Judge's List (15 page)

The orange stayed down. He tried to nap but was too wired. He grabbed his gym bag and walked around the corner where he spent two hours spinning, rowing, lifting, and pounding the treadmill. When he was beyond exhaustion, he stuck his head into the steam room. When he was certain he would be alone, he stripped and entered and stretched out on his towel.

It was a mistake to call Norris Ozment, but he’d had no choice. Ozment could now link him directly to Verno, the same way Tabor had linked him. But it was unlikely that the authorities in Mississippi would ever find Ozment, and even unlikelier that he would bother to go to them. Why should he?

The judge massaged his temples and tried to breathe slowly as the steam soothed his lungs. The person who filed the complaint with BJC did so anonymously and with the understanding that nothing would be entered into a digital file. Everything would be kept offline. The person who hired Rollie Tabor to pose as Jeff Dunlap and snoop through the old court case did so with the agreement that Tabor would store nothing online. The person who mailed the two anonymous letters went to great lengths to remove all possible clues.

The person knew about Eileen Nickleberry.

All these persons were the same. There was simply no other explanation. The evidence was far too coincidental. It was imperative to find this person.

And if he found him, what would the good judge do? He could certainly kill him, that would be easy enough. But was it too late? Did Ms. Stoltz at BJC have enough damning evidence to go to the police? He told himself the answer was no, and he believed it. Accusing and indicting were easy enough, but convicting would be impossible. He presided over murder trials, studied forensics and knew more about the science than the experts, and, most importantly, he knew how much evidence was needed to convict. A helluva lot! Beyond a reasonable doubt. Far more than any low-paid cop had been able to find along his graveyard trail.

There were a dozen on his list, give or take. More or less. Ten down, two to go. Maybe three. Dunwoody didn’t count because he was never on the list. His timing was bad, and he was one victim that still troubled the judge. He didn’t deserve to die, like the others. Troubled as he was, though, there was nothing he could do about it.

And now there were far more serious troubles.

A killer can’t help but look over his shoulder, and for years he had feared this reckoning. In fact, he’d had so much time to think about it that he had pieced together several possible reactions. One was to simply go away, vanish, before being subjected to the humiliation of an indictment, arrest, and trial. He had plenty of money and there was a big world out there. He had traveled extensively and been to several places where he could easily blend in and never be found. He preferred those countries beyond the reach of U.S. extradition treaties.

Another strategy was to stay and fight. Declare innocence, even persecution, and lawyer up for a big trial. He knew precisely who to hire for his defense. No jury could convict him because no police department had the evidence. It was his firm belief that no prosecutor would ever indict, for the same reason. No sitting judge had ever been put on trial for murder in America, and to do so would cause a media circus of epic proportions. Even the most ambitious prosecutor would shy away from the horror of losing before such an audience.

Which of his murders would be the easiest to prove at trial? It was the great question that he toyed with almost every day. Because of his cunning and brilliance, he was of the lofty opinion that none of them could survive past the indictment phase. Staying and fighting was the most attractive option.

Staying would allow him to finish his list.

The last strategy was the easiest. He could simply end the game himself and take his crimes to his grave.

Judge Bannick allowed himself a martini late on Friday afternoons, usually with another judge or two, and there were several preferred bars in the area. One favorite was at a club on the oceanfront with the Gulf stretching in the distance. On this Friday, though, he was in no mood for socializing, but he did need the martini. He mixed it in the back room and sipped it in the Vault, and as he did so he asked himself the obvious question: “Who is this person?”

A cop would not bother with anonymous mail. Why waste the time? Why alert the suspect? Why play games? And the cops weren’t looking. He had hacked his way into all the police departments and he knew how cold the files were. The sheriff in Biloxi and his detective Napier were still working the case every day, but that was only because there were two victims and one was local. They had nothing to show for their efforts and now, after six months, they were following the same pattern as the others.

A private investigator would cost too much money. Regardless of the hourly rate, there was simply too much labor involved to link the murder of Eileen in 1998, in North Carolina, to the murder of Perry Kronke in 2012, then to Verno and Dunwoody in Biloxi last fall. No one could afford such a project. He knew his victims and their families well. Perry Kronke was by far the wealthiest of the lot, but his widow was in poor health and probably reluctant to spend a fortune trying to find his killer. His two sons were Miami businessmen of modest success.

