Outside the stone walls and set up on the east side of the mansion was a helipad

with a large “B” painted in the center. And behind that and running parallel to

the beach was a three-thousandfoot paved runway. Parked at one end of the tarmac

was a trim Falcon 2000 jet. As Rogers watched, a man in a pilot’s uniform was

doing a visual inspection of the aircraft.

 

All the accouterments of the super-rich down to the very last detail, thought

Rogers. So many toys, so little time.

 

He made his way through a public access far down from the Ballard mansion to the

beach. The Atlantic swelled and plunged in front of him as a strong wind

pummeled the water. Salt air slammed into his lungs. Seagulls dipped and soared

looking for meals. But none of that held Rogers’s interest. He kept walking

toward the mansion. The sand belonged to everyone and he wanted to see what the

defenses of the estate looked like from the beach side.

 

He reached a spot directly in front of the Ballard property and saw that a high

stone wall ran the entire length of the property. It was so high in fact that he

could only see the upper floors of the main house.

 

In the middle of the wall was a wooden gate as high as the wall.

 

He trudged along the beach after taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up

his pant legs. When he was a hundred yards past it, he heard something. He