“Bear. It’s okay.” Tim kept his eyes on Thomas. “I get it.”
Thomas finally glanced away.
“Where should we start?” Tim said.
As Thomas continued to weather Bear’s glare, Freed tapped his fingertips on the file before him. “As you likely surmised, Terrance Donald Betters is the principal of TDB Corp.”
Bear slid a rap sheet from one of the stacks. “Born ‘No Name Summers’ to a teenage prostitute. Date of birth is different every time it pops up. We know he got hitched in ‘95. He deserted his wife, changed his name, and remarried. He would’ve gotten dinged for bigamy, but the first wife filed on grounds of desertion, inadvertently letting him off the hook. Divorced the second wife after five months. He has a certificate in biofeedback from a mail-order house, but he goes by ‘Doctor’ and tells people he’s a Ph.D. His first cult, called ‘Uroboris,’ was composed of clients he stole from a psychologist he assisted in Oregon while using the name Fred Wick. The psychologist disappeared a few months after Betters started working there. Betters was never brought up on murder charges, but he got kicked out of the state for fraudulent activity. He came to California and started up a series of human-potential cults, each incarnation growing in size.”
Freed’s thin lips grew even thinner. “Ernie Tramine’s substantial bank account was bilked—the money wired through a Cayman clearing account that was subsequently closed. Nothing concrete to link him to Betters. Nothing new on Reggie Rondell, but from what we’ve seen, his story checks out.”
“You were right about the apartment where you had your first cult meet,” Thomas said. “It’s vacant. When I pressed the manager, he admitted that some college girl offered him a couple hundred to rent the pad for the day. She matches your description of Lorraine. I took a peek through the place—nothing. After the sign-up-fest, they cleared out.” Tim scanned over the numerous charges. Theft by trickery, 3-14-96— arrest only, DA reject. Embezzlement, 1-17-99—acquitted after jury trial. Unauthorized access to computer data, 9-21-01 —released, insufficient evidence. “Busy citizen.”
“Busy enough to have learned his way around the law by this point in the game,” Freed said. “He’s got no wants, no warrants. He pays his taxes. We can’t pry in with any wage-and-hour laws since he pays his herd as dollar-a-year consultants, and the Department of Labor won’t be bothered without a complainant. Betters picks extremely affluent people who sign their cash over to him—nothing illegal about that.”
“How about cooling-off-period laws?”
“It seems they all thaw out quite happily. No one’s ever come forward to protest.”
Tim tapped Bear’s elbow with a pen. “Reggie could open a class action.”
“Yeah,” Bear said, “I’m sure he’ll get right on that.”
“Money trail?”
Freed said, “I called my hook at the IRS and spent the better part of ten hours rifling through Betters’s filings, got dick and more dick. The cash he protects in this elaborate offshore scheme, that we had a tough time untangling, but it looks to steer through all the right loopholes to stay legal. He conducts business through a network of dummy corporations and holding companies.” Freed’s clean-shaven face took on the taint of a scowl, a rare show of emotion. “He’s unscrupulous as hell, but for the life of us, we can’t find a single thing he’s doing that’s illegal.”
“How about the shrink who disappeared? And Katanga, Will Henning’s hired dick?”
“I tracked down the detectives for both cases,” Thomas said. “Nothing forensic, nothing circumstantial, nothing at all. He’s the king of Teflon this guy. Nothing sticks.”
“What’s he worth?”
“Upward of seventy million dollars,” Freed said.
Bear let out a whistle.
“In 2000 he was living in a Silver Lake residence, long since sold. He’s an Internet and P.O.-box junkie—your typical privacy freak. Different accounts under different names, the whole nine yards.”
“How about the corporation?”
“It’s been active. This year alone it bought land in...” Freed licked his thumb, turning back several stapled papers. “Here we go. Houston, Scottsdale, Spokane, Sylmar—right here in the North Valley, Fort Lauderdale, and Cambridge, Mass.”
Bear shot Tim a knowing glance. Sylmar was a short drive from both Leah’s former Van Nuys apartment and the San Fernando P.O. box.
