Camino Island

by John Grisham

  Denny had been on the island for ten days and was losing patience. He and Rooker had tracked Cable and knew his movements, a monotonously simple task. They had tracked Mercer too and knew her habits, another easy chore.

  Intimidation had worked with Oscar Stein in Boston, and perhaps it was their only plausible tool. Direct confrontation with the threat of violence. As with Stein, Cable could not exactly run to the cops. If he had the manuscripts, he could be coerced into cutting a deal. If he didn’t, then he almost certainly knew where they were.

  Cable usually left work around six in the evening and went home. At 5:50 Monday afternoon, Denny entered the store and pretended to browse around. As luck would have it, Cable’s luck that is, he was busy in the basement and his clerks knew not to divulge this.

  Denny, though, had just run out of luck. After months of moving seamlessly through airports and customs and security checkpoints, and using fake IDs and passports and disguises, and paying cash when possible for rooms and rentals, he was thinking of himself as quite clever, if not invincible. But even the smartest cons get busted when they drop their guard.

  For years the FBI had been perfecting its facial recognition technology, software it referred to as FacePrint. It used an algorithm to calculate the distance between a subject’s eyes, nose, and ears, and in milliseconds applied it to a bank of photos relevant to a particular investigation. In the “Gatsby File,” as the stolen manuscripts case had been nicknamed by the FBI, the bank was comparatively small. It included a dozen photos of the three thieves at the front desk of the Firestone Library, though Jerry Steengarden and Mark Driscoll were in custody. It also included several hundred photos of men known or suspected to be active in the world of stolen art, artifacts, and books.

  When Denny entered the store, the camera hidden in the Lonesome Dove audio case captured his face, as it had routinely captured the face of every other customer since noon that day. The image was sent to the laptop in the rear of the van across the street, and, more important, to the FBI’s mammoth forensic lab at Quantico, Virginia. There was a match. An alarm alerted a technician. Within seconds of entering the store, Denny was identified as the third Gatsby thief.

  Two had been caught. Trey, the fourth, was still decomposing at the bottom of a pond in the Poconos, never to be found nor implicated. Ahmed, the fifth, was still hiding in Europe.

  After fifteen minutes, Denny left the store, walked around the corner, and got into a 2011 Honda Accord. The second van followed it at a distance, lost it, then found it parked in the lot of the Sea Breeze Motel, on the beach, a hundred yards from the Lighthouse Inn. A stakeout began.

  The Honda Accord had been rented from an agency in Jacksonville that advertised “rent-a-wrecks” and didn’t mind dealing in cash. The name on the application was Wilbur Shifflet, and the manager admitted to the FBI that he thought the Maine driver’s license looked bogus. Shifflet had paid a thousand dollars cash for a two-week rental and waived the insurance.

  The FBI was stunned at this development, at its incredible good fortune. But why would one of the thieves hang around the bookstore some eight months after the theft? Was he also watching Mercer? Did he have a connection to Cable? There were many baffling questions to be dealt with later, but at the moment it was a strong indication that Mercer was right. At least one of the manuscripts was in the basement.

  At sunset, Denny stepped out of room 18 and Rooker stepped out of the room next door. They walked a hundred yards to the Surf, a popular outdoor bar and grill, where they dined on sandwiches and beer. While they were eating, four FBI agents walked into the office of the Sea Breeze and handed the manager a search warrant. In room 18, they found a gym bag under the bed. It contained a nine-millimeter pistol, six thousand dollars in cash, and fake driver’s licenses from Tennessee and Wyoming. Nothing, though, revealed Wilbur’s true identity. The agents found nothing of value in the room next door.

  When Denny and Rooker returned to the Sea Breeze, they were arrested and driven, in total silence and in separate cars, to the FBI office in Jacksonville. They were processed and fingerprinted. Both sets of prints were pushed through the data bank, and by 10:00 p.m. the truth was known. Denny’s military prints revealed his name: Dennis Allen Durban, age thirty-three, born in Sacramento. Rooker’s criminal record nailed him: Bryan Bayer, age thirty-nine, born in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Both refused to cooperate and were put away. Lamar Bradshaw decided to bury them for a few days and sit on the news of their arrests.

  Mercer was with Elaine, Rick, and Graham in the safe house, playing gin rummy and killing time. They had been told of the arrests but did not know the details. Bradshaw called at eleven, spoke with Elaine, and filled in most of the missing pieces. Things were obviously happening fast. There were a lot of unanswered questions. Tomorrow was the big day. As for Mercer, Bradshaw said, “Get her off the island.”

  2.

  They watched the store even more closely throughout Tuesday, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. No more thieves lurking around, no suspicious packages shipped. A UPS truck delivered six boxes of books at 10:50, but left with nothing. Cable was upstairs and down, helping customers, reading as always in his favorite spot, and of course he left for lunch at 12:15, returning an hour later.

  At five, Lamar Bradshaw and Derry Vanno entered the store and asked Cable if they could have a word. Quietly, Bradshaw said, “FBI.” They followed him to the First Editions Room, where he closed the door. He asked for identification and they whipped out their badges. Vanno handed over a search warrant and said, “We’re here to search the basement.”

