The Racketeer

overnight packages, all sealed and properly air billed, efficient-looking, not the least bit suspicious, and together holding thirty-two mini-bars worth roughly $500,000. For international shipments, the paperwork is tedious and I am forced to fudge on the contents. The sender is Mr. M. Reed Baldwin of Skelter Films in Miami, and the recipient is the same guy at Sugar Cove Villas, Number 26, Willoughby Bay, Antigua. My plans are to be there to receive them. If they arrive at their destination without incident, Vanessa and I will probably try similar shipments in the near future. If something goes wrong, we’ll make new plans. Shipping like this is another risk; the packages might be searched and confiscated; the gold could be stolen somewhere along the way. However, I’m reasonably confident it will find its new home. I remind myself we’re not shipping banned substances here.
    I’m too wired to sleep, and at 2:00 a.m. I turn on the lights and my laptop and fiddle with the e-mail. It is to Mr. Stanley Mumphrey, U.S. Attorney, Southern District of Virginia, and Mr. Victor Westlake, FBI, Washington. The current draft reads:
    Dear Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake:
    I’m afraid I’ve made a grave mistake. Quinn Rucker did not kill Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary. Now that I’m out of prison, it has taken me several months to realize this, and to identify the real killer. Quinn’s confession is bogus, as you probably know by now, and you have zero physical evidence against him. His attorney, Dusty Shiver, now has in his possession clear proof of an airtight alibi that will clear Quinn, so prepare yourselves for the reality of dropping all charges against him. Sorry for any inconvenience.
    It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible. I have a detailed plan of how to proceed, and only your total cooperation will lead to the apprehension and conviction of the killer. My plan begins with the promise of complete immunity for myself and others, and it ends with the precise result that you desire. Working together, we can finally resolve this matter and bring about justice.
    I am out of the country and have no plans to return, ever.
    Sincerely, Malcolm Bannister

CHAPTER 40
    T ypically, sleep is fleeting. In fact, it is so elusive and fitful I’m not sure I slept at all. There is so much to do that I find myself drinking bad coffee and staring at the television long before the sun rises. Finally, I shower, dress, load the overnight packages into my car, and hit the empty streets of Miami in search of breakfast. At nine, Hassan rumbles into the deli with a brown paper sack, as though he’s been to the grocer for a few items. We huddle in a booth, order coffee, and while we dodge the waitress, we do the counting. His job is far easier than mine; he caresses the five mini-bars before dropping them into the inside pockets of his wrinkled blazer. I poke into the brown bag and struggle to count 122 stacks of $100 bills, ten per stack. “It’s all there,” he says, watching out for the waitress. “A hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.”
    When I’m satisfied, I close the bag and try to enjoy the coffee. Twenty minutes after he arrives, he leaves. I wait awhile, then head for the door, nervously expecting a SWAT team to assault me as I hustle to my car. I keep $22,000 for the trip, and stuff $50,000 into two remaining backgammon sets. At a FedEx shipping office, I wait in line with five overnight packages and watch intently as the customers in front of me go about their business. When it’s my turn, the clerk examines the air bills and nonchalantly asks, “What’s inside?”
    “Household items, some books, nothing of real value, nothing to insure,” I respond, the words carefully rehearsed. “I have a place on Antigua. Just sprucing it up a bit.” She nods as if she’s really interested in my plans.
    For standard business delivery, three days guaranteed, the bill comes to $310, and I pay with a prepaid credit card. As I leave the lobby, and leave the gold behind, I take a deep breath and hope for the best. Using the rental car’s GPS, I locate a UPS office and go through the same procedure. I return to Palmetto Trust and it takes an hour to get into my lockbox. I leave behind the rest of the cash and the four remaining mini-bars.
    It takes a while to find the DHL shipping desk in the sprawl of Miami International, but I eventually negotiate my way there and drop off more packages. I finally part