CHAPTER SEVEN
Hatcher scanned the area as he veered onto the mile-long drive to Judge Wadsworth’s house. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss flanked the drive, the giant branches of the trees curling and bending as if linking arms across the plush acreage to protect its residents.
Yet the Spanish moss looked brittle and dry, like an old woman’s scraggly hair, casting an eeriness to the area and reminding him of the legend of Skull’s Crossing, the place where he’d lost his wife.
Rumors claimed that two women were murdered there years ago, their bodies dumped in the ocean for the sharks to finish off. Yet the tides had tossed pieces of their remains in the marsh, drawing the gators as well. The women’s souls were caught between land and water, in limbo between heaven and hell. They haunted both the sea and the marsh, their cries echoing at low tide.
In the past months, three more skulls had been found at the same place—three that had never been identified. Three suspected to be victims of the Skull.
The wind whistled off the sea, the dry brush and sea oats a testament to winter and a reminder of death.
But the judge’s body hadn’t been left at Skull’s Crossing.
Instead, it had been left on the dock in clear sight of Tinsley Jensen’s cottage.
But why? The judge had nothing to do with Tinsley’s case or the fact that her abductor had escaped. But it had to have been left there for a reason . . .
He heaved a breath, then climbed from his SUV, the loamy scent of the marshland behind the judge’s house assaulting him. Or maybe it was the scent of death.
The sound of a car motor rumbling echoed behind him, and he stood by his SUV with arms folded and waited for his new partner to climb from her vehicle. He didn’t want to work with Korine. But he had no choice.
The breeze snatched a strand of her hair and sent it flying around her face. She swiped it away from her cheek as if annoyed at the intrusion. Her gaze skated over the house and property, but instead of looking impressed, she showed no reaction.
A gray Mercedes was parked in the circular drive in front of the mansion. Through a window in the detached brick garage, he spotted a BMW convertible.
“Wonder where the judge’s Lincoln is,” Korine said.
He arched a brow. While he’d buried himself in the bottle, she’d been honing her skills and studying cases big time. “You did your research?”
She barely gave him a glance as she started toward the house. “I told you I followed the River Street Rapist trial.” Her grim tone matched the severe frown on her face. “His wife drives the Mercedes, his son, Theo, the Beamer. He also has a tech-savvy daughter, Serena, who lives in Savannah.”
Seashells crunched beneath his boots as he followed her up the path to the front door. She paused before ringing the bell. “Wife Annette is known for being meek, submissive.”
He bit back a comment. She was showing off, but any information she had about the family could save time.
Besides, he’d have to pick his battles. He didn’t want her tattling to Bellows that he was difficult to work with.
“Any more insight?” he asked.
In spite of trying to maintain a professional tone, he realized he’d sounded petulant.
She raised a brow. “Son is a bit of a rebel. Some kind of artist, I think.”
“And the daughter?”
“Ironically, she created a phone app to alert people of crimes in progress. She also attended the trial for the River Street Rapist. When the bastard was released, the press tried to interview her. But she refused to talk to them.”
“She didn’t defend her father?”
Korine shook her head. “She gave no comment.”
Which meant she could have agreed or disagreed with her father’s ruling.
Korine rang the doorbell. Hatcher straightened to his full six two and braced himself to deliver the bad news about the judge’s death.
He hated this part of the job.
But he had to be alert and study the wife’s reaction. She might be weak and submissive, but everyone had their limits.
If she’d reached hers, she might have snapped and killed her husband.
Korine inhaled a deep breath. Although she’d disagreed with the judge’s ruling, she hadn’t wanted to see the man dead.
She would have preferred for him to apologize to the River Street Rapist’s victims and do something to make sure the bastard didn’t hurt anyone else.
The door opened, and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform and nametag reading “Hilda” greeted them. Korine introduced them. “We need to talk to Mrs. Wadsworth.”
Hilda adjusted the collar of her uniform. “May I tell her what this is about?”
Korine softened her tone. “Actually it’s personal, but it’s very important.”
Hilda motioned for them to follow her. “I’ll tell her to meet you in the parlor.” She escorted them to a room decorated with antiques, oriental rugs, and expensive paintings. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn, the dark paneling and colors of the room regal but oppressive.
The maid gestured toward the sitting area. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” Her heels clicked on the marble foyer as she hurried toward the winding staircase.
Curious, Korine crossed the room to the corner where a glass curio cabinet held the judge’s collection of gavels, some made of expensive wood with gold trim, some bearing intricate carving. The front row showcased plaques correlating with gavels that had been used in the judge’s most famous trials.
It didn’t appear that any were missing.
“Anything else you want to share before we interview her?” Hatcher asked.
