The Firm (48 page)

The couch had not been folded, and the cheap sheets hung off the end and fell to the floor. Tammy was not much for housework. He looked at the small, temporary bed and thought of Abby. Only five nights ago, they had tried to kill each other on the bed. Hopefully, she was on the plane. Alone.

In the bedroom, he sat on the unopened Sony box and marveled at the roomful of documents. Across the carpet she had built perfect columns of paper, all painstakingly divided into Cayman banks and Cayman companies. On top of each stack was a yellow legal pad, with the company name followed by pages of dates and entries. And names!

Even Tarrance could follow the paper trail. A grand jury would eat it up. The U.S. Attorney would call press conferences. And the trial juries would convict, and convict and convict.

Special Agent Jenkins yawned into the telephone receiver and punched the numbers to the Memphis office. He had not slept in twenty-four hours. Jones was snoring in the car.

“FBI,” a male voice said.

“Yeah, who’s there?” Jenkins asked. Just a routine check-in.

“Acklin.”

“Hey, Rick. This is Jenkins. We’ve—”

“Jenkins! Where have you been? Hold on!” Jenkins quit yawning and looked around the bus terminal. An angry voice yelled into the earpiece.

“Jenkins! Where are you?” It was Wayne Tarrance.

“We’re at the bus station in Mobile. We’ve lost him.”

“You what? How could you lose him?”

Jenkins was suddenly alert and leaning into the phone. “Wait a minute, Wayne. Our instructions were to follow him for eight hours to see where he went. Routine, you said.”

“I can’t believe you lost him.”

“Wayne, we weren’t told to follow him for the rest of his life. Eight hours, Wayne. We’ve followed for twenty hours, and he’s disappeared. What’s the big deal?”

“Why haven’t you called in before now?”

“We called in twice. In Birmingham and Montgomery. Line was busy both times. What’s going on, Wayne?”

“Just a minute.”

Jenkins grabbed the phone tighter and waited. Another voice: “Hello, Jenkins?”

“Yes.”

“Director Voyles here. What the hell happened?”

Jenkins held his breath and looked wildly around the terminal. “Sir, we lost him. We followed him for twenty hours, and when he got off the bus here in Mobile, we lost him in the crowd.”

“That’s great, son. How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“All right, listen. We desperately need to find him. His brother has taken our money and disappeared. Call the locals there in Mobile. Tell them who you are, and that an escaped murderer is on the loose in town. They’ve probably got Ray McDeere’s name and picture stuck to the walls. His mother lives in Panama City Beach, so alert every local between there and Mobile. I’m sending in our troops.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, sir. We weren’t told to trail him forever.”

“We’ll discuss it later.”

At ten, Mitch called the Perdido Beach Hilton for the second time. He asked for Rachel James. No arrival. He asked for Lee Stevens. One moment, she said. Mitch sat on the floor and waited intently. The line to the room was ringing. After a dozen rings, someone picked up.

“Yeah.” It was quick.

“Lee?” Mitch asked.

A pause. “Yeah.”

“This is Mitch. Congratulations.”

Ray fell on the bed and closed his eyes. “It was so easy, Mitch. How’d you do it?”

“I’ll tell you when we have time. Right now, there are a bunch of folks trying to kill me. And Abby. We’re on the run.”

“Who, Mitch?”

“It would take ten hours to tell the first chapter. We’ll do it later. Write this number down. 615-889-4380.”

“That’s not Memphis.”

“No, it’s Nashville. I’m in an apartment that’s serving as mission control. Memorize that number. If I’m not here, the phone will be answered by a girl named Tammy.”

“Tammy?”

“It’s a long story. Just do as I say. Sometime tonight, Abby will check in there under the name of Rachel James. She’ll be in a rented car.”

“She’s coming here!”

“Just listen, Ray. The cannibals are chasing us, but we’re a step ahead of them.”

“Ahead of who?”

“The Mafia. And the FBI.”

“Is that all?”

“Probably. Now listen to me. There is a slight chance Abby is being followed. You’ve got to find her, watch her and make damned sure no one is behind her.”

“And if they are?”

“Call me, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No problem.”

“Don’t use the phone except to call this number. And we can’t talk much.”

