The heavy oak door to Judge Michael’s office clacked and thudded as it closed, announcing Tori and Javi’s arrival with the subtlety of a courtroom gavel. Their steps were purposeful, echoes in the marble corridor leading up to a fortress of legal might. The air held the scent of polished wood and old books—a smell that typically commanded respect, but today it was merely an obstacle.
"May I help you?" the receptionist's voice cut through the room like a chilled draft. She rose from behind her desk, a gatekeeper poised to protect the sanctum of law and order.
Tori met the woman's gaze with the same blue-gray intensity that had scrutinized countless crime scenes. "We need to speak with Judge Michael about his son," she stated, her voice steady despite the tension coiling inside her.
"Without an appointment? I don’t think that’s possible," the receptionist replied, her tone suggesting this was a well-rehearsed line, one fortified by years of deflecting unwanted inquiries.
"Here's our appointment." Javi's hand extended smoothly, FBI credentials glinting under the fluorescent lights.
There was a momentary flicker of hesitation in the receptionist’s eyes—perhaps a recognition of what these two agents represented. With a reluctant nod, her posture deflated slightly, and she stepped aside.
"I’ll let him know you’re here," she said, her voice losing some of its previous frostiness.
"Thank you," Tori replied, but her gratitude was perfunctory. Her mind was already beyond the threshold, dissecting potential defenses and alibis. They moved past the receptionist and into the lion’s den, ready to unravel the tightly sealed past of a judge's son turned deputy and, hopefully, what his connection was with their victim.
Tori's hand hovered over the doorknob, the cool brass against her skin grounding her resolve. She pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted her was both a complication and a curiosity. Carmen Michael, the subject of their inquiry, stood beside his father's desk, his youthful face marked by a seriousness that seemed beyond his years.
The deputy was still wearing the same ash-stained uniform he’d worn back at the crime scene. Now, glancing at them, he looked more sheepish than he had before, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.
An uneasy silence enveloped the room as Tori and Javi stepped inside, the air thick with unspoken questions. The Judge, an imposing figure even while seated, regarded them with a sharp gaze that had no doubt intimidated many who sat across from him in court. His son, however, betrayed none of his father's ire, his posture relaxed but alert.
"Agents," Judge Michael began, his voice like gravel scraping across pavement. "To what do I owe the... unexpected pleasure?"
Tori could feel Javi’s presence at her side, a silent pillar of support. "Your Honor, we're here to discuss a matter concerning your son," she said, her words measured, betraying none of the storm brewing within her.
The Judge's eyes narrowed, his irritation palpable as he leaned back in his chair. "And just what is this 'matter' that requires FBI involvement?"
"His past," Tori replied, locking eyes with the Judge. "And how it relates to his present position as a deputy on the force."
Carmen shifted slightly, his gaze flickering between Tori and his father. Judge Michael’s mouth set into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw working subtly as he processed the implication of her words.
Had Carmen come running here because he’d suspected they’d look into him? Was he now hiding behind daddy’s robes?
Tori kept the scornful thoughts to herself, watching but silent.
"Are you insinuating something about my son?" There was a dangerous edge to his question, one that spoke of power and influence wielded like weapons.
"Only looking for the truth, Your Honor," Tori countered, feeling the weight of her brother's memory anchoring her resolve. She would not be deterred by the Judge's glare or by the tension that strung every nerve taut in the room.
Tori's fingers curled into a tight fist at her side, the frustration boiling within her, threatening to spill over. She took a step forward, closing the gap between herself and Carmen. The silence in the room crackled with an electric charge, as if the very air anticipated the clash of wills. She tried not to think of her own father's harsh nature—tried to keep her mind focused on the present.
"Compressed canisters," she began, her voice a steady drumbeat against the mounting tension. "The same kind used in paintball markers. That's what the arsonist used to accelerate the fires. Likely filled with an alternative gas."
Carmen, leaning casually against his father's desk, suddenly straightened. His eyes, which had held a hint of casual indifference moments before, now flickered with a defensive spark. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said quickly, too quickly. "Paintball is a hobby, nothing more."
Judge Michael rose from his chair, a towering figure of authority. His presence filled the room, as if his very will could bend the truth to his favor. "My son was here with me all day yesterday during both the wildfires and the murder," he stated firmly, his voice resonating with the finality of a gavel's strike. "He has an alibi. Unassailable."
