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 contributions 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.