The Racketeer

with 365 beaches, one for each day, or so say the brochures and Web sites. I chose Antigua because its banks are notoriously flexible and known to look the other way. And, if for some reason the island displeases me, I’ll be quick to move along. There are too many other places to see.
    We slam onto the runway and screech to a halt. The captain turns around and mouths the words “Sorry about that.” Pilots take great pride in their smooth landings, and this guy is probably embarrassed. As if I care. The only thing that matters right now is a safe exit from the plane and a smooth entry into the country. There are two other jets at the private terminal, and fortunatelya large one has just landed. At least ten adult Americans in shorts and sandals are heading into the building to get processed. I stall long enough to fall in behind them. As the Immigration and Customs agents go through their routines, I realize there are no scanners for the private passengers and their bags. Excellent! I say good-bye to the pilots. Outside the small building, I watch the other Americans load into a waiting van and disappear. I sit on a bench until my cab appears.
    The villa is on Willoughby Bay, twenty minutes from the airport. I ride in the back of the cab, windows down, warm salty air blowing in my face, as we twist around one side of a mountain and slowly descend the other. In the distance, there are dozens of small boats moored in a bay, resting on blue water that seems perfectly still.
    It is a furnished two-bedroom condo in a cluster of the same, not directly facing the beach but close enough to hear the waves break. It’s leased in my current name, and the three-month rental was covered by a Skelter Films check. I pay the cabdriver and walk through the front gate of Sugar Cove. A pleasant lady in the office gives me the key and a booklet on the ins and outs of the unit. I let myself in, turn on the fans and air-conditioning, and check out the rooms. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the ocean.

    At precisely 5:30 p.m., Stanley Mumphrey and two of his underlings gathered around a speaker in the center of a conference room table. Within seconds, the voice of Victor Westlake came on, and after quick hellos Westlake said, “So, Stan, what do you make of it?”
    Stanley, who’d been thinking of nothing else since receiving the e-mail four hours earlier, replied, “Well, Vic, it seems to me that we first need to decide whether we’re going to believe thisguy again, don’t you think? I mean, he admits he got it wrong the last time. He doesn’t admit to lying to us, but instead says he just made a mistake. He’s playing games.”
    “It will be hard to trust him again,” Westlake said.
    “Do you know where he is right now?” Mumphrey asked.
    “He just flew from Miami to Antigua, on a private jet. Last Friday, he flew from Roanoke to Jamaica on a private jet, then reentered the country Sunday as Malcolm Bannister.”
    “Any idea what he’s doing with all these weird movements?”
    “Not a clue, Stan. We’re baffled. He’s proven himself quite adept at disappearing and at moving money around.”
    “Right. I have a scenario, Vic. Suppose he lied to us about Quinn Rucker. Maybe Rucker is part of the scheme and he played along so Bannister could get himself out of prison. Now they’re trying to save Rucker’s ass. Sounds like a conspiracy to me. Lying, conspiracy. What if we pop them with a sealed indictment, scoop up Bannister and throw him back in jail, then see how much he knows about the real killer. He might be more talkative from the other side of the bars.”
    “So you believe him now?” Westlake asked.
    “Didn’t say that, Vic, not at all. But if his e-mail is true, and if Dusty Shiver has an alibi, then we’re screwed with this prosecution.”
    “Should we talk to Dusty?”
    “We won’t have to. If he’s got the evidence, we’ll see it soon enough. One thing I can’t figure out, one of many, is why they sat on the evidence for so long.”
    “Same here,” Westlake said. “One theory we’re floating is that Bannister needed the time to find the killer, if, of course, we are to believe him. Frankly, I don’t know what to believe at this point. What if Bannister knows the truth? We have nothing on our end. We don’t have a shred of physical evidence. The confession is shaky. And if Dusty has a smoking gun, then we’re all about to eat a bullet.”
    Mumphrey said, “Let’s indict them and squeeze