Page 4 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The automatic doors of Metropolitan General Hospital slid open with a whisper, releasing a blast of air that carried the familiar blend of antiseptic and industrial cleaner. Rachel paused for a moment in the entrance, letting the sensation wash over her—to allow her body to take it in and then simply shed it off. She'd spent enough time in hospitals—both as an agent and as a patient—to recognize the particular cocktail of scents they used to mask the underlying hints of illness and mortality. It never quite worked; beneath the chemical clean, there was always something else, something human and vulnerable.

The lobby stretched before them, a study in institutional beige and muted blue. Early afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, creating patterns on the polished floor that somehow made the space feel both larger and more confined. A group of elderly visitors huddled near a coffee cart, their whispered conversations creating a soft backdrop to the steady beep of distant monitors and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum.

Rachel approached the front desk, Novak falling into step beside her. The receptionist looked up from her computer screen to greet them. Her name tag read "Marion."

"We're looking for Dana Smith," Rachel said, keeping her voice low and presenting her badge and ID as discreetly as she could. Even after all her time spent in hospitals—or perhaps because of it—she still felt the instinctive need to whisper in these spaces. "She was brought in earlier due to shock. Could you tell us where she's been taken?"

Marion's fingers moved across her keyboard with practiced efficiency. The sound of her acrylic nails against the keys seemed unnaturally loud in the hushed atmosphere. "Mrs. Smith is in a private observation room on the second floor. Room 214."

Rachel nodded her thanks, and she and Novak made their way toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby.

As they walked, their footsteps echoed off the polished floors, joining the symphony of mechanical sounds that formed the hospital's constant background noise. A cleaning cart stood abandoned near a water fountain, its collection of supplies suggesting interrupted work. On the wall, a large piece of generic artwork depicted a peaceful beach scene that somehow managed to look more depressing than soothing. During her time in hospitals, she’d come to despise the muted, false cheer of such pictures, placed in far too many hospitals worldwide. Hey, you’re sick or dying, they seemed to say. Check out this scenery you may never get to see again!

"Something's not adding up," Novak said as they waited for the elevator. He kept his voice low, though they were alone in the alcove. "A judge doesn't just vanish before turning up dead. If it was suicide—"

"It wasn't," Rachel cut in, perhaps more sharply than she'd intended. The elevator arrived with a soft ding, its doors opening to reveal an empty car that smelled faintly of ammonia. "Suicide victims don't typically disappear first. And if they do, they don’t come back home to get revenge, you know? This feels... deliberate."

The thought sent her mind drifting to Cody Austin again. His methodical nature, his attention to detail, the way he'd always managed to stay just beyond her reach. She could almost see him planning something like this, taking satisfaction in the fear and confusion he'd create. She pushed the thought away with an effort. This wasn't about him. Not everything could be about him, no matter how much her instincts tried to make the connection.

The elevator hummed as it carried them to the second floor, the sound making Rachel's teeth ache slightly. Or maybe that was just tension. She realized she was clenching her jaw and made a conscious effort to relax it.

The second floor was quieter than the lobby, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the empty hallway. A bulletin board near the elevator displayed various health awareness posters and employee notices, their corners curling slightly with age. The air here felt heavier somehow.

They followed the signs toward the observation rooms, their footsteps muffled by industrial carpet that had seen better days. A nurse hurried past them, head down, focused on a tablet in her hands. Through partially open doors, Rachel caught glimpses of life and death being held in precarious balance: monitors blinking steadily, IV bags swaying slightly, television screens flickering with barely audible voices coming from them.

Before they could reach Room 214, a nurse stepped into their path with the fluid efficiency of someone used to intercepting unwanted visitors. She was young, probably in her early thirties, with dark circles under her eyes and hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. She positioned herself between them and the door, her body language professional but unmistakably protective.

