Unnatural Instinct

ONE

Dr. Jessica Coran, FBI medical examiner, had almost forgotten that the letters M.E. followed her name. The two months off since Richard Sharpe's arrival at Dulles International Airport had been a godsend-and amazingly enough, no calls from the office or the lab. Nothing but a blissful opportunity for her and Richard to orient themselves in a new life that would change and align their futures, most certainly for the better, Jessica believed.

Richard had relocated from England to be with her. As a former police detective at New Scotland Yard, with expertise in working with Interpol, the largest crime fighting organization” in the world, Sharpe had looked into and gotten consulting work with the FBI. He had told her in no uncertain terms, “I have been self-sufficient and independent since my divorce, seven years now, and I have no intention of becoming Mr. Jessica Coran, M.E., thank you.”

“ I can accept that,” she'd told him, laughing in response.

They had had a wonderful reunion after he had landed. They had wined and dined at Anatole's Riverfront, and he stayed the first week with her at her Quantico apartment, but since then they had been house hunting, both of them knowing they needed far more space than the apartment provided. Jessica's and Richard's books alone would need an additonal room.

“ I have known relationships and marriages that have overcome great obstacles and painful hurdles,” Richard had told her, “but none can overcome shoulder-to-shoulder crowding.”

Richard's height rivaled her own, and they seemed so well matched in so many other ways; they both loved the theater and their taste in music proved to each admirable, and they both held a keen sense of right and wrong, justice and injustice. Both had devoted their lives to law enforcement, and while he was twelve years her senior, she had long ago accepted the fact that she found older men far more to her liking and far sexier than men her own age.

So they had spent these past few weeks house hunting, and they had come upon the perfect place: a lovely little farmstead with tie-ups for cows and horses in a well-lit barn, and the house itself something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was within a half hour's drive to Quantico, Virginia, where both of them now worked. It appeared and felt too good to be true, down to the white fence that ran the length of the forty-acre ranch-style farmstead. Already, Jessica was trying to determine a good name for their home. “It reminds me of Donegal, Ireland, a place I always planned to retire to, until I fell into pursuit.”

“ Pursuit?”

“ Pursuit of you… pursuit of real happiness. Real happiness is never about a place; it's something we can only derive from the one we love, and only then if one is loved in return.”

Jessica dared to believe that here, finally, stood a man who could give and give, and the well would never be empty; in fact, it seemed the more he gave, the more he had to give. She could hardly believe that the one thing she could never fully achieve with anyone, the idea of complete and true passion in its most literal sense, could be hers.

She had kissed him then and told him, “We'll name our home Pursuit then, so that neither one of us ever forgets that we're in this for the pursuit of happiness.”

“ Lovely,” he replied. “Then it's done. Now we can take our time and populate the place with some livestock. I love horses and riding.”

“ So do I, but I was thinking of populating the place with children.”

“ Children… at my age?”

“ And why not?”

“ Good show. We'll all ride together, you, me, the children.” He smiled. “Yes, all of us in pursuit at Pursuit.”

Their laughter drifted over the valley and down to the realtor, who had patiently allowed them an opportunity to walk the entire property. The house itself was expansive, with six fireplaces. It was built to last in the 1880s.

To celebrate their sharing the first down payment, they went out for an elegant meal in nearby Washington, D.C. There they dined at Cressida's, a fine restaurant with Greek cuisine.

In the middle of the finest Greek lobster she had ever eaten, a waiter placed a phone at the table and plugged it in, saying, “Dr. Coran, there is a phone call for you.” He placed the phone before Jessica.

“ I don't want to take this call,” she said.

“ We both knew it was coming; only surprise is that it didn't come sooner.”

“ How the devil does Eriq Santiva know I'm here?”

“ He's been good to us, Jess, and we've had a wonderful run.”

She sighed and took the phone from its hook. “Hello,” she barked.

“ Jess, it's John Thorpe.”

Jessica pictured Thorpe, her right hand at the lab, with whom she had shared years of confidences. He knew more about her than anyone at Quantico, so his tracking her down, even here, didn't surprise her. “I've been calling everywhere for you. It's urgent, otherwise-you know I'd never interrupt love, not for the world.”

Jessica imagined her best friend's tortured countenance. John Thorpe and she had worked for a decade side by side. They had seen some of the most bizarre criminal cases in recent history. “All right, John, what's got you all fired up?”

“ It's Judge Maureen DeCampe.”

“ Not that bitch.”

“ Listen, Jess, she's been abducted.”

