Page 3 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The late morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawns of Oak Ridge Estates as Novak guided their Bureau-issued SUV through the wrought iron gates. The homes here weren't just houses—they were statements, declarations of success carved in stone and timber. Each property seemed to compete with its neighbors through meticulously maintained topiaries, cascading fountains, and driveways that curved gracefully toward multi-car garages. Though Christmas was just fifteen days away, few of these luxurious homes had elected to marry their exteriors with decorations—though few had put up lights that sparkled dully, just glass with no flicker as it was a bright, clear day.

It was the sort of neighborhood that spoke of old money and newer aspirations. Stone lions guarded one driveway, while classical statues posed in the reflecting pool of another. The lawns stretched for acres, dotted with ornamental trees that had likely been growing since before Rachel was born.

"Nice neighborhood," Novak remarked, his eyes tracking a gardener trimming hedges into perfect geometric shapes. "Guess being a judge pays well."

The road wound past a small ornamental lake, its surface flat in the early December chill. A family of geese glided across the water, seemingly oblivious to the human drama unfolding in their carefully curated paradise. Rachel's attention was fixed on the solitary police cruiser parked ahead at the Smith residence, its presence oddly subdued against the backdrop of such opulence.

As they rounded the final curve in the road, the entirety of Judge Marcus Smith's residence came into view: a sprawling Georgian colonial, its red brick facade softened by white trim and black shutters. Four tall columns framed the entrance, supporting a second-floor balcony that stretched across the front of the house. Japanese maples, their leaves a brilliant crimson, flanked the curved stone steps leading to the front door. A three-car garage stood to the side, connected to the main house by a covered breezeway. Despite the large garage, a single BMW sat parked on the concrete driveway.

"One police unit," Rachel noted, pulling up beside the cruiser. "Either this is being kept very quiet, or something's off." She studied the scene through the windshield, her years of experience already cataloging the details. "No crime scene unit, no medical examiner's vehicle. Just one patrol car for a dead federal judge."

“The police did say they wanted to keep it quiet,” Novak commented. “It’s probably why they called the bureau for a singular murder.”

“Might not be murder,” she said. “Could be suicide for all we know…found in his car, in front of his house.”

The BMW sat in the circular portion of the driveway, its metallic gray paint gleaming in the sunlight. At first glance, it could have been a scene from any ordinary day—a judge returning home from court, perhaps pausing to check his phone before heading inside. But Rachel knew better. Death had a way of making even the most normal scenes feel wrong, like a painting hung slightly off-center.

A heavyset officer emerged from the front door of the house, his movements deliberate as he made his way down the steps. His badge identified him as Officer Douglas, though his weathered face and graying hair suggested he'd worn it long enough to earn the informal title of "veteran." His uniform was pristine, every crease sharp enough to cut paper—the kind of officer who took pride in appearances.

"Agent Gift? Agent Novak?" He extended his hand, his grip firm but not challenging. "Thanks for coming out. Body's just as we found it—haven't touched a thing. Not in the car or inside. Had to talk the responding officers into backing off until you arrived."

Rachel retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the glove compartment of their car as Douglas shared this information. The subtle snap of rubber against skin seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet neighborhood.

"Who found him?" Rachel asked.

"His wife," Douglas replied, his voice softening. "She's at St. Mary's now. Doctor's got her sedated. She was in a weird state of shock…which makes sense, I guess. She found him like this after reporting him missing two days ago—it hit her pretty hard. Can't blame her. Coming out to check the mail and then all of a sudden finding him…dead and in his car. He shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“But another car of his was found at the parking garage near his courthouse, right?” Novak asked. “That’s what I was told.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Rachel approached the BMW, studying the scene before touching anything. The judge sat in the driver's seat, his head tilted slightly back against the headrest. If not for the unnatural stillness, he might have been taking a quick nap between appointments. His button-down shirt showed no signs of struggle. His silver hair was perfectly combed, his clean-shaven face relaxed, almost peaceful. There was a sport coat in the passenger seat, discarded in a crumpled ball.

"No signs of struggle," Novak observed, circling to the passenger side. His trained eye moved methodically over every surface. "Windows intact, paint unscratched. No scuff marks on the door handles or locks.”

“Maybe someone forced him inside,” Rachel offered. “Though, if that’s the case, they were careful about it."

"Too careful," Novak murmured.

