“People have already been hurt,” Lacy said as she glared, unblinking, at Judge McDover, who returned the stare as if she could not have cared less.
For a moment there was no air to breathe. Michael finally moved on with “We handle these investigations every day, Mr. Killebrew. I assure you we know how to keep things quiet. Oftentimes, though, the chatter seems to come from the other side.”
“Nice try, sir, but there will be no chatter from us,” Killebrew said. “We’ll file a motion to dismiss as soon as practical and get this crap thrown out.”
Michael replied, “I’ve been with the BJC for almost thirty years and I have yet to see a case in which the Board dismissed the complaint before the responses were filed. But go ahead and try.”
“That’s great, Mr. Geismar, and in your years of vast experience how often do you serve complaints in which the identity of the complaining party is not revealed?”
“His name is Greg Myers. Right there on the front page.”
“Thank you. But who is Mr. Greg Myers, and where does he live? There is no address, no contact information, nothing.”
“It would be inappropriate for you to contact Mr. Myers.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to contact him. We just want to know who he is and why he is accusing my client of something that amounts to bribery. That’s all.”
“To be discussed later,” Michael said.
“Anything else?” McDover asked. The judge was in charge and ready to adjourn.
“No, not from us,” Michael replied. “We will await your response in thirty days, if not sooner.”
Without a handshake and with hardly a nod, they stood and left the room. Nothing was said as they walked to the car and drove away. As the town faded behind them, Michael finally said, “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Justin spoke first. “The fact that she hired the most expensive lawyer around here before she knew what was coming raises suspicions. Would she hire him if she wasn’t guilty of something? And how can she afford him on a judge’s salary? Narco-traffickers and other big-time crooks have the cash for a guy like Killebrew, but not a circuit court judge.”
“I guess she’s got the cash,” Lacy said.
Michael said, “As cool as she was, I saw fear. And not the fear of a soiled reputation. That’s the least of her worries. You agree, Lacy? Could you read her?”
“I didn’t get the impression she’s afraid. She’s too cold-blooded for that.”
Justin said, “Look, we know what she’s going to do. She’ll file a thick response in which she claims she purchased the condos years ago as investments. It’s not against the law to do so with offshore companies. It may look suspicious, but it’s not illegal or even unethical.”
Lacy said, “Okay, but how can she prove she paid for them?”
Michael ventured a guess. “She’ll find some records. She has Vonn Dubose somewhere in the dark cooking the books, and now she has Edgar Killebrew blowing smoke. This will not be easy.”
“We’ve known that from the beginning,” Lacy said.
“We need more from Myers,” Michael said. “We need the smoking gun.”
“Yes, we do, and Myers needs to lay as low as possible,” Justin added. “You saw how eager they are to find him.”
“They’re not going to find Myers,” Lacy said with authority, as if she knew more than her colleagues.
They had driven two hours for a fifteen-minute meeting, but that was the nature of their work. If there was time, Lacy wanted to at least see her wrecked car and check for forgotten odds and ends in its console and trunk. Michael had tried to persuade her otherwise. Whatever she left behind—old CDs, an umbrella, a few coins—would not be worth the horror of seeing the evidence of Hugo’s fatal injuries.
But, since they were in the neighborhood and had a few minutes, Michael wanted to say hello to Constable Gritt and introduce him to Lacy. Gritt had been on the scene and had helped with her rescue, and Lacy wanted to at least say thanks. It was almost 6:00 p.m. when they arrived at the police station near the casino. A cop was loitering around the front desk, and when Michael asked for Constable Gritt he was informed that he no longer worked there. There was a new constable and he’d gone home for the day.
“What happened to Gritt?” Michael asked, immediately suspicious.
The cop shrugged as if he had no idea. “You can ask the Chief but I doubt if you’ll get an answer.”
They drove two blocks to the salvage yard, and through a locked chain-link gate looked at a dozen old wrecks. The sad collection did not include Lacy’s Prius or the Dodge Ram that collided with it. They were gone.
“Oh, boy,” Michael mumbled. “Gritt assured me the vehicles would be secured. I told him there might be an investigation. I thought we were on the same page.”
“How long was he the constable?” Lacy asked.
“I think he said four years.”
“I guess we need to talk to him.”
“We’re going to be very careful, right, Lacy?”
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