Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Read online

  “I don’t know either of them.”

  She looked away, and I wondered if that was a lie.

  “Judge McCleary?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hasn’t he been on the news?”

  “Yes. He presided over a big trial.”

  “Oh, maybe I have heard of him.”

  Now she was lying, and not doing a good job.

  “Did Victor mention him?”

  “No.”

  I stared at her. She tried to keep eye contact, but finally looked at the door.

  “Anything else about Felix?”

  “No.” She crossed her arms, signaling she wasn’t going to say more about him.

  I changed topics again. “And after the basketball game?”

  She shrugged. “We went to bed. No big deal.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “And this morning?”

  A bell above the door jingled lightly, and we both turned to see a couple walk through the door. The man took off his sunglasses, and the woman glanced around, then smiled at us.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Emma said to them with a forced smile. She looked back at me. “I’m going to have to take care of this.”

  I nodded. “Just one more thing. What happened this morning?”

  “I got up, showered, and came into work.”

  “And Victor?” I used his full name, just as she had.

  “Same thing. He got ready for work, and we left about the same time.”

  “And when was that?”

  Behind us, the couple moved into the showroom and walked down an aisle. Emma looked that direction, then back at me. She ran a hand over her arm. “I really need to get going.”

  “The time?”

  “About nine.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “No breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “I had a protein shake. Victor likes to go to McDonald’s in the morning before he goes to work. I’m sorry, but I need to help these customers.” She stepped past me and walked down the aisle where the couple had gone. It was an abrupt end to the conversation. I didn’t even have a chance to thank her, although probably just as well, since I’d be thanking her for lying to me.

  I walked out to my car and sat for a minute, not sure what to think. She seemed to be covering for Marko, so what was he hiding? I shrugged, then started the Escape and drove to the federal courthouse.

  “We could sure use your help,” Spats said when I walked into a large conference room. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up. Several people were sitting around an oval conference table, poring over files. A couple of carafes and cups sat in the middle of the table, and the aroma of coffee was in the air.

  “How did things go with Marko’s girlfriend?”

  I shrugged. “She’s lying, but I’m not sure about what. It’s hard to tell whether she really was home with him or not, and she’s his only alibi. I do think she knows more about Felix Robinson than she’s letting on, but whether it’s just hearing things that Marko said, I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to know who Olivia Hartnell is.”

  “And now she might be thinking he’s cheating on her.” He snickered.

  I laughed. “I’m going to keep the tail on Marko for a little bit longer.” I looked around the room. “What have you found here?”

  He ran a hand over his face. “It’s slow going, but we just found one case where McCleary was the defense attorney and Nakamura was the prosecuting attorney. It was twenty years ago.”

  “Show me.”

  Spats went to the table and sat down, and I pulled up a chair next to him. One of the other detectives handed him a file, and Spats opened it up.

  “Here,” he said. “McCleary was defending a man who was accused of murder. Nakamura was the prosecuting attorney, and he won the case. The guy was convicted of second-degree murder, and he got twenty-four years behind bars, served twenty, and he got out about six months ago for good behavior.”

  “Twenty-four years? That’s the presumed upper limit. What’d the guy do?”

  “Yeah, they threw the book at him.” He pushed a big file folder over to me. “He killed a guy, but says he didn’t remember doing it.”

  “And the judge was?” I said as I began to scan the file.

  “Henry Halloran.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s seventy-two years old now, married, with three grown children. One daughter here, two sons who live out of state. Nothing to note in the judge’s record, nothing suspicious that I could find.”

  I pulled the file closer, opened it, and started reading. “A quick scan isn’t telling me much,” I said. “This all looks pretty basic, nothing unusual happened during the trial.”

  He sat back. “That’s what I thought. The defendant, Scott Bradley, was a gardener for some rich guy named Sanders Frost.”

  “Hm, I think I’ve heard of him. He’s active in several charities, isn’t he?”

  Spats nodded. “Yeah, he’s been on the news. Seems like a nice guy. Anyway, Bradley was working in the gardens at Frost mansion, and he sneaked into the shed and got high. According to Bradley, the next thing he knows, he wakes up near a fountain with a gun in his hand and a dead body nearby. Frost and a group of party-goers found Bradley and called the police. Bradley said he’d never met the victim, and he maintained his innocence the whole time. At one point, he even said that Frost was setting him up, but the jury didn’t buy it.”

  “Who was the victim?”

  “A petty drug dealer named Alex Knight.”

  I hadn’t heard any of the names. “Have you looked up Scott Bradley?”

  Spats picked up a yellow legal pad. “I checked his prison record. Looks like he was a model prisoner, no problems. He went to the prison in Cañon City, got out on parole for good behavior. He’s almost forty-four. I’ve got a call to his parole officer, but haven’t heard back yet. His last address was in Thornton. I sent a detective to track him down.”

  “Did he get out of prison, then come back to get these judges?”

  He fiddled with a pen. “That’s one theory. But why?”

  “I don’t know.” I touched the file. “If Bradley’s our guy, Felix Robinson is off the hook.”

