The Court Administrator had directed her to clean out Donnettelli’s office, and she boxed up the contents of his desk, his books, and personal papers. It only took three boxes, and those were still in Noel’s office.
I ducked into the closet and came out wearing a Blonde Ambition wig. Renee helped me find makeup and clothing to match the wig and agreed to meet me at six in the morning dressed for work.
“Wear your Courthouse-entrance badge. We’re making an early-morning pickup,” I told her. Time to get me some evidence.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Seated in my BMW, I felt like Barbie’s new older sister. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Nobody would recognize me. My lips and brows were painted larger. I shadowed my nose to elongate it. Spiderlike lashes were glued on, and I modified my gait. Layers of heavy foil encased my GPS tether. I’d be home before my GPS had time to show error, different location, or tether interference.
Close-up camera resolution didn’t worry me—the Courthouse didn’t have top-of-the-line equipment.
But once at the Courthouse, Renee’s keycard didn’t work. She’d been turned off—like a County shunning. Fortunately, she knew where Noel lived, and fifteen minutes later I swerved the BMW into the driveway of his Cape Cod. “I expected some swinging bachelor pad.”
Renee was in-the-know here, too. “He inherited the house from an old spinster-aunt he used to help out.”
I cut the engine, left the keys in the ignition, and opened my door.
“Are you really going to wake him up? The house looks dark.”
“I just hope he’s alone.” I scrunched an exaggerated YUCK face and stepped out of the car.
Renee made big eyes. “I hope he’s dressed.” She jumped out the passenger side.
I pressed the buzzer three times to ensure Noel understood the urgency of answering. Door chimes brought out the small child in me. I pressed the buzzer until I heard angry barking on the other side of the door.
Silently facing each other, Renee and I waited.
Seconds later the door chain rattled. Noel—barefooted, plaid-robed, scowl-faced—appeared and opened the screen door, his collie behind him. “Been working the streets for extra cash?” His morning breath vapors evoked recent skunking reflexes. “I think you being here is a tether violation.”
A hand strategically over my nose, I said, “I’m not here to ask for your opinion. I need you dressed and downtown with us.” I maintained judicial-order tone. Years of habit would cause him to comply. “Box pickup from your office.”
“You’re taking the boxes to the Judge’s wife?” Noel tried to shut the door, but my well-placed boot slowed him down. Noel’s collie growled. “No way.” Noel’s voice was lower than his dog’s growl.
Under another circumstance I might have offered to babysit the beautiful collie. “You have a ginormous target painted on that balding pate you strive to hide. I intend to deliver the boxes. I need access to get them, and you are it. It’ll go better if you’re dressed when you swipe your badge.” I detached my boot just before the loyal collie sank his teeth into my boot tip.
“That’s my delivery,” Noel snapped. “Donnettelli’s wife wants to go through them.”
“She will. In the safety of her home. Are you intent on sporting a designer body bag?”
Blotches flushed up Noel’s neck toward his hairline. He didn’t speak, but I could see in his face this wasn’t the first time he’d thought about being cast as the target in this drama.
“My car, ten minutes, bring your Courthouse keycard. Don’t call anyone. I’m your ride to work; find a ride home.” Acutely aware I was at risk, I swiveled to fresh air. Noel’s front door slammed, and I retreated into my BMW with Renee.
After nine minutes I revved the engine. At eleven minutes Noel appeared, opened the back-passenger door, slid inside, and over-slammed the door.
Noel made a show of turning his face away and glared out the window.
I shrugged his foul mood off and chauffeured to the beat of my Pandora tunes on Charlie Puth Radio.
Six songs later, we were in Donnettelli’s suite, where three boxes were piled in the corner. Noel handed the first box to Renee, but dropped his keycard. I coughed, bent, picked it up, and shoved it inside my boot.
