Suddenly, Robin looked worried. “Please don’t tell him. He’s gotten very upset when I’ve put myself in danger. It’s caused trouble between us.”
Amanda softened. “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. What happens in the Jungle Club stays in the Jungle Club.”
Robin laughed, glad her friend wasn’t angry with her anymore.
“And,” Amanda reminded her, “we do have another lead—Kevin Bash.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Mr. Macklin?” Ian Hennessey asked when a man answered the phone.
“Yes?”
“This is the person you met last Thursday night at the bar. I might have something interesting for you, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“You never know who’s listening.”
“Like in wiretapping?” Macklin laughed. “My hope is that someday I’ll be important enough to be under surveillance, but I don’t think I rate that high right now.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll understand why after we meet. Can you come to the same place we met at nine tonight? I’ll be in a booth at the back.”
“You mean—”
“No names!”
Hennessey heard Macklin sigh. Then Macklin said, “Okay, you’ve got me curious. Nine it is.”
When Hennessey hung up, he was sweating and light-headed. It had taken all of his courage to make the call, and he hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
Hennessey wore a baseball cap, dark glasses, old jeans, and a black-and-orange jacket with an Oregon State University Beavers emblem. He got to the bar early so he could commandeer a booth near the rear door, just in case he had to make a quick escape. When the waitress came for his order, he asked for a pitcher of beer so she wouldn’t bother him for a while.
Ian was hanging on by a thread. He wasn’t sleeping, he had no appetite, and he was convinced that a powerful judge and a ruthless woman were out to destroy him. While he waited for Brent Macklin, he sipped his beer, wishing it were something stronger, but he knew he needed a clear head for this meeting.
Macklin walked into the bar at nine on the dot. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light before scanning the booths. Hennessey waved quickly, and Macklin sat down across from him.
“Bond, James Bond,” Macklin said.
“This isn’t funny,” Hennessey snapped.
“Sorry, but it’s all so cloak-and-dagger-ish.”
“You’ll see why when you hear what I have to say. First, though, you have to guarantee me that you’ll never reveal that I was your source.”
“You want to be a Deep Throat?”
“Yes. If I’m right, what I’m telling you can cost me my job. In the worst-case scenario, I could be killed.”
Macklin studied Hennessey, who was sweating and twitchy.
“Okay, you’re anonymous.”
“And you’ll go to jail to protect me?”
Macklin was going to argue with Hennessey, but he was too curious to walk away.
“We were never here,” he said. “So, what’s this big secret?”
“A man named Joseph Lattimore was arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Carasco, the wife of Judge Anthony Carasco. The judge and I very conveniently drove up to the judge’s house just as Lattimore ran out.
“It was raining very hard when we turned into Carasco’s street, and we saw Lattimore standing in our headlights. He was too far for me to make him out very well what with the wipers moving and the downpour. Carasco told the police that the man had a scar on his face. I don’t know how he could see a scar under those conditions and from that far away.”
“Where is this going?”
“Just listen,” Hennessey said as he leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Vanessa Cole is going to argue that Lattimore is homeless and killed Mrs. Carasco during a failed burglary. I don’t know if Lattimore beat Mrs. Carasco to death, but I have a very strong suspicion that Judge Carasco hired Lattimore or whoever killed her.”
Macklin’s brow furrowed. “Do you have evidence to back that up?”
“It’s all circumstantial.”
“Why are we meeting?”
“I’m sure Carasco set me up, and I could lose everything.”
“Talk to me about that.”
Without using her name, Hennessey told Macklin about Stacey and the warrants, which had mysteriously disappeared. He explained that Carasco had arranged for him to appear in his court shortly after Stacey had blackmailed him, and he told Macklin how the judge had maneuvered him into being with him at the exact time Betsy was being killed.
“It’s too many coincidences. I just know I was set up to be his alibi.”
“I admit it sounds like it, but it really could be a coincidence.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you. If Carasco’s innocent, I don’t want to get him in trouble. But if he’s guilty and you break the story, your career will be made. And if you can keep me out of the story, my career might be saved. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I can’t stand the idea that I’m being used to help a murderer go free.”
“You’ve definitely made me curious.”
“There’s something else. When we talked the first time, you told me that you wanted to do a story about these illegal, no-holds-barred fights.”
“I still do.”
“There may be a tie-in between the Ortega fight and Mrs. Carasco’s murder. You’ve seen the YouTube video of Lattimore’s fight with Ortega, so you know Lattimore killed him. What’s not public knowledge is something that was discovered at the crime lab. Hand wraps like a boxer uses were found in a garbage can on Carasco’s property. Mrs. Carasco’s blood was on the wraps, but so was Mr. Ortega’s.
“If Lattimore didn’t kill Mrs. Carasco, then he was set up by someone who got those hand wraps, and the most likely place would have been where the illegal fight was held.”
Macklin frowned. “You’re saying that someone involved with the illegal fight was also involved with Mrs. Carasco’s murder?”
“Yeah. And if the judge is behind his wife’s murder, it means that he’s also involved in some way with the illegal fights.”
“Have the cops figured out who’s running the fights or where they’re held?”
“Not that I know, but I’m not part of the investigation or prosecution now that I’m
