The mansion is packed to the walls with loot. It spills right into the halls, room doors jammed open with collapsing stacks of goodies. Crates of whiskey, vodka, tequila—the real stuff, not moonshine. A whole room crammed with video recorders. Another full of ten-speed bikes, wheels and frames neatly disassembled. Three piece men’s suits, all styles and sizes, hung on shiny wheeled racks. Lots of mink and sable, with some sad moth damage; furs are hard to keep through a Carolina summer.