11.

Judge McDover parked close to the space where Hugo sat rather awkwardly in Lacy's Prius, his face hidden behind a newspaper, his camera by his side. To go with his collection of thoroughly useless photos of the east nine at Rabbit Run, he could now add a few shots of a Lear 60 out there on the tarmac. As Claudia rolled her small suitcase across the parking lot and headed for the front door of Gulf Aviation, he snapped a few of her backside. At fifty-six, she was slender and, at least from the rear, could pass for a lady twenty years younger. Actually, he had to admit, from this angle she looked better than Verna, who, after child number four, was struggling to drop the weight. He simply couldn't stop the habit of staring at the backsides of all nicely shaped females.

After she disappeared inside, Hugo put away his camera and his newspaper and fell asleep.

- After years in crime, Claudia McDover had gradually learned how to think like a suspect. She noticed everything, from the black guy sitting in the passenger's seat of the small Toyota reading a newspaper, which seemed a bit odd at noon, to the cute redhead who worked the front desk and gave her a big smile, to the harried business guy in the dark suit whose flight was obviously late, to the pretty girl on the sofa flipping through a copy of Vanity Fair. She seemed a bit out of place. In a matter of seconds Claudia sized up the lobby, deemed it safe and clear, and filed away all the faces. In her world, every phone could be tapped, every stranger could be watching, every letter could be violated, every e-mail could be hacked. But she wasn't paranoid and did not live in fear. She was only cautious, and after years of practice her caution was second nature.

A young man in a crisp uniform stepped forward, introduced himself as one of the pilots, and took her suitcase. The cute redhead hit a button, the doors slid open, and Claudia left the terminal. Such exits, though short on drama and unwitnessed by the world, still gave her a thrill. While the masses queued up in endless lines and waited for flights that were crowded, delayed, or canceled, and finally, if lucky, were then herded like cattle onto dirty airplanes packed with seats far too narrow for modern American rumps, she, Judge Claudia McDover of Florida's Twenty-Fourth Judicial District, strolled like a queen to her private jet, where the champagne was on ice and the flight would be on time and nonstop.

Phyllis was waiting. Once the pilots were strapped in and busy with their routines, Claudia gave her a kiss and held her hand. After takeoff, and once the jet leveled off at thirty-eight thousand feet, Phyllis popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and they toasted, as always, the Tappacola tribe.

They had met during their second year of law school at Stetson, and the similarities had been remarkable. Both were reeling from terrible first marriages. Both had chosen law school for the wrong reasons. Claudia had been wiped out and humiliated by her husband and his nasty lawyers and was plotting revenge. Phyllis's divorce decree required her ex to cover the cost of her continued education. She chose med school to drag things out as long as possible, but bombed the MCAT. She turned to law school and clipped him for three more years of postgraduate study. She and Claudia began dating on the sly during their third year, then went their separate ways after graduation. They were women in a weak job market and grabbed what they could find. Claudia went to a small firm in a small town. Phyllis worked as a public defender in Mobile until she got tired of street criminals and found refuge in an office practice. Now that the Indians had made them rich, they traveled in style, lived in understated luxury, and were plotting their final getaway to a place yet to be determined.

When the champagne was gone, both fell asleep. For seventeen years, Claudia had worked diligently at her job because she was, after all, always up for reelection. Phyllis, too, put in long hours in her busy little firm. They never had enough sleep. Two and a half hours after leaving Florida, the jet touched down at Teterboro, New Jersey, home to more private aircraft than any other airport in the world. A black town car was waiting and whisked them away. Twenty minutes later they arrived at their building in Hoboken, a sleek new high-rise on the Hudson, directly across the river from the financial district. From their perch on the fourteenth floor, they had a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan. Lady Liberty was only a stone's throw away. The apartment was spacious and sparsely decorated. It was an investment, not a home, just a place to keep until they chose to flip it. It was, of course, owned by an offshore shell entity, this one domiciled in the Canary Islands.

Phyllis took great delight in playing the international shell game, and was constantly moving money and companies around to find the hottest new tax haven. With time and experience, she had become an expert at hiding their money.

After dark, they put on jeans and took a car into the city, to SoHo, where they dined at a tiny French bistro. Later, in a dimly lit bar, they sipped more champagne and giggled at how far they'd traveled, not just in distance, but in life.

