The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(83)

Clyde looked him over and asked, “Are you a guest here?”

“I am. The Dolphin Suite. Name is Allie Pacheco, FBI.”

Clyde’s gaze dropped to the sandals as Allie pulled out his badge.

“What’s the FBI doing in my hotel?”

“Paying a fat rate for an okay suite. We’re here to talk to you.”

The elevator stopped on the third floor, but Clyde did not get off. No one got on. The door closed and they continued upward.

“Maybe I’m busy right now.”

“So are we. Just a few questions, that’s all.”

Clyde shrugged and stepped off on the sixth floor. He followed Pacheco to the end and watched as he opened the door to the Dolphin Suite.

“How do you like my hotel?” Clyde asked.

“It’s okay. Room service sucks. Found a cockroach in my shower this morning. Dead.”

Inside were three other gentlemen, all in shorts and sandals, along with a young lady who looked as though she was ready for tennis. The men were FBI. She was Rebecca Webb, Assistant U.S. Attorney.

Westbay looked around the spacious room and said, “Well, I don’t really like the looks of this party. I suppose I could order you out of my hotel.”

Pacheco said, “Sure, we’ll be happy to leave, but you’re going with us, in handcuffs and ankle chains, right through the main lobby, a perp walk for the benefit of your guests and employees. We might even tip off the local reporters.”

“I’m under arrest?”

“You are, for capital murder.”

His face turned pale and his knees buckled. He reached for the back of a chair and fumbled his way into it. Agent Hahn handed him a bottle of water, which he gulped as it splashed down his chin. He breathed deeply and looked into the eyes of the agents, desperate for help. An innocent man might have already protested.

Finally, he managed to mumble, “This can’t be happening.” But it was, and Westbay’s life was over. He was now entering a nightmare.

Rebecca Webb placed some papers in his lap and said, “Here’s the indictment, sealed, handed down yesterday by a federal grand jury in Tallahassee. One count of capital murder, punishable by death. The killing of Hugo Hatch was a murder for hire; thus the aggravating circumstances make it a capital case. Plus the stolen truck you bought for cash crossed a state line. Not very smart.”

“I didn’t do it,” he almost whimpered. “I swear.”

“Swear all you want to, Clyde. It’s not going to help,” Pacheco said in mock sympathy.

“I want a lawyer.”

“Great. We’ll get one for you, but first some paperwork. Let’s sit over here at the table and have a chat.” The table was small and round, with only two chairs. Westbay took one and Pacheco sat opposite. Hahn and the other two agents stood behind Pacheco, a show of force that was intimidating in spite of the golf shirts, shorts, and pale legs.

Pacheco said, “As far as we can determine, you have no criminal record, right?”

“Right.”

“So, is this your first arrest?”

“I think so, yes.” Thinking was difficult. He was bewildered, his eyes darting from face to face.

Pacheco slowly and crisply read Clyde his Miranda rights, then handed him a sheet of paper with the language printed. He shook his head as he read, some of the color finally returning to his face. He signed his name at the bottom with a pen Pacheco helpfully handed over.

“Do I have the right to make a phone call?” Westbay asked.

“Sure, but you need to know that we’ve been listening to your phone calls for the past three days. You have at least two cell phones, and if you use one now we’ll hear every word.”

“You what?” Westbay asked, incredulous.

Ms. Webb produced another set of papers and placed them on the table. “Here’s the wiretapping warrant signed by a U.S. magistrate.”

Pacheco said, “It appears as though you use the iPhone for most of your personal calls. Your Nokia is paid for by the hotel and seems to be used for business, and for calls to your girlfriend, Tammy James, a former waitress at Hooters. I’m assuming your wife does not know about Miss Tammy.”

Clyde’s jaw dropped but he couldn’t speak. Could the revelations about Tammy be more troubling than the murder charge? Perhaps, but his brain was scrambled and nothing made sense.

Pacheco, thoroughly enjoying the moment, continued, “And by the way, we got a warrant for Tammy’s phone too, and she’s also sleeping with a guy named Burke and another named Walter, and there could be others. But you need to forget about Tammy because your chances of ever touching her warm body again are quite slim.”

From somewhere in Westbay’s throat there was a rumbling, burping noise that only one agent managed to read. He grabbed a plastic wastebasket and said, “Here” just as the defendant turned and began retching loudly. His face turned blood red as he gagged and wheezed and finally managed to vomit properly. Everyone looked away for a few seconds, though the sounds were just as sickening. When all of his breakfast was finally at the bottom of the bin, Westbay wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He kept his head down and made a strange whimpering noise. An agent handed him a wet hand towel and he wiped his mouth again. Eventually, he sat up straight and gritted his teeth, as if now fortified and ready for the firing squad.