Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  The apartment seemed empty without her. Greg almost wished she had stayed. They could have started over, with no pretense. He put the candles in a garbage bag and carried them out to the trash.

  It was only an hour until dawn. Greg spent the time in the kitchen, drinking coffee to stay awake. He didn’t smoke a single cigarette. There were no excuses for the fire. He had set it deliberately. He shuddered to think what would have happened if the girl had not been there.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jerry pulled out to pass a laboring snowplow and the car fishtailed slightly as he guided it back into the slow lane. Traffic was heavy tonight. Wayzata Boulevard was jammed with cars going into the downtown area. The stores in the Nicollet Mall were open late tonight for the convenience of Christmas shoppers.

  A left-hand turn seemed impossible, but finally there was a break in the traffic. Jerry pulled into the parking structure and used his card to open the gate. The half-hour drive had calmed him and now he felt a little silly for bolting from the house. Betsy certainly hadn’t been in any danger from him. He had panicked. It was that simple.

  He changed into his jogging outfit and stuffed his office key into the Velcro pocket of his right shoe. The exercise would be good for him. It would erase all the frustrations of the day and leave him drained of all emotion. Jogging was every bit as good as psychotherapy and it was a hell of a lot cheaper.

  Jerry jogged effortlessly, blue Adidas pounding against the carpeted floor of the connecting second-story bridges of the Skyway System. He had been jogging for a full twenty minutes and he felt almost restored. His body responded eagerly to the pace he set, every muscle synchronized to maintain his perfect form.

  He stopped for a moment at one of the huge plate-glass windows, jogging in place, to peer out at the weather ball on the Northwestern building. It was red. That meant a sudden winter storm warning. The night had been clear when he’d driven in from Minnetonka. Now gusts of snow rattled against the window and he could barely make out the time and temperature. Six forty-five. Twelve degrees Fahrenheit.

  Last winter a man in Mankato had been badly frostbitten while jogging. He had gone out in shorts and long athletic socks. When he came back in, his thighs were frozen.

  Jerry grinned as he looked down at his jogging outfit, old University of Minnesota gym shorts and a T-shirt. The connecting bridges were a boon to joggers. He was perfectly comfortable in the constant sixty-eight-degree temperature while the people outside the windows were bundled up in their coats with their car heaters going full blast.

  Three miles to go. Jerry turned from the window and started to jog again. If he stuck to his schedule, he’d be at the spa by seven-fifteen. He’d play a quick game of racquetball, relax in the Jacuzzi, and shower and change before he headed for home. By the time he got there, Betsy would be sleeping.

  Dr. Elias put down the phone and sighed. It had taken an hour of his time, switching from one airline official to another, spending long minutes on hold listening to insipid recorded music, but he had finally gotten the confirmation he needed. Betsy had come in on the eight o’clock flight last night from California.

  The pain was worse tonight, but he could not afford an injection. He had to be alert. Jerry had not called his new therapist. Time was running out. Betsy’s presence would surely precipitate a crisis, and the situation was volatile.

  Dr. Elias picked up his prized possession, the meerschaum that had belonged to his father, and held it carefully in his hand. He remembered when it was new and white. Now the intricately carved bowl, a likeness of Hippocrates, was a rich, deep mahogany. It was his legacy, his only link with his father.

  “What would you do, sir?” Dr. Elias said aloud as he looked down intently at the meerschaum. A casual observer might think he was waiting for the pipe to speak in the words of his brilliant father, but Dr. Elias would have chuckled at such a preposterous idea. His father had been dead for years. The dead could not give advice to the living. Only in memory could Dr. Elias revive the words of experience and wisdom his father had spoken. And only in imagination could he postulate what his father would tell him today.

  “My oath, sir. Is it necessary to break it?”

  Long moments passed, moments of doubt and dread. Pain twisted the corners of Dr. Elias’s mouth as he nodded at last, a short decisive dip of his silver-haired head. He opened the leather case and put the pipe inside, closing it reverently. He would smoke it later, as he did every night, when his duty was done.

