Fatal Judgment Page 22

  And since she was his target, not the Morettis, she needed to do everything she could to keep them safe. There was enough secondhand blood on her hands already from Doug and Stephanie; no way did she want to add the Morettis to that list.

  “Did you hear me, Judge?”

  At his prompt, Liz gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”

  “Good. Both of you go into the living room and have a seat.” He stripped off his leather gloves and waved a latex-encased hand that direction, and the two women preceded him. Liz perched on the edge of the couch, Delores beside her. The man remained standing. “Delores, take off your coat, hat, scarf, gloves, shoes, and skirt. Judge, get rid of the jeans and put on Delores’s skirt. Tuck one of those flat cushions in the waistband. And do it fast.”

  He wanted her to impersonate Delores, as he’d impersonated Harold.

  Meaning he wasn’t going to kill her here.

  Why not? That would be the quickest, cleanest way for him to finish the job. There were plenty of silent ways to eliminate someone. Why take the risk of spiriting her away to another location? It wasn’t logical. And given the methodical way the man had thought this through, he wasn’t some half-cocked nutcase. He had a reason for doing it this way.

  Whatever it was, she was grateful for the delay. It gave her more time to come up with an escape plan.

  Delores sent her a frightened look, and she gave the older woman’s hand an encouraging squeeze as she stood.

  After drawing her up, Liz helped her shed the clothing items the man had specified. Tugging Delores’s skirt up over her own hips, Liz unzipped her jeans and shimmied out of them until they puddled at her feet. She bent down and tossed them on a nearby chair. But as she reached for the flat cushion on the couch, the man stopped her.

  “Before you do that, both of you—in the bedroom.” He gestured toward the hall with his gun.

  When Liz sent him a panicked look, he gave a mocking laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Judge. Move.” He gestured again with the gun.

  Taking Delores’s arm, Liz urged her down the hall. As they approached the guest bedroom, the man spoke.

  “In there.”

  He followed them in and scanned the room, homing in on the closet with sliding doors along the hall wall. “This will do. Delores, get inside and lay down on the floor.”

  The gray-haired woman lurched toward it, opened the door, and stiffly lowered herself to the floor, jangling the empty hangers above her as she did so.

  As Liz watched, the killer withdrew two long plastic bands from his pocket and tossed them on the floor near Delores. “Tie her wrists behind her back and bind her ankles together.”

  Dropping to her knees, Liz picked up one of the restraints and touched her friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Delores.”

  “No talking.” The man’s sharp command echoed in the room. “And pick up the pace.”

  Liz followed his instructions as fast as her shaky hands would allow, then prepared to stand.

  “Wait.” The man tossed a strip of cloth beside her. “Gag her. Delores, open your mouth. Judge, put the band of cloth around her mouth and tie it in the back. Tight.”

  Liz fought down the bile that rose in her throat. She hated doing this to her neighbor. But if it saved her life, it was a small price to pay.

  After affixing the cloth, Liz rose.

  “Over there.” The man gestured toward the far side of the room. “Lay on the floor, face down, and put your hands over your head.”

  Once she complied, he moved beside Delores. Liz heard the older woman gasp, and in her peripheral vision she saw the man pulling the restraints and the gag tighter. Much tighter. She also saw him toss a sheet of paper on the floor beside the older woman.

  When he finished, he stood and closed the closet door. “All right, Judge. Get up.” As she did so, the man motioned her toward the hall. “Find a couple of bulky sweaters or sweatshirts in your room.”

  He kept his distance as she exited and continued down the hall to her bedroom. But he stood close enough to watch as she pawed through the drawer. As if he was afraid she had a gun hidden among her clothing.

  She wished.

  After pulling out a maroon sweatshirt, she took as long as she could selecting a sweater. She had to think of some sort of clue to leave behind.

  But what? She didn’t even know who the guy was. Maybe if she fished a little . . .

  Angling toward him, she studied his face. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’re not in the courtroom, Judge.” His lips twisted into a smirk. “I don’t have to answer your questions. And you can’t shut me up, either. This time, you have to listen to me.” He waved the gun at the black, V-necked pullover in her hands. “That will work. Now go back to the living room.”

  This time she had to listen to him. Meaning they’d had a prior encounter in the courtroom. But as she retraced her steps down the hall, Liz had no idea which case was involved.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” She stopped at the couch and faced him.

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m not here because you let the man who killed my wife go free. I’m here because the whole court system is rotten to the core, and somebody needs to start cleaning it out so it doesn’t fail other people.”

  Martin Reynolds.

  The name flashed through her mind as she looked into his intense, hate-filled eyes. The same eyes that had burned into hers when she’d directed the verdict in favor of the doctor in the malpractice case.

  “Your attorney failed you, Mr. Reynolds. Not the court system.”

  His face went blank with surprise for a moment. Then his expression hardened again. “Doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. It’s about saving America by stopping the courts from being used as a weapon of oppression. By shoring up the power of the Constitution. By restoring respect for life and property and freedom.”

