The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(90)

Dubose still had them baffled. They were now in agreement that the name had to be fictitious, and that he had done a marvelous job for the past thirty or forty years living as someone else. As to bloodlines, the past was murky. Given the moral vagaries of their ancestors, it was proving to be difficult ascertaining the degree to which the Cousins were actually related. But this mattered only in their search for Vonn’s real identity.

Clyde gave them the names of seven other managers. So far, the FBI had identified almost thirty bars, restaurants, hotels, shopping centers, strip clubs, liquor stores, convenience stores, residential developments, gated communities, and golf courses believed to be managed by the eight men, including Clyde. Every single entity was owned by an offshore company, most registered in Belize, the Bahamas, or the Cayman Islands.

Their investigation was expanding by the hour. Their boss in Jacksonville was committing all the manpower and resources Tallahassee was asking for. Luna, Pacheco’s supervisor, had dropped everything and was running the operation. The U.S. Attorney’s Office had four lawyers tag teaming with the FBI.

Pacheco was wired and all business. They were pulling twenty hours a day; he seemed to have little interest in Lacy, at least outside the office. When he raced off, Geismar asked her, “Are you seeing him?”

“Just saw him.”

“You know what I mean.”

“We’ve had a lunch, two dinners, and two late-night bottles of wine. I think I like him but we’re going real slow.”

“Don’t you always go slow?”

“I do. Does it bother you?”

“Sort of. It’s in the gray area.”

“He and I have talked about it. We’re on the same side of the street, but not in the same office. He couldn’t date another agent in this town, but their rules do not include me. You want me to break it off??”

“What if I said yes?”

“You’re the boss and I would do as instructed. He’ll be around. He’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m not asking. I think you’re okay with him, but just be careful what you say. You can rest assured he’s not telling us everything.”

“True, but he knows a lot more than we do.”





36





During the slow drive home, JoHelen mulled her options and realized that none were attractive. She couldn’t simply run away and disappear. She had to at least go inside and look around and see if anything was missing, though the footage clearly showed the intruder leaving with nothing of hers. He was inside for ninety-three minutes, far too long for the monthly service. He came and went without a key but with her alarm pass code. What would stop him from returning at two in the morning for another house call? Should she stay at home or leave? If she left, where would she go?

She cursed Cooley with a bitterness that surprised her. They had started this little conspiracy joined at the hip, partners in a scheme to do good and make a bundle along the way, but now he had cracked up. He was gone, running away before Dubose could get him too, and leaving her behind, unguarded, vulnerable, frightened, and directionless.

The gate was opened automatically by the magnetic sticker on her parking decal. Sandy Gables, unit 58. She parked in her driveway, stared at her home, and knew it would never be the same. This was the moment, right? Stay? Run? Hide? How was she supposed to know? At this critical point, she was supposed to have a friend to protect her.

She grabbed her purse, got out, and walked to the front door. She unlocked it but did not open it. Across the street she saw Mr. Armstrong puttering around his carport. She went over and explained that her door was unlocked and she was spooked. Could he come over? She hated to ask and she was probably overreacting anyway, but nowadays a girl can’t be too careful, can she? Mr. Armstrong was a kindly soul, retired and bored, and he said sure. They entered together and she turned off the alarm. He stood in the den and talked about his wife’s latest flare-up of shingles as JoHelen scurried about, checking every room while asking every conceivable question about the affliction. She poked in the closets, looked under the beds, in the showers, the pantry, anywhere a person could possibly hide. She knew no one was there but it didn’t matter. If she didn’t at least search the place she couldn’t think of staying.

She thanked Mr. Armstrong and offered him a diet soda. He seized the opportunity for a chat and an hour later was still there. She was in no hurry to be alone. When he finally left, she sat in the den and tried to collect her thoughts. A plank popped in the attic and she jumped out of her skin. As her heart raced and her breathing intensified, she listened for another sound. Could it be a footstep? But there was nothing but silence. She made up her mind to leave and quickly changed into jeans. What to pack? If they were watching and she left with a piece of luggage, her plans would be obvious. She could wait until dark and sneak a bag to her car, maybe two, but she had no desire to be in the house after dark. She took her bulkiest purse and packed it with toiletries and underwear. She filled a paper grocery sack with an empty gym bag and two changes of clothing. There were stores in the area; she could always buy what she needed.

As she drove away, she waved at Mr. Armstrong and wondered when she might return.

She drove south to the beaches, turned west on Highway 98, and drifted with the traffic along the coast, through seaside communities, and along the occasional stretch of untouched shoreline. As she drove she tried to watch everything behind her, but soon gave up. If they wanted to track her across the country, how was she supposed to stop them? She filled up with gas in Destin and kept going, soon skirting around Pensacola on smaller roads. When she realized she was in Alabama she turned east and made a long loop back to Interstate 10. At dark she stopped at a motel and paid cash for a room.