“Ah,” Villatoro said, sighing. “He is no longer with us. He was the victim of a convenience store robbery in L.A. less than a year after the trial. He was there buying milk and was caught in a cross fire between the owner of the store and the criminal who tried to rob it.”
“And whoever shot him wasn’t caught?”
“Alas, no.”
“Interesting,” Hearne said. “So what does that all have to do with me and my bank?”
Villatoro gestured toward the photocopies of the hundred-dollar bills. “At the time of the robbery, the cashiers and accountants at the racetrack had a rather efficient procedure for counting the money and accounting for all of it, but an incomplete method for recording the cash. The racetrack didn’t have marked bills, like your bank surely does, or dye pacs. You can imagine the sea of cash that washes in during a big day, every twenty minutes or so when bettors come to the windows. The robbery occurred after one of the biggest races of the year, the Southern California Breeders’ Cup. It’s all computerized, of course, but the cash still needs to match the computer at the end of the day, so it’s hand-counted in the back. That takes time. Once the cash matches the computer, armored cars take the cash away to the bank. In the kind of rush they are in to get the cash into the cars, there was no way to mark or record the money in any comprehensive way. The best they could do, at the time, was to randomly record serial numbers. In this case, they recorded the serial number of every fiftieth hundred-dollar bill. Now it’s done by scanners, but then it was by hand.”
Hearne was listening closely, and urged Villatoro on.
“In the end, we had the serial numbers for 1,377 hundred-dollar bills. The rest were other denominations, or credit card receipts. But most of it was cash, and most of it was in small, circulated bills. Quite literally untraceable.”
Hearne looked down at the photocopies of the bills on his desk.
“For three years, not a single hundred-dollar bill with a recorded serial number was reported. Not a one,” Villatoro said. “Then one came in that had been routed through four different banks. But the bank of origin was yours. We did nothing because one bill means nothing. It could have passed through a dozen people or merchants during that time. I made a copy, though, and kept it in my file. You have a copy of that one there in front of you. Two others surfaced over the years, one from California, then Nevada, the other from Nebraska. There appeared to be no link at all.
“Two months ago, though, four more turned up,” Villatoro said. “All four originated from your bank. Those are the four sheets on top. Once this happened, I sensed there might be something to it. I took this information to my liaison contacts in the LAPD, but as far as they were concerned the case was closed. They’d moved on. My department was very small, with only four detectives. We didn’t have the budget to send me around the country to follow this up, and my mandatory retirement date was approaching. No other detective wanted to take up the case after I left. But these bills bothered me, and they bother me still. It is my only link to the money stolen, and therefore the criminals. You see, Mr. Hearne, Arcadia is a peaceful place, or at least it used to be. There have never been more than four murders in a year there. Our average for the thirty years I was in the department was two homicides. Only two. And these weren’t heinous, mysterious crimes, usually a domestic or easily solved homicide. The bank guard homicide is the only unsolved murder still on our books, and it was assigned to me. I just can’t leave without trying to solve it, even if it is on my own time.”
Hearne studied the bills, waiting for more.
“I think someone who has access to at least some of the Santa Anita money lives in this area and banks with you,” Villatoro said. “I’d like to try and find out who that might be.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
Villatoro smiled. “I would like to look at your accounts. Primarily those that were opened four years ago that are still active. I think I may find a name that will jump out at me. Especially if I can trace the name back to California. Then I will have narrowed it down.”
Hearne made a face. “You know we can’t just turn over a list of our customers to you. That’s illegal.”
Villatoro nodded his head. “Yes, I know that. But if I can get the proper authorities to request access, I hope you will be cooperative. That’s all I ask. And, of course, if you have any idea at the outset who the person might be.”
Shaking his head, Hearne handed the photocopies back to Villatoro. “I have no idea. We have hundreds of new accounts, and I’d bet a quarter of them came from California. I really wouldn’t have a clue, and if I did, I’m not sure I’d be at liberty to tell you.”
“A man died in the robbery, Mr. Hearne. A man with a wife and two children.”
Hearne looked away. “That has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”
Villatoro sat back. “I’m sorry. I understand.”
“Go talk to the sheriff,” Hearne said. “His name is Carey. If you make your case to him, he might escort you to a judge who can request an order to see the accounts. Otherwise, there’s no more I can do.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the office for a moment, finally broken by Villatoro: “I will certainly see the sheriff. That was my plan all along. But I’ve learned through experience that often the wisest man in a community, when it comes to assessing the character of others, is the senior official at the most prominent bank. I have learned that often, in these kinds of situations, the bank president or vice president knows where odd amounts of cash come from, and if anything is unusual about their customer’s banking habits. Large, regular cash infusions-say just under the ten-thousand-dollar notification cap-usually attract some attention. Especially if there are… elements… within the community where such amounts of cash are unlikely.”
Villatoro felt the banker’s stare and waited for him to respond. When he did, Hearne’s voice was flat.
“I know what you’re suggesting, Mr. Villatoro. You’ve heard the stories about the white supremacists up here, just like everyone’s heard stories. About Aryan Nations and those Nazis. A lot of the country thinks we’re no better than rednecks, or racists. You’re wondering if those folks bank with us.”
“Well, yes.”
Hearne swiped his hand through the air. “We ran ’em out of here years ago, Mr. Villatoro. We didn’t like ’em any more than you do. We got them the same way the Feds got Al Capone. They didn’t pay their taxes. They’ve been long gone for years, even though the reputation we’ve got up here never seems to go away.”
Villatoro sat for a moment. He believed the heat in Hearne’s statements, believed his outrage. He sensed that Hearne would help him. Many bank officers were openly hostile and could drag out an investigation. Hearne didn’t seem to be the type to do that.
“Thank you, Mr. Hearne,” Villatoro said, shutting his briefcase and standing. “I’m sorry if I insulted you or your community.”
“You’re forgiven,” Hearne said, shaking his hand. “Just make sure to tell your pals in L.A. that we ran those bastards out of here. Besides, this is the last place people like that would want to live these days. Do you realize how many retired police officers have moved here? It’s one of the biggest sectors of our retirees.”
Villatoro nodded. “I’ve heard that. One of my best friends on the LAPD calls this place Blue Heaven. It’s interesting that so many retired officers move here. What’s the reason, do you think?”
Hearne gestured toward the window. “It’s wonderful country, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Mountains, lakes, lots of outdoor opportunities. Plus damned cheap land compared to what you’re used to. And the culture here is welcoming, I think. The folks around here are tough and independent. They don’t ask a lot of questions, and they believe in live and let live. They’re not fond of any kind of government or authority, but they’re law-and-order types. Everyone has guns, and we’re proud of that. As long as you’re a good neighbor, they don’t care where you came from, what you did, or what your daddy did. Plus, they’re blue-collar. Most of ’em were loggers, or miners, or cowboys. I think they feel pretty comfortable with the ex-cops, who are blue-collar at heart. Brother,” Hearne said, flushing, “I sound like a chamber of commerce commercial.”