“What are we going to do about him?” Newkirk asked, anticipating the answer.
“I’m not sure yet.” A note of hesitation, which was unusual in Singer. “He’s retired, so he’s not here in any official capacity. He’s got no juice, so he can’t make any demands. I know he’s not making any progress with the sheriff. He might just give up and go away, if we’re lucky. But we need to keep an eye on him. A very discreet eye, if you know what I mean.”
“Hmmm-hmmm.”
“Before you join Gonzo, take a quick run around town. Take a look at motel registers for his name so we can nail down his location. If anybody asks, just tell them you’re doing follow-up for the sheriff for his sexual predator list. See when he plans to check out. Call me, and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay.”
“Try not to let him see you,” Singer said. “He’s seen you a couple of times already, and we don’t want him to put anything together.”
Why don’t you check out the registers, then? Newkirk wanted to ask. He hasn’t seen you before.
“Are you okay with that?” Singer was asking.
“Sure,” Newkirk sighed.
“Be discreet,” Singer said again. “Then go help Gonzo. Let’s wrap this thing up.”
“Ten-four,” Newkirk said, and closed the phone.
WHILE NEWKIRK was in the bathroom, Monica stared at the telephone and made up her mind. She would call the man she thought could help, who’d helped her before. If nothing else, maybe he could calm her down, soothe her, tell her everything would be all right. He owed her, after all, and she’d not reminded him of it in twelve years.
She crossed the room and snatched the phone out of the cradle. There was no reason to use the phone book. She had memorized the number years before, had intended to dial it a hundred times and never had.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Newkirk asked her, coming out of the bathroom, speaking loud enough to be heard over the sound of the flush.
“Making a call.”
“To who?”
“None of your business.”
“Stay the hell off the line,” he said, snatching the phone from her and slamming it back in the cradle. “You need to keep the line clear in case someone calls who knows about your kids.” Newkirk’s face was red, his eyes dark.
“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.