Blue Heaven

by C. J. Box

  “Congratulations,” Hearne said, his face showing what he was thinking, that the meeting wasn’t official after all but of a personal nature. And maybe a waste of Hearne’s time.

  Hearne said, “Have you ever been to North Idaho before? We say North Idaho, not northern Idaho, by the way.”

  “I see.”

  “So, have you ever been here?”

  “No.”

  “How do you like it so far?”

  “It’s very green,” Villatoro said, thinking: It’s very white.

  “Yeah, it’s our little piece of heaven,” Hearne said.

  Villatoro smiled. “It’s a very pretty place. Very peaceful, it seems.”

  Hearne said, “It usually is. We’ve got a problem going on this morning, though. You probably saw the poster out there. A couple of local kids are missing.”

  Villatoro had observed it all: the women who arrived with the poster, the loud one with the little-girl voice who told everyone in the bank what had happened, the conversation between the loud woman and the rancher who had left Hearne’s office.

  “I hope the children are okay,” Villatoro said. “I’ve been struck by how intimate it all is, how local. It’s like the town thinks their children are missing. It warms my heart to witness such an attitude.”

  Hearne studied him. Probing for insincerity, Villatoro guessed.

  “We do tend to take care of our own,” Hearne said. “Maybe it’s not like that in L.A.?”

  “L.A. is too big,” Villatoro said. “It’s not as bad as people make it out to be, though. There are some neighborhoods where people look out for one another. But it’s just so easy to get swallowed up.”

  Hearne seemed to be thinking about that, then he looked at Villatoro’s card again.

  “So, if you’re no longer with your police department, what can I do for you? Are you looking to retire here?”

  Villatoro looked at Hearne blankly. For a moment, it didn’t register what Hearne had said or why he had said it. “No,” he said, alarmed, holding up his hand. “No, no. I’ve got another matter.”

  “Oh, then I’m sorry. I just assumed.”

  “I want to complete an investigation I worked on for years. It led me here.”

  Hearne sat back. “What are you still investigating?”

  Snapping open the locks on his briefcase, Villatoro slipped five sheets of paper out of his file and handed them across the desk. They were back and front photocopies of hundred-dollar bills.

  The serial numbers for the bills were typed on each one, followed by a series of bank routing numbers that had been highlighted by a yellow marker. Hearne recognized the routing number.

  “These came through my bank,” Hearne said. “Are they counterfeit?”

  “No, they’re real.”

  Hearne raised his eyebrows, as if saying “So?”

  Villatoro said, “As you know, there are authorities who electronically scan currency as it flows through the system to check for marked or counterfeit bills. It isn’t a perfect system, but when it registers a hit, they increase the frequency of scanning to determine origin. When there are several hits from a single bank, it may be something significant.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ll start at the beginning. Eight years ago, there was an armed robbery at a horse racing track in my town, which is—or was—outside of Los Angeles. Millions in cash was taken, and a man died during the commission of the crime, one of the guards. As you can guess, it was an inside job, and the employees were convicted and sent to prison by the LAPD. I was assigned to the case and served as the liaison between my small department and the LAPD, which had many more detectives and much greater resources. We turned the investigation over to them even though I objected at the time. It was a decision made by my chief, who is a great lover of outside experts.”

  “Hold it,” Hearne said. “Was this the Santa Anita robbery? I read about that.”

  “Santa Anita Racetrack.” Villatoro nodded. “One of the largest employers in Arcadia. My wife worked there at the time and knew many of the employees, as did everyone in town. Yes—$13.5 million in cash was stolen.”

  “Isn’t that where Seabiscuit ran?”

  Villatoro said, “Yes. There’s a statue of him there.”

  “My wife made me read that book, and I loved it. We saw the movie, too. I didn’t like it as much. I guess they just can’t make a good movie about a horse. Horses are too subtle.”

  Villatoro said, “Do you know about horses?”

