Chapter 24

   For only the second time in his career, Mitch was allowed to visit the palatial dining room on the fifth floor. Avery’s invitation came with the explanation that the partners were all quite impressed with the seventy-one hours per week he averaged in billing for the month of February, and thus they wished to offer the small reward of lunch. It was an invitation no associate could turn down, regardless of schedules and meetings and clients and deadlines and all the other terribly important and urgently critical aspects of careers at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Never in history had an associate said No to an invitation to the dining room. Each received two invitations per year. Records were kept.
   Mitch had two days to prepare for it. His first impulse was to decline, and when Avery first mentioned it a dozen lame excuses crossed his mind. Eating and smiling and chatting and fraternizing with criminals, regardless of how rich and polished, was less attractive than sharing a bowl of soup with a homeless down at the bus station. But to say No would be a grievous breach of tradition. And as things were going, his movements were already suspicious enough.
   So he sat with his back to the window and forced smiles and small talk in the direction of Avery and Royce McKnight and, of course, Oliver Lambert. He knew he would eat at the same table with those three. Knew it for two days.
   He knew they would watch him carefully but nonchalantly, trying to detect any loss of enthusiasm, or cynicism, or hopelessness. Anything, really. He knew they would hang on his every word, regardless of what he said. He knew they would lavish praise and promises upon his weary shoulders.
   Oliver Lambert had never been more charming. Seventy-one hours a week for a February for an associate was a firm record, he said as Roosevelt served prime rib. All the partners were amazed, and delighted, he explained softly while glancing around the room. Mitch forced a smile and sliced his serving. The other partners, amazed or indifferent, were talking idly and concentrating on the food. Mitch counted eighteen active partners and seven retirees, those with the khakis and sweaters and relaxed looks about them.
   “You have remarkable stamina, Mitch,” Royce McKnight said with a mouthful. He nodded politely.
   Yes, yes, I practice my stamina all the time,he thought to himself. As much as possible, he kept his mind off Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski and the other three dead lawyers memorialized on the wall downstairs. But it was impossible to keep his mind off the pictures of the girl in the sand, and he wondered if they all knew.
   Had they all seen the pictures? Passed them around during one of these little lunches when it was just the partners and no guests? DeVasher had promised to keep them to himself, but what’s a promise from a thug? Of course they’d seen them. Voyles said every partner and most of the associates were in on the conspiracy.
   For a man with no appetite, he managed the food nicely. He even buttered and devoured an extra roll, just to appear normal. Nothing wrong with his appetite.
   “So you and Abby are going to the Caymans next week?” Oliver Lambert said.
   “Yes. It’s her spring break, and we booked one of the condos two months ago. Looking forward to it.”
   “It’s a terrible time to go,” Avery said in disgust. “We’re a month behind right now.”
   “We’re always a month behind, Avery. So what’s another week? I guess you want me to take my files with me?”
   “Not a bad idea. I always do.”
   “Don’t do it, Mitch,” Oliver Lambert said in mock protest. “This place will be standing when you return. You and Abby deserve a week to yourselves.”
   “You’ll love it down there,” Royce McKnight said, as if Mitch hap never been and that thing on the beach didn’t happen and no one knew anything about any photographs.
   “When do you leave?” Lambert asked.
   “Sunday morning. Early.”
   “Are you taking the Lear?”
   “No. Delta nonstop.”
   Lambert and McKnight exchanged quick looks that Mitch was not supposed to see. There were other looks from the other tables, occasional quick glances filled with curiosity that Mitch had caught since he entered the room. He was there to be noticed.
   “Do you scuba-dive?” asked Lambert, still thinking about the Lear versus the Delta nonstop.
   “No, but we plan to do some snorkeling.”
   “There’s a guy on Rum Point, on the north end, name of Adrian Bench, who’s got a great dive lodge and will certify you in one week. It’s a hard week, lot of instruction, but it’s worth it.”
   In other words, stay away from Abanks,Mitch thought. “What’s the name of the lodge?” he asked.
   “Rum Point Divers. Great place.”
   Mitch frowned intelligently as if making a mental note of this helpful advice. Suddenly, Oliver Lambert was hit with sadness. “Be careful, Mitch. It brings back memories of Marty and Joe.”
   Avery and McKnight stared at their plates in a split-second memorial to the dead boys. Mitch swallowed hard and almost sneered at Oliver Lambert. But he kept a straight face, even managed to look sad with the rest of them. Marty and Joe and their young widows and fatherless children. Marty and Joe, two young wealthy lawyers expertly killed and removed before they could talk. Marty and Joe, two promising sharks eaten by their own. Voyles had told Mitch to think of Marty and Joe whenever he saw Oliver Lambert.
   And now, for a mere million bucks, he was expected to do what Marty and Joe were about to do, without getting caught. Perhaps a year from now the next new associate would be sitting here and watching the saddened partners talk about young Mitch McDeere and his remarkable stamina and what a helluva lawyer he would have been but for the accident. How many would they kill?
   He wanted two million. Plus a couple of other items.
   After an hour of important talk and good food, the lunch began breaking up as partners excused themselves, spoke to Mitch and left the room. They were proud of him, they said. He was their brightest star of the future. The future of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. He smiled and thanked them.


* * *

   About the time Roosevelt served the banana cream pie and coffee, Tammy Greenwood Hemphill of Greenwood Services parked her dirty brown Rabbit behind the shiny Peugeot in the St. Andrew’s Episcopal School parking lot. She left the motor running. She took four steps, stuck a key into the trunk of the Peugeot and removed the heavy black briefcase. She slammed the trunk and sped away in the Rabbit. From a small window in the teachers’ lounge, Abby sipped coffee and stared through the trees, across the playground and into the parking lot in the distance. She could barely see her car. She smiled and checked her watch. Twelve-thirty, as planned.
   Tammy weaved her way carefully through the noon traffic in the direction of downtown. Driving was tedious when watching the rearview mirror. As usual, she saw nothing. She parked in her designated place across the street from the Cotton Exchange Building.
   There were nine files in this load. She arranged them neatly on the folding table and began making copies. Sigalas Partners, Lettie Plunk Trust, HandyMan Hardware and two files bound loosely with a thick rubber band and marked Avery’s Files. She ran two copies of every sheet of paper in the files and meticulously put them back together. In a ledger book, she entered the date, time and name of each file. There were now twenty-nine entries. He said there would eventually be about forty. She placed one copy of each file into the locked and hidden cabinet in the closet, then repacked the briefcase with the original files and one copy of each.
   Pursuant to his instructions, a week earlier she had rented in her name a twelve-by-twelve storage room at the Summer Avenue Mini Storage. It was fourteen miles from downtown, and thirty minutes later she arrived and unlocked number 38C. In a small cardboard box she placed the other copies of the nine files and scribbled the date on the end of the flap. She placed it next to three other boxes on the floor.
   At exactly 3 P.M., she wheeled into the parking lot, stopped behind the Peugeot, opened its trunk and left the briefcase where she’d found it.
   Seconds later, Mitch stepped from the front door of the Bendini Building and stretched his arms. He breathed deeply and gazed up and down Front Street. A lovely spring day. Three blocks to the north and nine floors up, in the window, he noticed the blinds had been pulled all the way down. The signal. Good. Everything’s fine. He smiled to himself, and returned to his office.


* * *

   At three o’clock the next morning, Mitch eased out of bed and quietly pulled on a pair of faded jeans, flannel law school shirt, white insulated socks and a pair of old work boots. He wanted to look like a truck driver. Without a word, he kissed Abby, who was awake, and left the house. East Meadowbrook was deserted, as were all the streets between home and the interstate. Surely they would not follow him at this hour.
   He drove Interstate 55 south for twenty-five miles to Senatobia, Mississippi. A busy, all-night truck stop called the 4-55 shone brightly a hundred yards from the four-lane. He darted through the trucks to the rear where a hundred semis were parked for the night. He stopped next to the Truck Wash bay and waited. A dozen eighteen-wheelers inched and weaved around the pumps.
   A black guy wearing a Falcons football cap stepped from around the corner and stared at the BMW. Mitch recognized him as the agent in the bus terminal in Knoxville. He killed the engine and stepped from the car.
   “McDeere?” the agent asked.
   “Of course. Who else? Where’s Tarrance?”
   “Inside in a booth by the window. He’s waiting.”
   Mitch opened the door and handed the keys to the agent. “Where are you taking it?”
   “Down the road a little piece. We’ll take care of it. You were clean coming out of Memphis. Relax.”
   He climbed into the car, eased between two diesel pumps and headed for the interstate. Mitch watched his little BMW disappear as he entered the truck-stop cafe. It was three forty-five.
   The noisy room was filled with heavy middle-aged men drinking coffee and eating store-bought pies. They picked their teeth with colored toothpicks and talked of bass fishing and politics back at the terminal. Many spoke with loud Northern twangs. Merle Haggard wailed from the jukebox.
   The lawyer moved awkwardly toward the rear until he saw in an unlit corner a familiar face hidden beneath aviator’s sunshades and the same Michigan State baseball cap. Then the face smiled. Tarrance was holding a menu and watching the front door. Mitch slid into the booth.
   “Hello, good buddy,” Tarrance said. “How’s the truckin’?”
   “Wonderful. I think I prefer the bus, though.”
   “Next time we’ll try a train or something. Just for variety. Laney get your car?”
   “Laney?”
   “The black dude. He’s an agent, you know.”
   “We haven’t been properly introduced. Yes, he’s got my car. Where is he taking it?”
   “Down the interstate. He’ll be back in an hour or so. We’ll try to have you on the road by five so you can be at the office by six. We’d hate to mess up your day.”
   “It’s already shot to hell.”
   A partially crippled waitress named Dot ambled by and demanded to know what they wanted. Just coffee. A surge of Roadway drivers swarmed in the front door and filled up the cafe. Merle could barely be heard.
   “So how are the boys at the office?” Tarrance asked cheerfully.
   “Everything’s fine. The meters are ticking as we speak and everyone’s getting richer. Thanks for asking.”
   “No problem.”
   “How’s my old pal Voyles doing?” Mitch asked.
   “He’s quite anxious, really. He called me twice today and repeated for the tenth time his desire to have an answer from you. Said you’d had plenty of time and all that. I told him to relax. Told him about our little roadside rendezvous tonight and he got real excited. I’m supposed to call him in four hours, to be exact.”
   “Tell him a million bucks won’t do it, Tarrance. You boys like to brag about spending billions fighting organized crime, so I say throw a little my way. What’s a couple of million cash to the federal government?”
   “So it’s a couple of million now?”
   “Damned right it’s a couple of million. And not a dime less. I want a million now and a million later. I’m in the process of copying all of my files, and I should be finished in a few days. Legitimate files, I think. If I gave them to anyone I’d be permanently disbarred. So when I give them to you, I want the first million. Let’s just call it good-faith money.”
   “How do you want it paid?”
   “Deposited in an account in a bank in Zurich. But we’ll discuss the details later.”
   Dot slid two saucers onto the table and dropped two mismatched cups on them. She poured from a height of three feet and splashed coffee in all directions. “Free refills,” she grunted, and left.
   “And the second million?” Tarrance asked, ignoring the coffee.
   “When you and I and Voyles decide I’ve supplied you with enough documents to get the indictments, then I get half. After I testify for the last time, I get the other half. That’s incredibly fair, Tarrance.”
   “It is. You’ve got a deal.”
   Mitch breathed deeply, and felt weak. A deal. A contract. An agreement. One that could never be put in writing, but one that was terribly enforceable nonetheless. He sipped the coffee but didn’t taste it. They had agreed on the money. He was on a roll. Keep pushing.
   “And there’s one other thing, Tarrance.”
   The head lowered and turned slightly to the right. “Yeah?”
   Mitch leaned closer, resting on his forearms. “It won’t cost you a dime, and you boys can pull it off with no sweat. Okay?”
   “I’m listening.”
   “My brother Ray is at Brushy Mountain. Seven years until parole. I want him out.”
   “That’s ridiculous, Mitch. We can do a lot of things, but we damned sure can’t parole state prisoners. Federal maybe, but not state. No way.”
   “Listen to me, Tarrance, and listen good. If I hit the road with the Mafia on my tail, my brother goes with me. Sort of like a package deal. And I know if Director Voyles wants him out of prison, he’ll get out of prison. I know that. Now, you boys just figure out a way to make it happen.”
   “But we have no authority to interfere with state prisoners.”
   Mitch smiled and returned to his coffee. “James Earl Ray escaped from Brushy Mountain. And he had no help from the outside.”
   “Oh, that’s great. We attack the prison like commandos and rescue your brother. Beautiful.”
   “Don’t play dumb with me, Tarrance. It’s not negotiable.”
   “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Anything else? Any more surprises?”
   “No, just questions about where we go and what we do. Where do we hide initially? Where do we hide during the trials? Where do we live for the rest of our lives? Just minor questions like that.”
   “We can discuss it later.”
   “What did Hodge and Kozinski tell you?”
   “Not enough. We’ve got a notebook, a rather thick notebook, in which we’ve accumulated and indexed everything we know about the Moroltos and. Most of it’s Morolto crap, their organization, key people, illegal activities and so on. You need to read it all before we start to work.”
   “Which, of course, will be after I’ve received the first million.”
   “Of course. When can we see your files?”
   “In about a week. I’ve managed to copy four files that belong to someone else. I may get my hands on a few more of those.”
   “Who’s doing the copying?”
   “None of your business.”
   Tarrance thought for a second and let it pass. “How many files?”
   “Between forty and fifty. I have to sneak them out a few at a time. Some I’ve worked on for eight months, others only a week or so. As far as I can tell, they’re all legitimate clients.”
   “How many of these clients have you personally met?”
   “Two or three.”
   “Don’t bet they’re all legitimate. Hodge told us about some dummy files, or sweat files as they are known to the partners, that have been around for years and every new associate cuts his teeth on them; heavy files that require hundreds of hours and make the rookies feel like real lawyers.”
   “Sweat files?”
   “That’s what Hodge said. It’s an easy game, Mitch. They lure you with the money. They smother you with work that looks legitimate and for the most part probably is legitimate.
   Then, after a few years, you’ve unwittingly become a part of the conspiracy. You’re nailed, and there’s no getting out. Even you, Mitch. You started work in July, eight months ago, and you’ve probably already touched a few of the dirty files. You didn’t know it, had no reason to suspect it. But they’ve already set you up.”
   “Two million, Tarrance. Two million and my brother.”
   Tarrance sipped the lukewarm coffee and ordered a piece of coconut pie as Dot came within earshot. He glanced at his watch and surveyed the crowd of truckers, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and gossiping.
   He adjusted the sunglasses. “So what do I tell Mr. Voyles?”
   “Tell him we ain’t got a deal until he agrees to get Ray out of prison. No deal, Tarrance.”
   “We can probably work something out.”
   “I’m confident you can.”
   “When do you leave for the Caymans?”
   “Early Sunday. Why?”
   “Just curious, that’s all.”
   “Well, I’d like to know how many different groups will be following me down there. Is that asking too much? I’m sure we’ll attract a crowd, and frankly, we had hoped for a little privacy.”
   “Firm condo?”
   “Of course.”
   “Forget privacy. It’s probably got more wires than a switchboard. Maybe even some cameras.”
   “That’s comforting. We might stay a couple of nights at Abanks Dive Lodge. If you boys are in the neighborhood, stop by for a drink.”
   “Very funny. If we’re there, it’ll be for a reason. And you won’t know it.”
   Tarrance ate the pie in three bites. He left two bucks on the table and they walked to the dark rear of the truck stop. The dirty asphalt pavement vibrated under the steady hum of an acre of diesel engines. They waited in the dark.
   “I’ll talk to Voyles in a few hours,” Tarrance said. “Why don’t you and your wife take a leisurely Saturday-afternoon drive tomorrow?”
   “Anyplace in particular?”
   “Yeah. There’s a town called Holly Springs thirty miles east of here. Old place, full of antebellum homes and Confederate history. Women love to drive around and look at the old mansions. Make your appearance around four o’clock and we’ll find you. Our buddy Laney will be driving a bright red Chevy Blazer with Tennessee plates. Follow him. We’ll find a place and talk.”
   “Is it safe?”
   “Trust us. If we see or smell something, we’ll break off. Drive around town for an hour, and if you don’t see Laney, grab a sandwich and go back home. You’ll know they were too close. We won’t take chances.”
   “Thanks. A great bunch of guys.”
   Laney eased around the corner in the BMW and jumped out. “Everything’s clear. No trace of anyone.”
   “Good,” Tarrance said. “See you tomorrow, Mitch. Happy truckin’.” They shook hands.
   “It’s not negotiable, Tarrance,” Mitch said again.
   “You can call me Wayne. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter 25

