by C. J. Box
“Are you helping me or guarding me?” she asked.
“Take it up with Swann,” he said.
“Maybe I should go find that reporter and tell her I’m being held prisoner in my own house.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Newkirk said. “We’re trying to keep you out of the spotlight so the investigation can proceed to its conclusion. Didn’t Swann tell you that? There’ll be time for press conferences and other shit once this is over. You don’t want to be gone if a call comes through about your kids, do you?”
She glared at him, tried to see through his words. She wondered why he was suddenly sweating.
Sunday, 11:41 A.M.
VILLATORO’S HEART leaped when the receptionist at the motel handed him a sheaf of documents that had been faxed from his old office by Celeste throughout the morning. The receptionist eyed him with amusement as he shuffled through the papers, and said her invitation would still be open for tonight, if he was interested.
“Pardon me?” he said.
“You heard me.” She gestured toward the documents she had handed him. “Man, I’ve never seen a guy so excited to work on a Sunday.”
He found himself beaming at her.
“I couldn’t help but notice that most of them are lists of names of policemen,” she said coyly. “Do they have something to do with the reason you’re here?”
Villatoro was too elated to be angry with her for snooping. “Yes, maybe. I have to look them over first.”
“Some of those guys I know,” she said. “Everybody stays here while they’re looking for property in the area. I get to know quite a few of them, at least by name. If you wanted me to, I could look back through a few years of registrations….”
“You don’t mind doing that?” he asked.
“Hey, there’s not much going on,” she said, and winked. “I need something to do to pass the time before we have a cocktail tonight.”
He hesitated, and ruled against his instinct. “Thank you for the help,” he said. She smiled at him and brushed her hair back.
DISAPPOINTMENT SET IN as he read over the documents. There were duty rosters, lists of security personnel at Santa Anita, copies of clippings from the L.A. Times, police reports he had already read and reread a dozen times.
Newkirk had been at Santa Anita Racetrack that day, all right. Along with three other off-duty policemen, Newkirk had been hired to provide security in the counting room. It was common for the track to hire off-duty cops, and Newkirk was one of the regulars on race days. Villatoro read Newkirk’s affidavit, one he had read before, which was why the name was familiar. Officer Newkirk stated he had not seen any irregularities during the counting by track personnel and could not provide any information beyond the routine procedure he had witnessed dozens of times before. The cash was counted and banded, a staffer had recorded the serial numbers of select hundred-dollar bills, and the cash had been stuffed into the canvas bags and locked with the balance sheets attached. He had recognized the men in the armored car crew, exchanged friendly insults and pleasantries with them, and stood outside while the truck rumbled away during the roar of the final race.
This was nothing notable, really. That Newkirk was at the track on the day of the robbery and also now living in Kootenai Bay was interesting, a coincidence, but evidence of nothing. Villatoro read the names of the other three off-duty cops, a man and two women officers, hoping to see a name he recognized, but he didn’t. Anthony Rodale, Pam Gosink, Maureen Droz. None of them connected to anything else he could find.
Lieutenant Singer’s name showed up in several more documents Celeste had faxed. Singer had served as the liaison between the LAPD and the California Department of Criminal Investigation on the case. He had been quoted occasionally in the Times, saying that the investigation was proceeding. It was Singer who announced before a press conference that one of the track employees had come forward to name the others and that arrests had been made. It was also Singer who had been quoted announcing, “with profound regret,” the untimely and unrelated murder of the star witness in a convenience story robbery. Villatoro had never met Singer. Singer had been remote, unapproachable, always too busy to accompany his officers to Arcadia. And Villatoro remembered something else. The LAPD detectives, who would joke about anything and anybody, never joked about Lieutenant Singer.
Villatoro thought Singer and Newkirk were both connected to Santa Anita in different ways, and both now lived in North Idaho. Villatoro felt a flutter, but the more he thought about it, the more he discounted his excitement. Sure, it was little more than coincidence now. But how many police officers were involved in the Santa Anita investigation in some way? Hundreds, Villatoro knew. How many ex-cops had retired and moved to Blue Heaven? Hundreds. And Swann’s name had yet to appear on the documents.
He sat back in his uncomfortable chair and stared at the ceiling. He could interview Newkirk and Singer, he supposed. Maybe he could get something out of them, something more. But he remembered the look of suspicion on Newkirk’s face, and dismissed the idea. Villatoro had no authority, and he couldn’t compel the men to talk to him. So far, he didn’t have enough information to go to the sheriff to ask for a subpoena. Ex-cops knew the law and would know immediately to get lawyers to indefinitely delay or prevent interviews. They could easily outlast him since he needed to get back, and they were staying. They knew how the game was played.
Again, the idea of bad cops disturbed him deeply. It was so rare, in his experience, to find a truly bad one. In a city of 3.5 million people, there were 9,350 Los Angeles police officers. How many were corrupt? How many were outright criminals? It defied logic that there were none.
The telephone rang and startled him. It was Celeste. Her tone was anticipatory, excited. He thanked her sincerely for giving up her Sunday, and church, to come into the office and fax him the documents.
“Are we getting closer?” she asked.
