Fatal Judgment Read online

  FATAL JUDGMENT

  ANDY HAYES MYSTERIES

  by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

  Fourth Down and Out

  Slow Burn

  Capitol Punishment

  The Hunt

  The Third Brother

  Fatal Judgment

  FATAL JUDGMENT

  AN ANDY HAYES MYSTERY

  ANDREW WELSH-HUGGINS

  SWALLOW PRESS

  OHIO UNIVERSITY PRESS

  ATHENS

  Swallow Press

  An imprint of Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701

  ohioswallow.com

  © 2019 by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

  All rights reserved

  To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Swallow Press / Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at (740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).

  This is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Swallow Press / Ohio University Press books are printed on acid-free paper ™

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Welsh-Huggins, Andrew, author.

  Title: Fatal judgment : an Andy Hayes mystery / Andrew Welsh-Huggins.

  Description: Athens, Ohio : Swallow Press, 2019. | Series: Andy Hayes mysteries

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018056388| ISBN 9780804012119 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780804041027 (pdf)

  Subjects: LCSH: Private investigators--Fiction. | Missing persons--Investigation--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.E4824 F38 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018056388

  For the real Pete Henderson, who always guessed the Encyclopedia Brown clues first.

  “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  —HAL 9000, from 2001: A Space Odyssey

  “Make Google Do It.”

  —Television ad for the Google Assistant

  1

  A BIRD WHOSE SONG I didn’t recognize was singing high in the tree beside me when the car pulled up to the curb. Black Lexus sedan, newer model, semi-tinted windows. I stepped forward, hearing the click of the passenger door unlocking. I opened the door, glanced at the driver, and slid inside.

  “Sure you don’t want to come in?”

  “I’m sure,” Laura Porter said, staring straight ahead.

  I shut the door. “It’s good to see you.”

  She nodded but didn’t respond. It was early evening on a Monday in mid-August, shadows stretching across the street toward my house as dusk descended. I heard laughter down the way at Schiller Park as dog walkers gathered, and the sound of a car engine cutting off as someone scored a lucky parking space behind us. Inside, Laura’s Lexus smelled of coffee, Armor All, and above all her perfume.

  “So,” I said.

  Seconds that might have been centuries passed in silence as she studied her windshield. Her hands remained on the steering wheel, knuckles as white as if she were navigating a hairpin curve on a southern Ohio country road instead of sitting parked on a neighborhood street in Columbus. She was dressed professionally, in a lightweight gray jacket and skirt with a white blouse. As if she’d ditched her robe and come directly from chambers.

  At last she said, “I need your help.”

  “OK. With what?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What kind?”

  “It’s . . .”

  “Is it the campaign?”

  She didn’t respond right away. Eons passed as one-celled organisms floating in primordial soup evolved, took to the land, built civilizations, made love and war, invented streaming TV, declined, and went extinct. The bird in the tree stopped singing.

  “It’s not the campaign,” she said. “At least not directly. But I’m in a bind and I didn’t know who else to call. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  A nervous laugh. “We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, if you recall.”

  I studied her profile, the set of her jaw and the look of concentration as she stared down my street in German Village. Smelled her perfume. Realized she was wearing contacts, not the glasses I was accustomed to. But that’s what happens when the only time you spend with someone is Sunday mornings in a condo with the curtains drawn and it’s next stop: bedroom.

  “I’ll take the blame for that,” I said. “I was the one who broke things off. Remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. You blindsided me, that’s for sure. Bringing back such lovely memories of Paul. But maybe it was for the best, in the long run.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Skip it, Andy. That’s not why I’m here. I’m a big girl. That’s in the past now.”

  “Is it?”

  A shadow fell over her face as she wrestled with her thoughts. I’d seen that look before, but not in the bedroom. “The Velvet Fist,” they called her at the courthouse, though not to her face. Fair but tough. A judge who called them like she saw them. It was on the strength of that reputation she was running for a seat on the Ohio Supreme Court, and, according to everything I’d heard and read, had a decent shot at winning this fall.

  “Laura—”

  “I said skip it. I’m in trouble, real trouble, and I need your help.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Please do, for both our sakes.”

  In hindsight, Laura’s and my time together marked one of the stranger episodes in my life. She was a judge on the county common pleas court who earned her nickname handing down long prison sentences, especially to defendants convicted of violent offenses. I’m a private investigator who does a little security on the side. We met at a Christmas party hosted by my sometime boss, defense attorney Burke Cunningham, almost seven years ago. Two days after the party, Laura called me out of the blue with a job offer. She needed a bodyguard. She’d had threats from the brother of a gangbanger she put behind bars for life plus fifty years. The pay was good and the assignment simple enough: drive her to the courthouse each morning and back to her condo each afternoon. She preferred a private guy like me as opposed to the sheriff’s office security detail because she didn’t want hints of her vulnerability bandied around the gossipy legal community. Two weeks passed without incident. Then one cold January afternoon she asked me inside on the pretense of checking the alarm system. In a matter of minutes my assignment evolved into bodyguard with benefits. She canceled my contract and we started our relationship.

