Fatal Judgment (23 page)

Martin smiled.

Harold was right on time.

Though the blustery wind was creating whorls of leaves along the gravel path in the deserted park, the judge’s neighbor was marching along at a good clip. He always made four circuits of the twisting path that wound through open fields and small wooded parcels. He was now halfway through the first one.

As the man disappeared around a small copse of trees, Martin removed the spirit gum and mustache from the box beside him. He’d practiced at home, and it took him less than a minute to secure the small, neat mustache to his upper lip. Once it was affixed, he put on a pair of sunglasses and pulled a stocking cap low over his forehead. After snapping on a pair of snug-fitting latex gloves, he covered them with a pair of leather gloves. A quick touch to the pocket of his coat confirmed his gun was in place.

Martin waited until Harold was less than a hundred yards away before exiting his car. He took a quick look around to verify they were still alone in the quiet park and palmed his revolver. Then he started down the path toward the approaching man, who was bundled up in a bulky winter coat with a scarf around his neck and a baseball cap on his head.

He stopped as the man drew close. “Good morning, Harold.”

Harold stopped too, his expression quizzical. “I’m sorry . . . do I know you?”

“No. But you’re about to do me a big favor.” Martin angled his hand so the man could see the gun.

The color drained from Harold’s face, and he took a step back. “Look . . . I-I don’t have much cash with me, but what I have is in a money clip in the pocket of my pants.”

“I don’t want your money, Harold.”

Panic gripped the man’s features, and he did a quick scan of the park.

“There’s no one here today, Harold. And I don’t plan to hurt you
or
Delores, as long as you cooperate.”

Harold’s head snapped back toward him, and the fear in his eyes was almost palpable. “What have you done with Delores?”

“Nothing yet. And I won’t, either, if the two of you cooperate. Now let’s walk nice and casual over to your car, like you just met up with an old friend and we’re having a little chat.”

The man complied, though his gait was stiff as Martin fell in beside him.

When they arrived at the car, parked as usual at the far end of the lot, Martin gestured to the trunk. “Open it.”

Harold fumbled in his pocket for his keys and fitted one in the lock as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and began to trail down his temples. The trunk lid swung up.

For a moment, Martin felt bad. Harold was just an innocent bystander in all this. It didn’t seem fair to cause the man such distress.

On the other hand, plenty of people had caused
him
distress these past few years. And he’d been innocent too. At least Harold’s distress would be brief. Unlike his.

“Get in. Lay on your side, facing away from me, hands behind your back.”

At the command, Harold sent him a pleading, terrified look. “Please, mister, don’t do this.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Harold. I just need you out of the way for a couple of hours. But if you don’t get in, I’ll have to use this.” He hefted the gun.

“Okay, okay.” The man lifted his hand in a placating gesture and awkwardly climbed in.

Once he was in position, Martin holstered his gun and bound Harold’s wrists behind his back with one of the plastic restraints. Then he twisted the other around the man’s ankles and wound a long strip of cloth around the man’s mouth, tying it behind his head. Finally, he tugged the man’s wedding ring off his finger and slipped it in the pocket of his coat. He’d have taken the man’s keys if the ring hadn’t come off, but this was more personal. And persuasive.

“Relax, Harold. You’ll be out of here in time for dinner. Just lay nice and quiet until someone comes to let you out. Because if you cause any problems before then, you’ll never see Delores again. Got it?”

The man gave a jerky nod.

“Good.”

Closing the trunk lid, Martin once more checked out the park. Considering the biting wind and the cold, he doubted anyone would venture into the corner of this little parking lot anytime soon. Even if Harold tried to attract attention, there’d be no one to hear him.

But given the fear on the man’s face when Martin had threatened Delores, he didn’t figure he had to worry about the man causing any trouble.

As he slid into his own car, he shot a quick glance at the bouquet in the vase on the floor beside him, all wrapped up in that fancy paper florists used. That had been his only stop en route to the park.

And now it was time for the flowers to play their role.

At the ring of the doorbell, Delores set down the knife she was using to cut up the potatoes for the pot roast and wiped her hands on her apron. Odd. She and Harold never had callers on Sunday morning.

She peeked around the semi-sheer curtains in the living room, which gave her an angled view of the front porch. A man was standing by the door, juggling a flower arrangement wrapped in green floral tissue.

Liz. They had to be from her. That was exactly the kind of gesture her lovely neighbor would make as a thank-you for the treats she’d been dropping off at the condo.

Smiling, Delores bustled toward the door and swung it open.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The delivery man was half hidden behind the tall bouquet. “These are for Delores Moretti.”

“That would be me.” She reached for the arrangement. “My, what a nice surprise on a gloomy Sunday. No one’s sent me flowers in years. Thank you for . . .” The words died in her throat as she looked back at him.

The man was pointing a gun at her!

“Move back, Mrs. Moretti.”

Panic surged through her. Yet one thought was clear: she couldn’t let this man into her home. If she did, she’d be at his mercy.

Tightening her grip on the vase, she inched it up, took a deep breath, and prepared to heave it at him and slam the door in his face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mrs. Moretti. Not if you want to see your husband alive again.”

Stunned, she watched as he withdrew Harold’s wedding ring from the pocket of his coat and displayed it in his palm.

“Dear God!” She choked out the whispered words, her gaze riveted to the familiar wide band of burnished gold with the tiny nick on one side.

“Move back, Mrs. Moretti.”

Too shocked to think, she stumbled back a few steps. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, the gun never wavering.

“Set the flowers down, Mrs. Moretti.”