   The black thunderheads and driving rain had long since cleared the tourists from Seven Mile Beach when the McDeeres, soaked and tired, arrived at the luxury condominium duplex. Mitch backed the rented Mitsubishi jeep over the curb, across the small lawn and up to the front door. Unit B. His first visit had been to Unit A. They appeared to be identical, except for the paint and trim. The key fit, and they grabbed and threw luggage as the clouds burst and the rain grew thicker.
   Once inside and dry, they unpacked in the master bedroom upstairs with a long balcony facing the wet beach. Cautious with their words, they inspected the town house and checked out each room and closet. The refrigerator was empty, but the bar was very well stocked. Mitch mixed two drinks, rum and Coke, in honor of the islands. They sat on the balcony with their feet in the rain and watched the ocean churn and spill toward the shore. Rumheads was quiet and barely visible in the distance. Two natives sat at the bar, drinking and watching the sea.
   “That’s Rumheads over there,” Mitch said, pointing with his drink.
   “Rumheads?”
   “I told you about it. It’s a hot spot where tourists drink and the locals play dominoes.”
   “I see.” Abby was unimpressed. She yawned and sank lower into the plastic chair. She closed her eyes.
   “Oh, this is great, Abby. Our first trip out of the country, our first real honeymoon, and you’re asleep ten minutes after we hit land.”
   “I’m tired, Mitch. I packed all night while you were sleeping.”
   “You packed eight suitcases—six for you and two for me. You packed every garment we own. No wonder you were awake all night.”
   “I don’t want to run out of clothes.”
   “Run out? How many bikinis did you pack? Ten? Twelve?”
   “Six.”
   “Great. One a day. Why don’t you put one on?”
   “What?”
   “You heard me. Go put on that little blue one with high legs and a couple of strings around front, the one that weighs half a gram and cost sixty bucks and your buns hang out when you walk. I wanna see it.”
   “Mitch, it’s raining. You’ve brought me here to this island during the monsoon season. Look at those clouds. Dark and thick and extremely stationary. I won’t need any bikinis this week.”
   Mitch smiled and began rubbing her legs. “I rather like the rain. In fact, I hope it rains all week. It’ll keep us inside, in the bed, sipping rum and trying to hurt each other.”
   “I’m shocked. You mean you actually want sex? We’ve already done it once this month.”
   “Twice.”
   “I thought you wanted to snorkel and scuba-dive all week.”
   “Nope. There’s probably a shark out there waiting for me.”
   The winds blew harder and the balcony was being drenched. “Let’s go take off our clothes,” Mitch said.
   After an hour, the storm began to move. The rain slackened, then turned to a soft drizzle, then it was gone. The sky lightened as the dark, low clouds left the tiny island and headed northeast, toward Cuba. Shortly before its scheduled departure over the horizon, the sun suddenly emerged for a brief encore. It emptied the beach cottages and town homes and condos and hotel rooms as the tourists strolled through the sand toward the water. Rumheads was suddenly packed with dart throwers and thirsty beachcombers. The domino game picked up where it had left off. The reggae band next door at the Palms tuned up.
   Mitch and Abby walked aimlessly along the edge of the water in the general direction of Georgetown, away from the spot where the girl had been. He thought of her occasionally, and of the photographs. He had decided she was a pro and had been paid by DeVasher to seduce and conquer him in front of the hidden cameras. He did not expect to see her this time.
   As if on cue, the music stopped, the beach strollers froze and watched, the noise at Rumheads quietened as all eyes turned to watch the sun meet the water. Gray and white clouds, the trailing remnants of the storm, lay low on the horizon and sank with the sun. Slowly they turned shades of orange and yellow and red, pale shades at first, then, suddenly, brilliant tones. For a few brief moments, the sky was a canvas and the sun splashed its awesome array of colors with bold strokes. Then the bright orange ball touched the water and within seconds was gone. The clouds became black and dissipated. A Cayman sunset.
   With great fear and caution, Abby slowly maneuvered the jeep through the early-morning traffic in the shopping district. She was from Kentucky. She had never driven on the left side of the road for any substantial period of time. Mitch gave directions and watched the rearview mirror. The narrow streets and sidewalks were already crowded with tourists window-shopping for duty-free china, crystal, perfume, cameras and jewelry.
   Mitch pointed to a hidden side street, and the jeep darted between two groups of tourists. He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll meet you right here at five.”
   “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll go to the bank, then stay on the beach near the condo.”
   He slammed the door and disappeared between two small shops. The alley led to a wider street that led to Hogsty Bay. He ducked into a crowded T-shirt store filled with racks and rows of tourist shirts and straw hats and sunglasses. He selected a gaudy green-and-orange flowered shirt and a Panama hat. Two minutes later he darted from the store into the back seat of a passing taxi. “Airport,” he said. “And make it quick. Watch your tail. Someone may be following.”
   The driver made no response, just eased past the bank buildings and out of town. Ten minutes later he stopped in front of the terminal.
   “Anybody follow us?” Mitch asked, pulling money from his pocket.
   “No, mon. Four dollars and ten cents.”
   Mitch threw a five over the seat and walked quickly into the terminal. The Cayman Airways flight to Cayman Brae would leave at nine. At a gift shop Mitch bought a cup of coffee and hid between two rows of shelves filled with souvenirs. He watched the waiting area and saw no one. Of course, he had no idea what they looked like, but he saw no one sniffing around and searching for lost people. Perhaps they were following the jeep or combing the shopping district looking for him. Perhaps.
   For seventy-five Cayman dollars he had reserved the last seat on the ten-passenger, three-engine Trislandef. Abby had made the reservation by pay phone the night they arrived. At the last possible second, he jogged from the terminal onto the tarmac and climbed on board. The pilot slammed and locked the doors, and they taxied down the runway. No other planes were visible. A small hangar sat to the right.
   The ten tourists admired the brilliant blue sea and said little during the twenty-minute flight. As they approached Cayman Brae, the pilot became the tour guide and made a wide circle around the small island. He pajd special attention to the tall bluffs that fell into the sea on the east end. Without the bluffs, he said, the island would be as flat as Grand Cayman. He landed the plane softly on a narrow asphalt strip.
   Next to the small white frame building with the word AIRPORT painted on all sides, a clean-cut Caucasian waited and watched the passengers quickly disembark. He was Rick Acklin, Special Agent, and sweat dripped from his nose and glued his shirt to his back. He stepped slightly forward. “Mitch,” he said almost to himself.
   Mitch hesitated and then walked over.
   “Car’s out front,” Acklin said.
   “Where’s Tarrance?” Mitch looked around.
   “He’s waiting.”
   “Does the car have air conditioning?”
   “Afraid not. Sorry.”
   The car was minus air, power anything and signal lights. It was a 1974 Ltd., and Acklin explained as they followed the dusty road that there simply was not much of a selection of rental cars on Cayman Brae. And the reason the U.S. government had rented the car was because he and Tarrance had been unable to find a taxi. They were lucky to find a room, on such late notice.
   The small neat homes were closer together, and sea appeared. They parked in the sand parking lot of an establishment called Brae Divers. An aging pier jutted into the water and anchored a hundred boats of all sizes. To the west along the beach a dozen thatched-roof cabins sat two feet above the sand and housed divers who came from around the world. Next to the pier was an open-air bar, nameless, but complete with a domino game and a dartboard. Oak-and-brass fans hung from the ceiling through the rafters and rotated slowly and silently, cooling the domino players and the bartender.
   Wayne Tarrance sat at a table by himself drinking a Coke and watching a dive crew load a thousand identical yellow tanks from the pier onto a boat. Even for a tourist, his dress was hysterical. Dark sunglasses with yellow frames, brown straw sandals, obviously brand-new, with black socks, a tight Hawaiian luau shirt with twenty loud colors and a pair of gold gym shorts that were very old and very short and covered little of the shiny, sickly-white legs under the table. He waved his Coke at the two empty chairs.
   “Nice shirt, Tarrance,” Mitch said in undisguised amusement.
   “Thanks. You gotta real winner yourself.”
   “Nice tan too.”
   “Yeah, yeah. Gotta look the part, you know.”
   The waiter hovered nearby and waited for them to speak. Acklin ordered a Coke. Mitch said he wanted a Coke with a splash of rum in it. All three became engrossed with the dive boat and the divers loading their bulky gear.
   “What happened in Holly Springs?” Mitch finally asked.
   “Sorry, we couldn’t help it. They followed you out of Memphis and had two cars waiting in Holly Springs. We couldn’t get near you.”
   “Did you and your wife discuss the trip before you left?” asked Acklin.
   “I think so. We probably mentioned it around the house a couple of times.”
   Acklin seemed satisfied. “They were certainly ready for you. A green Skylark followed you for about twenty miles, then got lost. We called it off then.”
   Tarrance sipped his Coke and said, “Late Saturday night the Lear left Memphis and flew nonstop to Grand Cayman. We think two or three of the goons were on board. The plane left early Sunday morning and returned to Memphis.”
   “So they’re here and they’re following us?”
   “Of course. They probably had one or two people on the plane with you and Abby. Might have been men, women or both. Could’ve been a black dude or an oriental woman. Who knows? Remember, Mitch, they have plenty of money. There are two that we recognize. One was in Washington when you were there. A blond fellow, about forty, six-one, maybe six-two, with real short hair, almost a crew cut, and real strong, Nordic-looking features. He moves quickly. We saw him yesterday driving a red Escort he got from Coconut Car Rentals on the island.”
   “I think I’ve seen him,” Mitch said.
   “Where?” asked Acklin.
   “In a bar in the Memphis airport the night I returned from Washington. I caught him watching me, and I thought at the time that I had seen him in Washington.”
   “That’s him. He’s here.”
   “Who’s the other one?”
   “Tony Verkler, or Two-Ton Tony as we call him. He’s a con with an impressive record of convictions, most of it in Chicago. He’s worked for Morolto for years. Weighs about three hundred pounds and does a great job of watching people because no one would ever suspect him.”
   “He was at Rumheads last night,” Acklin added.
   “Last night? We were there last night.”
   With great ceremony, the dive boat pushed from the pier and headed for open water. Beyond the pier, fishermen in their small catboats pulled their nets and sailors navigated their brightly colored catamarans away from land. After a gentle and dreamy start, the island was awake now. Half the boats tied to the pier had left or were in the process of leaving.
   “So when did you boys get in town?” Mitch asked, sipping his drink, which was more rum than Coke.
   “Sunday night,” Tarrance answered while watching the dive boat slowly disappear.
   “Just out of curiosity, how many men do you have on the islands?”
   “Four men, two women,” said Tarrance. Acklin became mute and deferred all conversation to his supervisor.
   “And why exactly are you here?” Mitch asked.
   “Oh, several reasons. Number one, we wanted to talk to you and nail down our little deal. Director Voyles is terribly anxious about reaching an agreement you can live with. Number two, we want to watch them to determine how many goons are here. We’ll spend the week trying to identify these people. The island is small, and it’s a good place to observe.”
   “And number three, you wanted to work on your sun-tan?”
   Acklin managed a slight giggle. Tarrance smiled and then frowned. “No, not exactly. We’re here for your protection.”
   “My protection?”
   “Yes. The last time I sat at this very table I was talking to Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski. About nine months ago. The day before they were killed, to be exact.”
   “And you think I’m about to be killed?”
   “No. Not yet.”
   Mitch motioned at the bartender for another drink. The domino game grew heated, and he watched the natives argue and drink beer.
   “Look, boys, as we speak the goons, as you call them, are probably following my wife all over Grand Cayman. I’ll be sort of nervous until I get back. Now, what about the deal?”
   Tarrance left the sea and the dive boat and stared at Mitch. “Two million’s fine, and—”
   “Of course it’s fine, Tarrance. We agreed on it, did we not?”
   “Relax, Mitch. We’ll pay a million when you turn over all of your files. At that point, there’s no turning back, as they say. You’re in up to your neck.”
   “Tarrance, I understand that. It was my suggestion, remember?”
   “But that’s the easy part. We really don’t want your files, because they’re clean files. Good files. Legitimate files. We want the bad files, Mitch, the ones with indictments written all over them. And these files will be much harder to come by. But when you do so, we’ll pay another half million. And the rest after the last trial.”
   “And my brother?”
   “We’ll try.”
   “Not good enough, Tarrance. I want a commitment.”
   “We can’t promise to deliver your brother. Hell, he’s got at least seven more years.”
   “But he’s my brother, Tarrance. I don’t care if he’s a serial murderer sitting on death row waiting for his last meal. He’s my brother, and if you want me, you have to release him.”
   “I said we’ll try, but we can’t commit. There’s no legal, formal, legitimate way to get him out, so we must try other means. What if he gets shot during the escape?”
   “Just get him out, Tarrance.”
   “We’ll try.”
   “You’ll throw the power and resources of the FBI in assisting my brother in escaping from prison, right, Tarrance?”
   “You have my word.”
   Mitch sat back in his chair and took a long sip of his drink. Now the deal was final. He breathed easier and smiled in the direction of the magnificent Caribbean.
   “So when do we get your files?” Tarrance asked.
   “Thought you didn’t want them. They’re too clean, remember?”
   “We want the files, Mitch, because when we get the files, then we’ve got you. You’ve proved yourself when you hand us your files, your license to practice law, so to speak.”
   “Ten to fifteen days.”
   “How many files?”
   “Between forty and fifty. The small ones are an inch thick. The big ones wouldn’t fit on this table. I can’t use the copiers around the office, so we’ve had to make other arrangements.”
   “Perhaps we could assist in the copying,” said Acklin.
   “Perhaps not. Perhaps if I need your help, perhaps I’ll ask for it.”
   “How do you propose to get them to us?” Tarrance asked. Acklin withdrew again.
   “Very simple, Wayne. When I’ve copied them all, and once I get the million where I want it, then I’ll hand you a key to a certain little room in the Memphis area, and you can get them in your pickup.”
   “I told you we’d deposit the money in a Swiss bank account,” Tarrance said.
   “And now I don’t want it in a Swiss bank account, okay? I’ll dictate the terms of the transfer, and it’ll be done exactly as I say. It’s my neck on the line from now on, boys, so I call the shots. Most of them, anyway.”
   Tarrance smiled and grunted and stared at the pier. “So you don’t trust the Swiss?”
   “Let’s just say I have another bank in mind. I work for money launderers, remember, Wayne, so I’ve become an expert on hiding money in offshore accounts.”
   “We’ll see.”
   “When do I see this notebook on the Moroltos?”
   “After we get your files and pay our first installment. We’ll brief you as much as we can, but for the most part you’re on your own. You and I will need to meet a lot, and of course that’ll be rather dangerous. May have to take a few bus rides.”
   “Okay, but the next time I get the aisle seat.”
   “Sure, sure. Anybody worth two million can surely pick his seat on a Greyhound.”
   “I’ll never live to enjoy it, Wayne. You know I won’t.”
   Three miles out of Georgetown, on the narrow and winding road to Bodden Town, Mitch saw him. The man was squatting behind an old Volkswagen Beetle with the hood up as if engine trouble had stopped him. The man was dressed like a native, without tourist clothes. He could easily pass for one of the Brits who worked for the government or the banks. He was well tanned. The man held a wrench of some sort and appeared to study it and watch the Mitsubishi jeep as it roared by on the left-hand side of the road. The man was the Nordic. He was supposed to have gone unnoticed.
   Mitch instinctively slowed to thirty miles per hour, to wait for him. Abby turned and watched the road. The narrow highway to Bodden Town clung to the shoreline for five miles, then forked, and the ocean disappeared. Within minutes the Nordic’s green VW came racing around a slight bend. The McDeere jeep was much closer than the Nordic anticipated. Being seen, he abruptly slowed, then turned into the first white-rock driveway on the ocean side.
   Mitch gunned the jeep and sped to Bodden Town. West of the small settlement he turned south and less than a mile later found the ocean.


* * *

   It was 10 A.M. and the parking lot of Abanks Dive Lodge was half full. The two morning dive boats had left thirty minutes earlier. The McDeeres walked quickly to the bar, where Henry was already shuffling beer and cigarettes to the domino players.
   Barry Abanks leaned on a post supporting the thatched roof of the bar and watched as his two dive boats disappeared around the corner of the island. Each would make two dives, at places like Bonnie’s Arch, Devil’s Grotto, Eden Rock and Roger’s Wreck Point, places he had dived and toured and guided through a thousand times. Some of the places he had discovered himself.
   The McDeeres approached, and Mitch quietly introduced his wife to Mr. Abanks, who was not polite but not rude. They started for the small pier, where a deckhand was preparing a thirty-foot fishing boat; Abanks unloaded an indecipherable string of commands in the general direction of the young deckhand, who was either deaf or unafraid of his boss.
   Mitch stood next to Abanks, the captain now, and pointed to the bar fifty yards away down the pier. “Do you know all those people at the bar?” he asked.
   Abanks frowned at Mitch.
   “They tried to follow me here. Just curious,” Mitch said. “The usual gang,” Abanks said. “No strangers.”
   “Have you noticed any strangers around this morning?”
   “Look, this place attracts strange people. I keep no ledger of the strange ones and the normal ones.”
   “Have you seen a fat American, red hair, at least three hundred pounds?”
   Abanks shook his head. The deckhand eased the boat, uckward, away from the pier, then toward the horizon. Abby sat on a small padded bench and watched the dive lodge disappear. In a vinyl bag between her feet were two new sets of snorkeling fins and dive masks. It was ostensibly a snorkeling trip with maybe a little light fishing if they were biting. The great man himself had agreed to accompany them, but only after Mitch insisted and told him they needed to discuss personal matters. Private matters, regarding the death of his son.
   From a screened balcony on the second floor of a Cayman Kai beach house, the Nordic watched the two snorkeled heads bob and disappear around the fishing boat. He handed the binoculars to Two-Ton Tony Verkler, who, quickly bored, handed them back. A striking blonde in a black one-piece with legs cut high, almost to the rib cage, stood behind the Nordic and took the binoculars. Of particular interest was the deckhand.
   Tony spoke. “I don’t understand. If they were talking serious, why the boy? Why have another set of ears around?”
   “Perhaps they’re talking about snorkeling and fishing,” said the Nordic.
   “I don’t know,” said the blonde. “It’s unusual for Abanks to spend time on a fishing boat. He likes the divers. There must be a good reason for him to waste a day with two novice snorkelers. Something’s up.”
   “Who’s the boy?” asked Tony.
   “Just one of the gofers,” she said. “He’s got a dozen.”
   “Can you talk to him later?” asked the Nordic.
   “Yeah,” said Tony. “Show him some skin, snort some candy. He’ll talk.”
   “I’ll try,” she said.
   “What’s his name?” asked the Nordic.
   “Keith Rook.”


* * *

   Keith Rook maneuvered the boat alongside the pier at Rum Point. Mitch, Abby and Abanks climbed from the boat and headed for the beach. Keith was not invited to lunch. He stayed behind and lazily washed the deck.
   The Shipwreck Bar sat inland a hundred yards under a heavy cover of rare shade trees. It was dark and damp with screened windows and squeaky ceiling fans. There was no reggae, dominoes, or dartboard. The noon crowd was quiet with each table engrossed in its own private talk.
   The view from their table was out to sea, to the north. They ordered cheeseburgers and beer-island food.
   “This bar is different,” Mitch observed quietly.
   “Very much so,” said Abanks. “And with good reason. It’s a hangout for drug dealers who own many of the nice homes and condos around here. They fly in on their private jets, deposit their money in our many fine banks and spend a few days around here checking their real estate.”
   “Nice neighborhood.”
   “Very nice, really. They have millions and they keep to themselves.”
   The waitress, a husky, well-mixed mulatto, dropped three bottles of Jamaican Red Stripe on the table without saying a word. Abanks leaned forward on his elbows with his head lowered, the customary manner of speaking in the Shipwreck Bar. “So you think you can walk away?” he said.
   Mitch and Abby leaned forward in unison, and all three heads met low in the center of the table, just over the beer. “Not walk, but run. Run like hell, but I’ll get away. And I’ll need your help.”
   He thought about this for a moment and raised his head. He shrugged. “But what am I to do?” He took the first sip of his Red Stripe.
   Abby saw her first, and it would take a woman to spot another woman straining ever so elegantly to eavesdrop on their little conversation. Her back was to Abanks. She was a solid blonde partially hidden under cheap black rubber sunglasses that covered most of her face, and she had been watching the ocean and listening a bit too hard. When the three of them leaned over, she sat up straight and listened like hell. She was by herself at a table for two.
   Abby dug her fingernails into her husband’s leg, and their table became quiet. The blonde in black listened, then turned to her table and her drink.


* * *

   Wayne Tarrance had improved his wardrobe by Friday of Cayman Week. Gone were the straw sandals and tight shorts and teenybop sunglasses. Gone were the sickly-pale legs. Now they were bright pink, burned beyond recognition. After three days in the tropical outback known as Cayman Brae, he and Acklin, acting on behalf of the U.S. government, had pounced on a rather cheap room on Grand Cayman, miles from Seven Mile Beach and not within walking distance of any remote portion of the sea. Here they had established a command post to monitor the comings and goings of the McDeeres and other interested people. Here, at the Coconut Motel, they had shared a small room with two single beds and cold showers. Wednesday morning, they had contacted the subject, McDeere, and requested a meeting as soon as possible. He said no. Said he was too busy. Said he and his wife were honeymooning and had no time for such a meeting. Maybe later, was all he said.
   Then late Thursday, while Mitch and Abby were enjoying grilled grouper at the Lighthouse on the road to Bodden Town, Laney, Agent Laney, dressed in appropriate island garb and looking very much like an island Negro, stopped at their table and laid down the law. Tarrance insisted on a meeting.
   Chickens had to be imported into the Cayman Islands, and not the best ones. Only medium-grade chickens, to be consumed not by native islanders but by Americans away from home without this most basic staple. Colonel Sanders had the damnedest time teaching the island girls, though black or close to it, how to fry chicken. It was foreign to them.
   And so it was that Special Agent Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, arranged a quick secret meeting at the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise on the island of Grand Cayman. The only such franchise. He thought the place would be deserted. He was wrong.
   A hundred hungry tourists from Georgia, Alabama, Texas and Mississippi packed the place and devoured extra-crispy with cole slaw and creamed potatoes. It tasted better in Tupelo, but it would do.
   Tarrance and Acklin sat in a booth in the crowded restaurant and nervously watched the front door. It was not too late to abort. There were just too many people. Finally, Mitch entered, by himself, and stood in the long line. He brought his little red box to their table and sat down. He did not say hello or anything. He began eating the three-piece dinner for which he paid $4.89, Cayman dollars. Imported chicken.
   “Where have you been?” Tarrance asked.
   Mitch attacked a thigh. “On the island. It’s stupid to meet here, Tarrance. Too many people.”
   “We know what we’re doing.”
   “Yeah, like the Korean shoe store.”
   “Cute. Why wouldn’t you see us Wednesday?”
   “I was busy Wednesday. I didn’t want to see you Wednesday. Am I clean?”
   “Of course you’re clean. Laney would’ve tackled you at the front door if you weren’t clean.”
   “This place makes me nervous, Tarrance.”
   “Why did you go to Abanks?”
   Mitch wiped his mouth and held the partially devoured thigh. A rather small thigh. “He’s got a boat. I wanted to fish and snorkel, so we cut a deal. Where were you, Tarrance? In a submarine trailing us around the island?”
   “What did Abanks say?”
   “Oh, he knows lots of words. Hello. Give me a beer. Who’s following us? Buncha words.”
   “They followed you, you know?”
   “They! Which they? Your they or their they? I’m being followed so much I’m causing traffic jams.”
   “The bad guys, Mitch. Those from Memphis and Chicago and New York. The ones who’ll kill you tomorrow if you get real cute.”
   “I’m touched. So they followed me. Where’d I take them? Snorkeling? Fishing? Come on, Tarrance. They follow me, you follow them, you follow me, they follow you. If I slam on brakes I get twenty noses up my ass. Why are we meeting here, Tarrance? This place is packed.”
   Tarrance glanced around in frustration.
   Mitch closed his chicken box. “Look, Tarrance, I’m nervous and I’ve lost my appetite.”
   “Relax. You were clean coming from the condo.”
   “I’m always clean, Tarrance. I suppose Hodge and Kozinski were clean every time they moved. Clean at Abanks. Clean on the dive boat. Clean at the funerals. This was not a good idea, Tarrance. I’m leaving.”
   “Okay. When does your plane leave?”
   “Why? You guys plan to follow? Will you follow me or them? What if they follow you? What if we all get real confused and I follow everybody?”
   “Come on, Mitch.”
   “Nine-forty in the morning. I’ll try to save you a seat. You can have the window next to Two-Ton Tony.”
   “When do we get your files?”
   Mitch stood with his chicken box. “In a week or so. Give me ten days, and, Tarrance, no more meetings in public. They kill lawyers, remember, not stupid FBI agents.”