  Such as it was. By mutual agreement I called on her once a week. Sunday mornings at 11:30 a.m. sharp, rain or shine, brunch plans or otherwise, to meet her physical needs after a bitter divorce that left her wary of anything smacking of commitment. Letting myself in with a loaned key. The confidential situation suited both of us just fine for a month of Sundays and then some. I knew enough not to bring up the cases in her courtroom, despite the fact they were often subject to stories in the Columbus Dispatch. If she knew anything about my pre–private eye background, she never mentioned it, up to and including my fall from grace as an Ohio State quarterback and short stint with the Cleveland Browns. We kept the small talk to the weather and Columbus traffic and focused mostly on shedding our clothes as quickly as possible.

  Then came the day I suggested dinner out. From Laura’s reaction you would have thought I’d proposed prancing naked together through the lobby of the Franklin County Courthouse at lunchtime. So I broke it off. Strings-free sex sounds
good until you’re staring into a bachelorhood future with only slightly more days ahead than behind and growing tired of always going to movies alone.

  Although come to think of it, I’m still a bachelor and most of the time just stay in and watch Netflix.

  Laura’s reaction to my breakup was resolute: I hadn’t seen or spoken to her for nearly five years. Until my phone buzzed that morning and I answered and she asked if she could see me as soon as possible. I asked if she wanted me to meet her at her condo—I knew the way, after all. She said no, that she’d swing by my house. And then after a pause asked for directions.

  I shoved away the memories and looked at her.

  “Go ahead.”

  She pushed a strand of thick, dark hair off her patrician brow, and for the first time since I arrived steadied her eyes, the color of a clear sky in January, directly on mine. I swallowed, taking in her perfume, recalling Sunday mornings.

  “Before I say anything else, I need you to promise me something.”

  “If I can.”

  “If you can?”

  “Just being honest. I can promise a lot of things—discretion, protection, my signature on a souvenir football jersey if I’m in a really good mood. But I can’t promise to break the law or overlook a crime or drink any cocktail with cucumber involved. I live by a code.”

  “Andy, I’m serious.”

  “Same goes for cilantro—”

  “Andy.”

  I apologized. Told her I defaulted to jokes because I was nervous seeing her again.

  “Me too,” she said.

  “Take your time. Whenever you’re ready.”

  She took a breath. “I’m ready.”

  “In that case, so am I.”

  We were in each other’s arms almost before I realized what was happening. Her mouth was on mine, urgent, her lips as soft as I remembered them. I cupped my left hand around her neck and pulled her closer. We kissed like that for almost a minute, passion growing as long-dormant memories of our Sunday mornings surfaced. She murmured something and I reached under the hem of her blouse and pushed my left hand onto her cool skin. She gasped but didn’t resist. It was like being in middle school again, except in a Lexus.

  “Let’s go inside,” I whispered. “What will the neighbors think?”

  “Yes,” she said, her breath warm on my cheek.

  And then her phone went off.

  In fairness, I’m as culpable as the next guy when it comes to disruptive ring tones. My current flavor of the month, “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses, was not exactly soothing. But that was a harp version of Pachelbel’s Canon in D compared to her abrasive, old-fashioned telephone jangle, as jarring at that moment as if someone had rolled down the window and dashed a bucket of ice water on us.

  “Shit,” she said, pulling away. “Sorry.” She fumbled for her purse and pulled out the offending device. I glanced at the screen and glimpsed a caller ID photo of a man I didn’t recognize: angular face, dark hair, forced smile.

  “Hi,” she said. Several seconds passed. “What? What? My God—are you all right?” She glanced over at me. Our eyes locked, just for a moment, before she turned away. “No, don’t do that. Just stay there. I’ll be right over. No. No. I’m not sure. Maybe fifteen minutes. You’re sure you’re OK? All right. I will. OK—goodbye.”

  She disconnected the call and dropped the phone in her purse.

  “I need to go.”

  “Go where? Who was that?”

  She hesitated. “I apologize, Andy. Maybe this was a mistake.”

  “A mistake? What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Laura, what’s going on? That didn’t sound good.”

  “Please. I have to go.” She glanced at her watch. “I just need a little time. Maybe then I can explain everything.”

  “Should we be calling the police? If this is something to do with being a judge, with a case, you can’t take any risks.”

  “No—no police.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t tell you. And I really need to go.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  She hesitated again, wrestling with her thoughts once more. The Velvet Fist, deep in contemplation. I sat back in my seat. Considered my options. Thought about where this ranked on the list of strange dates I’d been on. Decided it was top five, and that included the time I was subpoenaed in flagrante delicto.