- The Armenian's name was Papazian and they'd never known whether it was his first or last name. Not that it mattered. Their dealings were shrouded in secrecy. Neither side asked questions because no one wanted answers. He rang their doorbell at ten Saturday morning and, after the required pleasantries, opened his briefcase. On a small breakfast table he spread his dark blue felt and arranged his goodies-diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. As always, Phyllis served him a double espresso, which he sipped as he described each gem. After four years of doing business, they knew Papazian dealt in only the finest stones. He had a shop in midtown, where they had first met him, but now he was quite happy to make a house call. He had no clue who they were or where they came from. His only concern was the transaction, and the cash. In less than thirty minutes, they selected a fistful of his best-"portable wealth" as Phyllis liked to say-and handed over the money. He slowly counted $230,000 in $100 bills, mumbling all the while in his native tongue. When everyone was happy, he gulped down the last of his espresso, his second, and left their apartment.

With the bulk of the dirty work out of the way, the girls got dressed and took a car into the city. They bought shoes at Barneys, had a long lunch at Le Bernardin, and eventually drifted to the diamond district, where they dropped in on one of their favorite dealers. With cash they bought a selection of new, uncirculated gold coins-Krugerrands from South Africa, Maple Leafs from Canada, and, to help the local economy, American Eagles. All cash, no paperwork, no records, no trail. The tiny shop had at least four surveillance cameras, and these had once been a concern. Someone somewhere might be watching, but those concerns had been set aside. In their business there were always risks. The trick was choosing which ones to accept.

Saturday night they watched a musical on Broadway, dined afterward at Orso but saw no celebrities, and went to bed after midnight, content with another successful day of laundering. Late Sunday morning, they packed their loot along with their handsome collection of new and horribly expensive shoes, and took a car back to Teterboro, where the jet was waiting for the return trip south.

12.

Hugo was late for the meeting, and while they waited Geismar reviewed the new photos and the travel records as Lacy returned e-mails. "Any idea why these go back only seven years?" he asked.

"None. Myers doesn't know but speculates that the mole arrived on the scene at about that time. Obviously, the mole is someone close to McDover, and perhaps that's when he or she got involved."

"Well, he or she is certainly spending some money. It's hard to believe these photos could have been taken by someone sitting in a car on the street. It's more likely that the photographer was inside one of the condos."

"There are four of them in a unit directly across the street," Lacy said. "Two are available for rent, at a thousand a week. We are assuming he or she rented one, set up the camera, and knew precisely when McDover and Dubose would arrive. That's some pretty serious intel."

"Indeed it is. Myers knows what he's talking about, Lacy. These guys are doing some dirty business. Not sure we can prove it, but the evidence is looking stronger. What will McDover say when confronted with all this?"

"I guess we'll find out soon enough."

The door swung open and Hugo appeared. He said, "Sorry I'm late. Another rough night." He tossed his briefcase on the table and took a sip from a tall coffee. "I would have been here sooner but I've been on the phone with a guy who won't give me his name."

Geismar nodded, waiting, still holding one of the photos. Lacy said, "Okay?"

"He called first around five this morning, a bit early but I just happened to be awake. Said he worked at the casino and had some information that might be useful. Said he knew we were investigating the tribe and the judge and he could help. I pressed a little and he hung up. About an hour ago, he called again, from a different number, and said he wanted to meet and talk about a deal. I asked what kind of deal and he got pretty vague. He said there was a lot of shady stuff going on and it was just a matter of time before it blew up. He's a member of the tribe, knows the Chief and the folks who run the casino, and doesn't want to get caught in the storm when it all hits the fan."

Hugo was pacing around the room, as was his habit of late. Sitting made him sleepy.

Lacy said, "This could be interesting."

Geismar fell into his swivel and locked his hands behind his head. "Nothing else?"

"No, but he wants to meet tonight. Said he works a late shift and is not free until after 9:00 p.m."

"You think he's for real?" Geismar asked.

"Who knows? He certainly sounded nervous and he used two different phones, probably disposable. He repeatedly asked me about secrecy and wanted to know how we can protect his identity. He said a lot of his people are fed up with the corruption but afraid to talk."

"Where does he want to meet?" Lacy asked.

"He lives not far from the casino, on the reservation. He said he'll find a spot and call us when we get close."

"We gotta be careful here," Geismar said. "This could be a setup."

"I don't think so," Hugo said. "I got the impression I was talking to a guy who needs help and wants to help."

"Which cell phone are you using?"

"BJC's. I know the rules, Boss."

