by Coyle, Matt;
Too much free time.
Mallon arrived five minutes later. Alive and alone. Without his sunglasses under the dark skies, he again looked like a kid in high school. A kid nervous before a test he hadn’t studied for.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s okay. Everything alright?”
“I have people looking over my shoulder.” He looked around the deck as if those people might be among the other diners. “I can lose my job for giving you information without going through the proper channels. You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone where you got the information.”
“I promise.” I meant it. Mallon was going way out on a limb for me. I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t going to saw it off behind him.
Mallon pulled a file out of his briefcase and opened it. “Take notes. I can’t give you the file. I’m destroying the paper trail after we talk.”
“What about the digital trail you left behind?”
“I have freedom to follow tips on potential financial crimes. I’m covered there, but I can’t have you walking around with an FBI file.”
“Got it.” I pulled out a notepad and pen.
“Paulie’s Auto Body Repair is owned by a Swiss holding company named Wiedergeboren Holdings.” Special Agent Mallon read from the report. “Founded by Jurgen Bjorn Wilander and Benjamin Charles Townsend in 2009.”
“Really?” I wrote down the information. “Is it normal for a Swiss holding company to own an auto body shop in the States?”
“Not really. Holding companies own all sorts of assets, such as stocks, bonds, private equity funds, hedge funds, real estate. Usually those types of entities. I’d never heard of one owning an auto body shop before. It’s, ah, highly unusual.”
“Unusual, as in a possible criminal enterprise?”
“I won’t go that far, but a number of car repair businesses have been caught laundering money gained through illicit means.”
“What else does the company own?”
“It’s a small entity, though somewhat diversified. It owns stock in Amway, some S&P 500 stocks, a Swiss watch company, City Textiles in Los Angeles, and Elite Automobiles and Ultraclean Janitorial Supplies, both in San Diego. The American holdings are managed by a subsidiary called Phoenix Holdings.”
“So the American office is in Phoenix?”
“No.” He ran a finger down the report. “It’s here in San Diego at One America Plaza downtown. It must be named for the other Phoenix from Latin mythology. Benjamin Townsend runs things from there. A unique person to be a partner in a holding company.”
“How so?”
“He’s had a varied career that doesn’t point to founder of a holding company.” Mallon looked back at the report. “By the time he was fifty, he’d sold used cars in Trenton, New Jersey, dealt blackjack in Atlantic City and, later, Las Vegas, sold Herbalife in Los Angeles, started a Police Charitable Organization in Santa Ana, sold Amway in Bakersfield, and been an investment banker in San Diego. He’d been a hedge fund manager of BCT Capital in San Diego, which he founded, from 2006–2009, until he sold the business for a couple hundred thousand and started Wiedergeboren Holding Company with Swiss banker Jurgen Wilander.”
“Every job he’s had until the holding company has the potential to be on the shady side of the law.”
“I agree. Also, I haven’t been able to find the money trail that would lead him to be able to come up with the three million he used to capitalize his half of Wiedergeboren Holdings.”
“Did you find any connection with the FBI or other law enforcement agencies?” I watched his eyes for a tell.
“No.” He shook his head and looked straight at me.
“How do you think the men who tried to kill me came up with your name and knew you were out of the office the other day when they called me?”
“I don’t know.” Mallon looked at me, then squinted, pursed his lips, and seemed to be looking past me.
“What is it, Special Agent Mallon? You just thought of something.”
“I went to my son’s play at his school that afternoon. Everyone in the office knew about it.”
“Anyone else know you were going?” I asked.
“Just some friends and parents in the neighborhood and at school.”
The man in the ski mask who tried to kill me at the auto body shop was probably Dwight McCafferty. The potential suspects who might be the silent partner who abetted him just grew to almost anyone Special Agent Mallon knew.
Mallon left without ordering anything, which was fine with me since I was paying the bill.
* * *
I looked up Phoenix Holdings online. A photo of Ben Townsend took up about a third of the page. Townsend looked to be in his early sixties trying desperately to look like he was in his early forties. Dark tan, slicked-back hair too black to be natural, tight eyes, sport coat around an open-chested shirt revealing a gold chain and gray chest hair.
I guess he ran out of Grecian Formula.
Not the staid, conservative look I’d expected to see from a founder of a holding company. But what did I know? I’d just learned what a holding company was twenty minutes ago. Besides, the former Swiss banker probably held down the conservative end of the partnership. Townsend had the look of a wheeler dealer. Or a used car salesman.
The address at the bottom of the webpage stuck out to me. I flipped back in my notepad to find the address Moira MacFarlane had given me of the company that reported the stolen license plate found on the Range Rover. It was the same as Phoenix Holdings. Both companies were located at One America Plaza.
The stolen Lexus license plate on the Range Rover driven by my attackers. One America Plaza where the license plate had been stolen. The auto body shop where I’d been ambushed. All the dots were connecting in a straight line to Phoenix Holdings.
Ben Townsend and I needed to talk. Today.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
MY PHONE RANG as I turned on the ignition of my car. Scott Buehler, the reporter from The Reader. I turned off the ignition.
