

WHAT HAPPENED TO FLYNN

By Pat Muir

What Happened to Flynn is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is either coincidental or, if real, used fictitiously with no relation to their actual conduct.

All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.

Copyright © 2017 by Pat Muir

ISBN: 978-0-9676060-2-6

Published by PMBOOK

2240 Encinitas Blvd, Suite D

Encinitas, CA 92024

Website: www.whathappenedtoflynn.com

Also by Pat Muir: Stories to Entertain You...If You Get Bored on Your Wedding Night (1999) and The Numbers Man (2010).

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge draft manuscript reviews by Ralph McCroskey, Audrey McDowell, Mary Hartley and Gary Haigh, especially the latter whose knowledge of law enforcement procedures was invaluable.

Cover by Jason Slater of silenticonstudio.com

Editing by Jefferson of www.firstediting.com

# CHAPTER 1

In early October, my boss, Sergeant Thompson, assigned me the missing person file on Arthur Flynn. How was I to know it would take me seven years to resolve and make me encounter thieves, forgers, money launderers and murderers? "Harry, you gave me a missing person case last week," I complained. "Can't you give it to Steve?"

"Shane, you found that missing guy in less than two days," he replied. "Steve still has one outstanding, so run with it." A backhanded compliment with a work assignment. That's just like Harry. He turned away from my desk, clearly unwilling to hear further protests from me.

I gave the finger to his retreating back, an unprofessional act, but one that, fortunately, could not be seen from outside my office cubicle. I wanted my boss's job when he retired in five years. Harry, Sergeant Thompson to everybody else in the group, hated me calling him by his first name, but he tolerated it since I was the only female in the group, and black as well.

Let me introduce myself. I am Shanisha Notfarg, a detective in the homicide section of the sheriff's office in San Diego. I was and am still known as Shane, a takeoff from the 1946 movie of the same name. In that movie, Shane, the lead character, played by Alan Ladd, had remarkable speed with his gun. My reputation came from speaking quickly, especially out of turn. I came to like the name Shane so much that I have since avoided using my given name, a typical Afro-American name. It is clear I am a black American when people look at me, but do I need to advertise it? It is not that I lack pride in my black heritage; it is that I do not want my name to suggest in advance I might be poor or uneducated. I am five feet eleven, slightly overweight, divorced with one son, and keep myself fit with semi-regular visits to the gym. I have a degree in criminal justice from San Diego State University.

I was fifty-one years old when Flynn went missing. At that time, I had been a detective for ten years and had worked hard to become senior in my detail. The sheriff's Central Investigation Division (CID) in California's San Diego County had several units that specialized in the various types of felonies, including financial crimes, elder and child abuse, family protection, sexual assault, and murder. There were around fifty detectives in the division. I considered my homicide detail primo, one requiring more skill and persistence than other units, and one into which other detail detectives sought promotion.

The case of Flynn was one of about ten actual or potential homicide cases I handled at any one time, some of long and some of short duration. I did not work on this missing person case all the time, only intermittently as other cases came and went. I don't like missing person cases, because, ninety percent of the time, these persons turn up in sound health, and all the effort spent trying to find them is a waste of investigative resources. Missing healthy adults do not usually stay missing for long. They go off to have an affair. They go to Las Vegas. They go off to sulk after a fight with their spouse. They disappear because they have committed a crime or because they have done something they don't want their peers, their boss, or their spouse to find out. They disappear to escape from bill collectors or needy relatives. Missing adults simply do not get the attention that missing young children or older persons with disabilities do. I mention this so you understand why I did not hustle on the investigation of this missing man, no different from other detectives lacking enthusiasm for this type of case.

The case had been handled by an area detective called Bernard Walker at the sheriff's station in San Marcos, a town thirty miles to the north of San Diego and the site of a state university of the same name. The case had come to the main office and me because Flynn had not been found after ten days of investigation. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the office setup and went over the case file, which Walker had prepared in a less-than-orderly fashion. He probably felt the same way about missing person cases as I did. Flynn, a real estate agent, had been reported missing by his broker, Sam Laurel, on Tuesday, September 30. Laurel had last seen Flynn on Friday, September 12, and had expected him back in the office ten days later. Laurel had given a description of Flynn: Caucasian, age fifty, sixty-nine inches tall, with a pink face, very short white hair, and glasses. The file contained a group photo of Laurel's staff showing the missing man, an amiable smile on his face. Flynn drove a black 2005 Toyota Camry with the custom vehicle license plate MBLHM4U, which Walker had entered into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC). Flynn had driven to a fishing camp on the Russian River in Northern California on Sunday, September 14, and had left there on or before Thursday, September 18. A brochure of the camp lay in the file. The brochure showed the campground had started in the 1930s and had originally catered to people with tents or simple trailers. Over the years, electric, water and sewer lines had been added, and visitors to the camp had then arrived in motorhomes and utility equipped trailers. A cafeteria and a community center had been built in the 1960s. A water slide had been added in the 1990s. These additions had limited the area reserved for the original type of visitors to just ten spaces furthest from the entrance. Flynn had camped in one of these end spots. The word "camp" no longer fit in the original title of the Russian River Fishing Camp.

Sam Laurel had gone to Flynn's home, space 74 in the Palomar South mobile home park on Grand Avenue in San Marcos, on Tuesday, September 30, had gained entry, and had found no sign of Flynn or his car. Flynn had not answered Laurel's calls to his cell phone over the prior week. Laurel thought Flynn such a reliable agent that he'd considered his disappearance unusual and unsettling, so much so that he'd filed the missing person report the same day. Walker had repeated the steps taken by Laurel and had taken a bank statement, a telephone bill, and a charge card bill from Flynn's home. He'd seen nothing unusual in them. He had also interviewed Flynn's next-door neighbor, Mary Smith, and the park manager, Bert Swanson. Both had reported that Flynn had been unhappily divorced four months earlier and had had to pay significant alimony to his ex-wife, who had gone to live with Larry Swift, a wealthy man in the North San Diego County community. Walker had concluded Flynn had decided to leave on his own, but he'd found it puzzling that Flynn's car had not been found and his cell phone was inactive. The general rule in the sheriff's office was that if a person had not been found after being missing for more than ten days, one should consider the possibility of homicide.

I decided to repeat most of the steps taken by Walker. I phoned him to give him my name and let him know the homicide detail had been assigned the case and to ask him to relay any further information on Flynn he might subsequently receive. I too called Flynn's phone number and got an automated response that he was unavailable and to leave a message, which I did. I called the cellular phone company servicing Flynn's telephone and asked for the records of any calls made from July 1 to the current date. I wanted to see if there was any pattern in the phone calls, incoming or outgoing, that might tell me why Flynn had disappeared and where he might have gone to. I particularly asked for data on the cell towers pinged after he'd left for the fishing camp. The phone company did not require me to get a warrant. I then called Sam Laurel and, after introducing myself, told him I had taken over the Flynn investigation and wanted to interview him.

"Is this really necessary," he said brusquely. "I've already told the first detective everything I know."

I hate people pushing me around. "I can have you brought down to our San Diego office for the interview," I replied as neutrally as possible, "or would you prefer to be interviewed at your office?"

There was a distinct pause and a noticeable change of voice in his reply. "Well, uh...my office gets busy after nine o'clock in the morning. Could you please come tomorrow at eight sharp?"

It would be a pain for me to drive to Laurel's office twenty-five miles away at that time in the morning, but I responded to his "please" with "I'll be there."

I was about to hang up when Sam asked me, "Have you found anything new?"

"No," I replied. "I've just been assigned this case and am following up on what you told the San Marcos detective... How did you get into Flynn's home?"

"A neighbor let me in."

I looked at the file. "Hm. That would be Mary Smith?"

"That's right. She's next door, in space 76. She has the key to Art's home since she's looking after his cat."

"Would she be there to let me in if I came up this afternoon?"

"I think so. She doesn't work." There was a pause. "If you're coming up this afternoon, would you prefer to interview me after all my agents have gone home instead of tomorrow morning?'

That would save me time and a trip. "When are they all gone?"

"Probably by six."

"Okay, I'll meet you at your office at six and I'll call you if I'm delayed." I felt pleased I had moved things along. I checked Flynn's vehicle license with the DMV database and confirmed the accuracy of the information that had been entered into the NCIC missing vehicle database. I downloaded a copy of Flynn's driver's license, noting his height of sixty-nine inches and a weight of one hundred and seventy pounds. That meant a body mass index (BMI) of twenty-five, the ideal, implying Flynn to be a fit individual. My own BMI is twenty-seven, a measure I continually work on reducing. I then checked with the Vehicle Accident database for any accidents involving Flynn's Camry and found that none had been reported. I prepared an affidavit justifying why I needed to enter Flynn's home and examine his bank and charge card accounts. I filled the search warrant form accompanying the affidavit and had Robert Neill, the district attorney (DA) representative attached to my unit, look it over. I drove to the downtown courthouse to get a judge to approve the warrant, and I noticed the street sign outside the CID had been vandalized. It should have read Cope St., but somebody had painted over the "E." I kind of liked working on Cop St., but the word would eventually get around to city maintenance, and the correct name would be restored a few months later. It was and still is a source of amusement to most of us to determine if we are coping or copping. The judge I reached had no problem coping with my search warrant request.

I returned to CID and phoned the Russian River fishing camp and spoke to its manager, Tom Small, making him aware I was recording the conversation, as I do with all sources of information.

"Art's been a regular visitor to our camp for quite a few years," volunteered Tom.

"When did he arrive, and when did he leave?" I asked

"I told the other officer before," replied Tom. "Art arrived on Sunday, September 14. He paid with his charge card for a week. He didn't get his charge card receipt on his departure, so I'm not exactly sure when he left. When I went to check that some adjacent tenters had left as scheduled on the following Thursday, Art had already gone... That would be September 18."

"So, neither you nor any of your assistants saw him leave?"

"That's right."

"Did he arrive or leave with anybody?" I asked, realizing the latter part of the question was irrelevant.

"Let me see." I could hear Tom talking to his assistant. "Terry says he came alone," said Tom a minute later.

"I see. Did you hear of anything unusual at the camp during that period?"

"Not really. Much of the camp is taken with motor homes whose owners are quite demanding. The end of the camp where Art was has no utility connections and is meant primarily for people with tents or trucks with just a camper top. The only thing down there during that week was a dispute between a couple of campers about colliding fishing lines. It did not involve Art."

"Okay. I have a brochure of the camp, but I need more information. Could you please send me a detailed map of that end of the camp with each site labeled and the data you have on each camper and his vehicle there from...say, September 9 through September 18... Let me give you my e-mail address."

I also gave Tom my phone number, asking him to call me if he thought of anything relevant. I called Flynn's cell phone once more and again received no answer. I grabbed a burger and a coffee at a nearby McDonald's and headed up Highway 15, where a hot Santa Anna wind pummeled the car. Then it was on to Highway 78, which I hated since it became busier each year as the student population of San Marcos State University grew. I turned off the freeway, driving south to the Palomar South mobile home park in San Marcos. I wanted to talk first to Bert Swanson, the park manager, since park managers in general are gossip gatherers. They can tell me if rent is past due, if tenants have drug or alcohol problems or debilitating illnesses, or are faithless husbands or wives. More importantly, managers retain applications for tenancy that contain background information on park tenants.

Mobile home parks are often perceived as places full of trailers that can be pulled behind cars. They are nothing of the sort. The trailer mobility has long since gone. They are factory-built units constructed to meet the criteria of the Housing and Community Development (HCD) agency of California. They are brought down on wheels with specialized trucks to the park and then mounted on jacks or more permanent foundations. The wheels are frequently sold. Thus, the word "mobile" for such parks is a misnomer. These parks in north San Diego County were constructed when land was cheap, being distant from the core city, and cities have since grown up around them. The parks now occupy prime property, and the landowners would be better off financially if they could get rid of the renters and sell the land for redevelopment. The residents have fought back, some by getting their cities to enact protective ordinances and some by buying the land for themselves. Palomar South remained one where the mobile home owners paid a monthly rent.
CHAPTER 2

I was grateful to find the park office air-conditioned since the outside temperature had reached ninety-three degrees. Inside sat a woman behind the reception desk, a very ugly woman, about sixty, with an ill-fitting wig, overweight, with smudged lipstick, poorly applied makeup, and dressed in a gaudy Hawaiian muumuu. She scowled at me. I am used to being scowled at by white women since I am black, well dressed, and have a life. I introduced myself, saying I needed to see Bert Swanson. The ugly woman got up from the desk and said, "I'll get my husband."

Bert Swanson emerged from a rear office, a short man, smaller than his wife, completely bald, casually dressed, a grimace on his face. I figured him to have a perpetual grimace on his face. Bert motioned me into the back office and offered me a seat. "I heard Art Flynn went missing," he remarked. "I haven't seen him since he paid his September rent."

"Do you have any idea why he might want to disappear?"

"Well, I'd heard he was upset that his wife divorced him. That shouldn't have bothered him too much, though. He had his way with a lot of women around the park."

Did I detect a note of jealousy? "So, you reckon his getting divorced might have been sufficient reason for him to want to leave the park?"

"It probably was. But it wouldn't surprise me also if he promised some women more than he could deliver."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That he promised to marry them."

"Could you give me their names?"

Swanson hesitated. "I don't really know anyone in particular. It was just well known in the park that Art Flynn was a womanizer." He paused and raised his head. "You could ask Eleanor Bratz in number 77."

I made a mental note to talk to her before asking, "Has he been a bad tenant?"

Swanson swallowed. "No, he pays his rent regularly. It's just that I don't like to see somebody upsetting the other tenants."

"And you think he upset them."

"Yes, I think so."

I could see Swanson did not like Flynn and had little further information on the missing man. He confirmed Sam Laurel had called him and he too had gone to Flynn's home and found nobody there.

"How did you get in?"

"His neighbor, Mary Smith in Number 76, let me in. She has a key since she's looking after his cat."

"What happens if Flynn doesn't return to pay his rent? Isn't his October rent due?"

"Yes. It is. I've already mailed him a formal notice about it; I also posted it on his door when I went to check on him. If I don't hear from him shortly, I'll have to turn the matter over to our attorney."

"And then?"

"We would go to court to get a judgment allowing us to file a lien against Flynn's mobile home. Eventually, there would be sheriff's sale of the home."

"Would that be to anybody's advantage?"

"Nobody would want to get rid of Flynn just to take his mobile home. It's an older singlewide. The park owner would buy it, have it removed, and install a newer, fourteen-foot-wide unit and either sell that or rent it out. He would make more money than he's getting from Flynn."

"You would get a commission for that sale or rental?"

Swanson shrugged. "If I got the listing, then, yeah, I guess I would."

I felt the need to butter up Swanson, so I asked him how long he had been manager of the Palomar South mobile home park. "Twenty years," he told me. "It was the first property my nephew bought."

"Your nephew?"

"Yes, Larry Swift, the owner, is my nephew."

So that was how Swanson got the job of park manager. That was also why he knew about Flynn being unhappy that his ex-wife had left him for a wealthier man. No wonder Flynn was angry at having to pay alimony. I told Swanson I wanted to question a few neighbors of Flynn and asked for the owner names. He wrote the names and space numbers on a piece of paper from memory. I asked for a copy of Flynn's application to rent in the park, which he had Mrs. Swanson prepare. I smiled at her as I left. Her scowl did not change.

I knocked on the entry door of the mobile home at space 77, which belonged to Eleanor Bratz. I wanted to know what she thought about Flynn. Perhaps she had captured him like the novelist in Stephen King's novel Misery and was forcibly persuading him to marry her now that he was divorced. My imagination was running wild; it would make a fascinating story, one I could write about and become famous. No one answered my repeated knocking, so I left my business card at the driveway side-entry door, the one more frequently used. An elderly man with a sour look on his face from the home next door pointed to the red-painted shallow curb on that side of the road, thus suggesting I move my car to guest parking one hundred yards up the street. I nodded my head politely at him and instead drove my car into the empty driveway of space 74. That space contained Flynn's mobile home, an old, forty-foot-long Bramble singlewide. An adjacent steep bank had squeezed his site, so unlike other homes in the park, it had a driveway immediately adjacent to the driveway of his neighbor in 76. The home's only door was on the side of the driveway where I had parked my car. A green, handicap-equipped GMC van stood in the immediate neighbor's driveway.

I walked up a wheelchair ramp and knocked on the door of 76, and a woman in her late thirties, about sixty-eight inches tall, with shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair and a good figure for her age, came to the door. She wore a faded yellow top over well-worn jeans, and she offered a warm smile as I introduced myself. "I'm Sheriff Detective Notfarg investigating your missing neighbor, Arthur Flynn. You are Mary Smith?"

"Yes, "she replied. "I spoke to a detective before. You've heard from Art, then?"

"No, but I'd like to talk to you about him. May I come in?"

"Would you mind if we talk in Art's home? My husband is sleeping."

I nodded my assent and added, "I understand you have the key to Mr. Flynn's home and are looking after his cat."

"Yes," she said, producing a key from her jeans. "He's been paying me twenty dollars a day to look after it." As we walked across the dual driveways, a gust of hot wind lifted Mary's hair, revealing a long neck. No wrinkles yet. They'll come in time, like mine. I looked in Flynn's mailbox and found it empty.

"I've been emptying it ever since Art left on his trip," offered Mary. "I'm worried since he said he would be home on the twenty-first."

"Well, how much money did he give you since he hasn't returned on schedule?"

Mary appeared surprised at the question. "Well, he gave me a check for four hundred dollars, but that was also to fully clean his home and wash all his clothes and linens. I actually haven't cashed it yet."

"You'd better do it soon in case his bank account is closed."

I made some mental calculations. Four hundred dollars for the complete cleaning of the home and washing and ironing of his clothes and the rest for looking after the cat. That meant he wasn't planning to be away for much more than ten days. We entered Flynn's home, extraordinarily neat for a man and immaculately clean. I remarked on it as a long-haired ginger cat wandered up to me and rubbed itself against mine and then Mary's legs. Flynn's home had a kitchen, living room, and one bedroom, which was large enough for him to have installed a desk and tower computer in addition to the usual bedroom furniture. I looked through the stack of mail that Mary had piled on the desk—a credit card bill, a bill for television and internet service, bills for phone and electric service, Swanson's late rent notice, and two dozen charity solicitations. There were two letters, which I opened and read. They thanked Art Flynn for past sales service. Nothing from debt collectors. No suicide or other personal note. The waste bucket stood empty. I tagged the address book on the desk and put it into an evidence bag I had brought in from my car. I could see no house phone, typical of realtors. A framed photograph of a man, a beautiful woman, and a little girl featured prominently on the desk.

Mary saw me looking at it and said, "That's Art, Marge, and Sally. Marge is Art's ex-wife."

"And Sally's his daughter?"

"No. Sally is Marge's daughter from her first marriage. A lovely little girl who Art simply adores."

I took the photo out of its frame, tagged it, and put it in the evidence bag. I opened the two-drawer file adjacent to the desk. It contained copies of listings and closed transactions. One file was marked personal. It contained the title to his mobile home and his car, an insurance policy on the car, a trust document, an accidental life insurance policy, and a four-year-old letter containing effusive handwritten thanks in immaculate penmanship for selling the writer's mobile home. I turned on the computer and stared around the room as it booted up. Mary sat down in a side chair, watching me. The computer did not require a password for access. I opened up the word processing program and checked the latest documents written. Most of them had a business character. I noticed one letter written in late August to a Mrs. Marjorie Flynn at the Bangor Nursing Home. I took down the address. We went into the living room and sat down. The cat jumped on my lap and began to purr.

"That's unusual for Ginger. She prefers men," said Mary with another smile.

I did not take it as a compliment and brushed the cat off. I don't need cat hairs on my pantsuit. "When did you last see Mr. Flynn?" I asked.

"The afternoon before he left."

"What day was that?"

"Saturday." She glanced at a calendar on the wall. "That would be September 13."

"Did he seem worried about anything?"

"No. Art is a very calm, easygoing character, kind to neighbors...and cats." She smiled.

"Can you think of any reason why he might want to disappear?"

"Well, he was very disappointed that his wife, Marge, divorced him and obtained a court judgment for alimony even though she is now living with Larry Swift. He's the owner of this park, you know. But worse for poor Art is that he didn't get visitation rights to Sally. When he and Marge were married, Art did not or was not allowed to adopt her, so that's why he has no rights to see her."

"When did the divorce finalize?"

"About four months ago. But Marge started living with Swift over a year ago. She started working in the park office when Mrs. Swanson was sick. I believe she had to start working because Sally was diagnosed with leukemia and they needed money to pay for her oncology treatment. Art told me that he didn't have a health insurance policy. He himself is very fit."

"Do you think this divorce settlement was enough for Mr. Flynn to want to run away?"

"I wouldn't think so. Art has since continued his work of selling mobile homes and seems as congenial as ever."

"Do you know if he goes to casinos or gambles online?"

"I don't think so. Art appears careful with his money. He's not the type to take risks."

"Do you know what he does for recreation?"

"He goes fishing locally fairly often. I think he plays canasta on the computer, and I know he writes letters to his mother in a nursing home in Maine. He also plays cards each Wednesday evening with Charlie Jones in the park. He sometimes goes to the movies with a guy from the office, and he occasionally takes me since Bob, my husband, is too sick to do so."

"You seem to know Art pretty well...better than I would expect from most neighbors."

Mary seemed a little flustered and waved her head before she spoke. "I have a personal situation. My husband, Bob, is very concerned about his medical bills since he has emphysema and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He's not old enough for Medicare, and his pension was reduced when his former employer went bankrupt. It makes him quite frugal, and so he keeps me on a very limited household budget. He's quite sick, so I have to stay close to home in order to nurse him. I confided that to Art, and he started giving me money to wash his clothes and clean his house. I therefore see him much more than any regular neighbor. He is such a decent man that I feel sorry for what has happened to him. You know, he personally built the ramp we have for Bob's wheel chair. He's very popular in the park. He has been involved in the sale or purchase of many of the homes in the park. I know he does a good job, because I hear that from other people."

"He sold you your mobile home, then?"

"No, Bob and I came to the park before Art did. At that time, Art wasn't married, and many of the single women in the park wanted to hook up with him."

"Like Eleanor Bratz?"

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Who told you that?"

"Bert Swanson. He also said Art upsets tenants in the park."

"That's nonsense!" said Mary vehemently. "Bert doesn't like Art for some obscure reason concerning a past sale. Art's popular, and Bert's not." She paused and then added. "Ask around the park, including Eleanor. I can't think of anybody who has a grudge against Art."

We exited the mobile home, and I looked inside the wooden shed Flynn had at the end of his driveway, Mary Smith accompanying me. A wooden workbench occupied much of the shed. A toolbox lay on it, and various saws and power tools had been placed on a shelf above. A waste container stood at the edge of the bench. A chest freezer operated noisily in the corner. I opened its lid. Though empty, it smelled of fish, and my nose wrinkled.

Mary saw my nose twitch and remarked, "Art stores his fish there. He's an excellent fisherman and shares what he catches with his friends and neighbors. When he goes to the fishing camp, he returns with enough fish for a month."

The Santa Anna wind caught the shed door as we left, and it banged shut with a loud noise. It must have woken Mary's husband, since I heard him begin to cough as she walked up the ramp to her door. Poor gal, I know what it's like to have a frugal husband. Mine was mean as well. Thank goodness he's no longer in the picture.

I returned to the park office and asked for Larry Swift's home address. Swanson was reluctant to give it to me. I leaned on him and got it. I drove to that address, an exclusive area of Lake San Marcos where Swift's huge colonial style home, situated on a large, probably two-acre site, overlooked the lake and much of San Marcos. It had a circular driveway over paver stones leading to three double garages. A tennis court and a large swimming pool protruded from the rear. I admired the view as I got out of the car and before ringing the doorbell of the sheltered entryway. A Hispanic maid opened the door, and I could sense her relief on realizing the black detective she saw was not there to question her. I asked to see Mr. Swift and Ms. Holmes, only to be told both were out. I declined to tell the maid the purpose of my visit. I left my business card with a request for them to call me as soon as they returned.

My watch said five o'clock, too early for my appointment with Sam Laurel. I parked my car at a nearby McDonald's, my favorite fast-food place, and went inside to buy coffee. I listened to the recordings of my conversations with Tom Small, Mary Smith, and Bert Swanson. I distrusted the latter; he seemed squirrely. I certainly wanted to find out the true reason for his disliking Flynn. I remembered from the bank statement in Walker's file that Flynn was paying his ex-wife twelve hundred dollars per month in alimony. No wonder he would resent that payment, given the palatial home and lifestyle his ex-wife was now enjoying. Whether that was a significant financial burden to Flynn would depend on how much his income was. I would need to find that out from Sam Laurel. Were there any other conditions that had been laid on Flynn from the divorce settlement? I would need to find that out from the divorce court records, which are generally sealed. I could see why detective Walker believed Flynn wanted not to be found. Yet here I was, trying to find him.

# CHAPTER 3

Six o'clock found me at Sam Laurel's real estate office, appropriately named Laurel Real Estate. The office lay in a small strip center on Grand Avenue that would have had inadequate parking for stores and its sole restaurant, another reason for Laurel wanting me to come after business hours. The last agent in the office, a short, overdressed woman, left just as I entered. I introduced myself, and Laurel asked me to call him Sam; I did not offer him the same courtesy. He locked the front door, saying he wanted privacy, and escorted me into his small conference room. The office had twelve desks in an open-space arrangement with a noticeably spartan décor. A unisex toilet was at the rear. About seventy years old, Sam had an erect figure of sixty-six inches, a bronzed face with white hair, and a white goatee. He wore navy-blue suit and tie, attire clearly meant to command respect and authority but in which he would perspire heavily on that hot October day of Southern California. I've found it useful to get people I interview to talk about themselves prior to being questioned. I did so with Laurel after informing him I was recording our conversation.

"How long have you been a real estate broker?"

Sam spoke in a crisp voice as though to command attention...and deference. "I've been in real estate since I retired from the navy as a captain twenty-five years ago." No wonder the office décor and his demeanor reflected that experience.

"How many sales agents do you have?"

"I've five full-time agents and three part-timers." His voice showed disdain for the part-timers.

"Are your sales mostly residential?"

"Yes. We don't do sales of commercial property. There's nobody in the office with experience for that, sales or rentals. We have the occasional raw land sale."

"So, Arthur Flynn did residential sales?"

"Yes. I take it you haven't found out what's happened to him?"

"No. We haven't. When did you realize Art was missing?"

Laurel leaned forward in his chair, his voice taking on the air of a teacher. "Let me explain. Our office is not large enough to have a receptionist. We have one of our agents on duty to answer phones, and I cover them when nobody else is here. If that agent receives a call inquiring about a listing or about that inquirer's own property, then the agent on duty has a business opportunity to exploit. So, answering the phones, while tedious, is an easy way to get sales and listings. When an agent is scheduled, he or she invariably shows up. Art said he was going fishing for just a week when he left the office that Friday." Sam looked at a wall calendar. "That was September 12. So, I scheduled him for phone duty a few days after his return, on Thursday afternoon. That would be September 25. He didn't show up or call in sick, totally unlike him, so I personally had to cover the time slot. Art's such a reliable agent that I figured he'd taken a couple more days fishing. I called his cell phone and left a message, but he never called back. I felt there was something wrong. I didn't have the phone number of his fishing camp to check that out, though."

Sam leaned back. "I also had him scheduled for Sunday morning, September 28, usually a slow time since that's when folks go to church. Art is always happy to take that slot, so I was indeed surprised when he also didn't show up for that or call me to let me know he had a problem. I called his phone again, but there was no reply, and I called the next day, that Monday, with the same result. I called the park manager and then went around to Art's home. His neighbor had a key and let me in. He wasn't there. His neighbor hadn't seen him either. So, I filed a missing person report on Tuesday. I figured he must have been in a car accident... Have you any clues on what happened to him?"

"I haven't heard anything." I leaned forward as though to invite confidentiality. "Do you think Mr. Flynn might want to disappear?"

"Oh, I doubt it. Art's a very amiable fellow, always willing to help out. He has a niche in this office selling mobile homes, which don't bring the commissions as large as real estate does. I think he's quite happy with his life apart from this divorce and sees no need to change." He paused. "I take it you haven't found any report of his car being involved in an accident?"

"I've no information on his car," I replied, realizing how the mobile home niche would explain the custom license plate—MBLHM4U—on Art's Camry. "I'd like to get some more personal information on Art that might help me track where he went."

Sam nodded, so I asked the same questions I had posed to Bert Swanson and Mary Smith. Laurel gave me the same story—Flynn acutely disappointed at the divorce outcome, unable to see Sally, knowing she was sick, unable to comfort her during oncology treatments, and having to pay alimony to Marge now living with a rich man. Sam had used Flynn's first name so frequently that I began to use it.

"Is Art a good agent?"

"He's reliable and makes steady money. He had a good month in August. I wrote him two commission checks ten days before he left for a total of about ten thousand dollars."

"So how much does Art earn each year?"

"Let me look at his W2 form for last year," said Sam, moving from his chair to a file cabinet in an adjacent private office. He rummaged in the cabinet for three minutes before returning. "He only made forty-seven thousand five hundred dollars in 2007," he said.

"Only?"

"All of my full-time agents made more than that. That's because they're selling real property, not mobile homes."

I made a mental note. That would mean Flynn would have to pay fourteen thousand four hundred dollars each year in alimony...almost a third of his gross earnings. That would hurt. I popped the question. "Are any of your women agents interested in him?'

Sam responded cautiously. "Well, one of them had a short fling with him a couple of years before he met Marge. I think she gave up on him. He wasn't ambitious enough for her and the lifestyle she wanted."

"Could you give me her name, please? I might want to talk to her." At the back of my mind was whether Flynn's sexual prowess had anything to do with his disappearance.

"Julie Merchant went back to Colorado five years ago. I've no idea where she is now."

I leaned forward as if in a confidential manner. "Is Mr. Flynn a woman chaser? Could he have gone away with one?"

Sam chuckled. "It's possible. But I don't think Art's gotten over losing Marge. He would have let me know anyway."

"What do you know about his ex-wife, Marge?"

Laurel paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Marge is a beautiful woman. She was a waitress with a small child when she met Art. I'm sure she liked him... Everybody likes Art...except Bert Swanson, the manager of Palomar South. I think she married Art because he offered her security and clearly loved her little girl, Sally. Not all men want to take on the responsibility of another man's child."

"Why does Bert Swanson dislike Flynn?"

Sam chuckled. "Have you seen Bert's wife?" I nodded.

"Bert is jealous of Art because women like Art and don't like Bert. Bert also sells mobile homes in the park. He's an agent working under a real estate salesman license for his broker, Collins Realty. So, he competes with Art. Since a large proportion of homeowners in the park are widows, being a nice guy and single helps. Bert hates the competition." He paused. "There is one thing more. Bert sold an older mobile home that had originally been registered with the DMV, or the Department of Motor Vehicles. Now, the DMV records titles of trailers by their length, including the hitch. When HCD, or Housing and Community Development, took over mobile home registration, the home had to be titled by its actual length, that is, without the hitch, an increment of three to four feet. Art discovered Bert had put down the full trailer length on the HCD title and had his client demand reparation. It cost Bert several thousand dollars, and he has never forgiven Art for pointing out the error."

"Does Art have any other enemies other than Bert?"

"I wouldn't call Bert Swanson an enemy. Art has sold some of Bert's listings and vice versa, so they do cooperate professionally." Sam paused. "Art is an especially nice guy. If an agent can't make the phone roster, he is happy to step in. If an agent wants help with an open house showing, Art will be happy to assist. I cannot see how he could possibly have enemies."

"What can you add to the description of Art that you gave in the missing person report?"

Sam seemed unable to answer, so I prompted him. "Does he have any tattoos or scars or history of broken bones?"

"None that I know of."

"Is he overweight?"

"No, he's fit. He exercises regularly."

"Does he wear any distinctive jewelry or clothes?"

"Let me think," replied Sam, and after a pause, he said, "He has a Maine University class ring on his right hand, and he's very proud of the Indian silver belt buckle a client gave to him."

I asked to look into Art's desk, and Sam took me to it. I went through the two file drawers it had on just one side to find only listing, sales, and escrow documents. No personal correspondence. I asked Sam for a copy of Flynn's real estate license and his employment application. I stayed seated until Sam returned with the documentation. Then I stood up, thanked him for his time, asked him to call me if he or any of his agents heard anything, and left. We had been talking for nearly two hours, so no time for gym that evening. I went back to the McDonald's and bought a hamburger, fries, and a Coke, none of which would help my BMI. As I drove home sipping my Coke, I congratulated myself on having a good day in moving the case along.

