Chapter Thirteen
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Rood Lear reached a net worth of twenty million by his thirtieth birthday. Which was two years ago. Total now closer to forty. Mansion in the Hollywood Hills, Park Avenue penthouse, private jet on call.
Despite the staggering wealth, Rood still went to work every day.
Rood’s company, Bottom Shelf Productions, had booked the top floor of one of the strip’s finest hotels under his lawyer’s name.
Noon.
The floor’s largest suite was brightly lit, even with curtains closed. Wires and cables ran everywhere, held firmly to the carpet with black electrical tape. Large white umbrellas in the corners filled facial shadows from camera lights.
Rood looked at least seven years younger, because he was so short and had to shave only every three days. He surveyed the suite’s bedroom and bit his lower lip. Something wasn’t up to Rood’s high standards. He found the answer. “Give ’em liquor.”
“I think they’ve already had more than enough,” said his executive assistant.
“I say they haven’t.”
“Sir”-the assistant held a pair of well-worn laminated cards- “I don’t think these drivers’ licenses are legit. See the edges? Someone slit them with razor blades and resealed ’em on an ironing board.”
“You work for CSI now?”
“I’ve seen this trick a hundred times. And we just paid a million in fines.”
“They gave us the IDs, and we accepted them in good faith,” said Rood. “If they’re fake, we’re the victims.”
The assistant turned toward the bed, where a pair of topless, tipsy seventeen-year-olds swatted each other with pillows.
“Harold!” said Rood. “Are you going to give them more liquor or look for another job?”
The assistant walked out the door and slammed it behind him.
“Stop filming!” Rood stomped across the room. “Guess I have to do everything!”
He went to work at the wet bar, ice clanging in a sterling cocktail shaker. Then he approached the bed with two tumblers of his personal recipe: Hawaiian Punch, 7 Up and grain alcohol. “You girls look thirsty.”
Giggles. A feather floated by.
“Bottoms up!”
The first took a big sip. “What’s in this? I don’t taste anything.”
“Exactly.” Rood walked back behind the cameras. “Jeremy, start filming.” Then louder: “Pillow fight!”
Swatting began again.
One of the girls’ knees slipped, and she spilled off the bed.
“You all right?”
The teen stifled more giggling and nodded extra hard.
“Okay, back on the mattress.”
The girl started getting up but fell down again, pulling a sheet with her.
“Jeremy,” said Rood. “Give her a hand.”
The cameraman helped her the rest of the way.
He returned. “I think they’re ready.”
“I think you’re right. Roll camera.” Rood raised his voice toward the bed: “Make out with each other. And I want to see lots of tongue on nipples!”
“Forget it!”
“That’s gross!”
Rood went over to the wet bar.
BOSTON
A buzzer sounded. A belt jerked to life in baggage claim.
Anxious travelers ringed the carousel and bunched near the front where luggage came out, trying to see through the hanging rubber strips as if it would accelerate the process.
People snagged suitcases and tote bags. Some placed them back on the belt when the name tag was wrong. Others were easily identified from a rainbow of ribbons their owners had tied to the handles.
Guillermo saw an orange ribbon and snatched a Samsonite. His colleagues grabbed their own luggage, which came by at random intervals.
Finally, they had retrieved everything. And they stayed there.
A taxi stopped outside at the curb. A man with red hair and freckles emerged. One of the few people bringing baggage into baggage claim. He took a spot on the opposite side of the carousel from the Florida visitors. Two grandparents rolled bags away; he stepped forward and set a black suitcase at his feet. Guillermo knew the man was there, but neither looked. After sufficient time to allay suspicion, the man studied the name tag on the black suitcase and pretended it wasn’t his. He placed it on the belt.
Guillermo watched it make the turn and nonchalantly grabbed a handle on the way by. They headed for the rental counter.
Thirty minutes later, a Hertz Town Car cruised south on I-93. Raul rode shotgun, opening the black suitcase in his lap. He reached into the protective foam lining and passed out automatic weapons. “What was the deal back there with the Irish guy?”
“Raul,” Guillermo said patiently, “what is it about not checking machine guns through in your luggage that you don’t understand?”
They took the Dorchester exit at sunset and reached a bedroom neighborhood in the dark. Large oaks and maples. TV sets flickering through curtains. The Town Car slowed as it approached the appointed address. Guillermo parked a house short on the opposite side of the street.
Miguel leaned forward from the backseat. “Is that the place?”
Guillermo checked his notes, looked up and nodded. Everything appeared normal. That is, except for the fiercely bright spotlight in the middle of the front yard.
The gang watched as a last, straggling TV correspondent wrapped up a taped spot for the eleven o’clock report. The yard went dark. Guillermo opened his door.
“Excuse me? Ma’am?”
The woman turned.
Guillermo jogged toward the station’s truck as a cameraman removed his battery belt. “Do you have a second?”
“What is it?”
“Is that the home of hero Patrick McKenna?”
“You know him?”
“Went to school together. Amazing what he did!”
“You went to school with him?” She looked over her shoulder. “Gus, get the camera. We might have something.”
“No!” Guillermo’s palms went out. “I mean, no, my wife will kill me. I was supposed to go to this boring dinner party but told her I was working late.”
She sagged. “Forget it, Gus.”
Guillermo looked toward the house. With the camera off, it became obvious there wasn’t a light on in the place, not even the porch. He turned back toward the woman. “Anyone home?”
She shook her head and opened the van’s passenger door.
“Expect him back?” asked Guillermo.
“Not any time soon.” She climbed inside.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he moved out.”
“Moved? When?”
“This morning. It was crazy.”
“How was it crazy?”
“If you can tell me anything at all about him, I won’t use your name,” said the reporter.
“I’ll try,” said Guillermo. “But what happened this morning?”
“All the stations were set up on the lawn, waiting for him to show, and suddenly these cars came flying up, and a bunch of government guys rushed him out with a coat over his head. You wouldn’t have any idea what that was about, would you?”
Guillermo shrugged. “Last time I saw him, we were in the chess club… These guys say they were government?”
“No, but you could just tell. All business, not even a ‘no comment.’ Then, fifteen minutes later, two giant moving vans pulled up, except they didn’t have any markings on the side. And they had like twenty guys. Cleaned the place out in less than an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The TV van pulled away.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
A camcorder scanned the west end of the strip. Nightclubs, hotels, swimsuit shops, condos. The lens passed something and backed up. It stopped on a neon sign.
The camera fell to Serge’s side and dangled by its shoulder strap. “I don’t believe it.” He broke into a trot, then a run.
A half mile later, Serge grabbed a hitching post and panted beneath colorful curved glass tubing: HAMMERHEAD R ANCH B AR & G RILLE.