The story played in the media for months, if not years, McCaleb remembered. Stories on retirees left with nothing, stories on the ripple effect of businesses failing, stories on alleged sightings of Kenyon in Paris, Zurich, Tahiti and other places.
After five years on the run Kenyon was found by the bureau’s fugitive unit in Costa Rica, where he had been living in an opulent compound that included two pools, two tennis courts, a live-in personal trainer and horse-breeding facilities. The thief, now thirty-six, was extradited to Los Angeles to face charges in federal court.
While Kenyon sat in the federal holding facility awaiting trial, an asset and forfeiture squad descended on his trail and worked for six months looking for the money. But less than $2 million was found.
This was the puzzle. Kenyon’s defense was that he did not have the money because he didn’t take it, he only passed it on under threat of death-his and his entire family’s. Through his attorneys he averred that he was blackmailed into setting up corporations, loaning them millions from his S amp;L and then turning the money over to the blackmailer. But even though he faced the potential of years in a federal penitentiary, Kenyon refused to name the extortionist who had taken the money.
Federal investigators and prosecutors chose not to believe him. Citing his high-flying lifestyle both while running the S amp;L and on the run, and the fact that he clearly had some of the money-albeit a fraction of the whole-with him in Costa Rica, they settled for prosecuting only Kenyon.
After a four-month trial in a federal courtroom packed each day with a gallery of victims who had lost their life savings in the S amp;L collapse, Kenyon was convicted of the massive fraud and U.S. District Judge Dorothy Windsor sentenced him to forty-eight years in prison.
What happened next would result in one more bludgeoning of the reputation of the FBI.
After passing sentence, Windsor agreed to a defense request to allow Kenyon time at home with his family to prepare for prison while his attorneys prepared appeal motions. Over the prosecutor’s strenuous objection, Windsor gave Kenyon sixty days to get his house in order. He then had to report to prison forthwith, whether an appeal was filed or not. Windsor further ordered that Kenyon wear a monitor bracelet around his ankle to ensure he did not attempt another flight from justice.
Such an order following conviction is not unusual. However, it is unusual when the convict has already shown his willingness to flee authorities and the country.
But whether Kenyon had somehow been able to influence a federal judge to get such a ruling and planned to flee once more would never be known. On the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, while Kenyon was enjoying the twenty-first day of his two-month reprieve, someone entered the Beverly Hills home he was renting on Maple Drive. Kenyon was alone, his wife having left to take their two children to school. The intruder confronted Kenyon in the kitchen and marched him at gunpoint into the marble-tiled entry of the house. He then shot Kenyon to death just as his wife’s car was pulling into the circular drive out front. The intruder escaped out a back door and through the alley running behind the row of mansions on Maple Drive.
Except for the investigation and pursuit of the killer, the story might have ended there or at least taken on the mundane boredom of a cold trail. But the FBI had Lojacked Kenyon-bureau-speak for having placed him under an illegal surveillance that included listening devices planted in his home, cars and attorney’s office. At the moment he was shot, a tech van with four agents in it was parked two blocks away. The murder had been recorded.
The agents, aware of their illegal standing, nevertheless raced to the home and gave pursuit to the intruder. But the gunman escaped while Kenyon was being rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, only to be declared dead on arrival.
The missing millions Kenyon was convicted of looting from Washington Guaranty were never recovered. But that detail was eclipsed when the actions of the FBI were revealed. Not only was the bureau vilified for undertaking such an illegal operation, it was also publicly castigated for allowing a murder to happen right under its nose, for bumbling the chance to intervene and stop the assassination of Kenyon, not to mention capture the gunman.
McCaleb had viewed all of this from afar. He was already out of the bureau and at the time of Kenyon’s murder was preparing himself for his own death. But he remembered reading the Times, which was at the forefront of the story. He recalled that the newspaper reported that there were demotions all around for the agents involved and calls from politicians in Washington, D.C., for congressional hearings on illegal activities by the bureau. To add insult to injury, he also remembered, Kenyon’s widow filed an invasion-of-privacy lawsuit against the bureau, seeking millions in damages.
The question McCaleb now had to answer was whether the intruder who killed Kenyon in November was the man who killed Cordell and Torres two and three months later. And if it was the same man, what could possibly be the connection linking a failed savings and loan president with an aqueduct engineer and a newspaper pressroom worker?
He finally looked around and noticed his surroundings. They were well past Vasquez Rocks now. In a few more minutes they would be at Amelia Cordell’s house.
24
AS PROMISED, AMELIA CORDELL had spent a good part of the weekend going through her memory and filling four pages of a legal tablet with what she recalled of her husband’s travels in the two months before his death on the twenty-second of January. She had it ready and sitting on the coffee table when McCaleb arrived.
“I appreciate the time you put into this,” he told her.
“Well, maybe it will help. I hope it helps.”