Bannick stepped to a corner and pulled back a rug. With a key he unlocked a safe hidden under the flooring and removed a thumb drive. He stuck it into his computer, pecked here and there, and within seconds a file labeled
kronke
appeared. Since he had researched and written everything in the file, he knew it by heart, but the constant review of his past was part of his life. Constant vigilance was just as important as meticulous planning.

Kronke’s estate had been probated in Monroe County, Florida, four months after his murder. His older son, Roger, was named executor of his will and was so appointed by the court. Inventories of assets were filed on time. There were no mortgages and no debts other than routine credit card charges. At the time of his death, Kronke and his wife jointly owned their retirement home, appraised at $800,000, two rental homes at $200,000 each, a stock portfolio valued at $2.6 million, a money market account with a balance of $340,000, and various bank accounts that totaled $90,000. With his cars and boat and other smaller assets, the inventory added up to $4.4 million.

The estate file was public record. Hacking into the probate judge’s office email had been a breeze because of Maggotz and its familiarity with the entire Florida court system. Rafe was also spying on Mrs. Kronke and her finances as a new widow. He watched her bank records and knew that she drew a Social Security check of $2,000 a month, a retirement check from the law firm for $4,500 a month, and $3,800 from a 401(k).

The bottom line was that she had plenty of cash but there was no indication she was writing big checks to private investigators. She didn’t email much, but there was correspondence between her and the two sons. She was contemplating selling the house and moving into an expensive retirement village. Emails between the sons indicated the usual worries about Mom spending too much and screwing up their inheritances.

There had been no chatter about devoting time and money to search for the killer.

Bannick convinced himself that “the person” was not stalking him on behalf of the Kronke family.

At the other end of the economic ladder was Lanny Verno. Having no estate, nothing had been probated. He left behind no assets, no children, no close family, nothing to hack, nothing but a live-in lady who’d come and gone and had shacked up with plenty. Verno was the last person on his list who might send in the investigators.

Bannick jumped to another file, labeled
eileen nickleberry
.

Her family was just as doubtful. She had died sixteen years earlier with no will and few assets. Her mother had been dragged into court to serve as administrator of her estate. Her condo and car were hocked and sold to satisfy the loans and pay off her credit cards. After all debtors were satisfied, her parents, who were divorced, and two siblings split about $4,000.

Interestingly enough, her father hired a lawyer to explore a wrongful death claim against the owner of the condo development where she was murdered. Rafe watched the emails for a year or so as the lawsuit fizzled. Bannick was intrigued by the idea of lawyers, not cops, digging through the murder. The police were baffled from the start, as were the lawyers, and the investigations went nowhere. Other than a handyman with no criminal record and a solid alibi, there had never been a suspect. Another perfect murder.

The last one mentioned by “the person” was Mike Dunwoody. Bannick went to his file, certain that his family had not hired private investigators. His murder was only five months old, and Sheriff Black and Detective Napier were doing and saying all the right things to convince the public they were making progress. The family seemed content to mourn in private and trust the authorities. Dunwoody’s will left everything to his wife and named her as executrix. Five months on, she had yet to begin probate. According to their bank records, personal and business, the company fell in line with most home contractors—up one year, down the next, successful as a whole but no one was getting rich. It was impossible to believe they were in a position to spend tens of thousands on their own investigation.

The person was not a cop and not a private eye. However, he was clearly using people like Rollie Tabor to snoop around. Who would hire an investigator from Mobile?

Someone looking for a story, a reporter, a freelancer, a writer, would not have the patience to pursue such a project for so long. Money was their motive, and who could survive decades without a payoff?

He mixed another martini and took it to the front room where he sat on the sofa in the dark. He sipped it slowly and felt the gin work its way into his muddled brain. For a few moments the pain subsided. He was sick of the place but felt safe there. No one could see him. No one in the world knew where he was. For a man who had stalked his prey for most of his adult life, he found it terrifying that there was now someone out there watching him. His victims, though, never had a clue. He, on the other hand, knew the awful truth that someone was on to him.

He had lost track of time and his cell phone was in the Vault. He stretched out on the sofa and fell into a deep sleep.

As he slept, Rafe went about his work rummaging through the sparse and disjointed network of the Atlas Finders, otherwise known as the small office of Rollie Tabor, PI. He wormed his way into the computer of a part-time secretary named Susie, and there he found some photos. One was of her and her boss, Mr. Tabor.

