Nothing good ever happened on a day you spilled black coffee on a white silk shirt. I jerked upright at 7:55 a.m. having missed a seven o’clock meeting with a prospective buyer, still plagued with the thought of the dark gray van tailing me again last night. Sure, I could tell myself fairy tales about how prosaic gray was for an automobile color, or how Ocean Park was a suburban neighborhood with lots of kids that required transport. But that was no soccer mom in the van.
The first note arrived with uncanny speed, almost too soon when you consider how many steps are involved in investigating a murder. I mean, I’d barely scratched the surface when I came home and found an index card in my mailbox. Handwritten in tall thin letters with a fine, red Sharpie, “STOP”. And back then, I’d barely started. I thought it was some kind of joke instigated by my senile neighbor who digs up objects from her front yard and delivers them to our front porches.
By the time I’d taken the judge’s first two blackmail notes to the forensics team I contract work out to, a second card arrived—this time in a plain, white business envelope, no return address, same message. This told me two things: whomever was threatening Appellate Court Judge Conrad McClaren was somehow threatened by my investigating the matter, and that finding the “who” and “why” now held more significance than I thought. But there was a third reason, one I’d barely even acknowledged to myself, about why I had to find these answers. The fate of my family and my heart depended on it.
