Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5)

by Renee Pawlish

  “Yeah, he told me about it. He doesn’t want to get involved.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “And you?”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “This isn’t going to get me in any trouble, is it?”

  I shook my head. “Not with me. I can’t speak for your father.”

  He smirked, then glanced toward Federal and the cars whizzing by. It was loud.

  “I worked last Wednesday night,” he said. “Those two men were here. The one, the Japanese guy, he comes in once in a while. I don’t know his name, but he’s quiet and nice. He’s always alone, so I was surprised when the other guy showed up to meet him.”

  “The Japanese man’s Warren Nakamura,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Okay. Well, he usually eats alone. But this time, this other guy met him.”

  “What did the other man look like?”

  “Darker hair, not too tall. He was older.”

  That fit the description that I’d given his dad, and that the Uber driver had given me. “Anything else you can tell me about the second man?”

  He thought for a second, then glanced over his shoulder. No one was there, so he looked back at me. “He seemed kind of intense, you know what I mean? He would tap the table with his finger.” He made a motion with his index finger, imitating what the man had done. “And he would stare at the other guy, Warren.”

  “Was this other man threatening Warren?”

  His face held a glow from a streetlight. “I don’t know if he was threatening him, but he wasn’t happy. Warren was drinking a lot. I mean, he was getting drunk. That was unusual, too. When I’ve seen him in here, he never drinks. And he was getting loud, too. The other guy kept telling him to be quiet.”

  “What happened next?”

  “They finished their dinner, and they paid. Warren said he needed to get a ride home, that he’d get an Uber. I heard him say that. Then they went outside. Both of them were kind of angry, and they started arguing.” He waved a hand around. “I could see them through the front window. I saw the other guy raise his hand, and I thought he was going to hit Warren. My father saw that, too, and he told me to go outside and see what was the matter. He didn’t want the police coming, so he wanted me to break it up. I went outside, and they were yelling. I realized the other man was trying to calm Warren down. Warren kept saying they have to do something before it’s too late. And the other man said they would. Then Warren said ‘There are three of us, you know.’ And the other guy got really mad and told him to shut up, that no one could know what they did. Then the Uber driver showed up, and he saw that something was wrong, too. He got out and came over, and then the other man backed away. Warren got into the car, and they drove away.”

  He’d filled in a bit more of the conversation between the two men. I thought for a second.

  “Who’s the third person they were talking about?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did they mention any names?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Where did the other man go?”

  He shrugged and pointed. “He walked off into the parking lot. It was dark, and I don’t know where he went.” He hemmed and hawed. “I had to get back into the restaurant, and I wasn’t paying any attention. Why should I?” A little defensive.

  I held up a hand. “It’s no big deal, I was just wondering. Did you happen to hear the other man’s name?”

  He shook his head. “If Warren said, I never heard.”

  “Who paid for their meal?”

  “Warren. With cash.”

  “Did you hear anything else when they were eating dinner?”

  “Not really. I was busy serving other tables, and as you could tell, it gets loud in there. I wouldn’t have even noticed the two, except that Warren has been in before, always alone.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Sure.” He wrinkled his nose. “My father said something about a murder. Who died?”

  “Warren Nakamura.”

  If that shocked him, he wasn’t showing it. “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  “Yes, it is. What’s your name?” I asked the teenager.

  He hesitated. “Tai.”

  “Thanks for your help, Tai.”

  He nodded and looked over his shoulder. “I better get back inside before my father wonders where I went.” He spun around and dashed back behind the building.

  I stood in the darkness for a moment. The traffic still hummed on Federal Boulevard as I thought about what I’d learned. I had no doubts now that Judge Nakamura had been drunk – despite it being such unusual behavior for him. He’d met another man at Viet Café, and they’d argued. And Nakamura had said that there were “three of them,” according to Tai. Three of them doing what? I shook my head. Each new piece of information I uncovered came with more questions than answers. I finally got into the Escape and drove north toward Sixth Avenue, trying to begin the mental transition from “work” to “home.’ It wasn’t easy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When I got home, Harry was in the family room, in a ratty T-shirt and sweats. He looked up when I came into the kitchen, then gestured with a beer at me.

  “I bought a six-pack of Negro Modelo. Help yourself.”

  That actually sounded good, so I got one from the fridge and went into the family room. I sat next to him on the couch and took a long drink.

  “You had a long day,” he said. He muted the basketball game that was on the TV.

  I nodded and sipped some beer. “A second judge was murdered, either overnight or early this morning. Warren Nakamura. Ever heard of him? And I’m lead detective on both investigations.”

  “Yes, I heard something about Nakamura on the six o’clock news. Any progress on either murder?”

  I thought about everything that all the detectives, including myself, had covered throughout the day. “Nothing seems to be gelling just yet. Maybe one suspect.” I filled him in on the investigation, hoping that as I did so, it might spark something for me. It didn’t. Then I clinked his beer bottle with mine. “How about you? How are you doing?” I turned to focus on him.

