Fire and Flint Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  More from Andrew Grey

  Readers love Andrew Grey

  About the Author

  By Andrew Grey

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Fire and Flint

  By Andrew Grey

  Jordan Erichsohn suspects something is rotten about his boss, Judge Crawford. Unfortunately he has nowhere to turn and doubts anyone will believe his claims—least of all the handsome deputy, Pierre Ravelle, who has been assigned to protect the judge after he received threatening letters. The judge has a long reach, and if he finds out Jordan’s turned on him, he might impede Jordan adopting his son, Jeremiah.

  When Jordan can no longer stay silent, he gathers his courage and tells Pierre what he knows. To his surprise and relief, Pierre believes him, and Jordan finds an ally… and maybe more. Pierre vows to do what it takes to protect Jordan and Jeremiah and see justice done. He’s willing to fight for the man he’s growing to love and the family he’s starting to think of as his own. But Crawford is a powerful and dangerous enemy, and he’s not above ripping apart everything Jordan and Pierre are trying to build in order to save himself….

  To Dominic, who makes every day special.

  Chapter 1

  “RAVELLE, I need to see you,” Sheriff Hunter barked from his office.

  Sheriff Lew Hunter had a gruff way about him. It had taken Pierre a long time to understand that it was just how he was and not to take it personally. In short, the sheriff was pretty much an ass to everyone… except the voters, who seemed to love him. They’d elected him to the position three times. Maybe it was because he was really good at his job and the fact that the voters didn’t have to interact with him on a daily basis.

  “Now!”

  Pierre put aside the information on the prisoner he was getting ready to move from the downtown holding area to the courthouse and stood to walk into Sheriff Hunter’s office. “I’m about to go out on a transport.” He managed to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “I’m putting Stevens on that. I have something else I need you to do.” Hunter’s forehead glistened with sweat. The guy must go through three uniforms a day. The sheriff could soak through a shirt faster than anyone Pierre had ever met, and it was rolling off him today, so someone had really handed him his ass for some reason. And there weren’t many people who could do that. “I got a call from Judge Potter, the head judge at the courthouse. He reported that Crawford is getting threats of some kind, and they’ve been nasty.” Hunter half wheezed and sighed. “So that’s you. Head on over, take a look at what he’s been getting, and provide additional security.” He sounded as thrilled as Pierre felt about this whole thing.

  In truth, Judge Crawford had a reputation for being the hanging judge, in a way. His sentences were generally as harsh as he could get away with. From a law enforcement perspective, Pierre couldn’t say he was disappointed. His compatriots worked hard to bring their cases, and making the punishment fit the crime was justice in his opinion.

  But this kind of duty was dull, long, and about as exciting as watching grass grow most of the time. Pierre vastly preferred actually doing something rather than standing around at the door to the courtroom or judge’s chambers, watching and doing his best to intimidate everyone who approached.

  “If that’s what you need.” He wasn’t going to argue. There was no point in it. Once Sheriff Hunter made up his mind, that was it.

  “Good. That’s what I like about you. Smart enough to understand when you don’t have a choice. Now, go on over and make sure Crawford knows you’re there and on the job.” Hunter yanked a couple of tissues out of the box, swiped them over his forehead and then across the back of his neck, and tossed them in the trash.

  Pierre left the office, his gun belt squeaking as he moved. He checked in with the desk so they knew where he was and what he was doing before heading out into the muggy summer day, with an almost blinding sun, to walk the block to the courthouse.

  The old jail, which was now used as holding cells, had been built of red granite to resemble a Norman castle with two round towers and fake crenellated battlements on the roof. It was impressive and definitely added interest to the area.

  Pierre stayed on the shady side of the street with his eyes open, passing other deputies, acknowledging each as he passed, but not stopping to talk. He was on a mission, and judging by the sheriff’s sweaty reaction, he needed to get there fast. Pierre entered the building, showed his badge and pass to his colleagues who were working the metal detectors and security, then walked inside and took the elevator to the upper floor.

  When the doors slid open, he strode out and down the white hallway to the last courtroom and into the judge’s office.

  “May I help you?” a man about two years younger than Pierre asked. Instantly Pierre was struck by how intense his eyes were and how the waves in his blond, collar-length hair damn near shimmered when he moved. Pierre’s mouth went dry for just a second, and he nearly stammered, but cleared his throat to cover it.

  “I’m Deputy Ravelle. I was sent over to provide extra security for Judge Crawford.”

  The pinch at the corner of the man’s mouth smoothed out, and he sighed. “Thank God.” The man turned toward the closed door to the judge’s chambers. “We’ve gotten three notes, and they were all sent to the courthouse.” He pulled open a drawer and slid the envelopes over. “I kept everything, including the envelopes, but they have been touched by me, as well as the judge. We didn’t realize what they were until we opened them. We get the occasional crackpot—he’s a judge, so this sort of thing can go along with the territory—but this feels different. These notes are specific, and there’s pointed hatred behind them. This isn’t someone who’s angry at the system, but specifically hates Judge Crawford.”

