Everything that fol owed appeared to happen in slow motion for Simone. She remembered taking off her sweatshirt and pressing it to her neighbor’s chest at the same time she fumbled in her pocket for her cel .
Don’t panic! Get it together, she told herself over and over. “Judge Fischer.” The wounded man’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. She applied more pressure, dropping her phone and using both hands while attempting to stem the spreading red stain across the jacket of his white tracksuit.
“What happened?”
She glanced up to see two joggers standing over her.
“Someone stabbed Judge Mitchel Fischer. Please cal 911
and let them know whoever attacked him ran off into the woods.”
One of the joggers took out his own cel phone and gave the 911 operator their location while the other took over for Simone, administering first aid. Within minutes, the wail of sirens, the distinctive whir of the blades of a helicopter and the cacophony of voices disturbed the quiet of the morning as curious spectators crowded around the crime scene, shocked and appal ed that someone had attempted to murder one of their most respected residents.
U.S. Deputy Marshal Raphael Madison maneuvered the government-registered SUV into the driveway of the address he’d programmed into the vehicle’s GPS. He’d left his Poughkeepsie condo within minutes of receiving an
“urgent” cal from his supervisor. Racing against time, he took a taxi to the Dutchess County Airport. Passengers on the smal commuter plane glared at him, after the announcement that the carrier was being delayed pending his arrival. It seemed as if the plane had just taken off before it touched down at the Westchester County, where he’d been briefed on Judge Fischer’s attack and eyewitness Simone Whitfield and picked up the vehicle.
Opening the hatch, Rafe got out and retrieved two carry-ons and a garment bag. Shifting slightly, his gaze swept over the surrounding landscape. Simone Whitfield’s house was built on a hil with breathtaking views of the Hudson River, Westchester County and northern New Jersey.
His last three assignments had been in hotels with adjoining suites where he’d ordered room service and spent countless hours watching television with witnesses he was assigned to protect. Closing the SUV hatch, he climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbel . A stake on the front lawn and decals on several windows verified that the property was monitored by a security company.
The door opened and he came face-to-face with someone from his past. “Wel , I’l be damned.”
U.S. Deputy Marshal Keven Robbins flashed a wide grin. “Rafe Madison! How the hel are you?” He and Raphael Madison had joined the Marshals Service at the same time.
Dropping his luggage, Rafe shook the other man’s hand, while slapping his back. “I thought you were with Prisoner Services.” Marshals assigned to Prisoner Services assumed custody of those who were arrested by al federal agencies and were responsible for the housing and transportation of prisoners from the time they were brought into custody until they were either acquitted or imprisoned.
“I was, but transferred over to OCS three months ago.
Court security is very different from babysitting prisoners.”
“But not much different from babysitting witnesses.
Speaking of witnesses, where’s Miss Whitfield?”
“Come on in. She’s upstairs.”
“Please let her know that I’m here.”
Rafe retrieved his bags while Keven climbed the stairs to the second floor. Walking into the spacious entryway, Rafe set his luggage down under a table with a vase fil ed with a profusion of white and pink flowers that resembled roses. The table was crowded with white candles of different sizes. The seat of a delicate-looking straight-back chair in a corner was covered with a cushion in red and white striped ticking. He preferred more contemporary furnishings, but had to admit that the space was charming and inviting.
Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Rafe turned, al of his senses on ful alert, and stared at the woman whom he’d been assigned to protect until the conclusion of the trial of Ian Benton. Judge Mitchel Fischer’s attacker had been captured a short distance from the crime scene by a SWAT team after search dogs found him hiding in a copse of trees. Temporarily blinded by pepper spray, he’d been unable to make it back to where he’d parked his car, which had been reported stolen two days before.
During Rafe’s briefing, he’d learned that Simone Ina Whitfield was in her early thirties, but the petite woman with a dusky gold-brown complexion, large, haunting, hazel eyes and a mop of damp, loose, reddish curls appeared closer to twenty-three than thirty-three.