"Of course you were," Pacheco said.

Lacy continued, "The wreck will not be thoroughly investigated by the Tappacola. The constable has already been replaced, and the new guy happens to be the son of the Chief. We can assume they are compromised and eager to close the book on just another tragic car accident."

"You're assuming the Chief is in bed with Dubose?" Luna asked.

"Definitely. The Chief rules like a king and knows everything. It's impossible to believe they're skimming cash without his involvement."

"Back to these phones," Pacheco said. "You're certain they got no intel from them?"

Michael replied, "Yes. The phones are issued by the state. They have, or had, the usual five-digit pass code, but after that there was an encryption barrier. Our tech guys are sure they are secure."

"But anything can be hacked," Luna said. "And if they were somehow able to do so, what would they find?"

"It would be extremely damaging," Michael said. "They would have the phone records, a trail of all the phone calls. And they would probably be able to find Greg Myers."

"And Mr. Myers is still alive and well, I presume?" asked Luna.

"Oh yes," Lacy said. "They're not going to find him. He was here in Tallahassee two weeks ago, stopped by my apartment to see how I was doing. All of his old phones are at the bottom of the ocean and he has a supply of new burners."

"And your iPad?" Pacheco asked.

"There's nothing on it that would help them. All personal stuff."

Luna pushed his chair back and stood. He stretched his legs and said, "Hahn."

At the far end, Hahn was shaking his head and eager to contribute. Perhaps he's the secret weapon, Lacy thought. He said, "I don't know. So we swoop in with half a dozen agents. What happens then? The cash vanishes into their network of foreign accounts. The skimming stops. The Indians are terrified of Dubose and everyone clams up."

Pacheco mumbled, "I love it."

Lacy said, "I wouldn't do that. I would quietly go about the task of finding the driver of the truck. Say you get lucky and grab the guy. He's looking at spending the rest of his life in prison so he might want to talk, to deal."

"Witness protection?" Pacheco asked.

"That's your game and I'm sure you guys know how to play it."

Luna returned to his seat, shoved the paperwork even farther away, rubbed his eyes as if suddenly fatigued, and said, "Look, here's our problem. Our boss is in the Jacksonville office. We make a recommendation to him and he makes the decision. Part of our job is to estimate the manpower and number of hours this case might ultimately consume. Frankly, it's always a waste of time because the target is steadily moving and it's impossible to know where an investigation might go. But rules are rules, and this is, after all, the federal government. So our boss looks at our recommendation. Right now he's not thinking about a little graft at an Indian casino. He's probably not going to be too impressed with a car wreck that could've been something else. No, these days we're fighting terror. We spend our time tracking sleeper cells and American teenagers who are chatting with jihadists and homegrown idiots who are trying to assemble the ingredients to make bombs. And, I gotta tell you, there's a lot of bad stuff going on. We're understaffed and often feel as though we're getting further behind. We never forget that we were twenty-four hours late at 9/11. This is our world. This is the pressure we're under. Sorry for the speech."

For a moment no one said a word. Michael broke the silence with "I think we understand, but organized crime does go on."

Luna actually smiled and said, "Sure it does. And I think this is a perfect case for the FBI, but I'm not so sure our boss will agree."

"Is it fair to ask what your recommendation will be?" Lacy asked.

"It's fair to ask but I can't give you an answer right now. We'll kick it around here for a couple of days, then send it to Jacksonville with a report." His body language suggested he didn't want to get involved. Pacheco's suggested he was ready to whip out his badge and start grabbing witnesses. Hahn revealed nothing.

Lacy collected her papers and placed them into a neat stack. The meeting was over. She said, "Well, thank you for listening. You've been very generous with your time. We will proceed with our investigation and wait to hear from you."

Pacheco walked with them out of the office and rode with them on the elevator, eager to spend as much time with them as possible. Michael watched him carefully. When he and Lacy were alone in his car, he said, "He'll call you within twenty-four hours and it will have nothing to do with a casino."

"You're right," Lacy said.

"Nice job in there."

25.

