The Racketeer

There is a long pause as they catch their collective breath. Finally, Vic asks, “Is there anything you have not thought of?”

“Sure. But I’d rather not share it with you.”

CHAPTER 43

My storytelling talents hold them spellbound, and for an hour they pepper me with questions. I slog through the answers, and when I start to repeat myself, I get irritated. Give a bunch of lawyers the rich details of a mystery they’ve lost sleep over, and they can’t help but ask the same question five different ways. My low opinion of Victor Westlake is raised somewhat when he says, “That’s it. Meeting’s over. I’m going to the bar.”

I suggest the two of us have drinks alone, and we return to the same table by a pool. We order beers and gulp them when they arrive. “Something else?” he asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. Something almost as big as the murder of a federal judge.”

“Haven’t you had enough for one day?”

“Oh yes, but I have one parting shot.”

“I’m listening.”

I take another swig and savor the taste. “If my time line is correct, Judge Fawcett was accepting and hiding pure gold in the middle of the uranium trial. The plaintiff was Arma

“How much gold?” Westlake asks softly, as though he doesn’t want his own hidden mike to hear.

“We’ll never know, but I suspect Fawcett received around $10 million in pure gold. He cashed in here and there. You have the informant in New York, but we’ll never know if it went elsewhere and traded on the black market. Nor will we ever know how much cash was in the safe when Nathan finally got to it.”

“Nathan might tell us.”

“Indeed, but don’t count on it. Anyway, the grand total is beside the point. It’s a lot of money, or gold, and for it to travel from Arma

“One of the lawyers?”

“Probably. I’m sure Arma

“Any clue?”

“None whatsoever. But I’m convinced a massive crime has occurred, with serious implications. The U.S. Supreme Court will hear the case this October, and given the pro-business leanings of the majority, it’s likely Fawcett’s gift to the uranium miners will stand. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it, Vic? A corrupt opinion becomes a law. A huge mining company bribes its way past the statutory ban and is given carte blanche to wreck the environment of southern Virginia.”

“Why do you care? You’re not going back there, or so you say.”

“My feelings are not important, but the FBI should care. If you launch an investigation, the case could be seriously derailed.”

“So now you’re telling the FBI how to run its business.”

“Not at all. But don’t expect me to remain quiet. Have you heard of an investigative reporter named Carson Bell?”

His shoulders sag as he looks away. “No.”

“New York Times. He covered the uranium trial and has followed the appeals. I would make an incredible u

“Don’t do that, Max.”

“You can’t stop me. If you don’t investigate, I’m sure Mr. Bell would love to. Front page and all that. FBI cover-up.”

“Don’t do it. Please. Give us some time.”

“You have thirty days. If I hear nothing of an investigation, then I’ll invite Mr. Bell down for a week on my little island.” I drain my beer, smack the table with my glass, and get to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re just getting revenge, aren’t you, Max? One last shot at the government.”

“Who says it’s my last?” I say over my shoulder.

I leave the hotel and hoof it down the long drive. At the end, Vanessa appears in the Beetle and we race away. Ten minutes later we park outside the private terminal, grab our light bags, and meet the Maritime Aviation crew in the lobby. Our passports are checked, and we hustle toward the same Learjet 35 that brought me to Antigua a week earlier. “Let’s get out of here,” I say to the captain as we climb on board.

Two and a half hours later, we land at Miami International as the sun dips below the horizon. The Lear taxis to a Customs office for reentry, then we wait half an hour for a cab. Inside the main terminal, Vanessa buys a one-way ticket to Richmond, through Atlanta, and we hug and kiss good-bye. I wish her good luck, and she does the same. I rent a car and find a motel.

At nine the next morning, I’m waiting outside Palmetto Trust when the doors are unlocked. My carry-on bag has wheels and I roll it into the vault. Within minutes, I extract $50,000 in cash and three Lavo cigar boxes containing eighty-one mini-bars. On my way out, I do not mention to the vault clerk that I will never return. The lease for the safe-deposit box will expire in a year, and the bank will simply re-key and rent it to the next guy. I fight the early traffic and eventually make it to Interstate 95, going north in a hurry but careful not to get stopped. Jacksonville is six hours away. The tank is full and I plan to drive without stopping.

North of Fort Lauderdale, Vanessa calls with the welcome news that her mission is accomplished. She has retrieved the bullion hidden in her apartment, emptied the three lockboxes in the Richmond banks, and is already headed for D.C. with a trunkful of gold.

I get stalled in construction traffic around Palm Beach, and this ruins my plans for the afternoon. The banks will be closed when I arrive at the Jacksonville beaches. I have no choice but to slow down and go with the flow. It’s after six when I get to Neptune Beach, and for old time’s sake I check into a motel I’ve used before. It accepts cash and I park near my room on the ground level. I roll the carry-on inside and fall asleep with it on the bed with me. Vanessa wakes me at ten. She is safely tucked away in Dee Ray’s condo near Union Station. Qui

We—Vanessa, Dee Ray, and I—expressed strong misgivings about Qui

Once again, I find myself killing a few minutes in the parking lot of a bank, First Coast Trust. When the doors open at 9:00 a.m., I wander in, as nonchalantly as possible, pulling an empty carry-on and flirting with the clerks. Just another su

It’s almost midnight when I enter central D.C. I take a brief detour and drive along First Street, passing in front of the Supreme Court Building and wondering what will be the final outcome of the momentous case of Arma