Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (5 page)

“What’d you get?” Boucher asked by way of greeting.

“Pralines and cream. Means I have to add a half hour to my run tomorrow.”

“You picked the place.”

The man did not offer a handshake as Boucher sat down—strange for one renewing a friendship—and he barely looked up. His hairline was receding, Boucher noticed as he engaged in the universal and irresistible assessment of one not seen in a while. Other than that, it seemed that here was another FBI agent with whom it was impossible to avoid clichés and stereotypes, from clothes and shoes (which he had seen coming in) to haircut. Neely was older than when he had last seen him of course, but these people didn’t age, they hardened.

“You have something to ask me,” Neely said. “Ask away before I’m tempted to go back for seconds.”

“This is about something that happened twenty years ago. You had recently joined the Bureau, I think.”

Neely dipped a taste from the tiny plastic spoon and studied his frozen confection as if he were reading tea leaves. A frown of concentration turned to a wry smile.

“I heard you’d taken over for Judge Epson after his heart attack. This is about that lawyer’s murder, right?”

“Partly. The lawyer had a case before Judge Epson at the time he was killed. I heard there was some sort of inquiry into Judge Epson’s conduct. Did you know anything about that?”

“I wasn’t involved.” Neely took another spoonful of pralines and cream. Boucher shrugged as if to say,
Well, that’s that.
“But I heard things,” Neely added. “Even the new kid hears things. The buzz was that Judge Epson had taken bribes. A report was written up, you know, justifying time spent and requesting further direction—asses are covered in these kinds of situations by asking higher-ups to call the shots—and word came back from D.C. to lay off. Let it go. Something like that could only have come from the director, but I’m just guessing. All of it was way above my station.”

“But there was a report,” Boucher said.

“To my knowledge, yes. There was a report. But D.C. buried it. I can’t swear to this, but I think they told Epson what they’d found. He was told to clean up his act. Given a reprieve.”

“Given a reprieve for accepting bribes?”

Neely bent forward. His voice was lowered. “At the time, Epson was presiding judge over a very important racketeering trial. Years of preparation. We couldn’t afford to have him compromised in the middle of that. It would have done much more harm than good. The scales were weighed, the bribery business was buried. He was given a pass and told to mend his ways. I guess he did. That was the end of it.” He sat back up and added a further reflection.

“Though he was long dead then, Hoover’s shadow still loomed large over the Bureau. Maybe it always will. Anyway, Epson owed us. I’m pretty sure we used the occasion to remind him of that over the
years. It’s a bad position to be in, Jock. Don’t ever let yourself get in hock to the Bureau.”

Neely stood up and offered a handshake. “My advice to you is to forget about this. Don’t make waves. It was good to see you. Take care.”

Both hands were cold and clammy from the ice cream. Neely left. Boucher looked down at his cup. His Rocky Road had melted.

J
UDGE EPSON WAS RELEASED
from the hospital with his doctor’s admonitions: “No visitors, and
please
try to stay off the phone.” John Perry was waiting for him at the house, the judge having called him from his cell saying he was on his way home. So much for the doctor’s advice.

“You’re looking good,” Perry said.

“Bullshit. I look like one of those cartoons that’s just seen a ghost. Maybe I did. Maybe it was me.”

The two men sat in Epson’s study. The room was modeled after a Victorian-era library, with bookshelves floor to ceiling on three walls. Behind the desk were French windows that opened onto a backyard with large shade trees. Designed for tranquillity and contemplation, it hit the mark, though tranquillity was not in the air this afternoon.

“We didn’t find Palmetto,” Perry said. “God only knows where he’s gone.”

“I just wonder where he’s been for twenty years,” Epson said.

“I’d sure like to know what he said to that judge.”

“I can find out easily enough.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A maid stuck her
head in. “Your office is on the line, Judge. Do you want me to take a message?”

“No, I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone. Perry watched as Epson’s face turned from pale to a ghostly white.

“What’s wrong?” Perry asked.