Like clockwork, the receptionist tapped on the door at 9:00 a.m. and without waiting for a reply laid the morning mail on Lacy's desk. She smiled and said thanks. All the junk had been culled and set aside for "Florida Recycles!" That left six envelopes addressed to Lacy, five with proper return addresses. The sixth looked somewhat suspicious so she opened it first. In a handwritten scrawl it read, To Lacy Stoltz: This is Wilton Mace. I tried to call but your phone isn't working. We need to talk, and soon. My number is 555-996-7702. I'm in town, waiting. Wilton Using her desk phone, she immediately called the number. Wilton answered and they had a brief conversation. He was in the DoubleTree hotel, three blocks from the Capitol, had been there since the day before waiting for her call, and wanted to meet face-to-face. He had important information. Lacy said she was on her way, and promptly relayed the conversation to Geismar, who was being overly protective and irritating her. He agreed, though, that a meeting in a busy downtown hotel held little danger. He was insisting that she advise him of any travel or interviews related to the McDover case. She agreed but doubted seriously if she would comply, even though her appetite for risk had been severely diminished.

As agreed, Wilton met her near the front entrance and they found a quiet table in a coffee bar at the edge of the lobby. For his trip to the big city he was dressed exactly as he had been when they met him under his shade tree a few weeks ago. It seemed like a year. Denim from head to toe, beads around his neck and wrists, long hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was reminded of how much he favored his brother. As they waited for their coffee he passed along his sincere sorrow about Hugo, a man he had liked. He asked about her injuries and said she looked great.

"How much do you know about the accident?" she asked. "What's the buzz on the street?"

His words were just as slow in town as they had been on the reservation. The man was perpetually calm. "Lots of suspicions," he said.

A waitress placed the cups before them-dark roast for Wilton, a latte for Lacy. After a long pause, she said, "Okay, I'm listening."

"The name Todd Short ring a bell?" he asked.

"Maybe, I guess, somewhere. Help me out."

"He was one of the two jailhouse snitches who testified against my brother. At different times before the trial, the cops placed each snitch in Junior's cell, then pulled them out after a day or two. Both lied to the jury and said Junior bragged about killing the sonofabitch he caught with his wife. And for good measure he killed her too. It was very effective testimony and it nailed Junior."

Lacy sipped her latte and nodded. She had nothing to add and she refused to drag it out of him. He had arranged this meeting.

"Anyway, not long after the trial, Todd Short disappeared. So did the other snitch, a punk named Robles. Years passed and everybody assumed the two had been rubbed out, probably by the same people who killed Son and Eileen. Now, fifteen years later, Short has resurfaced and we have spoken."

A pause as more coffee was consumed. Lacy was about to ask, "Are you going to tell me what he said?" Wilton glanced around casually, cleared his throat, and said, "I met him three days ago, off the reservation. When I saw him I remembered how much I hated him. I wanted to smash his face with a rock, but we were in a public place, some kind of fried chicken joint. He starts off by saying he's sorry and all that crap. He was a drifter with a drug habit and a criminal record and his life was going nowhere. He didn't know Robles very well but he got word not long after the trial that the punk had probably been killed, so he took off. Went to California, where he's been living under a rock ever since. Actually, he cleaned up his act and has had a decent life. Now he's dying of cancer and wants to make nice, wants to bare his soul and confess his sins."

"Which are?"

"Back then he was in jail in Sterling facing another drug charge, one that would get him locked up for years. He'd seen prison, didn't want to go back, so he was easy bait for the cops. They offered the deal. The prosecutor agreed to let him plead to something ridiculous, and after a few weeks in the county jail he'd be a free man. All he had to do was spend a couple of days in the cell with Junior, then testify at trial. I was in the courtroom and saw it all. Short was a great witness, very believable, and the jury ate up every word of his testimony. It was irresistible. Who doesn't like a good story about illicit sex? According to him, Junior enjoyed telling how he came home early, heard noises from the bedroom, realized what was happening, got his handgun, kicked open the bedroom door, and there was his wife and Son Razko going at it on the bed. In a rage, he shot Son twice in the head, and when Eileen wouldn't stop screaming he shot her too. Then, and this has never made sense, he took Son's wallet and fled the scene. All bullshit, of course, but Short sold the story to the jury. To claim it was an act of passion, an irresistible impulse, would have been to admit to the killings. Since Junior had nothing to do with it, he couldn't use the obvious defense. As I've said, he had a bad lawyer."

"Did Short get cash?"

"Two thousand dollars, handed to him by a cop after he testified. He hung around the area for a few weeks, until he heard the rumors about Robles. Then he fled."

