Fatal Judgment Read online

  “What about that gold hair the ERT found in the condo?” Luke tapped a finger on the table.

  “Definitely feline. And it matches the one from the previous crime scene three weeks ago.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. We tried to clean up the surveillance tapes from the judge’s condo to see if we could sharpen the guy’s face, but with the glasses and hat and muffler, we still can’t pick up any distinguishing features.”

  “Okay. Questions?” When no one spoke, Luke leaned toward the phone to disconnect the call. “Thanks, Sam.”

  A heavy silence hung in the room as Luke sat back. Leading Jake to conclude that everyone was as stymied as he was by the rapidly cooling case.

  “From our end, Jarrod Williams, the leader of the Patriot Constitutionalists, had a valid alibi for Sunday,” Luke told the assembled group. “Matt, you want to jump in here?”

  Matt rested his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers together. “All we have is a profiler’s assessment, a cat hair, and an essentially worthless video.” He shook his head. “We need a break. I’m open to ideas.”

  “Mark, when’s the next meeting of the Patriot Constitutionalists?” Jake asked.

  “Not until a week from Wednesday.”

  No good.

  “While you and Nick were paying a visit to Jarrod Williams today, I did go through some databases of sovereign citizen groups,” Mark offered. “I found Mr. Williams’s photo, but I didn’t recognize anyone else from the meetings I’ve attended. If our guy is part of that group, he’s not on any official radar screens.”

  “Okay. We can’t just sit around hoping for something to turn up.” Luke jabbed his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath. “Let’s do another canvas of the area around the judge’s condo, broadening the scope by a few blocks. And let’s do the same on the judge’s street. I know none of the immediate neighbors saw anything on Sunday, but let’s expand our perimeter there too. Matt, why don’t we divvy up the assignments between your people and mine?”

  “That works.”

  “All right. Everyone hang close while we sort this out.”

  As the meeting broke up, Matt exchanged a few words with Luke, then detoured to Jake and Todd. After sizing Jake up, he planted his fists on his hips.

  “Go home. Take a shower. Get some sleep. We have plenty of people working this. If there’s a break, I need you fresh.”

  Jake wanted to protest, but his boss was right. Any agent or marshal could question possible witnesses as effectively as he could. And the lack of sleep was beginning to dull his reaction time. He needed to be at the top of his game if they got a solid lead on Liz’s abductor.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Matt countered.

  Jake thought about arguing. Decided not to. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  As their boss walked away, Jake angled toward Todd. “Are you working tonight?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Page me if anything turns up. Anything.”

  “You heard the boss. Go home and sleep.”

  “If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.”

  Giving him the steady, piercing stare that made him such a good sniper, Todd crossed his arms and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll page you. But to be honest, I’m not expecting much to develop tonight.”

  Jake turned away, not liking Todd’s conclusion. Yet as he made his way out of the building into the dark night, shivering as a gust of wind cut through his thin leather jacket, he couldn’t dispute it. Considering the dearth of leads, there was a very good chance Liz’s abductor would elude them for the immediate future.

  They’d catch him eventually, though. In the vast majority of cases, even the most careful criminals made mistakes that came back to haunt them sooner or later.

  In this situation, however, later wasn’t good enough. Time was a luxury they didn’t have. The window to rescue Liz was closing fast. At best, Jake estimated they had thirty-six to forty-eight hours.

  As he put his key in the ignition and started for home, he tried not to dwell on the odds of success. But he knew they weren’t good.

  And he also knew that with so little to go on, it would take a miracle to save Liz.

  By the time Reynolds heeded Liz’s request for a trip to the outhouse, night had fallen. And implementing her plan in the dark didn’t make a lot of sense. It would be difficult enough to pull off when she could clearly see both the board she intended to use as a weapon and her target. As she stumbled through the pitch blackness toward the tiny privy, she could only pray she’d get another chance tomorrow, in the daylight.

  Shivering, she hurried to finish. While she could see her breath in the cabin, at least no cold wind seeped through the cracks in the walls, as it did here in the outhouse. Warm, she had come to realize, was a relative term. She wished Reynolds would light the woodstove in the cabin, but she supposed he was afraid the smoke would advertise his presence. Thank goodness she was still wearing the bulky sweatshirt and sweater he’d insisted she put on before leaving the condo. Nevertheless, she felt chilled to the bone. And her head was pounding.

  Five minutes later, she was back in the chair she’d occupied for most of the past thirty hours. After verifying her ankle was securely attached to the post, Reynolds sat at the table, close to the stubby candle that provided the only illumination. Pulling a deck of cards out of his pocket, he began to play solitaire.

  As she watched him calmly lay down card after card, Liz’s stomach lurched with disgust, and a fierce rage welled up inside her. This was the man who’d killed Stephanie in cold blood. Taken an innocent life through a case of mistaken identity. And he knew that. Yet she’d seen zero evidence of remorse. Or any feelings at all. What kind of animal was he?

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but no matter how noble you think your cause is, nothing exonerates murder.”

  She hadn’t intended to voice her thoughts. But the bitter words came out before she could stop them.

