Veil. Part 5

The agent abruptly fell back.

A leggy blonde in a plain charcoal gray business suit approached them. Before she spoke, Robert knew she was FBI or Secret Service bra.s.s. Definitely not CIA. Company agents would have let Thorne and Sams fight, then sort it out later.

"I'm Special Agent in Charge Marilyn London, FBI. This morning the Bureau a.s.signed me as lead on this case, and told me to make sure you were given full access."

Agent Sams sneered and stormed outside.

"Sorry about the inconvenience," Agent London continued. "You know how it is when you p.i.s.s in somebody's pond."

"We're invited to this party," said Robert, shaking her hand. Her grip impressed him. "This is no way to treat a guest." Agent London smiled, extended her hand to Thorne, and was left hanging.

"I'll get started Robert," said Thorne, eyeing the agent suspiciously.

Agent London stood there, mouth agape.

"She's not one to insult," said Robert, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"Well, maybe she should get laid," Marilyn responded, abruptly walking toward the den. Robert eyed her figure. Nice. He shook off the trance. I'm the one who needs to get laid.

The den, as Robert expected, housed columns of shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with walls of books. Loose papers cluttered a round oak table and the judge's desk. Judge Weiss, clad in a half b.u.t.toned tropical shirt and khaki pants, lay dead on the floor behind the desk next to a computer workstation, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, eyes open. Photographers snapped pictures, while Thorne moved about the carnage with her camcorder.

"As you can see, His Honor and Mrs. Weiss were on their way out of town," said Agent London. "We found two tickets to the Cayman Islands on the dresser upstairs."

"Anything missing?" asked Robert "Credit cards and ten thousand in cash were found untouched on the dresser next to the tickets. We checked the judge's bank records and it's the exact amount he withdrew on Friday. This is definitely our guy.

Besides, he left us a little gift on the bed next to Mrs. Weiss. I'll show it to you later."

Robert removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt down, gently lifting the judge's head off the floor. It felt loose, like a tetherball on a string. The esophagus, crushed. He lowered the head back down on the emerald green carpet; the crunch of vertebrae vibrating in his hand. Deep black and blue bruises covered the throat. The eyes, open, blank and gla.s.sy, glistened like a couple of well-matched marbles.

Robert detected the scent of cologne, Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men.

The half b.u.t.toned shirt exposed a small amount of salt and pepper hair on the judge's chest. Robert opened it all the way. An Air Force skull and crossbones tattoo, surrounded by the words "Mess with the best, die like the rest. AF 463 Vietnam" sat cold. One navy blue deck shoe clung to the judges' right foot; Robert saw the other underneath the desk. A diamond encrusted wedding band shimmered on the magistrate's finger. Out of place in such a gruesome scene.

Thorne knelt down to get a better shot of the bruises.

"The judge tried to defend himself," said Marilyn. "In addition to the broken nose, bruised face and neck, you'll also notice bruising and swelling around the knuckles."

"Well, he certainly didn't go as easy as the others," said Robert. "I bet he caught our Russian friend off guard, but never had a chance." Marilyn agreed and stepped over to the gun cabinet. "He picked the lock and came in through the back door. We believe things started upstairs."

"What about the alarm?" asked Robert, a smirk on his face. He knew the system the judge installed to be grossly inferior. He'd inspected it himself only a few weeks earlier and suggested an upgrade.

"He beat it without a hitch," said Marilyn, smiling as though she could read his mind. "No wonder. I think he bought it at Toys R Us." Robert returned the smile then examined the gun cabinet. Impressive.

He counted fifteen guns. Several immediately caught his eye, including a very rare Model 1803 U.S. Flintlock rifle dating back to the Lewis and Clark Expedition, an almost extinct Israeli Mauser, and a Colt Z 40 semi-automatic, highly prized by collectors and nearly impossible to find.

Robert shook his head in sad disgust.

"Yeah, I know," said Marilyn. "All this firepower didn't do the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d a bit of good."

"Anything missing?"

"No, nothing was taken," said Marilyn. "We found the gun inventory in his desk. Every weapon is accounted for." Robert smiled. He liked Agent London. Beautiful and smart, she appeared to be tough. None of which hurt if a woman wanted to succeed in a man's world.

"Looks like Mrs. Weiss walked in on them, dropped her packages and ran upstairs," she continued. "Obviously the Bear wasn't expecting her." Robert examined the packages. Neiman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Prada, spread randomly in front of the study's door. "Well, let's have a look at the Mrs.," he said, standing.

