Chapter 24
Max turned off his engine and studied Judge Holtz’s large house.
A county deputy had closely examined Max’s ID before he’d let him drive onto the property. Max had parked next to two black SUVs with government plates that he suspected belonged to the US Marshals Service. Since the car bomb, the judge’s security had been bumped up to a high alert.
The judge’s home’s style was what Max thought of as high desert modern.
It was a long, single-story house with an exterior of earth-tone tiles, rough stones, and vertical wood panels with huge windows.
The dark wood front door was twice his height.
The home had been created with the colors and elements of the surrounding nature in mind.
An architect had clearly enjoyed the project.
Max paused inside his vehicle, taking a brief mental break and closing his eyes for a long moment.
The amount of information pouring in from the car bomb investigation was overwhelming.
He’d intended to start going through it last night, but Rachel’s murder had put a stop to his plans.
This morning he’d realized that her death had thrown him for a bigger emotional loop than he’d expected; the guilt was overwhelming.
Did I miss something?
He couldn’t help but feel that if he’d driven faster to her motel or been a little nicer to her on the phone or suggested that she leave the motel, maybe, just maybe, she’d still be alive.
He’d told himself a dozen times that she had been an adult and responsible for her own actions.
Rachel Johnson had played with fire and been badly burned.
Surely I could have done something. Said something.
But Rachel’s sexpot act had annoyed the fuck out of him, and his patience with her had been short. Then suddenly she was dead.
He would find her killer; that was his only path to peace.
But the car bombing at the courthouse was the FBI’s priority at the moment. The investigation of Rachel’s murder had been officially assigned to the sheriff’s department, with the FBI providing supportive resources.
I know the crimes are tied together.
He was convinced that the person who’d killed Rachel knew something about the bombing.
He was at Judge Holtz’s home to interview him again. Yesterday Max had only talked with the man for about a half hour after the body was discovered in his trunk. This time the interview would include the judge’s wife, Tamara.
Max had taken a quick look at the judge’s financial statements, and his wife’s, an hour ago.
He’d skimmed them, not sure what he was looking for, hoping something would jump out at him.
Not seeing anything unusual, Max had left the statements with Darby, the office’s data analyst, and asked her to study them.
And to assemble a background for Tamara Holtz.
They were considering everything and everyone at the moment.
Max strode up the wide concrete steps to the giant door, which a marshal opened before he reached it. The marshal was in casual clothing and wore an earpiece, a holstered gun, and a Kevlar vest with US Marshal emblazoned on the front. He nodded at Max and let him in.
“The judge is this way.” Max followed the marshal through a long glass hallway between two landscaped courtyards to a great room at the back of the home, where the judge and Tamara Holtz were seated at a huge table adjacent to the kitchen.
The wood slab table had raw edges, and a blue epoxy strip ran down the center of the table like a river.
They stood as Max approached. The judge shook his hand and introduced his wife.
Tamara was a small woman with blonde hair and a lovely smile, but stress and fear were evident in her eyes. The three of them sat, the tension in the room rising, and the marshal silently vanished. Max fought back the urge to touch the smooth blue wave in the table.
“Have you identified the man in the trunk?” asked the judge. He’d taken his wife’s hand, and Max noticed her knuckles were white.
“Not yet. The medical examiner started the autopsy about a half hour ago. She’ll email me with any immediate findings,” Max said, including Tamara with his gaze.
“The state fire investigator and the ATF confirmed the bomb was a type controlled by cell phone. I know your cameras here at your home didn’t show anyone approaching your car for more than a week, so we need to look elsewhere to figure out when the body was put in your trunk.
Did you pull together a list of locations you’ve been at? ”
“I did.” The judge slid a piece of paper across the table. “I golfed on Saturday morning and opened my trunk. So it happened after that. I haven’t opened it since then.”
Max scanned the short list, which included locations, dates, and times where the judge’s car had been elsewhere.
Two restaurants. Gas station. Gym. He took a photo and sent the list to Darby so she could request camera footage from the businesses.
He looked at Tamara. “Do you ever drive the vehicle?”
“I drove it Sunday,” she said, looking at her husband. “Your car had blocked mine in the garage, so I took it to Trader Joe’s.”
