Cold Judgment by Joanne Fluke

going full blast.
    Three miles to go. Jerry turned from the window and started to jog again. If he stuck to his schedule, he’d be at the spa by seven-fifteen. He’d play a quick game of racquetball, relax in the Jacuzzi, and shower and change before he headed for home. By the time he got there, Betsy would be sleeping.
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    Dr. Elias put down the phone and sighed. It had taken an hour of his time, switching from one airline official to another, spending long minutes on hold listening to insipid recorded music, but he had finally gotten the confirmation he needed. Betsy had come in on the eight o’clock flight last night from California.
    The pain was worse tonight, but he could not afford an injection. He had to be alert. Jerry had not called his new therapist. Time was running out. Betsy’s presence would surely precipitate a crisis, and the situation was volatile.
    Dr. Elias picked up his prized possession, the meerschaum that had belonged to his father, and held it carefully in his hand. He remembered when it was new and white. Now the intricately carved bowl, a likeness of Hippocrates, was a rich, deep mahogany. It was his legacy, his only link with his father.
    â€œWhat would you do, sir?” Dr. Elias said aloud as he looked down intently at the meerschaum. A casual observer might think he was waiting for the pipe to speak in the words of his brilliant father, but Dr. Elias would have chuckled at such a preposterous idea. His father had been dead for years. The dead could not give advice to the living. Only in memory could Dr. Elias revive the words of experience and wisdom his father had spoken. And only in imagination could he postulate what his father would tell him today.
    â€œMy oath, sir. Is it necessary to break it?”
    Long moments passed, moments of doubt and dread. Pain twisted the corners of Dr. Elias’s mouth as he nodded at last, a short decisive dip of his silver-haired head. He opened the leather case and put the pipe inside, closing it reverently. He would smoke it later, as he did every night, when his duty was done.
    The clock on the mantel chimed half past six as Dr. Elias rose from his desk. Jerry was a compulsive jogger, never varying his pattern. At precisely seven he would jog through the bridge connecting Dayton’s department store with Dr. Elias’s building.
    It took only a moment to load the gun, a small twenty-five-caliber automatic. It fit neatly in his topcoat pocket. He had purchased it when the security staff had cut their hours, and it had been stored in the drawer of his desk for three years. It had never been needed before.
    Dr. Elias locked the door to his suite and took the elevator down to the connecting bridge on the second floor. The building was deserted. Office personnel had gone home for the night and the cleaning crews had not yet arrived. The switch was just inside the entrance to the bridge, and he reached up to turn off the bright fluorescent lights. Then he walked slowly to the center of the corridor to wait.
    The bridge spanned Nicollet Avenue. Since the mall had been opened, the street was closed to all traffic except buses and taxis. Dr. Elias leaned up against the cold windowpane and watched the street below. Snow pelted against the glass as the wind picked up outside. Most people had heeded the storm warnings and gone straight home. An occasional pedestrian hurried by, bundled up warmly against the cold, but it was impossible for anyone at street level to see inside.
    All was quiet and dark inside the glass-enclosed skyway. Dr. Elias stood motionless. It was almost time. His fingers tightened around the gun in his pocket as he heard footsteps approach. Jerry was coming, right on schedule.

    The lights were out. Jerry stopped suddenly at the entrance to the Nicollet bridge. He reached up to feel for the switch, but nothing marred the surface of the bare wall. It was on the other side.
    His heart was racing and it was not from