Sandy at first had been skeptical of Patrick's paranoia. Now he believed it. Though he knew little of the underworld, the nature of his profession occasionally brought him into contact with criminals. He had heard many times that for five thousand bucks you could get anyone killed. Maybe even less along the Coast.
Lance certainly had more than five thousand bucks. And he had a wonderful motive to eliminate Patrick. The life insurance policies that made Trudy rich didn't exclude any particular causes of death, other than suicide. A bullet to the head was treated just like a car wreck, or a heart attack, or anything else. Dead was dead.
THE COAST was not Sandy's turf. He didn't know the sheriffs and their deputies, the judges and their quirks, the other members of the bar. He suspected this was precisely why Patrick picked him.
Sweeney had been less than hospitable on the phone. He was very busy, he said, and besides, meetings with lawyers were usually a waste of time. He could spare a few minutes, starting at nine-thirty and barring an emergency. Sandy arrived early, and poured his own coffee from a pot he found next to the watercooler. Deputies milled about. The sprawling jail was in the rear. Sweeney found him and led him through to his office, a spartan room with government hand-me-down furniture and fading photos of smiling politicians on the wall.
"Have a seat," Sweeney said, pointing to a ratty chair as he sat behind his desk. Sandy did as he was told.
"Mind if I record?" Sweeney asked, already punching the button on a large tape recorder in the center of his desk. "I tape everything," he said.
"Sure," Sandy said, as if he had a choice. "Thanks for working me in."
"No problem," Sweeney said. He had yet to smile or offer anything other than the impression of being bothered by this. He lit a cigarette and sipped steaming coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
"I'll get right to the point," Sandy said, as if idle conversation were an option. "My office has received a tip that Patrick's life may be in danger." Sandy hated the lying, but he had little choice under the circumstances. This was what his client wanted.
"Why would someone tip your office that your client was in danger?" Sweeney asked.
"I have investigators working on the case. They know lots of people. Some gossip got passed along, and one of my investigators tracked it down. That's the way these things happen."
- Sweeney showed neither belief nor disbelief. He smoked his cigarette and thought about it. In the past week, he had heard every conceivable species of rumor about the adventures of Patrick Lanigan. People were talking about nothing else. The hit man stories were of several varieties. Sweeney figured his network was better than the lawyer's, especially one from New Orleans, so he would let him talk. "Got any suspects?"
"Yes. His name is Lance Maxa; I'm sure you know him."
"We do."
"He took Patrick's place with Trudy not long after the funeral."
"Some would say Patrick took his place," Sweeney said, with his first smile. Sandy was indeed on foreign turf. The Sheriff knew more than he.
"Then I guess you know all about Lance and Trudy," Sandy said, a little rattled.
"We do. We take good notes around here."
"I'm sure you do. Anyway, Lance, as you know, is a nasty sort, and my men got a rumor that he was looking for a contract killer."
"How much is he offering?" Sweeney asked skeptically.
"Don't know. But he has the money, and he has the motive."
"I've already heard this."
"Good. What do you plan to do?"
"About what?"
"About keeping my client alive."
Sweeney took a deep breath and decided to hold his tongue. He struggled with his temper. "He's on a military base, in a hospital room with my deputies guarding his door and FBI agents down the hall. I'm not sure what else you have in mind."
"Look, Sheriff, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job."
"Really?"
"No. I promise. Please try and understand that my client is a very frightened man right now. I'm here acting on his behalf. He's been stalked for over four years. He's been caught. He hears voices we don't hear. He sees shadows we don't see. He's convinced people will try to kill him, and he expects me to protect him."
"He's safe."
"For now. What if you talked to Lance, and you grilled him pretty good and told him about the rumors. If he knew you were watching, he'd be stupid to try something."
"Lance is stupid."
"Maybe, but Trudy is not. If she thinks she might get caught, she'll yank Lance back where he belongs."
"Been yanking him all his life."
"Precisely. She will not run the risk."
Sweeney lit another cigarette, and glanced at his watch. "Anything else?" he asked, suddenly anxious to get up and leave. He was a Sheriff, not an office manager with a desk and Rolodex.
"Just one thing. And again, I'm not trying to tend to your business. Patrick has enormous respect for you. But, well, he thinks he's much safer where he is."
"What a surprise."
"Jail could be dangerous for him."
"He shoulda thought about that before he killed Mr. Doe."
Sandy ignored this and said, "He'll be easier to protect in the hospital."
"Have you been to my jail?"
"No."
"Then don't lecture me about how unsafe it is. I've been doing this for a long time, got it?"
"I'm not lecturing."
"The hell you're not. You got five more minutes. Anything else?"
"No."
"Good." Sweeney bolted to his feet and left the room.
THE HONORABLE KARL HUSKEY arrived at Keesler Air Force Base late in the afternoon, and slowly made his way through security to the hospital. He was in the middle of a one-week drug trial, and he was tired. Patrick had called and asked him to stop by, if possible.
Himself a pallbearer, Karl had sat next to Sandy McDermott at Patrick's funeral. Unlike Sandy, though, Huskey had been a recent friend of Patrick's. The two had met during a civil case Patrick had tried not long after he arrived in Biloxi. They became friendly, the way lawyers and judges often do when they see each other every week. They chatted over bad food at the monthly bar luncheons, and once drank too much at a Christmas party. They played golf twice a year.
It was an easy acquaintance, but not a close friendship, at least not for the first three years Patrick was in Biloxi. But they grew closer in the months before he disappeared. With the benefit of hindsight, though, it was easy to look back and see a change in Patrick.
IN THE MONTHS after his disappearance, those in the legal community who knew him best, including Karl, liked to gather over drinks at the Lower Bar at Mary Mahoney's Restaurant on Friday afternoons and piece together the Patrick puzzle.
Trudy took her share of the blame, though she was too easy a target, in Karl's opinion. On the surface, the marriage didn't appear to be that bad. Patrick certainly didn't discuss it with anybody, at least no one who drank with them at Mary Mahoney's. Trudy's actions after the funeral, especially the red Rolls and the live-in toyboy and the go-to-hell attitude she adopted as soon as the life insurance was collected, had soured everyone and made objectivity impossible. No one was certain that she was sleeping around before Patrick left. In fact, Buster Gillespie, the Chancery Clerk and a regular at those sessions, professed admiration for Trudy. She'd once worked with his wife at a charity ball of some variety, and he always felt compelled to say something nice about her. He was about the only one. Trudy was easy to talk about and easy to criticize.