Fatal Judgment (29 page)

As waves of pain washed over her and her awareness dimmed, she tried to focus on the one good thing in her life of late.

Jake.

If she was going to die, she wanted his face to be the last image in her mind.

Letting her eyelids drift shut, she pictured his intense brown eyes, strong chin, and chiseled features. Who would ever have thought her husband’s aloof best friend would somehow manage to infiltrate her heart? Yet with his innate confidence and quiet competence, his dedication to justice, his compassion and kindness, he’d done just that.

As she labored to breathe, she thought about all the ways he’d made her feel cared for and protected. His supportive, protective hand at the small of her back in the hospital. His steady grip as he’d guided her over the uneven ground in the cemetery when she’d paid a visit to Doug’s grave. His gentle touch as he’d brushed the powdered sugar from her cheek in the condo.

She’d wanted so badly to see what the future held for her and the tall, dark-haired marshal.

Once more she fought back tears. She’d done everything she could to save herself. To protect that future.

Now it was in the hands of Jake, his colleagues—and God.

______

Letting himself into Liz’s condo on Tuesday morning, Jake tried not to think about all the times she’d welcomed him with her warm smile.

That would only make the emptiness harder to bear.

As he closed the door behind him, a residue of fine, sticky fingerprint powder clung to his fingers. Brushing it off, he examined the small foyer. Nothing out of place here.

He moved into the living area and made a slow circuit of the spare, modern room. It looked exactly as it had the last time he and Liz had been here together. No clues were waiting to be discovered.

He headed for the dining room. Liz’s laptop was in its usual place, centered precisely at one end of the glass-topped table. It was still on, in sleep mode. Mark had told him the computer forensics people had checked it out on the off chance she’d somehow left a message, but they’d found nothing.

A stack of folders rested next to the laptop. He picked them up and flipped through. They appeared to pertain to an upcoming case and contained nothing that looked relevant to his search. He set them back down.

On the other end of the table, the smaller stack of folders that had been there for a couple of weeks caught his eye. Round two for the FBI, Liz had told him—in case the first batch didn’t yield any leads. He’d stopped noticing the neat little stack on his visits; it had become part of the furniture.

Except today it wasn’t neat. The files were in disarray, as if they’d fallen to the floor and gotten shuffled around. Or been quickly gone through and then thrown back together.

He frowned. That wasn’t the way Liz operated. As he’d learned, she liked things neat, precise, organized.

It was possible the ERT had gone through the files and left them in this messy state. But what if they hadn’t? What if somehow Liz had planted a clue, calling it to his attention with this out-of-character jumble of papers?

As Jake rounded the table, he noticed one piece of paper sticking out farther than all the others. A fluke? Or a desperate effort to highlight some important piece of information?

Without disturbing the rest of the pile, he slid one of his business cards in as a place holder and eased out the sheet. A quick scan told him it related to a malpractice case she’d heard two years ago, during her state court days. He noted the names of the plaintiff and defendant—Martin Reynolds and Dr. John Voss.

Pulling his BlackBerry off his belt, he fished Mark’s cell number out of his pocket and punched it in. The FBI agent answered on the second ring.

“Mark, it’s Jake. I need to ask Clair Ellis, the ERT technician who worked Liz’s condo, a question.”

“What’s up?”

“Maybe nothing. But I stopped by on the off chance I’d pick up some clue I missed on Sunday. I just noticed a stack of thrown-together files on the edge of the table. That’s not Liz’s style. I’m thinking the ERT people either moved them when they were working here, or she might have tried to leave us a clue. These were the second round of case files she intended to pass on to you if the first group didn’t yield any leads.”

“I’m pulling into the parking lot at my office. Let me find Clair and I’ll call you back.”

The line went dead.

As Jake waited for Mark to get back to him, he gently tugged the Reynolds file out of the stack and skimmed through it. The man had filed the malpractice suit on behalf of his wife, who had died at a hospital in rural Missouri when they were visiting the area. Liz had directed a verdict in favor of the doctor because Reynolds’s attorney had failed to meet the burden of proof.

Jake stared at the file. Why had Liz included it in her second-round pile? Had Reynolds been angry with her verdict? Had she considered him capable of violence? Was he their man?

Probably not, Jake cautioned himself, trying to rein in a sudden surge of hope. If Clair said the ERT had messed with the files, he was back to square one.

If, however, they’d been in disarray when the ERT arrived, there was a slim possibility they were about to get their first solid lead.

“Sorry I’m late.” Bill slid into the booth across from Cole in the noisy diner. “It was one of those mornings, you know?”

Cole took a sip of coffee from his heavy crockery mug and grinned at his best buddy from high school. Even though their lives had taken different directions, they’d remained close. He looked forward to their twice-a-month breakfast get-togethers.

“No problem. Did somebody’s furnace give up the ghost overnight?”

“I wish.” Bill signaled to the waitress and pointed to Cole’s mug, then himself. “Dad called to make sure everything was copacetic before he and Mom headed to the airport for their cruise.” He shook his head and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve been married for almost a decade. I have three kids. I’ve been working with him for twenty years, learning the ropes from the ground up. You’d think he’d trust me by now.”

The waitress set his coffee down. “I’ll be back for your orders in a minute.”

“Thanks, Judy.” He shot Cole a wry look as he added two packets of sugar to the dark brew. “Oh, the joys of being part of a family business.”

Cole chuckled. “You love working with your dad.”