Chapter 26

   At eight monday morning, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke were cleared through the concrete wall on the fifth floor and walked through the maze of small rooms and offices. DeVasher was waiting. He closed the door behind them and pointed to the chairs. His walk was not as quick. The night had been a long losing battle with the vodka. The eyes were red and the brain expanded with each breath.
   “I talked with Lazarov yesterday in Las Vegas. I explained as best I could why you boys were so reluctant to fire your four lawyers, Lynch, Sorrell, Buntin and Myers. I gave him all your good reasons. He said he’d think about it, but in the meantime, make damned sure those four work on nothing but clean files. Take no chances and watch them closely.”
   “He’s really a nice guy, isn’t he?” Oliver Lambert said.
   “Oh yes. A real charmer. He said Mr. Morolto has asked about once a week for six weeks now. Said they’re all anxious.”
   “What did you tell him?”
   “Told him things are secure, for now. Leaks are plugged, for now. I don’t think he believes me.”
   “What about McDeere?” asked Locke.
   “He had a wonderful week with his wife. Have you ever seen her in a string bikini? She wore one all week. Outstanding! We got some pictures, just for fun.”
   “I didn’t come here to look at pictures,” Locke snapped.
   “You don’t say. They spent an entire day with our little pal Abanks, just the three of them and a deckhand. They played in the water, did some fishing. And they did a lot of talking. About what, we don’t know. Never could get close enough. But it makes me very suspicious, guys. Very suspicious.”
   “I don’t see why,” said Oliver Lambert. “What can they talk about besides fishing and diving, and, of course, Hodge and Kozinski? And so they talk about Hodge and Kozinski, what’s the harm?”
   “He never knew Hodge and Kozinski, Oliver,” said Locke. “Why would he be so interested in their deaths?”
   “Keep in mind,” said DeVasher, “that Tarrance told him at their first meeting that the deaths were not accidental. So now he’s Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.”
   “He won’t find any, will he, DeVasher?”
   “Hell no. It was a perfect job. Oh sure, there are a few unanswered questions, but the Caymanian police damned sure can’t answer them. Neither can our boy McDeere.”
   “Then why are you worried?” asked Lambert.
   “Because they’re worried in Chicago, Ollie, and they pay me real good money to stay worried down here. And until the Fibbies leave us alone, everybody stays worried, okay?”
   “What else did he do?”
   “The usual Cayman vacation. Sex, sun, rum, a little shopping and sightseeing. We had three people on the island, and they lost him a couple of times, but nothing serious, I hope. Like I’ve always said, you can’t trail a man twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without getting caught. So we have to play it cool sometimes.”
   “You think McDeere’s talking?” asked Locke.
   “I know he lies, Nat. He lied about the incident in the Korean shoe store a month ago. You guys didn’t want to believe it, but I’m convinced he went into that store voluntarily because he wanted to talk with Tarrance. One of our guys made a mistake, got too close, so the little meeting broke up. That ain’t McDeere’s version, but that’s what happened. Yeah, Nat, I think he’s talking. Maybe he meets with Tarrance and tells him to go to hell. Maybe they’re smoking dope together. I don’t know.”
   “But you have nothing concrete, DeVasher,” Ollie said.
   The brain expanded and pressed mightily against the skull. It hurt too much to get mad. “No, Ollie, nothing like Hodge and Kozinski, if that’s what you mean. We had those boys on tape and knew they were about to talk. McDeere’s a little different.”
   “He’s also a rookie,” said Nat. “An eight-month lawyer who knows nothing. He’s spent a thousand hours on sweat files, and the only clients he’s handled have been legitimate. Avery’s been extremely careful about the files McDeere’s touched. We’ve talked about it.”
   “He has nothing to say, because he knows nothing,” added Ollie. “Marty and Joe knew a helluva lot, but they’d been here for years. McDeere’s a new recruit.”
   DeVasher gently massaged his temples. “So you’ve hired a real dumb-ass. Let’s just suppose the FBI has a hunch who our biggest client is. Okay. Think along with me. And let’s just suppose Hodge and Kozinski fed them enough to confirm the identity of this particular client. See where I’m going? And let’s suppose the Fibbies have told McDeere all they know, along with a certain amount of embellishment. Suddenly, your ignorant rookie recruit is a very smart man. And a very dangerous one.”
   “How do you prove this?”
   “We step up surveillance, for starters. Put his wife under twenty-four-hour watch. I’ve already called Lazarov and requested more men. Told him we needed some fresh faces. I’m going to Chicago tomorrow to brief Lazarov, and maybe Mr. Morolto. Lazarov thinks Morolto has a lead on a mole within the Bureau, some guy who’s close to Voyles and will sell information. But it’s expensive, supposedly. They wanna assess things and decide where to go.”
   “And you’ll tell them McDeere’s talking?” asked Locke.
   “I’ll tell them what I know and what I suspect. I’m afraid that if we sit back and wait for concrete, it might be too late. I’m sure Lazarov will wanna discuss plans to eliminate him.”
   “Preliminary plans?” Ollie asked, with a touch of hope.
   “We’ve passed the preliminary stage, Ollie.”


* * *

   The Hourglass Tavern in New York City faces Forty-sixth Street, near its corner with Ninth Avenue. A small, dark hole-in-the-wall with twenty-two seats, it grew to fame with its expensive menu and fifty-nine-minute time limit on each meal. On the walls not far above the tables, hourglasses with white sand silently collect the seconds and minutes until the tavern’s timekeeper—the waitress—finally makes her calculations and calls time. Frequented by the Broadway crowd, it is usually packed, with loyal fans waiting on the sidewalk. Lou Lazarov liked the Hourglass because it was dark and private conversations were possible. Short conversations, under fifty-nine minutes. He liked it because it was not in Little Italy, and he was not Italian, and although he was owned by Sicilians, he did not have to eat their food. He liked it because he was born and spent the first forty years of his life in the theater district. Then corporate headquarters was moved to Chicago, and he was transferred. But business required his presence in New York at least twice a week, and when the business included meeting a member of equal stature from another family, Lazarov always suggested the Hourglass. Tubertini had equal stature, and a little extra. Reluctantly, he agreed on the Hourglass.
   Lazarov arrived first and did not wait for a table. He knew from experience the crowd thinned around 4 P.M., especially on Thursdays. He ordered a glass of red wine. The waitress tipped the hourglass above his head, and the race was on. He sat at a front table, facing the street, his back to the other tables. He was a heavy man of fifty-eight, with a thick chest and ponderous belly. He leaned hard on the red-checkered tablecloth and watched the traffic on Forty-sixth.
   Thankfully, Tubertini was prompt. Less than a fourth of the white sand was wasted on him. They shook hands politely, while Tubertini scornfully surveyed the tiny sliver of a restaurant. He flashed a plastic smile at Lazarov and glared at his seat in the window. His back would face the street, and this was extremely irritating. And dangerous. But his car was just outside with two of his men. He decided to be polite. He deftly maneuvered around the tiny table and sat down.
   Tubertini was polished. He was thirty-seven, the son-in-law of old man Palumbo himself. Family. Married his only daughter. He was beautifully thin and tanned with his short black hair oiled to perfection and slicked back. He ordered red wine.
   “How’s my pal Joey Morolto?” he asked with a perfect brilliant smile.
   “Fine. And Mr. Palumbo?”
   “Very ill, and very ill-tempered. As usual.”
   “Please give him my regards.”
   “Certainly.”
   The waitress approached and looked menacingly at the timepiece. “Just wine,” said Tubertini. “I won’t be eating.”
   Lazarov looked at the menu and handed it to her. “Sauteed blackfish, with another glass of wine.”
   Tubertini glanced at his men in the car. They appeared to be napping. “So, what’s wrong in Chicago?”
   “Nothing’s wrong. We just need a little information, that’s all. We’ve heard, unconfirmed of course, that you have a very reliable man somewhere deep in the Bureau, somewhere close to Voyles.”
   “And if we do?”
   “We need some information from this man. We have a small unit in Memphis, and the Fibbies are trying like hell to infiltrate. We suspect one of our employees may be working with them, but we can’t seem to catch him.”
   “And if you caught him?”
   “We’d slice out his liver and feed it to the rats.”
   “Serious, huh?”
   “Extremely serious. Something tells me the feds have targeted our little unit down there, and we’ve grown quite nervous.”
   “Let’s say his name is Alfred, and let’s say he’s very close to Voyles.”
   “Okay. We need a very simple answer from Alfred. We need to know, yes or no, if our employee is working with the Fibbies.”
   Tubertini watched Lazarov and sipped his wine. “Alfred specializes in simple answers. He prefers the yes and no variety. We’ve used him twice, only when it’s critical, and both times it was a question of ’Are the feds coming here or there?’ He’s extremely cautious. I don’t think he would provide too many details.”
   “Is he accurate?”
   “Deadly accurate.”
   “Then he should be able to help us. If the answer is yes, we move accordingly. If no, the employee is off the hook and it’s business as usual.”
   “Alfred’s very expensive.”
   “I was afraid so. How much?”
   “Well, he has sixteen years with the Bureau and is a career man. That’s why he’s so cautious. He has much to lose.”
   “How much?”
   “Half a million.”
   “Damn!”
   “Of course, we have to make a small profit on the transaction. After all, Alfred is ours.”
   “A small profit?”
   “Quite small, really. Most of it goes to Alfred. He talks to Voyles daily, you know. His office is two doors down.”
   “All right. We’ll pay.”
   Tubertini flashed a conquering smile and tasted his wine. “I think you lied, Mr. Lazarov. You said it was a small unit in Memphis. That’s not true, is it?”
   “No.”
   “What’s the name of this unit?”
   “The Bendini firm.”
   “Old man Morolto’s daughter married a Bendini.”
   “That’s it.”
   “What’s the employee’s name?”
   “Mitchell McDeere.”
   “It might take two or three weeks. Meeting with Alfred is a major production.”
   “Yes. Just be quick about it.”

Chapter 27

   It was highly unusual for wives to appear at the quiet little fortress on Front Street. They were certainly welcome, they were told, but seldom invited. So Abby McDeere arrived through the front door, into the reception area uninvited and unannounced. It was imperative that she see her husband, she insisted. The receptionist phoned Nina on the second floor, and within seconds she appeared in a rush and warmly greeted her boss’s wife. Mitch was in a meeting, she explained. He’s always in a damned meeting, Abby replied. Get him out! They rushed to his office, where Abby closed the door and waited.
   Mitch was observing another one of Avery’s chaotic departures. Secretaries bumped into each other and packed briefcases while Avery yelled into the phone. Mitch sat on the sofa with a legal pad and watched. His partner was scheduled for two days on Grand Cayman. April 15 loomed on the calendar like a date with a firing squad, and the banks down there had certain records that had become critical. It was all work, Avery insisted. He talked about the trip for five days, dreading it, cursing it, but finding it completely unavoidable. He would take the Lear, and it was now waiting, said a secretary.
   Probably waiting with a load of cash,thought Mitch.
   Avery slammed the phone down and grabbed his coat.
   Nina walked through the door and glared at Mitch. “Mr. McDeere, your wife is here. She says it’s an emergency.”
   The chaos became silent. He looked blankly at Avery. The secretaries froze. “What is it?” he asked, standing.
   “She’s in your office,” Nina said.
   “Mitch, I’ve gotta go,” Avery said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I hope things are okay.”
   “Sure.” He followed Nina down the hall, saying nothing, to his office. Abby sat on his desk. He closed and locked the door. He watched her carefully.
   “Mitch, I have to go home.”
   “Why? What’s happened?”
   “My father just called at school. They found a tumor in one of Mother’s lungs. They’re operating tomorrow.”
   He breathed deeply. “I’m so sorry.” He did not touch her. She was not crying.
   “I must go. I’ve taken a leave of absence at school.”
   “For how long?” It was a nervous question.
   She looked past him, to the Ego Wall. “I don’t know, Mitch. We need some time apart. I’m tired of a lot of things right now, and I need time. I think it will be good for both of us.”
   “Let’s talk about it.”
   “You’re too busy to talk, Mitch. I’ve been trying to talk for six months, but you can’t hear me.”
   “How long will you be gone, Abby?”
   “I don’t know. I guess it depends on Mother. No, it depends on a lot of things.”
   “You’re scaring me, Abby.”
   “I’ll be back, I promise. I don’t know when. Maybe a week. Maybe a month. I need to sort out some things.”
   “A month?”
   “I don’t know, Mitch. I just need some time. And I need to be with Mother.”
   “I hope she’s okay. I mean that.”
   “I know. I’m going home to pack a few things, and I’ll leave in an hour or so.”
   “All right. Be careful.”
   “I love you, Mitch.”
   He nodded and watched as she opened the door. There was no embrace.


* * *

   On the fifth floor, a technician rewound the tape and pushed the emergency button direct to DeVasher’s office. He appeared instantly and slapped the headphones over his extra-large cranium. He listened for a moment. “Rewind,” he demanded. He was quiet for another moment.
   “When did this happen?” he asked.
   The technician looked at a panel of digital numbers. “Two minutes fourteen seconds ago. In his office, second floor.”
   “Damn, damn. She’s leaving him, ain’t she? No talk of separation or divorce before this?”
   “No. You would’ve known about it. They’ve argued about his workaholic routine, and he hates her parents. But nothing like this.”
   “Yeah, yeah. Check with Marcus and see if he’s heard anything before. Check the tapes, in case we’ve missed something. Damn, damn, damn!”


* * *

   Abby started for Kentucky, but did not make it. An hour west of Nashville, she left Interstate 40, and turned north on Highway 13. She had noticed nothing behind her. She drove eighty at times, then fifty. Nothing. At the small town of Clarksville, near the Kentucky line, she abruptly turned east on Highway 12. An hour later she entered Nashville through a county highway, and the red Peugeot was lost in city traffic.
   She parked it in the long-term section at. Nashville Airportand caught a shuttle to the terminal. In a rest room on the first floor she changed into khaki walking shorts, Bass loafers and a navy knit pullover. It was a cool outfit, a little out of season, but she was headed for warmer weather. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and forced it under her collar. She changed sunglasses and stuffed the dress, heels and panty hose into a canvas gym bag.
   Almost five hours after she left Memphis, she walked to the Delta boarding gate and presented her ticket. She asked for a window seat.
   No Delta flight in the free world can bypass Atlanta, but fortunately she was not forced to change planes. She waited by her window and watched darkness fall on the busy airport. She was nervous, but tried not to think about it. She drank a glass of wine and read a Newsweek.
   Two hours later she landed in Miami and left the plane. She walked rapidly through the airport, catching stares but ignoring them. They’re just the usual everyday stares of admiration and lust, she told herself. Nothing more.
   At the one and only Cayman Airways boarding gate, she produced her round-trip ticket and the required birth certificate and driver’s license. Wonderful people, these Caymanians, but they won’t allow you in their country unless you’ve already purchased a ticket to get out.Please come and spend your money, then leave. Please.
   She sat in a corner of the crowded room and tried to read. A young father with a pretty wife and two babies kept staring at her legs, but no one else noticed her. The flight to Grand Cayman would leave in thirty minutes.


* * *

   After a rough start, Avery gained momentum and spent seven hours at the Royal Bank of Montreal, Georgetown, Grand Cayman branch. When he left at 5 P.M., the complimentary conference room was filled with computer printouts and account summaries. He would finish tomorrow. He needed McDeere, but circumstances had worked to seriously curtail his travel plans. Avery was now exhausted and thirsty. And things were hot on the beach.
   At Rumheads, he picked up a beer at the bar and worked his well-tanned body through the crowd to the patio, where he looked for a table. As he strode confidently past the domino game, Tammy Greenwood Hemphill, of Greenwood Services, nervously but nonchalantly entered the crowd and sat on a stool at the bar. She watched him. Her tan was store-bought, machine-inflicted, with some areas browner than others. But on the whole, it was an enviable tan for late March. The hair was now colored, not bleached, to a soft sandy blond, and the makeup likewise had been tempered. The bikini was state of the art, bright fluorescent orange that demanded attention. The large breasts hung wonderfully and stretched the strings and patches to their limit. The small patch across the rear was woefully incapable of covering anything. She was forty, but twenty sets of hungry eyes followed her to the bar, where she ordered a club soda and fired up a cigarette. She smoked it, and watched him.
   He was a wolf. He looked good, and he knew it. He sipped his beer and slowly examined every female within fifty yards. He locked into one, a young blonde, and seemed ready to pounce when her man arrived and she sat in his lap. He sipped his beer and continued to survey.
   Tammy ordered another club soda, with a twist of lime, and started for the patio. The wolf locked into the big breasts immediately and watched them bounce his way.
   “Mind if I sit down?” she asked.
   He half stood and reached for the chair. “Please do.” It was a great moment for him. Of all the hungry wolves lusting around the bar and patio at Rumheads, she picked him.
   He’d had younger babes, but at this moment at this place, she was the hottest.
   “I’m Avery Tolar. From Memphis.”
   “Nice to meet you. I’m Libby. Libby Lox from Birmingham.” Now she was Libby. She had a sister named Libby, a mother named Doris, and her name was Tammy. And she hoped to hell she could keep it all straight. Although she wore no rings, she had a husband whose legal name was Elvis, and he was supposed to be in Oklahoma City impersonating the King, and probably screwing teenage girls with
   Love Me Tender t-shirts.
   “What brings you here?” Avery asked.
   “Just fun. Got in this morning. Staying at the Palms. You?”
   “I’m a tax lawyer, and believe it or not, I’m here on business. I’m forced to come down several times a year. Real torture.”
   “Where are you staying?”
   He pointed. “My firm owns those two condos over there. It’s a nice little write-off.”
   “Very pretty.”
   The wolf did not hesitate. “Would you like to see them?”
   She giggled like a sophomore. “Maybe later.”
   He smiled at her. This would be easy. He loved the islands.
   “What’re you drinking?” he asked.
   “Gin and tonic. Twist of lime.”
   He left for the bar, and returned with the drinks. He moved his chair closer to her. Now their legs were touching. The breasts were resting comfortably on the table. He looked down between them.
   “Are you alone?” Obvious question, but he had to ask it.
   “Yeah. You?”
   “Yeah. Do you have plans for dinner?”
   “Not really.”
   “Good. There’s this great cookout there at the Palms beginning at six. The best seafood on the island. Good music. Rum punch. The works. No dress code.”
   “I’m in game.”
   They moved closer together, and his hand was suddenly between her knees. His elbow nestled next to her left breast, and he smiled. She smiled. This was not altogether unpleasant, she thought, but there was business at hand.


