“You’re making assumptions that aren’t justified yet.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “That it was only one killer. And that it was male.”

  “I was just speaking generally.”

  “I like specifics much better. So explain why you think that,” he said.

  “The person or persons knew the judge’s routine. No forced entry. Her personal security was killed without him fighting back. That tells me that he didn’t perceive what was happening as a threat. The judge was killed and there was no sign of a struggle. She didn’t try to call for help.”

  “So she might have known whoever it was who killed her. The guard too.”

  “But why let someone in if they just killed your protection?” White asked.

  “She either didn’t know that had happened, or something even more devious was going on. She’s divorced. Ex lives in the area.”

  “Right. So the ex-hubby’s a possible suspect.”

  “Spouses, and particularly exes, always are.”

  “Don’t I know it,” replied White.

  The plane started shedding altitude an hour and a half later, and they landed at the Southwest Florida International Airport near Fort Myers. A rental car was waiting for them.

  White drove while Decker wedged himself into the passenger seat of the midsize four-door.

  White glanced over at him as they pulled into traffic. “Sorry, it’s all they had. Shortage of rental cars these days.”

  “I’ve never ridden in one that was remotely comfortable, so my expectations are nonexistent.”

  “Agent from the local RA is on the scene,” she said, referring to an FBI Resident Agency.

  “I know.”

  “The bodies are still there, too. They’re apparently holding them for us.”

  He glanced at her. “Are you trying to screw with me?”

  “No, I’m trying to be informative.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Alex said you could get testy.”

  “You haven’t even seen mildly annoyed, much less the other side of the Rubicon.”

  “Thanks for the information,” she replied. “I like to know where I stand.”

  He recited from memory, “‘As a person of color and a woman on top of that, I find it a necessity to my future well-being, and that of my family.’”

  “Alex also said your memory could be frustrating at times, but she worked around it.”

  Decker looked out the window at the bright sky and said, “I never liked Florida. When I played ball at Ohio State, we would come down to play Florida and Florida State and Miami. Hated every second of it, and not only because their players were so much faster and athletic than we were.”

  “Why? Too much heat or too many old people? Or both?”

  “No, it’s because I’m just a lunch pail guy from the Midwest.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I hate sand.”

  Chapter 6

  T​HEY DROVE UP TO A gated community in the town of Ocean View, which was situated about half an hour north of Naples. The roar of the breakers from the nearby Gulf shared the ride with them.

  “This place looks like a postcard,” noted White as she stopped the rental at the guard hut.

  “Not where we’re going it doesn’t,” replied Decker.

  The guard came out of the little shack. He was in his forties and walked with a swagger more befitting a Navy SEAL than a luxury community rental cop gatekeeper.

  “Can I help you?” he said as White rolled down her window.

  She flashed her FBI ID pack.

  “White and Decker. We’re here regarding the murder of Judge Julia Cummins.”

  “Right, right,” said the man as he eyed Decker. While White was still in her black suit with the white shirt, Decker had on khakis and a faded dark blue sweatshirt.

  “You must have come from up north,” said the guard. “It’s almost never sweatshirt weather here.”

  “Have you provided the list of guests and residents who entered here over the last twenty-four hours?” said Decker.

  “Provided to who?”

  “The cops,” said White.

  “They haven’t asked for it.”

  “Okay, we’re asking for it now,” said Decker.

  “I’ll have to check with my supervisor.”

  “Then go ahead and make the call while we’re waiting, because we need that info now.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant for that sort of stuff?”

  “Did you kill the judge and her guard?” said White.

  The man took a step back. “What! Hey, no way.”

  “Then we don’t need a warrant. People coming through this gate have no expectation of privacy. And this is a murder investigation. So we need to know who came through here and when during the last twenty-four hours at least.”

  “So make the call to your supervisor,” said Decker. “And bring the information to the judge’s house. We’ll be waiting for it.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “And open the gate,” said White.

  “Oh, right.” The man quickly did so, and they drove through.

  “If that’s the quality of the security here, I’m surprised only two people are dead,” noted White.

  “Well, there might be more that we don’t know about yet,” said Decker.

  Cummins’s home was large and of Mediterranean design with white stucco siding and a red tile roof. It was situated on a shady, quiet cul-de-sac. The plantings were mature and well tended. This tranquility was marred by police and unmarked cars parked all over, and yellow crime-scene tape vibrating across the front yard in the brisk breeze.

  Decker noted a blue sedan parked in the driveway. “Might be the dead security guard’s ride.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Every other ride here is either a police cruiser, or has Florida government or federal plates.”

  “Could be Judge Cummins’s car.”

  “A woman who owns what looks to be a two- or three-million-dollar home is not driving a dented-up ten-year-old Mazda. And she would have pulled it into one of those three garage bays, not left it in the driveway. And check out the bumper sticker.”

  White read it off: “The Feds are watching you.”

  “Not something you’d typically see on a federal judge’s car.”

  They parked at the curb, cleared the security at the front door, put on booties and vinyl gloves helpfully provided by a member of the forensics team, and stepped inside.

