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.
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.
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