Chapter 10 - The Magistrate's Door
The unmarked Ford Explorer screeched to a halt at the curb of a quiet, tree-lined residential street three blocks from the federal courthouse. The house belonged to Judge Arthur Sterling—no relation to the Dubois fixers, but an old-school federal magistrate with a reputation for integrity so fierce it had earned him two assassination attempts in the nineties and a security detail he usually ignored.
The front porch was dark, save for a dim yellow bug light buzzing above the heavy oak door.
I killed the engine, cut the headlights, and turned to Caleb in the backseat. "Stay in the car. Keep the doors locked. If anyone other than me or your inspector knocks on this window, you drive straight to the state police barracks. Understand?"
Caleb gripped the leather bag tighter, his knuckles white, but he nodded firmly. "I understand, Chief."
Thomas and I stepped out into the crisp night air, moving up the paved walkway with our badges held ready in our left hands just in case the judge's automated security system decided we were intruders.
Before we even reached the top step, the heavy oak door swung open wide.
Judge Arthur Sterling stood in the doorway wearing a flannel bathrobe over his pajamas, holding an old-fashioned Remington shotgun cradled casually in the crook of his arm. His white hair was messy, his eyes sharp and alert despite the ungodly hour.
"Elena Vance," the judge said, his deep voice carrying a dry, unimpressed edge. "If you're waking me up at three in the morning, you better have more than a parking ticket and a bad excuse."
"Good morning, Judge," I said, stepping up onto the porch and pulling the magnetic reel-to-reel tape out of my bag. "I have a confession from a compromised police precinct, a half-million-dollar unauthorized wire transfer to an offshore Dubois account, and an active tactical strike team currently trying to hunt us down across county lines."
Judge Sterling looked at the magnetic tape, then up at my dusty, smoke-stained coat, and finally over at Thomas, who was scanning the dark street for approaching tail vehicles.
A slow, grim smile crept across the old judge's weathered face.
May you like
"Well, step inside before the neighbors complain," Judge Sterling said, swinging the door wide open. "Let's see what Arthur Dubois bought with his last million dollars—and how fast we can take it away from him."
As we stepped across the threshold, the sound of distant police sirens began to wail from the avenue outside—not state troopers, but local Brook Haven cruisers, their red and blue lights flashing against the judge's front windows, surrounding the house.