Flynn's address book contained the name, address, and phone number of a nursing home in Maine where I assumed his mother resided. The next day, at 7.00 a.m.—midmorning in Maine—I telephoned that nursing home and asked to speak to Mrs. Flynn. The receptionist connected me to a supervisor. "This is Mrs. Rogers. I understand you wish to speak to Mrs. Flynn?"

"Yes. I'm Detective Notfarg with the sheriff's office in San Diego, California. I am investigating the disappearance of Arthur Flynn and wondered if his mother had heard from him."

"Detective, I don't think Mrs. Flynn could be of help to you. She has advanced dementia and would be unable to say anything useful to you."

"That's strange. I understand Art Flynn writes letters to his mother. Doesn't she understand those letters?"

There was a pause before Mrs. Rogers replied. "Well, we read those letters to her, and perhaps she feels there is someone who cares about her. I think those letters say more about her son."

I digested this information before I spoke. "Have you heard from or seen Arthur Flynn?"

"No. We have had no visit from Mr. Flynn after his mother no longer recognized him."

'Can you tell me if Mrs. Flynn has any siblings or children other than Arthur Flynn?"

"I understand Mr. Flynn is her only child. She has no other relatives."

"Who pays for her nursing home costs?"

"I will have to respond to that question with a judicial request."

I told her a formal court order requesting that information would be sent. When I later prepared a request for that court order, I added to the request a doctor's confirmation of her dementia and copies of Flynn's letters of the past year. There was always a chance that his true feelings would be revealed in letters that nobody of significance would understand. I also wanted to find out if Flynn was paying for his mother's nursing home costs in some way even though they did not appear on his bank statement. If he were, then his disappearance could be his way of sloughing them off since they could amount to several thousand dollars per month.

Marge Holmes phoned me, clearly surprised to be answered by a live person instead of a recording. I told her I was investigating the disappearance of her former husband and wanted to speak to her in person. She said she had to go down town the next day and would be happy to meet me at the sheriff's office. Delighted at not having to drive to San Marcos again, I readily agreed to her suggested time of 10:30.

# CHAPTER 4

Flynn's cell phone records arrived, and I scrutinized them carefully. Flynn had made no phone calls after Friday, Sept 12. I began calling the numbers in the records of the prior two months. This was tedious work since, half of the time, the receiving person was either out or was screening incoming calls. I left messages for them. Most calls were to clients, co-workers, and to the office. Some calls went to various mobile home park managers, where Art had wanted to know what the rent would be for a new purchaser. In the afternoon after the phone records had arrived, I grew quite tired of making phone calls. I decided to look at Flynn's monetary affairs by going to a nearby branch of his bank—Chase Bank. I introduced myself to one of the bank officers, served them my search warrant, and was given a printout of his records for all of 2008.

Flynn's bank account, set up as a trust account, showed a balance of just under twelve thousand dollars. Interesting, I thought. If he had wanted to disappear, he would have cleaned out his account. Those funds told me he did not intend to disappear. He had no savings account. Not much money for a realtor, I thought. His last deposit had been on July 8 for thirty-nine hundred and fifty dollars, presumably a commission check. His account showed paid bills to the Palomar South mobile home park, San Diego Gas and Electric, Cox Cable, Olivenhain Water District, and to his Visa charge card. There was also a steady one-hundred-and-twelve-dollar monthly payment to Pacific Southern Life Insurance and a corresponding twenty-dollar monthly payment to the charity Habitat for Humanity. Nothing out of the ordinary. No payments to his mother's nursing home. His last withdrawal had been for five hundred dollars cash on September 8, just six days before he'd left on his fishing trip. A suitable amount of walking-around money, I thought. I noticed two payments of twelve hundred dollars to Marge Holmes on July 15 and August 15 respectively, clearly alimony payments. If Flynn had decided to disappear, it had been on impulse, or he was lying injured in a hospital or dead somewhere.

The sole charge card showed Flynn to be a model of prudence. There were few charges for restaurants and no charges at any Indian casinos, jewelry stores, or high-end department stores. He'd made one extravagant buy eight weeks before he'd gone to the camp, a set of high-end fishing rods and reels costing eleven hundred dollars, not the kind of purchase one would make if one wanted to disappear or commit suicide. Clearly, a commitment by a dedicated fisherman. Flynn had used his credit card to make his campground rental payment of two hundred and ten dollars on August 15th, i.e. four weeks before he'd left. Thus, the trip had been fully planned. In addition, he had visited a tackle shop and bought eighty dollars of supplies on September 5. There was a supermarket credit bill of a hundred and twenty-six dollars on August 29 and a Home Depot bill of nineteen dollars on September 10. He'd bought gasoline in San Marcos on the same day. The statement showed Flynn getting gasoline at Oceanside on Highway 5, the main route to the north, on Sunday, September 14, the day he'd driven to the fishing camp. He'd purchased gasoline at Junction 379 near Mendota and stopped at a McDonald's in San Rafael at 3:10 p.m.

I looked at MapQuest to get the distances between gas stations that Flynn had stopped at. The distance between Oceanside and Junction 379 was three hundred and ten miles, and from there to the Russian River camp near Guerneville was a further two hundred and twenty miles. I reckoned Flynn would arrive at the camp around four o'clock, when it was still light enough to go fishing. If he gassed up his car about every three hundred and ten miles, then he would need to fill up his car within ninety miles of the camp. If he'd had a car accident, then it would most likely have been within that distance. I prepared a list of hospitals along his return route within that radius and began telephoning them.

Tom Small's e-mail arrived next morning. He had drawn by hand a map of that end section where Flynn had set up his tent. Tom Small explained this section, pictured below, had no utilities and was set aside for people with tents or camper trucks.

Section T lay adjacent to the river; section R lay on the other side of the graveled access road. Tom provided for each site copies of the registration folios around the time Flynn had come to the park. Most of the campers used a charge card to pay for their stay, but three paid in cash. Tom attached copies of the charge card receipts. I took the data from the folios and listed them in summary form, in the table below. The vehicle license numbers are listed under VL, but some campers had omitted that important data. "IN" and "LAST" in the table refer to the dates in September the camper stayed overnight. Included in the e-mail was a note saying the phone number on the folio was more to contact the registrant in the event of a lost child and that most campers did not fill it in. Tom also apologized in the e-mail for his registration clerk's failure to get all folios completely filled in.

I was still absorbing the above information when the receptionist called saying Marge Holmes had been ushered into one of our questioning rooms. Marge was still standing up when I entered the room, and I motioned her to sit down as did I. Sam Laurel had described her as very attractive but had understated the fact. She was indeed a beautiful woman, about sixty-seven inches tall and with a figure only slightly less voluptuous than Marilyn Munroe and the same blonde hair that had been fashionably styled. Not my place to ask if it's natural. She was dressed quite simply, but very elegantly, in a Michael Kors gray crew neck sweater over a Giorgio Armani tight woolen skirt. Yes, we women notice these things even if we can't afford them. She carried a white crocodile leather Gucci purse that I would have died for. She wore a double string of pearls and a diamond ring—nearly two carats by my estimation—on her left middle finger. There was no wedding ring. Her attire and manner said money. Her manner was direct and purposeful. She actually started the conversation.

"Do you know when Art went missing?" Her voice seemed flat, very matter of fact, with no hint of concern.

I hesitated. I wanted to find out how much she knew before revealing anything I had found out. "We don't know the exact date yet. We believe it was within three to four days after he arrived at the Russian River fishing camp."

"I know the place. Art dragged me and Sally there one year. Too primitive for me. If he'd had a camper or a motor home, I might have liked it, but no, he liked being in a tent. It didn't bother him having to walk two hundred yards to use the camp washroom facilities."

"So, you knew Art was going there?"

"Yes. He called me in early September and told me he might be late paying his alimony."

"Do you know if Art might have any reason to disappear?"

"Art's not a very assertive person. He doesn't like having to pay me alimony, but I don't think he has the guts to flee to avoid making payment."

I wanted to confirm the amount of the alimony. "Twelve hundred dollars per month, I understand."

"That's correct." No hint of embarrassment. No wonder Sam Laurel thought her a gold digger.

I couldn't help it. "You're obviously well off and don't need the money. Do you think that could have been a factor?"

Marge's face tightened sharply. "That's none of your business. Alimony reflected the court decision. Art knows I spend much more than that on oncology treatment for Sally." She stood up. "If you don't have any more useful questions, I'm going to leave."

I apologized since I needed to get a better feel for this missing man. I asked her to sit down. "Please, tell me, what kind of a man is Art? You were married to him for several years, so you should know."

Her face softened very slightly, but her voice remained in a very matter-of-fact tone. "Art's an honest man. He's been very sweet to my little girl, Sally. He's a good salesperson in his specialized field...selling mobile homes...but it doesn't pay as well as regular real estate. He seems to care more about his clients than making decent money. I know he follows through on all his listings and sales, but his lack of ambition disappointed me."

I refrained from asking why she married Art in the first place, but I found that out later. I had to probe carefully. "Was there any aspect of your divorce that might have triggered Art to want to disappear?"

Marge paused, clearly thinking how to answer this question. "It was a shock to Art and me when Sally was diagnosed with leukemia. Art didn't have any health insurance, and treatment costs were...are expensive. I didn't want to go back to waitressing. Larry, who owns Palomar South, where we lived, had seen me at the park office and offered me a job, one where I could take my daughter, who was...is too ill to go to kindergarten. Larry's been very good to me and Sally."

"Why did you divorce Art?"

Marge responded angrily. "What's that got to do with Art's disappearance?"

I needed to offset this anger. "I'm sorry if the question offended you. I'm trying to ascertain whether Mr. Flynn had any motivation to disappear."

I could see Marge wondering whether she should answer the question. She took her time to respond. "Larry plays a role in society here in north San Diego County. Living with him when I was married to another man became a source of gossip that irritated him, and he wanted it gone. Art still wanted to visit Sally...and me. It was as though Art had a possessor interest in me and Sally as long as we were married. On one of these occasions, Art got nasty to Larry, who said he would call the police if Art didn't leave. Larry then demanded I divorce Art, and he played a role in establishing the terms of the divorce."

"What did Art think of that? Did he object very strongly?"

"Of course he objected, but there was nothing he could about it in this no-fault divorce state. He was more upset that he could no longer visit Sally. But Larry values the privacy of his home, and so he demanded that condition in the divorce. I know that's been a disappointment to Art, but he's a pragmatic soul. I expected him to accept it and move on just like he had to accept that his mother developed dementia."

"Does Art have any enemies?"

"Good Lord, no. Art's very popular in the park. I'm considered the Wicked Witch of the West because he married me instead of one of the park widows closer to his age."

"What do you know about Art's relatives?"

"He has no brothers or sisters. His father was a soldier who was killed in Vietnam. Art grew up in Maine and went to the University of Maine. He loved his time there and wears his class ring with pride. His mother has Alzheimer's disease and is in a home near Bangor. She was an only child."

I made a mental note of the last statement just in case we ever needed Flynn's DNA. I thanked her for coming to the office and escorted her to the exit. The male staff ogled her as she walked out with a slight swish that Marilyn Munroe had exaggerated in the movie Some Like It Hot. I ignored the comment "Hot babe there" by one of these men as I returned to my desk.

# CHAPTER 5

I continued to follow up on Flynn's phone records, especially those in the days shortly before he disappeared. There were several calls to his neighbor, Mary Smith, two calls to the Larry Swift residence, and two more to Laurel Real Estate. Incoming calls came from sales associates, none of whom offered useful information on Flynn. There were two calls to Charlie Jones, the elderly man in the mobile home park with whom Art played cribbage every Wednesday evening. The out-of-town numbers were to or from people who had left their home for Flynn to sell while they had moved to be with or nearby their kinfolk. Two phone calls pertained to mobiles homes whose sales were in escrow.

I managed to contact everybody Flynn had called in the two months prior to his disappearance and found nothing or nobody suspicious. The phone calls showed Flynn had a very modest social life. It could be he was still getting over his divorce. To cover the possibility that Flynn had taken off to avoid paying alimony, I submitted an open inquiry to the Social Security office to see if his Social Security number (SSN) was being used elsewhere for purposes of employment. Even if one disappears, one has to earn a living to support oneself.

I phoned Tom Small to ask for clarification of the fishing camp data he had sent me. "I don't enforce filling in of the folio completely when the camper pays in cash," he replied. "The phone number requirement is largely for campers with children. There were no children in that section and few elsewhere in the camp since school had already started."

"Were any of those campers regulars who might have known Flynn from past visits to the camp?" I asked.

"The Wellhouses and Bill Watson are regular visitors. I wouldn't know if they knew Art."

I thanked Tom for his help and began to telephone the five campers who had put down their phone numbers on the folios. I realized it would be better to call in the evening, when these campers would more likely be home. In the interim, I began to check the vehicle license numbers against the addresses of campers who had not put down phone numbers. It is surprising how many people don't know their license plate number or put it down incorrectly. Furthermore, some people fail to give their change of address to the DMV whenever they move. For those with incorrect, missing, or incomplete license numbers, it would be necessary to contact their charge card companies to get names and addresses. I prepared a court order request for that purpose and got it approved a day or so later.

I looked at Flynn's ten-year-old rental application that Bert Swanson had given me. I added the phone numbers of his references to the list of phone numbers to be called. No numbers were current. I tracked down one of the references from his former address, who said he'd known Art Flynn when he'd been at Maine University. "A nice guy, easygoing, but not particularly ambitious," he remarked.

I then studied Flynn's employment application with Laurel Real Estate. He'd been born in July 1960. That would make him forty-eight, not the fifty as earlier reported. He'd been born in Bar Harbor, Maine. He'd gone to the University of Maine and graduated in 1984 with a degree in psychology. At San Diego State University, which I attended, we used to think education and psychology were the lowest of academic quality. I noticed he did not graduate until he was twenty-four, meaning he'd been there two years longer than a regular student. Perhaps he was a slow learner. Perhaps he'd been working and studying part time. Perhaps he'd stayed on to take some graduate courses and had quit to take full-time employment. The application showed Flynn had then worked until 1995 with the Bar Harbor Fishing Company in the town of his birth. From 1995 to 1998, he'd worked as a real estate agent for the Axis Real Estate brokers, selling mobile homes in Augusta, Maine. Laurel Real Estate had taken him on in 1998. I could see no gaps in the employment history.

I made telephone calls to the numbers listed for his former employers but found them to be incorrect. I researched on the internet to discover the fishing company had gone out of business in 1998 and Axis Real Estate Brokers had been absorbed by another company three years after Flynn had left. Highly unlikely the latter would have records on Flynn. The portrait of the missing man that emerged from the application was of somebody without a lot of drive, not a man to take risks and contented with what life offered him.

I thought it might be useful to interview Larry Swift to see if he had any animosity towards Flynn and a different perspective on him than Marge Holmes. I called him, and he agreed to meet me at his home the next morning at ten o'clock. Eleanor Bratz from space 77 in the Palomar South Park had left a message for me. I called her and agreed to meet her at her home three hours later. That would save me having to drive to North County twice.

When I left CID the next day, I noticed our address had reverted to Cope St. It reflected my mood that this investigation was cheerless work. I drove the same route, taking Highway 15 to Highway 78, again encountering heavy traffic on the latter highway, but I managed to arrive precisely on time at Swift's palatial residence. The black maid opened the door. She had been briefed of my coming and promptly ushered me into a side room, saying Mr. Swift would be with me shortly. Shortly, as it turned out, was ten minutes, a time I decided was intended to let me know I was an intruder wasting the time of the master of the house, who would be in full control of the meeting. This sort of thing has happened to me many times before. My choices are to let the interviewee feel he is in control or for me to make it clear to him that he isn't. Making me wait pushed me to the latter choice.

Larry Swift entered the side room dressed in an expensive blue business suit, a power suit. Six feet tall, about fifty years old, in good physical shape, he had a decisive mien. I could see why Marge would prefer him to Flynn. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Notfarg," he said politely. "I understand you want to ask me about Mr. Flynn. I don't know what I can add to what I already told Detective Walker or what Marge has already said."

"I'm sure you appreciate the convenience of being interviewed in your own home," I responded brusquely. "It is not clear you told Walker fully about your interactions with Mr. Flynn."

The implication that he might have been less than forthcoming must have lessened his feeling of control, since he paused before replying. "What interactions are you referring to, and what has this got to with the missing man?"

"That's for me to decide, Mr. Swift. Why don't you go over all the interactions you've had with Mr. Flynn? I want to record your responses as well."

Swift looked at me cautiously before speaking. "There haven't been too many. Bert Swanson, my manager at the Palomar South Park, asked Flynn's wife to help out in the office when Bert's wife had to go to hospital. Marge did the job very well, and Bert suggested I hire her to work at my office or at one of my businesses. I did so and indeed found her to be very efficient. I had met Flynn on a few social occasions before Marge and I got into a relationship. I thought him a rather drab fellow. When Marge told him she was leaving him...and with her daughter, he became furious. I refused him entry to my house, so he came to my office. He made a very ugly scene there. He seemed most disturbed that he wouldn't have visitation rights to Sally. He left only when I threatened to call the police."

"Did he threaten you?"

Swift thought for a moment before saying, "No."

My response was "Humpf." I was recording the conversation, but I looked at my notebook as though reading from a list of questions, and I took a lengthy pause before I spoke again. "What do you know about the dispute between Mr. Flynn and your park manager?"

Swift seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't know anything about it. Perhaps Collins Realty would know more... Bert is their sales agent."

"Do you have any knowledge or opinion on why Mr. Flynn might want to disappear or where he might have wanted to go to?"

Swift seemed a little reluctant to say anything negative about Flynn. "I think he might have disappeared because he did not want to pay court-ordered alimony to his ex-wife. I've no idea where he went to after that fishing camp."

I gave him another "Humph," looked down at my notebook at length, and then looked up at him. "Thank you, Mr. Swift, for the information. If I have further questions, I'll be sure to call you. And if you hear anything about Mr. Flynn, call me at my office." I handed him my business card. I left the side room, and the maid opened the front door for me. No need to say a polite goodbye. I drove to a Jack in the Box and ate a couple of tacos and drank a large cup of black coffee for lunch, thanking myself for keeping my calorie intake low when the possibilities for more were abundant. I read the local paper and made some phone calls pertinent to other cases I was handling in order to kill time.

Thus, I arrived precisely on time at the Bratz mobile home, a modern Lancer doublewide, a premium brand. A one-year-old white Cadillac de Ville stood in the driveway. The door was opened by an elaborately coiffed woman of medium height and build in her late fifties, wearing a blue Max Mara wool dress, a triple string of pearls around her neck, and more expensive rings on her fingers than I could count. She seemed surprised as I introduced myself. She hadn't been expecting a black detective. She looked me up and down, assessing my clothes, makeup, jewelry—earrings only—and appearance before inviting me in. I reciprocated by looking her up and down also, with a deliberateness to indicate I was not to be intimidated. She sat me at the dining room table and politely offered me coffee, which I declined. I started the conversation.

"You've lived in the park for a long time?"

"Six years actually...ever since my husband died. He was president of the United Auto Dealers Association, you know."

"You are aware I'm investigating the disappearance of Art Flynn, your neighbor."

"Of course. Mary from across the street said a sheriff was inquiring about him. Actually, Art sold me this mobile home."

"I take it you haven't heard from him?"

She smiled at the question. "No, I haven't, though I'd love to. Art really is a nice man. I was very disappointed that he married Marge. She may be younger and better looking than me, but I would have been a lot more faithful than she."

"So, you have no grudge against Art?'

"Not in the least. I heard he got an unsatisfactory divorce settlement. I think it a shame that somebody would treat him so badly."

"What do you mean by badly?"

"Well, Mary told me about it. He loved little Sally so much. He was heartbroken when she got leukemia and even more so when he wasn't allowed to visit her."

"Do you think Art would want to disappear?"

"It's hard to tell. I don't think he has a lot of drive in his life. His divorce, I understand, was over four months ago. If he is going to move on, I would have expected him to do it sooner and probably plan for it... I have seen no evidence of his doing so."

I smiled at the last sentence. This woman was still interested in Flynn. After a few more desultory questions, I thanked Mrs. Bratz for her time and went across the street. The sour-faced man living next to the Bratz residence watched me stonily, so I let my car stay parked against the red curb. I knocked on the door of 78, adjacent to the Smith residence. A white-haired lady of seventy plus greeted me cheerfully and invited me inside immediately after I explained who I was and what I was doing. She sat me down beside her bald husband and offered me coffee. Even though I had drunk a large cup an hour earlier, I accepted, since taking such an offer puts hosts at ease. They introduced themselves as Roger and Mabel Bessin, long-term residents in the park, and they were already aware that Flynn was missing.

"Mary told us that Art hadn't returned and that his boss came around to check," said Mr. Bessin. Very happy to be discussing their immediate neighbor with a detective, a black one no less, they discoursed at length. Yes, Flynn was a very nice guy and had sold them their home. A very professional purchase. They had met Marge and thought that, while very pretty, she was something of a gold digger, an opinion they felt confirmed when she'd moved in with Larry Swift. Sally was such a sweet little girl, and Art truly loved her. He would take her to preschool, to the parks, and to the movies. He seemed to love the little girl more than his wife. And Sally clearly loved Art.

"I don't know why he didn't adopt her," remarked Mabel, the more talkative of the two. "Perhaps her father is still living. If Art had done so, then he would still be able to see her, poor thing."

"Poor thing?" I queried.

"Yes, she's got leukemia and is quite ill, I understand. Art told me he feels desolate that he cannot be there to comfort her when she gets treatment."

"Does Art have any enemies in the park?" I asked.

"No. The only person who doesn't like Art is Bert Swanson, the manager. But then, Bert doesn't like anybody. I think he takes lessons from his wife there."

"Is it true that Art is a womanizer?"

Mabel looked at her husband, who spoke carefully. "Art likes women, and they like him. I don't think he was ever unkind to any woman. He was too much of a gentleman, a real old-fashioned type of guy."

# CHAPTER 6

It took me another half-hour to listen to the two of them ramble on about Art, their home, their neighbors, their family, and their friends. I sipped my coffee slowly. When they began to discourse on their ailments, I looked at my watch and informed them I had to leave. The coffee had gone through me by that time, and I had to use their toilet. I left them my business card and also posted it on the doors of other nearby neighbors with a request to call me. I used the opportunity while in the park to interview Charlie Jones in space number 129, occupied by an older singlewide mobile home. Men talk differently than women, and I hoped Charlie Jones might be a confidant of Flynn. The owner opened the door, and his eyes widened in surprise, an understandable reaction on seeing a black female who towered over his sixty-four inches. I introduced myself and the purpose of my visit.

"Yes," said Charlie, a wizened eighty-year-old, as he invited me into an interior devoid of any woman's touch. "I know Art's gone missing. I take it you don't know what's happened to him."

"No. That's why I'm asking around. Have you any reason to think he might want to disappear?"

Charlie gave me the same details I had heard from Mary Smith, Sam Laurel, and Marge Holmes before he gave me a nugget. "The last time I played cribbage with Art on the Wednesday evening before he left, I could see something was bothering him. I asked him about it, but he said he was fine. I thought he might have heard some more negative news on Sally's health...but that wouldn't have been a reason for him to disappear."

What could have been bothering Flynn?

Charlie continued. "People tend to underestimate Art. He's such a decent man that many don't know he is quite smart even though he's not ambitious. I play cribbage with him, and I'm a pretty good player, but I know Art lets me beat him. He knows that I know. I miss playing cards with him enormously... He's such great company." Moisture came to the eyes of this lonely old man as he said, "I hope nothing's happened to him. I hate to lose friends like him at my age."

I patted him on the back and let myself out. This interview had yielded a clue. I phoned Mary Smith and asked her if she knew if or what had been bothering Flynn just before he'd left.

"I didn't realize anything was bothering him at all," she replied.

I drove back to the office, where I changed into sports clothes, and went to the gym. What could have been bothering Flynn? Maybe Flynn had had a negative interaction with a client. Maybe Sally's health had taken a turn for the worse. Maybe Jones's perception of Flynn's concern was misplaced. All these thoughts ran through my head as I worked up a sweat on the treadmill. I went home and heated up a frozen dinner. After dinner, I began calling the campers at the fishing campsites. A woman calling herself Alisha Johnson answered the phone of Bill Dollar from site T2, her voice bearing the patois of an urban Afro-American. I explained I was seeking information on a missing man in site T1 next to her at the Russian River fishing camp.

"I wasn't feeling well," said Alisha. I spent most of my time at the camp in the community hall, the cafeteria, and the swimming pool."

"Did you see the man in the end site next to you closest to the river?"

"I had Bill, my boyfriend, drop me off at the front when we came in since I was feeling so shitty. I couldn't tell you anything about the man next to our van, since I spent so little time at the site, but I can say his black car was still there when we left that Tuesday."

"Could I speak to your boyfriend?"

"He's not here at the moment."

I detected a note of reluctance in that last sentence. I asked Alisha to have her boyfriend call me when he came back home.

I continued phoning. Harriet Moore, who had taken over site T3, which had been vacated by Bill Dollar, answered my phone call. She said there had been no cars at the two end sites when she'd arrived on Thursday afternoon, September 18, but the one next to the river had been occupied later. No help. Chad Meyer of site T5 took my last call of the evening. He could not remember anything about the people or cars at the end of this tenting area. Also no help. Calls that produce no fresh information are the tedious and time-consuming parts of an investigation. I had to wonder if all this effort for missing persons was worth it when, statistically, ninety percent of them show up later.

On the following afternoon, Mrs. Wellhouse of site T3 answered my call. "Please call me Celeste," she gushed in an accent of the South, probably Louisiana, after I introduced myself and asked her about Flynn. "Yes," she said, "there were black cars at both end sites, T1 and R1."

"When did the black car at the end site nearest the river leave?"

"It left soon after the colored man next to us drove off."

I wish this woman wouldn't use the word "colored."

So, Flynn had left on Tuesday. Where had he gone? Celeste was most anxious to help. I had, however, opened the floodgates to a wealth of extraneous information, including how many times they had come to the park, how long they had stayed, a description of their camper—"My, isn't the Tundra a great truck!"—what great weather they'd had, and how good the fishing was. I had to stop the conversation when Celeste began to talk about her children and how they had enjoyed camping when they were young. I left my phone number with her in case she thought of something, but I dreaded she might consider it an excuse to talk at length with me again.

The approved court order got me the names and addresses of the campers who used credit cards to pay for their stay. Other names and addresses came from correct license plate numbers. From that information, I was able to get phone numbers. Mason, in site R1, was the only camper I could not get a handle on. I called these campers over a period of a few days, boring work that I fitted in between other cases. Suddenly, I remembered Sam Laurel telling me of the ten thousand dollars of commissions he had written to Flynn in late August. I had not seen them deposited into his account! Had he forgotten to cash them? I called Sam and asked him to check his account. He called back an hour later.

"Both checks were cashed. I called my bank, and it appears Flynn walked into it and cashed the commission checks."

"What day was that?"

"The Friday before he left. The bank teller was surprised Flynn wanted to have so much cash on him and gave it to him in an envelope. He took out nearly all of it in one-hundred-dollar bills." He paused. "I don't know if this has any bearing on his disappearance, but Art took out an accidental death insurance policy two years back with his little girl, Sally, as the beneficiary."

"It wouldn't have been a motivation for committing suicide," I replied. "These accidental death policies exclude suicide as a claim. I'm sure Art was aware of that, since you describe him as a very sensible, level-headed man."

"I see. The only other thing that might matter is that at the same time, Art put the title of his mobile home into his trust and asked me to be his backup trustee. In addition, he asked me to be the executor of his estate. I was surprised since I'm much older than him. The logical thing would have been his then wife, Marge, to be the trustee. It told me without asking that there were problems in Art's marriage."

I thanked Sam for the information. It did put a new light on the matter. Flynn was walking around with a large amount of cash on him, a good motivation for a robbery. Could it be a blackmail pay off? Was Flynn hiding something? Was he going to have a splurge at a casino? Clearly, I had a puzzle to solve. It didn't make sense for him to have given the cash to Marge Holmes to help pay for Sally's oncology treatment. A check would have been simpler. Nevertheless, I called Marge Holmes, who told me firmly Art had not given her the money. I called Mary Smith to see if she was aware of the cash Flynn had had on him. She denied knowing anything about it. I called Charlie Jones on the matter.

"He didn't say anything to me about financial difficulties," said Charlie, "but I bet the money had something to do with the problem he wouldn't discuss with me."

I thanked Charlie for the information. I began to think it more likely Flynn had been hijacked and robbed. Still, neither his car nor his body had been found yet. I checked the NCIC database again, but found nothing.

Sam Laurel called me in the afternoon to say he had been going through the listing and sales files in the drawer of Art's office desk. "I had to assign somebody to take over Art's clients if he isn't coming back," he said, an apologetic tone to his voice. "I don't know if it's relevant, but I found a signed, undated listing of Art's mobile home in the drawer."

Hm. Did that imply Flynn was thinking of ending his life?

During the day, Harry Polk of site T5 answered my phone call, but he offered no new information. In the evening, Bob Alvarez from site T4 returned my call. He said there had been two trucks in the way between him and site T1, where Flynn had camped. He thought there had been a black car there, but he had not seen or noticed its occupant. What he did remember was the dispute between the black man in site T2 and his neighbor in site T3. "They were really shouting at each other. I think their fishing lines had gotten tangled." I thanked Alvarez for his help. I wondered if this had anything to do with Flynn.

Bill Dollar had not called me despite his girlfriend saying he would. I phoned him, and this time, he answered. I asked him about his neighbor in site T1.

"I really didn't notice him," said Dollar in a strong assertive, almost belligerent voice. "I was too busy arguing with that asshole on the other side of me, who kept letting his float drift down to where I was fishing. I would move, and he would move down further. When I told him to back off, he called me a damned nigger. I was so pissed off by then that I called him a fucking racist." He paused. "Fortunately, his wife made him back off. I complained about the son of a bitch to the park office when I left on Tuesday."

I put the conversation on track. "When did the man in the site at the end next to you leave?"

"I don't know. His car was still there when I left."

I reckoned the Browns in the site opposite Dollar might have more information on the black couple and their row with their neighbors. In addition, they might tell me about Mason, the occupant of the end site, who'd filled in the registration folio so poorly. I had been unable to reach them after several days of phone calls. I did a reverse search to get the phone numbers of neighbors on either side of their Riverside city address. I struck out on the first neighbor, but I found a very cooperative Mr. Leonard on the other side.

"It's not surprising you weren't able to contact Mr. and Mrs. Brown," said Mr. Leonard. "They told me that they were driving to see their son and his family in Seattle directly after their fishing trip."

"Well, the phone number on their registration folio must be a cell phone, since it doesn't have the same area code as their Riverside location."

"I think you may have Mr. Brown's cell phone number, and if I know him, he forgot to take his phone with him. His wife is always on him about forgetting it. They're an older couple, and Mrs. Brown is concerned he would not be able to call for help if they had a car accident." He chuckled. "I have the same problem in this household."

"Well, do you have the son's phone number or address so that I can get in touch with them?'

"I don't, but then, that wouldn't help you, since I believe they are driving back as we speak. However, I do have Mrs. Brown's cell phone number, and she is sure to never leave home without it."

I took the number from Mr. Leonard and called Mrs. Brown. I reached her on the first try and found they had stopped at a restaurant in Salem, Oregon. I explained who I was and that I was investigating a missing person. She confirmed the dispute between Bill Dollar and Mr. Wellhouse; she thought Dollar had been excessively hostile. I asked her what they could tell me about Art Flynn and his interaction with his neighbors.

"You're talking about his black car in the end site by the river?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"That's right."

"Well, they arrived two days before we left."

"They?"

"That's right. There were two men in the car."

Who the heck was with Flynn? "Could you describe them for me, please?" I asked.

"Well, one was stocky and wore sunglasses. I don't think he liked fishing, because I never saw him after the first day. He drove off shortly after they had pitched their tent. He must have come back, because I saw their car again on the Sunday evening, the day before we left."

"Could you describe the other man?"

"Well, he was a big man with dark hair. He seemed to enjoy fishing, unlike his companion."

That's not Flynn. I know he arrived on Sunday, September 13. These two must be the Mason couple, whose folio showed they arrived that Saturday. It sounded like a mix-up. They'd taken Flynn's spot, and Flynn had decided not to argue with them and had taken their site. I needed to confirm this.

"Could you tell about the person in the site next to you at the end?"

"Yes. His car arrived on Sunday. It wasn't there in the morning when we left. I assumed he'd driven to park cafeteria for breakfast, since his tent was still there."

"What kind of car was it?"

"It was black, a Toyota as I remember."

"Could you describe the man for me? Did you talk to him?"

"He was a man in his forties with cropped white hair, and he wore glasses. He said hello to us before he went fishing shortly after he arrived late afternoon. He clearly knew how to fish. But then, he had some pretty fancy gear."

