"R" is for Ricochet (11 page)

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a courier standing on my doorstep with an envelope in hand. I signed for it and opened it, pulling out a check from Nord for $1,250 in response to the invoice I'd sent him the day before. The handwritten note that accompanied the payment indicated the $250 bonus was for a job well done.

I wasn't so sure. Psychologically, the bonus put me in his debt and triggered another round of peeps from my conscience, which I'd thought to pacify with all the cleaning I'd done. I was right back in the thick of my debate. Should I tell Reba what was going on or should I not? More important, should I bring her father into the loop? His single admonition—to which I'd agreed—was to keep him informed of any backsliding on her part. This hadn't happened yet (as far as I knew), but if I told her about Beck and Onni, what would she do? She was going to crash and burn. And if I
didn't
tell her and she somehow got wind of it—which was not out of the question in a town this size—much crashing and burning would ensue anyway. She'd begged me not to tell her father about Beck, but Reba wasn't the one who was paying my bills. Witness this check.

I tried to think of an overriding principle that might apply—some moral code that would guide my decision. I couldn't think of
one.
Then I wondered if I had morals or principles of
any
kind, and that made me feel worse.

The phone rang. I picked it up and said, “What,” rather more rudely than I'd intended.

Cheney laughed. “You sound stressed.”

“Well, I
am.
Do you have any idea the bind you've put me in?”

“I'm sorry. I know it's tough. Would it help if we talked?”

“What's to talk about? Betraying that poor girl? Giving her the news about his screwing around?”

“I told you he's a bad man.”

“But isn't it just as bad to go after her like that?”

“You have any other suggestions? Because we're open to just about anything. God knows, we don't want to pull out the big guns unless we have to. The girl's freaky enough.”

“That's for sure. I notice you're using the term ‘we,' so I assume you've thrown in your lot with the IRS.”

“This is a law-enforcement issue. I'm a cop.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Would you at least have a chat with my IRS pal?”

“So he can pile his bullshit on top of yours? That's a happy proposition. I feel like I'm going under as it is.”

“Look, I'm just around the corner. You want to have lunch? He's on his way up from L.A. and said he'd join us. No hard sell. I promise. Just listen to him.”

“To what end?”

“You know a place called Jay's? Hot pastrami sandwiches and the best martinis in town.”

“I don't want to
drink
at lunch.”

“Me neither, but we can eat together, yes?”

I said, “Hang on. There's someone at my door. I'm going to put you on hold. I'll be back in a second.”

“Good deal. I'll wait.”

I pushed the Hold button and laid the receiver on my desk. I got up and paced from the inner office to the outer one. What was wrong with me? Because I did want to see him. And it didn't have anything to do with Reba Lafferty. That subject was just a cover for another form of confusion I was wrestling with. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, noting that I looked like shit. This was ridiculous. I went back to the phone and pushed Hold, activating the line. “Give me ten minutes and I'll meet you there.”

“Don't be silly. I can swing by. No point in taking two cars when we can make do with one. It's better for the environment.”

“Oh, please.”

I locked up the office and waited for him out on the street. There was no point worrying about my grubby jeans or my ratty tennis shoes. My hands smelled like bleach and my turtleneck was stretched out of shape. I needed a complete makeover, but I didn't think I could manage one in the next three to four minutes. Oh, to hell with it. This was business. What difference did it make if I were fresh as a daisy, wearing heels and panty hose? The more immediate problem was Cheney's IRS contact. I was already experiencing a low-level dread at the idea of meeting him. No hard sell, my ass. The man would grind me underfoot.

Cheney came around the corner in a sporty little red Mercedes convertible. He pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and opened the passenger-side door. I slid in. “I thought you drove a Mazda,” I said, sounding faintly accusative.

“I left that at home. I also have a six-year-old Ford pickup that I use for surveillance. I took delivery on this baby in Los Angeles last week.”

“Slick.”

