Sasha McCandless 02 - Inadvertent Disclosure

by Melissa F. Miller

  From behind his desk, she switched on Judge Paulson’s green-shaded banker’s lamp and surveyed the room by its soft light. The furniture was masculine and well made. The colors were all dark purples and reds. It was dignified but understated, like the judge.

  Someone, probably Russell, had covered the bullet hole in the window behind with a square of cardboard secured by a silver X of duct tape and had removed the oval rug where the judge had fallen along with his body. Those were the only two discordant notes in the room. She never would have guessed the judge had been murdered right there just hours earlier.

  Why Stickley hadn’t sealed chambers as a crime scene was beyond her.

  Sasha shook thoughts of the judge’s death from her mind and picked up her pen. She started to free write, as quickly as she could, jotting down her impressions from the day first, and then worked backward to create a history of all of her interactions with anyone in Springport from the time of the discovery hearing.

  She would label the notes “privileged and confidential attorney work product” on each page, so she scrawled everything that came to mind onto the paper. In the past, through this exercise her subconscious mind hadn’t given her the tools to solve more legal problems than she could count. Now, she hoped it could solve a murder.

  She’d written more than a dozen pages when a muffled thud interrupted her train of thought. She stopped writing and sat motionless. She listened hard for a minute. Heard nothing but the hum of an old building after hours.

  She resumed her writing. Then she heard the jangle of a brass handle being jiggled and a desk drawer rolling smoothly on its track.

  Someone was in the outside office opening one of Gloria’s desk drawers.

  If it had been the secretary coming back for something she’d forgotten, she’d have called out to Sasha. This was someone else. Someone who didn’t know Sasha was behind the door in the judge’s chambers.

  She silently laid the pen on the pad. Then she reached over and slowly turned the knob on the lamp to shut out the light, cringing when it gave an audible click.

  She waited.

  Outside a drawer bumped shut and a second one rolled open. She had to decide. Stick it out in chambers and hope whoever was outside left without checking the interior office or open the door and confront the intruder.

  Krav Maga theory said never go to the fight. But she wasn’t interested in being the second person to die in Judge Paulson’s chambers. If the intruder opened the door, she’d have nowhere to go. If she opened the door, she’d have options. And the element of surprise.

  Her heart thrummed in her ears.

  Another drawer banged closed in Gloria’s desk.

  She stood and kicked off her heels. She prowled the room. Her bare toes sunk into the thick, plush carpet, which swallowed any noise her footsteps might have made.

  She scanned all visible surfaces for an improvised weapon. The best option would have been the coat rack if she were taller, but it would be too unwieldy for someone her height. She didn’t want to risk the noise of opening the judge’s desk drawers to search for a letter opener or a pair of scissors. Her eyes fell on the bookcase. On a shelf three-quarters of the way up, nestled between a leather-bound law copy of Black’s Law Dictionary and a set of law review journals sat a ceremonial gavel.

  She crept over and stretched to reach it. Couldn’t. She swore under her breath. Stretched again, straining to gain an eighth of an inch more height, but it was still out of reach.

  She couldn’t drag a chair over. Too noisy. She eyed the bookcase again and considered climbing up on the shelves. The problem was she had no idea how sturdy they were. If she pulled the whole thing down on herself it would make a racket and she’d be trapped underneath when the intruder came to investigate. No good.

  Outside, on the other side of the substantial walnut door, the person had moved from Gloria’s desk to the row of filing cabinets that lined the wall beside the door to chambers. When she opened the door, he might have his head down looking through the drawers, but he’d be facing her. It was always better to assume one’s opponent was a male when gender was unknown. That way you wouldn’t underestimate your foe’s strength.

  If she could just reach that gavel. She walked through it in her mind. She could pull the door open and swing the gavel all in one motion. She’d have an excellent shot at the top of his head.

  Let it go. You can’t reach the gavel.