“I’m sure you know that Congressman Peterson of the 52nd district is gravely ill.” Buehler started in without a hello.
“Sort of. Is he the one with pancreatic cancer who won’t resign his seat?”
“That’s him. Unless there’s a miracle, he won’t make it to Christmas. When he dies, there will be a special election in a few months.”
“This is fascinating stuff, Buehler, but what does it have to do with Chief Moretti and asset forfeiture arrests?” I tried to hide the irritation in my voice. Buehler was still an asset.
“Well, the word is that the chief is going to throw his hat into the ring for the seat.”
“It would be nice to get Morreti out of San Diego, but I’ll repeat my question, what does it have to do with asset forfeiture arrests?”
“Hear me out. You’ll find this interesting.” He paused, I guess to build the suspense. “What I’ve found so far in the three forfeiture arrests is that the charges were dropped in all of them and the assets returned.”
“You’re right, now I’m interested. What does it all mean?”
“Time to scratch my back, Rick.”
“An image now indelibly etched in my mind, Buehler. What do you want?”
“An interview.”
“No.”
“It’s not going to be a hit piece. You know my reporting on you has always been fair, Rick.”
“True, but I never gave you or anyone else an interview and that’s not going to change now. Besides, I’m old news.” At least until Moretti arrested me for murder.
“When Chief Moretti announces his run for the House, a lot of powerful people in San Diego are going to line up to sing his praises. All I ask is for our readers to hear a voice from the other side. You are the voice of our readership, Rick. Alternative culture, antiestablishment, occupy—”
I cut him off before he could rhapsodize further. “Just because the establishment doesn’t like me, doesn
’t mean I’m antiestablishment. And I’m probably as alternative to The Reader’s culture as I am to any other.”
“Still, our readers would want to know what you had to say about the police chief who could be our next Congressman.”
“You want me to call out Moretti in the newspaper?” Buehler was asking me to paint the target Moretti had put on my back in glow-in-the-dark paint and outline it in neon. “Pass.”
“I never took you for scared, Rick.”
“No, but apparently you took me for stupid. If you don’t want to tell me what you discovered about the asset forfeiture arrests, this phone call is over.”
“You know Jack Hunt of Jack Hunt Mile of Cars?”
“I’ve seen his ads.” Biggest car dealer in San Diego County.
“He and his wife threw a big party in the summer and LJPD showed up even though no one complained about the noise. Apparently, Hunt and his wife like to have a good time and there were drugs at the party. A lot of them. So the cops arrested Hunt. If you could call it that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hunt was taken from his home down to LJPD, but he wasn’t handcuffed. The so-called arresting officers deposited him in Moretti’s office instead of an interview room or a cell.”
“That just sounds like typical intimidation tactics by Moretti.” Memories. “He brings you in, threatens you, veiled or otherwise, gets what he wants, and then lets you go. He’s not exactly a by-the-book cop.”
“Maybe, but Sergeant Colton went into Moretti’s office after Hunt was let go, and the two of them got into a loud argument.”
“What was it about?”
“My source didn’t hear all of it, but he distinctly heard Colton say, ‘Your own private police force.’”
“What was the date of Hunt’s arrest?”
“I know where you’re going and I already went there.” A smug lilt in Buehler’s voice. “August third. Three and a half weeks before Jim Colton’s death.”
I’d all but eliminated Moretti as a suspect in Colton’s death. Now I had to reconsider. Could Moretti somehow be connected with Dwight McCafferty, or whoever was in the ski mask, and his partner? Or was he the silent partner?
“Did your source make the same correlation? Does he think Moretti could have anything to do with Jim Colton’s death?” I asked.
“He didn’t connect any dots, and I don’t think he thought there were any to connect.”
“Back to Hunt. What assets were seized?”
“The house. LJPD had a US Marshall there before they even took Hunt to the station.” Buehler was excited now. His voice had lost its usual monotone. “He sealed up the house with seizure stickers. The whole deal.”
“They seize the house and then Hunt has a talk with Moretti and voila, no more arrest and he gets his house back?”
“Exactly.”
“And there’s no record of this arrest?” I asked.
“None that I could find.”
“And the other two arrests were similar?”
“That’s what my source says.”
“What does he say is Moretti’s real reason for these so-called arrests?” Although I’d already developed my own theory.
“My guy is a Dragnet kind of cop. Just the facts. He doesn’t impute motive or look for conspiracies. He just sees Moretti’s actions as wrong and wants something done about them.”
“Then why didn’t he go to the state attorney general with it instead of waiting around for a reporter to get a whiff before he did anything?”
“He may be an idealist, but he wants to keep his job. If he reported to the AG, then he’d have to come out of the shadows and take sides. If Moretti prevailed, this guy’s career as a cop in La Jolla, or probably anywhere else, would be over.”
“When does this story hit the streets?”
“Maybe never. Without someone willing to go on the record, my editor may not even allow it in print. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Hunt and the other two, but they’re ignoring me.”
