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

  “I don’t know. I guess it would depend on whether the family thought to call him.”

  Spats stepped back. “Well, I’m glad you’re delivering that news and not me.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said with a dry tone.

  “Hey,” Chris said as I headed for the door. He pointed at the desk. “We found the notes; shouldn’t that buy me an answer?”

  “I found the notes,” Spats said with a grin.

  I stared at Chris for a moment, then shrugged. “An old partner said Spats always dresses like the gangsters from the thirties, the guys who wore spats on their shoes, so that’s the nickname he gave him.”

  “Oh,” Chris said with a frown. “What are spats?”

  Spats snickered. “Look it up. And for the record, I never actually wore spats. I’m not that old.”

  “Come on, tell me.” Chris laughed.

  I shook my head slyly as I walked out of the judge’s office.

  Chapter Seven

  On the way to Ken Tewksbury’s house, my phone rang. It was Ernie.

  “Hey, I watched the video from McCleary’s house. You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “What?”

  “The guy’s on the tape, clear as day.”

  I felt a flush of excitement. “And?”

  “He knew the camera was there,” Ernie said, dashing my hopes. “The guy, or I guess it could be a woman, wore a dark hoodie and a baseball cap, and whoever it was kept his head low. It was as if he knew exactly where the camera was. I don’t see any way of identifying him.”

  “You said it could be a woman?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The person was slight of build. It made me think it might be a woman?”

  “Something to keep in mind.” I thought for a second as I drove the empty streets. “You think a woman could swing a bat hard enough to crush the judge’s skull in?”

  Ernie let out a sigh. “Yeah, I was wondering that. And yes, I think a woman could do it. I’m not saying I think for certain it was a woman, but I’m not going to rule it out.”

  “Okay. Me, neither.”

  “And I checked with the cops canvassing the neighborhood. So far, no one saw or heard a thing. A few of the neighbors were gone, so we’ll have to go back tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. What about their garage and cars?”

  “Nothing to see, but Todd’s taking a look. What’re you doing now?”

  “I’m headed to Tewksbury’s house.”

  “You want me to join you?”

  I shook my head as if he could see me. I was tired. “No, I’ve got this. Go home and get a little sleep.”

  He yawned through the phone. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  With that, he was gone.

  I soon turned onto Jasmine Street. Ken Tewksbury lived in a newer house not too far east from Judge McCleary’s house, and not far from my own home on Grape Street. It was almost one when I parked in his driveway. I got out and listened for a moment. It was the dead of night, deeply quiet, not even the sound of traffic on nearby Sixth Avenue.

  Another yawn, then I squared my shoulders and walked up to Tewksbury’s front door. I hated to bother him this late at night, but I needed to talk to him as soon as possible. I rang the bell and waited. I wasn’t surprised when no one answered, so I rang the bell again, then knocked. Bright light suddenly shone through a glass window in the door, and then a figure approached. The porch light came on, and I blinked.

  “Who is it?” a deep voice asked.

  I identified myself and held out my badge. I heard the deadbolt unlock, and the door opened. A man I guessed to be in his fifties with a shock of white hair stood in the doorway, a plush gray robe cinched over pajamas. Behind him, a woman with short curly hair stood on the stairs, squinting at us.

  “What’s this about?” the man asked. He was about my height, eyes narrow, his tone clipped.

  “You’re Ken Tewksbury?” I asked. He nodded curtly. “You’ve not heard about Judge McCleary,” I said. I figured he hadn’t, but I had to be sure.

  He shook his head. “What’s wrong?” The tone had gone from irritated to concerned.

  I glanced back at his wife, then said in a low voice, “He’s been murdered.”

  His jaw dropped. “What?” he finally asked.

  “He was murdered in his home this evening.”

  He stared at me with cold dark eyes for a moment, then stepped back and gestured for me to come inside.

  “Ken, what’s wrong?” his wife asked.

  Ken ran a hand over his head. “Um, honey, go back upstairs, please. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Her gaze went to me, then back to him. “Ken?”

  “I’ll … talk to you soon.” He nodded encouragement to her, and she hesitated, then went upstairs. He turned to me. “I’ll tell her later,” he said softly.

  He had me follow him, and he walked a little stiffly down a wide hallway and into a kitchen. He pointed at some bar stools at an island, and while I pulled one out and took a seat, he took a glass from a cupboard and poured himself a healthy dose of Scotch.

  “Would you like anything?” he asked.

  I shook my head. He turned around, leaned against the counter, and took a big gulp. Then he looked at me.

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t divulge all the details at the moment, but the judge was killed in his home,” I said. “When I talked to his wife, she said that you were Ray’s best friend.”

  He contemplated his glass for a moment and sighed. “Yes, that’s true. Ray and I go back a long way.” He took another sip of Scotch and ran the heel of his hand over teary eyes. “I can’t believe this. He’s really gone?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  On the way over, I’d pondered the idea of Tewksbury killing his best friend. Granted, I had no reason to think that, but I wasn’t going to dismiss any suspects. However, watching Ken now, his grief seemed genuine.

