the Viking Funeral (2001)

by Stephen - Scully 02 Cannell

  "Tell you something else," Shane continued. "You hate being called Tnky Dink.' Every time Jody calls you that, it's like you got kicked in the ass. So I'm wondering how come you put up with it; why you lettin' Jody Tom' you like that."

  Tremaine looked over. His eyes had become cold black warnings.

  "Here's my guess..." Shane continued recklessly. "You ain't completely down with the program, and if the rest of these guys weren't so zooted, they'd spot it."

  The speedometer was ticking up in the seventies while the truck radials hummed.

  "I ain't no Sega radio," Tremaine finally said. "Go play those tunes somewhere else, white boy."

  Then, the beeping light on the LCD screen turned off the freeway. A few minutes later Tremaine made the same turn. The windowless van containing Victory and Sawdust followed like a gray shadow, sharking along behind them.

  Ten minutes later they watched the map screen as the step van turned left on Shadow Drive, then right onto a street called Glen Haven. It stopped at the last house, at the end of a cul-de-sac.

  A few minutes later Tremaine drove into the same high-income neighborhood with his headlights off and parked up the block out of sight of the house. The gray van parked behind them.

  Tremaine switched off the GPS and got out of the truck.

  They went over to the van. Tremaine knocked on the side door, then as soon as it opened, they jumped inside.

  Victory Smith was already tuning in the three TV monitors, revealing that the white step van was parked in a hedge-lined driveway.

  "Always the same deal," Sawdust said. "Expensive house at the end of the cul-de-sac with a view of the whole street. The Beaners living inside are just window dressing sent up here from Colombia. It's all on page one of the playbook."

  They watched on the wide-angle lens coming from the camera stuck behind the rearview mirror as Jody, wearing a blindfold, was led into the house.

  Once he was inside, Miguel opened the garage and Octavio pulled the step van inside. They could see the garage door come down behind it from the rearview camera. The grille-mounted camera now showed an expensive Spanish tile floor in the large, empty, four-car garage.

  Octavio took off his jacket, grabbed a pickax out of the storage cabinet, then walked to a spot in front of the van and swung the ax high over his head, bringing it down hard, smashing the decorative tiles.

  "Must have their money room under all that expensive tile," Sawdust drawled.

  They watched on the monitors as Octavio, then Miguel, took turns breaking up the three square feet of flooring. Next they shoveled out four inches of subsoil, revealing a trap door. Octavio pulled the door up and turned on a light, exposing an underground room. Then, one at a time, the Colombians went down a short flight of stairs, disappearing off the monitor for a moment, only to reappear, carrying large rectangular canvas bags that looked to Shane to be about three feet long by two feet high and wide.

  "Show me the money, boys," Tremaine rumbled softly in his rich baritone as the two drug dealers put the canvas bags into the back of the step van, then returned for more.

  The whole treasure hunt took less than an hour. The step van was almost completely filled with bags of cash. Then Jody was led blindfolded out of the house and helped back into the front seat of the step van.

  They watched on the rearview-mirror cam as the truck backed away from the house. In the process, the front-end cameras neatly panned the mailbox and the house number on the curb. Then the step van took off, up the street, again followed by the black Cadillac, its front license clearly photographed by the rear-bumper camera.

  The two vehicles swept past the van, rocking it with slipstreaming air. "We'll let 'em get a block or two ahead," Tremaine instructed, then after a minute, added, "Okay, now."

  Shane and Tremaine got out of the gray van and returned to the truck. They switched on the GPS and again followed the step van from several miles back, watching on the LCD screen until it stopped moving.

  Both tail vehicles pulled over and waited. The beeping light on the GPS continued blinking but remained stationary. Five minutes later the cell phone in the truck rang and Tremaine pushed the speaker button. Jody's voice filled the truck cab.

  "Okay, they're gone. I'll drive the van and meet you back at the Sherman Oaks apartment. We'll see what we got here."

  What they got were thirty large canvas bags containing fifty million dollars in banded bricks of used cash.

  Chapter 32.

