Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  Anger collided with fear in Franklin’s gut. “We had a deal.”

  “The deal has changed. I will be in touch with further instructions.”

  “Further instructions? No, I can’t—”

  “You can, and you will. Unless you wish to for me to kill your mother. Is that your desire?”

  “What? No!” Franklin yelled the word as his heart squeezed in his chest. He forced himself to keep breathing.

  “This is good. Goodbye.”

  “Wait—no, don’t hang up. I want to talk to her. Please?” he added hastily.

  Silence.

  He could hear the man’s slow, even breathing as he considered Franklin’s request.

  “She is unharmed.”

  “So you say. But I need to confirm that for myself. You haven’t let me talk to her since Monday. How do I know she’s even … alive?” Franklin grimaced at having to say the words, but they were true.

  “You do not trust me?”

  “You just reneged on our deal! Why should I trust you?” Franklin blurted. Then he bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just—please. Please let me talk to her?”

  The man huffed. “She is sleeping. If the lawyer asked for a delay or offers a deal, I will release her. But, until then, until the trial is no longer a threat, I need you. And as long as I need you, your mother stays where she is.”

  “But I saw the docket. The trial isn’t scheduled to start until the Monday after next. That’s ten more days. Can’t you please let her go? I promise, I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “No.” The man’s voice was firm. “However, when I call you with your next assignment you may speak to her.”

  Franklin was gearing up to demand, plead, cry—whatever it took to convince his mother’s captor to let him talk to her. But the line went dead with a sharp click before he could marshal his argument. He stared at the silent phone in his hand for a long moment.

  Then he gently placed it on the table and ran for the bathroom as his dinner tickled the back of his throat. He was going to puke. Again.

  As he raced for the john, the man’s word’s echoed in his brain: Next assignment. Next assignment. What else was the man going to make him do?

  Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as he crouched in front of the bowl and heaved into it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The wee hours of Friday morning

  “I knew from the time I was in high school that someday I wanted to stand up in court and say ‘Mitchell Swope, on behalf of the United States of America.’” He smiled sheepishly and stared down at his scrambled eggs. “Corny, huh? I guess I watched too much Law and Order.”

  She kept her face blank but she thought his idealism was endearing. Cute, even.

  “It’s not corny at all,” she assured him, cupping her hands around the mug of hot chocolate to warm them.

  The walk to the all-night diner had been short, but a cutting winter wind had chilled her straight through. Rich, piping hot chocolate seemed like the obvious solution. But then she’d had to find a menu item that worked with the cocoa. So, while Mitchell devoured a hearty breakfast, she was savoring a thick slice of apple crumb pie. Whipped cream and all. She told herself she’d run an extra mile tomorrow, knowing it was a lie.

  “What about you? How’d you end up at Justice?” He settled back against the cracked faux leather booth and pinned his eyes on her with a look of genuine interest.

  “My path was less straightforward than yours. I majored in English in college and did my senior thesis on ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ When I met with my career counselor to discuss job options after graduation, I kept picturing myself as Atticus Finch, practicing law in a small town. So, I went on to law school and worked summers for a sole practitioner. He taught me what I needed to know to run my own practice. I set up shop in my hometown as soon as I passed the bar exam. Who sounds corny now?” She laughed at herself.

  He shook his head. “Not corny at all. Lots of people land in law school because they have dreams of six-figure salaries or they don’t know what else to do with a political science degree. You had a vision and the nerve to go out on your own as a baby lawyer. But how’d you get from there to here?”

  She cut off another bite of pie with the side of her fork and said, “I’d been practicing all of about six months when I got a call from the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. I don’t know if you heard about this scandal, but about a year and a half ago, a judge was murdered in a Springport. It was all over money, of course. A dirty councilwoman and her sister were working a bunch of different angles to profit from the hydrofracking boom.”

  “Yeah, sure. And the State Attorney General was involved, too, right?”

  “Yes. So the Commonwealth was looking for an outsider to serve as special prosecutor to look into the AG’s role in the whole mess. The solo lawyer I had worked for had a weekly tee time with two of the justices on the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. He suggested me and told them I was squeaky clean. I guess the idea of a twenty-first century Atticus Finch wannabe had some appeal to them.”

  “You were, what, twenty-six years old, and a special prosecutor?”

  “Twenty-five. So, after that case, my private practice really picked up and I had settled into a nice groove, but then the prepper thing happened—”

  “The prepper thing?”

  She sipped her hot chocolate and wondered how much she could say. The prepper thing hadn’t been quite as well publicized as the dirty State Attorney General thing, even though it had been a much bigger deal. But Homeland Security kept a tight lid on the fact that just a year ago the country had been teetering on the edge of a global pandemic that could have wiped out most of the population and the entire infrastructure.

  “It’s a really long story. But the short version is there was a big, multi-agency federal investigation in Clear Brook County, the same place where the judge was killed. And the team needed some local help—”

  “Let me guess. Your retired solo practitioner plays cards with the Director of Homeland Security?”

