Judgment

by Carey Baldwin

  Junior pointed out a plaque on the wall—­actually a group of plaques. “Take a look at these, and you’ll see how beloved, respected, and honorable my father truly was.”

  To Harvey Baumgartner, JD for ser­vices to the Boys and Girls Club

  To Harvey Baumgartner, JD, in recognition of twenty years faithful ser­vice to the First United Methodist Church

  To Harvey Baumgartner, Better Business Association’s Humanitarian of the Year

  To Harvey Baumgartner, American Bar Association Pro Bono Publico Award

  The awards were indeed impressive. Baumgartner apparently collected them the way Louisa did social accolades. In this family, appearance was everything, and like his wife’s Botox, the plaques served to erase Baumgartner’s imperfections to outside observers. Spense inclined his head toward one of the smaller awards and arched an eyebrow at Caitlin. She stepped in closer and read: To Harvey and Louisa Baumgartner in recognition of their generous support of the Southwest Museum of Art.

  Creepy, but hardly proof of wrongdoing since the museum was a very popular cause in Phoenix high society. Still, Harvey’s role as a benefactor created something of a foundation for a case they’d been building against him from thin air. The weird atmosphere in the room made Caitlin uncomfortable, and she folded her arms across her chest, shielding herself from what felt like an invisible current of evil undulating through the air and wrapping her like a mummy. Had Baumgartner used this room for unsavory purposes? She couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened here.

  In an effort to snap herself out of it, she picked up a photo off the desk, one of Harvey and his son as a teen. Like Harvey, Junior wore an expensive gray suit. The two stood stiffly, side by side, with perfect smiles. Beside that photo was another of Junior accepting some type of award at school, again his father stood in perfect, rigid posture at his son’s side. Caitlin glanced up at Spense and frowned. She couldn’t help noting the contrast between these pictures and the ones she’d seen of Spense and his father.

  There was no warmth in this house. All that mattered here was external validation. The entire family seemed focused on achieving perfection. She imagined how hard Junior would’ve had to work to get his father’s affection and wondered if such a thing were even possible. At least her father had loved her unconditionally. At least the only thing she’d had to do to win his approval was be his daughter. So, yes, no matter how short a time she’d had him, no matter how horrible his death had been, between Junior and her, she counted herself the more fortunate child.

  Glancing around the room again, her gaze went to a doorway leading off the study. “Where does this go?” she asked innocently, striding to the door and turning the knob. But the door was locked, and she could see by the look on Louisa’s face that she’d pushed her luck trying to enter another room without permission.

  “Oh, that’s a guest bedroom. But Harvey sometimes slept there after working late into the night. He didn’t like to disturb my rest. He was so thoughtful that way.” Louisa sighed.

  Then Junior anticipated Caitlin’s next question. “With no one using it anymore, we closed it up.”

  “Convenient to have it adjoin his office,” she replied matter-­of-­factly. There was an awkward moment of silence. To ease the tension building in her body, Caitlin prowled the study, pretending to admire the décor. When she arrived at the bookcase, there was no further need for pretense. The shelves were filled with tempting treasure. Everything from the classics to the latest thrillers—­even a romance or two. Beyond the fiction, which had been alphabetized by author and sorted by genre, were Harvey’s law books. She inhaled the luxurious scent of leather-­bound books and ran her fingers across the sumptuous spines, tilting each book forward ever so slightly as if it were her very own. Her eyes fluttered closed in enjoyment, then popped open.

  What the deuce?

  She’d been reveling in the feel of the books, tilting them forward one by one, when she’d come to a book that wasn’t right. At least the weight of it was wrong—­a thick tome titled Modern Criminal Procedure, yet it was featherlight in her hand. A thrill of discovery raced down her spine.

  A false book.

  Like the kind used to hide valuables. There was something inside this book, and it wasn’t dry discourse. Her stomach tilted, and she pressed her palm to her abdomen.

  “Are you all right, dear?” It was Louisa’s I-­care-­so-­much tone—­as false as that book.

