Supreme Justice

Chapter Twenty-three

A loud noise jerked Sarah Woodruff upright out of a deep sleep. When she was certain that someone was in her condo, she grabbed her Glock 9mm and slipped out of her bedroom. Something heavy crashed into a wall on the first floor with enough force to knock over the table in the entryway. A man cried out in pain. Sarah edged down the stairs, her gun leading the way. When she was halfway down, she saw a man in a peacoat and watch cap wrestling with a man in a black leather jacket.

Sarah yelled, “Freeze!” and extended her gun over the banister. The man in the watch cap turned his head.

“John?” Sarah said as she rushed down the rest of the stairs.

A gun butt smashed into the back of her skull. She dropped to her knees. A second blow landed and Sarah’s finger squeezed the trigger.

Sarah sat up slowly. Her head was aching and her vision was blurred. She touched the back of her head. Pain lanced through her skull and made her jerk her hand away. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she saw that her fingers were covered with blood. She picked up her gun, gritted her teeth, and struggled to her feet. She was alone, and there was blood spatter on the wall. The entryway end table was on its side, and a newspaper, a magazine, a lamp, and some envelopes were strewn across the floor. The rug in the foyer was a small Persian, heavy with red tones, but a damp red liquid, tough to spot at first, had soaked in at several spots.

The pain grew dull enough for Sarah to think. She remembered John Finley fighting with a man in a black leather jacket. Then… she couldn’t remember what happened next, but there must have been someone else in the house, because the pain in the back of her head was proof that someone had hit her from behind. The intruders must have taken John.

Sarah staggered upstairs and into jeans, running shoes, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. It was October, and a cold front had swept in, bringing an arctic chill to Portland. Sarah grabbed her car keys and rushed downstairs as fast as her aching head would let her, pausing midway down so she could bend forward while a wave of nausea swept through. Then she straightened, sucked in a mouthful of frigid air, and made her way to her pickup truck.

What was John Finley doing in my house in the middle of the night? Sarah asked herself as she cruised the streets in her neighborhood looking for any trace of him or the men she assumed had taken him. What was he doing at my house at any time of day? After what had happened the last time they were together, Sarah had been certain she’d never see Finley again.

Last summer, Sarah had vacationed in Peru so she could climb Nevado Pisco, a nineteen-thousand-foot-high peak in the Andes. Two days after her ascent, she’d met Finley in a bar in Huaraz. He was handsome and smart, and they’d hit it off. Finley was a pilot, and they’d flown to an island resort in his rickety two-seater. For the rest of her vacation, Sarah and Finley scuba dived, sunbathed, dined in elegance, and fucked like rabbits. Then Sarah flew back to Portland.

Two months ago, Finley had called to say he was in Portland for business, and Sarah invited him to stay at her condo. Everything had gone swimmingly until Sarah began to wonder about Finley’s business. He’d told her it was import-export, but he was evasive every time she tried to get him to be specific. During a weak moment, Finley had mentioned the name of his company. Sarah had investigated and found that it existed only in a post office box in the Cayman Islands.

Cops cannot afford to associate with people who operate on the wrong side of the law, so she’d confronted Finley and saw a side of his personality she’d never seen before. There had been yelling and an attempt to hit Sarah. The brief scuffle ended when the combatants realized that they could both end up seriously injured. Sarah had held her gun on her guest while he packed his gear and then stormed out.

Fifteen minutes after Finley left, matters got worse. Two patrolmen showed up in response to a neighbor’s complaint. The cops left quickly when they recognized Sarah and learned that no one had been harmed, but the confrontation had been embarrassing.

Now Finley had broken into her condo and had been attacked. What was going on?

A police car was parked at the curb when Sarah pulled her pickup into her driveway twenty-five minutes later. She got out of the cab, and a chiseled young officer with a buzz cut walked out of the house, aiming a gun at her.

“Don’t move,” he yelled. “Drop the weapon.”

Sarah’s gun was hanging limply from her hand. She was so tired and woozy from the blow to her head that she hadn’t realized she was holding it until the officer shouted.

“I’m a Portland cop,” Sarah said. “I’m putting the gun down.”

Sarah bent her knees and placed the gun on the driveway.

“Move away from the truck and show your hands.”

“A man was kidnapped from my house. I’ve been out looking for him,” Sarah said as she backed away from the gun.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah Woodruff. I work out of Central Precinct. Bob Mcintyre is my sergeant.”

A hefty African-American officer who looked to be in his forties walked out of the house just as the younger cop scooped up Sarah’s gun. Sarah reached into her jacket pocket slowly and pulled out her badge. The black officer examined Sarah’s ID while the younger officer examined her gun.

“I’m John Dickinson, Sarah,” the older man said. “Why don’t we go inside, but be careful. There’s blood on the carpet and the techs haven’t arrived yet.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked as Sarah passed by and he saw the blood that matted her long black hair.

“I got hit.” Sarah was exhausted. She closed her eyes. “Can I sit down? I don’t feel so well.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Sarah collapsed on the couch. She was nauseous and would have given anything to be able to go to sleep. The younger cop whispered something in his partner’s ear. The older man nodded.

“Call for an ambulance,” Dickinson said. “Officer Woodruff might have a concussion. And get a forensic team over here.”

“Tell me what happened,” Dickinson said as soon as his partner was out of the room.

Sarah touched the back of her head gingerly and grimaced.

“Do you want some water?”

“There’s no time for that. John Finley’s been kidnapped.”

“Who is Mr. Finley?”

“A… an acquaintance. I was sleeping. I heard noise downstairs. I saw John fighting with another man. When I ran downstairs, someone knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone. I’ve been driving around trying to find them.”

“Did you call for backup?”

“I should have. My head. I’m not thinking too straight.”

“Did you recognize the man fighting with Mr. Finley?”

“I never saw him before.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Not really. Everything happened so fast, and it was dark. I think he was wearing gloves and a leather jacket but I never saw his face.”

“Did you fire your weapon?”

Sarah tried to remember what had happened after she was hit. She had no recollection of firing her weapon, so she told Dickinson that she had not.

“Were you surprised to find Mr. Finley in your apartment?”

“I was. He owns an import-export business, and he travels frequently. I thought he was on a business trip. He hadn’t called me, and he’d been gone a while.”

“How did he get in?”

Sarah hesitated. “He has a key. He was living with me before he went on his trip.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you, but…”

“Yes, we were sleeping together.”

Sarah leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Dickinson said. “It’s not smart to sleep if you have a concussion. I hear the ambulance. Let the EMTs examine you, and they’ll tell you what to do.”

Sarah nodded and grimaced immediately. The wail of the siren grew louder, and within minutes two EMTs were in the living room. A few minutes later, Sarah was strapped on a gurney and they were wheeling her out of the house.

“What did she say about the gun?” the younger cop asked Dickinson.

“Said she didn’t fire it.”

“Someone did,” the young cop said.