She had confirmed the mix-up. Flynn had taken site R1 instead. No need to ask if the Mason couple were white. Caucasians in the USA only mention color or race if the subject is not white. What more could Mrs. Brown tell me about Mason? "You say there was a black car at the end site nearest the river and there were two white males in it. Do you remember the model or year of their car?" I asked.

"I don't know much about cars," she replied. "Let me think... If it's any help, I think I saw a chrome fish sign on its rear bumper...what evangelicals put there, you know."

"Did you see the white-haired man talk to or interact with anybody?"

"Well, he offered fish to us, but we declined since we weren't going home directly. I saw him offer fish to other campers, but I didn't see him get into extended conversations with any of them."

"Would your husband have seen anything?"

Mrs. Brown brought her husband to the phone, and I asked him the same questions. He had nothing to add except the car next to them (Flynn's) had been a Camry.

# CHAPTER 7

I immediately called Celeste to ask about Flynn's car now that I knew its true location. Delighted at talking to me again, she said, "The white-haired man's car left before the colored man's car left."

"What!" I said loudly. "Are you sure about that?"

"Quite sure. We were expecting him to return, since his tent was there. He was a very good fisherman, and John wanted to question him about his technique. Was he the man who went missing? He must have come back, since his tent was gone later in the week. Where did he go before he came back?"

I stopped Celeste's flow of questions with one of mine. "Did you see the white-haired man return?"

Celeste took a moment to think before she replied, "No, I didn't. But he must have, since the tent disappeared."

"Do you remember the day of the week when the tent was taken down?"

Again, Celeste paused before her reply. "No, I'm sorry, I don't, but I can ask John when he returns from golf."

I told her to make sure he called me. Celeste had left me with a puzzle. Flynn had left sometime on or before Monday morning and might have returned to get his tent and gear later. Where had he gone, and when had he returned?

Fred Williams in site T5 returned my phone call, saying he'd seen no cars in the two end sites, T1 and R1, when he'd arrived on the afternoon of Tuesday, September 16. "I don't know if it's significant," he added, "but I saw the fellow who had the silver car take all the equipment out of the tent in the site at the end furthest from the river. I assumed he was doing it by request from the park manager, who took the tent down later in the day."

"What!" I sat up. My shout caused Detective Steve Hall to poke his head up from the neighboring cubicle wall. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. The guy with the silver car emptied the tent in the end site."

I thanked Williams for this critical information. This clearly indicated Flynn had not returned to get his equipment and he'd fully left the camp sometime Sunday night. Had he been responding to an emergency? Or had he been kidnapped? The case had taken a new turn. I called Tom Small at the fishing camp to ask him about Flynn's tent.

Tom answered. "Yes, I took it down that Thursday afternoon. I was surprised that somebody would leave a completely empty tent. I thought it belonged to Mason, but I was unable to contact him, since he didn't leave a phone number or an address."

I asked Tom to retain custody of the tent since it belonged to the missing man, whose disappearance was being investigated.

"What can you tell me about the Mason couple?" I asked

Tom brought his assistant, Terry, to the phone. "I only saw the one man who came in to register, a fellow of about thirty with reddish hair and sunglasses."

"Did you see the man with him?"

"No. But I know there were two people because he asked for two passes to our water slide."

The next morning, William Watson, the owner of the silver Chevrolet, finally answered my phone call after several attempts. I explained to Watson that I was investigating the disappearance of a fellow camper. I decided to skip discussing his thievery until I had confirmed some of the recent information from the office staff and the various campers.

"Do you remember seeing the camper on the end site, the one further from the river?" I asked.

"Yes, I remember him. He fished the day he arrived and left the next day."

"The next day? Monday?"

"Yes. That's right. He went early."

"How early?"

"I don't really know. His car was gone when I woke up."

"Could you describe him for me, please? I want confirmation of his identity."

Watson gave me a description that matched Flynn, so I continued. "Mr. Watson, that man is the missing person, and any information you can give me about him, his movements, time of arrival, and his interaction with fellow campers, would be very helpful."

"I think he arrived in the late afternoon...that would be Sunday. I never saw him or his car after that day. He certainly knew how to fish. In the two or three hours before it got dark, he caught several fish. He offered me some of them, but I work in the catch-and-release mode."

"Anything else?"

"He must have had an emergency, because he apparently abandoned his camping gear."

"What makes you think abandoned it?" I asked, keeping my voice in a gentle tone.

Watson paused before replying. "Well, he never came back. The man in the white van opposite to him went into the tent and took fishing rods from it."

I reacted with a loud "Really...! You're saying the black man from site T2 took fishing rods from the tent."

"Yes, he did."

"When was that?"

"Very early morning on the day he left. That would be Tuesday, as I remember."

I put on the most official tone I could muster. "Well, Mr. Watson, you were seen taking contents of the tent on the Thursday morning before you left. What do you have to say about that? Do you deny that?"

I could hear Watson taking a few short breaths in and out before he stammered, "The guy had been gone for three days. If the black fellow could take stuff, why couldn't I...two days after he did?"

I spoke very sternly. "Neither you nor that black man have the right to take property that does not belong to you. Law enforcement could charge you with theft."

I could hear an audible gulp before Watson replied, "I truly thought the tent and its contents had been abandoned. Nobody else seemed concerned about it. I'm very sorry to learn you consider this as theft. I'll be very happy to return the items to their rightful owner."

"Tell me what you took from that tent. That property might be important evidence if the missing man is found murdered." I intended to be tough on Watson. At the same time, this was when I first entertained the notion that the missing man might be dead.

Mr. Watson took half a minute before he replied. His voice was very subdued. "I took the cot, sleeping bag, pillow, and tackle box."

"That's all? No toiletry bag or change of clothes?"

"No. There was nothing else in the tent."

"Are you still in possession of the contents you took?"

Watson replied meekly that he was. I asked if he was keeping the stolen property at his home and if he was he there. He affirmed. I told him I would be down immediately to pick up the stolen items.

I promptly drove down on Highway 15, south though San Diego and National City, connecting to Highway 5. Fortunately, it was midday, and traffic was light, and the twenty-three-mile trip took me only thirty minutes. Watson lived in a small cottage in a lower-income neighborhood of Chula Vista, a city just to the south of San Diego. His car, parked in the single gravel-covered driveway, had rear bumper signs: "Obama for President" and "Peace Not War."

Watson saw my detective car with its tinted windows park in his driveway and came out to his porch. I towered over him, a man of seventy-five, with wrinkled face, wearing an old sweater over stained blue jeans. I could sense no woman lived in the house and looked after him. I felt sorry for him, but not enough to stop me from bullying him with questions.

"I'm very sorry about what I did, Officer," he said meekly. "I truly thought that the owner had abandoned the property." He looked up at me. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"No. I'm not here for that purpose. That's for the district attorney to decide," I replied. That was a deliberate untruth. The theft had taken place in Sonoma County, and it was up to law enforcement there to pursue the matter. Better to let him stew. I laid it on. "I'm investigating the possible murder of the man who owned that tent, so I need everything you took out of it, and I want you to tell me about whoever else approached it or took something from it."

Watson's face paled. He put his hand on a porch post to steady himself. "Let's go inside so I can sit down," he said after a lengthy pause. We entered immediately into the living room, where he sat down on an old stained sofa, and he motioned me to an equally shabby easy chair.

"Again, who did you see taking the fishing rods?" I asked,

"It was the black man from the opposite side."

"What time and what day was that?"

"It was about six in the morning on Tuesday...just enough light to see what was going on."

"Can you describe him for me, please?"

"He was tall and strongly built, youngish, I would say twenty-five to thirty, darkish skin, unlike his wife or girlfriend. She was a light-colored African American...very good looking, too. I didn't see her fishing."

I recorded what he was saying on my pocket digital recorder. "You would be able to identify them if we had a lineup?"

"Yes. I could."

"What can you tell me about the men in the site opposite the missing man's tent?"

"I saw the bigger guy fishing steadily. I saw the other guy just once when he arrived."

"What did they look like?"

Watson gave me rough descriptions of the two men similar to that given by Mrs. Brown. "Can you tell me anything about their car?" I asked.

"Not really. It was black, maybe a little older than the one on the opposite side."

Watson led me to a storage shed at the back of his house. I restrained him from handling the stolen items. I put on latex gloves and loaded the sleeping bag, pillow, cot, and fishing gear into evidence bags. I left him my business card in case he thought of anything that might be useful to the investigation. I instructed him to go the nearest sheriff substation to get his fingerprints taken. I told Watson we would be in touch with him, but his demeanor indicated he hoped that would never happen.

I returned to the office, where I placed the bags in evidence. Back at my desk, a priority mail package awaited me. It had come from the Bangor Nursing Home and contained a cover letter, a doctor's statement, and thirteen letters written by Flynn to his mother. The cover letter stated that Mrs. Flynn had been eligible for benefits from the Veteran's Administration (VA) due to the death of her husband in combat. The letter also said all letters more than six months old had been shredded. The doctor's letter, written on a Bangor address letterhead, stated Mrs. Flynn to be in an advanced state of dementia, unable to dress, bathe, or feed herself. I could see why Art would not feel obliged to visit his mother in her vegetative state. Clearly, Art Flynn had not disappeared to avoid paying nursing costs for his mother, since the VA paid them.

I began to read the letters, all thirteen of them, written every two weeks over the prior six months, the last one dated September 5. Flynn had written to his mother as though she were able to understand them...clearly impossible. Each letter, computer typed, comprised two sides of a single page. The first side would talk about his work, his real estate or mobile home listings, his sales, and the people with whom he interacted. He talked about them in a very positive way. One letter mentioned how well Sam Laurel treated his agents and how he trusted and respected him. Rarely did I find anything negative said about any of his clients. He would admit to only one of them being difficult. The other side of the letter was concerned with his wife, Marge, and the little girl, Sally. He mentioned how sad he was that Marge had left him and had taken his little girl with her. He expressed himself in a way that seemed distant from Marge and close to Sally. He had apparently been able to visit Sally at Larry Swift's home up to the time of the divorce, which was finalized on May 13. He would tell how he had picked up Sally to go for her oncology treatment and how she had clung to him throughout each session. Not clear was whether Marge Holmes was also present. The letters, though sad, conveyed a sense of acceptance.

Art's grief at the terms of the divorce, particularly not being able to visit Sally, was paramount. He seemed less concerned that the court had awarded Marge alimony of twelve hundred dollars per month than with not having visitation rights to Sally. He expressed how unfair the award was, given the man Marge was living with, Larry Swift, was wealthy and lived in an exclusive part of town. How he missed his little girl. How sweet she was. What pain she was going through and what grief he had from not being allowed to help her any more. He said he would have been happy to pay child support for Sally if he had been given visitation rights. But he understood the court's decision to grant full custody to Sally's biological mother, Marge. The only bright side, Flynn noted, was he would no longer have to pay Sally's medical bills.

That nursing supervisor had been right. The letters told the reader a great deal about Art Flynn. His own words portrayed him as a decent, positive person, not one to commit suicide or duck his responsibilities. I felt convinced Art had been murdered or hijacked, since he had no real reason to disappear. If he'd wanted to, he would have cleaned out his bank account.

I then discussed the case with Thompson. I pointed out that Bill Dollar, who'd been in a nearby site, had been seen taking the fishing rods out of Flynn's tent, but that had been a day after the missing man had left—or at least when his car had been gone. Thompson told me to contact the Sonoma County sheriff's office and determine who should take the lead in the questioning of Bill Dollar and his girlfriend.

I phoned that office and talked to the head homicide detective, a woman called Angie Haigh. Angie seemed pleased to be talking to a fellow female detective, and we soon got onto a first-name basis. I gave her a detailed discussion of the entire case, interrupted by her many questions. The issue was that Bill Dollar had committed a petty theft in Sonoma County, and he may have been involved in Flynn's disappearance. Angie said that since Dollar lived in Carson, much closer to San Diego than Santa Rosa, it would be helpful if we continued the case as a missing person investigation. 'If you find Flynn's missing car or convincing evidence he has been murdered in our county, let me know, and we will take over the investigation," she remarked in parting.

After the phone conversation, Thompson called me back to his office on an urgent matter. He explained there had been the shooting death of a Chinese student studying at San Marcos State University. "The community is in an uproar about it," he said. "The State Department is involved and wants the matter resolved as quickly as possible to avoid a diplomatic row, since the student was the son of a party bigwig." He added as an afterthought, "I think you are putting too much effort into this missing man. Stealing those fishing rods is a matter of petty theft and likely unrelated to Flynn's disappearance. Avoiding paying alimony to his ex-wife is sufficient motivation for him to leave. At any rate, drop what you're doing and help Steve on this Chinese student case."

# CHAPTER 8

Steve Hall was junior to me; indeed, I'd mentored him when he'd first joined our homicide detail. Getting this case was a plum assignment for him, and I felt jealous. I did as Thompson asked by spending all weekend interviewing students and administrative staff at the university. The case did not take long to solve. A weapon was found with fingerprints that matched a fellow Chinese student, and Steve quickly made the arrest. The case made both national and local news. The San Diego Union newspaper reported Steve as the detective in charge, and I was disappointed not to find my name there also in such an important case. However, Steve made a point of thanking me effusively me for my assistance. I told him he would likely have a chance to reciprocate, and that did occur later.

Two days following the Chinese student murder, a major break in the Flynn case came in the form of a phone call from the sheriff substation in Compton, a city in Los Angeles County.

"That 2005 Camry car you reported missing has been found in our city. It's been stripped and is on concrete blocks. Do you need it for evidence, or do you just want us to send you a photograph so you can notify the owner?"

"We need it for evidence," I almost barked into the phone. "Please guard it. I will have our crew come up today to haul it away."

"Will do," said the officer. "Saves us the trouble of getting it moved to the junkyard... Let us know when you expect to arrive so I can notify the guard deputy."

Excited at this break, I called our evidence detail to get a hold of flatbed truck and additional staff to retrieve the abandoned car. I asked technicians from the forensics department to come with me. By one o'clock, the team had been assembled, and I notified the Compton sheriff. I drove my detective car ahead of the truck, encountering heavy traffic as usual on Highway 405 before turning north on Highway 710 to Compton. Compton is a depressing place once you're off the main streets. It is a poor community, its poverty evidenced by boarded-up buildings, graffiti on walls and fences, iron bars on housing windows, and unkempt streets on which dilapidated cars are parked.

We arrived at the car location, an abandoned industrial building with similar abandoned buildings as neighbors. The car, or rather its shell, lay in a semi-fenced parking lot off the street. It would have been found only by a law enforcement patrol of the area. We identified ourselves to the officer guarding the shell, who already knew we would be hauling it away for examination in San Diego County. Flynn's Camry lay in a sorry state on concrete blocks—no wheels, no engine, no transmission, no wiring harness, no floor mats, no front seats, and no radio. It was very dirty and covered in oily handprints. The forensics photographer started taking pictures of the vehicle and surroundings.

The guarding deputy, an older black man, introduced himself as Jake Foster. "I'm glad you're here to take this pile of junk off our hands. You're in luck it wasn't torched."

"When was it found?" I asked.

"A patrol car found it here six o'clock this morning."

"Do you know how long it's been here?"

"No. The first deputy rounded up some of the cracker heads smoking weed nearby and asked them what they knew. Of course they knew nothing."

"Have you looked inside the building?" I asked, pointing to it.

"Yes," Jake replied, "The place has been used for shooting up. It is strewn with hypodermic needles and trash. Some homeless people are living there. They know nothing about this car. I didn't expect them to."

We looked in the open trunk of the car and saw a reddish-brown stain on the carpet. Forensics technician Danny Chu took out a cotton swab, moistened it with water, and dabbed it on the stain. "I'm using the Hemastix test," he said as he touched the swab against a reagent strip from his kit. The strip turned from yellow to a blueish green. "That stain contains blood," he announced, looking at me.

I was quite dismayed by Danny's finding. I had this picture of Flynn in my mind: a kindly man, one willing to help his neighbors, professional in dealing with his clients and co-workers, one disappointed in love but moving on nevertheless, a man who did not deserve to die. I clung to the notion the blood might be from another person. We would need Flynn's DNA to find out.

Jake, watching over his shoulder, asked, "Who does the car belong to?"

"A missing man," I told him.

"This is not a good place to go missing," said Jake.

"Has anyone canvassed the area to find when the car arrived here?"

"Not to my knowledge. But Detective, I will be happy to go with you to knock on a few doors of the neighborhood while your team works here."

I thanked Jake and said a walkabout would be helpful. We walked three hundred yards and then turned a corner onto a street populated by a mixture of vacant lots and rundown houses. We chatted as we went. Jake, an army veteran, said he was fifty-eight and planned to retire next year.

"This is a tough neighborhood," he added. "I grew up here, so I should know. Going into the army was the best thing that happened to me. Otherwise, I would be like many of the kids I grew up with—incarcerated, drug addicted, or working at menial jobs with such long commutes to work they could never spend time with their wives, girlfriends, or their kids. You might meet some of them when we knock on doors."

I knocked on the door of the first house since the doorbell did not work. Nobody came to the door. "They know we're here," said Jake. "They are too scared to speak to a man in uniform." We knocked on several more doors. One Afro-American woman came to the door and told us that she knew nothing before we even got to ask her about the car shell. At another home, another black woman came to the door with two small children in tow. They clung to her tightly. "Look, ma'am," she said, "I don't go down that street, and I won't let my kids go there either. It's not safe. We all know that, so we know nothing. Even if we knew something, we would still know nothing."

I knocked on the doors of a few more houses with similar, negative results. I then saw two men peering over the fence one hundred yards from where we stood. "We don't have enough muscle here," said Jake, wheeling abruptly and turning me around at the same time. He grasped my arm to retrace our path at a slightly faster pace. I was irritated at being impelled to move, but I was glad Jake felt my security was important to him.

"I'll have to ask your sergeant if he could canvas the area properly," I said. "I really do need to know when this car arrived here since I want to track this missing man."

"I think you'll have to get your own team to do that," said Jake. We're too busy in this town to solve your San Diego problems. You can ask him, of course." He paused before adding, "The car may have been abandoned elsewhere before it arrived here, an easy place for dismantling."

It was an acute observation, and I thanked him. "I hope you'll come up this way again," he remarked. "Let me know if you do; it would be nice to see you."

Gracious! He's making a pass at me. No thanks. Celibacy and singlehood are fine with me, but it's nice to know a man still finds me attractive.

When we returned, the Camry shell had been winched onto the flatbed trailer and tied down. I thanked Jake for his help and left my business card with him in case he was able to determine when the car had arrived at that location. I also called the area detective at the Compton sheriff's station to see if he had informants who might know when the Camry had arrived in that city.

"A little money might help," said the detective.

"I'm sure we can spring some for reliable info," I told him.

I noticed our CID address had changed to Cop St. when I drove to work the next day. It suited my mood; I was making real progress in finding out what had happened to Flynn. I called Mary Smith and told her an evidence team would be over that day, and I asked her to let us in so we did not have to force entry. Mary immediately grasped the significance of the evidence team. "Oh my God," she said, "is Art hurt? Have you found him?"

One does not give information out on the progress of an investigation, so I merely replied we had not yet found Flynn.

That afternoon, I parked my car in the driveway of Flynn's mobile home. As I got out, I saw the ginger cat on the windowsill of the rear bedroom of the neighboring home. It stared at me, malevolently, I thought, as though to say, "You shouldn't have brushed me off." I heard Mr. Smith cough wheezily, and as if on cue, the cat jumped off the windowsill. Danny and his forensic team parked on the other side of the road. The neighbor with the sour face came out to remonstrate against Danny's parked vehicle. Danny ignored him. Mary Smith saw me and came out to open the door for us. I showed her my search warrant as a formality and told her to return to her home while we searched Flynn's unit.

"I moved the cat, its litter box, and supplies into my home," she said. "It made it simpler to take care of Ginger. I hope you don't mind."

"That's a sensible thing for you to do. I need your key to Flynn's home, and you cannot enter it again, since we need to seal it for evidence. I will also need your fingerprints since you have frequented the home."

As Mary produced the key, I asked, "Has your husband or any neighbor been in Mr. Flynn's home since he left?"

"No. This is the only key, and I've been the only one in Art's house."

The forensics team and I entered the Flynn mobile home. "My, this place is immaculate for a bachelor," said Danny. I explained to him that Flynn had paid his neighbor to clean his home thoroughly and told him why. "She did a great job," he commented, "but made my task harder." I told Danny we knew Flynn had arrived safely at the Russian River camp. "You should get someone to check for bloodstains at the site," he said.

Danny's team went around the home, taking fingerprints and gathering objects that Flynn might have been handled, clothes from the chest of drawers, and toiletries from the bathroom. At my direction, they went through Flynn's files and took all personal papers, including his birth and marriage certificates, his divorce papers, and the titles to his car and mobile home. They gathered his car and life insurance policies and his trust documents and bagged all his mail. I told them to take his two-drawer filing cabinet so that I could look over his business transactions later. Maybe we could discern a disgruntled seller or buyer in the documents. They finished by hauling Flynn's tower computer away and sealing the two entrances to the mobile home. I then had Danny come over to the Smith residence and take Mary's fingerprints before he and his evidence team left. I remained to question Mary.

"Let me ask you again if Art had any enemies?" I asked her.

"I really can't think of anybody," she replied. Larry Swift, Marge, and Bert Swanson may have had their reasons for disliking Art or treating him poorly, but that doesn't rise to the category of enemies. Why do you ask? Do you know or suspect if anything has happened to Art?" A note of alarm came into her voice.

"We don't know. We are simply gathering evidence," I responded as neutrally as I could.

Mary paused before she spoke. "I don't know if it has any bearing on what you are looking for, but on the Tuesday before Art left, there was a problem in his mobile home." I stared at her. She continued. "I had been grocery shopping and returned to find Ginger meowing very loudly and scratching at Art's back door. I opened it to find the home full of gas. The leak was in the connector to the stove. I turned the gas valve off and opened the doors and windows to air the place out. Then I called Art, and he came home. We had a heck of a job trying to catch Ginger, who fled when I opened the door."

"What did Art say about this?"

"He was quite nonchalant about it. He thanked me for saving Ginger and for preventing an explosion and fire. He looked at the gas connector and said it had probably cracked from wear after the stove had been pulled back and forth for cleaning."

"And then?"

"Nothing. He just replaced it as though nothing had happened."

I went into the shed and looked in the waste bucket. There lay the damaged gas connector. I picked it out with my gloved hands and put it in an evidence bag.

"Please keep me informed if you hear anything about Art," Mary said plaintively as we left.

I called Tom Small to tell him we needed to pick up Flynn's tent and demurred when he asked why. The case had become much more serious, and the tent might be a significant piece of evidence. I phoned the Sonoma County sheriff's office and informed Angie Haigh that the missing person's car had been recovered and bloodstains had been found in its trunk. I asked her to get the tent from the fishing camp and ship it to us so that our department would be the depository for all evidence on the case. Angie asked if we thought Flynn had been murdered and if it was in her county. I gave her an "I don't know" to both questions, and she sounded relieved. I also asked her to check the R1 site in case there was any evidence of blood there. She pointed out that any blood found at the site would be inadmissible as evidence since the site had since been subsequently occupied. Nevertheless, she agreed to have it done. I also asked her to get the fingerprints of everybody who'd handled the tent.

I did a background check on Bill Dollar and Alisha Johnson, who apparently lived together in Carson, a city adjacent to Compton near where Flynn's car was found. Alisha worked as a dental technician in nearby Lakewood and had a clean record. Bill worked as a mechanic in an auto garage in Compton. He had been convicted of petty theft five years earlier and had done community service as punishment. The file noted he had been suspected of car theft, possibly for a chop shop, where the vehicles are stripped for parts. This background comported with the loss of parts from Flynn's Camry. The question in my mind was: if they had been involved in killing Flynn and driving his car to Compton, how did they do it, since they left the day after Flynn's car disappeared?

# CHAPTER 9

Danny called me to say he had analyzed the items from Flynn's tent that I had taken from Watson. There was no blood on any of them. He said he would get back to me in a few days about whether the blood in the Camry shell was Flynn's. He said he would need Flynn's fingerprints, which would be on file with the Department of Real Estate (DRE). I sent off a request to the DRE for Flynn's fingerprints before I briefed Thompson to tell him of the status in the investigation of the missing man. I told him we had found Flynn's car stripped in Compton and with a bloodlike stain in its trunk.

"And you didn't want to take his missing person case," he jeered. "It's turned out quite interesting, hasn't it?"

I did not reply but raised my third finger behind his back. On the treadmill that evening, I kept thinking about the case and trying to make sense of what I had learned. Danny hadn't called me about any match between the DNA of the trunk biomaterial and the DNA taken from Flynn's mobile home, so I speculated as I trotted. If there was a match, then it meant Flynn had been injured or murdered. I would be looking at the missing man's neighbors at the fishing camp as possible suspects. I thought it unlikely that people with vehicles connected to utilities to the west of the camping sites could be responsible. His camping neighbors were much more likely. The only people who'd left the same day Flynn had disappeared were the Browns in site R2, an elderly couple, according to Tom Small, incapable of overpowering Flynn. My most likely suspects were those who took Flynn's belongings. Watson was not strong enough to overpower Flynn, and he had left four days later. Dollar and his girlfriend were capable of overpowering Flynn, but they had gone home a day after Flynn's car had left the park. And the Mason couple, whoever they were, had left after Dollar and Johnson. Since Dollar and Johnson lived within ten miles of where the car was found, they were the obvious suspects. The question, then, was how had Dollar and Johnson carried out this assault? Was it possible they'd murdered Flynn in his tent? Not likely, since no blood had been found on the cot or other tent contents. I would need to see if there was any on the tent that had just been delivered to the forensics department. It was more likely that they'd chloroformed him while he'd slept, killed him later, and left his dead body in the trunk of his car. That would have meant his body had been stashed in the trunk of the car for over a day in the heat of mid-September. Or they could have stuffed him in a body bag, kept him in their van, and transferred him to his car later. That thought led to the notion that perhaps they'd lured him into their Ford van by offering him a drink. I continued speculating until I went to bed,

The next day, I asked Danny Chu if the smell of a freshly dead body left in a car trunk might not be noticed until after thirty hours. Danny gave me a lecture on the decay of a body and how the bacteria inside consume it in the absence of oxygen. I finally got him to say that if the temperature were not too hot and the trunk were well sealed, the smell of decay might well not be noticeable at the thirty-hour mark. Furthermore, if the body was in a sealed body bag, the smell would be considerably reduced. He then added his Parthian shot. It would get quite hot inside the trunk of Flynn's black car since black absorbs heat better than white. Perhaps Dollar and Johnson had stashed the car at a less noticeable spot, even outside the park. But why would they have wanted to take that risk? It would have made more sense if one of them had driven Flynn's car away Sunday night.

I suddenly remembered Bill Dollar saying that Flynn "had left before I did," not before We did. I also remembered Watson saying that he had not seen Alisha Johnson fishing. I phoned him. "Do you remember seeing Dollar's girlfriend on Monday, the day you remember that Flynn left?"

Watson replied that he'd seen so little of her that he could not remember whether he'd seen her that day or not. I called Tom Small at the camp and asked him the same question. He brought Terry over and put me on speaker phone.

"Did Dollar's girlfriend come with him into the office on the day he left, that Tuesday?" I asked.

"No, she did not, and I didn't see her in the passenger side of the van," he replied.

"Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely. She's a very good-looking woman. I noticed her especially when they came in, and I was looking to see her when Dollar checked out."

"Can you tell me anything more about the two of them?"

"They were here last year," said Terry. "Dollar got quite nasty with a waitress in the camp cafeteria and reduced her to tears over something to do with the meal. He also complained about somebody's dog. This year, he claimed very belligerently about racial slurs he said Mr. Wellhouse had made against him. Dollar isn't a nice person. I don't know why his woman puts up with him when, with her looks, she could attract a much better man."

"Do you have any closed-circuit television cameras that view the comings and goings of people on the site?"

"We only have ones to monitor the entrance and exit to the water slide," Terry replied.

"That's to make sure that they all pay to get in and to ensure those who behave like hooligans are asked to leave," Tom interjected.

"Do any of those monitors view the parking lot for that water slide?"

"Only partially," replied Tom.

"Would you know if anybody left their vehicle overnight there?" I asked.

"Many of them do," replied Tom. "Some motor homes tow cars behind them and find themselves in sites where their towed cars would protrude into the access road. So, the drivers undo them and park them in the front parking lot."

"So, cars and trucks being parked overnight in that front lot would not be unusual?" I asked.

"No, it wouldn't be unusual, nor would we care," replied Tom.

This discussion, at least, made my hypothesis of Flynn's car being left at the front all day Monday and being picked up Tuesday morning more plausible. I asked Tom to send me the recorded video from the CCTV for September 13th through the 16th, i.e. the Saturday though the Tuesday.

"I'll check to see if we have that period. The records are automatically deleted after about thirty days." replied Tom.

I called Mrs. Wellhouse, and she could not remember whether or not she saw Alisha on the Monday or the Tuesday. I called John Schmitz of site R2 and Roger Harrison of site R5. Neither of them could remember seeing or not seeing Alisha Johnson on either day. My theory Johnson had driven Flynn's car to Compton on the Monday gathered weight. It would sure help if I knew when that car had arrived in Compton. I called the Compton sergeant to see if he'd had any success in getting locals to tell him about the stripped Camry. He gave me a negative. I needed to question Dollar and his girlfriend. I couldn't arrest them for stealing the fishing rods; a petty theft would not justify an arrest. Moreover, that would be in the jurisdiction of Sonoma County. I would need to arrest them and search their apartment only if there was a real suspicion of murder. I would have to wait until forensics reported on the stains in the Camry trunk. Tom Small called me to report, unfortunately, that the CCTV records for the pertinent period had been purged.

Two days later came the news I was looking for. "I have confirmed there was blood in the trunk of the Camry, and its DNA matches the DNA samples we took from Flynn's mobile home," reported Danny Chu. "There was dried fecal matter there also."

"And the significance of that?" I asked.

"When a person dies," Danny replied, "the anal and urinary sphincter muscles relax, and body waste seeps out."

"You're telling me there was a dead body in that car and it was almost certainly our missing man Flynn?" I asked.

"That's right. I should also tell you that we did not find any blood in the interior or exterior of Flynn's tent."

I asked Danny to send me the full report for my evidence file. His news saddened me. I had suspected Flynn might have been murdered, but had hoped this decent man might turn up at a hospital or at a resort with a new girlfriend. There was now good reason to arrest Dollar and his girlfriend. I called Angie Haigh at the Sonoma County Sheriff's office.

"Our forensics department has shown the DNA of biomaterial found in the trunk of the missing man's car matches that of Flynn," I told her. "Furthermore, dried body waste confirms a dead body was in that trunk. In essence, a murder was committed. However, no blood was found on Flynn's tent or its contents."

"Hm! The absence of blood on the tent and its contents makes it unclear where the murder took place," she replied.

"I think the murder took place at the fishing camp, and I suspect the couple, Johnson and Dollar, who stole the fishing rods from Flynn's tent. The problem is their van left the park the day after Flynn's car went out. I'm working on two possible theories. One is Flynn was killed Sunday night and driven away by Johnson that same night. The other is that Flynn's body was stashed in the van or his car, left in a convenient spot, and driven off by Johnson on the Tuesday."

"If the body was taken to Compton or dumped on the way there, then sending out cadaver dogs is a waste of time and resources."

"Do you want to get your unit involved?"

"Not at this time. The case against these suspects is weak."

"It has flaws," I conceded. "Angie, I would like to arrest them on suspicion of murder, but I want to check with you since Sonoma County would have jurisdictional responsibility for the murder if one of my two theories pans out."

"Shane, you simply don't know if this murder took place in my county. A great deal more evidence needs to be developed before I have my unit involved or bring this matter to the district attorney. Yes, I know these two are the obvious suspects, but the case against them is too weak to charge them for murder at this point. Furthermore, the argument that Dollar took the fishing rods because he thought the tent and its contents were abandoned is persuasive. You told me another camper also took stuff from the tent. So, I'm not going to go after the pair of them for stealing. Best get the fishing rods back to see if they give you more evidence. I suggest you continue investigating this as a missing person case and keep us posted as before."

I understood. Better for me to investigate a missing man who had been killed than for Angie to investigate a murder without a body. It implicitly recognized San Diego County had more resources than Sonoma County.

