Wilton Mace said he was calling from a pay phone, and he did indeed sound nervous, even jumpy, as if looking over his shoulder. Tomorrow, Lyman Gritt was taking his wife to see a doctor in Panama City, a specialist of some variety. He wanted to meet Lacy at the doctor’s office, a place no one would suspect. Wilton gave her the details and asked if she could identify Gritt. She said no, she had never met him, but her boss could. And her boss would insist on being with her. Wilton wasn’t sure how this would sit with Gritt, but they could figure things out at the doctor’s office. Don’t be surprised, though, if Gritt didn’t like it.
Lacy and Michael arrived an hour early. While he stayed in the car, she entered the building, part of a busy medical arts complex with doctors and dentists on four levels. She loitered around the ground floor, read the directory, stopped by a café, then took the elevator to the third floor. The office belonged to a group of gynecologists, and its large, modern waiting room was filled with women, only two accompanied by men. Lacy returned to the car and waited while Michael went inside and covered the same territory. When he returned, they agreed the place was harmless. A perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. Dozens of patients were entering and leaving the building. At 1:45, Michael nodded to a couple leaving their car and said, “That’s Gritt.” About six feet tall, thin but with a potbelly. His wife had long dark hair that was braided, and she was much shorter and stockier.
“Got ’em?” Michael asked.
“Yep.” When they entered the building, Lacy eased out of the car and followed. Michael would sit and wait and hope there was no frantic call. He watched the foot traffic carefully, hoping to see nothing suspicious. Inside, Lacy read the directory again, killed a few minutes, and took the elevator to the third floor. She entered the waiting room and saw Gritt and his wife sitting against a far wall, looking as uncomfortable as everybody else. She picked up a magazine and found a chair on the other side of the room. Amy Gritt stared at the floor as if she might be expecting some awful news. Lyman casually flipped through a People magazine. Lacy had no idea if Wilton had described her looks to Gritt, but he seemed to have no interest in her. The receptionist was too busy to notice the young lady who had not bothered to check in. A name was called. The patient slowly walked to the desk, was greeted by a harried nurse, and disappeared around a corner. The languid pace continued for half an hour as more women arrived to replace those who were leaving. Lacy peered over her magazine and watched Gritt. After an hour, he glanced at his watch as if growing frustrated. Finally, the name of Amy Gritt was called, and she walked to the desk. As soon as she was out of sight, Lacy stood and stared at Lyman. When he made eye contact, she nodded slightly and left the waiting room. She walked to the end of the hallway and waited only a few seconds before Gritt closed the door behind him and walked to her.
She offered a hand and quietly said, “I’m Lacy Stoltz.”
He shook it gently, smiled, and instinctively glanced over his shoulder. “I’m Lyman Gritt, and you look much better than the last time I saw you.”
“I’m doing fine. Thanks for that night.”
“It’s my job. It was a bad scene. Sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to a window and leaned against it, facing the hallway and the foot traffic. Patients were coming and going to several offices, but no one noticed them.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “I’m not involved in any of the shenanigans on our land. I’m a cop, an honest one, and I have a family to protect. My name can never be used in any investigation. I will not testify in any court. I will not point the fingers at any of my people or the crooks they’re involved with. Understood?”
“Understood, but you know that I can’t control everything that might happen. You have my word and that’s all I can control.”
He reached into a front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a flash drive. “There are two videos here. The first is the property of the police in Foley, Alabama. They got lucky when someone, and I don’t know who, caught the theft of the truck on video. The second video was taken about fifteen minutes after the crash, at a country store just north of the town of Sterling. I think it clearly shows the guy who was driving the truck when it crashed into your car. I’ve included a memo with all the details I’m aware of.”
Lacy took the flash drive.
Gritt reached into another pocket and removed a plastic bag. “This is what I believe to be a small piece of a paper towel covered with blood. I found this about a quarter of a mile from the scene two days after the accident. My theory is that the blood belongs to the passenger in the second video. If I were you I’d get DNA testing immediately, and pray for a hit. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a name, one you can then match to the guy in the video.”
Lacy took the plastic bag. “And you have copies?”
“I do, and I have the rest of the paper towel, though no one could ever find it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Just do your job and nail these bastards, and keep my name out of it.”
“I promise.”
“Thank you, Ms. Stoltz. This meeting never happened.” He began walking away, and she said, “Thanks, and I hope your wife is okay.”
“She’s fine. Just a routine checkup. She’s afraid of doctors, so I tag along.”
Neither Michael nor Lacy had thought to stick a laptop in a briefcase; otherwise, they would have wheeled into an empty parking lot of a fast-food joint, bought coffees, found a table in the corner, and rolled the footage. Instead, they raced home, speculating nonstop as to what the videos might reveal.
“Why didn’t you ask him?” Michael demanded, with some irritation.
“Because he was in a hurry,” she shot back. “He handed it over, said what he wanted to say, and that was it.”
“I would’ve asked.”
“You don’t know what you would have done. Stop bitching. Who’s the head of the state Department of Law Enforcement?”