* * *

   The Barefoot Boys began to tune up, and the festival began. Beachcombers from all directions flocked to the Palms. Natives in white jackets and white shorts lined up folding tables and laid heavy cotton cloths over them. The smell of boiled shrimp and grilled amberjack and barbecued shark filled the beach. The lovebirds, Avery and Libby, walked hand in hand into the courtyard of the Palms and lined up for the buffet.
   For three hours they dined and danced, drank and danced, and fell madly in heat over each other. Once he became drunk, she returned to straight club soda. Business was at hand. By ten, he was sloppy and she led him away from the dance floor, to the condo next door. He attacked her at the front door, and they kissed and groped for five minutes. He managed the key, and they were inside.
   “One more drink,” she said, ever the party girl. He went to the bar and fixed her a gin and tonic. He was drinking scotch and water. They sat on the balcony outside the master bedroom and watched a half-moon decorate the gentle sea.
   She had matched him drink for drink, he thought, and if she could handle another, then so could he. But nature was calling again, and he excused himself. The scotch and water sat on the wicker table between them, and she smiled at it. Much easier than she had prayed for. She took a small plastic packet from the orange strap between her legs and dumped one capsule of chloral hydrate into his drink. She sipped her gin and tonic.
   “Drink it up, big boy,” she said when he returned. “I’m ready for bed.”
   He grabbed his whiskey and gulped it down. The taste buds had been numb for hours. He took another swallow, then began to relax. Another swallow. His head wobbled from shoulder to shoulder, and finally his chin hit his chest. The breathing became heavy.
   “Sleep well, lover boy,” she said to herself.
   With a man of a hundred eighty pounds, one shot of chloral hydrate would induce a dead sleep for ten hours. She took his glass and gauged what was left. Not much. Eight hours, to be safe. She rolled him out of the chair and dragged him to the bed. Head first, then feet. Very gently, she pulled his yellow-and-blue surfer shorts down his legs and laid them on the floor. She stared for a long second, then tucked the sheets and blankets around him. She kissed him good night.
   On the dresser she found two key rings, eleven keys. Downstairs in the hall between the kitchen and the great room with a view of the beach, she found the mysterious locked door Mitch had found in November. He had paced off every room, upstairs and down, and determined this room to be at least fifteen by fifteen. It was suspicious because the door was metal, and because it was locked, and because a small Storage sign was affixed to it. It was the only labeled room in the condo. A week earlier in Unit B, he and Abby had found no such room.
   One key ring held a key to a Mercedes, two keys to the Bendini Building, a house key, two apartment keys and a desk key. The keys on the other ring were unmarked and fairly generic. She tried it first, and the fourth key fit. She held her breath and opened the door. No electric shocks, no alarms, nothing. Mitch told her to open the door, wait five minutes and, if nothing happened, then turn on the light.
   She waited ten minutes. Ten long and frightful minutes. Mitch had speculated that Unit A was used by the partners and trusted guests, and that Unit B was used by the associates and others who required constant surveillance. Thus, he hoped, Unit A would not be laden with wires and cameras and recorders and alarms. After ten minutes, she opened the door wide and turned on the light. She waited again, and heard nothing. The room was square, about fifteen by fifteen, with white walls, no carpet, and, as she counted, twelve fireproof legal-size file cabinets. Slowly, she walked over to one and pulled the top drawer. It was unlocked.
   She turned off the light, closed the door and returned to the bedroom upstairs, where Avery was now comatose and snoring loudly. It was ten-thirty. She would work like crazy for eight hours and quit at six in the morning.
   Near a desk in a corner, three large briefcases sat neatly in a row. She grabbed them, turned off the lights and left through the front door. The small parking lot was dark and empty with a gravel drive leading to the highway. A sidewalk ran next to the shrubbery in front of both units and stopped at a white board fence along the property line. A gate led to a slight grassy knoll, with the first building of the Palms just over it.
   It was a short walk from the condos to the Palms, but the briefcases had grown much heavier when she reached Room 188. It was on the first floor, front side, with a view of the pool but not of the beach. She was panting and sweating when she knocked on the door.
   Abby yanked it open. She took the briefcases and placed them on the bed. “Any problems?”
   “Not yet. I think he’s dead.” Tammy wiped her face with a towel and opened a can of Coke.
   “Where is he?” Abby was all business, no smiles.
   “In his bed. I figure we’ve got eight hours. Until six.”
   “Did you get in the room?” Abby asked as she handed her a pair of shorts and a bulky cotton shirt.
   “Yeah. There’s a dozen big file cabinets, unlocked. A few cardboard boxes and other junk, but not much else.”
   “A dozen?”
   “Yeah, tall ones. All legal size. We’ll be lucky to finish by six.”
   It was a single motel room with a queen-size bed. The sofa, coffee table and bed were pushed to the wall, and a Canon Model 8580 copier with automatic feed and collator sat in the center with engines running. On lease from Island Office Supply, it came at the scalper’s price of three hundred dollars for twenty-four hours, delivered. It was the newest and largest rental copier on the island, the salesman had explained, and he was not excited about parting with it for only a day. But Abby charmed him and began laying hundred-dollar bills on the counter. Two cases of copy paper, ten thousand sheets, sat next to the bed.
   They opened the first briefcase and removed six thin files. “Same type of files,” Tammy mumbled to herself. She unhitched the two-prong clasp on the inside of the file and removed the papers. “Mitch says they’re very particular about their files,” Tammy explained as she unstapled a ten-page document. “He says lawyers have a sixth sense and can almost smell if a secretary or a clerk has been in a file. So you’ll have to be careful. Work slowly. Copy one document, and when you restaple it, try to line up with the old staple holes. It’s tedious. Copy only one document at a time, regardless of the number of pages. Then put it back together slowly and in order. Then staple your copy so everything stays in order.”
   With the automatic feed, the ten-page document took eight seconds.
   “Pretty fast,” Tammy said.
   The first briefcase was finished in twenty minutes. Tammy handed the two key rings to Abby and picked up two new, empty, all-canvas Samsonite handbags. She left for the condo.
   Abby followed her out the door, then locked it. She walked to the front of the Palms, to Tammy’s rented Nissan Stanza. Dodging at oncoming traffic from the wrong side of the road, she drove along Seven Mile Beach and into Georgetown. Two blocks behind the stately Swiss Bank Building, on a narrow street lined with neat frame houses, she found the one owned by the only locksmith on the island of Grand Cayman. At least, he was the only one she’d been able to locate without assistance. He owned a green house with open windows and white trim around the shutters and the doors.
   She parked in the street and walked through the sand to the tiny front porch, where the locksmith and his neighbors were drinking and listening to Radio Cayman. Solid-gold reggae. They quietened when she approached, and none of them stood. It was almost eleven. He had said that he would do the job in his shop out back, and that his fees were modest, and that he would like a fifth of Myers’s Rum as a down payment before he started.
   “Mr. Dantley, I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve brought you a little gift.” She held out the fifth of rum.
   Mr. Dantley emerged from the darkness and took the rum. He inspected the bottle. “Boys, a bottle of Myers’s.”
   Abby could not understand the chatter, but it was obvious the gang on the porch was terribly excited about the bottle of Myers’s. Dantley handed it to them and led Abby behind his house to a small outbuilding full of tools and small machines and a hundred gadgets. A single yellow light bulb hung from the ceiling and attracted mosquitoes by the hundreds. She handed Dantley the eleven keys, and he carefully laid them on a bare section of a cluttered workbench. “This will be easy,” he said without looking up.
   Although he was drinking at eleven at night, Dantley appeared to be in control. Perhaps his system had built an immunity to rum. He worked through a pair of thick goggles, drilling and carving each replica. After twenty minutes, he was finished. He handed Abby the two original sets of keys and their copies.
   “Thank you, Mr. Dantley. How much do I owe you?”
   “They were quite easy,” he drawled. “A dollar per key.” She paid him quickly and left.
   Tammy filled the two small suitcases with the contents of the top drawer of the first file cabinet. Five drawers, twelve cabinets, sixty trips to the copier and back. In eight hours. It could be done. There were files, notebooks, computer printouts and more files. Mitch said to copy it all. He was not exactly sure what he was looking for, so copy it all.
   She turned off the light and ran upstairs to check on lover boy. He had not moved. The snoring was in slow motion.
   The Samsonites weighed thirty pounds apiece, and her arms ached when she reached Room 188. First trip out of sixty, she would not make it. Abby had not returned from Georgetown, so Tammy unloaded the suitcases neatly on the bed. She took one drink from her Coke and left with the empty bags. Back to the condo. Drawer two was identical. She fitted the files in order into the suitcases and strong-armed zippers. She was sweating and gasping for breath. Four packs a day, she thought. She vowed to cut back to two. Maybe even one pack. Up the stairs to check on him. He had not breathed since her last trip.
   The copier was clicking and humming when she returned from trip two. Abby was finishing the second briefcase, about to start on the third.
   “Did you get the keys?” Tammy asked.
   “Yeah, no problem. What’s your man doing?”
   “If the copier wasn’t running, you could hear him snoring.” Tammy unpacked into another neat stack on the bed. She wiped her face with a wet towel and left for the condo.
   Abby finished the third briefcase and started on the stacks from the file cabinets. She quickly got the hang of the automatic feed, and after thirty minutes she moved with the efficient grace of a seasoned copy-room clerk. She fed copies and unstapled and restapled while the machine clicked rapidly and spat the reproductions through the collator.
   Tammy arrived from trip three out of breath and with sweat dripping from her nose. “Third drawer,” she reported. “He’s still snoring.” She unzipped the suitcases and made another neat pile on the bed. She caught her breath, wiped her face and loaded the now copied contents of drawer one into the bags. For the rest of the night, she would be loaded coming and going.


* * *

   At midnight, the Barefoot Boys sang their last song, and the Palms settled down for the night. The quiet hum of the copier could not be heard outside Room 188. The door was kept locked, the shades pulled tightly, and all lights extinguished except for a lamp near the bed. No one noticed the tired lady, dripping with sweat, lugging the same two suitcases to and from the room.
   After midnight they did not speak. They were tired, too busy and scared, and there was nothing to report except lover boy’s movements in bed, if any. And there was none, until around 1 A.M., when he subconsciously rolled onto his side, where he stayed for about twenty minutes, then returned to his back. Tammy checked on him with each visit and asked herself each time what she would do if his eyes suddenly opened and he attacked. She had a small tube of Mace in her shorts pocket, just in case a confrontation occurred and escape became necessary. Mitch had been vague on the details of such an escape. Just don’t lead him back to the motel room, he said. Hit him with the Mace, then run like crazy and scream, “Rape!”
   But after twenty-five trips, she became convinced he was hours away from consciousness. And it was bad enough hiking like a pack mule to and from, but she also had to climb the stairs, fourteen of them, each trip to check on Casanova. So she went to check every other trip. Then one out of three.
   By 2 A.M., halfway through the project, they had copied the contents from five of the file cabinets. They had made over four thousand copies, and the bed was covered with neat little stacks of materials. Their copies stood along the wall next to the sofa in seven even rows almost waist high.
   They rested for fifteen minutes.
   At five-thirty the first flicker of sunrise rose in the east, and they forgot about being tired. Abby quickened her movements around the copier and hoped it would not burn up. Tammy rubbed the cramps in her calves and walked quickly back to the condo. It was either trip number fifty-one or fifty-two. She had lost count. It would be her last trip for a while. He was waiting.
   She opened the door and went straight to the storage room, as usual. She set the packed Samsonites on the floor, as usual. She quietly walked up the stairs, into the bedroom, and froze. Avery was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the balcony. He heard her and turned slowly to face her. His eyes were swollen and glazed. He scowled at her.
   Instinctively, she unbuttoned the khaki shorts and they fell to the floor. “Hey, big boy,” she said, trying to breathe normally and act like a party girl. She walked to the edge of the bed where he was sitting. “You’re up kinda early. Let’s get some more sleep.”
   His gaze returned to the window. He said nothing. She sat beside him and rubbed the inside of his thigh. She slid her hand up the inside of his leg, and he did not move.
   “Are you awake?” she asked.
   No response.
   “Avery, talk to me, baby. Let’s get some more sleep. It’s still dark out there.”
   He fell sideways, onto his pillow. He grunted. No attempt at speech. Just a grunt. Then he closed his eyes. She lifted his legs onto the bed and covered him again.
   She sat by him for ten minutes, and when the snoring returned to its former intensity, she slid into the shorts and ran to the Palms.
   “He woke up, Abby!” she reported in panic. “He woke up, then passed out again.”
   Abby stopped and stared. Both women looked at the bed, which was covered with uncopied documents.
   “Okay. Take a quick shower,” Abby said coolly. “Then go get in bed with him and wait. Lock the door to the storage room, and call me when he wakes up and gets in the shower. I’ll keep copying what’s left, and we’ll try to move it later, after he goes to work.”
   “That’s awfully risky.”
   “It’s all risky. Hurry.”
   Five minutes later, Tammy/Doris/Libby with the bright orange string bikini made another trip-without the suitcases—to the condo. She locked the front door and the storage door and went to the bedroom. She removed the orange top and crawled under the covers.
   The snoring kept her awake for fifteen minutes. Then she dozed. She sat up in bed to prevent sleep. She was scared, sitting there in bed with a nude man who would kill her if he knew. Her tired body relaxed, and sleep became unavoidable. She dozed again.


* * *

   Lover boy broke from his coma at three minutes past nine. He moaned loudly and rolled to the edge of the bed. His eyelids were stuck together. They opened slowly, and the bright sun came piercing through. He moaned again. The head weighed a hundred pounds and rocked awkwardly from right to left, shifting the brain violently each time. He breathed deeply, and the fresh oxygen went screaming through his temples. His right hand caught his attention. He tried to raise it, but the nerve impulses would not penetrate the brain. Slowly it went up, and he squinted at it. He tried to focus with the right eye first, then the left. The clock.
   He looked at the digital clock for thirty seconds before he could decipher the red numbers. Nine-oh-five. Damn! He was expected at the bank at nine. He moaned. The woman!
   She had felt him move and heard his sounds, and she lay still with her eyes shut. She prayed he would not touch her. She felt him staring.
   For this career rogue and bad boy, there had been many hangovers. But none like this. He looked at her face and tried to remember how good she had been. He could always remember that, if nothing else. Regardless of the size of the hangover, he could always remember the women. He watched her for a moment, then gave it up.
   “Damn!” he said as he stood and tried to walk. His feet were like lead boots and only reluctantly complied with his wishes. He braced himself against the sliding door to the balcony.
   The bathroom was twenty feet away, and he decided to go for it. The desk and dresser served as braces. One painful, clumsy step after another, and he finally made it. He hovered above the toilet and relieved himself.
   She rolled to face the balcony, and when he finished she felt him sit on her side of the bed. He gently touched her shoulder. “Libby, wake up.” He shook her, and she bolted stiff.
   “Wake up, dear,” he said. A gentleman.
   She gave him her best sleepy smile. The morning-after smile of fulfillment and commitment. The Scarlett O’Hara smile the morning after Rhett nailed her. “You were great, big boy,” she cooed with her eyes closed.
   In spite of the pain and nausea, in spite of the lead boots and bowling-ball head, he was proud of himself. The woman was impressed. Suddenly, he remembered that he was great last night.
   “Look, Libby, we’ve overslept. I gotta go to work. I’m already late.”
   “Not in the mood, huh?” she giggled. She prayed he wasn’t in the mood.
   “Naw, not now. How about tonight?”
   “I’ll be here, big boy.”
   “Good. I gotta take a shower.”
   “Wake me up when you get out.”
   He stood and mumbled something, then locked the bathroom door. She slid across the bed to the phone and called Abby. After three rings, she answered.
   “He’s in the shower.”
   “Are you okay?”
   “Yeah. Fine. He couldn’t do it if he had to.”
   “What took so long?”
   “He wouldn’t wake up.”
   “Is he suspicious?”
   “No. He remembers nothing. I think he’s in pain.”
   “How long will you be there?”
   “I’ll kiss him goodbye when he gets out of the shower. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”
   “Okay. Hurry.” Abby hung up, and Tammy slid to her side of the bed. In the attic above the kitchen, a recorder clicked, reset itself and was ready for the next call.
   By ten-thirty, they were ready for the final assault on the condo. The contraband was divided into three equal parts. Three daring raids in open daylight. Tammy slid the shiny new keys into her blouse pocket and took off with the suitcases. She walked quickly, her eyes darting in all directions behind the sunglasses. The parking lot in front of the condos was still empty. Traffic was light on the highway.
   The new key fit, and she was inside. The key to the storage door also fit, and five minutes later she left the condo. The second and third trips were equally quick and uneventful. When she left the storage room for the last time, she studied it carefully. Everything was in order, just as she found it. She locked the condo and took the empty, well-worn Samsonites back to her room.
   For an hour they lay beside each other on the bed and laughed at Avery and his hangover. It was over now, for the most part, and they had committed the perfect crime. And lover boy was a willing but ignorant participant. It had been easy, they decided.
   The small mountain of evidence filled eleven and a half corrugated storage boxes. At two-thirty, a native with a straw hat and no shirt knocked on the door and announced he was from an outfit called Cayman Storage. Abby pointed at the boxes. With no place to go and no hurry to get there, he took the first box and ever so slowly carried it to his van.
   Like all the natives, he operated on Cayman time. No hurry, mon.
   They followed him in the Stanza to a warehouse in Georgetown. Abby inspected the proposed storage room and paid cash for three months’ rental.

