The Racketeer

murdered. I eventually wander back to Roanoke. The lights are on; the Red Sox are playing again. I buy a ticket and have a hot dog and a beer for dinner.
    Frank Beebe calls me at eight the next morning, and an hour later I’m in his office. As he pours coffee, he says, matter-of-factly, “Found him in the town of Radford, a college town of about 16,000. He got out of prison a few months ago, lived with his mother for a while, then moved away. I talked to his mother, a tough old gal, and she said he bought a bar in Radford.”
    I’m curious, so I ask, “How did you get her to talk?”
    Frank laughs and lights another cigarette. “That’s the easy part, Reed. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you can always spew some bullshit and get people talking. I figured his mother still has a healthy fear of anyone connected to the prison system, so I told her I was a federal prison agent and needed to chat with her boy.”
    “Isn’t that impersonating an officer?”
    “Nope, no such thing as a federal prison agent. She didn’t ask for a card, and if she had, then I would’ve given her one. I keep a bunch of cards. On any given day, I can be one of many different federal agents. You’d be amazed how easy it is to fool people.”
    “Did you go to the bar?”
    “I did, but I didn’t go in. I wouldn’t fit. It’s just off the campus of Radford University, so the crowd is a lot younger than me. It’s called Bombay’s and it’s been around for some time. According to city records, it changed hands on May 10 of this year. The seller was one Arthur Stone, and your boy Nathan Cooley was the buyer.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “Don’t know. Nothing in the land records. I suspect he’s renting, so there would be no record of that. Hell, he could be sleeping above the bar. It’s an old two-story building. You’re not going there, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Good. You’re too old and you’re too black. It’s an all-white crowd.”
    “Thanks. I’ll meet him somewhere else.”
    I pay Frank Beebe $600 in cash, and on the way out I ask, “Say, Frank, if I needed a fake passport, you got any ideas?”
    “Sure. There’s a guy in Baltimore I’ve used before, does most anything. But passports are tricky these days, Homeland Security and all that crap. If they catch you, they really get excited.”
    I smile and say, “It’s not for me.”
    He laughs and says, “Gee, I’ve never heard that before.”
    My car is packed and I leave town. Four hours later I’m in McLean, Virginia, looking for a copy center that offers executive services. I find one in an upscale shopping center, pay a hookup fee, and plug in my laptop to a printer. After ten minutes of fiddling and haggling, I get the damned thing to work and print the letter to Nathan Cooley. It’s on Skelter Films stationery, complete with an address on 8th Avenue in Miami and a full selection of phone and fax numbers. On the envelope, I write: “Mr. Nathan Cooley, c/o Bombay’s Bar & Grill, 914 East Main Street, Radford, Virginia 24141.” To the left of the address, I write in bold letters: “Personal and Confidential.”
    When it’s perfect, I cross the Potomac and drive through central D.C., looking for a post office drop box.

CHAPTER 28
    Q uinn Rucker turned his back to the bars, stuck his hands through, and touched his wrists behind him. The deputy slapped on the handcuffs as another one opened the cell door. They escorted Quinn to a cramped holding area where three FBI agents were waiting. From there, they walked him through a side door and into a black SUV with dark windows and more armed guards. Ten minutes later, he arrived with full escort at the rear door of the federal building, where he was whisked inside and up two flights of stairs.
    Neither Victor Westlake, nor Stanley Mumphrey, nor any other lawyer in the room had ever taken part in such a meeting. The defendant was never brought in for a chat. If the police needed to talk to the accused, they did so at the jail. If his appearance was needed in court, the judge or magistrate called a hearing.
    Quinn was led into the small conference room, and the handcuffs were removed. He shook hands with his lawyer, Dusty Shiver, who, of course, had to be present but was uncertain about the meeting. He had cautioned the Feds that his client would say nothing until he, Dusty, allowed him to speak.
    Quinn had been in jail for four months and was not doing well. For reasons known only