  RUSTY

  JODY HAD A deal with a crooked armored-transport company driver to move the thirty bags of cash to the Union Bank in San Diego. They unloaded the step van and put the cash in the back of an armored truck that had been borrowed without permission from the transport company's service department. At a little past eleven P. M., it pulled out with Tremaine riding shotgun and headed toward San Diego.

  "You ever heard of a guy named Giovanni DeScotto?" Jody said to Shane as they rested in the back of the empty step van.

  "Yeah, he's a banker or something, suspected of doing bank wire transfers for the Cali cartel. I read a department one-sheet on him. He was never busted."

  Jody grinned. "Wrong! I busted the fuck. Got him dead-bang during the Mexican drug case. Caught him on videotape, offering to launder twenty mil."

  "You flipped him?" Shane asked.

  "Amen, brother. Burned him and turned him. He's our guy now. He's working at a bank in San Diego as vice president of Latin American deposits." Jody was grinning. "He's gonna take delivery of this armored-truck shipment and pass it through his bank." Shane knew that once the money was deposited in a bank, Jody was home free. Bank-to-bank wire transfers were exempt from Treasury Department supervision. There was no federal record kept on these transactions. It was a major loophole in the Justice Department's anti-drug policy. This one fact alone was responsible for the existence of the drug laundries operating in both Mexico and Colombia.

  "Tremaine rides in that armored truck down to San Diego and gets our money logged in to the bank there as a cash transfer from Ban-comer in Mexico" Jody continued. "Giovanni writes up the phony paper to record the deposit, then he does the cybertransfer to a little bank I found here in the Valley where I got some serious leverage with the VP of regional operations. From there, it gets wired to Aruba." Jody smiled. "Two bank transfers, and the money is off-shore."

  "Slick," Shane said, and watched Jody smile.

  The West Valley Bank of Commerce was located just off Ventura Boulevard on Beverly Glen, nestled into a landscaped commercial park five blocks from some of the most expensive real estate in the Valley.

  They left Victory in the car outside, with instructions to cover their backs.

  Tremaine had called an hour before, to say that the transfer of funds to the San Diego bank was complete. He was headed back to L. A.

  It was nine A. M. when Jody, Shane, and Lester walked through the swinging glass doors. The West Valley Bank had a minimalist decor and looked as though it had been designed by Frigidaire. A few black-and-white Impressionist paintings dotted the shiny white walls.

  Jody asked a passing bank employee if Bob Miller, the vice president of regional operations, was around.

  "You mean Rusty." She smiled. "I'll get him."

  After five minutes Bob "Rusty" Miller walked up. Shane thought he was fifteen years and at least one hair transplant past his nickname.

  Rusty led them to a private, windowless office in the back of the bank and closed the door.

  "Both of these gentlemen are police officers as well?" he began without preamble. He seemed agitated and definitely in a hurry to get Jody out of there.

  "That's right." Jody smiled. "This deal is going to work just like the Mexican bank sting. Same MO, only this time we're gonna wire slightly more cash... Fifty million. It goes to a personal account in Aruba."

  "Slightly more?" the pudgy banker exclaimed. "You can't be serious. That's five times more.... And isn't Aruba in the Caribbean?"

 
; "The Lesser Antilles. Twenty five kilometers from the Venezuelan coastline."

  "That's outside of the continental United States."

  "Yep. Last time I checked."

  "Sergeant, this branch is currently undergoing a federal bank examiner's review. It's going to be very difficult to handle that large a sub rosa transfer at this particular--"

  Jody held up a hand and interrupted him. "You're going to do it because this is police department business, and a failure to comply will bring all kinds a'nasty shit down on you, Bobby."

  "Jeezus, when is this gonna end?"

  "Never," Jody snarled.

  "I can't just keep doing this," he whined.

  "Then you shouldn't a'been banging that teenage boy in the Valley, Bob. Shit like that has consequences. You know what happens to pedophiles in prison?"

  "Look... I..."

  "You're gonna be home plate at pole-vaulting class."

  "Stop it, please."

  "I'm just trying to reset the table for you. Let's not get stupid and lose our perspective here."

