by Alex Gilly
This guy is underwater, thought Mona. Between the mortgage and the alimony and the child support, he had an annual liability of $400,000. Without an interest in AmeriCo, and unless he had failed to disclose other sources of income during the divorce, which was a crime, Edward Maws was a desperate man.
Mona had learned in law school that most fraudsters don’t see themselves as criminals. Usually, they see themselves as victims. They see the money they steal as compensation for some perceived wrong. Mona remembered how Maws had presented himself to her: as a victim of a vengeful wife and a savvy divorce lawyer.
With the BSCA annual statement, Mona had her money trail. With Maws’s divorce records, she had her suspect’s motive. Two big questions remained in her mind: What was the BSCA paying Maws kickbacks for?
And what did any of this have to do with Carmen’s death?
* * *
While Mona shifted through court records, Finn went out to sea. It was a gloriously blue-sky, day, and the pleasure yachts were out in numbers, making the most of the steady, onshore breeze, the horizon dotted with their billowing white sails. Finn was in his element. It was the kind of day that made doing any other kind of work unthinkable, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking about his wife. He worried that her fury against the BSCA was consuming her. He worried about where it was leading, of things spiraling out of control.
Back at the station at the end of patrol, he quietly sat down at one of the station’s computers. First, he ran the name Edward Maws through the DHS’s database. It came up blank. Next, he ran it through the FBI’s. Another blank. He tried the DMV. Nothing. The United States has a reciprocal treaty with Canada, and he tried the Canadian border authority database. Still nothing. Interpol: nothing.
Maws came up clean. No warrants, no lookout notices.
Just then, Finn sensed a presence at his shoulder. He looked up and was relieved to see that it was just Klein.
“Seems your stint at Riverside wasn’t a complete waste of time after all,” said Klein with a smile.
Finn laughed.
“I learned not to be scared of these things,” he said, nodding at the computer.
Klein leaned over and read the name Finn had typed into the search box on the screen.
“‘Edward Maws.’ Who’s that?”
Finn considered his answer. He didn’t want to lie to his friend. But he knew that he couldn’t tell him the truth. At least, not all of it.
“He runs a catering company out in Anaheim. I got a tip that he employs undocumented migrants, so I’m running some checks on him,” he said.
Finn met Klein’s gaze and knew straightaway that he wasn’t buying it. But something in Finn’s set expression must’ve made it clear to Klein not to push. After an awkward moment, Klein’s smile returned.
“Undocumented migrants? Your wife’s been schooling you, Finn.”
Finn took a deep breath, then returned to his keyboard. He decided to search Immigration’s database. Not for warrants but for Maws’s travel history. He got a summary of Maws’s comings and goings over the last three years. For the first year and a half of that period, Maws had exited and reentered the country thirty-four times. After that, nothing. Lots of people traveled overseas for work or vacation, thought Finn. But thirty-four times in a year and a half? He started clicking on each trip to bring up more information. The first trip had taken place on January 15, 2016. Maws had gone to Mexico by car, through the San Ysidro crossing. He had told the border guard that the purpose of his trip was leisure. He had returned two days later, on a Sunday. Finn clicked on the next trip: again to Mexico, again through San Ysidro. Finn clicked on all thirty-four trips. Every single one was a day or two in Mexico, sometimes over the weekend, sometimes during the week. Looking at the last entry, Finn saw something that made him sit up straight.
* * *
Mona was in her car when Finn called.
“Wow,” she said when he’d told her what he’d found: that the border agent who had waved Maws through the crossing during twenty of his thirty-four trips was none other than Antonio Figueroa.
They were both quiet for a moment.
“You know what I’m thinking?” said Mona.
“Yes,” said Finn.
“All right, smarty pants. Read my mind.”
“You’re wondering whether there’s a link between the five million Maws got from the BSCA and his trips to Mexico.”
“You’re good. Do you bend spoons as well?”
“Now your turn. Can you guess what I’m thinking?”
Mona smiled, even though she was alone in the car. “You’re wondering whether it’s a coincidence that it was Figueroa who waved Maws through twenty times out of thirty-four,” she said.
“Do you think it is?”
“I saw Uri Geller bend a spoon on TV once. I knew it was a trick. I just didn’t know how he did it. I still don’t.”
“Whatever was taking Maws down there, it must’ve been compelling. He was married, right?”
“Yep. Two kids. I’ve just come from the Orange County courthouse. That’s where Maws got divorced. It was ugly. She got the house; he got the mortgage. She got the kids; he got the alimony payments. Unless he’s got money stashed away that he didn’t declare in court, he’s deep in the hole.”
“Why’d they get divorced?” said Finn.
“Infidelity.”
“That could explain his trips to TJ. When I worked the border crossing, I used to see lots of men on their own heading south. It was obvious what they were going for.”
“When was Maws’s last trip?” she asked.
“Last summer. August 17.”
“Carmen tried to come through San Ysidro on August 26,” said Mona. She frowned, even though she was alone in the car. She had never asked Carmen if she had worked as a sex worker in Tijuana. It had made no difference to her case. But now she wished she had. Was it a coincidence that Maws had stopped going to Tijuana at the same time Carmen had left it?
