The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

  Tina grinned, turning her head slightly to allow the breeze down Battery Street to blow the hair from her face. He had always thought her eyes blue, but now, in the ambient light from the building lobby, they were more the color of a high summer sky, with flecks of gray and yellow. She leaned toward him, as if being pulled by an invisible string, and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. But she stepped past him to the newspaper bin behind him, studying the paper through the plastic casing.

  “Do you have that message slip? The one I gave you earlier about the twenty-three-year-old stockbroker with the hot stock tip of the week?”

  He reached into his pocket but had changed shirts.

  “What was the name?” she asked. “The name on the slip?”

  “I think it was Joe Branick—why?”

  She spoke as if talking to herself. “Not the latest go-getter with the hot stock tip of the week,” she said.

  “What?” He walked to where she stood. The photograph was just above the fold, with the name typed beneath it. Sloane looked at her, disbelieving, then rummaged in his pocket for a quarter. He deposited the coin in the slot and took a copy of the paper, reading the headline out loud.

  “President grieves friend’s death.”

  She leaned over his shoulder, and they read the copy down the right side of the page.

  The Associated Press

  WASHINGTON-At an early morning White House press conference at which President Robert Peak was expected to discuss his participation in a South American environmental conference focusing on global warming, White House Chief of Staff Parker Madsen confirmed that Joe Branick, Special Assistant to the President, was dead.

  West Virginia Park Police discovered Branick’s body just after 5:30 a.m. near a deserted fire trail in Black Bear National Park. The single gunshot wound to the head was apparently self-inflicted. Madsen said no further details would be forthcoming from the White House and directed all questions to the Department of Justice. He described the President and the West Wing as “stunned.”

  Boyhood friends and college roommates at Georgetown, Peak and Branick had remained close personal friends. The President, who was to leave this morning for South America to attend the summit, has canceled that trip. In a written statement released by the White House, the President was said to have delivered the news personally to Branick’s wife and three adult children.

  Sloane lowered the paper and reconsidered his recollection of the name. “It has to be a coincidence,” he said softly.

  Her cab pulled to the curb.

  “He’s dead; the paper says he killed himself. Why would he call you?”

  He looked at her. “We don’t even know it was him.”

  “Of course it’s him. Who else would it be? Do you know him?”

  “I . . .” He considered the photograph in the newspaper. Something about the eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t.”

  The cabdriver, a reed-thin black man, leaned over, impatient. Sloane opened the cab door and handed him thirty dollars through the window slot. “Take her home. Keep the change.”

  Tina protested. “David, you’re not paying for my cab.” Despite her humor, he knew her to be fiercely independent.

  “You bet your ass I’m not,” he said. “I’ll bill it to Paul Abbott.”

  “In that case I’ll take the long way home.” She smiled and slid into the backseat. “If nothing else it would make for an interesting story,” she said, nodding to the paper in his hand.

  He wondered.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m still in shock that you’re leaving.”

  “Maybe not.” She reached for the door handle. “I told you I’d stay for the right guy. You just have to find him for me.”

  She pulled the door closed, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk.

  SLOANE’S BODY PERFORMED the rote act of driving. His mind was elsewhere, working a puzzle that was increasing in its number of pieces and holes. The photograph in the newspaper stared up at him from the passenger seat.

  Why did you pause? Why did you pause when Tina asked if you knew him?

  He reconsidered the face, but his mind would not focus.

  Click.

  The image in his mind changed. He stood looking at the hole in his mailbox where the lock had once been. The doors on the other seven mailboxes remained shut. Locked.

  Click.

  He stood in his apartment with the police officer.

  The lock was disengaged, not broken, the police officer had said.

  Disengaged?

  Someone knew what they were doing.

  Click.

  Sloane stood holding the lock to his mailbox, turning it over in his hand. It was unscratched.

