Then, the squeeze. F. Max called Agent Ross Mayfield and requested a one-on-one meeting. They met in a fancy bar near Darden’s office late in the afternoon. F. Max ordered red wine; Mayfield, on duty, stayed with coffee. As soon as the drinks arrived, F. Max got to the point. “We want immunity, complete and unrestricted immunity. No indictment, no arrest, nothing. Sid walks away free and clear.”

Mayfield shook his head. “We’ve had this conversation.”

“We have. But there’s more to the story. What if Sid can deliver the goods on all of Ken Reed’s offshore accounts and properties? He has over half a billion stashed in banks from here to New Zealand and Sid can provide the details. He can also deliver the toys—the homes, yachts, airplanes.”

“I’m listening.”

“Think of the litigation when this goes down. Tens of thousands of lawsuits against the company. Reed will pull a Trump, file for bankruptcy and hide behind the courts for protection. But what if the plaintiffs and their hungry lawyers have access to his hidden fortune? Sounds like justice to me. Reed ends up broke, bankrupt, in jail for the rest of his life. Sid can deliver, but only with immunity.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Ross. Look at the trainload of delicious gossip Sid’s already delivered. You guys can’t process it fast enough, right? He knows what he’s doing and he wants to do more, but at a price. What’s the benefit of indicting him and ruining his name?”

Mayfield smiled and nodded and glanced around. He liked it—that much was obvious. “What about the Nelson Kerr matter?”

“Nothing. Not a dime. Sid is convinced Reed did a one-off and paid for the job through some other account, or maybe cash. He kept it far away from the company. He’s not that stupid.”

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.”