John Grisham - The Whistler

“Who took it?” Lacy asked.

“Guy with a camera. It’s also on video. Let’s just say the mole is resourceful.”

“Not good enough, Greg,” Lacy shot back with a flash of anger. “It’s obvious someone is watching McDover’s movements. Who is it? You’re still playing cat and mouse and I’d like to know why.”

Hugo said, “Look, Greg, we need to trust you, but we have to know what you know. Someone is following McDover. Who the hell is it?”

Out of habit, and an irritating one, Myers glanced around again, saw things were still clear, removed his aviator shades, and said in a low voice, “I get my information from the middleman, still unnamed as far as you’re concerned. He deals with the mole, whose name I still don’t know and I’m still not sure I want to know. When the mole has something important to pass along, the middleman tracks me down, hands it over, I give it to you. I’m sorry if you don’t like this arrangement, but please keep in mind that the mole and the middleman and me and you and everyone involved in this little story could easily wake up dead one day, with a bullet between the eyes. I don’t care if you trust me or not. My job is to pass along enough information to help you nail Judge Claudia McDover. What else do you need?” A quick sip from his sweaty mug, and, “Now, please return to photo number five. We don’t know if this guy is Vonn Dubose, but let’s assume he is. Check out his bag. Brown leather, large, more of a satchel than a briefcase, well worn, or maybe just the distressed look that’s currently popular, and not small. This is no thin attaché containing a couple of files. No, this bag is being used to carry something. What? Well, our guy speculates that McDover and Dubose meet on the first Wednesday of each month for an exchange. Why would Dubose, who’s dressed like a golfer, need a rather significant bag this late in the day? He’s obviously delivering something. Check out photo number six. It was taken thirty-six minutes after number five. Same guy, same bag. If you study the video, you can argue that the bag possibly weighs less just by the way he moves with it. Frankly, I can’t tell.”

“So he takes her the cash once a month,” Lacy said.

“He takes something to the condo.”

“How recent are these photos?” Hugo asked.

“Twelve days ago, August 3.”

“But there’s no way to verify if this is really Vonn Dubose?” Lacy asked.

“Not to my knowledge. Again, Dubose has never been arrested. He has no criminal record, no identity. He uses only cash for living expenses. He hides behind underlings and associates and leaves no trail. We’ve done some digging, and I’m sure you have too, and there’s no driver’s license, Social Security number, or passport issued to a Vonn Dubose, anywhere in this country. He has a driver, as we can see. He could be living as Joe Blow for all we know, with perfect papers.”

Myers reached into his trick bag and pulled out two more files. He handed one to Hugo and one to Lacy, who asked, “What’s this?”

“A detailed summary of McDover’s travel over the past seven years. Dates, places, chartered jets, and so on. She almost always goes with her buddy Phyllis Turban, who hires the jets and pays the bills. Turban also books the rooms when they use hotels. She handles all the details. Nothing, so far, is in McDover’s name.”

“And why is this valuable?” Lacy asked.

“By itself, it’s not that useful, but it does lend credence to the theory that these high-flying gals spend a shit pot full of money jetting around the country, presumably buying valuable things with dirty cash. Their combined earnings would not cover the cost of the jet fuel. We know the judge’s salary. I can guess what Turban nets, and I’ll bet it’s less than McDover’s take-home. There might come a time when it’s necessary to build a case based on net worth and consumption and assets, so I’m gathering all the dirt I can find.”

Hugo said, “Please keep digging. We need plenty of help.”

“You’re not serious about dismissing my complaint. I mean, hell, look at the photos. How can you argue she doesn’t own this condo when she’s been going there for at least seven years and she has the key? It’s registered to a shell in Belize and it’s worth, on today’s market, at least a million.”

“Does she ever spend the night there, or entertain?” Lacy asked.

“Don’t think so.”

“I checked it out last week,” Hugo said. “Played golf and took photos from the fairway.”

Myers shot him a quizzical look. “What did you learn?”

“Absolutely nothing. A complete waste of time, like most rounds of golf.”

“Try bonefishing. It’s much more fun.”

–

As Lacy was painting her toenails near the end of a Cary Grant movie, her phone buzzed with an unknown caller. A voice told her it might be Myers, and the voice was right.

“Breaking news,” he said. “Tomorrow is Friday.”

“How’d you guess?”

“Hang on. Looks like the girls are headed to New York. Claudia will catch a jet at the airport at Panama City around noon, exact time doesn’t matter because when you lease a jet you leave when you want. Lear 60, tail number N38WW, owned and operated by a charter company based in Mobile. Presumably, her lawyer pal will be on board and they’re off to New York for fun and games, probably with a sackful of cash to do some serious shopping. In case you don’t know, there’s virtually no security with private jet travel. No scanners for bags or body searches. I guess the smart guys at Homeland Security figure rich people have little interest in blowing up their own jets en route. Anyway, you could literally pack a hundred pounds of pure heroin and fly anywhere domestically.”

“Interesting, but where’s the payoff ?”

“If I were you, and if I had nothing better to do, I’d be hanging around the general aviation terminal, it’s called Gulf Aviation, and have a look. I’d keep Hugo in the car because you don’t see too many black folks in the charter business so he might stand out. I’d also keep him in the car with a camera to take a few photos. Maybe Phyllis will get off the plane for a pit stop in the girls’ room. Who knows? You might learn a lot and you can certainly see who you’re dealing with.”

“Would I be conspicuous?”

“Lacy, dear, you’re always conspicuous. You’re too pretty not to be. Wear some jeans, pull your hair back, try different glasses. You’ll be okay. There’s a lounge area with magazines and newspapers and people sit there all the time. If anybody asks, just say you’re waiting on a passenger. The place is open to the public so you won’t be trespassing. I’d take a good look at Claudia. See what she’s wearing, but also what she’s taking with her. I wouldn’t expect to see pockets stuffed with cash, but there might be an extra bag or two. Sort of a lark but not a bad way to spend some time. Personally, I’d like the chance to bump into a Florida gal who just happens to be the most corrupt judge in the history of America. And one who will soon be all over the front page, though she hasn’t a clue. Go for it.”

“We’ll give it a try.”

Judge McDover parked close to the space where Hugo sat rather awkwardly in Lacy’s Prius, his face hidden behind a newspaper, his camera by his side. To go with his collection of thoroughly useless photos of the east nine at Rabbit Run, he could now add a few shots of a Lear 60 out there on the tarmac. As Claudia rolled her small suitcase across the parking lot and headed for the front door of Gulf Aviation, he snapped a few of her backside. At fifty-six, she was slender and, at least from the rear, could pass for a lady twenty years younger. Actually, he had to admit, from this angle she looked better than Verna, who, after child number four, was struggling to drop the weight. He simply couldn’t stop the habit of staring at the backsides of all nicely shaped females.