"Think about it, Vonn. I can blame it on health issues, feed the press some bogus crap, and leave office. Killebrew would raise hell and claim that BJC would no longer have jurisdiction. There's a good chance the complaint would go away."

"The complaint is dead anyway."

She took a deep breath, then a sip of tea. "Myers?"

"Myers has disappeared."

She shoved the cup and saucer away and said, "I can't take this anymore, Vonn. This is your world, not mine."

"He's on the run, okay? We don't have him yet, but we're closing in."

Nothing was said for a long time as she counted the dead bodies and he thought about the extra cash he could pocket with her in retirement. "Who is the guy?" she asked.

"A disbarred lawyer from Pensacola named Ramsey Mix. Served some time in a federal joint, got out, found some money he buried when the Feds came in, changed his name to Greg Myers, and lived on a boat with his little Mexican sweetheart."

"How'd you find him?"

"That's not important. What is important is that BJC cannot go forward without him. It's over, Claudia. It was a nice little scare, but it's over. You can relax now."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. I've studied BJC's rules inside and out, and there's no hard-and-fast procedure that dismisses the charges when the complaining party loses interest."

She was a lawyer. He was not, and he wouldn't argue with her. "Are you sure they'll go away if you retire?"

"Again, I can't predict what they'll do. Their procedures are not always clear-cut. But, if I'm not on the bench, why should they care?"

"Perhaps they won't."

She did not know about the two videos and Vonn's frantic efforts to contain the damage they might have created. She did not know about Lyman Gritt and his suspicious activities. There was a lot she didn't know because, in his world, knowledge could be dangerous. Trusted confidants can be convinced to talk. Secrets get exposed. She had enough to worry about anyway.

There was another long gap in the conversation. Neither seemed eager to talk, though both minds were spinning. He rattled his ice cubes and finally said, "So the question remains, Judge, how did Myers find out about the condos? Any possible paper trail would take him nowhere. There are too many firewalls, too many foreign companies governed by laws that cannot be penetrated. Someone told Myers, which means, of course, that there was a leak. Look at the people around me, and look at the people around you. My guys are professionals who run an organization that's airtight, and we've been in business for a long time with no leaks. What about you, Judge?"

"We've had this conversation."

"We're having it again. What about Phyllis? She knows everything. How secure is her office?"

"Phyllis is my partner in crime, Vonn. She's just as guilty as me."

"I'm not suggesting she might talk. But who's around her these days? I know she has no partners, only flunkies, but who are they?"

"She's a fanatic about security. Nothing sensitive is kept in her office, nor in her home. For the important stuff, she works out of a small office no one knows about. It's all very secure."

"What about your office?"

"I've told you, Vonn. I use one full-time secretary that I run off every eighteen months or so. Not a single one has ever lasted two years because I don't want them getting comfortable and nosing around. Occasionally, I'll have an intern for a year, but those poor kids can't take the pressure. And I have a court reporter who's been with me for years and I'd trust with my life."

"JoHelen."

"JoHelen Hooper. A very sweet girl who does her job beautifully but keeps her distance from anything else related to the courthouse."

"And how long has she been your court reporter?"

"Seven or eight years. We get along because she says little, kisses my ass when it needs kissing, and otherwise stays out of my way."

"And why do you trust her so completely?"

"Because I know her. Why do you trust your boys so much?"

He ignored her question and asked, "Does she have access to your office?"

"Never. No one has access."

"There's no such thing as complete trust, Judge. And it's often the one you trust the most who'll cut your throat for the right price."

"You should know about these things."

"Damned right I do. Keep an eye on her, okay? Trust no one."

"I don't trust anyone, Vonn, especially you."

"Attagirl. I wouldn't trust me either."

They managed a forced chuckle at their own crookedness. Vonn went for more vodka and she sipped cold tea. As he was sitting down he said, "Let's do this. Let's take it one week at a time, meet here each Wednesday at five, and monitor things. And give me some time to think about your retirement."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll warm up to the retirement plan. You're already counting the extra cash each month."

