Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page B

handed him a sealed envelope. Fine stationery. Not office supply. Certainly not a government document. He opened the gummed lip and pulled out an invitation with a coat of arms embossed in gold, beneath which, in florid script, was one word: DUMONT. He and a guest were invited to dinner Saturday. Smoking. RSVP. He stared, puzzled.
    “Something wrong?” Mildred asked.
    “It’s a dinner invitation. It says ‘smoking.’ ” He showed her the card. “I don’t smoke.”
    Mildred tittered. “It means that you are requested to wear a smoking jacket. I haven’t seen this term used in quite a while. A smoking jacket is what Hugh Hefner wears with his pajamas, but in Europe—on the continent, at least—what many call a ‘smoking’ is what we would call a tuxedo jacket. Like the white one Humphrey Bogart wore in Casablanca. I would say the dress requirement is a step up from a business suit. Who are these . . . Oh, the Dumonts. Now I understand. They were never ones to shy away from pretension, those Dumonts.”
    “So you think I should rent a tuxedo for this dinner?”
    “If you don’t own a white tuxedo jacket, I would suggest you purchase one. I think every gentleman should have botha black tuxedo and a white tux jacket in his wardrobe. White is especially useful in this climate. You can wear it with black dress slacks if you don’t own a tuxedo.”
    “Thank you for your advice.”
    “I do have another suggestion. Do you plan to bring a date?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you should encourage her to bedazzle them. The Dumonts are hard to impress, but when it happens, they don’t forget.”
    “It sounds like you know them.”
    “Ray Dumont’s uncle was mad about me when I was young. I led him on, then dropped him for the man I married.” She tossed her head and looked up for a moment, gazing somewhere in her distant past. Boucher recognized the aspect of one who once was the belle of the ball. The reminiscence faded. “This day is almost done,” she said. “May I respectfully suggest that you get busy?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ‘Ma’am’ is for old maids.”
    Mildred explained her filing system, which was logical and simple. She offered to work late, but Boucher was adamant in his refusal. He was looking forward to a little solitude and some hard work. The total silence heightened his concentration, and though the tasks were insulting to his intellect and ability, they had to be done. They would have been just as demeaning to the judge who assignedthem. He gave his best effort to chores that he too would have delegated to others. More than once he came across a seemingly insignificant detail that could have had larger repercussions in a case. Several times he caught minute errors that could have sent a contested matter in a wrong direction. And over the hours he once again came to appreciate the details of jurisprudence, the intricacies that seemed so tedious but, when ignored, could lead to errors, even abuse of the system. Once again he was honing that tool he’d valued as a younger man, but which had become dull due, he had to admit, to his own arrogance. That invaluable tool? A fine-tooth comb.
    It was after three a.m. when the ink began swimming before his eyes and he had to call it quits. The federal marshal looked at him curiously as he left the building and walked alone to the parking lot. Boucher’s Ford F-150 was right there in the prime spot, under lights, safe and sound. Earlier that evening it had been under surveillance by a man who was unable to match Judge Boucher’s late-night stamina, a man who had already gone to his rest. His mission not accomplished this evening, he would bide his time.
    •  •  •
    Boucher had set his internal clock to wake him the next morning, and it did almost to the minute. Having worked as late as he had, he felt no compunction to race and instead fixed himself a breakfast of fried egg with runny yolk, onepiece of