John Grisham - The Whistler

“It is,” she said. “And far too big for us. We simply cannot investigate organized crime. Our world revolves around judges who’ve cracked up and done stupid things. They violate ethics, but rarely break laws. We’ve never seen a case like this.”

Luna shoved his pile of paperwork away and locked his hands behind his head. “Okay, you’re not a cop, but you are an investigator. You’ve lived through this for the past several weeks. If you were us, Ms. Stoltz, how would you proceed?”

“I’d start with the murder of Hugo Hatch. Sure, I’m emotionally involved with it, but solving it might be easier than trying to penetrate a hundred offshore entities and chasing the money. Someone stole the truck. Perhaps another person was driving it. They were working for an organization, for a boss who ordered the hit. Oddly enough, I think the murder was a gift. Dubose overplayed his hand, overreacted, and did something that could come back to bite him. He’s lived his entire life in a world of violence and intimidation. Sometimes those guys go too far. He felt threatened and his instinct was to hit hard.”

Pacheco asked, “And there’s no doubt the two cell phones and your iPad were taken?”

“No doubt at all. They obviously wanted the devices for information, but the theft was also a warning. Perhaps Dubose wanted to drop a not-so-subtle hint that they were there, at the scene.”

“And you know they were at the scene?” Pacheco asked gently.

“Yes. I don’t recall much, but I remember someone moving around, someone with a light of some sort attached to his head. The light hit my face for an instant. I can remember the sound of footsteps on broken glass. I think there were two men moving around, but again I was barely conscious.”

“Of course you were,” Pacheco said.

Lacy continued, “The wreck will not be thoroughly investigated by the Tappacola. The constable has already been replaced, and the new guy happens to be the son of the Chief. We can assume they are compromised and eager to close the book on just another tragic car accident.”

“You’re assuming the Chief is in bed with Dubose?” Luna asked.

“Definitely. The Chief rules like a king and knows everything. It’s impossible to believe they’re skimming cash without his involvement.”

“Back to these phones,” Pacheco said. “You’re certain they got no intel from them?”

Michael replied, “Yes. The phones are issued by the state. They have, or had, the usual five-digit pass code, but after that there was an encryption barrier. Our tech guys are sure they are secure.”

“But anything can be hacked,” Luna said. “And if they were somehow able to do so, what would they find?”

“It would be extremely damaging,” Michael said. “They would have the phone records, a trail of all the phone calls. And they would probably be able to find Greg Myers.”

“And Mr. Myers is still alive and well, I presume?” asked Luna.

“Oh yes,” Lacy said. “They’re not going to find him. He was here in Tallahassee two weeks ago, stopped by my apartment to see how I was doing. All of his old phones are at the bottom of the ocean and he has a supply of new burners.”

“And your iPad?” Pacheco asked.

“There’s nothing on it that would help them. All personal stuff.”

Luna pushed his chair back and stood. He stretched his legs and said, “Hahn.”

At the far end, Hahn was shaking his head and eager to contribute. Perhaps he’s the secret weapon, Lacy thought. He said, “I don’t know. So we swoop in with half a dozen agents. What happens then? The cash vanishes into their network of foreign accounts. The skimming stops. The Indians are terrified of Dubose and everyone clams up.”

Pacheco mumbled, “I love it.”

Lacy said, “I wouldn’t do that. I would quietly go about the task of finding the driver of the truck. Say you get lucky and grab the guy. He’s looking at spending the rest of his life in prison so he might want to talk, to deal.”

“Witness protection?” Pacheco asked.

“That’s your game and I’m sure you guys know how to play it.”

Luna returned to his seat, shoved the paperwork even farther away, rubbed his eyes as if suddenly fatigued, and said, “Look, here’s our problem. Our boss is in the Jacksonville office. We make a recommendation to him and he makes the decision. Part of our job is to estimate the manpower and number of hours this case might ultimately consume. Frankly, it’s always a waste of time because the target is steadily moving and it’s impossible to know where an investigation might go. But rules are rules, and this is, after all, the federal government. So our boss looks at our recommendation. Right now he’s not thinking about a little graft at an Indian casino. He’s probably not going to be too impressed with a car wreck that could’ve been something else. No, these days we’re fighting terror. We spend our time tracking sleeper cells and American teenagers who are chatting with jihadists and homegrown idiots who are trying to assemble the ingredients to make bombs. And, I gotta tell you, there’s a lot of bad stuff going on. We’re understaffed and often feel as though we’re getting further behind. We never forget that we were twenty-four hours late at 9/11. This is our world. This is the pressure we’re under. Sorry for the speech.”

For a moment no one said a word. Michael broke the silence with “I think we understand, but organized crime does go on.”

Luna actually smiled and said, “Sure it does. And I think this is a perfect case for the FBI, but I’m not so sure our boss will agree.”

“Is it fair to ask what your recommendation will be?” Lacy asked.

“It’s fair to ask but I can’t give you an answer right now. We’ll kick it around here for a couple of days, then send it to Jacksonville with a report.” His body language suggested he didn’t want to get involved. Pacheco’s suggested he was ready to whip out his badge and start grabbing witnesses. Hahn revealed nothing.

Lacy collected her papers and placed them into a neat stack. The meeting was over. She said, “Well, thank you for listening. You’ve been very generous with your time. We will proceed with our investigation and wait to hear from you.”

Pacheco walked with them out of the office and rode with them on the elevator, eager to spend as much time with them as possible. Michael watched him carefully. When he and Lacy were alone in his car, he said, “He’ll call you within twenty-four hours and it will have nothing to do with a casino.”

“You’re right,” Lacy said.

“Nice job in there.”

Like clockwork, the receptionist tapped on the door at 9:00 a.m. and without waiting for a reply laid the morning mail on Lacy’s desk. She smiled and said thanks. All the junk had been culled and set aside for “Florida Recycles!” That left six envelopes addressed to Lacy, five with proper return addresses. The sixth looked somewhat suspicious so she opened it first. In a handwritten scrawl it read,

To Lacy Stoltz: This is Wilton Mace. I tried to call but your phone isn’t working. We need to talk, and soon. My number is 555-996-7702. I’m in town, waiting. Wilton

Using her desk phone, she immediately called the number. Wilton answered and they had a brief conversation. He was in the DoubleTree hotel, three blocks from the Capitol, had been there since the day before waiting for her call, and wanted to meet face-to-face. He had important information. Lacy said she was on her way, and promptly relayed the conversation to Geismar, who was being overly protective and irritating her. He agreed, though, that a meeting in a busy downtown hotel held little danger. He was insisting that she advise him of any travel or interviews related to the McDover case. She agreed but doubted seriously if she would comply, even though her appetite for risk had been severely diminished.