The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(84)
A putrid odor began radiating from the wastebasket. An agent took it to the restroom.
Hahn took a step toward the table and said proudly, “Plus, we have records of all calls on both phones for the past two years. We’re tracking down those numbers as we speak. Somewhere in there is Vonn Dubose. We’ll eventually find his number.”
Westbay appeared to stop breathing. He gawked wild-eyed at Pacheco across the table, and finally managed to say, “I want a lawyer.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
His mind was paralyzed at the moment. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the name of a lawyer, any lawyer, or anyone who could possibly rescue him. There was a real estate lawyer he played golf with; a bankruptcy lawyer he drank with; a divorce lawyer who’d banished his first wife; and so on. Finally, “Okay, Gary Bullington.”
Pacheco shrugged and said, “Call him. Let’s hope he makes house calls.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“I got it,” said one of the other agents, looking at his laptop. He rattled off the number but Westbay’s hands were shaking too badly. He succeeded on the third try and stuck the phone to his ear. Mr. Bullington was in a meeting, but Westbay wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he waited, he looked at Pacheco and asked, “Can I have some privacy?”
Pacheco said, “Why bother? We’re listening anyway. Judge gave us permission.”
“Please.”
“Sure. It’s your hotel. In the bedroom.” Pacheco led him into the bedroom, but remained there with him. It was amusing to hear Westbay introduce himself to Bullington when he finally got him on the other end. If the two had ever met, it was not apparent. Westbay tried to explain his predicament, but Bullington, the lawyer, kept peppering him with questions. With his back to Pacheco, Westbay struggled to complete a sentence. “No, yes, look, they’re here right now, the FBI, lots of them, in Fort Walton, at the hotel…Yes, the indictment…federal, but…Would you just listen to me? I need for you to come to the hotel immediately. Drop everything…Your fee? Sure, how much…You gotta be kidding…Yes, federal capital murder…An FBI agent is staring at me right now, hearing every word…Okay…”
Westbay turned to Pacheco and said, “The lawyer says for you to leave the room.”
“Tell the lawyer to kiss my ass. I’m not leaving.”
Westbay turned around and said, “He says to kiss his ass. Look, how much for just today, you know, for hustling over here and giving me some advice before they string me up?…Wow. Why so much?…I got it, I got it. Okay, but hurry up.”
Westbay ended the call and said, “He says it’ll take him an hour.”
“We’re in no hurry, Clyde. In fact, we’ve got the suite for two days, at a rate that’s supposed to be off season but is still too high.”
They returned to the front room, where Hahn and the other agents were tinkering with two cameras on tripods. Pacheco said, “Now, Clyde, this is not an interrogation. We’ll wait for your lawyer before we quiz you. But to play it safe, we’re going to record everything that happens from this point forward. We don’t want some gunslinger to later claim there was a Miranda violation, do we? While we wait on Mr. Bullington, we have some video footage you might find interesting.”
Westbay was seated at the table, as was Pacheco. A laptop was placed between them and Hahn pressed a key. Pacheco said, “This is actual footage of the Dodge Ram being stolen in Foley, Alabama, you know the one you paid cash for at that bar just east of Pensacola on the evening of August 22, while young Zeke Foreman waited in your truck, the one with the fake Florida tags. Take a look.”
Westbay’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits as he stared at the screen. After seeing it the second time, he asked, “Who shot the video?”
Pacheco held up his hands. “Hold it! You don’t interrogate. We don’t interrogate. Not until your lawyer is here. This is simply for your own information. Perhaps these videos will help you make some good decisions later in the day.”
Hahn explained the second video, the one from Frog Freeman’s store. When Clyde saw himself parking the truck and getting out, his shoulders sagged an inch or so. With the sagging, the vomiting, the near fainting, the face blanching, and the weak, unsteady voice, Westbay was turning into putty. Allie sensed a quick kill, though the lawyer could complicate things, as they so often did.
Twisting the knife, Pacheco said, “Pretty stupid to park directly in front of the store and get your picture taken.” Westbay nodded in defeat.
Hahn ran the second video twice and asked, “Seen enough?”
Westbay nodded and sat back in his seat. Allie said, “Since we have some time to kill, there’s a much longer video we think you’ll find equally compelling. We had a chat with your pal Zeke Foreman a few days ago. Remember Zeke?”
“I’m not answering any questions.”
“Right. So we roughed him up a bit, scared the boy really, and he started singing. I mean, he really sang. Play the music, Hahn.”
Zeke’s frightened face appeared on the laptop. He swore to tell the truth, then did so for fifty-six minutes. Clyde listened intently, as his life slipped away with each minute.
—
By the time Gary Bullington arrived, the FBI had his profile, which was not that impressive. He was forty years old, a basic ham-and-egg street hustler with two billboards to his name and a practice that yearned for lucrative car wrecks but survived on workers’ comp and mid-level drug cases. His billboard image was that of a well-dressed young lawyer with a thin waist and plenty of hair, obviously Photoshopped for advertising and ego purposes. In the flesh, he wore a wrinkled suit that stretched around a belly, and wild hair that was both graying and thinning. After awkward introductions, he took his client into the bedroom, slammed the door, and kept him there for another hour.