  The clock on the mantel chimed half past six as Dr. Elias rose from his desk. Jerry was a compulsive jogger, never varying his pattern. At precisely seven he would jog through the bridge connecting Dayton’s department store with Dr. Elias’s building.

  It took only a moment to load the gun, a small twenty-five-caliber automatic. It fit neatly in his topcoat pocket. He had purchased it when the security staff had cut their hours, and it had been stored in the drawer of his desk for three years. It had never been needed before.

  Dr. Elias locked the door to his suite and took the elevator down to the connecting bridge on the second floor. The building was deserted. Office personnel had gone home for the night and the cleaning crews had not yet arrived. The switch was just inside the entrance to the bridge, and he reached up to turn off the bright fluorescent lights. Then he walked slowly to the center of the corridor to wait.

  The bridge spanned Nicollet Avenue. Since the mall had been opened, the street was closed to all traffic except buses and taxis. Dr. Elias leaned up against the cold windowpane and watched the street below. Snow pelted against the glass as the wind picked up outside. Most people had heeded the storm warnings and gone straight home. An occasional pedestrian hurried by, bundled up warmly against the cold, but it was impossible for anyone at street level to see inside.

  All was quiet and dark inside the glass-enclosed skyway. Dr. Elias stood motionless. It was almost time. His fingers tightened around the gun in his pocket as he heard footsteps approach. Jerry was coming, right on schedule.

  The lights were out. Jerry stopped suddenly at the entrance to the Nicollet bridge. He reached up to feel for the switch, but nothing marred the surface of the bare wall. It was on the other side.

  His heart was racing and it was not from the exercise. Jerry shivered as he faced the dark mouth of the tunnel. It seemed filled with menacing shadows. Headlights flashed briefly as a taxi turned into the mall and sped under the bridge. The interior flickered for an instant and then plunged into darkness again.

  He wanted to turn around and find an alternate route, but that would put him off schedule. Jerry chided himself for being silly. He would stiffen up if he hesitated here much longer. He had to maintain his pace.

  Jerry’s breathing quickened as he stepped into the darkness. He would hurry on through and catch the lights on the other end. Some janitor had probably forgotten to turn on the lights. It was certainly nothing to get spooked about.

  The tunnel was very dark now. The snow had turned to sleet and it blew against the windows in staccato blasts. Traffic was stopped for a light at the corner of Sixth Street and not even the strobe of a headlight pierced the darkness.

  Jerry concentrated on his form, unwilling to admit that he was scared. The snow flurries driving against the glass sounded like muted snare drums, ominous and building to some terrible rhythm.

  Instinct told him to turn around and run, but Jerry fought his fear. Dotty would laugh when he told her about this. Only kids were afraid of the dark.

  Left. Right. Left. Right. Jerry quickened his pace in spite of himself. He was almost halfway through. Only a few hundred feet and he would be in the light.

  Traffic was moving again now. Headlights from a passing bus illuminated the shape that stepped out into his path. Jerry’s mouth opened in startled recognition, but before he could blurt out a question, it was too late.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Damn machine’s broken again!” Curtis Holt turned to Mac in disgust. “Every time I
want a cup of coffee, the damn machine breaks down.”

  Mac grinned and unfolded his big frame from the city-issue steel chair. Curt was one of the finest detectives on the force, but he had a real problem with mechanical things. The coffee machine hummed defiantly in the corner of the squad room while Curt stared at it balefully.

  “Watch me, Curt.” Mac approached the machine straight on, swaggering a little. The fingers of his right hand brushed lightly against his service holster.

  “This is the police,” he announced in a steely voice. “Hand over that coffee you owe the sergeant or you’re under arrest.”

  Curt laughed as Mac rapped the machine with a nightstick. Then his eyes widened in awe as the paper cup dropped into the tray and coffee poured out. “Son of a bitch!” he breathed. “How did you do that, Mac?”

  “You got to show it who’s boss,” Mac explained sagely. He slid open the little plastic door and handed the cup to Curt. “It’d help if you watched a few more John Wayne movies.”