  Pierre took the envelopes, and the man gasped and placed his hand over his mouth.

  “Sorry, I’m a little scattered today. I’m Jordan Erichsohn, Judge Crawford’s paralegal and assistant. Sort of the one who tries to keep him organized.” He smiled. “The judge is with someone right now, but he should be done in a few minutes.”

  “It’s no problem.” Pierre took a seat and looked over the letters. Just like Jordan had said, they were specific, with vivid descriptions of what the writer wanted to do to Judge Crawford and how he intended to get into his courtroom and rip him apart. They even went as far as to give the room number. They were clearly intended to incite fear, and it seemed to be working, judging by the reactions he’d witnessed.

  Pierre knew Judge Crawford by reputation and as part of his professional capacity. Their interactions had always been within the course of his duties and they had never become friendly. Heck, half the time when working with him, Pierre did his job and it seemed Judge Crawford barely knew he existed. He wasn’t at all like Judge Fortier, who had the courtroom next door. Robert was a great guy.

  The door to the judge’s chambers opened and Judge Crawford strode out, going directly to Jordan’s desk. They spoke softly, and Jordan inclined his head toward Pierre, who stood and stepped forward.

  “He gave you the letters?” Judge Crawford was in his midfifties with white hair, a crisp suit, and patrician features. In short, he was the definition of distinguished, with intelligence lurking behind his dark eyes. “Excellent. You can see why I was concerned.” He motioned to his office, followed Pierre inside, and closed the door before taking a seat behind his large wooden desk. �
��I won’t be intimidated by anyone, but these letters were rather personal, so I decided to enlist some extra help. My bailiff and staff need to concentrate on their jobs, and I expect you to do yours. Watch, control access to the courtroom, and pay attention.” His gaze grew intense, and Pierre stared right back. He knew this tactic and wasn’t going to back down. Crawford might be a judge, but he was also a person, and one obviously used to getting his own way or forcing others to submit by sheer force of will.

  “Do you have any specific enemies?” Pierre asked sternly. “I know a judge with your reputation isn’t going to be winning any popularity contests with those you sentenced, but does anyone come to mind?” He pulled out his notebook, waiting for an answer.

  “I have a number of individuals who passed through my courtroom who have been released from prison in the last six months.” Crawford’s expression softened as he handed Pierre the list, which included the names, as well as the crime they were convicted for.

  Pierre scanned the names and then pulled out the letters. “These don’t seem to fit. The individual who wrote these is angry, that’s definite, but he or she is very intelligent and articulate. These weren’t written by a street thug or a drug dealer… at least none of the ones I know. These were written by someone educated.” He handed the judge the papers. “The letters say that you should be eliminated and your cancer wiped from the earth. Most people don’t speak or write that way.”

  For the first time, Judge Crawford smiled, slightly. “I agree. That’s why I haven’t done anything with that list.”

  “I’ll have it checked out, of course, but I doubt our letter writer is here. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Not particularly. Your main task is to let me continue to do my job and to ensure I remain safe. I have private security arranged for my home and commute.”

  Pierre nodded, and the judge gave him the information for the firm so Pierre could coordinate with them. He needed to try to find the source of the letters—which was going to be a difficult task, given how very little there was to go on—and to make sure Judge Crawford had the extra security he seemed to think he needed. The building itself was already secured, with all visitors and employees passing through metal detectors and all their bags X-rayed so nothing dangerous got inside. But if someone was intent on causing harm, they didn’t necessarily need a weapon.

  “Please work with Jordan. He can give you any information and support you might need.” Judge Crawford turned to the clock on his desk. “I have to be in court in ten minutes.” Any additional information was going to have to come from Jordan, as Judge Crawford’s expression hardened and he turned to his computer. Pierre knew he was dismissed. He left the judge’s chambers and closed the door behind him.

  “He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Jordan said in the same tone that he might use to ask about the weather.

  The judge’s behavior was just a part of Jordan’s everyday work, it seemed. “Intense” was about the nicest thing Pierre could come up with.

  “Judge Crawford isn’t a morning person, and he always needs some time to get ready for court.” Jordan stood and filled a mug from the coffeepot in the corner. He then carried it into the judge’s chambers and returned with an empty mug. “Sometimes I swear he mainlines the stuff.” Jordan rinsed the mug and took his seat once again. “I need to make sure he has everything he requires for his day, and then I can go over anything you want.” He hurried into the office, and Pierre watched him go with pointed interest.

  Pierre sat back down. He reminded himself that he was working and had to keep his mind on the task at hand, not let it wander to the delicious paralegal who seemed to check all the boxes for the type of man he preferred: lanky, with great eyes, and a backside that bobbed perfectly with each step and made him feel disappointed when Jordan closed the door behind him.