Tori met the Judge's proclamation with a level gaze. She recognized the maneuver—power shielding power—but she was undaunted.
"An alibi," she echoed, her words slicing through the air, sharp and precise. "That's convenient." Her eyes never left Carmen’s, searching for the telltale signs of guilt that might betray him. She saw uncertainty there, a flicker of something unsettled, but he held her gaze with a stubborn resilience.
"Convenient, but true," Judge Michael bristled, reinforcing the fortress around his son with each syllable, casting an invisible barrier that challenged Tori to breach it.
She simply nodded, filing away every reaction, every subtle shift in posture. The pieces of the puzzle were there, scattered and obscured, but she would find a way to fit them together.
"Your alibi for Carmen," she started, her gaze locked onto Judge Michael's unwavering eyes, "it doesn't sit right with me. You can understand why, yes? A father protecting his son?"
Judge Michael's face reddened, his stature growing larger as if inflated by the rising tide of his fury. "You dare to question my integrity?" he boomed, the words resonating against the mahogany walls of the office.
Carmen shifted uneasily, stepping forward with placating hands outstretched. "Dad," he said softly, trying to tether his father back to calm waters, "let's just explain—"
"Explain?" the Judge spat, cutting off his son. "To these...these meddlers? They come into my office, accusing you with their baseless allegations!" His hand sliced through the air, dismissing their authority with a swiftness that left a chill hanging between them.
Tori could feel the weight of the Judge’s glare, the implicit threat behind his words, but she wouldn’t let it deter her.
"Threats won't make us go away, Judge," she replied coolly, unflinching. "It only makes us dig deeper."
Carmen's eyes flickered toward Tori, a silent acknowledgment of the stakes at play. He placed a hand on his father's shoulder, trying to ground him. "They're just doing their job," he attempted to soothe, but the Judge shook off his touch.
"Get out," Judge Michael commanded, pointing to the door with an unyielding finger. "Before I have you escorted from the premises."
Before Tori could respond in kind, Carmen cleared his throat, stepping forward and holding out his phone. He tilted the device for Tori to see, and reflexively, her gaze swept over the screen.
"Look," Carmen's voice had a tremor of urgency, "these are the texts I sent my dad yesterday afternoon."
Tori's blue-gray eyes, stormy and relentless, scanned the timestamps meticulously. 'On my way,' followed minutes later by a simple, 'here.' Both stamped at the critical window when the arsonist would have been setting the world ablaze. Javi leaned in, his own scrutiny shadowing hers, their FBI training kicking in, dissecting every pixel for the truth it might reveal or conceal.
"See? I couldn't have been involved," Carmen insisted, the plea knotted in his voice.
His claim hung in the room, a specter of doubt that clawed at the edges of Tori's resolve.
"Anyone can send a text, Carmen," Tori said, her tone edged with ice. "It doesn't prove you were where you say you were."
"Except," Carmen interjected quickly, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes, "the courthouse has security cameras. They recorded me entering the building. You can check the footage—it'll show you the exact time I walked through those doors."
For a moment, Tori's heart skipped; evidence was the lifeblood of her pursuit, tangible strands she could weave into a net of justice. She considered the implications, the potential exoneration hanging in the balance. If the cameras corroborated his story, it would carve a hole in their theory large enough to cast doubt on everything.
"Fine," Tori conceded with a curt nod. "We'll verify it with the security tapes."
Carmen's shoulders dropped, the tension seeping out as if he'd been holding his breath, waiting for permission to exhale. He met Tori's gaze, a silent plea for understanding passing between them. She offered no solace, only the stoic promise of an agent who would follow the evidence wherever it led.
Tori pocketed her notepad and nodded at Carmen. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said, her voice steady and professional despite the tension that crackled in the air like static. Javi echoed her thanks with a brief, polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Of course," Carmen replied, his tone attempting casualness, but there was an undercurrent of relief that betrayed how high the stakes were for him.
Judge Michael, however, stood stoic and unyielding, his glare as sharp as the gavel he wielded in court. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, etched by a mix of anger and paternal protectiveness. He watched the agents, his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly dissatisfied with the intrusion into his family's affairs.
"Let's go, Javi," Tori murmured, feeling the weight of the Judge's gaze as they turned to leave, no closer to finding their killer, and with a freshly painted target on their back for Judge Michael.