“Closer,” he said. “But we don’t have enough yet to do anything. Officer Newkirk and Lieutenant Singer are up here, but that really doesn’t mean anything yet. An officer named Swann is up here and involved with them, but I don’t see any connection between him and either the crime or the investigation.”
“Is there anything else I can send you?” she asked.
She sounded disappointed. He felt he had let her down. “I don’t even know what to ask for,” he said. “I have my files here, and you’re sure you’ve gone through everything we have to match up their names?”
She said she was sure, and was a little insulted by the question. She’d been at the station since four that morning, she said. Again, he apologized.
“There is one more thing,” she said, “but it doesn’t come from the files.”
“Yes …”
“I did a simple Google search just a few minutes ago, typing in both of their names. I found something called the SoCal Retired Peace Officers Foundation, or SRPOF. It’s a nonprofit group. According to the public filing, it’s an organization, a 501(c)3 that exists to provide scholarships to police officers’ children, grants to widows, things like that. Both Singer and Newkirk are officers on the board.”
Villatoro thought about it and couldn’t figure out a reason why the SRPOF information would be helpful.
Then: “Where is it incorporated?”
“Let’s see,” Celeste said, obviously scrolling down her screen. “Burbank,” she said. Then she hesitated. “And Pend Oreille County, Idaho.”
That made him sit up.
“When was it formed?”
She gave him the date of the filing with the Secretary of State’s Office. SRPOF had been created two months prior to the Santa Anita robbery.
“How is the organization funded? Does it say?” he asked.
He could hear her fingers tapping the keyboard.
“Voluntary contributions,” she said. “It doesn’t look like they’ve got a membership set up.”
His mind was spinning. “Voluntary contribution
s from, I assume, other police officers.”
“I would guess so.”
“Contributions that would come in cash, in small denominations, I would guess. Officers throwing bills into a hat that was passed around the squad room, something like that.”
“I don’t know, but I suppose so.”
“Is there a list of contributors?”
“Not here,” she said. “I don’t know where I would find that without contacting the organization.”
“Who would likely not provide it,” Villatoro said, feeling his excitement return, “because there are no contributors. It’s a perfect way to launder a lot of money in small bills. Slowly, over time, cash-only deposits can be made that supposedly come from random collections.”
Celeste was quiet for a moment. “I don’t follow.”
“This has been one of the things I’ve always been puzzled by,” Villatoro said. “How could the robbers use all of that money without being noticed by anyone? Banks notice when all-cash deposits are made, especially of large sums. They have to report them if they’re over a certain amount. But if the money is deposited over a long period of time, in fairly small amounts, say a few thousand dollars at a time, the bad guys have covered themselves. Especially if it’s understood that the cash came from small contributors to a charity. It’s perfect.”
Celeste was getting it. She said, “My God, Eduardo …”
“But the plan wouldn’t work if someone didn’t deposit the money as he was supposed to, and spent some of it. Especially if the bills were marked. That would be the thing that aroused suspicion, if several of those bills came from the same location.”
While he talked, Villatoro thumbed through his file for the copies of the marked hundred-dollar bills.
“We may have something,” he said, trying to keep his feelings out of his voice. “Who are the other officers?”
She read him the list.
Eric Singer, President. Oscar Swann, Vice President. Dennis Gonzalez, Second Vice President. Robert Newkirk, Secretary. Anthony Rodale, Treasurer.
Bells in his head went off at the names. He had her read him the names a second time, and check the spelling.
“My guess would be that the officers of this organization are well paid,” Villatoro said. “The IRS may be interested in that. And we’ve connected Officer Swann now as well.”
“Are they all up there?” she asked.
“Three of them are, for sure. Newkirk, Singer, and Swann. I need to find out about the other two.”
He could hear her shuffling through papers. She told him to hold on while she checked something.
“I’m looking at the LAPD duty rosters for that day,” she said, and he knew without thinking which day she was referring to. “Swann was on duty. Newkirk, Singer, Gonzalez, and Rodale were off duty. We know Rodale and Newkirk were working security in the counting room.”
Villatoro slapped his desk with his open palm. Two of the officers of the SRPOF were in the counting room. Two others were off duty. The dog-walking witness said there were at least two robbers who entered the armored car and killed Steve Nichols. They could have been Singer and Gonzalez. That would leave Swann, who had been on duty. The getaway cars had fled onto the freeway and literally vanished. That had also been a puzzle for Villatoro. But if the cars had a police escort …
“Good work, Celeste,” he said. “Good, good work. Please tell the chief we may be close.”
VILLATORO STOOD, and his knees popped and his back crackled. His mind spun with possibilities. Finally, finally, things were connecting. Or were they? He knew there were likely to be holes, lapses in logic. What had he overlooked? He needed time to sort it all through, connect the dots that were growing bigger and closer to one another on the page.
Then he realized something. He had heard there were four ex-cops helping out the Taylor investigation. What about the fifth? It could be explained if the two cases were wholly unrelated, of course. But what if they weren’t?
He couldn’t stay in his room. He was too excited. He threw open his door and walked down the hallway, not even noticing the intensity of the high-altitude sun streaming in from the windows.
