Fatal Judgment Read online

  “We’re going to have to give her a few more minutes.” Mark angled away from the older woman and dropped his voice. “I think we have a trauma spike going here.”

  “Yeah.” Jake had witnessed that phenomenon on numerous occasions. Adrenaline, fear, and disorientation could push important information to the edges of a witness’s or victim’s consciousness. They often needed time to calm down in order to process it.

  But time was in short supply.

  “Maybe she’ll remember more once she sees for herself that her husband is okay,” Mark offered.

  “Maybe.”

  “After he gets here, why don’t you have your people talk to him, and we’ll work with Mrs. Moretti?”

  “Okay.”

  Mark gave him an appraising look. “You all right?”

  No, he wasn’t. The woman he’d come to care for more than he’d ever thought possible in just three weeks had been snatched from under their noses. He might not have been on duty, but he was responsible for her security detail. For protecting her.

  And he’d failed.

  Now her life hung in the balance.

  A tsunami of guilt crashed over him, pulling him down, down, down into a dark, forsaken void. Cutting off his oxygen. Contorting his stomach into a painful knot.

  Exactly the way it had after Jen died.

  But Liz wasn’t dead. He had to believe that. If her abductor had wanted her to die quickly, he’d have killed her here.

  As for the guilt—there would be time later to beat himself up about that. Right now, he needed to focus on the task at hand: rescuing Liz before the killer finished the job he’d set out to do three weeks ago.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Fisted them. “Yeah. I’m okay. We just need to find this guy. Fast.”

  “I agree.”

  An EMT from the ambulance they’d summoned when they’d found Delores approached them. “You guys want us to hang around?”

  Jake shook his head. “I don’t see why.” After submitting to a quick exam, Delores had refused further medical attention. Likewise for Harold, according to the police who’d freed him from the trunk. Neither had suffered any major physical injury from their traumatic experience.

  After gesturing to his colleagues, the technician disappeared out the door as Deputy Marshal Todd Nelson stepped inside. Catching sight of Jake, the other St. Louis-based Special Operations Group member joined them.

  With a nod to Mark, he quickly turned his attention to Jake. “Matt’s got a whole contingent from the SOG on the way.”

  “I’m not surprised.” For a pending arrest in high-profile crimes, members of the elite group were always brought in. That’s why he’d been called to Denver so soon after arriving in St. Louis.

  Only they weren’t even close to an arrest at this point.

  “Matt briefed me. Anything new in the past half hour?”

  “No. Mrs. Moretti has been too upset to give us much. We’re hoping that changes once her husband gets here. In the meantime, let’s watch the video.”

  He led the way to the dining table containing the monitors. The younger marshal—Brett, Jake reminded himself—had gone a few shades paler while they’d grilled him about what he’d observed on the screens. His features were still taut and his complexion on the ashen side as they approached.

  “I’ve got the feed from the camera in the lobby and the one from the hall both queued to the couple’s entry.” He gestured to the center monitor.

  Jake gave a curt nod as he, Todd, and Mark clustered behind him. “Okay. Let’s take a look.”

  The first video showed the couple everyone had assumed was Harold and Delores coming through the front door of the building.

  “Zoom in as close as you can.”

  As Brett complied with Jake’s instruction, all three men leaned closer.

  “Between the sunglasses and hat and muffler, plus the way he kept his head down, I can’t make out a thing.” Jake shook his head. “Anyone see anything I’m missing?”

  At the negative response, they moved on to the video of Larry using the security wand. Again, no matter how close they zoomed in, the man’s bowed head gave them little to work with.

  “Okay, let’s see the exit videos.”

  They already knew the killer had spirited Liz away by disguising her as Delores. The older woman had told them that much. So Jake was tuned in to the subtle height difference between the man and woman in this clip versus the couple in the lobby video. The woman’s gait was different too.

  But he couldn’t blame Brett for failing to notice those things. One quick viewing of the couple’s entrance wouldn’t have given the man enough context to red flag the minor differences.

  “You’d have to look really close to see the discrepancies.” Mark echoed his thoughts, peering at the screen. “And that floppy hat the judge is wearing doesn’t help. Her face is almost completely hidden.”

  “Queue up the exit video from the front entrance,” Jake said.

  Brett tapped a few keys, and the sequence began to play.

  Again, the man’s features were impossible to discern. And at this point, they didn’t need any more proof he’d kidnapped Liz. No clear image of her face was necessary.

  But as the couple stepped through the front door, she gave them one. It was only a quick, stolen glance toward the video camera. Yet it was enough to reveal her terrified eyes.

  The image clutched at his gut.

  And Jake knew it would haunt him until she was safe again.

  From her seat on a plain wooden chair in the rustic cabin, hands cuffed in front of her, one leg shackled to a support beam, Liz watched Martin Reynolds unwrap a deli sandwich and begin to eat. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the condo, other than to instruct her to put on a pair of latex gloves when they’d reached his car and to give her driving directions as he kept the gun aimed at her. They’d made one brief stop, at a drive-up mailbox.