  The police officer had been talking about the lock on the front door to Sloane’s apartment, but now Sloane realized he could have just as easily been talking about the lock on the mailbox. It, too, had been disengaged. It wasn’t deferred maintenance. And that brought a whole other set of facts to consider. Whoever broke into his apartment had also broken into his mailbox. The two events were too similar, too close in time, to be coincidence. And if that was true, then that changed the motive, changed it completely. It wasn’t someone upset with him, someone looking to inflict as much damage as possible to his personal belongings.

  Click.

  In his mind’s eye he stood amid the mess in his living room. The heating duct covers had been removed from the walls, the furniture torn open. They were looking for something.

  Click.

  He was holding the lock to his mailbox, the box empty.

  Something they thought would be in his mail.

  Click.

  Melda stood on his landing, handing him the bundle of envelopes. Not too much this time. Just the bills and the junk.

  Click.

  He sat in his office, flipping through the mail, stopping on the rust-orange package, the address handwritten. It was not all bills and junk.

  Instinctively he looked to the floor of the passenger seat, then remembered that he’d left his briefcase in his office, after stuffing it with his mail. He looked for an exit, then stopped himself.

  You’re letting your imagination run wild. You don’t know that it’s anything but more junk mail. Probably one of those certificates for a free stay in Las Vegas or Palm Springs if you sit through a ninety-minute harangue about why owning a time-share is such a good deal.

  He turned on the radio, but the music did not stop the thoughts that continued to turn each of the puzzle pieces, fitting the ends together, trying to create a coherent picture. Melda had not noticed the broken lock, which meant she’d emptied his mailbox before whoever broke it got there.

  A terrible feeling flowered in the pit of his stomach. He looked at his watch, picked up his cell phone from the center console, and hit the speed dial. The telephone rang.

  No answer.

  It rang a second time.

  No answer.

  Third ring.

  The answering machine clicked. He ended the call and looked at the time on the dashboard clock: 10:00. Bingo had been over for an hour. Melda should have been home.

  MELDA DEMANJUK TURNED the key and pushed the handle. The door remained stubborn. The dead bolt. Frustrated, she removed the key and reinserted it in the newly installed lock, turned it, and listened for the click, as David had shown her. Then she slipped the key back into the door handle lock and jiggled it. Sometimes the teeth stuck. This time the doorknob turned freely.

  She thought she had locked the dead bolt when she left for bingo, but her memory seemed to be getting worse each day. She must have forgotten. Now, returning home, she must have used the key to lock the bolt instead of unlocking it. She sighed. So much trouble because of others, so much aggravation.

  Still, she managed a smile. She would not let it dampen her inner spirit. Not tonight. She’d won! Bingo. Her first time. When they called “B-5” she was so excited that “Bingo!” ca
me out sounding like the yelp of a small dog someone had stepped on. The church gymnasium erupted in laughter, then applause, as she stood to collect the grand prize, $262.00. She cradled it in her purse like a small fortune. She already knew what she would buy with it. She would buy David the sweater she had seen in the store window in the mall. He had been so good to her, as good as any son.

  She pushed open the door and flipped the light switch. The purse dropped at her feet. Both hands rose to cover her mouth in a silent scream. The mess pulled her across the threshold. Her collection of ceramic angels lay pulverized on the beige carpet. Pictures had been separated from their frames, her furniture ripped and torn. The destruction spilled into the kitchen; plates and cups scattered amid pots and pans and the contents of her refrigerator. Her freshly baked pie oozed cinnamon-spiced apples on the linoleum.

  Her legs buckled, rubbery. She teetered against the kitchen counter, shaking as if struck by a sudden burst of cold air.

  What to do? Dear God, what to do?

  Fear engulfed her. She grabbed the heavy frying pan from the stove, clutching it to her chest like a priceless heirloom.

  David. Get David.