I discussed the issue with Thompson, and he agreed I should arrest Dollar and Johnson on suspicion of murder and prepare a warrant to search their apartment. I included Dollar's Ford van in the search warrant. "They could have killed Flynn and stuffed him in a body bag in their van," I told Thompson. The affidavit justifying the warrant was that Dollar camped close to the murdered man, had stolen his fishing gear, and lived near where Flynn's vehicle had been found, which was at great distance from the campsite. I got Robert Neill to review the warrant application and ran it down to a judge, where I had no trouble getting it issued. I then notified the Carson Sheriff's office about the warrant and said I would be in Carson the next day to arrest the two. I asked the sergeant in charge to let me question them at his office. He said he would make questioning rooms available and would send deputies to accompany me when I made the arrests. I arranged for Steve Hall to accompany me in the arrest and told him to pack an overnight bag in case we had to stay for another day. Steve said he would take the opportunity while there to visit his parents in Pasadena, so he took his car to Carson. I called Danny Chu to arrange for a forensics team to examine Dollar's van at the same time.

"If we find anything there, we will have to impound the vehicle and have it towed to San Diego for further analysis," he told me.

# CHAPTER 10

The city of Carson lay to the immediate southwest of Compton, so our route there was almost identical to that when we'd rescued Flynn's Camry. The traffic congestion remained the same—horrid. I showed my warrant to the sergeant at the sheriff's station, and he assigned a deputy to go with us. Steve and I drove our separate cars to Dollar and Johnson's apartment, which lay in an older two-story building a few blocks west of the 710 freeway. Nobody was home. We went to the office and introduced ourselves to the manager, an affable older black man called Albert. I showed him the warrant to search the apartment of William Dollar and Alisha Johnson. He did not seem unduly surprised. I asked to see their rental application, which he duly showed me. It gave their places of employment, prior rental history, names of relatives, credit references, and their cell phone numbers. I asked him for a copy, which he promptly made. I noted they had not listed their bank accounts.

"Do they pay their rent in cash?" I asked Albert.

"Oh no!" he replied. "It's too dangerous to take cash here. They and other tenants with no bank accounts pay rent with a money order."

He took us back to our suspects' apartment and opened it with his master key. The deputy stood outside as Albert, Steve, and I entered the unit. Albert asked what we were looking for. I politely told him it was a police matter, but the answer would have been that I was looking for cash and fishing rods. I found no loose cash in any drawers other than a few coins on a dressing table. But then I found a cheap safe bolted to the floor in the linen closet, well hidden by blankets. I phoned the Carson sheriff's office to see if they had a contract locksmith. They did and gave me his phone number. I called and was told one would arrive within forty minutes. Steve and I searched the apartment for the stolen fishing rods and for any other evidence that would tie the couple to Flynn. I asked Albert if the building had storage units for tenants, but his answer was negative. Albert offered to get us coffee from the manager's office, an offer which we accepted.

I asked Albert about his tenants. "Alisha is a good tenant...pays her rent on time...keeps to herself. She's been tenant here for three years. She's very fit...goes to the gym regularly... I'm not happy about the man she hooked up with a year ago, a troublemaker if I ever saw one. He has had several tangles with the neighbors. A few more, and I will have to ask them both to leave."

"Have you or any other tenant called the police on them?" I asked.

"No," replied Albert. "The tenants bring their complaints about him to me, and I have to talk to him." He sighed.

The locksmith arrived, and the safe was opened in less than five minutes. I paid the locksmith's bill with my business charge card, thinking his fee was outrageous. We found a stack of cash in the safe, nearly all in one-hundred-dollar bills, just like those said to be carried by Flynn. I put on latex gloves and counted the money out carefully in Albert's presence, not an easy process with gloves on. The cash totaled eight thousand nine hundred dollars, modestly less than the amount Flynn had had on him. I bagged it. Then I wrote a receipt, dated and signed it, and put it in the safe, which I locked. I thanked Albert for his help. Steve and I drove off with the patrol car following us to Alisha Johnson's place of employment, a modern dental office in Lakewood, a much more upscale community than Carson or Compton. Steve and I entered the office and, after identifying ourselves, told the receptionist we wished to speak to Alisha Johnson.

"She's working on a patient right at the moment," said the receptionist. "Could you wait until she's finished?"

"No, we can't wait," I said. "If you don't bring her to the front desk, then we will go in and fetch her."

The receptionist looked shocked. She stood up and disappeared into the interior of the dental practice. I could hear her talking to somebody. Two minutes later, she returned with a light-skinned Afro-American woman in her mid-twenties. Terry had not been exaggerating when he'd said she was beautiful. A woman sixty-eight inches tall, wearing a yellow top over black pants and displaying a very feminine figure, presented herself. I envied her regular features, smooth oval face, and short, wavy hair, unlike my crinkled curly mass. We identified ourselves as detectives from San Diego.

"Alisha Johnson," I said firmly, "You are under arrest for murder."

Alisha looked horrified, as did the receptionist. "What murder?" she blurted.

"The murder of Arthur Flynn at the Russian River fishing camp."

Alisha, clearly shaken, sat down on a customer bench, where shook her head and stated angrily, "I've murdered nobody. I don't know who you're talking about... I'm not saying any more without my attorney present."

Steve put handcuffs on her, and we put her in the back seat of my car. We then drove to Bill Dollar's auto garage, the patrol car and forensics van following us. The garage was actually one of several adjacent units specializing in auto essentials—engine, transmission, brakes, electrical, air conditioning, alignment, and body work, all with a single management office for customer service. We went to the management office and were escorted to the engine bay, where a strongly built, six-foot-tall black man was working under an elevated car.

"William Dollar," I said to the man.

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"I am Detective Notfarg, and I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Arthur Flynn."

Dollar stared at me, disbelief in his eyes. His shock turned to anger, and he yelled, "You guys are crazy! This is a goddamned trumped-up charge because you've nothing better to do." I motioned Steve to put handcuffs on the man, but Dollar stepped away, yelling, "You fuckers are just out to get me! I've murdered nobody, and I don't know who this damned Flynn person is."

"Mr. Dollar, surely you don't want to be charged with resisting arrest as well?" I said. The accompanying deputy in uniform stepped forward, and Dollar fully realized his presence. "Let me wipe the oil off my hands first and make a phone call," he said more calmly.

"No phone calls," said Steve and I simultaneously. Dollar ignored us and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket right after wiping his hands. The deputy and Steve grappled with him, removed the phone, and handcuffed him.

"You bastards!" yelled Dollar. "You won't even let me call my lawyer."

"You'll have an opportunity to call an attorney at the sheriff's station," I told him.

As we walked him to Steve's car, he saw Alisha in my car, and he yelled to her, "Geez, baby, I'm sorry about this! I'll get it straightened out."

I directed Danny Chu towards Dollar's nearby unlocked van. At the Carson office, I had them kept apart as they were fingerprinted and then placed in separate questioning rooms. I logged the forensic bag containing the cash into the sheriff's evidence room, as well as Dollar's cell phone. We decided to start our questioning with Alisha, clearly the more tractable of the two. I tried to make her feel at ease with us before giving her a Miranda warning and turning on the voice recorder. Alisha, clearly frightened, declined to open up and said she wanted to talk to a lawyer before speaking to us. We brought a phone to her and she promptly called her mother, explained where she was, and asked for help in getting an attorney. Steve and I turned our attention to Bill Dollar in the other questioning room. His posture and demeanor indicated he would never be comfortable with us, so we Mirandized him immediately and began questioning him with the voice recorder on. He declined to say anything without a lawyer present. We brought a phone to him also, and he made a call. I pointed out that if he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to worry about and it would facilitate his departure if he answered our questions. Dollar refused to talk.

Steve and I took off for lunch after leaving my phone number with the Carson office sergeant. We found a Soup Plantation restaurant nearby that conveniently let me serve myself a low-calorie salad. I don't like to eat a heavy lunch, since it makes me sleepy in the afternoon and adds to my already overweight body. Steve, on the other hand, being a man and being ten years younger than I, had no such qualms and came to the table with a heaped plate. I brought him up to date on the case, which I had been working on alone up to that point.

"I heard you tell Sergeant Thompson quite vigorously that it wasn't your turn for this missing person case two months ago," remarked Steve, grinning.

I grinned back. "You're right. I did. I didn't expect it to turn out this way," I responded. "I'm going to appreciate your help interviewing Bill Dollar. He is a good suspect, given his belligerence and finding cash in his safe that's about the same amount Flynn was carrying. Dollar is muscular, probably weighs about two hundred and ten pounds, and could easily overcome the smaller Flynn."

Steve commented, "But overpowering Flynn in the night would cause a racket that neighbors would hear unless he clubbed him."

"The trouble is we didn't find blood inside the tent or on any of the contents, including the sleeping bag and the cot. So, the clubbing theory is questionable," I said.

"Perhaps he was lured out," offered Steve. "Alisha is a really good-looking gal."

"Maybe. We'll have to see what we can get out of them when we question them."

Our conversation drifted to the personal. Steve told me he had graduated from the University of Colorado with a degree in political science. He'd then joined the navy and had served for eight years, rising to the rank of lieutenant. Part of his service had been in San Diego, where he'd come to love its climate and amenities. He'd resolved to work there after finishing his military service. He had trained at the San Diego Regional Law Enforcement Academy, as had I, and served with the San Diego police department before joining the county sheriff's department. He had become a detective three years ago and had been elevated into the homicide section a year ago. This was fast promotion and reflected recognition of his talents. Steve asked me about myself, and I gave him my background. Steve impressed me as a hardworking, ambitious man who would rise far in the sheriff's office in his career. He would also be easy to work with, unlike others in the department who had never been able to fully overcome innate prejudices against females or Afro-Americans.

"I was delighted to be assigned the Chinese student murder case," Steve added. "It was a feather in my cap that I was able to solve it quickly. I know you got the drudge work of interviewing potential witnesses, but I was very grateful you were there to help me. I have very much appreciated your looking over my shoulder in this detail... Let's hope that this case will go as well as the Chinese student one."

I said that would be nice but doubted the case would move quickly.

Danny Chu called in the early afternoon to say he had conducted tests for blood inside and outside of Dollar's van and found nothing. The fishing rods and reels he'd found in the van were modestly priced brands, not Flynn's expensive ones. He had taken fingerprints inside the van and would check if any of them were Flynn's after he had returned to San Diego. By 3:30 p.m., we had not heard about an attorney for our two suspects, so I told Steve to take off to visit his parents. At six p.m., a Mr. Moorish called me saying he would be the attorney representing Ms. Johnson and Mr. Dollar and would be at the Carson sheriff's station next day at nine o'clock. I told him we would be there to brief him, so he could talk to his clients before we interviewed them in his presence. I let Steve know. I found a room at a motel in nearby Lakewood and, after dinner, watched the movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a fantasy of a man who lived life backwards—from old to young. It made me wish I'd had the wisdom of my experience when I was young.

At the sheriff's station the next day, Roger Moorish turned out to be a white man in his fifties with a very professional manner. I gave him a quick summary of the case. Moorish made notes and said he would confer with his clients. Half an hour later, he came from the questioning rooms and told us his clients were innocent of the murder charges and would cooperate fully with us.

Again, we decided to question Alisha first. I asked her if she or Bill Dollar had approached Arthur Flynn that Sunday night.

"I never saw him," she replied. "I was at the park community center most of that Sunday, and Bill picked me up from there when it was dark. I only saw the man's pitched tent when we returned."

"So, Bill could have gone into Flynn's tent before he picked you up?" I suggested.

"You will have to ask Mr. Dollar that question," interrupted Moorish. "Ms. Johnson is not going to speculate."

"Did you drive Mr. Flynn's Camry away from the park?" I asked.

"I certainly did not," replied Alisha emphatically. "The guy's car was gone by Monday morning."

"But you weren't in the van when Bill drove out on Tuesday," I asked.

"I certainly was in the van. I was lying down in the back since I was feeling so crappy."

"Can anyone verify you were at the park on the Monday or the Tuesday?"

"I saw lots of people at the center and the cafeteria. I am sure there's someone who will remember me."

"Did you talk to any of them?"

"Nobody in particular. I wasn't feeling very well, and I wanted to stay in an air-conditioned place instead of out in the open or in the van." Alisha paused before adding, "I couldn't have driven off in the guy's car, since Bill and I stopped off in Oakland to see my mother when we drove home on Tuesday."

I asked for the name, address, and phone number of her mother before continuing. "Where did Bill get the money that's in your safe?"

"The safe's not mine. Bill installed it. He puts money in there he gets from auto repairs he does on the side. He's saving for a new van."

"Did you know the money in the safe matched the amount the murdered man had and was in the same currency denomination?"

Alisha looked horrified by the question and took her time to reply. "Bill didn't murder anybody," she said emphatically. "He couldn't have done anything like that without my knowing about it... I don't know what Bill has in the safe. I don't know its combination, so I never go in there. I don't ask Bill. He pays his share of the rent and grocery money, and he takes good care of me." Her reply reminded me of the problem black women in her age bracket have with finding a reliable mate who has not been in jail and has a steady, decent-paying job. I asked Alisha to give us a description of what she was wearing on both those days and a description of some of the people she claimed had seen her.

# CHAPTER 11

Right after the interview, I phoned Alisha's mother, telling her I was a San Diego detective investigating a murder. I also told her I was recording our conversation before asking, "When did you last see your daughter?" making Mrs. Johnson come up with the date and time.

"I saw her when she returned from that camping expedition with Bill."

"What day and time was that?"

"I don't remember the day. She came in for a late breakfast."

"She...? Was she by herself?

"Yes. She knows I don't like her boyfriend and don't want him in my home. And now she's going to have a baby with him."

"So, where was he?'

"I don't know. I didn't ask."

We returned to question Alisha once more. "Your mother says that only you visited her that day. Where was Bill?"

"He dropped me off and went to a restaurant for breakfast. He doesn't like my mother."

"So, you or he could have been driving Flynn's Camry without your mother knowing?" interjected Steve.

"You don't have to respond to that," said Moorish, but Alisha responded anyway.

"Bill dropped me off in his van and picked me up an hour or so later."

I called Alisha's mother once more and asked her, "Did you see the vehicle Alisha came in?"

"No."

"When Bill picked up Alisha later that day, what vehicle was he driving?"

"It was a white van."

I told Mrs. Johnson she might be interviewed later in person.

"The alibi is hokey," said Steve. "Alisha could have picked up Flynn's car on the Tuesday and left it around the corner when she stopped off to see her mother."

I agreed. "Let's see what we get out of her boyfriend," I said as we went to interview Bill Dollar. We faced a very angry man in that second questioning room, a man who had not listened to his attorney, who would have surely told him not to volunteer anything and respond only to the questions asked.

"I'm going to sue you SOBs for arresting me," he growled as we sat down. "You've no right to search my home and steal my money."

"We had a search warrant, as your attorney knows," I replied before asking him, "What did you do with the fishing rods you stole from Mr. Flynn's tent?"

"I didn't steal them. The guy had abandoned them."

"What did you do with them?"

Dollar replied he had sold them on Craigslist. I asked for and received details of the buyer and the transaction. "Did you enter Flynn's tent in the night and kill him?"

"I didn't touch the man. His car was gone by Monday morning, and he didn't come back for his stuff."

Steve, playing hardball, interposed: "We found blood in the tent and matching stains in your van. We believe you killed him and had Alisha drive his car to Compton."

Dollar yelled, "That's bullshit, you fucking liars! I never touched the man. Alisha was with me every day until we left on Tuesday. Besides, we saw her mother in Oakland on the way home... I also made a pit stop at the gas station on Highway 5...near Cactus Creek, I think it was. They probably have cameras that'll show we were there, since we used the washroom and bought hamburgers."

"We'll look into it... Did you pay there with a charge card or with cash?'

"I always pay gas stations in cash. It's cheaper."

I paused before changing the subject. "Where did you get the money in your safe?"

"I fucking earned it. I repair cars on the side. And I damn well want my money back when I get out of here."

"And you get paid only in hundred-dollar bills?" I asked, my voice expressing disbelief.

Dollar hesitated. "I make change for guys who pay me that way. I don't ask them questions."

"You'll need to give us the names of some of those guys and the amount they paid you to confirm the source of the money."

Dollar looked at his attorney, who did not respond.

We got nothing useful further from Dollar, so we terminated the interview and had him taken back to jail.

Roger Moorish asked us, "Is it true you found blood in Mr. Dollar's van?"

"No," I replied. "We examined it yesterday and found nothing except your client's fishing rods."

"I thought it to be a trick question." He took a deep breath. "I think I can get Mr. Dollar to give us some of the names of his customers. I suspect some of them use their vehicles for illegal activities. That would explain his reluctance to speak on the matter."

I thanked him and told him we hadn't found anybody at the site who saw Johnson on the campgrounds that Monday or Tuesday.

Moorish responded, "Monday is irrelevant since Ms. Johnson could not have had time to drive the car to Compton and return to visit her mother in Oakland three hundred miles to the north."

"Perhaps," I replied, "but you know we view alibis from close relatives with suspicion... Johnson could have been offsite with Flynn's car on Monday and still visited her mother the next day."

"Detective, no jury would believe Ms. Johnson drove the Camry with the dead man inside it and parked it around the corner when she visited her mother."

"Weird things like that do happen," said Steve.

Moorish stared at us at length before saying, this time in a very firm manner, "You haven't tried hard enough to find people at the campsite who can confirm Ms. Johnson's presence on both days. I understand there are closed-circuit television cameras at the site. Surely, you would have looked at these and confirmed Ms. Johnson being there on those days."

"The camp CCTV records were purged before we could examine them," I replied.

Moorish stroked his chin. "You are really suggesting Mr. Flynn's body was left overnight somewhere and put in his trunk and transported away on Tuesday. That's a very far-fetched theory. The smell from the decaying dead body would have been readily noticed."

"The smell from Flynn's dead body could very well escape notice in the sealed trunk of his car for a period up to thirty hours, especially if it had been placed in a sealed body bag."

"You are stretching to charge Mr. Dollar and Ms. Johnson here," said Moorish. "You are doing this only because Mr. Dollar took the abandoned fishing rods from the missing man's tent and because you found money in Mr. Dollar's safe that roughly matches in quantity and quality what the dead man was carrying."

I ignored the truth of this statement. "And also because your clients live near where Flynn's car was found, at a very substantial distance from the fishing camp."

"My client believes that the tent and its contents had been abandoned. At best, you may only charge him for petty theft, a misdemeanor. Also, Mr. Dollar is willing to make restitution to the owner if you are unable to recover the fishing rods."

"I must recover them as evidence."

Moorish changed the subject. "Ms. Notfarg, what have you done to eliminate all other the nearby campers as suspects?"

"Your clients are the obvious suspects for the reasons I have outlined. Having cash in their safe of that quantity, mostly in one-hundred-dollar bills, which roughly matches what the murdered man had on him, is very suspicious."

"Ms. Notfarg, you have not answered my question."

"We have eliminated all other suspects except one couple we are still investigating."

"Hm. I understand you are acting here in the investigation of a missing person. If there was a murder, and you allege it took place at the fishing camp, then Sonoma County would have jurisdiction. At this point in time, you do not have a body, only the suspicion that a murder took place. Mr. Flynn might have decided to take a long vacation, and the blood in the car may have come from a minor injury. In addition, the alleged theft of fishing rods took place in Sonoma County, so you, a San Diego detective, cannot cite or arrest my clients on that matter." Moorish looked at me as though expecting me to rebut him. I said nothing, and he continued. "Given that you do not have jurisdiction on the matter, I want my clients released and their funds returned to them."

I told him I would first discuss the matter with the Sonoma County sheriff and left him to phone Angie Haigh, with Steve listening in. I gave her a synopsis of the interviews and told her about the money we had found in Dollar's safe. "That cash is certainly suspicious," Angie commented, "but leaving a dead body in the car and driving it around the next day is very unlikely."

"I agree. It would help if you would have a detective interview Johnson's mother in person to see if that alibi holds up."

Angie said she would arrange that before stating, "The case against the two of them isn't strong enough for us to take it over. If you find Flynn's fingerprints inside Dollar's van or on that bundle of cash, the case becomes much stronger. I think you should let them both go while you develop more evidence and work on eliminating that Mason couple."

We returned to Moorish and told him the Sonoma County Sheriff's office had recommended the release of his clients. I told him Dollar's cash would be returned only after forensics had examined it. Johnson and Dollar were then brought back into the room, and Moorish spoke to them. I then formally unarrested them under section 859B of the legal code.

Dollar said, his voice raised in anger, "So, when am I going to get my damned money back?"

"Forensics is to examine it; that should probably take about two weeks," I replied. Dollar appeared startled at my reply and complained no further.

Moorish gave me a sheet of paper on which Alisha had written down alibi-supporting data. I told him we would work on that data and get back to him. Steve drove back to San Diego while I stayed to see if I could recover the fishing rods. I phoned the Craigslist purchaser, and a woman responded. I explained I was a detective from San Diego investigating a missing person whose fishing rods had been stolen.

The woman sounded scared. "I told Tommy that it was a mistake to buy those rods, but he said it was such a good deal. I'll have him call you as soon as he gets home, around ten p.m."

I gave her my cell phone number and drove to my hotel in Lakewood, since I did not want to drive back to San Diego that late at night. The motel had a small gym, so I put on running shorts and a sports bra and hopped on a treadmill.

A good day, I thought as I jogged at my usual pace. The case had moved along. I had questioned two possible murder suspects in possession of unexplained cash. The Carson sheriff area detective suggested it might be illicit drug money and planned to contact the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) to see if they had any leads on Dollar as a distributor. If they had such leads, then they would partner with the DEA in the confiscation of those funds. In my mind, I went through other possible suspects. I reckoned that it might take two persons to silently overcome Flynn, a man in good physical shape. In addition, I could only consider campers who'd left just before or just after Flynn's car had left the camping site. In my mind, I went through Tom Small's list again. If Dollar and Johnson were eliminated, that only left Mason, on whom I had almost zero information. Tommy, the purchaser of the stolen fishing rods, called, and I had him bring the fishing rods to me at the motel.

In the morning, I went to the Carson Sheriff office to get Dollar's cash from the evidence room. I ran into considerable resistance there. They had been instructed not to release it to me. I had to call Sergeant Thompson and Robert Neill to convince them to release the funds as evidence in a murder case. They demanded I sign a conditional receipt that the funds were to be returned to them after forensic examination if the murder charge was dropped. I had no interest in being Dollar's advocate for the return of those funds. As a courtesy to a true legal professional, I telephoned Roger Moorish and explained the Carson office claim.

Back in San Diego, I went straight to the forensics department and dropped off Dollar's cash and Flynn's fishing rods. I asked the forensic technician to check for blood and fingerprints on the rods. I was very curious to see if Alisha Johnson's prints were on the fishing rods. If they were, it meant she was an accessory in their theft and a liar, since she had claimed no involvement. Danny Chu came out of his office with a stack of papers in his hand.

"I looked over Flynn's computer and found a whole bunch of letters he had written to his mother," he said. "I thought you might be interested in them."

"I received copies from the nursing home, "I replied, "so I don't need to read them." I paused. "Why didn't I see them when I looked through Flynn's computer, though?"

"Because they were not written in the most frequently used software, Word," replied Danny. "They were written with WordPerfect software instead, which had somehow become corrupted." He waved his hand at me. "I also found this letter written with that software, which you will find far more important." He handed it to me.

Flynn had written a letter to the DEA in which he claimed that Larry Swift was a money launderer. He said he had been jogging in the Palomar Park around eight o'clock as part of his daily exercise when he saw the manager, Bert Swanson, enter a vacant mobile home, one that he, Flynn, had listed for sale. He was surprised at this action so early in the morning, but he didn't wait to see Bert exit the home.

He thought as he jogged that perhaps Bert had a customer who had inquired about some interior aspect of the unit not described in the listing. Perhaps he could help. After completing his run, he stopped at the park office, not normally open at that time, but open that day. Flynn entered and, with no receptionist present, found Swanson in the back office taking out money from a plastic bag containing a huge stack of cash. Both stared at each other. Swanson finally muttered that he had a customer who wanted to buy a home for cash and he was counting out the funds. "Was that for my listing?" asked Flynn, "and was that why you went inside it so early this morning?" Swanson muttered that the customer and the home he wanted were none of Flynn's business. Swanson got up and escorted Flynn out of the office, and then locked himself inside. The incident took place on September 5, 2008. The letter was dated Wednesday, September 10, four days before Flynn had left for the Russian River fishing camp.

"Wow! This does put a whole new light on things," I told Danny. "This is so important that I'm taking it to Sergeant Thompson right away."

Thompson was busy talking in a closed office to somebody else, so an hour passed before I was able to see him. I briefed him on the progress on the missing Flynn case and then produced the dead man's letter.

After he read it, he said, "Do you think this is a genuine complaint or merely sour grapes, given that Larry Swift took his wife and denied him access to that little girl, Sally?"

I told him I didn't know but that we should talk to the DEA, to whom the letter was addressed.

"There may be a lot of assets we can seize if there is indeed money laundering," Thompson remarked. "I'll get in touch with the DEA and get back to you."

# CHAPTER 12

Danny called me a day later. "I've looked at fingerprints on the damaged gas connector you recovered from the waste bin in Flynn's shed. In addition to Flynn's and Mrs. Smith's fingerprints, I found a partial thumbprint that, with a seventy percent confidence factor, matched the prints of a Joseph Bailey, a felon with a history."

My head shot up at the news, and a "Wow!" came out of my mouth. "This certainly puts a new light on things!" I exclaimed.

I began to speculate. Perhaps that had been no accident. Perhaps Bailey had been ordered to kill Flynn by exploding his mobile home. What a disaster that would have been. It could have injured many of the neighbors had there been an explosion. It displayed callousness for life I found unsettling. I pulled Bailey's file from the criminal record base. The man had been in and out of prison for half of his adult years. Assault, drug dealing, and extortion had all been charged against him. In many cases, he had not been convicted. Intimidated witnesses and corrupted jury members, leading to hung juries, had been suspected. Bailey was also suspected of killing two men believed to be drug dealers. I looked at his photograph, taken ten years earlier, the last time he had been charged. It showed a big, heavily built man with dark hair and a scowl on his face. I promptly telephoned Mrs. Brown of site R2 and told her I would be visiting her next morning at her home in Riverside, a town one hundred miles north of our office. I prepared a photo mug shot array that included the ten-year-old one of Bailey and prepared for my trip.

I left my home at seven a.m. the next morning and drove to Riverside up Highway 15, thankful the heavy traffic was in the reverse direction. Mrs. Brown's home, a house built in the early sixties to accommodate overflow from Los Angeles, lay in a suburb of the town. Its front was comprised of a flat bed of yellow stones interspersed with cacti, perfect for minimal water use and minimal gardening by the elderly owners of the home. I was welcomed by Mrs. Brown, a woman of seventy with short white hair, whose quick steps and demeanor told me who wore the pants in her family. She offered me coffee after introducing her husband, an even older man who constantly deferred to his wife. I pulled the mug shot lineup from my briefcase and sipped my coffee, asking the couple to look at the photos carefully. "I think it's number five," said Mrs. Brown, pointing to Bailey's photo. Her husband concurred.

Not the best confirmation of identity. "Think?" I asked.

"It certainly looks like him," said my hostess, "but your picture shows a much younger man. I don't think I would want to swear that he was the one in court."

I'll need to do the photo lineup with other campers to get an identification of Bailey that can face challenge. I did not press them further but asked if they could remember anything about Bailey's companion or the car they were driving. They described Bailey's companion, Mason, with a little more detail than before—a stocky man with the build of a weightlifter, about seventy inches tall, in his mid-thirties, with reddish-blonde hair. He had a small mustache and had been wearing sunglasses on the two occasions they'd seen him.

When I returned to the office, I called Angie Haigh in Sonoma and arranged for her office to show the mug shot array to the Wellhouses, who lived in nearby San Francisco. I also asked her to check with Celeste Wellhouse to see if she'd seen Alisha Johnson that Monday or Tuesday. The next day, I visited William Watson again for the same purpose. He gave me a tentative identification of Bailey from the mug shot array but could not remember seeing Alisha that Monday or Tuesday.

Thompson informed me he had set up a meeting with the DEA office on Monday at ten o'clock. He told me to bring all my notes on the case and be prepared to answer any questions they might have. He said Steve was to come as well since he had participated in the interview of Dollar and Johnson. I didn't think Steve's presence was necessary and saw it more as mere favoritism. I certainly didn't want Steve to take over my case.

I went home that Friday thinking that the investigation of the missing man had made significant progress. We had found Flynn's car. We had ascertained it had contained his dead body. We had suspects for his murder. We had found two motivations for his killing—theft of his cash and eliminating him as a witness. Lots of questions remained. Was the claimed visit to Johnson's mother in Oakland truthful? Could we find witnesses to Johnson being together with Dollar on the Tuesday, since that would eliminate them as suspects? Why was Bill fearful about the examination of his cash? Who were the Mason couple who'd taken the space that Flynn had booked? Was one of them really the murderous Bailey, and had they been sent to kill Flynn? If that were the case, then how had they conducted the murder given they had left the camp after Dollar and Johnson? Were these two couples possibly in cahoots with each other? I had lots of work to do to answer these questions. I just wished I knew when the missing man's car had been dumped in Compton.

The DEA office is located in downtown San Diego, about six miles from our CID office. We parked our car in courthouse space reserved for law enforcement officers. I pitied the poor witnesses and litigants who had to park in private parking lots at fees of fourteen dollars for a minimum of ten hours. I remarked that parking costs were outrageous. Thompson told me that the parking costs and shortages were due in part to a misguided city council decision in the seventies to not demand from developers adequate underground parking for their tenants. The idea had been to encourage people to use public transportation. But then the council had done little to increase public transportation proportionately.

"You think that cost is outrageous," he added, "wait till you go to central New York City, where they'll charge you that much for just an hour."

We bypassed security at the DEA office and were ushered into a conference room where sat a forty-year old man dressed in a gray suit with a noticeable bright-blue tie. He stood up and introduced himself as Drew Ryan, an assistant to his boss, Joseph Jackson, who was finishing up another meeting. Drew asked if we would like coffee. We both declined. We made small talk about the San Diego weather, the absence of rain, and local politics for ten minutes, until Drew's boss walked into the room.

"My name is Joseph Jackson," he said in a booming New Jersey-accented voice that spoke of authority. "I'm sorry I'm late," he added as he shook our hands.

Actually, he squeezed our hands very tightly, and both Steve and I winced. I have met other men who have crushing grips and do so to show masculinity and control. It does not impress me. When he asked if we had been offered coffee, I made my point by saying tartly, "I couldn't hold a cup now after that grip."

Drew Ryan winked at me. Steve smiled. My remark did not seem to faze Jackson, a large, sixty-year old white man, well over six feet tall, with a protruding belly. Instead, he focused his words on Thompson. "I want to let you know our take on the letter your Mr. Flynn wrote us. Drew here will tell you about it."

Drew said, "We tried phoning Flynn right after we got the letter but could not make contact. I then went to his mobile home, but he was not there. Nor was there a car in his driveway. I then went to the park manager's office and talked to..." He looked at his notes. "Bert Swanson, the man Flynn stated was counting a large quantity of cash. Swanson said Flynn was paranoid, overcome with rage and jealousy at being divorced by his wife, who was now living with the owner of the park, Larry Swift, who happened to be Swanson's nephew. He said he knew Flynn had been made to pay alimony and had complained to several people about the unfairness of it all and had said he would get his revenge on Swift. He said he had no idea where Flynn had gone. The notion that Flynn had caught him counting a large quantity of money was pure fabrication."

"Did you talk to Flynn's immediate neighbor?" I asked. "She knew where Flynn had gone."

"I tried to," replied Drew, "but there was nobody home there either. There was no car in the adjacent driveway. I left my business card on the doors of both homes. I never got a call back." He paused. "I then turned my gaze on Mr. Swift. He is well known in the community, being on various charity boards, and is the owner of several well-established businesses with good reputations affirmed by the Better Business Bureau. He has a stellar reputation and no criminal or even misdemeanor record. I looked at the family court judgment of the Holmes divorce. It showed Flynn having to pay twelve hundred dollars alimony per month to his ex-wife and not being allowed to visit Marge Holmes's daughter. I interviewed Mr. Swift, who said he could understand why Mr. Flynn would be distraught. He said the man had become very attached to the little girl, Sally, and had expressed anger at not being given visitation rights. I and Mr. Jackson concluded the letter had been written out of spite, one of the many we get in this office." He nodded his head, indicating he had finished. As he spoke, I kept thinking how odd it was that Swift had not mentioned this prior DEA interview to me.

Jackson then said, "We are very interested in what you can bring to the table."

Thompson motioned me to speak. I told Jackson and Ryan that Flynn had gone missing at the Russian River camp and that his abandoned car had been found stripped in Compton. I told them forensics had analyzed residues in the trunk of that vehicle and concluded it had contained a dead body whose DNA matched that of the missing man. Thompson and Ryan interrupted me during this briefing to ask for supporting details.

