He discussed it with Sheriff Tatum, and they made the decision to at least have it checked for fingerprints. Nothing would come of it, they were sure, but both were experienced and patient cops.
Later, after repeated promises of immunity, the pawnbroker in Lucedale admitted he had sold the gun to Pepper.
SWEENEY AND TED GRIMSHAW, the chief investigator for Harrison County, politely knocked on Patrick's hospital door, and entered only when invited in. Sweeney had called ahead to alert Patrick of their visit, and to inform him of its purpose. Just routine procedures. Patrick had yet to be properly booked.
They photographed his face while he was sitting in a chair, wearing a tee shirt and gym shorts, his hair unruly and his expression sour. He held the booking numbers they had brought along. They took his fingerprints, with Grimshaw doing the work as Sweeney handled the conversation. Patrick insisted on standing over the small table while Grimshaw took the prints.
Sweeney asked a couple of questions about Pepper Scarboro, but Patrick quickly reminded him he had a lawyer, and his lawyer would be present during any interrogation. Furthermore, he had nothing to say about anything, with or without a lawyer.
They thanked him and left. Cutter and an FBI fingerprint expert from Jackson were waiting in the Lanigan Room at the jail. At the time it was found, Pepper's .12 gauge yielded more than a dozen full, usable prints. They had been lifted by Grimshaw after dusting, filed away in a vault, and now were spread on the table. The shotgun was on a shelf, next to the tent and the sleeping bag, and the jogging shoe and the photographs, and the few other sparse items of evidence to be used against Patrick.
They drank coffee from plastic cups and talked about fishing while the print expert compared the old with the new through a magnifying glass. It didn't take long.
"Several of these are perfect matches," he said, still working. "The gun stock was covered with Lanigan's prints."
Certainly good news, they thought. Now what?
PATRICK INSISTED on a different room for all future meetings with his attorney, and Dr. Hayani was quick to make the necessary arrangements. He also requested a wheelchair to transport him to the room on the first floor. A nurse pushed him, past the two deputies sitting benignly in the hall outside his door, past Special Agent Brent Myers, and onto the elevator for the brief ride to the first floor. One of the deputies trailed along.
The room was one used by doctors for staff meetings. The hospital was small and the room appeared to be used sparingly. Sandy had ordered the antibugging scanner Patrick had mentioned, but it wouldn't be in for a few days.
"Please rush it," Patrick said.
"Come on, Patrick. Surely you don't think they would bug this room. No one knew we would use it until an hour ago."
"We can't be too careful." Patrick stood from the wheelchair and walked around the long conference table, walked without any limp whatsoever, Sandy noted.
"Look, Patrick, I think you should try and relax a little. I know you've been on the run for a long time. You've lived in fear, always looking over your shoulder, I know all that. But those days are over. They caught you. Relax."
"They're still out there, okay? They have me, but not the money. And the money is much more important. Don't forget that, Sandy. They won't rest until they have the money."
"So who might be bugging us here? Good guys or bad? Cops or crooks?"
"The people who lost the money have spent a bloody fortune trying to find it."
"How do you know?"
Patrick merely shrugged as if it were time to play games again.
"Who are they?" Sandy asked, and there was a long pause, one similar to those used by Leah when she wanted to change the subject.
"Sit down," Patrick said. They sat on opposite sides of the table. Sandy removed the thick file Leah had given him four hours earlier; the dirt-on-Trudy file.
Patrick recognized it immediately. "When did you see her?" he asked anxiously.
"This morning. She's fine, sends her love, says nobody's stalking her yet, and asked me to deliver this." He slid the envelope across the table where Patrick grabbed it, ripped it open, and pulled out a three-page letter. He then proceeded to read it slowly, oblivious to his lawyer.
Sandy flipped through the file and settled on the nudie pictures of Trudy reclining by the pool with her gigolo sprawled nearby. He couldn't wait to show these to her lawyer in Mobile. They had a meeting scheduled in three hours.
Patrick finished the letter, carefully refolded it, and placed it in the envelope. "I have another letter for her," he said. He glanced across the table and saw the photos. "Pretty good work, huh?"
"It's amazing. I've never seen this much proof in a divorce case."
"Well, there was a lot to work with. We'd been married almost two years when I bumped into her first husband, quite by accident. It was at a party before a Saints game in New Orleans. We had a few drinks, and he told me about Lance. He's the tomcat in the pictures there."
"Leah explained it."
"Trudy was very pregnant at the time, so I said nothing. The marriage was slowly unraveling, and we hoped the child would make things perfect. She has an amazing capacity for deceit. I decided to play along, be a proud daddy and all that, but a year later I started gathering evidence. I wasn't sure when I would need it, but I knew the marriage was over. I left town every chance I got-business, hunting, fishing, weekends with the boys, whatever. She never seemed to mind."
"I meet with her lawyer at 5 P.M."
"Good. You'll have a great time. It's a lawyer's dream. Threaten everything, but walk away with the settlement. She has to sign away all rights, Sandy. She gets none of my assets."
"When do we talk about your assets?"
"Soon. I promise. But there is something more pressing."
Sandy removed his obligatory legal pad and poised himself to take notes. "I'm listening," he said.
"Lance is a nasty character. He grew up in the bars along Point Cadet, never finished high school, and served three years for smuggling dope. A bad seed. He has friends in the underworld. He knows people who'll do anything for money. There's another thick file, this one on him. I take it Leah didn't give it to you."
"No. Just this one."
"Ask her about it next time. I gathered dirt on Lance for a year with the same private detective. Lance is a small-time hood, but he's dangerous because he has friends. And Trudy has money. We don't know how much is left, but she probably hasn't spent it all."
"And you think he's coming after you?"
"Probably. Think about it, Sandy. Trudy is the only person right now who still needs me dead. If I'm out of the way, she keeps the money she has left, and she doesn't worry about the insurance company getting what she now owns. I know her. The money and the lifestyle mean everything."
"But how could he-"
"It can be done, Sandy. Believe me. It can be done."
He said this with the calm assurance of one who had committed murder and gotten by with it, and for a second Sandy's blood ran cold.
"It can easily be done," he said for the third time, his eyes glaring, the wrinkles around them pinched tightly.
"Okay, what am I supposed to do? Sit with the deputies in the hallway?"
"You create the fiction, Sandy."
"I'm listening."
"First, you tell her lawyer that your office has received an anonymous tip that Lance is in the market for a hit man. Do this at the end of your meeting today. By then, the guy will be shell-shocked and he'll believe anything you say. Tell him you plan to meet with the cops and discuss this. He'll no doubt call his client, who'll deny it vehemently. But her credibility with him will be shot. Trudy will recoil at the very idea that someone else suspects she and Lance have entertained such thoughts. Then, meet with the Sheriff and the FBI and tell the same story. Tell them why you're worried about my safety. Insist that they chat with Trudy and Lance about these rumors. I know her very well, Sandy. She'll sacrifice Lance to keep the money, but not if there's the chance she'll get caught too. If the cops are suspicious now, she'll back off."