The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(96)

“I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“You cook often?”

“No. There’s no need. Gotta question for you.”

“Fire away.”

“At this point in the investigation, how does the informant figure into it?”

“Which informant?”

“The mole, the one close to McDover, the one feeding details to Cooley, who passed them on to Myers.”

Allie chewed on a mouthful of salad and studied her face. “He’s not important right now, but we’ll need him later.”

“He’s a she, and she called me yesterday, really frightened. Someone broke into her house and went through her things. She sees McDover daily and thinks the judge is suspicious.”

“Who is she?”

“I swore not to reveal her identity, at least not now. Maybe later. As I said, she’s frightened and confused and she doesn’t know who to trust.”

“She’ll eventually be an important witness.”

“I’m not sure she’ll come forward.”

“She may have no choice.”

“But you can’t make her testify.”

“No, we can’t, but there are ways to convince her. This stew is delicious.” He dipped a piece of bread into the broth and ate it with his fingers.

“I’m glad you like it. So are you working tomorrow?”

“Oh yes. The grand jury convenes at nine. I have to be there at eight for what should be another long day. Sunday as well.”

“You guys always work like this?”

“No, but then we rarely get cases this big. The adrenaline kicks in. Like this morning when I was in the back of the van with three of our technicians, temperature about 120, and we listened to Westbay as he met with Dubose. That can really get your heart rate up there. It’s a rush, and one of the reasons I love this job.”

“How much can you tell me?”

Allie glanced around the kitchen as if spies were at hand. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. What did Dubose say?”

“It’s beautiful.”





39





Lacy slept until almost seven Saturday, a late hour for her, and even then wasn’t ready to start the day. However, her dog, Frankie, was going through his usual early morning routine of sniffing and snorting and making sure she couldn’t sleep because he needed to pee. She finally turned him out and went for the coffee beans. While it was brewing, her iPhone buzzed. Allie Pacheco, 7:02.

“Enjoyed dinner,” he said. “Sleep well?”

“Great. You?”

“No, too much going on. Look, we picked up some chatter last night that is troublesome to say the least. I don’t suppose the informant you mentioned last night would be a court reporter.”

“Why?”

“Because if she’s McDover’s court reporter, then she’s in danger. We’re listening to a lot of phones right now, and I can’t give you the exact language, it was in some goofy semi-code, but it appears as though the boss has given the order.”

“She’s the informant, Allie. Myers called her the Whistler.”

“Well, they’re onto her. Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“Can you contact her?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do that and call me back.”

Lacy let the dog in and poured a cup of coffee. She picked up the burner and called JoHelen’s number. After the fifth ring, a timid voice said, “Is this Lacy?”

“It is. Where are you?”

A long pause, then, “What if someone is listening?”

“No one is listening. No one knows about these phones. Where are you?”

“Panama City Beach, a cheap hotel, paid in cash. I’m looking at the ocean.”

“I just spoke with the FBI. One of their wiretaps caught a conversation early this morning. They think you’re in danger.”

“I’ve been telling you that for two days.”

“Stay in your room. I’ll call the FBI.”

“No! Don’t do that, Lacy. Cooley told me to never trust the FBI. Don’t call them.”

Lacy bit a nail and looked down at Frankie, who now wanted breakfast. “You have to trust them, JoHelen. Your life is in danger.”

The phone went dead. Lacy called twice but with no answer. She quickly fed the dog, threw on some jeans, and left her apartment. Behind the wheel of her shiny new Mazda hatchback, which she’d bought four days earlier and was still trying to relax in, she called Allie and told him what was going on. He said that at the moment he was busy with the grand jury, but to keep him posted. JoHelen finally answered the fifth call. She sounded terrified and refused to give Lacy the name of the hotel. Lacy knew that Panama City Beach was a busy strip of Highway 98, with dozens of small hotels packed together on the ocean side and fast-food joints and T-shirt shops across the road.

“Why’d you hang up a while ago?” Lacy asked.

“I don’t know. I’m scared and I’m afraid someone is listening.”

“The phones are safe. Keep the door locked and if you see anything suspicious, call the front desk or the police. I’m on the way.”