Free The Silver Bear by Derek Haas Page B

Stephens’s back, less than two feet away now, stooped over, the cloth on her dress fluttering slightly as she tightened the lace. Two feet away. The Glock felt heavy where it hugged my ribs, hidden behind the loose-fitting blazer. I scratched my belly with my right hand, a casual gesture, then reached further in my jacket, as though I were scratching a rib. The metal of the gun barrel felt cold on my fingertips. Right now. I could do it right here, at the corner of the park, pull the gun, and then. . . .
    The blinking red hand changed to the universal sign for “walk.” Janet sprung up and quickly returned to her previous pace. I let the other commuters pass in front of me and held back until I had returned to a comfortable distance. I was still thirty yards behind when Janet Stephens disappeared up the steps of the courthouse.
    Was Vespucci watching? Did he see me hesitate and make a mental note, maybe even write something down in a notebook? Was he judging me, right now, this instant? “Columbus hesitated. A waste of an opportunity. Will need to cut him down first chance.”
    Pushing these thoughts aside, I made my way down the street and stepped into a Korean grocery . . . a place as dark and dirty as a gopher’s hole. The shelves had a caked-on layer of dust that hadn’t felt the underside of a wet cloth in months. I picked up a box of Saran Wrap and then dropped the box on to the ground, like it had slipped from my fingers. As quick as lightning, I snatched the gun from its holster and slipped it into the crack between the lowest shelf and the floor. Same with the serrated knife. They might need a strong cleaning when I retrieved them later, but I wasn’t worried that the Korean woman in the back was going to find them while sweeping. I didn’t think that floor had seen a broom in ages. With the knife and gun tucked out of sight, I picked up the box like nothing had happened, took it to the front, paid for it so as not to raise suspicion, and headed back into the sunlight.
    The entrance to the courthouse funneled into a metal detector, marked by three security guards and a red rope cordon. I put my recently purchased Saran Wrap and keys into a tray and then walked through the detector, eyes cast low. I didn’t look the security guard in the eye as he handed back my belongings, just took them perfunctorily and headed toward a cluster of elevators where a small crowd had congregated. From my file, I knew Judge Janet Stephens’s courtroom was on the sixth floor. I also knew Judge Janet Stephens never took the elevator; she always climbed the stairs, part of her exercise regimen.
    Just then, a curt voice from near the elevators shook the lobby: “Jury duty, report to the sixth floor. End of the hall on the right. Jury duty, sixth floor, end of the hall on the right.”
    I scanned the crowd, a varied group of vapid stares, people who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. The kind of crowd you could sit with all day and no one would remember you.
    The jury room was huge, and there were easily five hundred people inside. We were supposed to fill out cards and hand them in to the female administrator up near the front of the room, and then she would draw names for each pool. I took a seat in the back of the room without filling out a card. The only thing that concerned me was remaining anonymous and keeping an eye on the clock. Eleven thirty. I knew from the file that on most days, Janet Stephens called recess at eleven thirty.
    The courtroom emptied at three minutes past the hour. I had been loitering for thirty minutes, trying not to look out of place, but it wasn’t difficult to blend into the surroundings. There were three courtrooms on the sixth floor and people scurried to and from each like rodents trying to stay out of the light. Nobody wanted to be seen and nobody wanted to make eye contact with anyone else. The hall remained as quiet as a museum; the only sounds were the occasional clicking of a