"We have detained and questioned two nearby campers who had cash roughly matching what the dead man had on him. We are still examining that cash for DNA and fingerprints. They claim they could not have done the murder, since Flynn's car left a day before they did."

"Really," said Jackson.

"Yes. Flynn's car went out of the park before Monday morning. These campers' van left on Tuesday, apparently driven by just one of them. We think the other one, a woman, may have driven Flynn's car away the same day or the previous one. She claims she was in the back of her boyfriend's van when it left the camp."

"Do you know when Flynn's car arrived in Compton?" asked Ryan.

"No. We don't. The residents living near where the car was found are unwilling or fearful of cooperating with law enforcement. We doubt if we'll ever learn its arrival date and time."

"Anything else?"

"There was another pair of campers nearby, one of whom has been tentatively identified as a man called Bailey and who has a history of violence. His fingerprints, at a seventy percent confidence level, were found in Flynn's home, where we believe he attempted to explode the house."

"Really," said Ryan. "How did he do that?"

"By breaking a gas connector to the stove."

"Why aren't you concentrating on this other pair of campers if you think Bailey is one of them?"

"We have been unable to identify their car or the other man with Bailey. Also, their car left after the first pair of suspects did."

"So, you believe Flynn was murdered, but you don't know how or by who or where it was done, and you haven't found Flynn's body," said Jackson.

"That is correct," I replied slowly.

"Your theory is that the murder took place at or near the fishing camp. That would be in Sonoma County's jurisdiction. Have you discussed this with the sheriff there?"

"Yes. I have discussed the matter with homicide detective Angie Haigh at the Sonoma County sheriff's office. Since it is unclear where the murder took place, she is not prepared to take over the investigation or send out cadaver dogs. She suggested we pursue the case here as a missing person and keep her office posted."

Jackson stroked his chin before he said in a judgmental voice, his new Jersey accented voice grating on me, "I would tend to agree with her. You're a long way from charging either suspects with murder or conspiracy to commit murder, which would provide the justification for us to investigate Swift."

I did not like having our case taken apart and would have defended it, but Thompson took up the cause. "We believe strongly Flynn was murdered somehow at the fishing camp. We believe an attempt was made on his life by tampering with the gas in his home, and we believe these efforts were to stop him from giving evidence of money laundering."

"You don't have things very far along," said Jackson. "Flynn could have been hijacked on his return to San Marcos with all that cash on him. You say Bailey may have damaged the gas connector in Flynn's home. But there is a thirty percent chance that the fingerprint is not Bailey's, and a further chance that the connector failure was just due to wear. And you don't have a firm identification of Bailey at the campground."

Jackson looked at me as though expecting some rebuttal, but I had nothing to say, so he continued. "I appreciate your bringing us this information, and it certainly adds more validity to the letter Flynn wrote us. In my view, you haven't established a sufficient tie-in of Flynn's murder to money laundering by Swift. You need to figure out which of the two pairs of suspects could have murdered Flynn and how they accomplished that. Furthermore, you need to show the connection of these suspects to Swift's operations. Only then would I consider setting up a joint task force to investigate the alleged money laundering by Swift."

I could sense Thompson was crestfallen that the prize of seized assets had been put out of his reach. I thought Jackson's conclusions were logical. Thompson finished the conversation by saying, "We are convinced there is a tie-in, but understand your concerns. We will work hard to develop the evidence you need and hope to meet with you again when that is accomplished."

# CHAPTER 13

Thompson was not in a good mood when we got in the car. "Why the hell did you have to comment on his handgrip?"

"Harry, the man's an asshole to squeeze as hard as that," I replied. "Somebody needed to say something about it."

"And you, Shane, are the one, right?" There was no need to respond, so Thompson continued. "It probably set off Jackson against us."

"Well, Drew Ryan seemed to think my remark appropriate, since he winked at me," I said.

"Why did you have to emphasize that Flynn's car left the day before the other two cars did?" he said brusquely. "Why did you have to say Bailey's identification at the camp was tentative? You gave them a damn good excuse to stall investigating Swift. Don't you know how important seizure of drug money assets is to our budget?"

I have never liked Thompson. This tirade merely added to the reasons for disliking him. I replied forcefully, "I was perfectly truthful in there. I did not want to give the impression we were further along in our investigation than we were. You could have delayed meeting with the DEA until we developed more evidence."

Thompson did not like being challenged. "Damn it, Shane. How was I to know they had already dismissed Flynn's letter? They might have been pursuing Swift and his associates already."

He was right there, so I dropped the matter. Steve, sitting in the back, said nothing. I sensed his political acuteness. After a minute of silence, I asked Thompson a question on the issue he had raised. "How important are seized assets to our budget?"

"Damned important," he snarled. "Seized assets form an average of about twelve percent of our budget. The best thing about them is that we can do what we want with them without the County Board of Supervisors telling us otherwise. They allow us to more quickly update our fleet of cars...like this one for instance (a one-year-old Chevrolet SUV). They allow us to give laptop computers to all patrol men and to pay for their training to use them effectively. They allow us to keep our forensics department up to date with the latest technology and equipment."

"I understand we can seize these drug money assets before there is a conviction. Don't we have to give them back if the person is found not guilty?"

"Technically, yes. But we get guilty verdicts or pleas in the majority of cases, so it's a small percentage in that category. But these trials often take time, years in some cases, to reach a verdict. By then, the assets have been spent, so the perp has to sue us to get anything back. Most of them don't have the resources to sue us."

I noticed that Thompson had used the word "perp" to describe somebody found not guilty. "That doesn't seem fair," I said.

"Fairness is not the issue, Shane. People who are found not guilty are not necessarily innocent."

I had been to enough trials to remember every judge's instructions to the jury panel: "The accused is presumed innocent. You are not to assume that because he has been charged with a crime means he must be guilty of something." So, I asked Thompson, "Are you saying that it is fair to seize a person's assets and not return them if he is found not guilty?"

Thompson replied more deliberately and with less anger in his voice. "No. I'm not saying that. We don't charge a person unless we have good evidence to support the charge. In that sense, the district attorney protects the public by refusing to take the case to court unless he reasonably expects to have that person guilty as charged. He doesn't have the resources to take marginal cases to trial. That's when he negotiates pleas." He paused. "I don't have sympathy for people who sell illegal drugs. They get their customers addicted, which leads to health and social issues. You'd be surprised how many babies are taken away from their drug-addicted mothers. And those poor babies suffer so much as they are weaned off the addiction their mother has given them. That addiction leads to drug users resorting to robbery and fraud to obtain the funds to buy the drugs. The people who launder drug monies are no better in my mind. And those with plentiful assets hire top-floor lawyers to throw roadblocks in the trial, claiming entrapment or improperly obtained evidence. Just remember that if a man can't explain to the Internal Revenue Service or us where he got his money from, you can bet he obtained it illegally and doesn't deserve to keep it."

After we returned, Thompson summoned me and Steve Hall into his office. "Shane," he said, "this case is important not just because it's a homicide, but because we all believe it was a consequence of money laundering. I want Steve to help you in tying people at the fishing camp to Swift and his associates. If we can do that, the DEA will set up a joint task force. Given that Swift is a very prominent member of society and given his connection to vicious drug dealers, you should not discuss this case with your family, friends, or peers. So, go to it."

Steve and I looked at each other. We were too professional to talk about cases to family and friends, so that part of Thompson's stricture was unnecessary. However, being asked not to talk to fellow detectives was unusual. We returned to our desks, where Steve asked me how he could help. I gave him the task of following up on the alibi data sheet that Moorish had given us and seeing if any other park visitors had interacted with Bailey or his companion. I now believed them more likely involved in Flynn's murder. Neither Dollar, Watson, nor Mrs. Brown had been able to tell me about the Mason car except that it was a Toyota and was black. Perhaps Mr. Wellhouse might tell me something about it since he would have seen it directly for a short time after Dollar had left. I phoned and was relieved to find Mr. Wellhouse himself answering the phone.

He opened the conversation after I introduced myself. "Call me John," he said. "Your associate phoned me just a little earlier asking if I saw the colored man's girlfriend on the Monday or the Tuesday. I'm sorry I couldn't help. I said I would have Celeste call him."

I responded. "Did you see anything unusual while you were at the camp?"

"The white-haired guy with the Camry must have abandoned his tent. I saw the manager take it down a day or so after the colored couple left, though there didn't seem to be anything in it."

"Can you tell me anything about the cars and the people in the end sites on the other side of the black couple?" I asked, emphasizing the word black.

"The white-haired man in the site furthest from the river wasn't there on the Monday. I remember that because that nasty black man next to us left one day later." Good. John picked up that I was offended by his using the word "colored."

"And the other side?"

"I mostly saw the one man fishing, a big, heavyset man. I didn't pay too much attention to him, since I was too irritated by that fellow next to me. When he left, thank God, I was able to do some serious fishing. After the Avalon left, there was even more fishing space."

My ear pricked up. "Avalon? Are you sure? Are you talking about the black Camry in site R1 or the black car in site T1?" I asked.

"Detective," he replied, pride in his voice, "I was a salesman for Toyota for over thirty years. I know the model and year of every car they made from 1974 until 2006, when I retired. The car at the end was a 2003 Avalon before the midyear facelift. The car opposite was a 2005 Camry."

"What do you mean by the midyear facelift?"

"They modified the grill, the headlights, and the taillights. That particular Avalon also had the optional bench seat at the front, not a very popular option.

"Not a popular option?" I queried.

"Only six percent of the cars... Detective, you could call the Toyota plant in Kentucky where they assemble those cars. They could probably give you the vehicle identification numbers of those black 2003 Avalons they produced with those specifications meeting California smog standards."

I wrote down these details before asking him, "Would you be able to identify the men driving the Avalon?"

John replied he had just been interviewed by a Sonoma County detective who had shown him several mug shots. "I told him I thought one photo was the heavyset man with dark hair, but I wasn't real sure. Celeste couldn't tell, since she spent more time at the community center gabbing with the gals. The detective showed her shots of some black ladies, and she picked out one right away."

"Can you describe the man who accompanied the big, dark-haired man?"

"No. I never saw him. He wasn't fishing with his friend."

I phoned Angie Haigh right after this conversation. She said a unit detective had interviewed Johnson's mother and concluded the account of Alisha's stopover was truthful. Angie confirmed John Wellhouse had made only a tentative identification of Bailey. Celeste, on the other hand, had positively identified Alisha Johnson as being at the community center on the Monday. That meant Dollar and Johnson remained suspects only if the dead body had been stashed somewhere, the less probable of my two theories. I relayed all this to Steve. Then I called Roger Moorish and asked if his clients would help in identifying Bailey, since I didn't want to ask them directly. He asked me, "Does this mean my clients are no longer suspects?"

I wondered how to reply. They were not fully in the clear, so I temporized. "They are not currently our prime suspects." Moorish thanked me and said he would be in touch with his clients. I then called the Toyota plant in Kentucky, as John had suggested. I was told to submit my request in writing. I promptly wrote up a request for those 2003 Avalon VINs on sheriff's office letterhead and faxed it off. I then telephoned Tom Small and asked him about the Mason party again. He brought Terry to the phone.

"I only saw the one man who came into the office," Terry volunteered.

"When did they call to reserve a camping site?" I asked.

Terry rustled though his files before he replied. "They made the reservation on Friday, September 12, the day before they arrived."

"When did they leave?" I knew the answer, but wanted to check.

"I don't know," replied Terry. "They paid in cash for six days and didn't come in for a charge card receipt like most of the others."

I asked Terry for more detail on Mason's appearance. "He was a man in his thirties, about seventy inches tall, perhaps two hundred pounds since he was heavily muscled," he said. "He had sandy-colored hair and wore thick-rimmed sunglasses."

"Any tattoos or birthmarks?"

"I didn't see any of those, but now that I think of it, he had a small ginger mustache."

"Was he wearing anything noteworthy like rings, belt buckles, or neck chains?"

"Sorry, I don't remember."

I thanked Terry and entered the description of Mason into the case file. A few days later, the VIN numbers from Toyota arrived. There were fifty thousand Avalons sold nationwide in 2003, thirty thousand of them before the midyear change. Twelve percent of those went to California, twenty percent of which were black, and only six percent of those had the front bench seat. That amounted to forty-five cars, not such a huge number. If it hadn't been for Wellhouse, we would have had to track down the owners of twelve hundred and fifty cars, an impossible task. We ran the VINs to get the names and addresses of the California owners, a tedious business since some owners change their addresses without notifying the DMV. Once I had a confirmed name and address, I would get a phone number from the telephone company. I didn't want to alert Mason, so I used the following pitch after introducing myself.

"There was an accident involving a speeding red Mazda on Highway 118 on Tuesday, September 16, just outside the Russian River camp, which your car was apparently seen leaving around that time. Did you see the Mazda driver, and can you describe him?"

I managed to contact only one person that first day, who responded: "My God, did Charlie drive all the way there! I'll get back to you." Later, that car owner said his son had borrowed his spare car to drive from San Jose to San Francisco and had never been near the Russian River camp. A few days later, Steve told me the calls he had made to campers about the Mason couple had not developed any useful information, so I asked him to help me call Avalon owners. I received an e-mail from Roger Moorish. In it, he stated his clients were not prepared to assist law enforcement in any identification process. I considered their response shortsighted since it would help to fully clear them.

# CHAPTER 14

Danny Chu phoned me with a message that greatly complicated the life of Dollar and Johnson.

"We've examined that stack of cash you brought me. There were several fingerprints on the notes. It took me a while to analyze them all. I had to wait until I had Flynn's prints and those from your Carson City couple."

"And?"

Danny loves keeping us detectives in suspense as he springs surprises on us. "Dollar's prints were on the bills, of course. But Johnson's and Flynn's were not."

"That means it wasn't Flynn's money and Alisha Johnson never handled it."

"Well, you can't really say that about Flynn. Ten thousand bucks in hundred-dollar bills have a total thickness of nearly half an inch—too thick to fit into a man's wallet. Flynn probably had those funds given to him by the bank in an envelope, which he might never have opened."

"Oh! You're not helping my case."

"However, the notes did not come directly from the bank."

"Really. How can you tell?"

"Because, in addition to Dollar's fingerprints on the notes, I found some from Ricky Jones."

"And who is Ricky Jones?"

"A member of the Crips gang in Los Angeles."

Since the Crips gang epitomize illegal activity, this put a new wrinkle on the case. Danny added he did not find Alisha's fingerprints on Flynn's fishing rods. I thanked Danny and told Steve the news. I called the Compton sheriff station and told them about Ricky Jones's fingerprints being on the stack of cash and was asked to ship it back to their head office immediately. I asked Thompson whether we should do so, pointing out its drug provenance. "Well, you found the cash on their turf, and we're not going to charge Dollar in San Diego County for drug money laundering, so send it back to them. Point out they owe us. Perhaps, in exchange, they might put a little more effort into finding when Flynn's car arrived in Compton."

I called Danny and arranged for the money to be sent to Los Angeles.

I decided to give Roger Moorish a courtesy call since I liked his professionalism. I told him Flynn's prints had not been found on the bills and Dollar's cash was being sent to the LA sheriff.

"Why isn't my client's money being returned to him?" he asked.

I didn't want to tell him that Dollar's monies were likely to be confiscated. Instead, I temporized. "The Los Angeles sheriff office has some questions about the cash and will contact you."

"Do you know what these questions are?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you." There was no point lying, since Moorish knew the cash had been analyzed in San Diego. Moorish said nothing, so I moved to another subject. "We are satisfied that Alisha was present at the fishing camp on the Monday."

"Does that mean my clients are eliminated as suspects for the murder of Mr. Flynn?"

"Not completely, Mr. Moorish. However, I am currently investigating other suspects."

Steve had been calling Avalon owners for several days, and it was he who found gold. It made me envious. He reported a woman in Escondido, a Mrs. Shannon, had said her black Avalon car had been stolen, and she'd confirmed it had a chrome fish on its rear bumper. She was not sure the exact date it had been stolen, since she had lent it to her son, a student at San Marcos State University. He'd thought the missing car had been towed due to an expiration of his university parking permit. He had gotten the runaround from the towing company that serviced the university, so it wasn't until later that he'd realized it had been stolen and had reported it. On September 18, a zealous resident of Santa Rosa, a city fifteen miles from the Russian River fishing camp, had called the police about a car on his street that had not moved in the seventy-two hours allowed by law to remain parked. The police impounded the Avalon, suspecting it had been stolen, since the license plates belonged to another vehicle. Mrs. Shannon had changed her home address since she last registered the vehicle and had not reported the change to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). Thus, the police had been unable to contact her. Mrs. Shannon had met bureaucratic indifference in trying to locate her missing car, and did not find out where it was until early November.

"I and my son had to drive all the way to Santa Rosa, pay for a hotel, and pay over eight hundred dollars to get my car released from the police impound yard, as well as pay for new license plates," she'd told Steve angrily. "Those damn thieves ruined my car. They sprayed oil all over the interior and the exterior. It took me hours to clean it to where I could sit in it and see out of it. And on top of that, the DMV is going to fine me for failing to register my change of address."

"I had to add to her fury by telling her we needed to impound the car again for a forensic examination," said Steve. After she had calmed down from this fresh insult, Steve had asked her about the mileage on the car.

"It had a trip mileage of five hundred miles on it when I got it back," she'd told him with fresh anger. That mileage was roughly consistent with a single trip from Escondido to the Russian River fishing camp and some local mileage. We had identified the car. Would it give us more information? Steve called Danny Chu in the Forensics department and arranged for the black Avalon to be brought to the lab and examined.

I let Thompson know of our progress on the case. "We have not fully eliminated Dollar and Johnson as suspects. We are concentrating on the Mason couple and have evidence to believe they used a stolen car having fake license plates. The car had been driven a mileage consistent with it being driven from North County to Guerneville. So far, two people have tentatively identified Joseph Bailey as being with Mason."

Thompson appeared pleased with our progress. "All you need to do is positively tie that car to Bailey or identify Mason, and then we'll have enough to go back to the DEA."

We had to wait a few days until Danny Chu called me about the Avalon. "The owner of the car did a good job cleaning up the oil the thieves sprayed on all the surfaces," he said. "I didn't expect we would recover any fingerprints there. The guys who stole the car knew what to do to hide their identity."

I was acutely disappointed at this result and fumbled acknowledging it. "I wonder why they didn't torch it," I finally remarked.

"Because that would cause too much attention," replied Danny.

"That's really sad we're not able to find out who they were, especially after all the effort we put in to locate the car and the inconvenience we've caused poor Mrs. Shannon, the owner."

"You should have let me finish," said Danny. "Only the car was wiped. In the glove compartment was an emergency escape hammer. They forgot to wipe it or spray it with oil, and there are multiple fingerprints on it."

My heart leaped. "You rascal, Danny! You shouldn't have kept me in such suspense." He chuckled. I immediately asked him, "Well, have you been able to identify those fingerprints yet?"

"No. We are working to exclude Mrs. Shannon and any of her friends and relatives who might have been sitting on the passenger side of the car."

"Keep me posted," I said. "Let's hope it leads to our perp."

I phoned Danny two days later to see about the fingerprints. "You're in a hurry," he said. "Bet you'll be pleased to hear that I found a Joseph Bailey thumbprint on the hammer."

I was elated. We had closed the loop. I promptly notified Steve and Thompson.

"I think we have enough to show there was a concerted effort to kill Flynn and that the Mason couple were sent to the camp to carry out the assassination," said Thompson. "I'll contact Jackson at the DEA... And get a warrant issued for the arrest of Bailey."

Thompson was quite chatty as we drove to the DEA office. His mood and mine were reflected in our office address, still at Cop St. Jackson sat waiting for us this time, with Drew Ryan in an adjacent chair, and he shook my hand this time with a normal grasp. Jackson asked the status of our investigation. Thompson had both me and Steve talk about the work we had done on the case. I was miffed at this. I was the lead detective, and I felt it was my place to call in a junior if he could offer more detail.

"You've done your homework," said Jackson. "You have a good-enough basis for suspecting that Flynn was murdered to stop him giving evidence about money laundering by Swift. However, I will need to get the approval by our division head here to open up a joint task force. I'm sure we will get that approval."

Thompson's face beamed his delight at the decision. Jackson continued to speak. "When we set up a joint task force, any assets that are seized are shared among the participants according to a federal formula that is based mostly on the number of hours spent by the respective parties. Our office will set up an accounting program in which your staff will record their billable hours and the tasks they were on for those hours. The DEA will not pay for the hours you spend on our joint effort unless we are able to get a grant to do so. I will ask our head to explore this with the justice department in Washington. Our manpower resources are more limited than yours, and that is why we are encouraged to set up the joint task force. We need to prepare an action plan to show that money laundering has taken place, where and how it was done, and who were the participants. We can obtain help from other DEA offices and expect to be most useful in undercover operations and in determining the scope of Swift's businesses. I would like you"—he nodded at Thompson—"to prepare a plan detailing what activities your department would address. We can then put our plans together and prepare a joint plan, one that will hopefully sway the Justice Department to give grant money to fund the operation."

We all murmured our understanding of this approach. Jackson stroked his chin and continued. "At this point, it is essential that Swift and his associates do not know we are looking into the matter again. Therefore"—he looked intensely at Thompson, me, and Steve—"the people involved on your side of this issue must say nothing to their peers or their families. You should segregate your staff working on this and keep the number of people working on it to as few a number as possible. All documents must be kept in locked drawers when you are not working on them. None are to be taken out of the office. All original evidence relating to the money laundering is to be given to us, since any prosecution will be in the federal courts. No documents are to be taken outside your office. The same strictures apply to our office." He stroked his chin again. "Drug money laundering involves very dangerous men who have no scruples in killing or injuring anybody who stops or gets in the way of their business. Anybody you assign to this investigation should be aware of this enhanced danger to themselves and their families."

Thompson spoke up. "I and my staff fully understand what you are saying and will take the necessary security steps. Meanwhile, we are continuing to investigate the murder of Arthur Flynn." He looked at me and Steve. "Have you any questions?"

"Will you be our contact person at the DEA on the task force?" asked Steve.

"No," replied Jackson. "Drew Ryan here will be the point man."

I said, "We need the list of Swift's businesses and business partners before we can prepare our plan. We need to know who and what we are to surveil. That will determine how many of our staff are to be involved and how long it will take. There is an obvious tradeoff. The more people we put on our side of the task force, the more likely it is that there will be a disclosure, but it will be quicker and cost more money."

I could see Thompson grimace as I spoke, since he should have been asking the question of the staffing level. I saw a smile on Steve's face. Jackson pondered for a full ten seconds before he responded. "I think fewer people will be better, at least at the early stages. I will have Drew Ryan here get you that information as soon as possible." He paused. "How long do you think that will take, Drew?"

"It's a little complicated," replied Ryan. "Normally, I would go to the county recorder office and search the fictitious business name list. However, our preliminary work finds Swift has ownership of many of his businesses through partnerships, and also corporations registered outside California and even outside the USA. I'm afraid I will be giving you that information piecemeal. I cannot give you a definitive date when I will have it all."

Thompson realized he had to grasp his leadership role and belatedly said, "In view of that, our plan will have to be more general in nature. The specifics will be based on the data you give us, and we will update it as new information arrives."

"I think we have enough suspicion to justify to a judge that a wiretap be put on Swift's phone," I added. "We have both the connection to money laundering and to murder."

"I agree," said Jackson. "Just keep us posted on what you learn."

As the three of us left the DEA office, Thompson could scarcely contain his glee. "From what Jackson is saying, Swift is worth several million if not tens of millions of dollars. If we get even twenty percent of that from the seizure of assets, we could have as much as half our office budget for the year. It would be a feather in our caps."

I felt the need to question the ethics of this. "Suppose Swift is not guilty of money laundering, or suppose we can't prove it. What then?"

"Shane, we would not arrest or charge a man of Swift's prominence without a high degree of expectation he would be found guilty."

"But if we seize his bank accounts and the cash on him and then close his businesses, aren't we depriving him of the right to a good attorney to defend himself?"

"Shane, it will be difficult to get a verdict in which Swift is convicted and sentenced. These men are resourceful, talented, and dangerous. Holding their assets is one way we can get them to admit their guilt in return for a lighter sentence."

I refrained from continuing this line of conversation and merely nodded, not so much to agree with Thompson, but more to acknowledge I understood his argument.

"Your proving him guilty of conspiracy to murder is going to be the key to getting him to admit his role in money laundering," he added as we got into the car.

He's already made up his mind about Swift's guilt or innocence.

Steve, who had been only a listener to this conversation, spoke up. "It has been fascinating working on this case, which has evolved from a missing person case to a murder and now to money laundering. I enjoy working with you on this, Shane, and look forward to its closure with you."

I appreciated the compliment, but felt saying this in front of Thompson was for Steve's benefit as much as mine.

# CHAPTER 15

Steve and I worked on other cases while Thompson consulted with the homicide lieutenant to discuss manpower and budgeting. A week later, Thompson gathered us into his office and told us to close the door. "I'm going to install you and Steve in a two-man office with a door that locks on closure," he said. "That will give the project the security it needs. Given that the DEA doesn't know whether they will get a grant and given that the data we will need is going to come in slowly, only you two will work on investigating Swift to start with."

"What about our old cases?" asked Steve.

"Take your files from your old desks and cabinets and put them in your new office," replied Thompson, "but keep them separate from all money laundering information."

He gave us each a door key. Steve and I were happy to leave our previous desks in the homicide detective pool. We spent a couple of hours transferring files to our new office, where our desks had lockable drawers, as did the adjacent filing cabinets. We also had our own copying machine. Our peers in the homicide pool expressed envy that we had our own private office and asked the reason. We simply told them we were working on a special project.

A day or so later, Thompson opened our office door with his key and opened the discussion on what we could do to assist the DEA. "The most important thing for you to do, Shane, as lead investigator, is to continue to investigate the murder of Flynn. It would be great to find his body, since convicting Swift of murder will indubitably help the money laundering prosecution. With just two of you working on it, I would appreciate your suggestions on what we are able to do in the money laundering investigation."

"The purpose of any surveillance we conduct is to determine where the drug money is brought into Swift's system and where and how it is processed," I said.

"That's correct," replied Thompson. "How long it will take to make that determination will depend on how many businesses Swift operates."

"I think we should provide random surveillance of Swift's office and businesses in San Diego County," I offered. "I also propose we identify all the employees of these establishments and run background checks on them. I propose DEA monitors any of them with criminal backgrounds. We would provide manpower for raids and arrests."

"What about Swift's home?" asked Steve.

"His home is in an exclusive area of Lake San Marcos," I replied. "It would be very difficult to put a monitoring vehicle there for an extended period of time without attention being called to it. I think that surveillance of his home will have to be done with undercover personnel. I would suggest the DEA undertake that task."

"Do you guys have anything else to add to this before I write it up?" asked Thompson

I had nothing to add and said I would not conduct any surveillance until we had received information from Ryan and had an agreed plan in place.

"Is assisting Shane going to be full time for me?" asked Steve.

Thompson looked at me for the answer.

"Steve, I will need some help, but you should have time to work on other cases," I answered.

That evening before dinner, I went to the gym and jogged five miles on the treadmill. I watched the news on the television as I jogged. The steadily increasing unemployment depressed me; I felt lucky to have a safe, secure job. I switched the television off and began thinking about what Jackson and Thompson had said as well as the questions I had posed a little earlier. I was uncomfortable about the notion of taking someone's assets before he was found guilty. I could not help thinking how Marge Holmes and her sick daughter would be affected if Larry Swift were indeed convicted of money laundering. It took me awhile to get to sleep that night, consumed as I was by these thoughts.

Steve asked me the next day if there was anything he could start doing on the case. I told him I had the same problem. I could do nothing until our superiors had reached an agreement with the DEA. Those superiors would include not only Thompson, but the homicide lieutenant and legal counsel and possibly an accounting department supervisor. Only if Bailey were arrested would we have something to do until the agreement had been reached. For the next ten days, we worked on our old cases as well as new cases assigned to us by Thompson. We enjoyed the privacy of our two-man office while working.

Two weeks later, Thompson turned the key to our office door and walked in. The door closed automatically behind him.

"We have a preliminary agreement in place and it covers those activities we discussed together," he said with a big smile on his face. He handed us each a copy of the agreement. "The hours you spend on this are to be billed to project Theta, our codename for the joint task force. You, Shane, will be the point of contact at this office. Drew Ryan will be your point of contact at the DEA." He then produced two cell phones and gave us one each. "You are to use these phones to call each other and DEA with information pertinent to the Swift case. Don't use them for your other cases. You are not to go through our central communication system. You are not to discuss this project or the activities you undertake with your friends and family members. That also holds for your colleagues, who already know you both are on a special assignment and have been told not to ask you questions about it. So, please read through this agreement. If you have any questions about it, get back to me right away."

Steve and I read the written agreement to find our tasks were as we had discussed. The surveillance and background checks we were to do did not include contractors providing services to Swift's businesses, such as security monitoring, landscaping, pest control services, and telecommunication. We were to identify these services and notify the DEA, who would investigate them. The DEA would also ascertain details of the ownership of Swift's businesses and investment property and check the backgrounds of the stakeholders. They would perform other undercover operations as needed. The plan included our continuing investigation of Flynn's murder. I could see that the bulk of the effort was going to be performed by the sheriff's department. I just hoped that Thompson or the lieutenant had negotiated a good split on the seizure of assets. The plan made it clear secrecy was essential. Warrants to search Swift's bank accounts would not be sought until clear physical evidence of money laundering had been established. The plan requested that hours spent on the project be logged daily into our new internet-connected computers, which were accessed by passwords known only to Thompson, Steve, myself, and a specific person in accounting.

Ten days later, Drew Ryan sent us a nearly complete list of the businesses and property that Larry Swift owned, either directly or indirectly, and that he managed. Swift owned several properties in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Drew said not to bother with them. They were clearly for investment purposes and were handled by a property management company of good repute. In San Diego county, Swift and his associates owned a motel, a mobile home park, two apartment buildings, an amusement park, an equipment rental center, three car washes, two liquor stores, three check cashing establishments, two pawn shops, a jewelry store, and two office buildings, in one of which he had his office.

Drew gave us a briefing on money laundering. "The easiest way is to mix drug cash with money generated by legitimate businesses. It has to be done at a quantity level where the extra drug money does not make the business appear excessively profitable. Thus, you first need large cash generating and consuming businesses such Swift's check cashing establishments, the liquor stores, and the pawn shops."

"You're saying that Swift very well fits the profile of a money launderer?" I asked.

"That's right," replied Drew. "We didn't look into it until after you told us that Flynn had been murdered. We thought his letter was just from spite. Now we think there is a strong likelihood that Swift is deeply involved." He paused. "Money to be laundered has to be delivered. Delivery could be to any of his businesses or to his or any of his employee's homes. The money could be delivered by a courier, by a delivery service such as FedEx, United Parcel Service, or even the US postal service. We want you to surveil these places of business to determine if drug money is brought into them. We will surveil residences, usually an undercover operation. Mr. Jackson thought it would be a good idea for you to start by driving around all these properties, surreptitiously of course, to get a feel of how to conduct that surveillance."

Steve and I nodded in acknowledgement.

"Another way of laundering money is to pay off invoices in cash," said Drew. "That means the cash disposal problem is passed to a third party. Buying equipment for cash, as might be done at Swift's equipment rental yard, is a possible area for that. Buying jewelry for cash is another way of laundering the cash. That's where the pawn shops and the jewelry store might come in. The key is how to take this illegal cash and put it in the bank without raising suspicion. Remember, banks have to report any cash deposits of ten thousand dollars or more to the Internal Revenue Service, a requirement of the Bank Secrecy Act. So, large cash deposits have to look legitimate."

Steve and I decided first to drive together to Swift's office building in San Marcos, one of three in a U-shaped configuration, with his facing the one on the other side of the U. Each building was the same size, two stories, with ten thousand square feet on each floor, having outside walkways at each end for access to the upper floor. Swift owned just one building in the complex, which contained his ground-floor office of about six thousand square feet. The remainder of the ground floor was comprised of an attorney's office and a shipping and mailing service. On the upstairs floor was a real estate broker, a marriage counseling service, an accountancy firm, a photography studio, a computer repair service, and a civil engineering consultancy.

Steve and I agreed that a camera-equipped vehicle in the central shared parking lot would readily be noticed. Better to surreptitiously mount a surveillance camera on one of the other two buildings to monitor the comings and goings to and from Swift's office. We spent the rest of the day checking out Swift's property and businesses in the north part of the county.

