort and calm her.
But the appearance of her brother’s cat had the opposite effect on the
two men sitting at her table. Their tension was almost palpable, and they exchanged a look she couldn’t interpret.
When neither spoke, she leaned forward, fear clutching her heart. “Is Marty in trouble?”
The marshal folded his hands on the table. “Ms. Reynolds, are you aware that your brother is active in an organization called the Patriot Constitutionalists?”
“No. What kind of group is that?”
“Have you ever heard the term sovereign citizen?”
She searched her memory, then shook her head. “No. What does it mean?”
“Essentially, people who ascribe to the sovereign citizen theory believe the United States government is illegitimate and is encroaching on the freedoms and rights guaranteed by the Constitution. Some work to subvert the government through peaceful means. Others resort to violence. We have reason to believe your brother is in the latter category.”
Shock drove the breath from her lungs. “You think Marty would do something violent?”
The intent gaze the marshal fixed on her was deadly serious. “We believe he may be the person who kidnapped federal judge Elizabeth Michaels.”
Her mind grappled with that bombshell. Marty, a kidnapper. And if the articles she’d been reading in the paper about that case were true, the authorities believed the kidnapper was the same person who’d killed the judge’s sister.
They thought Marty was a murderer.
The room tilted.
“Ms. Reynolds . . . would you like a glass of water?”
The question from the FBI agent seemed to come from far away. Forcing back the dizziness, she shook her head. “No. I’m just trying to . . . I can’t believe my brother would be involved in anything like that. He’s always been a churchgoing, law-abiding citizen. Are you sure you have the right man?”
“We think so,” the agent replied. “And we need to find him as soon as possible. As far as we know, the judge is still alive. But if he told you he plans to be back tonight, I suspect time is running out. Do you have any idea where he might be?”