Chapter 28

   Wayne Tarrance sat on the back row of the 11:40 P.M. Greyhound from Louisville to Indianapolis to Chicago. Although he sat by himself, the bus was crowded. It was Friday night. The bus left Kentucky thirty minutes earlier, and by now he was convinced something had gone wrong. Thirty minutes, and not a word or signal from anyone. Maybe it was the wrong bus. Maybe McDeere had changed his mind. Maybe a lot of things. The rear seat was inches above the diesel engine, and Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, now knew why Greyhound Frequent Milers fought for the seats just behind the driver. His Louis L’Amour vibrated until he had a headache. Thirty minutes. Nothing.
   The toilet flushed across the aisle, and the door flew open. The odor filtered out, and Tarrance looked away, to the southbound traffic. From nowhere, she slid into the aisle seat and cleared her throat. Tarrance jerked to his right, and there she was. He’d seen her before, somewhere.
   “Are you Mr. Tarrance?” She wore jeans, white cotton sneakers and a heavy green rag sweater. She hid behind dark glasses.
   “Yeah. And you?”
   She grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. “Abby McDeere.”
   “I was expecting your husband.”
   “I know. He decided not to come, and so here I am.”
   “Well, uh, I sort of wanted to talk to him.”
   “Yes, but he sent me. Just think of me as his agent.”
   Tarrance laid his paperback under the seat and watched the highway. “Where is he?”
   “Why is that important, Mr. Tarrance? He sent me to talk business, and you’re here to talk business. So let’s talk.”
   “Okay. Keep your voice down, and if anybody comes down the aisle, grab my hand and stop talking. Act like we’re married or something. Okay? Now, Mr. Voyles—do you know who he is?”
   “I know everything, Mr. Tarrance.”
   “Good. Mr. Voyles is about to stroke out because we haven’t got Mitch’s files yet. The good files. You understand why they’re important, don’t you?”
   “Very much so.”
   “So we want the files.”
   “And we want a million dollars.”
   “Yes, that’s the deal. But we get the files first.”
   “No. That’s not the deal. The deal, Mr. Tarrance, is that we get the million dollars exactly where we want it, then we hand over the files.”
   “You don’t trust us?”
   “That’s correct. We don’t trust you, Voyles or anyone else. The money is to be deposited by wire transfer to a certain numbered account in a bank in Freeport, Bahamas. We will immediately be notified, and the money will then be wired by us to another bank. Once we have it where we want it, the files are yours.”
   “Where are the files?”
   “In a mini-storage in Memphis. There are fifty-one files in all, all boxed up real neat and proper like. You’ll be impressed. We do good work.”
   “We? Have you seen the files?”
   “Of course. Helped box them up. There are these surprises in box number eight.”
   “Okay. What?”
   “Mitch was able to copy three of Avery Tolar’s files, and they appear to be questionable. Two deal with a company called Dunn Lane, Ltd., which we know to be a Mafia-controlled corporation chartered in the Caymans. It was established with ten million laundered dollars in 1986. The files deal with two construction projects financed by the corporation. You’ll find it fascinating reading.”
   “How do you know it was chartered in the Caymans? And how do you know about the ten million? Surely that’s not in the files.”
   “No, it’s not. We have other records.”
   Tarrance thought about the other records for six miles. It was obvious he wouldn’t see them until the McDeeres had the first million. He let it pass.
   “I’m not sure we can wire the money as you wish without first getting the files.” It was a rather weak bluff. She read it perfectly and smiled.
   “Do we have to play games, Mr. Tarrance? Why don’t you just give us the money and quit sparring.”
   A foreign student of some sort, probably an Arab, sauntered down the aisle and into the rest room. Tarrance froze and stared at the window. Abby patted his arm like a real girlfriend. The flushing sounded like a short waterfall.
   “How soon can this happen?” Tarrance asked. She was not touching him anymore.
   “The files are ready. How soon can you round up a million bucks?”
   “Tomorrow.”
   Abby looked out the window and talked from the left corner of her mouth. “Today’s Friday. Next Tuesday, at ten A.M. Eastern time, Bahamas time, you transfer by wire the million dollars from your account at the Chemical Bank in Manhattan to a numbered account at the Ontario Bank in Freeport. It’s a clean, legitimate wire transfer—take about fifteen seconds.”
   Tarrance frowned and listened hard. “What if we don’t have an account at the Chemical Bank in Manhattan?”
   “You don’t now, but you will Monday. I’m sure you’ve got someone in Washington who can handle a simple wire transfer.”
   “I’m sure we do.”
   “Good.”
   “But why the Chemical Bank?”
   “Mitch’s orders, Mr. Tarrance. Trust him, he knows what he’s doing.”
   “I see he’s done his homework.”
   “He always does his homework. And there’s something you need to always remember. He’s much smarter than you are.”
   Tarrance snorted and faked a light chuckle. They rode in silence for a mile or two, each thinking of the next question and answer.
   “Okay,” Tarrance said, almost to himself. “And when do we get the files?”
   “When the money’s safe in Freeport, we’ll be notified. Wednesday morning before ten-thirty, you’ll receive at your Memphis office a Federal Express package with a note and the key to the mini-storage.”
   “So I can tell Mr. Voyles we’ll have the files by Wednesday afternoon?”
   She shrugged and said nothing. Tarrance felt stupid for asking the question. Quickly, he thought of a good one.
   “We’ll need the account number in Freeport.”
   “It’s written down. I’ll give it to you when the bus stops.”
   The particulars were now complete. He reached under the seat and retrieved his book. He nipped pages and pretended to read. “Just sit here a minute,” he said.
   “Any questions?” she asked.
   “Yeah. Can we talk about these other records you mentioned?”
   “Sure.”
   “Where are they?”
   “Good question. The way the deal was explained to me, we would first get the next installment, a half million, I believe, in return for enough evidence to allow you to obtain the indictments. These other records are part of the next installment.”
   Tarrance flipped a page. “You mean you’ve already obtained the, uh, dirty files?”
   “We have most of what we need. Yes, we have a bunch of dirty files.”
   “Where are they?”
   She smiled softly and patted his arm. “I assure you they’re not in the mini-storage with the clean files.”
   “But you have possession of them?”
   “Sort of. Would you like to see a couple?”
   He closed the book and breathed deeply. He looked at her. “Certainly.”
   “I thought so. Mitch says we’ll give you ten inches of documents on Dunn Lane, Ltd.—copies of bank records, corporate charters, minutes, bylaws, officers, stockholders, wire-transfer records, letters from Nathan Locke to Joey Morolto, working papers, a hundred other juicy morsels that’ll make you lose sleep. Wonderful stuff. Mitch says you can probably get thirty indictments just from the Dunn Lane records.”
   Tarrance hung on every word, and believed her. “When can I see it?” he asked quietly but so eagerly.
   “When Ray is out of prison. It’s part of the deal, remember?”
   “Aw yes. Ray.”
   “Aw yes. He goes over the wall, Mr. Tarrance, or you can forget the Bendini firm. Mitch and I will take our paltry million and disappear into the night.”
   “I’m working on it.”
   “Better work hard.” It was more than a threat, and he knew it. He opened the book again and stared at it.
   Abby pulled a Bendini, Lambert & Locke business card from her pocket and dropped it on the book. On the back she had written the account number: 477DL-19584, Ontario Bank, Freeport.
   “I’m going back to my seat near the front, away from the engine. Are we clear about next Tuesday?”
   “No problems, mon. Are you getting off in Indianapolis?”
   “Yes.”
   “Where are you going?”
   “To my parents’ home in Kentucky. Mitch and I are separated.”
   She was gone.


* * *

   Tammy stood in one of a dozen long, hot lines at Miami customs. She wore shorts, sandals, halter top, sunglasses and a straw hat and looked just like the other thousand weary tourists returning from the sun-drenched beaches of the Caribbean. In front of her were two ill-tempered newly-weds carrying bags of duty-free liquor and perfume and obviously in the middle of a serious disagreement. Behind her were two brand-new Hartman leather suitcases filled with enough documents and records to indict forty lawyers. Her employer, also a lawyer, had suggested she purchase luggage with little wheels on the bottom so they could be pulled through the Miami International Airport. She also had a small overnight bag with a few clothes and a toothbrush, to look legitimate.
   About every ten minutes, the young couple moved forward six inches, and Tammy followed with her baggage. An hour after she entered the line, she made it to the checkpoint.
   “No declarations!” the agent snapped in broken English.
   “No!” she snapped back.
   He nodded at the big leather bags. “What’s in there?”
   “Papers.”
   “Papers?”
   “Papers.”
   “What kind of papers?”
   Toilet paper, she thought. I spend my vacations traveling the Caribbean collecting toilet paper. “Legal documents, crap like that. I’m a lawyer.”
   “Yeah, yeah.” He unzipped the overnight bag and glanced in. “Okay. Next!”
   She carefully pulled the bags, just so. They were inclined to tip over. A bellboy grabbed them and loaded all three pieces onto a two-wheeler. “Delta Flight 282, to Nashville. Gate 44, Concourse B,” she said as she handed him a five-dollar bill.
   Tammy and all three bags arrived in Nashville at midnight Saturday. She loaded them into her Rabbit and left the airport. In the suburb of Brentwood, she parked in her designated parking place and, one at a time, pulled the Hartmans into a one-bedroom apartment.
   Except for a rented foldaway sofa, there was no furniture. She unpacked the suitcases in the bedroom and began the tedious process of arranging the evidence. Mitch wanted a list of each document, each bank record, each corporation. He wanted it just so. He said one day he would pass through in a great hurry, and he wanted it all organized.
   For two hours she took inventory. She sat on the floor and made careful notes. After three one-day trips to Grand Cayman, the room was beginning to fill. Monday she would leave again.
   She felt like she’d slept three hours in the past two weeks. But it was urgent, he said. A matter of life and death.
   Tarry Ross, alias Alfred, sat in the darkest corner of the lounge of the Washington Phoenix Park Hotel. The meeting would be terribly brief. He drank coffee and waited on his guest.
   He waited and vowed to wait only five more minutes. The cup shook when he tried to sip it. Coffee splashed on the table. He looked at the table and tried desperately not to look around. He waited.
   His guest arrived from nowhere and sat with his back to the wall. His name was Vinnie Cozzo, a thug from New York. From the Palumbo family.
   Vinnie noticed the shaking cup and the spilled coffee. “Relax, Alfred. This place is dark enough.”
   “What do you want?” Alfred hissed.
   “I wanna drink.”
   “No time for drinks. I’m leaving.”
   “Settle down, Alfred. Relax, pal. There ain’t three people in here.”
   “What do you want?” he hissed again.
   “Just a little information.”
   “It’ll cost you.”
   “It always does.” A waiter ventured by, and Vinnie ordered Chivas and water.
   “How’s my pal Denton Voyles?” Vinnie asked.
   “Kiss my ass, Cozzo. I’m leaving. I’m walking outta here.”
   “Okay, pal. Relax. I just need some info.”
   “Make it quick.” Alfred scanned the lounge. His cup was empty, most of it on the table.
   The Chivas arrived, and Vinnie took a good drink. “Gotta little situation down in Memphis. Some of the boys’re sorta worried about it. Ever hear of the Bendini firm?”
   Instinctively, Alfred shook his head in the negative. Always say no, at first. Then, after careful digging, return with a nice little report and say yes. Yes, he’d heard of the Bendini firm and their prized client. Operation Laundromat. Voyles himself had named it and was so proud of his creativity.
   Vinnie took another good drink. “Well, there’s a guy down there named McDeere, Mitchell McDeere, who works for this Bendini firm, and we suspect he’s also playing grab-ass with your people. Know what I mean? We think he’s selling info on Bendini to the feds. Just need to know if it’s true. That’s all.”
   Alfred listened with a straight face, although it was not easy. He knew McDeere’s blood type and his favorite restaurant in Memphis. He knew that McDeere had talked to Tarrance half a dozen times now and that tomorrow, Tuesday, McDeere would become a millionaire. Piece of cake.
   “I’ll see what I can do. Let’s talk money.”
   Vinnie lit a Salem Light. “Well, Alfred, it’s a serious matter. I ain’t gonna lie. Two hundred thousand cash.”
   Alfred dropped the cup. He pulled a handkerchief from his rear pocket and furiously rubbed his glasses. “Two hundred? Cash?”
   “That’s what I said. What’d we pay you last time?”
   “Seventy-five.”
   “See what I mean? It’s pretty damned serious, Alfred. Can you do it?”
   “Yes.”
   “When?”
   “Give me two weeks.”

Chapter 29

   A week before April 15, the workaholics at Bendini, Lambert & Locke reached maximum stress and ran at full throttle on nothing but adrenaline. And fear. Fear of missing a deduction or a write-off or some extra depreciation that would cost a rich client an extra million or so. Fear of picking up the phone and calling the client and informing him that the return was now finished and, sorry to say, an extra eight hundred thousand was due. Fear of not finishing by the fifteenth and being forced to file extensions and incurring penalties and interest. The parking lot was full by 6 A.M. The secretaries worked twelve hours a day. Tempers were short. Talk was scarce and hurried.
   With no wife to go home to, Mitch worked around the clock. Sonny Capps had cursed and berated Avery because he owed $450,000. On earned income of six million. Avery had cursed Mitch, and together they plowed through the Capps files again, digging and cursing. Mitch created two very questionable write-offs that lowered it to $320,000. Capps said he was considering a new tax firm. One in Washington.
   With six days to go, Capps demanded a meeting with Avery in Houston. The Lear was available, and Avery left at midnight. Mitch drove him to the airport, receiving instructions along the way.
   Shortly after 1:30 A.M., he returned to the office. Three Mercedeses, a BMW and a Jaguar were scattered through the parking lot. The security guard opened the rear door, and Mitch rode the elevator to the fourth floor. As usual, Avery locked his office door. The partners’ doors were always locked. At the end of the hall, a voice could be heard. Victor Milligan, head of tax, sat at his desk and said ugly things to his computer. The other offices were dark and locked.
   Mitch held his breath and stuck a key into Avery’s door. The knob turned, and he was inside. He switched on all the lights and went to the small conference table where he and his partner had spent the day and most of the night. Files were stacked like bricks around the chairs. Papers thrown here and there. IRS Reg. books were piled on top of each other.
   Mitch sat at the table and continued his research for Capps. According to the FBI notebook, Capps was a legitimate businessman who had used for The Firm at least eight years. The Fibbies weren’t interested in Sonny Capps.
   After an hour, the talking stopped and Milligan closed and locked the door. He took the stairs without saying good night. Mitch quickly checked each office on the fourth floor, then the third. All empty. It was almost 3 A.M.
   Next to the bookshelves on one wall of Avery’s office, four solid-oak file cabinets sat undisturbed. Mitch had noticed them for months but had never seen them used. The active files were kept in three metal cabinets next to the window. Secretaries dug through these, usually while Avery yelled at them. He locked the door behind him and walked to the oak cabinets. Locked, of course. He had narrowed it down to two small keys, each less than an inch long. The first one fit the first cabinet, and he opened it.
   From Tammy’s inventory of the contraband in Nashville, he had memorized many of the names of the Cayman companies operating with dirty money that was now clean. He thumbed through the files in the top drawer, and the names jumped at him. Dunn Lane, Ltd., Eastpointe, Ltd., Virgin Bay Ltd., Inland Contractors, Ltd., Gulf-South, Ltd. He found more familiar names in the second and third drawers. The files were filled with loan documents from Cayman banks, wire-transfer records, warranty deeds, leases, mortgage deeds and a thousand other papers. He was particularly interested in Dunn Lane and Gulf-South. Tammy had recorded a significant number of documents for these two companies.
   He picked out a Gulf-South file full of wire-transfer records and loan documents from the Royal Bank of Montreal. He walked to a copier in the center of the fourth floor and turned it on. While it warmed, he casually glanced around. The place was dead. He looked along the ceilings. No cameras. He had checked it many times before. The Access Number light flashed, and he punched in the file number for Mrs. Lettie Plunk. Her tax return was sitting on his desk on the second floor, and it could spare a few copies. He laid the contents on the automatic feed, and three minutes later the file was copied. One hundred twenty-eight copies, charged to Lettie Plunk. Back to the file cabinet. Back to the copier with another stack of Gulf-South evidence. He punched in the access number for the file of Greenmark Partners, a real estate development company in Bartlett, Tennessee. Legitimate folks. The tax return was sitting on his desk and could spare a few copies. Ninety-one, to be exact.
   Mitch had eighteen tax returns sitting in his office waiting to be signed and filed. With six days to go, he had finished his deadline work. All eighteen received automatic billings for copies of Gulf-South and Dunn Lane evidence. He had scribbled their access numbers on a sheet of notepaper, and it sat on the table next to the copier. After using the eighteen numbers, he accessed with three numbers borrowed from Lamar’s files and three numbers borrowed from the Capps files.
   A wire ran from the copier through a hole in the wall and down the inside of a closet, where it connected with wires from three other copiers on the fourth floor. The wire, larger now, ran down through the ceiling and along a baseboard to the billing room on the third floor, where a computer recorded and billed every copy made within. An innocuous-looking little gray wire ran from the computer up a wall and through the ceiling to the fourth floor, and then up to the fifth, where another computer recorded the access code, the number of copies and the location of the machine making each copy.


* * *

   At 5 P.M., April 15, Bendini, Lambert & Locke shut down. By six, the parking lot was empty, and the expensive automobiles reassembled two miles away behind a venerable seafood establishment called Anderton’s. A small banquet room was reserved for the annual April 15 blowout. Every associate and active partner was present, along with eleven retired partners. The retirees were tanned and well rested; the actives were haggard and frayed. But they were all in a festive spirit, ready to get plastered. The stringent rules of clean living and moderation would be forgotten this night. Another firm rule prohibited any lawyer or secretary from working on April 16.
   Platters of cold boiled shrimp and raw oysters sat on tables along the walls. A huge wooden barrel filled with ice and cold Moosehead greeted them. Ten cases stood behind the barrel. Roosevelt popped tops as quickly as possible. Late in the night, he would get drunk with the rest of them, and Oliver Lambert would call a taxi to haul him home to Jessie Frances. It was a ritual.
   Roosevelt’s cousin, Little Bobby Blue Baker, sat at a baby grand and sang sadly as the lawyers filed in. For now, he was the entertainment. Later, he would not be needed.
   Mitch ignored the food and took an icy green bottle to a table near the piano. Lamar followed with two pounds of shrimp. They watched their colleagues shake off coats and ties and attack the Moosehead.
   “Get ’em all finished?” Lamar asked, devouring the shrimp.
   “Yeah. I finished mine yesterday. Avery and I worked on Sonny Capps’s until five P.M. It’s finished.”
   “How much?”
   “Quarter of a mill.”
   “Ouch.” Lamar turned up the bottle and drained half of it. “He’s never paid that much, has he?”
   “No, and he’s furious. I don’t understand the guy. He cleared six million from all sorts of ventures, and he’s mad as hell because he had to pay five percent in taxes.”
   “How’s Avery?”
   “Somewhat worried. Capps made him fly to Houston last week, and it did not go well. He left on the Lear at midnight. Told me later Capps was waiting at his office at four in the morning, furious over his tax mess. Blamed it all on Avery. Said he might change firms.”
   “I think he says that all the time. You need a beer?”
   Lamar left and returned with four Mooseheads. “How’s Abby’s mom?”
   Mitch borrowed a shrimp and peeled it. “She’s okay, for now. They removed a lung.”
   “And how’s Abby?” Lamar was watching his friend, and not eating.
   Mitch started another beer. “She’s fine.”
   “Look, Mitch, our kids go to St. Andrew’s. It’s no secret Abby took a leave of absence. She’s been gone for two weeks. We know it, and we’re concerned.”
   “Things will work out. She wants to spend a little time away. It’s no big deal, really.”
   “Come on, Mitch. It’s a big deal when your wife leaves home without saying when she’ll return. At least that’s what she told the headmaster at school.”
   “That’s true. She doesn’t know when she’ll come back. Probably a month or so. She’s had a hard time coping with the hours at the office.”
   The lawyers were all present and accounted for, so Roosevelt shut the door. The room became noisier. Bobby Blue took requests.
   “Have you thought about slowing down?” Lamar asked.
   “No, not really. Why should I?”
   “Look, Mitch, I’m your friend, right? I’m worried about you. You can’t make a million bucks the first year.”
   Oh yeah, he thought. I made a million bucks last week. In ten seconds the little account in Freeport jumped from ten thousand to a million ten thousand. And fifteen minutes later, the account was closed and the money was resting safely in a bank in Switzerland. Ah, the wonder of wire transfer. And because of the million bucks, this would be the first and only April 15 party of his short, but distinguished legal career. And his good friend who is so concerned about his marriage will most likely be in jail before long. Along with everyone else in the room, except for Roosevelt. Hell, Tarrance might get so excited he’ll indict Roosevelt and Jessie Frances just for the fun of it.
   Then the trials. “I, Mitchell Y. McDeere, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.” And he’d sit in the witness chair and point the finger at his good friend Lamar Quin. And Kay and the kids would be sitting in the front row for jury appeal. Crying softly.
   He finished the second beer and started the third. “I know, Lamar, but I have no plans to slow down. Abby will adjust. Things’ll be fine.”
   “If you say so. Kay wants you over tomorrow for a big steak. We’ll cook on the grill and eat on the patio. How about it?”
   “Yes, on one condition. No discussion about Abby. She went home to see her mother, and she’ll be back. Okay?”
   “Fine. Sure.”
   Avery sat across the table with a plate of shrimp. He began peeling them.
   “We were just discussing Capps,” Lamar said.
   “That’s not a pleasant subject,” Avery replied. Mitch watched the shrimp intently until there was a little pile of about six freshly peeled. He grabbed them across the table and shoved the handful into his mouth.
   Avery glared at him with tired, sad eyes. Red eyes. He struggled for something appropriate, then began eating the unpeeled shrimp. “I wish the heads were still on them,” he said between bites. “Much better with the heads.”
   Mitch raked across two handfuls and began crunching. “I like the tails myself. Always been a tail man.”
   Lamar stopped eating and gawked at them. “You must be kidding.”
   “Nope,” said Avery. “When I was a kid in El Paso, we used to go out with our nets and scoop up a bunch of fresh shrimp. We’d eat ’em on the spot, while they were still wiggling.” Chomp, chomp. “The heads are the best part because of all the brain juices.”
   “Shrimp, in El Paso?”
   “Yeah, Rio Grande’s full of them.”
   Lamar left for another round of beer. The wear, tear, stress and fatigue mixed quickly with the alcohol and the room became rowdier. Bobby Blue was playing Steppenwolf. Even Nathan Locke was smiling and talking loudly. Just one of the boys. Roosevelt added five cases to the barrel of ice.
   At ten, the singing started. Wally Hudson, minus the bow tie, stood on a chair by the piano and led the howling chorus through a riotous medley of Australian drinking songs. The restaurant was closed now, so who cared. Kendall Mahan was next. He had played rugby at Cornell and had an amazing repertoire of raunchy beer songs. Fifty untalented and drunk voices sang happily along with him.
   Mitch excused himself and went to the rest room. A bus-boy unlocked the rear door, and he was in the parking lot. The singing was pleasant at this distance. He started for his car, but instead walked to a window. He stood in the dark, next to the corner of the building, and watched and listened. Kendall was now on the piano, leading his choir through an obscene refrain.
   Joyous voices, of rich and happy people. He studied them one at a time, around the tables. Their faces were red. Their eyes were glowing. They were his friends—family men with wives and children—all caught up in this terrible conspiracy.
   Last year Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski were singing with the rest of them.
   Last year he was a hotshot Harvard man with job offers in every pocket.
   Now he was a millionaire, and would soon have a price on his head.
   Funny what a year can do.
   Sing on, brothers.
   Mitch turned and walked away.


