Gregg Olsen - Fear Collector

Kiernan Weber was about sixty, a kind of genteel fellow who had served as a superior court judge in Tacoma before retiring to private practice. He came with the best reputation.

The best that money could buy.

A lot of money.

Palmer Morton’s money.

“I understand that you have some questions for my client,” he said in his characteristic deep baritone, a voice that routinely sent shivers down even the toughest defendant’s spine. Prosecutors and defense attorneys, too. “I hope we can answer them to your satisfaction today,” he said.

Grace had testified in Judge Weber’s courtroom a few times. This was the first time she’d seen him off the bench. She respected him, like most in the department. Yet, she wondered if money was so important that a man like Weber, with a pension as big as the moon, really needed to scoop up more of the green stuff.

“Judge, as you know, we’ve met your client.”

“And your client’s father,” Paul added, never missing a chance to turn the blade for a reaction.

Judge Weber nodded, refusing to play. “That’s right,” he said. “I understand all of that. And as far as I know, both have been cooperative.”

“Reasonably so,” Grace said, wanting to add something about how they had probably lied to her, but she let it go. Goodwill to the man next to the teenager trumped a sarcastic remark.

“That’s good to know,” he said. “I’ve always been on the side of cooperation.”

“We have some new information and we’re hoping that you can shed some light on it.”

“That’s why we’re here. Tell me, detectives, is my client a target of your investigation? There was certainly some drama in getting us all here this morning.”

“We’re trying to find a missing girl, Judge. We need help. We have reason to believe your client wasn’t completely candid when we talked with him at his residence,” she said, holding back the word mansion because it seemed so ludicrous to use that kind of loaded word. The kid was a kid. Whatever money he had came from inside his dad’s wallet.

Paul spoke up. “We also think that your client’s father wasn’t so truthful, either.”

Judge Weber’s face betrayed no emotion. He just listened and took it all in. It was hard for Grace to think of anything other than testifying in the judge’s courtroom. Hiring him to defend his son was a brilliant move on the part of Palmer Morton.

But maybe not enough so to save Alex.

“You’ve come across something new. Not sure if it’s evidence of anything, but something you wanted to talk about this morning.”

“Right,” Paul said.

“We want to show you something,” Grace said, sliding the DVD of the surveillance video from mall security into the player. Showing the image of Emma Rose talking to someone with the Mortons’ BMW 3 in the background was powerful. Powerful enough to maybe jar Alex into actually saying something of value. Grace and Paul had discussed the idea before the rich kid and the judge showed up. Neither saw it as tipping any hand to a potential killer, because there was no body, no clue, no nothing about the whereabouts of Emma Rose. Playing the clip of the parking lot was all they had. If he was charged later, Alex Morton would get to see the video through discovery. There’d be plenty of time for him to come up with an excuse, of course.

Alex sat stiffly in the chair. He was still by then, apparently, giving up the notion of getting comfortable in a place that could never be so.

“Do you mind if we ask your client a few questions?”

“I do mind, and I’ve advised Alex that it might be in his best interest to answer some. But he wants you to know that he liked the girl.”

“Are you talking about Emma Rose?” she asked.

The judge nodded while Alex just sat there, doing as he had undoubtedly been coached.

“Yes, of course. Emma Rose.”

“Fine,” she said. “May I direct a question to Alex?”

The judge looked at Alex and the young man nodded.

“Before doing so,” Judge Weber said, “is Alex a target of your investigation?”

Grace shook her head emphatically. “No.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“No,” she said, again decisively.

“Is he a person of interest?”

There was a slight hesitation, but Grace answered. “We’re just trying to find a missing girl. Alex might be able to help. Our focus, our sole focus, is on finding Emma.”

“All right,” the judge said. “What do you want to know?”

“How long did you date?” she asked the teen.

Judge Weber indicated for Alex to answer.

“A little while,” Alex said. “Not much. It wasn’t that serious.”

“But you liked her, right?”

Again, a little nod from the judge.

“Yes, I liked her.”

“Did you break up with her or did she break up with you?” Grace asked.

Before Alex Morton could answer, Paul leaned forward.

“She dumped you, right?” he asked.

Alex’s throat tightened and tried to remain calm. “I guess so. I guess she dumped me. So what? It wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

“You didn’t like being dumped, did you?” Paul asked.

Judge Weber shook his head. “Look, we’re not in a courtroom and by the line of your questions, I’m thinking that you’ve gathered us here for more than a little mere fact finding.” He turned to Grace. “I thought you had a video clip you wanted to show us? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes fastened on Alex. “Getting to it.”

“You said that my client isn’t on the clip, correct?” he asked, his voice deeper and more forceful than ever.

She nodded. “Correct.”

Judge Weber appeared to size up the detectives before speaking. “You want us to look at the tape to see if there is anything Alex can tell you to be helpful. That’s all, correct?”

“Yes,” Paul said, a little irritated with the way the former judge was trying to control things like he was still in the black robe.

“Fine then. Then let’s roll the tape so we can get out of here. I have a Rotary meeting at noon.”

Grace reached over and pressed the P LAY button. While the DVD played, she kept her eyes on Alex. She knew that even a junior sociopath like she presumed he was would betray his feelings. Provided he had any. She’d done some background work on the boy-abandoned by his mother, being raised by an insufferable blowhard father-and she almost felt sorry for him. But if he had anything to do with Emma Rose’s disappearance, any sympathy she had would be gone. Right then everything was about trying to find the missing girl, hoping that she would be alive.

Hoping that she wasn’t the victim of a serial killer.

The screen showed the mostly empty parking lot. A few carts. A few cars. Then a figure of a young woman appeared. She was small, lithe. She started from the direction of the Starbucks and moved across the screen toward the transit stop.

“That’s Emma,” he said. “Quality sucks, but that’s her. She practically skips when she’s in a hurry.”

Alex kept his eyes riveted to the plasma. Grace kept her eyes on Alex.

Emma turned around and started talking to someone in the direction of the Starbucks. The angle was so poor it was hard to tell if she was angry, laughing, or what. Her shoulders moved rapidly and one hand flew up in the air. But it was hard to say if it was a gesture of recognition or one meant to rebuff someone.

Like the potential stalker former boyfriend across the table from her.

“Do you know who she’s talking to?” she asked Alex directly.

“How would I know?” he said.

Paul had been itching to move the needle. All this making nice, all this respect for the rich judge with the rich client, was turning his stomach.