The judge paled. “That’s right. I forgot. That’s not on the list.” He gripped his wife’s hand tighter, and Max knew he was picturing her coming in close contact with the killer. He texted the name of the grocery store to Darby.
“Anywhere else?” Max asked.
Both shook their heads.
“My clerk and I went through my cases and pulled together a list of people who’ve been . . . outspoken about their treatment in my court.” He gave Max another list. “It includes threats made in person and made by email or online.”
“How far back did you go?” asked Max.
“Two years. Plus a few older ones that have always stuck in my head. A lot of people flow through my courtroom,” said the judge. “Sometimes it’s someone in the family who is the outspoken one. I’ve included them too.”
Max nodded, reading the list. There were at least two dozen names. Assault. Robbery. Domestic violence. “Any of these people out of prison?”
“The last three were released recently,” said the judge. “The rest are still serving, but I gave you their names because it could be an angry friend or family member.”
Max took a photo of the list and sent it to Darby with a text telling her to start investigating with the last three names. He figured a sentenced person was more likely than their family to retaliate against the judge.
“Mom!” Little running footsteps sounded on the wood floors, and two identical blond boys tore into the room.
“Jett won’t leave me alone!” The first boy flung himself at his mother, wrapping his arms around her and crawling halfway into her lap.
The other boy hit the brakes and looked at Max with big eyes.
Max estimated he was about five years old.
Twins.
“Chase, get off your mother,” said the judge. He turned to the other boy. “You picking on your brother?”
“No, sir.” Innocent blue eyes met his father’s gaze. “I’m Spider-Man! He’s the Green Goblin.”
The other twin twisted in his mother’s lap. “I’m Spider-Man!” he shouted at his brother. “It’s my turn!”
Max stifled a grin.
Kids.
The marshal who’d let Max in the door reappeared and looked over everyone in the room. He said something into his mic and left.
A sudden pain hit Max in his stomach as he imagined the parents’ escalated fear about their boys’ safety. He noticed dark areas under Tamara’s eyes and wondered if she’d slept last night.
She must be worried sick.
“I got this.” Tamara slid Chase off her lap, holding his hand, and then took Jett’s. She led them away in the direction the marshal had gone. Chase glared at Jett behind their mother’s back as they left. “We’ll flip a coin,” Max heard her say.
“Always flipping a coin,” muttered the judge. “Only way to settle anything with those two. Or else we set timers to give equal time. Heaven forbid one boy get a minute longer with a toy than the other. Although usually we buy two of everything just to avoid the fighting.”
“Cute kids,” said Max. Worry about the boys still gripped him.
Their parents must feel it a hundred times worse.
“What does your gut tell you about who could be behind the car bomb?” Max asked. The large room felt very empty without the energy of the boys and their mother’s presence.
The judge mulled over the question as he rubbed his chin. “I honestly don’t have an answer for you. Every time I consider one, someone else’s name replaces it.”
“Who popped into your head first?”
The judge reached for the list and tapped the bottom name, a rueful look in his eyes.
Mark Bourdon. Age forty-three. Domestic violence. Released eight months ago.
“Why him?” asked Max.
“He was furious when he was sentenced. Had beaten the crap out of his girlfriend a number of times. Absolute hate and anger in his eyes. The sight still sticks with me. When they notified me he’d been released, I actually shuddered.
” The judge ran a finger along the table’s rough edge, avoiding Max’s eyes.
“Does your wife know this?”
“No. I won’t add to her worry. She has enough.”
“Tell me about him.” But Max’s phone rang, showing a call from the medical examiner’s office. “Excuse me,” he told the judge as he stood. “I’m going to take this outside.” The judge pointed at a sliding glass door to the backyard, and Max stepped out.
“Rhodes,” he said into the phone.
“It’s Dr. Lockhart. Do you have a moment?”
“Always when you call,” said Max. “I’m not flirting,” he quickly added.
She snorted. “I know. We have an identification on the burned body from the car bomb yesterday. His name is Eli Chisholm. Age thirty-one. We were able to get fingerprints since his hands weren’t burned that badly. He has multiple convictions for assault.”
“Was he local?”
“Pretty much. Redmond is his last address.”
“Do you have a cause of death?” asked Max. “And when?”