“I got it!” the 34-year-old, goateed, sandy-blonde-haired Caucasian American exclaimed into his cell phone as he motored northward away from Wilmington (NC) on a cool, fog-in-patches April (2015) morning. “It’s in the trunk.” Why, I’m sure it is. Bet it’s under the spare tire. Sweet! Already got a blip on my map. Perfect. “Great! Any issues last night on Figure Eight, [Island] Cliff?” a middle-aged, male, Amerasian voice asked. “None whatsoever, Turk. That beachfront house – or, I should say mansion – was vacant and the alarm system was indeed deactivated just as you said. The forty-yard [approximately 37 meters] swim across Mason Inlet in a black wetsuit was a piece of cake, even on the return leg with the floating case. I hit it right at slack tide – no current to speak of. My total out-and-back time: fifty-five minutes. Never saw a soul. Slept like a baby at Shell Island Resort. [on Wrightsville Beach Island] No nightmares.” Excellent. Most excellent.