The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(43)

“So, why are you interested in the Kronke case?” Turnbull asked.

Darren had once again been told to keep quiet. His boss would do the talking, all of it. They had rehearsed their fiction and both thought it sounded plausible. She said, “Just some routine stuff, really. We’re digging through a new complaint filed against a judge in Miami and we’ve run across some possible criminal activity by the late Mr. Kronke. Did you by chance know him before he was murdered?”

“No. He lived out at Grassy Key. Are you familiar with this area?”

“No.”

“It’s a swanky retirement enclave on a bay north of here. The residents tend to stick to themselves. Out of my price range.”

“The murder was two years ago. Do you have any suspects?”

The chief actually laughed, as though the idea of a decent lead was so far-fetched it was humorous. He collected himself quickly and said, “I’m not sure I should answer that question, as bold as it is. Where are you going with this?”

“We’re just doing our jobs, Chief Turnbull.”

“How confidential is this conversation?”

“Totally. We have nothing to gain by repeating any of this. We work for the State of Florida and it’s our job to investigate allegations of wrongdoing, same as you.”

The chief pondered this for a moment, his nervous eyes darting from one to the other. He finally took a deep breath, relaxed, and said, “Yes, early on, we had a suspect, or at least we thought we were on the trail. We’ve always assumed that the killer was in a boat. He found Mr. Kronke alone, fishing for red drum, something he did all the time. There were several fish he’d caught in the cooler. His wife said he’d left home around seven that morning and was expecting a pleasant day on the water. We went to every marina within fifty miles of here and checked the records for boat rentals.” He paused long enough to pull reading glasses out of a shirt pocket and open a file. He scanned it quickly, found his number. “There were twenty-seven boats rented that morning, all, of course, to fishermen. The murder was August the fifth, red drum season, you understand?”

“Of course.” Lacy had never heard of a red drum and wasn’t sure what one was.

“We checked all twenty-seven names. Took us a while, but hey, that’s our job. One guy was a convicted felon, served some time in a federal pen for assaulting an FBI agent, pretty nasty dude. We got excited and spent some time with him. But he eventually checked out.”

Lacy doubted if Ross Bannick was careless enough to rent a boat in the vicinity at about the same time he murdered Perry Kronke, after stalking him for over twenty years, but she feigned deep interest. After spending fifteen minutes with Chief Turnbull and seeing his operation, she was not impressed.

“Did you ask the state police for help?” she asked.

“Of course. Right off the bat. They’re the pros, you know. They did the autopsy, forensics, most of the preliminary investigation. We worked side by side, a joint effort in all aspects. Great guys. I like them.”

That’s nice. “Could we take a look at the file?” she asked sweetly.

Thick wrinkles broke out across his forehead. He yanked off his readers and chewed on a stem, glaring at her as if she had asked about his wife’s sex life. “Why?” he demanded.

“There might be something about this case that’s relevant to our investigation.”

“I don’t get it. Murder here, crooked judge there. What’s the connection?”

“We don’t know, Chief Turnbull, we’re just digging, the way you often do. Just good police work.”

“I can’t release the file. Sorry. Get a court order or something and I’ll be happy to help, but without one, no go.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugged as if to give up. There was nothing else to talk about. “Thanks for your time.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“We’ll be back with a court order.”

“Great.”

“One last question, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Try me.”

“The rope used by the killer—is it in the evidence file?”

“You bet. We have it.”

“And you’re familiar with it?”

“Of course. It’s the murder weapon.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Sure, but I won’t. Come back with your court order.”

“I’ll bet it’s nylon, about thirty inches in length, double twin braid, marine grade, either blue and white or green and white in color.”

The wrinkles broke out again as his jaw dropped. He rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Close enough?” Lacy asked.

“Yes. Close enough. You’ve seen this guy’s work before, I take it.”

“Maybe. Maybe we have a suspect. I can’t talk about him now but maybe next week or next month. We’re on the same team, Chief.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see the file, all of it. And everything is confidential.”

Turnbull bounced to his feet and said, “Follow me.”



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