“ Abducted?”

“ From the underground garage, when she was going to her car.”

“ At the g'damn courthouse?”

“ Right outta the garage!”

“ Wait a minute. Are you telling me that somebody abducted the judge from the courthouse parking lot?”

“ The judges' parking section doesn't have a firewall between it and the public section, Jess. And at night, it's a cave. Damn place was always a crime waiting to happen, so it's no surprise when you think about it.”

“ J. T., what are you saying?”

“ All the fried brain cases and psychos those judges in D.C. deal with on a daily basis? Are you kidding?”

“ Jeeze, an appellate court judge abducted.” She said it loud enough so that Richard and everyone in the place might hear. This kind of news would be headlines in an hour. “Any ransom demands, any notes?”

“ Nada, so far. Not a word.”

“ Where's Eriq Santiva?”

“ On another phone, searching for you.”

“ Why me, John? Why not half a dozen other capable forensic experts in the organization?”

“ Eriq's got marching papers to get his number one person, Jess, and you know who that is. He's covering his ass, though.”

“ Meaning?”

“ He's called Kim Desinor in as well. She's already walking the grid at the parking lot. If you want, just say so, and I'll tell them I couldn't find you. I know there isn't any love lost between you and DeCampe.”

“ She pissed a lot of people off-and not just the criminals. Remember the Van Lefler case? Remember the McGregor case? Manslaughter my ass.”

“ The media will have the story spread across the continent in an hour, Jess.”

“ Imagine if the media put as much effort into every Missing Persons case.”

“ She's an important cog in the judiciary system of a major American city, that's for sure. A year ago, she was profiled on a 20/20 episode called 'America's Most Ambitious Women.' Like it or not, Jess, it's going to be a high-profile case if ever there was.”

“ Don't I know it.” Jessica now looked across the table at Richard. She stared for a moment, saying nothing.

“ I quite understand, Jessica. It's your work; it's what you do. Go.” Richard lifted his glass of Merlot and toasted. 'To the only woman that the FBI cannot do without.”

Jessica laughed in response. Then she said into the phone, “Send a car for me, J. T.”

“ On its way.”

She hung up, reached across the table, and took Richard's hands in hers. “Are you going to be able to put up with my being gone for long periods of time, Richard?”

“ It'll only make me want you more.”

“ They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I wonder.”

“ I'll not be that far from you, dear. And don't forget, in a week, I start teaching that class on international cooperation among law enforcement agencies at Quantico myself. Of course, I will miss you… terribly, despite my being awfully busy. But as far as tonight, I want to stay with you. I'll look over the crime scene with you.”

She moved around the booth to be near him. She kissed him, and he returned the kiss. “No kissing at the crime scene,” she said in a tone clearly playful and warning.

“ I promise.”

“ It's been such a wonderful interlude-this time we've had, free of everyone and everything. I despise its ending.”

He pulled her to him and nestled into her. He followed with a kiss to her throat that then traveled to her mouth.

“ Yes, it has been rather amazing,” he whispered.

“ Rather,” came her breathless reply.

Jessica's success rate over the past several years with high-profile cases had proven nothing short of phenomenal. Still, she had twice had ill-fated run-ins with Judge Maureen DeCampe over Jessica's so-called bending of the rules- seen as a misstep in the chain of evidence protocol or simply some blunder with regard to the rights of the accused. While the problem remained behind closed doors, not for public record, everyone in the FBI family seemed to know. As J. T. had put it, there was no love lost between the now-missing judge and the M.E. Jessica had repeatedly butted heads with the liberal judge, whom she thought a closet libertarian.

Any hard feelings had to be put aside, however, and their roots, while well established, needed plucking for the time being.

Riding in the back of the Washington PD squad car sent to pick her up, she asked Richard, with a cocked-eared Patrolman Stanley Hanrahan listening in, “J. T. says they don't know exactly how long the woman has gone missing. But why all the suspicion that she has been abducted if it's only been a few hours or not even that?”

“ She logged out at just after midnight,” said Hanrahan from the driver's seat. “I hear she had a routine on Thursday nights to work late.”

“ So she never made it to her car; so it was sometime just after midnight. And why still no ransom note, no phone call to the family, nothing?”

“ The vic's simply disappeared.”

“ How awful,” Jessica whispered into Richard's ear, “to have your sum total self reduced to the abbreviated form of victim.”