* * *

   Around midnight, the taxis lined up on Madison, and the richest lawyers in town were carried and dragged into the back seats. Of course, Oliver Lambert was the soberest of the lot, and he directed the evacuation. Fifteen taxis in all, with drunk lawyers lying everywhere.
   At the same time, across town on Front Street, two identical navy-blue-and-yellow Ford vans with Dustbusters painted brightly on the sides pulled up to the gate. Dutch Hendrix opened it and waved them through. They backed up to the rear door, and eight women with matching shirts began unloading vacuum cleaners and buckets filled with spray bottles. They unloaded brooms and mops and rolls of paper towels. They chattered quietly among themselves as they went through the building. As directed from above, the technicians cleaned one floor at a time, beginning with the fourth. The guards walked the floors and watched them carefully.
   The women ignored them and buzzed about their business of emptying garbage cans, polishing furniture, vacuuming and scrubbing bathrooms. The new girl was slower than the others. She noticed things. She pulled on desk drawers and file cabinets when the guards weren’t looking. She paid attention.
   It was her third night on the job, and she was learning her way around. She’d found the Tolar office on the fourth floor the first night, and smiled to herself.
   She wore dirty jeans and ragged tennis shoes. The blue Dustbusters shirt was extra large, to hide the figure and make her appear plump, like the other technicians. The patch above the pocket read Doris. Doris, the cleaning technician.
   When the crew was half finished with the second floor, a guard told Doris and two others, Susie and Charlotte, to follow him. He inserted a key in the elevator panel, and it stopped in the basement. He unlocked a heavy metal door, and they walked into a large room divided into a dozen cubicles. Each small desk was cluttered, and dominated by a large computer. There were terminals everywhere. Black file cabinets lined the walls. No windows.
   “The supplies are in there,” the guard said, pointing to a closet. They pulled out a vacuum cleaner and spray bottles and went to work.
   “Don’t touch the desks,” he said.

Chapter 30

   Mitch tied the laces of his Nike Air Cushion jogging shoes and sat on the sofa waiting by the phone. Hearsay, depressed after two weeks without the woman around, sat next to him and tried to doze. At exactly ten-thirty, it rang. It was Abby.
   There was no mushy “sweethearts” and “babes” and “honeys.” The dialogue was cool and forced.
   “How’s your mother?” he asked.
   “Doing much better. She’s up and around, but very sore. Her spirits are good.”
   “That’s good to hear. And your dad?”
   “The same. Always busy. How’s my dog?”
   “Lonesome and depressed. I think he’s cracking up.”
   “I miss him. How’s work?”
   “We survived April 15 without disaster. Everyone’s in a better mood. Half the partners left for vacation on the sixteenth, so the place is a lot quieter.”
   “I guess you’ve cut back to sixteen hours a day?”
   He hesitated, and let it sink in. No sense starting a fight. “When are you coming home?”
   “I don’t know. Mom will need me for a couple more weeks. I’m afraid Dad’s not much help. They’ve got a maid and all, but Mom needs me now.” She paused, as if something heavy was coming. “I called St. Andrew’s today and told them I wouldn’t be back this semester.”
   He took it in stride. “There are two months left in this semester. You’re not coming back for two months?”
   “At least two months, Mitch. I just need some time, that’s all.”
   “Time for what?”
   “Let’s not start it again, okay? I’m not in the mood to argue.”
   “Fine. Fine. Fine. What are you in the mood for?”
   She ignored this, and there was a long pause. “How many miles are you jogging?”
   “A couple. I’ve been walking to the track, then running about eight laps.”
   “Be careful at the track. It’s awfully dark.”
   “Thanks.”
   Another long pause. “I need to go,” she said. “Mom’s ready for bed.”
   “Will you call tomorrow night?”
   “Yes. Same time.”
   She hung up without a “goodbye” or “I love you” or anything. Just hung up.
   Mitch pulled on his white athletic socks and tucked in his white long-sleeved T-shirt. He locked the kitchen door and trotted down the dark street. West Junior High School was six blocks to the east of East Meadowbrook. Behind the redbrick classrooms and gymnasium was the baseball field, and farther away at the end of a dark driveway was the football field. A cinder track circled the field, and was a favorite of local joggers.
   But not at 11 P.M., especially with no moon. The track was deserted, and that was fine with Mitch. The spring air was light and cool, and he finished the first mile in eight minutes. He began walking a lap. As he passed the aluminum bleachers on the home side, he saw someone from the corner of his eye. He kept walking.
   “Pssssssst.”
   Mitch stopped. “Yeah. Who is it?”
   A hoarse, scratchy voice replied, “Joey Morolto.”
   Mitch started for the bleachers. “Very funny, Tarrance. Am I clean?”
   “Sure, you’re clean. Laney’s sitting up there in a school bus with a flashlight. He flashed green when you passed, and if you see something red flash, get back to the track and make like Carl Lewis.”
   They walked to the top of the bleachers and into the unlocked press box. They sat on stools in the dark and watched the school. The buses were parked in perfect order along the driveway.
   “Is this private enough for you?” Mitch asked.
   “It’ll do. Who’s the girl?”
   “I know you prefer to meet in daylight, preferably where a crowd has gathered, say like a fast-food joint or a Korean shoe store. But I like these places better.”
   “Great. Who’s the girl?”
   “Pretty clever, huh?”
   “Good idea. Who is she?”
   “An employee of mine.”
   “Where’d you find her?”
   “What difference does it make? Why are you always asking questions that are irrelevant?”
   “Irrelevant? I get a call today from some woman I’ve never met, tells me she needs to talk to me about a little matter at the Bendini Building, says we gotta change phones, instructs me to go to a certain pay phone outside a certain grocery store and be there at a certain time, and she’ll call exactly at one-thirty. And I go there, and she calls at exactly one-thirty. Keep in mind, I’ve got three men within a hundred feet of the phone watching everybody that moves. And she tells me to be here at exactly ten forty-five tonight, to have the place sealed off, and that you’ll come trotting by.”
   “Worked, didn’t it?”
   “Yeah, so far. But who is she? I mean, now you got someone else involved, and that really worries me, McDeere. Who is she and how much does she know?”
   “Trust me, Tarrance. She’s my employee and she knows everything. In fact, if you knew what she knows you’d be serving indictments right now instead of sitting here bitching about her.”
   Tarrance breathed deeply and thought about it. “Okay, so tell me what she knows.”
   “She knows that in the last three years the Morolto gang and its accomplices have taken over eight hundred million bucks in cash out of this country and deposited it in various banks in the Caribbean. She knows which banks, which accounts, the dates, a bunch of stuff. She knows that the Moroltos control at least three hundred and fifty companies chartered in the Caymans, and that these companies regularly send clean money back into the country. She knows the dates and amounts of the wire transfers. She knows of at least forty U.S. corporations owned by Cayman corporations owned by the Moroltos. She knows a helluva lot, Tarrance. She’s a very knowledgeable woman, don’t you think?”
   Tarrance could not speak. He stared fiercely into the darkness up the driveway.
   Mitch found it enjoyable. “She knows how they take their dirty cash, trade it up to one-hundred-dollar bills and sneak it out of the country.”
   “How?”
   “Lear, of course. But they also mule it. They’ve got a small army of mules, usually their minimum-wage thugs and their girlfriends, but also students and other freelancers, and they’ll give them ninety-eight hundred in cash and buy them a ticket to the Caymans or the Bahamas. No declarations are required for amounts under ten thousand, you understand. And the mules will fly down like regular tourists with pockets full of cash and take the money to their banks. Doesn’t sound like much money, but you get three hundred people making twenty trips a year, and that’s some serious cash walking out of the country. It’s also called smurfing, you know.”
   Tarrance nodded slightly, as if he knew.
   “A lot of folks wanna be smurfers when they can get free vacations and spending money. Then they’ve got their super mules. These are the trusted Morolto people who take a million bucks in cash, wrap it up real neat in newspaper so the airport machines won’t see it, put it in big briefcases and walk it onto the planes like everybody else. They wear coats and ties and look like Wall Streeters. Or they wear sandals and straw hats and mule it in carry-on bags. You guys catch them occasionally, about one percent of the time, I believe, and when that happens the super mules go to jail. But they never talk, do they, Tarrance? And every now and then a smurfer will start thinking about all this money in his briefcase and how easy it would be just to keep flying and enjoy all the money himself. And he’ll disappear. But the Mob never forgets, and it may take a year or two, but they’ll find him somewhere. The money’ll be gone, of course, but then so will he. The Mob never forgets, does it, Tarrance? Just like they won’t forget about me.”
   Tarrance listened until it was obvious he needed to say something. “You got your million bucks.”
   “Appreciate it. I’m almost ready for the next installment.”
   “Almost?”
   “Yeah, me and the girl have a couple more jobs to pull. We’re trying to get a few more records out of Front Street.”
   “How many documents do you have?”
   “Over ten thousand.”
   The lower jaw collapsed and the mouth fell open. He stared at Mitch. “Damn! Where’d they come from?”
   “Another one of your questions.”
   “Ten thousand documents,” said Tarrance.
   “At least ten thousand. Bank records, wire-transfer records, corporate charters, corporate loan documents, internal memos, correspondence between all sorts of people. A lot of good stuff, Tarrance.”
   “Your wife mentioned a company called Dunn Lane, Ltd. We’ve reviewed the files you’ve already given us. Pretty good material. What else do you know about it?”
   “A lot. Chartered in 1986 with ten million, which was transferred into the corporation from a numbered account in Banco de Mexico, the same ten million that arrived in Grand Cayman in cash on a certain Lear jet registered to a quiet little law firm in Memphis, except that it was originally fourteen million but after payoffs to Cayman customs and Cayman bankers it was reduced to ten million. When the company was chartered, the registered agent was a guy named Diego Sanchez, who happens to be a VP with Banco de Mexico. The president was a delightful soul named Nathan Locke, the secretary was our old pal Royce McKnight and the treasurer of this cozy little corporation was a guy named Al Rubinstein. I’m sure you know him. I don’t.”
   “He’s a Morolto operative.”
   “Surprise, surprise. Want more?”
   “Keep talking.”
   “After the seed money of ten million was invested into this venture, another ninety million in cash was deposited over the next three years. Very profitable enterprise. The company began buying all sorts of things in the U.S.-cotton farms in Texas, apartment complexes in Dayton, jewelry stores in Beverly Hills, hotels in St. Petersburg and Tampa. Most of the transactions were by wire transfer from four or five different banks in the Caymans. It’s a basic money-laundering operation.”
   “And you’ve got all this documented?”
   “Stupid question, Wayne. If I didn’t have the documents, how would I know about it? I only work on clean files, remember?”
   “How much longer will it take you?”
   “Couple of weeks. Me and my employee are still snooping around Front Street. And it doesn’t look good. It’ll be very difficult to get files out of there.”
   “Where’d the ten thousand documents come from?”
   Mitch ignored the question. He jumped to his feet and started for the door. “Abby and I want to live in Albuquerque. It’s a big town, sort of out of the way. Start working on it.”
   “Don’t jump the gun. There’s a lot of work to do.”
   “I said two weeks, Tarrance. I’ll be ready to deliver in two weeks, and that means I’ll have to disappear.”
   “Not so fast. I need to see a few of these documents.”
   “You have a short memory, Tarrance. My lovely wife promised a big stack of Dunn Lane documents just as soon as Ray goes over the wall.”
   Tarrance looked across the dark field. “I’ll see what I can do.”
   Mitch walked to him and pointed a finger in his face. “Listen to me, Tarrance, and listen closely. I don’t think we’re getting through. Today is April 17. Two weeks from today is May 1, and on May 1 I will deliver to you, as promised, over ten thousand very incriminating and highly admissible documents that will seriously cripple one of the largest organized crime families in the world. And, eventually, it will cost me my life. But I promised to do it. And you’ve promised to get my brother out of prison. You have a week, until April 24. If not, I’ll disappear. And so will your case, and career.”
   “What’s he gonna do when he gets out?”
   “You and your stupid questions. He’ll run like hell, that’s what he’ll do. He’s got a brother with a million dollars who’s an expert in money laundering and electronic banking. He’ll be out of the country within twelve hours, and he’ll go find the million buck’s.”
   “The Bahamas.”
   “Bahamas. You’re an idiot, Tarrance. That money spent less than ten minutes in the Bahamas. You can’t trust those corrupt fools down there.”
   “Mr. Voyles doesn’t like deadlines. He gets real upset.”
   “Tell Mr. Voyles to kiss my ass. Tell him to get the next half million, because I’m almost ready. Tell him to get my brother out or the deal’s off. Tell him whatever you want, Tarrance, but Ray goes over the wall in a week or I’m gone.”
   Mitch slammed the door and started down the bleachers. Tarrance followed. “When do we talk again?” he yelled.
   Mitch jumped the fence and was on the track. “My employee will call you. Just do as she says.”

Chapter 31

   Nathan Locke’s annual three-day post-April 15 vacation in Vail had been canceled. By DeVasher, on orders from Lazarov. Locke and Oliver Lambert sat in the office on the fifth floor and listened. DeVasher was reporting the bits and pieces and trying unsuccessfully to put the puzzle together.
   “His wife leaves. Says she’s gotta go home to her mother, who’s got lung cancer. And that she’s tired of a bunch of his crap. We’ve detected a little trouble here and there over the months. She bitched a little about his hours and all, but nothing this serious. So she goes home to Mommy. Says she don’t know when she’s coming back. Mommy’s sick, right? Removed a lung, right? But we can’t find a hospital that’s heard of Maxine Sutherland. We’ve checked every hospital in Kentucky, Indiana and Tennessee. Seems odd, doesn’t it, fellas?”
   “Come on, DeVasher,” Lambert said. “My wife had surgery four years ago, and we flew to the Mayo Clinic. I know of no law requiring one to have surgery within a hundred miles of home. That’s absurd. And these are society people. Maybe she checked in under another name to keep it quiet. Happens all the time.”
   Locke nodded and agreed. “How much has he talked to her?”
   “She calls about once a day. They’ve had some good talks, about this and that. The dog. Her mom. The office. She told him last night she ain’t coming back for at least two months.”
   “Has she ever indicated which hospital?” asked Locke.
   “Never. She’s been real careful. Doesn’t talk much about the surgery. Mommy is supposedly home now. If she ever left.”
   “What’re you getting at, DeVasher?” asked Lambert.
   “Shut up and I’ll finish. Just suppose it’s all a ruse to get her outta town. To get her away from us. From what’s coming down. Follow?”
   “You’re assuming he’s working with them?” asked Locke.
   “I get paid for making those assumptions, Nat. I’m assuming he knows the phones are bugged, and that’s why they’re so careful on the phone. I’m assuming he got her outta town to protect her.”
   “Pretty shaky,” said Lambert. “Pretty shaky.”
   DeVasher paced behind his desk. He glared at Ollie and let it pass. “About ten days ago, somebody makes a bunch of unusual copies on the fourth floor. Strange because it was three in the morning. According to our records, when the copies were made only two lawyers were here. McDeere and Scott Kimble. Neither of whom had any business on the fourth floor. Twenty-four access numbers were used. Three belong to Lamar Quin’s files. Three belong to Sonny Capps. The other eighteen belong to McDeere’s files. None belong to Kimble. Victor Milligan left his office around two-thirty, and McDeere was working in Avery’s office. He had taken him to the airport. Avery says he locked his office, but he could have forgotten. Either he forgot or McDeere’s got a key. I pressed Avery on this, and he feels almost certain he locked it. But it was midnight and he was dead tired and in a hurry. Could’ve forgotten, right? But he did not authorize McDeere to go back to his office and work. No big deal, really, because they had spent the entire day in there working on the Capps return. The copier was number eleven, which happens to be the closest one to Avery’s office. I think it’s safe to assume McDeere made the copies.”
   “How many?”
   “Two thousand and twelve.”
   “Which files?”
   “The eighteen were all tax clients. Now, I’m sure he’d explain it all by saying he had finished the returns and was merely copying everything. Sounds pretty legitimate, right? Except the secretaries always make the copies, and what the hell was he doing on the fourth floor at three A.M. running two thousand copies? And this was the morning of April 7. How many of your boys finish their April 15 work and run all the copies a week early?”
   He stopped pacing and watched them. They were thinking. He had them. “And here’s the kicker. Five days later his secretary entered the same eighteen access numbers on her copier on the second floor. She ran about three hundred copies, which, I ain’t no lawyer, but I figure to be more in line. Don’t you think?”
   They both nodded, but said nothing. They were lawyers, trained to argue five sides of every issue. But they said nothing. DeVasher smiled wickedly and returned to his pacing. “Now, we caught him making two thousand copies that cannot be explained. So the big question is: What was he copying? If he was using wrong access numbers to run the machine, what the hell was he copying? I don’t know. All of the offices were locked, except, of course, Avery’s. So I asked Avery. He’s got a row of metal cabinets where he keeps the real files. He keeps ’em locked, but he and McDeere and the secretaries have been rummaging through those files all day. Could’ve forgot to lock ’em when he ran to meet the plane. Big deal. Why would McDeere copy legitimate files? He wouldn’t. Like everybody else on the fourth floor, Avery’s got those four wooden cabinets with the secret stuff. No one touches them, right? Firm rules. Not even other partners. Locked up tighter than my files. So McDeere can’t get in without a key. Avery showed me his keys. Told me he hadn’t touched those cabinets in two days, before the seventh. Avery has gone through those files, and everything seems in order. He can’t tell if they’ve been tampered with. But can you look at one of your files and tell if it’s been copied? No, you can’t. Neither can I. So I pulled the files this morning, and I’m sending them to Chicago. They’re gonna check ’em for fingerprints. Take about a week.”
   “He couldn’t copy those files,” Lambert said.
   “What else would he copy, Ollie? I mean, everything’s locked on the fourth floor and the third floor. Everything, except Avery’s office. And assuming he and Tarrance are whispering in each other’s ears, what would he want from Avery’s office? Nothing but the secret files.”
   “Now you’re assuming he’s got keys,” Locke said.
   “Yes. I’m assuming he’s made a set of Avery’s keys.”
   Ollie snorted and gave an exasperated laugh. “This is incredible. I don’t believe it.”
   Black Eyes glared at DeVasher with a nasty smile. “How would he get a copy of the keys?”
   “Good question, and one that I can’t answer. Avery showed me his keys. Two rings, eleven keys. He keeps ’em with him at all times. Firm rule, right? Like a good little lawyer’s supposed to do. When he’s awake, the keys are in his pocket. When he’s asleep away from home, the keys are under the mattress.”
   “Where’s he traveled in the last month?” Black Eyes asked.
   “Forget the trip to see Capps in Houston last week. Too recent. Before that, he went to Grand Cayman for two days on April 1.”
   “I remember,” said Ollie, listening intently.
   “Good for you, Ollie. I asked him what he did both nights, and he said nothing but work. Sat at a bar one night, but that’s it. Swears he slept by himself both nights.” DeVasher pushed a button on a portable tape recorder. “But he’s lying. This call was made at nine-fifteen, April 2, from the phone in the master bedroom of Unit A.” The tape began:


   “He’s in the shower.” First female voice.
   “Are you okay?” Second female voice.
   “Yeah. Fine. He couldn’t do it if he had to.”
   “What took so long?”
   “He wouldn’t wake up.”
   “Is he suspicious?”
   “No. He remembers nothing. I think he’s in pain.”
   “How long will you be there?”
   “I’ll kiss him goodbye when he gets out of the shower. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”
   “Okay. Hurry.”


