The Brethren (30 page)

“Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

She looked around for the last time, and smirked
again when she saw the new door. Her boyfriend glared at Chap as if he might just step over and break his neck anyway, but the glaring was done as he headed for the door. They left without breaking anything, each of them carrying a box as they lumbered down the sidewalk.

Chap watched them leave, then began preparing for the challenge of lunch.

Dinner the night before had been nearby, at a crowded new seafood place two blocks from the Sea Turtle Inn. Given the size of the portions, the prices were outrageous, and that was exactly why Trevor, the newest millionaire in Jacksonville, had insisted they eat there. Of course the evening was on him and he spared no expense. He was drunk after the first martini, and didn’t remember what he ate. Wes and Chap had explained that their client did not allow them to drink. They sipped designer water and kept his wineglass full.

“I’d find me another client,” Trevor said, laughing at his own humor.

“Guess I’ll have to drink for all three of us,” he said halfway through dinner, then proceeded to do just that.

Much to their relief, they learned that he was a docile drunk. They kept pouring, in an effort to see how far he would go. He got quieter and lower in his seat, and long after dessert he tipped the waiter $300 in cash. They helped him to their car and drove him home.

He slept with the new briefcase across his chest.
When Wes turned off his light, Trevor was lying on his bed in his rumpled pants and white cotton shirt, bow tie undone, shoes still on, snoring, and clutching the briefcase tightly with both arms.

The wire had arrived just before five. The money was in place. Klockner had told them to get him drunk, see how he behaved in that condition, then start working in the morning.

At 7:30 a.m. they returned to his house, unlocked the door with their key, and found him pretty much as they’d left him. One shoe was off, and he was curled on his side with the briefcase tucked away like a football.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Chap had yelled while Wes turned on lights and raised shades and made as much noise as possible. Trevor, to his credit, scrambled from bed, raced to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and twenty minutes later walked into his den with a fresh bow tie and not a wrinkle anywhere. His eyes were slightly swollen, but he was smiling and determined to tackle the day.

The million dollars helped. In fact, he’d never conquered a hangover as quickly.

They had a quick muffin and strong coffee at Beach Java, then attacked his little office with vigor. While Chap took care of the front, Wes kept Trevor in his office.

Some of the pieces had fallen into place over dinner. The names of the Brethren had finally been extracted from Trevor, and Wes and Chap had done a splendid job of being surprised.

“Three judges?” they’d both repeated, in apparent disbelief.

Trevor had smiled and nodded with great pride, as if he and he alone had been the architect of this masterful scheme. He wanted them to believe that he’d had the brains and skill to convince three former judges that they should spend their time writing letters to lonely gay men so he, Trevor, could rake off a third of their extortion. Hell, he was practically a genius.

Other pieces of the puzzle remained unclear, and Wes was determined to keep Trevor locked away until he had answers.

“Let’s talk about Quince Garbe,” he said. “His post office box was rented to a fake corporation. How’d you learn his true identity?”

“It was easy,” Trevor said, very proud of himself. Not only was he a genius now, but he was a very rich one. He had awakened yesterday morning with a headache, and had spent the first half hour in bed, worrying about his gambling losses, worrying about his dwindling law practice, worrying about his increasing reliance on the Brethren and their scam. Twenty-four hours later, he’d awakened with a worse headache, but one soothed with the balm of a million bucks.

He was euphoric, giddy, and anxious to finish the task at hand so he could get on with life.

“I found a private investigator in Des Moines,” he said, sipping coffee, his feet on his desk, where they belonged. “Sent him a check for a thousand bucks. He spent two days in Bakers—you been to Bakers?”

“Yep.”

“I was afraid I’d have to go. The scam works best if you can snare some prominent guy with money. He’ll pay anything to keep you quiet. Anyway, this investigator found a postal clerk who needed some money. She was a single mother, houseful of kids, old car, small apartment, you get the picture. He called her at night and said he’d give her five hundred dollars cash if she could tell him who was renting Box 788 in the name of CMT Investments. Next morning he called her at the post office. They met in a parking lot during her lunch break. She gave him a piece of paper with the name of Quince Garbe, and he gave her an envelope with five one-hundred-dollar bills. She never asked who he was.”