He squeezed her, and Hanrahan watched via the rearview mirror. Richard said, “What do we know so far? A D.C. appellate court judge has vanished from a downtown parking lot, and whoever has the judge apparently cares nothing for money and-”

“ And even less for the suffering of loved ones.”

“ And there's a major push on to find her.”

Jessica nodded at this. “Authorities have wasted no time in pursuing this as a suspicious disappearance. Any number of other disappearances, police-and most certainly FBI involvement-would take twenty-four hours before beginning a manhunt.”

“ This DeCampe must be well connected,” he volunteered.

She laughed hollowly. “Firmly entrenched in the top levels of society here in D.C., even though she's not been in the city for long.”

“ Oh, really? And just how does one pull that off? By spending money?”

“ Yes and no. She was born and raised under wealthy family circumstances. She climbed to the top of the legal profession as a lawyer and was a judge in Houston, Texas. After nearly twenty years on the bench there, she moved to D.C. and took a position as an appellate court judge here.”

“ So, Officer, you saw the crime scene, right?”

“ Yeah… sure did.”

“ Any theories as to who has her?” she asked Hanrahan, who'd been chewing on a Snickers candy bar.

He took a moment to swallow. “Not a clue, Dr. Coran, but you know how many loony tunes go through the system and are carrying a hard-on for… I mean a grudge against the judges? And DeCampe in a short time has managed to piss off everybody, the good guys as well as the bad guys, so…” He let his words hang in the air.

She imagined how worrisome the entire matter would be to the other judges once word got around. “So perhaps my first instinct is right.”

“ And what would that be, Doctor?” asked Richard as the car came within sight of the courthouse. A roaming wispy but spirited ground fog played about the windshield like a ghost from a wishing well, while the black emptiness of the abandoned street gave Jessica a fleeting chill.

“ My intuition tells me that some sort of sociopath has her. Someone who isn't in it for any sort of ransom, some one out for some sort of vengeance, some kind of hate motive.”

Richard replied, “Sounds like, a normal thing, the way you put it, Doctor.”

“ Sociopathic reasoning may resemble our so-called normal reasoning and motivations, but it never rises to the level of daring to think about itself… or to think of its consequences.” She realized instantly that she had lost Hanrahan in the serpentine, labyrinthian thought when he replied, “Say what?”

Richard said, “Then don't look for a rational motive.”

“ So, you're going to consult on this case, are you?”

“ If I can get assigned to it, I will.”

“ Assuming you are assigned to it, what kind of motive would you suggest, Richard?”

“ Some sort of revenge motive, likely a quite twisted one.”

Somehow Officer Hanrahan had gotten his feelings hurt, and now he took a turn too fast, tossing his occupants to one side, but they only luxuriated in one another and were back to kissing as the car came to a careening stop inside the garage below the Washington, D.C., appellate courthouse. “Strange place for this,” she told him.

“ Never too strange surroundings for love,” he replied.

“ God but I love you.”

“ I love you,” he countered.

“ We're here,” Hanrahan announced, switched off the motor, and climbed from the car. Then Chief Eriq Santiva, Jessica's immediate supervisor with Unit Four, Behavioral Division the PHI. snatch ' '.' ' ' or “ and pried them loose with the obligatory greetings, 101 lowed by J. T. with more of the same.

“ Jess, she's vanished without a trace,” Santiva assured her, taking her by the hand to help her from the car. “Not so much as a hair so far.”

“ We're thinking it may've been someone with a grudge against her,” said J.T.

“ Someone pissed over one of her rulings.” The two men were talking over one another.

“ Wow… that narrows the field,” she joked. “And who would possibly be upset by one of the woman's rutting rules?”

“ Still, they're right,” said Richard. “It's quite likely that if no demands are made, the culprit has other punishment in mind.”

“ Richard and I discussed it and have as much as agreed on the same point. Richard ought to be brought in as consultant, Eriq. What's the alternative? That he go back to the restaurant and demand a container to box up my lobster?”

Chief Eriq Santiva grimaced. “Sorry to cut into your honeymoon.”

“ Honeymoon? Eriq, we haven't even set a date.”

“ Preamble then to your honeymoon… whatever you two are calling it. Sorry to cut it short.”

“ Honeymoon sounds good to me,” Richard replied. She looked at Richard, and he smiled back. “I only meant that it… well, it's just that the word doesn't quite apply, like Missing Persons being applied to this case will likely prove inaccurate.”

'Trust me, the heat put on to solve this thing immediately and now… it necessitated we call it a Missing Persons case.”

