What about the alarm? It was a new system with monitors on every window and door, installed by Cooley two months earlier. To bypass it meant the guy in the red shirt and cap was a professional.

A brief pause as the lawyer looked for a piece of paper, and JoHelen glanced at her phone. Her intruder could barely be seen in her closet, rifling through her wardrobe. Should she call the police and bust the guy? Should she call Neighborhood Watch? No-calls leave trails, and these days it seemed as if most trails were leading back to JoHelen.

Two lawyers were suddenly talking at once, something that happened every day in her world, and she deftly separated the two on the official record without missing a word. Her only real pet peeve was when three lawyers were talking simultaneously. A simple glance from her to the bench and Judge McDover would restore order. They often communicated with slight movements of the face or hands, but today JoHelen was trying not to look at her boss.

The intruder would find nothing incriminating. She wasn't stupid enough to hide records in a place so easy to find. Her records were elsewhere, locked and secure. But what would they do next? They had killed a man to intimidate and impede the investigation by BJC. Evidently, they had tracked down Greg Myers and silenced him. Now Cooley, her friend, confidant, handler, and co-conspirator, was either leaving or already gone, freaking out and seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He assured her she was safe, that her identity would never be revealed, but those were hollow words from last week.

Her Honor called for a ten-minute recess, and JoHelen calmly walked down the hall to her small office, where she locked the door and watched, in real time, her intruder. The man was still in her house, now going through the kitchen drawers, carefully removing the pots and pans and then replacing them just as he found them. He was not a thief and would not leave a trail. He was wearing gloves. He finally made his way to her office, where he took a seat and looked around. He began removing files from her drawers as if he had all the time in the world.

He worked for Vonn Dubose. And they now suspected her.

- Allie Pacheco stopped by at noon for an update. They met in Geismar's office, at the worktable cluttered with files of other pending cases. Allie wasn't smug when he talked about their success with Clyde Westbay, but he was obviously proud of their work. And, the best was yet to come.

All of their requests for wiretapping and surveillance had been approved by a federal judge, and their tech team was listening to dozens of phones. The FBI had located the homes of Vance and Floyd Maton, Ron Skinner, and Hank Skoley, four of the five Cousins. Their boss, Mr. Dubose, was currently living in a cottage in Rosemary Beach. The night before, Hank had driven Vonn to a swanky restaurant near Panama City where they met a third man, a guy who just happened to be a Brunswick County supervisor. The purpose of the meeting was not clear and the FBI was not eavesdropping.

Dubose still had them baffled. They were now in agreement that the name had to be fictitious, and that he had done a marvelous job for the past thirty or forty years living as someone else. As to bloodlines, the past was murky. Given the moral vagaries of their ancestors, it was proving to be difficult ascertaining the degree to which the Cousins were actually related. But this mattered only in their search for Vonn's real identity.

Clyde gave them the names of seven other managers. So far, the FBI had identified almost thirty bars, restaurants, hotels, shopping centers, strip clubs, liquor stores, convenience stores, residential developments, gated communities, and golf courses believed to be managed by the eight men, including Clyde. Every single entity was owned by an offshore company, most registered in Belize, the Bahamas, or the Cayman Islands.

Their investigation was expanding by the hour. Their boss in Jacksonville was committing all the manpower and resources Tallahassee was asking for. Luna, Pacheco's supervisor, had dropped everything and was running the operation. The U.S. Attorney's Office had four lawyers tag teaming with the FBI.

Pacheco was wired and all business. They were pulling twenty hours a day; he seemed to have little interest in Lacy, at least outside the office. When he raced off, Geismar asked her, "Are you seeing him?"

"Just saw him."

"You know what I mean."

"We've had a lunch, two dinners, and two late-night bottles of wine. I think I like him but we're going real slow."

"Don't you always go slow?"

"I do. Does it bother you?"

"Sort of. It's in the gray area."

"He and I have talked about it. We're on the same side of the street, but not in the same office. He couldn't date another agent in this town, but their rules do not include me. You want me to break it off?"

"What if I said yes?"

"You're the boss and I would do as instructed. He'll be around. He's not going anywhere."

"I'm not asking. I think you're okay with him, but just be careful what you say. You can rest assured he's not telling us everything."

"True, but he knows a lot more than we do."

36.

