Free The Racketeer by John Grisham Page B

to boot, I get the reward money.”
    Three stone faces stare at me. Dunleavy finally says, “Is that all?”
    “That’s it. And it’s not negotiable.”
    “Wow,” Dunleavy mumbles, as if in shock. “I guess you’ve had plenty of time to think about this.”
    “Far more than you.”
    “What if you’re wrong? What if we pick up the wrong guy, somehow get an indictment, you walk, then we can’t prove a case?”
    “That’ll be your problem. You screw up the prosecution, then it’s your fault.”
    “Okay, but once we have our man, how much evidence will there be?”
    “You have the entire federal government at your disposal. Certainly you guys can find enough evidence once you have the killer. I can’t do everything for you.”
    For drama, Dunleavy stands and stretches and paces to one end of the room, as if tortured and deep in thought. Then he returns, takes his seat, glares at me. “I think we’re wasting our time here,” he says, a bad bluff delivered lamely by a kid who has no business even being in the room. Hanski, the veteran, lowers his head slightly and blinks his eyes. He can’t believe how bad this guy is. Erardi never takes his eyes off me, and I can sense the desperation. I can also feel the tension between the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office, which is not at all unusual.
    I slowly get to my feet and say, “You’re right. We’re wasting our time. I’m not meeting with you again until you boys send in someone with more than peach fuzz. I’ve given you my deal, andthe next time we chat I want Mr. Victor Westlake at the table, along with one of your bosses, Mr. Dunleavy. And if you’re in the room, then I’ll walk out.”
    With that, I leave. I glance back as I close the door, and Hanski is rubbing his temples.
    They’ll be back.

    The meeting could have been scheduled to take place at the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington. Victor Westlake would have been happy to return home briefly, see the boss, check on his staff, have a nice dinner with his family, and so on. However, the Director wanted to take a quick road trip. He needed to get away from the building for a few hours, so he loaded his entourage onto a sleek private jet, one of four controlled by the FBI, and took off for Roanoke, a forty-minute flight.
    His name was George McTavey, aged sixty-one, a career man and not a political appointee, though his politics currently had him in hot water with the President. According to the relentless gossip inside the Beltway, McTavey was barely hanging on to his job. The President wanted a new Director of the FBI. After fourteen years, McTavey needed to go. Morale was low inside the Hoover Building, so the gossip went. In the past few months, McTavey rarely passed up a chance to leave Washington, if only for a few hours.
    And it was almost refreshing to focus on such an old-fashioned crime as murder. He had been fighting terror for ten years now, and there had yet to be even the slightest hint that Fawcett’s death was related to al-Qaeda or homegrown cells. Gone were the glory days of fighting organized crime and chasing counterfeiters.
    In Roanoke, a black SUV was waiting at the bottom of thejet’s staircase, and McTavey and his team were rushed away as if snipers were watching and waiting. A minute later they rolled to a stop outside the Freezer and hustled inside.
    A field visit by the Director had two purposes. The first was to raise the spirits of the task force and let them know that in spite of their lack of progress their work had the highest priority. The second was to ratchet up the pressure. After a quick tour of the makeshift facilities and a round of handshakes that would have impressed a politician, Director McTavey was led to the largest meeting room for the briefing.

    He sat next to Victor Westlake, an old friend, and they munched on doughnuts as a senior investigator gave a windy summary of the latest, which wasn’t much at all. McTavey didn’t need