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’rethe 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.
Chapter7
DECKER HAD EXPERIENCED CRIME SCENESgalore 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.