Wire the damned money, Quince, and now!
Love,
Ricky
Klockner worried that Trevor might visit Trumble one day before noon, then drop off the mail at some point along the way before returning to his office or his home. There was no way to intercept it while en route. It was imperative that he haul it back, and leave it overnight so they could get their hands on it.
He worried, but at the same time Trevor was proving to be- a late starter. He showed few signs of life until after his two o'clock nap.
So when he informed his secretary that he was about to leave for Trumble at 11 A.M., the rental across the street sprang into action. A call was immediately placed to Trevor's office by a middle-aged woman claiming to be a Mrs. Beltrone, who explained to Jan that she and her rich husband were in dire need of a quick divorce. The secretary put her on hold, and yelled down the hallway for Trevor to wait a second. Trevor was gathering papers from his desk and placing them in his briefcase. The camera in the ceiling above him caught his look of displeasure at having been interrupted by a new client.
'She says she's rich!' Jan yelled, and Trevor's frown disappeared. He sat down and waited.
Mrs. Beltrone-unloaded on the secretary. She was wife number three, the husband was much older, they had a home in Jacksonville but spent most of their time at their home in Bermuda. Also had a home in Vail. They'd been planning the divorce for some time, everything had been agreed upon, no fighting at all, very amicable, just needed a good lawyer to handle the paperwork. Mr. Carson had come highly recommended, but they had to act fast for some undisclosed reason.
Trevor took over and listened to the same story. Mrs. Beltrone was sitting across the street in the rental, working from a script the team had put together just for this occasion.
'I really need to see you,' she said after fifteen minutes of baring her soul.
'Well, I'm awfully busy.' Trevor said, as if he were flipping pages in half a dozen daily appointment books. Mrs. Beltrone was watching him on the monitor. His feet were on the desk, his eyes closed, his bow tie crooked. The life of an awfully busy lawyer.
'Please.' she begged. 'We need to get this over with. I must see you today'
'Where's your husband?'
'He's in France, but he'll be here tomorrow'
'Well, uh, let's see,' Trevor mumbled, playing with his bow tie.
'What's your fee?' she asked, and his eyes flew open.
'Well, this is obviously more complicated than your simple no-fault. I'd have to charge a fee of ten thousand dollars.' He grimaced when he said it, holding his breath for the response.
'I'll bring it today,' she said. 'Can I see you at one?'
He was on his feet, hovering over the phone. 'How about one-thirty?' he managed to say.
'I'll be there.'
'Do you know where my office is?'
'My driver can find it. Thanks, Mr. Carson.'
Just call me Trevor, he almost said. But she was gone.
They watched as he wrung his hands together, then pumped his fists, gritted his teeth, said, 'Yes!' He'd hooked a big one.
Jan appeared from the hall and said, 'Well?'
'She'll be here at one-thirty. Get this place cleaned up a little.'
'I'm not a maid. Can you get some money up front? I need to pay bills.'
'I'll get the damned money.'
Trevor attacked his bookshelves, straightening volumes he hadn't touched in years, dusting the planks with a paper towel, stung files in drawers. When he charged his desk, Jan finally felt a twinge of guilt and began vacuuming the reception area.
They labored through lunch, their bitching and straining making for great amusement across the street.
No sign of Mrs. Beltrone at one-thirty.
'Where the hell is she?' Trevor barked down the hall just after two.
'Maybe she checked around, got some more references' Jansaid.
What did you say?' he yelled.
'Nothing, boss '
'Call her.' he demanded at two-thirty-
'She didn't leave a number.'
'You didn't get a number?'
'That's not what I said. I said she didn't leave a number.'
At three-thirty Trevor stormed out of his office, still trying desperately to uphold his end of a raging argument with a woman he'd fired at least ten times in the past eight years.
They followed him straight to Trumble. He was in the prison for fifty-three minutes, and when he left it was after five, too late to drop off mail in either Neptune Beach or Atlantic Beach. He returned to his office and left his briefcase on his desk. Then, predictably, he went to Pete's for drinks and dinner.
EIGHTEEN
The unit from Langley flew to Des Moines, where the agents rented two cars and a van, then drove forty minutes to Bakers, Iowa. They arrived in the quiet, snowbound little town two days before the letter. By the time Quince picked it up at the post office, they knew the names of the postmaster, the mayor, the chief of police, and the short-order cook at the pancake house next to the hardware store. But no one in Bakers knew them.
They watched Quince hurry to the bank after leaving the post office. Thirty minutes later, two agents known only as Chap and Wes found the corner of the bank where Mr. Garbe, Jr., did business, and they presented themselves to his secretary as inspectors from the Federal Reserve. They certainly looked official -dark suits, black shoes, short hair, long overcoats, clipped speech, efficient manners.
Quince was locked inside, and at first seemed unwilling to come out. They impressed upon his secretary the urgency of their visit, and after almost forty minutes the door opened slightly. Mr. Garbe looked as though he'd been crying. He was pale, shaken, unhappy with the prospect of entertaining anyone. But he showed them in anyway, too unnerved to ask for identification. He didn't even catch their names.
He sat across the massive desk, and looked at the twins facing him. 'What can we do for you?' he asked, with a very faint smile.
'Is the door locked?' Chap asked.
'Why yes, it is.' The twins got the impression that most of Mr. Garbe's day was spent behind locked doors.
'Can anyone hear us?' Wes asked.
'No.' Quince was even more rattled now.
'We're not reserve officials, Chap said. 'We lied.'
Quince wasn't sure if he should be angry or relieved or even more frightened, so he just sat there for a second, mouth open, frozen, waiting to be shot.
'It's a long story.' Wes said.
'You've got five minutes.'
'Actually, we have as long as we want.'
'This is my office. Get out.'
'Not so fast. We know some things.'
'I'll call security'
'No you won't.'
'We've seen the letter,' Chap said. 'The one you just got from the post office.'