Lacy's phone was on the table, muted. It vibrated and she glanced at it.

"Why did you change phone numbers?" Wilton asked.

"These are state-issued phones. My old one was stolen from my car just after the accident. My new one has a different number."

"Who took it?"

"Probably the same people who caused the wreck. So what does Short want to do now?"

"He wants to tell his story to someone who'll listen. He lied, and the cops and prosecutor knew he was lying, and he feels terrible about it."

"A real hero," Lacy said as she took another sip of her latte and looked across the busy lobby. No one was watching or listening, but these days she couldn't help but notice people. "Look, Wilton, this could be a big break, but this is not my case, okay? Junior's appeals have been handled by those guys in D.C. and he's lucky to have such fine lawyers. You need to sit down with them and let them decide what to do with Todd Short."

"I've called them a couple of times but they're too busy. Not a word. Junior's last habeas appeal was turned down eight days ago. We expect he'll get an execution date pretty soon. His lawyers have put up a good fight, but we're at the end of the road."

"Have you told Junior?"

"I'll see him tomorrow. He'll want to know what will happen now that one of the snitches is recanting. He trusts you, Lacy, and I do too."

"Thanks, but I'm not a criminal defense lawyer and I have no idea if any of this is relevant after fifteen years. There are limitations on bringing up new evidence, but I don't know the law. If you're looking for advice, I'm the wrong person, the wrong lawyer. I would help if I could, but this is way out of my league."

"Could you talk to his lawyers in D.C.? I can't get through."

"Why can't Junior talk to them?"

"He says somebody is always listening in prison. He thinks the phones are tapped. And he hasn't seen the D.C. lawyers in a long time. He thinks they might be forgetting about him now that the end is in sight."

"I disagree. If a snitch appears with a different story and swears under oath that the cops and prosecutor knew he was lying, and he got paid cash, believe me the D.C. lawyers will be excited."

"So you think there's hope?"

"I don't know what to think, Wilton. Again, this is not my field."

He smiled and went silent. A rodeo team in matching boots and Stetsons paraded through the lobby, their identical roller bags whining in a dull chorus. When they were finally gone and the racket was over, he asked, "Have you met Lyman Gritt, the ex-constable?"

"No. I hear he's been replaced. Why?"

"He's a good man."

"I'm sure he is. And why bring up his name?"

"He might know something."

"Do you know what he might know, Wilton? Don't play games with me."

"No, I don't. He got fired by the Chief. They are at odds. His firing came just days after your accident. There are a lot of rumors, Lacy. The tribe is uneasy. A black guy and a white girl were on the reservation at midnight, digging around for something. He ends up dead under suspicious circumstances."

"Is his being black suspicious?"

"Not really. We're not hung up on skin color. But you have to admit it was unusual. It has been the general belief for a long time that bad people were behind the casino, in bed with our so-called leaders. Now, finally, it might be unraveling. Someone, you and Hugo, dared to show up and start asking questions. He met a tragic end. You came close. The investigation is getting buried by our new constable, who's not trustworthy. Lots of rumors and speculation, Lacy. And now, from nowhere, Todd Short sneaks into the picture again with a different story. It's unsettling, to say the least."

Wait till the FBI rolls in, she thought. "Promise to keep me posted?"

"It depends on what I hear."

"I'll call the lawyers in D.C.," she said. "It's the least I can do."

"Thanks."

"And say hello to Junior."

"Why don't you go see him? He doesn't get many visitors and it looks like he might be nearing the end."

"I'll do that. Does he know about Hugo?"

"Yes. I told him."

"Tell him I'll try and stop by as soon as I can get away."

"He'll like that, Lacy."

- Lacy reported the meeting to Michael, then did a quick review of Junior's file. She called the law firm in D.C., and eventually managed to pull a lawyer named Salzman out of a meeting. His mega firm had a thousand lawyers and an excellent reputation for pro bono work. It had spent countless hours representing Junior since his conviction fifteen years earlier. She told him Todd Short was back from the dead and now facing a more certain demise. Salzman was at first incredulous. Short and Robles had been out of the picture for so long it was almost impossible to believe the news. Lacy confessed her ignorance in this field and asked if it was too late.

"Oh, it's late," Salzman said. "Very late, but in this business we never quit, not until the final moment. I'll be down as soon as I can get there."

