The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(90)

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Jeri was discharged at noon. She was still suffering from nausea and couldn’t eat, but there was nothing else the doctors could do but ply her with meds. Her head ached and the ibuprofen did little to ease the throbbing. Her wrists and ankles were numb but slowly growing more sensitive. She had talked to Denise twice and assured her that she was safe and healthy and there was no need for her to rush down. She set off with two escorts, both young and rather cute FBI agents, one the driver, the other in the back seat doing most of the talking. However, she was not in a glib mood and after a few miles they left her alone. She stared through the passenger window, reliving the past forty-eight hours, still in disbelief that she was alive.

And Bannick had not been found. She had believed for a long time that the man was capable of anything, especially moving in the shadows without being detected. He had boasted of vanishing to some faraway place. As the miles clicked by and the hours passed, a horrible reality began to consume her. What if he walked away? And was never brought to justice? And his monstrous crimes were never solved? What if her lonely quest to find her father’s killer was for nothing?

Mobile was out of the question. He had been to her home, rang her doorbell, knew exactly where she lived. He had tracked her to the motel and abducted her without being seen or leaving behind a clue. As always. She wondered if she could ever go home.

Two hours later they entered Tallahassee and were soon winding through downtown. When they stopped at the renovated warehouse, Lacy was waiting on her stoop. She and Jeri hugged and cried and eventually went inside.

Allie had returned a few hours earlier and had been debriefed by Lacy. And by Gunther, who relished his role as the hero. Lacy had little doubt that as the story was told and retold, his fearless attack of a serial killer would only be embellished and become legendary.

Lacy asked one of the agents to go fetch a pizza. The other sat by the door, guarding the place. Inside, the four lounged in the den and swapped stories. Eventually they found humor, especially when Gunther, always animated, stopped midsentence to clutch his ribs. His swollen jaw did not throttle his narratives.

For her own benefit, Jeri recounted her conversations with Bannick. He had not explicitly admitted to any of the murders, but had grudgingly acquiesced to parts of her narrative. He denied killing Ashley Barasso, though that seemed hardly credible. More troubling were his assertions that he had killed others that Jeri had missed.

At five, they arrived at the FBI office in the federal building. Clay Vidovich welcomed them and they settled around a table in the main conference room. The big news was that they had recovered two latent prints from Bannick’s garage. The bad news was that they were not from his thumb. He was confident, though, that they would find more prints, but admitted they were taken aback by Bannick’s efforts to wipe everything clean. His cell phone had stopped working in Crestview. He’d probably tossed it. No one named Ross Bannick had booked a flight in the past seventy-two hours. His secretary had not heard a word. He had no family in the area, only a sister who lived far away and had had no contact.

Nonetheless, Vidovich was certain they would find him. A nationwide manhunt was in full swing and it was only a matter of time.

Jeri wasn’t so sure but kept her thoughts to herself. When she finally relaxed, she began talking about the past two days. She was not feeling well, though, and promised a longer debriefing on Monday.

Thank God someone broke into the cabin.





41


He stopped in Amarillo long enough to leave an overnight FedEx envelope in a drop box. He was the “Sender” and used his office address at the Chavez County Courthouse. The “Recipient” was Diana Zhang at the same address. If everything went as planned, it would be picked up by five Monday afternoon and delivered to her by ten thirty Tuesday morning.

At 8:00 a.m. Monday, he parked the rental outside Pecos Mountain Lodge and took a moment to admire the beautiful mountains in the distance. The high-end rehab facility was tucked into a hillside and hardly visible from the winding county road. He changed gloves and wiped down the steering wheel, door handles, console, and media screen. He had worn gloves for the past twenty hours and knew the car was clean, but he took no chances. With his small bag, he walked inside the plush lobby and said good morning to the receptionist.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Joseph Kassabian,” he said politely.

“And your name please?”

“Bannick, Ross Bannick.”

“Please have a seat and I’ll get him.”

He sat on a sleek leather sofa and admired the contemporary art on the walls. At $50,000 a month the wealthy drunks certainly deserved pleasant surroundings. Pecos was kept busy by rock stars, Hollywood types, and jet-setters, and, in spite of being so well known, it prided itself on keeping a low profile. Its challenge with confidentiality was that so many of its former patients couldn’t wait to sing its praises.

Dr. Kassabian soon appeared and they retired to his office down the hall. He was about fifty, a former addict. “Aren’t we all?” he’d said on the phone. They sat at a small table and sipped designer water.

“Tell me your story,” he said with a warm, welcoming smile. Your nightmare is over. You’ve come to the right place.

Bannick wiped his face with his hands and seemed ready to cry. “It’s all booze, no drugs. Vodka, at least a quart a day, for many years now. I can function okay. I’m a judge and the job is demanding, but I gotta quit the stuff.”