She remembered Maws’s oily hand and felt a bit sick.
“If we could get evidence of Maws soliciting, he might be more willing to help us,” she said.
There was silence on the line.
“Nick? You there?”
“Yeah. Just thinking … you’re the lawyer, but isn’t that blackmail?”
“Blackmail is when you threaten to reveal damaging information and demand money to keep quiet. We want information, not money. Totally different.”
“Oh, okay. I feel better now. I’ll follow him around a bit, and see where he goes.”
* * *
While Mona was at the Orange County courthouse, Finn drove from the CBP station at Long Beach out to the AmeriCo office in Anaheim. He’d changed back into civilian clothes. Now he parked in the lot of the business opposite—a truck-parts distributor—reclined his seat, and waited.
Finn thought back to that night on the water. He pictured Carmen helping the child up the ladder. Then the wave hitting, the boats parting, her hands slipping from his grip. Carmen hadn’t panicked. It could’ve ended in disaster, that had been clear to everybody there that night, in the dark, with the swell, the rain, the panga sinking. But Carmen had stayed calm. Some people sometimes suffer a kind of inner bedlam that only returns to order in a time of crisis—as though they must encounter chaos on the outside before finding calm on the inside. Finn was one such person. He thought maybe Carmen had been, too. In any case, he had felt a kinship with her from the moment they had worked together to get the child safely aboard the Interceptor. Now Carmen was dead. She’d died in the system into which Finn had placed her—a system he helped sustain. The just-following-orders argument that had seemed convenient whenever Mona challenged him on his job felt hollow now.
Just then, Maws came through AmeriCo’s smoked-glass doors, breaking Finn’s train of thought. He headed for a silver BMW sedan parked in the spot nearest the entrance. Finn checked the time. It was ten past four in the afternoon. The boss gi
ving himself an early mark.
The BMW headed out of the business park. Finn followed. When he saw it get onto the I-5 heading north, he cursed. Maws couldn’t have timed it worse. Sure enough, after a couple of miles, the traffic got denser, and instead of maintaining a regular speed, Finn found himself having to move forward in fits and starts. It was the kind of traffic in which anyone who knew what to look for would spot a tail—a car that stayed with him, no matter which lane he switched to, or which exit he took. Finn just had to hope that Maws didn’t know what to look for.
Wherever Maws was going had to be important to him, thought Finn. Mona had told him that Maws had grown up in Yorba Linda; Finn, who was from Long Beach, took it as self-evident that nobody born and raised in Southern California got onto the I-5 at rush hour unless they had a gun to their head.
After an aggravating hour and a half behind the wheel, following Maws on the 5, then the 10, then the 101, Maws finally got off the highway system at Melrose. By then, the sun was on the horizon. Maws turned right onto North Western. A few hundred yards down the road, the BMW turned into a strip mall and parked. Finn drove past, turned around, and parked on the other side of the street.
The strip mall comprised a Korean BBQ, a nail salon, and a doughnut shop. Maws stayed in the car. After a minute, a woman emerged from the nail salon and approached the BMW. She was wearing short denim cutoffs, high boots, and a white halter top, even though the temperature was cooling fast. She opened the passenger door and got in like she was expecting him. The car’s headlights went on, and Maws pulled out with the woman inside. Finn followed them to a quiet street nearby. Maws parked next to an elementary school, which was empty at that time of day. Finn saw the BMW’s taillights go off. He pulled in a little way back and waited.
After twenty minutes, Maws pulled out and returned to the strip mall. He pulled over, and the woman got out of the passenger’s side. Finn saw her drink from a bottle of water, rinse her mouth, and spit into the gutter. Maws took off, heavy on the gas. Finn had to push the speed limit to keep up. He was dismayed to see him get back onto the Hollywood freeway, this time heading south. After another twenty frustrating minutes in stop-and-start traffic, Maws took the downtown exit. Finn followed him to city hall. Maws parked in a lot next to the new glass-and-concrete courthouse on First and Broadway, got out of the car, and climbed the steps into the building. Finn followed, hustling not to lose him.
Inside the courthouse, Finn slowed. Someone had erected an easel near the entrance with a sign on it. The sign read PDP MEETING, 6:00 P.M.: ROOM 13. He saw Maws going through a metal detector, recovering the contents of his pockets from a tray on the other side. Finn waited a moment, then followed him through.
The officer at the metal detector asked him for ID. Then he said, “What is your business here tonight, sir?”
Finn said, “PDP meeting.”
The guy nodded and, on a clipboard, wrote down Finn’s name, driver’s license number, and time of entry, then handed Finn the clipboard for his signature.
As Finn signed the clipboard, he noticed that Maws had used his real name. Next to both Finn’s and Maws’s names, in the space under “purpose of visit,” the officer had written, “PDP.” Finn made his way down the corridor. He found room 13. Through the window in the door, he could see Maws from behind, taking a seat in a circle of men. On the door, someone had Scotch-taped a sheet of paper with the words PROSTITUTION DIVERSION PROGRAM printed on it in large capital letters.
