She had her notebook out, pen ready. “Where?”
“Stanford.”
So that was it. The missing years. Jesus, she thought, I wonder if he was an undergrad there when Luke was in law school. And Nora Ray, too. Kate decided he wasn’t, Luke was too much older; but it was intriguing as hell.
“So he went to Stanford. Do you know anything about his life there?” She didn’t have to ask that question. She could do that research, now that she knew.
The old schoolteacher threw a bucket of cold water on her, long distance two thousand miles.
“He didn’t have one. He dropped out, end of his freshman year.”
She sagged. “You know that for a fact?”
“Sure do. He came by, summer after his freshman year. Told me he wasn’t going back.”
“Did he say why?” Fuck; right when she thought she’d made a breakthrough, she was right back at go, and she hadn’t collected her two hundred dollars.
“He didn’t fit in. He got homesick. He looked it, too. Like a whipped dog.”
Juarez insecure? So the guy was human after all.
“He never went back. You’re sure?”
“You can check it out, but from what I know, he didn’t. There weren’t many Latinos there in those days. He’d been king of the hill down here, up there he was just another beaner, pardon the expression. I’m not racially prejudiced, it’s the word they use.”
“It sounds like he was feeling sorry for himself.”
“Could be. Ray was strong, even as a young man. But he didn’t pull it off up there in Palo Alto. I think that was tough on him; he’d never felt overwhelmed before.”
“So what happened to him after that?” Please, give me something.
“Don’t know. I never saw him again, talked to him, anything. He vanished from my radar screen.”
“Did he go to another college?”
“Might have. He’d qualified to the state universities. So maybe he went to a public college. Where he wouldn’t be a novelty, if you understand me.”
The traffic was zipping by her at a good clip.
“Yes,” she said, ending the conversation, “I understand you.”
SECRET LIVES
I GOT HOME LATE Friday night; later than I wanted, but there was work on the table I had to clear before I left. That’s always been a problem with me—I can’t let things go until tomorrow.
There was another reason I’d delayed my trip—I felt guilty, and ashamed. I have been through the hell of a bad divorce, the loss of what I’d thought would be a marriage that would last forever. Then I’d met Riva, and she’d pulled me out of the doldrums. We’re going to be together for the rest of our lives if I have anything to do with it, and I know she feels the same way; having had her own share of screwed-up relationships.
I’d seen it coming with Nora, and I let it happen anyway. I didn’t want it; it wasn’t about a quickie with someone from the past, a scratch of a sexual itch to see what it was like, nor was it some middle-aged affirmation of my own sexuality, which I don’t need to affirm. Nora had never been a woman on my sexual radar—she was already taken when I met her, and I wouldn’t have gone for her anyway, I’d never felt that kind of pull toward her.
I tried to con myself about the feeling-bad-for-her part, how I was performing some psychological service in letting her get close to me, that my actions had been passive, I hadn’t made a play for her, I just hadn’t reacted fast enough to stop her. But those rationales didn’t work, because they were bullshit. I knew she was hot for me, I knew it the minute I walked in the door the first day I hit Blue River. And there had been all that talk about how bad her sex life had been with Dennis, the impotency, the sterility, how it had been forever since she’d been laid. She couldn’t have sent a stronger signal if she’d strapped flashing lights to her forehead.
I hadn’t taken strong enough steps to stop her. Not even close.
When I was a teenager, and later, as a young man in college, I had the usual guy fantasies about getting it on with every woman who caught my eye, not just regular fucking but some kind of emotional preening, a cock-of-the-walk thing: the best piece of male ass ever—the guy she, whoever the imaginary she was in those immature, feel-good fantasies, would remember for the rest of her life.
Yeah, right. That ain’t the way it works, which is why it’s a fantasy. When you grow up and get into a stable, loving relationship, you realize that how things work in the real world is much richer than any fantasy you could concoct. And that your cock isn’t independent of your heart.
The truth is that Riva’s the best lover I’ve ever had, because I love her the most.
They met me at the airport, of course. Buck was asleep on his feet, but he gamely trotted to me, falling into my arms like a sack of cement as soon as I reached down for him. I sat in the backseat on the drive home, cradling him in my arms, the seat belt around both of us. Not the legal way to protect him, but the right way, tonight. His warm body was pressed up against me, his little boy’s breath warm on my neck. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this good; or this contrite.
I put him to bed while Riva put the finishing touches on our late dinner, a favorite of mine, crab cakes, fries, slaw, beer. God, it was good to be home. I knew I was missing them, but it had taken the incident with Nora to make me realize how badly.
“It’s getting pretty up in Blue River now,” I said. We were in bed together. We’d just made love. There had been a desperation to it on my part that I’d tried not to show. If she felt anything different, she didn’t say anything about it. Probably figured I was horny from being away from her.
“Uh-huh.” She was half-asleep, cuddled up against me, the way we do it.
“Maybe you should come up for a while, now that the weather’s nice.”
“Uh-huh. Okay.”
“You will?”
“Sure. I’ve been missing you, too. So’s your son. We could use some new scenery.”