"True, but, as I've learned, it's so handy to have a judge in my pocket. You've spoiled me, Claudia, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to find another judge so easily corruptible."

"Let's hope not."

"Getting religion in later years?"

"No. I'm just tired of working. I had to take a child away from its mother today. She's a meth head and a complete wreck, and the child was in danger, but it's still not easy. It's the third time I've snatched a kid away from this woman, and after a six-hour hearing, with all manner of emotion and name-calling, I had to order social services to take the child. So, as she's leaving, the mother announces in open court, 'Hey, no big deal, I'm already pregnant again.'"

"What an awful way to make a buck."

"I'm tired of it. Stealing from the Indians is much more enjoyable."

- Lacy was on a yoga mat, trying painfully to complete a seated forward fold, a basic yoga move that she had done for years but not since the crash. With both legs straight and together on the floor, she was almost touching her toes when Cooley's burner rattled on the coffee table. Since she couldn't live without it these days, she had learned to despise it. Nonetheless, she immediately forgot about yoga and grabbed the phone.

"Just checking in, Lacy," he said. "No sign of Myers. Not that I expected any, but troubling nonetheless. The cops in Key Largo are looking for him but it's a pretty cold trail. Some bank repossessed his boat a couple of days ago. Just talked to the mole. Nothing new there either, except that our gal met with Dubose today for their monthly cash party."

"How does he know this?" Lacy asked, but by now it was an old question.

"Maybe you can ask him one day. I don't know. Look, Lacy, if the bad guys can find Myers then they can find me as well. I'm pretty spooked. I'm moving around these days, one cheap motel after another, and I'm worn out, to be honest. I'm sending you a package tomorrow with another burner, along with a phone number. It belongs to a phone in the possession of the mole. We change every month. If something happens to me, you call the number."

"Nothing will happen to you."

"Thanks, but you have no idea what you're talking about. Myers thought he was clever."

"True, but he also signed his name on the complaint. The bad guys have no idea who you are."

"I'm not sure I believe that anymore. At any rate, gotta run. Be careful, Lacy." The call ended and Lacy stared at the cheap phone, expecting more.

33.

With the autumn season approaching, the Surfbreaker readied itself for the annual invasion of Canadians. The lobby was quiet, the pool and parking lot practically empty. Clyde Westbay stepped onto an elevator for a quick ride to the third floor, to check on some room renovations. A guest in shorts and sandals entered the elevator just as the door was closing and punched the button for the sixth floor. When the elevator began to move, the guest said, "Got a few minutes, Mr. Westbay?"

Clyde looked him over and asked, "Are you a guest here?"

"I am. The Dolphin Suite. Name is Allie Pacheco, FBI."

Clyde's gaze dropped to the sandals as Allie pulled out his badge.

"What's the FBI doing in my hotel?"

"Paying a fat rate for an okay suite. We're here to talk to you."

The elevator stopped on the third floor, but Clyde did not get off. No one got on. The door closed and they continued upward.

"Maybe I'm busy right now."

"So are we. Just a few questions, that's all."

Clyde shrugged and stepped off on the sixth floor. He followed Pacheco to the end and watched as he opened the door to the Dolphin Suite.

"How do you like my hotel?" Clyde asked.

"It's okay. Room service sucks. Found a cockroach in my shower this morning. Dead."

Inside were three other gentlemen, all in shorts and sandals, along with a young lady who looked as though she was ready for tennis. The men were FBI. She was Rebecca Webb, Assistant U.S. Attorney.

Westbay looked around the spacious room and said, "Well, I don't really like the looks of this party. I suppose I could order you out of my hotel."

Pacheco said, "Sure, we'll be happy to leave, but you're going with us, in handcuffs and ankle chains, right through the main lobby, a perp walk for the benefit of your guests and employees. We might even tip off the local reporters."

"I'm under arrest?"

"You are, for capital murder."