Noel huffed at me. “If you’re getting sick, don’t breathe on me.” He shoved two boxes into my arms, whipped open the office door, and ordered us out with a grin at Renee and a mumbled see you in hell in my ear.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
In my bedroom, Renee sat on the floor. Cross-legged, I sat next to her. I’d blackened her name from the suspects list. She was more target than suspect, but I’d keep her floating on a mental list in case her status changed. I popped the lid off Box-One-of-Three. “Let’s inventory.”
She said, “Shorthand’s quick, I’ll write; you peruse.”
I peeked into the box. “I have no idea what I’m looking for—so, editorialize as I lift?”
She looked reluctant to go on. “Judge was very private. Going through his stuff is like visiting Casper the friendly ghost.”
I looked at her, willing her to say more.
But whatever it was, she shook it off and said, “I’ll tell you what I think and what I know, and I’ll document what you pull out.” Renee showed me her pad and pencil to prove she was on the job.
“Deal.”
Renee pointed the pencil at each box in order. “Box order: One his desk; Two his office; Three his bench.”
“Perfect.” I exhumed the contents. Touching his things felt as grimy as being in his presence. I scanned the pile. “That square box is uncommon. Doesn’t look made in America with its detailing and pretty colors elevated in metal.”
“From Germany. He ate the cookies, saved the tin.” Renee opened it and dumped it out.
“Are those football triangles?” I hadn’t seen those since fifth grade. Boys made them out of notebook paper and played games whenever teachers left the classroom.
Renee chuckled. “He hated long phone calls. He used speaker phone and turned off video conferencing.”
Mmmm. I did the same thing.
“Between taking notes, he made footballs. I’d find them flicked all over the floor, toss them back to him, and we’d joke about my bad aim.”
“I can relate.”
Renee chuckled and covered her mouth with her hand. Her spirit was lighter.
“Football triangles. Interesting stress reliever.” Explained why he was such a misfit; the guy was stuck in fifth grade.
“I didn’t realize he saved them.” She returned them to the tin, pulled out a smaller tin and grazed her fingers over it. Small tears filled the corners of her eyes. “Same gift basket. Hard candies were in it. We cleaned that tin out together.”
Did Renee have a crush on her boss? Ugh. She put the tin down and picked out a can of pepper spray.
I picked up the box, opened it, and dumped out lapel pins from organizational meetings. I had a jewelry box full of them. I dropped them back inside the box and then yanked out a business envelope tucked in the bottom and what looked like Jurisa’s Courthouse ID badge. What the hell was that doing there? Just how involved was she? I snapped the lid on the tin and slipped the envelope and badge into my back pocket.
Renee was occupied reading the back of the pepper spray can.
“I’d feel better if you kept the pepper spray,” I told her.
She quietly placed the slim can between her pretzeled legs and grabbed the next stack of files. “These are personal letters, thank-you letters, he’d saved.” She handed the pile to me, and I reviewed it quickly. Just when I was ready to return the pile to her, a white linen handkerchief fluttered to the floor. I quickly retrieved it and turned it over. I recognized it as one of Laurel’s. How did her hanky get mixed in with Donnettelli’s collection? I shoved it in my back pocke
t with the envelope and returned the letters to the box.
My hope of more rose and fell quickly. Nothing. Box One held a few curiosities but was overall as bland as the soles of his demonic shoes; if a clue was festering in there, it was well-hidden.
“Box Two, primarily law and personal books. I shook each one as I packed. No loose papers. He was orderly—as you can see from his desk.” Renee lifted the lid and pulled out a book.
“Return it. For completeness, make a list later.”
She put the book back, applied the lid, slid it over, and opened the final box.
She handed me his Taser with its charger. “I have the pepper spray. You take this. I should’ve turned it in, but no one asked.”
We’d all been trained on Tasers and pepper spray. “Thank you.” Now I could keep one in my updo, and one on the charger. It would mean I would be prepared at all times. I’d charge it after she left. Damn this was lucky.
Except for the Taser, Box Three was as boring as my own bench drawer. “Renee, did you remember to pack your Judge’s gavel? I’m guessing his family would want that.”
