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

everywhere, dried goods mixed with plates, cups, and silverware. The pungent smell of balsamic vinegar filled the room. “What happened here?”
    She continued to dab at his forehead with the washcloth. “You have been burgled,” she said, eyes widening. “The horrible mess, Mr. David.”
    He gripped the edge of the tiled counter and pulled himself to his feet, his shoes slipping on the floor.
    Melda stood. “I am going to call for you a doctor.”
    “No. I’m okay. Just give me a second to get my bearings.”
    She dried her hands on a dish towel. “The mess. Mr. David, it is everywhere.”
    He walked into the living room holding on to the counter for balance and flicked on the lights. Melda was right. The mess was everywhere. Glass showered the carpet. The television tube had literally exploded. A paperback floated in the fish tank. Even the heating vent covers had been pried from the walls. Melda sobbed behind him.
    Sloane turned and hugged her, feeling her tiny frame tremble. “It’s okay, Melda. Everything is going to be okay.” He spoke softly until she stopped shaking. “Why don’t you make us a pot of tea,” he suggested.
    “I’ll make for you some tea.” She said it as if the idea had been her own, and walked into the kitchen to retrieve the kettle.
    Sloane walked through the apartment, not knowing where to begin.
    “Did you hear anything, Melda? Did you see anyone?” Sloane found it hard to believe, given the level of destruction, that it could have gone on unnoticed or unheard.
    She filled the pot under the faucet. “I hear nothing, but I am out on the Thursdays . . . my dancing night.” She belonged to a seniors group through a local Catholic church. “This morning I come to clean and I find this,” she said. “I go back down the stairs and call the police. Now I come back and you are in the kitchen, but it is dark and my eyes . . . Oh, Mr. David, I am so sorry.”
    Sloane stood in the center of the room considering his destroyed possessions, mentally replacing them where he last recalled them. Curious, he walked through the living room to the bedroom and turned on the light. His mattress had been torn apart like the couch, his closet emptied. But that was not of immediate concern. His immediate concern sat in plain view on the nightstand next to his bed, a gift from an appreciative client.
    His Rolex watch.

8
    The Department of Justice,
    Washington, D.C.
    R IVERS JONES RECLINED against the cream-colored leather, rocking rhythmically and twisting a bent paper clip along his thumb and index finger while waiting for his call to be connected. He dropped the brown-bag lunch his wife had made for him into the waste can, along with a cold cup of coffee, and picked at a half-eaten bran muffin. He fixed his gaze on the ornately framed diplomas hanging in his drab government office: S. RIVERS JONES IV .
    He had long since dropped the “S,” which few knew stood for Sherman, and the Roman numeral, which stood for “pretentious” if you were anywhere but in the Deep South. Well, he was no longer riding with the good old boys, driving their trucks with mud flaps and spittin’ Skoal through the gap in their two front teeth, and he wasn’t going back. Not ever. He longed for the day when he would never again have to look at the two oversize pieces of paper on his wall, reminders of a career choice his father had dictated. If not for the massive heart attack that killed the son of a bitch, Jones had no doubt he’d be admiring his diplomas right now in an office with a view of downtown Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
    Jones picked off another piece of the muffin and tilted back his head to avoid getting crumbs on his suit. Parker Madsen’s call had awoken him from a sound sleep. Unlike the general, he was not one for getting up at the crack of dawn for calisthenics and revelry. He had just enough time to shower and shave—the shit had to wait—to get to the West Wing on time. Madsen demanded punctuality.