The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(3)
“That’s good to hear. I’ll get on the boat only if it stays where it is. If the engines start, then our meeting is over.”
“Fair enough.”
She followed him along the pier, past a row of sailboats that looked as though they had not seen the open sea in months, and to his boat, cleverly named Conspirator. He stepped on board and offered a hand to help her. On the deck, under a canvas awning, there was a small wooden table with four folding chairs. He waved at it and said, “Welcome aboard. Have a seat.”
Lacy took quick stock of her surroundings. Without sitting, she said, “Are we alone?”
“Well, not entirely. I have a friend who enjoys boating with me. Name is Carlita. Would you like to meet her?”
“Only if she’s important to your story.”
“She is not.” Mix was looking at the marina, where Hugo was leaning on a rail. Hugo waved, as if to say, “I’m watching everything.” Mix waved back and said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Lacy said.
“Is it safe to assume that whatever I’m about to tell you will be rehashed with Mr. Hatch in short order?”
“He’s my colleague. We work together on some cases, maybe this one. How do you know his name?”
“I happen to own a computer. Checked out the website. BJC really should update it.”
“I know. Budget cuts.”
“His name vaguely rings a bell.”
“He had a brief career as a football player at Florida State.”
“Maybe that’s it. I’m a Gator fan myself.”
Lacy refused to respond to this. It was so typical of the South, where folks attached themselves to college football teams with a fanaticism she’d always found irksome.
Mix said, “So he’ll know everything?”
“Yes.”
“Call him over. I’ll get us something to drink.”
2
Carlita served drinks from a wooden tray—diet sodas for Lacy and Hugo, a bottle of beer for Mix. She was a pretty Hispanic lady, at least twenty years his junior, and she seemed pleased to have guests, especially another woman.
Lacy made a note on her legal pad and said, “A quick question. The phone you used fifteen minutes ago had a different number than the phone you used last week.”
“Is that a question?” Mix replied.
“It’s close enough.”
“Okay. I use a lot of prepaid phones. And I move around all the time. I’m assuming the number I have for you is a cell phone issued by your employer, correct?”
“That’s right. We don’t use personal phones for state business, so my number is not likely to change.”
“That’ll make it simpler, I guess. My phones change by the month, sometimes by the week.”
So far, in their first five minutes together, everything Mix said had only opened the door for more questions. Lacy was still miffed at being stood up for lunch, and she didn’t like the first impression he made. She said, “Okay, Mr. Mix, at this point Hugo and I go silent. You start talking. Tell us your story, and if it has huge gaps that require us to fish around and stumble in the dark, then we’ll get bored and go home. You were coy enough on the phone to lure me here. Start talking.”
Mix looked at Hugo with a smile and asked, “She always this blunt?”
Hugo, unsmiling, nodded yes. He folded his hands on the table and waited. Lacy put down her pen.
Mix swallowed a mouthful of beer and began: “I practiced law for thirty years in Pensacola. Small firm—we usually had five or six lawyers. Back in the day we did well and life was good. One of my early clients was a developer, a real high roller who built condos, subdivisions, hotels, strip malls, the typical Florida stuff that goes up overnight. I never trusted the guy but he was making so much money I finally took the bait. He got me in some deals, small slices here and there, and for a while it all worked. I started dreaming of getting rich, which, in Florida anyway, can lead to serious trouble. My friend was cooking the books and taking on way too much debt, stuff I didn’t know about. Turns out there were some bogus loans, bogus everything, really, and the FBI came in with one of its patented RICO cluster bombs and indicted half of Pensacola, me included. A lot of folks got burned—developers, bankers, realtors, lawyers, and other shysters. You probably didn’t hear about it because you investigate judges, not lawyers. Anyway, I flipped, sang like a choirboy, got a deal, pled to one count of mail fraud, and spent sixteen months in a federal camp. Lost my license and made a lot of enemies. Now I lie low. I applied for reinstatement and got my license back. I have one client these days, and he’s the guy we’ll talk about from now on. Questions?” From the empty chair, he retrieved an unmarked file and handed it to Lacy. “Here’s the scoop on me. Newspaper articles, my plea agreement, all the stuff you might need. I’m legit, or as legit an any ex-con can be, and every word I’m saying is true.”
“What’s your address now?” Hugo asked.
“I have a brother up in Myrtle Beach and I use his address for legal purposes. Carlita has a place in Tampa and I get some mail there. Basically, though, I live on this boat. I have phones, fax, Wi-Fi, a small shower, cold beer, and a nice lady. I’m a happy guy. We bounce around Florida, the Keys, the Bahamas. Not a bad retirement, thanks to Uncle Sam.”