“Me too.”
He nodded and sat in silence for a moment.
“Um, by the way, have you heard from Jaye Winston or anybody else from the Sheriff’s Department lately?”
“No, not since Jaye called me on Friday to say it was okay to talk to you.”
McCaleb nodded. He was heartened by the fact that Jaye hadn’t called back to rescind the permission. Again it made him think that she wasn’t going along with her captain’s decision to drop McCaleb from the case.
“And nobody else?”
“No… like who?”
“I don’t know. I’m just curious about whether, you know, they’re following up on the information I’ve given them.”
McCaleb decided he had better change the subject. “Mrs. Cordell, did your husband have a home office?”
“Yes, he had a small den he used, why?”
“Do you mind if I look around there?”
“Well, no, but I’m not sure what you’ll find. He just kept files from work there and he did our bills there.”
“Well, for example, if you have credit card statements for the period of January and December, it might help me isolate where he was at different points.”
“I’m not too sure I want you taking our credit card records.”
“Well, all I can do is assure you that I’m only interested in the billing locations and possibly the items purchased. Not your credit card numbers.”
“I know, I’m sorry. That was silly of me. You’re the only one who seems to care anymore about Jim. Why am I suspicious of you?”
It made McCaleb feel uneasy not being totally truthful with the woman and telling her he had lost his official sanction. He stood up so that they could move on and he didn’t have to think about it.
The office was small and largely used as storage of skiing equipment and cardboard boxes. But one end of the room was largely taken up by a desk with two drawers and two built-in file cabinets.
“Sorry, it’s a mess. And I’m still getting used to doing all the bills. Jim always handled that.”
“Don’t worry about that. Do you mind if I just sort of sit and look through things a bit?”
“No, not at all.”
“Um, would it be possible for me to have a glass of water in here?”
“Of course, I’ll go get you one.”
She headed to t
he door but then stopped.
“You don’t really want the water, do you? You just want to be left alone and not have me hovering around.”
McCaleb smiled slightly and looked down at the worn green carpet.
“I’ll get you the water anyway, but then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Cordell.”
“Call me Amelia.”
“Amelia.”
McCaleb spent the next half hour going through the drawers and the paperwork on top of the desk. He worked quickly, knowing that the package from Carruthers was probably waiting for him in his postal box in the harbormaster’s office.
At the desk McCaleb took some notes on the legal pad Amelia Cordell had already worked on, and he piled documents and credit card records he wanted to take with him to study later. He made an inventory list of the things he wanted to take so that Amelia Cordell would have a record.
The last drawer he went through was in one of the file cabinets. It was almost empty and had been used by Cordell as the place to file work, insurance and estate planning records. There was a thick file on medical insurance, with billing records dating back to the birth of his daughters and his own treatment for a broken leg. The billing address of one of his treating physicians was in Vail, Colorado, leading McCaleb to guess the bone had been broken in a skiing misadventure.
There was a black binder with a handsome leather slipcover. McCaleb opened it and found that it contained documents relating to the wills of both husband and wife. McCaleb saw nothing unordinary. Each spouse had been the other’s beneficiary, with the children following in line in the event of both parents dying. McCaleb didn’t spend a lot of time with it.
The last file he looked at was simply labeled WORK and it contained various records, including performance evaluations and various office communications. McCaleb scanned the employment reviews and found that Cordell had apparently been held in high regard by his employers. McCaleb wrote down some of the names of supervisors who signed the reports so he could interview them later. Last he scanned the other correspondence but nothing interested him. There were copies of interoffice memos as well as letters of commendation for Cordell’s chairing of the engineering firm’s annual blood drive and his volunteer work in a program that provided Thanksgiving meals to the needy. There was also a two-year-old letter from a supervisor praising Cordell for stopping and helping the injured victims of a head-on collision in Lone Pine. Details of what Cordell did were not in the letter. McCaleb put the letters and evaluations back in the file and returned it to the file drawer.
McCaleb stood up and looked around the room. There was nothing else that raised any interest. He then noticed a framed photo on the desk. It was of the Cordell family. He picked it up and studied it for a moment, thinking about how much the bullet had shattered. It made him think of Raymond and Graciela. He envisioned a photo that had the two of them and McCaleb in it, smiling.
He took his empty water glass into the kitchen and left it on the counter. He then stepped into the living room and found Amelia Cordell sitting in the chair she had taken earlier. She was just sitting there. The television was not on, she had no book or newspaper in her hands. She appeared to be just staring at the glass top of the coffee table. McCaleb hesitated in the hallway from the kitchen.
“Mrs. Cordell?”
She shifted her eyes to him without moving her head.
“Yes?”
“I’m finished for now.”
He stepped in and placed the receipt on the table.
“These are the things I am taking. I’ll get it all back to you in a few days. I’ll either mail it or bring it up myself.”
