The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(24)
“Was Son Razko having an affair with Junior’s wife?” Hugo asked.
“Highly unlikely, though, as you know, when it comes to that type of behavior anything can happen. Son was a man of principle and morals and he was happily married. I have never believed he was carrying on with my sister-in-law.”
“So who killed them?”
“I do not know. Not long after the casino opened, we began receiving our slice of the pie, though in smaller amounts. At the time I was a truck driver, non-union of course, and with my salary, my wife’s wages as a cook, plus our dividend checks, we were able to save $25,000. I gave the money to a private investigator in Pensacola. He was supposed to be one of the best. He dug for the better part of a year and found nothing. My brother had a terrible lawyer at trial, a clueless kid who didn’t know his way around the courtroom, but he’s had some fine lawyers on appeal. They’ve been digging too, for many years, and they’ve found nothing. I cannot give you the name of a likely suspect, Mr. Hatch. I wish I could. My brother was framed in a perfect setup, and it looks like the State of Florida will eventually kill him.”
“Do you know a man named Vonn Dubose?” Lacy asked.
“I’ve heard the name but never met the man.”
“What’s the reputation?”
Wilton rattled the ice cubes in his glass and suddenly looked tired. Lacy felt sorry for him, and tried to imagine the weight of having a sibling on death row, especially one believed to be innocent. He finally said, “There was once a legend around here that a big-time crook named Dubose masterminded all of this—the casino, the developments around it, the rapid sprawl from here to the coast. The legend extended to the murders of Son and Eileen. But it’s all faded now, washed away in a tide of fun and games and cash and jackpots and waterslides and happy hours, not to mention the welfare state. It doesn’t matter now, because life is good. If the man really exists and has his finger in the pie, no one cares, no one wants to cause him any trouble. If he walked through the front door of the casino and told the truth, he would be worshipped like a hero. He made it happen.”
“What do you believe?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter, Mr. Hatch.”
“Okay, it doesn’t matter, but I’m still curious.”
“All right. Yes, there was an organized criminal element involved with the construction of the casino, and these guys, nameless and faceless, are still taking a cut. They use guns and they have thoroughly intimidated our Chief and his cronies.”
Lacy asked, “What are our chances of finding someone from inside the casino who’ll talk to us?”
He actually laughed, and when the moment passed he mumbled, “You just don’t understand.” He rattled his ice again and seemed to fixate on something across the road. Lacy and Hugo glanced at each other and waited. After a long gap, he said, “As a tribe, a people, a race, we don’t trust outsiders. We don’t talk. Sure, I’m sitting here talking to you, but the subjects are general in nature. We don’t tell secrets, not to anyone, not under any circumstances. It’s just not in our blood. I despise my people who are on the other side, but I would never tell you anything about them.”
Lacy said, “Perhaps a disgruntled employee, someone without your discretion. With all of this division and distrust, there must be a few people who are unhappy with the Chief and his cronies.”
“There are some people who hate the Chief, but bear in mind he got 70 percent of the vote in the last election. His inner circle is tight. They all have fingers in the pie and everyone is happy. It would be virtually impossible to find a snitch from within.” He paused and went silent. They endured another long gap, one that seemed not to bother him at all. Finally, he said, “And I would advise you to stay away from it. If Judge McDover is in with the crooks, then she’s well protected by some boys who like violence and intimidation. This is Indian land, Ms. Stoltz, and all the rules that govern an orderly society, all the things you believe in, simply don’t apply here. We govern ourselves. We make the laws. Neither the State of Florida nor the federal government has much say in what we do, especially when it comes to running the casino.”
—
They left him after an hour, after learning nothing that might help them, other than the warning, and returned to the Tappacola Tollway, the busy four-lane the county had built to rake off a few bucks. Near the entrance to the reservation, they stopped at a booth and paid five bucks for the privilege of proceeding. Hugo said, “I suppose this is the spot where Judge McDover decided to stop the traffic with her injunction.”
“Have you read that case?” Lacy asked as she accelerated.
“I read Sadelle’s summary. The judge claimed the traffic was a threat to public health and blocked the road with deputies for six days. Two thousand and one, ten years ago.”
“Can you imagine the conversations between her and Vonn Dubose?”
“She’s lucky she didn’t catch a bullet.”
“No, she’s too smart for that. So is Dubose. They managed to find common ground and the injunction was lifted.”
Immediately past the booth they were greeted with gaudy signs telling them that they were now on Tappacola land. Other signs pointed the way to Rabbit Run, and in the distance there were waves of condos and homes lining fairways. Its property line was adjacent to the reservation, and, as Greg Myers had said, a person could walk from the golf shop to the casino in five minutes. On a map, the Tappacola property had more bends and jags than a carefully gerrymandered congressional district. Dubose and company had gobbled up most of the property around it. And someone, probably Dubose himself, had picked the casino site as close to his land as possible. It was brilliant.