The Witness: A Jack Beckett Thriller

By D.G. Baxter

She was the wife of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. On a rainy night in June, two men broke into their six-bedroom Georgetown home inside a gated community. One of the men took her to a bedroom down the hall while the other man murdered her husband. The next day she walked out of protective custody after giving a taped interview. Jack Becket and Riley O'Connor must find her and keep her alive. Once the killers realize Julia Stewart was a witness to the horrific murder, it may be their best bet to find the men responsible. A fast-paced murder mystery with dozens of plot twists and a supporting cast of characters you'll love or hate, this is can't-stop-reading. Brace yourself for a shocking surprise ending in what some are calling the best Beckett yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. Baxter
• Release date: Apr 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215643914

Book preview

1

It was the summer of ’22. People were in a foul mood after more than two years of a pandemic where everything had been disrupted. Now a war had broken out in a place called Ukraine, although it wasn’t officially a war according to the Russians. Gas prices were headed north into uncharted territory, and inflation, a long-forgotten malady, had returned. To put a finer point on the doom, the stock market was officially in bear territory. It was as if people had asked themselves what more could go wrong and hoped the question would never be answered. Not to be outdone, June the wettest month in Washington, D.C., was determined not to miss the show. On the night of June 10, it rained as hard as Randall Burrows could recall. Randall was making his way through the wooded grounds of Georgetown North, an exclusive gated compound just north of Georgetown. Randall’s older brother, Dwayne, was not far away but Randall could barely see him in the downpour. It was two in the morning and the only sounds were the rain and the wind whipping through the trees. Randall wore a rain slicker, but that didn’t protect him from the torrent of rain pummeling his face, legs and feet.

Hell of a night for a murder, Randall thought. His brother Dwayne had roped him into this mess, and Randall was none too happy about it. It was true, Randall and Dwayne were broke, and Dwayne had people chasing him for money. Dwayne was behind on his alimony payments, and he was sure his ex would turn him in any day. Randall didn’t have an ex-wife, but he was the one who paid the rent, and he was now officially a month behind. It was one thing to be small-time criminals, which they were, and quite another to be murderers. Randall had never killed anyone, and he didn’t know if he was up to it, to be honest. But he was inching closer with each step. Randall tried not to think about killing someone. The driving rain helped. The last gust of wind chilled him to the bone. If he thought about how miserable he was, he could push away other thoughts.

Randall and Dwayne were 30 yards from the main driveway that wandered through the compound of expensive townhomes. They stayed in the trees, close to the road but hidden from anyone who might be looking out a window. Step by step, they moved closer to the target, the home belonging to Bentley Stewart, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. They were told it was a large house, over 6,000 square feet including six bedrooms and five baths. The house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, making it isolated from its neighbors. The brothers had the street name and number, but Randall figured that would be useless thanks to the heavy rain and moonless night.

The roadway was to their left as they made their way through the trees, and it was lit by streetlamps whose light seeped into the dark woods. The light didn’t help Dwayne, who managed to trip over a fallen branch, letting out a cry of pain.

Damn it, he yelled.

Randall came to a stop and looked in the direction of his brother’s voice. He quickly walked that way, being careful as the ground below him was uneven. When he reached his brother, Dwayne had pulled himself up and was favoring one leg as he bounced up and down, testing a tender ankle.

What happened? Randall asked.

I didn’t see that damn log and it caught my ankle. Hurts like hell.

Can you go on?

I think so. Testing it right now. Give me a minute.

Randall knew his brother was brutally honest. What he was thinking came straight out of his mouth, unlike most politicians in this town. Randall had done some quick research. Chief Justice Bentley Stewart had been on the court since the end of the Reagan era and was thought to be conservative, but he occasionally took moderate positions. Lately he had voted with the liberals on the court, no doubt something that sealed his fate; at least that is what Randall assumed. The people paying Randall and Dwayne had not gone into detail exactly why they wanted Stewart dead, only that it needed to be done. Randall was now at a crossroads as he watched his brother test his ankle. Soon there would be no turning back. Either he ran, or he stayed and finished the job. In for a penny, in for a pound, Randall thought. He wasn’t a quitter, nor was he a killer. Although he soon would be the latter.

Dwayne had come to him a week ago with the idea to kill Stewart. He laid out the details how it would go down, and he made it sound reasonably easy. Break into the gated community by using a rope ladder, make their way to Bentley’s house under the cover of darkness, disable the security system, find the bedroom where Stewart slept, and then cut his throat. They would then escape using the same rope ladder, this time over the back wall, which was behind Stewart’s mansion. They would leave a second car behind the back wall and make a clean getaway well ahead of any response by law enforcement. A quick, easy way to make $2,000,000, hard, cold cash, Dwayne had said with a smirk.

Dwayne assured him they would never be caught. But what did they say about plans? The best laid plans of mice or something like that, Randall thought as he mulled over his brother’s cocky assurances. Randall was nervous and had been since they scaled the wall. Was this accident the start of things going badly? Dwayne had been quiet as he worked his ankle, testing it by putting all his weight on it in spurts.

Finally, Dwayne uttered a few words, I’m good to go, bro. Let’s get on with it.

Are you sure, Dwayne? We’re not on a schedule.

Let’s do it, he said. I don’t want to spend any more time inside these walls than necessary. This place creeps me out.

Lead the way, Randall said. Maybe the thought of killing was creeping out Dwayne, Randall thought, but he needed his brother more than ever. No way Randall could kill someone on his own. Dwayne, on the other hand, could. His brother was aggressive, more willing to do something like cold-blooded murder. Randall had a sharp mind, but Dwayne had the psyche of a killer. The brothers were different, so much so that it seemed unlikely they shared the same gene pool. But they did according to their mother, now deceased, God bless her soul.