  She giggled. “Close. There’s this big shot white-collar criminal defense attorney in Pittsburgh. A guy named Volmer. He represented one of the witnesses in the grand jury investigation—another lawyer by the name of Sasha McCandless. You follow?”

  “So far. I feel like I need a cheat sheet. This is like one of those Russian novels with a million characters.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Russian literature fan?”

  “Guilty as charged. Anyway, go on.”

  “So Sasha was appointed to investigate the death of Judge Paulson back in 2011 and she testified during my investigation. Then last year, she got herself caught up in this other mess with the preppers. Her boyfriend—well, husband, now—is former Homeland Security. When the prepper investigation heated up, his old boss asked him for the name of a local attorney who could help them navigate the small-town culture. They had this enormous team of big-city lawyers getting doors slammed in their faces all over town. Nobody wanted anything to do with them. Will and Sasha remembered me and passed my name along.”

  “What did you do exactly?”

  “Mainly, I just made introductions and convinced people to cooperate. These people knew me, and they trusted me. I guess the team liked me, because when the opening came up in the Criminal Division, Sid called me up.”

  “He called you? You just fell into this job?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

  His fork clattered to the Formica table.

  “That doesn’t happen. People angle for our jobs for years. Internships, clerkships, miserable stints at big law firms. You just walked in from your small-town practice because you were local counsel on a Homeland Security case? And you’re first chairing the SystemSource trial?”

  Her stomach pitted at the reminder. “Yeah.”

  He whistled. “Nice. What kind of case is it?”

  “SystemSource settled a
n FCPA charge stemming from efforts to bribe a Mexican government official to buy their industrial control system. Even though the company settled, the two former salespeople who handled the Latin American territory and actually attempted to bribe the guy insist on going to trial.”

  “Is your case solid?”

  “It is now. I was filing my opposition to their motion in limine. Assuming Judge Hernandez doesn’t do something crazy, I have the evidence to nail these guys to the wall.”

  He groaned. “Not Hernandez.”

  “Why?”

  “Hernandez hates Sid. I mean really hates him. Our win percentage in front of that guy is abysmal. Your case isn’t quite the plum assignment I thought it was.”

  Her chest turned to lead but she ignored her dismay. “Well, the judge can hate Sid all he wants, but the jury will see the case for what it is,” she insisted.

  A shadow passed over his face.

  She knew he was thinking of all the ways a motivated federal judge could shade a case to change the jury’s mind.

  But he didn’t challenge her bravado directly.

  “I hope so.”

  She checked her watch and gasped.

  “What?”

  “It’s one thirty.”

  “Do you turn into a pumpkin?”

  “Something like that. I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow. I have to get home.”

  He must have heard the panic in her voice, because he didn’t try to argue with her. He looked around, caught their worn-out waitress’s eye, and gestured for the check.

  “Go grab a cab. I’ll take care of this.”

  “I can’t let you pay for me, but I’d love to take off if you don’t mind waiting for the bill.”

  She pressed ten dollars into his palm and gathered up her belongings. She wound her scarf tightly around her neck and steeled herself against the chill she knew would hit her when she walked out the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Friday morning

  Aroostine groaned as the winter sun beamed through her slatted blinds and hit her square in the face. She opened one eye to squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table then rolled over and buried her head in her pillows.

  Her tired body was stiff. And her brain was stuffed with cotton. But it was already seven thirty.

  Ten more minutes, she told herself and slipped back into her dream.

  A sleek beaver sat on a boulder under a low harvest moon. The moonlight glinted off its glossy coat. The animal watched her watching it for a moment then shifted its gaze to the stream rushing by below, cold water glistening in the night. Aroostine followed its gaze. Down the hillside, across the water, and up on the opposing hill, set among the tall trees, was a small log cabin. One yellow square of light shone through the sole window facing them.

  The beaver turned its silver eyes back to her. She could sense the animal trying to communicate something important about the little house.

  Then the harsh beeping backup alarm of a garbage truck in the alley behind her building penetrated her sleep.

  Friday morning. Trash day.

  She forced her eyes open and rolled over. Soon clatters, clangs, idling trucks, and shouted instructions from one orange-coveralled worker to another would fill the air as the row of Dumpsters that lined the back walls of the buildings on her block were emptied.

  Whatever that beaver was trying to tell her would have to wait for another night. She pushed off the warm, heavy, handmade quilt that she’d burrowed under and stood. Her toes curled in protest as they hit the cold, bare wood floor.

  As she raced across the floor to the bathroom, she told herself she’d stop at World Market and pick up a colorful rug this weekend. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. She’d been making that same empty promise every week for sixteen weeks. But she never bought a rug—or any other home goods, for that matter. She was still holding out hope that one evening she’d come home from work and find Joe on her doorstep, along with the cheerful braided rug that anchored their bed, Rufus on his long, retractable leash, and a box full of lamps, bookends, and the assorted small touches that had made their house home.

  She turned on the water full blast and stepped into the shower, thoughts of Joe filling her mind. As the hot water pelted her head and neck from the fancy rainforest shower head, she let her tears flow freely.