“Is that a typical method?”

“It worked with Garbe. Curtis Cates, the guy in Dallas, the second one we scammed, was a little more complicated. The investigator we hired there couldn’t find anyone on the inside, so he had to watch the post office for three days. Cost eighteen hundred dollars, but he finally saw him and got his license number.”

“Who’s next?”

“Probably this guy in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. His alias is Brant White, and he appears to be a hot prospect.”

“Do you ever read the letters?”

“Never. I don’t know what’s being said back and forth; don’t wanna know. When they’re ready to bust somebody, they’ll tell me to scope out the box and get a real name. That’s if their pen pal is using a front, like
your client Mr. Konyers. You’d be amazed how many men use their real names. Unbelievable.”

“Do you know when they send the extortion letters?”

“Oh yeah. They tell me so I can alert the bank in the Bahamas that a wire might be on the way. The bank calls me as soon as the money hits.”

“Tell me about this Brant White in Upper Darby,” Wes said. He was taking pages of notes, as if something might be missed. Every word was being recorded on four different machines across the street.

“They’re ready to bust him, that’s all I know. He seems hot to trot because they’ve just swapped a couple of letters. Some of these guys, it’s like pulling teeth, judging by the number of letters.”

“But you don’t keep track of the letters?”

“There are no records here. I was afraid the feds would show up one day with a search warrant, and I wanted no evidence of my involvement.”

“Smart, very smart.”

Trevor smiled and savored his shrewdness. “Yeah, well, I’ve done a lot of criminal law. After a while, you start thinking like a criminal. Anyway, I’ve been unable to find the right investigator in the Philadelphia area. Still working on it though.”

Brant White was a Langley creation. Trevor could hire every investigator in the Northeast and they’d never find a real person behind the post office box.

“In fact,” he continued, “I was preparing to go up there myself when I got the call from Spicer telling me to go to Washington and track down Al Konyers. Then you guys showed up, and, well, the rest is history.” His
words trailed away as he once again thought of the money. Sure it was a coincidence that Wes and Chap entered his life just hours after he was supposed to go searching for their client. But he didn’t care. He could hear the seagulls and feel the hot sand. He could hear the reggae from the island bands, and feel the wind pushing his little boat.

“Is there another contact on the outside?” Wes asked.

“Oh no,” he said vainly. “I don’t need any help. The fewer people involved, the easier the operation works.”

“Very smart,” Wes said.

Trevor leaned back even deeper in his chair. The ceiling above him was cracked and peeling and in need of a fresh coat of enamel. A couple of days ago that might have worried him. Now he knew it would never get painted, not if they expected him to foot the bill. He’d walk out of the place one day very soon, once Wes and Chap here had finished with the Brethren. He’d spend a day or two boxing up his files to store for what reason he was not certain, and he’d give away his outdated and unused law books. He’d find some broke rookie fresh out of law school and looking for a few crumbs around city court, and he’d sell him the furniture and computer for a very reasonable price. And when all the loose ends were covered, he, L. Trevor Carson, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, would walk out of the office and never look back.

What a glorious day that would be.

Chap interrupted the brief daydream with a sack of tacos and soft drinks. Lunch had not been discussed
among the three, but Trevor had already been checking his watch in anticipation of another long meal at Pete’s. He grudgingly took a taco and seethed for a moment. He needed a drink.

“I think it’s a good idea to lay off the booze during lunch,” Chap said as they huddled around Trevor’s desk and tried not to spill black beans and ground beef.

“Do as you please,” Trevor said.

“I was talking to you,” Chap said. “At least for the next thirty days.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“It is now. You need to be sober and alert.”

“Why, exactly?”

“Because our client wants you that way. And he’s paying you a million dollars.”

“Does he want me to floss twice a day and eat my spinach?”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Tell him to kiss my ass while you’re at it.”

“Don’t overreact, Trevor,” Wes said. “Just cut back on the drinking for a few days. It’ll be good for you.”