“Sure did.” But she frowned. “That’s odd.” She studied the list and scoured back through each of the boxes. “The gavel isn’t here.”
“Did it look like the tape you sealed up the boxes with had been broken?”
“No. But it was the standard packing tape we all have, and it could have been easily removed and replaced with a new piece.” Renee bit her bottom lip. “Why would anyone want his gavel?”
“Good question.” I bet I had the truant gavel. “My gavel was made of olivewood.” I pointed to where it lay in front of a stack of books on a corner shelf in my room.
“That’s beautiful,” Renee said. She walked toward the shelf for closer inspection.
“How would you recognize his?”
“Dark walnut, with a beautifully carved handle. His initials were cleverly burned in the design, so you’d need to know what you were looking for,” Renee said. “A gift from his father when he graduated law school. I think I have a picture of it on my phone.”
She plucked the phone from her pocket and tapped 1111 to open it. She realized I’d seen the code and recognized the question in my eyes.
“Passwords are hard to remember,” she said. “And every crook knows nobody is dumb enough to use 1111, so it’s safe.” She made a sweet half-smile, half-shrug, but her aura was tinged with deep sadness.
“I can’t picture Judge Donnettelli as a young lawyer.” Had he always been ornery?
“Look,” Renee said. “It’s in almost mint condition.” She showed me the photo. It looked the same, but I couldn’t swear to it.
“I wonder if his gavel was an antique, like mine, since it had carvings.”
“Almost?”
“One day, when he was very upset at a defendant, Judge pounded it so hard there’s a slight dent in the mallet.”
And just like that, confirmation. I remembered that dent, though at the time I wasn’t focusing on it.
Renee teared. “A fond memory, now.”
“I’ll carry the boxes to the garage later. It’s nearly noon, and we should get to the salon.” I didn’t want to show her my secret closet, where I’d store the boxes until delivery time.
“Noel said Mrs. Donnettelli wasn’t ready for the boxes. Truth is, I’m not ready to talk with her about Judge.” Renee sounded sure of herself for the first time today.
“When she’s ready, Dinkie-Do can drop them off.”
Keeping the boxes a few days was wise—despite our differing reasons. “All this needs to settle in my brain. Sometimes nothing is something.”
There was a ghost in those three boxes, and there was nothing friendly about him; I just couldn’t see what I was looking at—yet.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Before sunrise, dressed in clothing like I’d seen Jose and his staff wear when they cleaned the Courthouse and a men’s wig from an old Halloween costume, I drove to the Courthouse. A travel tool kit hung from a shoelace around my neck and inside my shirt. A roll of duct tape and a package of baby wipes were stuffed inside my shirt.
If Noel had reported his keycard missing, it would have been cancelled immediately, and I’d be done before I started. I parked on a side street away from cameras, walked up the staff ramp, and swiped the keycard. Magically the door clicked open.
Head down, I hurried to Jose’s cleaning closet, which was never locked because it housed the massive shredder used by facilities. I pulled on a cleaning shirt and pair of vinyl gloves, filled a pocket with disposable gloves, and wheeled out the cart.
As I entered Donnettelli’s Chambers alone, I held my breath and inspected the room from closet to desks to shelving units. Nothing. Damn.
I sat in his chair to engage his aura. There had to be more. I snapped pictures just in case I missed anything. I couldn’t risk a second entry.
I twirled in his chair. Why hadn’t the idiot ordered a new chair? It was old, uncomfortable, and provided no support. Like Donnettelli.
I had to get out of there. I stood, gave the chair a twirl, and it leaned awkwardly. I patted the seat and found a lump in the corner. Quickly, I flipped the chair on its side, removed the fasteners, and reached inside for the padding. I pulled out a wad of bills.
Jackpot.
Money that didn’t lead to me. Except that I’d found it. Damn.
I felt the old buzzard’s evil ghost laughing his ass off at me finding evidence that could lock me away for good.
