God, he loved listening to her voice. He felt a slobbering moon face coming on and stiffened his jaw so he'd look macho. 'I guess we could do that. What restaurant?'
'That Greek place on Kellogg.'
'I don't think I like Greek food. That's the stuff with the funny olives that taste bad, right?'
'It's Greek/Mediterranean/American. They've got squab. You like squab.'
'I love squab. Remind me again, is that a fish or a mammal?'
Grace chuckled. 'It's a bird.'
'Oh, right. What was the second thing?'
'I'm faxing you a thread from a creepy website Huttinger visited all the time. We think it might be how this whole series of Web murders started. Somebody put up a virtual hit list - every victim's name and location, posted before any of the murders happened.'
'Holy cow. Can you trace whoever put it up?'
'No, not a prayer.' She was quiet for a moment. 'But… we're working on something. See you at nine.'
Chapter Thirty-nine
Judge Jim hadn't driven much since his last revocation due to an unfortunate alcohol-related traffic incident a few years back, but damn if his big SUV didn't fire right up - a testament to the importance of a superior battery. But now that he was back behind the wheel again, he remembered how much he loved cruising the freeway with all the windows wide open, the sublime, aftermarket sound system cranked up to ear-bleed level. It brought him right back to his high school days, when he'd worked summers as a bag boy at the SmartMart in Bemidji - the day he'd quit that job was the day he'd finally earned enough money to upgrade the stereo in his green, Bondo-bucket, AMC Rebel.
This morning, he was in a much pricier vehicle, with a much pricier stereo, but the feeling was the same as when was sixteen. He'd selected the overture to Tannhäuser as the theme music of the day - a piece he felt was the perfect accompaniment to his ultimate and impending victory over a grave injustice that desperately needed rectifying.
His former yard looked fairly well kept, which was a surprise; in fact, there were even some new plantings in the gardens. Perhaps Number Four had actually sacrificed a modest portion of her generous monthly subsidy to invest in a little home improvement. Why she would do such a sensible thing was beyond him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the age and physique of the gardener who'd been responsible, because she would die before she lifted a shovel or touched dirt of any kind.
There was also a new sprinkler system - he'd learned that the hard way, tripping over one of the heads during his relocation project.
The chair was heavy, but in this glorious moment of final closure, he felt like he could lift the world. Once the Corbusier was in place, near the bay windows of the sitting room, he looked to the sky with a big smile, then looked to his fly with an even bigger smile, and proceeded to engage a sprinkler system of his own.
'Judge, you're killing us.'
'That wasn't my intention. Do I know you?'
The young officer sighed. 'Probably not, but I sure know you. You make way too much work for us.'
'I've heard something along those lines from a couple detectives with whom I'm rather well acquainted.'
'Right. Look, I can haul you in for indecent exposure, public urination, vandalism, trespassing, illegally disposing of property, driving after revocation…'
'And that's all?'
The officer was clearly frustrated, but he kept his wits, which Wild Jim appreciated.
'Listen, Officer. I understand your aggravation, and I want you and all of the MPD to know that this was my last act of childish rebellion. And that is a solemn promise. Justice has been served, finally, at least in my world. So, if you can find a way in your heart to grant me a reprieve, you won't be doing forty hours of paperwork.'
The cop shook his head. 'You just had to urinate on your ex's lawn?'
The judge smiled. 'Technically, I pissed on a piece of my property I was magnanimously gifting to her. And sometimes, spontaneous urination just can't be helped. You're too young to be suffering from prostate maladies, but I have occasional incontinence issues.'
The officer kept his face stony, but there was a twinkle in his eye. 'I have an ex-wife, too.'
'Ah. So perhaps you understand my bladder-control problems after all.'
After his near scrape with the law, and an hour or so spent navigating a significant amount of bureaucracy and the wrath of Number Four, Judge Jim retreated to his condo. He changed into his best black suit, which had been languishing in a plastic dry-cleaning bag in his closet for God knows how long, poured himself a brand-new bourbon he'd selected from the connoisseur's stock at Cherry Hill Fine Wine and Spirits, and, at last, began tidying things up once and for all.
He spent the remaining portion of the day organizing some very interesting documents he'd recently compiled, then carefully arranged them in an accordion file, which he stuffed into a duffel bag; he cleaned and oiled his Winchester rifle, which also fit nicely inside the duffel bag; and then he made dinner reservations at his favorite seafood restaurant. Last on his punch list were two phone calls, one of which would have to wait until the last possible moment.
There was nothing left to do before dinner, so he refilled his glass, lit his best cigar, and wandered through his condo, thinking of the time he'd spent here. It hadn't been a bad place. In fact, it had been rather convenient, and the Mississippi River view was unparalleled. And without the ominous presence of the Corbusier continually monopolizing the space and his mind, the living room looked so much better; elegant, even. Maybe there was something to that whole feng shui nonsense. Damnit, he should have gotten rid of the thing a long time ago.
The final stop of his own home tour was at the photo shrine of his son - the only part of the condo he would truly miss. He reverently picked up his favorite picture, the one where he and Jessie were mugging for the camera on the eighteenth green of Woodland Hills Country Club. The little shit had actually whacked a hole in one that day. It was like all the luck he'd ever have was funneled into that very last game of golf, into that very last, eighteenth, cup. God, life was strange.
He ran his fingers over the glass, then at the last minute, decided to put the photograph in the duffel bag along with the gun and the files.
Chapter Forty
It wasn't an Irish pub, but Magozzi was happy enough to be within spitting distance of Grace McBride for a change, although she seemed a little distracted. Magozzi took it personally, of course, but there was the promise of great food, the certainty of great wine, since Harley had brought a few bottles from his famous cellar, and scantily clad women already on the stage and weaving through the tables of the restaurant and bar, so the brush-off was mitigated. Slightly.
They were all jammed together in an entry with four thousand of their closest friends, most of whom would certainly get a table before they did, since they had arrived first. Magozzi cozied up to Roadrunner, who was painfully shy at confronting strangers one-on-one, and yet totally comfortable in crowds where he wasn't likely to be singled out. 'I don't get it, Roadrunner. Mr. Foodie at a restaurant that doesn't take reservations? What happened to the chef's-table treatment? Where are the minions kneeling at our feet with caviar and foie gras?'
Roadrunner was resplendent and clearly tickled to be out of jeans and back to normal in navy-blue Lycra. 'Actually, we've never been here before. The food could suck, but Harley promised John belly dancers.'