Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“Royce may crack now,” Lightman surmised.

“What? Use his mother as leverage?” Frankie stood and grabbed her jacket. “What makes you think I’d use such an underhanded method?”

“Just guessing,” Lightman said, his face plastered with a knowing smile.

Frankie reached the elevator just as Art was stepping off. He saw the look immediately. “What?”

“Come on,” she said, herding him back into the elevator. “We’ve got Barrish. Direct link to Royce.”

Art thumped the elevator door as it closed. “Dammit, yes!”

“I’ll give you all the details in the car,” Frankie promised.

“Where are we going?”

She smiled. “To nail one Monte Royce’s ass.”

Art nodded, joining the smile. It was good to start the morning on a high note. Taking Royce down was only slightly below the highest. But he could wait to nail John Barrish…for a while.

“Your nine o’clock canceled,” Lena told Anne Preston as she walked through the door of her outer office. A devilish grin accompanied the revelation.

“Hmmm.” Anne shook her head, and headed for the door to her office. “I’ve got work to catch up on.”

“Go see him,” Lena said, stopping her boss in her tracks. “You know you want to. It’s only an hour.”

Anne looked to her secretary and smiled. “I knew I hired you for some reason.”

“Go.”

One billable hour down the drain, but the standard cancellation fee and the chance to see Art was the flip side. It was a fair exchange. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Say hi for me, too,” Lena told her.

“I will,” Anne assured her, then headed back the same way she had come. Five minutes later she was driving west on Wilshire on her way to surprise her man.

The drive north on the 405 took Art and Frankie a little longer than they’d anticipated, thanks to a fender bender that was clearing on the right shoulder, but the northbound 101 — actually heading in a westerly direction for that stretch — was free and clear, allowing them to reach Monte Royce’s Westlake Village place of residence in less than thirty minutes. But arrival only presented a fresh problem.

“Excuse me,” Frankie said as she pulled the Bureau Chevy up on the wrong side of the street, blocking the gated driveway to the Royce home. The uniformed woman looking inward through the wrought-iron bars turned toward her voice. “Do you live here?”

The woman eyed the stranger suspiciously, a reaction Frankie noticed and alleviated by showing her shield. “No, I’m the nurse for Mrs. Conyers Royce. But no one is answering the gate phone.”

Frankie put the car in park and got out. Art did also and walked over to the woman. “How often do you come here?”

“Every day about this time,” the nurse explained nervously. “Mr. Royce leaves once I’m here. He never leaves until I’m here.”

Art looked toward the house. It was barely visible from the street, the abundance of well-tended foliage acting as a natural privacy shield. He switched his attention to the gate, particularly its locking mechanism, which operated on a simple hook-and-post principle. Press a button, the post drops, and the hook is released, letting the gate open with the aid of a hydraulic pusher. Of course one could ram the gate, but there were less dramatic ways of gaining entry. “Do you have a key to the house?”

“Yes.” The nurse held out a ring with four keys on it, which Art took. “This one here is for the doors.”

“Let the police know, partner,” Art directed. As Frankie went to the car, he turned his attention back to the anxious nurse. “Are you concerned about the Royces?”

“Very much so. I’ve been trying to get Mr. Royce on the phone for twenty minutes.” She glanced through the gate. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

I hope the bastard hasn’t skipped out on us , Art thought alternately. “We’re going to go in and check. The police will be here in a few minutes.”

“I hope everything is all right.”

“So do we,” Art agreed, though his definition of “all right” was vastly different from that of the nurse. He looked at the wall on either side of the gate, deciding quickly that an eight-footer was a little too much. But at the north corner of the property there was the shorter fence belonging to the neighbors. Frankie came back up as Art gestured to the barrier. “Let’s do some climbing.”

They went to that wall — a six-footer — and used it as a step to clear the adjoining barrier. Once over they crossed the lawn and walked up the driveway, following its sweep to the front entrance. They pounded on the front door and yelled the familiar “FBI!”, but there was no response. A check of several windows along the front yielded nothing, as the shades were fully drawn, so they skirted the perimeter to the north, passing the closed garage doors, and headed toward the back of the…

“Hold it,” Art said, a hand coming up. A single finger pointed down.

The muddy footprints on the cement walkway were fresh. A second later their weapons were out. Art drew closer, noticing more details now. The prints, a single set, came from the direction of the backyard and ended at a side door. Fainter prints belonging to the same shoe — a boot of some kind — appeared to follow the same path on a reciprocal, and a different set of prints tracked over the first. One went in, two came out . They approached the spot carefully and listened. Art gently pushed on the door with his elbow. It didn’t budge, and he decided not to try the lock. There might be better access around back. They continued on, avoiding stepping on the tracked prints, and eased cautiously around the corner. Art checked what lay before them. A damp cement path led along the back wall of the garage, then opened to a lattice-covered patio that large box windows looked out upon. They crept toward those, ears peeled for sounds of danger, weapons held firmly and pointed at the ground. Once at the windows Art rose up on the balls of his feet and looked in. It was the kitchen, and was empty…except for—

Blood. A pool of it covering a good portion of the tiled floor, part of its area blocked by a cooktop island. Art moved further along the window until—

Shit . “Body,” Art said quietly. It was about the right size and dressed professionally. Monte Royce. The blood about the head and the distance prevented a positive identification, but that would change quickly. Art led the way back around to the front of the house to the main entrance. “We’ve got to kick it.”

Frankie holstered her weapon and surveyed the door. It was solid, and would obviously take more force than she could muster alone to breach. But to either side were cement planters, about a foot and a half in height. She picked one up, dumping its contents, and grasped it in an approximation of a battering ram, swinging it back and forward in one smooth motion. Its flat, round base connected with the door near the lock, and elicited a sharp snap from the member. A second swing pushed the door in completely.

Art went through first. Frankie dropped the planter and redrew her weapon, joining him. “FBI! FBI!” they yelled together, Art covering the staircase to the front, Frankie the opening to the kitchen to the right. On the stairs’ carpeted surface they noticed very faint prints similar to those outside. But to the right was where their attention was mainly focused. Listening for any signs of movement, they moved through the house, entering the kitchen after just a moment. They now saw the body from the opposite direction as before. It was almost certainly Royce. There was absolutely no doubt, however, that whoever it was was very dead.