  She walked backward, stumbling on the debris until reaching the landing, turned and hurried to the stairs, climbing them a suddenly arduous task, like walking through deep snow. At the top landing she held on to the railing, winded, gasping for air, unable even to call out David’s name as she pushed open his apartment door and stepped inside. He stood in the kitchen with his back to her. She caught her breath, about to speak.

  Then he turned.

  “You,” she gasped.

  22

  CHARLES JENKINS KICKED the car door closed with the heel of his boot while juggling three bags of groceries and a fifty-pound sack of dog food. After putting the Arabians in the barn stalls for the night he had ventured into Stanwood for supplies. His kitchen wasn’t exactly stocked for company, and Alex Hart might be here a while, at least until he figured out what was going on. If Joe Branick had instructed her to bring Jenkins the file, he had some indication that his life was in danger. Branick’s death confirmed that suspicion. It also meant that both Hart and Jenkins were now in danger. Jenkins had lived the past thirty years in tranquillity because he and others believed the file had been destroyed. Its sudden reemergence changed things—for everyone.

  The limbs of the cedars and hemlocks swayed overhead, a sure sign the wind on the island was kicking up, blowing off the sound in gusts as it frequently did at dusk this time of year. Neither Lou nor Arnold bothered to greet him. Man’s best friend, my ass. Throw a woman in the mix and any sensible dog would desert quicker than an Iraqi soldier. No doubt he would find them following Alex Hart around the cottage like love-struck teenagers.

  He didn’t blame them.

  The women he brought home usually smelled of Jim Beam and Marlboros and stayed just one night. Most were only curious. He remained an anomaly on the island, and not just because he was black and muscled and the stereotype persisted that such a big man must be hung like a donkey. When he had arrived on the island the community was tighter-knit than a family of Irish brothers. Rumors circulated about the black man who had bought the Wilcox farm. When Jenkins subsequently kept to himself the rumors became embellished. On those rare occasions when he did venture into town most people steered clear, though some of the local boys, fueled by a couple of bottles of courage, looked at him as a hunter might a prize buck. He walked away when he could, and ended it quickly when he couldn’t. Word spread. He was let be, like an ornery old bull.

  Before going into town he had showered and changed into a pair of black jeans, a button-down flannel shirt, and cowboy boots, the only pair of shoes he owned that weren’t caked in mud. He even found a splash of aftershave.

  He pushed open the back door with the heel of his boot, stepped into the kitchen, and dropped a bag. Fruit tumbled across the linoleum without obstruction—the plants were gone. The counter had also been cleared; the mason jars were neatly stacked in a corner, the blackberries and strawberries likely in the refrigerator. The salmon he had caught in the sound the day before lay gutted on a platter, stuffed with fresh vegetables from his garden.

  He set the second bag of groceries on the counter, dropped the dog food on the floor, and walked into the living room.

  “You didn’t need to go to the store.”

  She had cleared the table of debris, covered it with a white sheet, and now stood setting plates and silverware around a bowl of green salad and tomatoes. The fire in the fireplace crackled, giving off the smell of fresh maple. Books had been replaced on shelves, the paintings neatly arranged. She had done more in an hour to make the place feel like home than he had done in thirty years.

  “I’m sorry. I straightened up a bit. I shouldn’t have.” She stood gauging his reaction.

  Unable to think of anything to say, he handed her the bottle of cabernet. “I didn’t know we were having fish.”

  She put the bottle on the table, next to the bowl. “Everything is fresh. I can’t believe the size of the tomatoes. What’s your secret?”

  “Huh?”

  “The tomatoes—what’s your secret?”

  “A gardener never tells his secrets,” he said, recovering slightly.

  “I thought that was a magician.”

  “Could anyone but a magician grow tomatoes like that?”

  She smiled, and her face lit up like a child watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. Jenkins walked back into the kitchen and held the corner of the tiled counter.

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place to straighten up.” She stood behind him in the doorway.

  When he turned he could smell her breath, and it reminded him of the smell of warm caramel. He stepped back, bumped into the counter, and ended up doing an awkward pirouette, as if it had been intended, toward Lou and Arnold’s dog bowls. “I better feed the hounds.”

