The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(30)
Myers shoved his empty shrimp basket aside, took another swallow, and from his ever-present olive-colored leather courier bag removed two unmarked files. He glanced around and handed one file to Lacy and one to Hugo. All the photos were eight by ten and in color, and apparently taken from across the street. Number one was the rear of the Lexus with the license plate clearly identifiable.
Greg said, “Of course I checked the tags; car’s registered to our gal Claudia McDover, evidently one of the few assets in her name. Purchased new last year from a dealer in Pensacola.”
Number two was full length of Claudia, her face partially hidden behind large sunglasses. Lacy studied her four-inch heels and asked, “How do you know who designed the shoes?”
“The mole knows,” Myers said, and left it at that.
Number three was Claudia with her back to the camera as she opened the front door, presumably with a key, though one was not visible. Number four was the black Mercedes SUV parked beside the Lexus, its license plate also clearly visible. Myers said, “It’s registered to a man whose address is a high-rise condo near Destin, and not surprisingly his name is not Vonn Dubose. We’re still digging. Take a look at number five.”
Number five was the man himself, a nice-looking, well-tanned Florida retiree in a golf shirt and golf slacks, thin and balding with a gold watch on his left wrist. Myers said, “To my knowledge, and I have no idea what’s in the FBI files, but I suspect they have nothing, this is the only photo of Vonn Dubose.”
“Who took it?” Lacy asked.
“Guy with a camera. It’s also on video. Let’s just say the mole is resourceful.”
“Not good enough, Greg,” Lacy shot back with a flash of anger. “It’s obvious someone is watching McDover’s movements. Who is it? You’re still playing cat and mouse and I’d like to know why.”
Hugo said, “Look, Greg, we need to trust you, but we have to know what you know. Someone is following McDover. Who the hell is it?”
Out of habit, and an irritating one, Myers glanced around again, saw things were still clear, removed his aviator shades, and said in a low voice, “I get my information from the middleman, still unnamed as far as you’re concerned. He deals with the mole, whose name I still don’t know and I’m still not sure I want to know. When the mole has something important to pass along, the middleman tracks me down, hands it over, I give it to you. I’m sorry if you don’t like this arrangement, but please keep in mind that the mole and the middleman and me and you and everyone involved in this little story could easily wake up dead one day, with a bullet between the eyes. I don’t care if you trust me or not. My job is to pass along enough information to help you nail Judge Claudia McDover. What else do you need?” A quick sip from his sweaty mug, and, “Now, please return to photo number five. We don’t know if this guy is Vonn Dubose, but let’s assume he is. Check out his bag. Brown leather, large, more of a satchel than a briefcase, well worn, or maybe just the distressed look that’s currently popular, and not small. This is no thin attaché containing a couple of files. No, this bag is being used to carry something. What? Well, our guy speculates that McDover and Dubose meet on the first Wednesday of each month for an exchange. Why would Dubose, who’s dressed like a golfer, need a rather significant bag this late in the day? He’s obviously delivering something. Check out photo number six. It was taken thirty-six minutes after number five. Same guy, same bag. If you study the video, you can argue that the bag possibly weighs less just by the way he moves with it. Frankly, I can’t tell.”
“So he takes her the cash once a month,” Lacy said.
“He takes something to the condo.”
“How recent are these photos?” Hugo asked.
“Twelve days ago, August 3.”
“But there’s no way to verify if this is really Vonn Dubose?” Lacy asked.
“Not to my knowledge. Again, Dubose has never been arrested. He has no criminal record, no identity. He uses only cash for living expenses. He hides behind underlings and associates and leaves no trail. We’ve done some digging, and I’m sure you have too, and there’s no driver’s license, Social Security number, or passport issued to a Vonn Dubose, anywhere in this country. He has a driver, as we can see. He could be living as Joe Blow for all we know, with perfect papers.”
Myers reached into his trick bag and pulled out two more files. He handed one to Hugo and one to Lacy, who asked, “What’s this?”
“A detailed summary of McDover’s travel over the past seven years. Dates, places, chartered jets, and so on. She almost always goes with her buddy Phyllis Turban, who hires the jets and pays the bills. Turban also books the rooms when they use hotels. She handles all the details. Nothing, so far, is in McDover’s name.”
“And why is this valuable?” Lacy asked.
“By itself, it’s not that useful, but it does lend credence to the theory that these high-flying gals spend a shit pot full of money jetting around the country, presumably buying valuable things with dirty cash. Their combined earnings would not cover the cost of the jet fuel. We know the judge’s salary. I can guess what Turban nets, and I’ll bet it’s less than McDover’s take-home. There might come a time when it’s necessary to build a case based on net worth and consumption and assets, so I’m gathering all the dirt I can find.”