John school.
* * *
That night, back at home in Redondo, Finn was recounting to Mona what he’d seen.
“The guy leaves work early. He drives an hour and a half to pick up a hooker on Western Avenue. Then he goes to john school. Then, after john school, he goes to a strip club on Santa Fe called the Gentlemen’s Club.”
Mona was sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet tucked under her. She thought again about Carmen in Tijuana, whether she might have done any sex work and whether she might’ve met Maws.
“He must’ve gotten caught propositioning an undercover cop,” said Mona. “The court probably gave him a choice: john school or pick up freeway trash.”
“Well, seems to me the freeway could do with some cleaning,” said Finn, “because getting busted hasn’t changed this guy. He doesn’t care how long it takes, either. He took the five at five.”
“What’s a sex worker cost?” said Mona.
“Are you not happy with my efforts?”
“Shut up. I mean, what kind of money does Maws need to keep it up, forgive the pun? They say it’s an addiction as powerful as heroin. So how much does a sex addict need to spend a day to feed his habit?”
“I don’t know what a girl charges, but I know they charge ten bucks for a glass of lemonade in a strip club on Santa Fe.”
“His divorce was expensive, too. If he’s paying for sex addiction on top of that…”
Finn’s phone rang. While he answered it, Mona reflected. Now she had two reasons why Maws needed the money that the BSCA funneled into AmeriCo. She needed to find out what he was giving them in return.
She decided to pay a visit to his ex-wife, Katrina Wakefield.
Mona looked up. Finn’s face was white.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“That was Gomez. Leela’s dead. Motorcycle accident.”
“Oh my God, Nick. I’m so sorry.”
Mona put her arms around him.
FIFTEEN
THE house in which Katrina Wakefield lived and for which Edward Maws paid the mortgage was a regal, three-story pile in the style marketed by Realtors as “Country Manor.”
It was 10:00 A.M. the following day, a Friday. Mona knew Wakefield had kids, so she’d waited until they were sure to be at school. She walked up the path to the oak door. Inside, she could hear a vacuum cleaner running. She rapped the brass knocker. The vacuum cleaner fell silent. A peek window opened, and a woman’s face appeared. Mona gave her name and asked for Katrina Wakefield. The window closed, and a moment later the door opened, revealing the owner of the face—a stout woman with a professional vacuum cleaner strapped to her back—and a thin, sweaty blonde in activewear, who looked like she had just stepped from a hot yoga class.
“Yes?” said the blonde.
“Ms. Wakefield? My name is Mona Jimenez. I’m a lawyer. Would I be able to have a word with you?”
“Is this about my ex-husband?”
Mona picked up an Australian accent.
“Yes,” said Mona.
Katrina Wakefield looked unhappy. “My least favorite topic,” she said.
She invited Mona in.
Katrina Wakefield led Mona through a vast foyer, around which spiraled a grand staircase, to a beautiful and meticulously decorated living room with a row of french doors opening onto a veranda and, beyond that, a lush and what appeared to be endless garden. She dispatched the woman with the vacuum cleaner to the “fitness room” to tell “James” that she was finishing early today.
“My personal trainer,” she explained. Mona gave a little smile. Katrina Wakefield opened a bar fridge in the corner of the room and pulled out a bottle of coconut water. She offered some to Mona, which Mona declined. Wakefield poured herself a glass, took a big breath, and sat down opposite Mona.
“Before we start, do I need to call my lawyer?”
“I’m not here representing your ex-husband, if that’s what you mean,” said Mona. “Quite the contrary.”
“Okay. Because, no offense, but I’ve seen quite enough lawyers for one lifetime,” said Wakefield. “What can I do for you? Is Edward in trouble again?”
“I represent—represented—a young asylum seeker who was being held at the detention center in Paradise—”
“That’s the one out in the desert, right? The one Ed has the catering contract for?”
“Yes. Last week, my client died inside the center. I am trying to find out what happened to her exactly.”
“Wait a second. Was she the one bitten by a snake? The one that’s been in the news?”
“Yes.”
Wakefield looked genuinely upset. “How frightful,” she said. “I grew up on a sugarcane plantation in Queensland. There are a lot of snakes where I come from. It’s a terrible way to go. But what’s this got to do with Ed? Or me?”
“Well, this is where I thought you might be able to help me, Ms. Wakefield—”
“Katrina.”
“Katrina. I’ve been looking at the BSCA to see if they could’ve done more to try to save Carmen, my client. I noticed an unusual payment to your husband’s company, AmeriCo.”
“Unusual?”
“Unusually large. I asked Mr. Maws if he could explain it, but I feel he was not honest with me.”
Katrina laughed. “What a surprise,” she said.
“I thought you might be able to tell me what the payment was for.”
Katrina Wakefield shook her head. “I can’t, I’m afraid. I mean, I know Ed has a contract to supply the prison with food. If they’re paying him for anything else, I don’t know about it.”
“Can I ask how you met?” said Mona.
“He owned a restaurant in Santa Monica. I got a job as a waitress there. I’d just arrived in the country.”
“The Dining Room on Wilshire?”