“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Chap had yelled while Wes turned on lights and raised shades and made as much noise as possible. Trevor, to his credit, scrambled from bed, raced to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and twenty minutes later walked into his den with a fresh bow tie and not a wrinkle anywhere. His eyes were slightly swollen, but he was smiling and determined to tackle the day.
The million dollars helped. In fact, he’d never conquered a hangover as quickly.
They had a quick muffin and strong coffee at Beach Java, then attacked his little office with vigor. While Chap took care of the front, Wes kept Trevor in his office.
Some of the pieces had fallen into place over dinner. The names of the Brethren had finally been extracted from Trevor, and Wes and Chap had done a splendid job of being surprised.
“Three judges?” they’d both repeated, in apparent disbelief.
Trevor had smiled and nodded with great pride, as if he and he alone had been the architect of this masterful scheme. He wanted them to believe that he’d had the brains and skill to convince three former judges that they should spend their time writing letters to lonely gay men so he, Trevor, could rake off a third of their extortion. Hell, he was practically a genius.
Other pieces of the puzzle remained unclear, and Wes was determined to keep Trevor locked away until he had answers.
“Let’s talk about Quince Garbe,” he said. “His post office box was rented to a fake corporation. How’d you learn his true identity?”
“It was easy,” Trevor said, very proud of himself. Not only was he a genius now, but he was a very rich one. He had awakened yesterday morning with a headache, and had spent the first half hour in bed, worrying about his gambling losses, worrying about his dwindling law practice, worrying about his increasing reliance on the Brethren and their scam. Twenty-four hours later, he’d awakened with a worse headache, but one soothed with the balm of a million bucks.
He was euphoric, giddy, and anxious to finish the task at hand so he could get on with life.
“I found a private investigator in Des Moines,” he said, sipping coffee, his feet on his desk, where they belonged. “Sent him a check for a thousand bucks. He spent two days in Bakers—you been to Bakers?”
“Yep.”
“I was afraid I’d have to go. The scam works best if you can snare some prominent guy with money. He’ll pay anything to keep you quiet. Anyway, this investigator found a postal clerk who needed some money. She was a single mother, houseful of kids, old car, small apartment, you get the picture. He called her at night and said he’d give her five hundred dollars cash if she could tell him who was renting Box 788 in the name of CMT Investments. Next morning he called her at the post office. They met in a parking lot during her lunch break. She gave him a piece of paper with the name of Quince Garbe, and he gave her an envelope with five one-hundred-dollar bills. She never asked who he was.”
“Is that a typical method?”
“It worked with Garbe. Curtis Cates, the guy in Dallas, the second one we scammed, was a little more complicated. The investigator we hired there couldn’t find anyone on the inside, so he had to watch the post office for three days. Cost eighteen hundred dollars, but he finally saw him and got his license number.”
“Who’s next?”
“Probably this guy in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. His alias is Brant White, and he appears to be a hot prospect.”
“Do you ever read the letters?”
“Never. I don’t know what’s being said back and forth; don’t wanna know. When they’re ready to bust somebody, they’ll tell me to scope out the box and get a real name. That’s if their pen pal is using a front, like your client Mr. Konyers. You’d be amazed how many men use their real names. Unbelievable.”
“Do you know when they send the extortion letters?”
“Oh yeah. They tell me so I can alert the bank in the Bahamas that a wire might be on the way. The bank calls me as soon as the money hits.”
“Tell me about this Brant White in Upper Darby,” Wes said. He was taking pages of notes, as if something might be missed. Every word was being recorded on four different machines across the street.
“They’re ready to bust him, that’s all I know. He seems hot to trot because they’ve just swapped a couple of letters. Some of these guys, it’s like pulling teeth, judging by the number of letters.”
“But you don’t keep track of the letters?”
“There are no records here. I was afraid the feds would show up one day with a search warrant, and I wanted no evidence of my involvement.”
“Smart, very smart.”
Trevor smiled and savored his shrewdness. “Yeah, well, I’ve done a lot of criminal law. After a while, you start thinking like a criminal. Anyway, I’ve been unable to find the right investigator in the Philadelphia area. Still working on it though.”
Brant White was a Langley creation. Trevor could hire every investigator in the Northeast and they’d never find a real person behind the post office box.
“In fact,” he continued, “I was preparing to go up there myself when I got the call from Spicer telling me to go to Washington and track down Al Konyers. Then you guys showed up, and, well, the rest is history.” His words trailed away as he once again thought of the money. Sure it was a coincidence that Wes and Chap entered his life just hours after he was supposed to go searching for their client. But he didn’t care. He could hear the seagulls and feel the hot sand. He could hear the reggae from the island bands, and feel the wind pushing his little boat.
“Is there another contact on the outside?” Wes asked.
“Oh no,” he said vainly. “I don’t need any help. The fewer people involved, the easier the operation works.”
“Very smart,” Wes said.