  She leaned against the door frame, her head tilted slightly. “You seem to have a lot of secrets.”

  “Just because a man doesn’t tell everyone his life story doesn’t mean he’s hiding anything, Alex.” He spoke over the sound of pellets pinging in the aluminum dog bowls.

  “I meant the tomatoes.”

  He put the sack down. “Oh.”

  “But now that you mention it, the IRS wouldn’t be too happy with you.”

  “You going to report me?”

  “I just might.”

  He picked up the dog bowls and tried to step past her, but the doorway was narrow and she made no effort to get out of his way. The light from the fire touched her cheek in a glow like a Midwest wheat field at sunset. He noticed the way her hair followed the curve of her jaw and flowed unimpeded to her shoulders. He had been wrong. She was not as beautiful as her mother. She was more beautiful. Was she flirting with him? It had been so long, he didn’t know. The women in the bars usually had their hands on his crotch before they put down their long-neck Buds, yanking on him as if it were a rip cord to a life raft. He was out of practice in the art of subtlety, and—

  And she was Robert Hart’s daughter, the gangly kid riding her bicycle in front of the house.

  “I better get Lou and Arnold some food.”

  She smiled. “I think you just did.”

  He looked down at the bowls. “Then I better find them. They’re liable to start chewing on the furniture.” He stepped past her.

  Normally the pinging of the dog pellets in the bowls was like a call to arms, the two beasts nearly trampling each other and running over him in their rush. But not only weren’t they stampeding, he did not find them in their customary spots or lying next to the fire.

  “I thought you took them with you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “The two of them and food in the backseat of a car is not a good combination. They must be outside.”

  “I’ll open the wine,” she said.

  He opened the front door and walked onto the small porch that looked acro
ss his property to the dairy farm. Sometimes when the Arabians ignored them, Lou and Arnold would slide under the barbed wire to bother the cows. Jenkins could make out the last of the herd heading undisturbed back to the barn. He put the bowls down and used two fingers to whistle a shrill cry, but the wind had picked up, a howling gust that swallowed the whistle before it left the porch. He walked out into the swaying stalks of tall grass, calling out their names. At nine-thirty on a Northwest summer night, the light of day was still fading, a blue-gray dusk that turned the grass into a sea of shadows. He saw no sign of either dog. That meant they were likely making a mess of themselves in the creek out the back door and, with the wind gusting, hadn’t heard his car. He turned and started up the porch steps.

  She had run his name through the IRS. How else could she have found him?

  His past and present collided a split second before he heard the small crack—a snap like a dry tree limb that awakened his slumbering instincts. He dropped as if a trapdoor had opened beneath him, the aluminum bowls clattering, dog food spilling.

  The first bullet broke past his right ear, splintering the door frame.

  23

  SLOANE EXITED from Highway 1 at Palmetto Avenue at an absurd seventy-five miles per hour and descended blind into the wall of pea-soup fog. Red lights flashed in front of him, and he hit the brakes hard, sending the Jeep skidding on the moist pavement. He corrected around the back of a car stopped at the intersection, checked for cross traffic, and punched the gas onto Beach Boulevard. A minute later he made a hard right into his building’s gravel parking lot, stopping near a van parked parallel with the laurel hedge that separated the parking lot from the vacant lot. Road-weary travelers sometimes used the lot to save on a hotel bill. Sloane didn’t care as long as they were quiet and didn’t leave a mess. Tonight he didn’t stop to lay down the ground rules.

  He pushed out of the car and started across the lot in a light jog, his ankle sore from his extended run. The light was on in Melda’s kitchen, but he did not see the top of her head. She was probably inside, cutting him a slice of pie. He took the stairs at the back of the building two at a time, feeling the pressure on his ankle, and hobbled down the landing. The door to her apartment was open, a bad sign. It got worse.