If the money had set him free, these two were beginning to choke him. They’d now spent twenty-four hours together, and they showed no signs of leaving. In fact, the opposite was happening. They were moving in.

Chap left early to collect the mail. They’d convinced Trevor that he’d been very sloppy in his habits, and that’s how they’d tracked him so easily. Suppose other victims were lurking out there? Trevor’d had little trouble in finding the real names of their victims. Why couldn’t the victims do the same to the person
behind Aladdin North and Laurel Ridge? From now on, Wes and Chap would take turns collecting the mail. They’d mix things up, visit the post offices at different times, use disguises, real cloak-and-dagger stuff.

Trevor eventually agreed. They seemed to know what they were doing.

There were four letters for Ricky waiting in the Neptune Beach post office, and two for Percy in Atlantic Beach. Chap quickly made the rounds, with a team behind him, watching anyone who might be watching him. The letters were taken to the rental, where they were quickly opened, and copied, then put back together.

The copies were read and analyzed by agents anxious to have something to do. Klockner read them too. Of the six, they’d seen five of the names before. All were lonely middle-aged men trying to muster the nerve to take the next step with Ricky or Percy. None seemed particularly aggressive.

One wall in a converted bedroom of the rental had been painted white and a large map of the fifty states had been stenciled on it. Red pushpins were used to mark Ricky’s pen pals. Green for Percy. The names and hometowns of the correspondents were printed in black under the pins.

The nets were getting wider. Ricky had twenty-three men actively writing him; Percy, eighteen. Thirty states were represented. The Brethren were fine-tuning their venture with each passing week. They were now running ads in three magazines, as far as Klockner could tell. They held firm to their profile, and by the
third letter they usually knew if a new guy had any money. Or a wife.

It was a fascinating game to watch, and now that they had complete access to Trevor they wouldn’t miss a letter.

The day’s mail was summarized in two pages, then given to an agent who took off to Langley. Deville had it in hand by 7 p.m.

The first call of the afternoon, at three-ten, came when Chap was washing windows. Wes was still in Trevor’s office, grilling him with one question after another. Trevor was weary. He’d missed his nap and he desperately needed a drink.

“Law office,” Chap answered.

“Is this Trevor’s office?” the caller asked.

“It is. Who’s calling?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Chap, the new paralegal.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“She no longer works here. What can I do for you?”

“This is Joe Roy Spicer. I’m a client of Trevor’s, and I’m calling from Trumble.”

“Calling from where?”

“Trumble. It’s a federal prison. Is Trevor there?”

“No sir. He’s in Washington, and he should be back here in a couple of hours.”

“Okay. Tell him I’ll call back at five.”

“Yes sir.”

Chap hung up and took a deep breath, as did
Klockner across the street. The CIA had just had its first live contact with one of the Brethren.

The second call came at exactly five. Chap answered the phone and recognized the voice. Trevor was waiting in his office. “Hello.”

“Trevor, this is Joe Roy Spicer.”

“Hello, Judge.”

“What’d you find in Washington?”

“We’re still working on it. It’s gonna be a tough one, but we’ll find him.”

There was a long pause, as if Spicer didn’t like this news and was uncertain about how much to say. “Are you comin tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there at three.”

“Bring five thousand dollars cash.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

“That’s what I said. Get the money and bring it here. All in twenties and fifties.”

“What are you gonna do—”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Trevor. Bring the damned money. Put it in an envelope with the other mail. You’ve done it before.”

“All right.”

Spicer hung up without another word. Then Trevor spent an hour discussing the economics of Trumble. Cash was prohibited. Every inmate had a job and his wages were credited to his account. Expenditures, such as long-distance calls, commissary charges, copying expenses, stamps, were all debited against his account.

But cash was present, though seldom seen. It was smuggled in and hidden, and it was used to pay
gambling debts and bribe guards for small favors. Trevor was afraid of it. If he, as the attorney, got caught sneaking it in, his visiting privileges would be permanently eliminated. He’d smuggled on two previous occasions, both times $500, in tens and twenties.