Page 13 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The dark morning hours seemed to gently usher them inside as Rachel and Novak stepped into the lobby of James Harrison's law office. The space held that particular stillness unique to buildings after hours—a hollow quiet that made every footstep feel heavier than it actually was. Two uniformed officers stood near the entrance, speaking in hushed tones with a man in gray coveralls who kept wringing his hands—a janitor or a member of a cleaning crew from the looks of it. The lobby's wood-paneled walls absorbed what little warmth the overhead lighting provided, making the space feel more like a mausoleum than a place of business.

Rachel's gaze immediately went to the janitor. Years of experience had taught her to watch everyone, to suspect everyone. But the man's face was ashen, his eyes wide with the unmistakable shock of someone who'd stumbled onto something they’d never expected to see. His hands trembled as he gestured, describing what he'd found to the officers. A ring of keys jangled at his hip with each movement, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet space.

She noticed how his eyes kept darting to the hallway that led deeper into the building, as if expecting something—or someone—to emerge from the shadows. The cleaning cart stood abandoned near the wall, various bottles and supplies scattered across its surface, telling the story of a routine night suddenly interrupted.

"Excuse me?" Rachel approached, keeping her voice gentle. The janitor started at her voice, and the two cops nodded to her, as if giving her the floor. "I'm Special Agent Gift with the FBI. Could you tell me exactly how you found the scene?"

The janitor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I—I always start on the third floor, work my way down. Makes more sense, you know? But today I had to change my routine because they waxed up there today. Finishing off the floors after the new construction." His voice quavered, accent thickening with stress. "So I started down here and saw the break room light was still on. Thought someone forgot to turn it off, but then I saw—" He gestured helplessly toward the hallway, his hand shaking so badly he had to lower it.

Rachel noticed a small cut on his right palm, fresh enough that it hadn't fully scabbed over. "Your hand—did that happen tonight?"

"What? Oh, no," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "Yesterday, fixing my car. I have receipts from the auto parts store if you need—"

"That won't be necessary," Rachel assured him, making a mental note to verify it anyway. Two decades of law enforcement had taught her that coincidences rarely existed in cases like these.

One of the officers, a heavyset black man with graying temples and laugh lines around his eyes that suggested a usually cheerful disposition, stepped forward. His badge caught the fluorescent light as he moved. "Officer Jennings," he introduced himself. Despite his friendly face, his eyes were sharp and alert. "If you'll follow me, I can show you what Mr. Rodriguez found." He glanced at Rachel. "Dispatch mentioned something about connecting this to a judge's death?"

Rachel exchanged a look with Novak. Her new partner's expression was carefully neutral, but she caught the slight tension in his jaw. "We'll need to confirm the connection, but yes, potentially. That’s why we’re here."

Jennings led them down a corridor where the overhead lights cast alternating pools of brightness and shadow. The carpet was industrial gray, newly installed as part of the recent renovations based on the look and smell of it. Old law books lined built-in shelves along one wall, their spines faded with age. Rachel noticed how the books were organized by topic and year; someone in this office was meticulous about organization.

The air grew noticeably cooler as they walked deeper into the building. Rachel's nose caught the artificial lemon scent of cleaning products, probably from Rodriguez's cart, mixed with the musty smell of old paper and the lingering aroma of coffee.

"Break room's right through here," Jennings said, pushing open a door with a gloved hand. The hinges creaked slightly—another detail that struck Rachel as important, though she couldn't yet say why. Would their perpetrator have heard that same creak?

Rachel's trained eye immediately cataloged the scene. The break room was small, maybe twelve by fifteen feet, with cheap white tiles that had yellowed over time. A round table lay on its side, one leg slightly bent from impact. Three chairs were scattered—two knocked over, one pushed back against the wall as if someone had risen quickly.

"Blood," Novak noted, pointing to three distinct streaks on the floor near the overturned table. They weren't large, but they told a story of violence. Rachel noticed how they formed an arc, suggesting someone had turned sharply, perhaps trying to escape. Or had been dragged out, already bleeding. She supposed this was what had the janitor in such a state.

The wall near the overturned table showed a fresh scuff mark about waist height. A struggle, then—someone pushed against the wall? She made a mental note to have forensics check for fiber transfers.

Rachel moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, taking in details. A coffee maker sat on the counter, half a pot of now-cold coffee still in the carafe. A ceramic mug lay shattered near the base of the cabinets, dark liquid having left a stain on the grout between tiles. The pattern of the coffee splatter suggested it had fallen from counter height.

"Temperature of the coffee might help establish timeline," she murmured, making a mental note to have forensics check it. She noticed a small notepad next to the coffee maker, its top page torn off hastily, leaving ragged edges. In the corner of the remaining page, she could make out the impression of numbers—possibly a phone number.