   DeVasher punched another button and continued pacing. “I have no idea who they are, and I haven’t confronted Avery. Yet. He worries me. His wife has filed for divorce, and he’s lost control. Chases women all the time. This is a pretty serious breach of security, and I suspect Lazarov will go through the roof.”
   “She talked like it was a bad hangover,” Locke said.
   “Evidently.”
   “You think she copied the keys?” Ollie asked.
   DeVasher shrugged and sat in his worn leather chair. The cockiness vanished. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. I’ve thought about it for hours. Assuming it was some woman he picked up in a bar, and they got drunk, then it was probably late when they went to bed. How would she make copies of the keys in the middle of the night on that tiny island? I just don’t think so.”
   “But she had an accomplice,” Locke insisted.
   “Yeah, and I can’t figure that out. Maybe they were trying to steal his wallet and something went wrong. He carries a couple of thousand in cash, and if he got drunk, who knows what he told them. Maybe she planned to lift the money at the last second and haul ass. She didn’t do it. I don’t know.”
   “No more assumptions?” Ollie asked.
   “Not now. I love to make them, but it goes too far to assume these women took the keys, somehow managed to copy them in the middle of the night on the island, without his knowledge, and then the first one crawled back in the bed with him. And that somehow all of this is related to McDeere and his use of the copier on the fourth floor. It’s just too much.”
   “I agree,” said Ollie.
   “What about the storage room?” asked Black Eyes.
   “I’ve thought about that, Nat. In fact, I’ve lost sleep thinking about it. If she was interested in the records in the storage room, there must be some connection with McDeere, or someone else poking around. And I can’t make that connection. Let’s say she found the room and the records, what could she do with them in the middle of the night with Avery asleep upstairs?”
   “She could read them.”
   “Yeah, there’s only a million. Keep in mind, now, she must have been drinking along with Avery, or he would’ve been suspicious. So she’s spent the night drinking and screwing. She waits until he goes to sleep, then suddenly she has this urge to go downstairs and read bank records. It don’t work, boys.”
   “She could work for the FBI,” Ollie said proudly.
   “No, she couldn’t.”
   “Why?”
   “It’s simple, Ollie. The FBI wouldn’t do it because the search would be illegal and the records would be inadmissible. And there’s a much better reason.”
   “What?”
   “If she was a Fibbie, she wouldn’t have used the phone. No professional would’ve made that call. I think she was a pickpocket.”
   The pickpocket theory was explained to Lazarov, who poked a hundred holes but could devise nothing better. He ordered changes in all the locks on the third and fourth floors, and the basement, and both condos on Grand Cayman. He ordered a search for all the locksmiths on the island—there couldn’t be many, he said—to determine if any had reproduced keys the night of April 1 or the early morning of April 2. Bribe them, he told DeVasher. They’ll talk for a little money. He ordered a fingerprint examination of the files from Avery’s office. DeVasher proudly explained he had already started this. McDeere’s prints were on file with the state bar association.
   He also ordered a sixty-day suspension of Avery Tolar. DeVasher suggested this might alert McDeere to something unusual. Fine, said Lazarov, tell Tolar to check into the hospital with chest pains. Two months off—doctor’s orders. Tell Tolar to clean up his act. Lock up his office. Assign McDeere to Victor Milligan.
   “You said you had a good plan to eliminate McDeere,” DeVasher said.
   Lazarov grinned and picked his nose. “Yeah. I think we’ll use the plane. We’ll send him down to the islands on a little business trip, and there will be this mysterious explosion.”
   “Waste two pilots?” asked DeVasher.
   “Yeah. It needs to look good.”
   “Don’t do it anywhere around the Caymans. That’ll be too coincidental.”
   “Okay, but it needs to happen over water. Less debris. We’ll use a big device, so they won’t find much.”
   “That plane’s expensive.”
   “Yeah. I’ll run it by Joey first.”
   “You’re the boss. Let me know if we can help down there.”
   “Sure. Start thinking about it.”
   “What about your man in Washington?” DeVasher asked.
   “I’m waiting. I called New York this morning, and they’re checking into it. We should know in a week.”
   “That would make it easy.”
   “Yeah. If the answer is yes, we need to eliminate him within twenty-four hours.”
   “I’ll start planning.”


* * *

   The office was quiet for a Saturday morning. A handful of partners and a dozen associates loitered about in khakis and polos. There were no secretaries. Mitch checked his mail and dictated correspondence. After two hours he left. It was time to visit Ray.
   For five hours, he drove east on Interstate 40. Drove like an idiot. He drove forty-five, then eighty-five. He darted into every rest stop and weigh station. He made sudden exits from the left lane. He stopped at an underpass and waited and watched. He never saw them. Not once did he notice a suspicious car or truck or van. He even watched a few eighteen-wheelers. Nothing. They simply were not back there. He would have caught them.
   His care package of books and cigarettes was cleared through the guard station, and he was pointed to stall number nine. Minutes later, Ray sat through the thick screen.
   “Where have you been?” he said with a hint of irritation. “You’re the only person in the entire world who visits me, and this is only the second time in four months.”
   “I know. It’s tax season, and I’ve been swamped. I’ll do better. I’ve written, though.”
   “Yeah, once a week I get two paragraphs. ’Hi, Ray. How’s the bunk? How’s the food? How are the walls? How’s the Greek or Italian? I’m fine. Abby’s great. Dog’s sick. Gotta run. I’ll come visit soon. Love, Mitch.’ You write some rich letters, little brother. I really treasure them.”
   “Yours aren’t much better.”
   “What have I got to say? The guards are selling dope. A friend got stabbed thirty-one times. I saw a kid get raped. Come on, Mitch, who wants to hear it?”
   “I’ll do better.”
   “How’s Mom?”
   “I don’t know. I haven’t been back since Christmas.”
   “I asked you to check on her, Mitch. I’m worried about her. If that goon is beating her, I want it stopped. If I could get out of here, I’d stop it myself.”
   “You will.” It was a statement, not a question. Mitch placed a finger over his lips and nodded slowly. Ray leaned forward on his elbows and stared intently.
   Mitch spoke softly. “Espanol. Hable despotic.” Spanish. Speak slowly.
   Ray smiled slightly. “Cudndo?” When?
   “La semana proximo.” Next week.
   “Que dia?” What day?
   Mitch thought for a second. “Maries o miercoles.” Tuesday or Wednesday.
   “Que tiempo?” What time?
   Mitch smiled and shrugged, and looked around.
   “How’s Abby?” Ray asked.
   “She’s been in Kentucky for a couple of weeks. Her mother’s sick.” He stared at Ray and softly mouthed the words “Trust me.”
   “What’s wrong with her?”
   “They removed a lung. Cancer. She’s smoked heavy all her life. You should quit.”
   “I will if I ever get out of here.”
   Mitch smiled and nodded slowly. “You’ve got at least seven more years.”
   “Yeah, and escape is impossible. They try it occasionally, but they’re either shot or captured.”
   “James Earl Ray went over the wall, didn’t he?” Mitch nodded slowly as he asked the question. Ray smiled and watched his brother’s eyes.
   “But they caught him. They bring in a bunch of mountain boys with bloodhounds, and it gets pretty nasty. I don’t think anyone’s ever survived the mountains after they got over the wall.”
   “Let’s talk about something else,” Mitch said.
   “Good idea.”
   Two guards stood by a window behind the row of visitors’ booths. They were enjoying a stack of dirty pictures someone took with a Polaroid and tried to sneak through the guard station. They giggled among themselves and ignored the visitors. On the prisoners’ side, a single guard with a stick walked benignly back and forth, half asleep.
   “When can I expect little nieces and nephews?” Ray asked.
   “Maybe in a few years. Abby wants one of each, and she would start now if I would. I’m not ready.”
   The guard walked behind Ray, but did not look. They stared at each other, trying to read each other’s eyes.
   “Addnde voy?” Ray asked quickly. Where am I going?
   “Perdido Beach Hilton. We went to the Cayman Islands last month, Abby and I. Had a beautiful vacation.”
   “Never heard of the place. Where is it?”
   “In the Caribbean, below Cuba.”
   “Que es mi nombre?” What is my name?
   “Lee Stevens. Did some snorkeling. The water is warm and gorgeous. The Firm owns two condos right on Seven Mile Beach. All I paid for was the airfare. It was great.”
   “Get me a book. I’d like to read about it. Pasaporte?”
   Mitch nodded with a smile. The guard walked behind Ray and stopped. They talked of old times in Kentucky.


* * *

   At dusk he parked the BMW on the dark side of a suburban mall in Nashville. He left the keys in the ignition and locked the door. He had a spare in his pocket. A busy crowd of Easter shoppers moved en masse through the Sears doors. He joined them. Inside he ducked into the men’s clothing department and studied socks and underwear while watching the door. Nobody suspicious. He left Sears and walked quickly through the crowd down the mall. A black cotton sweater in the window of a men’s store caught his attention. He found one inside, tried it on and decided to wear it out of there, he liked it so much. As the clerk laid his change on the counter, he scanned the yellow pages for the number of a cab. Back into the mall, he rode the escalator to the first floor, where he found a pay phone. The cab would be there in ten minutes.
   It was dark now, the cool early dark of spring in the South. He watched the mall entrance from inside a singles bar. He was certain he had not been followed through the mall. He walked casually to the cab. “Brentwood,” he said to the driver, and disappeared into the back seat.
   Brentwood was twenty minutes away. “Savannah Creek Apartments,” he said. The cab searched through the sprawling complex and found number 480E. He threw a twenty over the seat and slammed the door. Behind an outside stairwell he found the door to 480E. It was locked.
   “Who is it?” a nervous female voice asked from within. He heard the voice and felt weak.
   “Barry Abanks,” he said.
   Abby pulled the door open and attacked. They kissed violently as he lifted her, walked inside and slammed the door with his foot. His hands were wild. In less than two seconds, he pulled her sweater over her head, unsnapped her bra and slid the rather loose-fitting skirt to her knees. They continued kissing. With one eye, he glanced apprehensively at the cheap, flimsy rented fold-a-bed that was waiting. Either that or the floor. He laid her gently on it and took off his clothes.
   The bed was too short, and it squeaked. The mattress was two inches of foam rubber wrapped in a sheet. The metal braces underneath jutted upward and were dangerous.
   But the McDeeres did not notice.


* * *

   When it was good and dark, and the crowd of shoppers at the mall thinned for a moment, a shiny black Chevrolet Silverado pickup pulled behind the BMW and stopped. A small man with a neat haircut and sideburns jumped out, looked around and stuck a pointed screwdriver into the door lock of the BMW. Months later when he was sentenced, he would tell the judge that he had stolen over three hundred cars and pickups in eight states, and that he could break into a car and start the engine faster than the judge could with the keys. Said his average time was twenty-eight seconds. The judge was not impressed.
   Occasionally, on a very lucky day, an idiot would leave the keys in the car, and the average time was reduced dramatically. A scout had found this car with the keys. He smiled and turned them. The Silverado raced away, followed by the BMW.
   The Nordic jumped from the van and watched. It was too fast. He was too late. The pickup just pulled up, blocked his vision for an instant, then wham!, the BMW was gone. Stolen! Before his very eyes. He kicked the van. Now, how would he explain this?
   He crawled back into the van and waited for McDeere.
   After an hour on the couch, the pain of loneliness had been forgotten. They walked through the small apartment holding hands and kissing. In the bedroom, Mitch had his first viewing of what had become known among the three as the Bendini Papers. He had seen Tammy’s notes and summaries, but not the actual documents. The room was like a chessboard with rows of neat stacks of papers. On two of the walls, Tammy had tacked sheets of white poster board, then covered them with the notes and lists and flowcharts.
   One day soon he would spend hours in the room, studying the papers and preparing his case. But not tonight. In a few minutes, he would leave her and return to the mall.
   She led him back to the couch.

Chapter 32

   The hall on the tenth floor, Madison Wing, of the Baptist Hospital was empty except for an orderly and a male nurse writing on his clipboard. Visiting hours had ended at nine, and it was ten-thirty. He eased down the hall, spoke to the orderly, was ignored by the nurse and knocked on the door.
   “Come in,” a strong voice said.
   He pushed the heavy door open and stood by the bed.
   “Hello, Mitch,” Avery said. “Can you believe this?”
   “What happened?”
   “I woke up at six this morning with stomach cramps, I thought. I took a shower and felt a sharp pain right here, on my shoulder. My breathing got heavy, and I started sweating. I thought no, not me. Hell, I’m forty-four, in great shape, work out all the time, eat pretty good, drink a little too much, maybe, but not me. I called my doctor, and he said to meet him here at the hospital. He thinks it was a slight heart attack. Nothing serious, he hopes, but they’re running tests for the next few days.”
   “A heart attack.”
   “That’s what he said.”
   “I’m not surprised, Avery. It’s a wonder any lawyer in that firm lives past fifty.”
   “Capps did it to me, Mitch. Sonny Capps. This is his heart attack. He called Friday and said he’d found a new tax firm in Washington. Wants all his records. That’s my biggest client. I billed him almost four hundred thousand last year, about what he paid in taxes. He’s not mad about the attorney’s fees, but he’s furious about the taxes. It doesn’t make sense, Mitch.”
   “He’s not worth dying for.” Mitch looked for an IV, but did not see one. There were no tubes or wires. He sat in the only chair and laid his feet on the bed.
   “Jean filed for divorce, you know.”
   “I heard. That’s no surprise, is it?”
   “Surprised she didn’t do it last year. I’ve offered her a small fortune as a settlement. I hope she takes it. I don’t need a nasty divorce.”
   Who does?thought Mitch. “What did Lambert say?”
   “It was kind of fun, really. In nineteen years I’ve never seen him lose his cool, but he lost it. He told me I was drinking too much, chasing women and who knows what else. Said I had embarrassed. Suggested I see a psychiatrist.”
   Avery spoke slowly, deliberately, and at times with a raspy, weak voice. It seemed phony. A sentence later he would forget about it and return to his normal voice. He lay perfectly still like a corpse, with the sheets tucked neatly around him. His color was good.
   “I think you need a psychiatrist. Maybe two.”
   “Thanks. I need a month in the sun. Doc said he would discharge me in three or four days, and that I couldn’t work for two months. Sixty days, Mitch. Said I cannot, under any circumstances, go near the office for sixty days.”
   “What a blessing. I think I’ll have a slight heart attack.”
   “At your pace, it’s guaranteed.”
   “What are you, a doctor now?”
   “No. Just scared. You get a scare like this, and you start thinking about things. Today is the first time in my life I’ve ever thought about dying. And if you don’t think about death, you don’t appreciate life.”
   “This is getting pretty heavy.”
   “Yeah, I know. How’s Abby?”
   “Okay. I guess. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
   “You’d better go see her and bring her home. And get her happy. Sixty hours a week is plenty, Mitch. You’ll ruin your marriage and kill yourself if you work more. She wants babies, then get them. I wish I had done things differently.”
   “Damn, Avery. When’s the funeral? You’re forty-four, and you had a slight heart attack. You’re not exactly a vegetable.”
   The male nurse glided in and glared at Mitch. “Visiting hours are over, sir. You need to leave.”
   Mitch jumped to his feet. “Yeah, sure.” He slapped Avery’s feet and walked out. “See you in a couple of days.”
   “Thanks for coming. Tell Abby I said hello.”
   The elevator was empty. Mitch pushed the button to the sixteenth floor and seconds later got off. He ran two flights of stairs to the eighteenth, caught his breath and opened the door. Down the hall, away from the elevators, Rick Acklin watched and whispered into a dead telephone receiver. He nodded at Mitch, who walked toward him. Acklin pointed, and Mitch stepped into a small area used as a waiting room by worried relatives. It was dark and empty, with two rows of folding chairs and a television that did not work. A Coke machine provided the only light. Tarrance sat next to it and flipped through an old magazine. He wore a sweat suit, headband, navy socks and white canvas sneakers. Tarrance the jogger.
   Mitch sat next to him, facing the hall.
   “You’re clean. They followed you from the office to the parking lot, then left. Acklin’s in the hall. Laney’s around somewhere. Relax.”
   “I like the headband.”
   “Thanks.”
   “I see you got the message.”
   “Obviously. Real clever, McDeere. I’m sitting at my desk this afternoon, minding my own business, trying to work on something other than the Bendini case. I’ve got others, you know. And my secretary comes in and says there’s a woman on the phone who wants to talk about a man named Marty Kozinski. I jump from my chair, grab the phone, and of course it’s your girl. She says it’s urgent, as always. So I say okay, let’s talk. No, she don’t play it. She makes me drop everything I’m doing, run over to the Peabody, go to the lounge—what’s the name of it? Mallards—and have a seat. So I’m sitting there, thinking about how stupid this is because our phones are clean. Dammit, Mitch, I know our phones are clean. We can talk on our phones! I’m drinking coffee and the bartender walks over and asks if my name is Kozinski. Kozinski who? I ask. Just for fun. Since we’re having a ball, right? Marty Kozinski, he says with a puzzled look on his face. I say yeah, that’s me. I felt stupid, Mitch. And he says I have a call. I walk over to the bar, and it’s your girl. Tolar’s had a heart attack or something. And you’ll be here around eleven. Real clever.”
   “Worked, didn’t it?”
   “Yeah, and it would work just as easily if she would talk to me on my phone in my office.”
   “I like it better my way. It’s safer. Besides, it gets you out of the office.”
   “Damned right, it does. Me and three others.”
   “Look, Tarrance, we’ll do it my way, okay? It’s my neck on the line, not yours.”
   “Yeah, yeah. What the hell are you driving?”
   “A rented Celebrity. Nice, huh?”
   “What happened to the little black lawyer’s car?”
   “It had an insect problem. Full of bugs. I parked it at a mall Saturday night in Nashville and left the keys in it. Someone borrowed it. I love to sing, but I have a terrible voice. Ever since I could drive I’ve done my singing in the car, alone. But with the bugs and all, I was too embarrassed to sing. I just got tired of it.”
   Tarrance could not resist a smile. “That’s pretty good, McDeere. Pretty good.”
   “You should’ve seen Oliver Lambert this morning when I walked in and laid the police report on his desk. He stuttered and stammered and told me how sorry he was. I acted like I was real sad. Insurance will cover it, so old Oliver says they’ll get me another one. Then he says they’ll go get me a rental car for the meantime. I told him I already had one. Got it in Nashville Saturday night. He didn’t like this, because he knew it was insect-free. He calls the BMW dealer himself, while I’m standing there, to check on a new one for me. He asked me what color I wanted. I said I was tired of black and wanted a burgundy one with tan interior. I drove to the BMW place yesterday and looked around. I didn’t see a burgundy of any model. He told the guy on the phone what I wanted, and then he tells him they don’t have it. How about black, or navy, or gray, or red, or white? No, no, no, I want a burgundy one. They’ll have to order it, he reports. Fine, I said. He hung up the phone and asked me if I was sure I couldn’t use another color. Burgundy, I said. He wanted to argue, but realized it would seem foolish. So, for the first time in ten months, I can sing in my car.”
   “But a Celebrity. For a hotshot tax lawyer. That’s got to hurt.”
   “I can deal with it.”
   Tarrance was still smiling, obviously impressed. “I wonder what the boys in the chop shop will do when they strip it down and find all those bugs.”
   “Probably sell it to a pawnshop as stereo equipment. How much was it worth?”
   “Our boys said it was the best. Ten, fifteen thousand. I don’t know. That’s funny.”
   Two nurses walked by talking loudly. They turned a corner, and the hall was quiet. Acklin pretended to place another phone call.
   “How’s Tolar?” Tarrance asked.
   “Superb. I hope my heart attack is as easy as his. He’ll be here for a few days, then off for two months. Nothing serious.”
   “Can you get in his office?”
   “Why should I? I’ve already copied everything in it.”
   Tarrance leaned closer and waited for more.
   “No, I cannot get in his office. They’ve changed the locks on the third and fourth floors. And the basement.”
   “How do you know this?”
   “The girl, Tarrance. In the last week, she’s been in every office in the building, including the basement. She’s checked every door, pulled on every drawer, looked in every closet. She’s read mail, looked at files and rummaged through the garbage. There’s not much garbage, really. The building has ten paper shredders in it. Four in the basement. Did you know that?”
   Tarrance listened intently and did not move a muscle. “How did she—”
   “Don’t ask, Tarrance, because I won’t tell you.”
   “She works there! She’s a secretary or something. She’s helping you from the inside.”
   Mitch shook his head in frustration. “Brilliant, Tarrance. She called you twice today. Once at about two-fifteen and then about an hour later. Now, how would a secretary make two calls to the FBI an hour apart?”
   “Maybe she didn’t work today. Maybe she called from home.”
   “You’re wrong, Tarrance, and quit guessing. Don’t waste time worrying about her. She works for me, and together we’ll deliver the goods to you.”
   “What’s in the basement?”
   “One big room with twelve cubicles, twelve busy desks and a thousand file cabinets. Electronically wired file cabinets. I think it’s the operations center for their money-laundering activities. On the walls of the cubicles, she noticed names and phone numbers of dozens of banks in the Caribbean. There’s not much information lying around down there. They’re very careful. There’s a smaller room off to the side, heavily locked, and full of computers larger than refrigerators.”
   “Sounds like the place.”
   “It is, but forget it. There’s no way to get the stuff out without alerting them. Impossible. I know of only one way to bring the goods out.”
   “Okay.”
   “A search warrant.”
   “Forget it. No probable cause.”
   “Listen to me, Tarrance. This is how it’s gonna be, okay? I can’t give you all the documents you want. But I can give you all you need. I have in my possession over ten thousand documents, and although I have not reviewed all of them, I’ve seen enough to know that if you had them, you could show them to a judge and get a search warrant for Front Street. You can take the records I have now and obtain indictments for maybe half. But the same documents will get your search warrant and, consequently, a truckload of indictments. There’s no other way to do it.”
   Tarrance walked to the hall and looked around. Empty. He stretched his legs and walked to the Coke machine. He leaned on it and looked through the small window to the east. “Why only half?”
   “Initially, only half. Plus a number of retired partners. Scattered through my documents are various names of partners who’ve set up the bogus Cayman companies with Morolto money. Those indictments will be easy. Once you have all the records, your conspiracy theory will fall in place and you can indict everyone.”
   “Where did you get the documents?”
   “I got lucky. Very lucky. I sort of figured had more sense than to keep the Cayman bank records in this country. I had a hunch the records might be in the Caymans. Fortunately, I was right. We copied the documents in the Caymans.”
   “We?”
   “The girl. And a friend.”
   “Where are the records now?”
   “You and your questions, Tarrance. They’re in my possession. That’s all you need to know.”
   “I want those documents from the basement.”
   “Listen to me, Tarrance. Pay attention. The documents in the basement are not coming out until you go in with a search warrant. It is impossible, do you hear?”
   “Who are the guys in the basement?”
   “Don’t know. I’ve been there ten months and never seen them. I don’t know where they park or how they get in and out. They’re invisible. I figure the partners and the boys in the basement do the dirty work.”
   “What kind of equipment is down there?”
   “Two copiers, four shredders, high-speed printers and all those computers. State of the art.”
   Tarrance walked to the window, obviously deep in thought. “That makes sense. Makes a lot of sense. I’ve always wondered how, with all those secretaries and clerks and paralegals, could maintain such secrecy about Morolto.”
   “It’s easy. The secretaries and clerks and paralegals know nothing about it. They’re kept busy with the real clients. The partners and senior associates sit in their big offices and dream up exotic ways to launder money, and the basement crew does the grunt work. It’s a great setup.”
   “So there are plenty of legitimate clients?”
   “Hundreds. They’re talented lawyers with an amazing clientele. It’s a great cover.”
   “And you’re telling me, McDeere, that you’ve got the documents now to support indictments and search warrants? You’ve got them—they’re in your possession?”
   “That’s what I said.”
   “In this country?”
   “Yes, Tarrance, the documents are in this country. Very close to here, actually.”
   Tarrance was fidgety now. He rocked from one foot to the other and cracked his knuckles. He was breathing quickly. “What else can you get out of Front Street?”
   “Nothing. It’s too dangerous. They’ve changed the locks, and that sort of worries me. I mean, why would they change the locks on the third and fourth floors and not on the first and second? I made some copies on the fourth floor two weeks ago, and I don’t think it was a good idea. I’m getting bad vibes. No more records from Front Street.”
   “What about the girl?”
   “She no longer has access.”
   Tarrance chewed his fingernails, rocking back and forth. Still staring at the window. “I want the records, McDeere, and I want them real soon. Like tomorrow.”
   “When does Ray get his walking papers?”
   “Today’s Monday. I think it’s set up for tomorrow night. You wouldn’t believe the cussing I’ve taken from Voyles.
   He’s had to pull every string in the book. You think I’m kidding? He called in both senators from Tennessee, and they personally flew to Nashville to visit the governor. Oh, I’ve been cussed, McDeere. All because of your brother.”
   “He appreciates it.”
   “What’s he gonna do when he gets out?”
   “I’ll take care of that. You just get him out.”
   “No guarantees. If he gets hurt, it ain’t our fault.”
   Mitch stood and looked at his watch. “Gotta run. I’m sure someone’s out there waiting for me.”
   “When do we meet again?”
   “She’ll call. Just do as she says.”
   “Oh, come on, Mitch! Not that routine again. She can talk to me on my phone. I swear! We keep our lines clean. Please, not that again.”
   “What’s your mother’s name, Tarrance?”
   “What? Doris.”
   “Doris?”
   “Yeah, Doris.”
   “Small world. We can’t use Doris. Whom did you take to your senior prom?”
   “Uh, I don’t think I went.”
   “I’m not surprised. Who was your first date, if you had one?”
   “Mary Alice Brenner. She was hot too. She wanted me.”
   “I’m sure. My girl’s name is Mary Alice. The next time Mary Alice calls, you do exactly as she says, okay?”
   “I can’t wait.”
   “Do me a favor, Tarrance. I think Tolar’s faking, and I’ve got a weird feeling his fake heart attack is somehow related to me. Get your boys to snoop around here and check out his alleged heart attack.”
   “Sure. We have little else to do.”