  “Unless this guy’s innocent,” Spats observed.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Ernie. “Finding anybody with a connection to McCleary and Nakamura?” I asked as I put him on speaker.

  “Not so far,” Ernie replied.

  “Spats may have found something,” I said. Spats then told him about the trial of Scott Bradley.

  “That could be interesting,” Ernie said. “Is that judge still around?”

  Spats spoke up. “Yes. He’s retired, lives in Golden. We found a couple of articles on him. He had a distinguished career, seemed well-respected. I called him a little while ago, and he’s expecting us.” He shrugged and looked at me. “I figured you’d want to go.”

  I spoke into the phone. “Spats and I will go talk to him.” Spats nodded his agreement. “Ernie, where are the phone recs for McCleary and Nakamura?”

  “At the station, and I’m way ahead of you,” Ernie said. “I’ll wrap up here, and I’ll get somebody to start looking at those records again to see if Halloran’s number is on either list, see if McCleary and Nakamura talked to him.”

  “Perfect,” I said. I ended the call and looked at Spats, then waved a hand around the room. “You did want a break from this, right?”

  Spats glanced at some of the other detectives. “I hate to leave this party,” he grinned and stood up. “But Sarah and I are going to talk to Judge Halloran.” A couple of the detectives booed him good-naturedly. “Keep everybody working,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find any other cases McCleary and Nakamura had in common.”

  “This could take a lifetime,” someone said.

  Spats smiled ruefully, rolled down his cuffs, straightened his tie, and put on his coat. Then he and I left.

  Chapter Twenty
-Six

  Judge Henry Halloran lived in a two-story house on a hillside in Golden, a historical town west of Denver that’s become quite a tourist destination. When Spats and I parked in front, I took in the view of downtown to the east. Spats got out and joined me.

  “Not bad,” he said. “I'll bet it’s pretty at night with the city lights. When I see the high-rises lit up, it reminds me of growing up in Harlem. You could go to the roof of a building and see all the lights of Manhattan. It was incredible.”

  “Do you miss New York?” I asked as we walked up the sidewalk to Halloran’s front door.

  He shook his head. “Not where I lived, anyway. My mom and I grew up poor. Not the projects, but close to it. I like it here, where you can see the mountains, get away easy.” He pointed up the hillside, toward the foothills and the mountains beyond.

  “The problem is, when to find time to get away. Harry wants to take a nice vacation.”

  He eyed me. “And you should do it. Forget the job for a little while.”

  “I know, I know.”

  We stood on the front porch, and I glanced at him, then rang the bell.

  “Let’s see where this goes,” I said.

  He nodded, and we waited. Halloran’s house wasn’t too far from Highway 6, and we could hear the hum of traffic on the busy highway. The door opened a moment later, and a rotund man no taller than I was smiled and opened the screen door.

  “You must be Detectives Spillman and Youngfield,” he said. His voice was high, almost a squeak, but filled with pleasantness. He had wisps of gray hair stuck down to his bald pate, and he squinted at us through wire glasses.

  “Yes, thank you for seeing us,” I said.

  He flicked a pudgy hand at us. “No problem, come on in. My wife is out for the day, so we have the house to ourselves.”

  He turned around and waddled past a kitchen that smelled of cookies, into a large open room with windows that had a view down the hillside, with the city in the background. The room was warm, and decorated in a fashion that was probably thirty years out of date, flowered couches, glass coffee and end tables, some artwork on the walls. Framed pictures of a little girl sat on an upright piano against one wall.

  “Have a seat,” Halloran said as he indicated the couch and loveseat for Spats and me. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, and Spats shook his head. I heard classical music playing softly from another room.

  Halloran sank into a wingback chair that didn’t seem comfortable for his body shape. He put his hands on the armrests, legs spread wide, and smiled at us. “So, what’s this about? Why are two detectives from Denver coming all the way out here to talk to me?”

  I started with the interview. “Judge Halloran –”

  He interrupted with a raised a hand. “Please, call me Hank. I never could stand all of that formality. I’m just a country boy, you know, lucky enough to get a scholarship to college, and then I got into the lawyering business. One thing led to another, and I became a judge. It was a good gig, as they say.” He smiled widely.

  I nodded, taken in by his warmth. “Hank, have you heard about the murder of Judges Raymond McCleary and Warren Nakamura? It’s been in the news.”

  He frowned sadly. “Yes, I did hear about the two of them. Such a shame. When I was on the bench, I never worried about anything like that, anybody coming after me. What do their deaths have to do with me?”

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. “Their murders may not have anything to do with you, but we’re not sure. In our investigation, we discovered that McCleary and Nakamura had a trial in common. McCleary defended a man named Scott Bradley, and Nakamura was the prosecuting attorney.” I paused to see if he would make the connection. When he didn’t, I said, “You were the presiding judge on that trial.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Scott Bradley,” he mused. His gaze was soft as he looked at me. “I’m sorry, but that name doesn’t ring a bell. When was that trial?”