“He’s in escrow in Kushiro, Japan; Christchurch, New Zealand; and a village outside Hamburg. Seems to me your boy’s looking to build an empire.”
The thought brought a tingle across Tim’s neck. “What kind of land?”
“Remote rural facilities. Former communes. Campgrounds. Retreats. Bankrupt rehabs. The place in Spokane’s just fallow wheat fields.”
“Tell me about Sylmar. Looks like that’s where I’m headed.”
“It’s way up on the north peak of the Valley bordering Santa Clarita, smack in the middle of federal land—the Angeles National Forest. Colorful history to the place. Some Hollywood director built a ranch way back when, let it go to pot.”
“Hollywood players and cult leaders, I’m learning, share a particular approach to the world. Doesn’t surprise me they also share taste in real estate.”
“For decades it was a home for fucked-up juveniles, but it went on the block about a year back. TDB Corp snapped it up. The Department of Defense got caught with their pants down—turns out they’d earmarked the area for a chemical-weapons incinerator facility. Talks were had, Betters wasn’t selling. DOD sicced the IRS on him, got nowhere— not surprising.”
Freed looked at his partner expectantly, and Thomas flipped through his notes, finger tracing down the sheets until it tapped twice. “June sixth last year, they sent in the FBI on some unsubstantiated fraud charges. They hit dead ends all around. To top it off, they got a bit aggressive. Things got ugly for a minute and a half. The ACLU cried religious freedom, though Betters’s outfit insists it’s not a religion. Betters, turns out, isn’t afraid to get litigious. Next thing you know, the Feebs are facing a boatload of injunctions and criminal-action suits.”
“Why didn’t we hear about this?”
“It quieted down in a hurry. Betters hates press, and I’d guess the DOD wasn’t eager for word to spread they were planning to put millions of rounds of decaying chemical weapons upwind of taxpayers.”
Tim tugged on the collar of his shirt. “Christ.”
“Special agent I talked to said Betters worked them like a Tijuana donkey.”
“Impressive candor for the Feebs.”
“He was a former Ranger.”
“That explains it.”
“Law enforcement won’t go near the place now. It’s a weird, scary group with an in-house staff of brainwashed lawyers. I think the cops and the agents figure, let sunning snakes lie. No one wants a civil suit up their ass.”
Freed brought his hands to rest on the table. “Everything Betters does is just one inch legal.”
“No layups,” Tim mused.
“Not a one,” Thomas said. “You want him, you’re gonna have to go out and sniff the trail.” He looked away sharply, disrupting the brief rapport they’d developed, and started shoving papers back into the files.
“Have you briefed the marshal on this?” Tim asked. “The stuff with the Feebs?”
Freed shook his head. “Your case, we’ll let you spin it.”
“He’s gonna want no piece,” Thomas said. “It’s a hornet’s nest.” Freed gave Tim a little nod before leaving, but Thomas ignored him. Bear and Tim sat for a while with their thoughts, crunching stray Styrofoam peanuts under their shoes.
Finally Tim said, “You send in the food samples?”
“Sheriff’s crime lab.”
“Aaronson still over there?”
Bear nodded. “Said he’d swing a twenty-four-hour turnaround. We get a good bounce, maybe you don’t have to go undercover.”
“What did you get on Skate Daniels?”
“You try the moniker database? Odds are Mrs. Daniels didn’t name her boy ‘Skate.’ “
“Right. No, I didn’t.” Bear held up his fists and squeezed—his big-shot way of cracking his knuckles. “Given all the pitfalls around Betters, how do we convince the old man to let you press forward?”
“I’ve already burned eight lives with him, so you’ll have to suit up. Present it to him like an opportunity. Be excited—you’re selling him on what great news this is. If we find the right leverage point and lean, there’ll be a windfall of charges. Betters is Al Capone, and we’re looking for income-tax evasion. Once we nail him, Tannino gets to scratch some back for the Department of Defense, get them that parcel of land, maybe even throw table meat to his buddies in the private sector. He goes into the next Puzzle Palace budget meeting wearing a red cape. Plus, it’s his big chance to show up the Feebs, and we both know the thought of that makes his engine turn over cold mornings.”
Bear tugged at his cheeks. “I don’t know how you come up with this shit.”