  “I used to ride in the rodeo,” Hearne said. “I do love horses. I miss being around them.”

  Villatoro said, “Back to the robbery.”

  “Sorry, go ahead.”

  He cleared his throat and continued. “Of course, all of the employees who were convicted claimed innocence, but the evidence was too compelling. I’ve read the court records myself, and I would have convicted them as well if I’d had a vote. One of the former employees gave up the others and testified against them all.

  “But there is a big problem. None of the cash was ever recovered, and not one of the people convicted has yet to come forward and say anything, even though they could probably bargain their way out of jail. And for seven years, these people have kept quiet.”

  “Damn,” Hearne said. “That’s a long time. They must be tough.”

  Villatoro waved his hand. “They’re not so tough. My wife says the people in prison just weren’t the types to do this kind of crime, for what that’s worth. To me, though, it’s good information. I’ve met them and talked to them. They’re desperate to get out, and they swear they have nothing to tell us.”

  Hearne frowned.

  “We keep waiting,” Villatoro said. “I interviewed them every few months, hoping one of them would tell me where the money went. For a long time we thought they’d buried it somewhere. They will get out, probably, in five or six years, maybe more, and I suppose for that kind of reward they could wait. But it doesn’t seem like they know. I really feel, in my heart, that if they knew where the money was, they would tell me. One of them should have broken by now, or found God, or just wanted to get out.”

  “What about the guy who testified against them?”

  “Ah,” Villatoro said, sighing. “He is no longer with us. He was the victim of a convenience store robbery in L.A. less than a year after the trial. He was there buying milk and was caught in a cross fire between the owner of the store and the criminal who tried to rob it.”

  “And whoever shot him wasn’t caught?”

  “Alas, no.”

  “Interesting,” Hearne said. “So what does that all have to do with me and my bank?”

  Villatoro gestured toward the photocopies of the hundred-dollar bills. “At the time of the robbery, the cashiers and accountants at the racetrack had a rather efficient procedure for counting the money and accounting for all of it, but an incomplete method for recording the cash. The racetrack didn’t have marked bills, like your bank surely does, or dye pacs. You can imagine the sea of cash that washes in during a big day, every twenty minutes or so when bettors come to the windows. The robbery occurred after one of the biggest races of the year, the Southern California Breeders’ Cup. It’s all computerized, of course, but the cash still needs to match the computer at the end of the day, so it’s hand-counted in the back. That takes time. Once the cash matches the computer, armored cars take the cash away to the bank. In the kind of rush they are in to get the cash into the cars, there was no way to mark or record the money in any comprehensive way. The best they could do, at the time, was to randomly record serial numbers. In this case, they recorded the serial number of every fiftieth hundred-dollar bill. Now it’s done by scanners, but then it was by hand.”

  Hearne was listening closely, and urged Villatoro on.

  “In the end, we had the serial numbers for 1,377 hundred-dollar bills. The rest were other denominations, or credit card receipts. But most of it was cash, and most of it was in small, circu
lated bills. Quite literally untraceable.”

  Hearne looked down at the photocopies of the bills on his desk.

  “For three years, not a single hundred-dollar bill with a recorded serial number was reported. Not a one,” Villatoro said. “Then one came in that had been routed through four different banks. But the bank of origin was yours. We did nothing because one bill means nothing. It could have passed through a dozen people or merchants during that time. I made a copy, though, and kept it in my file. You have a copy of that one there in front of you. Two others surfaced over the years, one from California, then Nevada, the other from Nebraska. There appeared to be no link at all.

