to a man in a white van. They pointed here and there and seemed to be arguing.
He called Sam. 'Listen, Sam, they're gone. But this place is crawling with these people.'
'How many?'
'I can see two more across the Strip. You folks better run for it.'
'Relax, Andy. They won't see us if we stay in here.'
'But you can't stay forever. My boss'll catch on before much longer.'
'We're leaving soon, Andy. What about the package?'
'It's here.'
'Good. I need to see it. Say, Andy, what about food? Could you ease across the street and get something hot?'
Andy was a manager, not a porter. But for five thousand a day the Sea Gull's Rest could provide a little room service. 'Sure. Be there in a minute.'
Wayne Tarrance grabbed the phone and fell across the single bed in his Ramada Inn room in Orlando. He was exhausted, furious, baffled and sick of F. Denton Voyles. It was 1:30 P.M., Saturday. He called Memphis. The secretary had nothing to report, except that Mary Alice called and wanted to talk to him. They had traced the call to a pay phone in Atlanta. Mary Alice said she would call again at 2 P.M. to see if Wayne—she called him Wayne—had checked in. Tarranee gave his room number and hung up. Mary Alice. In Atlanta. McDeere in Tallahassee, then Ocala. Then no McDeere. No green Ford pickup with Tennessee plates and trailer. He had vanished again.
The phone rang once. Tarrance slowly lifted the receiver. 'Mary Alice,' he said softly.
' Wayne baby! How'd you guess?'
'Where is he?'
'Who?' Tammy giggled.
'McDeere. Where is he?'
'Well, Wayne, you boys were hot for a while, but then you chased a wild rabbit. Now you're not even close, baby. Sorry to tell you.'
'We've got three positive IDs in the past fourteen hours.'
'Better check them out, Wayne. Mitch told me a few minutes ago he's never been to Tallahassee. Never heard of Ocala. Never driven a green Ford pickup. Never pulled a U-Haul trailer. You boys bit hard, Wayne. Hook, line and sinker.'
Tarrance pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed into the phone.
'So how's Orlando?' she asked. 'Gonna see Disney World while you're in town?'
'Where the hell is he!'
'Wayne, Wayne, relax, baby. You'll get the documents.'
Tarrance sat up. 'Okay, when?'
'Well, we could be greedy and insist on the rest of our money. I'm at a pay phone, Wayne, so don't bother to trace it, okay? But we're not greedy. You'll get your records within twenty-four hours. If all goes well.'
'Where are the records?'
'I'll have to call you back, baby. If you stay at this number, I'll call you every four hours until Mitch tells me where the documents are. But, Wayne, if you leave this number, I might lose you, baby. So stay put.'
'I'll be here. Is he still in the country?'
'I think not. I'm sure he's in Mexico by now. His brother speaks the language, you know?'
'I know.' Tarrance stretched out on the bed and said to hell with it. Mexico could have them, as long as he got the records.
'Stay where you are, baby. Take a nap. You gotta be tired. I'll call around five or six.'
Tarrance laid the phone on the nightstand, and took a nap.
The dragnet lost its steam Saturday afternoon when the Panama City Beach police received the fourth complaint from motel owners. The cops were dispatched to the Breakers Motel, where an irate owner told of armed men harassing the guests. More cops were sent to the Strip, and before long they were searching the motels for gunmen who were searching for the McDeeres. The Emerald Coast was on the brink of war.
Weary and hot, DeVasher's men were forced to work alone. They spread themselves even thinner along the beach and stopped the door-to-door work. They lounged in plastic chairs around the pools, watching the tourists come and go. They lay on the beach, dodging the sun, hiding behind dark shades, watching the tourists come and go.
As dusk approached, the army of goons and thugs and gunmen, and lawyers, slipped into the darkness and waited. If the McDeeres were going to move, they would do it at night. A silent army waited for them.
DeVasher's thick forearms rested uncomfortably on a balcony railing outside his Best Western room. He watched the empty beach below as the sun slowly disappeared on the horizon. Aaron Rimmer walked through the sliding glass door and stopped behind DeVasher. 'We found Tolar,' Rimmer said.
DeVasher did not move. 'Where?'
'Hiding in his girlfriend's apartment in Memphis.'
'Was he alone?'
'Yeah. They iced him. Made it look like a robbery.'
In Room 39, Ray inspected for the hundredth time the new passports, visas, driver's licenses and birth certificates. The passport photos for Mitch and Abby were current, with plenty of dark hair. After the escape, time would take care of the blondness. Ray's photo was a slightly altered
Abby packed the Sony video camera into its box. The tripod was folded and leaned against the wall. Fourteen videocassette tapes with stick-on labels were stacked neatly on the television.
After sixteen hours, the video deposition was over. Starting with the first tape, Mitch had faced the camera, raised his right hand and sworn to tell the truth. He stood next to the dresser with documents covering the floor around him. Using Tammy's notes, summaries and flowcharts, he methodically walked through the bank records first. He identified over two hundred and fifty secret accounts in eleven Cayman banks. Some had names, but most were just numbered. Using copies of computer printouts, he constructed the histories of the accounts. Cash deposits, wire transfers and withdrawals. At the bottom of each document used in his deposition, he wrote with a black marker the initials MM and then the exhibit number: MM1, MM2, MM3 and so on. After Exhibit MM1485, he had identified nine hundred million dollars hiding in Cayman banks.
After the bank records, he painstakingly pieced together the structure of the empire. In twenty years, more than four hundred Cayman corporations had been chartered by the Moroltos and The Firm their incredibly rich and incredibly corrupt attorneys. Many of the corporations owned all or pieces of each other and used the banks as registered agents and permanent addresses. Mitch learned quickly that he had only a fraction of the records and speculated, on camera, that most documents were hidden in the basement in Memphis. He also explained, for the benefit of the jury, that it would take a small army of IRS investigators a year or so to piece together the Morolto corporate puzzle. He slowly explained each exhibit, marked it carefully and filed it away. Abby operated the camera. Ray watched the parking lot and studied the fake passports.
He testified for six hours on various methods used by the Moroltos and their attorneys to turn dirty money into clean. Easily the most favored method was to fly in a load of dirty cash on a Bendini plane, usually with two or