Hours later, Bannick looked into the smiling face of Rollie and easily matched the photo with the one taken by Norris Ozment’s security camera and also the one from Dunlap’s fake driver’s license. It confirmed what he already knew: Rollie Tabor, a run-of-the-mill private dick in Mobile, had been hired by someone to dig through Bannick’s quite dirty laundry.

But Rafe could find no other clues with Atlas. It would be necessary to hack into Tabor’s cell phone, a task Bannick was not quite up to. With diligent study and plenty of practice, he had become an accomplished amateur hacker of computers, but the smartphones were another story. He was still learning but wasn’t quite there.

It was still dark when he finally ventured from his bunker at just minutes before 6:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. The twenty-four-hour gym was deserted, as was the parking lot. He was eager to get home and left in a hurry, the only car on the road. Turning onto the street, he caught himself glancing into the rearview, then he almost laughed at the absurdity.

Twenty minutes later he drove through the gates of his well-protected community in Cullman and parked in front of his garage as the sun peeked through the clouds in the east. He turned off the engine, took his smartphone, turned off the security system, and checked the surveillance cameras and recent footage. Assured that all was safe, he finally got out and went inside where he flipped on lights and made a pot of coffee. He watched it brew and tried to shake off the cobwebs from the martinis. He poured a cup and slowly walked through his den to the front door. He opened it, took a step onto his porch, looked up and down the street, then reached into the small mailbox mounted beside the door.

Another plain white envelope, no return address.

The lazy Saturday morning was interrupted twice before Lacy made it to the coffee pot. The first call awakened her at three minutes after eight. Caller unknown, potential spam. In other words, don’t answer. But something said do it, and if it happened to be a robocall she could simply hang up, as always.

“Good morning, Lacy,” Jeri said softly.

A flash of anger passed quickly as Lacy controlled herself. “Good morning, Jeri. What’s the occasion?”

“Just thinking about you, a lot, these days. How are you?”

“Well, I was sleeping, Jeri, before you called. It’s Saturday, a day off, and I’m not working today. I thought I had explained this.”

“I’m sorry, Lacy,” Jeri said, in a tone that conveyed anything but remorse. “Why does it have to be considered work? Why can’t we talk as friends?”

“Because we’re not friends yet, Jeri. We are acquaintances who met for the first time about a month ago. We may become friends one day, once the work that brought us together is finished, but we’re not there yet.”

“I see.”

“The word ‘friend’ gets tossed around loosely, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

“And whatever the reason for this call, it’s not about friendship. It’s probably on the business side.”

“It is, Lacy. And I’m sorry to bother you.”

“It’s Saturday morning, Jeri, and I was sleeping.”

“Got it. Look, I’ll hang up now, but first let me say what I want. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“There is a good chance that Bannick knows about the complaint and knows that you’re digging through his past. I can’t prove this, but I have come to believe that he has some type of superpower, extrasensory, something. I don’t know. But he is extremely bright and diligent, and well, I guess I might be a bit paranoid. I’ve been living with him for so long I just assume that he’s everywhere. Be careful, Lacy. If he knows you’re on his trail he might do anything.”

“I’ve thought about that, Jeri.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

She was gone, and Lacy immediately felt lousy for being so abrupt. The poor woman was a wreck and had been for many years, and Lacy should have been more patient.

But it was early Saturday morning.

She closed her eyes and was thinking about more sleep, but the dog was making noises. She was thinking about Allie and how nice it would be to have him beside her. And, wide awake now, she was thinking about Jeri Crosby and the sadness of her life.

What she wasn’t thinking about was her older brother and only sibling. When Gunther called not ten minutes after Jeri, Lacy had a hunch that her carefree day would not go as planned. He said he had a new airplane he wanted to show off, and with the weather perfectly gorgeous on this spring day he had the urge to fly down and take his kid sister to lunch. “I’m on the runway, taking off now, landing in Tallahassee in eighty-four minutes. Meet me at the airport.”

It was so typical of Gunther. The world revolved around him and everyone else was just an extra. She fed and let out the dog, threw on some jeans, brushed her teeth, and headed to the airport, her quiet Saturday shot to hell. But she wasn’t really surprised. Nothing about her brother was surprising. He was an avid pilot who swapped airplanes almost as fast as he bought and sold sports cars. He ran the women hard too, and the bankers and investors. When the markets were up he burned cash, and when things went flat he kept borrowing until he couldn’t. Even when the demand was high for his strip malls and tract housing, he seemed to totter along the edge of financial disaster. Because he was known to embellish and outright fabricate, Lacy had lost count of the times he had filed for bankruptcy. She thought there were three, along with his two divorces, and one near-indictment.

