“Because if she’s McDover’s court reporter, then she’s in danger. We’re listening to a lot of phones right now, and I can’t give you the exact language, it was in some goofy semi-code, but it appears as though the boss has given the order.”
“She’s the informant, Allie. Myers called her the Whistler.”
“Well, they’re onto her. Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Can you contact her?”
“I’ll try.”
“Do that and call me back.”
Lacy let the dog in and poured a cup of coffee. She picked up the burner and called JoHelen’s number. After the fifth ring, a timid voice said, “Is this Lacy?”
“It is. Where are you?”
A long pause, then, “What if someone is listening?”
“No one is listening. No one knows about these phones. Where are you?”
“Panama City Beach, a cheap hotel, paid in cash. I’m looking at the ocean.”
“I just spoke with the FBI. One of their wiretaps caught a conversation early this morning. They think you’re in danger.”
“I’ve been telling you that for two days.”
“Stay in your room. I’ll call the FBI.”
“No! Don’t do that, Lacy. Cooley told me to never trust the FBI. Don’t call them.”
Lacy bit a nail and looked down at Frankie, who now wanted breakfast. “You have to trust them, JoHelen. Your life is in danger.”
The phone went dead. Lacy called twice but with no answer. She quickly fed the dog, threw on some jeans, and left her apartment. Behind the wheel of her shiny new Mazda hatchback, which she’d bought four days earlier and was still trying to relax in, she called Allie and told him what was going on. He said that at the moment he was busy with the grand jury, but to keep him posted. JoHelen finally answered the fifth call. She sounded terrified and refused to give Lacy the name of the hotel. Lacy knew that Panama City Beach was a busy strip of Highway 98, with dozens of small hotels packed together on the ocean side and fast-food joints and T-shirt shops across the road.
“Why’d you hang up a while ago?” Lacy asked.
“I don’t know. I’m scared and I’m afraid someone is listening.”
“The phones are safe. Keep the door locked and if you see anything suspicious, call the front desk or the police. I’m on the way.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m coming to get you, JoHelen. Just hang on. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
—
Delgado had a room on the third floor next door at the West Bay Inn. She was at the Neptune. Both were low-end motels half-filled with tourists from up north looking for bargains after the summer season. Her door opened onto a narrow, concrete walkway on the second level. The stairs were nearby. Beach towels and swimsuits hung to dry over the railings. But she had not been swimming. That would make it too easy for him.
From a hundred feet away, he watched her door and window. She had pulled her curtains tight, which had saved her life. With his sniper rifle, all he needed was a sliver, but so far he had not had such an opening. So he waited patiently, and as the hours passed Saturday morning he thought of simply walking over and ringing her bell. “Sorry, ma’am, wrong room,” then he would kick the door open and it would be over in seconds. The obvious problem there was the chance of a short scream or shriek or other panicked noise that might attract attention; just too risky. If she left the room he would follow and wait for an opportunity, though he wasn’t optimistic. The motels and cafés along the strip were far from deserted. There were just too many people around and he didn’t like the layout.
He waited and wondered why she was hiding. Why hide if you’re not afraid, or guilty? What had happened to spook her enough to run away and pay cash for small rooms in cheap hotels? Her home was less than an hour away and was much nicer than these dumps. Perhaps the neighbors had seen him there as the pest control guy on Thursday. Perhaps that pesky man across the street told her how clumsy the plumber acted Friday morning. She knew she was guilty and now she was paranoid.
Delgado wondered if she was meeting a man, one she should not be meeting, but there was no sign of any hanky-panky. She was alone in there, just killing time, waiting for what? Sex was probably the last thing on her mind. A walk on the beach would be a sensible thing to do. Or a swim in the ocean. Do what everyone else is doing and create some opportunities. But the door never opened, nor was she moving around, as far as he could tell.
—
Pacheco said, “I don’t like this, Lacy. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Relax.”
“Let the local cops handle it. Get the name of the hotel and call the cops.”
“She won’t give me the name of the hotel and she won’t talk to the police. She’s terrified and she’s not rational, Allie. She’s hardly talking to me.”
“I can get two agents from our office in Panama City in a moment’s notice.”
“No, she’s afraid of the FBI.”
“That seems rather stupid, under the circumstances. How will you find her if you don’t know where she is?”
“I’m hoping she’ll tell me when I get there.”
“Okay, okay. I have to get back to the grand jury. Call me in an hour.”