  Reynolds’s hand froze for an instant in the process of laying down a card, and her breath caught in her throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she railed silently. If she antagonized him, he might decide to kill her sooner than he’d planned.

  After a few moments, he went back to his game and she let out her breath. For once, she was glad he’d ignored her. She needed to make it through this night.

  Two hours later, when he extinguished the candle and burrowed under the mound of blankets on the bed, Liz’s tense muscles went limp. She was safe for a few more hours.

  Letting her head drop back to rest on the rough plank wall behind her, she tried to force her brain to shut down. She needed to rest and conserve her strength. Get some sleep, if possible.

  Because when dawn broke, she wanted to be as ready as she could be for what she knew would be her one and only chance to escape.

  The laser point of a sunbeam nudged Jake awake, pulling him back from what felt like a drug-induced sleep. Blinking, he shifted to escape the sun and peered at his watch: 6:30. The last time he’d checked prior to falling into a fitful slumber it had been 3:30.

  Three hours of sleep wasn’t enough.

  But it would have to do. Now that he was awake, there was no way he’d be able to drift off again.

  Swinging his legs to the floor, he wiped a hand down his face. Todd hadn’t called, so he assumed there’d been no break in the case.

  As he rose and headed bleary-eyed for the bathroom to take a quick shower, he scrolled through the email messages on his BlackBerry. None of them required an immediate response. Same with voice mail. He did owe Cole and Alison return calls, though. They’d both tried to reach him twice since the news of Liz’s abduction had broken yesterday morning, but he’d let their calls roll to voice mail. For now, he needed to focus on the case.

  The brief, hot shower woke him up, and as his brain began firing on all cylinders again, he settled on a
plan of action. He’d only taken a quick look around Liz’s condo after she was abducted. Nothing had seemed amiss, and he’d felt no need to return while the ERT was in the unit.

  But the technicians were gone now. And it was possible, on closer inspection, he might notice something he’d missed on Sunday. It was worth a trip, anyway. Nothing else was producing any leads.

  Fifteen minutes later, fortified with a triple espresso from the drive-up coffee shop near his apartment, he headed for his office in the courthouse downtown to pick up the key for the condo. Matt had said to report back on duty no earlier than 8:00, so he should have half an hour to poke around.

  Swigging the high-octane brew, he merged onto the highway. His little excursion might very well turn out to be a wild goose chase. But maybe—just maybe—it would offer some overlooked clue that would give them the lead they desperately needed.

  Liz hadn’t expected to sleep much, if at all. Her mind had been too busy running through the plan she intended to implement in the morning.

  But her body had had other ideas. Exhausted, sapped of strength and energy, it had apparently shut down sometime in the wee hours of the morning. It took the sudden slam of a door and a vibration in the wall behind her head to rouse her.

  Despite a subconscious awareness of imminent danger, her brain was slow to respond as she tried to blink herself awake. She watched as Reynolds crossed from the door to the table. Picked up his hunting knife. Turned toward her.

  A rush of adrenaline brought clarity to her sluggish brain. Did he intend to finish her off now?

  When she tried to speak, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Only one word emerged. “Bathroom.”

  She didn’t need to use the facilities, but that was her ticket to the outside—and the woodpile.

  Without speaking, he bent down beside her and cut the ankle restraint. Tipping his head toward the door, he waited while she stood. The pounding in her temples returned with a vengeance, and it took her a moment to get her balance. As she stumbled toward the exit, an odd weakness caught her off guard, and she grabbed the door frame to steady herself when the room started to swim.

  “Move.”

  Praying for strength and courage, she stepped through the door, Reynolds close behind as a gust of wind buffeted her. He left both the knife and revolver on the kitchen table, perhaps assuming her strength was weakening and she presented no threat.

  That was an advantage she hadn’t expected.

  The early morning sun filtered through the trees around the cabin, providing sufficient light for her to clearly see the pile of boards as she passed. One in particular caught her eye. Hand-span width, it was long enough to reach her captor’s legs and topple him if she swung it with sufficient force.

  Inside the tiny wooden privy, Liz leaned her forehead against the rough boards and took several slow, deep breaths to quiet the pounding of her heart. She was trembling, both from cold and fear. If she blew this, only Jake and his counterparts would be able to save her. And considering how little evidence Reynolds had left in her home when he’d shot Stephanie, she didn’t hold out a lot of hope he’d left much for law enforcement to work with this time, either.

  Taking one final deep breath, she pushed open the door, exited the smelly structure, and set off toward the cabin fifty yards ahead, her gaze fixed on the board she intended to grab.

  As she approached it, a sideways glance told her Reynolds was about three feet behind her. Perfect. Her pulse began to hammer, pounding so hard and loud she was almost afraid he’d hear it.

  One step past the board, she turned and dived for it. Wrapping her fingers around the wood, she swiveled and swung at Reynolds’s legs with all the force she could muster.

  A startled yelp of pain was her reward. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, giving her the opening she needed—and fueling her hope she could pull this off. Raising the board high, she aimed for his head.

  And then everything fell apart.