The Hollywood team would assume first that I had returned to retrieve my stash, forgetting to allow me to explain that I just got lucky, and it wasn’t mine. They also might accuse me of planting it. No way was I risking their bumbling-creativeness interfering with my freedom.
I laid the bills out in a plastic garbage bag, wrapped it around my waist, and duct taped it on me like a bomber about to detonate. I realized I wasn’t wearing gloves and gasped. Damnation, this was how real criminals got into trouble. Hadn’t I learned anything?
I smoothed down my shirt, grabbed one of Donnettelli’s robes from the hook, and used it to wipe down everything I’d touched or looked at real hard. His robe would erase me and spread around his DNA, double bonus.
I used the robe to re-stuff the chair. After I retightened the nuts, I toe-kicked the back of the chair to knock the stuffing right out of his lingering wicked presence.
As soon as I’d returned the office to pre-search condition and the bin to the room in basement parking garage, I dropped the key card on the garage floor, and strode out a little heavier than I’d entered.
Making it home without being stopped was key. I double checked my gauges and ensured my lights were turned on. Fingers tightly gripped at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, it was time to drive home like the Secretary of State was giving me a road test. The streets were filling up.
When my own garage door finally lifted, I pulled in and sealed myself inside, rested my forehead on the steering wheel, and calmed myself enough not to scare Jimmy Jack.
Then, I raced up to my room. Who needed a workout-club membership when racing up three flights of stairs had become easier than an eyebrow wax?
In my bedroom, I sat in the middle of my bed and counted my loot, knowing that it would not only trail back to me, but I’d just amped up their case against me. I had to remain calm and not overstress. Just over a million-and-a-half dollars. Gigantic dead-President reasons someone wanted Donnettelli dead.
I removed the storage drawers from underneath my bedframe. There was an empty area behind the drawers, which had struck me when I’d bought the bed. I’d joked that it was too small for me to hide in.
I layered the bills in that empty space, and it couldn’t be seen unless the mattress, wooden platform and drawers were removed. I’d never seen any search warrant locate evidence from a b
ed in this spot. But if it was found and linked to Donnettelli, I’d face any number of obstruction-of-justice charges.
Had I found more than a million reasons that got Donnettelli killed or reasons that would get me convicted?
Chapter Sixty
A few hours after I’d peeled and parked my megabucks, I got ready and headed to work. I needed some alone time in my office, and it wasn’t a long drive.
Within blocks of the salon, I realized Hunter’s black Escalade lurked closely behind my rear bumper.
I swerved into a parking lot and turned off the engine. My anger rose like humidity in a Michigan summer. While I waited for Shadow Hunter to slink over, my hair probably frizzed. By the time I skimmed on a layer of lipstick, he’d bent forward, rested one arm on the roof, and knuckled Shave-and-a-Haircut on my passenger window.
I rolled it down.
He leaned in. “Looking good, Toots.”
Unblinking, expressionless, not one movement. My Snow White move. But I was curious about what was so urgent it couldn’t wait until I reached the salon.
Hunter tried to unlock the door. “My client—”
Buzz—wrong answer. I rolled the window up, but he stuck his fingers in the way, and I had mercy on him.
“Don’t get those flaring nostrils stuck before we talk.”
I overtly flared my nose.
Hunter begged for two minutes, my curiosity tricked me into opening my door, he crawled into the car, almost touched noses with me, and said, “Judges know stuff.”
But why were we talking about it now on the side of the road, when I ought to be at work? I demanded details.
Hunter’s eyes smiled. “Judges make decisions that allot money to one party and take money from the other.”
I closed my eyes. “Wake me when you get to the part that keeps me from going to prison.”
“A body-in-the-know could cash in on that sensitive information,” Hunter said.
Why did he have to say “body?” I detected a hint of arrogance in his voice. Okay, a glob of arrogance. I opened my eyes. I pictured the columns I’d filled in on my charts. “Someone more powerful than Donnettelli might kill him because he’d leaked that kind of information.” I thought back to my research.
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