Fatal Judgment (24 page)

“What kind of security is there with visitors as they exit?” He barked out the question as she tugged down the sweater.

Could she scare him? Make him nervous enough to do something suspicious, something that might catch the marshals’ attention?

“They check out people who are leaving, like they do coming in.”

He leaned close to her face, the gun mere inches from her temple, and she stopped breathing. “You’re lying. I asked Delores. She said they just walk out. And since she told me the truth about the security coming in, I think I’ll believe her.” He pressed the cold barrel against her skin. “You know, you’d penalize someone in your courtroom if they lied. Guess I’ll have to do the same for you. Later. Keep moving.”

Liz finished dressing. With all the bulk she’d added, she doubted the security cameras would detect much difference in body build between her and Delores. Except for the hair.

As if reading her mind, he reached into the deep pocket of his coat, pulled out a gray wig, and tossed it to her. “Put it on.”

Her heart sank. He hadn’t missed a trick.

Fingering the wig, her gaze fell on the small pile of second-tier cases she’d compiled to pass on to the FBI if the first tier didn’t pan out. They still rested on the edge of the dining room table. In the end, Reynolds’s file had made that cut. If there was some way she could give it some prominence . . .

“What are you waiting for?”

At his sharp question, she gestured toward the kitchen and said the first thing that came to mind. “I need a rubber band to hold my hair back. And a safety pin for the skirt. It’s too big. I think I have both in the drawer in there.”

“Fine. Get them. And don’t try anything.”

She walked the long way around, and he followed. As she passed the files, she dropped the wig. Leaning down to retrieve it, she reached over to balance herself on the table. And pushed the files to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

For the first time, she detected a touch of fear in the man’s voice.

“Sorry. I-I dropped the wig.” She gathered the files together as quickly as she could, trying not to draw attention to them. She didn’t put Reynolds’s on top, but she did pull one sheet out a few inches. And she left the files in an uncharacteristic messy stack. Hoping they would catch someone’s eye.

Like Jake’s.

It wasn’t much. But it was the best she could do.

He came around the table and examined the top file. Thank goodness she hadn’t put his there. “Hurry up.”

She retrieved the rubber band, put her hair in a ponytail, and pulled the wig onto her head. Then she pinned her skirt.

“Now the hat. And tug it low.”

After she complied, he walked over to her. “Now here’s what we’re going to do, Judge. You and I are going to walk out that door. I’ll hold your arm. I want you to keep your head down low. Rummage around in your purse, like you’re searching for your keys. You make one wrong move, and this game will end right here. For you
and
Harold. I’m the only one who knows where he is. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

As he guided her toward the door, she opened Delores’s purse. He tucked the hand holding the gun under their linked arms, the barrel pressed against her side. Near her heart.

And as they stepped into the hall, Liz knew that unless a miracle happened, Martin Reynolds was about to finish the job he’d started three weeks ago.

Brett Holmes settled back in his chair in front of the bank of monitors showing the video feed of the hallway and the entrances and exits of the condo where Liz Michaels was sequestered. Sunday duty wasn’t his favorite, but as one of the newest deputy marshals in the St. Louis office, he was used to being tagged for the less favorable shifts.

At least he only lived five minutes away. And this was a high-profile assignment. Protecting a federal judge who had an active threat against her life was a lot better than escorting some low-life prisoner to and from the airport.

The door to the judge’s condo opened, and he leaned forward. Before Larry had taken off less than three minutes ago, he’d played back the tape of the Morettis arriving and given him a good description of the couple. The man and woman exiting the condo fit it to a T.

“Anything going on?” Dan poked his head in from the kitchen, where he was making a sandwich.

“The Morettis are leaving.”

“Yeah?” Dan strolled in and took a quick look at the screen, juggling a knife in one hand and a jar of mustard in the other. “I wonder what goodie she left this time?”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard about the cannoli?”

“No.”

“Never mind, then.”

As Dan returned to the kitchen, Brett watched the couple enter the elevator. The doors closed. He leaned back.

“Any other visitors coming today?”

“Nope.” Dan reappeared and tossed him a bag of chips. “The judge leads a very quiet home life. Jake will probably stop by when he gets back from Chicago, though.”

“I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet. I hear he’s just back from Iraq. Those SOG guys see all the action.”

“You know what? They can have it. I’ll take a nice, quiet protective detail any day. Like this one’s been.” He indicated the monitor displaying the empty hall.

“Yeah.”