“Gus Lambert. He’s new and I don’t know him.”
“Well, who do you know?”
“An old friend.” Michael called the old friend twice and couldn’t get him. Lacy called a girlfriend in the Attorney General’s Office, and got the name of a supervisor with the Regional Crime Lab in Tallahassee. The supervisor was busy and uncooperative and promised to call back tomorrow.
When they were both off the phone, Michael said, “The crime lab won’t do it unless DLE is involved.”
Lacy said, “I’ll call Gus Lambert. I’m sure I can charm his pants off.”
Commissioner Lambert’s secretary was beyond charm, said the boss was in a meeting and was a very busy man. Michael’s old friend called back and asked what was going on. Michael explained, as they blitzed down the passing lane of Interstate 10, that it was an urgent matter dealing with the suspicious death of a state employee. Abbott, the friend, said he recalled the story of the death of Hugo Hatch. Michael said, “We have reason to believe it was more complicated than a bad car wreck. We have a source from within the tribe and we now have possession of a blood sample that could be important. How do we get access to the crime lab?”
As they talked, Lacy searched the web with her phone. Having never dealt with DNA testing, she knew almost nothing about it. According to an article on a science site, forensic technicians are now able to test a suspect’s DNA in two hours, quick enough for the police to ram it through their crime databases and determine if the man in custody has committed the crime in question, as well as others. As recently as five years earlier, the testing took between twenty-four and seventy-two hours, enough time for the suspect to post bail and walk out of jail.
Michael was saying, “No, there’s no open investigation, not by the locals and not by DLE. It happened on tribal land and the Tappacola are in charge. That’s part of the problem. I’m talking about a favor here, Abbott. And a quick one.”
Michael listened, said, “Thanks,” and ended the call. “He says he’ll try and see the commissioner.”
It was almost 5:00 p.m. when Michael and Lacy arrived at the DLE’s Regional Crime Lab on the outskirts of Tallahassee. Abbott was waiting at the front door, along with Dr. Joe Vasquez, the head of the lab. Quick introductions were made, and they followed him to a small conference room. Lacy placed the plastic ziplock bag on the table in front of Dr. Vasquez, who looked at it but didn’t touch it.
He asked, “What do we know about this?”
Lacy replied, “Not much. We got it less than two hours ago from our confidential source. He thinks it’s a piece of a paper towel with blood on it.”
“Who’s handled it?”
“We have no idea, but our source considers himself a law enforcement professional. I’d bet it’s been handled very little.”
“How long will it take?” Michael asked.
Vasquez smiled proudly and said, “Give us two hours.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Indeed it is. The technology is changing rapidly, and we think that within two years detectives at the crime scene will be able to check blood and semen with a handheld device. It’s called DNA testing on a chip.”
Lacy asked, “And how long to run the results through the state’s database?”
Vasquez looked at Abbott, who shrugged and said, “Half an hour.”
They stopped for Chinese takeout at a favorite spot near the Capitol. BJC was deserted, as they were hoping, when they arrived just after six. Ignoring their dinner, they went straight to Michael’s desktop and plugged in the flash drive. They watched the two videos, printed Gritt’s two-page memo, read it carefully, discussed it line by line, and watched the videos again and again. Lacy was almost numb with the realization that she was looking at the murder weapon, the truck, and perhaps even the murderer, the punk with the bloody nose.
There were two men in each video; all four were different. Could this be the first glimpse of others in the Dubose crime family? They had photos of Vonn entering the condo at Rabbit Run, but no one else. The driver in the second video, the one from Frog’s store, was particularly fascinating. He was older than the other three, perhaps forty-five, and was better dressed, wearing a golf shirt and pressed khakis. He had planned things well enough to attach a set of perfectly faked Florida tags to his truck. He wasn’t Vonn, but could he be a ranking member? Was he in charge of the operation? Could he have been at the scene, with a light, poking around Lacy’s smashed Prius, looking for the cell phones while Hugo was bleeding and dying? Clever as he was, he had made the boneheaded mistake of parking directly in front of Frog’s store and getting himself captured on video. Allie had said more than once that even the smartest criminals do stupid things.
They finally ate cold chicken chow mein, but neither was hungry. Michael’s cell phone rattled at 7:50, and Abbott announced cheerfully, “Got your boy.”
The blood belonged to one Zeke Foreman, a twenty-three-year-old parolee with two drug-related convictions under his belt. His DNA had been in the state’s database for five years, since his first arrest. Abbott had three photos, two of the mug-shot variety and one from the prison archives. He was sending them over by e-mail.
Michael told Abbott he owed him one, and a big one at that, and said thanks.
Lacy was standing by the printer when the three photos rolled off. Michael stopped the second video with a clear shot of both faces. The passenger, even with a bloody nose, looked very similar to Zeke Foreman.
Allie Pacheco was more than happy to hustle over to Lacy’s for a late-night drink, though her tone was clearly not romantic. She said it was urgent but offered nothing else. They watched the videos and studied the photos. They read Gritt’s memo and talked about the case until midnight, finishing off a bottle of wine in the process.