The Judge’s List
- Автор: Гришэм Джон
- Серия: Lacy Stoltz #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Doubleday/Random House
- ISBN: 978-0-385-54602-7
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Judge’s List». Краткое содержание книги:
Then she meets a mysterious woman who is so frightened she uses a number of aliases. Jeri Crosby’s father was murdered twenty years earlier in a case that remains unsolved and that has grown stone cold. But Jeri has a suspect whom she has become obsessed with and has stalked for two decades. Along the way, she has discovered other victims.
Suspicions are easy enough, but proof seems impossible. The man is brilliant, patient, and always one step ahead of law enforcement. He is the most cunning of all serial killers. He knows forensics, police procedure, and most important: he knows the law.
He is a judge, in Florida — under Lacy’s jurisdiction.
He has a list, with the names of his victims and targets, all unsuspecting people unlucky enough to have crossed his path and wronged him in some way. How can Lacy pursue him, without becoming the next name on his list?
The Judge’s List is by any measure John Grisham’s most surprising, chilling novel yet.
“We checked all twenty-seven names. Took us a while, but hey, that’s our job. One guy was a convicted felon, served some time in a federal pen for assaulting an FBI agent, pretty nasty dude. We got excited and spent some time with him. But he eventually checked out.”
Lacy doubted if Ross Bannick was careless enough to rent a boat in the vicinity at about the same time he murdered Perry Kronke, after stalking him for over twenty years, but she feigned deep interest. After spending fifteen minutes with Chief Turnbull and seeing his operation, she was not impressed.
“Did you ask the state police for help?” she asked.
“Of course. Right off the bat. They’re the pros, you know. They did the autopsy, forensics, most of the preliminary investigation. We worked side by side, a joint effort in all aspects. Great guys. I like them.”
That’s nice. “Could we take a look at the file?” she asked sweetly.
Thick wrinkles broke out across his forehead. He yanked off his readers and chewed on a stem, glaring at her as if she had asked about his wife’s sex life. “Why?” he demanded.
“There might be something about this case that’s relevant to our investigation.”
“I don’t get it. Murder here, crooked judge there. What’s the connection?”
“We don’t know, Chief Turnbull, we’re just digging, the way you often do. Just good police work.”
“I can’t release the file. Sorry. Get a court order or something and I’ll be happy to help, but without one, no go.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged as if to give up. There was nothing else to talk about. “Thanks for your time.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“We’ll be back with a court order.”
“Great.”
“One last question, though, if you don’t mind.”
“Try me.”
“The rope used by the killer — is it in the evidence file?”
“You bet. We have it.”
“And you’re familiar with it?”
“Of course. It’s the murder weapon.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Sure, but I won’t. Come back with your court order.”
“I’ll bet it’s nylon, about thirty inches in length, double twin braid, marine grade, either blue and white or green and white in color.”
The wrinkles broke out again as his jaw dropped. He rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Close enough?” Lacy asked.
“Yes. Close enough. You’ve seen this guy’s work before, I take it.”
“Maybe. Maybe we have a suspect. I can’t talk about him now but maybe next week or next month. We’re on the same team, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to see the file, all of it. And everything is confidential.”
Turnbull bounced to his feet and said, “Follow me.”
Two hours later, they parked at a marina and followed Turnbull, their new buddy, down a dock to a thirty-foot patrol boat with the word police painted boldly on both sides. The captain was an old cop in official shorts, and he welcomed them aboard as if they were headed for a luxury cruise. Lacy and Darren sat knee-to-knee on a bench starboard side and enjoyed the ride over the smooth water. Turnbull stood next to the captain and they chatted in indecipherable cop-speak. Fifteen minutes into the trip the boat decelerated and floated almost to a stop.
Turnbull walked to the front and pointed at the water. “Somewhere right around here is where they found him. As you can see, it’s pretty remote.”
Lacy and Darren stood and took in the surroundings, endless water in all directions. The nearest shore was a mile away and dotted with homes that were barely visible. There was no other watercraft to be seen.
“Who found him?” Lacy asked.
“Coast Guard. His wife got worried when he didn’t show and she made some calls. We found his truck and trailer at the marina and figured he was still on the water. We called the Coast Guard and began searching.”
“Not a bad place for a murder,” mused Darren, practically his first words of the day.
Turnbull grunted and said, “Damned near perfect, if you ask me.”
He owned the boat, had bought it a year earlier as the master plan came together. It wasn’t a particularly nice one, not nearly as fancy as the one owned by the target, but he wasn’t trying to impress. To avoid a trailer and parking and all that hassle, he rented a slip at a marina south of Marathon. Ownership would negate the need to rent. He would sell it later, as well as the small condo near the harbor, both, hopefully, at a profit. Established in the area, and knowing no one, he fished the waters, something he came to enjoy, and he stalked his target, something he lived for. The paperwork — the bill of sale for the boat, the local bank account, the land records, the fishing license, property taxes, the fuel receipts — was all easily forged. State and local paperwork were child’s play for a man with a hundred bank accounts, a man who bought and sold things with fake names just for the fun of it.
He bumped into Kronke on the dock one day and got close enough to say hello. The ass did not reply. Back in the day he was known to be a prick. Things hadn’t changed. Staying away from that law firm had been a blessing.
On the day, he watched Kronke unload his boat, buy some fuel, arrange his rods and lures, and eventually speed away from the dock, too fast and leaving a wake. What an ass. He followed him at a distance, one that grew because Kronke’s engines were bigger. When Kronke found his spot, stopped and began casting, he backed away even more and watched him with binoculars. Two months earlier he had drifted in close and used the artifice of engine trouble to seek help. Kronke, ever the prick, left him stranded a mile from shore.
On the day, with Kronke busy with his red drum, he navigated straight to the bigger boat. Realizing he was getting too close, Kronke froze and glared at him as if he were an idiot.
“Hey, I’m taking on water,” he yelled, idling closer.
Kronke shrugged as if to say, That’s your problem. He laid down his rod.
When the boats touched hard, Kronke growled, “What the hell!”
His final words. He was eighty-one years old, fit for his age, but still a step or two slower.
Quickly, the killer looped his rope over a cleat, jumped onto Kronke’s boat, whipped out Leddie, flicked it twice, and smacked the lead ball into the side of Kronke’s head, crunching his skull. He loved the sound. He hit him again, though it was unnecessary. He pulled out the nylon rope, wrapped it twice around his neck, put his knee at the top of his spinal cord, and yanked hard enough to tear skin.
Dear Mr. Bannick:
We enjoyed your term as a clerk this past summer. We were impressed with your work and had every intention of offering you an associate’s position beginning next fall. However, as you may have heard, our firm has just merged with Reed & Gabbanoff, a global giant based in London. This is causing a major shift in personnel. Unfortunately, we are not in the position of hiring all of last summer’s interns.
We wish you a very bright future.
Sincerely,
H. Perry Kronke,
Managing Partner
As he pulled tighter and tighter he kept saying, “And here’s to your very bright future, H. Perry.”
Twenty-three years had passed and the rejection still hurt. The sting was still there. Every other summer intern was offered a job. The merger never happened. Someone, no doubt another cutthroat intern, had started the rumor that Bannick didn’t like girls, didn’t date them.
He tied off the rope with a double clove hitch, and for a few seconds admired his work. He glanced around and saw the nearest boat half a mile away, going for the open water. He grabbed the rope to his boat and pulled it closer, then he eased into the water and went under, washing off any blood that may have splattered.