Jack Beckett and Riley O’Connor had just landed at Reagan National. They had flown to DC for personal reasons, not business. They were in DC for the memorial service of O’Connor’s good friend, Agent Charlie Cooper. Cooper had died a year ago working a case that O’Connor eventually got involved with. She and Beckett solved the case of high-level money laundering by Russians who were attempting to buy influence to get a Russian oligarch out of serious trouble with the Justice Department.

The fallout of that case was such that Charlie’s friends and fellow agents were just now getting around to holding the memorial. Most everyone attending the service was local. Only Beckett and O’Connor were from the west coast. Their plane landed at 1:45 am. By the time they picked up luggage from baggage claim, it was 2:10 am, the same time that Dwayne tripped over the log in Georgetown.

Beckett had a shoulder bag, and O’Connor had a roller bag. Beckett easily pulled O’Connor’s bag as he made his way to the cab queue with O’Connor close by. Their reservations were at the Hyatt, the same place they stayed the last time they were in town. The hotel’s restaurant would be closed, the same as nearby restaurants. This wasn’t New York; it was DC. But Beckett had prepared in case he was starving after a long flight. He had picked up cold deli sandwiches at the San Francisco terminal and stuck them in his bag. Both his room and O’Connor’s room had beer and wine available in the minibar, and that’s all they needed for a private dining experience.

Although they had slept together the last time in DC, it hadn’t happened since. Beckett wasn’t quite ready for a serious relationship. He respected O’Connor and didn’t want to get close and then pull away, which he feared could happen. That might end their relationship. What they had going was special and he didn’t want to risk it by jumping into the uncharted waters of a romantic relationship.

O’Connor didn’t push it either, so it was easy for him to assume she had similar feelings. Either one could up the ante anytime, which made it more exciting, not less with the sexual tension between them always close by. Perhaps it was a case that things were working quite well, so why screw it up? And neither one had anything remotely close to a boyfriend or girlfriend, which made their unconventional relationship uncomplicated.

The truth, of course, was more complex, but this is how they rolled for the time being. They cared deeply about each other, but realized life was fragile and could change on a dime. One or the other could take a bullet and it would be over. Maybe that would never happen. Both secretly hoped for that, but both were secretly prepared in case it did. Danger was baked into almost everything they did together.

Tonight, they enjoyed cold turkey deli sandwiches and a bottle of wine, said goodnight after a quiet dinner in O’Connor’s room, then went straight to bed. Tomorrow afternoon promised to be time set aside with old friends and honoring the life of a man O’Connor knew as a very special friend.

Little did they know that was about to change.

2

The 911 call came in at 3:17 am from a hysterical woman saying her husband had been murdered. After the 911 operator managed to calm the woman down, she got an address and a name, Mrs. Bentley Stewart. That name seemed familiar. The woman, who was still near hysteria, eventually volunteered that her husband was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. No wonder Bentley Stewart seemed familiar.

The operator, Victoria Brown, was skilled at handling this type of call. She promised to stay on the line with Mrs. Stewart until help arrived. She asked her to turn on lights that would illuminate the house number, but first she asked Mrs. Stewart if she was alone and not in any danger.

I think they have left, Mrs. Stewart said as she sobbed.

They, as in the people who killed your husband?

Yes, two men. They were dressed in black and had their faces covered, and they woke Bentley and me in our bed. It was horrible. I was terrified. Bentley tried to talk with them, but they hit him on the head with their gun. Then they grabbed me and took me down the hall.

Victoria Brown realized telling the story was helping Mrs. Stewart regain some composure. She managed to call in the suspected homicide on another line while Mrs. Stewart talked.

How far are you from your front door, Mrs. Stewart?

It’s downstairs and I’m upstairs in a spare bedroom. I had to leave our bedroom after I found Bentley covered in blood. Oh God, it was everywhere. I’m sure he’s dead. His eyes are staring at the ceiling. I think I shook his arm, but he didn’t respond, just stared at the ceiling. She began to sob again.

Mrs. Stewart, I need you to help me. Make sure your front door is unlocked and lights are on inside your entranceway. I’ll advise the men coming to your home what to expect. Stay away from the door but stand where they can see you. You should hear the sirens any minute now.

Ok, I’ll do that now.

Victoria Brown then advised the police dispatcher what to expect. She got back on the line with Mrs. Stewart and told her help would be arriving in minutes.

Keep your hands where they can be seen, the 911 operator said. You are in an active crime scene until the responding units can clear all rooms. I have advised you will be in the living room.

Julia Stewart said nothing, but she continued to cry. Victoria Brown decided to keep her mind occupied.

What happened when the two men took you out of your bedroom?

They put me in one of the spare bedrooms, tied my hands and gagged me. They told me I would not be hurt if I stayed in the room until they left.

You’re lucky, Mrs. Stewart. How did you free yourself, and how did you know the men had left?

I heard the back door open and close. Easy to do when you are awake, although we did not hear the men enter the house. One of them tied my hands in front of me and I was able to loosen the knot with my teeth.

Victoria Brown tried to visualize that. It wasn’t hard.

So, you got free and decided to check on your husband?

That’s right. I was worried about him. I didn’t hear a gunshot, although one man had a gun. I was hoping he was ok.

Victoria Brown didn’t get to ask another question. She heard the first unit to arrive come through the front door.

Keep your hands where we can see them, a male voice announced as he entered the house. Victoria Brown knew he would have his weapon drawn. Standard procedure until all occupants are identified. Soon five additional police units would arrive. They would search the large house top to bottom and make sure no one was hiding. More than likely, the first officer would stay with Mrs. Stewart and verify her identity. No facts were known, so technically she was a suspect, although she would not be told that.

Within a short time, every top official in the DC police department would