  Rusty was perspiring dark half-moons under the armpits of his designer blue shirt.

  "Another bank-to-bank transfer?"

  "Right. The cash is in this numbered bank account in San Diego." Jody handed him a slip of paper with the number on it.

  "Okay," Rusty wheezed. "Who's this go to?"

  "Wire it to the First Mantoor Bank of Aruba, marked to Lewis Foster's account there," Jody said, using the same alias he had given the geriatric gate guard in Palm Springs.

  Rusty's face had gone pale.

  But Shane had no sympathy for him. Worse still, he was appalled that Jody had rolled this creep instead of booking him. In Shane's mind, there was no worse crime than pedophilia. Yet Jody had apparently caught this guy and had let him slide in return for performing a banking favor on his Mexican bank sting.

  In the wake of his disgust over doing business with Rusty Miller, Shane felt the old cop anger return, the sense of right and wrong that had propelled him toward police work in the first place. In that second, standing there in the back room of the bank, he felt for a moment like the old Shane Scully who cared about justice. He desperately wanted to be that man again. So he stood glowering angrily at the fat pedophile with a teenager's nickname, trying to turn back the clock... Trying to be what he had once been, to reclaim feelings he had lost.

  Then Rusty left the room with the account number to arrange the transfers.

  "You rolled a child molester?" Shane asked as soon as the banker was out of the room and the door was closed.

  "We caught this bozo by sheer accident." Jody grinned. "We were staking out the Mexican bankers, had a video trap set up to shoot through some glory holes in the motel rooms they had rented on Canyon Boulevard, not half a mile from here. We were waiting for them to get back from dinner, and unknown to us, the guy on the lobby desk was 'hot cotting' rooms, letting a buncha chocolate cowboys use already-rented suites for an hour or so, for cash. Rusty stumbles into our video trap with a fifteen-year-old male prostitute named Bunny. No shit, that's this kid's street name. When it turned out Rusty was in the banking business and we desperately needed a U. S. bank to wire our department-issued sting cash from... It was too good to let slide. So Rusty became our CI on that op."

  "This guy victimizes children. How can you make him a confidential informant?"

  "All the John Wayne bullshit's really starting to get old, Hot Sauce," Jody snapped.

  A few minutes later Rusty Miller came through the door. The trip to the wire-transfer room had done him some good. His color had returned. He handed Jody a slip of paper. "Here's your wire confirmation," he said.

  Jody looked at the slip, then pulled out his wallet, managing to flash his sergeant's badge for good measure as he put the receipt inside.

  "You stay out of trouble, Mr. Miller. I don't wanna hear from any of my Vice contacts that you're out boning kids on the Strip. If I do"--he nodded toward Shane--"my man, here, is gonna chop-block your ass."

  "Please, leave me alone," Rusty squeaked.

  "Right... Lemme take that under advisement," Jody said, and led the frightened pedophile out of the room.

  Lester looked at Shane after they had gone. "This guy turns my stomach," he drawled. "Was up to me, he'd be doing a telephone number in the joint." A telephone number was con lingo for a long sentence.

  Then Lester exited the room, and Shane found himself alone for a moment. He wanted to speak to Chooch, even if it was just for half a minute. Without worrying about the consequences if he got caught, Shane reached out, picked up the phone, and quickly dialed his home number. One ring... Then two...

  Come on, Chooch... Pick up, please.

  Then his answering machine clicked on.

  "What the hell are you doing!" Jody interrupted, glaring at Shane from the doorway.

  "Calling my machine."

  Jody exploded into the room, grabbed the receiver and put it to his ear. Shane could hear his own voice recording leaking into the small room.

  "Whatta you, nuts? They could trace this call through the phone-company records, come here, and roll Bob Miller. You don't talk to anybody. I thought we had that straight." He slammed the phone back in the cradle.

  "I was just gonna leave a message for my son," Shane said.

  "No messages. Nothing. You don't exist for that kid. You're history. Now let's get moving. They're waiting."

  Shane didn't ask who was waiting. His heart was slamming in his chest.

  In that moment, he had a premonition that he would never see Chooch again.

  Chapter 33.