“The son of a bitch has gone to the FBI. He was asking about that inquiry twenty years ago.”

Perry showed no reaction, not the faintest hint of emotion. This ability was his strength, had won him many a boardroom battle, and helped him to climb and remain at the top of the corporate ladder. He studied his manicured nails and asked, “Can we make Boucher a friend?”

“I doubt it,” Epson said. “He just got appointed. He’s probably full of himself and overflowing with ideals. Cynicism doesn’t usually set in till after the first five years.”

“I leave him to you. Take care of it.” In this manner a federal judge received his orders as if he were a foot soldier. Perry got up to leave. “I hope you’ll be back at work soon,” he said. “Unpleasant things seem to happen when you’re away.”

“I’ll be back within the week,” Judge Epson said. “Count on it.”

John Perry didn’t need anyone to show him to the door; he’d been in this house before. He walked the flagstone path to the driveway and his car. In contrast to the slow pace of his footsteps, his mind raced. Despite what he’d just said, he would leave nothing to Judge Epson; there was too much at stake. He would take care of what had to be done. He got in his car, called his office, and was reminded he was expected at a charity function that evening and his wife wanted to know which of his tuxedos she should put out for him. He answered, hung up, and smiled at the range of thoughts that had just run through his brain in less than a minute. From the sublime to the
mundane, it was all in a day’s work for the man who would provide the greatest country on earth with enough energy to last the next two hundred years. Perry made a stop before going home, to arrange a matter that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.

Matt Quillen hated the sight of blood, and had equal disdain for loud noises; ironic aversions for a professional killer. He’d been offered the assignment because he never failed, and accepted it without hesitation for the same reason he accepted them all. He needed the money. Being one of the best meant that his client list was short, and it could be a long time between jobs. Though he was well paid and his lifestyle was not extravagant, the money went only so far. The timing of this assignment was particularly welcome. He asked the obvious questions, and the not so obvious. One aspect stood out. He was tempted to smile but knew better. Never in front of a client. But when asked when he could do it, he said, “Tonight. There’s no time to waste.”

After Perry left, Quillen searched the medicine cabinet in his house. He found what he was looking for. There was a certain genius to his manner of operation. If a SWAT team had come busting through his door at that very moment, they would have found no weapons, only generic and nonlethal medications. Among his talents, he was a pretty damn good chemist. Nonlethal chemicals took on a new character under his direction. It was all in the mixing. In his home medicine cabinet he had all he needed to commit a murder. Timing. It was always about timing. If the client had come one day later, he would have had to devise a different strategy. But tonight he knew it would be as sure a thing as anyone in his business could want.

He began his assignment at four a.m., his favorite time, darkest before the dawn and all that. From experience—he hadn’t always been an assassin; he’d spent his early adulthood in law enforcement—he knew that cops patrolling on the nighttime shift had lost their edge by that hour. The house’s security apparatus he analyzed in no time. He wasn’t even earning his pay tonight; this hit was a gift. He put on surgical gloves, wrapped his shoes in foot covers, and entered through the back door. God, night-lights, in the kitchen and up the staircase! Could this get any easier? He’d brought a penlight but wouldn’t need it; he could walk through the house unaided. He found the stairs and slowly ascended. The art of his craft was the entry, then getting close to the victim without setting off alarms. If there was any challenge it was here, but in this house there was no problem. He found the master bedroom and opened the door slowly. Sounds of sleep. The deepest slumber occurred at this time of the morning. To ensure his safety and his success, he took from a shirt pocket one of the two tools he had brought with him. It was a narcosis-producing aerosol in the shape of a fountain pen. From generic components in his home he’d formulated his own concentration of fentanyl and butorphanol tartrate, synthetic opiates related to morphine, used both by doctors and veterinarians, which would metabolize in the liver and be expelled, impossible to trace. He reached around the door and sprayed, closing the door quickly. He looked at his watch. The knockout spray would send anyone in the room into a stupor—the only deeper sleep would be death itself—then it would dissipate. Quillen had learned early not to trust everything he’d been told about a victim’s lifestyle. Wives, kids, nurses, lovers straight and gay—there could always be surprises behind closed bedroom doors. He waited, counting time in
his head, opened the door again, and walked to the side of the bed where his target lay.

