Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

Mayfield glanced at his watch and said, “It’s five after five. Quitting time. Order me a beer while I take a leak.”

The beer arrived before Mayfield returned. He took a gulp and said, “I’m in. I’ll call Washington tonight and get it done.” He offered a hand and F. Max squeezed it.

13.

On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in mid-May, Bruce was at home on the veranda enjoying the sounds of water splashing on his tin roof and dripping into his pool, and he was reading, off and on, when he wasn’t napping. He should have been at the store but there was even less traffic with rain than on normal days. More and more he found the place, and the business, depressing. Noelle had fled the island and was shopping for antiques in New Orleans.

He heard the distant noise from his cheap phone, a rare sound. Once he realized what it was he scrambled into the kitchen and grabbed it.

Dane said, “Hello, Bruce. Got a minute?”

“Of course. Why else would I answer this phone?”

“Something’s happening. I’m at home in Houston and I’m safe. Ken’s planning to leave in the morning, taking a long trip, to Rio I believe. I’ve checked my sources and verified as much as I can. Listen carefully.”

“Do I need a pen?”

“No. Just listen. He plans to leave Houston Hobby at nine in the morning on his Falcon 900, land in Tyler, Texas, just long enough to fetch his girlfriend, who’ll drive from Dallas. Then they’re off. Not sure but it looks and smells like the big getaway. Can you notify the FBI?”

“Of course. And you’re sure you’ll be safe?”

“He’s not worried about me right now. He feels the noose and he’s acting strange. Please notify the Feds.”

Bruce called Bob Cobb and demanded that they meet immediately at a beach dive, one that did not exist before Leo. Bob called Agent Van Cleve in Jacksonville and relayed the message.

14.

At 8:00 the following morning, Ken Reed rode in his chauffeured SUV to the general aviation terminal at Hobby International and boarded his Falcon 900. He was the only passenger bound for Tyler, Texas. The jet took off at 9:01 for the thirty-minute flight. Once Reed was in the air, a small army of FBI agents and technicians entered the lobby of a nondescript twenty-story office building in south central Houston. They cordoned off the top four floors and hustled all employees into three different conference rooms. They confiscated all cell phones and laptops and threatened arrests if anyone breathed too loud. The employees were terrified and some of the women wept.

In Tyler, Ken’s girlfriend was hustled to the Falcon by an assistant, who disappeared, leaving the two alone on the jet. The pilots waited for clearance to taxi and take off. Ken attempted to call his secretary but there was no answer. He called assistants and lieutenants—no one answered.

He made the mistake of calling his wife, and when Dane answered he said he was being called away by urgent business.

“Where you headed, Ken?” she asked coolly.

“Washington, then New York. Could be gone a few days.”

“That so? Traveling alone?”

“Afraid so.”

“Look, Ken. Not sure how to break this to you but the party’s over. You’re not gonna make it to Rio, and that little cookie you’ve got with you is going back home to her mommy. You’re not taking off and you’ve had your last ride in that cute little Falcon. The Feds are about to confiscate all your toys, girls included. See you in court.”

She ended the call with a laugh.

Ken cursed and looked out a window just as three black SUVs pulled alongside his airplane, each with those pesky blue lights flashing on their dashboards.

CHAPTER TEN THE STORM

1.

The first week of June brought the first serious heat to the island, and with the longer days summer finally arrived. Ten months after Leo, the cleanup was over and the days were filled with the comforting sounds of electric saws, automatic hammers, diesel engines, and the yells and shouts of busy workers. Crews worked long hours, even double shifts, to repair and renovate cottages, restaurants, shopping centers, churches, and many inland homes. Most of the small beachside hotels and motels were open for business, but the larger ones with hundreds of rooms and far more damage were still months from reopening. The beaches had been picked clean and the eroded inlets had been rebuilt by tons of relocated sand. Most of the private boardwalks had been rebuilt and two new city-owned piers jutted deep into the water and attracted the usual assortment of lonely fishermen.

June also brought back Nick Sutton, fresh from his studies at Wake Forest and with a shiny new degree in English lit but no prospects of permanent employment. Not that he was trying. His plan, if it could be called that, was to spend the summer the same way he’d spent the prior three, housesitting for his grandparents while selling a few books, reading even more, and all the while hanging out at the beach and working on his tan. When pressed, especially by Bruce, who liked the kid but was worried about his initiative, Nick had vague ideas about an MFA degree where he could get a grant and write for two years while continuing to enjoy the college life. He had even more vague ideas about writing his first novel.

And he was quick to remind Bruce that he, of all people, had no business giving career advice. Bruce had been twenty-three years old and still classified as a junior at Auburn when he finally walked away.

Nick spent hours each day consumed with the details of the ever-evolving plots and dramas that began with the death of his old friend Nelson Kerr. He read everything online and kept all the stories in neat and indexed research files. He kept every video of every news report. He scoured the Internet for any snippet of news, recorded everything, and had become in the past six months a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge about the case.

Each morning at Bay Books, around ten, when he was supposed to punch the clock and get busy at the front counter, he barged into Bruce’s office with the latest news. After a full report, he usually said something like “And you made it all happen, Bruce. This is all you, man.”

Bruce demurred and argued that he had nothing to do with Danielle Noddin, the informant, coming forward. He had nothing to do with the capture of Karen Sharbonnet, the details of which had yet to be made public.

Nick would argue: “Okay, what about tracking down the miracle drug and busting Grattin? If you hadn’t had the balls to hire that firm at Dulles, we would’ve never known. Grattin would still be pumping the old folks with E3 and ripping off the taxpayers.”

They bantered and argued every morning, and Bruce didn’t mind at all. Getting the daily update from Nick saved him the time and trouble. And, before long, Nick let it slip that he was probably going to write a book about the entire episode. However, as of now the story had no ending.

By mid-June, eleven senior executives of Grattin had been indicted, arrested, and dragged to court for their initial appearances. Four were still in jail under exorbitant bonds. Several dozen executives and managers of related companies were under investigation. The case so far had proved to be a bonanza for the Houston legal profession.

Ken Reed was locked away in protective custody, deemed an extreme flight risk, and denied bond. Three of his airplanes had been grounded. His handsome yacht was docked at a Coast Guard lot. His fleet of fancy cars had been hauled in. Dane was living in their Houston home, which had been left alone, for the moment, but three other houses were chained and padlocked. At least six offshore bank accounts had been frozen.

In what appeared to be overkill, the FBI arrested some five dozen Grattin nurses, pharmacists, managers, and even orderlies for dispensing vitamin E3. Most were expected to point fingers at their bosses and escape with fines. Cable news legal experts speculated that the government was grandstanding a bit, flexing its muscle to draw attention to the enormity of the fraud.