  FLIGHT

  VICTORY'S BACK ON steroids," Shane said, just loud enough to be heard over the whine of the starboard engine. He was seated in a plush Gulfstream that was owned by All-American Tobacco. The jet was parked at the Peterson Aviation private jet terminal in Van Nuys. "You're dreamin', Salsa." "Hey, Jody, I blew this guy's thigh to shit just under two weeks ago. Look at him... He's already walking without crutches. Only way he could be healing this fast is if he's slamming steroids."

  "Get off this, will ya?" "The guy is fixing. Once his leg is solid, he's gonna try for me. I can't do what you want and be watching my back at the same time."

  "We got less than three days and this thing is done. You'll never see him again. Don't make a problem now."

  "Why don't you just go ahead and admit you can't handle him, that you're afraid to confront the guy."

  Jody spun and glared across the narrow aisle at Shane. "Get off my jock, for Christ's sake. I told ya I'd take care of him, and I'll take care of him, but I don't need you all the time in my ear about it."

  "You planning on doing that before or after he makes another play for me?"

  Just then, a pretty young blond woman dressed in a blue uniform with shoulder boards came up the stairs into the plush jet. "Hi, I'm Lily," she announced happily to the Vikings, who were spread out in the comfortable club seats. "I'll be your stewardess. If any of you want to order a special meal, I can take care of that now, but it will delay departure. I suggest the selected menu on the embossed cards in the back of each seat."

  "We're fine," Jody said, his voice still tinged with anger.

  They heard footsteps on the jet staircase, and Lisa St. Marie came aboard, followed by Jose Mondragon.

  "Okay, Lily," Lisa said. "Tell Matt and Carl we're all here." She was the only AAT employee on the plane and seemed to relish being in charge. She had chosen tropical colors for the flight, an off-the-shoulder Hawaiian print dress and matching sweater that she tied around her waist like a sash. Jose, in his trademark black Armani and glittering links, poured himself a drink from the chrome-and-crystal bar, then settled into an empty seat as the stewardess disappeared into the cockpit. Momentarily, a hydraulic mechanism hummed and the staircase came up, air-locking tightly into place.

  The port-side engine wound up as Lisa walked down the aisle, pausing at Shane's seat. "I thought I'd sit back there," sh
e said, pointing to the sofa in the aft compartment. "It's more private, and I'd love the company."

  "Sure," he said, shooting a look at Victory as he unbuckled his seat belt and followed her to the rear of the plane, where they both sat on the champagne leather sofa.

  She took his hand and smiled. "It's a long flight. We generally cruise at around forty-five thousand feet, and you know what that means...."

  "No, Lisa, what does that mean?"

  "You're about to become a satisfied member of the Mile-High club."

  "I am?"

  "We can be brave and do it here after everyone's dozing, or we can go to the lav, but once they're asleep, I'm planning to screw your brains out."

  "Do I have any choice? Or is it always your call?" He could already feel the effect of her.. . Her scent, her vibe, her wanton sexuality.

  She reached down and felt his erection. "Look who's ready to go," she purred.

  When she smiled at him again, he turned his face away. He promised himself he would not make love to Lisa again. But even as he made this pledge, he could feel lust beginning as a warm, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, growing inside him, spreading to his loins like deadly poison. They took off and climbed quickly to their cruising altitude.

  It was going to be a long flight, and Shane's resistance to her brand of spiritual darkness was low. After the stewardess served dinner and collected their trays, Lisa started in on him... Teasing at first... Reaching out to him, feeling him, pulling her dress off her shoulders, exposing herself, pulling his face down, her nipples already hard with passion. Shane glanced nervously at the others sprawled out in the forward cabin, sleeping in their reclining chairs.

  What was it about this woman, whom he didn't even like or care about but couldn't seem to resist? Why did she have this carnal hold on him? Like an addict, he was no longer in charge of his impulses.

  Suddenly, she was unzipping him, leaning down and placing her mouth on him.

  "No... No... Please, no," he mumbled feebly. She was dangerously close to his core, close to destroying the last valuable remnants of him, and yet he desperately wanted her.