The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(9)

“He has a problem with women, part of his long history.”

Lacy took a deep breath. “Okay. I don’t suppose you’ve met him?”

“Oh no. Wouldn’t go near him. He has security cameras everywhere—his courtroom, office, home.”

“That’s weird.”

“Weird doesn’t touch it.”

“Are you in the car?”

“I’m driving to Pensacola, maybe on to Mobile. I don’t suppose you could meet me tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Pensacola.”

“That’s three hours from here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And what would be the purpose of our meeting?”

“I have only one purpose in life, Lacy, and you know what it is.”

“I have a busy day.”

“They’re all busy, aren’t they?”

“Afraid so.”

“Okay. Then please put me on the calendar and let me know when we can meet there.”

“Sure. I’ll take a look.”

There was a long gap in the conversation, so long that Lacy finally asked, “Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry. I tend to drift. Have you found much online?”

“Some. Several stories about his elections, all from the Ledger.”

“How about the one from 2000 about the land deal, in bed with the crooked developer, the one that cost him the election?”

“Yes. I’ve read that one.”

“I have all of them in a file, whenever you want to take it.”

“Okay, we’ll see.”

“That reporter was a guy named Danny Cleveland, originally from up north somewhere. He spent about six years with the Ledger, then moved around some. The newspaper in Little Rock, Arkansas, was his last stop.”

“Last stop?”

“Yes. They found him in his apartment. Asphyxiation. Same rope, same unusual knot. Sailors call it the double clove hitch, pretty rare. Another unsolved mystery, another very cold case.”

Lacy struggled to respond and noticed that her left hand was shaking.

“Are you still there?” Jeri asked.

“I think so. When was—”

“Two thousand nine. Not a trace of evidence left behind. Look, Lacy, we’re talking too much on the phone. I prefer face-to-face. Let me know when we can meet again.” She abruptly ended the call.



* * *



—

Her romance with Allie Pacheco was now into its third year and, in her opinion, was stalling. He was thirty-eight years old and, though he denied it, even in therapy, he was still scarred from a terrible first marriage eleven years earlier. It had lasted four miserable months and, mercifully, ended without a pregnancy.

The biggest obstacle to a more serious arrangement was a fact that was becoming more and more obvious: both enjoyed the freedom of living alone. Since high school, Lacy had not lived with a man in the house and she wasn’t keen on having one around. She had loved her father but remembered him as a domineering, chauvinistic sort who treated his wife like a maid. Her mother, always subservient, excused his behavior and whispered over and over, “It’s just his generation.”

It was a lame excuse and one Lacy vowed to never accept. Allie was indeed different. He was kind, thoughtful, funny, and, for the most part, attentive to her. He was also an FBI special agent who these days was spending most of his time in south Florida chasing narco-traffickers. When things were slow, which was rare, he was assigned to counterterrorism. There was even talk of him being transferred. After eight years as a special agent with no shortage of commendations, he was always on the block to be shipped out. At least, in Lacy’s opinion.

He kept a toothbrush and a shaving kit in her spare bathroom, along with some sweats and casual stuff in a closet, enough to sleep over whenever he wanted. She, on the other hand, maintained a presence in his small apartment fifteen minutes away. Pajamas, old sneakers, older jeans, a toothbrush, and some fashion magazines on the coffee table. Neither was the jealous type, but each had quietly marked their territory in the other’s place.

Lacy would have been shocked to learn that Allie slept around. He just wasn’t the type. Nor was she. Their challenge, with his travel and their demanding schedules, was keeping each other satisfied. It was taking more and more effort, and that was because, as a close girlfriend said, “You’re approaching middle age.” Lacy had been appalled at that term and for the next month chased Allie from her condo to his apartment and back, until both were exhausted and called time-out.

He checked in at seven thirty and they chatted for a moment. He was “on surveillance,” whatever that meant, and couldn’t say much. She knew he was somewhere around Miami. They both said “I love you” and rang off.

As a seasoned agent whose career meant everything, Allie was the consummate professional, and as such said little about his work, to Lacy anyway. To those he hardly knew he would not even give the name of his employer. If pressed, his standard reply was “Security.” He pronounced the word with such authority that further questions were cut off. His friends were other agents. There were times, though, maybe after a drink or two, that he lowered his guard a bit and talked, in generic terms, about his work. It was often dangerous and he, like most agents, lived for the adrenaline rush.