"R" is for Ricochet (12 page)

Cheney spoke up. “How much can you tell her about the investigation to date?”

“Broad strokes? Four years ago the IRS, the DEA, the FBI, Customs, and the Justice and Treasury departments put together a task force to investigate gold and precious metals dealers in Los Angeles, Detroit, and Miami, all of whom we suspect are laundering money for a Colombian drug cartel. So far they've managed to place, layer, and integrate sixteen million dollars, running the cash through four businesses, using multiple accounts, at ten different banks, one of which has a branch here in town. Alan Beckwith is responsible for processing a substantial portion of that sum.

“Ours is painstaking work. We're still sorting out the particulars, developing as much hard evidence as we can before we make our move. The trick is not to alert him until we have all our ducks in a row. A U.S. District Court judge in Los Angeles and another in Miami have recently approved electronic surveillance. That's allowed us to monitor Mr. Beckwith's phone conversations. We've also obtained authorization to seize and remove trash from his home and business premises. Right now we have our merry band of agents picking through his garbage. They've found invoices listing fictitious addresses for nonexistent businesses, assorted handwritten notes, canceled checks, discarded typewriter cartridges and adding-machine tape. Mr. Beckwith has legitimate dealings with financial institutions on a number of fronts, and he's skilled at mingling the profits from illegal activities with the mundane business he does from day to day. What he's apparently unaware of is that financial institutions are required to save signature cards, account statements, copies of checks written for any amount over a hundred dollars. The banks also retain a transaction log of wire transfers, so they can properly account for funds passing through the system. The information is all coded, but it's possible to use the sequence numbers to identify the source bank, the target bank, and the dates and times the money was sent on its way. We don't yet have access to these documents, but we're putting together the necessary paperwork to subpoena bank records.”

The waiter appeared, setting down Turner's second drink. A silence fell until he'd moved away from the table and out of earshot. Turner picked up his glass of bourbon. His drinking had slowed to a sipping pace, and I could see him savoring the taste.

“What do you want from Reba? Surely you're not asking her to waltz in and lift all the pertinent files.”

“Not at all. In point of fact, we can't instruct her to do anything that violates the law because we're not at liberty to do so ourselves. Even if she stole the files without our prior knowledge or approval, we couldn't even peek at them without jeopardizing our case. What we
can
ask for is an in-depth description of his records—the nature of the files he has and where they're located—which will allow us to prepare financial and document search warrants. I understand you feel protective of Ms. Lafferty, but we need her cooperation.”

“Isn't there anybody else? What about his company comptroller?”

“The company comptroller's a fellow named Marty Blumberg. We've thought of him. The problem is he's so deeply implicated he might panic and run, or worse, panic and warn Mr. Beckwith. Now that she's not working for him, Reba's been removed from the line of fire and she might be more inclined to help. Lieutenant Phillips showed you the photographs?”

“Well, yeah, but I'm not sure what those are going to do for you. She finds out he's in trouble, she'll fall all over herself telling him whatever you tell her.”

“I gathered as much. Do you have a suggestion about how to contain her reaction?”

“No. To me, it's like detonating a nuclear device. You risk as much destruction as you're hoping to unleash.”

Turner adjusted a minute irregularity in the flatware he'd aligned. “Point taken. Unfortunately, we don't have much time. Mr. Beckwith has uncanny survival instincts. We've been discreet, but from the intelligence we've gathered, he may well suspect there's something afoot. He's consolidating his funds, picking up the pace, which we find worrisome.”

“Reba mentioned that, but she's convinced he's doing it for her. He says once his assets are secure, he'll dump his wife and the two of them can hit the highway. Or that's what she hears. Who knows the truth of it?”

“There's no doubt he's preparing to make a run for it. Another week and he might succeed in placing the cash and himself beyond our reach.”

“Does the money belong to him or Salustio Castillo?”

“His, in the main. If he's smart, he'll keep his hands off Salustio's cash. Last guy who crossed Castillo got turned into a concrete popsicle in a twenty-gallon garbage can.”

Once it was clear Vince was finished, Cheney said, “So. Who talks to Reba? You, me, or her.”

There was a silence while all three of us stared at the tabletop. Finally, I raised my hand. “I've got a better shot at it than either one of you.”

“Good. Give us a couple of days. As soon as I get back from Washington, I'll set up a meeting with our FBI contact and the DOJ. Customs will want to sit in as well. As soon as we decide how we want to proceed, we'll bring you in for a briefing, probably the beginning of next week. After that, we'll hope to talk to her.”

