The Viking Funeral

Chapter 32

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.