Andrea tightened her grip on her duffel and moved her backpack to her other shoulder as she tried to keep up with his long strides. The going was not easy as they got close to the main strip. Both sides of Beach Drive were filled with tourists of varying sizes and ages looking at maps, stopping to text, gaping at the sun.
She felt incredibly conspicuous in her outfit. The polo was black with a giant yellow USMS logo on the back as well as over the breast pocket. All they’d had was a man’s small, but the sleeves hung down past her elbows and the collar was so thick it scraped her chin. She’d pulled the seams out of the cuffs of her pants, but they were still half an inch too short and the waist was half an inch too large because women’s pants had tiny pockets and no belt loops, so she’d been forced to buy boys’ pants in the kids’ department and a thick, woven belt so she could clip her gun, handcuffs, mace and Silver Star around her waist. For the first time in her life, she had hips. But not in a good way.
Bible seemed to pick up on her discomfort. “You got some jeans in that bag?”
“Yes.” She had exactly one pair.
“I like wearing jeans.” He punched the button at the crosswalk. His head stuck up above the crowd like a meerkat’s. “Comfortable, stylish, easy to move around in.”
Andrea looked at the street signs as Bible debated relax vs. slim fit. She recognized the intersection from one of the witness statements—
At approximately 6:00 p.m. on April 17, 1982, I, Melody Louise Brickel, witnessed Emily Vaughn crossing the street at Beach Drive and Royal Cove Way. She appeared to have come from the direction of the gymnasium. She was wearing a strapless turquoise dress made of satin with tulle with a matching clutch but no pantyhose or shoes. She looked troubled. I did not approach her because my mom told me I should stay away from Emily and anyone in her group. I never saw her alive again. I do not know who the father of her baby is. I swear the contents of my statement are true under penalty of law.
Bible asked, “Who’d you meet at HQ?”
Andrea had to pull her brain out of a fog. “Everyone was at a conference. There was a woman working asset forfeiture who—”
“Leeta Frazier,” he provided. “Good gal. Been around almost as long as me. But, listen, here’s what’s important—Mike told me to look after you.”
Her heart sank. “Mike doesn’t—”
“Now, let me stop you right there,” he said. “Cussy, that’s my wife, she’s always telling me that chivalry is wasted on the young, but I wanna tell you straight up I’ve never believed the rumors. And I’m not just saying that because you’re engaged.”
Andrea felt her jaw wanting to hinge open.
“Glad we’ve got that out of the way.” The light had turned. Bible started to cross the street inside a herd of sunburned teenagers. He glanced over his shoulder, asking Andrea, “You got a place in B’more yet?”
“No—I—” She jogged to catch up. “We’re not—Mike and I—”
“None of my business. We will never speak of it again.” His finger zipped across his lips. “Listen, though, what do you know about the judge?”
“I—” Andrea felt like she was falling through a black hole.
“Lookit, I remember what it’s like to be a shiny new dewsum straight out of the box—just got your credentials slapped in your hand, don’t even know which way is thattaway, but I’m here to coach you up. My last partner’s on a beach sipping Mai Tais and counting manatees. You and me, we’re a team now, like a family, but a work family because you’ve got your own family, I get that.”
Andrea stepped up onto the sidewalk. She took a breath. When she’d first met Mike, he’d strafed her with a similar machine-gun volley of bromides. He’d been trying to throw her off, to get her to say something she didn’t mean to say, and it had worked so many times that she’d felt like an idiot.
She had spent the two years since working on not being that woman anymore.
Andrea took another breath, then said, “Judge Esther Rose Vaughn. Eighty-one years old. Reagan appointee. Confirmed in 1982. One of two remaining conservatives on the court. She has a granddaughter and a great—”
Bible stopped so abruptly that Andrea almost bumped into him. “How do you know about the grand and great-grand?”
She felt caught out. Maybe there was a more deliberate reason that the forty-year-old daughter of Emily Vaughn had no visible online presence.
Instead of floundering, she asked, “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Exactly.” He started walking again.
Andrea didn’t know what to do but follow him up the long sidewalk. The crowd thinned as the last of the sightseers peeled off to watch taffy being pulled behind a smudged plate glass window. The touristy end of the street petered out at a closed bike rental shop and a place to sign up for paddleboard lessons and parasailing. As with everything else, the outriggers felt extremely familiar. Andrea had spent many a summer on the beach watching tourists try not to flip their surfboards into a rip tide or smack their parachutes into a high-rise building.
“So, the judge.” Bible’s prattle started back as quickly as it had stopped. “She got some death threats. No big deal. Happens all the time, especially after she tossed out that election LOLsuit two years ago.”
Andrea nodded. Death threats were so commonplace now you could get them at Starbucks.
He said, “The latest death threats are classified as credible because she got some letters mentioning some particular details about her private life. Snail mail letters. The judge don’t do email.”
Andrea nodded again, but her head started throbbing over the rush of new data. Her focus during her entire journey thus far had been on Emily Vaughn and her possible killer. Andrea had pushed aside thoughts of her real job because of the word babysitting, but now she realized that her real job was, in fact, a very serious job.
She tried to sound like a Marshal. “Where were the letters mailed from?”
“That blue collection box we passed on the way from the library. No cameras on it. No fingerprints that can be used,” Bible said. “They were mailed over the holiday, one on Friday, then another on Saturday, then Sunday and Monday. They were all addressed to the judge’s chambers at the federal courthouse in Baltimore, same building as the one you were in today. We all got a kind’a family up there between the federal judges and the Marshals. I’ve known the judge and her people for years. We look out for each other.”
Andrea tried another question, “Was the rat sent to the courthouse?”
“Nope,” Bible said. “The box with the rat didn’t get mailed. It was left in the judge’s mailbox at her city house, which is located in Guilford, an up-your-butt part of North Baltimore, a dog’s leg from Johns Hopkins and Loyola.”
“Where the judge’s husband, Dr. Franklin Vaughn, taught economics before he retired last year.”
Bible clicked his tongue, she guessed as a reward for Andrea doing her homework.
She asked, “Are they the same people? The death-threat-letter mailer and the rat-dropper?”
“Could be the same guy, could be it’s two guys.”