“Nothing will happen to you.”
“Thanks, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. Myers thought he was clever.”
“True, but he also signed his name on the complaint. The bad guys have no idea who you are.”
“I’m not sure I believe that anymore. At any rate, gotta run. Be careful, Lacy.” The call ended and Lacy stared at the cheap phone, expecting more.
33
With the autumn season approaching, the Surfbreaker readied itself for the annual invasion of Canadians. The lobby was quiet, the pool and parking lot practically empty. Clyde Westbay stepped onto an elevator for a quick ride to the third floor, to check on some room renovations. A guest in shorts and sandals entered the elevator just as the door was closing and punched the button for the sixth floor. When the elevator began to move, the guest said, “Got a few minutes, Mr. Westbay?”
Clyde looked him over and asked, “Are you a guest here?”
“I am. The Dolphin Suite. Name is Allie Pacheco, FBI.”
Clyde’s gaze dropped to the sandals as Allie pulled out his badge.
“What’s the FBI doing in my hotel?”
“Paying a fat rate for an okay suite. We’re here to talk to you.”
The elevator stopped on the third floor, but Clyde did not get off. No one got on. The door closed and they continued upward.
“Maybe I’m busy right now.”
“So are we. Just a few questions, that’s all.”
Clyde shrugged and stepped off on the sixth floor. He followed Pacheco to the end and watched as he opened the door to the Dolphin Suite.
“How do you like my hotel?” Clyde asked.
“It’s okay. Room service sucks. Found a cockroach in my shower this morning. Dead.”
Inside were three other gentlemen, all in shorts and sandals, along with a young lady who looked as though she was ready for tennis. The men were FBI. She was Rebecca Webb, Assistant U.S. Attorney.
Westbay looked around the spacious room and said, “Well, I don’t really like the looks of this party. I suppose I could order you out of my hotel.”
Pacheco said, “Sure, we’ll be happy to leave, but you’re going with us, in handcuffs and ankle chains, right through the main lobby, a perp walk for the benefit of your guests and employees. We might even tip off the local reporters.”
“I’m under arrest?”
“You are, for capital murder.”
His face turned pale and his knees buckled. He reached for the back of a chair and fumbled his way into it. Agent Hahn handed him a bottle of water, which he gulped as it splashed down his chin. He breathed deeply and looked into the eyes of the agents, desperate for help. An innocent man might have already protested.
Finally, he managed to mumble, “This can’t be happening.” But it was, and Westbay’s life was over. He was now entering a nightmare.
Rebecca Webb placed some papers in his lap and said, “Here’s the indictment, sealed, handed down yesterday by a federal grand jury in Tallahassee. One count of capital murder, punishable by death. The killing of Hugo Hatch was a murder for hire; thus the aggravating circumstances make it a capital case. Plus the stolen truck you bought for cash crossed a state line. Not very smart.”
“I didn’t do it,” he almost whimpered. “I swear.”
“Swear all you want to, Clyde. It’s not going to help,” Pacheco said in mock sympathy.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Great. We’ll get one for you, but first some paperwork. Let’s sit over here at the table and have a chat.” The table was small and round, with only two chairs. Westbay took one and Pacheco sat opposite. Hahn and the other two agents stood behind Pacheco, a show of force that was intimidating in spite of the golf shirts, shorts, and pale legs.
Pacheco said, “As far as we can determine, you have no criminal record, right?”
“Right.”
“So, is this your first arrest?”
“I think so, yes.” Thinking was difficult. He was bewildered, his eyes darting from face to face.
Pacheco slowly and crisply read Clyde his Miranda rights, then handed him a sheet of paper with the language printed. He shook his head as he read, some of the color finally returning to his face. He signed his name at the bottom with a pen Pacheco helpfully handed over.
“Do I have the right to make a phone call?” Westbay asked.
“Sure, but you need to know that we’ve been listening to your phone calls for the past three days. You have at least two cell phones, and if you use one now we’ll hear every word.”
“You what?” Westbay asked, incredulous.
Ms. Webb produced another set of papers and placed them on the table. “Here’s the wiretapping warrant signed by a U.S. magistrate.”
Pacheco said, “It appears as though you use the iPhone for most of your personal calls. Your Nokia is paid for by the hotel and seems to be used for business, and for calls to your girlfriend, Tammy James, a former waitress at Hooters. I’m assuming your wife does not know about Miss Tammy.”
Clyde’s jaw dropped but he couldn’t speak. Could the revelations about Tammy be more troubling than the murder charge? Perhaps, but his brain was scrambled and nothing made sense.
Pacheco, thoroughly enjoying the moment, continued, “And by the way, we got a warrant for Tammy’s phone too, and she’s also sleeping with a guy named Burke and another named Walter, and there could be others. But you need to forget about Tammy because your chances of ever touching her warm body again are quite slim.”
From somewhere in Westbay’s throat there was a rumbling, burping noise that only one agent managed to read. He grabbed a plastic wastebasket and said, “Here” just as the defendant turned and began retching loudly. His face turned blood red as he gagged and wheezed and finally managed to vomit properly. Everyone looked away for a few seconds, though the sounds were just as sickening. When all of his breakfast was finally at the bottom of the bin, Westbay wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He kept his head down and made a strange whimpering noise. An agent handed him a wet hand towel and he wiped his mouth again. Eventually, he sat up straight and gritted his teeth, as if now fortified and ready for the firing squad.
A putrid odor began radiating from the wastebasket. An agent took it to the restroom.
Hahn took a step toward the table and said proudly, “Plus, we have records of all calls on both phones for the past two years. We’re tracking down those numbers as we speak. Somewhere in there is Vonn Dubose. We’ll eventually find his number.”
Westbay appeared to stop breathing. He gawked wild-eyed at Pacheco across the table, and finally managed to say, “I want a lawyer.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
His mind was paralyzed at the moment. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the name of a lawyer, any lawyer, or anyone who could possibly rescue him. There was a real estate lawyer he played golf with; a bankruptcy lawyer he drank with; a divorce lawyer who’d banished his first wife; and so on. Finally, “Okay, Gary Bullington.”
Pacheco shrugged and said, “Call him. Let’s hope he makes house calls.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“I got it,” said one of the other agents, looking at his laptop. He rattled off the number but Westbay’s hands were shaking too badly. He succeeded on the third try and stuck the phone to his ear. Mr. Bullington was in a meeting, but Westbay wouldn’t take no for an answer. As he waited, he looked at Pacheco and asked, “Can I have some privacy?”
Pacheco said, “Why bother? We’re listening anyway. Judge gave us permission.”
“Please.”
“Sure. It’s your hotel. In the bedroom.” Pacheco led him into the bedroom, but remained there with him. It was amusing to hear Westbay introduce himself to Bullington when he finally got him on the other end. If the two had ever met, it was not apparent. Westbay tried to explain his predicament, but Bullington, the lawyer, kept peppering him with questions. With his back to Pacheco, Westbay struggled to complete a sentence. “No, yes, look, they’re here right now, the FBI, lots of them, in Fort Walton, at the hotel…Yes, the indictment…federal, but…Would you just listen to me? I need for you to come to the hotel immediately. Drop everything…Your fee? Sure, how much…You gotta be kidding…Yes, federal capital murder…An FBI agent is staring at me right now, hearing every word…Okay…”