The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(51)
“Said he was from Georgia, the Atlanta area, Conyers.”
“Did you keep an ID?”
“No, sir. He never offered a business card. I never asked for one, didn’t offer him one either. But our cameras got his car in the parking lot and we tracked the tags. It was a Hertz rental out of Mobile.”
“Interesting.”
“I guess. At the time I just figured he flew from Atlanta to Mobile and rented the car. To be honest, Judge, I didn’t give it much thought. It was a petty criminal case in city court a hundred years ago and the defendant, Verno, was found not guilty. Now somebody killed him over in Mississippi. Not really much of my business.”
“I see. Did you get a look at his car?”
“Yes, sir. It’s on video.”
“Mind emailing it to me?”
“Well, I’ll have to check with our manager. We may have some security issues.”
“I’m happy to speak with your manager.” The statement had a slightly threatening tone to it. He was a judge and as such was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
A pause as Ozment glanced around his empty office. “Sure, Judge. Give me your email.”
His Honor gave him a temporary address, one of many he used and discarded, and half an hour later he was looking at two photos: one a rear shot of a white Buick sedan with Louisiana license plates; the second from the same camera with Jeff Dunlap in the frame. Bannick sent an email back to Ozment saying thanks, and attached to it a useless brochure describing the mission and duties of the judges and officers of Florida’s Twenty-Second Judicial District. When Ozment opened and downloaded it, Maggotz entered through the back door and Pelican Point’s network was immediately infected. Not that Bannick would ever need to snoop, but he suddenly had access to the resort’s guest lists, financial records, personnel files, tons of credit card and banking data. And not just Pelican Point. It was part of a small chain of twenty boutique resorts, and Rafe now had even more to explore if he ever wanted to.
But there were more pressing matters. Bannick called his office and spoke with his clerk. Other than an eleven o’clock attorney conference, there was nothing important on his schedule.
There were seven Jeff or Jeffrey Dunlaps in the Atlanta area, but only two in the town of Conyers. One was a schoolteacher whose wife sounded like a fifteen-year-old. The other was a retired city bus driver who said he had never been to Mobile. Both confirmed what Bannick suspected from the outset—Jeff Dunlap was a bogus front for the private detective. He would track down the other five later, just to be sure.
He called a Hertz office in Mobile and spoke to a young woman named Janet, who was quite helpful and zipped through the details of his weekend rental. She emailed the confirmation to one of Bannick’s addresses, and he replied with: “Thanks Janet. The quote I received differs from your confirmation by $120. Please review the attached and address this discrepancy.” As soon as Janet opened the attachment, Rafe sneaked through the back door of Hertz North America. Bannick hated hacking such large corporations because their security was much more sophisticated, but as long as Rafe just snooped and didn’t try to steal or extort, he would probably go undetected. Bannick would wait a few hours and cancel the rental. In the meantime, he sent Rafe to the registration records for Hertz vehicles titled in Louisiana.
From prior experience, he knew that Hertz rented half a million vehicles in the U.S. and allocated their registrations to all fifty states. Enterprise, the largest car rental company, did the same with over 600,000 vehicles.
It proved to be a bit of a slog for Rafe, though he never complained, never stopped. He was programmed to work around the clock every day of the week if necessary. While he labored in the shadows, Bannick worked the phone to make sure all Jeff Dunlaps in the Atlanta area checked out.
* * *
—
At ten thirty, he straightened his tie, examined himself in the mirror, and thought he looked quite haggard and worried, with good reason. He had slept little and now the sky was falling. For the first time in his life he felt like he was on the run. He drove fifteen minutes to the Escambia County Courthouse in Pensacola for his meeting. The lawyers were all from downtown and he had scheduled around their convenience. He managed to flip a switch and appear as warm and personable as always. He listened to each side and promised a quick mediation. Then he hustled back to his other chamber and locked himself inside.
On March 11, the Buick was rented to one Rollie Tabor, a private investigator licensed by the State of Alabama. He used it for two days and returned it on March 12, traveling only 421 miles.
Tabor’s online presence was quite meager, which was true of most private investigators. They tended to advertise only enough to attract business but not enough to reveal anything useful. His website claimed that he was a former detective, experienced, trustworthy, confidential. What was it supposed to say? He handled missing persons, divorce, child custody, background investigations, the usual. Downtown Mobile office address, office phone number, and email. There was no vanity photograph of Tabor.
Comparing the security camera shot taken at the resort to the bogus driver’s license copied by Sergeant Faldo, it was clear that the same man, one who called himself Jeff Dunlap, had been to both places snooping around for information about Lanny Verno. The man was really Rollie Tabor, so why was he lying?
Bannick plotted and schemed for an hour, discarding one ruse after the other. When inspiration finally hit, he set up another email account and sent Tabor a note: