Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Page 17

  “If you think that’s best.” Hank got up and escorted us to the door, his walk reminding me of a penguin. “And I’ll keep an eye out on things. It’s such a shame for those two men. I feel bad for their families.”

  We paused at the door, and I asked, “Do you know Felix Robinson?”

  He shook his head. “Should I?”

  “He was the defendant in Judge McCleary’s last trial,” I said.

  “Oh, I think I heard something about that. He wasn’t too happy with McCleary’s sentence, was he?”

  I shook my head. “No, he wasn’t.

  Hank pushed his glasses up. “I don’t know him.”

  “What about Olivia Hartnell or Victor Marko?” I asked.

  He thought about that. “No, those names mean nothing to me.”

  I sensed he was telling the truth, so I left it at that.

  Hank held the door open for us. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have any information for you.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want a protection detail?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What do you think?” I asked Spats as we stood by our cars.

  He eyed the house. “I can’t blame the judge for not remembering a case that long ago. And he doesn’t seem worried about any danger now. Think we’re looking at the wrong person?”

  “I don’t know.” I studied the house as well. “If we have patrol cars drive by, they can’t see the back of the house.”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked at him. “You’ll do some flat-footing around the neighborhood, see if anybody has seen anything unusual?”

  “Will I be the only one getting some exercise?” he asked, his tone amused.

  I lifted a foot. “Don’t worry, these feet are going to get some good use, too. I need to see if Hernandez has found Nakamura’s law clerk. I don’t like it – not only did Newberry take a vacation right around the time his boss was murdered, he’s also not returning any phone calls.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t look good for him.”

  I looked out toward the city view. “Man, that is pretty.”

  He took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the mountain view. “That’s better.”

  I grimaced. “We don’t have much time to enjoy it. We’ve also got to follow up on Scott Bradley, find out more about him. And find him,” I said wryly.

  “If there’s something suspicious there,” he said, “we’ll find it.”

  I got into the Escape. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  He nodded. “Once I finish here, I’ll head back to the courthouse.” He stepped back as I put the car in gear and drove away.

  I got onto Highway 6, and as I headed to the station, I called Hernandez. “Anything on Zack Newberry?”

  “No,” he said. “I left him another message this morning, and still no answer.”

  “What’s his address?”

  He rattled it off to me, and I pulled over and looked it up. “It’s not too far for me to drop by there to see if he’s home.”

  “Okay. I talked to Ed Renfro again. He says Nakamura never mentioned McCleary. Oh, I’ve been looking at Nakamura’s phone records some more, comparing his calls to McCleary’s. Get this, there are a few calls in the last couple of weeks from McCleary’s office to Nakamura’s, and vice-versa. And last Wednesday, a call came from McCleary’s office to Nakamura’s.”

  “And they met each other for dinner at Viet Café that night.”

  “Right. I can’t say for sure the two judges talked to each other, but …”

  “It would sure seem like that’s the case.”

  “I wonder what they talked about?”

  I pulled back into traffic. “When we find that, maybe we figure this all out. I need you to go over the recs again.” I told him about Judge Halloran.

  “I got a call about Nakamura’s autopsy. It’s in an hour, so I’ll be out of pocket for a while. When I get back, I’ll check the phone recs again.”

  I thanked him and ended the call.

  Zack Newberry lived in a small ranch house that faced Washington Park, a mile-long historic park in south Denver. The neighborhood is a mix of older and newer houses in a variety of architectures, and it’s a popular, and expensive, area to live. I parked in front of Zack’s house, headed up the walk, and rang the bell. No one answered, and I banged on the door a few times. I listened and didn’t hear anything inside. I stepped back, put my hands on my hips, and stared at the door. It would make sense that he wasn’t home, if he really was on vacation somewhere, but again, why not answer his phone? Had he gone out of the country? I was still looking at the door, wishing it would open, when I heard a voice.

  “What do you want?”

  I whirled around to see an older woman with white hair walking a little Shih Tzu. The dog began yipping at me, and she shushed it. I showed her my badge. “I’m looking for Zack.”

  “He’s out of town,” she said.

  I stepped off the porch. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  She saw the badge on my belt, did a doubletake, and eyed me deliberately. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  I smiled as I approached. “And you are?”

  “Liz Frawley. I’m Zack’s neighbor. He asked me to pick up his mail for him.”

  I jerked a thumb back toward his house. “Do you know where he went?”

  She shook her head. “Wherever it was, he was in a hurry. He usually gives me plenty of advance notice, but he called me on Friday night and said that he needed to leave, and could I check the mail for him.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind doing it, but sometimes I might have plans.” Then she laughed. “Oh, who am I kidding, I don’t usually have plans. It’s just wishful thinking.”

  I smiled at that. “I’m trying to get hold of Zack, about his boss.”

  “Oh, Judge Nakamura. I heard about him.”

  “Zack tells you about his work?”

  “A little.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “He’s not answering his cell phone.”

  The dog barked again, and she again scolded it. “I don’t know about that. I haven’t tried calling.”

