The Racketeer

identified Sully.” Another technician said, “Here it is.”
          D EE R AY: Yeah.
          S ULLY: Dee Ray, Sully here.
          D EE R AY: What you got?
          S ULLY: Got the snitch, man. Bannister.
          D EE R AY: No shit, man.
          S ULLY: No shit, Dee Ray.
          D EE R AY: Okay, don’t tell me how, just tell me where.
          S ULLY: Well, he’s a beach bum now, in Florida. Name is Max Baldwin, lives in a little condo in Neptune Beach, east of Jacksonville. Seems to have some money, taking it easy, you know. The good life.
          D EE R AY: What’s he look like?
          S ULLY: A different dude. Lots of surgery. But the same height, down a few pounds. Same walk. Plus we got a fingerprint and a match.
          D EE R AY: A fingerprint?
          S ULLY: Our firm is good. They followed him down the beach and saw him toss a water bottle in the trash. They picked it up, got a print.
          D EE R AY: That is good.
          S ULLY: Like I said. What now?
          D EE R AY: Sit tight. Let me sleep on it. He ain’t going nowhere, right?
          S ULLY: No, he’s a happy boy.
          D EE R AY: Beautiful.
    Westlake slowly fell into a chair, slack-jawed and pale, too shaken to speak for a moment. Then, “Get me Twill.” A flunky disappeared, and while he waited, Westlake rubbed his eyes andcontemplated his next move. Twill, the top assistant, arrived in a rush, and they listened to the tape again. For Westlake, it was even more chilling the second time around.
    “How in the …,” Twill mumbled.
    Westlake was recovering. “Call Bratten at the Marshals Service.”
    “Bratten had surgery yesterday,” Twill said. “Newcombe is in charge.”
    “Then get Newcombe on the phone. We can’t waste time here.”

    I’ve joined a gym and I spend an hour there each day around noon, walking uphill on a treadmill and doing reps with light weights. If I plan to spend so much time on the beach, I need to look the part.
    After some steam and a long shower, I am dressing when the cell phone starts buzzing in the top of my locker. It’s dear Diana, and an odd time for her to be calling. “Hello,” I say quietly, though the locker room is not busy.
    “We need to talk,” she says abruptly, the first-ever hint that something might be out of place.
    “About what?”
    “Not now. There are two FBI agents in the parking lot in a maroon Jeep Cherokee, parked next to your car. They’ll give you a ride.”
    “And how exactly do you know where I am at this moment, Diana?”
    “Let’s discuss it later.”
    I sit in a folding chair. “Talk to me, Diana. What’s going on?”
    “Max, I’m ten minutes away. Follow orders, get in the Jeep, and I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as I see you. Let’s not do it over the phone.”
    “Okay.” I finish dressing and try to act as calm as always. I walk through the gym and smile at a yoga instructor I’ve been smiling at for a week now and make my way to the front door. I glance outside and see the maroon Jeep parked next to my car. At this point it’s fairly obvious that something dreadful has happened, so I swallow hard and step into the blinding midday sun. The driver hops out and, without a word, opens a rear door. I ride for seven minutes in complete silence until we park in the driveway of a quaint duplex cottage with a “For Rent” sign in the front yard. It’s a block from the ocean. As soon as the engine is turned off, both agents jump out and scan the periphery, as if snipers might be up there, just waiting. The knot in my stomach feels like a bowling ball.
    We make it inside without getting shot, and Diana is waiting. “Nice place you have here,” I say.
    “It’s a safe house,” she replies.
    “Oh, okay. And why are we hiding in a safe house in the middle of a perfectly fine day?”
    A gray-haired man enters from the kitchen and thrusts out a hand. “Max, I’m Dan Raynor, U.S. Marshal, supervisor for this area.” We shake hands like old friends and he’s actually smiling as if we’re about to have a long lunch.
    “A real pleasure,” I say. “What’s going on?”
    There are four of them—Raynor, Diana, and the two nameless FBI agents—and for a few seconds they’re not sure of the protocol here. Whose territory? Who’s included? Who stays and who leaves? As I’ve already learned, these cross-agency turf fights can be confusing.
    Raynor does the