Sheldon Jones was worth $500 Million. He invested heavily in real estate and worked hard making sure he got rent from every property sufficient to cover his debt loan and other expenses. It was hard work, but it paid off. He was sixty-five years old and in great shape. His blood pressure was low, his heart and lungs were clear. His doctor told him that he could live to be 100. He still had rugged good looks that came from living in the climate of Washington State. Seattle was his home. He was about 5’10” tall with gray and brown hair, brown eyes and a pale complexion.

Now it was the year 2010 and the Tax laws did not permit him to give that wealth to his kids without a huge tax. But if he died, well that would be another story. He had to come up with a plan. His kids were everything to him. His son, Phillipe and his daughter Christine were his pride and joy. He tried to make all of their events as they were growing up, and now that they were grown and had families of their own, he was despondent.

August 15, 2010.

“Dad, you seem down”, Christine asked at a family picnic. “Well, you know I’m not getting any younger. I could die any day. Will you miss me?” She smiled, “You know I will, Daddy.” He started to tear and choke up and looked away, then hugged her.

Christine was 30 years old and was the spitting image of her mother. Lean shapely and not looking any worse from having several kids. She was very attractive. She was happily married with four children. Phillipe was 27 years old, and a bit of a hippy. Long hair, a beard, handsome good looks, and a happy bachelor who seemed to have a new buxom babe every time Jones saw him. He told his dad, “I’m just spreading the love! And with big chicks there’s more to love.” The kid had a charm about him. No doubt about that.

September 30, 2010.

A portly man with a bad Spanish accent and looking like a derelict appeared at the Panamanian National Bank in Panama City. He wanted to open a savings account for $1,000. The bank clerk asked for identification and he handed over a paper drivers license showing his name of Lupe Cordero with a Panama City address. He was about 5’10” with brown hair and brown eyes. He was dirty as though he had waded through mud.