But regardless of his problems, Gunther slept hard every night and attacked each day with enthusiasm and confidence. His zest for life was contagious, and if he found himself in the mood to fly in for lunch there was no way to stop him, regardless of what she had planned.

Waiting in the private terminal, watching the small planes come and go while sipping a cup of bad coffee, she both dreaded and looked forward to seeing Gunther. With both parents gone now, they needed each other. Both were single and childless and it certainly looked as if they would be the family’s last generation. Trudy, their mother’s sister, was trying to become the matriarch and getting too involved. Lacy and Gunther were united in their resistance.

But she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him, because he had too many opinions about almost everything. Since her car wreck, he’d had far too much to say about her lawsuit, her lawyer, their legal strategies. He thought she was wasting her time at BJC. He wasn’t too keen on Allie Pacheco, though this was a reaction to Lacy’s dislike of every girlfriend he had dared introduce her to. He thought Tallahassee was a hick town and she should move to Atlanta. He disapproved of her current car. And so on.

There he was, crawling out of a sleek little plane, bounding down from the wing with no luggage, no briefcase, a playboy out for a spin and a nice lunch. They hugged in the doorway and left the terminal.

As soon as he buckled up he said, “Still driving this cheap little thing?”

“Look, Gunther, it’s great to see you, as always. But the last thing I want to hear today is a steady stream of bitching about my life. Car included. Got that?”

“Wow, Sis. You wake up on the wrong side?”

“I did.”

“Did you see my airplane? Isn’t it a beauty?”

“I did. It’s lovely as far as airplanes go.”

“Bought it last month from a guy whose wife caught him cheating. Sad.”

Gunther was anything but sad. “What is it?” she asked, but only because she had to.

“A Socata TBM 700 turboprop, all the bells and whistles. Think of a Ferrari with wings. Three hundred miles an hour. Got a real deal.”

A real deal for Gunther meant that he had convinced yet another banker to make a loan. “Sounds exciting. Looks pretty small.”

“Seats four, that’s plenty for me. You wanna go for a spin?”

“I thought we were doing lunch.” Lacy had been his passenger on two occasions and that was enough. Gunther was a serious pilot who didn’t play around and take chances, but he was still Gunther.

“Right,” he said, suddenly checking his phone. When he put it away he asked, “How’s Allie? Still seeing him?”

“I am, hot and heavy. Who’s your new squeeze?”

“Which one? Look, I think it’s time for this guy to either make a move or move on. It’s been, what, two years now?”

“Oh, so you’ve got marriage all figured out?”

Gunther burst out laughing and, after a beat, Lacy did too. The idea of him giving advice on the romantic front was indeed humorous.

“Okay, no more of that. You talked to Aunt Trudy lately? Where are we going?”

“Home, so I can shower and brush my teeth. Didn’t have enough time earlier.”

“How can you dawdle around so on such a gorgeous Saturday morning?”

“No, I have not talked to Trudy. I owe her a phone call. You?”

“No, I’m ducking her too. Poor thing. She’s lost without Mom. They were best friends and now she’s stuck with that husband of hers.”

“Ronald’s okay.”

“He’s a creep and you know it. They really don’t like each other but I guess after fifty years they can’t get out.”

“Let’s talk about something else. How’s business these days?”

“I’d rather talk about Ronald.”

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“No, actually I’m killing it. I need some help, Lacy, and I want you to come to Atlanta and work with me. Bright lights, big city, much more to do. We’ll make a fortune and there are a dozen great guys I could introduce you to.”

“I’m not sure I want to date your friends.”

“Come on, Lacy. Trust me. These guys have money and they’re going places. How much does Allie make a year with the FBI?”

“I have no idea and I don’t care.”

“Not much. He’s working for the government.”

“So am I.”

“That’s my point. You can do better. Most of these guys are already millionaires who own their own companies. They have everything.”

“Yeah, including alimony and child support.”

Gunther laughed and said, “Okay, some of that.”

Of course his phone rang, and he was soon lost in a tense conversation about a line of credit. On Saturday morning?

He was still on the phone when she parked near her apartment. They went inside and she left him in the den as she headed for her upstairs bedroom.