Rachel opened the driver's door carefully, the familiar new-car smell mixing with something else—something subtle but wrong. Not decay, not yet, but the first whispers of death that only experienced investigators learned to recognize. She reached for the judge's pants pocket, finding his wallet, phone, and keys…exactly where Novak had said they'd be when he’d originally relayed the scant case details.

"Body temperature suggests less than twenty-four hours," she said, her gloved hands moving methodically over the judge's neck. She then continued a search of his clothing, checking for any signs of violence or resistance. The expensive suit was pristine, every button in place, every fold exactly where it should be. "No obvious signs of trauma, no defensive wounds on his hands."

Then she noticed it—a mark on his left wrist, barely visible beneath his shirt cuff. Gently pushing back the fabric, she revealed a pale band of skin, wider than what a watch would leave. The impression was fresh, suggesting whatever had made it had been removed recently.

"Novak, take a look at this."

Her partner leaned in through the passenger door, his flashlight illuminating the mark. "Looks like where someone might wear a watch over a long period of time, right?”

“Maybe,” Rachel said. But her mind had skipped over the impression of a watch and was thinking instead about restraints.

"Nah, not a watch,” Novak said. “Why leave his wallet and this expensive car, but take his watch? But why remove it just to leave him here? And why go through all this trouble just to stage a scene that looks like... nothing?"

“All good questions,” Rachel said as she took a step back. She sat back on her heels, studying the interior. "Everything's too perfect. No scratches on the steering wheel from his rings, no scuff marks on the pedals from his shoes. This car's been detailed recently."

They spent the next hour going over every inch of the vehicle. Rachel documented the precise position of every item in the center console, every receipt in the cup holders. She photographed the odometer reading, checked the gas gauge, even measured the tire pressure. In the trunk, she found the expected emergency kit, spare tire, and jack—all spotless, all perfectly arranged.

Novak worked with equal thoroughness on the exterior, photographing the vehicle from multiple angles, paying special attention to the tires and undercarriage. He collected trace evidence from the wheel wells and took samples from the exhaust pipe. But with each passing minute, the same pattern emerged: nothing was out of place, nothing was missing, and nothing provided any hint of what had happened to Judge Marcus Smith.

The house loomed behind them, its windows like dark eyes watching their futile investigation. The perfectly maintained flower beds and precisely trimmed shrubs seemed to mock them with their orderliness, as if nature itself was conspiring to hide whatever violence had occurred here. Even the air felt sterile, sanitized of any clues that might have helped them understand the Marcus Smith’s final moments.

"No obvious signs of medical intervention," Rachel said finally, straightening up from her examination. Her back protested the movement—she'd been crouched over the body longer than she'd realized. "If this was suicide, he had help. Professional help. Someone who knew what they were doing."

Novak nodded, snapping one final photograph. "The wife might be able to fill in some blanks. If she's up for talking." He paused, looking back at the house. "Should we process the garage? Maybe the house?"

Rachel considered it, but something told her they wouldn't find anything there either. Whoever had done this was too methodical, too careful. She looked back over to officer Douglas and said, “Anything worth seeing in the house?”

“Not unless you want to feel broke and inadequate,” he said with a humorless laugh. He then shook his head and said, “Clean as a whistle. Nothing.”

Rachel peeled off her gloves, watching as a slight breeze stirred the Japanese maples, sending a shower of red leaves across the driveway. Something about this scene felt familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

"Officer Douglas," she called out. The older cop looked up from his phone where he was typing up notes. "Make sure the ME and coroner know to contact us immediately if they find anything unusual. Anything at all. Even if it seems insignificant."

"Will do, Agent Gift. I'll personally make sure they understand the priority level here."

As they walked back to their vehicle, Rachel cast one last look at the BMW. Judge Smith sat there still, forever frozen in what appeared to be a moment of perfect normalcy. But Rachel had learned long ago that normalcy was often the most carefully crafted lie of all. Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to make this death look unremarkable, and that in itself was remarkable.

Novak got behind the wheel with a perplexed look on his face. “It feels weird, right?”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“St, Mary’s Hospital?” Novak asked.

"Seems like the next logical step," she said as he pulled away from the curb. "Hopefully Mrs. Smith can help us answer a few questions.”

The sedan wound its way back through Oak Ridge Estates, past more pristine lawns and magnificent homes. But Rachel barely noticed them now. Her mind was already racing ahead, trying to piece together the puzzle of a man who seemed to have died without cause in a car that showed no signs of how he got there.