  Spats pulled out a small notepad and consulted his notes. “It was twenty years ago. Scott Bradley was accused of murdering a man named Alex Knight. Bradley was convicted of second-degree murder.” He glanced at the judge, then back at his notes. “You sentenced him to twenty-four years in prison. He went to the prison in Cañon City, but he got out early. We’re not sure of his present location.”

  Hank rested his chin on his hand. “Hmm,” he said. “I’m trying to recall that trial. What was the name of the defendant again?”

  “Scott Bradley,” Spats said.

  Hank closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “It’s just not ringing a bell.” He shifted, and his hands went to his lap. “I was a judge for almost twenty-five years. I presided over a lot of cases. That one doesn’t sound familiar. Is there anything else you can tell me about it?”

  Spats consulted his notes again. “Bradley was a gardener, and he worked for a man named Sanders Frost. Bradley had gotten high, passed out, and he awoke near a fountain with a gun in his hand. He’d apparently shot Alex Knight, but Bradley denied any memory of the killing.”

  Hank’s hands moved to the rhythm of the music from the other room. “Something seems vaguely familiar, but I don’t know.” He looked at me. “Obviously, this case didn’t make a big impression on me.” Then his eyes danced with sly humor. “I’m getting to be an old man. But that’s not why you’re here. You must think that if the prosecuting attorney and the defense attorney were both killed, maybe someone is coming after me?”

  He was a smart man, and I’m sure very little got past him. I nodded.

  “Yes, we were wondering that,” I said. “We know that McCleary and Nakamura had dinner together last week, and yet they supposedly didn’t know each other. And Nakamura was overheard saying something about the ‘three of us.’” Hank nodded. “So far, we don’t have a lot of leads with McCleary and Nakamura’s deaths. The MOs are different, and we haven’t found anything in common between the two judges, except for this one case. That led us to you.”

  Hank held up his hands. “And I’m not helping you, am I?”

  “You don’t remember anything about McCleary and Nakamura?”

  He shook his head. “No. As a matter fact, when I saw the news stories about the two of them, I had no idea who they were. I didn’t even remember either one of them from this case,” he tipped his head at me, “until you told me that.”

  “I have to ask this, and I have a feeling what you’re going to say,” I said. “You don’t remember anything unusual about this particular trial?”

  Hank smiled. “You’re right, I don’t remember anything special about it. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you have problems with any of your trials over the years?” I asked.

  His eyes widened. “You mean, did anybody threaten me?” He gave that some thought. “No, not that I can recall. Oh, once in a while you got a defendant who was belligerent, their body language telling you that they were angry with you and everybody else. But I never had anybody actually threaten me. Security was pretty good over the years, although things have gotten kind of nuts after I left.” He chuckled. “I think I’m glad I’m retired.”

  “You haven’t received any threatening notes recently?”

  “No.”

  I glanced at Spats, and he took over.

  “Have you noticed anything unusual around your house lately, or anybody following you?”

  Hank mulled that over. “No, not at all. This is a quiet neighborhood, and I’ve known everybody here for a long time. I’ll ask around, see if anybody else saw anything, but I doubt it.”

  “Do you have surveillance cameras?” Spats asked.

  He shook his head. “No. I never really saw the need for that. I’ll bet some of the neighbors do, and again, if they do, I’ll have them check to see if any strangers have been lurking around.” He sounded skeptical.

  Spats cleared his throat. “Bluntly, sir, you’ve done nothing where somebody might
want to come after you?”

  Hank tipped his head and smiled. “I don’t mean to make light of this, but I don’t see why anybody would come after me. I’ve not done anything wrong. You can check into my background, ask my friends and neighbors. And I can’t recall any issues with any of my cases, let alone this one.” A slight defensiveness crept into his voice. “We live a quiet life. You might say boring. We used to travel some, but mostly we stay around the house.”

  “We have to check all angles, sir,” Spats said deferentially.

  “I don’t think I have an enemy in the world.” Hank laughed. “You probably hear that from everyone you talk to, but it’s true.”

  Spats had played the bad guy, and I took over. “Hank, we certainly don’t mean to imply anything, but if somebody is after you, we want to make sure you stay safe,” I said.

  Hank nodded. “And I certainly appreciate that.”

  “In light of the present circumstances, with a killer who might come after you, we can offer you protection,” I said.

  “And what would that be?” Hank asked.

  “We could post an officer at your house, and have more squad cars patrol the area.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Sir,” Spats said, but Hank interrupted.

  “No, thank you.” He pointed out the window. “The police have few enough resources as it is. They don’t need to be spending time on me. I’m sure I’m safe.”

  “If you change your mind,” I said. “Just give us a call.”

  “I will.” Hank smiled. “And I’ll give this some thought. If I can think of anything significant about the Bradley trial, or any other trial, I’ll let you know. Do you have a business card?”

  Spats and I stood up, and we both handed him cards.

  “If you think of anything, call me, day or night.” I returned his smile.

  Hank put his hands back on the armrests. “I’ll definitely check with the neighbors, and let you know what I find.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Spats said, “I’d like to talk to your neighbors as well.”