affidavit form promising to keep my activities legal, and leave his office. CRS boasts of nine hundred satisfied clients, and as I walk through the lobby, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve joined some manner of underworld filled with shell companies, faceless crooks, and foreign tax evaders. What the hell.
After two more nights with Eva, she wants me to go home to Puerto Rico with her. I promise to think about it, then slip away from the Blue Moon and drive to the Miami International Airport, where I park in long-term and shuttle to the terminals. I pull out a credit card and my new passport and buy a one-way ticket to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica. The plane is packed: half dark-skinned native Jamaicans and half pale-white tourists headed for the sun. Before we take off, the lovely attendants are serving rum punch. The flight takes forty-five minutes. On the ground, the Customs agent takes far too long studying my passport, and I’m starting to panic when he finally waves me through. I find the bus to Rum Bay Resort, an all-inclusive, singles-only, fairly notorious stretch of topless beaches. For three days, I sit in the shade by the pool and ponder the meaning of life.
From Jamaica, I fly to Antigua, in the Leeward Islands of the eastern Caribbean. It’s a lovely island, a hundred square miles, with mountains and white beaches and dozens of resorts. It’s also known as one of the world’s friendlier tax havens these days, and this is one reason for my visit. If I wanted nothing more than a good party, I would have stayed in Jamaica. The capital is St. John’s, a bustling town of thirty thousand situated on a deep harbor that attracts cruise ships. I check into my room in a small inn on the edge of St. John’s, with a beautiful view of the water, boats, and yachts. It’s June, the off-season, and for $300 a night I will eat like a king, sleep until noon, and relish the fact that no one knows who I am, where I came from, or anything about my past.
CHAPTER 25
The Freezer had been dismantled a month earlier, and Victor Westlake was settled back into his routine and office on the fourth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington. Though the murders of Judge Fawcett and Naomi Clary were technically solved, many doubts and questions remained. The most pressing issue, of course, was the validity of Quinn Rucker’s confession. If the judge suppressed it, the government would be left with little proof with which to go forward. The murders were solved, but the case was not closed, at least in Westlake’s opinion. He was still spending two hours each day dealing with it. There was the daily report on the business of Max Baldwin: his movements, meetings, phone calls, Internet activity, et cetera. So far, Max had done nothing to surprise them. Westlake did not like the trip to Jamaica and beyond, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were watching as closely as possible. There was the daily report on Rucker’s family. The FBI had obtained court approval to monitor phone conversations of Dee Ray Rucker, Sammy (Tall Man) Rucker, their sister Lucinda, and four relatives involved in the D.C. unit of their trafficking operation.
On Wednesday, June 15, Westlake was in a staff meeting when he was summoned to the phone. It was urgent, and within minutes he was in a conference room with technicians who were working quickly to prepare the audio. One of them said, “The call came to Dee Ray’s cell phone last night at 11:19, not sure where it came from, but here it is. The first voice is Dee Ray, the second is Sully. We have not yet identified Sully.” Another technician said, “Here it is.”
DEE RAY: Yeah.
SULLY: Dee Ray, Sully here.
DEE RAY: What you got?
SULLY: Got the snitch, man. Bannister.
DEE RAY: No shit, man.
SULLY: No shit, Dee Ray.
DEE RAY: Okay, don’t tell me how, just tell me where.
SULLY: Well, he’s a beach bum now, in Florida. Name is Max Baldwin, lives in a little condo in Neptune Beach, east of Jacksonville. Seems to have some money, taking it easy, you know. The good life.
DEE RAY: What’s he look like?
SULLY: A different dude. Lots of surgery. But the same height, down a few pounds. Same walk. Plus we got a fingerprint and a match.
DEE RAY: A fingerprint?
SULLY: Our firm is good. They followed him down the beach and saw him toss a water bottle in the trash. They picked it up, got a print.
DEE RAY: That is good.
SULLY: Like I said. What now?
DEE RAY: Sit tight. Let me sleep on it. He ain’t going nowhere, right?
SULLY: No, he’s a happy boy.
DEE RAY: Beautiful.
Westlake slowly fell into a chair, slack-jawed and pale, too shaken to speak for a moment. Then, “Get me Twill.” A flunky disappeared, and while he waited, Westlake rubbed his eyes and contemplated his next move. Twill, the top assistant, arrived in a rush, and they listened to the tape again. For Westlake, it was even more chilling the second time around.
“How in the …,” Twill mumbled.
Westlake was recovering. “Call Bratten at the Marshals Service.”
“Bratten had surgery yesterday,” Twill said. “Newcombe is in charge.”
“Then get Newcombe on the phone. We can’t waste time here.”
I’ve joined a gym and I spend an hour there each day around noon, walking uphill on a treadmill and doing reps with light weights. If I plan to spend so much time on the beach, I need to look the part.
After some steam and a long shower, I am dressing when the cell phone starts buzzing in the top of my locker. It’s dear Diana, and an odd time for her to be calling. “Hello,” I say quietly, though the locker room is not busy.
“We need to talk,” she says abruptly, the first-ever hint that something might be out of place.
“About what?”
“Not now. There are two FBI agents in the parking lot in a maroon Jeep Cherokee, parked next to your car. They’ll give you a ride.”
“And how exactly do you know where I am at this moment, Diana?”
“Let’s discuss it later.”
I sit in a folding chair. “Talk to me, Diana. What’s going on?”
“Max, I’m ten minutes away. Follow orders, get in the Jeep, and I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as I see you. Let’s not do it over the phone.”
“Okay.” I finish dressing and try to act as calm as always. I walk through the gym and smile at a yoga instructor I’ve been smiling at for a week now and make my way to the front door. I glance outside and see the maroon Jeep parked next to my car. At this point it’s fairly obvious that something dreadful has happened, so I swallow hard and step into the blinding midday sun. The driver hops out and, without a word, opens a rear door. I ride for seven minutes in complete silence until we park in the driveway of a quaint duplex cottage with a “For Rent” sign in the front yard. It’s a block from the ocean. As soon as the engine is turned off, both agents jump out and scan the periphery, as if snipers might be up there, just waiting. The knot in my stomach feels like a bowling ball.
We make it inside without getting shot, and Diana is waiting. “Nice place you have here,” I say.
“It’s a safe house,” she replies.
“Oh, okay. And why are we hiding in a safe house in the middle of a perfectly fine day?”
A gray-haired man enters from the kitchen and thrusts out a hand. “Max, I’m Dan Raynor, U.S. Marshal, supervisor for this area.” We shake hands like old friends and he’s actually smiling as if we’re about to have a long lunch.
“A real pleasure,” I say. “What’s going on?”
There are four of them-Raynor, Diana, and the two nameless FBI agents-and for a few seconds they’re not