An image of himself at five years of age, working a mortuary parking lot in a snap-on leg cast, clutching to his chest a donation bucket his father had salted with a few creased twenties. Tim emerged from his thoughts to find Bear staring at him expectantly. “What?”
“I said the mutt sure as hell runs an airtight operation.”
Tim curled his index finger into his thumb and held up his hand. Closing one eye, he sighted on Bear through the tiny O. “This big. We just need an opening this big.”
Bear gathered his papers and rose. “What if he didn’t leave one?”
Tim grabbed a sandwich and holed up in the Cell Block comm center. The mood was grave. One of the on-shift detention enforcement officers sported a fresh shiner. Tim didn’t ask.
He called Dray’s cell and caught her on patrol with Mac. The foul yellowtail had finally finished paddling through her system; she spoke around mouthfuls of chili fries. The doctor had told her to take the day off and eat bland foods, directives that stood a stray dog’s chance in Nam Dinh. She told Tim that the Asshole Car was cramping her Blazer in the garage, her implicit way of apologizing for her reaction to his ill-advised adjective last night. He informed her that a Hummer alone could accommodate his unwillowy build.
Logging a call to the sheriff’s department, Tim asked the resource analyst to run Skate Daniels through the moniker database. For approximate age he guessed thirty-five, and he told the analyst to focus on L.A. County. Within ten minutes the identifiers and photo of the sole candidate checked into Tim’s e-mail box. Skate’s beauty-pageant features scowled out from the jpeg. Though in the mug shot he had a bit more tread on the tires, he looked dirtier and somehow unwound. Something, maybe The Program, had reined him in, given him focus. Tim played digit shuffle next, running Skate’s SID, FBI, and Social Security numbers through an obstacle course of databases. As he clicked down the screen, his eyes locked on an entry, and he was hit with the minirush he got when a lead panned.
2-23-03. Daniels stopped for speeding violation at 6th and Hill in a red Mustang, license 9CYT683, passenger Randall Kane.
A few more keyboard gymnastics snared him Randall’s identifiers, and, using county booking to round out both his and Skate’s criminal histories, Tim printed and perused. His exhaustion made for blurry reading.
Both men proved to be habitual violent offenders who’d acquainted themselves with the edge of the penal system but never taken a big fall. Between them they’d caught some charges, everything from armed robbery to gross-misdemeanor sexual conduct to felony false imprisonment. They’d rolled through a few trials, copped a handful of pleas, and served a number of short stints. Seasoned in lawlessness but currently off parole, they were ideal knockdown men for Betters. Like the rest of his operation, they provided no legal pretext for further investigation.
A bang snapped Tim’s head up from the monitor. Two feet from him, a felon howled, his mouth, cheek, and weak goatee smeared up against the bulletproof glass like a wet stain. Guerrera, forearm thick with tensed muscle, yanked the hefty prisoner back and threw him down the corridor, where three detention-enforcement officers subdued him handily.
Guerrera wiped a thin trickle of blood from his nose. “Try that shit with me again, hijo de puta, I’ll use your nutsack for a speed bag.” He stomped out of the cell block, muttering in Spanish.
Tim tied up a few loose ends online, then called Glen Bederman, apologizing for bothering him at home.
“How did you get this number? It’s unlisted.” A brief pause. “Okay, foolish question. What can I do for you?”
“Does the name Terrance Betters mean anything to you?”
“No. Why?”
Tim told him. Halfway through his account, he heard the creak of a chair absorbing Bederman’s weight. When he finished, Bederman made a strangled little sound of disbelief. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of someone as ill prepared as you coming unmarked out of a twenty-four-hour induction session.” He released a sigh. “Relieved as I am that you didn’t throw the poor girl into a sack, I have to tell you—that was a reckless thing you did, going there.”
“I’m about to do something worse. Monday I’m going undercover for a three-day retreat. I’d really like to see you before. Can I?”
“At this point I’d meet with you just out of curiosity. I have some appointments at my house tomorrow morning, but how about ten?” His tone took on an ironic edge. “I trust you’ll be able to locate it on your own.” Tim thanked him and hung up, folding the papers into his pocket as he passed out through the security doors. Guerrera squatted in the hall, arms between his bowed legs, catching his breath. He gripped one hand with the other, turning it slightly. He looked up and shot Tim a wink. “Hey, Rack.”