  “Two months ago, though, four more turned up,” Villatoro said. “All four originated from your bank. Those are the four sheets on top. Once this happened, I sensed there might be something to it. I took this information to my liaison contacts in the LAPD, but as far as they were concerned the case was closed. They’d moved on. My department was very small, with only four detectives. We didn’t have the budget to send me around the country to follow this up, and my mandatory retirement date was approaching. No other detective wanted to take up the case after I left. But these bills bothered me, and they bother me still. It is my only link to the money stolen, and therefore the criminals. You see, Mr. Hearne, Arcadia is a peaceful place, or at least it used to be. There have never been more than four murders in a year there. Our average for the thirty years I was in the department was two homicides. Only two. And these weren’t heinous, mysterious crimes, usually a domestic or easily solved homicide. The bank guard homicide is the only unsolved murder still on our books, and it was assigned to me. I just can’t leave without trying to solve it, even if it is on my own time.”

  Hearne studied the bills, waiting for more.

  “I think someone who has access to at least some of the Santa Anita money lives in this area and banks with you,” Villatoro said. “I’d like to try and find out who that might be.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  Villatoro smiled. “I would like to look at your accounts. Primarily those that were opened four years ago that are still active. I think I may find a name that will jump out at me. Especially if I can trace the name back to California. Then I will have narrowed it down.”

  Hearne made a face. “You know we can’t just turn over a list of our customers to you. That’s illegal.”

  Villatoro nodded his head. “Yes, I know that. But if I can get the proper authorities to request access, I hope you will be cooperative. That’s all I ask. And, of course, if you have any idea at the outset who the person might be.”

  Shaking his head, Hearne handed the photocopies back to Villatoro. “I have no idea. We have hundreds of new accounts, and I’d bet a quarter of them came from California. I really wouldn’t have a clue, and if I did, I’m not sure I’d be at liberty to tell you.”

  “A man died in the robbery, Mr. Hearne. A man with a wife and two children.”

  Hearne looked away. “That has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”

  Villatoro sat back. “I’m sorry. I understand.”

  “Go talk to the sheriff,” Hearne said. “His name is Carey. If you make your case to him, he might escort you to a judge who can request an order to see the accounts. Otherwise, there’s no more I can do.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the office for a moment, finally broken by Villatoro: “I will certainly see the sheriff. That was my plan all along. But I’ve learned through experience that often the wisest man in a community, when it comes to assessing the character of others, is the senior official at the most prominent bank. I have learned that often, in these kinds of situations, the bank president or vice president knows where odd amounts of cash come from, and if anything is unusual about their customer’s banking habits. Large, regular cash infusions—say just under the ten-thousand-dollar notification cap—usually attract some attention. Especially if there are … elements … within the community where such amounts of cash are unlikely.”

  Villatoro felt the banker’s stare and waited for him to respond. When he did, Hearne’s voice was flat.

  “I know what you’re suggesting, Mr. Villatoro. You’ve heard the stories about the white supremacists up here, just like everyone’s heard stories. About Aryan Nations and those Nazis. A lot of the country thinks we’re no better than rednecks, or racists. You’re wondering if those folks bank with us.”

  “Well, yes.”

  Hearne swiped his hand through the air. “We ran ’em out of here years ago, Mr. Villatoro. We didn’t like ’em any more than you do. We got them the same way the Feds got Al Capone. They didn’t pay their taxes. They’ve been long gone for years, even though the reputation we’ve got up here never seems to go away.”

  Villatoro sat for a moment. He believed the heat in Hearne’s statements, believed his outrage. He sensed that Hearne would help him. Many bank officers were openly hostile and could drag out an investigation. Hearne didn’t seem to be the type to do that.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hearne,” Villatoro said, shutting his briefcase and standing. “I’m sorry if I insulted you or your community.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Hearne said, shaking his hand. “Just make sure to tell your pals in L.A. that we ran those bastards out of here. Besides, this is the last place people like that would want to live these days. Do you realize how many retired police officers have moved here? It’s one of the biggest sectors of our retirees.”

  Villatoro nodded. “I’ve heard that. One of my best friends on the LAPD calls this place Blue Heaven. It’s interesting that so many retired officers move here. What’s the reason, do you think?”