  As she listened to him rant, a cold, hard knot formed in Liz’s stomach. Dealing with a killer was one thing. There was a chance you could reason with someone driven by personal motives. Or bargain with him.

  Dealing with a zealot was a different story. People who did things for a “cause” didn’t mind being martyrs. There was little that would dissuade them from their mission.

  “Put on the clothes. You have one minute.”

  His cold command yanked her back to the present, and she pulled the sweater over her shirt, trying desperately to think of some way to leave a clue for the marshals.

  “What kind of security is there with visitors as they exit?” He barked out the question as she tugged down the sweater.

  Could she scare him? Make him nervous enough to do something suspicious, something that might catch the marshals’ attention?

  “They check out people who are leaving, like they do coming in.”

  He leaned close to her face, the gun mere inches from her temple, and she stopped breathing. “You’re lying. I asked Delores. She said they just walk out. And since she told me the truth about the security coming in, I think I’ll believe her.” He pressed the cold barrel against her skin. “You know, you’d penalize someone in your courtroom if they lied. Guess I’ll have to do the same for you. Later. Keep moving.”

  Liz finished dressing. With all the bulk she’d added, she doubted the security cameras would detect much difference in body build between her and Delores. Except for the hair.

  As if reading her mind, he reached into the deep pocket of his coat, pulled out a gray wig, and tossed it to her. “Put it on.”

  Her heart sank. He hadn’t missed a trick.

  Fingering the wig, her gaze fell on the small pile of second-tier cases she’d compiled to pass on to the FBI if the first tier didn’t pan out. They still rested on the edge of the dining room table. In the end, Reynolds’s file had made that cut. If there was some way she could give it some prominence . . .

  “What are you waiting for?”

  At his sharp question, she gestured toward the kitchen and said the f
irst thing that came to mind. “I need a rubber band to hold my hair back. And a safety pin for the skirt. It’s too big. I think I have both in the drawer in there.”

  “Fine. Get them. And don’t try anything.”

  She walked the long way around, and he followed. As she passed the files, she dropped the wig. Leaning down to retrieve it, she reached over to balance herself on the table. And pushed the files to the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  For the first time, she detected a touch of fear in the man’s voice.

  “Sorry. I-I dropped the wig.” She gathered the files together as quickly as she could, trying not to draw attention to them. She didn’t put Reynolds’s on top, but she did pull one sheet out a few inches. And she left the files in an uncharacteristic messy stack. Hoping they would catch someone’s eye.

  Like Jake’s.

  It wasn’t much. But it was the best she could do.

  He came around the table and examined the top file. Thank goodness she hadn’t put his there. “Hurry up.”

  She retrieved the rubber band, put her hair in a ponytail, and pulled the wig onto her head. Then she pinned her skirt.

  “Now the hat. And tug it low.”

  After she complied, he walked over to her. “Now here’s what we’re going to do, Judge. You and I are going to walk out that door. I’ll hold your arm. I want you to keep your head down low. Rummage around in your purse, like you’re searching for your keys. You make one wrong move, and this game will end right here. For you and Harold. I’m the only one who knows where he is. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  As he guided her toward the door, she opened Delores’s purse. He tucked the hand holding the gun under their linked arms, the barrel pressed against her side. Near her heart.

  And as they stepped into the hall, Liz knew that unless a miracle happened, Martin Reynolds was about to finish the job he’d started three weeks ago.

  Brett Holmes settled back in his chair in front of the bank of monitors showing the video feed of the hallway and the entrances and exits of the condo where Liz Michaels was sequestered. Sunday duty wasn’t his favorite, but as one of the newest deputy marshals in the St. Louis office, he was used to being tagged for the less favorable shifts.

  At least he only lived five minutes away. And this was a high-profile assignment. Protecting a federal judge who had an active threat against her life was a lot better than escorting some low-life prisoner to and from the airport.

  The door to the judge’s condo opened, and he leaned forward. Before Larry had taken off less than three minutes ago, he’d played back the tape of the Morettis arriving and given him a good description of the couple. The man and woman exiting the condo fit it to a T.

  “Anything going on?” Dan poked his head in from the kitchen, where he was making a sandwich.

  “The Morettis are leaving.”

  “Yeah?” Dan strolled in and took a quick look at the screen, juggling a knife in one hand and a jar of mustard in the other. “I wonder what goodie she left this time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard about the cannoli?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind, then.”

  As Dan returned to the kitchen, Brett watched the couple enter the elevator. The doors closed. He leaned back.

  “Any other visitors coming today?”

  “Nope.” Dan reappeared and tossed him a bag of chips. “The judge leads a very quiet home life. Jake will probably stop by when he gets back from Chicago, though.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet. I hear he’s just back from Iraq. Those SOG guys see all the action.”

  “You know what? They can have it. I’ll take a nice, quiet protective detail any day. Like this one’s been.” He indicated the monitor displaying the empty hall.

  “Yeah.”

  But two minutes later, as Brett watched the monitor that displayed the older couple exiting the building, he couldn’t help wishing he’d see a little action once in a while.