  But first, he’d told her to pull over, handed her a pen, and dictated a message for her to write at the bottom of a typed document. The single sentence had sent a chill racing down her spine. Then he’d told her to sign it.

  As she’d done so, she’d tried to read at least a few of the words. But he’d snatched it away too quickly. Tipping a bottle of water against a paper napkin, he’d moistened the flap of the envelope and sealed it.

  When he’d instructed her to drop the envelope down the mail chute, she’d gotten the first inkling of why she’d been spared. It had been addressed to the news desk at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and marked “urgent, time-sensitive material.”

  Meaning he wanted to make a statement by killing her. To tell the world why he was disenchanted with America and its judicial system. She’d noticed another similar-looking envelope on the table in the cabin. Was he trying to stretch this out, milk it for as much press as possible? If so, how much time did that give her?

  She supposed she could try engaging him in conversation and hope he would drop a hint about the timing of his plans. But so far, the few questions she’d asked had been ignored.

  The only time he’d acknowledged her presence had been when she’d asked to use the bathroom. He’d pulled out his revolver, cut through the plastic of her leg restraint with a wicked-looking hunting knife, and gestured toward the door. The bathroom had turned out to be a tiny outhouse behind the cabin. She’d finished her business as quickly as possible in the fading daylight, and been back in the chair ever since.

  Her hair was still tucked inside the uncomfortable gray wig, and he’d ignored her request to remove it. She wished she knew what time it was, but the latex gloves covered her watch. Considering it felt like hours since any hint of light had seeped around the drawn shades of the only window without closed shutters, it had to be at least 9:00.

  She watched her abductor take a swig of water and licked her parched lips.

  “May I have a drink, please?”

&
nbsp; No response.

  When he finished eating, he gathered up his trash and deposited it in a plastic garbage bag with a drawstring top. Then he extinguished the stubby candle that had provided the only illumination and lay down on the bed, pulling a pile of blankets over him.

  As the darkened room grew quiet, Liz suddenly felt pressure behind her eyes. She’d been too tense and frightened to cry until now, but with Martin preparing to sleep and the immediate danger suspended for the moment, tears welled up, blurring her vision.

  But crying was a waste of valuable time. She needed to use this respite to assess her situation, not give in to an emotional meltdown.

  There was one major problem, though. She didn’t know what Martin had done with Harold. If her neighbor was being held hostage somewhere, his fate could still be in her hands. And if she attempted to escape—and failed—he might die.

  But if she didn’t try—if she couldn’t find a way out—she would definitely die.

  Yet how could she take the chance of putting Harold at risk?

  Feeling trapped, Liz did what she’d always done in times of fear and darkness. She closed her eyes and sent a silent plea heavenward.

  Please, Lord, show me what to do!

  By 11:00 p.m., after FBI agents, marshals, and the local police had joined forces to canvas the neighborhood around the condo, hoping to find someone who had seen something—anything—that would help them identify or track the kidnapper, they had precious little new information.

  Delores had remembered that the abductor’s car was a dark blue midsized sedan. She had no idea of the make.

  And after an up-close-and-personal search of the carpet in the condo, Clair Ellis, the FBI’s lead ERT investigator, had found a golden-colored hair. She was fairly certain it would match the feline hair they’d found in Liz’s house—confirming their assumption the perpetrator was the same guy.

  The ERT was still at work both in the condo, along the route of entry and exit, and at the Morettis’. The team was also giving Harold’s car a thorough going-over.

  The situation, however, was much like the one they’d encountered in Liz’s house after her sister was murdered. The killer had apparently left nothing but a cat hair as a calling card.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jake stared through the window of the CP, feeling as chilled and bleak as the cold autumn darkness outside. Their only hope was that the ERT would unearth some piece of information that would allow them to ID the guy.

  But he knew that was a long shot.

  “He’s not giving us much to work with, is he?” Mark joined him, the frustration in his voice matching Jake’s own.

  “No.”

  “I’m heading home to grab a few hours of shut-eye. You might want to do the same so we can hit the ground running tomorrow. Clair will let me know if anything significant turns up in the meantime, and I can call you. It’s not like the night crew isn’t going to be all over this for the next few hours.”

  Jake knew that was true. This case would be worked 24/7 until it was solved. But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  “I think I’ll hang around awhile. No sense going home when I know I won’t sleep, anyway.”

  A few seconds of silence ticked by.

  “You know, when I was on the Hostage Rescue Team, my partner and I had a similar experience with a dignitary protection assignment. Everything that could go wrong did. But if it makes you feel any better, we salvaged the situation against all odds. He’s now happily married to the woman we were protecting, by the way.”

  Jake frowned at him. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  The agent shrugged. “I’m picking up some vibes that suggest Elizabeth Michaels is more than a job to you. We’re all committed to finding her in time, Jake. Hang in there.”

  As the other man said good night and wove his way toward the door of the CP, Jake knew Mark meant well. And he didn’t question the commitment of the FBI or his marshal colleagues.

  But he also knew the killer wasn’t likely to wait long to finish the job. The clock was ticking very fast. And with every second that passed, time was running out.