  Decker was immediately hit by a searing vision of overpowering electric blue. This was his synesthesia working overtime. His whole life, in fact, was represented by an overactive memory plus sensory pathways that had crossed streams like a clover exit off a highway.

  He put a hand against the wall to steady himself because when the electric blue hit him, it made his balance momentarily say bye-bye.

  Deep breaths, in and out.

  When White looked at him she didn’t say a word, which made Decker instantly suspicious. He would have to deal with that later. His new partner was getting on his nerves by just being silent.

  The short, stocky man marched into the foyer of the house like he was a CEO entering a boardroom for a meeting. He was in his late forties and dressed in pressed slacks and a navy blue jacket. His tie and shirt were immaculate. His hair looked like it had been pressed with an iron. His features were sharp, his expression sharper still.

  And he was just the sort of stuffed-shirt official prick that Decker detested.

  He flashed his cred pack. “FBI Special Agent Doug Andrews out of the Fort Myers RA.”

  Of course you are, thought Decker.

  “And you are?” Andrews said.

  White produced her cred pack. Decker just stared at the doorway.

  “And this is Amos Decker,” said White. “We just flew in from DC.”

  Andrews’s expression soured. “I wasn’t told they were sending in agents from out of town. I was just told to hold the bodies here. I wasn’t given a reason.”

  “Well, we’re the reason,” said White.

  Andrews looked at Decker’s casual dress and said, “I didn’t see your ID, what was the name again, Decker?”

  Decker looked around the grand foyer. Delicately furnished with expensive items arranged just so. Custom paint and wallpaper. Antique grandfather clock ticking away in one corner. Rugs were thick and colorful and no doubt expensive. He could smell death in every corner of the place. This was not his imagination. Dead bodies were decomposing in the near vicinity and the foul smell was unmistakable.

  He saw a bloody palm print on a wall leading to the stairs. On the stair runner were other blood marks. They had number cones next to them, the mark of the forensics team’s doing its processing. He saw chalky fingerprint powder everywhere. He could hear the clicks of cameras and the murmurs of conversation. Everything was going as it should. Now he had to deal with this asshole, which he didn’t want to do.

  Without looking at the man Decker said, “We were sent down to assist in the investigation.”

  “We have the matter well in hand. And I—”

  Decker walked past him and into the next room.

  “Hey!” barked Andrews as Decker disappeared around the corner.

  He looked back at White. “What the hell is with that guy?”

  “Like me, he’s just here doing his job. And if you have a problem with us being here, you’re going to have to take it up with HQ. But right now, we’re going to work, just like you.”

  She followed Decker into the next room.

  Andrews hurried after her.

  Chapter 7

  DECKER HAD EXPERIENCED CRIME SCENES galore during his time in law enforcement. And he remembered every detail of each one. This one looked both routine and also unique in certain respects.

  This was the judge’s study or home office. Bookshelves, a desk, a small leather couch, a wooden file cabinet, a sleek desktop computer, and a tabletop copier. One window looked out onto the rear grounds. Paintings on the wall, nice knickknacks, a colorful Oriental rug over wooden floorboards. Nothing looked disturbed, no evidence of a frantic search for something, or a robbery or struggle having taken place. Everything neat, tidy, in its place.

  Then, on the floor, a body. But not the judge. A man. Obviously, the security guard. Private, not a U.S. marshal as was usually the case with a federal judge. He was in his thirties, lean, six feet, close-cut brown hair that rode like a soft cap on his skull. He was not wearing a security guard’s uniform, but rather a dark tailored suit and a white shirt with a red blotch in the center and two holes as the cause of the blood, and his death. Someone was taking no chances.

  The edge of his holstered gun poked out from his jacket. Decker knelt down and checked the suit label: Armani. He looked at the watch on his wrist: Cartier. The shoes: Ferragamo.

  Interesting.

  The dead man was spread-eagled on the floor, sightless eyes looking up at the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He had a couple days’ worth of beard stubble. Even in death, his features were handsome, if now very pale. His expression was one of surprise, if a dead person could hold such an emotion. And some could, Decker knew.

  He eyed the forensics team doing their thing. He approached one, a woman in her forties dressed in blue scrubs and masked as she entered some information on an iPad. White followed.

  “You the ME? Got a preliminary cause and time of death?”

  She glanced at him in surprise and then looked around until she saw Andrews standing in the doorway. He grudgingly nodded at her as he walked up to stand next to Decker.

  “I am the ME, Helen Jacobs. We’re looking at a pair of GSWs to the chest, looks like they pierced the heart. Death instantaneous. TOD is between midnight and two a.m. last night.”

  White said, “Any signs of forced entry?”

  “None,” replied Andrews. “And who called you guys down here, Agent White?”

  “SAC John Talbott out of the WFO. Give me your number and I’ll text you his contact info. I thought you had been informed.”

  Andrews did so and White sent him the info.

  “Anything taken?” asked White.

  “Still checking. Nothing readily apparent.”

  “Name of the deceased?” asked White.

  “Alan Draymont,” replied Jacobs.