She complied numbly.

“Your husband is fine. For now. Whether he stays that way depends on you. Why don’t you have a seat while I tell you what I want you to do.”

As the gun-toting intruder laid out his plan, an icy chill settled over Delores. This wasn’t about her and Harold. They were simply pawns in his nefarious plan to get to Liz. And the thought of betraying her neighbor by aiding and abetting this man twisted her stomach into a knot.

Yet what option did she have? All she could do was go along with his plan and pray that before he was able to carry it to its conclusion, she’d think of some way to thwart him.

Because if she didn’t, Harold might live.

But Liz would surely die.

______

“What! When did this happen?” In the marshals’ command post next door to Liz’s condo, Larry Olsen vaulted to his feet, shock rippling through him.

BlackBerry pressed to his ear, he listened as his sister-in-law recounted the hemorrhage that had sent his pregnant wife to the ER. At the same time, the Morettis appeared on the hall video monitor. The security cameras had picked them up coming in the front entrance, bundled up against the cold, so he’d known they were on their way up to visit Liz. But the timing couldn’t have been worse.

To complicate matters, Dan was deep in conversation with their boss in the kitchen, discussing an upcoming trial that would present the marshals with some major security challenges.

Grabbing the hand-held metal detection wand off the foyer table, he spoke into the phone. “Trish, I need to put you on hold for thirty seconds. Don’t hang up.”

As he stepped into the hall, the couple stopped. Harold bent his head and fiddled with the lid on the latest tin of goodies they’d brought for the judge, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Delores had told the judge he’d had cataract surgery on Friday, and Liz had alerted the marshals to expect the sunglasses. The man also had a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. But his distinctive gray mustache was clearly visible.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Moretti. The judge is waiting for you.” He swept the wand over them quickly, his mind focused on his wife. They’d lost their first baby late in a pregnancy. Neither of them were prepared for a second loss. As soon as he cleared the Morettis, he needed to find someone to replace him in the CP, then get to the hospital. Fast.

The wand began to beep as he ran it over the tin of cookies. Nothing new there. The food containers Delores brought set it off every time.

“Mr. Moretti, may I take a quick look in there?”

“Sure.”

He pried open the lid, and Larry glanced at the sugar cookies. “Thanks. Go right on in, folks.”

With a wave in the direction of Liz’s condo, he returned to the CP.

Dan was strolling into the dining room, where the monitors were arrayed, as he came through the door. “What’s up?”

“The Morettis are here.” Larry motioned to the monitor, where the couple could be seen standing at Liz’s door. “Give me a minute.” He finished the conversation with his sister-in-law, then filled Dan in. “Bottom line, I need to find a sub ASAP.”

Dismay flattened Dan’s features. “I’m sorry, Larry. I’ll help you make some calls.” As he spoke, he was already pulling out his BlackBerry.

“Thanks.” Larry scrolled down his speed-dial list of deputy marshals. Maybe he could tap a newer guy who was anxious to make points. They didn’t need one of their top people for this gig.

Because if the pattern held, it was going to be a long, boring Sunday.

At the ring of her doorbell, Liz smiled. Now that she’d finished the case file review, she’d been at loose ends for much of the weekend. Jake was gone to Chicago for his mother’s birthday, so there’d been no impromptu visits from him or pizza parties with his siblings. Although she’d filled much of her Saturday and Sunday reading briefs for upcoming cases and catching up on law review articles, eventually her mind had refused to focus. The unexpected offer of a visit from the Morettis had been a godsend.

Peeking through the peephole, she saw Delores frowning beneath her floppy-brimmed, oversized rain hat. That didn’t bode well. In general, the woman bubbled with unbridled optimism. But she’d also sounded a little tense on the phone. Had there been a glitch in Harold’s cataract surgery? He was standing behind Delores, head bent, and she could see his sunglasses. Funny that Delores hadn’t told her anything about the surgery until today. She was usually chatty about such goings-on in their lives.

After flipping the dead bolt, she opened the door and ushered them in.

“I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you called, Delores.” She waited until the couple cleared the door, then shut it and flipped the dead bolt. As she started to turn, she heard the top being popped off the tin of cookies. “It’s been really quiet here all . . .”

Her words died in a sharp gasp. Harold tossed the cookies to the floor, lifted a revolver from underneath, and pointed it at her.

Only . . . it wasn’t Harold. The mustache wasn’t quite right, and his body build was more angular than her neighbor’s.

“I’m sorry, Liz.” A tremor ran through Delores’s words. “But he’s got Harold, and he said unless I cooperated I’d never see him again.”

At the tearful apology, Liz focused on her neighbor. The woman was quivering, and her complexion had a gray cast.

“That’s right, Judge,” the intruder interjected. “And the same goes for you. Harold’s fate is in your hands. So is Delores’s. You cooperate, they live. You don’t, they die.”

Between the glasses and the baseball cap and a muffler wrapped high around his neck, not much of the man’s face was visible. Liz had no idea who he was.

But one thing was clear.

She was looking at the man who’d killed her sister.

The man who still wanted her dead.

As fear clawed at her throat—and her composure—she struggled to rein in her panic. She had to keep her wits about her. To think clearly.

Her life depended on it.

She forced herself to examine the facts, just as she did in the courtroom, doing her best to take emotion out of the equation.

And the facts were straightforward.

The intruder was intelligent; he’d devised a plan that had gotten him past the marshals in the CP, which was no small feat.

He was committed to finishing the job he’d set out to do in her house three weeks ago; otherwise, he wouldn’t have risked coming back.

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.