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.
“Right. The three of us — you, me, Darren — are going to find the truck and have a look. If Bannick owned it for two years then there might be prints. He wouldn’t wipe it down because he didn’t know about his wayward thumb on Verno’s phone. He sold it months before that.”
“Ninety acres?”
“Come on, Lacy, this might be our big break. Sure, it’s a needle in a haystack, but the needle is there.”
“How long do prints last?”
“Years, depending on a bunch of factors — surface, weather, imprint, etc.”
Lacy was not surprised that Jeri knew the ins and outs of fingerprints. “Let’s just call the FBI.”
“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. We’ll call them later. Let’s find the truck first, then decide what to do.”
The impulse was to tell Jeri how swamped she was, how chaotic the office had become in her absence, and so on, but she knew any and all excuses would be blown off, completely ignored. Jeri had tracked down a serial killer the police had never heard of, and she had done so by being tenacious. Lacy simply wasn’t up to an argument.
She frowned at Sadelle, who was dozing, and said, “We can’t be there until four.”
“Dusty closes at five. Hustle up. Don’t wear a dress.”
Ernie worked one end of the long front counter, and when they entered the parts department he was the only one of four “associates” who was not on the phone. Without a smile, he waved them over to his turf. The decor was dented hubcaps and old steering wheels, and behind the counter were tall rows of bins filled with used auto parts. One wall was an impressive rack of used car batteries. The place reeked of stale oil, and all four associates had at least two grease stains on their shirts. Ernie had his share, plus an oil rag hanging from a rear pocket. An unlit cigar was screwed into one side of his mouth. “Help you?” he growled. They were obviously out of place.
Lacy turned on the megawatt smile and said, “Yes, thank you. We’re looking for a 2009 Chevrolet pickup truck.”
“Got thousands here. Need to narrow it down, honey.”
At another time, the “honey” would have sent her into orbit, but the moment was not right to set him straight.
“You lookin’ for parts?”
“No, not exactly,” she said, still all smiles.
“Look, ma’am, we sell parts, used parts, nothin’ but parts. We got over a hundred thousand wrecks out there, more comin’ in ever’ day.”
Lacy realized they were getting nowhere. She slid across a business card and said, “We’re investigating allegations of wrongdoing. We work for the State of Florida.”
“You a cop?” he asked, recoiling. Dusty’s gave every indication of being the type of place where cash was king, taxes were routinely avoided, and all manner of criminal activity was just below the surface. Two other associates, both still on the phone, glanced over.
“No,” Lacy said quickly. Jeri was admiring some hubcaps as Darren checked his phone. “Not at all. We just need to find this truck.” She slid across a copy of the title Jeri had found online.
Ernie took it and gazed at the screen of his bulky, 1970s-style computer. It, too, with oil stains. He finger-pecked and frowned and shook his old keyboard. He finally mumbled, “Came in back in January. South lot, row eighty-four.” He looked at Lacy and said, “Got it? Look, lady, we sell parts here. We don’t give free tours, you know?”
A bit louder, she said, “Sure. I can always come back with a warrant.”
It was apparent, from his startled reaction, that warrants were not welcome around Dusty’s. Ernie nodded toward the back and said, “Follow me.” He led them through a rear door. To one side was a long metal building with bays filled with cars and trucks in various stages of demolition. To the other side was a grand view of acres and acres of nothing but wrecked vehicles. He waved to his right and said, “Cars over there.” He waved to his left and said, “Trucks and vans over there. South lot is that way, ’bout half a mile. Look for row eighty-four. With some luck you’ll find it. We close at five and you don’t want to get locked in here at night.”
Darren pointed to a kid in a golf cart and asked Ernie, “Can we borrow that?”
“Ever’thang’s for sale around here, boss. Ask Herman.”
Without another word, Ernie turned and walked away. For $5, Herman would take them to row 84. They piled in the cart and were soon zipping past thousands of wrecked and gutted vehicles, most missing their hoods, all without tires, some with weeds growing through the windows. He stopped in front of a gray truck and they got out.
Lacy handed him another $5 bill and said, “Look, Herman, can you come back and get us at closing time?”
He grinned, took the money, grunted a response, and wheeled away.
The truck had been T-boned at the passenger’s door and was well demolished, but the engine was intact and had already been scavenged. As they gawked at it, Lacy asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Let’s take out some pistons,” Darren said like a real smart-ass.
“Not exactly,” Jeri said, “but you’re on the right track. Think of things Bannick wouldn’t touch, and the engine comes first. Now think of the things he would have touched. Steering wheel, dash, signal switch, gear shift, all the switches and buttons.”
“And you brought your dusting powder?” Lacy said.
“No, but I do know how to find prints. Our backup plan is to get the FBI out here for a proper search. Right now I just want to look around.”
“The glove box,” Darren said.
“Yes, and under the seat, behind the seat. Think about your own car and all the crap that falls through the cracks. Gloves anyone?” She reached into her purse and removed plastic gloves. They dutifully put them on.
“I’m going in,” Jeri said. “Darren, you check the back. Lacy, see if you can look behind the seat on the other side.”
“Watch for snakes,” Darren said, and the women almost shrieked.
Half the bench seat was crushed and mangled, and the passenger door was hanging by a thread. Lacy stepped through weeds and managed to get it open. Its side pocket was empty. She saw nothing of interest on the passenger’s side. Jeri gently scraped glass from the driver’s seat and sat at the wheel. She reached over and tried to open the glove box, but it was jammed tight.
Their first pass produced nothing. Jeri said, “We need to open the glove box. If we’re in luck there’s an owner’s manual and assorted paperwork, same as in every car, right?”
Lacy asked, “What’s an owner’s manual?”
“Typical,” mumbled Darren.
Lacy was suddenly hit with a memory and her knees went weak. She gasped and bent over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.
“Are you okay?” Jeri asked, touching her shoulder.
“No. Sorry. Just give me a moment.”
Darren looked at Jeri and said, “It’s her car wreck, the one where Hugo was killed. Not that long ago.”
Jeri said, “I’m so sorry, Lacy. I just wasn’t thinking.”
She stood and took a deep breath.
“We should’ve brought some water,” Jeri said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine now. Let’s get out of here and report this to the FBI. They can handle the search.”
Jeri said, “Okay, but first I want to see what’s in that glove box.”
Parked five feet away was a large Ford with a crushed roof. Darren poked around it and found a torn piece of the left door rocker panel. He twisted it free and eased into the seat of the gray Chevy truck. He jammed his new tool into the damaged glove box but it would not open. He pried, shoved, dug, jammed again and again, but its door would not open. The glove box was partially crushed and locked tight.
“I thought you were stronger than that,” Lacy observed as she and Jeri watched every move.