His face turned pale and his knees buckled. He reached for the back of a chair and fumbled his way into it. Agent Hahn handed him a bottle of water, which he gulped as it splashed down his chin. He breathed deeply and looked into the eyes of the agents, desperate for help. An innocent man might have already protested.

Finally, he managed to mumble, "This can't be happening." But it was, and Westbay's life was over. He was now entering a nightmare.

Rebecca Webb placed some papers in his lap and said, "Here's the indictment, sealed, handed down yesterday by a federal grand jury in Tallahassee. One count of capital murder, punishable by death. The killing of Hugo Hatch was a murder for hire; thus the aggravating circumstances make it a capital case. Plus the stolen truck you bought for cash crossed a state line. Not very smart."

"I didn't do it," he almost whimpered. "I swear."

"Swear all you want to, Clyde. It's not going to help," Pacheco said in mock sympathy.

"I want a lawyer."

"Great. We'll get one for you, but first some paperwork. Let's sit over here at the table and have a chat." The table was small and round, with only two chairs. Westbay took one and Pacheco sat opposite. Hahn and the other two agents stood behind Pacheco, a show of force that was intimidating in spite of the golf shirts, shorts, and pale legs.

Pacheco said, "As far as we can determine, you have no criminal record, right?"

"Right."

"So, is this your first arrest?"

"I think so, yes." Thinking was difficult. He was bewildered, his eyes darting from face to face.

Pacheco slowly and crisply read Clyde his Miranda rights, then handed him a sheet of paper with the language printed. He shook his head as he read, some of the color finally returning to his face. He signed his name at the bottom with a pen Pacheco helpfully handed over.

"Do I have the right to make a phone call?" Westbay asked.

"Sure, but you need to know that we've been listening to your phone calls for the past three days. You have at least two cell phones, and if you use one now we'll hear every word."

"You what?" Westbay asked, incredulous.

Ms. Webb produced another set of papers and placed them on the table. "Here's the wiretapping warrant signed by a U.S. magistrate."

Pacheco said, "It appears as though you use the iPhone for most of your personal calls. Your Nokia is paid for by the hotel and seems to be used for business, and for calls to your girlfriend, Tammy James, a former waitress at Hooters. I'm assuming your wife does not know about Miss Tammy."

Clyde's jaw dropped but he couldn't speak. Could the revelations about Tammy be more troubling than the murder charge? Perhaps, but his brain was scrambled and nothing made sense.

Pacheco, thoroughly enjoying the moment, continued, "And by the way, we got a warrant for Tammy's phone too, and she's also sleeping with a guy named Burke and another named Walter, and there could be others. But you need to forget about Tammy because your chances of ever touching her warm body again are quite slim."

From somewhere in Westbay's throat there was a rumbling, burping noise that only one agent managed to read. He grabbed a plastic wastebasket and said, "Here" just as the defendant turned and began retching loudly. His face turned blood red as he gagged and wheezed and finally managed to vomit properly. Everyone looked away for a few seconds, though the sounds were just as sickening. When all of his breakfast was finally at the bottom of the bin, Westbay wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He kept his head down and made a strange whimpering noise. An agent handed him a wet hand towel and he wiped his mouth again. Eventually, he sat up straight and gritted his teeth, as if now fortified and ready for the firing squad.

A putrid odor began radiating from the wastebasket. An agent took it to the restroom.

Hahn took a step toward the table and said proudly, "Plus, we have records of all calls on both phones for the past two years. We're tracking down those numbers as we speak. Somewhere in there is Vonn Dubose. We'll eventually find his number."

Westbay appeared to stop breathing. He gawked wild-eyed at Pacheco across the table, and finally managed to say, "I want a lawyer."

"Who do you have in mind?"

His mind was paralyzed at the moment. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the name of a lawyer, any lawyer, or anyone who could possibly rescue him. There was a real estate lawyer he played golf with; a bankruptcy lawyer he drank with; a divorce lawyer who'd banished his first wife; and so on. Finally, "Okay, Gary Bullington."

Pacheco shrugged and said, "Call him. Let's hope he makes house calls."

"I don't have his number."