  Time for a plan B. If he was bent over the filing cabinet, he’d be low enough: she could burst through the door, rear back, and smash him with a head butt. The human forehead made an excellent blunt weapon, if a person could force herself to literally rush headlong into a collision with someone else’s head.

  Her mind made up, she moved toward the door.

  As she put her hand on the knob, she heard the outside door ease open and shut softly. Whoever had been out there had left.

  She ran back to the desk and scooped up her notes with shaking hands. It was time to go.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sasha walked the block and a half to the Burkes’ home at a good clip. She didn’t run, but she moved with purpose and paid close attention to her surroundings. She passed one couple walking a puppy that hadn’t yet grown into its paws, and, at the traffic light, Sheriff Stickley rolled through the intersection in his black and white and gave her a half wave.

  That was it. No one else was out and about in Springport.

  She reached the red brick house. Low hedges edged the walkway to the porch. They were too short to provide cover to an assailant, but Sasha remained alert anyway. A man had died today. It was no time to be complacent about personal safety.

  With that thought front and center, Sasha darted up the stairs to the porch and rang the bell. Then she turned around and faced the street while she waited for Gloria to answer the door. As the sound of footsteps grew louder inside the house, Sasha turned around to see a heavyset man peering through the glass at the top of the door. He smiled at her as he opened it.

  “Well,” he said, “Gloria said you were a wee thing. You must be Sasha. I’m Jonas Burke. C’mon in.”

  He reached out to shake her hand and led her into the foyer. While he shut and locked the door, an antique gun cabinet in the front room caught her eye. One door hung open, and there was an empty space in the collection. Her gaze fell to Jonas’s waistband. A telltale lump poked out from under his sweater.

  He followed her gaze and gave her a sheepish smile; then he hurried over and closed the display cabinet door, checking to confirm it had locked.

  “Jonas,” Gloria called from the back of the house, “you bring Sasha in here, now.”

  “Oh, boy,” he chuckled. “Gloria’s been cooking up a storm ever since she got home. Since our kids flew the coop for college, she hasn’t had anyone to mother. Consider yourself warned.”

  “How many children do you have?” Sasha asked as she trailed him along a hallway. She figured the answer was two, judging by the portraits that lined the hall on both walls, tracing the growth of a towheaded boy and a serious-looking, freckled girl, but it was easy conversation.

  “Two. Our Linnea is at Bucknell, studying history. Her older brother, Luke, graduated last year. Got his degree in geoengineering. Didn’t know what the devil he’d do with that, but it turns out all those oil and gas companies were knocking on his door before the ink on his diploma was dry.”

  Even without being able to see his face, Sasha could tell the proud father was beaming.

  “Does he work here in town, then?”

  “Nope, afraid not. Much to Gloria’s eternal dismay, he’s at the corporate headquarters in Texas, rotating through some management training program they’ve got. Right now, he’s attached to the public relations department but he’s itching to finish that up and get some mud on his boots. I keep tellin’ him, management is the way to go. Especially at a place like Big Sky. But, you know kids, he just wants to be out in the field.”

  Sasha wa
s surprised Gloria hadn’t mentioned that her son worked at Big Sky earlier.

  They entered the brightly lit kitchen. Gloria was standing at the stove, stirring something in a copper pot. A loaf pan was cooling on the counter and the smell of freshly baked bread met Sasha at the doorway.

  “I’m just finishing this up. It seemed like the sort of day that called for stew. Jonas’ll show you the judge’s apartment. I already fed the cats. Why don’t you settle in and then come down and eat?”

  “That’s really too kind of you. It smells wonderful.”

  Ordinarily, Sasha would’ve begged off, but she wanted to talk to the woman about the intruder in the office.

  “Oh, my, uh, friend from Pittsburgh is driving up with some things I need. My computer, a change of clothes. Is it okay if he stays the night?” Her cheeks burned.

  She was a grown woman, but here she was, asking someone else’s mother for permission to have her boyfriend sleep over. And, to top it off, she couldn’t even bring herself to call Connelly her boyfriend. It sounded ridiculous to her; she was in her thirties, after all.