Lunch was outdoors on a shaded terrace at an upscale restaurant, far away from downtown. Lacy talked the reservationist into an early table, primarily because she was still hoping to salvage some of her afternoon, alone. They were seated at eleven thirty and the terrace was deserted.

They ordered iced tea for starters, with Lacy quickly going first. If Gunther ordered his usual bottle of wine, then he wouldn’t be flying that afternoon. She was relieved when he ignored the wine list and commented on the menu. Usually, when dining in her town, he made some pithy comment on the lack of good food. Atlanta, again, was far superior. But he let it pass and settled on a crab salad. Lacy ordered grilled shrimp.

“You still eat like a bird,” he said, admiring his sister. “And you’re in great shape, Lacy.”

“Thanks and let’s not dwell on my weight. I know what you’re getting at.”

“Come on. You haven’t gained a pound in twenty years.”

“No, and I’m not starting now. What else would you like to talk about?”

“Of course, you were all skin and bones after your car wreck. I almost called it an ‘accident,’ but it wasn’t that simple, was it?”

A nice lead into her lawsuit, which she was anticipating. She smiled and said, “Once all the plaster and gauze came off, I weighed a hundred pounds.”

“I remember, and you’ve come a long way back. I’m proud of you, Lacy. Are you still in therapy?”

“Physical or otherwise?”

“Physical.”

“Yes, twice a week, but it’s about over. I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll always have little aches and pains, some stiffness here and there, but I’m lucky, I guess.”

Gunther mixed some lemon in his tea and looked away. “I wouldn’t call it luck, but you came out of it better than Hugo. Poor guy. Are you still in touch with his widow, what’s her name?”

“Verna, and yes we’re still close friends.”

“She has the same lawyer, right?”

“She does. We compare notes and lean on each other. Nobody wants a trial. I’m not sure she can handle it.”

“It will never get near the courthouse. The goons will settle.”

Gunther had far more experience with civil litigation, though his disputes dealt with broken contracts and defaulted loans. To her knowledge, he had no experience with personal injuries.

“I guess things are tied up in discovery,” he said, trying to ease into the heart of the matter.

“Looks like it. My lawyer says I may have to give a deposition. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

Gunther snorted in disgust and said, “Oh yeah. A lot of fun. Staring across the table at five lawyers, all scheming to pounce on every word, every syllable, salivating as they dream of getting more of your money. Why can’t your lawyer get the case settled? It should’ve been over months ago.”

“It’s complicated. Sure, there’s a big pile of money, but that only attracts more vultures, more hungry lawyers.”

“I get that. But what would you settle for, Lacy? What’s your figure?”

“I don’t know. We’re not there yet.”

“You’re entitled to millions, Sis. Those bastards deliberately set you up and crashed into your car. You—”

“Please. I know all this, Gunther, and we’re not going over it again.”

“Okay, sorry, but I just worry about you. I’m not sure you have the right lawyer.”

“As I’ve said before, Gunther, I can take care of myself and my lawyer. You don’t need to waste time worrying about it.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m your big brother and I can’t help it.”

Their plates arrived and both seemed to welcome the interruption. They began eating and things went quiet. He was obviously preoccupied with ideas but couldn’t manage to work them into the conversation.

Her biggest fear was that he would need an infusion of cash at the same time she settled her lawsuit. He would never ask for money outright, as a gift, but would use the ploy of an urgent loan. If it happened, she was determined to say no. She knew he borrowed from Peter to pay Paul, hocked everything he owned, and walked the fine line between prosperity and financial ruin. He wasn’t about to touch her money, when and if she ever got it, and if her refusal created a rift, then so be it. She would rather keep the money and deal with an ugly fallout than fork it over, watch him lose it, and then deal with a future filled with empty promises.

He backed away from more discussion of her lawsuit, and proceeded to talk about his favorite subject: his latest project. It would be a planned community with mixed housing, a central town square with a faux courthouse in the center, churches and schools, lots of water and trails, and the obligatory golf course. A regular utopia. A $50 million development, with other investors, of course. Lacy forced herself to seem engaged.

The terrace began to fill and before long they were in a crowd. Gunther contemplated one glass of wine for dessert, but changed his mind when she ordered an espresso. He paid the check at one o’clock and said it was time to head to the airport. Another deal was hanging by a thread and he was needed in Atlanta.

She hugged him goodbye inside the private terminal and watched him taxi away. She loved him dearly, but took a deep breath and relaxed when he was gone.