The Firm (51 page)

The deputy carefully picked up the composites, walked behind the counter and tacked them on the bulletin board. When he finished, he glared down at Andy and said, “I’ll come back in a coupla hours. If you remove these, I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

Andy did not flinch. “Won’t stick. They got me for that one time in Kansas, so I know all about it.”

The deputy’s fat cheeks turned red and he gritted his teeth. “You’re a little smart-ass, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You take these down and I promise you you’ll go to jail for something.”

“I’ve been there before, and it ain’t no big deal.”

Red lights and sirens screamed by on the Strip a few feet away, and the deputy turned and watched the excitement. He mumbled something and swaggered out the door. Andy threw the composites in the garbage. He watched the squad cars dodge each other on the Strip for a few minutes, then walked through the parking lot to the rear building. He knocked on the door of Room 38.

He waited and knocked again.

“Who is it?” a woman asked.

“The manager,” Andy replied, proud of his title. The door opened, and the man who favored the composite of Mitchell Y. McDeere slid out.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “What’s going on?”

He was nervous, Andy could tell. “Cops just came by, know what I mean?”

“What do they want?” he asked innocently.

Your ass, Andy thought. “Just asking questions and showing pictures. I looked at the pictures, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Pretty good pictures,” Andy said.

Mr. McDeere stared at Andy real hard.

Andy said, “Cop said one of them escaped from prison. Know what I mean? I been in prison, and I think everybody ought to escape. You know?”

Mr. McDeere smiled, a rather nervous smile. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Andy.”

“I’ve got a deal for you, Andy. I’ll give you a thousand bucks now, and tomorrow, if you’re still unable to recognize anybody, I’ll give you another thousand bucks. Same for the next day.”

A wonderful deal, thought Andy, but if he could afford a thousand bucks a day, certainly he could afford five thousand a day. It was the opportunity of his career.

“Nope,” Andy said firmly. “Five thousand a day.”

Mr. McDeere never hesitated. “It’s a deal. Let me get the money.” He went in the room and returned with a stack of bills.

“Five thousand a day, Andy, that’s our deal?”

Andy took the money and glanced around. He
would count it later. “I guess you want me to keep the maids away?” Andy asked.

“Great idea. That would be nice.”

“Another five thousand,” Andy said.

Mr. McDeere sort of hesitated. “Okay, I’ve got another deal. Tomorrow morning, a Fed Ex package will arrive at the desk for Sam Fortune. You bring it to me, and keep the maids away, and I’ll give you another five thousand.”

“Won’t work. I do the night shift.”

“Okay, Andy. What if you worked all weekend, around the clock, kept the maids away and delivered my package? Can you do that?”

“Sure. My boss is a drunk. He’d love for me to work all weekend.”

“How much money, Andy?”

Go for it, Andy thought. “Another twenty thousand.”

Mr. McDeere smiled. “You got it.”

Andy grinned and stuck the money in his pocket. He walked away without saying a word, and Mitch retreated to Room 38.

“Who was it?” Ray snapped.

Mitch smiled as he glanced between the blinds and the windows.

“I knew we would have to have a lucky break to pull this off. And I think we just found it.”

    38    

Mr. Morolto wore a black suit and a red tie and sat at the head of the plastic-coated executive conference table in the Dunes Room of the Best Western on the Strip. The twenty chairs around the table were packed with his best and brightest men. Around the four walls stood more of his trusted troops. Though they were thick-necked killers who did their deeds efficiently and without remorse, they looked like clowns in their colorful shirts and wild shorts and amazing potpourri of straw hats. He would have smiled at their silliness, but the urgency of the moment prevented smiling. He was listening.

On his immediate right was Lou Lazarov, and on his immediate left was DeVasher, and every ear in the small room listened as the two played tag team back and forth across the table.

“They’re here. I know they’re here,” DeVasher said dramatically, slapping both palms on the table with each syllable. The man had rhythm.

Lazarov’s turn: “I agree. They’re here. Two came in a car, one came in a truck. We’ve found both
vehicles abandoned, covered with fingerprints. Yes, they’re here.”

DeVasher: “But why Panama City Beach? It makes no sense.”

