The judge sat in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk in the den of his too-big house, staring into the glass of whiskey he held just below eye level, as if he expected the Bushmills 44 Year Old single malt to impart upon him the wisdom of the ages.
He knew it wouldn’t.
Whiskey had never solved any problems for The Honorable Daniel G. Webster, unless you consider his wife’s dumping him to be a solution. He chuckled at the thought. Hmmmm…
He brought the glass closer, sniffed the whiskey inside.
The bottle was a gift from a “friend” — a friend who expected a favor in return, a favor that, under ordinary circumstances, Judge Webster would have been happy to accommodate.
But the dead body slumped in the guest chair across the room told the judge that these circumstances were far from ordinary.
He picked up his phone.