Fatal Judgment (22 page)

She reached over and patted his hand. “Priorities change, Marty. Times change. You have to go with the flow.”

“If we keep going with the flow, this country’s going to go under.”

“My! I think my low-key brother is becoming a radical in his old age.”

She smiled, but he saw the speculation in her eyes.

Somehow he dredged up a smile of his own. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. You know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks.” Rising, he picked up his plate and carried it to the sink. “What do you say we watch an old movie tonight? I’ve got a DVD of
North by Northwest
.”

“Cary Grant! Now that would be a treat.” She gave him a pleased smile. “Maybe we can make popcorn later too.”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

She joined him at the sink and put her arm around his shoulders. “You’ve seemed really different since I’ve been back, Marty. But tonight I’m seeing the little brother I remember.”

“He’s still inside, Patricia. I’ve just had a few rough years.”

“I hear you. Let’s hope it’s smooth sailing from here on out.”

It would be, Martin resolved, as he went to retrieve the DVD.

Particularly when it came to finishing off Judge Elizabeth Michaels.

______

“Happy birthday to you!”

As the three Taylor siblings finished their rousing if off-key rendition of the familiar ditty and the waiter delivered a cake glowing with candles, Eleanor Taylor beamed at them. “This is the nicest Saturday night I’ve had in years. And I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present—all my children with me to celebrate.”

Jake grinned at his mother, pleased to see her so happy. “You didn’t think you’d get rid of us just by moving to Chicago, did you? We’re not that easy to shake.”

She smiled and shook her head. “As if.”

“Make a wish, Mom,” Alison encouraged.

“And make it good,” Cole added. “You only get one shot at this every year.”

She looked around the table. “My wish has already come true. But I think I’ll make one for all of you.” Taking a deep breath, she blew out the candles.

“Wow! Now I know where Alison gets all her hot air.” Cole winked at his mother and grinned at his sister.

Alison countered by jabbing an elbow in his ribs.

“Hey!” He feigned injury. “Watch it or I’ll have to book you for assault and battery.”

“Try it.” Alison made a face at him. “So what did you wish for, Mom?”

“I think I know.”

They all turned toward Eleanor’s sister. Six years older than her sibling, she was tall and thin as a rail, with snow-white hair she’d worn piled on her head in a loose chignon for as long as Jake could remember. His mother, on the other hand, was shorter, more stout, and still had quite a bit of brown in her stylishly coiffed graying hair. No one would ever guess they were related.

“Catherine! If you tell, it won’t come true,” Eleanor admonished her sister.

“I bet these three smart children of yours can figure it out, anyway.” Aunt Catherine scanned the table, then glanced toward a young couple holding hands in a nearby booth.

Noting Alison’s sudden pained expression, Jake was about to step in when Cole beat him to it.

“Well, if you’re wishing what I think you’re wishing, your oldest son might come through for you.”

At his mother’s interested—and hopeful—look, Jake’s neck warmed. His brother was as bad as Spence.

“Do you have some news to share, Jake?”

“No, Mom. I don’t. And Cole has a big mouth.” He shot Cole a dark look.

“Oh, go ahead and tell her about Liz.” Alison joined in the fun, making an obvious effort to shake off her melancholy. “If you don’t, we will.”

“Liz who?” His mother directed the question to him.

He was stuck. Four pairs of eyes were riveted on him. And he’d rather his mother hear
his
version of his relationship with Liz than the embellished one his siblings would no doubt concoct.

“Liz Michaels, Mom. She’s a federal judge. I’m heading her protection detail. She used to be married to Doug Stafford. She kept her maiden name.”

“I remember Doug well from your college days. Nice young man. It was such a tragedy when he died in that car accident a few years ago.”

“Yes, it was. Anyway, Liz and I have enjoyed getting reacquainted. She’s a very nice woman.”

He shot a silent warning to his siblings. Alison was grinning as she cut the birthday cake. Cole was sitting back, arms crossed over his chest, enjoying the show.

“Is she in danger, Jake?”

At his mother’s question, he refocused on her. Unlike his brother’s and sister’s smirks, which suggested they were getting a kick out of putting him in the hot seat, a slight frown marred her brow, and she was leaning forward, her posture intent.

He’d never told his mother much about the dangers of his job. When they talked, he tended to share the humorous or glitzier elements, trying to shield her from worry.

Kind of like Alison had done with him when he’d been in Iraq.

That sudden realization forced Jake to view his sister’s actions in a more sympathetic light.

Before he could respond, his aunt touched his mother’s shoulder. “Eleanor . . . Elizabeth Michaels is the judge we’ve been reading about in the
Tribune
. The one whose sister was murdered.”

His mother’s complexion paled. “Oh, dear.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Are you worried someone is after her too?”

“It’s possible. But we have a full contingent of deputies assigned to her detail. And the FBI is working hard to find the person who killed her sister.”

“I’m certain she’s in good hands, then. But I think I’ll say a few prayers for her safety, anyway.”

Alison distributed the slices of cake, and the party shifted back into a lighter mood. But as he ate his piece, Jake was grateful for his mom’s promise of prayer.

Because even though things were quiet at the moment, his gut told him the danger wasn’t over.

And as he’d confided to Liz not long ago, he always listened to his gut.

“You sure you don’t want to go to services with me, Marty?”

Martin stopped shaking his cereal into a bowl and surveyed Patricia, who was all gussied up for church. When Helen was alive, he’d gone every week. Now, he got there once a month. Maybe. And today he had other things to do.