  It’s not going to happen.

  For reasons he hadn’t shared with her, Joe had decided not to join her in D.C., even though he said he would. He just never showed up. His silence fed her fantasies that, any day now, he’d come be with her, but how long could she go on kidding herself?

  You need to move on.

  She reached for her shampoo bottle, and Mitchell’s face swam into her mind.

  She blinked water out of her eyes and shook the image out of her head.

  The last thing she needed was to develop a crush. Let alone a crush on a colleague.

  She had a massive criminal trial to prosecute. Jury selection started in one week. If she didn’t focus, she might as well start boxing up her meager belongings and get ready to crawl back to Central Pennsylvania with her proverbial tail tucked firmly between her legs.

  The thought of admitting defeat to Joe set her teeth on edge and drove thoughts of romance—with anyone—straight from her mind.

  Like hell she would.

  She finished showering quickly and rushed through her morning routine, keeping one eye on the time as she dressed. She reheated a bowl of baked oatmeal and wolfed it down while standing over the sink. Then she gathered her papers, pulled on her coat, and raced out the door.

  She jogged the three long blocks to the Metro station, dodging the commuters who kept a more leisurely pace. She was usually sitting behind her desk, well into her workday and her second mug of cinnamon tea by the time the D.C. morning rush heated up.

  Not today. She had to jam her way through the turnstile and stand shoulder-to-shoulder on a packed Metro, swaying as one with an overheated sea of humanity.

  By the time she’d pushed her way through the crowd and raced up the steep staircase to the street, she was hot and frazzled. Just how she wanted to start her day.

  At least it’s Friday, she consoled herself as she zigzagged around a tour group and into the perfectly ordinary F Street high-rise office building that housed the Criminal Division.

  She flashed her badge at the security guard stationed in the lobby and trotted to catch the elevator that a trench-coated arm was holding open for her.

  “Thanks,” she said to man as the doors closed.

  “Sure thing.”

  She squeezed herself into a corner of the car, jostling up against suit-jacketed shoulders on both sides.

  When she’d interviewed for the job, she’d met with officials at the Pennsylvania Avenue Headquarters, which was exactly as she’d imagined it: an imposing, impressive limestone building that took up an entire block of the National Mall, complete with columns and carved sculptures on the facade and a detailed mosaic on the entryway ceiling. Everywhere she’d looked she’d seen polished bronze and aged marble. The awe she’d felt had played a good-sized part in her decision to accept the position.

  Only, as it turned out, Aroostine didn’t work in the Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building. She worked a little more than half a mile to the northwest and a world away from the grandeur and the power of the headquarters building. The Criminal Division leased plain vanilla office space in a regular old office building that served to inspire no one.

  The elevator groaned to a stop on her floor and she eased her way out from the pack of office workers, turning sideways and pulling her elbows in close to her body to prevent knocking a to-go cup of coffee out of a clutching hand and setting off a caffeine-fueled riot.

  As she walked down the long hallway, she fished her identification badge from her pocket by its lanyard. She flashed it at the card reader, waited for the click to signal that the door had unlocked, and then pushed it open.


  She made it all of ten feet inside before she was ambushed.

  “Did you get an extension after all?” Rosie Montoya called, poking her head out of the kitchenette tucked behind the reception area.

  “How did you even know it was me?”

  The hallway wasn’t visible from the kitchenette.

  Rosie emerged from the space with a mug of muddy coffee in one hand and a container of yogurt in the other.

  “They came in early today and installed these cool digital displays in the common areas—there’s one in the library and one in the big conference room, too. When someone swipes a card, his or her name pops up on the readout. It’s gonna make stalking the boss so much easier,” Rosie grinned.

  Not just the boss; the rest of us, too, Aroostine thought.

  She said, “I’m surprised there’s not one in the bathroom. There’s not one in the bathroom, is there?”

  The junior lawyer laughed. “Not yet. Give them time. So?”

  “So?”

  “Did you get an extension or what?”

  “No, I filed last night—with two whole minutes to spare.”

  Rosie wrinkled her forehead. “That’s so weird.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not showing up on the docket.”

  Aroostine felt her own brows furrow. “It has to be.”

  “It’s not.”

  Electronic filing was instantaneous. The opposition appeared on the docket within a minute, maybe less.

  “That’s not right. I got the confirmation from the system last night.” She’d double-checked it before she’d left with Mitchell.

  Rosie looked at her blankly and shook her head. “It’s not there. I’ve refreshed the docket a half-dozen times this morning.”

  “Come with me.” Aroostine headed down the hallway, trailed by the junior attorney. They reached her office door and she snuck a quick peek at Mitchell’s door, but it was closed.

  She wasn’t sure if the feeling that swept over her was relief or disappointment. Either way, she didn’t have time to analyze it.

  She powered on her laptop and waited for Outlook to open. She leaned over the desk and scrolled through the unopened email messages that had hit her in-box since midnight until she found the automated confirmation message.