hungry.” His tennis shoes had dirt, mud, and pine needles on them. From the crime scene?
“Right.” So he didn’t trust me any more than he did the detective. “If I’m second chair on this, shouldn’t you at least level with me?” I hated not being in the loop. My gut told me that a lot more was going on than drug and gun running, but what could it be?
“I’m sure I will. For now, let’s get the warrants.” The breeze lifted his now dry hair.
I shrugged against the increasing wind, more than a little irritated that he wasn’t sharing information. “Fine. What’s the plan for that?”
“With the meager evidence we have?” He slowed down just a little. “Judge Hallenback. He’s the only one crazy enough to give us warrants on these facts.”
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Chapter 18
Judge Hallenback lived in one of the stately mansions downtown, built by timber magnates over a hundred years ago, directly across a street and private beach on Lilac Lake. The road was private with a gate, which had been open for once. Nick and I stood on his wide and darkened porch with round and stately columns bracketing us. The moon tried to glow through the clouds, barely showing.
Rain continued to patter down as Nick knocked for the third time on the thick door, trying to peer past the inlaid glass at eye level.
A ruckus sounded inside. “Maybe we should’ve waited until morning,” I whispered, clutching the warrant request against my chest.
“Ouch,” came loudly from inside followed by several bangs.
The porch light flicked on and flooded us, and I shut my eyes in protest. Then I blinked several times just as the door was yanked open. “What the holy hell are you doing on my porch at one in the morning?” the judge boomed, standing there bucked-ass naked, save for the purple tasseled hat.
“Uh.” I took a step back.
“Whoa.” Nick stared intently at a place over the judge’s right shoulder. “Ah, Judge? We need you to sign a warrant.”
“Crazy people out late at night.” The judge moved back and grabbed a white woven blanket off what looked like a Damask decorated sofa. He wrapped it around his waist. “Who in tarnation are you?”
Nick looked up. “Nicolo Basanelli, and I’m the current prosecutor for Elk County.”
The judge looked at me and scratched the salt and pepper whiskers on his sagging chin. “You, I know. Alberto, right?”
“Albertini,” I murmured, trying not to stare at his bare chest, which was covered with pink flowers from a marker that smelled like blueberries. They were upside down as if he’d drawn them himself, which he must have. “Anna Albertini, Judge.”
“Huh.” The judge shook his head, and the tassels danced around him. “Whatta you want?”
“Warrant. Two, actually.” Nick took the papers from my chest and handed them over. “Sorry to awaken you.”
The judge squinted down at the first document. “You want to search the residence of Melvin Whitaker.” He read through the application, hummed a bit, and handed it back. “Nope.”
It was the first time I’d seen Nick speechless. So, I stepped in. “Excuse us, Judge?”
The judge shook his head again, and the wild tassels caught my gaze. “You don’t have enough. Some kid who’s dead might or might not live there? What proof do you have that the deceased lived with his uncle?”
I cleared my throat. “The deceased gave me a piece of paper to find him at his new address, which is Melvin Whitaker’s address. We also have the statement of Melvin’s neighbor, Thelma Mullens, who said that Randy lived with his uncle.”
The judge narrowed his faded blue eyes. “Where’s the affidavit of the neighbor attesting to that fact?”
Geez. Come on. I sighed. “We don’t have an affidavit.” Although Thelma would probably love to be part of the case. “I talked to her, and I’ve sworn to it in my affidavit. I am an officer of the court, Judge.”
“I know who you are, Alberto!” he thundered. “Get me the affidavit, and I’ll sign the warrant. If that’s all—” He clutched the door.
“No.” Nick wedged his foot in and then winced as the judge pushed. “We have another warrant application, Judge.” He handed over the other papers and managed to kick the door open a little more, pushing the judge back a couple of feet.
The judge frowned and read over the papers, drawing them up to his face. “Cheryl Smythers.” He glanced up. “What kind of name is Smythers? It’s not even spelled right. There should be an ‘i’ instead of