Judgment

by Carey Baldwin

  Casting her glance down at the glass of lemonade she spun between her hands, Elizabeth nodded. The muscles around her mouth tightened, and she blinked rapidly, then shaded her eyes from the sun. When she took her hand away, her eyes were wide, their color a deep midnight blue. A hiccup preceded her words. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Caitlin and Spense exchanged a glance. Caitlin’s first inclination was to promise Elizabeth that wouldn’t happen, but until she heard what the girl had to say, it was a promise she couldn’t make. And how could she expect the girl to trust her if she offered up something she couldn’t deliver? Elizabeth would see through that, then she’d never feel safe enough to speak freely to her again. “I don’t want you to go to jail either. But if you think it’s best to have this conversation with an attorney present, Agent Spenser can arrange that. Believe me when I tell you, I don’t want any harm to come to you.”

  A tear slipped down Elizabeth’s cheek. “I don’t want a lawyer. I just want this to be over.” She hiccuped again and took a sip of lemonade.

  “You want what to be over, sweetie?” Caitlin braced herself, knowing Elizabeth’s story wouldn’t be easy for her tell or for them to hear.

  “I ran away from home when I was fourteen. My mom’s boyfriends . . .” Abruptly, she stopped and took a sip of lemonade. “When my mom was away, they’d do things to me. So I ran. Only I had no place to go. I was sleeping in boxes and hiding out in ­people’s garages until I found some other kids on the street who showed me what to do. How to make it on my own. You know, turning tricks and stuff.”

  From the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw Spense’s jaw tighten, and a flush crawl up his neck. But he kept quiet and said nothing. They both waited for Elizabeth to settle in with her story.

  “Anyway, it was pretty rough down there on Van Buren Street. I got beat up a ­couple times, and I don’t even know how many times someone put something in my drink and I’d wake up and have no idea what happened to me. What the hell did they have to do that for when I was willing to do it for just a little bit of cash? Just enough to get me a place to sleep for the night. That’s all I asked for.” She stopped, picked up a napkin, started shredding it. “That was the absolute worst part. Not knowing what they’d done to me. I thought no matter how bad it was, I wanted to know. Not remembering made me feel like a ghost. Like I didn’t exist, you know?”

  “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. No one should have to endure what you have. Whatever you’ve done, it’s because you were surviving, and you have every right to survive. I promise we’re going to help you, no matter what.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I did something really bad.”

  Caitlin reached her hand across the table to Elizabeth, but the girl didn’t take it. Caitlin’s throat clogged with emotion, seeing how hard it was for Elizabeth to trust anyone enough to let them show her the smallest bit of compassion.

  “I’m the one who brought Deejay home for him.”

  “Do you mean for Mr. Baumgartner?” Caitlin asked.

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Mr. Baumgartner picked me up off the street a few times, and he treated me real nice. Then one day he said if I came home with him, he’d help me make a better life.” Her eyes bounced between Spense and Caitlin as if suddenly realizing she’d been given false promises of help before. From a man no doubt wearing an expensive suit, much like the one Spense had on now.

  “We’re not like him, Elizabeth.” Spense pulled his creds from his wallet. “You see this? I’m with the FBI. This isn’t a fake ID. And Dr. Cassidy is a real doctor, a psychiatrist. We don’t want anything from you. We’re not promising help in exchange for favors. We’re just promising help.”

  Her eyes held mistrust. “You want information. You want me to snitch on my friends.”

  “Harvey Baumgartner was not your friend, Elizabeth. And even if you think he was, your loyalty won’t help him now. Think hard, and I know you’ll see you owe him nothing.” Spense leaned back and spread his arms over the back of the booth.

  Elizabeth, looking only at Caitlin, continued. “I’m sorry—­it’s just I trusted him, too, in the beginning. He was so nice to me. He gave me food and clothes, and he bought me so many things. Stuff I never had . . . he even bought me an iPhone. And Mrs. Baumgartner—­she hired an interior decorator to help make our rooms, mine and Deejay’s, nice. She said our rooms should be fit for princesses. She said we were like the daughters she never had.”