“You better make it good. I don't look forward to delivering the news.”

“Don't worry about that. We'll advise you in advance.”

 

Cheney dropped me off at my office at 2:00
P
.
M
. The afternoon temperature was climbing, a complete contradiction of the morning weather report that promised a moderate 74 degrees. Vince Turner had called a taxi to ferry him to the airport so he could catch his flight. I was hoping Cheney would have the good grace to deliver me without reference to Reba Lafferty or Beck, but as I got out of the car, he held up a manila envelope. “I had copies made for you.”

“What am I supposed to do with 'em?”

“Whatever you like. I thought you should have a set.”

“Thanks so much.” I took the envelope.

“Call me if you need me.”

“Trust me. I will.”

I waited until he'd turned the corner and the sound of his little red Mercedes had faded in the turgid afternoon air. I let myself into the office, where the air felt stuffy and dead. I passed through the reception area to my desk. I tossed my shoulder bag on the client chair and sat down with the manila envelope. I used it to fan myself and then undid the clasp and removed the prints. The photographs were just as I remembered them—Beck and Onni emerging from various motels, he with his arm around her, the two holding hands, Onni with her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist, the two hip-to-hip walking in lockstep. Poor Reba. She was in for a rude awakening. I opened my desk drawer and tossed the envelope inside. I didn't even want to think about the sorry task of breaking the news. In hopes of distracting myself, I did something I hadn't done for ages. I walked the four blocks from my office into downtown Santa Teresa and caught two movies, back-to-back, watching one of them twice. I thus succeeded in dodging the heat and dodging reality at the same time.

When I reached my apartment, I saw that Mattie's car was gone and Henry's kitchen was dark. I wasn't sure what to make of that. The temperature was somewhere in the eighties, almost unheard of at this hour. It was still light out and the sidewalks shimmered with accumulated heat. The air felt sluggish, with no movement to speak of and humidity probably hovering at 95 percent. You'd think it would rain, but this was mid-July and we'd be stuck with drought conditions until late November—if the weather broke for us at all. My apartment was stifling. I sat on my porch step, flap-ping a breeze at my face with the folded newspaper. While most Southern California properties have sprinkler systems, few have central air conditioning. I was going to have to haul a fan out of the closet and set it up in the loft before I hit the sack.

Nights like this little kids toss aside nighties and pajamas and sleep in their underpants. My aunt Gin always swore I'd be cooler if I did a 180 turn on the bed, feet on the pillow, my head propped on the tangle of covers wadded at the foot. She was remarkably permissive, this woman who raised me, having never given birth to any children of her own. On those rare California nights when it was too hot to sleep, she'd tell me I could stay up all night even if I happened to have school the next day. We'd lie there reading our books in our respective bedrooms, the trailer so quiet I could hear her turning the pages. What I treasured was the heady sense that we were breaking the rules. I knew “real” parents probably wouldn't tolerate such license, but I saw it as one small compensation for my orphaned state. Inevitably, I'd drift off to sleep. Aunt Gin would tiptoe in, slip the book out of my hands, and douse the light. I'd wake later to find the room dark and the sheet laid over me. Odd, the memories that linger long after a life is gone.

Finally, just as the streetlights came on, I heard the telephone ring. I pulled myself to my feet and scooted into the apartment, snatching up the handset. “'Lo?”

“This is Cheney.”

“Well, hi. I didn't expect to hear from you. What's up?”

There was sufficient noise in the background I had to press a hand to my ear to hear what he was saying. “What?”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

I'd eaten a box of popcorn at the movies, but I didn't think that counted. “I wouldn't call it that.”

“Good. I'll be there in two minutes and we'll go out and grab a bite.”

“Where
are
you?”

“Rosie's. I figured you'd be here, but I was wrong again.”

“Maybe I'm not as predictable as you thought.”

“I doubt that. You own a sun dress?”

“Well no, but I have a skirt.”

“Wear that. I'm tired of seeing you in jeans.”

He hung up and I stood there, staring at the receiver. What a weird turn of events. Dinner sounded like a
date,
unless he'd heard something from Vince Turner about the briefing coming up next week. And why would I have to wear a skirt to receive information like that?

I took my time going up the spiral stairs, trying to figure out what to wear aside from the skirt. I sat down on the bed, pulled off my tennis shoes and shed my sweaty clothes. I showered and wrapped myself in a towel. When I opened my closet door there, sure enough, was my tan poplin skirt. I removed it from the hanger and flapped the wrinkles out. I put on fresh underwear and then stepped into the skirt, noting that the hem hit me just above the knee. I crossed to the chest of drawers where I pawed through a stack of shirts and selected a red tank top that I pulled over my head and tucked in at the waist. I put on a pair of sandals, went into the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. This was all my way of stalling while I decided how I felt.