  Pierre took the opportunity to make a call to dispatch to report in and request information on the people the judge had identified. By the time he’d finished relaying the information, Jordan had returned and said it was time for court. He took Pierre to the front of the courtroom, and Pierre stood outside the door, watching as the lawyers and clients filed in, along with interested members of the public. He looked for anything unusual, including people who were more interested in the surroundings than the players in the case at hand. He saw nothing, but kept his eyes open as Judge Crawford called his court to order and started the business of the day.

  “HOW WAS the first day?” Jordan asked once court had been adjourned and Pierre had checked on any progress on the information he’d requested. He was told it had been emailed to him, and he checked over the data, finding no surprises. None of the people on the list had anything beyond a high school education, and most of them were easy enough to discount: one was dead, two were now back in prison for one offense or another, and two more were living hours away at either end of the state.

  “Uneventful.” He actually stifled a yawn. Pierre would much rather spend his days transporting prisoners or on courthouse security detail. At least he had something to do besides watch people, most of whom were going about their business. “You?”

  “Same thing, different day.” Jordan checked the clock at his desk and hurriedly packed up his things. He picked up the phone and said he was leaving for the day. “I put everything for tomorrow on your desk and made a folder for the rest of the week so, if you get a chance, you can work ahead if you’d like.” He listened for a while and hung up. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked at his watch and scurried out the door.

  Pierre followed his movement with his eyes, flutters of attraction rising in his belly. Damn, Jordan was adorable.

  Pierre stayed outside Judge Crawford’s chambers, the area quiet, a clock on the wall ticking away the seconds. He glanced at it every few minutes as he waited. Eventually Judge Crawford came out of the office with his briefcase, and Pierre fell in behind him, watching as they descended in the elevator and went down to the main floor to leave the building. Once Pierre escorted him to his car, the judge got in back and the driver took off. Pierre breathed a small sigh of relief once Judge Crawford was out of his care and no longer his responsibility. Then Pierre turned to walk back to the old jail to check in and enter his report on the letters received.

  “So, how was it?” Carson asked with a smirk. “I’m glad I managed to sidestep that little task.” He leaned farther into the locker room as Pierre put his things away and got ready to go home.

  “That’s good to know.” He rolled his eyes. Carson was always up for getting out of anything he possibly could. The man loved traffic duty because he could sit in his car all day. If doing nothing were a sport, Carson would be world champion, without a doubt. “It was fine.”

  “I ran down the last of those people for you. There isn’t much to go on, and none of them would match what was written in the letters.”

  “I agree.” Pierre didn’t usually discuss cases with Carson because the man could provide a complete lack of insight with professional ease. “I don’t know what else to go on for now, so I’ll keep my eyes open, my mouth shut, and the judge alive. Other than that, there isn’t anything I can do right now.” What the hell else could he say?

  “Ravelle,” Sheriff Hunter called, this time with less stress than that morning. “Everything go okay with Crawford?”

  Pierre shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

  “We’ll run down what we can on the letters, and you report if any more show up. Hopefully this is someone with a beef, and they’ll wake up and realize they’ve gone too far and just stop.”

  Pierre wasn’t so sure of that, but they could hope. Of course, that meant they would never find out who was behind them. But cases of all kinds went unsolved, and as long as Judge Crawford was alive and well, that was what was important.

  “Head on home. Crawford is a first-thing guy, so he’ll be in the courthouse early.” Sheriff Hunter left the locker area, and Pierre didn’t
need to be told twice. He finished getting ready to go as quickly as he could. His days were going to be long enough.

  “You going to go out tonight?” Carson asked. “Some of the guys are going to the Gingerbread House for a few drinks. You should stop by. It will give you a chance to wind down a little bit.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Pierre closed his locker and left, wanting to get out to his car before Hunter changed his mind and needed him for something.

  He went straight home to his row house on Louther Street. He loved the place. When he’d purchased it two years ago, the late-federal-style house had been in need of a great deal of work. Under ratty carpet, he’d found the original wide-plank floors, which he sanded and refinished to a rich, warm tone. The area under the stairs had been drywalled at some point, and when it had gotten wet from a pipe bursting, he’d had to remove it and discovered cabinets made from old-growth oak that had been covered over. Pierre repaired them, and now they were an integral part of the home and gave it even more charm.

  He walked upstairs to his bedroom, with its plain mantel and fireplace. He knew it had been painted many times over the years, and one of these days the white paint and all the layers under it were going to be history so he could expose the burled oak he was sure lay underneath. At least he thought so from the test patches he’d done.

  Pierre put his gun and equipment in its place and went to the bathroom to shower. Surrounded by steam and hot water, he let his mind wander, and danged if it didn’t settle on a certain wavy-haired paralegal with intense eyes and lips that reminded him of every sin imaginable. Pierre closed his eyes and let a fantasy unfold for a few minutes before growling under his breath. He definitely needed to get out and let loose. It had been too long since he’d gone to Harrisburg to one of the clubs. Too damn long. Especially if he could get this preoccupied by someone he was working with.