  Gloria just chuckled. “I never inquired about the judge’s overnight guests. I don’t suppose I’ll be inquiring about yours. Will your friend be joining us for supper?”

  “Oh, he’s going to be awhile.”

  “That’s no problem. This’ll keep just fine. We’ll hold dinner until your friend gets here.” She said it in a tone that didn’t invite discussion.

  Jonas motioned for Sasha to follow him.

  At the other end of the kitchen, a door led to a narrow stairway. As they mounted the stairs, he explained the layout of the house.

  “So, this house is very old. It was built in the 1920s or so. There’s this back stairway. I guess the staff used this back in the day. Then, there’s the formal stairs in the front. Now, we’ll give you the key to the judge’s private outside entrance, though truth be told, he quit using that a few years back. It’s a metal staircase attached to the side of the house. I think the climb, especially in the dark, was getting to be a bit much for him. He mainly used this staircase instead.”

  On the second floor, the stairway ended, and they turned a tight corner in the hallway and ended up in another stairway to the third floor.

  As they wound their way up, Jonas continued, “Our bedroom’s in the front of the house on the second floor. There’s a guest room up front, too, but Gloria uses that for her scrapbooking. Down that hallway we just went through, in the back, are the kids’ old rooms and their shared bathroom.”

  At the top of the stairs, the doorway opened up to a small square space, lit by a dim ceiling light. “Now, this light’s on a timer. It’ll come on at sunset and go off at eleven. That’s when the judge retired for the night. If you want to override it, go right ahead.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  He took a key ring with a green rubberized tag advertising a locksmith’s service from his shirt pocket, eased a key into the lock on the white wooden door, and jangled it until it turned.

  “Here you go.” He handed the keys to Sasha and flipped on the lights. Two calico cats—one fat, one thin—darted into the entryway from somewhere in the apartment and wrapped themselves around his legs, mewling and purring. He bent to pet them.

  “Poor things,” he said, looking at the cats, not at her. “I guess we’ll keep them. The judge’s son is active duty military. He can’t take ‘em.”

  The fat cat collapsed on its side and rolled over to show its belly. Jonas rubbed it and the cat arched in joy. Its thinner friend pranced over to Sasha and sniffed her outstretched hand.

  “Who are you?” Sasha asked, “Atticus Finch or Sir Thomas More?”

  The cat butted against her hand with its head.

  “That there’s Atticus Finch. This plump fella is Sir Thomas More.” Jonas gave the cat a scratch under its chin and stood.

  He walked into a spotless galley kitchen to the right of the door and flicked the light on. The cats trailed behind.

  “Help yourself to any food or anything, I guess.” He gestured toward the refrigerator and the cabinets beside it.

  Sasha saw a small countertop microwave. No dishwasher, so Connelly would have to show some restraint. His cooking was the stuff of her dreams, but it apparently required him to dirty every pot, pan, and utensil she owned. There was a tea kettle on the stovetop but no coffeemaker on the counter. She mentally awarded Connelly a gold star for thinking to bring hers.

  Jonas turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Bath’s over there,” he said, pointing to a short hallway on the left. “Bedroom is behind it. Gloria stripped the bed and put on a set of our guest sheets. Towels are in the bathroom.”

  He stood in the middle of the main living space and turned in a slow circle. “So, uh, I guess that’s it.”

  “I really can’t thank you and Gloria enough.”

  He waved off her gratitude. “We’re glad someone from outside is going to be looking into the judge’s death. He was a good man,” he said with a catch in his voice. “He didn’t deserve . . . this.”

  He cleared his throat. “You go ahead and get settled. Come on down whenever you’re ready. Like Gloria said, the stew’ll keep till your friend arrives.”

  He bent to pet Atticus Finch and then walked through the door, closing it behind him.