The next day, we toured property and businesses in the south part of the county, which is poorer than the communities of the north. Consequently, we found all of Swift's cash checking businesses there. We also noticed an unmarked armored car attending one of these businesses, from which the car operators carried metal boxes in and out. Steve and I thought cash was being brought in and checks from those living pay period to pay period were being brought out. We saw Swift's liquor stores doing a rattling business, as were his pawn shops. I had to admire how well these stores were located to serve their respective clients.

Thompson stopped by our office at the end of the day and asked how we were doing on the money laundering issue.

"Twenty-eight billable hours between us," I answered.

Thompson did not appreciate my sarcasm. It was reflected in his voice when he asked about our progress on Flynn's murder. When I told him there's been none, he remarked, "You'd better hustle to pin it on Swift or his associates so we can get a search warrant of the man's home and office that could lead to our discovering money laundering details."

"I think we are doing more work than the DEA," I volunteered.

"You're right," replied Thompson. "I had to propose that in order to get a good share of the assets from seizure."

Steve and I split up the tasks, with him doing the bulk of the field work and me getting names, addresses, and phone numbers of Swift's employees. Steve began his work by placing a video-camera-equipped vehicle in a parking lot close to one of Swift's businesses. He would do this randomly to avoid being noticed both by day and by night. By getting such equipped vehicles delivered to him, he would be able to monitor about one business per week.

I started my work by asking the California Employment Development Department (EDD) for a list of the employees of Swift's businesses. In order to avoid the request getting back to Swift, I made the request in tranches. I would ask data for several adjacent businesses that might include one of Swift's liquor stores. I would make the request for perhaps three check cashing businesses of which only one was owned by Swift. EDD wanted the requests to go through official channels, so each tranche took three weeks. As I got the employee names and social security numbers, I would request addresses of each person from the Social Security Administration.

# CHAPTER 16

I had a surveillance team check on Swift's armored car crew. They followed the armored car at the San Marcos National Bank in the late afternoon. Swift, carrying a briefcase, went into the bank, escorted to its entrance by one of the armored car crew. Later, Swift exited the bank carrying the same brief case. The team could not discern whether the briefcase was heavier before or after the bank visit. They followed the armored car back to Swift's office, where the owner went in carrying the briefcase. The two-man crew of the armored car waited outside for a couple of hours before a Swift employee came out to give them a series of labeled metal containers. The armored car then proceeded to modest neighborhood of nearby Escondido, where one of the crew entered a house, whose address the team noted. They followed the armored car to another house, where the remaining driver locked the car and entered that address. The surveillance team concluded these addresses were the homes of the car drivers.

The team watched both addresses during the night and saw no activity. They watched that last driver leave his home at 6:45 a.m. and drive the armored car to pick up his companion. The armored car was driven to Swift businesses located furthest away, namely in the southern part of the county, arriving at the opening time of that business, a car wash. One armored crewman entered the business carrying a single marked container. After five minutes or less, that man exited carrying the same container. The surveillance team deduced change cash was being delivered and sales cash and receipts from the previous day were being picked up. In the case of the liquor stores and the check cashing establishments, they reckoned substantial cash was being delivered and mostly checks and charge card receipts were being picked up.

The team followed the car throughout most of the day, including stops for lunch and coffee breaks. Around three o'clock, they saw Swift exit his office carrying a briefcase. He got into the armored car, which stopped at no less than three different banks. The team and I concluded Swift was trying to minimize the deposit to each bank. They tailed the armored car another day and observed an identical procedure, with the exception that the bank withdrawals and deposits were made by a Latino man from Swift's office. The homes of the armored crew were watched for several days, and no suspicious activity was observed. We concluded the armored car and its crew played no role in receiving drug monies.

I took on the task of monitoring Swift's office. Contacting one of the business owners in the complex about installing a camera might lead to the word getting back to Swift. The same could be true for the complex property manager. I wondered what to do, but then I got lucky. A vacancy occurred in a ground-floor office in the building nearly opposite Swift's office. With Thompson's approval, I rented it, even though I had to lease it for six months with a deposit of two month's rent. Thompson was not happy at the expenditure and complained about how much staff and money were being spent on the case. I told him I could see no alternative and that the office could be a good staging area when we made arrests. He asked Steve and me to do as much site investigation ourselves as possible. I informed the broker handling the lease that I was a private social worker handling cases referred to me by the sheriff's department. In that way, the sheriff's office could reasonably supply the business references the broker demanded. I had technical staff from our office set up the video camera after business hours, a camera with a wide-angle lens able to see both the entry to Swift's office and any transactions in the parking lot. I had the camera view through a hole in a window curtain to avoid the camera being seen from the outside.

Since Flynn had reported Bert Swanson being involved in receiving drug cash, I needed to check him out. I parked an unmarked car equipped with a camera in a guest parking spot viewing the park office. I changed to a different car and a different parking spot every second day. I looked at the camera recordings each time I changed out the car. There were no regular persons bringing in bags possibly filled with cash. That also included Bert Swanson. I was lucky enough to find a guest parking area near his own mobile home and perform the same exercise. The answer was the same: negative.

By six weeks into this money laundering investigation, I had obtained the names and addresses of about a third of Swift's employees. Steve and I began to look at their backgrounds and, to our surprise, found hardly any of these employees had a criminal record. If there was one, it involved minor theft or vandalism from many years back or a DUI (driving under the influence). We began to think that if the business employees were not felons, then the businesses were operated as legitimate enterprises.

At the same time, Steve had done some weeks of surveillance on four of Swift's businesses. "I saw nothing unusual in any of the businesses," he said. "I saw no large bags being brought in or out on a regular or irregular basis. All money going in and out of the businesses came via the private armored car."

"But the surveillance team has followed the armored car a few times and has never seen money being brought into or out of it except at the businesses," I said.

"The armored car crew members have no criminal records. It makes it very unlikely they would participate in illicit operations," said Steve. "Has your camera viewing Swift's office seen anything?"

"No, it hasn't," I replied dispiritedly. My mood fully reflected the change in our office address to Cope St.

We discussed what we had learned with Thompson, who set up a meeting with Jackson and Drew Ryan at the DEA office a few days later. There, Steve and I reported our initial finding that Swift's businesses were being operated legitimately and did not appear to be used as drop points.

Jackson and Drew asked a few questions. Then Ryan reported, "We have conducted surveillance of Swift's home and have not seen bags that might contain drug money brought to or from the house, and that includes overnight... Now, none of Swift's businesses and property are solely owned by him. They are owned either jointly, though partnerships, or through privately held S-type corporations. Many of these owners are citizens of repute who have invested with Swift. Even Mr. Jackson's banker is one of them, and he reports that Swift has given him an excellent return on his money. There are, however, a couple of shareholders with criminal backgrounds and a few more whom we have been unable to track down. They have foreign addresses, or they are corporations registered in the Cayman Islands or Panama, where we are unable to determine the underlying ownership. One of these owners, Cookerby Enterprises, is known to us from an undercover operation as being a drug front. In addition, Swift works with an associate called Rafael Arzeta, whom the Mexican police suspect of being a ranking member of a drug cartel."

He paused as we took this all in. "Given the criminal and suspicious characters surrounding Swift, there is no doubt in our mind that he is running a sophisticated money laundering operation. And Arzeta is there to represent the criminal interests." Steve and I looked at each other. Ryan continued. "We don't have enough information to get a warrant to search Swift's office. We suspect the drug money is being brought in there somehow." He looked at me. "Has your surveillance of Swift's office turned up anything?"

"It's only been operating for three weeks," I replied, "and I haven't seen anything of significance."

"Too bad," said Ryan. "Keep at it... We have infiltrated the crew that cleans Swift's office and the offices in the adjacent buildings. Our informant told us Swift's office is divided into two, the larger portion having small bays equipped with desks, computers, and file cabinets. The entire lower portion of that building has been reinforced to prevent breaking in though the walls. We suspect the ceiling is similarly reinforced. The smaller portion has a security entrance from the larger portion and no other exit or entry. The cleaning crew entered the inner office to clean there and found it very well organized...no loose papers or cluttered desks. There were three computers in that inner office and a large free-standing safe. The main office is fully alarmed; its entry door is doubled, like a secure bank entrance. We would like you to get inside the office on some pretext to get a quick look at their operations."

We said we would.

I had an undercover deputy follow Swift into one of the banks. He reported Swift took out three colored vinyl money bags from his briefcase and gave them to the teller. She counted the contents behind the thick translucent polycarbonate wall and then gave him a receipt. The deputy could not discern how much money she'd counted. "I would have been too obvious if I leaned in farther," he remarked. Then the teller produced three additional colored money bags clearly containing preordered amounts. Swift signed a receipt for them. On a different day, Steve found the procedure replicated at one of the other banks. Money in and money out, we thought. The difference in the two would largely be laundered cash, but what was the difference? How could we tell without knowing how much cash was used by the check cashing businesses and the liquor stores?

I went to the leased office frequently to examine the recorded data. I was looking for a regular coming and going of somebody with a bag. If Swift were money laundering in sufficient quantity to have a cartel representative in house, then I would be looking for large quantities of cash being brought in. Jackson had reminded us that dollar bills are forty-three mils (thousandths of an inch) thick, 2.61 inches wide, and 6.14 inches long. One million dollars in hundred-dollar bills, the currency preferred by drug dealers, would weigh twenty-two pounds. Thus, such a million dollars could consist of ten stacks of one hundred thousand dollars, each 4.3 inches high, which would fit comfortably in a regular briefcase.

I monitored Swift and Arzeta coming and going. Rarely did they bring or leave the office carrying anything. I concluded they personally were not carrying drug monies into the office. I had Steve monitor the daily number of customers going to the check cashing businesses, since we reckoned they were the largest consumers of cash. They averaged about two hundred persons each day...six days per week. Steve also entered the stores on the pretense of asking for change and reckoned the average check cashed was around two hundred fifty dollars. From these figures, we calculated each check cashing establishment consumed about fifty thousand dollars per day. Thus, the three such establishments plus the liquor, pawn, and jewelry stores could be consuming almost two hundred thousand dollars per day. It would be easy to hide drug money of half this amount in the daily cash deposits. This gave us an idea of what we should be looking for. We could look for a one-million-dollar package in one hundred bills delivered once every ten days or a one-hundred-thousand-dollar package delivered every day. Only then did we realize delivering solely one hundred bills to the check cashing businesses would be impracticable. If, as we believed, they were operated as legitimate businesses, then they would need a mixture of different sizes of money bills that adequately met their customer's needs. Delivering only one-hundred-dollar bills to them and having them depend on local banks to give them change would surely raise suspicions. This reasoning led us to expect the drug money for Swift's operations to be brought in as packages of one hundred to two hundred thousand dollars in a mixture of bills carried in daily or every other day. That would require a regular briefcase, not a purse or a lunch bucket.

Steve and I went back to the DEA office to discuss our findings and our reasoning. Drew Ryan concurred. "If you want to run a criminal enterprise surrounded by law-abiding employees, then you need to restrict its knowledge to as few people as possible. From what you say, I suspect only Swift and Arzeta know the details of the money laundering."

"What about Bert Swanson, the Palomar South mobile home park manager? I asked."

"He was convicted of fraud thirty years ago," replied Ryan. "You know he's Swift's uncle, so his involvement is likely an aberration. He owes too much to Swift to give evidence against him. Anyway, you guys have already monitored that park and found that his home and the park office are not the drop for drug money."

"Is it worth bringing him in for questioning?" I asked

"No," replied Ryan. "Our questioning him would cause a cessation of the money laundering operation. Then it would start again after the hullabaloo was over. We need to show money being delivered to Swift or his employees or get some other excuse to raid his office and examine his books and his bank records. How's your murder investigation going? Evidence of a conspiracy would help there."

I had to report no progress there. I asked Drew if he had gotten anything on Arzeta. "Yes. We followed him to his home, an apartment in Escondido. The phone company pinged his phone, and we have since been monitoring his calls. He doesn't use that phone much. He probably has a throwaway phone as well that he uses when he's not at his apartment."

"Let me have that number, please. I take it he hasn't said anything incriminating?"

"That's correct. He does not discuss business on the phone. He uses it mostly to order pizza. Past records show very few phone calls to Swift and none since we have been monitoring it."

"Any phone calls to Bailey?"

"None that we know of. If he contacted Bailey, it was likely away from the office and using his throwaway phone, whose number we don't have."

That concluded our meeting. I phoned Angie Haigh to tell her about our progress, or lack thereof, on the investigation of Flynn's murder. I told her we thought Bill Dollar and Alisha were not likely involved in Flynn's murder. Instead, we were working on two additional suspects and had gotten an arrest warrant for one of them. However, we had not been able to locate him. I said nothing, of course, about the connection to money laundering. No point in another agency claiming a stake in any seized assets. Angie thanked me for keeping her abreast on the matter.

I had a uniformed deputy enter the Swift office to ask if anybody had seen the person leaving a stolen car in the parking lot. An unmarked car had been parked there two days earlier to set up the pretense.

"I was very well treated," said the deputy. "They all acted like honest citizens, concerned that there had been a car thief nearby."

"Who are they?" I asked.

"I didn't see the Latino man," replied the deputy. "Swift came out from the secured portion of the office to greet me and expressed appropriate concern. The rest of the office workers were clearly acting as business or property managers. They were counting cash from their metal boxes. They were tabulating charge card receipts. They were paying invoices and handling phone calls from the business operators, suppliers, and even aggrieved customers. It was a very professional operation, with no concern that a law enforcement official was in their office. The atmosphere had no hint of evasion or criminality. I think that after the pertinent manager counted the cash funds and entered the data into his or her computer, the cash was put back into the metal container and passed through a sliding drawer...like they have at banks...between the two rooms. I didn't actually see them do that, but I did see the sliding drawer."

So, you're saying that if there is any money laundering, it all takes place in the inner secure room?"

"That's right," replied the deputy.

# CHAPTER 17

Eight weeks had passed since I had installed the surveillance camera to watch Swift's office. The office worked a regular business week—Monday through Friday. Only occasionally did I see Swift or Arzeta come to the office during the weekend. I could never see anything that spoke of regular or even irregular deliveries of cash to that office. Deliveries by mail, FedEx and United Parcel Service were minimal. The DEA had continued to report no clandestine deliveries to the armored cars. Steve had become frustrated that his monitoring of Swift's businesses had also not found a drop location or an involved employee. He and I began to wonder if the shady investors in Swifts businesses were merely investors and not players.

I had been looking at Swift's office entrance exclusively for this eight-week period. In reviewing the video, I looked more closely at the peripheral view of the wide-angle lens of the monitoring camera. Previously, I had merely been impressed by the athletic ability of the man who bounded up the stairs at the end of Swift's building, two steps at a time. The man, the operator of the photography studio on the upper floor, arrived nearly every morning carrying a large bag of photographic equipment. I didn't initially grasp the significance of that since he went only to his studio. Only in my review did I notice that this man roughly matched the description of Mason. He had sandy-colored hair and the build and height described by Terry and others, and he had a small mustache. His studio lay directly above the secure portion of Swift's office. I wondered if there was an internal connection between the two.

I took a still picture of the photographer from the monitoring video and incorporated it into a mug shot array. I e-mailed it to Angie Haigh in Sonoma County and asked her to get a detective to show it to John and Celeste Wellhouse in San Francisco. I had Steve drive to Riverside to show the array to Mr. and Mrs. Brown. I drove down to Chula Vista and showed the array to William Watson. He apologized that he could not help identify the photographer as Mason. Steve, on the other hand, returned with great news. Mrs. Brown was certain Mason was the man in the mug shot.

I had an undercover deputy visit the studio to ask its owner what services he offered. The owner, name of Andy Collins, primarily took photographs of real estate, indoors and outdoors, but he also took photographs of weddings, birthdays, and bar mitzvahs. Andy gave the deputy a pricing schedule for his services. The deputy reported the front of the studio was set up for photographing commercial products. Easy chairs and a sofa sat nearby. He saw a changing room and a toilet at the rear, plus an office room whose door was closed. He saw it had a keyed entryway. He picked up Collins's business card and said he would check back when he knew the exact date of his celebration event. Collins told the deputy to use his cell phone number...on the business card...since he was out in the field so much.

I wondered if Andy Collins, the owner of the photo studio, was related to the Collins Real Estate Brokers at the end of the upper floor of the Swift office building. I went to the Department of Real Estate's website and located the pertinent realty. It listed Wayne John Collins as the broker of record and four other sales agents, one of whom was Andrew Mason Collins. My heart thumped. We had made the connection with certainty. Collins was Mason, the partner of the murderous Bailey.

I did a background check on Andy Collins. Thirty-two years old, unmarried, he lived in an apartment in Oceanside ten miles to the west of San Marcos. He had been sent to juvenile hall when he was sixteen for a vicious assault at school. Since then, he had been a model citizen except for five traffic citations in the fourteen years since getting his driving license. I wondered how he had been recruited into the money laundering business.

I made an official request for Andy Collins's phone records for the past six months, and I prepared an affidavit to a warrant for a wiretap on his phone and also to cover a transponder on his car, a blue Honda Civic. After Robert Neill's approval, I went to the courthouse to get a signature where the judge asked me about my probable cause. "So, you suspect Mr. Collins in the murder of the missing Mr. Flynn. Why are you asking for approval to follow and listen to him instead of asking for an arrest warrant?"

I had deliberately not mentioned the money laundering aspect in my affidavit since I felt it important to keep that secret, so I responded carefully. "We don't fully understand the motivation for the murder of Mr. Flynn and need to determine which associates of Collins are involved. We are especially hoping he will lead us to Joseph Bailey, for whom there is an outstanding arrest warrant."

The judge harrumphed, but he issued the warrant. I understood. He had once issued an arrest warrant based on slight evidence for which he had been rebuked by the defendant's attorney and the press. He did not want to repeat the experience.

I had a specialist follow up on the wiretap while I acquired a transponder. I then drove to Oceanside in the late afternoon, to Collins's apartment, a modern complex that lay in the eastern part of this California beach town. The heavy traffic going north on Highway Five had made my drive longer and my patience thinner; this was amplified by not seeing my suspect's blue Honda in the parking lot.

I parked at an inconspicuous spot and waited for Collins to come home. I was doing this task myself rather than using a specialist to conform with Thompson's request for expenditure restraint. Waiting for a suspect to show is a boring part of a detective's life, and this wait seemed especially boring. Around eight o'clock, I left to get food and relieve myself. I returned an hour later to find the Honda in the parking lot at an assigned space. With nobody in the darkened lot, I sneaked in and attached the transponder under the right rear wheel well of Collins's car. I felt very pleased that my patience had been rewarded. I went home singing along with a tune on the radio and looking forward to a Saturday night out with friends.

I arranged for a surveillance team on the following Monday to watch Andy Collins leave his apartment at 7:05 a.m. carrying his photographic bag. The transponder signal guided the team as it tailed well behind his blue car. Collins's car stopped for five minutes and was observed in the drive-through lane of a McDonalds.

"Not very convenient for picking up the laundry," remarked Steve to me at the communications center. "It would have been easier if he went inside."

From there, the team tailed Collins's car until it stopped on a residential street in Carmel Valley, a community north of San Diego, where I also live. The surveillance team drove by the Honda, parked in front of a house listed for sale, and noted the absence of its driver. "He must have gone in the house," they said. In less than five minutes, they notified us at the communications center that the Honda was moving again.

Steve immediately remarked: "That guy didn't have time enough to photograph the interior or exterior of the house. That's probably where he picks up the money if our suspicions are correct."

I agreed. "There's no point in arresting him at this point, or even if he makes the delivery, as we suspect. Drew Ryan will want us to arrest the person who dropped the money as well as those who process it at Swift's office."

The transponder signal indicated Collins was driving directly back to the office complex. Once there, the surveillance team, from afar, watched him leave his car and climb the stairs to his studio.

"I'm ready to believe he's carrying drug money in that bag of his," said Steve. He and I then drove to the Carmel Valley house and looked through a front window to see the complete absence of furniture. We made a note of the address of the house and its listing agent before we returned to the office.

"Since we know Flynn discovered money being picked up at a vacant mobile home, it suggests a pattern of using a vacant house as the drop location," I said. "They have an early morning drop-off and pickup so there is no interference from other real estate agents."

"Since it would look odd for a photographer to come back to the same house daily, they probably use a different vacant house each time. Clever of them to use a drop location that always changes from one time to another and so can't be monitored," remarked Steve. "By going early in the morning as a house photographer, Collins has a perfect cover."

I called Drew Ryan at the DEA to say we had a good lead on how the money was delivered for laundering. I gave him a quick summary of the details. Delighted, he said he would talk to his boss.

I now felt certain Collins and Bailey had been sent to the Russian River camp to kill Flynn. I indulged in speculation. They'd probably planned to overpower him and drown him in the river, and then throw his fishing rods in after him so it might look like an accidental death. I reckoned he'd fought them outside his tent...that was why there had been no blood in the tent or on his belongings...and they'd finished him off and put him inside the trunk of his car. But that didn't make sense. The noise of the attempt on Flynn's life would have woken other campers. They more likely had held him down and chloroformed him. If they'd done that and then drowned him, the chloroform would be discovered in an autopsy. Perhaps he had recovered when they'd opened the trunk of the car and had been killed at that point. We needed to have his body to find out how it had been done.

Jackson called me half an hour later and asked to be briefed. I put him, Drew Ryan, Thompson, and Steve on a conference call. "We think a vacant listed house is used as a drop," I told them. We suspect more than one house is used. We need to find out when the money is dropped at the vacant house. We need to find out how Collins knows which house the money is dropped at, where inside it is hidden, and when he is to pick it up. It is obvious that the time between drop and pickup has to be short in case somebody else comes by. The advantage of using a listed house is that only real estate agents and the owner have access to the house since it is lockbox controlled. Furthermore, real estate agents do not generally show houses for sale at eight in the morning, so the chances of a stranger or a law enforcement officer finding the money are remote."

"I guess that Andy Collins got lockbox access from his brother, the realtor. Wayne Collins must surely be aware of the money laundering operation," volunteered Steve.

"Possibly, but not relevant," I said. "I don't think Andy Collins is notified of the drop house by e-mail. I feel sure he's notified by phone so there's minimal record of detail. We'll review his phone records, which we already have, to check that out."

Thompson said, "You'll need to tap his phones so you can determine the drop location in advance."

"It's being monitored as we speak," Steve responded.

"It all makes sense," said Ryan. "I'll bet Collins had a problem with his car or a major traffic delay the one day when he had to go to Flynn's listing in the Palomar South Park. The money had already been dropped, so they sent Bert Swanson to get it instead." He congratulated me and Steve before continuing. "We want to root out the whole drug money laundering gang, the delivery man and his source, Collins, any associates he has, Swift, Arzeta, and any of their criminal partners. The key is Collins, and we need to do this without anybody in the group realizing we are on to them."

Thompson remarked, "Do we want to catch the man delivering the cash to the drop house after he has just done so, or do we want to follow him to his source?"

Ryan responded, "If we catch him, we can interrogate him, and he might give up his source. On the other hand, he's more likely not to respond, since he could be killed for snitching."

"But there's the possibility that he waits around the corner afterwards to see if the package of money is picked up safely and then calls his contact to let him know. That would make it difficult for us to arrest Collins as he emerges from the house with the money," I pointed out.

"In the grand scheme of things, we need to disrupt the money laundering business. If we act precipitously on the guy delivering to the house, then somebody might notify Swift and Arzeta, and they can hide evidence and deny everything," said Jackson.

"We could detain the delivery man inside the drop house as long as we know in advance where it is," I said.

"Knowing the drop house in advance is the key before we do anything," said Ryan. "Look over the telephone data, and then we can decide how to proceed."

Jackson then congratulated all of us in moving the case along, doing so in a longwinded manner intended to make it clear he was in charge of the joint task force. I felt sorry for Drew Ryan and his task force officers, who were doing all the DEA legwork.

We broke up at that point, and I returned to my desk to find an e-mail had arrived with Collins's phone records. Like many modern real estate agents, Collins had no house phone, only a cell phone. I wished the records had come in a simple digital format that I could turn over to one of the smart software guys in forensics for analysis. I labored over them by hand, a total of seventeen hundred records for the six-month period, to see if I could find repetitious calling or receiving. I had no success.

Angie Haigh called late in the day to say her unit detective had shown mug shots to John Wellhouse and his wife. Both were able to positively identify Collins as Bailey's companion.

"I guess Collins's photo being new and Bailey's being old made John certain about the former and uncertain about the latter," I remarked. Angie asked about progress on the case, and I told her only that I expected to make a break within a week.

Before I went home, I called Steve to see if the wiretap was producing useful information.

"Not so far," he replied. "I'll look at tonight's recordings in the morning."

# CHAPTER 18

The next morning, I monitored the movement of Collins's blue Honda. I saw no point in tailing it, since I expected it to be going to a vacant house for sale. The car stopped at the same restaurant for the same short interval of time, but then it travelled in a different direction from the day before. I watched the coordinates of the transponder move to a location in Mira Mesa, a community adjacent to a Marine base in northern San Diego and popular with Asian residents. The car stayed at that location for about five minutes before it returned to the Swift office parking lot. I made a note of the GPS coordinates and then found the corresponding street on a Google map. I then looked on the San Diego Multiple Listing Service (MLS)—law enforcement has free access to it, unlike the general public—and was pleased to find a vacant home listed for sale at an address on that street.

I called Steve at our communications center, told him of the different drop location, and asked if he had learned anything from yesterday's wiretap on Collins's phone.

"Stuff you'd expect," he replied, "two phone calls from realtors asking him to photograph their newly listed houses, a commercial shoot in three days, and a couple of personal calls including one to his brother. He was reminded about a seven o'clock photo shoot for a children's birthday celebration, to which he clearly went." He paused. "An interesting thing is that Collins is a modest gambler who bets on basketball games using the internet. I don't know if he gets tips on the games, but in the late evening, someone sent him a text message, a series of numbers that I couldn't make heads or tails of."

"Really, what were they?" I asked.

I could hear Steve fumbling for his notes. "One, three, four...six, two, three...six, eight, zero, five," he replied. "I wondered if it was a tip on a game, and then I thought it might be a phone number, so I called it to find no such number existed."

I wrote the numbers down and wondered if this somehow related to the vacant house for the money drop in Mira Mesa. I said to Steve, "I don't know what these numbers mean, but just in case they are significant, could you monitor the wiretap to see if there is a similar call tonight and ping it?"

Steve acknowledged my request, and I studied the numbers. MLS listings had seven digits, and here were ten. I looked up the listing of the Mira Mesa drop house, and to my delight, I found it numbered 1346236. That left three numbers, which I readily interpreted as the time Collins was required to arrive at the house.

"Steve, I've got it!" I shouted to him over the phone. "The numbers refer to the listing and the pickup time."

"They match the vacant house in Mira Mesa?" he asked.

"Yes, they do."

"That's terrific, Shane. Now we can predict in advance where and when Collins will go to next... You should let the DEA know."

"Will do, but I want to do a little research first."

I looked through Collins's phone records and found a very short phone call made in the late evening of every Sunday through Thursday from a wide variety of calling numbers. I deduced they were geared to money pickups being made every weekday. This conformed to Swift's office operation. I called the phone company and asked for the identity of these callers. Eventually, a supervisor from the phone company called me.

"These phone calls were made using a small Mexican carrier, who won't release the names unless requested by the Mexican police."

I thanked the supervisor. I certainly did not want to call the Mexican police, because my request might get back to the money laundering operators. I called Steve at the communications center and told him that the phone call would likely come from Mexico, so he might not be able to determine its location.

"Too bad," he said. "Still, after I get the number call tonight, let's get the vacant house surveilled before Collins arrives to see who comes to make the drop."

"My plan also," I responded. Get me the numbers, and I'll identify the address... I'll get a camera-equipped car and meet you there. In the meantime, I'll let Thompson and the DEA crew know."

"Good work, Shane. I'll call you later." He paused. "You know this money laundering business has sure taken us away from investigating Flynn's murder."

"It's related, but I don't think we will ever be able to close that case until we find his body."

I then set up a conference call around eleven o'clock with the same participants as yesterday. I started off the call by recounting what we had discovered last night and that morning.

"Well done, Shane, for connecting those numbers to the house listing number and getting info on the delivery man," said Thompson. "We need to get arrest and search warrants and set up a crew to catch the delivery man or follow him to his source," he added.

"Not so fast," said Jackson, a tone of irritation in his voice. This case is to be prosecuted under federal statutes. The capture and arrest of all the participants in money laundering is the DEA's responsibility. We need your help, but we expect to approve any plan where arrests are to be made. The arrest warrants will be obtained by our office. Furthermore, we need our attorney to advise us on any arrest plan. I'll get him on the line."

While we waited for the DEA attorney, I said, "Steve Hall and I want to surveil the drop tomorrow, Wednesday, and get a lead on whoever brings money to the vacant house. We think it better to identify him beforehand; then we can arrest him later when you are raiding the Swift office and businesses. In that way, no word will get back to the money laundering operation. Thus, I am proposing we schedule the raid for the day after tomorrow, a Thursday. It will also give us time to get arrest warrants and to organize the operation."

"What do you think, Drew?" asked Jackson.

Ryan said that was fine with him.

Thompson added, "I think Shane is on target."

Another voice came onto the phone line. "I'm Niles Svenson, an attorney in the DEA office. Mr. Jackson has not briefed me on the situation. Perhaps someone would."

Thompson asked me to do so. I gave a quick summary of how Flynn's disappearance and his likely assassination had led us to suspecting Larry Swift of money laundering. I then gave him the details of Collins picking up the money at vacant homes and told him that we had determined how the homes were selected. I said we believed there was a physical connection between Collins's office and Swift's office immediately below, where we reckoned the money laundering took place.

"You're referring to Mr. Laurence Swift who is the Vice Chairman of the United Heritage Fund in San Diego?" asked Niles.

"That's right," replied Jackson.

"Wow," remarked Niles. Several seconds passed before he continued. "You need to be very careful when you have a high-profile person involved. All you have at the moment is suspicion. You could easily get a warrant to arrest Collins and search him. Even if he had drug money on him, you don't have a firm connection to Swift. You need to have the drug money marked and delivered into Swift's office to have an ironclad case. I don't think you have enough information yet to get a search warrant for Swift's office. You need to be especially circumspect here given what a prominent man Larry Swift is. A false arrest or one in which the evidence is thrown out for insufficiency in the warrant must be guarded against."

Ryan asked, "How are we going to do that?"

Since Thompson did not volunteer anything, I spoke up. "Let's stall Collins somehow from getting to the drop house. We can go in and add some marked bills to the money package before he arrives."

"What if the package is sealed?" put in Steve.

"We'll just have to be ready to reseal it," I responded.

"But we don't know how the money is bundled," said Steve. "It could be rolled, in taped bundles, or even loose."

Ryan said: "We will provide you with marked bills in all reasonable possible configurations. Also, you should take in resealing equipment when you enter."

I then said, "After Collins has left and we enter the home and find the package gone, we then have clear evidence that he has the drug money. Do you think that we would then be able to get a search warrant for Swift's office?"

"That's much more reasonable," replied Swenson, "but it would be better once Collins has returned to his studio. Get an on-call judge to approve the warrants and then search and arrest all suspected players and their homes once the marked bills are believed deposited in Swift's office. Get warrants to seize their bank accounts as well. Raid all the businesses since they are also tainted by drug money."

Thompson put in his thoughts. "We need to do this operation surreptitiously so we don't have the operation screwed up by curious neighbors?"

"Or the press," interjected Jackson.

"I'll get somebody to walk along the subject street to monitor the pickup and delivery," I replied.

"My neighbor has a dog and would be happy to lend it to me," volunteered Steve.

I hesitated. A homicide detective investigates rather than participates. I heard no objection from Thompson, and I could see how having my partner monitor the scene might be very helpful, so I said, "You're hired."

"Sounds good," said Ryan. "We give Collins time to deliver the money to Swift's office, and then we begin raids of the office and all of the businesses and homes...and seizures of bank accounts, of course."

Jackson spoke in summary and also, I thought, to emphasize he was in charge. "That sounds good. Let us know what help you need from us...in addition to the marked bills." He chuckled.

'Our biggest concern is to delay Collins from getting to the drop house until we have gotten in and added the marked bills to the money package," I said. "We also have to wait until the delivery man has clearly left the area. We don't know if he stands around to watch Collins make the pickup."

Steve spoke up at that point. "I'm monitoring Collins's phone calls as we are talking, and he has neither made nor received a phone call this morning from the time he picked up the money until when he reached his studio. Collins's actions don't appear to require confirmation."

I raised another issue. "I think it easier to delay Collins's departure from his home rather than near the site. We have more control from that location since access to the drop site could be by several different routes."

"It would be helpful if we could identify the drop man and monitor his vehicle before it gets to the vacant house," said Steve.

