“They don’t come in till eleven on Saturday.”
“Good. We’re turning off the lights. Watch them and call when they leave.”
From a dark window in a closet, Andy watched the men go from door to door, knocking and waiting, occasionally getting one to open. Eleven of the forty-two rooms were occupied. No response at 38 and 39. They returned to the beach and disappeared. Professional killers! At his motel.
Across the Strip, in the parking lot of a miniature golf course, Andy saw two identical fake tourists talking 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. Tarrance 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 Harvard Law School mug shot of Mitch, with the long hair, stubble and rough academic looks. The eyes, noses and cheekbones were similar, after careful analysis, but nothing else. The documents were in the names of Lee Stevens, Rachel James and Sam Fortune, all with addresses in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Doc did good work, and Ray smiled as he studied each one.
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 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 three lawyers on board to legitimate the trip. With dope pouring in by land, air and sea, U.S. customs cares little about what’s leaving the country. It was a perfect setup. The planes left dirty and came back clean. Once the money landed on Grand Cayman, a lawyer on board handled the required payoffs to Cayman customs and to the appropriate
banker. On some loads, up to twenty-five percent went for bribes.
Once deposited, usually in unnamed, numbered accounts, the money became almost impossible to trace. But many of the bank transactions coincided nicely with significant corporate events. The money was usually deposited into one of a dozen numbered holding accounts. Or “super accounts,” as Mitch called them. He gave the jury these account numbers, and the names of the banks. Then, as the new corporations were chartered, the money was transferred from the super accounts to the corporate accounts, often in the same bank. Once the dirty money was owned by a legitimate Cayman corporation, the laundering began. The simplest and most common method was for the company to purchase real estate and other clean assets in the United States. The transactions were handled by the creative attorneys at Bendini, Lambert & Locke, and all money moved by wire transfer. Often, the Cayman corporation would purchase another Cayman corporation that happened to own a Panama corporation that owned a holding company in Denmark. The Danes would purchase a ball-bearing factory in Toledo and wire in the purchase money from a subsidiary bank in Munich. And the dirty money was now clean.
After marking Exhibit MM4292, Mitch quit the deposition. Sixteen hours of testimony was enough. It would not be admissible at trial, but it would serve its purpose. Tarrance and his buddies could show the tapes to a grand jury and indict at least thirty lawyers from the Bendini firm. He could show the tapes to a federal magistrate and get his search warrants.
Mitch had held to his end of the bargain. Although
he would not be around to testify in person, he had been paid only a million dollars and was about to deliver more than was expected. He was physically and emotionally drained, and sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off. Abby sat in a chair with her eyes closed.
Ray peeked through the blinds. “We need a cold beer,” he said.
“Forget it,” Mitch snapped.
Ray turned and stared at him. “Relax, little brother. It’s dark, and the store is just a short walk down the beach. I can take care of myself.”
“Forget it, Ray. There is no need to take chances. We’re leaving in a few hours, and if all goes well, you’ll have the rest of your life to drink beer.”
Ray was not listening. He pulled a baseball cap firmly over his forehead, stuck some cash in his pockets and reached for the gun.
“Ray, please, at least forget the gun,” Mitch pleaded.
Ray stuck the gun under his shirt and eased out the door. He walked quickly in the sand behind the small motels and shops, hiding in the shadows and craving a cold beer. He stopped behind the convenience store, looked quickly around and was certain no one was watching, then walked to the front door. The beer cooler was in the rear.
In the parking lot next to the Strip, Lamar Quin hid under a large straw hat and made small talk with some teenagers from Indiana. He saw Ray enter the store and thought he might recognize something. There was a casualness about the man’s stride that looked vaguely familiar. Lamar moved to the front window and glanced in the direction of the beer cooler. The man’s eyes were covered with sunglasses,
but the nose and cheekbones were certainly familiar. Lamar eased inside the small store and picked up a sack of potato chips. He waited at the checkout counter and came face-to-face with the man, who was not Mitchell McDeere but greatly resembled him.
It was Ray. It had to be. The face was sunburned, and the hair was too short to be stylish. The eyes were covered. Same height. Same weight. Same walk.
“How’s it going?” Lamar said to the man.
“Fine. You?” the voice was similar.
Lamar paid for his chips and returned to the parking lot. He calmly dropped the bag in a garbage can next to a phone booth and quickly walked next door to a souvenir shop to continue his search for the McDeeres.
40
Darkness brought a cool breeze to the beach along the Strip. The sun disappeared quickly, and there was no moon to replace it. A distant ceiling of harmless dark clouds covered the sky, and the water was black.
Darkness brought fishermen to the Dan Russell Pier in the center of the Strip. They gathered in groups of three and four along the concrete structure and stared silently as their lines ran into the black water twenty feet below. They leaned motionless on the railing, occasionally spitting or talking to a friend. They enjoyed the breeze and the quietness and the still water much more than they enjoyed the occasional fish that ventured by and hit a hook. They were vacationers from the North who spent the same week each year at the same motel and came to the pier each night in the darkness to fish and marvel at the sea. Between them sat buckets full of bait and small coolers full of beer.
From time to time throughout the night, a nonfisherman or a pair of lovebirds would venture onto the
pier and walk a hundred yards to the end of it. They would gaze at the black, gentle water for a few minutes, then turn and admire the glow of a million flickering lights along the Strip. They would watch the inert, huddled fishermen leaning on their elbows. The fishermen did not notice them.
The fishermen did not notice Aaron Rimmer as he casually walked behind them around eleven. He smoked a cigarette at the end of the pier and tossed the butt into the ocean. He gazed along the beach and thought of the thousands of motel rooms and condos.
The Dan Russell Pier was the westernmost of the three at Panama City Beach. It was the newest, the longest and the only one built with nothing but concrete. The other two were older and wooden. In the center there was a small brick building containing a tackle shop, a snack bar and rest rooms. Only the rest rooms were open at night.
It was probably a half mile east of the Sea Gull’s Rest. At eleven-thirty, Abby left Room 39, eased by the dirty pool and began walking east along the beach. She wore shorts, a white straw hat and a wind-breaker with the collar turned up around her ears. She walked slowly, with her hands thrust deep in the pockets like an experienced, contemplative beachcomber. Five minutes later, Mitch left the room, eased by the dirty pool and followed her footsteps. He gazed at the ocean as he walked. Two joggers approached, splashing in the water and talking between breaths. On a string around his neck and tucked under his black cotton shirt was a whistle, just in case. In all four pockets he had crammed sixty thousand in cash. He looked at the ocean and nervously watched
Abby ahead of him. When he was two hundred yards down the beach, Ray left Room 39 for the last time. He locked it and kept a key. Wrapped around his waist was a forty-foot piece of black nylon rope. The gun was stuck under it. A bulky windbreaker covered it all nicely. Andy had charged another two thousand for the clothing and items.