  That must’ve been before she’d dressed them in maids’ uniforms and set them to work in the kitchen. “Did Mrs. Baumgartner know what was going on?”

  A lost look came over her face. “I’m not sure. She never said anything, and she never seemed angry at Mr. Baumgartner, so I thought she couldn’t know what he was doing to us in that room by his office. But then sometimes . . . I’d wonder why she didn’t ask more questions. Didn’t she wonder why the door was locked, and no one could come inside? Didn’t she wonder why he wanted us to be in the office with him for hours at a time? Sometimes I thought she ought to have known, and it had to be on purpose she didn’t see what was going on in her own house.”

  “Elizabeth . . . what was going on in that house?”

  “Bad things. Not at first. At first he was nice and gentle with me, a lot gentler than most of the johns from the street. But after a while, he started to hurt me. Pretty bad. It scared me when he would choke me, and sometimes I thought I was going to die. But then he’d let up and let me catch my breath, then do it all over again until he was finished. And it was hard for him to finish. It seemed like he had to hurt me more and more until eventually nothing was enough to get him off, and he’d punch me in the stomach and tell me it was my fault. I wasn’t sexy enough.”

  “Why didn’t you leave, Elizabeth?”

  “I had nowhere to go. On the streets, I didn’t know what they did to me. At least with him, I could remember the awful things he did. And if he killed me, at least I would be awake when it happened. But when I wasn’t enough for him anymore, I got so scared he really would kill me that I did something bad.”

  Caitlin’s heart started to beat too fast, and she prayed Elizabeth had not been forced to participate in a murder.

  “That’s when I helped him find, Deejay. She was my friend from the street. And I lied to her and promised her it would be so great at the big house in the hills. I told her Mr. Baumgartner was a good man, and he only wanted to help us. I lied to Deejay because I thought if he had two of us, we would be enough for him, and he wouldn’t need to hurt me so much to get off.” Her chin dipped to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m so ashamed.”

  “You were scared, Elizabeth, we understand that. But now it’s over. Mr. Baumgartner can’t hurt you anymore.”

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s why I’m here. Talking to you. Because it’s not over. I’ve got nowhere to go if I leave, and if I stay, it will never stop.”

  A sickening feeling washed through her. “Someone is still hurting you, right now?”

  Elizabeth nodded. She didn’t have to say a name. Harvey Baumgartner Junior was a man very like his father. He must’ve taken up where his old man left off. She knew it, but she waited for Elizabeth to tell her.

  “Junior moved into the house after his father died. He said now Mr. Baumgartner is gone, Deejay and me belong to him.”

  Caitlin tried to breathe through her anger, waiting to speak until she could do so in a calm voice. With a soft vibration, Spense’s cell rattled on the tabletop. He looked at it, then slapped down a twenty on the table. “No one is going to touch you again, Elizabeth. You have my word. I’m sending someone out to get Deejay, and you can both stay with my mother until we figure a safe place for you. It’s not the Ritz, but no one will lay a hand on you, and it’s a damn sight better than some social-­ser­vices placement. We’ll drop you on the way.” He swept his gaze to C
aitlin. “Herrera wants us at headquarters ASAP. There’s been a break in the Sally Cartwright case.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Four

  Tuesday, September 24

  Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office

  Phoenix, Arizona

  AS THEY RODE the elevator to the fifth-­floor conference room for the second time that day, Spense turned to Caitlin with a puzzled expression.

  “What?” she asked. Everything was happening so fast, she wasn’t sure how to interpret the question in his eyes.

  He shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something about me leaving the girls with my mom. I’ve been preparing my arguments this whole time. I thought you’d say it was a conflict of interest.”

  “I have no problem with it. These girls are emancipated minors—­they don’t have to go with protective ser­vices if they don’t want to, and I’m sure they’d refuse. They’d be on the streets in a heartbeat if we tried to place them with a foster family or group home. They might even go back to that house, and I’m really not willing to risk it.”

