The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(4)

“Any idea who she is?”

“Nope. I’ve run her face through our laundry and got nothing. Which, as you know, means little.”

“Means she has not been arrested in Florida in the past six years. Can you punch it through the FBI?”

“Probably not. They require a reason, and since I know nothing I can’t give them one. Can I ask an obvious question?”

“Please do.”

“BJC is an investigative agency, right?”

“Supposed to be.”

“Then why do we post our photos and bios on a rather stupid website?”

“Ask the boss.”

“We don’t have a boss. We have a career paper-pusher who’ll be gone before we miss her.”

“Probably. Look, Darren, we’ve had this conversation a dozen times. We don’t want our lovely faces on any BJC page. That’s why I haven’t updated mine in five years. I still look thirty-four.”

“I’d say thirty-one, but then I’m biased.”

“Thank you.”

“I guess there’s no real harm. It’s not like we’re going after murderers and drug dealers.”

“Right.”

“So what’s her complaint, whoever she is?”

“Don’t know yet. Thanks for the backup.”

“A lot of good it did.”





2


The Ramada lounge covered one large corner of the hotel’s soaring glass atrium. By six, its chrome bar was crowded with well-dressed lobbyists trolling for attractive secretaries from the agencies, and most of the tables were taken. The Florida legislature was in session five blocks away at the Capitol, and all the downtown lounges were busy with important people talking politics and angling for money and sex.

Lacy entered, got her share of looks from the male crowd, and walked toward the right rear where she found Margie alone at a small table in a corner with a glass of water in front of her. “Thanks for coming,” she said as Lacy took a seat.

“Sure. You know this place?”

“No. First time. Pretty popular, huh?”

“This time of the year, yes. Things settle down when the carnival is over.”

“The carnival?”

“The legislative session. January through March. Lock the liquor cabinet. Hide the women and children. You know the routine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I take it you don’t live here.”

“No, I don’t.”

A harried waitress rushed to a stop and asked if they wanted something to drink as she frowned at the glass of water. Her message was pretty clear: Hey gals, we’re busy and I can give your table to somebody who’ll pay for booze.

“A glass of pinot grigio,” Lacy said.

“Same,” Margie quickly agreed, and the waitress was gone.

Lacy glanced right and left to make sure whatever they said could not be overheard. It could not. The tables were spaced far enough apart, and a steady roar emanated from the bar and drowned out everything else.

Lacy said, “Okay. So you don’t live here and I don’t know your real name. I’d say we’re off to a slow start, which I’m accustomed to. However, as I think I told you, I waste a lot of time with people who contact me then clam up when it’s time to tell their stories.”

“What would you like to know first?”

“How about your name?”

“I can do that.”

“Great.”

“But I’d like to know what you’ll do with my name. Do you open a file? Is it a digital file or an old-fashioned pen-on-paper file? If it’s digital where is it stored? Who else will know my name?”

Lacy swallowed hard and studied her eyes. Margie could not hold the stare and glanced away.

Lacy asked, “You’re nervous and act as though you’re being followed.”

“I’m not being followed, Lacy, but everything leaves a trail.”

“A trail for someone else to follow. Is this someone the judge you suspect of murder? Help me here, Margie. Give me something.”

“Everything leaves a trail.”

“You’ve said that.”

The waitress hustled by, pausing just long enough to set down two glasses of wine and a bowl of nuts.

Margie appeared not to notice the wine but Lacy took a sip. She said, “So, we’re still stuck on the name thing. I’ll write it down somewhere and keep it off our network, initially.”

Margie nodded and became someone else. “Jeri Crosby, age forty-six, professor of political science at the University of South Alabama in Mobile. One marriage, one divorce, one child, a daughter.”

“Thank you. And you believe your father was murdered by a judge who’s now on the bench. Correct?”

“Yes, a Florida judge.”

“That narrows it down to about a thousand.”

“A circuit judge in the Twenty-Second District.”

“Impressive. Now we’re down to about forty. When do I get the name of your suspect?”

“Real soon. Can we slow down a bit? Right now it doesn’t take much to rattle me.”

“You haven’t touched your wine. It might help.”

Jeri took a sip and a deep breath and said, “I’m guessing you’re around forty years old.”