Innocent Prey. Maggie Shayne

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      “I respect that, Judge.” He slanted a look at the chief. He needed to know what exactly was going on here, and he needed to know now. If there was a twenty-year-old blind girl out there on her own somewhere, they ought to be finding her and hauling her right back home.

      Rachel would probably kick his ass for that reaction. He could hear her in his head right then, voice dripping sarcasm like honey. Since when is blind a synonym for helpless? Dumb-ass.

      He almost grinned, then bit his lip just in time and pulled out his smartphone to start taking notes. “Give me everything you know, then.”

      The judge cleared his throat. “She was told two months ago that there was no hope of getting her eyesight back. She didn’t take it well. She’s furious with the world and everything in it. Moody and morose. She hasn’t accepted her blindness, won’t even try, and resents the help we’ve been trying to get for her.”

      “Help?” Mason asked.

      The judge took a sip of his bourbon, set the glass down again and stared into the liquid at the bottom. “Therapy, a personal coach to help her learn how to live with it.” He slugged back the last of the bourbon, then held the glass over his head to signal his desire for a refill. “She gives that poor woman so much trouble I’m surprised she hasn’t quit.”

      “That woman have a name?”

      “Loren Markovich.” Judge Mattheson set his empty glass down, fished a business card from his pocket and put it on the table.

      Mason took it and gave it a look. It was one of the judge’s own cards, but it had Markovich’s name and phone number written on the back. He dropped it into his shirt pocket. The waitress came back with his coffee and another bourbon for the judge, then left without a word.

      “Loren took Stevie out near Otsiningo Park the day before yesterday. Told her to walk to the end of the block and back, using her cane.”

      “Alone?” Mason knew he sounded more shocked by that than he should.

      “It’s not that big a deal, Mason,” Chief Sub told him. “Your friend Rachel could tell you that.”

      “Well, Rachel could’a done cartwheels to the corner and back, but that’s Rachel.”

      “Who the hell is Rachel?” the judge snapped.

      “She’s my— She helps me with cases from time to time.”

      “No one else comes in on this, Brown,” Mattheson said. “No one.”

      “We know, Howard.” Chief Sub nodded at him to go on.

      With a stern look at Mason, the judge went on. “Loren says Stephanie was good and pissed. She didn’t want to do it, but Loren pushed her, and she did it. Did just fine, too. Then at the end of the block she flipped Loren off, then kept on going, around the corner and out of sight. Just to be difficult. Just to teach Loren a lesson for pushing her so hard.” He took a big gulp of his bourbon, replaced the glass harder than necessary. “Loren ran to catch up, and Stephanie just wasn’t there. She just...wasn’t there.”

      Mason nodded. “She couldn’t have gone far. Not on her own.”

      “Yeah, well, that’s just it,” the judge said. “I think she had help. I think she set this up somehow. She’s been acting out ever since she went blind.” He lowered his head, turning the bourbon glass slowly in his hand. “I know it’s horrible. I know it is. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but at some point you just have to figure out how to deal with it and go on, you know? It’s terrible what happened to her, but it’s not our fault.”

      “Did they get the guy, Judge?” Mason asked.

      “You better believe it. And I made sure he got the max. Trial judge was a friend of mine.”

      The judge’s free hand flattened itself to the table, and it was shaking. “I just... I want her found. Discreetly and quietly. I want her found.”

      “All right.” Mason nodded slowly. “But what if this wasn’t some kind of tantrum? What if she was taken?”

      The judge shook his head. “I’ve thought of that. But there’s been no demand, no phone call or ransom note.”

      “But you’re a judge. You must have enemies.”

      “I’m a family court judge, son. I don’t deal with criminals. Criminally bad parents, sometimes, but not criminals like you’re thinking of.”

      “All right. All right. What if she did have help, then? Who would be the most likely accomplice?”

      The judge met Mason’s eyes for the first time and nodded. “She had a boyfriend all through high school. She ran off with him once, senior year. But she hasn’t seen him since shortly after that.”

      “Name?”

      “Jacob Kravitz. Goes by Jake.”

      “You know where he is?”

      “No. As far as I know she hasn’t seen or heard from him since she graduated. She’s seeing a decent guy now. A law clerk in the D.A.’s office. Mitchell Kirk. He’s a good kid.”

      “Anyone else? Friends from college or work?”

      “She quit college after the accident. Her friends called and came around for a while, and then they just...stopped.” He shrugged. “My wife’s a wreck.”

      “I told Howard I’d put my best detective on this,” Chief Sub said. “And I assured him, Mason, of your absolute discretion.”

      “You’ve got it, Chief.”

      The judge got up. Mason did, too, and this time the older man extended a hand. Mason shook, then watched Judge Mattheson turn and thread his way around the empty tables and out of the bar.

      Mason turned to look at the chief, who was still sitting. “I want to bring Rachel in on this.”

      “Sit down. I ordered a pair of burgers, and since Howard left, you might as well eat his.”

      Mason sat. As if on cue, the waitress returned with more coffee, and two plates piled high with burgers and fries. She had a much easier look on her face than before. Yeah, it had been tense. It was like a dark cloud left the bar when the judge walked out the door.

      “Tell me how you think Rachel can help,” Chief Sub said as he pounded the bottom of the ketchup bottle.

      “Well, to start with, she was blind for twenty years. She can give us some perspective on where this girl’s head is at, one we’re not gonna get from anyone else.”

      “Mmm.” The chief got the ketchup flowing and made several neat round dots of it along the edge of his plate. “Can she keep this quiet? She is a writer, after all.”

      “It’s not like she’s a freakin’ reporter.”

      “I know that. The question is, do you trust her?”

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