“Mr. Villatoro,” the receptionist called when she saw him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said, approaching and grasping her hand with both of his. “I’m more than fine. It’s a beautiful day.”
She blushed and kept her hand there. Suddenly embarrassed, he let go first.
“I’ve got those names for you,” she said.
“I had forgotten,” he said.
She held a small piece of paper above her head, out of his grasp.
“Drinks tonight?” she said.
“Yes, of course.” He had no choice.
“Wonderful,” she said, handing him the paper.
He read the names. Singer, Gonzalez, Swann, Newkirk.
He slowly closed his eyes. Another link.
But what about Rodale? The phone book, he thought. He would simply look up Rodale in the telephone book and go see him. Maybe Rodale had had a falling-out with the others. If so, it might be a perfect opportunity to talk to him. But he’d need to find him first. He’d left the directory in his car that morning, when he’d used it for the maps inside as he was driving.
Villatoro turned and bounded out through the glass door to the parking lot. He saw Newkirk pull in before the ex-cop could open his door.
There you are, Villatoro said to himself, checking up on me.
The genuine surprise on Newkirk’s boyish face fit well with the scenario Villatoro had developed that morning. The ex-cop was shocked to see him standing in front of him. Why would he be shocked if he was just another retiree, minding his own business?
“Hello, Mr. Newkirk.”
“Hey.” Newkirk was obviously trying to come up with a good excuse why he was there. Although Newkirk’s face quickly flattened into the dead-eye cop stare, there had been a second where Villatoro sensed both fear and confusion.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Newkirk?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I recognize it from my investigation,” Villatoro said, stopping himself from saying more. Newkirk had flinched, and Villatoro noted the impact. He didn’t like chance encounters like this. Villatoro was a man of planning, of thinking things through. Especially when there was so much at stake and so much he still didn’t know. But he recognized this as a remarkable opportunity. Newkirk was surprised by his presence and his manner, and perhaps he would give something away if Villatoro pressed on.
Newkirk stepped forward, his eyes hard. “What are you saying?”
“What I am saying, Mr. Newkirk, is that it’s not too late for you to save yourself. I’m no longer an officer of the law. I can’t arrest you, and I don’t necessarily want to arrest you. I was the lead investigator for the Arcadia Police Department. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life looking into this crime. I’d like to find the killers, and the money, or at least as much as there is left.”
“What?”
Newkirk was off-balance, taken aback. Keep going, Villatoro thought.
“When I first saw you I thought I saw a man with a conscience, Mr. Newkirk. I noticed the wedding band on your finger. It looks like mine. Work with me to solve this crime. If you do, I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of the trouble that will come.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Newkirk sputtered.
“Ah, I think you do. You were a police officer, and a good one. You know as well as anyone that deals can be struck that benefit all of the parties. But the chance to help voluntarily lasts only so long. If you don’t take your single opportunity, well, who knows what will happen?”
Villatoro could see Newkirk’s mind working, see the veins in his temple throb.
“You’ve got a family, a good life here. Would providing assistance in my case help preserve that? Are there some things you can tell me that would benefit you and
your family?” Villatoro said. “You’ll need to decide. I would guess that your conscience is troubling you, and this is the way to cleanse it.”
To Villatoro’s mild surprise, Newkirk appeared to be listening.
“It’s Sunday. Tomorrow, I will make a call to my contact at the FBI,” Villatoro said. “So you need to make your decision tonight, my friend.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Newkirk said without conviction.
“Think hard, Mr. Newkirk. Go see your family. Look at them. Then decide.”
Newkirk started to speak, then pulled back.
“Think hard,” Villatoro said softly. “Contact me here and we’ll talk.”
“I’ve got something to say right now.”
“Yes?” “Fuck off, mister.”
He watched Newkirk slide into his car and drive away.
When he was out of sight, Villatoro breathed in deeply. His knees felt weak. It wasn’t what Newkirk said that struck him. It was what he didn’t say.
Newkirk didn’t ask Villatoro what specific case he was investigating. He didn’t ask what happened in Arcadia that would have brought him here. He didn’t mention that he’d been at the racetrack that day. And he didn’t ask why the FBI was going to be called.
IN HIS ROOM, Villatoro opened the phone book on his knees. The name he was looking for didn’t have a listing. He thumbed through the book for Singer, Newkirk, Gonzalez, and Swann as well. All unlisted. As he searched, he saw his message light blinking. Donna? Celeste? Would Newkirk be calling already?
The message had been left an hour before, when Villatoro had been on the phone with Celeste.
“Mr. Villatoro, this is Jess Rawlins. I don’t know what it means yet, but maybe you should check on another name. It’s another ex-cop. I’ve got his name here. Tony Rodale. That’s R-O-D-A-L-E. His wife called the sheriff and reported him missing. I’ve got an address.”
Sunday, 12:59 P.M.
THE ANCIENT TELEVISION in Jess Rawlins’s home received only three channels, and of those, only one came in clearly. An older satellite dish was outside on a concrete pad, and an electronic box sat on top of the set. Annie watched William try to figure out how to manipulate the blocky old remote control to access the satellite. He wanted to watch cartoons.