"I'm sorry," she said, her expression genuinely apologetic despite the firmness in her tone. "Mrs. Smith isn't allowed visitors at the moment. She's in a catatonic state, and we're monitoring her for cardiac issues." Her eyes moved between them, assessing. "Are you family?"

Rachel reached for her credentials, the motion so practiced it was almost unconscious. "FBI," she said, showing her badge. "Special Agent Rachel Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak. We're investigating her husband’s death."

The nurse's posture stiffened slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Rachel caught it. After years of interviewing witnesses and suspects, she'd learned to read these tiny tales. "We've been instructed to direct all law enforcement inquiries to Judge Smith's judicial assistant," the nurse said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded yellow sticky note, the creases suggesting it had been folded and unfolded several times already. "Here's the contact information."

Rachel took a photo of the note with her phone, studying the neat handwriting. Despite the contact information, this felt like the first dead end. She highly respected a grieving wife’s privacy and emotional health, but she also knew, from an agent’s perspective, that they were about to walk away from their best source of potential information.

"Thank you for your time," she said to the nurse, who was already moving to check on another patient, her shoes squeaking slightly against the floor. She quickly nodded to them with an almost apologetic frown on her face.

“You think this assistant is worth speaking to?” Novak asked.

“Better than nothing, I guess.”

Novak shrugged and pressed the DOWN button as they once again came to the elevators. Rachel again allowed herself a moment to despise the place before shrugging it off and re-centering her mind on the case.

***

The address from the sticky note led them to an imposing four-story building in one of the city's more affluent neighborhoods. The structure was all clean lines and tinted windows, trying too hard to look important without the gravitas of an actual courthouse. Standing on the sidewalk, Rachel studied its facade. Everything about it spoke of careful curation: the manicured shrubs flanking the entrance, the gleaming brass handles on the heavy glass doors, even the way the afternoon sun reflected off the windows at just the right angle to suggest importance.

Inside, the lobby featured expensive-looking abstract art that somehow managed to say nothing at all, and a security desk staffed by a guard who barely glanced at their badges before waving them through. His indifference suggested either excellent training or complete apathy; Rachel wasn't sure which was more likely.

They took the stairs to the third floor, the sticky note having stated that the assistant kept his office in Room 303. As soon as they pushed through the fire door at the third floor, they encountered barely contained chaos. A man stood in the hallway, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, arms full of folders that threatened to spill their contents across the floor at any moment. His tie was loosened, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. He somehow managed to look angry and out of his element at the same time.

"No, no, you don't understand," he was saying into the phone, his voice strained. "These need to be processed by next Tuesday. If not, we—" He caught sight of Rachel and Novak, his eyes dropping to Novak's badge and ID as he flashed them. "Listen, I have to go,” the hectic-looking man said. “No, right now. Yes, now." He ended the call mid-protest from whoever was on the other end, not even bothering with a goodbye. Rachel wasn’t even sure the call was actually over, as he’d simply straightened his head from his neck, the phone dropping to the top of the stack of folders he was carrying.

"Thank God," he said, shifting the weight of the folders. A few papers escaped despite his efforts, drifting to the floor like autumn leaves. "I've been waiting on law enforcement... though I wasn't expecting the FBI. Follow me, would you?"

Rachel and Novak shared a curious glance as the man turned and started walking in the other direction. Rachel picked up the fallen papers as they did so. The man led them down the hallway, introducing himself as Bob Pleskin between labored breaths.

"Ever since news of Judge Smith's death broke two hours ago, it's been absolute madness,” Pleskin said. “All these cases need to be redistributed, and some of them are time-sensitive, and nobody seems to understand that the justice system doesn't just stop because—" He broke off as one of the folders started to slip. Rachel caught it before it could fall, the manila material rough against her fingers.

Pleskin shot her a grateful look as he deposited his burden onto a desk that was already overflowing with papers. The office they'd entered was clearly in transition, with boxes stacked in corners and post-it notes everywhere, creating a colorful constellation of reminders and deadlines. A half-empty coffee cup sat forgotten on a windowsill, a lipstick stain on its rim suggesting it belonged to someone else. The room smelled of paper and toner and the particular brand of desperation that came with trying to maintain order in the face of chaos.