  “Who killed him?” he asked. “Do you know?”

  I shook my head. “Obviously, we’re early in our investigation. How long have you been friends with Judge McCleary?”

  He looked out a window into the darkness. “Man, it’s been twenty years. I knew Ray before he became a judge. I actually faced him in a trial, and he got the best of me. He was a helluva defense attorney.” He gave a wan smile. “I saw him outside the courthouse after the trial, and we ended up having a drink. From there, we became fast friends. He was a great golfer, and a good poker player, too. We enjoyed spending time together.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose every few weeks. We try to get together at least once a month, a group of us, to play poker. And when the weather permits, we golf. But you know how it goes, you get busy with your job, your family, and it’s hard to get together.”

  I nodded. I certainly know how life can get in the way of things. I thought about Harry, and about our dinner. I hoped he wasn’t too upset that I’d had to leave. “When was the last time you saw Judge McCleary?”

  He thought about that. “Let’s see. We played poker a couple of weeks ago, and we went golfing the Saturday after that.”

  “That’s the last time you saw him?”

  He shook his head. “No, I had a drink with him after work about a week ago. He was just about to wrap up that Robinson trial.”

  I sensed something. “Was it unusual to get together for drinks?”

  He nodded. “Yes, it was. We just don’t seem to have time for that. But he called and wanted to meet, so we met at a bar near the Capitol one night.”

  He paused, and I waited. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “And?”

  He brought the glass halfway to his mouth, then stopped. “I was just thinking about my conversation with him. He seemed on edge, and said that he was a bit worried. I forgot all about that. Now it seems to make more sense.”

  “Meaning?”

  He set the glass down on the granite counter and
began to pace. “You have to understand Ray. Not a lot bothered him. He took his job seriously, and when he had to sentence people, he felt it was his duty to be cautious and just. He weighed things carefully, and he felt his sentences were warranted based on the crimes. He’s heard a lot of things over the years, but he doesn’t dwell on any of it. He said that was how he could sleep at night. So for him to be worried about something was unusual.”

  When he didn’t speak again, I prompted him. “What was he worried about?”

  His brow furrowed. “He was vague. He said something about things catching up to him, that he’d always thought that everything would be okay, but now he knew it wouldn’t be. I asked him what he meant by that, and he shrugged, and then asked me if I thought there were things I thought I could escape from, or would fate always get the last word. It seemed so … out of the blue. I told him of course we all have regrets, but you have to move on.” He stopped and looked at me. “To be honest, I felt a little like he was hitting some kind of late midlife crisis, questioning his choices or something. I was a little confused by it.”

  I thought about that. “Did he mention the Robinson trial?”

  He nodded. “Yes. He talked about how Felix Robinson was the most irate defendant he’d ever dealt with, that the news downplayed Robinson’s behavior, and even said that Robinson had yelled at him in court.”

  My ears perked up. “Did the judge say anything about specific threats?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. He said he’d received a threatening note. He didn’t tell Joy, but he did say that he reported it to the police.”

  “One note? Not three?”

  “There was more?”

  I nodded.

  “He only mentioned the one.”

  “Did he tell you what they said?”

  He shook his head, then stopped pacing. “I remember a couple of other times where Ray had received threats, but it never bothered him like this. I told him he needed to be careful, and he said he was.” He swore softly. “Did someone make good on the threat? God.” He ran his hands over his eyes. “I can’t believe it. Who would do that?”

  “You don’t have any idea? He didn’t mention anyone who might have it in for him?”

  He shook his head. “Ray was a nice guy. If it was some enemy, my guess would be somebody from one of his trials. But that doesn’t make sense. Nobody goes after judges, right?”

  “At least not that we hear of,” I said. “How well did the judge get along with his family?”

  “He loved them,” he said. “He and Joy were happy, and his kids adored him. I don’t know of anyone that would want to do this to him.”

  “Did he say anything else that might’ve indicated who would murder him?”

  He began pacing again and then stopped. “I don’t know. I’m trying to think through what we talked about last time. Nothing comes to mind.”

  “What were you doing earlier this evening?” I casually asked.

  “My wife and I went to dinner with friends,” he said. He didn’t seem to realize I was asking for an alibi, and his answer came quickly. “We went to Shanahan’s – they have excellent steaks – and then my wife and I came home. We watched some television, and then we went to bed.” He ran his hands down his face. “My gosh, I have to tell her about Ray. I’m sure she’s upstairs worrying about it.”

  I stood up to leave and handed him a business card. “If you think of anything that might be important, please call me. It doesn’t matter when.”

  He took the card and stared at it. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” He stared at his drink glass. “I won’t be sleeping now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  He didn’t say another word as he walked me back to the foyer and opened the door. I stepped outside, and the door quietly closed.

  I was feeling a tingling at the base of my neck, a sure sign I was tired, so I headed home. On the way, I thought about my conversation with Tewksbury. It sounded as if Judge McCleary hadn’t discussed one of the threatening notes because it had arrived after he’d met with Tewksbury. But why mention only one note, not the two that he had received? I didn’t have an answer for that.