  If it hadn’t already.

  The sound of her teeth chattering woke her. That, and the crick in her neck.

  Opening her eyes, Liz squinted at the shadowy outlines around her, trying to orient herself. Even after three weeks, the condo felt strange and unfamiliar.

  Except this wasn’t the condo.

  The memories came back in a sudden, jarring rush, and a surge of adrenaline cleared her mind and set her pulse racing as her gaze sought the bed in the far corner of the room.

  The man who had killed her sister in cold blood—and who planned to kill her—continued to sleep under a mound of blankets in these predawn hours of what might be her last day.

  Resentment and hate bubbled up inside her as she pulled herself into as tight a ball as possible to conserve body heat in the dank coldness of the unheated cabin. Her faith taught forgiveness, but nowhere in her heart could she find a shred of sympathy or mercy for Martin Reynolds.

  If it were up to her, she’d consign him to hell in a heartbeat.

  And she wasn’t going to meekly go along with his plan to kill her off so he could fulfill whatever misguided mission he was on.

  Assuming Harold was safe by now—and she chose to assume that—she could come up with only one escape plan. She had to find a way to render Reynolds unconscious long enough to get some of his plastic restraints on him. And the best opportunity to do that would be during a trip to the outhouse, when her legs were free.

  She didn’t have a clue how she could accomplish that, especially with her hands restrained. But there had to be a way. On her next trip out there, she’d take a closer look at the area and the interior of the small structure. Maybe she’d spot something that would inspire a plan.

  The odds were against her, though. She knew that. Reynolds could overpower her with little effort. Yet she couldn’t give up without a fight.

  With the possibility of failure so high, however, she needed to leave some proof she’d been here. Plant a few pieces of DNA evidence for the authorities to find. Because she wanted Martin Reynolds brought to justice.

  Whether she survived or not.

  Fingernails, she decided, would be a good place to start.

  Catching the end of the latex glove in her teeth, she peeled it off. Then she lifted her thumb to her mouth and worked the nail with her teeth. She wanted a sharp edge on the first one.

  After ripping the top of it off, she went to work on two more. Setting them carefully in her lap, she pressed her fingertips against the chair in several places, worked the glove back on again with her teeth, and waited—praying her abductor would give her a chance to set the fingernails on the floor once there was sufficient illumination in the cabin for her to scope out the area within arm’s reach.

  An eternity later, as the first light of dawn began to peep around the window shade, Reynolds stirred. He did no more than cast a quick glance her direction before heading out the door.

  This was her opportunity. Leaning over, she surveyed the floor. The dead bugs and line of dirt along the wall suggested he didn’t sweep often.

  Good.

  Bending down, she placed one polished nail upside down near the edge of the wall, beside a dust ball. The second she tucked halfway under the beam to which her ankle was shackled. The third she slipped into her shoe.

  She was just finishing when he returned.

  Without a word, he advanced toward her, revolver in one hand, hunting knife in the other. She tensed, but all he did was cut her ankle free from the plastic cuff, jerk her to her feet, and shove her out the door, in the direction of the privy.

  Perfect.

  Once inside the tiny structure, she took the fingernail out of her shoe and set it in the corner, beside a small pile of dirt, polish-side down. Then she worked off the glove on the hand with the jagged nail, pulled off a square of toilet paper, and
folded it into fourths.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted her bound hands, reached inside the top of her cardigan, and dragged her ragged thumbnail across the tender skin near her sternum, cutting deep enough to draw blood. She pressed the scrap of toilet paper against the cut and held it in place as long as she dared. Though the light was dim, she could tell when she withdrew it that there was a sizable splotch of blood. Squeezing it into a tiny ball, she wrapped it in another square of tissue and tucked it in her shoe. Later, when she had the opportunity, she’d find somewhere near her chair to plant it.

  While she used the so-called facilities, she worked her fingers under the wig, separated a few strands of her own hair at the nape, and yanked. Hard. It brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away as she coiled the strands and stashed them under some dust.

  A sudden pounding on the door made her heart stutter.

  “I-I’m hurrying as fast as I can, but it’s hard with my hands bound.” She quickly left a few more fingerprints, then worked the glove back on.

  Taking a rapid inventory of the outhouse, she saw nothing with any potential to be a weapon. The place was bare except for a roll of toilet paper stuck on a wooden peg.

  Half a minute later, when she opened the door, Martin grabbed her arm and propelled her back to the cabin, clearly not happy about the delay. As she stumbled along beside him, she scanned her surroundings. A few sturdy boards lay on the ground near their route, beside a bin of firewood. If she yanked free, maybe the element of surprise would give her a chance to grab one and take a swing that would stun him long enough for her to get in a blow to his head.

  But at the pace he was walking, she had no time to implement that plan. She’d have to wait until her next trip outdoors.

  If there was a next trip.

  Please, God, let there be a next trip!

  Back in the cabin, he shoved her into the chair and tossed a restraint toward her, keeping a safe distance away as he kept the revolver trained on her.

  She knew the drill by now. He expected her to secure her ankle to the support beam.