  Still standing, Bruce asked, “Okay, and what might you be looking for?”

  “Stolen manuscripts, from the collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald, property of the Princeton library,” Bradshaw said.

  Bruce laughed and without missing a beat said, “Are you serious?”

  “Do we look serious?”

  “I guess you do. Mind if I read this?” He waved the search warrant.

  “Go right ahead. And as of now, we have five agents in the store, including us.”

  “Well, make yourself at home. There’s coffee upstairs.”

  “We know.”

  Bruce sat at his desk and read the search warrant. He took his time, flipped pages, and gave a good impression of being unconcerned. When he finished, he said, “Okay, it’s fairly straightforward.” He stood and stretched and thought about what to do next. “It’s limited to the vault in the basement, right?”

  “That’s correct,” Bradshaw said.

  “There’s a lot of valuable stuff down there, and, well, you guys are famous for trashing a place when you go in with warrants.”

  “You watch too much television,” Vanno said. “We know what we’re doing, and if you cooperate no one else in the store will even know we’re here.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Clutching the search warrant, Bruce led them to the back of the store, where they were met by three more agents, all dressed casually. Bruce ignored them and unlocked the door to the basement. He flipped a light switch and said, “Watch your step.” In the basement he turned on more lights and stopped at the door to the vault, where he punched in the code. He opened the vault, turned on its light, and when all five agents were crowded inside he waved at the walls and said, “Those are all rare first editions. Nothing of interest, I suppose.” One agent removed a small video camera and began filming the interior of the vault.

  “Open the safe,” Bradshaw said and Bruce complied. When he opened its door, he pointed to the top shelves and said, “These are all very rare. Do you want to see them?”

  “Maybe later,” Bradshaw said. “Let’s start with those four drawers.” He knew precisely what he wanted.

  Bruce pulled out the first one. It contained two cedar boxes, just as Mercer had reported. He lifted one, placed it on the table, and opened the top. “This is the original manuscript of Darker Than Amber, published by J
ohn D. MacDonald in 1966. I bought this about ten years ago and I have the invoice to prove it.”

  Bradshaw and Vanno hovered over the manuscript. “Mind if we touch it?” Vanno asked. Both were experienced and knew what they were doing.

  “Be my guest.”

  The manuscript was typed and the pages were in good condition with almost no fading. They flipped through it and soon lost interest. “And the other?” Bradshaw asked.

  Bruce removed the second cedar box, placed it beside the first, and lifted the top. “This is another MacDonald manuscript, The Lonely Silver Rain, published in 1985. Got an invoice for this one too.”

  It, too, was neat and typewritten, with notes in the margins. To help matters, Bruce added, “MacDonald lived on a boat with little electricity. He used an old manual Underwood typewriter and was meticulous about his work. His manuscripts are incredibly neat.”

  They really didn’t care but turned a few pages anyway.

  For a bit of fun, Bruce said, “I’m not sure, but didn’t Fitzgerald handwrite his original manuscripts?” There was no reply.

  Bradshaw turned back to the safe and said, “The second drawer.”

  Bruce pulled it out as the two inched closer, straining for a look. It was empty. Same for the third and fourth. Bradshaw was stunned and shot a wild look at Vanno, who was gawking at the empty drawers in utter disbelief.

  Reeling, Bradshaw said, “Empty the contents of the safe.”

  Bruce said, “No problem, but it’s obvious, at least to me, that someone has fed you guys some bad information. I don’t trade in stolen stuff and I wouldn’t go near the Fitzgerald manuscripts.”

  “Empty the safe,” Bradshaw said again, ignoring him.

  Bruce returned the two MacDonald manuscripts to the top drawer, then reached to the top shelf and removed a clamshell holding The Catcher in the Rye. “You want to see it?”

  “Yes,” Bradshaw replied.

  Bruce carefully opened the clamshell and removed the book. He held it up for them to see, and video, then put it back. “And you want to see all of them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a waste of time. These are published novels, not manuscripts.”

  “We know that.”

  “These clamshells are custom made for each book and much too small to hold a manuscript.”

  That much was obvious, but time was not a factor and a thorough search was required. “Next,” Bradshaw said, nodding at the shelves in the safe.

  Methodically, Bruce removed the books one at a time, opened the clamshells, displayed the books, then set them aside. As he happily went about his business, Bradshaw and Vanno shook their heads, glared at each other, rolled their eyes, and in general looked as baffled as a couple of hoodwinked agents could possibly look.

  When all forty-eight were stacked on the table, the safe was empty, but for the two MacDonald manuscripts in the top drawer. Bradshaw stepped closer to the safe, as if looking for secret compartments, but it was obvious there was no room for one. He scratched his jaw and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  Vanno asked, “What about these?” and waved at the bookshelves against the walls.

  Bruce said, “They’re rare first editions, books published a long time ago. It’s a collection I’ve spent twenty years putting together. Again, they’re novels, not manuscripts. I suppose you want to see them too.”