  He smiled. “My day was pretty good, actually. That new client I landed last month is working out pretty well. I may need to hire another analyst to help them set up some of their software systems.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m pleased with where things are going with the company.” He talked for a few minutes about his work, and I listened, I mean I really listened to him. I was working hard to make sure I took time for him, something that’s been an issue for us recently. Even as he talked, though, I could still feel something in the air between us. I reached out and took his hand.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  He stared at his beer, then pulled his hand away from mine and picked at the label. “It’s nothing.”

  “Harry, please. It’s not ‘nothing.’ Tell me what’s wrong. Is it dinner the other night?”

  He looked at the TV, then back at the beer bottle. He didn’t answer, and I knew it was.

  “Harry, I know –”

  “It’s your job, and I get that.” He looked me in the eye. “I really do.” Then he paused before continuing. “It’s just that this dinner was supposed to be special.”

  “I know. I really blew it, but what should I have done?”

  It took him a long time to answer. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m really sorry. You know that if I could have handled it any other way, I would have.” I smiled tentatively. “So … are we okay?”

  He leaned over and kissed me. “We’re fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get over it.”

  “So … we are okay,” I said. That brought a smile from him. I took another sip of beer, then put it on the coffee table. I didn’t want anymore. “I talked to Diane and told her we’d be at her house for Thanksgiving. And I said I’d fix potatoes, and Diane asked if you could bake some pecan pies. I’ll help you. You know you’re the be
tter cook.”

  “Sure, I can make some.”

  I watched him. “I’m really tired, and I’m sure I’m going to have a long day tomorrow. I’m going to bed. Do you want to come?”

  He shook his head and pointed at the TV with the bottle. “I’m going to stay up a little while longer, finish watching this game.” Then he pointed the remote at the TV and the sound returned.

  I stood up, then leaned down and kissed him. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I left him there and went into the bedroom. As I was brushing my teeth, my mind was a jumble. I was thinking about the investigation, of course, and what I was missing with the murders, wondering who was out there, and whether he or she would strike again. But I was also thinking about Harry. This wasn’t like him. We generally get along well, we have for a long time, and we rarely fight. Recently, though, we’d been struggling a little bit, mostly due to my own insecurities about getting married. But I thought we’d moved past that, and I had even told him I thought I was finally ready to get married if he was still interested.

  Then I slapped a hand to my forehead. “Oh my gosh,” I muttered to myself.

  The fancy dinner the other night, the roses, the romance. I rinsed my toothbrush and stared in the bathroom mirror. Had Harry planned to propose? Was that what the dinner was all about? And a trip to get away would’ve been a sort of honeymoon. That would certainly account for his mood tonight. All his efforts to make a beautiful evening for us trashed, as soon as I’d taken that call. I knew him well enough to know that the spoiled evening wouldn’t be the end of things between us, but I certainly could see how my having to leave had thrown him for a loop. Maybe he was wondering what to do next, whether another attempt was worth it, whether his next romantic gesture would be interrupted as well. I thought about Spats, who’d recently talked to me about how the job had destroyed his first marriage, and how it had seemed to be threatening his relationship with his girlfriend, Trissa. Right at the moment, I could certainly relate.

  I washed my face, then threw on a T-shirt and climbed into bed. Harry still hadn’t come into the room. I debated about going back in to talk to him, but it was too big a conversation to have when I was so exhausted. It was too important to risk flubbing it, and I knew that this wasn’t the right time. But soon. It needed to be soon, before we just settled back in to a “good enough” routine. So I crawled under the covers, still worrying about it all, when I finally fell asleep.

  The killer sat in the dark living room, the blue haze from a TV screen flickering on the bare walls. The ten o’clock news was about to begin, and the killer watched for a particular story. After an annoying commercial about yet another ambulance-chasing attorney, the news anchor, a perky woman with a brown bob haircut and shiny lips came on the screen.

  “In other news, a second judge was murdered today in the Bow Mar neighborhood in southeast Denver. Judge Warren Nakamura was found in his home this morning after he didn’t report to the courthouse.” She delivered the news with more robotic cheeriness than one would’ve expected given the content she was discussing. “This comes on the heels of the murder of Judge Raymond McCleary on Monday night. Chief Duane Follett of the Denver Police Department held a press conference today to discuss the two murders.”

  They cut to a video feed showing Chief Follett standing in front of a set of microphones at the steps of the Denver Police Department building at Thirteenth and Cherokee.

  “We’re following up on all leads pertaining to the deaths of Judge McCleary and Judge Nakamura,” Follett said. His suit fit to perfection, and he clearly liked being in front of the cameras. “We won’t give out the circumstances of each death, but both are being investigated as homicides. If the public has any information about either of these two deaths, please call the station.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” This from Channel Seven reporter, Deborah North. The killer recognized her voice, had seen her reporting at McCleary’s house after his murder. She was annoying, a little too aggressive.

  “As I said before,” Chief Follett replied pointedly, “we’re in the middle of the investigation. We’re pursuing all leads and confirming the information we have so far.”

  The killer knew what that meant. They didn’t have a suspect in mind. That was good. There was more to do yet.