  Scuttling to one side as the board descended, he grabbed her ankle and yanked. Thrown off balance, she fell hard on her back, unable to cushion herself because of her bound hands.

  Though dazed and struggling for breath, terror pushed her to her knees. But by then, Reynolds had regained his footing. She saw the fury in his eyes as he loomed over her. Lifting his arm, he backhanded her across the face with such force that she toppled over, the metallic taste of blood warm on her tongue.

  As she lay on the cold ground, the stark reality of her situation crashed over her.

  Her plan had failed.

  And today she would die.

  Staring up at the man who’d killed her sister, she half expected him to retrieve his knife or gun from the cabin and finish her off now.

  What she didn’t expect was the hard kick he delivered to her rib cage.

  She gasped as pain exploded in her side. When he drew his foot back again, she curled into a tight ball, trying to protect herself. But it didn’t help. The toe of his boot connected with her tender flesh again. And again. And again. Pain blurred her senses, and she began to fade in and out of consciousness.

  Just when she thought he intended to kick her to death, the attack ceased. She was jerked to her feet and half dragged back to the cabin. With every step, a sharp, searing pain shot through her midsection. Moaning, she tried to suck some air into her lungs. Couldn’t.

  “Please . . . I can’t . . . breathe.”

  He ignored her. Hauling her over the threshold, he shoved her back in her chair, secured her leg to the post again, and stood.

  Slumped sideways against the support beam, Liz doubled over, fighting back tears, every breath agony.

  As waves of pain washed over her and her awareness dimmed, she tried to focus on the one good thing in her life of late.

  Jake.

  If she was going to die, she wanted his face to be the last image in her mind.

  Letting her eyelids drift shut, she pictured his intense brown eyes, strong chin, and chiseled features. Who would ever have thought her husband’s aloof best friend would somehow manage to infiltrate her heart? Yet with his innate confidence and quiet competence, his dedication to justice, his compassion and kindness, he’d done just that.

  As she labored to breathe, she thought about all the ways he’d made her feel cared for and protected. His supportive, protective hand at the small of her back in the hospital. His steady grip as he’d guided her over the uneven ground in the cemetery when she’d paid a visit to Doug’s grave. His gentle touch as he’d brushed the powdered sugar from her cheek in the condo.

  She’d wanted so badly to see what the future held for her and the tall, dark-haired marshal.

  Once more she fought back tears. She’d done everything she could to save herself. To protect that future.

  Now it was in the hands of Jake, his colleagues—and God.

  20

  ______

  Letting himself into Liz’s condo on Tuesday morning, Jake tried not to think about all the times she’d welcomed him with her warm smile.

  That would only make the emptiness harder to bear.

  As he closed the door behind him, a residue of fine, sticky fingerprint powder clung to his fingers. Brushing it off, he examined the small foyer. Nothing out of place here.

  He moved into the living area and made a slow circuit of the spare, modern room. It looked exactly as it had the last time he and Liz had been here together. No clues were waiting to be discovered.

  He headed for the dining room. Liz’s laptop was in its usual place, centered precisely at one end of the glass-topped table. It was still on, in sleep mode. Mark had told him the computer forensics people had checked it out on the off chance she’d somehow left a message, but they’d found nothing.

  A stack of folders rested next to the laptop. He picked them up and flipped through. They appeared to pertain to an upcoming case and contained nothing that looked relevant to his search. He set them back down.

  On the
other end of the table, the smaller stack of folders that had been there for a couple of weeks caught his eye. Round two for the FBI, Liz had told him—in case the first batch didn’t yield any leads. He’d stopped noticing the neat little stack on his visits; it had become part of the furniture.

  Except today it wasn’t neat. The files were in disarray, as if they’d fallen to the floor and gotten shuffled around. Or been quickly gone through and then thrown back together.

  He frowned. That wasn’t the way Liz operated. As he’d learned, she liked things neat, precise, organized.

  It was possible the ERT had gone through the files and left them in this messy state. But what if they hadn’t? What if somehow Liz had planted a clue, calling it to his attention with this out-of-character jumble of papers?

  As Jake rounded the table, he noticed one piece of paper sticking out farther than all the others. A fluke? Or a desperate effort to highlight some important piece of information?

  Without disturbing the rest of the pile, he slid one of his business cards in as a place holder and eased out the sheet. A quick scan told him it related to a malpractice case she’d heard two years ago, during her state court days. He noted the names of the plaintiff and defendant—Martin Reynolds and Dr. John Voss.

  Pulling his BlackBerry off his belt, he fished Mark’s cell number out of his pocket and punched it in. The FBI agent answered on the second ring.

  “Mark, it’s Jake. I need to ask Clair Ellis, the ERT technician who worked Liz’s condo, a question.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Maybe nothing. But I stopped by on the off chance I’d pick up some clue I missed on Sunday. I just noticed a stack of thrown-together files on the edge of the table. That’s not Liz’s style. I’m thinking the ERT people either moved them when they were working here, or she might have tried to leave us a clue. These were the second round of case files she intended to pass on to you if the first group didn’t yield any leads.”

  “I’m pulling into the parking lot at my office. Let me find Clair and I’ll call you back.”