"Okay, how did he get your number?" Geismar asked. "So far, in this investigation, who have you given your numbers to? Both of you."

Hugo and Lacy looked at each other and tried to remember. She said, "Myers, Junior Mace, the authorities at the prison, Wilton Mace, Razko's widow, Al Bennett, the lawyer who ran against McDover five years ago, Naylor at the Gaming Commission, and I think that's it."

"That's all," Hugo said. "Driving in, I asked myself the same question."

"Sounds like enough to spring a leak," Geismar said.

"But none of those people are even remotely involved with Dubose and the corruption," Lacy said.

"As far as we know," Hugo said.

"So, you want to go?" Geismar asked.

"Of course we're going," Lacy said.

Geismar stood and walked to his narrow window. He said, "This could be the break. Someone on the inside."

"We're going," Lacy said.

"Okay, but please be careful."

- They sat in Lacy's car at the far end of the casino parking lot until almost 11:00 p.m., waiting for the informant to check in. It was a Monday night, a slow evening at the tables and slots. Hugo, of course, catnapped while Lacy was online with her iPad. At 10:56, he called with directions. They left the casino, drove two miles along a dark, narrow, winding road, and stopped at an abandoned metal building. An ancient portable sign informed them that it had once been a bingo hall. One home was visible in the distance. The bright lights of Treasure Key were far away. The night was hot and sticky and thick with mosquitoes. Hugo got out of the car and stretched his legs. At six feet two and two hundred pounds, and still with the all-American's cockiness, he did not scare easily. Lacy was comforted by his presence. She would not have made the trip alone. Hugo redialed the most recent number but there was no answer.

Something moved in the shadows along the side of the building. "Hello," Hugo called into the darkness. Lacy got out of the car.

A voice said, "Take a few steps this way." A silhouette was partially visible and not moving. The man was wearing a cap and the red ember of a cigarette moved back and forth from his mouth. Together they inched forward until he said, "That's far enough. You're not going to see my face."

"Well, I guess you can see ours, right?" Hugo said.

"That's far enough. You are Mr. Hatch, right?"

"That's right."

"Who's the girl?"

"My name is Lacy Stoltz. We're colleagues."

"You didn't tell me you were bringing a woman out here."

"You didn't ask," Hugo shot back. "She's my partner and we're working together."

"I don't like this."

"Too bad."

A pause as he took a puff and sized them up. He cleared his throat, spat, and said, "I understand you're hot on the trail of Judge McDover."

"We work for the Florida Board on Judicial Conduct," Lacy said. "We're lawyers, not cops. Our job is to investigate complaints against judges."

"That judge needs to be in prison, along with a bunch of others." His voice was quick and nervous. He blew a lungful of smoke and the cloud drifted into the thick air.

"You said you work in the casino," Hugo said.

A long pause, then, "That's right. What do you know about the judge?"

Lacy said, "A complaint has been filed alleging some bad behavior. We're not at liberty to go into details."

"Bad behavior, huh?" he said and offered a nervous laugh. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, where it glowed for a second. "Can you guys arrest people or are you just, you know, like, sticking your noses into this business?"

Hugo said, "No, we don't arrest people."

Another nervous laugh from the shadows. "Then I'm wasting my time. I need to talk to somebody with some clout."

Lacy said, "We have the authority to investigate and remove a judge if necessary."

"The judge is not the biggest problem here."

They waited for more but got nothing but silence. They strained to see the silhouette but it had apparently vanished. The man had eased away. Hugo took a few steps closer and said, "Are you there?" No response.

"That's far enough," Lacy whispered. "I think he's gone."

A few seconds passed in the uneasy stillness, and Hugo said, "I think you're right."

"I don't like this. Let's get out of here."

They quickly opened their doors and got in the car. As she backed away, Lacy swept the side of the building with her headlights. No sign of anyone. She turned onto the road and headed in the direction of the casino. "Pretty strange," Hugo said. "We could have had that conversation on the phone."

Headlights approached in the distance.

"You think I scared him away?" she asked.

"Who knows? If he's legit, then he's thinking about passing on information that could ruin some people. Naturally, he's reluctant. I guess he got cold feet and ran."

Hugo tapped his waist and said, "This seat belt has come unlatched again. That's the third time tonight. Why don't you get it fixed?"