  “Are other judges being targeted?” called out another reporter. “Are you concerned for their safety?”

  “We know of no other threats to any judges,” Follett said, “but we are taking all necessary precautions.”

  The killer smiled. They had no idea if there would be another target or not. The smile widened.

  If they only knew.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I was at the station again early in the morning, before the other detectives started arriving. I’d just sat down when Rizzo walked in.

  “What’s the update?” he said, no-nonsense as usual.

  I leaned back in my chair. “I hate to say it, but it’s slow going.” And then I filled him in on everything we’d learned so far.

  He scratched his forehead when I finished. “Nakamura said something about the three of us? What does that mean?”

  “I wish we knew.”

  He swore, not something he usually did. “You’ve got your hands full. Do you have all the detectives on the investigation coming in this morning?”

  I nodded. “I’ll touch base with everyone to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

  “When you do, get me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He continued to his office and shut the door. I glanced through his office window. The blinds were drawn, and he was already on the phone. He usually waited for me to give him updates, but it had been the other way around on this case. He was pushing; he was worried and feeling the scrutiny. I had to admit, I was, too.

  I picked up my desk phone, called the two detectives who were leading the surveillance on Olivia Hartnell and Victor Marko, and got an update. Olivia had left her house the previous evening to go to a restaurant with her daughter, then had returned home and stayed in for the night. As for Marko, after I’d left him at the little burrito bar, he’d eaten dinner with the man that had joined him, then both left separately. Marko had gone back to his apartment and stayed in for the night. A woman came over around seven, and she didn’t leave, either.

  After I jotted down notes about both suspects, I fixed coffee and worked on a report. A little before eight, Spats rolled in. He wore a dark pinstripe suit and a red silk tie, his black shoes polished as usual, but the snazzy attire couldn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes.

  “You look as worn out as I feel,” he said as he went to the coffee maker in the corner and fixed a cup. He came back to his desk, sat down, and sipped some coffee. “Man, could we just mainline that? I need all the caffeine I can get.”

  I looked over. “Late night?”

  “Yeah, Demarcus is sick. Trissa and I were up half the night.”

  “Oh geez, I’m sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  He shook his head. “No, I think just a nasty cold, but his nose was all stopped up, and he couldn’t breathe. It’s so hard when they’re too young to blow their nose. That suction thing we have to use to clear his nose is … well … too early in the morning to be talking about it. Sorry. But he’s cranky, obviously.” Then Spats paused as if to regroup. “He’s such a little guy, not quite a year old. It’s so hard to see them sick like that.” He stretched and yawned. “I hope I don’t catch anything from him, though. Last thing I need is a cold.”

  “I hear that. Well, I hope he feels better soon.”

  “Thanks. Maybe he’ll have a better night tonight.” He gave me a long look. “What’s up with you?”

  Just then, Ernie walked into the room.

  “Hey there,” he said. “How’s everybody doing?”

  Spats scrunched up his face distastefully. “You’re a little too cheery for us. You can’t be like th
at until at least my second cup of coffee.”

  Ernie laughed. “Sorry.”

  I looked at him. “Don’t apologize. We need some ‘cheery’ this morning. What’s up?”

  “Zo made the basketball team at her high school.” He was beaming.

  “Zoe did?” I said. “Congratulations, that’s great. She’ll be your star on the court, and Brooke will be your star on the track.”

  “Yeah, Brooke’s the runner in the family, not me,” Ernie said. “Her track team’s already working out. She’s got great time in her events. I think she’ll do really well in the district.” Then he stopped and frowned at me. He sensed something, just as Spats had. “What’s with you?”

  I shrugged. “Just something with Harry.”

  “What?” Spats asked. I hesitated, and he pushed me. “Come on, Speelmahn, spill it.”

  “I may have blown it the other night.”

  Ernie sat down and reached for a pencil. He twirled it in his hand. “Was this about the interrupted dinner?”

  I nodded. “Something occurred to me last night. Harry seemed ‘off’ last night, and I think the dinner was supposed to have been more.” I told them both about the fancy meal he’d prepared, and his subsequent mood. When I finished, they both were pensive.

  “You think he was going to pop the question?” Ernie asked.

  I held up my hands. “Yeah, I’m wondering that. And I’m wondering whether I’ll get another chance?”

  “Nah, Spillman,” Spats said. “He’s a guy. He may have been upset, but he’ll get over it. He’ll figure out another time to propose.”

  I didn’t have time to think about it further because Detectives Hernandez and Packer – Pack – came into the room, along with some other detectives who were helping on the investigations. I stood up and pointed to some empty desks where they could sit. Chair legs squeaked on the linoleum floor as they settled in. Spats got Rizzo from his office, and when he joined us, I stood up.

  “Glad to see everyone,” I said. I didn’t waste any time. “Here’s what we have so far.” I consulted some notes and went over everything we all had discovered in the last two days. “Nakamura’s assistant overheard him saying something about ‘AK.’ She didn’t know what that meant. Has that come up for anyone else?”