Fatal Judgment. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
key back pronto. But she’s leaving it at that.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I talked to her five minutes ago.”
“You did?”
“It’s called detecting. I could send you some books about it.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“Here.” He handed me his phone.
“What’s this?”
“She wants to talk to you—against my recommendation, for the record. Take it—it’s dialing.”
I took the phone. I held it to my ear.
“Andy?”
“Laura? Where are you?”
I ignored Pinney’s frown at my use of the judge’s first name.
“That’s none of your business,” Laura said. “I’m very upset. What were you doing in my condo? The detective said you have a key? Where did you—”
I realized from the echo on the line she was on speaker mode. I wondered the obvious: Was she alone? Or was someone paying close attention to her conversation?
“I was worried. You never came back. And then I had a missed call from you last night.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.” I explained about the empty food bowl, how it had me concerned.
“You didn’t answer my question about the key.”
“And you didn’t explain about the cat.”
“Don’t be absurd, Andy. You’re way out of line here.”
“You don’t really expect me to—”
“Listen up, Andy. Listen carefully, for a change. There’s nothing going on.”
“But last night. You said—”
“I was just jabbering. Forget anything I said. It’s been a long month already.”
Her tone was oddly strained, like someone trying to make small talk at the funeral of a younger colleague.
“Let me come see you, then. We’ll have coffee.”
“No. In fact, you have to promise me—”
“Promise you what?”
“Promise that you’ll leave me alone.”
“How can I leave you alone when I don’t know where you are or what’s going on?”
A heavy sigh. “You know what your problem is?”
Her voice loud enough through the phone that Pinney perked up.
“What’s that?” I said.
“You ask too many questions. You always have. You milk every conversation until it’s dry, until you have every last bit of information about somebody. You always have to be the big bad detective, no matter who you’re with or what you’re doing. Frankly, it gets old. It’s exhausting.”
“Laura, what are you talking—”
“Stop calling me Laura. It’s Judge Porter, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m talking about you butting into my personal business.”
“Butting? You were the one who—”
“Just leave it. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Laura . . . Judge, I—”
“Listen carefully for once, all right? You have practically zero percent feelings for anybody but yourself. You know that? So just stop interfering. I’m fine. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Practically zero, Andy.”
“I—”
“Goodbye.”
THE PHONE DISCONNECTED. THE room was quiet. The smell of Pinney’s coffee drifted in my direction. Suddenly exhausted, I could have used a cup or three myself.
The detective reached for his phone. “Satisfied?”
“No.”
“Oh really? Why not?”
“She said ‘jabbering.’”
“What?”
“She used the word jabbering. It’s not something she would say.”
He looked at me in disbelief. “And you would know this how? Same reason you know she wouldn’t leave her cat’s bowl empty?”
“It doesn’t matter. You have to believe me. Something wasn’t right. What if she wasn’t able to speak freely? Have you considered that?”
“Of course I did.”
“And?”
“And I eliminated that as a possibility.”
“How?”
“Every judge is assigned a safe phrase,” Pinney said. “Something they could bring into conversation if there’s a problem. Normal sounding, but specific to them.”
“And she didn’t use it?”
He shook his head.
“What’s the phrase?”
“Like I’m going to tell you that.”
I thought about protesting. But what was the point? I was as sure as I could be that not only was Laura in trouble, she was in danger. Yet what was I supposed to do? Pinney might have been a pain in the ass, but clearly he was good at his job. He had batted down every argument with cold, hard evidence. Whatever was going on with Laura, fixing it wasn’t going to happen here, in this room, with the detective doubting my every word.
“All right,” I said, standing. “I appreciate you listening. I’ve still got my concerns. But I suppose there’s nothing left to do.”
“You suppose right. But just for yuks, where are you going now?”
“I’m going to toss a football around for a while, I guess.”
“Perfect. You do that, and leave the detecting to the real investigators.”
“If I see any, I’ll be sure to do so,” I said, walking out of the room before he had a chance to reply.
6
“YOU’RE NOT FOLLOWING THROUGH all the way,” I yelled. “Rip your arm down across your body. Like this.” I arced the ball through the air to my son, who plucked it easily with a sideways catch.
“That’s what I’m doing.” Mike stepped back and drilled a spiral pass at me. He threw hard enough that my hands tingled as I caught the ball. But there was no denying the slight wobble as it flew over the green expanse stretching between us. He wasn’t listening.
“No, you’re not,” I said, impatiently gunning the ball back to him, ignoring the tweak in my arm as I threw.
We were spread out on a practice field behind Worthington Kilbourne High School, just north of Columbus, a mile or so from where Mike lived with Kym, her husband, Steve, and their two kids. The August air smelled of mowed grass and fertilizer. Mike’s morning practice was over. They had a scrimmage the following Friday, the first time in uniform, though they wouldn’t wear pads or be allowed to tackle. Steve was convinced his stepson had the right stuff, that a college career or more was possible. Kym was skeptical—she’d been there, seen that with me. She was also worried about his health because of the new focus on concussions. I was worried about that as well; two guys I played with in Cleveland had killed themselves, and autopsies showed