Her eyes were on the list now, trying to read it from three feet away.
“Did you find what you need?”
“I don’t know yet. These sorts of things, you never know what is important until it becomes important, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really.”
“Well, I guess I mean details. I’m looking for the telling detail. There used to be a game when I was a kid. I don’t remember what it was called but they still might have it around for kids today. You’ve got a clear plastic tube that stands vertical. There are a bunch of plastic straws running through holes all around the center of it. You load a bunch of marbles into the tube so that they are held up by the straws. The object of the game is to pull a straw out without any marbles dropping. And there always seemed to be one straw that when you pulled it out, everything came down like a landslide. That’s what I’m looking for. I’ve got lots of details. I’m looking for the one that brings the landslide when it’s pulled out. Trouble is, you can’t tell which one it is until you start pulling.”
She looked at him blankly, the way she had been staring at the coffee table.
“Well, look, I’ve taken too much of your time. I think I’ll be on my way and, like I said, I’ll get these things back to you. And I’ll call you if anything else comes up. My number is on the inventory list there in case you think of anything else or there is anything I can do for you.”
He nodded and she said good-bye. He turned to head to the door when he thought of something and turned back.
“Oh, I almost forgot. There was a letter in one of the files commending your husband for stopping at an accident up near Lone Pine. Do you remember that?”
“Sure. That was two years ago, November.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Just that Jimmy was driving home from up there and he came across the accident. It had just happened and there were people and debris thrown every which way and that. He called for ambulances on his cell phone and stopped to comfort the people. A little boy died right in his arms that night. He had a hard time with that.”
McCaleb nodded.
“That was the kind of man he was, Mr. McCaleb.”
All McCaleb could do was nod his head again
McCaleb had to wait out on the front driveway for ten minutes before Buddy Lockridge finally drove up. He had a Howlin’ Wolf tape playing loud an the stereo. McCaleb turned it down after climbing in.
“Where you been?”
“Drivin’. Where to?”
“Well, I was waiting. Back to the marina.”
Buddy made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway.
“Well, you told me I didn’t have to just sit in the car. You told me to take a drive, I took a drive. How am I supposed to know how long you’re going to be if you don’t tell me?”
He was right but McCaleb was still annoyed. He didn’t apologize.
“If this thing lasts much longer, I ought to get a cell phone for you to carry.”
“If this lasts much longer, I want a raise.”
McCaleb didn’t respond. Lockridge turned the tape back up and pulled a harmonica out of the door pocket. He started playing along to “Wang Dang Doodle.” McCaleb looked out the window and thought about Amelia Cordell and how one bullet had taken two lives.
25
THE PACKAGE from Carruthers was waiting for McCaleb in his mailbox. It was as thick as a phone book. He took it back to the boat, opened it and spread the documents across the salon table. He found the most recent summary on the Kenyon investigation and began reading, deciding to learn the latest developments and then go back to read from the start.
The investigation of the Donald Kenyon murder was a joint FBI-Beverly Hills police operation. But the case was cold. The lead agents for the bureau, a pair from the special investigation unit in Los Angeles named Nevins and Uhlig, had concluded in the most recent report, filed in December, that Kenyon had likely been executed by a contract killer. There were two theories as to who had employed the assassin. Theory one was that one of the two thousand victims of the savings and loan collapse had been unsatisfied with Kenyon’s sentence or possibly feared he would flee justice once again and therefore had engaged the services of a killer. Theory two was that the killer had been in the employ of the silent partner who Kenyon had claime
d during the trial had forced him to loot the savings and loan. That partner, whom Kenyon had refused to identify, remained unidentified as well by the bureau, according to this last report.
McCaleb found the outlining of theory two in the report interesting because it indicated that the federal government might now give credence to Kenyon’s claim that he had been forced to siphon funds from his savings and loan by a second party. This claim had been derided during Kenyon’s trial by the prosecution, which took to referring to this alleged second party as Kenyon’s phantom. Now, here was an FBI document which suggested that the phantom might actually exist.
Nevins and Uhlig concluded the summary report with a brief profile of the unknown subject who had contracted the murder. The profile fit both theories one and two: the employer was wealthy, had the ability to hide his or her trail and remain anonymous and had connections to or was even part of traditional organized crime.
Aside from the report breathing life into Kenyon’s phantom, the second thing that interested McCaleb was the suggestion that the employer, and therefore the actual killer, were connected to traditional organized crime. Traditional organized crime in FBI parlance meant the Mafia. The tendrils of the Mafia were almost everywhere, but, even so, the mob was not a strong influence in southern California. There was a tremendous amount of organized crime in the area, it just wasn’t being perpetrated by the traditional mobsters out of the movies. At any given time there were probably more Asian or Russian mobsters operating in southern California than their counterparts of Italian descent.
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