  Except he doubted that was going to happen on this assignment.

  At 5:15, when Jake opened the door to the command post, he was surprised to find an unfamiliar deputy on duty.

  “You’re back from Chicago earlier than I expected.” Dan rose from the couch and stretched.

  “I left after we took my mom to church.” He and his siblings had planned to drive up together, but at the last minute he’d decided to take his own car. He wasn’t certain why. Nor was he certain why he’d felt the need to cut and run after church instead of going to brunch with his family. It was true he wanted to spend part of the evening with Liz. But an odd feeling of restlessness had also pushed him to start the drive back even earlier than he’d planned.

  The blond guy in front of the video monitors rose and held out his hand. “Brett Holmes.”

  “Jake Taylor.” He returned the man’s firm grip. “Where’s Larry?”

  “At the ER.” Dan filled him in.

  “How’s his wife doing?”

  “Okay so far. The bleeding’s under control, and she hasn’t lost the baby.”

  “Good.” Jake checked the monitors. “Everything quiet here?”

  “Very. The Morettis stopped by around 1:00. That’s been the only activity.” Dan headed for the kitchen. “You want a soda?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to stop in and see the judge.”

  “How come I knew that?” Grinning, Dan tossed the remark over his shoulder.

  Jake ignored the comment. It was obvious the man had been talking to Spence. “I’ll swing by here again on my way out.”

  “We’ll be around.”

  Stepping into the hall, Jake pulled the door shut behind him and covered the distance to the adjacent unit in mere seconds, anxious to see Liz. It was amazing how much he’d missed her after being separated less than forty-eight hours. Even their brief phone conversation yesterday hadn’t helped much. Talking long distance was more tantalizing than satisfying.

  As he pressed the bell to her condo, Jake wondered if he could convince her to let him send out for Chinese. Sharing dinner with her would be a perfect way to end the day.

  When there was no response to his first ring, Jake tried again. She might be napping. Or taking a shower. Or she could be on the treadmill again, with the music cranked up. Wearing those amazing spandex shorts.

  A slow smile curved his lips, and he pressed harder on the bell.

  After the second ring failed to produce a response, Jake pulled out his BlackBerry and punched in the number of her cell phone.

  After three rings, a recorded voice asked him to leave a message.

  His smile faded.

  He tried calling the phone in her unit. He could hear it ringing on the other side of the door, but no one picked it up.

  Telling himself not to overreact, that there was surely a logical reason for her lack of response, he strode back to the CP and pushed through the door.

  “Where’s the key to Liz’s unit?” He glanced around. Each set of marshals on duty kept it in a different location.

  Brett swiveled around from his seat in front of the bank of monitors. Dan frowned and crossed the living room to retrieve it from a small ginger jar. “What’s up?”

  “She’s not answering.”

  “The key won’t help if she has the dead bolt on.”

  “It’s worth a try before I kick the door in.” He looked at Brett. “You stay here. Keep your eye on the monitors. Dan, come with me.”

  The other man fell in behind him as he retraced his steps.

  Fitting the key in the lock, he turned it.

  The door opened.

  His alarm escalated.

  “Liz?” He stopped in the middle of the foyer and listened.

  Nothing.

  “Check the front part of the unit. I’ll cover the bedrooms.”

  Without waiting for Dan to respond to his curt
command, he pulled out his gun and moved down the hall.

  He started with Liz’s bedroom. A quick survey showed nothing amiss. Everything looked in order in the closet too.

  As he headed back down the hall, Dan joined him at the threshold of the second bedroom, where the treadmill was located.

  The man shook his head, his expression grim. “Nothing.”

  “Her bedroom’s clean too.” Jake did a quick sweep of the exercise room, then reached for the closet door. His mind already racing ahead to next steps, he pushed it open to do a cursory check.

  And stopped breathing.

  A bound-and-gagged, slip-clad Delores Moretti stared up at him from the floor with wide, frightened eyes.

  But it was the large block letters screaming at him from the computer-generated note beside her that sent his pulse into overdrive.

  Harold Moretti is in the trunk of his car in Morgan Park.

  But the judge is mine.

  17

  ______

  As Delores dissolved into tears for the second time, Jake was glad Mark Sanders had assumed the lead in taking her statement. His patience was deteriorating with every minute that ticked by.

  At least she was a little more coherent now that her husband had been freed and was being brought to the command post to join her. But so far she’d revealed little that would be of any help in their investigation. She couldn’t even remember the make or color of the car she’d been forced to drive here.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Sanders.” The gray-haired woman dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I was so scared—all I could think about was that gun pointing at me. And I was so worried about Harold.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Moretti. That’s a perfectly normal reaction.” Mark picked up the glass of soda he’d poured for her and held it out. “Drink a little of this and we’ll talk more in a minute.”

  Rising, the FBI agent motioned to Jake. He followed him to a corner of the living room. The busy CP wasn’t the best place to talk with a victim, but the FBI’s Evidence Response Team had taken over Liz’s condo and they needed information from Delores. As soon as possible.