“So—you’re coming back up with me on Monday?”
“Yeah.”
She rolled over. “I was wondering how long it would be before you couldn’t stand not being with us,” she said, smiling at me.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to interfere with your work, honey. I know how it goes.”
“You won’t be interfering.” She was coming up—I couldn’t believe it.
“I’m sure we’ll find plenty to do.”
“Definitely. There’s great hiking, you could start horseback riding again, I could find some cabin way out where we could—”
She put her lips on mine, shutting me up. Then she pulled back, running her fingernails along my back, which she knows I love.
“We’ll find plenty to do. You don’t have to do it for us. Now let’s go to sleep, Luke. I only sleep well when I’m lying next to you like this.”
She was asleep in less than five minutes. I lay there, feeling her warmth, her presence. Her.
Sometimes it takes a bolt of lightning to get your attention. What had happened that night with Nora had done that for me. Maybe that was a blessing in disguise, to remind me that you can never take the important stuff for granted, you have to keep working at it, all the time.
No, pal, I thought, talking to myself. That was not a blessing. The blessing will be that you escape it without ruining your life.
Tom Miller sat in the study of his house, spinning through his ancient, massive Rolodex while eating a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye. Fifty years of names were in that old card file, thousands of them, going back to his beginning days with the Bureau. The majority were yellowed and curled with age, the precise fountain-pen handwriting faded with the passing of time. Rarely did he get rid of a card; even if someone died, which over the past decade had become the norm rather than the exception, he generally kept the card in the file. Sometimes he did so out of nostalgia, an old friend’s name he didn’t want to cast into the trash can.
More commonly it was because a particular name, while no longer relevant in and of itself, would trigger a mental connection in his head that would lead to something useful in the present.
Scores of the names on the small four-by-two cards were FBI agents, mostly past, but some current. They had their own section in the Fs, cross-referenced alphabetically by assignment, location, hierarchy in the Bureau, and reliability—how useful they were to him, and how trustworthy: could he talk to them freely about sensitive issues and know they’d keep their mouths shut about dealing with him. Quite a few were in that category—the old man was still respected, even after all this time of not being on the official roster. Besides names, addresses, and phone numbers, there were spouses’ names, children’s and grandchildren’s, and something special about the person—he played tennis or golf or hunted, his wife raised roses or bred golden retrievers, was a gourmet cook or painted still lifes. Their kids were doctors, lawyers, in other solid professions. The personal touch was important, even if it was faked.
Over the years Tom had diligently kept up with the agents he’d served with, and they had in turn passed him on to the newer generations, informing people who had never met Tom Miller that he had been a quality agent and would always be a good man, so that even now, almost into this ninth decade, he had a strong network of people inside the Bureau who helped him when he needed it.
Like now.
He needed to be part of this case. There were many reasons—professional, ego, personal. Jerome had cut him out deliberately, maliciously. Garrison, Nora’s friend, was doing it because he wanted his own people, who had no personal stake in the matter and would be objective. Miller understood that, but it didn’t mean he had to like having to sit on his hands and watch the show pass him by.
The truth was that it was killing him to have to remain on the sidelines and watch. He couldn’t handle it, not a second time.
He hit the Touch-Tone buttons on his phone.
“Hello?” It was a middle-aged woman’s voice, sounding impatient.
“Florence Turpin?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Tom Miller. How are you?”
The answer was hesitant. “How did you get this number? Who are you?”
“We’ve spoken before,” he said, projecting an assuring tone into his voice—FBI agents have unlisted phone numbers, for security reasons. Their families, particularly, can be paranoid about having their privacy and safety invaded. “I’m a friend of Bruce’s.”
Bruce was her husband. As an upper-echelon player in the Bureau, he’d had his share of death threats over the years.
“Oh?” She still didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m a former agent. Now I’m a county sheriff out here in California. Bruce has assisted me on matters in the past.”
“Oh…yes.” Her voice lost its suspicious edge. “Yes, I remember you now, Mr. …”
“Miller,” he said again. “Tom.”
“Right. Tom.”
“Right. Tom.”
“How are your tulips?” he asked, glancing at the card in front of him. “Are they up yet? It must be getting on that time now back there in Virginia.”
He’d hit the right button. She began gushing on about how well her bulbs had done this year. He listened long enough to make her feel good, and appreciated, then he asked her to please put her husband on the line.
“Bruce Turpin.” The male voice was flat, military-brisk.
“Tom Miller, Brace. From Muir County, California. I was a close friend of Reed Chalmers. I hope you remember me.”
Reed Chalmers and Miller had joined the Bureau at the same time, after the war. Chalmers had stayed on, rising high—he had been Turpin’s boss at the Bureau. He was dead five years now. Chalmers had been a good friend and resolute supporter of Miller’s, when being so wasn’t easy or expedient.
Miller had flown East for the funeral. More important than the paying of last respects, which cost almost a thousand dollars, with the airfare, car rental, hotel room, meals, etc., the act of showing the colors had been a smart way for Miller to stay in the good graces of those currently in the Bureau, such as Turpin, who had been mentored and supported by Chalmers. Money well spent.