  He nodded grimly. “Neither am I.”

  The elevator opened, and she followed Spense into the conference room.

  Gathered already were Baskin, Herrera, and Thompson. Caitlin sat next to Spense, putting as much distance between herself and Thompson as possible. Herrera’s message had been marked urgent.

  Thompson had a nervous look on his face, and she wondered if he was worried she might’ve told Spense about his shenanigans the other day. She hadn’t. She could handle Thompson and a lot worse all on her own.

  Thompson spoke first. “So what’s this big development in the Sally Cartwright case? We’ve got Kramer cold on it, and the asshole’s dead, so I’m not really sure it’s worth our time to keep talking about a crime that’s been sung a lullaby and put to sleep.”

  “Judd Kramer was never tried or convicted for Sally Cartwright’s murder.” Some days she felt like the only person in the world who believed in innocent until proven guilty, but looking around at the others seated at the table, Spense, Herrera, even Baskin, today wasn’t one of those days. Today she felt surrounded by good ­people—­­people with integrity. Her shoulders dropped, and she relaxed back into her chair.

  “Would a DNA hit be worth your time, Detective?” Baskin seemed to have lost all patience with Thompson.

  “DNA from where? We got no DNA on Cartwright.” Thompson leaned back too far in his chair and almost tipped over.

  “Turns out we do.” Baskin straightened in his seat, and extended his hand toward Spense. “At Agent Spenser’s behest, we took a second look, and this time we found something. DNA from Cartwright’s otic capsule.”

  “Jesus H., buddy. Just talk English. What the fuck is an otic capsule?”

  “The section of temporal bone that was taken as a trophy,” Caitlin supplied.

  Baskin continued, “The lab found the perp’s blood mixed with the victim’s—­I wondered how anyone could carve out a piece of skull and leave absolutely no trace evidence. The UNSUB did a hell of a job of cleaning up after himself, but in this case not quite good enough. He probably didn’t even realize he’d nicked himself until after he’d left the scene.”

  Caitlin’s gaze jerked to Thompson’s bruised, cut-­up knuckles. She could still see the swelling from the fist to the cheek he gave Silas Graham.

  “You’re welcome, gentlemen.” Herrera’s voice drew Caitlin’s attention back on point.

  “Now we owe you a thank you? For what?” Thompson asked.

  “The Bureau is responsible for getting the DNA in the Cartwright case handled so quickly. You’d be waiting a year at the very least if the Bureau hadn’t thrown its weight around on your behalf.”

  Caitlin knew the DNA backlog could run up to two years. And given the critical implications of such evidence, the delay was infuriating, not just to her but to the cops, the attorneys . . . and yes, the families. She was very grateful indeed. “Thank you, Gretchen.”

  A series of polite thank-­yous sounded around the table. All this talk, and they still hadn’t gotten to the punch line. Caitlin was growing impatient. “You said you got a DNA hit. That means the blood matched DNA found in the criminal database?”

  “Not in this instance. We ran it through the criminal database first, and when we came up empty, I ordered a separate comparison with individuals related to the case—­even those remotely connected. The task force collected voluntary swabs from all Sally Cartwright’s family and friends. Kramer, Graham, and Baumgartner we already had from the autopsies.”

  Her hands started to tremble. She’d always hoped DNA might clear her father. Gail Falconer’s DNA had been found in his car, but none of his DNA had been found at the scene. Spense thought it was a long shot they could recover a sample from the Falconer case after all this time, and she had to agree. With effort, she refocused on Sally Cartwright. “And your match came from one of those sources.”

  “Yes and no. The blood mixed with Sally Cartwright’s, found on her outer ear, was a close but not exact match.” Herrera met Caitlin’s eyes. “To Harvey Baumgartner.”

  Thompson wrinkled his forehead. “So what? Close but not exact. Is it or isn’t Baumgartner’s blood? What the hell does that mean, close but not exact?”