- It was no real surprise when Special Agent Allie Pacheco stopped by the office for a visit. It was late in the day, and on the phone he said he was just around the corner, needed only a few minutes. Four days had passed since the meeting in Luna's office. To their surprise, Pacheco had not called or e-mailed Lacy.

They met in Michael's office, at one end of his cluttered worktable, and it was immediately obvious that Pacheco's mood was quite different. His quick smile was missing. He began with "Luna and I spent yesterday in Jacksonville presenting the case to our boss. Our recommendation was to open an investigation, immediately. We agreed with your strategy that the first step should be to try and solve the murder of Hugo Hatch. At the same time, we would begin the rather formidable task of penetrating the syndicate's maze of offshore companies and tracking the money. We would place Judge McDover, Phyllis Turban, Chief Cappel, and Billy Cappel under surveillance and perhaps even obtain warrants to tap their phones and wire their offices. Our recommendation projected the need for five agents initially, with me in charge of the investigation. This morning the boss said no, said we simply cannot spare the manpower at this time. I pressed a little, but this guy is decisive and sticks to his guns. I asked if I could be allowed to investigate with perhaps one or two agents over the next month or so. Again, he said no. Our official answer is no. I'm sorry. We did our best and pushed as hard as we could, under the circumstances, though 'pushing' is perhaps not the right word."

Michael seemed unfazed. Lacy wanted to curse. Instead, she asked, "Is there a chance things can change if we learn more?"

"Who knows?" Pacheco replied, clearly exasperated. "Things can change in the other direction too. Florida is a favorite point of entry, always has been. We're getting flooded with tips about illegals sneaking into the country, and they're not coming here to wash dishes and lay concrete. They're organizing homegrown talent to wage jihad. Finding, monitoring, and stopping them has a far greater priority than the corruption that once got us excited. But let's keep an open dialogue. I'm in the loop. If something happens, I want to know."

If something happens. After he left, Michael and Lacy sat at the worktable for a long time and compared thoughts. Their disappointment was admitted, then set aside. Without much in the way of resources, they would be forced to become resourceful. At this stage, their primary weapon was the subpoena. Using one of Sadelle's many memos, they decided to prepare a list of the twenty or so cases McDover had decided in favor of the mysterious entities pushing to develop various parts of Brunswick County. Eleven of the lawsuits involved the condemnation proceedings that led to the building of the Tappacola Tollway.

Since they had great latitude in drafting the subpoena, they decided to request McDover's files for only half of the lawsuits. Requesting her records for all of them would tip their hand and let her know what they suspected. Ask for some of the records now, see what she and her ace legal team were willing to hand over, then go back for more later if necessary. Complying with the subpoena would require hours of time by Killebrew and company, with their expensive meters ticking away.

Each lawsuit was on file in the clerk's office in the Brunswick County Courthouse, and Sadelle had long since retrieved copies of the voluminous records. They were now perfectly indexed and cross-referenced, and there was little doubt BJC's summaries would be far more organized than anything Killebrew sent over. But all judges kept their own office files that did not become part of the public record. It would be fascinating to see how closely McDover complied.

Lacy worked on the subpoena until dark. It kept her mind off the FBI.

26.

Gunther was back. He disrupted a lazy Saturday morning with the news that he was flying down and would be there by mid-afternoon. Though Lacy had nothing planned, she made a feeble attempt to sound busy. He would have none of it. He missed his little sister, was worried sick about her, and repeatedly apologized for not having returned sooner. He knew she needed him.

She stood in a window of the general aviation terminal and watched the private planes take off and land. At 3:00 p.m., his expected arrival time, she observed a small twin taxi near the terminal and shut down. Gunther got out, alone. His checkered flying career had spanned the past two decades and had been interrupted on at least two occasions when the FAA jerked his license. He had trouble with authority and had argued with air traffic controllers, in flight. Such arguments are never won by pilots, and Gunther found himself grounded. Evidently, he had now finagled some way to retrieve his license.

He carried a small overnight bag, which she took as a good sign, as well as a thick briefcase undoubtedly bristling with the workings of important deals. He hugged her fiercely in the lobby, told her she looked great, and seemed on the verge of tears as he went on about how much he missed her. She did a passable job of conveying the same sentiments.

As they walked out of the terminal she said, "So you're back in the air."