The meeting was interrupted by a message from Deville's office. Trevor Carson's passport had been scanned at a departure checkpoint at the airport in Hamilton, Bermuda. He left on a flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico, that was scheduled to land in about fifty minutes.
"Did we know he was in Bermuda?"York asked.
"No, we did not," Deville answered. "Evidently he entered without using his passport."
"Maybe he's not as drunk as we thought."
"Do we have someone in Puerto Rico?" Teddy asked, his voice only a shade more excited.
"Of course," said York.
"Let's pick up the scent."
"Have the plans changed for ole Trevor?" Deville asked.
"No, not at all,"Teddy said. "Not at all."
Deville left to deal with the latest Trevor crisis. Teddy called an assistant and ordered mint tea. York was reading the letter again. When they were alone, he asked, "What if we separate them?"
"Yes, I was thinking of that. Do it quickly, before they have time to confer. Send them to three prisons far apart, put them in isolation for a period of time, make sure they have no phone privileges, no mail. Then what? They still have their secret. Any one of them could conceivably ruin Lake."
"I'm not sure we have the contacts within the Bureau of Prisons."
"It can be done. If necessary, I'll have a chat with the Attorney General."
"Since when did you become friends with the Attorney General?"
"It's a matter of national security."
"Three crooked judges sitting in a federal prison in Florida can somehow affect national security? I'd like to hear that conversation."
Teddy sipped his tea with his eyes closed, all ten forgers on the cup. "It's too risky," he whispered. "We make them mad, they become even more erratic. We can't take chances here."
"Suppose Argrow can find their records;'York said. "Think about it-these are con men, convicted criminals. No one will believe their story about Lake unless they have proof. The proof is documentation, pieces of paper, originals and copies of the correspondence. The proof exists somewhere. We find it, take it from them, then who will listen?"
Another small sip with his eyes closed, another long pause. Teddy shifted slightly in his chair and grimaced from the pain. "True," he said softly. "But I'm worried about somebody on the outside, somebody we know nothing about. These guys are a step ahead of us, and they always will be. We're trying to figure out what they've known for some time. I'm not sure we'll ever catch up. Maybe they've thought about losing their htde files. I'm sure the prison has rules against maintaining such paperwork, so they're already hiding things. The Lake letters are much too valuable not to copy again and stash on the outside."
"Trevor was their mailman. We've seen every letter he's carried out of Trumble for the past month."
"We think we have. But we don't know for certain,"
"But who?"
"Spicer has a wife. She's been to see him. Yarber's getting a divorce, but who knows what they're doing. She's visited in the past three months. Or maybe they're bribing guards to run mail for them. These people are bored and they're smart and they're very creative. We can't just assume we know everything they're up to. And if we make a mistake here, if we assume too much, then Mr. Aaron Lake gets himself shoved out of the closet."
"How? How would they do it?"
"Probably contact a reporter, feed him one letter at a time until he was convinced. It would work."
"The press would go insane."
"It can't happen,York. We simply cannot allow it to happen."
Deville returned in a rush. US. Customs had been notified by the authorities in Bermuda ten minutes after the flight departed for San Juan. Trevor would be landing in eighteen minutes.
Trevor was just following his money. He had quickly grasped the fundamentals of wire transfers, and was now perfecting the art. In Bermuda, he had sent half of it to a bank in Switzerland, and the other half to a bank in Grand Cayman. East or west? That had been the great question. The quickest flight out of Bermuda went to London, but the idea of sneaking through Heathrow scared him. He was not a wanted man, at least not by the government. No charges were filed or pending. But the Brits were so efficient at customs. He'd go west and take his chances in the Caribbean.
He landed in San Juan and went straight to a bar where he ordered a tall draft and studied the flights. No hurry, no pressure, a pocket full of cash. He could go anywhere, do anything, and take as long as he wanted. He had another draft and decided to spend a few days in Grand Cayman, with his money. He went to the Air Jamaica counter and bought a ticket, then back to the bar because it was almost five and he had thirty minutes before boarding.
Of course he flew first class. He boarded early so he could get another drink, and as he watched the other passengers file by he saw a face he'd seen before.
Where was it now? Just moments ago, somewhere in the airport. A long thin face, with a salt-and-pepper goatee, and little narrow slits for eyes behind square glasses. The eyes glanced at him just long enough to meet Trevor's, then looked away, down the aisle, as if nothing had been seen.
It had been near the airline counter, as Trevor was turning to leave after buying his ticket. The face was watching him. The man was standing nearby, studying the departure notices.
When you're on the run, the stray glances and second looks and drifting eyes all seem more suspicious. See a face once, and you don't even know it. See it again a half hour later, and somebody is watching every move you make.
Stop drinking,Trevor ordered himself. He asked for coffee after takeoff, and drank it quickly He was the first passenger off the plane in Kingston, and he walked quickly through the terminal, through immigration. No sign of the man behind him.
He grabbed his two small bags and raced for the taxi stand.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Jacksonville paper arrived at Trumble each morning around seven. Four copies were taken to the game room where they were to be read and left behind for any of the inmates who cared about life on the outside. Most of the time Joe Roy Spicer was the only one waiting at seven, and he usually took one paper for himself because he needed to study the Vegas lines throughout the day. The scene rarely changed: Spicer with a tall Styrofoam cup of coffee, feet on a card table, waiting for Roderick the guard to bring the papers.
So Spicer saw the story first, at the bottom of the front page. Trevor Carson, a local lawyer who'd been missing for some vague reason, found dead outside a hotel in Kingston, Jamaica, shot twice in the head last night, just after dark. The story had no picture of Trevor, Spicer noticed.Why would the paper have one on file? Why would anyone care if Trevor died?
According to Jamaican officials, Carson was a tourist who'd apparently been robbed. An unidentified source close to the scene had tipped the police as to the identity of Mr. Carson, since his wallet was missing. The source seemed to know a lot.
The paragraph recapping Trevor's legal career was quite brief.A former secretary,Jan something or other, had no comment. The story had been thrown together, and placed on the front page only because the victim was a murdered lawyer.
Finn was at the far end of the track, rounding the turn, walking at a rapid clip in the damp early morning air, his shirt already off. Spicer waited at the homestretch, and handed him the paper without a word.
They found Beech waiting in line in the cafeteria, holding his plastic tray and staring forlornly at the crude piles of freshly scrambled eggs. They sat together in a corner, away from everyone else, picking at their food, talking in muted voices.