The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(36)

“We’re still investigating, sir,” Gritt said. “Perhaps you could shed some light on their activities here last night.”

“Perhaps, but not yet. We’ll get to that later.”

“An investigation will require full cooperation, sir. I need to know everything. What were they doing here?”

“I can’t give you those details right now,” Geismar said, fully aware that he was only adding to the suspicion. At that moment, though, he couldn’t afford to trust anyone. “Look, a man has been killed in a very suspicious car wreck. I need your word that the vehicles will be impounded and preserved until someone can examine them.”

“Someone? Who do you have in mind, sir?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Need I remind you that this happened on Tappacola land and we do the investigating around here? No one looks over our shoulder.”

“Sure, I understand that. I’m just a bit rattled, okay? Give me some time to think this through.”

Gritt stood and walked to a table in the corner of his office. “Take a look at this stuff,” he said. In the center of the table there was a large, stylish lady’s handbag and next to it was a set of keys. Two feet away was a wallet and keys. Michael stepped closer and stared at them. Gritt said, “When there is a fatality, we normally go through the personal effects and make an inventory. I haven’t done that yet. I opened the wallet only to retrieve a business card. That’s how I found you. I have not looked inside the purse.”

“Where are their cell phones?” Michael asked.

Gritt was already shaking his head. “No cell phones. We checked all of his pockets and searched the car and found none.”

“That’s impossible,” Michael said, stunned. “Someone took their cell phones.”

“Are you sure they had them?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t carry a cell phone? And their phones would have their most recent calls, including the ones to the guy they were supposed to meet.”

“And who was this guy?”

“I don’t know. I swear.” Michael was rubbing his eyes. He suddenly gasped and asked, “What about their briefcases?”

Gritt shook his head again. “No sign of briefcases.”

“I need to sit down.” Michael fell into a chair at the table and stared in shock at the personal effects.

“Would you like some water?” Gritt asked.

“Please.” The briefcases would have the files, and the files would have everything. A wave of nausea rolled through Michael as he thought of Vonn Dubose and Claudia McDover sifting through the paperwork. Photos of the four condos, photos of Vonn himself and Claudia going to and from their meeting, photos of the judge catching her flight to New York, all the detailed travel records, a copy of Greg Myers’s complaint, memos from Sadelle, everything. Everything.

Michael sipped water from a bottle and wiped sweat from his forehead. When he had gathered enough strength to stand he did so, and said, “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow to retrieve this stuff and look at the vehicles. Right now I need to get to the office. Please keep everything secure.”

“That’s our job, sir.”

“And I need to take her keys, if that’s okay.”

“I see no problem.”

Michael took the keys, thanked the constable, and walked outside. He called Justin Barrow at BJC and instructed him to go immediately to Lacy’s apartment and find the manager. Explain what had happened and that Lacy’s boss had the key and was on the way. Since they did not know the code to her security system they needed the manager to disarm it. He said, “Watch the apartment until I get there. Make sure no one comes and goes.”

Racing back to Tallahassee, Michael tried to convince himself that Lacy and Hugo, in all likelihood, would not have taken their briefcases with them. They would not have needed them, right? They were making a late-night rendezvous with an unknown witness. What good would the files have been? But then he knew they, like every other investigator, indeed every other lawyer, rarely went anywhere on business without the old trusty briefcase. He kicked himself for BJC’s rather lax policy on file security. Did they really have a policy? Since all of their cases were handled with utmost confidentiality, it was a matter of practice to keep the files secure. It went with the territory, and he’d never felt the need to remind his staff to guard things.

He stopped twice for coffee and to stretch his legs. He battled fatigue by staying on the phone. He called Justin, who was at Lacy’s apartment. The manager would not allow him inside until her boss arrived with her key. As he drove and gulped coffee, Geismar talked to two reporters who had called the office. He called Verna and spoke to a sister. Not surprisingly, she had little to say. Verna was in the bedroom with her two oldest children. He wanted to ask if someone could look for Hugo’s briefcase and cell phone, but the moment didn’t seem right. They had enough to worry about. His secretary put together a conference call with his staff and he answered as many questions as possible. Understandably, they were too shocked to work.

The manager insisted on being present when they entered Lacy’s apartment. Michael found the right key to the front door and opened it, and the manager quickly disarmed the security. Frankie, her French bulldog, was yelping for food and water and had made a mess in the kitchen. The manager said, “Okay, I’ll feed the damned thing while you guys hurry up.” As he looked for dog food, Michael and Justin went from room to room. Justin found Lacy’s briefcase on a chair in her bedroom. Michael carefully opened it and removed a legal pad and two files. They were the official BJC work files, each with the case number, and between the two they contained all the valuable paperwork. They found her iPhone recharging on a bathroom counter. They thanked the manager, who was wiping the floor and mumbling just loud enough to be heard, and left with the briefcase and the iPhone.