Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 9

As General Winfield and Patrokis were leaving for their late lunch and dessert, Edd Partain was discovering that Santa Paula, a small agricultural city with a strong Mexican flavor, was just large enough and old enough to boast an historic district.

He would also discover that the tamales at El Charrito were even better than Millicent Altford had promised. He ordered the tamale plate lunch and ate three of the monsters, plus all the rice, refried beans and salad that came with it. Altford ate only half of one tamale, most of her salad, but ignored the rice and beans.

After the lunch, Partain leaned back in the booth, examined Altford for several moments, then asked, “You really replaced that missing one-point-two million with your own money?”

“Think I’m lying?”

He shook his head. “I just have a hard time dealing with the notion that anyone has that kind of money lying around.”

“It wasn’t just lying around. It was nearly all tax-deferred retirement money. I cashed in a Keogh plan. Liquidated six annuities. Closed out a money market fund, which wasn’t paying a hell of a lot of interest anyway. I also cashed out all of my IRA mutual funds.” Altford shook her head slightly, as if mourning the death of some old but slight acquaintance. Maybe the mailman, Partain thought.

“I knew there’d be a big tax bite,” she continued. “But I didn’t realize how godawful the penalties would be for cashing out my annuities early.”

“How much?” Partain asked.

“About fifty-seven percent, including state and Federal taxes.”

“Then you must’ve had to cash in what — about two-point-seven or-eight million to net one-point-two million?”

“Close,” she said.

“How’d you do it? I mean, how’d you get your hands on the actual cash?”

“I put all proceeds into my regular checking account,” she said. “Then I got certified checks, five of them for around $240,000 each. I used the certified checks to open regular checking accounts at banks in Santa Monica, Pasadena, West Hollywood, Culver City and Malibu. For six weeks after that I made irregular cash withdrawals from each of those accounts in odd amounts ranging from $8,500 to $9,500. At the end of six weeks, about the middle of December, I had the one-point-two million in cash. And because all the withdrawals were for less than ten thousand dollars, none of the banks had to report them to the IRS or the Treasury — or wherever they’re reported.”

“Who figured your tax bite for you?”

Altford stared at him coldly. “Why do you think I needed someone to figure it?”

“I would’ve.”

“I went to the source,” she said. “I went to the IRS office on Olympic just west of Sepulveda and talked to a real smart woman. I told her I was cashing in everything and needed to know exactly how much I’d owe the Federales and the state. She was so shocked — well,surprised anyway — that I wasn’t there to lie to her that we sat down and figured it all out in a couple of hours. She even found a way to save me close to thirty-two thousand.”

“Where’s the substitute one-point-two million now?” Partain said. “Not back in your safe, I hope.”

“No.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“In Santa Paula?”

She nodded. “Wanta go take a look at it?”

Partain thought about whether he did or not. “I don’t know. You want me to?”

“I need a just-in-case witness.”

“Just in case of what?”

“In case something happens to me.”

Partain picked up the check. “Let’s go.”

As they drove toward the bank on Main Street, Partain noticed that a sign on the front door of a Santa Paula newspaper said, “Closed.” On Main Street itself, at least nine stores stood vacant. A few optimistic entrepreneurs had rented other stores to try their luck at selling used furniture, secondhand books, Army surplus and palm readings.

Partain also noticed that while two Main Street banks had either failed or moved, the independent Farmers & Mechanics Bank was still in business. It had been founded in 1909 and Partain decided its plain granite facade and six fat round stone pillars were curiously reassuring. He was almost certain they had had a lot to do with the bank’s survival.

The safe-deposit boxes were in the bank’s basement. Millicent Altford and a young woman who was an assistant cashier used separate keys in the box’s two locks. After the young woman left, Altford pulled at a big steel box-drawer that had a hinged lid. She had it halfway out when she looked at Partain and said, “Mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, pulled the steel box the rest of the way out and carried it over to a semi-enclosed waist-high counter. He guessed the steel box itself weighed nine or ten pounds, but now contained something that made it weigh close to thirty-one or thirty-two pounds. Because it had once been his business to know how much U.S. currency weighed, Partain wasn’t at all surprised by the box’s weight. Nor was he surprised when Altford raised the box’s lid to reveal what he assumed were 240 wrapper-bound packets of $100 bills, each packet containing fifty bills.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

“Want to count it?”

“No.”

After she closed the lid, Partain said, “Who else knows about it?”

“Nobody.”

“Your daughter know?”

She shook her head.

Partain picked up the box and shoved it back into its slot. “What about your boyfriend and fellow trustee, the General?”

“I hope to God he doesn’t,” Altford said as she turned the key in the safe-deposit box lock.

The General cashed the $5,000 check at his bank and handed the money to Patrokis. They then drove to the Madison in the General’s car, which he turned over to the hotel’s doorman. In the Madison coffee shop, Winfield ordered the croque-monsieur and a bowl of potato and leek soup. Patrokis demanded and got a hot fudge sundae.

“So what’s the report from the coast?” Patrokis asked after licking the last of the hot fudge from his spoon.

