Reginald Cook - Veil

“Who issued that order Agent Sams? You?” asked Robert.

“Like I told you and this android you call a woman…” Throne slapped the words back down his throat. Even the agents watching winced.

“Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” snapped Thorne, staring him straight in the eye. Agent Sams stood with his mouth open, stunned.

“I’d pay close attention to her,” said Robert. “Next time she may not be so nice.”

Furious, Agent Sams stepped forward. “I could arrest you for that,” he bellowed.

Robert backed away. “Go ahead,” he said. “I haven’t seen her bend up a fool like you in quite some time.”

Thorne smiled and blew the agent a kiss. “Come on sugga. Let mommy teach you how to dance.”

Agent Sams took another step.

“Agent Sams, stand down,” a stern female voice ordered.

The agent abruptly fell back.

A leggy blonde in a plain charcoal gray business suit approached them. Before she spoke, Robert knew she was FBI or Secret Service brass. Definitely not CIA. Company agents would have let Thorne and Sams fight, then sort it out later.

“I’m Special Agent in Charge Marilyn London, FBI. This morning the Bureau assigned me as lead on this case, and told me to make sure you were given full access.”

Agent Sams sneered and stormed outside.

“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Agent London continued. “You know how it is when you piss in somebody’s pond.”

“We’re invited to this party,” said Robert, shaking her hand. Her grip impressed him. “This is no way to treat a guest.” Agent London smiled, extended her hand to Thorne, and was left hanging.

“I’ll get started Robert,” said Thorne, eyeing the agent suspiciously.

Agent London stood there, mouth agape.

“She’s not one to insult,” said Robert, a sarcastic smile on his face.

“Well, maybe she should get laid,” Marilyn responded, abruptly walking toward the den. Robert eyed her figure. Nice. He shook off the trance. I’m the one who needs to get laid.

The den, as Robert expected, housed columns of shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with walls of books. Loose papers cluttered a round oak table and the judge’s desk. Judge Weiss, clad in a half buttoned tropical shirt and khaki pants, lay dead on the floor behind the desk next to a computer workstation, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, eyes open. Photographers snapped pictures, while Thorne moved about the carnage with her camcorder.

“As you can see, His Honor and Mrs. Weiss were on their way out of town,” said Agent London. “We found two tickets to the Cayman Islands on the dresser upstairs.”

“Anything missing?” asked Robert

“Credit cards and ten thousand in cash were found untouched on the dresser next to the tickets. We checked the judge’s bank records and it’s the exact amount he withdrew on Friday. This is definitely our guy.

Besides, he left us a little gift on the bed next to Mrs. Weiss. I’ll show it to you later.”

Robert removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt down, gently lifting the judge’s head off the floor. It felt loose, like a tetherball on a string. The esophagus, crushed. He lowered the head back down on the emerald green carpet; the crunch of vertebrae vibrating in his hand. Deep black and blue bruises covered the throat. The eyes, open, blank and glassy, glistened like a couple of well-matched marbles.

Robert detected the scent of cologne, Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men.

The half buttoned shirt exposed a small amount of salt and pepper hair on the judge’s chest. Robert opened it all the way. An Air Force skull and crossbones tattoo, surrounded by the words “Mess with the best, die like the rest. AF 463 Vietnam” sat cold. One navy blue deck shoe clung to the judges’ right foot; Robert saw the other underneath the desk. A diamond encrusted wedding band shimmered on the magistrate’s finger. Out of place in such a gruesome scene.

Thorne knelt down to get a better shot of the bruises.

“The judge tried to defend himself,” said Marilyn. “In addition to the broken nose, bruised face and neck, you’ll also notice bruising and swelling around the knuckles.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t go as easy as the others,” said Robert. “I bet he caught our Russian friend off guard, but never had a chance.” Marilyn agreed and stepped over to the gun cabinet. “He picked the lock and came in through the back door. We believe things started upstairs.”

“What about the alarm?” asked Robert, a smirk on his face. He knew the system the judge installed to be grossly inferior. He’d inspected it himself only a few weeks earlier and suggested an upgrade.

“He beat it without a hitch,” said Marilyn, smiling as though she could read his mind. “No wonder. I think he bought it at Toys R Us.” Robert returned the smile then examined the gun cabinet. Impressive.

He counted fifteen guns. Several immediately caught his eye, including a very rare Model 1803 U.S. Flintlock rifle dating back to the Lewis and Clark Expedition, an almost extinct Israeli Mauser, and a Colt Z 40 semi-automatic, highly prized by collectors and nearly impossible to find.

Robert shook his head in sad disgust.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marilyn. “All this firepower didn’t do the poor bastard a bit of good.”

“Anything missing?”

“No, nothing was taken,” said Marilyn. “We found the gun inventory in his desk. Every weapon is accounted for.” Robert smiled. He liked Agent London. Beautiful and smart, she appeared to be tough. None of which hurt if a woman wanted to succeed in a man’s world.

“Looks like Mrs. Weiss walked in on them, dropped her packages and ran upstairs,” she continued. “Obviously the Bear wasn’t expecting her.” Robert examined the packages. Neiman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Prada, spread randomly in front of the study’s door. “Well, let’s have a look at the Mrs.,” he said, standing.

Robert stole another look at Agent London’s firm hips and sultry walk as they climbed the soft-carpeted stairs. Thorne shook her head.

Her eyes saying keep it zipped up big boy. His partner wasn’t the jealous type, but somehow Agent London had landed on Thorne’s bad side. A barren place where one stayed for an eternity.

The master bedroom took up most of the second floor. A large marble fireplace dominated, and two inviting, soft leather recliners faced it. Impressive artwork adorned the walls, and the oversized custom bed, the largest he’d ever seen, made Robert wonder just how much a federal judge earned.

Sprawled across the flowered peach comforter, face down, naked, lay Mrs. Weiss. Her neck, unceremoniously twisted, looked more like coiled rope than a human appendage. Her left eye bulged. Her right, swollen shut. Horror plastered her face, and blood trickled down each side of her mouth.

Robert moved closer.

A red puddle soaked the bedding below her rectum. Her left arm a pretzel, it dangled off one side of the bed. A dazzling marquis diamond ring sparkled on her finger.

“He chased her upstairs and kicked in the door,” said Marilyn, pointing to the bare hinges. “No flesh under her nails or bruises on her torso. Except for the eyes there’re no other marks on her face.”

“She gave in to him,” said Robert, in a whisper.

“We believe so,” said Marilyn. “She tried to cooperate to save her life, but the bastard killed her anyway.”

“No witnesses,” said Robert. “It’s a Russian Mafia rule. Men, women, children and the family dog, it doesn’t matter. If they’re at the scene when a hit takes place, they die.”

Robert examined the body carefully and gave the bedroom one last look. Thorne recorded as many details as possible. After writing down a few notes of his own, he removed his gloves and returned them to his pocket. “You mentioned he left a little gift,” said Robert. “Let’s have a look at it.”