With the victim immobilized by the knockout spray, the easiest thing to do would have been to squeeze the nostrils while keeping the mouth closed. This method he’d employed successfully a number of times but didn’t want to use on this job because there was the slightest chance the police might assume a pattern and investigate more thoroughly. Quillen preferred avoiding any inference of a crime even having been committed. Also, suffocation was boring. This situation offered the opportunity for a little creativity.

He looked down at the unconscious figure, then unbuttoned the top three buttons of his pajama top, folding it over. He pulled out his second and final tool, a hypodermic needle. He removed the protective cap, reached down to the man’s armpit, and plunged the needle in. Underarm hair would hide any sign of skin puncture. He pressed the plunger and injected sodium nitroprusside—from his own prescription, from his own doctor, to treat his own hypertension. The concentrated mixture he’d formulated flowed into the body. In this case, combined with drugs Epson had doubtless been given after his heart attack, it would bring death—and controversy. Fingers would be pointed, but not in Quillen’s direction. He replaced the cap on the used needle, put it back in his pocket, and returned the way he had come. Half an hour later, he was home and preparing for bed. There was only one drawback to the timing of this particular kill: it would not make the morning paper. Matt Quillen liked the image of bad news on the doorstep. Maybe next time.

R
ADIO AND TV STATIONS
interrupted their regular morning programming with the news.

“Federal District Judge Roy Epson died in his sleep this morning. He had just been released from the hospital yesterday. Questions are already being asked about whether his medical team erred in releasing him so soon after his heart attack.”

The flag above the Federal Building was at half staff. Boucher ran into two other judges in their private elevator. One was well informed.

“He had an overdose of antihypertension drugs in his system. Drove his blood pressure down like a rock dropped from a cliff. I hope his cardiologist has a good malpractice carrier.”

“Does he have family?” Boucher asked.

“No children. Four ex-wives. Five divorces. You figure the math on that one.”

“He married and divorced the same one twice?”

“Bingo. I only met two of the ladies, but I bet each one is having a meeting with her attorney as we speak. Judge Epson’s married life was an annuity for divorce lawyers. Seriously, Jock, Epson’s death is going to mean a lot of work for you. We’re all drowning.”

“I know. I just hope I’m up to it.”

“Hell,” the other judge said, “just do what I do, which is just what my law clerk tells me to do. There’s a reason we hire the top of the class. They know more than I can possibly remember.”

If you had a complaint about a sitting judge, and if you had the nerve, you went with your complaint to the chief judge of the district. There complaints lived or died. At the end of the day, Boucher called on the chambers of Chief District Judge Arnold Wundt.

“Jock Boucher, this is a pleasant surprise.” Judge Wundt walked across his office and greeted him. “Come right in. You know, I was planning to give you a call.”

Arnold Wundt had been on the bench for thirty years and had decided to retire. For more than a year he’d taken on no new assignments. His office oversaw the administration of the district’s judicial affairs. How much the senior judge was involved personally in these matters and how much he delegated was known only within the office that Jock Boucher now entered. He looked around. You only had to switch the photos and diplomas and it could have been the office of any judge on the bench, including his own. The men did little to personalize their working quarters. At least the women jurists had flowers brought in. The two men exchanged handshakes. It being after six and with all but one of Judge Wundt’s staff having gone for the day, a drink was offered. It was against his routine but Boucher accepted. A glass on the judge’s desk indicated His Honor was already a step or two along the path. If the cut-crystal decanter that the judge pulled from his desk was any indication of the quality of the liquor contained within, Boucher was being offered some high-class hooch straight up, no ice.

“Hope you drink bourbon. I understand you’re a boy from the bayou.”

“My grandpappy made the best moonshine whiskey in the parish, I’ve been told,” Boucher said. He raised his glass.