Trevor leaned back even deeper in his chair. The ceiling above him was cracked and peeling and in need of a fresh coat of enamel. A couple of days ago that might have worried him. Now he knew it would never get painted, not if they expected him to foot the bill. He’d walk out of the place one day very soon, once Wes and Chap here had finished with the Brethren. He’d spend a day or two boxing up his files to store for what reason he was not certain, and he’d give away his outdated and unused law books. He’d find some broke rookie fresh out of law school and looking for a few crumbs around city court, and he’d sell him the furniture and computer for a very reasonable price. And when all the loose ends were covered, he, L. Trevor Carson, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, would walk out of the office and never look back.
What a glorious day that would be.
Chap interrupted the brief daydream with a sack of tacos and soft drinks. Lunch had not been discussed among the three, but Trevor had already been checking his watch in anticipation of another long meal at Pete’s. He grudgingly took a taco and seethed for a moment. He needed a drink.
“I think it’s a good idea to lay off the booze during lunch,” Chap said as they huddled around Trevor’s desk and tried not to spill black beans and ground beef.
“Do as you please,” Trevor said.
“I was talking to you,” Chap said. “At least for the next thirty days.”
“That wasn’t part of our deal.”
“It is now. You need to be sober and alert.”
“Why, exactly?”
“Because our client wants you that way. And he’s paying you a million dollars.”
“Does he want me to floss twice a day and eat my spinach?”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Tell him to kiss my ass while you’re at it.”
“Don’t overreact, Trevor,” Wes said. “Just cut back on the drinking for a few days. It’ll be good for you.”
If the money had set him free, these two were beginning to choke him. They’d now spent twenty-four hours together, and they showed no signs of leaving. In fact, the opposite was happening. They were moving in.
Chap left early to collect the mail. They’d convinced Trevor that he’d been very sloppy in his habi
ts, and that’s how they’d tracked him so easily. Suppose other victims were lurking out there? Trevor’d had little trouble in finding the real names of their victims. Why couldn’t the victims do the same to the person behind Aladdin North and Laurel Ridge? From now on, Wes and Chap would take turns collecting the mail. They’d mix things up, visit the post offices at different times, use disguises, real cloak-and-dagger stuff.
Trevor eventually agreed. They seemed to know what they were doing.
There were four letters for Ricky waiting in the Neptune Beach post office, and two for Percy in Atlantic Beach. Chap quickly made the rounds, with a team behind him, watching anyone who might be watching him. The letters were taken to the rental, where they were quickly opened, and copied, then put back together.
The copies were read and analyzed by agents anxious to have something to do. Klockner read them too. Of the six, they’d seen five of the names before. All were lonely middle-aged men trying to muster the nerve to take the next step with Ricky or Percy. None seemed particularly aggressive.
One wall in a converted bedroom of the rental had been painted white and a large map of the fifty states had been stenciled on it. Red pushpins were used to mark Ricky’s pen pals. Green for Percy. The names and hometowns of the correspondents were printed in black under the pins.
The nets were getting wider. Ricky had twenty-three men actively writing him; Percy, eighteen. Thirty states were represented. The Brethren were fine-tuning their venture with each passing week. They were now running ads in three magazines, as far as Klockner could tell. They held firm to their profile, and by the third letter they usually knew if a new guy had any money. Or a wife.
It was a fascinating game to watch, and now that they had complete access to Trevor they wouldn’t miss a letter.
The day’s mail was summarized in two pages, then given to an agent who took off to Langley. Deville had it in hand by 7 P.M.
THE FIRST CALL of the afternoon, at three-ten, came when Chap was washing windows. Wes was still in Trevor’s office, grilling him with one question after another. Trevor was weary. He’d missed his nap and he desperately needed a drink.
“Law office,” Chap answered.
“Is this Trevor’s office?” the caller asked.
“It is. Who’s calling?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Chap, the new paralegal.”
“What happened to the girl?”
“She no longer works here. What can I do for you?”
“This is Joe Roy Spicer. I’m a client of Trevor’s, and I’m calling from Trumble.”
“Calling from where?”
“Trumble. It’s a federal prison. Is Trevor there?”
“No sir. He’s in Washington, and he should be back here in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. Tell him I’ll call back at five.”
“Yes sir.”
Chap hung up and took a deep breath, as did Klockner across the street. The CIA had just had its first live contact with one of the Brethren.
THE SECOND CALL came at exactly five. Chap answered the phone and recognized the voice. Trevor was waiting in his office. “Hello.”
“Trevor, this is Joe Roy Spicer.”
“Hello, Judge.”
“What’d you find in Washington?”
“We’re still working on it. It’s gonna be a tough one, but we’ll find him.”
There was a long pause, as if Spicer didn’t like this news and was uncertain about how much to say. “Are you comin tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there at three.”
“Bring five thousand dollars cash.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
“That’s what I said. Get the money and bring it here. All in twenties and fifties.”
“What are you gonna do—”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Trevor. Bring the damned money. Put it in an envelope with the other mail. You’ve done it before.”
“All right.”
Spicer hung up without another word. Then Trevor spent an hour discussing the economics of Trumble. Cash was prohibited. Every inmate had a job and his wages were credited to his account. Expenditures, such as long-distance calls, commissary charges, copying expenses, stamps, were all debited against his account.