“ I see.” Her eyes widened with realization. She explained to Richard, “Makes it far easier to rationalize FBI involvement in an otherwise police matter. So we've already taken full charge of the case, right? WPD is cooperating with us, rather than the other way around?”

“ You've grasped the political nature of the case with your normal brilliance, Agent Coran,” replied Santiva, a little edge to his voice. “Absolutely, we've taken those steps. No one in the WPD is going to give a rat's ass about what happens to a judge, especially this judge, don't you see?”

“ As saviors, we had no choice.”

“ Something like that, yes.”

“ Done deal as you Yanks say,” interjected Richard, trying to defuse the moment.

Eriq, his Cuban features twitching now, his black eyes like cold marble, said, “We moved ahead on this for all the right reasons. Trust me, this is no casual snatcher. She may've run into a psycho serial killer.”

“ What're you saying? That this guy targeted her and her only? That tells us a great deal right from the get-go.”

“ Yeah, he's out for revenge, not ransom.”

J. T. joined them, adding a word. “Which will likely involve torture; out of torture, he will gain some sense of control over her, break her down, make himself feel more powerful as a result.”

Jessica had heard the familiar tale too often. “The abductor wants to feel superior to his victim-to a woman- and he will, despite all her titles.”

The four seasoned veterans had all dealt with the worst crimes in recent history. They were well aware of each other's capabilities, but they were equally aware of the depravity they might well be facing. “How long?” asked Jessica.

“ We figure her absence was not felt until three hours after what occurred here. Her daughter was holding a late-late surprise hot meal for her at home-the judge's place. Couple of friends, relatives who were planning an intervention.”

“ An intervention? Was she on the bottle or-”

Eriq waved his hands. “No, no! Nothing like that. They thought they could break her of her workaholism. You know, the caring children wanting the aging mother put out to pasture, all that.”

“ Gee, wish I had friends like that,” muttered Jessica.

“ We could arrange for an intervention for your obsession with work,” teased Richard. But the remark left Jessica frowning, Santiva staring, and J. T. simultaneously scratching his ear and scrunching his face up as if deciphering where and when.

Santiva said, “Jess, you do have friends like that, but they're so busy that they can't find time to intervene you, you see?”

“ Richard's only kidding, you two! Get off it. Funny, Richard. Now let me have a look at the crime grid, will you?” She pulled away from Richard's hand on her arm, and she pushed past the other two men, going for the location of the crime, saying, “If only these walls could talk.” She meant to read the crime scene and come away with some useful, guiding clues or patterns, or a direction in which to take the case.

“ Look, we'll need to get Lew Clemmens to look into the judge's caseload records for anyone who even smells bad.”

“ Can do, but there're men here at D.C. headquarters who can handle that.”

“ I trust Clemmens to be always right on, Eriq. And we don't have time to work with skeptics and people who're going to second-guess our moves, not if we want to find this creep before he kills her. Not if we want to bring her back alive.”

“ Shhh… family over there.”

Jessica saw the grieving handful of people all huddled in one corner, two pretty young women who looked like younger versions of the judge among them. She'd heard the judge had two daughters and three grandchildren with one on the way. Jessica wondered who had the little ones, and her heart sank at the thought of pain brought on the innocent grandchildren.

Jessica now approached the cordoned-off area, the grid of the crime scene. She saw that Kim Desinor, FBI agent and psychic, was well within the grid, attempting to pick up any psychic vibrations or hits that might defy both the skeptical onlooker and reality itself… at least reality as most people knew it.

“ How long has she been in trance?” asked Jessica.

J. T. replied, “Going on twenty minutes.”

“ She say anything?”

Eriq piped in with, “Before she went under, she touched the gun and the shoe.” He pointed to a shoe and a gun lying about the rear of a car tagged for impound-the judge's car. “Said the shoe and the gun belonged to Judge DeCampe. But then even I could've told you that.”

So far, Kim Desinor's efforts had remained unimpressive. Still, Jessica had worked previous cases with the psychic detective, and she sometimes proved to be uncannily accurate. “She say anything while under?”

“ Naaah… lot of nothing so far. Couple of grunts maybe.”

The moment Eriq said this, Kim Desinor screamed and stumbled forward, as if in a drunken stupor. She was caught by Santiva, only moments before she might have cracked her head on the dirty, oily pavement. Back of her, near the car tagged as the judge's, Jessica momentarily focused on a large. 45 Remington revolver-a Texas weed eater some called it-a set of keys, and a single high-heeled, stiletto- style shoe.