  Sasha walked through the tidy apartment. It was decorated in the same spare style as the judge’s chambers. The living area housed a chocolate brown leather loveseat and a matching oversized chair and ottoman. A red and blue area rug anchored the room. One wall was lined with books. A low sofa table held framed pictures of a serious-looking man in a military dress uniform, a yellowing black and white wedding portrait of a much younger Judge Paulson and his bride, and a recent color photograph of the judge with Chief Justice Bermann. They were both in suits, sitting at a table covered with a white tablecloth, smiling up at the photographer. They appeared to be at some kind of reception or benefit dinner judging by the uninspired centerpiece and uneaten chicken dinners on the table.

  She poked her head into the narrow bathroom. A clawfoot tub with a shower head hanging from a bar above it took up most of the floor space.

  She continued down the hallway to the bedroom. A king bed with a dark wood headboard faced a matching dresser. Gloria must have used her daughter’s bedding to make up the bed, because the pale yellow and pink striped sheets and white eyelet blanket looked wildly out of place in the masculine room. In the corner, a tan armchair sat next to a small table piled high with a neat stack of papers and legal journals.

  Burgundy drapes covered most of the far wall. She tugged on the rope to pull them back, revealing a large square window. It looked out over the Burkes’ backyard and the alley running behind their wooden fence. Next to the window was a glass door. She peered out through the glass. Metal steps led from a cement pad in the backyard, up the side of the house, and stopped at the door. She could see why Judge Paulson had abandoned his private entrance.

  She twisted the knob to confirm the door was locked. There was no deadbolt. She stood with her hand pressed against the cold glass and stared out into the yard, unseeing and lost in thought, until an insistent meowing shook her out of her musing.

  Sir Thomas More took a running start and hefted himself up onto the judge’s bed. Atticus Finch followed close behind and with a good deal more grace.

  “You guys are looking for the judge, aren’t you?” Sasha said, going over to sit on the edge of the bed beside them. “He’s not going to be coming back.”

  Atticus Finch meowed at her.

  She stroked his back.

  “The Burkes are going to take good care of you,” she told them.

  Sir Thomas More purred his agreement and rolled himself into a ball. She sat there, petting the cats, while she pulled out her phone to call Connelly.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hey, I’m still about a half hour away. Are you at the judge’s?”

&n
bsp; “I am. When you get to town, drive straight through on Main, turn right at the light at Primrose Street. The Burkes live in the fourth house down on the left. I guess you can just park on the street.”

  “Great. Have you had dinner? I have the Thai chicken. I can assemble it there.”

  “I haven’t eaten and that sounds divine, but we’ll have to save it for tomorrow. The Burkes are holding dinner for us. Or supper, they call it. Stew and homemade bread. It’d be rude not to eat with them. Plus . . ..” She trailed off and rubbed Sir Thomas More’s head.

  “Plus?”

  “Plus, I need to talk to them. Someone was rifling around in Gloria’s desk and filing cabinets after she left the courthouse. Someone’s looking for something. If they think she has it . . ..” Her voice trailed off again, but this time Connelly didn’t need to ask.

  “Understood.”

  “Hey,” she said, just remembering. “Did anything pop in the Guardian database when you ran Danny Trees’s account number?”

  There was silence on the line.

  For a minute she thought she’d lost the call, but then he said, “Not exactly. Let’s talk about it later.”

  * * * * * * * * * *

  After a rib-sticking dinner with the Burkes, Sasha and Connelly returned to Judge Paulson’s apartment and opened a bottle of his wine. It was strange and awkward to sit in a dead man’s apartment, drinking his pinot noir out of his wine glasses, but Jonas and Gloria had repeatedly urged them to make themselves at home.

  They sat sideways on the judge’s loveseat, facing each other, with their backs against the armrests and their knees bent. It was a cozy arrangement, but one that was sure to become uncomfortable halfway through the first glass of wine.

  Connelly said it. “You know she’s lying, right?”

  Sasha sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees. She knew.