Lacy glanced over and was about to say something when Hugo screamed. Blinding lights were in their lane. A pickup truck had crossed the center line. The collision was head-on, bumper to bumper, with a force so violent that her Prius went airborne and spun 180 degrees. At six thousand pounds and twice the weight of the Prius, the truck, a Dodge Ram 2500, got the better end of the collision. It came to rest on the shoulder of the narrow road, its mangled front end almost in a shallow ditch.

The air bag in the steering wheel exploded onto Lacy's chest and into her face, and knocked her dizzy. The crown of her head struck the ceiling of the Prius as it caved in, cutting a nasty gash across her skull. The air bag on the passenger's side failed to open. With no seat belt and no air bag, Hugo smashed into the windshield, shattering it with his head and shoulders. The glass ripped his face to shreds and opened a long cut on his neck.

Glass and metal and wreckage sprayed the scene. The right front tire of the truck was spinning. Its driver slowly got out, removed his black motorcycle helmet and pads, and checked behind him. Another pickup was slowing down. He stretched his legs, rubbed his left knee, and walked with a limp to the front of the smashed Prius for a quick look. He saw the lady, her face covered with blood, her air bag draped before her, and he saw the black guy bleeding from his many injuries. He loitered for a moment, then stumbled away and climbed into the second pickup, where he waited and rubbed his leg. He noticed his nose was bleeding. Its driver got behind the wheel and they drove away, slowly, all lights off. The pickup turned into a field, and disappeared. No 911 call was made.

The nearest house was half a mile down the road. It was owned by the Beale family, and Iris Beale, the wife and mother, heard the collision, though initially she had no idea what had happened. But she was convinced it was unusual and needed looking into. She woke up her husband, Sam, and forced him to throw on some clothes and check things out. By the time Sam arrived on the scene, another car had stopped. Within minutes, sirens were heard and flashing lights came into view as two cars from the Tappacola Police Department arrived. They were followed by two units from the Tappacola Fire and Rescue. Almost immediately, a medevac helicopter was called from the nearest regional hospital in Panama City.

Hugo was extracted by removing what was left of the windshield and easing him through the opening. He was still alive but unconscious and with hardly a pulse. Hydraulic jacks were used to rip off the driver's door and remove Lacy, who was trying to speak but uttering only unintelligible grunts. She was placed in an ambulance and sent off to the tribe's clinic near the casino. There, she would wait on the helicopter. She lost consciousness en route to the center, so did not hear the news that Hugo had died. She would make the short flight to the hospital without her colleague.

At the scene, the police went about their business of taking photographs, videos, and measurements, and looking for witnesses. Evidently, there were none. Nor was there a driver for the pickup truck. The driver's side air bag had been fully deployed. There was no sign of blood or injuries, but a broken bottle of whiskey was found on the passenger's side floorboard. The driver had simply vanished. Even before the truck was towed away, the police knew it had been stolen six hours earlier from a shopping center in Foley, Alabama. Lacy's Prius was loaded onto a flatbed tow truck and taken to a holding yard near the tribe's administration complex.

Hugo's body was taken to the tribe's medical facility and placed in a frigid room in the basement where an occasional body was held. Across the street, the constable, Lyman Gritt, sat at his desk and stared at a small collection of Hugo's things-keys on a ring, folded dollar bills, some change, and a wallet. A sergeant sat on the other side of the desk, equally as mum. Neither volunteered to make the phone call.

The constable finally opened the wallet and removed one of Hugo's business cards. He went online and found BJC's website and tracked down Michael Geismar. "He should make the phone call, right?" asked the constable. "After all, he knows Mr. Hatch, and probably knows his family."

"Good idea," said the sergeant.

At 2:20, Michael answered the phone and was met with "I'm so sorry to call, but I believe you work with Mr. Hugo Hatch. I'm the constable for the Tappacola tribe, over in Brunswick County."

Michael stumbled to his feet as his wife turned on a light. "Yes! What's happened?"

"There's been an accident, a bad car wreck, and Mr. Hatch has been killed. Someone needs to notify his family."

"What? Are you serious? No, you can't be serious. Who is this?"

"My name is Constable Lyman Gritt, sir, the chief law enforcement officer for the tribe. I assure you I'm serious. The accident happened on our reservation about two hours ago. The young lady, Lacy Stoltz, has been taken to the hospital in Panama City."

"I don't believe this."

"I'm sorry, sir. Does he have a family?"

"Does he have a family? Yes, Mr. Gritt, he has a family, a pretty young wife and four small children. Yes, a family. This is unreal."