Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) by Margaret Truman Page B

find out just what progress Justice and the MPD were making. I want this matter cleared up as soon as possible so that the Court can get back to normal. What did she have to say about the investigation?”
    “Not too much, really, but it was evident to me, JusticePoulson, that little progress has been made. Apparently the suspect list is as wide open as it was the first day.”
    “I see… well, sorry to hear that.”
    “Would you mind if I left early, sir? I’m not feeling so well.”
    “Of course.”
    She gathered her things from her office and walked down the back stairs to the Great Hall, impressive in its marble splendor. A frieze decorated with medallion profiles of lawgivers and heraldic devices looked down on her as she approached the courtroom. Two members of the Court’s special security force stood at the doorway. “Hello, Miss Rawls,” one of them said.
    “Hello,” she answered vaguely as she stood a few feet away and peered into the vast, empty arena where so many of a nation’s great legal battles had been fought. She wanted to leave, but her feet felt as though they were set in the marble floor. She started to tremble, or feel as though she were, and her eyes filled with tears in spite of all her resolutions
not
to let that happen.
    An abrupt sound rang out behind her.
    “Sorry,” one of the security men said as he bent over to pick up a clipboard he’d dropped. “You really jumped. Miss Rawls.”
    “Yes, I’m on edge these days. I suppose we all are.”

CHAPTER 15
    He heard her footsteps on the stairs, the fumbling in her purse, a key being inserted into the lock. The door swung open and she stepped into the small, cluttered apartment.
    “Where have you been?” Dan Brazier asked. He was in his wheelchair near a window. Outside, on Broadway, in San Francisco’s North Beach district, the transition from day to night was in progress and day’s final warm glow bathed everything in yellow. It was the time of day when the dirt on the windows was most evident, years of accumulation on the outside, a murky brown film of tar and nicotine on the inside.
    Sheryl Figgs, who lived with Brazier, placed a bag ofgroceries on a butcher block table in the middle of the living room and handed him the mail.
    “Where have you been?” Brazier repeated as he flipped through the envelopes.
    “I bought food on the way home from work. How are you feeling?” She noticed that a bottle of gin she’d bought yesterday was almost empty.
    Brazier ripped open an envelope and looked at a check from Supreme Court Justice Morgan Childs. As usual, it had been drawn on his personal account in Maryland, and the envelope contained only a box number as a return address.
    “You got your disability check,” Sheryl said.
    Brazier opened that envelope, too, then dropped both checks to a threadbare, imitation Oriental rug.
    “I asked you how you were feeling,” she said, kicking off her shoes and pulling a purple sweater over her head. She was not an unattractive woman, although an almost perpetual downturn to her mouth created a sad moue. Her hair was blond and seemingly unkempt; no matter how often she washed it, it appeared to be dullish. Her face was thin, pinched, and very pale. Remnants of teenage acne had left a tiny cluster of scars on both cheeks, which she covered with makeup. She was tall and slender. White skin on her arms, legs and belly was soft and loose, like that of an older person. “Damn stretch marks,” she often said when they were in bed. “That’s what having four kids will do to you.”
    Once when she’d said it, Brazier had reacted angrily. “You’re complaining about marks on your belly. I don’t have any legs.” He seldom mentioned his disability, and she felt guilty for days about provoking him to bring it up.
    She fetched him more ice and he poured the remains of the gin into his glass. She made herself a bourbon and water and sat at the table. “I brought the newspaper,” she