Photographs—Do Not Bend 3 страница

* * *

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.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16