Fatal Judgment (17 page)

He’d also spent a couple of weeks sitting outside her house, studying her habits. What time she left in the morning, what time she returned, when she tended to run errands, who she talked to. She seemed especially chummy with her neighbors across the street—Delores and Harold Moretti.

No, there had been nothing wrong with his plan. He’d gotten in and out clean, and the police had no clue who the perpetrator was.

His only mistake had been killing the wrong woman.

Next time, there would be no mistake.

He turned into the park, following Neil at a safe distance. It wasn’t going to be as easy on the second try, though. The judge wasn’t in her house anymore. She was sequestered in a high-rise condo not far from the courthouse, surrounded by marshals. At least he was pretty sure that’s where she was, after following Neil there a couple of days ago from the courthouse and watching him haul half a dozen boxes in from his car. Martin had figured she’d eventually want some stuff from her office, and the wet-behind-the-ears clerk had seemed the most likely person to be tapped as a delivery boy. So he’d been sticking like glue.

And it had paid off.

He was hoping the kid would make another trip there, just to confirm the judge’s location.

An hour and a half later, as he sat behind the wheel, killing time across from the courthouse parking garage by reading the Saturday paper, he hit pay dirt. The kid’s car pulled out less than fifteen minutes after he’d arrived, and instead of moving west, toward his apartment, it headed south. Toward the judge’s condo.

Just as he’d done on his last visit, he parked in front. Hauled a box out of his trunk. Headed for the door.

Ten minutes later, he exited, returned to his car, and pulled away from the building.

Martin tapped the wheel, debating his next move. He didn’t see any reason to follow the clerk again. The kid had served his purpose. His two trips to the condo were pretty convincing proof the judge was inside.

But why not stick around here for a while? He’d learned a lot by doing that the first time around, at the judge’s house. It was possible he’d pick up some more useful information. And you could never have enough information in the planning stage.

Especially when the stakes were this high.

Liz pulled the next file toward her and took a swig of cooling coffee. She’d worked late last night after Jake had left, tossed for a few hours in bed, and gotten up at the crack of dawn to dive back in, determined to get through five years’ worth of cases this weekend—plus the box of files Neil had just delivered, after she’d realized one was missing and called him. Not the way she’d choose to spend a Saturday, but she wanted to finish this job as soon as possible.

Her stomach grumbled in protest at the steady infusion of coffee, and she set her mug aside. She’d stop after this file and grab a bagel. Or maybe dig out one of the breakfast sandwiches stashed in the freezer. She was having difficulty focusing this morning—a rare problem for her. No doubt due to a diet that would make a nutritionist cringe. Not to mention her bone-deep fatigue.

Propping her head in her hand, Liz read the label on the file. Martin Reynolds v. Dr. John Voss, St. Gregory Hospital. Off the top of her head, the case rang no bells, but a quick scan of her ruling brought it all back.

The plaintiff had sued an emergency room doctor and the hospital where he worked after his wife’s acute appendicitis was misdiagnosed as colitis. She’d died three days later.

Liz did a closer read, refreshing her memory.

Martin Reynolds and his wife, Helen, had been visiting her sister near Eldon when Helen had become ill after eating some popcorn. Her symptoms had worsened, and he’d driven her to a hospital in Jefferson City. After taking her history, which included a long-term colitis condition—and doing some tests that indicated she was, indeed, suffering from an attack of colitis—the ER physician had released her with instructions to rest, ingest only a clear liquid diet for twenty-four hours, and take an over-the-counter pain medication. She had also been directed to seek follow-up care if she didn’t show rapid improvement.

Eight hours later, after all of her symptoms had worsened considerably, Reynolds and his wife had returned to the ER. A CT scan was done. The diagnosis was changed to both colitis and acute appendicitis. Before she could be rushed into surgery, her appendix ruptured. Peritonitis set in, followed by sepsis. That, in turn, had led to shock, multiple organ failure, and death. Several months later, Reynolds had filed a malpractice suit.

As Liz perused the material, the details of the case came back to her. Including the plaintiff’s raw grief. It had been apparent in his eyes—along with anger and frustration. She’d understood his feelings. Sympathized, even. Yet the so-called expert hired by Reynolds’s attorney had admitted on cross-examination that he lacked the qualifications to testify on the standard of care for emergency room doctors. Since the plaintiff had failed to meet the burden of proof, the trial had been over before the defendant had even submitted his evidence. She’d had no choice but to direct a verdict in favor of the doctor. The appellate court had upheld her ruling.