  “Is anything going on with him? His work colleague also said he went out of town suddenly.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?” she fired back.

  I shook my head. “No, I just need to talk to him.”

  The dog pulled the leash, and she took a couple of steps back. “No, I wish I could tell you more, but I don’t know anything. If I do see him, I’ll tell him that the police are looking for him.”

  Great, I thought. That’ll get him to respond.

  I couldn’t do anything if she talked to him, so I thanked her for her time, and I left. I went through a Wendy’s drive-thru and drove to the station. While I ate, I looked up Zack Newberry. He was thirty-nine years old, not married, and he’d been working as a permanent law clerk for Judge Nakamura for ten years. He’d gotten an undergraduate degree in Michigan, and went to law school at the University of Denver. He had Facebook and Instagram accounts, and posted videos where he was camping or hiking some of Colorado’s fourteeners, peaks that are higher than fourteen thousand feet. I sat back. Was it possible he was on a camping trip? Was that why he wasn’t returning calls? Maybe he was out of range. I tapped my desk with force. I needed to talk to him. I googled Scott Bradley’s name next, and then my cell phone rang.

  “Spillman,” I barked into the phone.

  “This is Detective Iles. I’ve been tailing Victor Marko. I thought you’d want to know he just drove to a Starbucks near Olivia Hartnell’s house. And guess who he met?”

  “Olivia Hartnell.”

  “Yep. They were inside for about a half-hour. I went inside and sat near them so I could try to hear what they were talking about. I didn’t catch a lot, but there was some discussion about notes.”

  My cell phone rang, and I ignored it. “You’re kiddi
ng.”

  “No. I don’t know what that meant, but she was angry about it, and asked him if there was any way the cops would know she asked him to do it for her. That’s about all I got. I had to be discreet, and it was crowded in there.”

  “That’s good work. What happened next?”

  “He left and I followed him to work. I don’t know about her. Antonopoulos was at the Starbucks, too, but he stayed in his car while I went inside.”

  “I’ll get in touch with him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I thanked him and ended the call, then called Antonopoulos, who was tailing Olivia.

  “What’s she doing?” I asked when he answered. “I heard she just met my other target at Starbucks. Where did she go?”

  “Yeah, I left you a message. She was in the Starbucks with that guy, and then she left and drove home. She’s still inside now.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Okay, thanks. If you see me show up at her house, don’t panic.”

  “Never,” he said with a laugh.

  I ended the call and ate the last of my burger. I wanted to talk to Olivia, but I didn’t relish driving all the way out to her place at the moment, so I called her. She didn’t answer, and I left a message for her to get in touch with me. I shook my head in general frustration. Like Spats, I was all over the place. I wiped my hands on my napkin, threw away the wrapper, and was about to drive down to Olivia’s house anyway when my phone rang again. It was Spats.

  “Any luck with Judge Halloran’s neighbors? Anybody seen anything?” I asked.

  “No,” he said in a rush. “They’ve got two more cases.”

  “What?”

  “The guys at the federal courthouse found two more cases where McCleary and Nakamura faced off.”

  “Really?”

  “Judge Francine Gingrich and Judge Leonard Crawford. She’s been on the bench for just over twenty years, and he’d been a judge for closer to thirty. Gingrich had a case with assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill, and Nakamura beat McCleary on that one, too. The guy, Corey Dixon, got in a bar fight, tried to shoot the guy, but missed. Dixon went to jail for ten years. Crawford presided over a rape case. McCleary defended the guy, but he was found guilty and received fifteen years in prison. And I talked to Ernie, who talked to McCleary’s family and friends again. None of them think McCleary knew Nakamura now.”

  “And yet they went to dinner last week. So, if not social, what was their connection?”

  “Yep. Anyway, Ernie’s going to take over researching these two defendants now, and we’ll see if we can dig them up.”

  “Good work,” I said. “We need to talk to these two judges now.”

  “I figured you’d say that. Judge Gingrich is in court now, but Judge Crawford is newly retired. I called him. He’s at home now, so we can talk to him first. We can catch Gingrich once she gets out of court.”

  “What’s Crawford’s address?”

  He gave it to me, and I wrote it down.

  “I can be there shortly,” I said.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Spats was waiting by his car when I drove up to Judge Crawford’s Victorian house in East Denver. Tall trees towered over the narrow street, and all the lawns were well manicured, even in November. A chilly breeze blew a few stray dead leaves along the gutter.

  Spats looked up and down the block, then settled on the judge’s house. “Nice place,” he said. “I got a little information on Crawford. His family’s been living here for over twenty years. He’s involved in his church, and he likes to golf.”

  “Anything more on this particular trial?” I pulled my coat tighter around me.

  He shook his head. “Not much. The defendant, Damien Edison, got out six years ago. In 1999, he was convicted of raping a seventeen-year-old girl. He said it was consensual, she said it wasn’t. He held her down, had a knife, and he threatened her. He spent close to fifteen years in prison, and he lived in Denver once he got out. Ernie’s trying to track him down.”

  “He had to register as a sex offender, right?”

