Salvation Row - John Milton #6 (John Milton Series) by Dawson Mark

Author:Dawson, Mark [Dawson, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unputdownable
Published: 2014-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

48

M ilton pulled up next to the courthouse. It was a grand building, five storeys tall, built in the 1940s of Georgia marble. The building covered the length of the city block, a dominating structure of towering stone piers and tall leaded windows. Cast-iron grille work covered the lower windows and doors. Above the arched entries were carved stone spandrels depicting eagles and weaponry. There were crenellated battlements high above where overfed pigeons made their roosts, depositing their guano on the pedestrians below. Izzy had explained that the Fourth Circuit of the Louisiana Court of Appeals was the judicial body with appellate jurisdiction over civil matters, matters referred from family and juvenile courts, and the criminal cases that were triable by jury. Izzy’s appeal of the city’s case to take the charity’s land had ended up here.

Milton got out.

“What are you doing?”

He scanned left and right. There were a few pedestrians going about their business. A handful of people were climbing the steps into the building, the door held open for a man and a woman who were coming out. The parked cars looked empty. It looked like a normal afternoon. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Milton knew that the men that had tried to kill them would try again, but they would need time to plan. They wouldn’t have expected them to have escaped the last attempt. They shouldn’t have escaped. He had been negligent. He had been careful, but not careful enough.

And Izzy could have died because of it.

He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

“Milton?”

“I’m walking you to the door.”

She looked back at the Buick. The wing had been badly damaged and the fender had been halfway torn off, one end of it scraping against the road. “You can’t leave that there.”

“It’s a hire car,” he said. “There was a crash. Not my fault. I’ll get another.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Come on.”

He took the heavy case from the back and crossed the sidewalk. She followed and they climbed the steep flight of steps to the main entrance.

“You can’t nanny me all day.”

He ignored her. “Which way?”

She frowned at him, but didn’t push it. “Court eighteen.” She pointed along the corridor. “This way.”

Milton went first, pulling the case behind him. The court had the quiet sepulchral air that buildings like this often had, the men and women who circulated around its corridors doing so silently or in hushed, charged semi-whispers. The interior would have been grand, once, with the wide expanse of marble and granite, but now it was dusty and shabby, a reflection on how the very notion of municipality had fallen into disrepair. Katrina had put on a very stark practical demonstration of what local government could and could not achieve, and its abject failure in the face of that test had meant a loss of faith that would never be made right.

They reached court eighteen. There was a man standing there. Milton recognised him.

Jackson Dubois.

He was dressed in an expensive suit and, as he saw them turn the corner and approach, his face fell.

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