cop who planned to leave town as soon as this interview with the judge was over. Considering her overall brainless reaction to the man, that couldn’t happen soon enough.
“After you,” Broussard said when the elevator reached the courthouse’s sixth floor.
“Thanks.” Stepping past him into the overwarm corridor, Liz caught a whiff of his subtle woodsy cologne, and felt her pulse rate bump up. Enough, she told herself. She hadn’t even felt this edgy, all-consuming pull to Andrew, and she’d almost married him. Twice.
The reminder of how her personal life had done a one-eighty had Liz’s fingers tightening on the strap of her leather tote. Then there was the damn dream she’d had to contend with night after night that had left her weary beyond measure. She had to come up with a plan to get rid of her macho Dream Lover. Tonight.
Feeling marginally better, she tugged open the heavy wooden door that displayed Judge David York’s name.
Moments later, a middle-aged secretary escorted Liz and Sam into the judge’s chambers. The large office, which was even warmer than the corridor, had the feel of an old-world study with dark paneled walls, leather chairs and a polished mahogany desk the size of a helipad.
The man sitting behind the desk was lanky, with sharp features and silver hair that lent him a distinguished air. From the background check she’d run, Liz knew that David York was in his mid-sixties, yet he looked a decade younger.
“Judge York, I’m Sergeant Scott, this is Detective Broussard,” she said, flashing her badge as they moved toward the desk. Making the introductions automatically identified her as the lead detective. At this point, there was no reason to explain where Sam was from or why he was there.
“Have a seat.” York gestured toward twin leather visitor chairs, his gold cuff link glittering with the movement. “The hearing this morning that pushed your appointment back has crimped my schedule. I have to be in court shortly, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’ll be brief, your honor,” Liz said, settling into the chair beside Sam’s. “The cold case office has reopened an unsolved murder in which the weapon used was a.45 automatic. A check of all unsolved shootings around the time of the homicide revealed that this particular murder was our only one in which a .45 was used.”
The judge lifted one salt and pepper brow. “Perhaps because a .45 is an unusually large caliber weapon for street crime.”
“It is,” Liz agreed. “When we ran a check of all .45’s reported stolen during the time frame of the murder, we got a hit on your residential burglary.”
York blinked. “You’re here about my burglary? From thirty years ago?”
“Yes.” While working in Homicide, Liz had learned to always keep details close to the vest. Judge or no judge, York didn’t have a need to know at this point that his Colt had been recovered, much less that it had been identified as a murder weapon. “More specifically, we’re here about the man who confessed to breaking into your home and stealing your .45 Colt.”
“I had my own law practice at that time,” York said. “After he confessed, a police officer told me the man’s name, wanting to know if I’d ever represented him. I hadn’t.” York remained silent for a moment, and Liz could almost see his mind working behind his dark brown eyes. “Apparently you’re thinking that the burglar committed the murder? With my Colt?”
“It’s possible,” Liz said. “By his own admission, he stole the same caliber weapon used in a killing around the same time.”
When she leaned to pull her copy of the burglary report from her tote bag, her gaze flicked to Broussard’s right hand, resting on his thigh. In the next heartbeat, she imagined those long, tapered fingers pressing against her flesh. Her pulse began to thrum.
Liz swallowed hard, appalled she had allowed that type of thought to intrude while she was conducting an interview. Fatigue, she reasoned. Sleep deprivation had made her punchy.
Squaring her shoulders, she glanced down at the burglary report. “Judge, you told the officer your home was broken into while you were on vacation, so you couldn’t be sure when during the week you were gone that the break-in occurred.”
“That’s correct.”
“After this much time there’s no way for me to know if all follow-up reports about your break-in wound up in the file, so I need to ask you a few questions.”
York flipped a wrist. “Go ahead.”
“Were you ever able to narrow down the time frame of when your house was broken into? Maybe learned something later from a neighbor who watched your property? Or your paperboy? Delivery people who might have routinely made calls in the area?”
“No, Sergeant. Unfortunately. However, it did occur to me later that the Colt might not have been stolen by the burglar.”
Liz leaned forward in her chair. “Why?
“Not long before I went on vacation, I had some construction work done at my home. Part of that involved minor renovation to the kitchen. Numerous workmen were in and out, and it’s possible one of them took the Colt before the burglary occurred.”
Liz nodded. “Did you give the information about the workmen to the burglary detective assigned to your case?”
“I phoned him,” York answered. “He said he would make a note for the file.”
“Do you remember the name of the construction company that did your renovation?”
“Sorry, no,” York said. “It was a long time ago.”
Nodding, Liz glanced at the report. “You didn’t have a security system, right?”
“Correct.” York gave her a rueful look. “I had one installed the day after I returned home and discovered the burglary.”
When Liz noted the judge checking his watch, she said, “Just a couple more questions, your honor. The report states you purchased the Colt a few months before it was stolen.”
“Yes.”
“Did you fire it? Perhaps take it out for target practice?”
“No, I never shot the Colt.” He pursed his mouth. “You look disappointed, Sergeant Scott.”
“Just trying for a long shot, Judge.” With the office so warm, she shoved up the sleeves on her jacket. “I was hoping you took your gun to a friend’s acreage for practice shooting. And that the friend still owns the property.”
She saw something akin to shock settle in the judge’s eyes, then astonishment crossed his face. The look was replaced by uneasiness as his skin paled.
Liz exchanged a look with Broussard. He seemed as baffled as she by York’s reaction.
She eased forward. “Your honor, is something wrong?”
“No.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I just…It’s the heat in here.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Ballistics,” he said after a moment. “You were hoping I had fired the Colt so you could go to the property and try to retrieve cartridges it ejected.
