Cold Justice: A Judge Willa Carson Mystery (The Hunt for Justice) by Diane Capri
Authors: Diane Capri
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COLD JUSTICE
CHAPTER ONE
Traverse City, Michigan
The DC-9 circled Traverse City’s regional airport, supplying a panoramic view of the Old Mission Peninsula and Grand Traverse Bay area that once had been our playground. Snow covered everything like a cozy comforter and I felt as if I’d been transported from my ordinary palm trees and sunshine world to a magical place.
George and I were a little too old, a little too sophisticated, to be so excited about a winter break. And yet, excited we were. This was our first vacation in years and I was as thrilled as a child who discovers her toys from Santa on a snowy Christmas morning.
We even left our dogs at home, which we almost never did. Harry and Bess, the lumbering Labradors who shared our life, would be fine, but we weren’t sure we’d survive without them. We’d never been away from them before. Both of us had a little separation anxiety already.
Long, empty days stretched before us filled with anticipation and the promise of our favorite gifts. Hot chocolate, warm soups. Heavy sweaters, cozy comforters. Blazing fires in the fireplace. Good books. Good booze. Good cigars. No phones. No television.
Even better, no five-star restaurant for George to manage and no federal court justice for me to dispense. For an entire week. Our first real vacation in way too long.
The mere idea of a vacation had carried us through the last few days of hectic preparations and last-minute hearings.
And now, here we were, about to land.
Everything felt absolutely perfect.
Until things started to go wrong.
My self-induced amnesia began to clear. Memories surfaced, reminding me why I left this place a decade ago. For one thing, I remembered I hate the cold.
Unlike a down comforter, the snow blanket on the ground outside promised bone-numbing temps, sending shivers along my entire body. How could I have overlooked that? I wrapped my hands around my biceps and rubbed. Friction, I remembered, produces heat.
Ribbons of twinkling blacktop below nestled between high snowbanks plowed off to each side.
“At least the driving will be clear,” George said as he peered across me to look out the window from his seat on the aisle.
He knew I hated treacherous driving in blizzards and black ice because a simple flat tire or fender bender carried the threat of chain reaction collisions and hypothermia.
George was a cold weather enthusiast, so all I said was, “True.”
Blacktop roads were the only uncovered ground visible from the plane’s window. Picturesque Traverse City nestled on the south side of the bay, which was recognizable only because I knew where the water should be. The Great Lakes had frozen to a depth of thirty inches this winter under all that snow, too. Record cold temperatures and snowfall combined to create the mountains of white gold that local ski resorts depended upon for revenue to support them through the lean summer months. Too much of a good thing, I thought, even as it all sparkled in the sharp winter sunlight.
A few minutes later, the captain delivered a perfect touchdown without sliding on the snow-packed runway and the entire cabin of passengers applauded. I’m not a nervous flyer, but the applause made me uneasy. Landing the plane smoothly was a big part of his job. Nobody applauded in my courtroom when I handled my cases especially well. But I imagined they might erupt in riotous celebration if I rarely managed the feat of handling my job.
Still, we’d arrived at our destination. Travel over. Our vacation officially began and I summoned as much of my prior excitement as I could muster.
We disembarked into the frosty jet way. Loaded down with parkas, boots, gloves and carry-ons, we hurried into the over-heated terminal. We made our way like pack animals to claim luggage and collect the rental.
How had I forgotten the sheer burden of moving around in a winter climate?
Half an hour later, with George behind the wheel of the rented Jeep Cherokee
CHAPTER ONE
Traverse City, Michigan
The DC-9 circled Traverse City’s regional airport, supplying a panoramic view of the Old Mission Peninsula and Grand Traverse Bay area that once had been our playground. Snow covered everything like a cozy comforter and I felt as if I’d been transported from my ordinary palm trees and sunshine world to a magical place.
George and I were a little too old, a little too sophisticated, to be so excited about a winter break. And yet, excited we were. This was our first vacation in years and I was as thrilled as a child who discovers her toys from Santa on a snowy Christmas morning.
We even left our dogs at home, which we almost never did. Harry and Bess, the lumbering Labradors who shared our life, would be fine, but we weren’t sure we’d survive without them. We’d never been away from them before. Both of us had a little separation anxiety already.
Long, empty days stretched before us filled with anticipation and the promise of our favorite gifts. Hot chocolate, warm soups. Heavy sweaters, cozy comforters. Blazing fires in the fireplace. Good books. Good booze. Good cigars. No phones. No television.
Even better, no five-star restaurant for George to manage and no federal court justice for me to dispense. For an entire week. Our first real vacation in way too long.
The mere idea of a vacation had carried us through the last few days of hectic preparations and last-minute hearings.
And now, here we were, about to land.
Everything felt absolutely perfect.
Until things started to go wrong.
My self-induced amnesia began to clear. Memories surfaced, reminding me why I left this place a decade ago. For one thing, I remembered I hate the cold.
Unlike a down comforter, the snow blanket on the ground outside promised bone-numbing temps, sending shivers along my entire body. How could I have overlooked that? I wrapped my hands around my biceps and rubbed. Friction, I remembered, produces heat.
Ribbons of twinkling blacktop below nestled between high snowbanks plowed off to each side.
“At least the driving will be clear,” George said as he peered across me to look out the window from his seat on the aisle.
He knew I hated treacherous driving in blizzards and black ice because a simple flat tire or fender bender carried the threat of chain reaction collisions and hypothermia.
George was a cold weather enthusiast, so all I said was, “True.”
Blacktop roads were the only uncovered ground visible from the plane’s window. Picturesque Traverse City nestled on the south side of the bay, which was recognizable only because I knew where the water should be. The Great Lakes had frozen to a depth of thirty inches this winter under all that snow, too. Record cold temperatures and snowfall combined to create the mountains of white gold that local ski resorts depended upon for revenue to support them through the lean summer months. Too much of a good thing, I thought, even as it all sparkled in the sharp winter sunlight.
A few minutes later, the captain delivered a perfect touchdown without sliding on the snow-packed runway and the entire cabin of passengers applauded. I’m not a nervous flyer, but the applause made me uneasy. Landing the plane smoothly was a big part of his job. Nobody applauded in my courtroom when I handled my cases especially well. But I imagined they might erupt in riotous celebration if I rarely managed the feat of handling my job.
Still, we’d arrived at our destination. Travel over. Our vacation officially began and I summoned as much of my prior excitement as I could muster.
We disembarked into the frosty jet way. Loaded down with parkas, boots, gloves and carry-ons, we hurried into the over-heated terminal. We made our way like pack animals to claim luggage and collect the rental.
How had I forgotten the sheer burden of moving around in a winter climate?
Half an hour later, with George behind the wheel of the rented Jeep Cherokee
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