“I’ve got a bunch of questions, little brother.”

“And I’ve got the answers, but not now. Take care of my wife and call me when she gets there.”

“Will do. And, Mitch, thanks.”

“Adios.”

An hour later Abby turned off Highway 182 onto the winding driveway to the Hilton. She parked the four-door Cutlass with Alabama tags and walked nervously under the sprawling veranda to the front doors. She stopped for a second, looked behind her at the driveway and went inside.

Two minutes later, a yellow cab from Mobile stopped under the veranda, behind the shuttle vans. Ray watched the cab. A woman was in the back seat leaning forward and talking to the driver. They waited a minute. She pulled money from her purse and paid him. She got out and waited until the cab drove away. The woman was a blonde, and that was the first thing he noticed. Very shapely, with tight black corduroy
pants. And black sunglasses, which seemed odd to him because it was pushing midnight. She walked suspiciously to the front doors, waited a minute, then went in. He watched her carefully. He moved toward the lobby.

The blonde approached the only clerk behind the registration desk. “A single room, please,” he heard her say.

The clerk slid a registration form across the counter. The blonde wrote her name and asked, “That lady who just checked in before me, what’s her name? I think she’s an old friend.”

The clerk flipped through the registration cards. “Rachel James.”

“Yeah, that’s her. Where’s she from?”

“It’s a Memphis address,” the clerk said.

“What’s her room number? I’d like to say hello.”

“I can’t give room numbers,” the clerk said.

The blonde quickly pulled two twenties from her purse and slid them across the counter. “I just want to say hello.”

The clerk took the money. “Room 622.”

The woman paid in cash. “Where are the phones?”

“Around the corner,” the clerk said. Ray slid around the corner and found four pay phones. He grabbed a middle one and began talking to himself.

The blonde took a phone on the end and turned her back to him. She spoke softly. He could hear only pieces.

“… checked in … Room 622 … Mobile … some help … I can’t … an hour?… yes … hurry …”

She hung up, and he talked louder into his dead phone.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The blonde jumped from the bed, grabbed her .45 and
stuck it in the corduroys under the shirt. She ignored the safety chain and cracked the door.

It burst open and knocked her against the wall. Ray lunged at her, grabbed the gun and pinned her to the floor. With her face in the carpet, he stuck the barrel of the .45 in her ear. “If you make a sound, I’ll kill you!”

She stopped struggling and closed her eyes. No response.

“Who are you?” Ray demanded. He pushed the barrel deeper into her ear. Again, no response.

“Not a move, not a sound. Okay? I’d love to blow your head off.”

He relaxed, still sitting on her back, and ripped open her flight bag. He dumped its contents on the floor and found a pair of clean tennis socks. “Open your mouth,” he demanded.

She did not move. The barrel returned to her ear, and she slowly opened her mouth. Ray crammed the socks in between her teeth, then tightly blindfolded her with the silk nightshirt. He bound her feet and hands with panty hose, then ripped the bedsheets into long strips. The woman did not move. When he finished the binding and gagging, she resembled a mummy. He slid her under the bed.

The purse contained six hundred dollars in cash and a wallet with an Illinois driver’s license. Karen Adair from Chicago. Date of birth: March 4, 1962. He took the wallet and gun.

The phone rang at 1 A.M., and Mitch was not asleep. He was in bank records up to his waist. Fascinating bank records. Highly incriminating.

“Hello,” he answered cautiously.

“Is this mission control?” The voice was in the vicinity of a loud jukebox.

“Where are you, Ray?”

“A joint called the Floribama lounge. Right on the state line.”

“Where’s Abby?”

“She’s in the car. She’s fine.”

Mitch breathed easier and grinned into the phone. He listened.

“We had to leave the hotel. A woman followed Abby in—same woman you saw in some bar in the Caymans. Abby is trying to explain everything. The woman followed her all day and showed up at the hotel. I took care of her, and we disappeared.”

“You took care of her?”

“Yeah, she wouldn’t talk, but she’s out of the way for a short time.”

“Abby’s fine?”

“Yeah. We’re both dead tired. Exactly what do you have in mind?”