She’d tried to do her best by Reynolds, though, within the confines of the law. When the doctor’s attorney had filed a pretrial motion to disqualify the plaintiff’s expert for lacking requisite qualifications, she’d thought the motion had merit. But she’d denied it, pending the so-called expert’s testimony at trial. However, she’d advised Reynolds’s attorney that his expert might lack the qualifications to testify and to consider dismissing and refiling, which would have given him an opportunity to name a properly qualified expert. He’d refused.

Closing the file, Liz tapped her finger against the edge of the folder. She’d dealt with several other malpractice cases during her state court days. Most had been well presented. This one hadn’t. There were a lot of marginal lawyers out there, and Martin Reynolds had unfortunately hired one of them—dooming his case.

Liz had felt bad about the outcome. But thanks to her dad, she’d learned early on not to dwell on every case. The emotional toll was too high. He had been the most compassionate man she’d ever met, and his passion for justice had compelled him to work hard on behalf of every one of his clients, paying or pro bono. Yet he’d known how to walk away, leave it behind when he shut his office door. She’d tried hard to emulate his example.

Hefting the file in her hand, she debated which FBI pile to put it in—yes, no, maybe. The latter pile was for the second-round cases—the ones she’d pass on to the FBI if the first group of cases didn’t yield any leads.

It wasn’t a yes, she decided. There was nothing specific about this case that caused any red flags to pop up. Still, there had been something vaguely disturbing about Martin Reynolds. Nothing she could pinpoint. No threats. No outbursts in her presence. No angry gestures. But his scathing, silent scrutiny had been unnerving.

Her cell phone rang, and she put the file halfway between the no and the maybe pile. She’d let it sit for a while and come back to it later.

Rising, she stretched, then walked to the coffee table and picked up the phone.

“Sorry for the early call.” Jake’s appealing baritone voice sent a tingle along her nerve endings. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” She checked her watch. “I’ve been up for several hours. Reading case files.”

“You’re determined to finish by tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

“That’s my plan.”

“Would you consider taking an hour or two off tonight?”

She dropped onto the edge of the couch, intrigued. “I might. What did you have in mind?”

“A Taylor-made pizza party.”

She smiled. “Am I picking up a play on words?”

A soft chuckle came over the line. “Good catch. Alison and Cole and I had planned to get together tonight at her house, but pizza’s portable. And I think you’d like Alison.”

She tried not to take the thoughtful gesture too personally. Jake’s job required him to keep her safe. And comfortable. That could be at least part of the motivation for his suggestion.

Nevertheless, the idea was appealing. Very appealing.

“I hate to intrude on a family get-together. Are you sure they won’t mind?”

“They’re all for it. I asked before I called. Any special requests on the pizza?”

“I like everything. Except olives.”

“Already noted. I remember from the last time. Is 7:00 okay?”

“Great. Any word on clearance for the Morettis?”

“That’s also why I called. They’re good to go.”

“I didn’t think there would be any problem. Delores’s biggest transgression is making fattening desserts. Other than that parking citation, of course.”

His soft chuckle came over the line. “Enjoy your visit. And I’ll see you tonight.”

As they said their good-byes, Liz tapped the end button, headed for the kitchen, and slid a ham and egg biscuit into the microwave. She’d never been the kind of person who needed a lot of social interaction. But this week had been far too quiet. And lonely. She was ready for some conversation that didn’t revolve around solving a murder and finding a killer who might, at this very minute, be plotting a second attempt.

Seeing the Morettis would be a good diversion. And she expected the Taylors would provide plenty of distraction tonight too. Cole had seemed like a nice guy, and from everything Jake had told her about Alison, she had a feeling the two of them would click.

Then there was Jake himself. Always a big distraction.

The microwave pinged—in unison with her heart.

No question about it. She was definitely looking forward to tonight.

His patience had been rewarded.

Easing a little lower behind the wheel, Martin watched as the Morettis walked up the sidewalk toward the condo where Neil had delivered the box three hours earlier. The wife, wearing a raincoat, was carrying a large metal tin that looked as if it might contain cookies. The husband wore a short jacket and a baseball cap. They, too, pushed through the glass doors into the lobby.

That was all the proof he needed.

The judge was here.

And she had regular visitors.

A surge of adrenaline bumped up his pulse as an idea began to percolate in his mind. An idea that had a lot of potential.

Putting the car in gear, Martin pulled back into traffic, anxious to get home and think through the details.

It was time to finalize Plan B.