The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(77)

The trip was interminable but gave him plenty of time to think. He was certain he had left no prints behind, but what if he had? Any print taken from one of the cell phones would never find a match these days. After years of altering, the only match would have to be from a current print, something he had touched in the last decade.

He arrived home at three in the morning and needed rest, but the bennies were working too well. He kept the overhead lights off so the neighbors wouldn’t know he was home, and worked in the semidarkness. He put on plastic gloves and filled the dishwasher with the first load. Some of the cups and glasses went into a large garbage liner.

Wiping almost any surface at least smears the latent prints and renders them useless. Smearing, though, was not the plan. He mixed a solution of water, distilled alcohol, and lemon juice and wiped the counters and appliances with a microfiber cloth. Light switches, walls, pantry shelves. From the refrigerator he removed jars, cans, bottles, and plastic wrappers and dumped the contents into the disposal. The containers went into the garbage sack. He didn’t cook much and the fridge was never full.

Latent prints can last for years. As he cursed to himself he kept mumbling, “PTP.”

In the bathroom he scrubbed the surfaces, walls, toilet, shower knobs, and floor. He emptied the cabinet, leaving behind only a toothbrush, a disposable razor, shaving cream, and a half-empty tube of Colgate. Prints were virtually impossible to lift from cloth, but he filled the washing machine anyway, with bath and hand towels.

In the den he threw away the TV remote and wiped the LED screen. He threw away all magazines and a couple of old newspapers. He scrubbed the walls and the leather chairs.

In his office, he wiped the keyboard, an old laptop, two outdated cell phones, and a pile of stationery and envelopes. He stared at a cabinet filled with files and decided to get them later.

The cleansing would take hours if not days, and he knew this was only the first pass through. There would be a second, hopefully a third. At dawn, before the neighbors began moving about, he hauled three large black garbage liners to his SUV and sat down for a nap.

Sleep was impossible. At eight, he showered and changed, throwing away the towels and clothes. He stared into his closet and realized how much stuff had to be tossed. He filled the washing machine with underwear and clothing and doubled the detergent.

He dressed casually and left. He called Diana Zhang, said he was back in town, felt good, and wanted to run by the courthouse to say hello. When he arrived at nine, his staff greeted him like a returning hero. He chatted with them for a while, assuring them that his first round of chemo had gone well and his doctors were encouraged. He would be home for a few days before heading back to Santa Fe.

They thought he looked tired, even haggard.

He sat at his desk and dictated to his secretary a list of things to do. He needed to make some calls and asked her to leave. He locked the door and looked around his office. The desk, leather chairs, worktable, file cabinets, shelves lined with books and treatises. Thankfully, he hadn’t touched most of them in years. The task seemed impossible, but he had no choice. He opened his briefcase, put on plastic gloves, removed three packs of alcohol wipes, and went to work.

After two hours, he told his staff he was going home to rest. Please don’t call. He drove instead to his hidden office in Pensacola. He doubted anyone sniffing for fingerprints would ever find the place, but he could take no chances. He had designed it with extreme caution, careful to leave no clues in case of an emergency. Everything was digitized—no books, files, bills, nothing to leave a trail.

He stretched out on the sofa and managed to sleep for two hours.



* * *



—

According to Jeri’s class schedule, posted officially online, she taught a class in comparative politics at 2:00 p.m. in the Humanities Building. He drove an hour to Mobile and found the building from a campus map he had memorized.

Her car, a white 2009 Toyota Camry, was parked with a hundred others in a lot for faculty and students, authorized stickers required. He left, drove to a car wash several blocks away, ran his new Tahoe through the self-wash, then parked by the vacuums and opened all four doors. As he toiled away, he swapped license plates and was now registered in Alabama. When things were shiny and spotless, he drove back to the Humanities Building and found a spot as close to the Camry as possible. He popped the hatch on his Tahoe, removed the jack and spare, and got busy pretending to change a rear tire that wasn’t flat.

A campus security guard in an old Bronco eased between the row of parked cars and stopped behind the Tahoe. “Need a hand?” he asked helpfully, without making a move to get out.

“No thanks,” Bannick said. “I got it.”

“I don’t see a parking sticker.”

“No, sir. Had a flat out there,” he said, nodding to the street. “I’ll be gone in a minute.”

The guard drove away without a word.

Shit! A mistake that couldn’t be avoided.

With the Tahoe jacked up, and without touching a lug nut, he removed a BlueCloud TS-180 GPS tracker with a magnetic mount. It weighed fourteen ounces and was about the size of a thick paperback. He walked nonchalantly to the Camry, watching anything that moved from behind his sunglasses, noticed three students entering the building but certainly not concerned with him, then quickly ducked and stuck the device to the side of the gas tank. Its battery lasted 180 hours and was motion-activated; thus, it took a nap when the car wasn’t moving. He walked back to his Tahoe, jacked it down, put away the spare and the jack, closed the hatch, and left the parking lot. The security guard was nowhere to be seen.