Korine tensed. “Mrs. Wadsworth appeared to be the doting wife on her husband’s arm at social functions, but she avoided the press. One reporter speculated that she was afraid of the judge.”
“I am not afraid of him.”
The woman’s voice startled Korine, and she realized the judge’s wife was standing in the doorway. She looked elegant in black pants and a gold jacket, her diamonds glittering. She wore her brown hair in a perfectly coiffured bob and her nails were manicured, her makeup flawless.
Mrs. Wadsworth tugged at the neckline of her turtleneck, and Korine thought she spotted a bruise on the woman’s neck. The judge’s wife had frequently worn high-necked blouses and long sleeves when she’d been photographed. Maybe the rumors were true.
“Is that why you insisted on seeing me?” Her sharp tone reeked of disapproval. “You’re chasing gossip about my husband and me?”
Damn. She’d just screwed up. “No, and I apologize for my insensitive remark,” Korine said.
Hatcher offered his hand and introduced them both, obviously trying to smooth over Korine’s gaffe.
The woman didn’t look appeased. Instead, Mrs. Wadsworth speared them both with a condescending look. “If you’re here about one of my husband’s trials or cases, I have no comment. He doesn’t discuss his work with me.”
A muscle twitched in Hatcher’s jaw. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s important that you speak with us.”
Mrs. Wadsworth toyed with the gold chain around her neck. “Then by all means, come in and sit down.” A wary look tugged at the woman’s face as she claimed a leather wing chair in front of the fireplace and folded her hands in her lap. “All right. Now what is so important?”
Korine gestured for Hatcher to speak. She’d already alienated the woman.
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to your husband?” Hatcher asked.
Mrs. Wadsworth twisted her fingers together. “I . . . don’t understand. Why do you want to know?”
Hatcher crossed his arms. “Please just answer the question, ma’am.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “He phoned and left a message with Hilda about seven last night. Said he’d be working late.”
“Was that unusual?” Korine asked.
Mrs. Wadsworth shook her head. “He often stayed late to review trials, transcripts.” She lifted her chin. “Why are you asking?”
Hatcher shifted. “Were you aware that people were upset over his recent case and the fact that he released a suspected rapist?”
She shot up from her chair. “Of course. I do read the paper and watch the news.” She straightened her jacket. “It wasn’t his fault that the lawyers didn’t do their jobs.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, I have a headache. I’d appreciate it if you left.”
Hatcher lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Wadsworth snapped.
Korine took the initiative and coaxed the woman to sit again. “Because we have bad news. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Wadsworth, but your husband is dead.”
Mrs. Wadsworth’s face turned ashen, and she pressed one diamond-studded hand to her chest. “What? That can’t be true.”
Korine slid into a seat beside her. “I’m afraid it is, ma’am.”
“What happened?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked in a strained voice.
Korine gave her a sympathetic smile, although there really was no way to soften the blow.
“Tell me,” the woman shrieked.
Korine cleared her throat. “We don’t have the official autopsy report, but we believe he was murdered.”
Hatcher paused to give the woman time to absorb the news. Her eyes widened in shock for a millisecond. But the shock quickly faded, and she wet her lips with her tongue.
“How did it happen? Do you know who killed him?”
“We’re investigating—that’s why we’re here,” Hatcher said.
Mrs. Wadsworth angled her head toward Korine, then back to him. “I wish I could help, but I can’t.”
Hatcher patted her hand, and she flinched, a telltale sign that the bruise on her neck was probably just as he expected—the judge had a heavy hand with his wife.
Anger coiled inside Hatcher’s gut. He had no tolerance for a man beating up on a woman.
He’d have Cat check hospital and doctor records as well as police reports to see whether any domestic-abuse issues had ever been raised.
“Considering your husband’s position on the bench, I’m sure he made enemies,” Hatcher said. “Do you know of anyone in particular who would hurt him?”
She settled a solemn gaze on him. “He made enemies, but he didn’t bring that part of his work home with him.”
Maybe not. But he took his anger and frustrations out on his wife.
“Did he ever mention being threatened?” Korine asked.
The judge’s wife pushed up from her chair, her breathing unsteady. “I already told you, we didn’t discuss work. I’m sure his personal assistant at the courthouse will be able to assist you.”
Footsteps sounded, then a man’s voice. “Mother?”
A second later, a thin man in his midtwenties appeared, his hair styled and his designer shirt, slacks, and polished Italian loafers expensive. He looked like a male model.
“In here, Theo.” Mrs. Wadsworth fiddled with the neck of her shirt as her son entered the room. “The police are here.”
“I know. Hilda phoned me.” Theo froze in the doorway, one hand gripping the edge. “You’re with the police?”
“FBI.” Korine stepped forward and introduced them.
Theo glanced at his mother. “What’s going on, Mom?”
