The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(29)
Lacy and Hugo nodded, pleasantly humoring the boss.
And then there was silence. Michael kept pacing and scratching his head. Hugo sipped his caffeine and tried to activate his brain. Lacy doodled on her legal pad, thinking. The only sound was the pecking from Sadelle’s keyboard.
Michael finally said, “Sadelle, you’ve been quiet.”
“I’m just a paralegal,” she reminded them. Then she coughed, almost gagged, and continued, “I’ve gone back eleven years and tracked thirty-three construction projects in Brunswick County, everything from golf courses, shopping centers, subdivisions, the mini-mall at Sea Stall, even a movie theater with fourteen screens. Nylan Title from the Bahamas is involved in many of them, but there are dozens of other offshore companies that own other offshore companies, and LLCs that are owned by foreign corporations. Personally, I think it’s a clear sign of somebody trying real hard to keep things secret. It smells bad. It’s also unprecedented, really, to see so many offshore companies paying so much attention to a backward place like Brunswick County. I’ve dug some in the records of the other Panhandle counties—Okaloosa, Walton, even Escambia, where Pensacola sits—and while all of them have had far more development than Brunswick, they have far fewer offshore companies involved.”
“No luck with Nylan Title?” Hugo asked.
“None. The laws and procedures in the Bahamas are impossible to penetrate. Impossible, unless of course the FBI gets involved.”
“That will have to wait.” Michael looked at Lacy and asked, “Have you talked to Myers lately?”
“Oh no. I talk to Myers only when he decides he wants to talk.”
“Well, it’s time for a conversation. It’s time to inform Mr. Myers that his complaint is in jeopardy. If he can’t come through with more information, and quickly, then we might have to dismiss it.”
“Are you serious?” Lacy asked.
“Not really, not yet. But let’s keep the pressure on him. He’s the one with the inside source.”
—
It took two days and a dozen calls to three different cell phone numbers to get a response from Myers. When he finally called her back, he seemed excited to hear her voice and said he’d been thinking about another meeting. He had more information to pass along. Lacy asked if he might be able to meet at a more convenient place. St. Augustine was lovely and all, but it was a three-and-a-half-hour drive for them. They had busy schedules; evidently he did not. For obvious reasons, he preferred to stay away from the Panhandle. “Lots of old enemies there,” he sort of bragged. They agreed on Mexico Beach, a small Gulf-side town about two hours southeast of Tallahassee. They met at a local dive near the beach and ordered grilled shrimp for lunch.
Myers rambled on about his bonefishing exploits near Belize and his scuba-diving adventures in the British Virgins. His tan was even darker and he looked a bit thinner. Not for the first time, Hugo caught himself envying the carefree lifestyle of this guy who lived on a nice boat and apparently had no financial worries. He drank beer from a cold, frosty mug, something else Hugo envied. Lacy was far from envious and found Myers even more irritating. She couldn’t have cared less about his various adventures. She wanted facts, details, proof that his story was valid.
With a mouthful of shrimp, Myers asked, “So how is the investigation going?”
“Pretty slow,” Lacy said. “Our boss is pressuring us to find more dirt or we may have to dismiss your complaint. And, the clock is ticking.”
He stopped chomping, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and removed his sunglasses. “You can’t dismiss the complaint. I swore to it, on my oath. McDover owns the four condos and they were given to her as bribes.”
Hugo asked, “And how do we prove this when everything is buried offshore? We’ve hit brick walls there. All the records are tucked away in Barbados, Grand Cayman, Belize. Throw a dart at the offshore map and we’ve chased leads there, with no evidence. It’s one thing to swear under oath she owns the companies that owns the condos, but we need proof, Greg.”
He smiled, took a chug of beer, and said, “I got it. Just wait.”
Lacy and Hugo looked at each other. Greg stabbed another shrimp with his fork, drowned it in cocktail sauce, and shoved it in. “You guys gonna eat?”
They poked around their shrimp baskets with their plastic forks, neither with much of an appetite. Evidently, Myers had not eaten in a while, and was thirsty, but he was also stalling. An odd-looking couple had the table next to them, too close for a serious conversation. They left as the waitress brought Myers his second beer.
“We’re waiting,” Lacy said.
“Okay, okay,” he said as he took a sip and again wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “On the first Wednesday of every month, the judge leaves her office in Sterling an hour or so early and drives about twenty minutes to one of her condos in Rabbit Run. She parks her Lexus in the driveway, gets out, and walks to the front door. Two weeks ago she was wearing a navy sleeveless dress and pumps from Jimmy Choo, and she was carrying a small Chanel handbag, the same one she left the office with. She walked to the front door and unlocked it with her key. Proof of ownership, exhibit one. I have photographs. About an hour later, a Mercedes SUV parked next to the Lexus and a guy got out on the front passenger’s side. The driver stayed behind the wheel, never moved. The passenger walked to the front door. I have photographs, and, yes, ladies and gentlemen, I think we finally have a glimpse of the elusive Vonn Dubose. He was carrying a brown leather satchel that appeared to be filled with something. As he pressed the doorbell, he glanced around, and did not appear to be the least bit nervous. She let him in. He stayed thirty-six minutes, and when he reappeared he was carrying what looked like the same bag, though by the way he carried it, he might have left something behind. Can’t really tell. He got in his vehicle and left. Fifteen minutes later, she did the same. This meeting takes place, as I said, on the first Wednesday of every month, and we are led to believe it is prearranged without the benefit of phones or e-mail.”