  After a few seconds she shook her head. “Give me an hour. Just to make sure everything’s OK. Will you still be home, if I come back then? I’m really sorry—”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, if you’re sure. And yes, I’ll be home. I promised Hopalong we could watch Homeward Bound again.”

  “Thanks,” she said, oblivious to the joke. She looked at her phone as if expecting it to ring once more. “And yes, I’m sure. I won’t be long, promise.”

  “That’s fine. But just in case, do you have a dollar?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. A bill, preferably, but I’d take one of the Susan B. Anthony coins, too.”

  “Andy, please. I’ve got to get—”

  “Just a dollar.”

  Puzzlement filled her face as she stared at me. I didn’t look away. Sighing deeply, she dug into her purse, pulled out a wallet, opened it, and retrieved a bill. “I’m really not sure why you’re—”

  “Thank you,” I said, tucking it into my shirt pocket. “I’m considering that my retainer. I’m officially working for you now, which means I’ll need your permission before I can tell anyone about our conversation.”

  That almost won a smile. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it at the sound of a ping from her purse. She reached in, picked up her phone, looked at the screen, and tightened her lips. What I saw next on her face startled me: it was pure fear.

  I said, “It’s not too late to change your mind—I could still come along.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

  “In that case I’ll be here. With the dollar.”

  She didn’t respond as I opened the door and climbed out. I waited just a moment, but she gave a little shake of her head. Reluctantly, I shut the door, and two seconds later she drove off. She paused briefly at the stop sign at Whittier, rolled through, and was gone.

  2

  AFTER A FEW SECONDS of fruitless staring down the street, I trudged up the walk to my house at 837 Mohawk. I was opening the door when I heard an engine roaring to life. I looked and saw a van leaving the curb a block down a little too quickly and heading in the same direction as the judge’s Lexus. It too rolled through the stop sign and was gone. I stared a moment longer before walking inside.

  I stomped to the rear, opened the door, and let Hopalong out into my postage stamp of a backyard. I refilled his water bowl, pulled a Black Label from the fridge, opened it, drained it in less time than it takes a jury to file in with its verdict, and grabbed another beer. I sat down at my kitchen table, started up my laptop, stood up and let the dog in, sat back down, and Googled Franklin County judge Laura Porter.

  For the next few minutes I studied the results, trying but failing to see anything that might explain what just happened. So far as I could tell, the Web hits were divided evenly between media accounts of cases she oversaw and references to her Supreme Court campaign against William O’Malley, an appeals court judge from Youngstown. The former links were the usual grab bag of activity that passes through any big city judge’s courtroom. A murder here, a burglary there: an environmental land dispute, an attempted murder, a medical malpractice claim. But as I scrolled down, one of the criminal cases caught my attention.

  WOMAN ARRESTED AFTER THREATENING JUDGE AT SENTENCING

  Six weeks ago, Laura sent a nineteen-year-old man to prison for sixty-three years for wounding a child in a drive-by shooting that left the boy permanently paralyzed. The defendant was black, as was the child, who was just seven years old. Immedi
ately afterward, the man’s mother stood up and called Porter a bitch who hates black people. At her instruction, deputies dragged the woman out of the courtroom. She was charged with inducing panic and contempt of court. I wrote the woman’s name down. Could this be the problem?

  I’m in trouble . . . My God—are you all right?

  Whose call was it that ended our impassioned fumbling and flipped her switch so completely? Whose photo was on the caller ID I glimpsed? A family member? A lover? Someone from the courthouse? What was the subsequent text that scared Laura so? And was it my imagination, or had the van that pulled out moments after she left seemed in a bit of a hurry for a lazy late summer evening?

  I turned to the campaign web links. Unlike most political races, judicial competitions are normally about as exciting as watching Sherwin-Williams samples dry. Codes of conduct prevent a lot of the normal mudslinging. Third-party groups can get involved, pouring in unrestricted funds from the left and the right, but so far this had been a relatively uneventful face-off. Laura, a moderate Republican, had a small lead in the one and only poll taken so far. O’Malley, a Democrat, seemed a decent enough guy, and you couldn’t entirely write off his chances, if only because of his name. In Ohio as elsewhere, judges with Irish surnames earned an instant advantage in campaigns. His only blemish was a decade-old incident in which he admitted cheating on the number of hours he recorded for his continuing education classes. He blamed the mistake on procrastination brought on by stress. A professional conduct board cleared him of wrongdoing. Small potatoes in the world of political scandals, and it was unclear if voters cared—or even knew there was a campaign on and who the candidates were. At this point, it was probably Laura’s race to lose.

  I threw in the towel after an hour. Whatever trouble Laura was in, it wasn’t in the public record or related to the race, so far as I could see. I opened the front door and glanced up and down the street. No sign of her Lexus, or a van in a hurry. I took a third Black Label into the living room, picked up my copy of Glass House, and started reading, checking the time every few minutes or so.