“Major Partain seems to be exactly what was needed.”

“He’s not a major anymore.”

“Yes, well, I’ve looked into that a bit and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s still Major Partain.”

“But he’s no sleuth, no private detective.”

“She wasn’t looking for one,” the General said. “She was looking for someone to guard her back.”

“At that he’s good,” Patrokis said, then paused and asked, “You really did check him out?”

“I made some superficial inquiries,” Winfield said, ate the last of his ham and cheese sandwich, chewed, swallowed and said, “You two met in Vietnam.” It wasn’t a question.

“He pulled me out of a hole.”

“Really? What sort of hole?”

“A mental one.”

“Ah,” the General said and looked at his watch. “What time is our meeting with the Salvadoran Captain?”

“Four-thirty.”

“We’d best be on our way, then.”

After the Madison doorman whistled up the General’s new red BMW convertible, he was rewarded with a $10 tip. Once they were in the car and heading west on M Street toward Connecticut Avenue, Patrokis said, “You gave him ten bucks.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I saw you.”

“The dollar is now worth twenty-three percent of what it was worth in nineteen-sixty-five. So in effect, I gave him $2.30. In nineteen-sixty-five, I probably would’ve tipped him $2 or, in today’s money, $8.69. Therefore, instead of being too generous, I was, in fact, rather parsimonious.”

“God, I hate money nuts,” Patrokis said.

The General turned right at Connecticut and Columbia Road and drove until he found a parking lot within walking distance of Mint-wood Place. He entrusted his car to a young Guatemalan who wore a strange derby of sorts that seemed three sizes too small.

The address on Mintwood Place was a typical three-story brick row house that had been converted into small apartments. The Salvadoran Captain’s apartment was 321, which turned out to be at the rear of the third floor.

Patrokis knocked at the door twice before a man’s voice from inside the apartment demanded in Spanish to know who was there.

“El Greco y un amigo,” Patrokis said.

The door opened just enough to let one dark brown eye peer at them. It then opened wide enough to let them slip through and into the apartment. The Salvadoran Captain was not yet 30 and not very tall, no more than five-six, but he still had a military bearing even in T-shirt, jeans and running shoes, which, after all, the General decided, was the civilian uniform of the times.

The Captain didn’t ask them to sit and looked embarrassed because of his rudeness. He looked embarrassed enough for Patrokis to ask, again in Spanish, “What’s happening, friend?”

“I fear there has been a misunderstanding,” the Captain replied in Spanish.

The General also used Spanish to ask, “Of what kind, please?”

The Captain stared at him and said, “You are called?”

“Winfield.”

“He’s the General I mentioned,” Patrokis said.

The Captain came to attention and stayed that way even after Winfield said, “Retired.”

“I regret what we discussed is no longer possible,” the Captain said to Patrokis.

Patrokis nodded and took the roll of $5,000 in $100 bills from a pocket. There was now a rubber band around the roll and Patrokis snapped it absently. The Captain stared at the money.

“You are certain?” Patrokis asked.

“I am certain.”

“May I ask why?”

“It is not possible,” the Captain said again.

“But why is it not possible?”

“If a thing is not possible it is impossible.”

“Perhaps the money is insufficient?” General Winfield asked.

“It is not a question of money.”

“We need those two names,” Patrokis said. “We will pay five thousand dollars for the names.”

“There are no names,” the Captain said.

“There were this morning.”

“I was mistaken this morning.”

“You don’t look like a man who makes mistakes,” the General said.

The Captain said nothing and looked away.

“Let’s go,” Patrokis said in English and turned toward the door.

“If you change your mind,” the General said, “please telephone my friend.”

“I will not be changing my mind, sir.”

The General nodded his understanding and glanced around the room, noting the new television set and the old couch. He also noticed the picture of the Virgin and the dining table below it. Beyond the table was a small kitchen. To the left of the couch was a closed door that he assumed led to a bath and a bedroom. On the floor was an eight-by-ten rug of indeterminate age and color. There were two floor lamps, one of them next to the old couch, the other beside a worn easy chair that looked even older than the couch.

Winfield smiled at the Captain. “Good-bye, Captain.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Call me,” Patrokis said in Spanish, opened the door and waited for the Captain’s response. When none came, Patrokis went through the door, followed by the General.

The Captain continued to stand almost at attention, staring at the just closed door. The bedroom door behind him opened and a young woman came out, followed by Emory Kite, who wore a too-long black topcoat, a smile and, in his right hand, a .25-caliber semiautomatic with a homemade silencer almost as long as the weapon itself.

“Were you harmed?” the Captain said to the young woman, who hurried to him.

“He did not harm me,” she said and buried her face in his shoulder.

“You both were perfect,” Emory Kite said in soft soothing English. “Both of you were absolutely perfect and I just hope you know how much that means to me.”

Kite brought the silenced semiautomatic up and shot the young Captain in the back of the head, then scuttled around the falling body and shot the young woman in the left temple before she could scream, protest or pray.