“ Get her some water, enough for drinking and splashing,” Jessica told Richard as Santiva collapsed to the floor with Desinor in his arms. “Eriq, J. T., get her topside where there's some cold air. It reeks of stagnant exhaust fumes in here.”

Santiva saw to helping Kim Desinor away. The psychic agent looked in a state of shock, her knees bleeding from having scraped the concrete floor. The results of the fall might have been far worse. Jessica wondered if there would be any significant results of another kind, the psychic kind. Dr. Desinor had in the past conjured miracles. However, Jessica knew she must rely on science and not magic, even if that magic might well have a basis in fact.

A team of two evidence technicians with the Washington PD stood about watching, ordered to hold until Dr. Desinor had completed her reading of the crime scene area, and further ordered to stand down until Jessica could complete her examination of the crime grid. The snickering from the WPD techs over what they had witnessed with Dr. Desinor could not be masked in this underground tomb where every word echoed and bounced.

Normally, no one was to touch a thing until the lead forensic investigator assigned to the case arrived. Dr. Jessica- “Her Highness,” as many had taken to calling her behind her back-Coran had now arrived to give the place a thorough look-see and walkover. She'd done that much; she was on deck, at the scene as soon as ordered, and she had taken it all in at a glance, while a piece of her mind wandered back to Richard.

The last time she'd been called to a crime scene it had also cost her an expensive meal. That time, her friend and colleague, Dr. John Thorpe, J. T., had come along with her, as they'd been dining together at the local Caribbean Sin on succulent mahi mahi steak dinners, which had been left cold and standing.

On staring across the taped-off area, Jessica felt a sense of dread and deja vu, and she said to herself, “Sometimes I feel like Eriq's hired bloodhound.”

“ You can bet WPD'll want this one. It is their jurisdiction, and they're going to fight for it,” said one of the D.C. police crime techs. “Dr. Sleezac's contesting jurisdiction as we speak.”

Jessica knew Herbert Sleezac, M.E. for the city. She felt no surprise at his contesting jurisdiction. If she were in his position, she'd fight for her jurisdictional rights as well.

“ Kidnapping is a federal offense. We don't need an invitation, with a federal appellate judge having been kidnapped.”

“ All the same, you know how the Washington PD works. Going to be like pulling teeth for you to get any cooperation.” Jessica knew what the guy meant. The city police still thought it was 1940, but they couldn't argue with the FBI taking over, not on this one. They wouldn't stand a chance in a court of law, and they knew it. “Suspected kidnapping of an appellate court judge is a far cry from your ordinary Missing Persons case.”

Jessica had developed a reputation among her colleagues for an uncanny ability to “read” the signs of a violent crime scene, and whatever bread crumbs an assailant or a killer left behind. She'd proven it many times over. She not only had the good “blue” sense of a fine detective, but she also “divined” from another place in her psyche that few other women or men could touch. Some called it mysticism. Jessica called it a knack, a Yankee intelligence that came with the DNA. Reading people was a gift passed on to her by her father, a forensics man for the U.S. military. Still she had no illusions about being the kind of psychometric reader Desinor was.

While Jessica had lost her father many years before, she had never lost his spirit, or what he had passed on to her: patience and hard work, how to find out what one needed in any circumstance, how to use time wisely, how to discipline oneself to a task, and how to question and then question the question. All lessons hard won and never to be forgotten, and in never forgetting, she kept her father alive as well. As a result, her father had never completely left her side.

J. T. had remained with Kim Desinor on the outside, while Richard Sharpe and Eriq Santiva had returned. Eriq whispered in her ear, “The absolute absence of a trail or a clue of any sort has dictated, at least in my mind, the need for your special talents, Jess.”

“ As a forensics guru or as backup to Kim Desinor?”

“ And tracker, and cunning person,” Santiva added. “We both know the absence of a trail would leave any other forensic investigator or techie Washington cop scratching his head for months or until a body washed up in a storm drain. With this one, the clock is ticking furiously, Jess. We all sense it. Dr. Desinor sensed it strongly the moment she stepped into the garage.”

Jessica Coran now crouched over a mini-debris field that spoke of a confrontation in the capital courthouse's underground parking lot-a modern day haunted interior if ever there was one.

Jessica immediately keyed in on the fallen Remington. 45, a sterling shiny new barrel looking like an errant piece of a wind chime. The modern version of the old. 45 proved far lighter. Jessica had a pair of originals in her gun collection at home, under glass-a collection that had been her father's, which she had added to over the years. Friends who had seen her collection joked that she had more firepower and hardware than did the Pentagon.