Chapter 33

   Tuesday morning the office buzzed with concern for Avery Tolar. He was doing fine. Running tests. No permanent damage. Overworked. Stressed out. Capps did it. Divorce did it. Leave of absence.
   Nina brought a stack of letters to be signed. “Mr. Lambert would like to see you, if you’re not too busy. He just called.”
   “Fine. I’m supposed to meet Frank Mulholland at ten. Do you know that?”
   “Of course I know that. I’m the secretary. I know everything. Your office or his?”
   Mitch looked at his appointment book and pretended to search. Mulholland’s office. In the Cotton Exchange Building.
   “His,” he said with a frown.
   “You met there last time, didn’t you? Didn’t they teach you about turf in law school? Never, I repeat, never meet two times in a row on the adversary’s turf. It’s unprofessional. It’s uncool. Shows weakness.”
   “How can you ever forgive me?”
   “Wait till I tell the other girls. They all think you’re so cute and macho. When I tell them you’re a wimp, they’ll be shocked.”
   “They need to be shocked, with a cattle prod.”
   “How’s Abby’s mother?”
   “Much better. I’m going up this weekend.”
   She picked up two files. “Lambert’s waiting.”


* * *

   Oliver Lambert pointed at the stiff sofa and offered coffee. He sat perfectly erect in a wing chair and held his cup like a British aristocrat. “I’m worried about Avery,” he said.
   “I saw him last night,” Mitch said. “Doctor’s forcing a two-month retirement.”
   “Yes, that’s why you’re here. I want you to work with Victor Milligan for the next two months. He’ll get most of Avery’s files, so it’s familiar territory.”
   “That’s fine. Victor and I are good friends.”
   “You’ll learn a lot from him. A genius at taxation. Reads two books a day.”
   Great,thought Mitch. He should average ten a day in prison.
   “Yes, he’s a very smart man. He’s helped me out of a jam or two.”
   “Good. I think you’ll get along fine. Try and see him sometime this morning. Now, Avery had some unfinished business in the Caymans. He goes there a lot, as you know, to meet with certain bankers. In fact, he was scheduled to leave tomorrow for a couple of days. He told me this morning you’re familiar with the clients and the accounts, so we need you to go.”
   The Lear, the loot, the condo, the storage room, the accounts. A thousand thoughts flashed in his mind. It did not add up. “The Caymans? Tomorrow?”
   “Yes, it’s quite urgent. Three of his clients are in dire need of summaries of their accounts and other legal work. I wanted Milligan to go, but he’s due in Denver in the morning. Avery said you could handle it.”
   “Sure, I can handle it.”
   “Fine. The Lear will take you. You’ll leave around noon and return by commercial flight late Friday. Any problems?”
   Yes, many problems. Ray was leaving prison. Tarrance was demanding the contraband. A half million bucks had to be collected. And he was scheduled to disappear anytime.
   “No problems.”
   He walked to his office and locked the door. He kicked off his shoes, lay on the floor and closed his eyes.
   The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, and Mitch bolted up the stairs to the ninth. Tammy opened the door and locked it behind him. He walked to the window.
   “Were you watching?” he asked.
   “Of course. The guard by your parking lot stood on the sidewalk and watched you walk here.”
   “Wonderful. Even Dutch follows me.”
   He turned and inspected her. “You look tired.”
   “Tired? I’m dead. In the past three weeks I’ve been a janitor, a secretary, a lawyer, a banker, a whore, a courier and a private investigator. I’ve flown to Grand Cayman nine times, bought nine sets of new luggage and hauled back a ton of stolen documents. I’ve driven to Nashville four times and flown ten. I’ve read so many bank records and legal crap I’m half blind. And when it’s bedtime, I put on my little Dustbusters shirt and play maid for six hours. I’ve got so many names, I’ve written them on my hand so I won’t get confused.”
   “I’ve got another for you.”
   “This doesn’t surprise me. What?”
   “Mary Alice. From now on, when you talk to Tarrance, you’re Mary Alice.”
   “Let me write that down. I don’t like him. He’s very rude on the phone.”
   “I’ve got great news for you.”
   “I can’t wait.”
   “You can quit Dustbusters.”
   “I think I’ll lie down and cry. Why?”
   “It’s hopeless.”
   “I told you that a week ago. Houdini couldn’t get files out of there, copy them and sneak them back in without getting caught.”
   “Did you talk to Abanks?” Mitch asked.
   “Yes.”
   “Did he get the money?”
   “Yes. It was wired Friday.”
   “Is he ready?”
   “Said he was.”
   “Good. What about the forger?”
   “I’m meeting with him this afternoon.”
   “Who is he?”
   “An ex-con. He and Lomax were old pals. Eddie said he was the best documents man in the country.”
   “He’d better be. How much?”
   “Five thousand. Cash, of course. New IDs, passports, driver’s licenses and visas.”
   “How long will it take him?”
   “I don’t know. When do you need it?”
   Mitch sat on the edge of the rented desk. He breathed deeply and tried to think. To calculate. “As soon as possible. I thought I had a week, but now I don’t know. Just get it as soon as possible. Can you drive to Nashville tonight?”
   “Oh yes. I’d love to. I haven’t been there in two days.”
   “I want a Sony camcorder with a tripod set up in the bedroom. Buy a case of tapes. And I want you to stay there, by the phone, for the next few days. Review the Bendini Papers again. Work on your summaries.”
   “You mean I have to stay there?”
   “Yeah. Why?”
   “I’ve ruptured two disks sleeping on that couch.”
   “You rented it.”
   “What about the passports?”
   “What’s the guy’s name?”
   “Doc somebody. I’ve got his number.”
   “Give it to me. Tell him I’ll call in a day or so. How much money do you have?”
   “I’m glad you asked. I started with fifty thousand, right? I’ve spent ten thousand on airfare, hotels, luggage and rental cars. And I’m still spending. Now you want a video camera. And fake IDs. I’d hate to lose money on this deal.”
   Mitch started for the door. “How about another fifty thousand?”
   “I’ll take it.”
   He winked at her and closed the door, wondering if he would ever see her again.


* * *

   The cell was eight by eight, with a toilet in a corner and a set of bunk beds. The top bunk was uninhabited and had been for a year. Ray lay on the bottom bunk with wires running from his ears. He spoke to himself in a very foreign language. Turkish. At that moment on that floor, it was safe to bet he was the only soul listening to Berlitz jabber in Turkish. There was quiet talk up and down the hall, but most lights were out. Eleven o’clock, Tuesday night.
   The guard walked silently to his cell. “McDeere,” he said softly, secretly, through the bars. Ray sat on the edge of the bed, under the bunk above, and stared at him. He removed the wires.
   “Warden wants to see you.”
   Sure, he thought, the warden’s sitting at his desk at 11 P.M. waiting on me. “Where are we going?” It was an anxious question.
   “Put your shoes on and come on.”
   Ray glanced around the cell and took a quick inventory of his worldly possessions. In eight years he had accumulated a black-and-white television, a large cassette player, two cardboard boxes full of tapes and several dozen books. He made three dollars a day working in the prison laundry, but after cigarettes there had been little to spend on tangibles. These were his only assets. Eight years.
   The guard fitted a heavy key in the door and slid it open a few inches. He turned off the light. “Just follow me, and no cute stuff. I don’t know who you are, mister, but you got some heavy-duty friends.”
   Other keys fit other doors, and they were outside under the basketball hoop. “Stay behind me,” the guard said.
   Ray’s eyes darted around the dark compound. The wall loomed like a mountain in the distance, beyond the courtyard and walking area where he had paced a thousand miles and smoked a ton of cigarettes. It was sixteen feet tall in the daylight, but looked much larger at night. The guard towers were fifty yards apart and well lit. And heavily armed.
   The guard was casual and unconcerned. Of course, he had a uniform and a gun. He moved confidently between two cinder-block buildings, telling Ray to follow and be cool. Ray tried to be cool. They stopped at the corner of a building, and the guard gazed at the wall, eighty feet away. Floodlights made a routine sweep of the courtyard, and they backed into the darkness.
   Why are we hiding?Ray asked himself. Are those guys up there with the guns on our side?
   He would like to know before he made any dramatic moves.
   The guard pointed to the exact spot on the wall where James Earl Ray and his gang went over. A rather famous spot, studied and admired by most of the inmates at Brushy Mountain. Most of the white ones anyway. “In about five minutes, they’ll throw a ladder up there. The wire has already been cut on top. You’ll find a heavy rope on the other side.”
   “Mind if I ask a few questions?”
   “Make it quick.”
   “What about all these lights?”
   “They’ll be diverted. You’ll have total darkness.”
   “And those guns up there?”
   “Don’t worry. They’ll look the other way.”
   “Dammit! Are you sure?”
   “Look, man, I’ve seen some inside jobs before, but this takes the cake. Warden Lattemer himself planned this one. He’s right up there.” The guard pointed to the nearest tower.
   “The warden?”
   “Yep. Just so nothing’ll go wrong.”
   “Who’s throwing up the ladder?”
   “Coupla guards.”
   Ray wiped his forehead with his sleeve and breathed deeply. His mouth was dry and his knees were weak.
   The guard whispered, “There’ll be a dude waiting for you. His name is Bud. White dude. He’ll find you on the other side, and just do what he says.”
   The floodlights swept through again, then died. “Get ready,” the guard said. Darkness settled in, followed by a dreadful silence. The wall was now black. From the nearest tower, a whistle blew two short signals. Ray knelt and watched.
   From behind the next building, he could see the silhouettes running to the wall. They grabbed at something in the grass, then hoisted it.
   “Run, dude,” the guard said. “Run!”
   Ray sprinted with his head low. The homemade ladder was in place. The guards grabbed his arms and threw him to the first step. The ladder bounced as he scurried up the two-by-fours. The top of the wall was two feet wide. A generous opening had been cut in the coiled barbed wire. He slid through without touching it. The rope was right where it was supposed to be, and he eased down the outside of the wall. Eight feet from pay dirt, he turned loose and jumped. He squatted and looked around. Still dark. The floodlights were on hold.
   The clearing stopped a hundred feet away, and the dense woods began. “Over here,” the voice said calmly. Ray started for it. Bud was waiting in the first cluster of black bushes.
   “Hurry. Follow me.”
   Ray followed him until the wall was out of sight. They stopped in a small clearing next to a dirt trail. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Bud Riley. Kinda fun, ain’t it?”
   “Unbelievable. Ray McDeere.”
   Bud was a stocky man with a black beard and a black beret. He wore combat boots, jeans and a camouflage jacket. No gun was in sight. He offered Ray a cigarette.
   “Who are you with?” Ray asked.
   “Nobody. I just do a little free-lance work for the warden. They usually call me when somebody goes over the wall. Course, this is a little different. Usually I bring my dogs. I thought we’d wait here for a minute until the sirens go off, so you can hear. Wouldn’t be right if you didn’t get to hear ’em. I mean, they’re sorta in your honor.”
   “That’s okay. I’ve heard them before.”
   “Yeah, but it’s different out here when they go off. It’s a beautiful sound.”
   “Look, Bud, I—”
   “Just listen, Ray. We got plenty of time. They won’t chase you, much.”
   “Much?”
   “Yeah, they gotta make a big scene, wake everybody up, just like a real escape. But they ain’t coming after you. I don’t know what kinda pull you got, but it’s something.”
   The sirens began screaming, and Ray jumped. Lights flashed across the black sky, and the faint voices of the tower guards were audible.
   “See what I mean?”
   “Let’s go,” Ray said, and began walking.
   “My truck’s just up the road a piece. I brought you some clothes. Warden gave me your sizes. Hope you like them.”
   Bud was out of breath when they reached the truck. Ray quickly changed into the olive Duckheads and navy cotton work shirt. “Very nice, Bud,” he said.
   “Just throw them prison clothes in the bushes.”
   They drove the winding mountain trail for two miles, then turned onto blacktop. Bud listened to Conway Twitty and said nothing.
   “Where are we going, Bud?” Ray finally asked.
   “Well, the warden said he didn’t care and really didn’t want to know. Said it was up to you. I’d suggest we get to a big town where there’s a bus station. After that, you’re on your own.”
   “How far will you drive me?”
   “I got all night, Ray. You name the town.”
   “I’d like to get some miles behind us before I start hanging around a bus station. How about Knoxville?”
   “Knoxville it is. Where are you going from there?”
   “I don’t know. I need to get out of the country.”
   “With your friends, that should be no problem. Be careful, though. By tomorrow, your picture will be hanging in every sheriff’s office in ten states.”
   Three cars with blue lights came blazing over the hill in front of them. Ray ducked onto the floorboard.
   “Relax, Ray. They can’t see you.”
   He watched them disappear through the rear window. “What about roadblocks?”
   “Look, Ray. Ain’t gonna be no roadblocks, okay? Trust me.” Bud stuck a hand in a pocket and threw a wad of cash on the seat. “Five hundred bucks. Hand-delivered by the warden. You got some stout friends, buddy.”