With a sheepish grin, Bill stirred in the sugar. “Yeah. I do. He’s a good guy. Say, speaking of family, how does it feel to have your brother back in town?”

“I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen him. He’s working a high-profile case.”

“Yeah?”

The waitress reappeared. “The usual, guys?”

“Sounds good to me.” Bill handed her back his unopened menu.

“Me too.” Cole followed suit.

She shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother to give you menus. I always place your standard orders the minute you walk in the door.” She smirked at them and headed for the kitchen.

“Cute, Judy,” Bill called after her, then turned his attention to Cole. “So can you talk about your brother’s case?”

Cole wrapped his hands around his mug. “Nope.”

“Too bad.” He stirred his coffee. “Your stories are usually better than those law enforcement shows on television. The way you guys piece together clues is amazing.”

“There’s a fair amount of luck involved. And we don’t always figure things out. Some mysteries go unsolved.”

“Say . . . speaking of mysteries, here’s one you might be able to clear up for me, given all the weird stuff you run into in your line of work. I was at a lady’s house yesterday, and when she was writing out a check for the service call she showed me an odd notation on some of her brother’s check stubs. She asked me if I knew what it meant, and I didn’t have a clue. It was above the signature line, and it said something about prejudice. Then there were the letters UCC followed by some numbers . . . 308, I think. Any idea what that means?”

Cole’s antennas went up. He’d been following the Michaels kidnapping case through the media and the law-enforcement grapevine, since Jake wasn’t returning his calls. He knew the FBI profilers suspected that a member of a sovereign citizen group was the perpetrator. While there were lots of those around, it was an odd coincidence that his friend had encountered one yesterday.

“Yeah. UCC stands for Uniform Commercial Code. It’s a system of law that deals with taxing and commerce. I can’t give you a technical explanation about what it means, but there are groups of people out there who believe certain kinds of documents constitute a contract with the government that undermines their freedom. So they use the 308 thing when endorsing checks or applying for driver’s licenses or car registrations. It’s related to the 14th Amendment.”

Bill gave him a skeptical look. “They sound like nutcases.”

“They consider themselves patriots.”

“Right.”

The waitress delivered their breakfast, and Cole picked up his fork. “The scary thing is, some of what they say makes sense. But a lot of the stuff they do is plain silly, like signing legal papers with red crayon because they think that keeps the documents from being subject to United States law. At the other extreme, though, they’ve been known to use guns and bombs when it suits their purpose. What was this guy’s name, anyway?”

“Hey, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Or lose a customer.” Bill poured a generous portion of syrup over his pancakes. “His sister was a real nice, normal lady. I don’t think this guy was one of your more radical groupies.”

Cole used the edge of his fork to break off a bite of his ham and cheese omelet. “Did you meet him?”

“No. He’s out of town on a hunting trip. His sister said he’d be home tonight sometime.” He set the syrup back on the table, grimacing as he eyed his sticky fingers. “That thing leaks.”

He reached forward to pull a few napkins out of the holder—and knocked his fork off his plate. It clattered to the floor.

“Sheesh.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I said, not my day.” Bending down, he snagged the fork.

At his muttered grumble, Cole leaned sideways to look down. “What’s wrong?”

Straightening up, Bill examined his hand in disgust. Several gold hairs clung to his sticky fingers. “I’ve been pulling these off my pants legs since yesterday. I knew there was a reason I disliked cats. This one was a real pest. The guy’s sister tried to shoo her away, but she kept coming back.”

Cole stared at the cat hair. Thought about the UCC code on the checks. Reached for his cell phone.

“Bill, I need the name of that guy with the funny checks. And I need it now.”

As his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Jake glanced at caller ID. Mark.

“Jake? I’m in Clair’s office. I’m going to put you on speaker.” He heard a click. “Okay, we’re good. Clair . . .”

“Good morning, Jake. I pulled the photos we took Sunday of the dining room table before we moved anything. There were two piles of files. Which one are you asking about?”

“The pile on the far side of the table, across from the computer. I need to know if it was messy or neatly stacked.”

“Messy. Is that important?”

His pulse kicked up a notch. “Maybe. That pile had been sitting there for two weeks, perfectly aligned. Liz likes things neat.”

“The kidnapper could have knocked it off the table.”

“That’s possible. But I can’t see any reason why he would have been in that part of the room. And a sheet from one of the files looks as if it could have been pulled out on purpose.”

“What file is it?” Mark asked.

“It’s for a malpractice case she heard a couple of years ago. Martin Reynolds versus Dr. John Voss.” When silence greeted his response, Jake frowned. “Are you guys still there?”

“Yeah. Who won that case?” Mark asked.

“She directed a verdict in favor of the doctor.”

“Okay . . . this may be pure coincidence, but one of the guys I met recently at a Patriot Constitutionalists meeting is named Martin.”

A surge of adrenaline set Jake’s nerve endings tingling. “I think it’s time to pay Jarrod Williams another visit.”

“I’m heading out the door for Luke’s office to fill him in as we speak,” Mark responded. “I can meet you in the lobby of Mr. Williams’s office in fifteen minutes.”

“Sounds good. I’ll give Matt an update too.”

As Jake rang off and strode toward the door, preparing to dial his boss, his BlackBerry began to vibrate again. Checking caller ID, he saw it was Cole. This was the second time in the past twenty-four hours his brother had tried to call him. But he let it roll to voice mail. Talking to his boss was more critical.