T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality Read Free Page A

had an impressive pedigree. He was also the person who hand-selected the private guard who had ushered me through courthouse security.
    “So as not to waste your time, gentlemen, I’ll make it short. Earlier today, I entered the judge’s private office with a .410 derringer, a handful of shells, and an attaché packed with what looks very much like plastic explosives and a detonation device.” I smiled at their reactions. “You can imagine the judge’s surprise when she came in to find me waiting on her.”
    I laid a few Polaroid photos on his desk. One was a shot of me relaxing in the judge’s chair, aiming the gun; I’d used the camera’s timer. The second shot was of my attaché, opened and resting beneath her desk. Just to be cute, I’d written
“BOOM!”
on a Post-it note and stuck it to the base of her desk chair.
    “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Pete said, shaking his head.
    The other man paled but remained silent.
    “How do you do it, Jersey? I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he repeated.
    He did a mental fast-forward of what would happen were the judge to be murdered. The repercussions would be ugly. A few minutes passed before he slowly shook his head at me. I gave him my smug smile. After a successful security breach, I always felt a little cocky, like an athlete who had just completed a marathon in the front of the pack. Dinner with Bill later would be great, and the sex after that would be even better. I glanced at my watch. I had only half an hour before I needed to be back at the airport to make my Wilmington flight.
    “The courthouse screeners need to be much better trained inhand-checking items like crutches and walking aids,” I told them. “For example, had they handled my set of crutches, they would have noticed that one was much heavier than the other. Also, they need to pay more attention to people in wheelchairs who don’t go through the tunnel.”
    Just last month, my associate, Rita, posed as a disabled retiree in a wheelchair and wore a silver wig, old-age makeup, and a colostomy bag complete with a faint fecal odor. Since the chair’s frame would have set off the metal detector, she was pushed around it. She was asked to lean forward in the chair and after receiving a hasty scan with the handheld wand, a helpful guard escorted her right into the courtroom. Problem was, Rita had a Colt 9 millimeter tucked into the waistband of a girdle. It wasn’t loaded because the thought of ammunition that close to her reproductive parts made her nervous, but it very well could have been.
    I explained to Pete how Rita got through last month and how I’d done it today. Axis’s head of recruiting and training melted into his chair. He studied something, invisible to me, on the carpeted office floor.
    “They weren’t on the lookout for a grandmother in a wheelchair or a female reporter on crutches,” Pete’s associate finally said.
    “Don’t you think an assassin might be a little sneaky?”
    Pete sighed. “Don’t have to be a smart-ass.”
    “Can’t help it,” I said. “Sarcasm runs in my family.”
    He handed me a plain envelope. This job was a freebie, but I knew without looking that the envelope held a several-thousand-dollar check for a previous job. I almost regretted my decision to retire.
    “I’ll FedEx the full report with recommendations to you tomorrow and, as always, yours is the only copy,” I told him. My clients always got the originals and I always got a paycheck. With the type of jobs I did, trust was priceless.
    Pete studied me briefly then burst into laughter.
    “It’s a good thing you’re straight, Jersey. I wouldn’t want you working for the enemy.”
    “Actually, I won’t be working much for anyone anymore. Didn’t you get the word? I’m retiring.”
    His head jerked as though I’d sucker punched him. “What?”
    “You know, retiring. Not working anymore. I’m gonna tinker on my boat, maybe do some fishing, and spend more time with Bill. He