A Judge's Secrets Read online

  Until now she had prided herself on her independence and strength. However, looking deeper into herself, those qualities were also her weaknesses. They held her in place as much as they pushed her forward.

  Would she ever be enough? Or was such a thing even possible?

  There were days when enough seemed nearly doable, but then things like this happened and the world rained its anger down—not just on her, but everyone who wanted to do something good. Or was good also an illusion?

  What was the point of all the anger, hate and pain that came with living if good, right and just were only illusions?

  “I always hate when people tell me I look tired,” Evan started, glancing over at her. “But if you are half as tired as you look—”

  She waved him to a stop. “That’s just a way of politely telling people that they look like crap, and you don’t need to tell me. I feel it.” She tried to smile, the simple action some kind of gesture of appeasement in order to help him understand that she wasn’t upset with his assessment of her. “From the look on your face, it’s clear you have something you don’t want to tell me. What is it?”

  He glanced down at his hands and then back up at her.

  Judy cleared her throat. “I will go put a kettle on for tea. If anyone wants to warm up, you know.” She excused herself.

  Evan strode over to the couch and sat down on the edge, steepling his fingers between his knees as he attempted to collect himself before speaking. She wanted to tell him to just start talking, to tell her everything that was on his mind and what he had found out, but terror rattled through her. Whatever he was about to tell her was going to be the kind of ugliness that tore a soul apart.

  Finally, his gaze found hers. “Did you ever hear about the Unabomber?”

  She nodded, her throat tightening with his every syllable.

  “Did you ever hear about his bombs, his signature? You know the way the FBI was finally able to tie him to several of his devices?”

  She shook her head.

  “In every one of his bombs, there was a metal plate—usually in the end of the pipes. He would stamp initials into them—FC. And even though many of these plates were destroyed in the explosion, the FBI’s teams were able to reconstruct them.”

  She didn’t know what the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, had to do with what she was going through. He was in prison, and definitely not responsible for these bombs.

  “The FBI found a metal plate, similar to what the Unabomber used.”

  “What?” she asked. “Have you been working with the FBI?”

  “My team is working with Agent Hart from the Missoula office. He was nice enough to send us a copy of the bomb’s parts to see if we could make sense of it.” He swallowed hard, making her wonder what else he held back.

  No doubt he had more contacts in the Bureau and every other alphabet soup acronym agency from a variety of governments. And here she had assumed, up until now, that she was the one with all the political pull. He could probably work over her head, if he needed to. Hopefully, she would never have to find out if she was right or not.

  “Anyhow,” he continued, “have you ever heard of Rockwood?”

  She did a quick inventory, but couldn’t think of anything offhand and she shook her head.

  “They are a manufacturing company, one with a desire to be involved in helping to develop weapons for the government. They have been known to do some questionable things in order to try and get their hands on manufacturing contracts, including but not limited to murder and blackmailing international diplomats.”

  “And you think they have something to do with the bombing?” she asked, confused how a company she had never heard of would have anything to do with her attempted murder.

  Attempted murder. The words made a chill run down her spine.

  “We aren’t sure if it’s just a coincidence or indication of a larger issue, but there has been a recurring issue with Rockwood in and around Missoula County and a variety of businesses that work in that sector. Which leads me to my next question, and while I think I know the answer, I have to ask.” He searched her face, but she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “What?” she asked, hoping to quell some of the thrashing in her chest.

  “Have you had anything to do with any other kinds of work, aside from the normal comings and goings of your position as judge?” He didn’t blink.

  “Are you asking if I have another job...with a separate acronym-laden government agency? No.” She shook her head vehemently. Working in the CIA or similar agencies would have been a conflict of interest, but she found it a bit of an ego boost that he would think her capable of that.

  His lips tightened and he let out a metered breath. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  And then it hit her. He was asking if she was on the take, crooked in her dealings. “Evan. You wouldn’t.” She sat down on the ledge in front of the fireplace at the center of the room. The fire was crackling behind her, but she didn’t feel its heat—only the raging fire that swept up from her core at his accusation.

  He remained silent. She had expected him to recant, to see what his words had done to her and work to retract them before they had a chance to really burn through her, but he didn’t. He simply stood there, watching her. He really was a shadow team man; only those like him could ignore the tension and weight in a room in order to get the answers that they needed. She had thought she’d had the same strength, but she could feel herself charring under his gaze.

  “I haven’t been a judge for long,” she started, but her voice cracked with unwelcome hurt and it forced her to clear her throat. “Even if I had been a judge for decades, I wouldn’t act in a way that was less than honorable. I pride myself on my integrity. I wouldn’t compromise myself for money.”

  He nodded, but the power in his eyes remained the same. “Money isn’t always the greatest motivator. Many things can make a person act against their character and better judgment if a person is given the right opportunity and motivation.”

