The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(52)

“It’s unlikely the FBI will get involved if we’re not involved first. As you know, the agency has shown an extreme reluctance to stick its nose into Indian matters. So, our plans are to serve your complaint on McDover. She’ll have thirty days to respond. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

“You must protect my identity at all times, Lacy. If you can’t promise that, then I’m checking out now. And, I’m not working directly with the FBI. You can, and I’ll feed you everything we get from the mole, but I will have no contact with the FBI. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“And you be careful, Lacy. These are dangerous people and they’re desperate.”

“I get it, Greg. They killed Hugo, didn’t they?”

“They did, and I’m sorry. I wish I’d never called you.”

“Too late for that.”

He pulled a thin burner from his pocket and handed it over. “Use this for the next month. I have one too.”

She held it in the palm of her hand as if it were stolen, then finally nodded and said, “Okay, I guess.”

“In thirty days, I’ll send you another one. Keep it close at all times. If the wrong people get it, I’m a dead man, and I wouldn’t like your chances either.”

She watched him drive away, in a rented car with Ohio plates, and gripped his cheap phone while wondering how in the world she had gotten herself into such a mess. During her first nine years at BJC, her most interesting case had been a Duval County circuit court judge who preyed on attractive women going through bad divorces on his docket. He’d also preyed on court reporters, clerks, and secretaries, any female, really, who had a nice figure and was unlucky enough to get near his courtroom. Lacy forced him to resign and he later went to jail.

But nothing like this.

—

The inevitable moment had arrived, and Lacy was not ready for it. Nor would she ever be; thus she had no choice. Simon, her neighbor, agreed to ride along and talk her through it. Tentatively, she approached the small Ford rental, a loaner provided by her insurance policy and delivered the day before. She opened the door and slowly eased herself behind the wheel. She gripped it hard and felt her pulse hammering through her hands. Simon got in, put on his seat belt, and suggested that she do the same. She inserted the key, started the engine, and sat paralyzed as the air-conditioning slowly came to life.

“Take a deep breath,” he said. “This is going to be easy.”

“There is nothing easy about it.” She gently pulled the gear shift into reverse and released the brake. When the car actually moved she felt a wave of dizziness and hit the brake again.

“Come on, Lacy. Let’s get this over with,” he said, a Brit with one of those stiff upper lips. “You have no choice.”

“I know, I know.” She released the brake again and inched backward. She turned and left the space free, then stopped and moved the gear shift into drive. No other car was moving in the small lot next to her building, but she feared them anyway.

Too cheerily, Simon said, “Now, Lacy, one must take pressure off the brake for the vehicle to move forward.”

“I know, I know,” she repeated, almost mumbling. The car began to ease forward, then turned and stopped at the street, which was lightly traveled on a busy day. “Take a right here,” he said. “I see nothing coming.”

“My hands are sweaty,” she said.

“So are mine. It’s hot as hell in here. Now, move along, Lacy. You’re doing fine. All is well.”

She turned onto the street and pressed the accelerator. It was impossible to ignore the memories of her last drive, but she tried her best. Mumbling helped, and she kept saying, “This is working. This is working.”

“You’re great, Lacy. A bit more speed if you will.”

She glanced at the speedometer as it topped twenty, then began to slow for a stop sign. She made the block, then another. Fifteen minutes later, she was back at the apartment, dry-mouthed and drenched with sweat.

“Shall we do it again?” Simon asked.

“Give me an hour,” she said. “I need to lie down.”

“As you wish, dear. Just give me a ring.”





21





None of the three had ever visited the town of Sterling, population thirty-five hundred, and after a quick loop around the hideous courthouse they were certain they would not want to drop in again. Michael parked his SUV near a war memorial and the three got out. Certain they were being watched, they walked purposefully along the front sidewalk and through the main door. For this somber occasion Michael and Justin wore dark suits, as if they were entering the courthouse for a major trial. Justin was just along for the ride, and to provide some muscle and give the impression that BJC had the manpower and meant business.

Lacy wore black slacks and flat shoes. She could walk without a limp but her left knee was still swollen. She also wore a beige blouse and a silk Hermès scarf on her head. She had debated whether to walk into the meeting with no hat, no scarf, nothing to hide her shaved scalp and jagged cut with the suture indentions still fresh. On the one hand, she wanted Claudia McDover to see the damage, to be forced to stare at a living, breathing casualty of her corruption. But on the other hand, Lacy’s vanity said cover it up.