Lazarov: “For one, he’s been here before. Came here Christmas, remember? He’s familiar with this place, so he figures with all these cheap motels on the beach it’s a great place to hide for a while. Not a bad idea, really. But he’s had some bad luck. For a man on the run, he’s carrying too much baggage, like a brother who everybody wants. And a wife. And a truckload of documents, we presume. Typical schoolboy mentality. If I gotta run, I’m taking everybody who loves me. Then his brother rapes a girl, they think, and suddenly every cop in Alabama and Florida is looking for them. Some pretty bad luck, really.”

“What about his mother?” Mr. Morolto asked.

Lazarov and DeVasher nodded at the great man and acknowledged this very intelligent question.

Lazarov: “No, purely coincidental. She’s a very simple woman who serves waffles and knows nothing. We’ve watched her since we got here.”

DeVasher: “I agree. There’s been no contact.”

Morolto nodded intelligently and lit a cigarette.

Lazarov: “So if they’re here, and we know they’re here, then the feds and the cops also know they’re here. We’ve got sixty people here, and they got hundreds. Odds are on them.”

“You’re sure they’re all three together?” Mr. Morolto asked.

DeVasher: “Absolutely. We know the woman and the convict checked in the same night at Perdido, that they left and three hours later she checked in here at the Holiday Inn and paid cash for two rooms and
that she rented the car and his fingerprints were on it. No doubt. We know Mitch rented a U-Haul Wednesday in Nashville, that he wired ten million bucks of our money into a bank in Nashville Thursday morning and then evidently hauled ass. The U-Haul was found here four hours ago. Yes, sir, they are together.”

Lazarov: “If he left Nashville immediately after the money was wired, he would have arrived here around dark. The U-Haul was found empty, so they had to unload it somewhere around here, then hide it. That was probably sometime late last night, Thursday. Now, you gotta figure they need to sleep sometime. I figure they stayed here last night with plans of moving on today. But they woke up this morning and their faces were in the paper, cops running around bumping into each other, and suddenly the roads were blocked. So they’re trapped here.”

DeVasher: “To get out, they’ve got to borrow, rent or steal a car. No rental records anywhere around here. She rented a ear in Mobile in her name. Mitch rented a U-Haul in Nashville in his name. Real proper ID. So you gotta figure they ain’t that damned smart after all.”

Lazarov: “Evidently they don’t have fake IDs. If they rented a car around here for the escape, the rental records would be in the real name. No such records exist.”

Mr. Morolto waved his hand in frustration. “All right, all right. So they’re here. You guys are geniuses. I’m so proud of you. Now what?”

DeVasher’s turn: “The Fibbies are in the way. They’re in control of the search, and we can’t do nothing but sit and watch.”

Lazarov: “I’ve called Memphis. Every senior
associate in the firm is on the way down here. They know McDeere and his wife real well, so we’ll put them on the beach and in restaurants and hotels. Maybe they’ll see something.”

DeVasher: “I figure they’re in one of the little motels. They can give fake names, pay in cash and no-body’ll be suspicious. Fewer people too. Less likelihood of being seen. They checked in at the Holiday Inn but didn’t stay long. I bet they moved on down the Strip.”

Lazarov: “First, we’ll get rid of the feds and the cops. They don’t know it yet, but they’re about to move their show on down the road. Then, early in the morning, we start door to door at the small motels. Most of these dumps have less than fifty rooms. I figure two of our men can search one in thirty minutes. I know it’ll be slow, but we can’t just sit here. Maybe when the cops pull out, the McDeeres will breathe a little and make a mistake.”

“You mean you want our men to start searching hotel rooms?” Mr. Morolto asked.

DeVasher: “There’s no way we can hit every door, but we gotta try.”

Mr. Morolto stood and glanced around the room. “So what about the water?” he asked in the direction of Lazarov and DeVasher.

They stared at each other, thoroughly confused by the question.

“The water!” Mr. Morolto screamed. “What about the water?”

All eyes shot desperately around the table and quickly landed upon Lazarov. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m confused.”

Mr. Morolto leaned into Lazarov’s face. “What
about the water, Lou? We’re on a beach, right? There’s land and highways and railroads and airports on one side, and there’s water and boats on the other. Now, if the roads are blocked and the airports and railroads are out of the question, where do you think they might go? It seems obvious to me they would try to find a boat and ease out in the dark. Makes sense, don’t it, boys?”

