One of The Wall Street Journal's Best Mysteries of the Year

Autorentext

John Grisham is the author of numerous #1 bestsellers, including The Firm, A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, The Innocent Man, The Whistler, The Boys from Biloxi, and many more. His books have been translated into nearly fifty languages. Grisham is a two-time winner of the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction and was honored with the Library of Congress Creative Achievement Award for Fiction. Grisham serves on the board of directors of the Innocence Project and Centurion Ministries, two national organizations dedicated to exonerating those who have been wrongfully convicted. Much of his fiction explores deep-seated problems in our criminal justice system. He lives on a farm in central Virginia.

Klappentext

As an investigator for the Florida Board on Judicial Conduct, Lacy Stoltz sees plenty of corruption among the men and women elected to the bench. Stoltz took on a crime syndicate that was paying millions to a crooked judge. Now, the crimes are even worse. The man hiding behind the black robe is not taking bribes--but he may be taking lives.

Zusammenfassung
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • John Grisham returns to Florida, where The Whistler’s Lacy Stoltz takes on a cold case that reveals a judge’s darkest secrets.

“One of the best crime reads of the year . . . a world-class shocker, worth staying up all night to finish.”—The Wall Street Journal

In The Whistler, Lacy Stoltz investigated a corrupt judge who was taking millions in bribes from a crime syndicate. She put the criminals away, but only after being attacked and nearly killed. Three years later, and approaching forty, she is tired of her work for the Florida Board on Judicial Conduct and ready for a change.

Then she meets a mysterious woman who is so frightened she uses a number of aliases. Jeri Crosby’s father was murdered twenty years earlier in a case that remains unsolved and that has grown stone cold. But Jeri has a suspect whom she has become obsessed with and has stalked for two decades. Along the way, she has discovered other victims.

The man Jeri holds responsible for all these deaths is brilliant, patient, and always one step ahead of law enforcement. He is the most cunning of all serial killers. He knows forensics, police procedure, and most important: he knows the law.
 
He is a judge, in Florida—under Lacy’s jurisdiction.
 
But the man keeps a record of all his victims and targets, people unlucky enough to have crossed his path and wronged him in some way. Lacy must work to take him down, while somehow keeping her name off his list.

Leseprobe
1

The call came through the office land line, through a system that was at least twenty years old and had fought off all technological advances. It was taken by a tattooed receptionist named Felicity, a new girl who would be gone before she fully understood the phones. They were all leaving, it seemed, especially the clerical help. Turnover was ridiculous. Morale was low. The Board on Judicial Conduct had just seen its budget chopped for the fourth straight year by a legislature that hardly knew it existed.

Felicity managed to route the call down the hall to the cluttered desk of Lacy Stoltz. “There’s a call on line three,” she announced.

“Who is it?” Lacy asked.

“She wouldn’t say.”

There were so many ways to respond. At that moment, though, Lacy was bored, and she did not wish to waste the emotional energy necessary to properly chastise the kid and set her straight. Routines and protocols were crumbling. Office discipline was waning as BJC spiraled into a leaderless mess.

As a veteran, the veteran, it was important to set an example. “Thanks,” she said and punched the blinking light. “Lacy Stoltz.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Stoltz. Do you have a moment?”

Female, educated, no hint of an accent, mid-forties, give or take three years. Lacy always played the voice game. “And to whom do I have the pleasure?”

“My name is Margie for now, but I use other ones.”

Lacy was amused and almost chuckled. “Well, at least you’re up front about it. It normally takes me some time to work through the aliases.”

Anonymous callers were routine. People with gripes about judges were always cautious and hesitant to come forward and take on the system. Almost all feared retaliation from the powers on high.

Margie said, “I’d like to talk to you, somewhere private.”

“My office is private, if you’d like.”

“Oh no,” she snapped, apparently frightened at the thought. “That won’t work. You know the Siler Building, next door?”

“Of course,” Lacy said as she stood and looked out her window at the Siler Building, one of several nondescript government addresses in downtown Tallahassee.

Margie said, “There’s a coffee bar on the ground floor. Can we meet there?”

“I suppose. When?”

“Now. I’m on my second latte.”

“Slow down. Give me a few minutes. And you’ll recognize me?”

“Yes. You’re on the website. I’m in the rear, left side.”

Lacy’s office was indeed private. The one to her left was empty, vacated by an ex-colleague who’d moved on to a bigger agency. Across the hall an office had been converted into a makeshift storage closet. She walked toward Felicity and ducked into the office of Darren Trope, a two-year man already prowling for another job.

“You busy?” she asked as she interrupted whatever he was doing.

“Not really.” It didn’t matter what he was or was not doing. If Lacy needed anything, Darren belonged to her.

“Need a favor. I’m stepping over to Siler to meet a stranger who just admitted that she is using a fake name.”

“Oh, I love the cloak-and-dagger. Sure beats sitting here reading about some judge who made lewd comments to a witness.”

“How lewd?”

“Pretty graphic.”

“Any photos, videos?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know if you get them. So, mind stepping over in fifteen minutes and taking a picture?”

“Sure. No problem. No idea who she is?”

“None whatsoever.”

Lacy left the building, took her time walking around the block, enjoyed a moment of cool air, and strolled into the lobby of the Siler Building. It was almost 4:00 p.m. and there were no other customers drinking coffee at that hour. Margie was at a small table in the rear, to the left. She waved quickly as though someone might notice and she didn’t want to get caught. Lacy smiled and walked toward her.

African American, mid-forties, professional, attractive, educated, slacks and heels and dressed nicer than Lacy, though around BJC these days any and all attire was allowed. The old boss wanted coats and ties and hated jeans, but he had retired two years ago and took most of the rules with him.

Lacy passed the counter where the barista was loafing with both elbows stuck on the Formica, hands cradling her pink phone that had her thoroughly fascinated. She did not look up, never thought about greeting a customer, and Lacy decided to pass on more caffeine anyway.

Without standing, Margie stuck out a hand and said, “Nice to meet you. Would you like some coffee?”

Lacy smiled, shook her hand, and sat across the square table. “No thanks. And it’s Margie, right?”

“For now.”

“Okay, we’re off to a bad …