The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(62)

For a moment no one said a word. Michael broke the silence with “I think we understand, but organized crime does go on.”

Luna actually smiled and said, “Sure it does. And I think this is a perfect case for the FBI, but I’m not so sure our boss will agree.”

“Is it fair to ask what your recommendation will be?” Lacy asked.

“It’s fair to ask but I can’t give you an answer right now. We’ll kick it around here for a couple of days, then send it to Jacksonville with a report.” His body language suggested he didn’t want to get involved. Pacheco’s suggested he was ready to whip out his badge and start grabbing witnesses. Hahn revealed nothing.

Lacy collected her papers and placed them into a neat stack. The meeting was over. She said, “Well, thank you for listening. You’ve been very generous with your time. We will proceed with our investigation and wait to hear from you.”

Pacheco walked with them out of the office and rode with them on the elevator, eager to spend as much time with them as possible. Michael watched him carefully. When he and Lacy were alone in his car, he said, “He’ll call you within twenty-four hours and it will have nothing to do with a casino.”

“You’re right,” Lacy said.

“Nice job in there.”





25





Like clockwork, the receptionist tapped on the door at 9:00 a.m. and without waiting for a reply laid the morning mail on Lacy’s desk. She smiled and said thanks. All the junk had been culled and set aside for “Florida Recycles!” That left six envelopes addressed to Lacy, five with proper return addresses. The sixth looked somewhat suspicious so she opened it first. In a handwritten scrawl it read,


To Lacy Stoltz: This is Wilton Mace. I tried to call but your phone isn’t working. We need to talk, and soon. My number is 555-996-7702. I’m in town, waiting. Wilton



Using her desk phone, she immediately called the number. Wilton answered and they had a brief conversation. He was in the DoubleTree hotel, three blocks from the Capitol, had been there since the day before waiting for her call, and wanted to meet face-to-face. He had important information. Lacy said she was on her way, and promptly relayed the conversation to Geismar, who was being overly protective and irritating her. He agreed, though, that a meeting in a busy downtown hotel held little danger. He was insisting that she advise him of any travel or interviews related to the McDover case. She agreed but doubted seriously if she would comply, even though her appetite for risk had been severely diminished.

As agreed, Wilton met her near the front entrance and they found a quiet table in a coffee bar at the edge of the lobby. For his trip to the big city he was dressed exactly as he had been when they met him under his shade tree a few weeks ago. It seemed like a year. Denim from head to toe, beads around his neck and wrists, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was reminded of how much he favored his brother. As they waited for their coffee he passed along his sincere sorrow about Hugo, a man he had liked. He asked about her injuries and said she looked great.

“How much do you know about the accident?” she asked. “What’s the buzz on the street?”

His words were just as slow in town as they had been on the reservation. The man was perpetually calm. “Lots of suspicions,” he said.

A waitress placed the cups before them—dark roast for Wilton, a latte for Lacy. After a long pause, she said, “Okay, I’m listening.”

“The name Todd Short ring a bell?” he asked.

“Maybe, I guess, somewhere. Help me out.”

“He was one of the two jailhouse snitches who testified against my brother. At different times before the trial, the cops placed each snitch in Junior’s cell, then pulled them out after a day or two. Both lied to the jury and said Junior bragged about killing the sonofabitch he caught with his wife. And for good measure he killed her too. It was very effective testimony and it nailed Junior.”

Lacy sipped her latte and nodded. She had nothing to add and she refused to drag it out of him. He had arranged this meeting.

“Anyway, not long after the trial, Todd Short disappeared. So did the other snitch, a punk named Robles. Years passed and everybody assumed the two had been rubbed out, probably by the same people who killed Son and Eileen. Now, fifteen years later, Short has resurfaced and we have spoken.”

A pause as more coffee was consumed. Lacy was about to ask, “Are you going to tell me what he said?” Wilton glanced around casually, cleared his throat, and said, “I met him three days ago, off the reservation. When I saw him I remembered how much I hated him. I wanted to smash his face with a rock, but we were in a public place, some kind of fried chicken joint. He starts off by saying he’s sorry and all that crap. He was a drifter with a drug habit and a criminal record and his life was going nowhere. He didn’t know Robles very well but he got word not long after the trial that the punk had probably been killed, so he took off. Went to California, where he’s been living under a rock ever since. Actually, he cleaned up his act and has had a decent life. Now he’s dying of cancer and wants to make nice, wants to bare his soul and confess his sins.”

“Which are?”

“Back then he was in jail in Sterling facing another drug charge, one that would get him locked up for years. He’d seen prison, didn’t want to go back, so he was easy bait for the cops. They offered the deal. The prosecutor agreed to let him plead to something ridiculous, and after a few weeks in the county jail he’d be a free man. All he had to do was spend a couple of days in the cell with Junior, then testify at trial. I was in the courtroom and saw it all. Short was a great witness, very believable, and the jury ate up every word of his testimony. It was irresistible. Who doesn’t like a good story about illicit sex? According to him, Junior enjoyed telling how he came home early, heard noises from the bedroom, realized what was happening, got his handgun, kicked open the bedroom door, and there was his wife and Son Razko going at it on the bed. In a rage, he shot Son twice in the head, and when Eileen wouldn’t stop screaming he shot her too. Then, and this has never made sense, he took Son’s wallet and fled the scene. All bullshit, of course, but Short sold the story to the jury. To claim it was an act of passion, an irresistible impulse, would have been to admit to the killings. Since Junior had nothing to do with it, he couldn’t use the obvious defense. As I’ve said, he had a bad lawyer.”