Ryan replied, "I know you think it a good idea to tail the drop man, but the case is too sensitive at this point. If he were to spot his tail and inform his players, our whole basis for Swift's arrest would be endangered. I do not want you to set up a tail on the drop man tomorrow or to try to put a transponder on his car while he enters the drop house."

Ryan's tone of voice represented a command, not a suggestion. I took my cue. "I agree with your logic, but a camera-equipped vehicle in place will help our arrest plan. It will identify the vehicle, perhaps the drop man himself, and give us the time interval between his departure and Collins's arrival.

As if to affirm Ryan, Jackson remarked, "That would be okay."

Steve, undeterred, piped up, saying, "we can use the old routine of having Collins's car blocked at one end by a parked car or a wall and a tow truck with its driver supposedly searching for whoever made the phone call for service. We need to check the logistics of this at Collins's apartment building as well."

"I did that when I put a transponder on his car," I said. "Collins parks in an assigned space that only allows him to back out. A tow truck driver blocking him should work fine." Steve had good ideas; I just wished I was presenting them. Still, I expected to be charged with implementing the arrest plan.

"I'll have agent Gerry Forbes stand by to get the arrest and search warrants once you have confirmed Collins has the marked bills in his possession," said Jackson. "Then, half an hour after Collins has arrived at his studio, or sooner if he tries to leave, I and Drew Ryan will lead our team in the arrest and search of Swift's office. I will need assistance from the sheriff deputies to handle the office staff." He paused before continuing. "I don't have staff enough to raid Swift's businesses. I would like the sheriff's department to take responsibility for that in executing the federal warrants."

"The department will be happy to help," said Thompson. "Shane Notfarg has been the lead detective in this undertaking. She will be making the arrest plan, and detective Steve Hall will assist as needed." He cleared his throat. "Have you anything to add to that, Shane?"

I responded accordingly. "Yes. I am planning to direct the operation from the sheriff's communications center. I expect to complete our side of the arrest plan by midday tomorrow and will review it with DEA staff in the afternoon."

I loved getting this responsibility. Frankly, the task was so huge that Thompson, a sergeant and head of my section, should have undertaken it. A political man like him would love to take credit for a successful operation, but he would dread more the responsibility for failure. I looked forward to the opportunity of proving myself, a black woman, but I knew success lay in covering all the details of the operation and allowing for pitfalls.

The phone conversation ended, and I walked quickly over to Thompson's office, where I buttonholed my boss. "Harry, I've too much on my plate to organize the raids on Swift's businesses. Would you do so, please, since you have more administrative muscle to get all the staff and vehicles required? I'll give you details of what you'll need."

"I'll do that for you, Shane."

"Thanks, Harry. That'll be an enormous help. You'll need a detective and two deputies to secure each business until a forensic team can come in. You will have to have them wait until we have the search and seizure warrants in hand. Only then will you be able to tell them which business they each have to go to. Please instruct the evidence teams to seize all cash, the computers, any financial records, and any collectables of value. They should label the computers and records so we know where to send them back in case the businesses are allowed to become operational again."

"That's a lot of deputies to tie up, Shane," he said. "Your operations precede the raids, so I want you to release the deputies and detectives you use to me once Collins is returning to his office."

"Certainly."

Thompson then added, "I will be taking the lead in raiding Swift's home."

I bet he'll call the press during the raid. Quite the man to get credit wherever possible. No different from Jackson wanting to lead the raid on Swift's office instead of Drew Ryan.

His reply about Swift's home reminded me of other places to be searched. "Harry, would you also organize the raids on the Arzeta's home, Collins's apartment and photo studio, his brother's real estate office, and Bert Swanson's home and the park office?" Thompson affirmed he would, and I added, "Don't forget to brief the detectives and deputies on how important it is to keep this planned raid secret."

"What about the liquor stores as well, and the jewelry and pawn shops?"

"Tell the deputies to get these stores locked, sealed, and guarded until their stocks have been inventoried and secured. We will arrange for a liquor distributor later to pick up the stock and send the DEA a check. The other stores will require us to check the ownership of the merchandise, which can be done by looking at their computer records." Nice to give instructions to Thompson after all these years of him pushing me around. "Also, please come to my planning meeting tomorrow at 10:30. I would appreciate any comments or suggestions you might have."

Thompson said he would.

# CHAPTER 19

I spent the rest of the day planning the operation, and determining the staffing level needed. I had a junior detective, a Norman Bolder, go to the San Diego Realtors Office to request the loan of a key card to open lockboxes and to be shown how to use it. When Bolder returned to the office, I asked him if the Realtors' staff had been cooperative.

"They were very helpful and would have loved to have known what it was all for," he said. "I told them it was a police matter that I could not discuss."

"Did you practice opening and closing that lockbox with the key card?" I asked.

"Sure did."

"Norman, I want you to be a key player in a secret raid we are undertaking Thursday. Be at our meeting room at 10:30, where you'll be briefed, and don't discuss this."

I pulled a camera-equipped car from the vehicle pool and drove it home. Steve called me around ten p.m. from the communications center to report Collins had received another text with a different set of numbers. They corresponded to a house in Clairemont, a community of San Diego not too far from the communications center, and the pickup time was 8:10 a.m.

"That's only a mile from my home," said Steve. "Why don't you come over for breakfast at my house after you've parked the car? I'll pick you up there."

"Very kind of you, Steve. But could you please drive over to that address and make sure there will be no problem parking there in the morning."

Half an hour later, Steve called me back to say that the street was lightly parked and that I should have no problems. I thanked him, adding, "I don't know how soon the drop man comes before Collins. I think they would want to keep the time interval short, but I think they also do not want them to meet. I estimate we are looking at a time difference somewhere between ten and fifty minutes, so I'm planning to park the car at 7:15 a.m. I'll set the camera recording, get out, and walk to the end of the street, where you can pick me up. That way, it won't look suspicious to the neighbors."

Wednesday morning went as planned. I dropped the car off among similar inconspicuously parked vehicles on the street about fifty yards from the subject house, and turned on the camera. Steve picked me up at the end of the street and took me to his home, a small, three-bedroom house built in the fifties.

"I bought this house ten years ago," he remarked. "It was the only house I could afford at the time."

"Yes, but it's convenient to the office," I said. "I was lucky enough to buy my condominium in Carmel Valley directly from an owner who had lost all his savings in the stock market slump of 2002."

Inside, Steve introduced me to his wife, a pretty oriental woman named Emanya, who returned to the kitchen after shaking hands with me. A small boy emerged and clung to Steve's legs while looking askance at me. "This is Shane, who I work with," said Steve, lifting the child up. "Austin, shake hands, please."

The little boy stuck a hand out at me, his face a little fearful at seeing a black woman taller than his father in the house. I was reminded of the pleasure I'd had with my own son at that age.

"Nice to meet you, Austin," I said, a wide smile on my face. Emanya served us a breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and hash browns, which Steve devoured with relish. It was a much bigger breakfast than I normally eat, but I consumed it all to avoid embarrassing my hostess. She disappeared into the kitchen with Austin, leaving Steve and me together.

"I met Emanya in Japan when I was in the Navy," volunteered Steve.

"Why did you leave the navy and get into law enforcement?" I asked.

"I had become a lieutenant," replied Steve, "and I could see I would have tours of duty away from home to gain promotion. I didn't think it fair to Emanya, who misses her family in Japan. The other thing is that the navy, indeed the military, is very hierarchal in nature. It doesn't allow the individual initiative that I enjoy as a detective."

"So, you retired from the navy ten years ago?" I asked.

"Yes. After studying at the San Diego Regional Academy, I worked for the city police before moving to the sheriff's department, which pays better. I was a patrol deputy for two years before I became an area detective in the burglary division. It took me another three years to get into the homicide unit, which we know is the premier section in the division."

"You made very good progress," I remarked, speaking honestly, while thinking how my own progress might have been faster if I'd had his advantage of being white, a man, and a veteran. The sheriff's administration had encouraged the recruitment of minorities like myself and might have relaxed entrance standards to do so. The practical result was that non-minorities disliked the perceived advantages we had and felt we were not quite as capable. I had to work very hard to prove that I was, in fact, equally as capable as them. I could see Steve would rise in our division. He liked his work and was both smart and diligent. I was lucky to have his assistance in the case.

Steve asked me a few personal questions, and then we began to talk about local events, the news, and politics. The latter wasn't a good choice, since he, like most veterans, was conservative, while my background makes me a centrist or slightly left politically. We passed the time until 8:45 a.m., half an hour after Collins should have picked up the money package. I bid goodbye to Emanya and Austin, and Steve drove me back to the camera car. I took a quick look at its recording and told Steve that we had what we wanted and that I would see him later at our 10:30 meeting.

Back at the office, I looked at the camera recording in detail on my computer screen. It showed a large white Mercury sedan, license number 4CWH265, arriving at 7:51 a.m. at the Clairemont house and leaving at 7:56 a.m. That car had magnetic decals on its side saying "Jiminez Real Estate" and a phone number. I moved the recording to Collins's arrival, which had occurred at exactly 8:10 a.m., only fourteen minutes after the drop, a time barely enough for Bolder to enter the house and add the marked bills in an appropriate mix—strong motivation to impede Collins. It took Collins just five minutes to leave his car and return to it, a time consistent with his stop at the Mira Mesa house.

I grabbed a detective, Baker, from the fraud section and asked him to identify the registered owner of the Mercury and his address. I gave him the camera recording. "Check with the Department of Real Estate to see if he is a sales agent with Jiminez, and don't do anything to alert his being investigated," I commanded. "Find out his home address," I added.

I got a hold of a smart deputy by the name of Emily Rose and told her I wanted her help in a major operation that she should discuss with no one, including fellow deputies. "Be ready for my call at 5:30 Thursday morning, where I will tell you where to go. You will then call our contract tow operator when I give you the time and have him block a certain car at a certain location. You should be in either your own car or an unmarked car if the transport pool has one available, and you should not be in uniform."

"Why don't you tell me that location now," asked Emily, "so I have plenty of time to be there in the morning?"

"This operation is hush-hush, and full details will not be released until tomorrow morning. I can tell you that it will be in North County, and I will give you the specific location Thursday morning. You will tell the tow truck operator where you are to meet and advise him which car he is to block and then disappear. You will observe the car owner searching for the tow truck operator and will wait for twenty minutes before calling for unblocking."

Emily nodded her understanding, and I gave further instructions. "When that is done, you will call me at the communications center and tell me the exact time the car owner left."

I gave Emily a key to our leased office and a radio receiver with encryption channels and told her which channel to use. "You will then drive to an office whose address I will give you tomorrow, unlock it, and wait inside for further advice."

I then ordered up two surveillance teams, one to monitor Collins and the other to monitor the drop man. I figured the drop man would much more likely spot tailing from the drop house rather than tailing to the drop house. I did not inform Ryan of this and felt I was technically in compliance with his stricture. I simply could not afford to have Collins find Bolder inside. I asked their team leaders, Verbinski and Wallace, to come to my meeting. I told them to have their surveillance teams ready for deployment by 5:30 a.m. on Thursday.

A courier brought marked bills from the DEA office. They comprised twenty and one-hundred-dollar bills, each in packages of one hundred and tied with thick elastic bands. That detail nudged my memory, and I immediately phoned Bolder to get a hold of a portable package sealer and practice using it. I asked Hanson, another junior detective in our homicide section, to be at my ten-thirty briefing.

Just before the meeting, Baker got a hold of me. "The registered owner of the Mercury is a Geraldo Perana, with an address in San Ysidro, near the Mexican border. I looked at the photo on his DMV license, and I felt reasonably certain he was the man getting out of the car. He was of the same height and weight, and he wore glasses, as required in the license."

"Well done, Baker," I said. "Please follow this up by getting a warrant for his arrest and the search of his home based upon suspicion of drug money possession. Also, please get me half a dozen photos of Perana."

Baker said he would be happy to do so and asked me to put in a good word for him to transfer to the homicide detail. I asked him to come to the briefing and bring his partner with him.

The ten-thirty meeting started with my requesting the assembled crew to stand up and introduce themselves. Thompson did not show. Baker had brought his partner, Watts, with him. I then began with my opening statement.

"Thanks for coming to this operational meeting. We want to catch people involved in a drug money drop and pickup, part of what we believe is a major money laundering operation. We will let you know where it is to take place tomorrow morning. You will be issued radios with the encryption option at the end of this meeting so I can inform you as to the what, the where, and the when. Drug money is dropped and picked up at a location I will know by very early tomorrow morning. It triggers our start time of 5:30 a.m. We want to catch the delivery person after he has made the drop and away from the drop position. We also want to follow the person who picks up the drug money to where he takes it, where other team members will arrest him. Absolutely no word of this operation must leave this meeting. That is why I am not giving out address and other info until we are sure the drop and pickup are in progress."

I paused before continuing. Hanson asked, "Is this anything to do with the raids Sergeant Thompson is organizing?"

Furious that others outside my team already knew of the associated raids, I replied abruptly, "Yes. The word should not have gotten out." I clenched my fists and swallowed as I tried to contain my fury. It took me a half-minute before I could speak calmly. "Let me detail what we are to do and who is doing it. I handed out photos of Perana. "Verbinski, I will give you this drop man's home address tomorrow. I believe he will start from home, though I am not certain. I do not know if he has the drop funds already or if he will be picking them up. Your task is to monitor the progress of this man's white Mercury towards the drop address, which you will be given at the start time. You'll get the car's license number tomorrow. If he stops to pick up or receive money, see if you can find out about it. The case is so sensitive that I would rather you not investigate than be spotted." Jackson, Ryan and Thompson would kill me if that were to happen. "Wallace, your task will be to monitor the progress of a blue Honda Civic to the drop address. You won't have to tail it since it has a transponder. I'm having someone delay the Honda from leaving its home site, just so you now. You'll position your cars along the route and tell me when it passes. You'll get its license number and start location tomorrow."

Verbinski and Wallace asked if I could give them some general location to help them position their team, and I told them it would be South and North San Diego County respectively. "Baker and Watts, I want you to be walking or jogging"—I pointed my finger at the trim-looking Watts—"along opposite ends of the street where the drop and pickup take place. Your task will be to monitor the arrival and departure times of the two perps. After they have both gone, I want you, Baker, to pick up a couple of deputies and follow the drop man to his end destination, where you will arrest him and get an evidence team to search his home. Verbinski's team is to guide you on his return. Wallace, your team can disassemble once our pickup man has reached his final destination.

"Hanson, you'll go with Bolder in an unmarked car and park it where it can't be seen by the drop address or its approaches. You will drive to the drop address as soon as you get the go signal from Baker, Watts, or Steve Hall that the drop man has driven away around the corner. Bolder, you will enter the drop house and add marked bills to the dropped package and will exit as expeditiously as you can. It is extremely important that the pickup man in his blue Honda does not see you."

"Where will this package be in the house?" asked Bolder.

"It will be semi-hidden, such as under the kitchen sink, under a vanity, in the water or furnace closet, or even in a cabinet drawer. Timing is critical. You won't have more than ten minutes to get into the house and leave."

"I take it the house is vacant?" asked Bolder.

"Yes. There will be nobody in the house."

"And if there is?"

I felt fortunate to have people like Bolder on my team, asking tough questions like this. I felt like saying that wouldn't happen, but I gave an answer that would better satisfy my questioner. "Arrest them. Put them in handcuffs and call Hanson to get them into the car." Bolder nodded, and I continued. "The marked bills you put into the package should roughly match what is already in there in the sense of currency mix and how the bills are bound together. Come up and sign a receipt for this money and examine the set closely. If the drop package is sealed, you should reseal it when you are done. Hanson, I want you to monitor the tap on our perp's phone until the operation gets the go-ahead signal, which is my responsibility." I had told Steve what I wanted him to do beforehand, but I wanted the attendees to know his vital role. "Steve will be walking a dog by the drop house to oversee the operation. He will inform the team when the drop man has exited the house. Afterwards, he will go to the pickup man's destination and lead deputies in, making arrests there."

The team did not ask questions at this point, so I went on. "Dane and Norman, you should regroup and then report to Sergeant Thompson, who will have you go to another location, where a raid will later take place. Your task will be to supervise the deputies in that raid."

"Both of us?" asked Hanson.

"Yes. It will be a big raid." I did not want to tell the team at that time that the DEA would be involved, though Steve, of course, knew. As I spoke, I realized Collins might return home first, especially if the drop location were near his apartment, but we would know that since we had a transponder on his car.

There were more questions from the assembled crew, the principal one being why they were not being given the time and location of the operation. "Because, I don't know it myself," I replied. While I had stated the truth, I knew I would have the information that evening, but I wanted to keep it secret until just before the operation was initiated, scared as I was of loose tongues.

I told everybody to pick up their radio receivers, go home, and get a good rest to be prepared for the next day starting at 5:30 a.m. in the morning, when I would notify them of the drop house location and time.

# CHAPTER 20

I called Drew Ryan late afternoon that Wednesday to give him a synopsis of our plan. He informed me Niles Svenson had prepared all necessary forms to get search and arrest warrants from a federal judge. The warrants would cover the Collins brothers, Swift, Arzeta, Bert Swanson, their offices, their homes and all of Swift's businesses.

"Are you ready for the operation tomorrow?" he asked.

"I think I've covered all the bases except yours," I replied. "I understand Mr. Jackson will be leading the arrest at Swift's office?"

"That is correct," he said ruefully. "I will be there also and will have two other DEA agents with me, but we will need help from sheriff deputies as well as an evidence team with vans to haul off files and equipment."

"I am having Steve take care of that," I told him. "Drew, you and Jackson should go to our leased office, which our deputy Emily Rose will open up for you within half an hour after Collins has left to get the money package. You can call in your team from there."

Drew thanked me, and I continued. "Are you able to be in touch with our communications center, where I will be supervising the operation?"

"Yes. Jackson set it up with your communications supervisor." He paused and then asked, "You will know this evening where the drop house is, and I understand you or Steve will check it out. If there is a problem, are you going to be able to call off the operation tonight? You don't want to order a stand-down tomorrow morning."

I hadn't thought of this possibility. "I take it you can contact your agents tonight if that were to occur?"

"Yes. And you?"

"My direct participants have radio transmitter-receivers, and I can let them know...but thanks for pointing it out to me."

I immediately got hold of Thompson to tell him of Ryan's concern.

"If that happens, my raiding crew can be called off tomorrow morning by regular communication channels since they won't be starting until after eight thirty," he responded. "You just take care of your participants."

It had been a busy day. Steve and I went out for dinner together, and then we returned to the communications center and stood by Hanson as he monitored Andy Collins's phone. The warrant for the arrest of Joe Bailey had already been issued. Law enforcement agencies across the country had been notified, but there had been no sight of him. He would be a key in the prosecution for both money laundering and murder.

Hanson got the phone call we were waiting for at ten o'clock that Wednesday evening. I looked up the corresponding listing number on the San Diego MLS. It was a mobile home in the Madrid Manor mobile home park in San Marcos. I cursed. Mobile home park dwellers are very communal. They would know immediately that Steve walking the dog was not one of their own. That would also be true of the detectives walking or jogging. There was no parking on the main street outside the park, and street parking in the park was nominally prohibited. Stationing our crew to be unnoticeable would be impossible.

I phoned Thompson and Drew Ryan and told them the operation was off for the next day and why. I spent an hour calling my team, including Emily Rose, and telling them of the cancellation. I called Steve and asked him to get a camera-equipped car and set it up to watch the drop-off and pickup the next morning.

"I'll try," he said. "If I can't get one, I'll go there and make the observations myself." Anticipating my concern, he added, "I'll position my car where it can't be seen from cars entering the mobile home park."

I was extremely tired when I went to bed just after midnight. It was the first example of how things can go wrong. It made me think of Dwight Eisenhower having to call off the planned first day of the Normandy invasion of World War II due to bad weather. We had the same problem. Would our plan leak to the enemy by its postponement?

Steve called me midmorning the next day, a Thursday. "I was able to pull a camera-car and park it near the mobile home park entrance. I've looked at the recording. The good news is that Geraldo Perana in his Mercury is still the drop guy. The bad news is the time interval between Perana's leaving and Collins's arrival was only fourteen minutes." He let me digest this information before adding, "My neighbor has let me keep the dog until the operation is over. He thought it better for the dog to get used to me...or me to get used to the dog. The problem is the dog has peed in my car and on my living room carpet, and Austin has fallen in love with it. I'll have to buy a replacement dog for my neighbor or my son." We laughed together.

Steve then told me he had been looking over various phone records around the time Flynn was murdered. "Arzeta made one call to an untraceable number late Friday, September 5, the same day Flynn saw Swanson counting out drug cash. That call was received in Chicago. I think that number belongs to Bailey, since it matches the number of the call Collins received in San Francisco around midnight on Sunday, September 13. I think Bailey was then asking to be picked up in Santa Rosa where had had left the dead Flynn in the stashed Camry. Now, Swift made a call to that same phone number on Monday, September 8. This time, the call was received in Escondido, near, if not at, Arzeta's home. I think Bailey had travelled to Escondido and Swift was telling him to kill Flynn and make it look like an accident. The gas attack took place the next day. Swift made another call to that phone number on Wednesday, September 10 when he would know the gas attack had failed. He would know from Marge Holmes that Flynn was going to the fishing camp and was asking Bailey to follow him. My theory is supported by the fact that Arzeta, who rarely calls Collins, called him on Friday, the day before he and Bailey drove north. I think he was commanding Collins to go with Bailey. Finally, Swift received a call from Bailey's number on Tuesday, September 16. I think he was telling Swift that Flynn had been killed."

I was very impressed by Steve's research effort and told him so. "I think these phone calls make the case for Swift ordering Flynn's murder much stronger. Let's talk to the district attorney about it after this operation is over."

I called Thompson and told him of Steve's findings. He was elated. "It gives more validity to the raid on Swift's house, which I will be leading together with DEA agents. Great work by Steve. That really moves this case along."

I felt envious that Steve had made such a dent in my case while thinking simultaneously what a pompous asshole Thompson was.

I took time off in the late afternoon to jog for fifty minutes on the treadmill. I watched the TV as I jogged. The news depressed me: rapidly falling house prices and rising unemployment. I treated myself to a steak dinner to fortify myself for the next day. After dinner, Hanson called me. He reported Collins had received the pertinent phone call at 9:30 p.m. with a set of numbers ending in 755. I looked on the MLS listing to find it to be a home in Tierrasanta, a middle-class community on the east side of San Diego. I called Steve, who lived closer to Tierrasanta, to check for any potential problems.

He called back an hour later. "Dammit, Shane. There's a big problem. The lockbox has gone. Evidently, the house has been sold, but escrow hasn't closed, and the MLS hasn't been notified of the change in listing status."

I cursed out loud. Steve asked if I wanted him to monitor the drop-off and pickup at the house. "Those guys have the same problem as us," he said. "They too don't know there is no lockbox. If you like, I can put a camera-equipped car there. Emanya can pick me up and take me back since I live much closer than you."

I truly appreciated Steve's diligence and told him to go ahead. Once again, I notified all the operational staff, who universally expressed their disappointment. We knew that pickups were not made on the weekends, so it meant the operation was called off until Monday. I dreaded that details might leak out to Swift's group or the press. Again, I felt like Eisenhower having to make his D-Day channel crossing decision in the rough unpredictable weather of the time.

Steve came into the office with the camera recording of the vacant house with no lockbox. We were pleased to see Geraldo Perana in his white Mercury making the drop, as before. The time between Perana leaving and Collins arriving was twelve minutes. I decided we needed to time how long it would take us to add the marked bills. I got a hold of Norman Bolder, and we drove to a vacant listed house close to our office.

"I want you to do a practice run, and I am going to time you," I told him. "Make sure you check every possible hiding place for the money drop, upstairs and downstairs."

I watched Bolder get out of the car, fumble with the lockbox, extract the key, and open the front door. I stared at my watch until he exited, locked the front door, replaced the key in the lockbox, and got into the car.

"How did I do?" he asked.

"You took eight and a half minutes," I replied. "The time does not include opening the package, inserting the marked bills, and resealing it. "When you get inside the package, you will have to look at the money groupings inside and make up a package of similar quantity and denomination mix. I want you to practice doing that with a dummy package and report back to me how long it took you."

Later that day, Bolder reported that after practice and with the sealer preheated, he could open and reseal the package in three minutes. "I think I'll find the package quicker," said Bolder. "I suspect we won't have to open every drawer and every closet door."

"I can't count on that," I replied. "I need to add a minute on each end to allow for your car to arrive and leave without being spotted by either of our perps, so the total time it takes is a minimum of fourteen minutes. The average interval between Perana's leaving and Collins's arrival has been thirteen minutes, but I think it could fluctuate by as much as five minutes either way. However, I plan to delay Collins's arrival by at least fifteen minutes, so you should have time as long as you work expeditiously." Bolder merely grinned at me.

I had Hanson continue monitoring Collins's phone over the weekend, even though I knew there was no history of weekend pickups. There was always the possibility a call of significance might occur. Hanson reported Collins had made a date on Saturday with a man to go to a foreign movie at the Landmark Theatre in Hillcrest, a community of artists and artisans in San Diego. I asked Hanson if he would like me to bring him a pizza while he continued monitoring the phone on Sunday evening. He thanked me, so I brought in the food and drinks and joined him.

The call we were waiting for came at nine o'clock on Sunday evening. The numbers corresponded to an 8:10 a.m. pickup time and the listing of a vacant home in Vista, a town eight miles to the west of San Marcos and Swift's office building. I told Hanson to go home and get some rest for the busy next day. I immediately drove to the home, since I lived closer to it than Steve, and found it vacant and protected by a lockbox on the front entry door. It looked perfect, a quiet street well off the main road, with plenty of side streets to hide cars carrying all the operational staff. The route to the home could be accessed by two likely exits off Highway 78. I drove to the Vista house to and from these exits, Emerald Dr. and Melrose Dr., to find driving times of four and two minutes respectively. Collins might take either exit, so I planned accordingly.

I called all my team to let them know the operation would proceed and they should be ready to hear and act upon instructions next morning starting at 5:30 a.m. I called Drew Ryan to say the operation was a go the next day and that he should be ready to get the search and arrest warrants from the federal courthouse as soon as we confirmed Collins had returned to his office with the money package. I notified Thompson that everything was set for the next day. Delighted to hear the operation was proceeding, he asked about the arrest warrants for Swift and Collins on murder charges. I told him I would obtain those as soon as the raids were completed.

MapQuest let me check the driving time to the vacant house from Collins's home: nineteen minutes. I added twenty percent to this time to allow for the heavy traffic on Highway 78, typical for that time of day. If Collins planned to arrive at the drop house by 8:10 a.m., then he would leave his home at 7:47 a.m., or five minutes earlier if he had breakfast at the McDonald's drive-through like before. I did the same exercise for Geraldo Perana. According to MapQuest, it would take him fifty-five minutes to drive from his home to the Vista address. But it would take longer if he went somewhere to pick up the money. I figured I would have to play it by ear next day. If he had the money in his possession at his home, and if he did not stop for breakfast, then he would need to leave his home at Collins's pickup time less fifty-five minutes for travel, less five minutes to drop off the money, and less thirteen minutes to get fully clear. That would require Perana to leave his home no later than 6:57 a.m.

I decided to call Verbinski that evening to give him a partial heads up, telling him the start point would be in San Ysidro and that he should be positioned by 6:00 a.m.

I arrived very sleepy at 5:00 a.m. Monday morning at the sheriff's communication center, not surprising since I hadn't gotten to bed the night before until well after midnight. I notified my team on the encrypted radio channel to give them the address of the drop house and the side streets where they should park until given the go-ahead to move into position. We synchronized our watches. I gave them details of Perana's white Mercury and Collins's blue Honda.

"Bolder, the lockbox is on the front entry door. Make sure you have the money package with you as well as the sealing device and a knife or scissors to open the package. Let me know when you and the other crew are on location. I want all of you to radio in to confirm our communications.

"Verbinski, let me know when your team is in position, and call me precisely when the Mercury leaves.

"Emily, our perp lives at the Hillview apartments on Basser Street in Oceanside. You should get the tow truck to block his car at 7:37 a.m. That's ten minutes earlier than when our man should leave, but it might well be only five minutes earlier if he goes out for breakfast.

"Wallace, I want you to put your first car a half-block downstream of those apartments. Also, station team members at the eastbound Emerald and Melrose exits off Highway 78."

Verbinski radioed at 6:17 a.m. to say Perana had just left his house in his white Mercury, i.e., forty minutes earlier than I had calculated. "He garages his car," he added. "It would have been difficult to install a transponder." This early departure meant our drop man was not going to the vacant house directly.

Five minutes later, Verbinski radioed that Perana had stopped at a nearby McDonald's and gone inside. "I had Alvarez go inside the restaurant to watch Perana and his car; I hope that was okay," he said.

It was okay as far as I was concerned unless our man was spotted. Ryan and Thompson would kill me if that happened. I just hoped Verbinski's man fitted in with that McDonald's crowd.

Ten minutes later, Verbinski radioed, "Alvarez reports an old Chevy car came into the parking lot and put a package in Perana's car. He has the license plate of that car... It has Baja California plates. I don't have enough people to tail both that car and Perana's. What do you want me to do?"

# CHAPTER 21

I wondered if I should notify US agents at the Mexican border but decided against it. The car could get to the border long before Perana's car got to the drop house. Taking the money laundering operation down was far more important than catching a money courier. I told Verbinski just to concentrate on the Mercury.

He then radioed, "I don't know whether our man is going to the drop house by Highway 15 or Highway 5, so I'll have to split my team to cover both routes. It means I won't be able to do as good a job monitoring your man's progress."

"That's okay," I responded, and then I contacted another team member.

"Wallace, have team members stationed at the Emerald and Melrose exits tell me when that white Mercury passes by."

I poured myself a cup of coffee while waiting to hear back from them. Verbinski radioed that Perana was on the move at 6:59 a.m., i.e., two minutes later than I had predicted. I prayed our delay of the Collins car would go smoothly, since delays of the drop man would imperil our marked money insertion. Verbinski reported Perana had taken Route 5 north and that he would have one of his team near the Del Mar exit watch for Perana's white car. Emily called to say she and the tow truck were positioned to move on the blue Honda. I called Thompson to ask him if his crew were assembling. He replied they were gathering vans and cars in preparation for the raids. He said a reporter was sniffing around. Jeez. If this operation is called off for any reason, we're sunk.

Verbinski's team member reported the white Mercury had passed him at the Del Mar exit at 7:26 a.m. I pulled up MapQuest on the computer. It would take Perana twenty-six minutes to complete his journey; he would be right on time at 7:52 a.m.

Emily called at 7:38 a.m. to say the tow truck was blocking the blue Civic and that its driver was walking out of the parking lot towards her nearby car. At 7:41 a.m., she reported, "The tow truck is also blocking the car next to the Honda, and its owner is looking for the truck driver... He's reading the signs on the truck... He's using his cell phone... I'm sure he's calling the tow company."

I waited with impatience to hear her next report, which came three minutes later. "The driver beside me is getting a call from headquarters... He is being threatened.... He is giving me his cell phone."

My watch read 7:45 a.m. I could hear the tow company dispatcher yelling at Emily. "He says the truck driver will be fired if he does not move it now," reported Emily.

"Tell the dispatcher it's a police matter," I told her excitedly. "See if the driver can unblock this other person's car while still blocking our suspect's."

Then I heard the tow truck operator say, "I'm tired of this shit. I can't afford to lose my job."

"He's gotten out of my car," said Emily calmly, "and is walking back to his truck... I see another man talking to the owner of the first car."

Damn! Can't Emily grasp how serious this timing is? Calm was not in my voice when I asked her, "What does this other man look like?"

"Athletic build, nearly six feet, sandy-colored hair. He's getting into the blue car."

It was Collins. My mind started racing on what I could do to delay his departure. Emily continued. "The tow truck has moved. The first man is pulling out his car... The blue car, a Honda Civic, is following him."

My watch read 7.48 a.m. We had delayed Collins by only six minutes instead of my planned twenty. That would scarcely be enough time and totally insufficient if he did not go to the drive-through for breakfast.

"What would you like me to do now?" asked Emily. My mind was racing. I could not think of anything she could do to delay Collins without raising suspicion. I gave out instructions while thinking furiously.

"Wallace, tail the Honda and see if it goes into the McDonald's drive-through, and let me know immediately."

Then I said, "Emily, I want you to go to our leased office at the address I gave you, where you will be joined by DEA agents. You are to assist them in the planned raid."

The Wallace team member reported Collins had indeed gone into the McDonald's drive-through. We had gained a probable five minutes. My anxiety level remained high, amplified by Verbinski's team reporting Perana had just transitioned from Highway 5 onto 78 at 7:48 a.m. I calculated Perana would then arrive at the drop house at 7:56 p.m. and leave at 8:01 a.m., four minutes later than I had initially predicted. With Collins delayed by just six minutes, there was only a fifteen-minute gap between the drop departure and the pickup, scarcely enough time for Bolder to get to the house, go inside, find the package, insert the marked bills, and leave without being seen by Collins.

