“Amazing.”
“You bet your ass. But lately, here’s the problem—my sources have been slow to deliver. At start of this year, because there were less than six worthy prospects, I had to skip a class. That rightfully made His Eminence angry. But as I explained to him, the success of our enterprise depends on quality, not quantity, and I had to teach my sources a lesson, rejecting all candidates until they improved raw product. His Eminence seemed to understand but was still clearly upset.”
One nodded. “Understandable.”
“Yes, of course. And I promised His Eminence it would never happen again. Now, we must make sure it never happens again. Even if we have to kill a source or two to spread the word. One, I swear, next month’s candidates will be better, damnit, or else.”
One shifted in his chair and bit the corner of his lower lip. “Herr Hess, L.A.’s a huge place. Why not collect our own candidates? Teach those bastards a lesson.”
Hess cracked a full smile. “Why not? Goddamnit, One, you are learning. Why not, indeed. Let’s do just that.”
CHAPTER 12
Despite resting all day Wednesday, Ridge was running late. He met Terry in the Marina lot near the apartment at 9:15 on Thursday morning for the trip to Orange County on their other new case involving a judge’s death. Three squawking seagulls fluttered overhead, the sky glittered, and sand blew briskly across the black asphalt. “Morning compadre,” said Ridge. “Sorry I’m late. Got directions?”
“Took ‘em from Google and loaded the address in the Vette’s nav. We’ll take the 91 to OC and exit at Oppenheimer. Parallel the freeway and then follow Mohr Drive north into Anaheim Hills—until we get to 6120, the judge’s house.”
When Terry and Ridge reached the freeway, they headed east into a blinding sun, and Ridge said, “Did you see the news articles Kate emailed yesterday?”
“Sure did. I didn’t realize it was Judge Millsberg who died. Wasn’t she the judge in that OC case we finished last year?”
“Roger that. And more importantly, a special judge. She had the three graces—sensitivity, humility, and empathy. Juliet Millsberg made every lawyer welcome in her courtroom, and just loved being a judge. She often said she was but a civil servant on the public payroll, trying to do the best she could.”
Terry nodded. “The type of judge we all need.”
“Damn straight, my friend. Damn straight. Did you see Dan got assigned to investigate her death?”
Dan was Detective Sergeant Dan Thompson, a crime scene investigator they had worked with before.
“Sure did, and I gave him a call,” said Terry.
“How did Dan get involved? He’s LAPD. The judge is from Orange County. No?”
“OC called him because of his rep in crime scene photography. Their guy was on vacation. And later when Judge Millsberg’s family asked Dan to recommend a civil litigator, he offered your name at the top of a list of three. I hope we can help.”
“Me too, but we’ll see,” said Ridge.
“Oh, by the way, I told Dan about your head and eyes. He agreed to explain it to the Millsbergs, so no one’s surprised.”
“Good. I never wanta tell that story again.”
“Oh, I also mentioned the car chase. But without a license plate, wasn’t much Dan could do.”
“Understood.”
About an hour later, after some thrilling moments on the freeway and the twists and turns of Mohr Drive, Ridge and Terry arrived at 6120 Mohr Drive. The house was set back into the canyon, only a black gate and brick posts faced the street. The gate was open, and an LAPD squad car sat at the end of a 100-foot narrow driveway. Near the bumper stood their friend Dan Thompson, dressed in his LAPD uniform, and a young blond-headed man in his early 20s, in jeans and a blue polo shirt. Terry pulled up next to the squad car and jumped out, as Ridge pried himself from the Vette, wishing it were a convertible. Dan then introduced them both to Justin Millsberg, son of the deceased Judge Millsberg.
“My condolences,” Ridge said. “Your mother was truly one of the good guys.”
Justin’s throat worked, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Mr. Ridge. I’m hoping you can help me understand exactly what happened. And why.”
“Me too,” said Ridge.
“Sergeant Thompson has been great explaining the findings to date and is here today closing out the crime scene,” Justin continued. “He told me earlier you’re a trial attorney who prosecutes lawsuits against corporations, governments, and other defendants. Do you think you can help me?”
Ridge glanced at Terry and Dan. “I’ll do what I can. But I need to know some facts first.”
“If Justin wants,” Dan said, “I can summarize the facts for you. And I’d like to get Terry’s thoughts on what we’ve got. The facts are, to say the least, strange.”
“Great, let’s go around back to the terrace.” They followed Justin along the side of the house to a large flat backyard, surrounded by canyon hills on three sides. The sun was high and the lawn was green and lush, with a line of lemon and orange trees arranged in a semi-circle at the base of the hills. A cement patio ran behind the house, spread with outdoor furniture. After they all sat down at a large rectangular table near a barbeque set-up, Dan began.
“Last week, on Monday afternoon, Justin was at school and planned to spend the night with a friend. Judge Millsberg apparently went bike riding when she came home.”
Terry broke in. “How do you know that?”
“We found her bike in the garage, on the rack behind the judge’s SUV. The vehicle itself seemed fine. It’s one of those new imports from China. The Grand Sport from Chin Motors. The bike, however, was a different story. Dented and scratched all along the right side. Later we discovered the judge’s face also had scratches. Top to bottom.”
“Where did you find the judge?” asked Ridge.
Dan narrowed his eyes, a sure sign he was annoyed. “Guys, give me a chance, and I’ll give you the facts. She was found dead on Tuesday morning in the guest room next to the garage with her back on the bed. Nothing unusual physically, except the scratches on her face.”
“Cause of death?” Terry asked.
“Looks like carbon monoxide poisoning. Justin arrived home early Tuesday morning. When he opened the garage door, he found the judge’s SUV in the garage, engine running. Carbon monoxide built up, passed across the small hallway, and saturated the guest room.”
Ridge was hardly ever speechless—after all he was a lawyer, but dumbfounded he blurted out, “Dan, sorry, but hold it. Stop. Did the Chin SUV have a keyless remote ignition system?”
“Yeah, and the remote control was found in the judge’s pocket. Apparently, she never shut off the car before lying down in the guest room.”