But two minutes later, as Brett watched the monitor that displayed the older couple exiting the building, he couldn’t help wishing he’d see a little action once in a while.

Except he doubted that was going to happen on this assignment.

At 5:15, when Jake opened the door to the command post, he was surprised to find an unfamiliar deputy on duty.

“You’re back from Chicago earlier than I expected.” Dan rose from the couch and stretched.

“I left after we took my mom to church.” He and his siblings had planned to drive up together, but at the last minute he’d decided to take his own car. He wasn’t certain why. Nor was he certain why he’d felt the need to cut and run after church instead of going to brunch with his family. It was true he wanted to spend part of the evening with Liz. But an odd feeling of restlessness had also pushed him to start the drive back even earlier than he’d planned.

The blond guy in front of the video monitors rose and held out his hand. “Brett Holmes.”

“Jake Taylor.” He returned the man’s firm grip. “Where’s Larry?”

“At the ER.” Dan filled him in.

“How’s his wife doing?”

“Okay so far. The bleeding’s under control, and she hasn’t lost the baby.”

“Good.” Jake checked the monitors. “Everything quiet here?”

“Very. The Morettis stopped by around 1:00. That’s been the only activity.” Dan headed for the kitchen. “You want a soda?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to stop in and see the judge.”

“How come I knew that?” Grinning, Dan tossed the remark over his shoulder.

Jake ignored the comment. It was obvious the man had been talking to Spence. “I’ll swing by here again on my way out.”

“We’ll be around.”

Stepping into the hall, Jake pulled the door shut behind him and covered the distance to the adjacent unit in mere seconds, anxious to see Liz. It was amazing how much he’d missed her after being separated less than forty-eight hours. Even their brief phone conversation yesterday hadn’t helped much. Talking long distance was more tantalizing than satisfying.

As he pressed the bell to her condo, Jake wondered if he could convince her to let him send out for Chinese. Sharing dinner with her would be a perfect way to end the day.

When there was no response to his first ring, Jake tried again. She might be napping. Or taking a shower. Or she could be on the treadmill again, with the music cranked up. Wearing those amazing spandex shorts.

A slow smile curved his lips, and he pressed harder on the bell.

After the second ring failed to produce a response, Jake pulled out his BlackBerry and punched in the number of her cell phone.

After three rings, a recorded voice asked him to leave a message.

His smile faded.

He tried calling the phone in her unit. He could hear it ringing on the other side of the door, but no one picked it up.

Telling himself not to overreact, that there was surely a logical reason for her lack of response, he strode back to the CP and pushed through the door.

“Where’s the key to Liz’s unit?” He glanced around. Each set of marshals on duty kept it in a different location.

Brett swiveled around from his seat in front of the bank of monitors. Dan frowned and crossed the living room to retrieve it from a small ginger jar. “What’s up?”

“She’s not answering.”

“The key won’t help if she has the dead bolt on.”

“It’s worth a try before I kick the door in.” He looked at Brett. “You stay here. Keep your eye on the monitors. Dan, come with me.”

The other man fell in behind him as he retraced his steps.

Fitting the key in the lock, he turned it.

The door opened.

His alarm escalated.

“Liz?” He stopped in the middle of the foyer and listened.

Nothing.

“Check the front part of the unit. I’ll cover the bedrooms.”

Without waiting for Dan to respond to his curt command, he pulled out his gun and moved down the hall.

He started with Liz’s bedroom. A quick survey showed nothing amiss. Everything looked in order in the closet too.

As he headed back down the hall, Dan joined him at the threshold of the second bedroom, where the treadmill was located.

The man shook his head, his expression grim. “Nothing.”

“Her bedroom’s clean too.” Jake did a quick sweep of the exercise room, then reached for the closet door. His mind already racing ahead to next steps, he pushed it open to do a cursory check.

And stopped breathing.

A bound-and-gagged, slip-clad Delores Moretti stared up at him from the floor with wide, frightened eyes.

But it was the large block letters screaming at him from the computer-generated note beside her that sent his pulse into overdrive.

Harold Moretti is in the trunk of his car in Morgan Park.

But the judge is mine.

______

As Delores dissolved into tears for the second time, Jake was glad Mark Sanders had assumed the lead in taking her statement. His patience was deteriorating with every minute that ticked by.

At least she was a little more coherent now that her husband had been freed and was being brought to the command post to join her. But so far she’d revealed little that would be of any help in their investigation. She couldn’t even remember the make or color of the car she’d been forced to drive here.

