The Jury Master by Robert Dugoni Read Free Book Online Page A

firearm. I took the liberty of obtaining a copy of that permit for you as well.”
    Jones studied the application.
    “In short, Rivers, these are private matters. The president does not want his friend’s reputation trampled in the newspapers. I agree, but for different reasons.” Madsen returned to the front of the desk and stood over Jones. “What reflects poorly on Joe Branick will reflect poorly on the president, Rivers, which means it will reflect poorly on this administration. As callous as it may sound to some, I won’t have it. As Joe Branick’s friend, the president will feel great guilt. He will question whether he could have stopped him. I can’t be troubled with guilt. I’ve lost a lot of men, good men, under my command. We honor them and we move on, not because we have forgotten them but because we have
not
forgotten them. We have a job to do. The president has a job to do, Rivers. The best way to honor his friend is to do that job and to do it well. I’m going to see that he does—six more years, God willing.”
    Jones stood. “I understand.”
    “Good.” He turned for his chair again, speaking over his shoulder. “I’d suggest you start your investigation with Mr. Branick’s office. I’ve ordered it sealed.”
    “Sealed? May I ask why?”
    Madsen turned back to him. “Because I do not know what could be in there that could be sensitive to this administration or national security. Mr. Branick was a White House confidant, Rivers.” Madsen paused. “But I assure you, from this moment forward, this is your investigation.”

7
    D ARKNESS GAVE WAY to blurred light. Images pulsed and spiraled above him. Sloane lay on his back, staring up at the bank of fluorescent lights on his kitchen ceiling. Instinctively he struggled to sit up, but a wave of nausea caused the room to tilt violently off-kilter, like an amusement park ride, and he slumped back to the floor. He felt a hand on his chest. The face circling above him slowed and came to a stop.
    Melda.
    “Mr. David?” She slapped his cheeks and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth, stammering in rushed sentences. “I am so sorry, Mr. David. I was so scared. I hear the noises and think you were not to be home. You say, ‘Melda, I will see you Sunday night!’” She put her hand to her mouth, fighting tears.
    Sloane sat up and ran a hand over a tender spot on the back of his head. A cast-iron skillet lay on the floor near Melda’s knees. It wasn’t difficult to put the rest together. As sweet as the apple pie she baked, Melda was a tough old bird and had never lost the bloodlines of the girl on the farm. She took her duties watching the building seriously. In the dark, with his back to her, she had swung first and asked questions later. Thankfully, Melda was in her sixties and not quite five feet, which limited the amount of force she’d been able to generate. The blow knocked him off balance; the condiments on the floor did the rest. He remembered barely getting his hands up in time as he slipped and fell forward, bumping his forehead on the kitchen counter.
    He squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Melda. You’re right; I came home early. I’m sorry I startled you.”
    Widowed with no children, Melda had adopted Sloane. She cared for him when he was home, and cared for the building when he left on business. She collected his mail, fed Bud, the stray he’d found eating out of the Dumpster behind the building, and sprinkled food in the fish tank. She also took to doing his laundry, cleaning his apartment, and leaving plastic bowls of food in his refrigerator—tasks for which Sloane had tried to pay her. It had only upset her. In eight years he’d never raised her rent. What she paid, he invested in a money market account, and each Christmas he presented her with a cashier’s check, telling her it was a dividend from a computer stock he’d bought her.
    He considered the open cabinet doors and empty shelves; their contents were spilled