Page 17 of Blind Justice

The tension in the room was palpable as both men began to shut down their computers. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, the silent storm a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside them.

“We better get out of here before we’re trapped.” Alex grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “Eat some real food and get some sleep.”

“I’ll try.” Noah followed suit, shrugging into his jacket and grabbing his keys. They locked up the office, stepping out into the cold air with the case pressing on them.

As they drove away, the glow of the streetlights reflected off the fresh snow, a stark reminder that, while the world outside appeared peaceful, the battle for justice was far from over.

* * *

Maxim Fairchild stoodat the window of his palatial estate, his eyes fixed on the snow blanketing the expansive grounds outside. The winter storm raged on, the howling wind a fitting soundtrack to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Hilton was gone—a problem he had taken care of with ruthless efficiency. Yet, his victory was incomplete. Hilton had talked.

The very idea sent a surge of fury through him, his jaw tightening as he gripped the edge of his ornate mahogany desk. Hilton, the man he’d trusted to keep his secrets, had betrayed him. And now, someone out there had the pieces of a puzzle Fairchild had worked tirelessly to keep hidden.

A knock on the heavy oak door broke his reverie.

“Enter,” he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

The door creaked open, and one of his men stepped inside. The enforcer was a burly figure, dressed in black, snow clinging to his boots and jacket. He removed his knit cap, revealing a shaven head and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow.

“We got a name, Boss,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly. “Noah Kandor. Twelve-year veteran of the state’s attorney’s office. Lawyer. He’s working with another guy, Alex Marcel. But Kandor’s the one hooked on the investigation.”

Fairchild turned slowly, his sharp eyes locking onto his subordinate. “Kandor,” he repeated, tasting the name. “Tell me more.”

The man shifted, pulling a notepad from his pocket. “Kandor’s got a solid rep. Known for sticking with cases others might drop when things get too messy. Doesn’t scare easy. He’s partnered with Marcel, but all signs point to Kandor being the lead on this. He’s the one pushing the investigation forward.”

Fairchild’s lips curled into a sneer. “And where is this intrepid crusader?”

The enforcer cleared his throat. “We’ve tracked down his home, his car, even some of his family connections. But the storm’s shut everything down. Roads are impassable; communications are spotty. It’s slowed us down.”

Fairchild exhaled slowly, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. He despised delays. “So, what you’re telling me,” he said, dangerously calm, “is that a storm is doing more to protect this man than any law enforcement officer ever could.”

The enforcer didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

Fairchild moved back to his desk, his fingers trailing along the surface as he considered his options. He had always prided himself on being several steps ahead of his enemies. Kandor, however, was proving to be a complication—a loose end that needed tying up before it unraveled everything.

“Focus on Kandor,” Fairchild said finally, his voice cold and decisive. “The storm will pass, and when it does, I want him vulnerable. Find out who he cares about and how we can get to him. And if you can’t reach him directly... make him come to us.”

The enforcer nodded, tucking the notepad back into his jacket. “Understood, Boss.”

As the man turned to leave, Fairchild called after him, “And remember—this is a loose end we can’t afford. No mistakes. I want leverage over him.”

The door closed softly behind the enforcer, leaving Fairchild alone once more. He turned back to the window, watching as the snow continued to fall. Kandor might be untouchable for now, but Fairchild had built his empire on patience and precision. He knew every man had a weakness, and he would find Kandor’s.

With a slow, satisfied smile, he reached for the crystal decanter on his desk, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. As the amber liquid swirled in the glass, Fairchild raised it to his lips, toasting the storm. “It won’t save you, Mr. Kandor,” he murmured. “Not for long.”

* * *

Noah’s truckcrawled up the snow-covered road to Eagle Hill, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the relentless onslaught of snow. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and his tires crunched over the freshly fallen powder as he approached his house.

Pulling into his driveway, he frowned at the towering drifts that had accumulated. He parked at the bottom, knowing there was no point in trying to make it up to the garage until the storm subsided. Tomorrow, he’d have to dig himself out with the snowblower and shovel—a task he didn’t look forward to.

Grabbing his briefcase and coat, he stepped out of the truck, the wind cutting through him like a knife. Snow clung to his boots as he trudged up the unshoveled path, his breaths forming visible puffs in the icy air.

Finally, he reached the front door of his modest but welcoming home. It was a sturdy two-story house, painted a deep slate blue with white trim, nestled among the pines that lined the quiet cul-de-sac. Once inside, he kicked the snow from his boots onto the mat, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.

He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the peg by the door, and set his briefcase down. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the burner. Noah moved to the liquor cabinet, his fingers deftly pulling out a bottle of single malt scotch. He poured himself a glass, the amber liquid catching the soft glow of the kitchen light, and took a long sip.

With his scotch in hand, Noah headed to the kitchen. The care package Charlotte Everhart insisted he take home was sitting on the first shelf in his refrigerator. Opening the neatly packed container, he found slices of her turkey, mashed potatoes, and green beans. A small smile tugged at his lips—Charlotte’s cooking was a rare treat, and tonight, it was the perfect comfort food.

---