Every head in the room nodded quickly. DeVasher spoke first. “Makes a hell of a lot of sense to me.”

“Wonderful,” said Mr. Morolto. “Then where are our boats?”

Lazarov jumped from his seat, turned to the wall and began barking orders at his lieutenants. “Go down to the docks! Rent every fishing boat you can find for tonight and all day tomorrow. Pay them whatever they want. Don’t answer any questions, just pay ’em the money. Get our men on those boats and start patrolling as soon as possible. Stay within a mile of shore.”

Shortly before eleven, Friday night, Aaron Rimmer stood at the checkout counter at an all-night Texaco in Tallahassee and paid for a root beer and twelve gallons of gas. He needed change for the call. Outside, next to the car wash, he flipped through the blue pages and called the Tallahassee Police Department. It was an emergency. He explained himself, and the dispatcher connected him with a shift captain.

“Listen!” Rimmer yelled urgently, “I’m here at this Texaco, and five minutes ago I saw these convicts everybody is looking for! I know it was them!”

“Which convicts?” asked the captain.

“The McDeeres. Two men and a woman. I left Panama City Beach not two hours ago, and I saw their pictures in the paper. Then I stopped here and filled up, and I saw them.”

Rimmer gave his location and waited thirty seconds for the first patrol car to arrive with blue lights flashing. It was quickly followed by a second, third and fourth. They loaded Rimmer in a front seat and raced him to the South Precinct. The captain and a small crowd waited anxiously. Rimmer was escorted like a celebrity into the captain’s office, where the three composites and mug shot were waiting on the desk.

“That’s them!” he shouted. “I just saw them, not ten minutes ago. They were in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee plates, and it was pulling a long double-axle U-Haul trailer.”

“Exactly where were you?” asked the captain. The cops hung on every word.

“I was pumping gas, pump number four, regular unleaded, and they eased into the parking lot, real suspicious like. They parked away from the pumps, and the woman got out and went inside.” He picked up Abby’s composite and studied it. “Yep. That’s her. No doubt. Her hair’s a lot shorter, but it’s dark. She came right back out, didn’t buy a thing. She seemed nervous and in a hurry to get back to the truck. I was finished pumping, so I walked inside. Right when I opened the door, they drove within two feet of me. I saw all three of them.”

“Who was driving?” asked the captain.

Rimmer stared at Ray’s mug shot. “Not him. The other one.” He pointed at Mitch’s composite.

“Could I see your driver’s license,” a sergeant said.

Rimmer carried three sets of identification. He handed the sergeant an Illinois driver’s license with his picture and the name Frank Temple.

“Which direction were they headed?” the captain asked.

“East.”

At the same moment, about four miles away, Tony Verkler hung up the pay phone, smiled to himself and returned to the Burger King.

The captain was on the phone. The sergeant was copying information from Rimmer/Temple’s driver’s license and a dozen cops chatted excitedly when a patrolman rushed into the office “Just got a call! Another sighting, at a Burger King east of town. Same info! All three of them in a green Ford pickup pulling a U-Haul. Guy wouldn’t leave a name, but said he saw their pictures in the paper. Said they pulled through the carry-out window, bought three sacks of food and took off.”

“It’s gotta be them!” the captain said with a huge smile.

The Bay County sheriff sipped thick black coffee from a Styrofoam cup and rested his black boots on the executive conference table in the Caribbean Room at the Holiday Inn. FBI agents were in and out, fixing coffee, whispering and updating each other on the latest. His hero, the big man himself, Director F. Denton Voyles, sat across the table and studied a street map with three of his underlings. Imagine, Denton Voyles in Bay County. The room was a beehive of police activity. Florida state troopers filtered in and out. Radios and telephones rang and squawked on a makeshift
command post in a corner. Sheriff’s deputies and city policemen from three counties loitered about, thrilled with the chase and suspense and presence of all those FBI agents. And Voyles.

A deputy burst through the door with a wild-eyed glow of sheer excitement. “Just got a call from Tallahassee! They’ve got two positive IDs in the last fifteen minutes! All three of them in a green Ford pickup with Tennessee tags!”

Voyles dropped his street map and walked over to the deputy. “Where were the sightings?” The room was silent, except for the radios.