  “Oh, yes. I guess I ate something that disagreed with me.” She swallowed hard, truly feeling nauseous from both excitement and apprehension.

  “You look pale, darling. Maybe you should go home and get some rest.” Louisa slipped her arm through Caitlin’s.

  Louisa’s touch sent a slight shiver across her shoulders. “Good idea.” Then she walked arm in arm with her hostess from the room, with Spense and Junior following in silence. They made it all the way to the front door before Caitlin grabbed her stomach again. This time with added flare. “Oh, boy. I-­I’m sorry, but I need to use the powder room.”

  Louisa’s face twisted in annoyance, then quickly altered, and a concerned frown appeared. “Elizabeth will escort you.” She pressed a call button on the wall.

  Caitlin shook her head. “Thanks, but I know the way.” Sending a sheepish glance over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll be right back,” then bit her lip. Wasn’t that just what an actress said in a B-­movie just before she did something stupid? Something that usually led to her demise?

  Too bad.

  Whatever was in that book, Caitlin wanted it. She rushed down the ridiculously long hall, past one room, then another, past the powder room and at last slipped inside Harvey’s study. As she eased the door shut, her shoulders jumped at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The footsteps passed, and a door slammed a few rooms down. Her breath released in a whoosh.

  Probably the housekeeper.

  Wasting no time, Caitlin scanned the bookshelf and grabbed the copy of Modern Criminal Procedure. Her palm left a sweaty print on the leather binding as she opened it and let out a small gasp. Sure enough, there was a false compartment, and in that compartment lay a key.

  An old-­fashioned skeleton key. The key to a rolltop desk!

  Caitlin rushed to open the rolltop. As it creaked open, she cast a glance behind her, but there was no one to hear. She pulled in a steadying breath and set to work. The inside of the desk was as organized as the bookshelf, with bank statements sorted by month, a checkbook, and some letters to clients. Caitlin rifled through them all, looking for something, anything that would stand out, but there was no time to read documents. She’d been expecting . . . what? Incriminating photographs, a smoking gun? And all she’d found were papers and . . . and . . . now her hands began to tremble as they closed over the object winking at her from a cubbyhole.

  Another key.

  This one with a red ribbon tied through it. She closed the desktop and hurried across the room to the locked door. The sound of the key turning was magnified in her ears, like someone held a microphone to the latch. She imagined the sound being broadcast down the hall and over loudspeakers as she turned the knob and opened the door to the guest room.

  She stepped inside, and her head snapped back as if a gale-­force wind had hit her in the face. Her pulse sloshed in her ears, and her skin went cold, her palms clammy. Reaching out, she put one hand on the wall to steady herself and willed her knees not to give way.

  In the center of the room stood a crisply made bed, a nightstand on either side, and a chest of drawers . . . nothing out of the ordinary there. One wall of the room was entirely mirrored, a feature not at all in keeping with the elegant yet understated décor of the remainder of the house. But that wasn’t what made her heart bang against her ribs and her breath freeze into a solid block of ice in her lungs. In one corner, a display case was loaded with pottery, all emblazon
ed with the Man in the Maze motif. As for the east wall of the room—­once again, there was no window to the outside world. No art hung on that wall because the wall itself was a work of art. A mural to be exact. A life-­size unicameral labyrinth, and posing in the center, arms outstretched, was a hulking male figure. Reeling from the realization of what was in front of her, she took a step backward.

  She had entered his lair.

  The evidence before her eyes made her bones vibrate with certainty. Evil painted the air with its sickly-­sweet smell. To keep from crying out, she covered her mouth. Harvey Baumgartner had been her father’s friend. He’d taken him under his wing and defended him when no one else would. Her father’s attorney. Her father’s old friend.

  Harvey Baumgartner was the Man in the Maze.

  She heard the creak of a door behind her and the hairs on the back of her neck sent a warning, but her feet had rooted themselves to the floor. She didn’t hear the footsteps on the soft carpet until he was already behind her. She sensed his presence a split second before his hand covered her mouth, and a familiar voice whispered in her ear:

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Caity?”