  “There’s a homicide on the Nicollet Avenue bridge.” Desk Sergeant Reinert stuck his head in the door. “It’s yours, Curt. You wanna drop him off on your way home, Mac?”

  “Sure.” Mac picked up his file folders and grabbed his coat. “Come on, Curt. I’ll keep you company for a couple of minutes.”

  Both men were tense as Mac turned on Seventh and parked behind the black and whites lined up at the curb. The connecting bridges were the chief’s idea, his pet project to cut down on street crime. Now the expanded Skyway System was the scene of a homicide. Murder in the heart of the downtown shopping area would be bad for business. There would be plenty of pressure from the City Fathers to clean up this case in a hurry.

  Mac and Curt flashed their badges and pushed their way past the officers at the entrance. They took the stairs to the second floor and stopped at the landing to make way for the police photographer on his way back to the station.

  The bridge was a sea of blue uniforms, metal gleaming under the bright fluorescent lights. An area in the middle had been cordoned off and the victim’s body lay in the center of the area, covered with a sheet.

  Mac stood to the side as Curt introduced himself to the officer in charge. He reached for the sheet and flipped it down. It was the body of a man in his early forties, dressed in jogging shorts. Mac gasped when he saw the man’s face.

  “Gunshot wound to the head.” Curt nodded and the assistant coroner moved to cover the body again. “Looks like a small caliber from the entrance wound. No ID on the body. They’re working on it now.”

  Mac swallowed hard. His voice sounded flat when he finally spoke. “The victim’s name is Jerry Feldman. He’s a dentist. I knew him.”

  Curt glanced at him sharply and then turned to the officer in charge. “Notify the relatives and then let the press in. We’ll write it up as a routine mugging for now.”

  Mac nodded. Curt hadn’t missed the fact that Jerry’s expensive jogger’s watch was still on his wrist. An accomplished thief would have taken it. Both Mac and Curt knew this was no ordinary mugging, but there was no sense in speculating at the scene. The real investigation would come later, after the press had left.

  The reporters were arriving now and Mac knew he should leave. He had known the victim. The department had strict rules about emotional involvement in cases like this. He was just heading for the doorway when he saw Debra.

  She was impeccably dressed in gray slacks with a dark blue blazer, camera bag slung smartly over her shoulder. She pulled out her camera and took several shots. Even though she looked every inch a professional, Mac had the feeling she had to force herself to focus on the white-sheeted body. By now Debra knew who was under the sheet. Her hands trembled as she interviewed the officer in charge.

  Mac made his way to her after she had finished. “Debra? Are you all right?”

  He took her arm and she flinched. Then she looked up at him and swayed slightly.

  “Oh, Mac!”

  Her voice was shaking and grateful. Mac patted her arm and she did not pull away this time. She no longer looked cold and unapproachable. She looked scared, and he stayed by her side like a shadow as she took the rest of her pictures and called the story in.

  “Do you need a ride to the paper?” Mac opened the door for her and they stepped out into the storm.

  “Yes, please!” Debra pulled her collar up and slipped on her gloves. “I was going to call a cab, but I’d rather ride with you. I just have to drop off this film.”

  It took only a moment to drop the film at the lab. Debra seemed to be just fine as she gave instructions to the technician. Several people called out greetings to her as they walked down the corridor and left the building. Mac began to think he was wrong. Perhaps Debra didn’t need him after all.

  They stood in the parking lot outside the Tribune building. Blowing snow whipped at her hair and ice crystals stuck and glistened on her long, dark eyelashes. Her car keys were in her hand, but she was shaking too hard to unlock the door.

  “I . . . I don’t want to go home alone, Mac. Could we have a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.” Mac felt a surge of compassion as he led her to his car. She was in no condition to drive. Debra had used the last of her courage to finish her story and now she was exhausted and frightened.

  She started to cry the moment he drove from the lot, huge wracking sobs that she tried to hide by turning her face to the passenger window. It hurt him to see her so vulnerable, but he didn’t know how to help her.

