“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

Quinn 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 to his keepers, he was locked down in solitary confinement. Contact with his guards was minimal. The food was dreadful and he was losing weight. He was also taking antidepressants and sleeping fifteen hours a day. Often, he refused to meet with anyone from his family, or with Dusty. One week he demanded the right to plead guilty in exchange for life in prison; the next week he wanted a trial. He had fired Dusty twice, only to rehire him days later. He occasionally admitted killing Judge Fawcett and his girlfriend but always recanted and accused the government of doping his food. He had threatened the guards with promises of death and the deaths of their children, only to offer tearful apologies when his mood changed.

Victor Westlake was in charge of the meeting and began by saying, “Let’s get to the point, Mr. Rucker. We have it on good intelligence that you and some of your fellow conspirators desire to knock off one of our witnesses.”

Dusty touched Quinn’s arm and said, “Not a word. Do not speak until I say so.” Quinn smiled at Westlake as if killing a government witness would be a delight.

Westlake kept going: “The purpose of this little get-together is to warn you, Mr. Rucker, that if any of our witnesses are harmed, then you will face additional charges, and not just you. We’ll go after every member of your family.”

Quinn was grinning, and he blurted, “So, Bannister is on the run, huh?”

“Shut up, Quinn,” Dusty said.

“I don’t have to shut up,” Quinn said. “I hear Bannister has left the warm sun of Florida.”

“Shut up, Quinn!” Dusty snarled again.

“Got him a new face, probably a new name, the works,” Quinn continued.

Stanley Mumphrey said, “We’ll indict Dee Ray, Tall Man, several of your cousins, anybody and everybody we can throw the book at, Quinn, if you harm any of our witnesses.”

“You don’t have any witnesses,” Quinn shot across the table. “Only Bannister.”

Dusty threw his hands up and slumped in his chair. “I advise you to shut up, Quinn.”

“I hear you,” Quinn said. “I hear you.”

Westlake managed to maintain a scowl as he stared at the defendant, but he was stunned. The meeting was supposed to intimidate Quinn, not frighten the government. How on earth were they able to find Bannister in Florida and now know he had fled? It was a chilling moment for Westlake and his assistants. If they could find their informant, they would certainly bring him in.

“Your entire family could face capital murder charges,” Stanley plowed on in a feeble attempt to sound tough.

Quinn just smiled. He stopped talking and folded his arms across his chest.

I have to see Vanessa Young. A meeting has an element of risk; to be seen together by the wrong people would create questions I’m not ready to answer. But a meeting is inevitable and has been for several years.

I saw her at Frostburg, on a snowy day when many visitors didn’t make the drive. While I was talking to my father, Henry, she walked in and sat at the next table. She was there to visit her brother. She was gorgeous, early forties, soft brown skin, beautiful sad eyes, long legs, and tight jeans. The whole package. I could not keep my eyes off her, and Henry finally said, “You want me to leave?” Of course not, because if he left, then my visiting time was over. The longer he stayed, the longer I could look at Vanessa. Before long, she was looking back, and we were soon making serious eye contact. The attraction was mutual, at first.

But there were a couple of sticking points. First, my incarceration and, second, her marriage, which, as it turned out, was a mess. I leaned on her brother for information, but he wanted to stay out of it. We swapped a few letters, but she was afraid of getting caught by her husband. She tried to visit more often, to see both her brother and me, but she had two teenagers who were complicating her life. After her divorce was final, she dated other men, but nothing worked. I begged Vanessa to wait for me, but seven years is a long time when you’re forty-one. When her kids left home, she moved to Richmond, Virginia, and our long-distance romance cooled off. Vanessa’s background is such that she is extremely cautious and keeps one eye on the rearview mirror. I guess we have that much in common. Using encrypted e-mails, we manage to arrange a time and place. I warn her that I look nothing like the Malcolm Bannister she met in prison. She says she’ll take that chance. She can’t wait to see the new-and-improved version.

As I park outside the restaurant, in a suburb of Richmond, I have a bad case of the butterflies. I’m a wreck because I am about to finally touch the woman I have dreamed about for almost three years. I know she wants to touch me too, but the guy she was so physically attracted to back then looks entirely different now. What if she doesn’t approve? What if she prefers Malcolm to Max? It’s also unnerving to realize I’m about to spend time with the only person, outside the Feds, who knows both men.