Chapter 3 You've Got Mail
Elena
“I know how death notifications are handled.”
“Do you?”
Daniel’s voice cut in, sharper now. “That’s enough.”
Owen shifted his attention to him. “You want to say something?”
“I usually do,” Daniel replied. “Most of it isn’t fit for department record.”
Before the tension could escalate, footsteps echoed in the hall, measured, unhurried.
Captain Warren Pike entered, moving straight into the courtroom without pausing.
The mood shifted instantly.
It always did when Pike walked in.
He’d led Major Crimes for eleven years, served nearly thirty-five on the force. At fifty-six, he was tall, solid, with steel-gray hair and deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He rarely needed to raise his voice, authority lived in it, no matter the volume.
Tonight, he wore a dark wool coat over a white, tieless shirt. Rain still shimmered on his shoulders.
For a second, as his eyes found mine, I saw not just my captain, but the man who had stood at my father’s funeral.
Warren Pike had been my father’s friend.
After Dad’s death, Pike checked on my mother every week, filled in at school events when she was ill, and wrote my academy recommendation despite my aunt’s protests that policing had already cost our family enough.
He’d handed me my first detective’s badge.
He’d also taught me to never let gratitude blind me.
Pike signed Elliot’s log, pulled on gloves, and moved through the courtroom, careful not to touch anything.
The room was silent as he surveyed it all: the restored benches, the witness stand, the judge, the confession.
His expression barely shifted, but I caught a slight tightening around his mouth as he read the confession.
He turned to Daniel first. “Preliminary findings?”
Daniel recapped the scene cleanly, sticking to facts. Pike asked brief questions about entry, ID, surveillance, and notifications.
He turned next to Owen. “You arrived first?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What steps did you take?”
“Secured the scene, separated witnesses, requested traffic cam footage, began canvassing the area.”
“Who authorized you to enter the judge’s chambers?”
Owen’s face changed. “I didn’t go in.”
“Officer Jamison reported you asked for access.”
“To protect evidence.”
“You protect it with a seal, not with your hands.”
“I know that.”
Pike held his gaze a moment too long. “Remember that next time.”
A flush crept up Owen’s neck.
Pike’s attention turned to me. “Your assessment?”
“He was brought here deliberately,” I said. “The courtroom was restored for effect. The killer knew the building, Kline’s past here, and how to dodge or disable the security cameras. Kline’s missing phone might tell us if he was lured, forced, or abducted.”
“And the confession?”
“Might be fabricated, might be grounded in truth. Either way, it shows why the killer chose him.”
Owen interrupted. “Or what the killer wants us to believe.”
I met his eyes. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“No, you said to investigate the accusations.”
“We should.”
“Our victim is the judge, not every defendant who ever appeared before him.”
“He was chosen for a reason.”
“And letting the killer’s accusations steer the case gives him control.”
“So does ignoring them.”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got eight more years in homicide than you.”
“And yet, the room isn’t convinced,” I replied.
Daniel coughed quietly.
Pike’s mouth nearly twitched. Almost.
Owen gestured at the bench. “This case will be all over the news, bring in federal eyes and political pressure. I was first here. I’ve handled threats to judges before. I should take lead.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a claim.
Pike studied him for several seconds. Then, “Cross takes lead.”
Owen stiffened.
“Reyes stays with her,” Pike added. “Vance, you assist until otherwise directed.”
The silence that followed was icy.
Owen stared. “Captain—”
“That wasn’t a discussion.”
“With respect, I have seniority.”
“Then show me it taught you to follow orders.”
Owen’s fists tightened at his sides. He was angry. But underneath, there was something else. His gaze flicked to Kline, then to the confession, then momentarily to Pike.
Fear.
It passed quickly, but I recognized it, the look people get when a question lands too close to the truth.
Owen resented losing control of the case. He also feared what it might reveal. Why?
Before I could press him, Elliot rose from a crouch near the bench. “Detective.”
We all looked at him.
He held his camera, pointing at the polished brass nameplate on the judge’s bench.
THE HONORABLE EVERETT KLINE
“There’s something tucked under here,” Elliot announced.
I stepped closer. From my angle, I could see the edge of a cream-colored envelope peeking out between the nameplate and the wood.
An envelope.
Pike raised a hand before I reached for it. “No one touches it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were leaning.”
“I use my eyes too.”
“I remember.” For a moment, his voice softened, almost like my father’s.
Then he stepped back, giving Elliot space.
Elliot photographed the envelope from every angle, dusted the area, tested the edge, then used sterile tweezers to draw it out. The paper was thick. Uncreased. Sealed with clear adhesive, not saliva.
On the front, written in precise block letters: DETECTIVE ELENA CROSS
My name looked foreign in a dead man’s courtroom.
Everyone turned toward me. Daniel’s face hardened. Owen’s suspicion became nearly satisfied. Pike’s expression gave nothing away.
A pressure tightened in my chest. I kept my voice steady. “I’ve never worked a case involving Kline.”
“Ever testify in his court?” Daniel asked.
“Once, nine years ago. A burglary homicide, five minutes in the preliminary.”
“Any contact outside that?”
“No.”
“Threats?”
“Nothing tied to him.”
Owen folded his arms. “Maybe the killer knew Pike would assign you the case.”
Pike’s eyes met his. “I made that choice after I got here.”
“Then the killer anticipated it.”
“Or,” I said, “he wanted whoever found the envelope to call me.”
Owen studied me. “Why?”
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
Elliot placed the envelope inside a clear evidence tray.
“I’ll check for prints, residue, hair, fibers, saliva, and anything else people leave behind when they think they’re being clever.”
“How long?” I asked.
“To tell you whether you can open it? Ten minutes. To tell you anything useful? Longer.”
Those ten minutes stretched.
I walked the room again while Elliot worked.
The killer had arranged every chair. Every light. Every piece of Kline’s clothing.
That required time. Strength. Access. Confidence.
He had known no one would interrupt. He had known the security schedule. He had known Judge Kline’s history. And he had known my name.
Daniel approached quietly. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“A dead judge has mail for you.”
“I’ve received worse.”
“When?”
“Tax season.”
