He had time to devise an exit strategy, just as he had time to contrive a way to get rid of the lawyer. But it would cost him some sleep.
The letter from Quince Garbe in Iowa was read by Beech: "'Dear Ricky (or whoever the hell you are): I don't have any more money. The first $100,000 was borrowed from a bank using a bogus financial statement. I'm not sure how I'll pay it back. My father owns our bank and all its money. Why don't you write him some letters, you thug! I can possibly scrape together $10,000 if we can agree that the extortion will stop there. I'm on the verge of suicide, so don't push. You're scum, you know that. I hope you get caught. Sincerely, Quince Garbe: "
"Sounds pretty desperate," Yarber said, looking up from his own pile of mail.
Spicer said, toothpick hanging from his bottom lip, "Tell him we'll take twenty-five thousand."
"I'll write him and tell him to wire it," Beech said, opening another envelope addressed to Ricky.
Chapter Fifteen
During lunch, when experience had shown that traffic picked up somewhat at Mailbox America, an agent nonchalantly entered the place behind two other customers, and for the second time that day placed a key in Box 455. Lying on top of three pieces of junk mail-one from a pizza carryout, one from a car wash, one from the US. Postal Service-he noticed something new. It was an envelope, light orange in color, five by eight. With a pair of tweezers he kept on his key ring, he clamped the end of the envelope, slid it quickly from the box, and dropped it in a small leather briefcase. The junk mail was left undisturbed.
At Langley, it was carefitlly opened by experts. Two handwritten pages were removed, and copied.
An hour later, Deville entered Teddy's bunker, holding a file. Deville was in charge of what was commonly referred to, deep inside Langley, as the "Lake mess." He gave copies of the letter to Teddy and York, then scanned it to a large screen, where Teddy and York at first just stared at it. The printing was bold, inblock form, easily readable, as if the author had labored over each word. It read:
Dear Al,
Where you been? Did you get my last letter? I wrote three weeks ago and I haven't heard a word. I guess you're busy, but please don't forget about me. I get very lonely here, and your letters have always inspired me to keep going. They give me strength and hope because I know somebody out there cares. Please don't give up on me, Al.
My counselor says that I might be released in two months. There's a halfway house in Baltimore, actually a few miles from where I grew up, and the people here are trying to get me a spot there. It would be for ninety days, enough time for me to find a job, some friends, etc., you know, get used to society again. It's a lockdown place at night, but I'd be free during the day.
There aren't many good memories, Al. Every person who ever loved me is now dead, and my uncle, the guy who's paying for this rehab, is very rich but very cruel.
I need friends so desperately, Al.
By the way, I've lost another five pounds, and my waist is now a thirty-two. The photo I sent you is getting outdated. I've never liked the way my face looks in it-too much flesh on the cheeks.
I'm much leaner now, and tanned. They let us tan for up to two hours a day here, weather permitting. It's Florida, but some days are too cool. I'll send you another photo, maybe one fiiom the
chest up. I'm lifting weights like crazy. I think
you'll like the next photo.
You said you would send me one of you. I'm still waiting. Please don't forget me, Al. I need one of your letters.
Love, Ricky
Since York had had the responsibility of investigating every aspect of Lake's life, he felt compelled to try and speak first. But he could think of nothing to say. They read the letter in silence again, and again.
Finally, Deville broke the ice by saying, "Here's the envelope." He flashed it on the wall. It was addressed to Mr. Al Konyers, at Mailbox America. The return address was: Ricky, Aladdin North, PO. Box 44683, Neptune Beach, FL 32233.
"It's a front;" Deville said. "There's no such place as Aladdin North. There's a telephone number, and you get an answering service. We've called ten times with questions, but the operators know nothing. We've called every rehab and treatment clinic in North Florida, and no one's heard of this place."
Teddy was silent, still staring at the wall.
"Where's Neptune Beach?"York grunted.
"Jacksonville."
Deville was excused, but told to stand by Teddy began making notes on a green legal pad. "There are other letters, and at least one photo," he said, as if the problem were just part of the routine. Panic was a state unknown to Teddy Maynard.
"We have to find them;" he said.
"We've done two thorough searches of his home," York said.
"Then do a third. I doubt if he would keep such stuff at his office." "How soon-" "Do it now. Lake is in California looking for votes. We have no time on this,York. There may be other secret boxes, other men writing letters and bragging about their tans and waistlines."
"Do you confront him?"
"Not yet."
Since they had no sample of Mr. Konyers' handwriting, Deville made a suggestion that Teddy eventually liked. They would use the ruse of a new laptop, one with a built-in printer. The first draft was composed by Deville andYork, and after an hour or so the fourth draft read as follows:
Dear Ricky:
I got your letter of the twenty-second; forgive me for not writing sooner. I've been on the road , a lot lately, and I'm behind on everything. In fact, I'm writing this letter at thirty-five thousand feet, somewhere over the Gulf, en route to Tampa. And I'm using a new laptop, one so small it almost fits in my pocket. Amazing technology. The printer leaves something to be desired. I hope you can read it okay.
Wonderful news about your release, and the halfway house in Baltimore. I have some business interests there, and I'm sure I can help you find a job.
Keep your head up, only two months to go. You're a much stronger person now, and you're ready to live life to its fullest. Don't be discouraged.
I'll help in any way possible.When you get to Baltimore, I'll be happy to spend some time with you, show you around, you know.
I promise I'll write sooner. I can't wait to hear from you.
Love, Al
They decided Al was in a hurry and forgot to sign his name. The letter was marked up, revised, redrafted, pored over with more care than a treaty. The final version was printed on a piece of stationery from the Royal Sonesta Hotel in New Orleans, and placed in a thick, plain brown envelope with optic wiring hidden along the bottom edge. In the lower right-hand corner, in a spot that looked as if it had been slightly damaged and knotted in transit, a tiny transmitter the size of a pinhead was installed. When activated, it would send a signal a hundred yards for up to three days.
Since Al was traveling to Tampa, the envelope was stamped with a Tampa postmark, dated that day. This was done in less than half an hour by a team of very strange people down in Documents on the second floor.
At 4 p.m, a green van with many miles on it stopped at the curb in front of Aaron Lake's townhouse, near one of the many shade trees on Thirty-fourth, in a lovely section of Georgetown. Its door advertised a plumbing company in the District. Four plumbers got out and began removing tools and equipment.
After a few minutes, the only neighbor who'd noticed grew bored and returned to her television. With Lake in California, the Secret Service was with him, and his home had yet to qualify for round-the-clock surveillance, at least by the Secret Service. That scrutiny would come quickly, though.