"She could read them."
"Yeah, there's only a million. Keep in mind, now, she must have been drinking along with Avery, or he would've been suspicious. So she's spent the night drinking and screwing. She waits until he goes to sleep, then suddenly she has this urge to go downstairs and read bank records. It don't work, boys."
"She could work for the FBI," Ollie said proudly.
"No, she couldn't."
"Why?"
"It's simple, Ollie. The FBI wouldn't do it because the search would be illegal and the records would be inadmissible. And there's a much better reason."
"What?"
"If she was a Fibbie, she wouldn't have used the phone. No professional would've made that call. I think she was a pickpocket."
The pickpocket theory was explained to Lazarov, who poked a hundred holes but could devise nothing better. He ordered changes in all the locks on the third and fourth floors, and the basement, and both condos on Grand Cayman. He ordered a search for all the locksmiths on the island - there couldn't be many, he said - to determine if any had reproduced keys the night of April 1 or the early morning of April 2. Bribe them, he told DeVasher. They'll talk for a little money. He ordered a fingerprint examination of the files from Avery's office. DeVasher proudly explained he had already started this. McDeere's prints were on file with the state bar association.
He also ordered a sixty-day suspension of Avery Tolar. DeVasher suggested this might alert McDeere to something unusual. Fine, said Lazarov, tell Tolar to check into the hospital with chest pains. Two months off - doctor's orders. Tell Tolar to clean up his act. Lock up his office. Assign McDeere to Victor Milligan.
"You said you had a good plan to eliminate McDeere," DeVasher said.
Lazarov grinned and picked his nose. "Yeah. I think we'll use the plane. We'll send him down to the islands on a little business trip, and there will be this mysterious explosion."
"Waste two pilots?" asked DeVasher.
"Yeah. It needs to look good."
"Don't do it anywhere around the Caymans. That'll be too coincidental."
"Okay, but it needs to happen over water. Less debris. We'll use a big device, so they won't find much."
"That plane's expensive."
"Yeah. I'll run it by Joey first."
"You're the boss. Let me know if we can help down there."
"Sure. Start thinking about it."
"What about your man in Washington?" DeVasher asked.
"I'm waiting. I called New York this morning, and they're checking into it. We should know in a week."
"That would make it easy."
"Yeah. If the answer is yes, we need to eliminate him within twenty-four hours."
"I'll start planning."
* * *
The office was quiet for a Saturday morning. A handful of partners and a dozen associates loitered about in khakis and polos. There were no secretaries. Mitch checked his mail and dictated correspondence. After two hours he left. It was time to visit Ray.
For five hours, he drove east on Interstate 40. Drove like an idiot. He drove forty-five, then eighty-five. He darted into every rest stop and weigh station. He made sudden exits from the left lane. He stopped at an underpass and waited and watched. He never saw them. Not once did he notice a suspicious car or truck or van. He even watched a few eighteen-wheelers. Nothing. They simply were not back there. He would have caught them.
His care package of books and cigarettes was cleared through the guard station, and he was pointed to stall number nine. Minutes later, Ray sat through the thick screen.
"Where have you been?" he said with a hint of irritation. "You're the only person in the entire world who visits me, and this is only the second time in four months."
"I know. It's tax season, and I've been swamped. I'll do better. I've written, though."
"Yeah, once a week I get two paragraphs. 'Hi, Ray. How's the bunk? How's the food? How are the walls? How's the Greek or Italian? I'm fine. Abby's great. Dog's sick. Gotta run. I'll come visit soon. Love, Mitch.' You write some rich letters, little brother. I really treasure them."
"Yours aren't much better."
"What have I got to say? The guards are selling dope. A friend got stabbed thirty-one times. I saw a kid get raped. Come on, Mitch, who wants to hear it?"
"I'll do better."
"How's Mom?"
"I don't know. I haven't been back since Christmas."
"I asked you to check on her, Mitch. I'm worried about her. If that goon is beating her, I want it stopped. If I could get out of here, I'd stop it myself."
"You will." It was a statement, not a question. Mitch placed a finger over his lips and nodded slowly. Ray leaned forward on his elbows and stared intently.
Mitch spoke softly. "Espanol. Hable despotic." Spanish. Speak slowly.
Ray smiled slightly. "Cudndo?" When?
"La semana proximo." Next week.
"Que dia?" What day?
Mitch thought for a second. "Maries o miercoles." Tuesday or Wednesday.
"Que tiempo?" What time?
Mitch smiled and shrugged, and looked around.
"How's Abby?" Ray asked.
"She's been in Kentucky for a couple of weeks. Her mother's sick." He stared at Ray and softly mouthed the words "Trust me."
"What's wrong with her?"
"They removed a lung. Cancer. She's smoked heavy all her life. You should quit."
"I will if I ever get out of here."
Mitch smiled and nodded slowly. "You've got at least seven more years."
"Yeah, and escape is impossible. They try it occasionally, but they're either shot or captured."
"James Earl Ray went over the wall, didn't he?" Mitch nodded slowly as he asked the question. Ray smiled and watched his brother's eyes.
"But they caught him. They bring in a bunch of mountain boys with bloodhounds, and it gets pretty nasty. I don't think anyone's ever survived the mountains after they got over the wall."
"Let's talk about something else," Mitch said.
"Good idea."
Two guards stood by a window behind the row of visitors' booths. They were enjoying a stack of dirty pictures someone took with a Polaroid and tried to sneak through the guard station. They giggled among themselves and ignored the visitors. On the prisoners' side, a single guard with a stick walked benignly back and forth, half asleep.
"When can I expect little nieces and nephews?" Ray asked.
"Maybe in a few years. Abby wants one of each, and she would start now if I would. I'm not ready."
The guard walked behind Ray, but did not look. They stared at each other, trying to read each other's eyes.
"Addnde voy?" Ray asked quickly. Where am I going?
"Perdido Beach Hilton. We went to the Cayman Islands last month, Abby and I. Had a beautiful vacation."
"Never heard of the place. Where is it?"
"In the Caribbean, below Cuba."
"Que es mi nombre?" What is my name?
"Lee Stevens. Did some snorkeling. The water is warm and gorgeous. The Firm owns two condos right on Seven Mile Beach. All I paid for was the airfare. It was great."
"Get me a book. I'd like to read about it. Pasaporte?"
Mitch nodded with a smile. The guard walked behind Ray and stopped. They talked of old times in Kentucky.
* * *
At dusk he parked the BMW on the dark side of a suburban mall in Nashville. He left the keys in the ignition and locked the door. He had a spare in his pocket. A busy crowd of Easter shoppers moved en masse through the Sears doors. He joined them. Inside he ducked into the men's clothing department and studied socks and underwear while watching the door. Nobody suspicious. He left Sears and walked quickly through the crowd down the mall. A black cotton sweater in the window of a men's store caught his attention. He found one inside, tried it on and decided to wear it out of there, he liked it so much. As the clerk laid his change on the counter, he scanned the yellow pages for the number of a cab. Back into the mall, he rode the escalator to the first floor, where he found a pay phone. The cab would be there in ten minutes.