  SPENSE GOT CAITY to the car as quickly as possible. Neither one said a word for a minute or two after they drove off, then Spense jammed his hand into the horn and swerved into an empty parking lot. “I’ll ask you again. What the hell were you doing snooping around where you weren’t invited?”

  “I-­I found a book with a false compartment, and I—­”

  “You what? You decided to act on your own without consulting me. You decided to search a locked room. You decided to do something that could’ve made any potential evidence we found inadmissible in court. You decided to violate the Baumgartners’ Fourth Amendment rights. You did that, not me.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break the law or violate their rights. It’s just I knew there was something in that book, and when I found the key, I only had a split second to decide what to do.”

  The horrified look on her face instantly softened his heart.

  “And I made the wrong choice. I feel awful, and the worst part is, if I had the chance all over again, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d like to think I’d make the right call, but . . . I just had to know what was in that room. There are lives at stake, Spense.”

  He reached out and took her hand. He didn’t know whether to throttle her or comfort her. “I know that, Caity. Which is why we need to be careful.” His cheeks stretched into a grin. “That’s a hell of a thing, me telling you to mind the rules.”

  “You must think I’m an awful hypocrite.”

  “I think you’re human, sweetheart. We all are. But in the future, don’t go off the reservation without me backing you up. And don’t worry about that mural’s not being admissible in court. A good prosecutor can get around that—­I’ve seen them do it a thousand times. Besides, it’s all circumstantial.”

  “The mural’s not enough to get a warrant to search the rest of the residence, or the computers?”

  “I don’t think so. But we’ll have to let the rest of the gang in on what you found—­and how you found it—­and get their take.”

  Her hand squeezed his. “I’ve learned my lesson, I promise. And . . . I just want to say for the record . . . I know I’m not perfect.”

  “Who asked you to be?” He started the car up but didn’t let go of her hand until he pulled into the field-­office parking lot, and only then with great difficulty.

  Chapter Thirty-­Two

  Tuesday, September 24

  Phoenix Police Department

  Mountainside Precinct

  DETECTIVE RILEY BASKIN paced the precinct lunchroom with a PB and J gripped in his hand, purple jam dripping down his bulky wrist and matting the golden hairs on his forearm. Caitlin and Spense had interrupted his lunch, and he seemed none too happy about the matter. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it. How can Harvey Baumgartner be the Man in the Maze? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  At first, it’d seemed illogical to Spense, too, but after giving it due consideration, he’d changed his mind. Also, seeing that gargantuan mural of a labyrinth on Baumgartner’s wall had made a big impression and gone a long way toward convincing him. “It’s the only thing that does make sense. He fits the profile Caity constructed at the museum to a T. And by the way we’ve already confirmed he and his wife, Louisa, made large donations to the museum—­he’s even got a plaque on his wall praising his generosity. Harvey Baumgartner was highly intelligent, and as it turns out, he was also an adjunct professor of law at Tempe University. We believe the Man in the Maze is a teacher, and given the fact two coeds have now been found with their temporal bones removed, we believe his preferred hunting ground was the university.”

  “He may fit your profile in that respect, but so does Randy Cantrell. In fact, if we go with your theory, that the Man in the Maze killed Gail Falconer, too, Cantrell moves to the head of the line. He was her fiancé. He teaches at Tempe. He collects Native American art . . . and here’s a new piece of information you might like: Annie Bayberry was in Cantrell’s sociology classes.”

  “Which makes him the perfect guy to take the fall for her murder. Maybe that’s one of the reasons she was chosen. Randy Cantrell has an alibi for the night Gail Falconer was killed. One of your own men from the task force tracked his old Reserves commander down in Yuma yesterday. Cantrell could not have killed Gail Falconer. So he’s not the guy who planted her missing ring on Annie Bayberry’s corpse. Harvey Baumgartner, on the other hand, was never even looked at for Falconer, so we don’t know his whereabouts on the night of her murder.”