“I’m sorry, Agent Sanders.” The gray-haired woman dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I was so scared—all I could think about was that gun pointing at me. And I was so worried about Harold.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Moretti. That’s a perfectly normal reaction.” Mark picked up the glass of soda he’d poured for her and held it out. “Drink a little of this and we’ll talk more in a minute.”

Rising, the FBI agent motioned to Jake. He followed him to a corner of the living room. The busy CP wasn’t the best place to talk with a victim, but the FBI’s Evidence Response Team had taken over Liz’s condo and they needed information from Delores. As soon as possible.

“We’re going to have to give her a few more minutes.” Mark angled away from the older woman and dropped his voice. “I think we have a trauma spike going here.”

“Yeah.” Jake had witnessed that phenomenon on numerous occasions. Adrenaline, fear, and disorientation could push important information to the edges of a witness’s or victim’s consciousness. They often needed time to calm down in order to process it.

But time was in short supply.

“Maybe she’ll remember more once she sees for herself that her husband is okay,” Mark offered.

“Maybe.”

“After he gets here, why don’t you have your people talk to him, and we’ll work with Mrs. Moretti?”

“Okay.”

Mark gave him an appraising look. “You all right?”

No, he wasn’t. The woman he’d come to care for more than he’d ever thought possible in just three weeks had been snatched from under their noses. He might not have been on duty, but he was responsible for her security detail. For protecting her.

And he’d failed.

Now her life hung in the balance.

A tsunami of guilt crashed over him, pulling him down, down, down into a dark, forsaken void. Cutting off his oxygen. Contorting his stomach into a painful knot.

Exactly the way it had after Jen died.

But Liz wasn’t dead. He had to believe that. If her abductor had wanted her to die quickly, he’d have killed her here.

As for the guilt—there would be time later to beat himself up about that. Right now, he needed to focus on the task at hand: rescuing Liz before the killer finished the job he’d set out to do three weeks ago.

Sucking in a deep breath, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Fisted them. “Yeah. I’m okay. We just need to find this guy. Fast.”

“I agree.”

An EMT from the ambulance they’d summoned when they’d found Delores approached them. “You guys want us to hang around?”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t see why.” After submitting to a quick exam, Delores had refused further medical attention. Likewise for Harold, according to the police who’d freed him from the trunk. Neither had suffered any major physical injury from their traumatic experience.

After gesturing to his colleagues, the technician disappeared out the door as Deputy Marshal Todd Nelson stepped inside. Catching sight of Jake, the other St. Louis-based Special Operations Group member joined them.

With a nod to Mark, he quickly turned his attention to Jake. “Matt’s got a whole contingent from the SOG on the way.”

“I’m not surprised.” For a pending arrest in high-profile crimes, members of the elite group were always brought in. That’s why he’d been called to Denver so soon after arriving in St. Louis.

Only they weren’t even close to an arrest at this point.

“Matt briefed me. Anything new in the past half hour?”

“No. Mrs. Moretti has been too upset to give us much. We’re hoping that changes once her husband gets here. In the meantime, let’s watch the video.”

He led the way to the dining table containing the monitors. The younger marshal—Brett, Jake reminded himself—had gone a few shades paler while they’d grilled him about what he’d observed on the screens. His features were still taut and his complexion on the ashen side as they approached.

“I’ve got the feed from the camera in the lobby and the one from the hall both queued to the couple’s entry.” He gestured to the center monitor.

Jake gave a curt nod as he, Todd, and Mark clustered behind him. “Okay. Let’s take a look.”

The first video showed the couple everyone had assumed was Harold and Delores coming through the front door of the building.

“Zoom in as close as you can.”

As Brett complied with Jake’s instruction, all three men leaned closer.

“Between the sunglasses and hat and muffler, plus the way he kept his head down, I can’t make out a thing.” Jake shook his head. “Anyone see anything I’m missing?”

At the negative response, they moved on to the video of Larry using the security wand. Again, no matter how close they zoomed in, the man’s bowed head gave them little to work with.

“Okay, let’s see the exit videos.”

They already knew the killer had spirited Liz away by disguising her as Delores. The older woman had told them that much. So Jake was tuned in to the subtle height difference between the man and woman in this clip versus the couple in the lobby video. The woman’s gait was different too.

But he couldn’t blame Brett for failing to notice those things. One quick viewing of the couple’s entrance wouldn’t have given the man enough context to red flag the minor differences.

“You’d have to look really close to see the discrepancies.” Mark echoed his thoughts, peering at the screen. “And that floppy hat the judge is wearing doesn’t help. Her face is almost completely hidden.”

