The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(31)
Hugo said, “Please keep digging. We need plenty of help.”
“You’re not serious about dismissing my complaint. I mean, hell, look at the photos. How can you argue she doesn’t own this condo when she’s been going there for at least seven years and she has the key? It’s registered to a shell in Belize and it’s worth, on today’s market, at least a million.”
“Does she ever spend the night there, or entertain?” Lacy asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“I checked it out last week,” Hugo said. “Played golf and took photos from the fairway.”
Myers shot him a quizzical look. “What did you learn?”
“Absolutely nothing. A complete waste of time, like most rounds of golf.”
“Try bonefishing. It’s much more fun.”
—
As Lacy was painting her toenails near the end of a Cary Grant movie, her phone buzzed with an unknown caller. A voice told her it might be Myers, and the voice was right.
“Breaking news,” he said. “Tomorrow is Friday.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Hang on. Looks like the girls are headed to New York. Claudia will catch a jet at the airport at Panama City around noon, exact time doesn’t matter because when you lease a jet you leave when you want. Lear 60, tail number N38WW, owned and operated by a charter company based in Mobile. Presumably, her lawyer pal will be on board and they’re off to New York for fun and games, probably with a sackful of cash to do some serious shopping. In case you don’t know, there’s virtually no security with private jet travel. No scanners for bags or body searches. I guess the smart guys at Homeland Security figure rich people have little interest in blowing up their own jets en route. Anyway, you could literally pack a hundred pounds of pure heroin and fly anywhere domestically.”
“Interesting, but where’s the payoff??”
“If I were you, and if I had nothing better to do, I’d be hanging around the general aviation terminal, it’s called Gulf Aviation, and have a look. I’d keep Hugo in the car because you don’t see too many black folks in the charter business so he might stand out. I’d also keep him in the car with a camera to take a few photos. Maybe Phyllis will get off the plane for a pit stop in the girls’ room. Who knows? You might learn a lot and you can certainly see who you’re dealing with.”
“Would I be conspicuous?”
“Lacy, dear, you’re always conspicuous. You’re too pretty not to be. Wear some jeans, pull your hair back, try different glasses. You’ll be okay. There’s a lounge area with magazines and newspapers and people sit there all the time. If anybody asks, just say you’re waiting on a passenger. The place is open to the public so you won’t be trespassing. I’d take a good look at Claudia. See what she’s wearing, but also what she’s taking with her. I wouldn’t expect to see pockets stuffed with cash, but there might be an extra bag or two. Sort of a lark but not a bad way to spend some time. Personally, I’d like the chance to bump into a Florida gal who just happens to be the most corrupt judge in the history of America. And one who will soon be all over the front page, though she hasn’t a clue. Go for it.”
“We’ll give it a try.”
11
Judge McDover parked close to the space where Hugo sat rather awkwardly in Lacy’s Prius, his face hidden behind a newspaper, his camera by his side. To go with his collection of thoroughly useless photos of the east nine at Rabbit Run, he could now add a few shots of a Lear 60 out there on the tarmac. As Claudia rolled her small suitcase across the parking lot and headed for the front door of Gulf Aviation, he snapped a few of her backside. At fifty-six, she was slender and, at least from the rear, could pass for a lady twenty years younger. Actually, he had to admit, from this angle she looked better than Verna, who, after child number four, was struggling to drop the weight. He simply couldn’t stop the habit of staring at the backsides of all nicely shaped females.
After she disappeared inside, Hugo put away his camera and his newspaper and fell asleep.
—
After years in crime, Claudia McDover had gradually learned how to think like a suspect. She noticed everything, from the black guy sitting in the passenger’s seat of the small Toyota reading a newspaper, which seemed a bit odd at noon, to the cute redhead who worked the front desk and gave her a big smile, to the harried business guy in the dark suit whose flight was obviously late, to the pretty girl on the sofa flipping through a copy of Vanity Fair. She seemed a bit out of place. In a matter of seconds Claudia sized up the lobby, deemed it safe and clear, and filed away all the faces. In her world, every phone could be tapped, every stranger could be watching, every letter could be violated, every e-mail could be hacked. But she wasn’t paranoid and did not live in fear. She was only cautious, and after years of practice her caution was second nature.
A young man in a crisp uniform stepped forward, introduced himself as one of the pilots, and took her suitcase. The cute redhead hit a button, the doors slid open, and Claudia left the terminal. Such exits, though short on drama and unwitnessed by the world, still gave her a thrill. While the masses queued up in endless lines and waited for flights that were crowded, delayed, or canceled, and finally, if lucky, were then herded like cattle onto dirty airplanes packed with seats far too narrow for modern American rumps, she, Judge Claudia McDover of Florida’s Twenty-Fourth Judicial District, strolled like a queen to her private jet, where the champagne was on ice and the flight would be on time and nonstop.