“Do you have a theory on what Moretti’s up to?” See if it matched mine.
“Yes, but I won’t write about it until I can verify its accuracy. I know you have good reason to hate Chief Moretti, but you can’t use what I tell you to get even with him.”
“I won’t use what you tell me to get even with Moretti.”
I didn’t care about even. I cared about survival. And I’d use whatever I needed to against Moretti to stay out of prison for the rest of my life.
“Okay.” He sounded relieved. I felt badly that I might betray his trust. But not badly enough to spend the rest of my life in prison. “From what I can tell, Moretti formed an under-the-radar exploratory committee to run for Congress about seven or eight months ago. Obviously, he can’t go public until Congressman Peterson dies or finally retires. So this committee is probably lining up money men and women behind the scenes right away. The 52nd district is highly competitive. Both parties will pour a lot of money into it.”
“So you think Moretti is using the arrests that weren’t arrests to set up a quid pro quo down the line when it comes time to grease the campaign skids?”
“Exactly.”
“Call me again when this all shakes out.” If I’m not in prison. “I’ll give you your quote.”
Ben Townsend was still out there on my horizon. But I needed to make another stop first.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
RAIN PELTED MY windshield. A rare occurrence in San Diego. When it does rain, however, it’s usually the big drop variety, not a Seattle steady mist. The windshield wipers fumpped back and forth turning the rain into a cellophane smear. The rain lifted the months-old grease and soot off the road into a hydroplaning oil slick. The first rain always brought a slew of fender-benders and one or two jackknifed big rigs on San Diego freeways.
I had to park about a quarter mile away from my destination in La Jolla. The rain torpedoing down from the granite sky soaked through my ball cap, jeans, and shoes. My leather bomber jacket protected my torso, but when your feet are wet it doesn’t matter what’s dry.
Miranda had been replaced by a more conventional assistant behind the receptionist desk in Alan Rankin’s office. Stunningly beautiful, but I doubted her kick could raise a welt.
“I need to see Rankin.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a dumpster and asked for a table at George’s At The Cove. “He’s very busy.”
“Tell him Rick Cahill’s here. He’ll see me.”
She picked up the phone handset. I walked toward the door of Rankin’s office.
“Sir!”
I smiled back at her and opened the door.
Rankin looked up from papers on his desk, startled. “Cahill? Shut the damn door.”
I did as told, then walked over and planted my soaked rear end down onto one of his thousand-dollar leather chairs. “We need to talk.”
“We talk when I say we do and where I say we do.” His face flashed crimson and a vein I’d never seen before pulsed from his forehead. “You can’t just saunter into my office whenever you like!”
“Why? Afraid Moretti will catch wind of it and change his mind?”
“What?” He gave me courtroom-feigned ignorance, but some of the red sucked out of his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Moretti is shaking you down for your money and your influence when he runs for Congress after Congressman Peterson dies. That is, unless you have Moretti killed first.”
“What are you trying to pull? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I get it.” I stood up and took off my jacket, revealing my holstered gun, and pulled up my t-shirt with one hand. “You’ll have to take my word on my legs and crotch. I’m not letting you fondle me this time. No wire. You can cut the bullshit now. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Moretti tell you this?”
“No. I
figured it out for myself and I’m keeping it to myself.” I sat back down. “I don’t care about your agreement. I just need to know what evidence Moretti has about Randall Eddington and if he plans on making an arrest soon.”
Rankin gave me a poker stare, but I knew his mind was whirling behind it. What could he tell me that would push me in the direction he wanted me to go? I had to try to glean the truth from whatever lie he told me.
“They found DNA on Eddington’s phone which was recovered at Windansea Beach. It just came back from the lab. Unknown donor.”
My stomach sank, but I held my own poker face. Unknown would exonerate me if my DNA was already in the system. But it wasn’t. I’d been arrested for my wife’s murder ten years ago in Santa Barbara, but SBPD never took my DNA. I spent a week in jail and then the charges were dropped. The DNA might be mine and Moretti could show up at my house with a warrant for a sample any day.
But something didn’t ring true.
“He couldn’t have gotten DNA back in a week. The state lab is always backlogged for months. He’s lying to you.”
“He didn’t send it to the state lab. He sent it to a private laboratory. Remember, as of now, Moretti is still running this investigation on his own in the dark.”
“When did he tell you about the DNA?”
“The other day when he invaded this office.” He double blinked.
A lie. This was new information. Moretti must have just told him. Why? To keep Rankin in line and let him know I was going down soon and he could either go down with me or play ball and stay out of jail?
“What’s his next move?”
“You’re smart. You’ve already figured that out.”
“He’ll get a warrant for my DNA.” I said it to myself as much as Rankin.
“There’s still time.” Rankin leaned across the desk and his eyes went dark reptilian. “Not much of it, but enough for you to put an end to this whole matter. Once he requests a warrant from a judge, it’s out in the open and out of your hands.”
“I’m not going to murder anybody, Rankin. Not for me and, certainly, not for you.”