  That was an element of crime she knew all about. And she hated that he thought he could interrogate her like she was on the stand. She could feel the growl forming in her throat, primal and deep. Wolfish.

  Silence. Stealth could be one of the greatest assets in a predator’s arsenal. This was one of those times in which she needed to bare her teeth, but only when the moment was right.

  But it felt wrong that she would look at him this way. He wasn’t her prey. He was a fellow predator; an alpha wolf just like her. He had stood at her side and helped her get out of danger, and oh, the way he kissed her lips. If anything, they were the leaders of the pack. They were to stand tall together, not fight amongst themselves.

  But he was wrong if he thought he could attack her credibility in any way and not get bit.

  “Judge DeSalvo, Natalie.” He said her name like it was a whisper on his lips and it made her anger dissipate. “I’m not saying that you have done anything. Know that. All I’m asking is that if you have any dealings that I don’t know about that could have caused this, it is best if you tell me now. I’m a safe place for you, but I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

  “You know everything,” she said, nearly snarling. “I am not that kind of judge. If you don’t believe me, then you can leave right now.”

  His eyes opened wide. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “But you don’t believe me?”

  “Your reaction, that tells me everything I needed to know. Thank you,” he said, sounding apologetic but resigned to his method.

  “You wanted to make me upset? To get me to a point where I could visualize punching you directly in the nose?”

  “Your indignation—it comes from innocence, not fraud,” he said, sending her a soft look.

  Now she wasn’t sure what she was more upset with—him for
how he had made her feel or herself for allowing him to emotionally hijack her in this way.

  In one of her many classes in college, she had a professor who had spoken on the psychology of crime. She had told the class that to treat feelings as if they were not one of the primary senses—with the same driving needs as hunger or sex—was a mistake. Feelings, in many ways, were often even more of a critical sense than any of the others. They controlled everything, and could be used to control and manipulate a person if they weren’t aware.

  It wasn’t like she didn’t face her feelings every day when she was sitting in the courtroom. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t feel hate and disgust when shown many of the things she was required to see. Most of the time she could restrain herself, set her jaw and listen while allowing the time and the lawyers to move forward. She rarely lost her cool, but Evan had broken her down in just a matter of minutes.

  What did that mean—was it good that he could make her feel when so many others tried and failed, or was it bad for the very same reason?

  She sucked in a long breath and exhaled, forcing the questions from her mind. Right now her emotions didn’t matter. They had to go back into the little vault at the bottom of her soul where they would remain in perpetuity.

  “Now that we have established that I can be trusted, and I hope you can be trusted, what else did you find?” She adjusted the knees of her pants like they were her robe and she was back in her domain.

  He furrowed his brows. “In addition to the initials, the FBI sent us the results of their analysis of the chemicals and chemical signatures from the bomb at the courthouse. They want to talk to you, obviously, but we’ve told them you’re in a safe house for now, and you’ll be sending a statement.”

  “Okay, good. I’m glad. Anything of note in the bomb analysis?” Was he going to ask her if she manufactured chemicals and distributed them now, as well? “Did they come from Rockwood’s facilities?”

  He shook his head. “No, but the chemicals used were odd.”

  “How so?” She straightened her back.

  “I’m sure you are aware, but there are several different classes of fires. Yes?”

  She had sat on the bench for a few arson fires, but they had been few and far between and even then, her knowledge of firefighting practices was sparse. “Okay,” she said, not sounding overly convincing.

  “There are a variety of classes, A, B, C, D and K—all depending on the combustion sources and the requirements needed to combat each type of fire.”

  She nodded.

  “The bomb that this person, or group, placed under your vehicle was created with Class D combustible materials. Meaning they used metals, alkalis to be precise, to create a hot fire that would engulf your entire car.”

  “So whoever did this not only wanted me dead, but they wanted to destroy my body, as well?”

  His face pinched. “I don’t want to jump to that.”

  Whether he wanted to jump to that or not, it meant something. Someone who perpetuated this level of attack was enraged. They had been pushed to the brink in order to rise to this level of violence and harm. They hated her.

  Which meant their attacker either had some sort of mental illness that caused psychosis, or it was likely a person who knew her—and knew her well.

  Her chills returned.

  “The compounds that they chose to use to create a Class D fire is what got my attention. According to the chemical analysis, the fire was created by using zinc phosphide.”

  Now he was officially speaking Greek to her. He must have known, based on the look on her face, that she didn’t understand.

  “It’s okay. I had to do a little digging and make a few phone calls to understand, too. Zinc phosphide is used as a rodent killer. Farmers and ranchers kill pests in their fields with it, but few know about its use as a fire catalyst.”

  She was thankful she had decided to shove her emotions away. She wasn’t sure that she could handle all the ramifications that would come with picking apart all the facets of the attack.

  “What about the new bomb? Was it made the same way?”