  “I’m taking you to my house, Debra.” The moment the words were spoken, he knew it was the right thing to do. In a brightly lit coffee shop, the waitress and customers would stare at them curiously.

  Debra made no protest. She just nodded shakily. She was still crying, twenty minutes later, when he pulled into his garage, helped her from the car, and led her into the house. He got her settled on the couch in the living room and went to make coffee.

  Debra heard the water run in the kitchen. A cupboard door opened and closed again. She sat there for several moments, her mind blank with shock, and then she began to smell the coffee. Mac was making real coffee. She used instant at home and it never smelled this good. It would be nice to have a cup of real coffee.

  A part of her mind was separate, recognizing the small homey sounds he made in the kitchen and cataloging them. A floorboard squeaked. There was a clatter as he got out the coffee mugs. She had to stop crying before he came back.

  Debra wiped her eyes with the small lace handkerchief she kept in her purse. The tears would not stop. The harder she struggled for control, the faster the tears fell. She had cried like this only once before, the night her baby had died. And the tears had stopped only when she’d done that awful thing, when she’d kidnapped another woman’s baby to take the place of her own.

  “It’s all right, Debra. Cry it all out.”

  She had not heard him come back from the kitchen and she trembled in the hot, heavy circle of his arms. This was not right. He shouldn’t be holding her this way. But she needed someone so badly, someone to hold her and brush back her hair and take the tears she had shed and turn them into the comfort she craved.

  Debra crept, defeated, farther into his arms. The top of her head fit precisely under his chin. She was like a small, hurt sparrow. Too tight an embrace would crush her. All her defenses had crumbled and she was naked in her need.

  The tears stopped falling at last. Debra shivered as she left his arms. She dabbed at her eyes with her useless handkerchief and pretended great interest in the snow falling outside the window. He had been so kind, holding her while she cried like a baby. He probably thought she was a basket case. She was too humiliated to even look at him now.

  “Debbie?”

  She turned in surprise. No one had called her that for so long. She was Debra, the professional woman. The nickname made her feel like a child again, eyes red from tears, handkerchief wadded in a soggy ball in her hand.

  He was holding
out a giant box of Kleenex. Debra stared at it uncertainly.

  “I’ve got two more boxes in the closet. If you go through them, there’s a Seven-Eleven on the next block.”

  A laugh bubbled up through her deep embarrassment. She pulled out a Kleenex and wiped her face. “I’m sorry, Mac. I . . . I guess tonight was just too much for me.”

  Mac handed her a cup of steaming coffee. “Drink this and you’ll feel better. I’ll make a fire. That’ll cheer you up.”

  For the first time since she’d entered the house, Debra looked around her. She was in a comfortable room, heavily masculine, with walls of books and softball trophies. A Remington print hung over the fireplace, and a television and stereo were built into a cabinet facing the couch. The room was cluttered, but it was a pleasing clutter that added to the room’s character. It was a place to hide in, a retreat from a threatening world.

  Mac turned from the fireplace to look at her. There was color in her cheeks now, and she had taken the time to straighten her hair. She smiled at him tentatively as he joined her on the couch.

  “I’m sorry, Mac.” She seemed to think she owed him an apology. “Everyone’s dying and I guess I was scared. First Dr. Elias left and then Doug was killed. And now Jerry! Our whole group’s dying, one by one!”

  “Everyone’s not dying.” Mac took her hands and pressed them tightly. “It just seems that way. Sometimes horrible coincidences happen in real life.”

  His words of reassurance sounded hollow to him, but she didn’t seem to notice. Unwittingly, Debra had put her finger on the pulse of his own doubt. He was a cop, trained to be suspicious of coincidence. Two deaths out of a group of eight was statistically unusual. Mac’s instincts warned him of danger. Jerry’s murder could be a vengeance killing. Everyone in the group had blamed him for Doug’s death.

  An uneasy silence fell between them. Mac realized he was still holding her hands and he wasn’t sure what to do next. Debra made no move, either. They sat there barely breathing, pretending to be comfortable, as the tension grew.