  “The DNA found at the Cartwright scene is not a match for Harvey Baumgartner, but we believe it would match a close relative. We’ve sent an officer out to Paradise Valley to request a voluntary sample from Harvey Junior.”

  “You think he’ll give it?” The tension in Caitlin’s neck ratcheted up a notch—­no, make that two notches.

  “I’ve run it by the DA already. We’ve got enough for a warrant for whatever we need, including a swab. But I figure why not try the easy way first,” Herrera said.

  “I like him.” Caitlin stretched her neck to ease the tension, then tried to size up the reaction of everyone else to the news Herrera had just delivered. “And if I’m right, I doubt he’s going to simply hand over a DNA sample. He has the means and connections to put up a hell of a legal battle. And my guess is he’s going to do so. Spense and I just came from a meeting with Elizabeth Johnson.” For Thompson’s benefit, she added, “A young woman employed as a live-­in kitchen maid in the Baumgartner home. She’s willing to sign a sworn statement that both Harvey Senior and Harvey Junior abused her and another girl in the household.”

  “Motherfuckers.” Baskin spit at the floor, his face turning a dusky, angry red. “Like father like son. Well, if we can’t nail the one, at least we got a shot at bagging the other.” He turned to Spense. “You fill Agent Herrera in on your theory that Harvey Senior is really the Man in the Maze?”

  “I’ve outlined the basics, but this is a good time to finish up our discussion. You asked me earlier to explain why, if Baumgartner was the Man in the Maze, he’d order a hit on himself.”

  “And you said he didn’t.”

  “Correct. The e-­mail ordering the hit on Kramer, Baumgartner, and Caity was signed the Man in the Maze, but if we assume that is Harvey Baumgartner, then someone else, someone impersonating the Man in the Maze, had to have sent that e-­mail.”

  “You mean like another member of the group. A rival maybe?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Suppose someone didn’t like the way things were going down with Kramer and how Harvey was handling it. Maybe he was power-­hungry and looking to take control of the group. Kramer’s arrest presented the perfect opportunity to do that. All that our would-­be leader had to do was pretend to be the Man in the Maze and order the hit for the good of the group. Since the members are likely only known to one another by their handles, Silas Graham probably had no idea he’d assassinated his own fearless leader.”

  “It’s a kill-­club coup.” Thompson slapped his knee.

  “And an ingenious one, too, since the club won’t even know i
t happened. The members will simply assume the new Man in the Maze is their original leader.”

  Herrera slid forward on her elbows. “I have a few questions for you, Spense. The e-­mail ordering the hit was sent while Baumgartner still lived and reined as leader. The sender of that e-­mail had to have known Baumgartner’s true identity, and he also had to have known Baumgartner would not see the e-­mail. How does that work exactly?”

  “At the risk of oversimplifying, here’s my take. If you look carefully at the early e-­mails, the sender is adamant that no one in the group should send a reply. The sender made sure Baumgartner didn’t have access to the original message, and that no one referenced it in a reply—­it was risky, but I’m guessing our imposter thrives on risk.”

  Thompson’s lower lip pushed out, and a general look of confusion settled over him. He kept silent, letting others do the talking for once.

  “But who would know Baumgartner’s true identity and be able to pull this off?” Herrera asked.

  Baskin passed copies of another e-­mail around the table. “Someone close to him. Maybe even that close but not exact match.”

  “Dammit!” Thompson’s fist came down on the table. “I shoulda known the way Junior was so overly helpful, trying to insert himself into the investigation and all. This whole time, he was probably just pumping me for information.”

  Ah. She’d suspected it all along, and now she felt quite certain it was Thompson who’d leaked the bloody shoeprint to the Baumgartners. She didn’t bother asking him about it at this point. He’d never admit it anyway.

  “At any rate.” Baskin cleared his throat dramatically. “The man who ordered the hits has got to be the same person who sent this.”