During the slow drive home, JoHelen mulled her options and realized that none were attractive. She couldn't simply run away and disappear. She had to at least go inside and look around and see if anything was missing, though the footage clearly showed the intruder leaving with nothing of hers. He was inside for ninety-three minutes, far too long for the monthly service. He came and went without a key but with her alarm pass code. What would stop him from returning at two in the morning for another house call? Should she stay at home or leave? If she left, where would she go?

She cursed Cooley with a bitterness that surprised her. They had started this little conspiracy joined at the hip, partners in a scheme to do good and make a bundle along the way, but now he had cracked up. He was gone, running away before Dubose could get him too, and leaving her behind, unguarded, vulnerable, frightened, and directionless.

The gate was opened automatically by the magnetic sticker on her parking decal. Sandy Gables, unit 58. She parked in her driveway, stared at her home, and knew it would never be the same. This was the moment, right? Stay? Run? Hide? How was she supposed to know? At this critical point, she was supposed to have a friend to protect her.

She grabbed her purse, got out, and walked to the front door. She unlocked it but did not open it. Across the street she saw Mr. Armstrong puttering around his carport. She went over and explained that her door was unlocked and she was spooked. Could he come over? She hated to ask and she was probably overreacting anyway, but nowadays a girl can't be too careful, can she? Mr. Armstrong was a kindly soul, retired and bored, and he said sure. They entered together and she turned off the alarm. He stood in the den and talked about his wife's latest flare-up of shingles as JoHelen scurried about, checking every room while asking every conceivable question about the affliction. She poked in the closets, looked under the beds, in the showers, the pantry, anywhere a person could possibly hide. She knew no one was there but it didn't matter. If she didn't at least search the place she couldn't think of staying.

She thanked Mr. Armstrong and offered him a diet soda. He seized the opportunity for a chat and an hour later was still there. She was in no hurry to be alone. When he finally left, she sat in the den and tried to collect her thoughts. A plank popped in the attic and she jumped out of her skin. As her heart raced and her breathing intensified, she listened for another sound. Could it be a footstep? But there was nothing but silence. She made up her mind to leave and quickly changed into jeans. What to pack? If they were watching and she left with a piece of luggage, her plans would be obvious. She could wait until dark and sneak a bag to her car, maybe two, but she had no desire to be in the house after dark. She took her bulkiest purse and packed it with toiletries and underwear. She filled a paper grocery sack with an empty gym bag and two changes of clothing. There were stores in the area; she could always buy what she needed.

As she drove away, she waved at Mr. Armstrong and wondered when she might return.

She drove south to the beaches, turned west on Highway 98, and drifted with the traffic along the coast, through seaside communities, and along the occasional stretch of untouched shoreline. As she drove she tried to watch everything behind her, but soon gave up. If they wanted to track her across the country, how was she supposed to stop them? She filled up with gas in Destin and kept going, soon skirting around Pensacola on smaller roads. When she realized she was in Alabama she turned east and made a long loop back to Interstate 10. At dark she stopped at a motel and paid cash for a room.

- JoHelen had never spoken to Greg Myers. She knew his name, but he knew nothing about her. Through Cooley, she had received a copy of the complaint filed against her boss by Myers. He was willing to run the risk of exposing the corruption for a slice of the pie, though none of the three-Myers, Cooley, JoHelen-had any conceivable idea of when the whistle-blower claim would be filed. Myers, the lawyer and accuser, was to spearhead the legal efforts to claim the money. Cooley, the ex-lawyer, would handle Myers and JoHelen and facilitate matters for a healthy cut. Same for Myers. She would get the rest. The deal was nice and tidy and looked good in theory.

Now Myers was presumed dead. Cooley had cracked up and fled. And JoHelen Hooper was hiding in a cheap motel, staring at a disposable prepaid cell phone with only one number to call. There was no one else. It was almost 10:00 p.m. when she said, "Ms. Stoltz, my name is JoHelen Hooper. Cooley gave me your number. You remember him?"

"Yes."

"And this is the phone he gave you?"

"Yes. You're the informant?"

"That's me. The mole, the source, the informant. Actually, Cooley said Myers liked to refer to me as the Whistler because I'm supposed to blow the whistle on Judge McDover. What do you know about me?"

"Nothing, didn't even know you were a woman. Why are you calling me?"

"Because Cooley gave me your number, said you had a burner, said to call you if things got bad and I got scared. Well, I'm scared."