“We just need a few moments to ask about Judge Smith,” Novak said.

"What do you need to know?" Pleskin asked, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He remained standing, his body language suggesting he was ready to bolt for the next crisis at any moment.

"What kind of man was Judge Smith?" Rachel asked, deliberately keeping her tone casual. "Both personally and professionally?"

Pleskin considered this, absently straightening one of the stacks of folders. His hands seemed unable to stay still, constantly organizing, arranging, as if he could create order through sheer repetitive motion. "He was... precise. Some people called him rigid, but that wasn't quite right. He believed in the letter of the law. Believed in it absolutely. Which some saw as honorable while others…well, not so much."

"Meaning he wasn't interested in making exceptions?" Rachel pressed.

"He used to say that exceptions were how justice became a privilege. That if you bent the rules for one person, you had to bend them for everyone, and then they weren't rules anymore." Pleskin's hands kept moving as he talked, organizing, straightening, as if he couldn't bear to be still. A paper clip skittered off the desk and landed with a tiny ping on the floor. Neither of them moved to pick it up. "But he wasn't cruel about it. He'd explain his reasoning to people, make sure they understood why he ruled the way he did. Sometimes they'd leave his courtroom angry, but they always knew exactly why he'd ruled the way he had."

The way he rattled all of this off made Rachel think that Bob Pleskin had greatly cared for Judge Smith. But in the craziness of work that had occurred after the new of his death had come through the building, he was choosing to focus on work rather that grief. She wondered how much longer it would be before he escaped to the men’s room to have good, long cry.

"Did that approach earn him any enemies?" Rachel watched Pleskin's face carefully. "Any high-profile cases that might have made someone angry enough to want revenge?"

Pleskin shook his head, the motion slightly too quick to be entirely convincing. "I’ve been wondering that exact same thing. But there’s nothing…nothing major, anyway. We'd get the occasional angry phone call or letter, usually over traffic violations or minor civil disputes. There was one case involving a restraining order against an abusive uncle that got a bit heated, but even that..." He trailed off, distracted by a paper that had slipped to the floor. This time he did bend to retrieve it, using the motion to break eye contact.

"Can you tell us more about—" Rachel started, but her phone interrupted with a sharp ring. The screen showed the saved number of the coroner's office.

"Wow, that was fast," she said. "I'm sorry. Excuse me, Mr. Pleskin."

“Of course.”

She answered the call with a bit of hope in her voice. “You’ve got something already?”

"Well, some of these findings didn't take much searching," came the response, something in the tone making Rachel's stomach tighten. “Yes, we have a few preliminary findings. I can give them to you over the phone, but you may want to see this for yourself.”

“Understood. Give us twenty minutes.”

She ended the call and turned to Pleskin, also eyeing Novak at the same time. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Pleskin. We'll be in touch if we have any other questions."

“Please do. I’m happy to help however I can.”

As they left the office, Rachel could hear Pleskin already on another call, his voice rising with barely contained frustration as he tried to explain something about filing deadlines to someone who clearly wasn't grasping the urgency. The sound followed them down the hallway, a soundtrack to the controlled collapse of one man's ordered world.

“That was the coroner,” Rachel said.

“What did they find?”

“I don’t know. He said it’s something we probably need to see for ourselves.”

“That sounds…ominous,” Novak said.

Rachel nodded, her mind already racing ahead to what they might learn. They descended the stairs in silence, and Rachel could feel the case starting to take shape. For most cases, she could usually tell when things were going to truly start escalating…and she felt a bit of that as they reached the lobby, passing by the lackadaisical security guard again.

But she also knew that the escalation of a case didn’t necessarily mean things would go their way. In fact, more often than not, the opposite tended to be true. And unless they started hunting down some real answers, the case could easily get away from them.