I stood at the sink and studied my reflection. Why was I compelled to stare at myself in mirrors whenever Cheney called to say he was on his way? I ran water in my hands and ruffled up my hair. Eye makeup? Nah. Lipstick? Don't think so. That would look presumptuous if this were really IRS business. I leaned closer. Well, okay, just a touch of color. No harm in that. I settled for pressed powder, a quick sweep of eye shadow, mascara, and coral lipstick that I applied and wiped off, leaving my lips faintly pink. You see? This is the downside of relationships with men—you become a narcissist, obsessed with “beauty” issues that ordinarily you couldn't care less about.

I turned off the light, trotted downstairs, and picked up my shoulder bag. I left a lamp burning in the living room, locked the door behind me, and went out to the street. Cheney was already there, his little red Mercedes idling at the curb. He leaned across the seat and opened the door for me. The man was a fashion plate. He'd changed clothes again: dark Italian loafers, sand-washed silk pants in a charcoal brown, and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He did a quick head-to-toe appraisal. “You look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

He smiled slightly. “Glad we got that settled.”

“Me, too.”

He turned right at the corner, heading over to Cabana Boulevard, where he took a left. With the top down, my hair was flying every which way, but at least the air was cool. I figured we were heading to the Caliente Café. The place is a cop hangout and all-around dive—cigarette smoke, beer smell, the constant rattle and howl of blenders whipping ice cubes into margarita mix, tasty faux-Mexican cuisine, and no discernible decor unless you count the six raggedyass Mexican straw hats nailed to the wall.

When we reached the bird refuge, instead of turning left as I expected, we sailed right on under the freeway and up the other side. We were now in what was known as “the lower village” of Montebello. The four lanes of divided road merged and narrowed into two, lined with elegant clothing and jewelry shops, real estate offices, and the usual assortment of businesses, including beauty salons, a tennis shop, and a high-priced art gallery. By then, it was fully dark and most places, while closed, were awash with light. The trees were wrapped in strands of tiny Italian bulbs, trunks and branches sparkling as though with ice.

We continued along the frontage road as far as St. Isadore. Cheney took a left. We passed through an area dubbed the “hedgerow district” where pittosporum and eugenia shrubs grew ten to twenty feet high, shielding properties from the road. Until now, tax myself as I might, I hadn't thought of one word to say so I'd kept my mouth shut. This didn't seem to bother Cheney, and I was hopeful he disliked small talk as much as I did. On the other hand, we couldn't spend the entire evening without speaking. That would be too strange for words, as it were.

We wound along dark lanes, the little red Mercedes humming, Cheney downshifting until we reached the St. Isadore Hotel. Once a rustic working ranch that dated back to the late 1800s, the St. Isadore is now an upscale resort with luxury cottages dotted across fourteen acres of flower beds, shrubs, live oaks, and orange trees. Pets were permitted. For a mere fifty dollars per mutt, dogs were provided with doggie beds, “Pawier” mineral water, hand-painted personalized water bowls, and pet “room service” on request. I'd been here for dinner on occasion, but never as a paying guest.

Cheney pulled up at the main building and got out of the car. A parking attendant stepped forward and helped me extricate myself and then he spirited the car away. We bypassed the elegant second-floor restaurant and ducked into the Harrow and Seraph, a low-ceilinged bar located at ground level. The door stood open. Cheney stepped aside, allowing me to pass in front of him, and then he followed me in.

The walls were stone, whitewashed and cool. There were fewer than twenty tables, many empty at that hour. A small bar ran along the back wall. There was a stone fireplace on the left, the hearth dark, given that it was summer. There was banquette seating on the right with the remainder of the tables staggered across the space in between. Illumination was discreet but not so dim that you'd need a flashlight to read the menu. Cheney steered me to an upholstered bench seat backed with pillows so plump I had to push them aside. He sat across the table and then seemed to think better of it, got up and slid in beside me, saying, “No cop talk. I'm off duty here and so are you.”

“I thought you wanted to chat about Reba.”

“Nope. Don't want to hear a word.”

I was only moderately distracted by the warmth of his thigh in proximity to mine. That's the thing about wearing poplin—the way it conducts body heat. The waiter appeared and Cheney ordered two vodka martinis, straight up, with extra olives on the side. As soon as the waiter left, Cheney said, “Quit worrying. We won't drink all the time. This is just to loosen our tongues.”