He turned right at the corner and headed across town. I liked his driving style. No speeding, no showing off, and no reckless moves. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the matte finish on his red silk windbreaker—nothing shiny or vulgar—white dress shirt, the chinos, snappy Italian shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Even in an open car, his aftershave smelled like spices, the scent of tiny blossoms on some night-blooming shrub. This was pitiful. I wanted to lean over and sniff deeply at the side of his face. He glanced at me, smiling, as though he knew what was going on in my head. This was not a good sign.

Santa Teresa has never been noted for its club scene or its wild nightlife. Most restaurants close soon after the last of the dinner orders have been plated and served. The bars are open until 2:00
A
.
M
., but most don't provide dance floors or live music. Jay's Cocktail Lounge, downtown, is one of the few spots to offer both. In addition, from 11:30
A
.
M
. until 2:00
P
.
M
., lunch is served to a limited clientele who prefer the privacy and quiet for low-key business meetings and discreet liaisons. The walls are padded in gray suede, with a thick gray carpet underfoot that makes you feel you're walking across a mattress. Even by day, the place is so dark, you have to pause at the entrance until your eyes adjust. The booths are commodious, padded in black leather, and any ambient noise is dampened to a hush. Cheney gave his name to the hostess—Phillips, party of three.

He'd made reservations in advance.

I said, “God, you're cocky. What made you so sure I'd say yes?”

“I've never known you to turn down food, especially if someone else pays. Must feel like mothering.”

“Well, it is, isn't it?”

“By the way, Vince called to say he's running late. He said to go ahead and order.”

We spent the first part of the meal dealing with matters unrelated to Reba Lafferty. We sipped iced tea and picked at our sandwiches, unusual for me where food is concerned. I'm accustomed to eating fast and moaning aloud, but Cheney seemed to enjoy taking his sweet time. We chatted about his career and mine, the police department budget cuts, and the effects thereof. We knew a few cops in common, one being Jonah Robb, the married man I “dated” during one of his frequent separations from his wife, Camilla.

I said, “How's Jonah doing these days? Is the marriage off again or on?” I rattled the last of the ice cubes in my empty glass and, as if on cue, the busboy appeared to replenish my supply.

Cheney said, “Off, from what I hear. They had a kid. I should say, Camilla did. According to the scuttlebutt, the boy wasn't his.”

“Yeah, but he's crazy about that baby all the same,” I said. “I ran into him a couple of months ago and he was busting his buttons he was so proud of the kid.”

“What about the two daughters? No telling what effect this is having on them.”

“Camilla doesn't seem to care. I wish they'd just get back together and be done with it. How many times have they split?”

Cheney shook his head.

I studied him. “What about you? How's married life these days?”

“That's over.”

“Over?”

“You know the word ‘over'? As in done with.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. When did this transpire?”

“Middle of May. Embarrassing to admit, but we were only married five weeks, which is one week less than we'd known each other before we eloped.”

“Where is she now?”

“She's moved back to L.A.”

“That was quick.”

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better to get it over with.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“I doubt it. I was tired of feeling dead. Work we do, we take chances in the real world but not so much in here,” he said, tapping on his chest. “What's love about if not risk?”

I studied my plate, which was littered with potato chip crumbs. I licked my index finger and captured a cluster that I laid on my tongue. “You're beyond my area of competence. These days, I seem to be surrounded by people who've got it wrong, Reba Lafferty being one.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, holding his glass by the rim. “So let's talk about her.”

“What's to talk about? She's fragile. It doesn't seem right to put the squeeze on her.”

A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Fragile, my ass. She's the one who elected to get involved with him. Turns out, he's a sleazebag in more ways than one. She should know what's going on.”

“You're not doing this for her sake. You're doing it for yours.”

“What difference does that make? She needs to be told. Or do you disagree?”

“What if the revelation pushes her over the edge?”

“If she goes off the deep end, we'll handle it.” His gaze shifted to a point just over my shoulder. I turned my head and caught a glimpse of a man I assumed was Vince Turner approaching to my left. Cheney slid out of the booth and the two of them shook hands.