The break room's small window looked out onto the parking lot, now lit by security lights in the growing dusk. A corkboard hung nearby, covered in the usual office detritus—takeout menus, safety notices, a cartoon about coffee.

"Signs of a struggle, but controlled," Rachel observed, turning back to Jennings and Novak. "No wild destruction. The overturned table, the blood pattern—it suggests a brief fight, probably ended quickly. Our perpetrator likely used some kind of incapacitating agent.”

“Maybe something like they found in Smith,” Novak suggested.

Jennings nodded from behind them, his expression grim. "We've called forensics, they're en route. You want to see the rest?"

"Yes, but first—I noticed there was a single car in the lot, aside from the police cruisers," Rachel said.

"Yeah, I saw that, too,” Novak said. “I'll check the plates, see if it belongs to Harrison." Novak headed out, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

The sound of the building's heating system kicked on, startling Rachel slightly. She noticed Jennings tense as well—everyone was on edge, aware that they might be standing in the middle of an active crime scene.

Rachel followed Jennings to Harrison's office, noting how the carpet showed signs of recent vacuuming—parallel lines still visible in the pile. Among the lemon scent of the cleaning supplies, she could also smell the evidence of the recent renovation and construction that had been mentioned.

The office was larger than the break room, with a window that looked out onto a small, unremarkable strip of lawn. A desk of dark wood dominated the room, its surface organized with methodical precision. A laptop sat closed to one side, a legal pad beside it. Family photos lined one shelf—Harrison with what appeared to be his wife and two teenage children, all smiling on what looked like a beach vacation. The photos were arranged chronologically, Rachel noticed, showing the children growing up over the years. Among those pictures, there were several awards and diplomas. She took note of a single card, clearly drawn by a child, and it made the scene seem so much sadder.

The chair behind the desk was pushed back at an angle, as if its occupant had left in a hurry. A coffee cup sat on the desk, with just a small bit left behind.

"Has anyone touched anything in here?" Rachel asked Jennings.

"No, ma'am. Secured the scene as soon as we arrived." He stood in the doorway, his bulk filling the frame. "Rodriguez said he only looked in, didn't enter."

Rachel pulled on gloves and began a careful examination of the desk. The legal pad showed impression marks from previous writing. She angled it, letting the overhead light catch the indentations. Nothing immediately useful, but forensics might be able to recover the text. A stack of manila folders sat in a wire basket marked "URGENT." She carefully lifted the top one, noting the label: "Mitchell Estate." She made a mental note of this but did not see it as being immediately important.

The desk calendar showed several appointments crossed out, suggesting Harrison had been in the office most of the day. His cell phone sat beside his laptop. When she pressed the button on the side to wake it up, she saw another picture of James Harrison’s children.

In the corner of a separate sheet of paper, she found a handwritten note: "Tammy, re: $ or gift for Smith's family?" She photographed it carefully with her phone. Proof that Harrison had known about Smith's death—and perhaps had reason to be concerned he might be another target for their killer.

The sound of footsteps announced Novak's return. "Ran the plates," he said from the doorway. "The car out in the lot is indeed registered to James Harrison. He definitely left his vehicle here."

Rachel straightened, her mind already racing ahead to implications. "So we potentially have two victims now. We need to—"

"Agents?" Jennings interrupted from the doorway. "Forensics team just arrived.”

“Thanks,” Novak said, looking around the office. “Anything of note in here, Gift?”

“Just this,” she said, pointing to the note about the financial gift for Smith’s family. “It’s a connection between him and Smith.”

She moved to the window, looking out at the darkening city beyond the strip of lawn and feeder road that connected the parking lot to the highway. Somewhere out there, James Harrison might still be alive. And if their suspect was following the same pattern as with Smith, they had precious little time to find him. They could be injecting him right now with the same inexperience that could have very well killed Smith.

The city lights blurred slightly, and Rachel realized she'd been staring too long, her mind racing through possibilities. She could feel the familiar pressure building behind her eyes—the start of a headache she couldn't afford right now. She’s gotten them quite regularly as of late, but her doctors and specialists had assured her this would happen, that it was normal after the sort of ordeal her body had been through. The headaches were of no real concern unless they lasted beyond a day and did not respond to over-the-counter medicines. And so far, she’d experienced nothing like that.

"Novak," she said, turning back to her partner. "We need to find everything we can about Harrison’s connection to Judge Smith. If we can do it quickly, we may be able to save Harrison’s life."

“Back to the files, then?”

“Yes, but if we can manage to get an assist from someone who knew Harrison or Smith, I think we could narrow it down a bit now that we have two men who were clearly connected.”

As they prepared to leave the office to forensics, Rachel took one last look around. The perfectly organized desk. The family photos. And then the blood streaks back at the breakroom. It was all starting to form a dark and violent picture.