I laughed. “I appreciate the reassurance. The notion did flit across my mind.” I let my gaze travel briefly—mouth, chin, shoulders. His teeth were beautiful, white and straight—always a weakness of mine. Dark hairs shaded the curve of his forearms.

He studied me, his right elbow propped on the table, his chin resting in his palm. “You never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“At lunch. I asked you about Dietz.”

“Ah. Well, let's see if I can be fair about this. He tends to drop out of sight. Last time I saw him was a year ago March. Where he's been since then I have no idea. He's not big on explanations. I guess you'd call it the ‘Take it or leave it' school of relationships. I've left messages on his machine, but he hasn't returned my calls. It's possible he's dumped me, but how would I know?”

“Would it matter if he had?”

“I don't think so. I might feel insulted, but I'd survive. I think it's rude to leave me hanging, but such is life.”

“I thought you were nuts about the guy.”

“I was, but I knew what he was.”

“Which is what?”

“An emotional drifter. The point is, I chose him anyway, so it must have suited me somehow. Now things are different. I can't go back to that. It's over and done.” Which was, now that I thought about it, roughly how Cheney had described his marriage.

He seemed to be considering what I'd said. “You've been married once?”

I held up two fingers. “Both ended in divorce.”

“What's the story on those guys?”

“The first was a cop.”

“Mickey Magruder. I heard about him. You leave him or did he leave you?”

“I was the one who pulled out. I misjudged him. I left because I thought he was guilty of something. Turns out, he wasn't. I still feel badly about that.”

“Because why?”

“I didn't have a chance to tell him I was sorry before he died. I'd have liked to clear that. Husband number two was a musician, a pianist, very talented. Also, chronically unfaithful and a pathological liar with the face of an angel. It was a blow when he left. I was twenty-four years old and probably should have seen it coming. Later I found out he'd always been more interested in other men than he was in me.”

“So how come I don't see you around town with other guys? Have you given up on men?”

I nearly made a smart remark, but I caught myself in time. Instead, I opened my mouth and said, “I've been waiting for you, Cheney. I thought you knew that.”

He looked at me, waiting to see if I was making light of him. I returned his gaze, waiting to see what he'd do with the information. I couldn't imagine what would happen next. There were so many wrong moves, so many dumb things that might come out of his mouth. I was thinking,
Don't mess this up…please, please don't ruin it…whatever it is…

Here are two things I hate to have men do:

(1) Tell me I'm beautiful, which is bullshit manipulation and has nothing to do with me.

(2) Look into my eyes and talk about my “trust” issues because they know I've been “hurt.”

Here's what Cheney did: He put his arm up on the seat back and picked up a strand of hair from the top of my head. He studied it with care, his expression serious. In the split second before he spoke, I heard a muffled sound, like gas jets igniting when a match is struck. Warmth fanned up along my spine and softened all the tension in my neck. He said, “I'll give you a proper haircut. Did you know I cut hair?”

I found myself staring at his mouth. “No. I didn't know that. What else do you do?”

He smiled. “Dance. Do you dance?”

“Not very well.”

“That's all right. I can teach you. You'll improve.”

“I'd like that. What else?”

“I work out. I box some and lift weights.”

“Do you cook?”

“No, do you?”

“Peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches don't count, except for grilled cheese.”

I said, “Any other talents I should know about?”

He ran the back of his hand down along my cheek. “I'm an especially good speller. Fifth grade, I came in second in the school spelling bee.”

I could feel a hum forming in my throat, the same strange mechanism that causes cats to purr. “What'd you screw up on?”

“‘Eleemosynary.' It means ‘of or for charity or alms.' Should be e-l-e-e-m-o-s-y-n-a-r-y. I left out the third
e.
”

“But you haven't screwed up since. So you learned.”

“Yes, I did. What about you? Any skills you want to talk about upfront?”

“I know how to read upside down. I interview some guy and he has a document on his desk? I can read every word while I'm chatting away with him.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“You know that party game we played in elementary school? The mom brings out a tray, twenty-five objects covered with a towel? She lifts the towel and the kids study the items for thirty seconds before she covers them again. I can recite 'em back without missing one, except sometimes the Q-tips. I tend to mess up on those.”

“I'm not good at party games.”

“Neither am I, except for that. I've won all kinds of prizes. Bubbles in a jar and paddles with the ball attached that goes bang-bang-bang.”