  Hearne gestured toward the window. “It’s wonderful country, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Mountains, lakes, lots of outdoor opportunities. Plus damned cheap land compared to what you’re used to. And the culture here is welcoming, I think. The folks around here are tough and independent. They don’t ask a lot of questions, and they believe in live and let live. They’re not fond of any kind of government or authority, but they’re law-and-order types. Everyone has guns, and we’re proud of that. As long as you’re a good neighbor, they don’t care where you came from, what you did, or what your daddy did. Plus, they’re blue-collar. Most of ’em were loggers, or miners, or cowboys. I think they feel pretty comfortable with the ex-cops, who are blue-collar at heart. Brother,” Hearne said, flushing, “I sound like a chamber of commerce commercial.”

  “It’s okay,” Villatoro said. “You’ve obviously thought a lot about it.”

  “I want to know my customers,” Hearne said, sitting forward and grasping his hands together on his desktop in a gesture that brought the meeting to a near close.

  Villatoro turned to open the door, but Hearne cleared his throat. “Before you leave, Mr. Villatoro, I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is the Santa Anita robbery the real reason you’re here?”

  Villatoro hesitated before answering. “Yes,” he said softly.

  Hearne considered it, then said, “Well, good luck. And welcome to Kootenai Bay.”

  “Thank you. Everyone seems friendly here.”

  “We are,” Hearne said. “Although the guy with the hundred-dollar bills might disagree with that.”

  “I trust everything we’ve discussed is confidential?”

  “Of course,” Hearne said, showing Villatoro out the door, “of course it is.”

  As Villatoro walked across the lobby toward the door, Hearne called out after him. “The sheriff might be a little busy right now,” he said, gesturing toward the poster of Annie and William Taylor. Villatoro looked at it, then back to the banker.

  “I don’t have that much time,” Villatoro said.

  AFTER VILLATORO left, Jim Hearne went back into his office and shut the door and leaned with his back to it. This, he knew, was the only place in his office where no one could see him through the windows.

  He
closed his eyes tightly and breathed deeply. But there was a roar emanating, building within him. His palms were cold, and he reached up and rubbed his face with them.

  Villatoro had taken him by surprise. There was a time a few years ago when Hearne thought about what he’d done, or, more accurately, what he hadn’t done, and the thought kept him awake at night. But like everything, it gradually went away. He thought he’d gotten away with it, since there had been no repercussions. Sure, he’d known better, deep down.

  He should have known this day would come.

  Saturday, 10:45 A.M.

  OSCAR SWANN PARKED his pickup in front of Monica Taylor’s house and got out quickly. The pickup was closer than necessary behind a white news van emblazoned with FOX NEWS KUYA SPOKANE on its side. He could see plainly what was happening and was there to stop it.

  Monica stood on her front lawn looking aimless and haggard. A young man in dowdy clothes was fitting a video camera on a tripod in front of her, with her house in the background. Near the van, a slim blonde, who seemed scarcely out of college—except for the wolfish look of advanced ambition—held a mirror to her face with one hand and violently raked the other through her hair to make it appear that she had run to the scene. Her bright red lipstick looked like a knife wound slashed across her made-up face, he thought.

  He was nearly too late. He should never have taken the time to shower, shave, and put on fresh clothes before he left his house. Singer would tear him apart if he knew that. But the urge to look decent after a long night of driving the roads near his house and staking this one out had left him tired and drained. Plus, he still had a thing for Monica. He remembered the first time he saw her behind the counter of the retail store. She was the best-looking woman he’d run across since he’d moved up there, he thought. After a little small talk, he learned she was single. His cop sense told him she was available if he played it right. Unlike Singer and Gonzalez, Swann couldn’t stand endless hours at his own place with only himself and his hogs for company. He had to get out, and he liked to roam the town, saying little but observing everything. Not to the degree of Newkirk, though. Swann thought Newkirk was naïve and reckless, pretending he fit in.