  The house was dark when I let myself into the kitchen. I got a drink of water, then tiptoed into the bedroom. I quietly undressed and crawled under the covers. Harry stirred and mumbled hello, then turned his back to me and went back to sleep. That told me he was irritated about our dinner being ruined. I couldn’t blame him, and I felt a pulling in my chest. I swiped away a tear, but I was exhausted, and I didn’t give it much more thought. I was soon asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The killer crouched in the shadows near tall evergreen trees and watched the front porch. It was early, the sky still dark, no moon, no stars, dawn almost an hour away. A chill hung heavy in the air, but the killer’s hoodie kept it at bay. The neighborhood was quiet, a sole light seeping through a window at a house down the street. The killer looked to the man’s front porch again. Two rocking chairs sat to the right of the door. How nice, the killer thought wryly. Sit on the front porch and watch the world go by. Not anymore.

  The killer continued to wait. Like clockwork, the man came out of his house every morning at the same time, walked down the driveway, and got the paper. The killer waited with a barely contained anticipation, and the killer’s mind flashed back to the judge.

  The killer had brought a gun, but using the judge’s own bat against him had been too much to resist. The killer had fantasized about the judge, about getting revenge. To actually raise the bat, see the terror on the man’s face – oh, it had been so satisfying. The killer’s eyes closed, picturing the judge. Ah, but time to focus again.

  The killer drew in a breath and let it out slowly. This time would be easy, too. No one in the neighborhood paid attention, certainly not this early. There were no surveillance cameras to worry about; the killer had scoped this out on a previous visit. And even if the killer had missed something, in the darkness, cameras would only pick up a shadow. The next-door neighbor’s house was dark, too. They were never up at this hour. This time of morning, nothing happened. The killer knew this from days of watching. Somewhere on another street, a dog barked, one yip, then nothing. The watch continued.

  Then, sure enough, the front door opened and the man stepped onto the porch in silk pajamas, robe, and black slippers. He walked off the porch and headed down the drive. While his back was turned, the killer stepped quietly onto the porch and slipped inside the house.

  Chapter Nine

  I awoke early the next morning, and I quietly got up and took a shower. Harry awoke when I was getting dressed. He propped up on one elbow and looked at me.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  He knew that sometimes the adrenaline was pumping at the beginning of an investigation, and even if I was exhausted, it was hard to sleep.

  “Enough,” I said. I moved over to the bed, leaned down, and gave him a kiss. “This is a big case. Judge Raymond McCleary was killed.”

  “I saw a news report last night. Hasn’t he been in the news, that murder trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  I gave him a brief rundown, more than he would’ve heard on the news. I knew he wouldn’t tell a soul. “It’s going to be a long day. I’ll try to touch base with you, but I doubt I’ll be home until late. And when we wrap up the investigation, we can finish that dinner in proper fashion.”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. “Yeah, dinner.” He was still irritated.

  “Harry?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  I thought about a recent argument we’d had, where once again, I’d put the focus on myself. Two emotions collided. I felt bad because I – or my job – had ruined dinner last night. And I was annoyed because I didn’t have time for an argument now. The more time passed, the more likely the killer would get away. I tried for a happy medium to placate Harry for
now. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “I know.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair, then rubbed his eyes.

  “I’ll ask Rizzo about that vacation. You and I will get away, I promise.”

  He nodded and slowly motioned me out the door. “I know. Go on, you’ve got a lot to do.”

  I kissed his cheek and left.

  Traffic was heavy as I drove downtown, and when I arrived at the station, it was quiet. I fixed a fresh pot of coffee, poured myself a cup, and went to my desk. I got online and looked up a number for the federal prison on Quincy Street. I was routed a few times, and had to repeat what I wanted each time, and was finally able to set a meeting with Felix Robinson for nine o’clock. When I hung up my desk phone, Spats and Ernie walked in.

  “Good morning one and all,” Spats said.

  Today’s ensemble was a light gray suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. And, of course, black polished shoes. Spats had a hectic life, and I often wondered if his flawless attire was a small way to control something in his world.

  “You’re chipper today,” I said.

  He held up a Starbucks glass. “Double shot. I’m running on caffeine.”

  “When did you leave the judge’s chambers?” I asked.

  Ernie, in simple dark slacks and matching coat, sat down at his desk and logged onto his computer, but he was listening.

  “It must’ve been about two,” Spats said. “We didn’t find any other notes, or anything else.” He nodded at his own laptop. “We’ve got McCleary’s phone records, and I’ll spend some time this morning going through them, and I’ll get a crew of detectives to go to the federal courthouse to interview his staff, and to comb through his previous trials. Felix Robinson wasn’t the only one that threatened him, right?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “There were three notes recently sent to McCleary.” I told Spats and Ernie about my conversation with Ken Tewksbury. “The judge might’ve made another enemy from a different trial. Although searching for that person could be a needle in a haystack.”