  “Yeah, and he did. He was on probation for five years, too. The problem is, he just got off probation.”

  “It’s going to be harder to find him.”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  I glanced at the house, then subtly nodded my head. “Someone’s watching us.”

  Spats looked up to the house. Curtains parted in a large bay window to the left of the door, a shadow behind them. Spats adjusted his tie.

  “You already look fine,” I said.

  He smiled. “Thank you. Let’s go.”

  He marched up the sidewalk to the front door, and I followed. He rang the bell, and deep chimes sounded from within, then the heavy oak door opened. A man with a receding gray hairline and bright blue eyes peered at us.

  “You must be Detective Youngfield,” he said to Spats. He held out a reedy hand. “And you’re Detective Spillman.” The grip was soft and cold. “Judge Crawford.” He was proud of the title. “Come in, please.”

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Spats said as we stepped into a dark foyer.

  The judge shook his head dismissively. “It’s no trouble at all. It’s almost lunchtime. May I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you, sir.” Spats was being exceedingly polite.

  “Suit yourself,” Crawford said. “Why don’t we go into my office?”

  The house was silent, almost spooky. He led us past a carved wooden staircase. At the end of the hall, he paused, glanced at us, then opened double doors and entered a library. The room was dark, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on a wall opposite a large window with blinds. Cigar smoke lingered. He pointed at black leather chairs that sat across from his desk. Spats and I each took one, and Crawford went around the desk and sat down. He steepled his hands and looked at us.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  Since Spats had already begun the conversation with the judge, I let him proceed, and I sat back quietly.

  “You’re recently retired?” Spats asked.

  “Yes,” Crawford said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have other things I’m working on.”

  Spats took the hint and got right to the point. “Are you aware of the two judges who were murdered in the last two nights?”

  A cold dark cloud crossed Crawford’s face. “Yes, it’s terrible.” Then he put his hands down. “That’s not why you’re here, is it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Spats said. “The two judges –”

  “McCleary and Nakamura,” Crawford interrupted. “Yes, I read about both of them online, and I saw a couple of news stories. It’s just terrible.”

  “Yes,” Spats murmured.

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Are the MOs the same?” Crawford asked. He had slipped into full investigative mode, anticipating our questions.

  Spats shifted in the chair. “We’ve kept the details of the murders out of the press.”

  “Of course. Is there a connection between the two men?”

  Spats nodded. “As we’ve looked at both judges and their families, friends, and backgrounds, we came across something curious.” Crawford stared at him and listened. “McCleary and Nakamura had at least three cases in common, where McCleary was defense attorney and Nakamura was the prosecutor. In one of those cases, you were the presiding judge.”

  Now Crawford smiled. “I remember that case well. Damien Edison.”

  I scratched my cheek to contain my surprise.

  “Why is that?” Spats asked, a tinge of shock in his tone.

  Crawford looked at him, then at me. “It all came back to me when I heard about them on the news. I wondered if that’s why you were here. And in answer to your question, I remember it because I had never seen a defense attorney be as forceful as Ray McCleary was. I remember at one point, he was cross-examining a witness, and he thund
ered away at that man, poked holes in everything he’d said. Warren Nakamura objected plenty, but it was stuff that I had to allow. By the time McCleary finished with that witness, I thought the courtroom was going to applaud. The look on Nakamura’s face …” He shook his head at the memory. “He thought he was going to lose the case. The thing is, the witness seemed solid when Nakamura interviewed him. He was a friend of the poor victim, a good witness to what she had told him about the rape. I bought into his story, but when McCleary got to him, he tore that man apart.”

  Spats shifted subtly, and I knew he wanted me to press a little.

  “How so?” I asked.

  Crawford got a faraway look in his eyes, and then smiled in amusement at the memory. “I’m telling you, it was pure theater, and it was good. McCleary started out slow and then he built up to where the witness was contradicting himself, not remembering things. He truly was a mess.” There was admiration in his tone. He looked at me. “That day has stuck in my mind ever since. I’ve taught some classes, and I’ve used it as an example. Of course, an attorney needs to be careful in how they handle things, but every once in a while, the theater that you see in the movies actually works.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Except that the defendant, Damien Edison, was convicted and sent to prison. So sounds as if it didn’t work all that well”

  “Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately for McCleary, tearing apart the one witness wasn’t enough. From the facts of the case, Edison was guilty. As I recall, I sentenced him to something like fifteen years in prison. He forced himself on that girl, held her at knifepoint.”

  Spats took over since he had researched the case. “Yes, that’s right. He was sent to the Sterling prison, and he got out six years ago. We’re looking for him now.”

  Crawford raised his eyebrows. “What does this have to do with me? I’m sure you’re not here just to go over that case.”

  I shook my head. “McCleary and Nakamura met last Wednesday night, and Nakamura was overheard saying ‘there were three of us.’ Supposedly McCleary and Nakamura didn’t know each other at all, hadn’t seen each other since they’d faced off in these few cases. We’re trying to figure out why they met, if it was only that one time, and if there was something in these three cases that had someone wanting them dead.”