  He shrugged. “We are trying to neutralize the bomb, and then my team is going to take it to the Missoula crime lab. I’m not sure if they are going to try and detonate and then analyze or try and work with the bomb as it is. As this attack is the third on a judge, I think they may try to keep the bomb intact.”

  “I don’t want anyone to put themselves in harm’s way over this. If we get the choice, I would prefer whoever is working with this does this in the least dangerous way. Can you let them know?”

  “I’m sure that they will be safe,” he said, walking over to her and putting his hand on her shoulder. “I think it really says something amazing about you that you put the safety of others ahead of the needs of yourself.”

  She didn’t want to blush, but she could feel her cheeks warm. “It just doesn’t make sense. We will get this perpetrator one way or another.”

  His fingers pressed against her, and she wanted to move her body closer to his and lean on him, but she stopped herself.

  The windows rattled and she felt the blast against her skin. She fell to the ground, not sure if it was him pushing her or her pushing him, but they moved together and pressed their bodies low.

  She turned her head, looking in the direction of the blast, expecting the windows to be spider webbed with fracture lines, but they were standing as they had been only moments before.

  Through the ringing in her ears, there was the din and rise of a man’s wail—it sounded almost like a howl. She looked to Evan. Over his right eye was a long, bloody gash. His lips were open and she realized he was the one, the wounded animal, whose call pierced her soul.

  Chapter Eight

  He sat up, trying to figure out what exactly had happened to him. Evan ran his fingers over his forehead and drew them back; they were covered in blood. He tapped his fingertips together feeling the stickiness, like he hadn’t felt it a thousand times before. What had happened to him?

  All he could remember was there was a loud blast and then nothing but darkness. And yet, somehow, he had found himself sitting alone in a hospital room, only God knew where.

  He pressed the little button at the side of his bed. The bed was hard, unforgiving, as he rolled to his side and he was almost positive he smelled moth balls and mildew, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He pressed the call button again, but nothing—no static or ward secretary answered his buzz. But he could see a thin light casting an orange shadow over his door from out in the hall.

  He took in a deep breath. Over the scent of his moldy bed, the odor of cleaning products and decay wafted to him. The 1970s orange-and-brown curtains strung up around the bed would have been a dead giveaway that he was in some kind of throwback facility. It kind of reminded him of hospitals in nonindustrialized, poor countries. In fact, quite often third-world countries’ hospitals were far better than this; at least there he had been able to watch the flurry of nurses and doctors rushing between rooms.

  “Hello?” The eerie silence made him wonder if he wasn’t stuck in some sort of purgatory-like dream. He called out again, but there was still no answer.

  Was this death?

  It wouldn’t have surprised him. This would be the type of place he would have been sent to upon dying. He had always expected to die all alone, and find himself sequestered in the one place he hated more than anywhere else.

  He swung his feet around to the side of the bed, but as he sat upright his head swam and his vision blurred. Nope, he definitely wasn’t dead. If he was, he wouldn’t have felt this crappy.

  The light stopped flashing in the hall, and a woman stepped into his room. Saying she looked like Nurse Ratched would have been a compliment. The woman standing in front of him was in her late sixties and her lips were creased with the folds of a lifelong smoker. When sh
e saw him, her mouth curled up with disgust and he noticed a scar on the side of her nose, like she had long ago lost in a bar fight.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She rushed toward him. “You shouldn’t be sitting up. You need to be resting. I thought I told you this before.”

  The way she talked to him made him wonder if he had woken up once before, but didn’t remember it. Was there something very wrong with him? Did he have some sort of short-term memory loss going on, or was it something worse?

  “Where am I?” He glanced down at his bloody fingers, and they swirled in and out of focus.

  She frowned as she basically pushed him back down onto his bed and fluffed the pillow around his head. “You are at the Marcus Memorial Hospital just outside Silver Mountain. Your friends brought you here after a particularly nasty fall.”

  He tried to relax into the bed, but as he moved a spring rose up from the mattress, poking him in the back. Really, what kind of hospital was this? If they were trying to legitimize their services and reassure their patients that they were getting the highest-level care possible, they were failing—hard.

  “Wipe that look off your face. You are lucky that you have a bed. It’s not every day a veterinary hospital finds themselves caring for a two-legged creature. If this hadn’t been a hospital decades ago, you wouldn’t even have this kind of luxury.”

  “Wait... I’m in a damned veterinary hospital?” He couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped his lips at the thought of the situation in which he found himself.

  “Yes. And to be clear, I like dogs far better than humans.” She walked out of the room, but a second later she looked back in from the hall. “But if you are a good boy, I might have your girlfriend bring you in a dog treat.”

  “Natalie is here?” he asked, but as he did, he realized she had been the first person he had thought of when the woman said girlfriend, even though there were many women friends in his life.