The kitchen was also uncluttered, no dishes left in the sink, nothing but a single place mat on the eating bar that separated the kitchen from another cozy space with an oversized chair and ottoman; three books and an e-reader sat on the small glass table nearby.
Upstairs, the bedroom, a loft that held a king bed and a daybed under its sloping roof, was tidy—the bed made, the clothes in a wal
k-in closet hung with care. The judge’s medications and vitamins were arranged in a neat plastic case marked with days of the week. Judging from the contents, she’d taken her last dose on Christmas Eve.
They walked through the house, searched the grounds, and came up with nothing other than her purse, laptop, iPad, and cell phone. A quick check of the incoming calls to her phone showed the same number dialing over and over again. Probably the judge’s son, Winston, who had called Missing Persons. The lab would go over each item, and technicians would check the data from the judge’s e-mail and social media accounts, anything she’d done online in the past few weeks and months. Maybe something would turn up, some piece of information that would link the killer to his victim.
Outside they discovered her vehicle, a new Lexus SUV, parked in a separate garage. The keys were in the ignition, registration and insurance information in the glove box confirming that the SUV belonged to Kathryn Samuels-Piquard. Aside from the keys, a receipt for gas and an empty coffee cup in the holder, the vehicle was clean. Also, nothing seemed disturbed in the garage, though they would double-check with the judge’s family, and, of course, crime scene techs would process every inch of the house, garage, and surrounding grounds.
Maybe they’d find something.
Pescoli could only hope.
“Doesn’t look like robbery was a motive,” Alvarez said as they walked along the broad porch that connected the two buildings, then wrapped around to the back of the house to the spectacular view. “So we’re back to the scumbags who are out of prison.”
“And the family.”
“Always the family.”
“Kind of warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?” They waited for the crime scene unit, though Pescoli wouldn’t bet on them finding much. They’d go over the place looking for trace evidence or prints on the off chance the killer had been inside; though, it seemed, from the looks of things, it was unlikely. To her practiced eye, the house and garage looked clean.
But she’d been wrong before.
“I don’t think he was here,” she said, wondering about the killer, what was his motive, how he knew the judge. “I think he waited for her on the ridge.”
“For how long? Unless he knew her routine, he might be sitting up there for hours, maybe days. Did she go skiing every day? Did he just get lucky?” Squinting at the surrounding forest, she nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “I’ll bet the guy knows her, knows her routine, or else knows someone who told him about the fact she comes up here and goes skiing every year.”
“Maybe they overheard her talking.”
“Could be, but no one’s going to camp out on the ridge in this cold without knowing he’s got a chance to take her down.”
“So he knows her.”
“Or she . . . could be a woman,” Alvarez corrected, still deep in thought.
“Or a hired hit man.”
They heard the rumble of an engine, and within seconds another van from the crime scene pulled into view only to stop by the Jeep.
Pescoli recognized Mikhail Slatkin at the wheel and felt a little better. Slatkin was one of the best techs in the business. If there was evidence of any kind to find, Slatkin would locate it.
They spoke to the techs for a few minutes, then walked back to the Jeep.
Next up, after a quick stop at the station to catch up on e-mail, tips, and reports that had come in, she and Alvarez would check the judge’s place in town and start tearing through Judge Samuels-Piquard’s private and public lives, hoping they’d find some clue as to who would want her dead so badly as to actually put a bullet in her brain.
Chapter 16
When Pescoli returned to the station, she didn’t expect to see her son, but there he was, big as life, washing out the coffeepot—a job he would never deign do at home—in the lunchroom that smelled of burned coffee and chili peppers and cilantro.
“What’s this?” she asked, walking up to him. He’d shaved, combed his hair, and was wearing a pair of jeans that didn’t hang so low on his buttocks they were in danger of falling off. He was even wearing one of his two dress shirts and a damned tie, the one she’d bought him for his high-school graduation.
“I told you, I’m . . . like a deputy now.”
“I just don’t get it.”
“Only because you don’t want to.” He was rubbing the glass pot so hard, she thought he might break it. Soapy water splashed onto his shirtsleeves. “I told you before, I want to be a cop. Like Dad. Like you.”
“Oh, Jer—”