The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(60)

He was pleased to see Mack MacGregor standing alone near the edge, a glass in one hand, a phone in the other. After ten years on the bench, Bannick knew every lawyer between Pensacola and Jacksonville, and many others too, and Mack had always been one of his favorites. They had both joined local firms about the same time, then spun off into their own shops. Mack loved the courtroom and quickly became a skilled and sought-after trial advocate. He was one of the few lawyers in the area who could take a case from the beginning, the injury or death, and push it all the way to a successful verdict. He was a pure trial lawyer, not a mass tort chaser, and he handled criminal cases as well. Bannick had seen his work firsthand, but he had never allowed himself to believe that one day he would need Mack’s services.

In the past three days, he had caught himself thinking about Mack far too much. If the sky fell, and Bannick still believed it would not, Mack would be his first call.

“Evenin’ Judge,” Mack said as he put away his phone. “Lose your girl?”

“Ran ’em upstairs for a pee. Who’s your squeeze tonight?”

“A new one, a real cutie. My secretary fixed me up.” Mack had been divorced for ten or so years and was known to prowl.

“Quite the looker.”

“That’s all, believe me.”

“That’s enough, right?”

“It’ll do. Who’s gonna get that tiki bar case in Fort Walton?”

“Don’t know yet. Judge Watson will decide. You want it?”

“Maybe.”

A month earlier, two bikers from Arizona started a row in a low-end dive outside of Fort Walton Beach, near the water. It went from fists to knives to guns, and when the glass stopped shattering, three people were dead. The bikers fled for a while but were caught near Panama City Beach.

On the principle that every person accused of a serious crime has a right to a good lawyer, Mack and his partner volunteered each year for at least one murder case. It kept them in the courtroom and sharp on the law. It also added some spice to their everyday practice. Mack enjoyed the gritty, often grisly details of a good murder case. He liked hanging around the jail. He enjoyed getting to know men who were capable of killing.

“Sounds like your kind of case.”

“Life is pretty dull right now.”

Well, Mack, that might change soon for both of us, Bannick thought to himself. “If you’re volunteering, I can arrange things.”

“Let me kick it around the office. I’ll call you Monday. Probably not a capital case, right?”

“No. It was certainly not premeditated. Looks like a couple of idiots got drunk and started fighting. Are you signing up oil slick cases?”

“We’ll get our share,” Mack said with a laugh. “Half the bar’s out in the Gulf right now in boats, looking for crude. It’ll be a bonanza.”

“As well as another environmental disaster.”

They killed time swapping stories about lawyers they knew and the lawsuits they chased. Mack pulled out a leather cigar case and offered a Cohiba. Both men fired one up and found some whiskey. They aborted the lawyer talk and returned to the more pleasant topic of younger women. After a while, Judge Bannick knew his date would be looking for him. He said goodbye to Mack, and as he walked away he hoped he would not be seeing the lawyer anytime soon.





26


The handoff was rocky, as usual. Even in bare feet, Helen was unstable as they shuffled across the bricks of her rear patio. “Do come in for a drink, dahling,” she cooed between breaths.

“No, Helen, it’s past our bedtimes and I have a splitting headache.”

“Wasn’t it a great band? What a lovely evening.”

Melba was waiting at the door and opened it for them. Bannick handed her the high heels, then handed her Helen, then turned and backed away. “Gotta run, dear, I’ll call in the morning.”

“But I want a drink.”

Bannick shook his head, frowned at Melba, and hustled to his SUV. He drove to his shopping center and parked near other vehicles by the cinema. He walked to his other chamber, cleared himself through the scanners, and once inside stripped out of his suit and tie and put on gym clothes. Half an hour after seeing the last of Helen, he was sipping espresso and again lost in the dark web, tracking Rafe’s latest adventures.

The vigilance was time-consuming and usually not productive. Still using Maggotz and sending Rafe to troll here and there, he was watching the police files of his cases. So far, no department had managed to successfully firewall its data and network. Some were easier to hack than others, but none had been especially bothersome. He still marveled at the lax and weak security used by most county and city governments. Ninety percent of all data breaches could be prevented with modest effort. Standard passwords such as “Admin” and “Password” were routinely used.

The more tedious work was keeping up with the victims. There were ten groups of them, ten families he had destroyed. Mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, children, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. He had no pity for them. He simply wanted them to stay away.

The person stalking him was not a cop, not a private investigator, not some thrill-seeking true crime writer. The person was a victim, one who had been slithering back there in his shadows for many years, watching, gathering, trailing.