Camino Island

by John Grisham

The imposter borrowed the name of Neville Manchin, an

actual professor of American literature at Portland State and soon-to-be doctoral student at Stanford.

scholar of F. Scott Fitzgerald and was keen to see the great writer’s “manuscripts and papers”

Ed Folk, a career junior librarian whose task, among several other monotonous ones, was to verify the credentials of the person who wrote the letter.

Great, said Ed. He’d seen it all before. The guy was trying to impress him before he even got there, which was not at all unusual.

The man posing as Professor Neville Manchin arrived at Princeton on a beautiful fall day in early October.

The forger, who was also the hacker, had been trained by the CIA and had a long history in the murky world of private espionage. Breaching a bit of campus security was hardly a challenge.

Manchin noticed at least four surveillance cameras high in the corners, cameras that were supposed to be seen.

The assistant

librarian offered a smug grin and said that would not be possible. “Have you ever seen the originals?” Manchin asked. “Only once.” A pause as Manchin waited for more, then he asked, “And what was the occasion?” “Well, a certain famous scholar wished to see them. We accompanied him down to the vault and gave him a look.

The assistant librarians motive seems to be having information that the professor doesn’t have.

Manchin hung around all day,

Several times he wandered off, poking around, looking, measuring, and memorizing.

real life his name was Mark and his occupation, if one could call it that, was professional thievery.

His was a gang of five, led by Denny, a former Army Ranger who had turned to crime after being kicked out of the military. So far, Denny had not been caught and had no record; nor did Mark. However, two of the others did. Trey had two convictions and two escapes, his last the year before from a federal prison in Ohio. It was there he’d met Jerry, a petty art thief now on parole. Another art thief, a

onetime cellmate serving a long sentence, had first mentioned the Fitzgerald manuscripts to Jerry.

Ahmed was the hacker, the forger,

His 5 percent would come off the top. The other four would take the rest in equal shares.

Jerry

wood from the third drawer nicked him above his left wrist. In the excitement, he barely noticed and just rubbed it for a split

Jerry had a permanent address. He’d been renting a small apartment

with his girlfriend in Rochester, New York.

Sat-Traks, tracking devices tied to a satellite system with instant coverage anywhere

Bad news was transmitted by the simple message “Red.” “Red” meant, with no questions asked and no time for delay, that (1) something has gone wrong, (2) if possible get the manuscripts to the third safe house, and (3) by all means get out of the country as quickly as possible.

Eventually, a girl enticed him to a Florida beach on Camino Island, a ten-mile-long barrier strip just north of Jacksonville.

To protect the money, and hopefully watch it grow, he considered a number of ventures as he roamed the beach.

Bruce’s motive?

The barista was also the owner, an older guy named Tim,

the one constant was that those giving advice enjoyed what they were doing.

His father had never spent time with him.

must tell you that I’m here under false pretenses, okay? My name is not Donna Watson but Elaine Shelby. I work for a company based in Bethesda.”

we play in the gray, and when the crime is solved who cares?”

The thief and his lawyer have no clue that we’re even involved. They’ve never heard of us and we leave no fingerprints.”

Nothing we ask you to do is even remotely illegal. I promise.”

“You and I are not close enough to make promises. I don’t know you.”

‘Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.’ That’s the perfect description of Tessa’s family.”

Elaine smiled as if she understood, as if she trusted Mercer completely.

Larry woke her

There was something shady in his past, Mercer

had fled to Florida

a freelance gardener and handyman, and he and Tessa had always bickered over how ...

Joel Ribikoff,

fifty-two years old and a convicted felon, busted twice for dealing in stolen valuables.

They spent the next hour talking about the party and haggling over the

guest list. With the exception of Bruce Cable and Noelle Bonnet, every other potential invitee had baggage, and the more the better. It promised to be a memorable evening.

Finding a mother actually laying her eggs had been an indescribable thrill.

The Turtle Watch volunteers would come along soon and do their work.

Mercer finally met the man responsible for her little sabbatical.

Myra said, “Okay, here are the rules. No talking about your own books, and no politics. There are some Republicans here.”

She would never tire of the sound of the ocean, the gentle breaking of the waves with a calm sea, or the crashing surf in a storm.

For Mercer, a once promising writer suffering through an endless drought and handcuffed by the fear that her career might be over, it was comforting to have such a knowledgeable reader say nice things and want more.

Was he really willing to risk jail for trading in stolen manuscripts?