“Didn’t you get the memo?”
Guerrera raised a single eyebrow with a slick proficiency that suggested practice, then the quarter dropped and he laughed. “Oh, about not talking to you. Actually, it was an informational video they circulated. How to snub you at the watercooler. Shit like that.”
He shifted his arm and grimaced. His elbow was out of joint, the displaced bone leaving a pocket of skin at the tip. Tim crouched, and Guerrera relinquished his forearm to him hesitantly. Tim gripped it and tugged gently. The bone slid in its sheath and clicked home. Guerrera let his breath out through his teeth in a hiss, then laughed again. Sweat sparkled along his dense hairline. “Thanks, socio.”
Tim slapped him on the good shoulder and rose. He was walking away when Guerrera called after him. “They’re mad the way people got mad at Pete Rose, you know. They feel betrayed because they believed in you.” Tim nodded, taking it in. “And you?”
Guerrera shrugged. “You were behind the trigger on the first shooting I was at.” His accent turned “shooting” to “chuting.”
“The Martfa Domez raid. You pulled some shit there the movies haven’t thought up yet. I watched you after when my hands were shaking. You were as calm as a sleeping cat.” He rotated his wrist slowly over, then back. “You taught me, socio, without teaching me. The way I see it, being mad don’t buy me shit.”
Guerrera turned his focus back to his arm. Tim watched him twist it gingerly for a few moments, then withdrew, heading to the elevators.
TWENTY-THREE
Janie shook her awake. “Guess what? Guess what?”
Leah sat up in bed. A lifelong habit she’d yet to extinguish directed her torpid gaze to the clockless nightstand. Judging from the shade of gray muting the scraggly elm outside her window, it was around six. Even though he rarely attended, TD preferred breakfast to be served early. Between that and the stacks of GrowthWork the Pros had to complete every night, she didn’t know how he expected them to get any sleep. She’d been so busy and exhausted she’d hardly had time to think, let alone reflect on her unsettling collision with Tom Altman or whoever he was.
“Well, guess! Oh, never mind. I’ll tell
you.” Janie pressed her arms to her chest, fists shoved chinward, a cheerleader anticipating kickoff. “TD gave me the Scottsdale ambassadorship. I beat out Lorraine and Chad! Isn’t that great?”
Leah felt a stab of envy. Her voice was still croaky. “Fantastic.”
“I’ll be the first ambassador—after Stanley John, of course, but he was a given. He’s getting Cambridge. TD says Boston is almost as fertile a town as L.A. And guess what else?”
Leah swung her legs out of bed and blinked hard, fighting for alertness. She had to dig her nails into the dresser drawer to pull it open; both knobs had fallen off.
“Recruitment’s on track to get a thousand Neos to the Next Generation Colloquium.” Janie stood behind Leah, stroking her hair into place. “I’m moving out to take over Cottage Three. I gave you a high weekly report—I didn’t even mention your rash hasn’t improved.”
“Listen, Janie, there was something I wanted to ask you about.” Janie’s unblinking stare made her uncomfortable, but she forged ahead. “Do you think some of the methods we use at the colloquiums are—I don’t know—wrong? Like the ways we lead the Neos along?”
Janie laughed and ruffled Leah’s hair. “Not at all, babe. You don’t feed a newborn baby hunks of steak, do you? You feed them formula— something they can digest. The Neos are new to true growth. The last thing we want to do—for their own protection—is give them more than they can chew. Get it?”
“I guess.” Janie’s embrace felt warm and comforting. “Thanks, Janie.”
“You should always come to me with your doubts. That’s my job.” The doorknob squeaked as it turned, then Randall was inside. “TD wants you.”
“Well, let me just throw on a sweater,” Janie said.
“No, you.”
Janie’s smile hardened on her face. “I’ll get her ready.”
As Janie picked out her sweater, Leah palmed the spoon she’d hidden in the back of the drawer and slid it into her waistband. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
The Program Page 21
