The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(16)

Lacy sipped her coffee and nodded along, unconvinced.

Jeri said, “And there is a much more important reason I can’t go barging in with scant evidence. It’s terrifying, actually.”

“You’re afraid of him.”

“Damned right I am. He’s too smart to commit a murder and leave it alone. For twenty years I’ve operated under the assumption that he’s back there, watching, still covering his tracks.”

“And you want me to get involved?”

“You have to, Lacy. There’s no one else.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know, Jeri. I really don’t know. I’m sorry, but this is not sinking in yet.”

“If we don’t stop him, he’ll kill again.”

Lacy absorbed this and was rattled by the casual use of the pronoun “we.” She pushed her coffee cup away and said, “Jeri, I’ve had enough for one day. I need to digest this, sleep on it, try to get my bearings.”

“I get it, Lacy. And you have to understand that it’s lonely out here. For many years now I’ve lived with this. It has consumed my life and at times pushed me to the edge. I’ve spent hours in therapy and still have a long way to go. It caused my divorce and almost ruined my career. But I can’t quit. My father won’t allow it. I can’t believe I’m here now, finally at the point of telling someone, a person I trust.”

“I haven’t earned your trust.”

“But you have it anyway. There’s no one else. I need a friend, Lacy. Please don’t abandon me.”

“It’s not a question of abandoning you. The biggest issue is what am I supposed to do? We don’t investigate murders, Jeri. That’s for the state boys or maybe even the FBI. We’re just not equipped for work like this.”

“But you can help me, Lacy. You can listen to me, hold my hand. You can investigate on some level. The BJC has subpoena powers. In the casino case, you took down a crooked judge and an entire criminal gang.”

“With a lot of help from others, primarily the FBI. I’m not sure you understand how we work, Jeri. We don’t get involved in allegations of wrongdoing until someone files a complaint. Nothing happens until then.”

“Is the complaint anonymous?”

“Initially, yes. Later, no. After the complaint is filed we have forty-five days to investigate the allegations.”

“Does the judge know about your investigation?”

“That depends. Most of the time the judge knows he or she has a problem. The complaining party has made it known they’re unhappy and have issues. Some of these disputes have dragged on for months, even years. But, it’s not uncommon for the judge to get blindsided. If we decide the allegations have merit, which is rare, we file a formal notice with the judge.”

“And at that point he’ll know my name?”

“That’s usually how it works. I can’t remember a case where the complaining party remained completely anonymous.”

“But it could be done, right?”

“I’ll have to talk to the director, my boss.”

“That scares me, Lacy. My dream is to nail the man who killed my father. My other dream is to keep my name off his list. It’s too dangerous.”

Lacy glanced at her watch and shoved her cup away another inch or two. She exhaled and said, “Look, I’ve had a lot for one day and I have a long drive. Let’s take a break.”

“Sure, but you have to promise me complete confidentiality, Lacy. Understood?”

“Okay, but I have to discuss this with my boss.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“It’s a she and the answer is yes. This is delicate work, as you might guess. We’re dealing with the reputations of elected judges and we understand discretion. No one will know anything until they have to know. Fair enough?”

“I guess. But you have to keep me in the loop.”



* * *



—

The twenty-minute drive back to the cemetery was subdued. To keep things light, Lacy asked about Jeri’s daughter, Denise, a graduate student at the University of Michigan. No, she did not remember her grandfather and knew little about his murder. Jeri was intrigued by Lacy’s life as an attractive single woman who had never married, but that conversation fizzled. Lacy was accustomed to such curiosity and had no patience with it. Her dear late mother had hounded her for years about growing old alone and childless, and Lacy was adept in deflecting the nosiness.

At the cemetery, Jeri handed her a cloth shopping bag and said, “Here are some files, just some preliminary stuff. There’s a lot more.”

“For the first three, I presume?”

“Yes. My father, Thad Leawood, and Danny Cleveland. We can discuss the others later.”

The bag was heavy enough already and Lacy wasn’t sure she wanted to take possession. She couldn’t wait to get in her car, lock the door, and drive away. They said their goodbyes, promised to talk soon and so on, and left the cemetery.

Halfway to Tallahassee, Lacy’s phone buzzed with a call from Allie. He would be in late and wanted a pizza and wine by the fire. She had not seen him in four days and suddenly missed him. She smiled at the idea of cuddling up with a seasoned FBI agent and talking about something other than their work.