Using a pen through the trigger guard, Jessica thoughtfully examined the. 45 as she lifted the weapon. Titanium steel and lighter weight notwithstanding, the thing dwarfed her own. 38 Police Special; the monster was not nearly so accurate nor easily concealed as her. 38 Smith amp; Wesson. Likely, the former Texas lady judge didn't want to conceal the fact that she packed a deadly weapon. “Why does every man, woman, and child in Texas think bigger is better?” she asked no one in particular as she stared down the enormous length of the. 45's barrel, a cannon in Jessica's estimation. “Bitchin' gun.”

Immediately on saying this, a naked light bulb illuminating much of the crime scene began to blink, first creating a pattern of dark ripples across the area and then light- generated shadows.

“ She probably used the gun to scare people off,” suggested Richard, who stood, hands clenched, nearby, also taking in the bloodless crime scene. “Apparently, whoever has her didn't cringe and slink away on seeing the weapon. Tells us something about her assailant.”

“ Yeah, right. Maybe he knew her well enough to know it was for show, and that she'd never pull the trigger.” Jessica bit her lower lip and shook her head. “Eriq… get me a couple of our guys from the lab down here. I want our techs to help me cover the territory, not the city payroll guys over there.” She indicated Sleezac's men.

“ Of course, will do.” Eriq got on his cell phone, but like everything in this underground world, it wasn't working. He had to return to the outside to make his call, bitching about his cell company the entire way.

Jessica reached for Sharpe's hand and stared into his eyes. “There are a lot more places I'd rather be, and all of them with you, Richard.”

“ I know… me, too.”

The D.C. techs watched, curious about the lovers as they embraced.

Some fifteen minutes had passed when Jessica recognized one of the FBI technicians as Phil McMillen, and ignoring the WPD techs on hand, she said, “Phil, I want the firearm in our lab. Give it a once-over for prints now, but bag it and label it as ours.”

Phil fought down a gloating look. “Gotcha, Dr. Coran.”

Since the city police techs put up no argument, and the city detectives remained mute, Jessica assumed everyone had gotten word from above that she was in charge of the crime scene, regardless of the usual protocol or any jurisdictional crap, as Jessica called it when lines between agencies were blurred. Such bullswallop she despised-the jurisdictional quibbling that often escalated into arguments, and later became the sort of loopholes defense attorneys drove John Deere tractors through. All the wrangling also took up far too much precious time, and that would be especially true on this case. The hell if I'm going to put DeCampe's life at risk over a question of boundaries between law enforcement agencies. Judge DeCampe was important enough that the governor, the mayor, and most of the city's elite wanted immediate results, and they didn't trust the Washington Police Department for anything requiring speed or overnight results. The same scenario put Jessica and her FBI team on a hot tin roof that would be scrutinized minute by minute.

Referring to the gun she held up, Jessica asked that it get a liberal spraying of Printpoint to highlight any telltale fingerprints. “Who knows,” Jessica said, “perhaps her assailant grabbed hold of it at some point in the confrontation. If someone were pointing this thing at me, I think I'd grab hold of the barrel and push it skyward.” Jessica looked up on the off chance some evidence of a shot having been fired had chipped the concrete overhead. Nothing. Her nose had already told her that the gun had not been fired, but her brain-starved from having been pulled away from a much- needed meal-was slow to catch up.

“ What're you thinking, Jess?” J. T. asked, leaning in over her shoulder and staring at the firearm, studying it and the fact that only the handle showed any print evidence. Phil said even these prints were useless as they'd been smeared horribly with a greasy substance.

“ If Judge DeCampe dropped this without firing a shot, then she may have known the guy or the woman.”

“ How can you know that?”

“ She let down her guard… relaxed her grip, possibly at gunpoint, and simply dropped it, which suggests that her assailant got the best of her. Meanwhile, the guy doesn't bother to pick up the weapon or clean up the mess left behind, so…”

“ He wants us to know that he has her,” obliged J. T.

“ He certainly hasn't gone out of his way to confuse the issue; doesn't want anyone thinking she's on an escape weekend.”

“ He's telling us he wants us to know she's in his power,” agreed J. T., gritting his teeth. “This could get ugly, Jess.”

“ If it's a power trip he's on, if this is some deep-seated need of his to make us clear on his having her at his will, yeah… you're right. Still, it may be something we might take advantage of.”