"Where's Cooley?"

"Don't know. He cracked up and ran away, said he was leaving the country before Dubose found him. He found Myers, you know. I have no one else to talk to."

"Okay, let's talk. How do you know Judge McDover?"

"I've been her court reporter for the past eight years, but that's another story for another day. While we were in court today a man broke into my home and went through every inch of the place. I know this because I have hidden cameras in my home with an app that allows real-time surveillance on my phone. He took nothing because he wasn't a thief. He found nothing because I do not keep sensitive stuff at home, for obvious reasons. Cooley and I started planning this little adventure years ago, and we've been very cautious. So he added home security, the burners, the off-site storage of records, and a lot of other protective measures and habits."

"Does anyone else live there?"

"Oh no. I'm single, divorced, no kids."

"Any idea who your visitor was?"

"None, but I would recognize him, I think, though I doubt I'll get the chance. I'm sure he works for Dubose in some capacity, and I suspect they're closing in on me. The information I gave Cooley and Myers about Claudia could come from only a small number of people. I'm on the list. I'm sorry about your friend."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. He would be alive if I hadn't decided to bring down the judge."

"Why are you bringing down the judge?"

"It's another story. Let's save it for later. Right now I need advice, and I have no one else to turn to. I'm hiding in a motel because I could not stay at home tonight. I'm not sure about tomorrow. If I don't show up for work, warning bells go off. I haven't missed many days in eight years, and Claudia is already suspicious. If I go to work, I run the risk of walking back to her turf and that makes me nervous. What if they, whoever the hell they are, have made the decision that I need to go? I'm a sitting duck at work, or going or coming. You know how dangerous the roads can be."

"Call in sick, a stomach virus that's highly contagious. Happens to everyone."

JoHelen smiled. So simple, why hadn't she thought of it? Perhaps because her mind was spinning and nothing was clear. "Maybe, but what do I do tomorrow?"

"Keep moving around."

"Did you know that Cooley hid a tracking device on the inside of Claudia's car? He paid $300 for it and it took him about a minute to install. Said it was a piece of cake. Did you know about that?"

"We knew that she was being tracked, yes. Didn't know who or how."

"My point is that it's easy to follow people, so moving around is not the answer. They can bug my car, hack my cell phone, who knows what else. Dubose has the money to buy what it takes. I'm feeling pretty vulnerable right now, Ms. Stoltz."

"Call me Lacy. Is there a bar in the motel?"

"I think so."

"Go hang out in the bar until it closes. If an incredibly handsome young man with a flat stomach hits on you, take him back to your room for the night. If you don't get lucky, get in your car and find an all-night diner, maybe a truck stop. Kill a few hours. If the motel has a night clerk, hang out in the lobby until sunrise. Call me then."

"I can do that."

"Just stay around other people."

"Thanks, Lacy."

37.

As instructed, Clyde met Hank Skoley at a sprawling construction site two miles west of Panama City and a mile north of the Gulf. Huge signs announced the arrival of Honey Grove, a planned community with lovely homes, fantastic shopping, golf galore, all just minutes from the Emerald Coast. In the distance bulldozers leveled a forest. Closer, crews were putting in curbs and gutters. And near the main road homes were going up.

Clyde parked his car and took a seat in Hank's black Mercedes SUV. They rode along one of the few paved streets, weaving around dozens of contractors' trucks and vans parked haphazardly on dirt lots. Hundreds of workers hustled about. Toward the end of the street the homes were almost finished, and at the very end were three spanking-new model homes being used to entice buyers. Hank parked in one of the driveways and they went inside. The carport door was unlocked. The house was empty of people and furniture. "Follow me," Hank said, and they climbed the stairs.

Vonn Dubose was waiting in the empty master bedroom. He was looking out a front window, as if admiring the frenzy of yet another scorched-earth development. They spoke, shook hands, and Vonn actually smiled and seemed in good spirits. Clyde had not seen him in over a year and he had not changed at all. Slim, nice tan, golf shirt, and khakis, just another affluent retiree.

Vonn said, "So, what's on your mind?"

- The bug was built into the Timex watch on Clyde's left wrist, a watch identical to the one he'd been wearing for the past three years. Clyde had not noticed the watches worn by Hank or Vonn, and he was almost certain they had paid no attention to his. Men tend not to notice such things, but Pacheco and his technicians were taking no chances. The leather band was tight because of a tiny vibrator on the back facing of the watch. When the van was within range, the facing would vibrate and Clyde would know they were in business.