Hatcher wanted to pull the guy outside and question him before his mother broke the news, but he was walking a fine line. She didn’t give him time to protest before she blurted out the reason for their visit.
“Your father was murdered,” she said in a choked whisper.
Emotions flashed in Theo’s eyes.
“We are sorry for your loss.” Hatcher paused a second, then fisted his hands by his sides. “We were just asking your mother if she knew anyone who would want to hurt your father.”
“I told them your father and I didn’t discuss business,” Mrs. Wadsworth said quickly.
Hatcher shifted. “Theo, do you know anyone who would kill your father?”
Theo pulled at his chin. “A lot of people hated my father. People he put behind bars. Victims who didn’t get the justice they wanted. Families of those victims.” Theo drummed his fingers on his thigh. “His personal assistant, Gretta Breer, should be able to give you a list of his enemies.”
Mrs. Wadsworth had also pointed them to the assistant—maybe mother and son had practiced their stories.
Korine offered Theo a sympathetic look. “When did you last talk to your father or see him?”
A wariness settled in Theo’s eyes. “You aren’t implying that my mother or I had something to do with Dad’s death, are you?”
Hatcher maintained a neutral expression, while Korine shrugged. “You know how the system works. We have to question everyone who knew your father, get alibis, eliminate the family.”
Theo studied them for a long minute, his posture rigid. “My father and I spoke yesterday morning on the phone, just briefly. I had an appointment and told him I’d talk to him later.”
“Did you talk to him later?” Korine asked.
Theo shook his head, regret flashing on his face. “Now I won’t get to.”
“What was the call about?” Hatcher asked.
“Dinner. He wanted me to come this Sunday.”
“What did you tell him?” Hatcher asked.
“That I had work to do and I’d see.”
Hatcher sensed something was off. That Theo didn’t want to have dinner with his father. “Did you and your father get along?”
Theo gave a quick look at his mother. She hung close to him, clutching his arm. “We had disagreements just like every family does,” Theo said. “He was a . . . hard man.”
Mrs. Wadsworth bit down on her lower lip and averted her gaze.
Korine picked up a framed photograph on the mantel and studied it. “You weren’t close to him, were you?”
“Why do you ask that?” Theo said.
“Both you and your sister look uncomfortable, as if you don’t want to be in the picture.”
“It was Christmas last year,” Theo said. “My date was waiting, and Serena and Dad had argued again about that damn app she created. He told her it was dangerous.”
“App?” Hatcher asked.
“Yeah, the crime-share one that lets citizens post when a crime is occurring. It’s supposed to alert bystanders so they can clear an area or warn them to pay attention so they can help identify a criminal. But some people have misused it.”
Hatcher had heard the story. The app was a good idea, but it had problems, too.
“Where were you last night, Theo?” Hatcher asked.
The man was fast on his feet, but his mother beat him by answering first. “Theo was here with me all night.” She aimed a conspiratorial smile at her son. “Weren’t you, darling?”
Theo’s eyes darkened, but he gave a quick nod. “We had dinner, then Mother retired for the night and I did some work.”
Convenient. “What kind of work do you do?” Hatcher asked.
Theo made a low sound in his throat. “I’m an artist. Wood carvings.”
Korine raised a brow. “You carved a gavel for your father, didn’t you?”
His eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
“The press.”
“He didn’t appreciate it, though, did he?” Hatcher asked.
Anger slashed Theo’s features as he shook his head. “I thought he might finally understand what my art meant to me. But he refused to put the gavel in his precious case. He . . . called it trivial, thought I should be doing something more worthwhile with my life, like following in his footsteps.”
A motive? Killers had murdered for less.
“I suppose Hilda will corroborate your alibi,” Hatcher said.
Mrs. Wadsworth fidgeted. “Of course. Now, I need you to leave. This news has been most upsetting, and I’m sure you have other people to interrogate.”
“One more question,” Hatcher said, since neither the wife nor the son had asked how the judge was killed. “Do you have that gavel, Theo?”
A muscle jumped in Theo’s jaw. “I ground the damn thing up in the wood chipper.” Theo gestured toward the door. “I think it’s time you leave. My mother has suffered a shock and needs time to process this.”
“I’m sorry,” Hatcher said again. “But I’m sure you both want to find your father’s killer. You can help by allowing us to search your father’s home study and computer. We might find something about one of his cases or a threat that would lead us to his killer.”
Theo’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t bring work files home. You won’t find anything in there.”
Hatcher used his height to intimidate the man. “I need to look.”
Theo didn’t seem intimidated. “Then get a warrant,” he said. “And don’t question my mother again without me or her attorney present. She’s suffered enough without being treated like a suspect.”
Hatcher met the man’s steely gaze with one of his own. Theo was hiding something. And so was the mother.