Vince Turner was a hefty man in his forties, round-faced, balding, wearing a tan raincoat. The wire stems on his frameless glasses had been bent at an angle that left them slightly askew. He toted a brown leather school bag that in sixth grade would have labeled him as hopelessly out of it. Now the scuffed handle and the buckles on the two exterior pockets marked him as self-assured.

Cheney introduced us. Turner peeled off his raincoat and tossed it across the back of the banquette before he sat down. His suit was mud brown, the jacket wrinkled across the back. His trousers had accordion pleats radiating from the crotch because he'd sat in them too long. He loosened his tie and tucked the ends in the pocket of his dress shirt, perhaps to keep them from flapping in his food.

“Have you eaten?” Cheney asked.

“I had a burger in the car coming up, but I could use a drink.”

Cheney signaled the waiter, who appeared moments later with a menu in hand.

Turner waved it away. “Maker's on the rocks. A double.”

“Would you like anything else?”

“That's fine. What about you, Cheney?”

“I'm good.”

“By me,” I said.

As soon as the waiter disappeared, Turner picked up his baton of napkin-wrapped flatware, unrolled the utensils, and set a place for himself. On his right hand he wore a heavy gold-and-garnet class ring, but there was no way to read the legend that encircled the stone. His face was shiny with perspiration, but his pale eyes were cold. He lined up the handles of his knife, his spoon, and two forks, then checked his watch. “I'm not sure how much Lieutenant Phillips has told you about me. It's one-fifteen now. At two-fifty, I'll be on a flight from here to LAX and then on to Washington, D.C., where I meet with a group of IRS investigators and the DEA. That gives us approximately one hour to conduct our business, so I'll get straight to the point. You have questions or comments, feel free to raise your hand. Otherwise, I'll talk until I get to the end. Is that agreeable?” He made another minute adjustment to the silverware.

“Fine with me,” I said. I found it easier to watch his hands than to look him in the eye.

“I'm forty-six years old. Since 1972 I've worked in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Bureau of Internal Revenue. My first assignment was as assistant to the man who pursued the case against Braniff Airlines in the laundering of illegal corporate campaign contributions. Braniff, like American Airlines, needed the occasional government assist in those days and began to funnel money to the Nixon re-election committee by way of Maurice Stans. You remember him?”

He looked up at me long enough to see me nod.

“Having cut my teeth on Watergate, I developed an appetite for financial chicanery. I've never been blessed with a wife or children. My job is my life.” He glanced down at his jacket and removed a tiny speck of lint. “A year ago, in May of 1986, Congress, in a rare moment of common sense, passed Public Law 99-570, the Money Laundering Control Act, which has provided us the hammer with which to pound the shit out of violators of the Bank Secrecy Act. The banking community is already feeling the effects. For a long time, banks in this country treated reporting requirements as a trivial matter, but that's changed. Many violations once considered misdemeanors have now been elevated to felony offenses with maximum prison sentences, fines, and civil penalties. Crocker National Bank has been fined $2,250,000; Bank of America was fined $4,750,000; and Texas Commerce Bancshares was fined $1,900,000. You can't imagine the satisfaction I've felt forcing these guys into line. And we ain't done yet.”

He paused, looking up with a smile that warmed his face from within. His ice blue eyes suddenly contained a merriment impossible to resist. I think in that moment, my position shifted. I'd do what I could for Reba, but if she came up against this guy, she was in deeper shit than she knew.

The waiter arrived with his Maker's Mark, which was the color of strong iced tea. Vince Turner sucked down half without hesitation and then placed the glass carefully in front of him. He folded his hands and lifted his eyes to mine. “Which brings us to Mr. Beckwith. I've spent the past year assembling a comprehensive dossier on him. As I'm sure you know, his lifestyle looks clean and his social credentials are solid, largely because of his late father's standing in the community. He's considered by most to be an honest, law-abiding citizen, who'd never dream of trafficking in drugs, pornography, or prostitutes.