It was an exact replica of a FedEx delivery van, and it rolled to a stop in front of the house next door. The driver, dressed in official FedEx garb, got out and popped the hood; some mechanical failure. In the rear was the FBI-Allie Pacheco and three technicians with their gear. When they were within two hundred feet of the Timex, they pushed a button and it vibrated. Inside the bedroom, the mike in the watch would pick up a whisper from thirty feet away.

The day before, Clyde had spent four hours with Allie Pacheco and two other agents rehearsing his role. Now it was time for his big moment. Deliver Vonn Dubose, and he, Clyde Westbay, would serve a few years and grow old a free man.

- Clyde began, "Two things, Vonn. I can't find Zeke Foreman. I told him to disappear two weeks ago and call me every other day. We spoke a few times, then his phone went silent. I think the kid probably just freaked out and ran away."

Vonn looked at Hank, shrugged, looked at Clyde, and said, "I know this already."

Clyde, his stomach flipping fast enough to make sounds for the Timex, shuffled his feet and continued, "Look, Vonn, this is all my fault and I'm taking responsibility. It was a stupid mistake on my part, and, well, who knows what might happen."

Vonn looked at Hank again and said, "I thought I told you to pass along my displeasure with what happened." He looked at Clyde and said, "Sure, it was stupid, but it's done and I'm over it. It looks like the damage is contained. You just do your job running the hotels and I'll get other folks for the dirty work."

"Thanks, Vonn," Clyde said. "The other thing is that, I just want you to know, I'm willing to leave town for a year or so. I think it might be smart if I just, you know, took a trip and vanished until this blows over. You see, Vonn, my wife and I aren't doing so well these days, and, frankly, it's a good time for me to get away from her. We're not giving up, but she's cool if I hit the road for a while."

"Maybe not a bad idea. I'll think about it."

"I mean, that's my face in the video, and I'm not sure what I'll do if some cop shows up at the office asking questions. Makes me kind of nervous, Vonn. I'd rather just leave for now. I have good people under me and I'll check in every week. The hotels will be fine."

"Like I said, I'll think about it."

"Okay." Clyde shrugged as if he had nothing else to say. He took a step toward the door, stopped, and turned toward Vonn. Time for the Oscar.

"Look, Vonn, I gotta tell you, I love my job and I'm proud to be part of your organization, but, well, you mentioned the 'dirty work,' and..." His voice began to break, his words were scratchy. "Look, Vonn, I'm just not cut out for that stuff, you know what I mean? I didn't know that guy was going to die. I didn't know it was all, well, you know, planned. Somebody tampered with the seat belt and the air bag and the poor guy went flying through the windshield. You should've seen him, Vonn. His face was cut all to hell, blood pouring everywhere, and he was thrashing around. He looked at me, Vonn. He gave me this look that said, 'Please! Please!' I have nightmares about it, Vonn. I just left him there. I didn't know what I was doing. Somebody should've told me what was going on, Vonn."

"You were told to do a job," Vonn growled and took a step closer.

"But I didn't know the job involved killing someone."

"It's called intimidation, Clyde. That's the name of the game and that's how I run things. If not for intimidation, I wouldn't be here and you wouldn't be making a fat salary running my hotels. Sometimes, in this business, you gotta put folks in line, and sometimes these folks understand nothing but intimidation. If you don't want to do it, fine. I guess I misjudged you. Thought you had some balls."

"I thought I had some too, but I lost them when I saw that guy bleeding to death."

"That's part of it."

"You ever watched someone bleed to death, Vonn?"

"Yes," Vonn said proudly.

"Stupid question."

"Anything else?" Vonn glared at Hank as if to say "Get him outta here."

Clyde raised his hands in surrender and backed away. "Okay, okay, but I really want to leave for a year, to get away from all this. Please, Vonn."

"I'll think about it."

- In the van, Allie Pacheco removed his earphones and smiled at the technicians. He mumbled to himself, "Beautiful. 'It's called intimidation, Clyde. That's the name of the game and that's how I run things.'"

The FedEx man suddenly found a way to start his van. He drove away just as Clyde and Hank were leaving the model home. Clyde noticed it but had no idea it was loaded with FBI.