But cash was present, though seldom seen. It was smuggled in and hidden, and it was used to pay gambling debts and bribe guards for small favors. Trevor was afraid of it. If he, as the attorney, got caught sneaking it in, his visiting privileges would be permanently eliminated. He’d smuggled on two previous occasions, both times $500, in tens and twenties.
He couldn’t imagine what they wanted with $5,000.
TWENTY-EIGHT
AFTER THREE DAYS of stepping over and around Wes and Chap, Trevor needed a break. They wanted breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. They wanted to drive him home and pick him up for work, very early in the morning. They were running what was left of his practice—Chap the paralegal, Wes the office manager, both of them drilling him with endless questions because there was precious little lawyering to be done.
So it was no surprise when they announced they would drive him to Trumble. He didn’t need a driver, he explained. He’d made the trip many times, in his trusty little Beetle, and he’d go it alone. This upset them, and they threatened to call their client for guidance.
“Call the damned client, for all I care,” Trevor yelled at them, and they backed down. “Your client is not running my life.”
But the client was, and they all knew it. Only the money mattered now. Trevor had already performed his Judas act.
He left Neptune Beach in his Beetle, alone, followed by Wes and Chap in their rental car, and behind them was a white van occupied by people Trevor would never see. Nor did he want to see them. Just for the hell of it, he made a sudden turn into a convenience store for a six-pack, and laughed when the rest of the caravan slammed on brakes and barely avoided a wreck. Once out of town, he drove painfully slow, sipping his beer, savoring his privacy, telling himself he could suffer through the next thirty days. He could suffer through anything for a million bucks.
As he neared the village of Trumble, he had the first pangs of guilt. Could he pull this off? He was about to face Spicer, a client who trusted him, a prisoner who needed him, a partner in crime. Could he keep a straight face and act as if things were fine, while every word was being captured by a high-frequency mike in his briefcase? Could he swap letters with Spicer as if nothing had changed, knowing that the mail was being monitored? Plus, he was throwing away his law career, something he’d worked hard to attain and had once been proud of.
He was selling his ethics, his standards, even his morals for money. Was his soul worth a million bucks? Too late now. The money was in the bank. He took a sip of beer and washed away the fading twinges of guilt.
Spicer was a crook, and so were Beech and Yarber, and he, Trevor Carson, was just as culpable. There’s no honor among thieves, he kept repeating silently.
Link got a whiff of the beer wafting off Trevor as they walked down the hall and into the visitors’ area. At the lawyers’ room Trevor looked inside. He saw Spicer, partially hidden by a newspaper, and was suddenly nervous. What kind of low-life lawyer carries an electronic listening device into a confidential meeting with a client? The guilt hit Trevor like a brick, but there was no turning back.
The mike was almost as big as a golf ball, and had been meticulously installed by Wes in the bottom of Trevor’s beaten-up and scruffy black leather briefcase. It was extremely powerful, and would easily transmit everything to the faceless boys in the white van. Wes and Chap were there too, ready with their earphones, anxious to hear it all.
“Afternoon, Joe Roy,” Trevor said.
“Same to you,” Spicer said.
“Lemme see the briefcase,” Link said. He gave a cursory look, then said, “It looks fine.” Trevor had warned Wes and Chap that Link sometimes took a peek into the briefcase. The mike was covered by a pile
of papers.
“Here’s the mail,” Trevor said.
“How many?” Link asked.
“Eight.”
“You got any?” Link asked Spicer.
“No. None today,” Spicer replied.
“I’ll be outside,” Link said.
The door closed; feet shuffled, and suddenly there was silence. A very long silence. Nothing. Not a word between lawyer and client. They waited in the white van for an eternity, until it was obvious something had gone wrong.
AS LINK STEPPED from the small room, Trevor quickly and deftly set the briefcase outside the door, on the floor, where it rested benignly during the remainder of the attorney-client conference. Link noticed it, and thought nothing about it.
“What’d you do that for?” Spicer asked.
“It’s empty,” Trevor said, shrugging. “Let the closed-circuit see it. We have nothing to hide.” Trevor had had one final, brief attack of ethics. Maybe he’d bug the next chat with his client, but not this one. He’d simply tell Wes and Chap that the guard took his briefcase, something that happened occasionally.
“Whatever,” Spicer said, riffling through the mail until he came to two envelopes that were slightly thicker. “Is this the money?”
“It is. I had to use some hundreds.”
“Why? I plainly said twenties and fifties.”
“That’s all I could find, okay. I didn’t anticipate needing that much cash.”
Joe Roy studied the addresses on the other letters. Then he asked, rather caustically, “So what happened in Washington?”
“It’s a tough one. One of those rent-a-box outfits in the suburbs, open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, always somebody on duty, lots of traffic. Security is tight. We’ll figure it out.”
“Who are you using?”
“Some outfit in Chevy Chase.”
“Gimme a name.”
“Whatta you mean, gimme a name?”
“Give me the name of the investigator in Chevy Chase.”
Trevor drew a blank; invention failed him. Spicer was on to something, his dark liquid eyes glowing with intensity. “I can’t remember,” Trevor said.
John Grisham Page 24