  “Oh why not?” Vanno said.

  Bruce pulled out keys and unlocked the bookshelves. The agents spread out and began lifting the glass doors to the shelves, inspecting the rows of books, finding nothing even remotely resembling a bulky manuscript. Bruce watched them carefully, eager to step in if a book were removed. But they were careful, and very professional, and after an hour in the vault the search was over and had yielded nothing. Every inch of it had been examined. As they filed out, Bruce pulled the door shut but didn’t lock it.

  Bradshaw looked around the basement and took in the shelves stuffed with old books, magazines, galleys, and advance reading copies. “Mind if we take a look?” he asked in one last, desperate attempt to find something.

  Bruce said, “Well, according to the warrant, the search is limited to the vault, but what the hell. Have a look. You’re not going to find anything.”

  “So you consent.”

  “Sure. Why not? Let’s waste some more time.”

  They fanned out through the junk room, and peeked and poked for half an hour, as if trying to delay the inevitable. Admitting defeat was unthinkable, but they finally gave up. Bruce followed them up the stairs and to the front door. Bradshaw offered a hand and said, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Bruce shook hands and asked, “So, is this it for me, or am I still a suspect?”

  Bradshaw pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Bruce. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and answer that question.”

  “Great. Better still, I’ll get my lawyer to call you.”

  “Do that.”

  When they were gone, Bruce turned and noticed two clerks behind the front counter, staring.

  “DEA,” he said. “Looking for a meth lab. Now get back to work.”

  3.

  The oldest bar on the island was the Pirate’s Saloon, three blocks east of the bookstore. After dark, Bruce met his lawyer, Mike Wood, there for a drink. They huddled in a corner, and over bourbon Bruce described the search. Mike was too experienced to inquire as to whether Bruce knew anything about the stolen manuscripts.

  Bruce asked, “Is it possible to find out if I’m still their target?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call the guy tomorrow, but I assume the answer is yes.”

  “I’d like to know if I’m going to be followed for the next six months. Look, Mike, I’m going to the South of France next week to hang out with Noelle. If these guys are going to track me all over the place, I’d like to know it. Hell, I’ll give them my flight numbers and call them when I get home. I have nothing to hide.”

  “I’ll tell the guy, but for now assume they’re watching every move, listening to every phone, and reading every e-mail and text message.”

  Bruce feigned disbelief and frustration, but in reality for the past two months he’d been living with the assumption that someone, possibly the FBI or perhaps someone else, was watching and listening.

  The following day, Wednesday, Mike Wood called Lamar Bradshaw’s cell phone four times and was sent straight to voice mail. He left messages, none of them returned. On Thursday, Bradshaw called back and confirmed that Mr. Cable was a person of interest, but no longer a target of their investigation.

  Mike informed Bradshaw that his client would soon be leaving the country, and passed along his flight number and the hotel in Nice where he would be staying for a few days with his wife. Bradshaw thanked him for the information and said the FBI had no interest in Cable’s foreign travels.

  4.

  On Friday, Denny Durban and Bryan Bayer, also known as Joe Rooker, were flown to Philadelphia, then driven to Trenton, where they were again processed and placed in separate cells. Denny was then taken to an interrogation room, sat at a table, given a cup of coffee, and told to wait. Mark Driscoll and his lawyer, Gil Petrocelli, were led by Special Agent McGregor to the hallway outside the interrogation room, and through a one-way window they took a look at Denny, sitting all alone and looking bored.

  “We nabbed your buddy,” McGregor said to Mark. “Caught him in Florida.”

  “So?” Petrocelli said.

  “So we now have all three of you, the three who were inside the Firestone Library. Seen enough?”

  Driscoll said, “Yes.”

  They walked away and entered another interrogation room two doors down. When they were seated around a small table, McGregor said, “We don’t know who else was involved but there were others. Someone outside the library created the diversion while the three of you were inside. Someone else hacked the campus security system and electrical grid. That’s five, could be
more, only you can tell us. We’re closing in on the manuscripts and we’ll soon have a fresh batch of indictments. We are willing to offer the mother of all deals, Mr. Driscoll. You sing and you walk. Tell us everything and your indictment is forgotten. You enter witness protection and we’ll set you up in some nice place with new papers, a good job, whatever you want. If there’s a trial, you’ll have to come back and testify, but frankly I doubt that’ll happen.”

  For Mark, eight months in jail were enough. Denny was the dangerous one, and now that he was neutralized, so much of the pressure was off. The threat of retaliation was greatly diminished. Trey was not the violent type and lived on the run anyway. If Mark gave up Trey’s real name he might soon be caught. Ahmed was a wimpish computer nerd who was afraid of his shadow. The thought of him exacting revenge seemed quite remote.

  “Give me some time,” Mark said.

  “We’ll talk about it,” Petrocelli said.

  “Okay, today is Friday. You have the weekend to make a decision. I’ll be back Monday morning. After that, all offers are off the table.”

  On Monday, Mark took the deal.

  5.