“ How so?”

'To turn his need for us to know to our advantage later… maybe twist things to our advantage using this need of his.”

J. T. breathed deeply. Everyone in law enforcement in the city knew of Judge Maureen DeCampe, and all law enforcement held an unspoken but powerful bond. When someone in the community of law enforcement fell injured or killed, or in this case abducted and possibly dead, a ripple effect of emotion and a call to duty went out like a call to a fire. While neither J. T. nor Jessica called Judge DeCampe a friend, they both respected and admired her, even if they!! didn't always agree with her verdicts. She had thrown out more than one case on legal technicalities, swatting police authorities like flies, while some criminal smugly walked back out onto the street. Nothing made Jessica see red more than this kind of injustice, to watch the family members of the victims go numb and stunned at such a verdict.

DeCampe had recently made the ruling to release a certain inmate of the Washington, D.C., penal system back into society-due in large part to his advanced age and failing health-and this resulted in a local retired detective on the WPD taking the law of blood into his own hands, first murdering the released man and then killing himself. It had been front-page fodder for the Post for days. DeCampe came under fire of public opinion and members of the press, not to mention police and law enforcement professionals. It had been break-room conversation back at Quantico headquarters as well. The Washington Police Department personnel were particularly pissed with Judge DeCampe afterward. However, DeCampe stood her ground like the Texan she was, never acknowledging any part in the series of events that led up to the murder and suicide. Her supporters pointed out that she tried every case on the merits of that case alone; every case handled as a unique animal. As a result, few could predict the outcome of a DeCampe ruling. Jessica had to agree that most other judges were so predictable that area lawyers-both defense and prosecuting attorneys-banked on certain outcomes.

Overall, Judge Maureen DeCampe proved a tough, fair, and firm judge, the sort sorely missing in many current judicial arenas in D.C., and Jessica liked her no-nonsense manner, despite not always agreeing with her.

Jessica now coldly stared down on the spot where the woman's keys lay alongside the stiletto-heeled pump, the items just shy of the judge's Mercedes. Judge Maureen DeCampe was known to have used those heels on people who got too close. Jessica momentarily wondered if she'd held onto the other one for any chance to strike back at her assailant at the secondary location.

The rule of thumb among knowledgeable people in law enforcement is that under no circumstances do you allow an assailant to transport you to a second location, one of his choosing. Rule of thumb called this assisting the assailant in putting him into a comfort zone, one in which he might exercise any fantasy he has ever held, including but not limited to the power over life-the abductee's life. At the second location, the assailant held absolute sway over his victim without threat of discovery or interruption, and 90 percent of the time, this ended in the death of the victim. If Judge DeCampe were conscious, she'd have fought extremely hard before she would allow anyone to abduct her. In addition, Judge DeCampe had a reputation for taking care of herself-Tae Kwon Do, stiletto heels, and, 45s-and everyone in and around the courthouse knew her well enough to agree with Jessica on this score. She would never assist in her own abduction.

Everyone from the governor of the state, the mayor, the DA's office, the PD's office, the entire police force, the press, the public-everyone would have a personal and/or powerful interest in the case; she was, in a sense, one of D.C.'s finest. There was no keeping this high-profile case out of the headlines. By the time Jessica got home in nearby Quantico, Virginia, and crawled into bed tonight, Jay Leno would be cracking wise about the case.

Judge DeCampe as celebrity. Weird-assed world we live in with this perversion of what stood for celebrity-victims and celebrity killers, Jessica thought. Maureen DeCampe's disappearance already deeply disturbed Jessica, and it would insinuate itself on any sleep she might hope to get until they arrived at an outcome. Her case would be blazoned across every U.S. newspaper, and blazoned across Jessica's forehead. She imagined the effect of it all while trying to make love to Richard, or while simply trying to find any peace of mind until the judge was located and hopefully returned to her family unharmed. The chances of that appeared slim to none at the moment.

Despite their run-ins and problems-and perhaps due to them-Judge DeCampe had helped Jessica out on more than one occasion. Regardless of where the judge's political and personal leanings were, she remained a stalwart ally to those she befriended. In fact, among the law enforcement community in D.C., few people commanded as much respect as she. Well liked, she had hundreds of admirers and friends. Some said she “owned” Washington-meaning it in a political sense and not always in a nice way. Others called her the city's finest and fairest appellate judge, some saying she earned every accolade, and that nothing was ever handed to her. Jessica respected her because she could easily have simply become another Washington debutante and social butterfly.

