Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

He had not seen Ross since their twentieth reunion seven years earlier at a resort in Palm Beach. Most of the old Pikes were diligent with their emails and texts, others were not. Ross had never shown much interest in keeping up with the gang. Now, out of the blue, he was passing through and wanted a quick drink. On a Sunday afternoon. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton and they agreed to meet at the bar by the pool.

Ross was waiting when Dave walked up. They embraced like the old roommates they were and immediately examined each other’s graying hair and waistlines. Each agreed that the other one looked just fine. After a few insults, a waiter appeared and they ordered drinks.

“What brings you down here?” Dave asked.

“Looking at some apartment units out in East Sawgrass.”

“You’re buying apartments?”

“We. A group of investors. We buy stuff everywhere.”

“I thought you were a judge.”

“Duly elected from the Twenty-Second Judicial District. On the bench for ten years now. But in Florida a judge makes one hundred and forty-six thousand bucks a year, not exactly the road to riches. Twenty years ago I started buying rental properties. Our company has grown slowly and we’re doing well. What about you?”

“Very well, thanks. There is a never-ending supply of sore teeth out there.”

“Wife and kids?” Ross wanted to broach the family subject before Dave had the chance, in part to show that he was not afraid of it. Since their student days, he had suspected that his brothers had doubts about him. The incident with Eileen was legendary. Though he later lied and claimed he was active with other girls, he had always felt their suspicions. The fact that he had never married didn’t help.

“All is well. My daughter is at Florida and my son is in high school. Roxie plays tennis five days a week and stays out of my hair.”

According to another Pike, the marriage to Roxie had been anything but stable. They had taken turns moving out. When their son left home they would probably throw in the towel.

The cold beers arrived and they tapped glasses. A serious bikini sauntered by and they took the full measure of it.

“Those were the days,” Ross said with admiration.

“We’re almost fifty, you realize that?”

“Afraid so.”

“You think we’ll ever stop looking?”

“If I’m breathing I’m looking,” Ross said, repeating the mantra. He sipped his beer slowly as it warmed. He wanted only one. The drive home was the same nine hours.

They batted some names back and forth, their old pals from the glory days. They laughed at the stupid things they had done, the pranks they had pulled, the near misses. It was the same aging frat boy talk every time.

Ross began his fiction with “I had a strange encounter last year. Remember Cora Laker, Phi Mu?”

“Sure, cute girl. Became a lawyer, right?”

“Right. I was at the state bar convention in Orlando and bumped into her. She’s a partner in a big firm in Tampa, doing very well. Still lookin’ good. We had a drink, then another. Somehow she brought up Eileen, I think they were close, and she got all choked up. She said the case will never be solved. Said an investigator of some sort tracked her down and wanted to talk about Eileen as a sorority girl. She hung up and that was it, but she was ticked off that somebody found her.”

Dave snorted and looked away. “I got a call too.”

Bannick swallowed hard. The quick trip, brutal as it was, might just pay off. He asked, “About Eileen?”

“Yep, probably three or four years ago. We were living here, could’ve been five years back. The lady said she was a crime writer and was asking about Eileen’s college days. Said she was working on a book about cold cases. Women who were stalked, or something like that.”

“A woman?”

“Yep. Said she had written several books, offered to send me one.”

“Did she?”

“No, I got off the phone. That was another lifetime, Ross. It’s really sad what happened to Eileen, but I can’t do anything about it.”

A woman. Digging through his cold cases. The long drive and its return leg were now worth the trouble.

“That’s weird,” Ross said. “Just the one conversation?”

“Yep. I got rid of her. And, really, I had nothing to offer. We raised so much hell back then I can’t remember it all. Too much booze and pot.”

“Those were the days.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner? Roxie’s still a lousy cook but we can do takeout.”

“Thanks, Dave, but I’m meeting some investors for dinner later.”

An hour later, Bannick was back on the road, fighting the traffic on Interstate 95, with six hundred miles to go.

Sadelle was ten minutes late for the Monday morning recap, and when she arrived on her little scooter she looked even closer to death. She apologized and said she was fine. Lacy had suggested several times that she take off a few days and get some rest. Sadelle was afraid of that. Work kept her alive.

Darren began with “We’ve done all we can do with the travel records. We finally heard from Delta, after another subpoena threat, and so all carriers are accounted for. Delta, Southwest, American, and Silver Air. We checked all flights originating from Pensacola, Mobile, Tallahassee, even Jacksonville, and going to Miami and Fort Lauderdale. The result is that for the month before the murder of Perry Kronke, no one by the name of Ross Bannick took a flight south.”

Lacy said, “You’re assuming he used his real name.”

“Of course we are. We don’t happen to know any of his aliases, now do we?”

She ignored him and returned to her coffee. He continued, “It’s an eleven-hour drive from Pensacola to Marathon, and, needless to say, we would have no way of tracking him in his car.”

“Toll records?”

“The state keeps them for only six months, then burns them. And, it’s easy to avoid toll roads.”

“What about hotels?”

Sadelle growled as she tried to fill her lungs, and said, “Another needle in another haystack. Do you know how many hotels there are in south Florida? Thousands. We picked a hundred of the likeliest mid-priced ones and found nothing. There are eleven in and around Marathon. Nothing.”

Darren said, “We’re wasting our time digging like this.”

Lacy said, “It’s called investigating. Some of the most infamous crimes were solved by tiny clues that at first seemed insignificant.”

“What do you know about solving infamous crimes?”

“Not much, but I’m reading books about serial killers. Fascinating stuff.”

Sadelle inhaled painfully and, somewhat oxygenized, asked, “Are we assuming he drove to Biloxi and back for the Verno murder?”

“And Dunwoody. Yes, that’s our assumption. It’s only, what, two hours?”

“Two’s about right,” Darren said. “That’s what’s fascinating. If you look at all eight murders, and I know we’re not looking at all eight, but only three, they are all within driving distance from Pensacola. Danny Cleveland in Little Rock, eight hours away. Thad Leawood near Chattanooga, six hours. Bryan Burke in Gaffney, South Carolina, eight hours. Ashley Barasso in Columbus, Georgia, four hours. Perry Kronke in Marathon and Eileen Nickleberry near Wilmington are both twelve hours away. He didn’t have to fly and rent cars and pay for hotel rooms. He could just drive.”

“Those are just the ones we know about,” Lacy said. “I’ll bet there are more. And each crime scene was in a different state.”

Sadelle said, “He knows more about killing than we do.”

“I guess he’s had more experience,” Darren added. “And he’s smarter.”

Lacy said, “True, but we’ve got Betty and she’s tracked him down. Think about it. If she’s right, then she’s identified the killer, something an army of homicide detectives couldn’t do.”