was one of instant suspicion.
Mac cleared that thought from his mind. “Judge Daniels was eighty-four years old. His doctor diagnosed him with brain cancer. He went home and said nothing. That night, after his wife went to bed, he went down to his study and blew his brains out with a Colt revolver.”
“Any possibility of—”
“Nope,” Mac interrupted. “He left a suicide note saying that he’d rather go out with a bang than chemo. Everyone who knew him said that was his style. There was absolutely no connection.”
“If it weren’t for this note, I’d think Booth went to the office to clean out his stuff because he knew that he was out of a job with no judge to clerk to. The box had his desk stuff in it.”
“I don’t think so,” Mac argued. “Stephen Maguire was the last person Booth spoke to minutes before someone blew his brains out. He claimed Booth called him to ask for a recommendation for his application to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“But you didn’t believe that,” David said.
“It was Saturday afternoon. People don’t call lawyers’ offices for job interviews on Saturdays. We never found any other suspects and the case went cold. It always bugged me. Maybe because I knew in my gut that Maguire was involved and got away with it.” He looked down at the notepad resting between his hands. “This proves I was right.”
“Or wrong,” David said. “Maguire made that note to call you unless there’s another M. Faraday you think he knows.
At least he was thinking about calling you. Maybe he found evidence to prove that he wasn’t involved and wanted to call you to tell you who was.”
Mac concluded, “And that someone killed him and Christine.”
Chapter Six
“Are you going to show me what’s in there?” Mac asked about the accordion folder that had been taunting him during the interview with the police chief.
“Since Maguire made a note to call you, maybe you can shed some light on it.” David shoved the folder across the table in his direction.
Mac studied the front of the folder. One word was written in thick black marker with block lettering across the front: THEMIS.
“Could Themis be the name of a victim from one of your cases?” David asked him. “You said that you’ve investigated well over a hundred murders.”
“I never forget the name of a victim,” Mac said. “When you take on the responsibility of finding out who killed some-one, you’ll never forget their name or their face.” He shook his head. “I’ve never run into the name Themis.”
He opened the folder sealed shut with a rubber band. Inside, a single sheet of paper rested on top of four files.
“Where did you find this?” he asked David.
“On the table next to the window in his suite,” he replied. “We found a mini-laptop, his cell phone, pen, and his car keys next to the notepad. It looked like he’d been working on something when he finally decided to answer Christine’s calls and went up to the penthouse to get killed.”
A list of names was written out in long hand. Freddie Gibbons. Sid Baxter. Jillian Keating. Leo Samuels. Gerald Hogan. Douglas Propst.
Mac turned the paper around so he could read it. “It’s a list of killers. Most of these cases I’ve worked on.”
He tapped the fourth name with his finger. “I arrested Leo Samuels. He was a pimp and drug dealer on his way up. Got some kid to kill a girl he’d snatched from Union Station who refused to go to work for him, even after he’d raped her and beat her to a pulp. The kid rolled on Samuels, then got knifed in jail before the trial. The guy was a monster. Not an ounce of remorse.”
Seeing that the case still got under Mac’s skin, David said, “I take it by the look on your face that he got off.”
“His lawyer got everything suppressed since the kid wasn’t alive to testify. According to everything that I got on Samuels, it wasn’t the first time. He knew the way the system worked
Mac cleared that thought from his mind. “Judge Daniels was eighty-four years old. His doctor diagnosed him with brain cancer. He went home and said nothing. That night, after his wife went to bed, he went down to his study and blew his brains out with a Colt revolver.”
“Any possibility of—”
“Nope,” Mac interrupted. “He left a suicide note saying that he’d rather go out with a bang than chemo. Everyone who knew him said that was his style. There was absolutely no connection.”
“If it weren’t for this note, I’d think Booth went to the office to clean out his stuff because he knew that he was out of a job with no judge to clerk to. The box had his desk stuff in it.”
“I don’t think so,” Mac argued. “Stephen Maguire was the last person Booth spoke to minutes before someone blew his brains out. He claimed Booth called him to ask for a recommendation for his application to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“But you didn’t believe that,” David said.
“It was Saturday afternoon. People don’t call lawyers’ offices for job interviews on Saturdays. We never found any other suspects and the case went cold. It always bugged me. Maybe because I knew in my gut that Maguire was involved and got away with it.” He looked down at the notepad resting between his hands. “This proves I was right.”
“Or wrong,” David said. “Maguire made that note to call you unless there’s another M. Faraday you think he knows.
At least he was thinking about calling you. Maybe he found evidence to prove that he wasn’t involved and wanted to call you to tell you who was.”
Mac concluded, “And that someone killed him and Christine.”
Chapter Six
“Are you going to show me what’s in there?” Mac asked about the accordion folder that had been taunting him during the interview with the police chief.
“Since Maguire made a note to call you, maybe you can shed some light on it.” David shoved the folder across the table in his direction.
Mac studied the front of the folder. One word was written in thick black marker with block lettering across the front: THEMIS.
“Could Themis be the name of a victim from one of your cases?” David asked him. “You said that you’ve investigated well over a hundred murders.”
“I never forget the name of a victim,” Mac said. “When you take on the responsibility of finding out who killed some-one, you’ll never forget their name or their face.” He shook his head. “I’ve never run into the name Themis.”
He opened the folder sealed shut with a rubber band. Inside, a single sheet of paper rested on top of four files.
“Where did you find this?” he asked David.
“On the table next to the window in his suite,” he replied. “We found a mini-laptop, his cell phone, pen, and his car keys next to the notepad. It looked like he’d been working on something when he finally decided to answer Christine’s calls and went up to the penthouse to get killed.”
A list of names was written out in long hand. Freddie Gibbons. Sid Baxter. Jillian Keating. Leo Samuels. Gerald Hogan. Douglas Propst.
Mac turned the paper around so he could read it. “It’s a list of killers. Most of these cases I’ve worked on.”
He tapped the fourth name with his finger. “I arrested Leo Samuels. He was a pimp and drug dealer on his way up. Got some kid to kill a girl he’d snatched from Union Station who refused to go to work for him, even after he’d raped her and beat her to a pulp. The kid rolled on Samuels, then got knifed in jail before the trial. The guy was a monster. Not an ounce of remorse.”
Seeing that the case still got under Mac’s skin, David said, “I take it by the look on your face that he got off.”
“His lawyer got everything suppressed since the kid wasn’t alive to testify. According to everything that I got on Samuels, it wasn’t the first time. He knew the way the system worked
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