“You’re about three hours away from Panama City Beach. I know you’re dead tired, but you need to get away from there. Get to Panama City Beach, ditch the car and get two rooms at the Holiday Inn. Call me when you check in.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Trust me, Ray.”

“I do, but I’m beginning to wish I was back in prison.”

“You can’t go back, Ray. We either disappear or we’re dead.”

    36    

The cab stopped at a red light in downtown Nashville, and Mitch hopped out on stiff and aching legs. He limped through the busy intersection dodging the morning traffic.

The Southeastern Bank Building was a thirty-story glass cylinder, designed along the same lines as a tennisball can. The tint was dark, almost black. It stood prominently away from the street corner amidst a maze of sidewalks and fountains and manicured greenery.

Mitch entered the revolving doors with a swarm of employees rushing to work. In the marble-laden atrium he found the directory and rode the escalators to the third floor. He opened a heavy glass door and walked into a large circular office. A striking woman of forty or so watched him from behind the glass desk. She offered no smile.

“Mr. Mason Laycook, please,” he said.

She pointed. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Laycook wasted no time. He appeared from around a corner and was as sour as his secretary. “May I help you?” he asked through his nose.

Mitch stood. “Yes, I need to wire a little money.”

“Yes. Do you have an account at Southeastern?”

“Yes.”

“And your name?”

“It’s a numbered account.” In other words, you don’t get a name, Mr. Laycook. You don’t need a name.

“Very well. Follow me.” His office had no windows, no view. A row of keyboards and monitors sat on the credenza behind his glass desk. Mitch sat down.

“The account number, please.”

It came from memory. “214-31-35.”

Laycook pecked at his keyboard and watched a monitor. “That’s a Code Three account, opened by a T. Hemphill, with access only by her and a certain male meeting the following physical requirements: approximately six feet tall, one seventy-five to one eighty-five, blue eyes, brown hair, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. You fit that description, sir.” Laycook studied the screen. “And the last four digits of your Social Security number are?”

“8585.”

“Very well. You are accessed. Now what can I do for you?”

“I want to wire in some funds from a bank in Grand Cayman.”

Laycook frowned and took a pencil from his pocket. “Which bank in Grand Cayman?”

“Royal Bank of Montreal.”

“What type of account?”

“It’s a numbered account.”

“I presume you have the number?”

“499DFH2122.”

Laycook wrote the number and stood. “I’ll be just a moment.” He left the room.

Ten minutes passed. Mitch tapped his bruised feet and looked at the monitors across the desk.

Laycook returned with his supervisor, Mr. Nokes, a vice president of something. Nokes introduced himself from behind the desk. Both men appeared nervous. They stared downward at Mitch.

Nokes did the talking. He held a small sheet of computer paper. “Sir, that is a restricted account. You must have certain information before we can start the wire.”

Mitch nodded confidently.

“The dates and amounts of the last three deposits, sir?” They watched him intently, knowing he would fail.

Again, it came from memory. No notes. “February third of this year, six and a half million. December fourteenth, last year, nine point two million. And October eighth, last year, eleven million.”

Laycook and Nokes gaped at the small printout. Nokes managed a tiny professional smile. “Very well. You are cleared to the Pen number.”

Laycook stood ready with his pencil.

“Sir, what is your Pen number?” Nokes asked.

Mitch smiled and recrossed his damaged legs. “72083.”

“And the terms of the wire?”

“Ten million dollars wired immediately into this bank, account 214-31-35. I’ll wait.”

“It’s not necessary to wait, sir.”

“I’ll wait. When the wire is complete, I’ve got a few more for you.”

“We’ll be a moment. Would you like some coffee?”

“No. Thanks. Do you have a newspaper?”

“Certainly,” Laycook said. “On the table there.”

They scurried from the office, and Mitch’s pulse
began its descent. He opened the Nashville
Tennessean
and scanned three sections before he found a brief paragraph about the escape at Brushy Mountain. No picture. Few details. They were safe at the Holiday Inn on the Miracle Strip in Panama City Beach, Florida.

Their trail was clear, so far. He thought. He hoped.

Laycook returned alone. He was friendly now. A real backslapper. “Wire’s complete. The money is here. Now what can we do for you?”

“I want to wire it out. Most of it, anyway.”

“How many transfers?”