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She finished her shower and toweled off, then headed to the room to grab her bag. Michael glanced at her, but his glance didn’t linger. She wondered why she noticed that.
God, she couldn’t wait to get home.
They drove in silence to the courthouse until they parked. Before Faith could exit, Michael said, “I’m sorry, Faith. I know I’m allowing personal issues to interfere with my job. It threw me for a loop to see Turk behave that way with Ellie, and I know you don’t—well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll forget about all of that until the job is done, okay? Case first, everything else second.”
“I appreciate that, Michael,” Faith said.
They said nothing else on the subject, but the tension was somewhat eased between them as they walked inside. The officer manning the metal detector insisted that they surrender their weapons, not relenting until his supervisor came over and waved the two agents through.
“Here’s hoping our judge is more pleasant than Officer Fife over there,” Michael said.
Justice Andrea Mullens was a plain-looking woman of around fifty with dyed, shoulder-length, brown hair and an expression that was the perfect balance between regal, contemptuous, bored, and irritable. She looked born to be a judge and wore her robes well.
“I understand you’re investigating the murder of Chester McIlhenny,” she told the agents, “and that you believe the perpetrator is a member of August Hornfeldt’s defense?”
“The first part is true,” Faith said. “The second part is getting ahead of ourselves. What we want to know is if anyone threatened any of the jurors or Chester in particular or expressed a wish that they should suffer harm?”
“Yes,” the judge said. “One person did. Richard Hornfeldt.”
The last name caught Faith’s attention. She leaned forward and said, “Any relation to August Hornfeldt?”
“Yes, his son,” Mullens confirmed. “He vowed that the jurors who sentenced his father to death would, I believe he said, ‘get what’s coming to them.’”
Faith and Michael exchanged a glance. “Did anyone else make a threat or seem threatening?”
“No,” Andrea said. “The majority of people supported the death penalty. Even those who didn’t felt no grief at the sentence. In fact, I believe Mr. Hornfeldt—Richard, that is—was the only one angered by my judgment.”
“May I ask why you didn’t pass this information along to the police when you heard of Mr. McIlhenny’s death?”
“To be honest, Miss Bold, I assumed the information was already publicly available. Typically, when the adult children of serial killers threaten to harm or kill others, it becomes a sensation.”
“Fair enough,” Faith said. “In general, how did people feel about Mr. McIlhenny?”
“In general? They felt nothing. They felt the same as anyone feels about anyone they don’t know well. From what I understand, he was a capable foreman but rather quiet and more disposed to let others argue than to take an active role himself.”
“So, he was the foreman of the jury,” Michael said.
“Yes,” Andrea confirmed, “though that wouldn’t grant him any special power or influence over the judgment.”
“Still,” Michael said, “he was the one who announced the verdict. That might be enough to inspire Ricky-boy to target him as his father’s murderer.”
“Perhaps,” Andrea said. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a very full docket today, and I would like to have time to prepare.”
“Of course, your honor,” Faith said, standing. “Thank you for your time.”
Back in the car, they looked up Hornfeldt’s address. He lived in a middle-class neighborhood just outside the city, about a fifteen-minute drive from the courthouse.
“Think he’ll be home?” Faith asked.
“Eight in the morning on a workday? I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot. You never know these days what with virtual offices and scattered workweeks.”
“Well, fingers crossed,” Faith said. “Do you have a workplace if the home doesn’t pan out?”
“Dave’s Sporting Goods.” Michael said. “Not sure what location yet.”
Faith gave him a thumbs up. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s go talk to him.”
***