The voice brightened. “Sure. I remember. How are you, Tom?”
“Fine, Bruce. You?”
“Can’t complain.” Taking on a tone of surprise, he asked, “You’re still the sheriff out there? You haven’t retired yet?”
“Almost. I’m finishing my last term. Passing on the torch.”
“Well, good for you. It’s good to keep active. I don’t know what I’m going to do when my mandatory comes up.”
“Do you hunt?” Miller asked, looking at the man’s card, which stated he was an avid hunter.
“Was J. Edgar Hoover…? Never mind—yes, I hunt.”
“Well, you can come out here and go hunting with me. We’ve got all the big game you can handle.”
“You’re a hunter, too, Tom?”
“Bow and arrow.”
There was a low whistle of appreciation from the other end of the line. “That’s a man’s work. You do that…at your age?”
“Oh; sure. I took down a six-hundred-pound elk this past February. Put a hundred-grain broadhead straight through his heart at fifty yards.”
This wasn’t a boast; Miller didn’t embroider, he didn’t have to.
Turpin was warm to the conversation now. “What kind of bow did you use? The reason I’m asking, I’ve been thinking of starting to hunt that way. More sporting, more challenging.”
“I agree,” Miller said. “Evens the odds. I have a Golden Eagle single-cam bow, seventy-pound draw weight. It’s a good instrument.”
“Listen, I may take you up on that offer.”
“Anytime, Bruce. I’m the sheriff, so hunting season’s always open up here. Particularly on the reservations, where the state laws don’t apply.”
“You’re tight with the redskins, huh?”
Miller didn’t care for the implied slur, but he let it roll off his back. “I’m friendly with everyone, Bruce. My job.” He paused. “Except certain agents in the DEA whose heads are too swollen for their hatbands.”
“I know all about that situation,” Turpin said sympathetically. “We’ve talked about it in our shop. Those agents are not well thought of in the Justice Department these days, to put it mildly.”
Miller smiled, hearing that. This wasn’t bunting talk now, what he was doing; this was fishing, for real. He had cast his line and the protégé of his dearly departed friend had taken the bait, as he’d figured he would.
“Or here, either,” he said. “I assume you know that we’re conducting our own investigation into the matter.”
“Yes, I do. I wish you good luck with it.”
Turpin’s voice had an edge to it; the FBI hadn’t been brought into the investigation—the DEA had kept them at arm’s length.
“Thanks. If there’s anything to be found,” Miller said, “we’ll find it. I’ll find it,” he said with conviction.
“I’ll bet you will,” the other responded. “I’ll bet you’ll pin their ears back.” There was a moment’s hesitation. Then: “Any way I can help you, Tom?”
“As a matter of fact, Bruce, there is.”
My investigators finished interviewing the DEA agents who could have been Juarez’s killer, or involved in it. Criteria included guns having been fired, being part of the chase after Juarez when he escaped from custody, several other factors. Now it was time to bring them before the grand jury for questioning, and hope that one of them would crack. They were all long shots, but there was no other way of doing this: to find the needle in the haystack, if it was there, we had to methodically start pulling off straws, one by one, until the needle was found.
The subpoenas went out. We would be in session four days a week, Monday morning through Thursday afternoon. No more than two agents a day could be questioned because of the amount of detail I needed to get
into, so we were going to be at it for over a month, unless something broke sooner. I wasn’t going to work five-day weeks; I would need the long weekends to collate my thoughts and notes with my team, and more important, I wanted to spend as much time with Riva and Buck as I could steal.
I was avoiding Nora, of course. When we saw each other, we were cordial, polite. She was friendlier than I was; she had nothing to lose. I did. The change in our situation meant that I wouldn’t be including her in the process.
She knew Riva had come up north with me; I mentioned it the first time I saw her after the hot-tub incident, mid-morning the following Monday when I returned. I hadn’t introduced them yet, although I would. Riva had talked about having Nora over for dinner, but I was stalling on that.
I had more pressing things going: the core of the investigation. So it was that on the following Monday morning, a warm, breezy day, we got started on the direct testimony of the DEA agents who could be considered suspects. The school’s former cafeteria had been set up as the grand jury room. I had scheduled the witnesses in order of their importance in the raid, from bottom to top, which meant Jerome and the heavy hitters would come in last. We had prepared an elaborate questionnaire for each witness, to be completed in advance of his appearance. Most of the questions were identical—their background, education, time spent in the DEA, other operations like this one they’d been part of, what their role was in this specific action.
When they took the stand I elicited that information verbally, for the jurors’ benefit—I believe that repetition helps memory. That boilerplate questioning alone took over an hour. Large maps and diagrams of the entire area were pasted to the walls, with flags and pins stuck in them denoting various places where elements of the raid had taken place—where they’d waited, who had been next to them, in front, how the attack went, what each did when the raid got under way, the same for when the shootings started inside the compound, afterward. I made each one walk me through his specific role, step by step, minute by minute.
Above the Law Page 27