“ Funny how she had the money and position to do nothing with her life, but she chose to do something with it instead,” said J. T. in Jessica's ear.

“ Yeah, so I've heard.”

“ Nothing would've been enough for her parents and immediate circle, but she took the far more difficult road, carving out a real life for herself in a profession for which she harbored great passion.”

“ Are you writing her eulogy already, John? You're speaking of her in the past tense.”

“ Jeeze, I didn't mean to… I mean, imply that…”

“ Cool it. We're all thinking it, and besides, you're right about her. You gotta admire her gumption. I think that's what they call it in Texas.”

DeCampe had been born and raised on a Texas ranch near Houston. She had risen in the legal system in Texas through several administrations, and she had taken a position in Washington only a few months before, ostensibly to be close to her adopted son, Michael, and her grandchildren as both her daughters worked in politics and had married politicians. “She is a woman of substance and conviction. Can't fault her for being without courage.”

“ I admire you for the same qualities, Jess,” he confided.

Her eyes had closed in thoughtful response; she knew that despite all their ups and downs, despite the squabbles and the tension that came whenever people worked or lived in close proximity, and despite the caustic humor that had taken on the nature of a hallmark between them, J. T. greatly respected her and her abilities-as she respected him. “Thank you, J. T., but never forget that people do not condemn us for our frailties and faults but ultimately for our qualities.”

“ What's that supposed to mean?” J. T.'s gaze gave away his complete confusion.

“ An old truth I once read tells me now that she was abducted because of her fine qualities, not despite them, and not because of her flaws. Whoever took her likely is punishing her for her finest traits, not her weakest.”

“ That's… that's deep,” J. T. muttered.

“ Well… we see it every time someone is murdered. The stalking male who can't function and who has to continue to harass his former lover or wife until someone is dead. He goes after her because he can't have her ideal-the best that she once was in his mind-which no longer exists. He kills her for her finest qualities, not for her worst. Someone who can't leave a celebrity alone does it for the same reason. And Judge DeCampe was, in her way, a celebrity.”

Her eyes closed, nearing a comforting moment of pure instinct as her mind played over the chess board of the crime scene. Twenty-four hours an investigator, her subconscious scolded, but now is the time it really counts. She recalled how often her shrink had told her she must find ways to relax and get away from her work. But even when she did so, her work wouldn't get away from her, as evidenced this night.

When the soft-spoken but firm judge had gone missing, reported by her daughters, it was taken seriously from the get-go. No one working in law enforcement at any level remained far removed from the threat of violence, especially not in a major American city; D.C.'s spiraling skyscrapers and gorgeous skyline might be seen by some as monuments to a civilized camp, but Jessica Coran knew better. She knew from hard-won experience that human beings, whatever the size of their monuments and accomplishments, remained as savage and bestial as the day they were deposited on Earth by whatever powers governed the void. Whether you subscribed to Cherokee creation myths or to Hindu or Christian creation tales, you had to know that the human creature was the most complex and dangerous animal on the planet, given as much to creating art and philosophy and religion as to creating fear and hatred and monsters of their offspring.

Both as a woman and as a detective, Jessica had long understood, even appreciated, how the animal brain of the first men to walk upright operated-fight or flee was not far from that of the bear, the first man in Native American theology, or any other predator. Regardless of add-ons, the late improvements and refinements to the predatory man-brain, there was no denying that the original bear-brain remained intact and working. The refinements had come in layers, creating an onion of the cerebral cortex, layer upon layer masking the primitive brain: a core center for growing fur and fangs and claws, but also a center for spawning ignorance and fear, giving rise to bigoted hatred and irrational violence.

And so, Jessica's fevered brain played tennis with the ideas that went back and forth across the net of her consciousness. Something disturbing in the clean crime scene; something speaking to her of how easy it had been for DeCampe's abductor. Too damned easy. No blood spilled. No scuff marks. No car door swinging open. No lock with a key left hanging in it. Jessica knew of cases in which killers had taken their prey with the help of a fake cast on what appeared a broken arm, with trained dogs who faked being hit by a hasty exit from a parking space, a pair of fake “blind man's” eyes and a tin cup, or even a helpful wife with a baby on her arm. This was the con game that asked the victim to become a willing participant, a perfect victim. But Judge Maureen DeCampe knew all this as well. She ought to have been in a unique position to see it coming, yet she had put up no struggle whatsoever. It could mean only one thing: She knew her assailant and she felt no fear of him whatsoever.