  “But we sure as hell do know his whereabouts on the night of Annie Bayberry’s murder—­Green Valley Cemetery.” Baskin dragged a hand through his hair, then scowled when he realized he’d just gelled himself with grape jam. “So hold your horses, if you don’t mind. It seems you’re saying that Baumgartner’s not only the Man in the Maze, but also that he killed Gail Falconer. That would put him in possession of her ring. But a dead man didn’t plant that ring on poor Annie Bayberry. Like I said before, this just doesn’t add up.”

  Caitlin tapped Spense on the shoulder, signaling she’d like to cut in. “Let’s just take this one step at a time, Riley.” Spense shook his head as Caity turned on the charm. She was good. He’d give her that much. “If we can just start with looking at Baumgartner as the Man in the Maze, the leader of Labyrinth, I’m good with that. We can always discuss the Falconer case and Annie Bayberry and how all that fits in later. But for now, let’s look at the facts. First, Baumgartner fits the profile of the Man in the Maze. Second, he’s got a giant unicameral Labyrinth painted on the wall of a windowless guest room that locks from the outside. Third, I’m certain he’s abused two young women in his employ. Isn’t that enough to get a warrant to search his computer?”

  “Not without a sworn statement from the girls, and they’ve already said he never touched them.”

  She blew out a hard breath. “Yes, but as I told you when we first arrived, one of them slipped me a note as I was leaving the house today. She wants a meeting, and I think she might be willing to give a statement if I can just make her feel safe enough. The original denial isn’t surprising, considering Elizabeth and Deejay are still in that house and still dependent on the Baumgartners for their livelihood. I’m sure if we can just help them see they have other options—­”

  Baskin screwed up his face. “Options? No disrespect, Caitlin, but if those girls had been abused in any way, if Baumgartner had so much as given them a friendly pat on the behind, they’d have been shouting it from the rooftops by now. They could sue Baumgartner’s estate, and as long as they backed each other up, they’d have a good shot at winning, or at the very least at settling for a sizeable jackpot. So the fact they said it ain’t so, to me, means it ain’t so.”

 
; “I understand your doubts. But if I can get Elizabeth or Deejay to talk . . .”

  “Then we might have enough for a warrant for the computer,” Baskin said, stroking his chin. “But that brings me back to square one. Harvey Baumgartner as the Man in the Maze just does not make sense.”

  He tossed his ruined sandwich into the trash, opened the door, and motioned for them to follow him out of the break room and over to his desk. Rifling through stacks of papers he located the one he sought and handed it to her. “Remember this e-­mail we recovered from Silas Graham’s computer?” With his pointer finger he indicated the relevant text.

  The situation is most desperate as Zeus has a clever attorney, and I fear this counselor will urge him to save his own life in exchange for ours.

  Baskin shook his head. “We’ve established that Zeus was Judd Kramer’s online handle. Baumgartner therefore is the counselor who supposedly urged him to make a deal, thus putting Labyrinth as a group in danger. Therefore . . .” He looked up. “Stay with me here. Therefore, when the Man in the Maze sent this e-­mail to Graham, ordering him to eliminate Zeus and his counselor, he’s ordering Baumgartner’s assassination.” Baskin held up one finger. “So now then, which one of you wants to explain to me why, if Harvey Baumgartner was in fact the Man in the Maze, he would order a hit on himself.”

  “Clearly, he didn’t.” Spense said, his expression unfazed, then checked his watch. “And I’d be happy to explain myself, but we need to pick this up later. It’s complicated, and right now, Caity and I have a meeting with Elizabeth Johnson. We need her cooperation and, I don’t want to be late for our appointment.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Three

  Tuesday, September 24

  Papa’s Restaurant

  Paradise Valley, Arizona

  ELIZABETH JOHNSON LOOKED like a redheaded angel with the sunlight from the diner window spotlighting her flowing hair and creamy complexion. Huddled into a booth across from Caitlin and Spense, the girl’s expression was demure to the point of submission, and Caitlin was grateful she’d somehow found the courage to slip her that note as they were leaving the Baumgartner mansion. “Thanks for meeting us, Elizabeth. Agent Spenser and I are here to listen to whatever you have to tell us. We only want to help.”