“Queue up the exit video from the front entrance,” Jake said.

Brett tapped a few keys, and the sequence began to play.

Again, the man’s features were impossible to discern. And at this point, they didn’t need any more proof he’d kidnapped Liz. No clear image of her face was necessary.

But as the couple stepped through the front door, she gave them one. It was only a quick, stolen glance toward the video camera. Yet it was enough to reveal her terrified eyes.

The image clutched at his gut.

And Jake knew it would haunt him until she was safe again.

From her seat on a plain wooden chair in the rustic cabin, hands cuffed in front of her, one leg shackled to a support beam, Liz watched Martin Reynolds unwrap a deli sandwich and begin to eat. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the condo, other than to instruct her to put on a pair of latex gloves when they’d reached his car and to give her driving directions as he kept the gun aimed at her. They’d made one brief stop, at a drive-up mailbox.

But first, he’d told her to pull over, handed her a pen, and dictated a message for her to write at the bottom of a typed document. The single sentence had sent a chill racing down her spine. Then he’d told her to sign it.

As she’d done so, she’d tried to read at least a few of the words. But he’d snatched it away too quickly. Tipping a bottle of water against a paper napkin, he’d moistened the flap of the envelope and sealed it.

When he’d instructed her to drop the envelope down the mail chute, she’d gotten the first inkling of why she’d been spared. It had been addressed to the news desk at the St. Louis
Post-Dispatch
and marked “urgent, time-sensitive material.”

Meaning he wanted to make a statement by killing her. To tell the world why he was disenchanted with America and its judicial system. She’d noticed another similar-looking envelope on the table in the cabin. Was he trying to stretch this out, milk it for as much press as possible? If so, how much time did that give her?

She supposed she could try engaging him in conversation and hope he would drop a hint about the timing of his plans. But so far, the few questions she’d asked had been ignored.

The only time he’d acknowledged her presence had been when she’d asked to use the bathroom. He’d pulled out his revolver, cut through the plastic of her leg restraint with a wicked-looking hunting knife, and gestured toward the door. The bathroom had turned out to be a tiny outhouse behind the cabin. She’d finished her business as quickly as possible in the fading daylight, and been back in the chair ever since.

Her hair was still tucked inside the uncomfortable gray wig, and he’d ignored her request to remove it. She wished she knew what time it was, but the latex gloves covered her watch. Considering it felt like hours since any hint of light had seeped around the drawn shades of the only window without closed shutters, it had to be at least 9:00.

She watched her abductor take a swig of water and licked her parched lips.

“May I have a drink, please?”

No response.

When he finished eating, he gathered up his trash and deposited it in a plastic garbage bag with a drawstring top. Then he extinguished the stubby candle that had provided the only illumination and lay down on the bed, pulling a pile of blankets over him.

As the darkened room grew quiet, Liz suddenly felt pressure behind her eyes. She’d been too tense and frightened to cry until now, but with Martin preparing to sleep and the immediate danger suspended for the moment, tears welled up, blurring her vision.

But crying was a waste of valuable time. She needed to use this respite to assess her situation, not give in to an emotional meltdown.

There was one major problem, though. She didn’t know what Martin had done with Harold. If her neighbor was being held hostage somewhere, his fate could still be in her hands. And if she attempted to escape—and failed—he might die.

But if she didn’t try—if she couldn’t find a way out—
she
would definitely die.

Yet how could she take the chance of putting Harold at risk?

Feeling trapped, Liz did what she’d always done in times of fear and darkness. She closed her eyes and sent a silent plea heavenward.

Please, Lord, show me what to do!

By 11:00 p.m., after FBI agents, marshals, and the local police had joined forces to canvas the neighborhood around the condo, hoping to find someone who had seen something—anything—that would help them identify or track the kidnapper, they had precious little new information.

Delores had remembered that the abductor’s car was a dark blue midsized sedan. She had no idea of the make.

And after an up-close-and-personal search of the carpet in the condo, Clair Ellis, the FBI’s lead ERT investigator, had found a golden-colored hair. She was fairly certain it would match the feline hair they’d found in Liz’s house—confirming their assumption the perpetrator was the same guy.

The ERT was still at work both in the condo, along the route of entry and exit, and at the Morettis’. The team was also giving Harold’s car a thorough going-over.

The situation, however, was much like the one they’d encountered in Liz’s house after her sister was murdered. The killer had apparently left nothing but a cat hair as a calling card.