Robert stole another look at Agent London's firm hips and sultry walk as they climbed the soft-carpeted stairs. Thorne shook her head.

Her eyes saying keep it zipped up big boy. His partner wasn't the jealous type, but somehow Agent London had landed on Thorne's bad side. A barren place where one stayed for an eternity.

The master bedroom took up most of the second floor. A large marble fireplace dominated, and two inviting, soft leather recliners faced it. Impressive artwork adorned the walls, and the oversized custom bed, the largest he'd ever seen, made Robert wonder just how much a federal judge earned.

Sprawled across the flowered peach comforter, face down, naked, lay Mrs. Weiss. Her neck, unceremoniously twisted, looked more like coiled rope than a human appendage. Her left eye bulged. Her right, swollen shut. Horror plastered her face, and blood trickled down each side of her mouth.

Robert moved closer.

A red puddle soaked the bedding below her r.e.c.t.u.m. Her left arm a pretzel, it dangled off one side of the bed. A dazzling marquis diamond ring sparkled on her finger.

"He chased her upstairs and kicked in the door," said Marilyn, pointing to the bare hinges. "No flesh under her nails or bruises on her torso. Except for the eyes there're no other marks on her face."

"She gave in to him," said Robert, in a whisper.

"We believe so," said Marilyn. "She tried to cooperate to save her life, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d killed her anyway."

"No witnesses," said Robert. "It's a Russian Mafia rule. Men, women, children and the family dog, it doesn't matter. If they're at the scene when a hit takes place, they die."

Robert examined the body carefully and gave the bedroom one last look. Thorne recorded as many details as possible. After writing down a few notes of his own, he removed his gloves and returned them to his pocket. "You mentioned he left a little gift," said Robert. "Let's have a look at it."

Marilyn asked all of the other agents and forensic team to leave.

When the room cleared she walked over to Robert, arms across her chest.

"You know, most of the agents aren't too keen on having you and your partner b.u.t.t in," she said.

"No s.h.i.t Sherlock. We went over all this downstairs," said Robert, more than a little impatient. "And who cares anyway. Like I said before, they didn't hire us, the head bra.s.s did."

"I know, I know," said Marilyn. "You have full access. It's just that some question your effectiveness. After all, the entire local and Federal law enforcement system is on the case."

"Yet Judge Weiss and his wife are dead," said Thorne. "I'm sure they appreciate the government's effort."

Marilyn looked her up and down. Then, what started out as a look of contempt, morphed into an insincere, sly smile. She pulled a small plastic bag from her pocket and handed it to Robert, her gaze never leaving Thorne's.

Robert ignored the two and moved to the window for light. America: You have spent years causing pain and suffering all over the world, for no other reason than your own personal gain and greed. I watched your hypocrisy in the Middle East during what you called Iraqi Freedom, and I've burned with hatred as you've used and abused my brothers and sisters in Russia, pretending to offer support and a helping hand while all the time spying and plotting behind our backs. Men, women, and children continue to die because of your treachery and dishonesty. Your system of justice is a prime example of your bad faith and pretense of piety and virtue. Now you will know pain and suffering, and I will continue to deliver blows to your system of justice, unto death.

The Bear "We'll need a copy of this as soon as possible," said Robert, handing back the letter.

"I'll see what I can do," she said. "I can't make any promises."

"Exactly what's the problem?" Thorne demanded.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch. I'm just the messenger," Marilyn snapped.

Thorne walked forward, Marilyn didn't back down. Robert jockeyed between them and turned toward his partner. "Thorne, wait for me outside."

Thorne hesitated, then moved back. "We don't need this Robert, and I won't take it. Not off her, or any of these other sorry a.s.s stuffed shirts."

"I know," he said. "I know. Wait for me outside. I'll handle it." Thorne pierced Marilyn with her eyes, and left the room.

Agent London seemed amused. "Next time," she mouthed in Thorne's direction.

"That was out of line, Agent London," said Robert.

"She had it coming, and feel free to call me Marilyn. We're going to be working together so let's kill the formalities. At least when it's just the two of us."

She walked over to Robert and stood chest to chest, a playful, inquisitive look on her face. "Exactly who at the Justice Department is backing you?"

"That's cla.s.sified," said Robert. "Let's just say you'll probably never reach that high."

"Oh you'd be surprised," said Marilyn. "You're not the only one who likes this pretty blonde a.s.s of mine." Robert walked toward the door.