“I’m sure, Patricia. I need to get my stuff together for my hunting trip. I’ll be gone when you get home, but if anything comes up and you need me, call my cell phone. I’ll leave the number on the kitchen counter.”

“I expect I’ll be fine. Molly’s husband is heading out of town again this week, so we’re going to lunch tomorrow. And I thought I’d play tourist on Tuesday. Visit the Arch and the Art Museum.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I agree. You’ll be back on Tuesday night, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m off.” She bustled over and gave him a hug. “Good hunting.”

“Thanks.”

He remained at the counter, cereal in hand, until he heard her car door slam in the driveway. Setting the box down, he hurried across the kitchen and through the living room to the front window. As she pulled out and headed down the street, his pulse kicked up a notch.

This was it.

No longer hungry, he dumped the cereal in his bowl back into the box and headed for his bedroom. After pulling the flat garment box out from under his bed, he took a quick inventory. Latex gloves. Regular gloves. Heavy-duty cording. Strips of rags. A large round tin, filled with cookies he’d bought at the bakery yesterday. The mustache and spirit gum he’d purchased earlier in the week at a theatrical supply shop, plus a gray woman’s wig. Sunglasses. Several pairs of nylon restraints a cop buddy had given him years ago as a gag gift. The two letters. Large sheets of clear heavy plastic. Preaddressed, stamped envelopes. Extra ammunition.

The only thing he still needed to retrieve was the gun in his dresser. His rifle was already at the cabin—hidden under the floorboard, in case someone with sticky fingers broke in.

Opening the drawer, he withdrew the revolver and slipped it in his pocket. Then he took the plastic and a roll of duct tape and headed for the garage, where he set about covering the front seat of the car with the plastic, taping it firmly in place.

It was important not to leave any trace evidence. He knew all about that stuff from the television cop shows. It was amazing how they could nail a person with the littlest thing. A fingernail, even. That’s why he’d been extra careful when he’d gone to the judge’s house, wearing latex gloves and a stocking cap that covered his hair. Right before he went, he’d also washed the black clothes he’d worn, just in case any of Josie’s hair had been clinging to them.

He’d found a piece of gum wedged under the heel of his shoe after he’d arrived home, though. And he’d wondered briefly if there might have been cat hair stuck to it. But even if there had been, thousands of cats in the city had gold hair. There would be no reason for anyone to link him to a stray cat hair found in the judge’s house.

But to be safe, he’d put Josie in the basement this morning. No reason to take chances.

Once he finished his taping job on the seat, he covered the carpet in the front with plastic too. After the job was finished, he’d dispose of it.

Satisfied, he backed out of the car, opened the door between the garage and the house—and froze.

The doorbell was ringing.

His pulse began to hammer as he stepped inside. No one ever came calling on Sunday morning.

No one ever came calling, period.

Moving through the house, he sidled up to the front door and peered through the peephole.

It was that young woman from next door. Looking for Patricia, he presumed.

As he watched, she pressed the bell again.

He could ignore her. But she was a bit of a busybody, always watching the comings and goings in the neighborhood. She probably knew he was at home. If he didn’t answer, she might think he was ill or injured. And she was the type to call 911, all in the interest of being a good Samaritan.

A flutter of panic rippled through his stomach. Better to deal with her and send her on her way.

“Good morning, Mr. Reynolds.” She gave him a perky smile as he opened the door. “I tried to catch your sister as she left, but it was too late. She offered to let me borrow a Bundt pan for a cake I’m making to take to a potluck dinner, and I wondered if I might trouble you for it. Those are the pans with the hole in the middle, you know? She said she saw one in a box in the basement at the foot of the stairs.”

A Bundt pan.

He did his best not to roll his eyes.

“I’ll check for you.” He started to turn away, then hesitated. The polite thing to do would be to ask her in. The temperature had dropped into the upper thirties, and a wind was whipping her hair around her face. “You want to wait inside?”

“If you don’t mind. It sure has gotten cold all of a sudden, hasn’t it?”

She eased past him. The front door opened directly into the living room of the small bungalow, and she hovered just inside.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t offer her a seat.

Without waiting for a response, he hightailed it to the basement door. Josie hated being relegated there and usually parked herself on the top step, meowing loudly until he let her out. She’d been quiet today, though.

Easing the door open, he could see the coast was clear. She wasn’t waiting on the step, ready to rush past him and escape her shadowy confinement.

It took him less than thirty seconds to find the pan. After moving in, he’d removed only the essential items from the boxes of kitchen stuff. But he’d had to rummage through every box to find what he’d needed, and he hadn’t done the best job repacking them. Patricia must have noticed the Bundt pan on one of her trips down here to do some laundry.

As he grabbed the pan, he saw Josie by the wall a few feet away, wedged behind some boxes. She wasn’t paying any attention to him, which was unusual, and curiosity got the better of him. Squeezing between the cartons, he kept his distance but leaned over.

She was playing with a dead mouse.

Mystery solved.

He backed away, ascended the stairs, and closed the door.

Molly hadn’t strayed far from where he’d left her. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll save you and Patricia a piece. She sure is a nice lady.”

“Yeah.” He opened the door.

“See you around.”

The instant she stepped through the door, he closed it behind her.

Back in his bedroom, he pulled on the boots with the thick soles, left over from the square-dancing class Helen had dragged him to five years ago. He hadn’t liked the lessons, but he’d enjoyed being more than an inch and a half taller. Today the added height had a practical advantage as well.

After putting two nylon restraints and a few strips of rags in his pocket, he carried his box of supplies to the car. Stowed it on the passenger seat. Locked the door to the house. Slid behind the wheel.

It was D-Day.