I shook my head.
"One-point-five trillion dollars – that's a one, a five, and eleven zeros – just so you get the picture. In the U.S., the figure's somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty billion, but we're talking about revenue that's never taxed, so you see how serious it gets."
Cheney spoke up. "How much can you tell her about the investigation to date?"
"Broad strokes? Four years ago the IRS, the DEA, the FBI, Customs, and the Justice and Treasury departments put together a task force to investigate gold and precious metals dealers in Los Angeles, Detroit, and Miami, all of whom we suspect are laundering money for a Colombian drug cartel. So far they've managed to place, layer, and integrate sixteen million dollars, running the cash through four businesses, using multiple accounts, at ten different banks, one of which has a branch here in town. Alan Beckwith is responsible for processing a substantial portion of that sum.
"Ours is painstaking work. We're still sorting out the particulars, developing as much hard evidence as we can before we make our move. The trick is not to alert him until we have all our ducks in a row. A U.S. District Court judge in Los Angeles and another in Miami have recently approved electronic surveillance. That's allowed us to monitor Mr. Beckwith's phone conversations. We've also obtained authorization to seize and remove trash from his home and business premises. Right now we have our merry band of agents picking through his garbage. They've found invoices listing fictitious addresses for nonexistent businesses, assorted handwritten notes, canceled checks, discarded typewriter cartridges and adding-machine tape. Mr. Beckwith has legitimate dealings with financial institutions on a number of fronts, and he's skilled at mingling the profits from illegal activities with the mundane business he does from day to day. What he's apparently unaware of is that financial institutions are required to save signature cards, account statements, copies of checks written for any amount over a hundred dollars. The banks also retain a transaction log of wire transfers, so they can properly account for funds passing through the system. The information is all coded, but it's possible to use the sequence numbers to identify the source bank, the target bank, and the dates and times the money was sent on its way. We don't yet have access to these documents, but we're putting together the necessary paperwork to subpoena bank records."
The waiter appeared, setting down Turner's second drink. A silence fell until he'd moved away from the table and out of earshot. Turner picked up his glass of bourbon. His drinking had slowed to a sipping pace, and I could see him savoring the taste.
"What do you want from Reba? Surely you're not asking her to waltz in and lift all the pertinent files."
"Not at all. In point of fact, we can't instruct her to do anything that violates the law because we're not at liberty to do so ourselves. Even if she stole the files without our prior knowledge or approval, we couldn't even peek at them without jeopardizing our case. What we can ask for is an in-depth description of his records – the nature of the files he has and where they're located – which will allow us to prepare financial and document search warrants. I understand you feel protective of Ms. Lafferty, but we need her cooperation."
"Isn't there anybody else? What about his company comptroller?"
"The company comptroller's a fellow named Marty Blumberg. We've thought of him. The problem is he's so deeply implicated he might panic and run, or worse, panic and warn Mr. Beckwith. Now that she's not working for him, Reba's been removed from the line of fire and she might be more inclined to help. Lieutenant Phillips showed you the photographs?"
"Well, yeah, but I'm not sure what those are going to do for you. She finds out he's in trouble, she'll fall all over herself telling him whatever you tell her."
"I gathered as much. Do you have a suggestion about how to contain her reaction?"
"No. To me, it's like detonating a nuclear device. You risk as much destruction as you're hoping to unleash."
Turner adjusted a minute irregularity in the flatware he'd aligned. "Point taken. Unfortunately, we don't have much time. Mr. Beckwith has uncanny survival instincts. We've been discreet, but from the intelligence we've gathered, he may well suspect there's something afoot. He's consolidating his funds, picking up the pace, which we find worrisome."
"Reba mentioned that, but she's convinced he's doing it for her. He says once his assets are secure, he'll dump his wife and the two of them can hit the highway. Or that's what she hears. Who knows the truth of it?"
"There's no doubt he's preparing to make a run for it. Another week and he might succeed in placing the cash and himself beyond our reach."
"Does the money belong to him or Salustio Castillo?"
"His, in the main. If he's smart, he'll keep his hands off Salustio's cash. Last guy who crossed Castillo got turned into a concrete popsicle in a twenty-gallon garbage can."
Once it was clear Vince was finished, Cheney said, "So. Who talks to Reba? You, me, or her."
There was a silence while all three of us stared at the tabletop. Finally, I raised my hand. "I've got a better shot at it than either one of you."
"Good. Give us a couple of days. As soon as I get back from Washington, I'll set up a meeting with our FBI contact and the DOJ. Customs will want to sit in as well. As soon as we decide how we want to proceed, we'll bring you in for a briefing, probably the beginning of next week. After that, we'll hope to talk to her."
"You better make it good. I don't look forward to delivering the news."
"Don't worry about that. We'll advise you in advance."
Cheney dropped me off at my office at 2:00 P.M. The afternoon temperature was climbing, a complete contradiction of the morning weather report that promised a moderate 74 degrees. Vince Turner had called a taxi to ferry him to the airport so he could catch his flight. I was hoping Cheney would have the good grace to deliver me without reference to Reba Lafferty or Beck, but as I got out of the car, he held up a manila envelope. "I had copies made for you."
"What am I supposed to do with 'em?"
"Whatever you like. I thought you should have a set."
"Thanks so much." I took the envelope.
"Call me if you need me."
"Trust me. I will."
I waited until he'd turned the corner and the sound of his little red Mercedes had faded in the turgid afternoon air. I let myself into the office, where the air felt stuffy and dead. I passed through the reception area to my desk. I tossed my shoulder bag on the client chair and sat down with the manila envelope. I used it to fan myself and then undid the clasp and removed the prints. The photographs were just as I remembered them – Beck and Onni emerging from various motels, he with his arm around her, the two holding hands, Onni with her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist, the two hip-to-hip walking in lockstep. Poor Reba. She was in for a rude awakening. I opened my desk drawer and tossed the envelope inside. I didn't even want to think about the sorry task of breaking the news. In hopes of distracting myself, I did something I hadn't done for ages. I walked the four blocks from my office into downtown Santa Teresa and caught two movies, back-to-back, watching one of them twice. I thus succeeded in dodging the heat and dodging reality at the same time.
Chapter 12
When I reached my apartment, I saw that Mattie's car was gone and Henry's kitchen was dark. I wasn't sure what to make of that. The temperature was somewhere in the eighties, almost unheard of at this hour. It was still light out and the sidewalks shimmered with accumulated heat. The air felt sluggish, with no movement to speak of and humidity probably hovering at 95 percent. You'd think it would rain, but this was mid-July and we'd be stuck with drought conditions until late November – if the weather broke for us at all. My apartment was stifling. I sat on my porch step, flapping a breeze at my face with the folded newspaper. While most Southern California properties have sprinkler systems, few have central air conditioning. I was going to have to haul a fan out of the closet and set it up in the loft before I hit the sack.