"Mr. Veil," Marilyn called. "If you can stop this guy, fine. If not, then you're wasting time and money."

Robert turned. "You can call me Robert, and we've never missed yet.

Furthermore, this is the sixth judge the Bear's killed and you haven't got a clue. So I think you can use all the help you can get." Robert started out of the bedroom, then stopped. "And next time you f.u.c.k with Thorne, I won't stop her. Trust me, it'll be the last person you f.u.c.k with for a long, long time."

"Stop, you're making me all weepy and nervous." Robert smiled and left the room. Lady, you have no idea.

Outside, Thorne leaned against her SUV, smiling. "I wasn't going to kill the cow, just rough her up a bit."

"Yeah right," said Robert. "Remember, I've seen you get rough." Thorne laughed.

Robert surveyed the grounds once, making sure they didn't miss anything. "So what'd you think?"

"He had it staked out ahead of time just like the others. Knew exactly when to strike and expected the judge to be alone. His wife bought it by accident."

"That means he's definitely not choosing them at random," said Robert. "He has a plan and we don't have a clue. Let's get an updated list of judges and note any who've turned down protection. We better review your tape. Maybe there's something we've missed." Robert's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID but didn't recognize the number and ignored it. A few seconds later, it rang again, same number. This time he answered.

"Mr. Veil, this is the D.C. police department calling from the Crossroads Rescue Mission."

"Yes?"

"It's about Patrick Miller. He's dead."

7.

"Mommy, can we go to the movies, or the arcade or something?"

"No Jessica. We've already discussed it and the answer is still no." Fiona Patrick felt bad confining her daughter to the yard. The weather finally shifted and the sun stayed out all day. Perfect, except for the federal agents watching her house.

"We suggest you and your daughter keep close to home, until the Bear is apprehended," they told her.

In all her years as a lawyer, prosecutor, public defender, and now, federal judge, she'd never been frightened or worried, despite dealings with some of the worst murdering gutter-sc.u.m in the world. Drug dealers, bank robbers, child molesters, and gangsters stood before her bench, sometimes promising death, and she never once so much as flinched. However, she didn't have Jessica for most of those years, and her husband John stood by her. Now, with him gone, life demanded she handle things differently.

"Honey, why don't we go inside and play video games? How about a little Play Station?"

"No! I want to go out!" Jessica shouted, her bottom lip poking out.

"We haven't been anywhere for almost a week!"

"I know honey and I'm sorry. It won't be for much longer." I hope.

"This is no way to treat an eight year old. I'm almost an adult." Jessica stomped her foot like a horse counting out numbers at a carnival sideshow, arms folded defiantly across her chest.

"Well, I don't know about that, but tell you what. If you're good and change that att.i.tude, we'll go out to dinner later, maybe even the arcade or the movies. In fact, let's do it."

Fiona kissed Jessica on the cheek. Normally she'd punish her for such an outrageous outburst, but she was a little stir crazy herself.

Getting out would give them both a break, and they were going no matter what the federal stiffs said. She didn't like living in fear.

Tonight we're going to have a normal night out, I don't care what the Secret Service says.

"Okay mom," said Jessica, a look of great satisfaction on her face.

"Deal!" Jessica ran off into the yard, jumped on her bike, and sped away-her lips spitting motorcycle bursts.

"Be careful honey, it's still a little slippery out," Fiona shouted.

Jessica disappeared without a word.

Several trucks filled with yard workers and equipment pulled through the gates. With spring finally peeking through, she thought it a good idea to have her flower gardens tilled. Just the therapy I need. I'll ask Fernando if we can plant the rose bush bulbs I flew in from South America.

The crew unloaded the truck. Fiona took a cleansing breath. She loved the therapy of working in the garden. She and John often worked in it together, and he loved it as much as she did, maybe more. She smiled, remembering the night Jessica was conceived there, and ached for John even more.

She watched two Secret Service agents, on loan to her from the White House, speak to Fernando, her head caretaker. The agents finished, and the Guatemalan landscaper made his way to her, all smiles and waves.

"Good afternoon Fernando," she said, smiling and shaking his hand.

"I'm sorry about the inconvenience. I hope they won't be in your way."

"No ma'am, don't be sorry. I read about the crazy man that's killing judges and I worry about you. Don't be sorry."

"Thank you Fernando. Do you think it's too early to turn the soil and plant rose bulbs?"