“He's what we call a market-based offender. He takes the profits from these same illegal activities, disguises their origin, and introduces them back into the system as legitimate earnings. For the past five years, he's been ‘rehabilitating' funds for a man named Salustio Castillo, a Los Angeles jewelry wholesaler who also deals in scrap silver and gold. The business is just a cover for what he really does, which is to import cocaine from South America. Castillo bought a large property in Montebello through Mr. Beckwith's real estate firm. Mr. Beckwith brokered the deal, which is how they became acquainted. Mr. Castillo needed someone of Mr. Beckwith's professional reputation. His company is diverse and his financial dealings of sufficient magnitude to camouflage the funds Castillo was so eager to place. Mr. Beckwith saw the possibilities and agreed to help.

“At first, he employed the standard laundering techniques—structuring transactions, consolidating the deposits, and using wire transfers to move the money out of the country. By the time the money was routed through his company books and back to Castillo, the sources appeared to be legitimate. After six months, Mr. Beckwith got tired of paying his smurfs or maybe he got tired of keeping track of the myriad accounts he'd opened across Santa Teresa County. He began to make big deposits—two and three hundred thousand dollars at a clip, claiming these were the proceeds of commercial real estate ventures. This time he was the model of compliance, making sure all the appropriate CTRs were filed. In truth, he was counting on the fact that the IRS has to process so many millions of CTRs that his were in little or no danger of being flagged for scrutiny. Soon he was running a million a week through the system, taking one percent off the top as his service fee.

“Finally, deposits reached a level where the risks outweighed the benefits of doing business so close to home. Mr. Beckwith got nervous and decided to bypass the local banks and eliminate the paper trail. He acquired a Panamanian bank and an unrestricted banking license in Antigua, putting up the requisite one million in U.S. dollars as paid-in capital. He invested an additional five hundred thousand dollars for a second international banking license in the Netherlands Antilles, which doesn't have a tax treaty with the U.S. at this point.”

I raised my hand. “A million and a half? Is it really worth that to him?”

“Absolutely. With his offshore banks, he can make deposits. He can write his own references, issue letters of credit to himself, all of this protected by complete privacy and with very little interference from the host countries. He doesn't even have to be there to handle management. Keep in mind, too, when people hear you own a bank, they tend to be impressed.”

I said, “I'll bet.” Cheney caught my eye fleetingly, probably thinking, as I was, about the banks his father owned.

Vince Turner paused and looked from Cheney to me.

I said, “Sorry. Go on.”

He shrugged and continued as though his commentary had been recorded in advance. “By law, an American citizen is required to declare all foreign bank accounts on their yearly tax returns, but these guys aren't any more scrupulous about that than any other aspect of their business. Mr. Beckwith, under the auspices of the banks he'd bought, established an international business corporation, an IBC, in Panama, with shares being held in a Panama Private Interest Foundation, allowing him to avoid both U.S. and Panamanian taxation. With the shell company in place, he began to move currency
physically
from the States to his offshore havens. You move cash, Customs requires a CMIR—a Currency and Monetary Instrument Report—but Mr. Beckwith doesn't much care for filling out these pesky little government forms. No forms means no more violations, at least to his skewed way of thinking. Once deposited in one of his offshore banks, monies are returned to Mr. Castillo in the form of business loans with a twenty-year balloon.

“Of course, the transport of currency generates difficulties of a different sort. Bills are not only bulky, but weigh more than you'd think. The foreign markets prefer the smaller denominations—twenties and fifties. A million dollars in twenty-dollar bills tops out at over one hundred twenty-five pounds. Try toting that through an airport. Not a problem for our boy. The ever resourceful Mr. Beckwith leased a Learjet and now he flies suitcases full of cash to Panama every couple of months. Panama's currency is the U.S. dollar, so he doesn't even have to worry about the exchange rate. Between plane trips, he's been taking his wife on a series of luxury cruises, moving the cash in a steamer trunk that he keeps in his stateroom.”

Turner polished off his bourbon, signaling the waiter for another round. “Anybody ever tell you how much money gets laundered every year worldwide?”

I shook my head.

“One-point-five trillion dollars—that's a one, a five, and eleven zeros—just so you get the picture. In the U.S., the figure's somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty billion, but we're talking about revenue that's never taxed, so you see how serious it gets.”