  “We understand he was private security,” said Decker. “Who with?”

  “Gamma Protection Services,” answered Andrews. “We contacted them and will set up an interview.”

  “Wearing a suit and not a uniform?”

  “Gamma has a number of levels of protection. They do mall, warehouse, and office security, assignments like that. For protection at this level, they have higher-skilled operatives.”

  “Higher skilled? Like the dead guy?” said Decker, eyeing him closely.

  “Like the dead guy,” Andrews shot back. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  White said, “Why a bodyguard? Was she getting threats?”

  “Checking on that with Gamma,” said Andrews a bit petulantly.

  “And if so, why not a U.S. marshal?” said White. “That’s the way it usually works with federal judges, right?”

  “Again, checking on that,” said Andrews, now huffily. “But the judge could hire private security if she wanted to. She could afford it.”

  Decker looked at him. “You knew her?”

  “Acquaintances. I live in Ocean View. It’s sort of a small-town vibe here.”

  “Did Draymont fire his weapon?” asked White.

  “It’s still in its holster,” replied Andrews.

  “And the killer or killers could have put it back there after he fired it,” noted Decker.

  Andrews stiffened and said, “We’ll check.”

  “Any trace of the killer?” White asked.

  Jacobs answered, “Most of the prints we’ve found so far belong to the judge, and a few to Draymont. There are some others, though, that we haven’t identified yet. No footprints that we could find. There’s a low-pile carpet runner on the stairs that didn’t show any trace. And hardwood floors here in the study, upstairs hall, and the deceased’s bedroom. Tough to get anything from that. It hadn’t rained or anything, either, so no shoe impressions that we could find.”

  “And the judge’s body?” asked Decker. “How did she manage to do the stairs after she was wounded?”

  Jacobs looked at him curiously, then said, “You saw the blood trail on the stair runner when you came in, and on the hardwood floor leading out of here.”

  “Hard to miss with your little cones set out. But it was really the bloody palm print on the wall next to the stairs. I assume that must be the judge’s, since two shots to the chest means Draymont wouldn’t have made it out of this room under his own power.”

  Jacobs said, “I think she was stabbed once down here and the killing took place upstairs in her bedroom.”

  “Let’s go,” said Decker, not liking the two words I think.

  They avoided the evidentiary trail on the carpeted steps and reached the second-floor landing, where Andrews led them into the bedroom.

  “Killer didn’t step in the blood from downstairs?” asked White.

  “No, he was careful about that,” said Jacobs.

  Judge Julia Cummins was lying on her bed wearing a short white terrycloth robe. The robe was open, revealing the woman’s black underpants and a white camisole. Someone had put a blindfold over her eyes, but then cut out holes in the cloth where the eyes were. There was blood all over her clothing, and on the bedspread and also on her hands, the bottoms of her feet, and her knees.

  “She’s been stabbed repeatedly,” said Jacobs. “Ten times by my unofficial count, not counting defensive wounds. COD was blood loss due to the stabbings.”

  “So she was downstairs where she was attacked, ran up here, and the intruder came up and finished her off,” said White.

  “Appears to be that way,” said Jacobs cautiously.

  “Stabbing someone that many times is personal,” noted Decker.

  Andrews interjected, “But we have a ways to go. It’s a complicated crime scene.”

  Decker eyed the twisted covers and took in the fact that the mattress was out of alignment with the box springs.

  White must have been reading his mind. “Looks like a struggle took place there.”

  “You mentioned defensive wounds?” asked Decker, noting the cuts on the woman’s forearms.

  Jacobs said, “Yes. It’s natural for a person getting attacked with a knife or blunt instrument to use their arms to block the blows. Multiple slashes. However, the wound to her lower sternum was probably the fatal one. From the location and depth, it likely cut right through her aorta. I’ll know for certain when I do the post.”

  “Any trace under her fingernails?” asked White.

  “None that I could find on a preliminary exam. I’ll look closer when I do the post.”

  “Blood on her hands, knees, the bottoms of her feet?” noted Decker.

  Andrews said, “Explained by the fact that she was attacked downstairs, stepped in her own blood, maybe fell, and got blood on her knees. Ran up here. Mark on the wall by the stairs where she no doubt put her hand to steady herself, and spatter on the stair runner.”

  “Any signs of sexual assault?” asked Decker, who did not look convinced by this theory as the blood spatter images from the stairs and the study marched across his mind’s eye.

  Jacobs replied, “I did a prelim. No signs of that. I’ll know more once I get her on the slab. But I don’t think she’s been sexually assaulted.”

  Decker looked at the blindfold. “Nice of the killers to leave us this little symbol.”

  Andrews stepped forward. “Why blindfold her but then cut the holes so her eyes are showing?”

  “The blindfold was most likely put on postmortem,” noted Jacobs.

  “Of course it was,” said Decker abruptly.

  “You said symbolic?” said White, looking at the blindfold.

  Decker said, “The lady was a judge. Justice is supposed to be blind. Only with her, I guess it wasn’t, or at least in the opinion of her killer, since they made sure she was seeing clearly, or as clearly as the dead can.”