The short, stocky man marched into the foyer of the house like he was a CEO entering a boardroom for a meeting. He was in his late forties and dressed in pressed slacks and a navy blue jacket. His tie and shirt were immaculate. His hair looked like it had been pressed with an iron. His features were sharp, his expression sharper still.
And he was just the sort of stuffed-shirt official prick that Decker detested.
He flashed his cred pack. “FBI Special Agent Doug Andrews out of the Fort Myers RA.”
Of course you are, thought Decker.
“And you are?” Andrews said.
White produced her cred pack. Decker just stared at the doorway.
“And this is Amos Decker,” said White. “We just flew in from DC.”
Andrews’s expression soured. “I wasn’t told they were sending in agents from out of town. I was just told to hold the bodies here. I wasn’t given a reason.”
“Well, we’re the reason,” said White.
Andrews looked at Decker’s casual dress and said, “I didn’t see your ID, what was the name again, Decker?”
Decker looked around the grand foyer. Delicately furnished with expensive items arranged just so. Custom paint and wallpaper. Antique grandfather clock ticking away in one corner. Rugs were thick and colorful and no doubt expensive. He could smell death in every corner of the place. This was not his imagination. Dead bodies were decomposing in the near vicinity and the foul smell was unmistakable.
He saw a bloody palm print on a wall leading to the stairs. On the stair runner were other blood marks. They had number cones next to them, the mark of the forensics team’s doing its processing. He saw chalky fingerprint powder everywhere. He could hear the clicks of cameras and the murmurs of conversation. Everything was going as it should. Now he had to deal with this asshole, which he didn’t want to do.
Without looking at the man Decker said, “We were sent down to assist in the investigation.”
“We have the matter well in hand. And I—”
Decker walked past him and into the next room.
“Hey!” barked Andrews as Decker disappeared around the corner.
He looked back at White. “What the hell is with that guy?”
“Like me, he’s just here doing his job. And if you have a problem with us being here, you’re going to have to take it up with HQ. But right now, we’re going to work, just like you.”
She followed Decker into the next room.
Andrews hurried after her.
Chapter 7
Decker had experienced crime scenes galore during his time in law enforcement. And he remembered every detail of each one. This one looked both routine and also unique in certain respects.
This was the judge’s study or home office. Bookshelves, a desk, a small leather couch, a wooden file cabinet, a sleek desktop computer, and a tabletop copier. One window looked out onto the rear grounds. Paintings on the wall, nice knickknacks, a colorful Oriental rug over wooden floorboards. Nothing looked disturbed, no evidence of a frantic search for something, or a robbery or struggle having taken place. Everything neat, tidy, in its place.
Then, on the floor, a body. But not the judge. A man. Obviously, the security guard. Private, not a U.S. marshal as was usually the case with a federal judge. He was in his thirties, lean, six feet, close-cut brown hair that rode like a soft cap on his skull. He was not wearing a security guard’s uniform, but rather a dark tailored suit and a white shirt with a red blotch in the center and two holes as the cause of the blood, and his death. Someone was taking no chances.
The edge of his holstered gun poked out from his jacket. Decker knelt down and checked the suit labeclass="underline" Armani. He looked at the watch on his wrist: Cartier. The shoes: Ferragamo.
Interesting.
The dead man was spread-eagled on the floor, sightless eyes looking up at the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He had a couple days’ worth of beard stubble. Even in death, his features were handsome, if now very pale. His expression was one of surprise, if a dead person could hold such an emotion. And some could, Decker knew.
He eyed the forensics team doing their thing. He approached one, a woman in her forties dressed in blue scrubs and masked as she entered some information on an iPad. White followed.
“You the ME? Got a preliminary cause and time of death?”
She glanced at him in surprise and then looked around until she saw Andrews standing in the doorway. He grudgingly nodded at her as he walked up to stand next to Decker.
“I am the ME, Helen Jacobs. We’re looking at a pair of GSWs to the chest, looks like they pierced the heart. Death instantaneous. TOD is between midnight and two a.m. last night.”
White said, “Any signs of forced entry?”
“None,” replied Andrews. “And who called you guys down here, Agent White?”
“SAC John Talbott out of the WFO. Give me your number and I’ll text you his contact info. I thought you had been informed.”
Andrews did so and White sent him the info.
“Anything taken?” asked White.
“Still checking. Nothing readily apparent.”
“Name of the deceased?” asked White.
“Alan Draymont,” replied Jacobs.
“We understand he was private security,” said Decker. “Who with?”
“Gamma Protection Services,” answered Andrews. “We contacted them and will set up an interview.”
“Wearing a suit and not a uniform?”
“Gamma has a number of levels of protection. They do mall, warehouse, and office security, assignments like that. For protection at this level, they have higher-skilled operatives.”
“Higher skilled? Like the dead guy?” said Decker, eyeing him closely.
“Like the dead guy,” Andrews shot back. “Nobody’s perfect.”
White said, “Why a bodyguard? Was she getting threats?”
“Checking on that with Gamma,” said Andrews a bit petulantly.
“And if so, why not a U.S. marshal?” said White. “That’s the way it usually works with federal judges, right?”
“Again, checking on that,” said Andrews, now huffily. “But the judge could hire private security if she wanted to. She could afford it.”
Decker looked at him. “You knew her?”
“Acquaintances. I live in Ocean View. It’s sort of a small-town vibe here.”
“Did Draymont fire his weapon?” asked White.
“It’s still in its holster,” replied Andrews.
“And the killer or killers could have put it back there after he fired it,” noted Decker.
Andrews stiffened and said, “We’ll check.”
“Any trace of the killer?” White asked.
Jacobs answered, “Most of the prints we’ve found so far belong to the judge, and a few to Draymont. There are some others, though, that we haven’t identified yet. No footprints that we could find. There’s a low-pile carpet runner on the stairs that didn’t show any trace. And hardwood floors here in the study, upstairs hall, and the deceased’s bedroom. Tough to get anything from that. It hadn’t rained or anything, either, so no shoe impressions that we could find.”
“And the judge’s body?” asked Decker. “How did she manage to do the stairs after she was wounded?”
Jacobs looked at him curiously, then said, “You saw the blood trail on the stair runner when you came in, and on the hardwood floor leading out of here.”
“Hard to miss with your little cones set out. But it was really the bloody palm print on the wall next to the stairs. I assume that must be the judge’s, since two shots to the chest means Draymont wouldn’t have made it out of this room under his own power.”