I radioed my team. "There's a problem. Perana is running four minutes late, and we've delayed Collins by only six minutes. Come up with ideas to slow him down."

After a few seconds, Steve said, "Have Baker or Watts, who are on the approach street, cross the road in front of Collins's car. That should help."

"That's only going to give you a few seconds," said Baker.

"Any more ideas, guys? I'm desperate," I said in a stressed voice.

The Wallace team member at the Emerald exit offered, "As soon as we see the Honda, we can pull out in front of it and drive on the slow side."

"Excellent. Do it." I thought about the suggestion a little longer. "No, don't do it. If you can see the Honda. He can see you, and pulling out to drive slowly in front of him will look too suspicious."

"How about pulling out in front of him to cross to the other side of the exit bridge?" said Wallace.

"That sounds better. Go ahead. Both the Emerald or the Melrose exits." But I knew that would produce a delay of mere seconds, and I needed more. "More ideas, guys," I pleaded.

"Call the Highway Patrol and see if they can slow traffic down," suggested Steve.

"Great idea." What luck to have such a smart person like Steve on my team.

I phoned the Highway Patrol immediately and asked to speak to the director of their operations center. I quickly introduced myself to him and asked if he had a patrol car that could immediately slow down traffic briefly on the eastbound portion of Highway 78 between Oceanside and Vista. "It's a very urgent matter to delay a particular car in a very important operation," I added. I stayed on the line as the director asked the dispatch where highway patrol cars were located.

"I don't have an eastbound car that can help you that quickly," he said two minutes later. My heart pounded. He continued. "My nearest car is stationed at the westbound College Dr exit. I can have him slow traffic on the north side of the freeway. That should give you a little slowing down on the eastbound side."

"Anything you can do will help," I begged.

The team member at the Melrose exit radioed. "The Mercury passed me at 7:56 a.m."

Shit. Perana was late. He must have run into traffic. He would now arrive at the drop house at 7:58 a.m. and leave at about 8:03 a.m., while Collins would arrive at 8:16 a.m., leaving a time gap of only thirteen minutes for our entry operation. And I needed a minimum of fourteen minutes.

"Damn," I yelled into the microphone. "Perana must have hit traffic. He's four minutes late. I just hope to hell Collins got delayed also."

Deputy Watts, jogging at the end of the street, radioed two minutes later. "The white Mercury just passed me."

"The delivery man has arrived," called in Steve at 7:58 a.m. "It's the same white Mercury... He's entering the house now, carrying a briefcase... This damn dog wants to pee at every shrub along the way."

At 8:03 a.m., Steve reported. "The perp's driving off... He's rounded the corner."

"Hanson and Bolder, get to the house!" I yelled.

"We're already on our way," Hanson replied. "We're at the house now," said Hanson at 8:04 a.m. "Norman's at the lockbox... He's going inside."

"Follow him inside, Hanson," I commanded. "You search upstairs while Bolder looks downstairs."

"Will do," came Hanson's reply. "Just as well. He forgot the package sealer."

"Don't look in medicine cabinets," I added. "They don't have enough room for the package."

My watch read 8:06 a.m. when a team member radioed, "The white Mercury has passed me at the Melrose exit and is getting onto Highway 78, going west.'

"Monitor his progress south," I said.

"We're on it," replied Verbinski.

I could hear Bolder and Hanson speaking into their respective radios as they searched. "Downstairs toilet vanity, no." I could hear doors banging. "Master bedroom closets, no... Upstairs toilet vanity, no... Master bedroom vanity, no... Kitchen closets, no... Guest room closet, no... Furnace closet, no." Finally, Bolder yelled. "Come down, Dane. I've found the package in the hot water closet. It's got a lot of money in it."

My watch said 8:08 a.m. Is the package sealed? I wondered.

"Dane, got a pocket knife?" came the answer.

"There's a lot of money inside," added Bolder.

Hanson must have had such a knife, because the next thing I heard was: "I'm plugging in the electric sealer. It'll take a minute to warm up."

Jesus! Why didn't he plug it in earlier? My pulse rising, I barked into the microphone, "Baker and Watts, don't try to block the Honda Civic. I'll have Steve do it with his dog instead. Got that, Steve?"

In the middle of this chaos, the thought ran through my mind: Why would Bolder's parents give their son a name sounding like "No Man?"

A team member at the Emerald Dr. exit reported at 8:13 a.m., "The blue Honda just passed here. Sorry, I wasn't able to delay it."

Collins would arrive in four minutes. I yelled into the microphone, "Hanson, what's the status?"

He responded, "We're in the middle of the sealing."

At 8:15 a.m., I roared, "Hanson, Take the door key, lock the front door, put the key in the lockbox, and drive off immediately."

"Without Norman?"

"Yes," I screeched. Then I said into the microphone, my voice high and excited, "Bolder, you don't have time to leave by the front door. When Baker or Watts report seeing the blue Honda, put the package back in the water closet even if you haven't finished sealing it. Then take your gear and exit the back door and sit down where you can't be seen."

Baker radioed, "I see a blue Honda coming towards me... It's turning the corner onto our street... Our car left the corner just before, but I only see one person in it, though."

I looked at my watch...8:16 a.m.

"I'm jogging down the street," radioed Watts. "I see Steve and the dog crossing the road and the car slowing down... The car has stopped in front of the house... The dog is peeing against the house-for-sale signpost. The owner of the car is talking to Steve."

Steve radioed, "Collins has entered the house."

My watch said 8:18 a.m. My pulse raced. My mind was wracked with questions: Was the package adequately sealed? Did Bolder leave the house before Collins entered? Did Bolder lock the back door when he left? Will he be noticed by Collins? I would have to wait until Collins left and Steve reported in. I temporized with mundane tasks. I radioed Drew Ryan to give him a status report. He told me he was at our leased office with Jackson and a pretty young deputy.

"She and other deputies in waiting vehicles outside will help you in the raid," I told him.

I asked where the white Mercury was. "It's on Highway 5 going south" came a response.

"Are you ready for me to follow and arrest Perana?" asked Baker.

"You can head on south, but don't arrest him until our raid is in progress. I'll let you know when," I replied. "Verbinski's team will let you know where Perana stops at."

Steve radioed: "I've walked the dog down to the end of the street and I've just watched Collins leave the drop house at 8:24 a.m. That's eight minutes, longer than his usual four minutes. What could that be due to?" I pondered on Steve's observation and worried about it. I watched the transponder on the Honda car and felt relieved that it moved steadily in the direction of Collins' studio and not to his apartment. Now that Collins had left, I instructed Hanson to pick up Bolder and report back to me.

Bolder radioed two minutes later. "I was able to insert a roll of marked bills into the package and pretty well seal it before I went out the back door. I could hear Collins take a dump in the toilet before he left."

So that was why he'd taken longer to leave than usual. I asked Bolder to reenter the home to confirm the package was gone. He reported back minutes later that it had indeed been taken.

My voice had become much calmer when I told Steve to go to Swift's office and direct the sheriff deputies. I radioed Wallace to see where Collins's car was. His team member reported Collins had exited his car and was climbing the stairs to his studio.

Jackson radioed me from the leased office to say Collins had entered his studio and that he had immediately called Forbes to get the necessary warrants signed at the federal courthouse. Verbinski kept me and Baker posted on Perana's travel south. I radioed Wallace and told him his work was done and he could release his team. Steve radioed that he was at the leased office waiting for the signal for the raid to proceed.

But the signal did not come, and I started getting nervous again. Ryan called me at 9:10 a.m. "Forbes reported the only judge available in the federal courthouse was Judge Morretti, known to be a stickler. I told him to go ahead. But then Forbes called back to say the judge did not think there was probable cause to arrest Wayne Collins. Morretti said Andy Collins being his brother was insufficient. I think you should come with me to discuss these warrants with the judge. He has some concerns about raiding the Swift office until we have confirmation that the drug money package has entered that office."

Damn. They should have waited for a more compliant judge.

# CHAPTER 22

I radioed Thompson to tell him what had happened. Ryan called back to say Morretti would see all of us at eleven o'clock. One of the protocols amongst judges is that they don't allow you to shop around in getting these warrants. All of them will ask if you have asked any judge prior, and they won't touch it if you have. Also, if you don't tell them that you tried one judge before who declined to issue the warrant or had questions about it, the detective requesting the warrants will be blacklisted. So, I knew we would be stuck with Judge Moretti. I grew increasingly concerned Swift and Arzeta would start counting the money, find it contained more than expected, and start asking questions. It had the potential to screw up our operation. And I desperately needed to arrest Andy Collins before he left his studio.

Thompson, waiting in North County to search and seize at Swift's house, was as dismayed as I at the holdup. He told me to go with the others to see Judge Moretti. Ryan called me to confirm I was coming to the meeting. He told me Niles Svenson, who had approved the warrant affidavits, would also attend. I grabbed a late breakfast so I would be fortified the meeting, and I reached the judge's chamber a few minutes before eleven o'clock to find Morretti drinking coffee. Moretti had been a judge for twenty years and had a reputation for strict adherence to the law. He came from a wealthy family, so he was beholden to nobody. It also meant he rubbed shoulders with San Diego's society crowd, which would include Larry Swift. I introduced myself, and he waved me into a seat opposite Forbes. The judge sipped his coffee, and we chatted about social matters, including the status of the economy, until Ryan and Svenson arrived ten minutes later. Then business started.

"I have problems with the warrants for the arrest of Wayne Collins and the search of his premises and home," said Moretti. "I do not see the nexus."

Ryan looked at me to reply. "Andy Collins, who clearly has drug money in his possession, is a real estate agent who is brokered to his brother Wayne Collins," I said. "Andy would not have a lockbox key and access to these vacant homes without the relationship with his brother."

"I see," said Morretti. "Your man"—he pointed to Forbes--"did not mention the agency relationship in the warrant affidavit."

Svenson's face wrinkled. Morretti took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "Mr. Swift is a very prominent man in the county, and I need to feel confident your suspicions of his money laundering are well founded. You only suspect that there is a physical connection between the studio and Mr. Swift's office. Is it not possible that Andy Collins is the money launderer? Is it not possible that he and his brother are buying property with cash? Have you checked real estate transfers in this county and others? Have you checked whether the Collins brothers have flown to countries where banks are more willing to handle large cash deposits?"

I looked at Ryan to see if he expected me to answer these questions, but he replied, "We have not checked any flights taken by the Collins brothers. These are not stupid people. They would be highly unlikely to take the risk of transporting large bundles of cash in their bags, which would be subject to search at the airport. If they were the money launderers, we would see some evidence of it in their lifestyles. The older brother lives in a modest house in San Marcos and is a co-owner of a rented condominium in Escondido. He drives a 2005 Chrysler minivan, and his wife drives an older Volkswagen. The younger brother lives in a rented apartment in Oceanside and drives a 2004 Honda. Money launderers nearly always flaunt their wealth, and we see none of that in the Collins brothers. We believe Andy Collins is a mere courier whose activity in the scheme, in fact, may be unknown to his older brother. But we are not sure, and we need to search to find out."

"Hm, I see," said the judge. "What about Swift? I take it you are monitoring Andy Collins to see that he has not taken the money out of his studio."

"That's right," said Ryan. He has not left since he returned. We are very worried that he might leave carrying his photography bag. We would have problems if we then arrested him on suspicion of money laundering and there was no money in his bag. Furthermore, the arrest in the parking lot would quickly tell Swift that we are on to him. He could then destroy his accounting books and computer records. He or Arzeta or any other associate could walk out with all the money that Andy gathered and dispose of it before we could search his office."

The judge did not look convinced. Ryan looked at me, so I spoke up. "These arrest and search warrants are all for money laundering. The matter arose because I was investigating the disappearance of a man called Flynn, whom we now believe was murdered. The reason for his murder is that he observed a man, Swift's uncle, picking up and counting a money drop, a drop he wrote to the DEA about. We know Andy Collins and a felon called Joe Bailey went to the fishing camp, and we believe they carried out the murder there."

"I see," said the judge. "Have you obtained a warrant for the arrest of these two men?"

"Yes, sir," I replied. "We have a warrant to arrest Bailey for attempted murder in San Diego County. Sonoma County would have jurisdiction for Flynn's murder, since we believe it took place in that county. They are still reviewing the evidence. Meanwhile, we are getting warrants from a state judge to arrest Andy Collins and Swift for conspiracy to commit murder."

"You've made a good case," said the judge, smiling at me. "I'll go ahead and issue the warrants." He paused. "Good gracious, you are requesting search and seizure warrants for all of Mr. Swift's businesses."

"That is correct, sir," said Ryan. "They are all part of his criminal enterprise."

"But you do not have arrest warrants for any of the operators of these businesses."

"That is because we believe they are all operated legitimately and that the operators are unaware of the money laundering."

"Hm! I'll sign these warrants, but I suspect you may be challenged in court later on as to the adequacy of the connection."

Ryan immediately phoned Jackson at the Swift office site to say that we had all the arrest and seizure warrants and that the pertinent ones would be faxed immediately to him. I returned to the communication center. Jackson called me to confirm receipt of the faxes and to tell me that his crew had begun the raid of Swift's office. I notified Thompson that the warrants were in hand. He told me to get staff couriers to take the warrants to detectives and sheriff deputies now standing near Swift's various businesses and awaiting the signal to raid them.

Jackson kept me informed of his progress at the Swift office. "Steve Hall and DEA agents have gone upstairs to arrest the Collins brothers. My crew are herding Swift's employees to one side and are interrogating them... We have demanded entry into the secure portion of the office... Nobody inside has responded to our demand... I've waited a minute and have ordered the entry door broken down... Two of my officers tried forcing it, but they say it is steel reinforced and has a very strong high-security lock... It will need to be opened with a drill and a sabre saw... The equipment has been brought in."

I could hear the drill and sabre saw operating for about fifteen minutes before Jackson started speaking again. "We're in the room, and a man is coming out of the washroom."

I heard a new voice. "What the devil are you doing in my office?"

And then Jackson was speaking again. "Mr. Swift, you are under arrest for money laundering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense."

I could hear the click of handcuffs and Jackson ask, "Where is Mr. Arzeta?" There was no reply from Swift. "Did you phone Rafael just before we entered?"

"No," came the reply quickly—too quickly, I thought.

"Mr. Swift, will you give us the combination numbers to your safe here?" I heard Swift giving Jackson a set of numbers. "Jones, take this man out to the car" came Jackson's voice.

I then heard Swift yelling to his staff in the outer office, "Someone call Pearson Sweeny!" I knew Sweeny to be an important attorney in town, one who regularly handled upscale clients and, of course, would charge upscale prices for doing so. I wondered if Swift could afford him after all his assets and cash were seized.

Jackson started speaking again. "There's no loose cash in the office, but there is a large safe, very modern and professional. It's probably seventy inches high and thirty-six inches in depth and width, with a monstrous four-dial combination lock Jones, go to the patrol car and ask Mr. Swift again for the combination... There's a bill-counting machine in the corner... There are three computers in here... We are loading them in our evidence van as we speak... Okay, Jones, let's try those numbers... It's so damned easy to overshoot when dialing... No, it's not working... Jones, go to Swift and verify those numbers... There are printers, copiers, and filing cabinets, which the crew are hauling out... So, one of those numbers was transposed... Let's try again... No, it's not working... I think Swift is stalling. Shane, please call in a locksmith. Tell them it's a Metro safe, model 673, with a four-combination dial system."

I made the call to our contract locksmith and listened to Jackson talking on our communications system. "I am going back into the outer office... The staff there are visibly shocked, but are cooperating... Evidence technicians are counting any cash employees had in front of them and are issuing receipts... They are labeling each computer... They are boxing up records, labeling them, and writing on them the name of the pertinent staff member controlling that account."

I heard two women sobbing. I heard a man asking, "Have we lost our jobs?" I sympathized with them. They were innocents caught up in a criminal enterprise. Jackson kept his line open. I heard another man say, "I demand to see your warrants for this arrest, search, and seizure."

"And you are?" asked Jackson.

"I am Pearson Sweeny, and I am Mr. Swift's attorney. Again, I must see your arrest and search warrants."

I could sense Jackson giving documents to the attorney. "I don't see the safe mentioned in this warrant," claimed Sweeny.

"It says search to be conducted of all the interior of the Swift office including all appurtenances," said Jackson."

"It does not mention the safe, and I request you desist from searching it. My client's business is gravely impacted by this illegal search and seizure," Sweeney said in a firm but louder voice.

"So noted," replied Jackson, who called me twenty minutes later to say the locksmith had arrived. Five minutes later, the safe had been opened. "There's a lot of cash inside," he said, "too much for us to count here. We are going to bag it up and count it at the office. There are banknotes in bank bags, banknotes in rubber-band-bound bundles, and bank notes in marked trays. There are bags of coins, some loose and some in wrappers. There's quite a haul here."

"Mr. Jackson, you'd better look for the marked bills and show them to the attorney to avoid evidence challenges later," I said.

"Good point, Shane."

I could hear Jackson giving instructions to other DEA agents in the room. It took twenty minutes for Jackson to find the marked bills. He must have gone outside to talk to Swift's attorney, who was being kept behind a security line. "Mr. Sweeny, I want you to see these bills, which we had previously marked and that glow under this fluorescent light."

"I see them. I reserve the right to challenge your seizing them."

"The serial numbers are also known to us. They were in a stash of illicit funds that has been delivered to your client."

I heard no reply from Sweeny. "He wants to talk to Swift, but we are not allowing it at this time. We need to book him first," said Jackson. "Great job you did in organizing this, Shane."

I radioed Baker to proceed with the arrest of Perana and the search of his home and car. Then Steve radioed to let me know what else was happening on the site. "Andy's office wasn't locked, so we just walked in. He was furious and swore bloody murder as I handcuffed him. I think he would have tried to bolt if I hadn't had a deputy with me. I wouldn't have had the strength to stop him. I had evidence techs seize all his property. He had only a modest amount of cash in his office till, but we seized it anyway. I found the chute to Swift's office, and I am having it photographed." He paused. "I then went to his brother's office, where we performed the same search and seizure operations. Wayne looked terrified as I put him in handcuffs and put him in a patrol car where he could see his brother in another car. 'My brother had nothing to do with this,' Andy yelled at me."

"He may not have known," I commented. "It's another case of innocents being caught up by the activities of others."

Steve called back as they were finishing up around four o'clock. "I got two office keys from employees here and am locking the place up. Swift's employees have been asking questions about whether they still have jobs and if they are going to get their pay. I referred them to Swift's attorney, who has been a pain in the butt here, challenging me on trivia."

"Come back to the office, and I'll brief you on what is happening elsewhere," I told him.

I had been receiving reports throughout the day. Reporters had come to one of the check cashing businesses, where a couple of employees had been arrested for failing to comply with officers' demands. Questions had been directed to the sheriff's public relations officer. Forbes called me to say the same thing was going on at the DEA office.

Somebody turned on a television near me, and I watched Thompson talking to a reporter in front of Swift's San Marcos home. Technicians behind him were carrying out antiques, paintings, and jewelry cabinets. Behind, I could see a flatbed truck pulling an older Bentley onto its bed. Two Mercedes Benzes and a Range Rover looked prepared for the same fate. Reports from the arresting deputies continued. I had to make sure that all records and equipment taken were secured, and I needed verification that all businesses had been closed down, posted, and boarded up or guarded.

Baker radioed me. "We searched Perana's house and found his wife had fifteen hundred dollars in her purse," he reported. "They were mostly in one-hundred-dollar denominations, which we deemed drug money proceeds, so we arrested her. She claimed her husband had given it to her but did not answer when we asked her where he got it from. She was screaming like crazy when we hauled her out to our car. Her concern appeared to be mostly for her two-year-old daughter in the house. I told her we had called child protective services to take custody. She was speaking Spanish most of the time, so I have a suspicion she is undocumented, another factor in her being so upset."

"Good work, guys," I told them. "Bring her in for questioning." I thought about that for a few minutes and then called Baker back. "This money laundering case is being done under DEA auspices, even though you got state warrants for their arrest. Pick up Geraldo and take them both to the federal detention center."

My biggest disappointment was that Arzeta had not been apprehended. His apartment had been searched, but nothing of significance had been found—no paper records, no computer, no cash, and moreover, no luggage bag. He had fled. Why hadn't the team waiting outside the apartment seen and stopped Arzeta from leaving? I suspected they'd failed to receive the raiding order in a timely manner. The fault would lie at Thompson's door, but he would never admit it.

An officer raiding Andy Collins's apartment radioed, "When we opened the safe in the Collins apartment, we found almost twelve thousand dollars, nearly all in one-hundred-dollar bills."

I felt elated. We had a possible connection to the dead man's money, another piece of evidence pointing to Collins's and Bailey's guilt. I asked that the bills be brought to forensics and not given to the DEA. If they had Flynn's fingerprints on them, the murder case was solved. I also told him to bring in Collins's computer. I wanted it examined to see if it contained any incriminating e-mail messages.

I got home late that night, just in time for the 11 p.m. news. I knew Thompson, publicity hound that he was, had TV crews primed for the raid of Larry Swift's home. The camera focused on deputies hauling off valuable personal belongings from the house and then on Marge Holmes, who looked fabulous as she declined to answer the reporter's questions. Thompson appeared on the screen, telling the crew that this arrest was the result of a long investigation carried out by his staff in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Administration. He commented that Swift was a prominent businessman but was not above the law.

"Money laundering is a crime," he added, "whether it be hundreds or millions of dollars."

I think Thompson said a great deal more, but the TV station would have edited out his pompous ramblings on crime. They would have other news to report. However, the press was in full swing the next morning. The front page of the local newspaper carried a picture of Larry Swift under the headline: "Prominent Businessman Arrested for Money Laundering." Inside were more details of the charges, a photograph of his office, and even a society picture of him with the mayor and other local celebrities. Marge Holmes also appeared in that picture. Even in the grainy newspaper photo, she appeared a staggering beauty. The sheriff's media person had given the press much to work on. The article mentioned Swift's Lake San Marcos home and his board membership in a couple of charities. Comments of astonishment and disbelief by the mayor and friends were also reported.

# CHAPTER 23

The next day, Steve and I discussed Swift's and Andy Collins' involvement in Flynn's murder with Thompson. "We believe the murder took place in Sonoma County and was planned in San Diego County," I told him. We reviewed the evidence together and decided the district attorneys for the two counties should help decide what to do. I set up a conference call between the two DA offices, Brenda Williams for San Diego and Dorothy McMain for Sonoma County, with Steve and me leading the discussion. Dorothy had Detective Angie Haigh participate in the conversation.

I gave the three women a history of the case, mentioning our two original suspects as well as the final ones. I then had Steve report his research on Swift's phone calls to Bailey and Arzeta and the latter's phone calls to Andy Collins. I told them of the twelve thousand dollars found in Collins's safe.

"I think these phone calls show Swift and Collins were involved in Flynn's murder," I said. "The question is whether you should charge Andy Collins and Larry Swift with murder or conspiracy to commit murder."

"Have you found Flynn's fingerprints on the Collins cash?" asked Angie.

"It's still being examined," I replied.

"We are not expecting to find it either," said Steve. "That much cash doesn't fit in a man's wallet, so Flynn would have been given it in a bank envelope. He likely never touched the bills."

"Hm!" said Dorothy. "The trouble is, we don't have a corpse, and we don't know where the murder took place," said Dorothy. "My office, therefore, would not be prepared to charge either man. If we find Flynn's body in our county, we would be happy to conduct a murder prosecution."

I was disappointed. "You don't think Flynn's dead body being in the trunk of his car is sufficient evidence to charge Swift and Collins? Murder cases have been made when no body was found. Look at motivation. Andy Collins works for Larry Swift, whose money laundering operation was being exposed by Flynn. Bailey's fingerprint was found on the gas connector in the earlier attempt to assassinate Flynn. Bailey and Collins drove four hundred miles to the fishing camp in a stolen car, and Collins was clearly not interested in fishing."

"You've convinced me," replied Dorothy. "It's what I can convince twelve jurors that matters. You've got the fundamental problem that the perpetrator's Avalon left a day after Flynn's car disappeared from the park. You reckoned Collins or Bailey drove Flynn's car away that Tuesday with Flynn's body in the trunk after leaving it overnight somewhere."

"The body could have been dumped on Sunday night," I interrupted. "Flynn's car could have been driven to Compton on Monday or Tuesday."

"Shane, you made the same argument when you believed Dollar and Johnson were the killers. In the latter case, you felt assured when you found money in Dollar's safe that matched what Flynn had on him. Now you find Andy Collins has a similar amount. A good attorney will challenge your theory and suggest Dollar and Johnson, whose alibi comes from a close relative, as the guilty party instead. If I choose your theory that Flynn's car was driven to Compton on Monday, where would my case be if Collins or Bailey, when you apprehend one of them, comes up with a reliable witness placing them both in the camp that day? Then we would have to rely on your alternative theory of Flynn's car being parked nearby and driven off on Tuesday. I could not convince a jury that murderers would leave themselves exposed like that. Wouldn't you agree with that assessment, Angie?"

That detective replied, "I certainly would."

"Perhaps Flynn's car was parked in a secluded spot outside the park," I said. "Perhaps there was a third party to drive off the car, thus giving cover to Collins and Bailey."

"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps," responded Dorothy. "Your evidence is not strong enough. I am not prepared to proceed until a body is found."

"Do you think we have enough evidence to charge Swift and his associates with conspiracy to murder?" I asked Brenda.

"I think we do," replied Brenda, "but I will have to check with my division head."

Dorothy then said, "Your theory, Shane, is that Flynn was killed to stop him from giving evidence about money laundering against Swift. So, he or Arzeta would have given the order for Collins and Bailey to go after Flynn. Andy Collins is the weak element. He doesn't have the lifestyle of Swift, so he has less to lose. You should threaten to charge him with conspiracy to commit murder in return for a reduced charge against that and for his role in the money laundering. If he confesses, then you probably have enough evidence to convict Swift of the same charge...and Bailey whenever you catch him. That leaves it open for me to charge all three with murder when the body is found."

"A very good suggestion," said Brenda. "Thank you."

I concurred and began to fill out the arrest warrant affidavits for Swift and Andy Collins. I had Robert Neill approve them, and then I went to court to get them signed. I called Drew Ryan to tell him I wanted to question Andy and Swift about Flynn's murder. Ryan told me there had been a bail hearing that morning and that both men had already been released on bond. Evidently, some of Swift's backers had put up the bond money for them. Wayne Collins was released on his own recognizance. "Before you go off to arrest Swift and Andy Collins," Ryan added, "could you come over here and help us in questioning the drop man, Perana. We are not getting very far with him. He wouldn't say anything without an attorney. The attorney has talked to him and claims we have no evidence against his client. It would help us if you came over at one o'clock and brought the video recordings of his and Collins's trips to the other locations." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Also bring over one of your crew who witnessed the drop and the pickup the other day."

I told Ryan we would be happy to help and promptly notified Steve. I gathered up the two recordings, and after a quick lunch, we showed up at the federal detention center. Perana, a handsome thirty-year-old Hispanic, did not appear nervous when the two of us entered the questioning room. There, Ryan introduced me to Perana's lawyer, a Mr. Norrega, and to a young federal attorney named Herman George. He then turned on the recorder and made the usual reference statement before questioning the drop man, who had already been given a Miranda warning.

"Mr. Perana, you carried a large quantity of money into the house you visited two days ago," stated Ryan. "We have arrested the man who collected it later. Where did you get it from?"

"Officer, I don't know what you are talking about. I know nothing about any such money. How do you know it wasn't in the house beforehand?" He had a point. We hadn't checked the house before Perana arrived.

"Mr. Perana, we believe you carried it inside in your briefcase. We are examining that briefcase as we speak to see if residues in your case match those on the outside of the money package and if your fingerprints are on that package."

"You won't find any, because I did not carry in any money."

While Perana spoke, I was wondering what had happened to the money packaging material itself. Was it in Collins's studio or in Swift's inner office? Had the DEA picked it up, or had it been inadvertently discarded?

Ryan asked, "If you were not carrying money, why would you carry an empty briefcase into the house?"

"I carry my briefcase as a matter of routine," replied Perana. "I also gather brochures at these various houses I visit."

Ryan clearly saw his questioning was stymied, so he asked me to show the two pertinent videos and explain their significance. A video projector and screen were brought into the questioning room, and I ran commentary as they were played.

"Here, we see Mr. Perana entering the Madrid Manor mobile home park and leaving ten minutes later. Now we see the entrance and exit repeated by Andy Collins, whom we arrested two days ago for transporting a large sum of money to be laundered."

"Really, Ms. Notfarg," said Norrega, interrupting the video, "if you are trying to show a pattern of my client and a suspected money launderer visiting the same house at a close time together, this video does not show that. The park entrance is not the same as the vacant house where you allege my client left money." I ignored the remark while recognizing its validity and went on to show the video at the Tierrasanta house. It showed Perana arriving at the house, looking for the lockbox, and then driving off. It showed a similar pattern for Collins twelve minutes later. "You certainly are not showing a drop-off and pick up of any contraband there," said Norrega. I had to confess to myself the lawyer had a point.

I motioned Steve to speak. "Mr. Perana, do you remember seeing me on Monday?"

Perana moved his head from side to side as he stared at Steve. "I don't think so," he replied after a lengthy interval.

"I was walking my dog right by your car as you came out of the house. I had to restrain it from sniffing you," said Steve.

Perana began to laugh. "So that was you. Is your dog training you, or is it the other way around?"

The humor seemed out of place in the room, but it elicited smiles from me and Steve, who went on. "Mr. Perana, I watched you get out of the car that day with your briefcase, enter the vacant house, and return five minutes later. My team then entered the house and added marked bills to the money package you left in the water heater closet."

I was struck by Steve's use of the word "my" instead of "our."

"I never left any money package," said Perana. "Again, how do you know it wasn't there before I arrived?"

"We've taken your fingerprints off the water tank door latch," said Steve.

I was surprised. I had forgotten to request such work. I hadn't realized it might be necessary.

Perana shrugged. "I might have touched the latch when I looked around."

"Yes, but you also put your hand on the water tank, and we have your prints from that," added Steve.

Perana's demeanor changed. He looked hard at Norrega, who stared back at his client and then asked for some private time with his client. We exited the room, and then I challenged Steve: "Did you send forensics to get those fingerprints?"

Steve grinned. "No, I didn't. Like you, I never expected Perana to deny everything."

"So, it was pure bluff?" I asked.

"Yes, but we'd better cover ourselves by taking those fingerprints if they do indeed exist."

"I'll order it up," I said. "I just hope Bolder's fingerprints haven't contaminated Perana's."

Ryan told Steve what a great job he had done in getting Perana to acknowledge his role. Back in the questioning room, Norrega stated that his client was prepared to say he'd placed a package in the water tank closet but had been unaware of its contents.

"You place these packages in vacant homes on a regular basis, then?" asked Ryan.

Perana looked at Norrega, who nodded, and then he said, "Yes."

"Who supplies them to you?"

"I don't know."

"Then, how do you get them?"

"I drive to the McDonald's near my home at six fifteen and go inside for breakfast. I find the package inside my car when I leave."

"You leave your car unlocked?" Ryan asked in a voice of incredulity.

"No. Someone else has a key to my car."

"Who else has the key?"

"My wife gave one to her sister, who lives in Tijuana, just across the Mexican border from San Diego. Her family had been threatened. I guess someone took the key from her."

Ryan asked for the name, address, and phone number of Perana's sister in law before continuing. "How much were you paid for transporting the money?"

"I wasn't paid at all."

"So, where did the fifteen hundred-dollar bills in your wife's possession come from?"

Perana seemed at a loss for words. Eventually, he said, "There was an envelope with money attached to the outside of the package."

"How much did it contain?"

"Usually, two hundred dollars."

"So, if you were making deliveries five or six days each week, you were making five thousand dollars per month?"

"I guess so."

"Did you declare that income in your tax returns?"

"Don't answer that question," commanded Norrega.

Ryan continued. "So, you knew the package contained money?"

Perana hesitated. "I suspected it might be money, but I didn't know for sure. The package came in black plastic, so I couldn't see inside."

Ryan spent further time trying to get Perana to admit he knew money was inside the package and to elicit more information on the supplier. Perana said he knew nothing of Arzeta, Swift, Collins, or Bailey. Eventually, Ryan stopped the recording, and we all stepped outside the questioning room.

"I think your client is not telling the entire truth," said Ryan to Perana's lawyer. "He's already lied about delivering the package and not being paid."

Norrega looked at Herman, who then took the lead. "The amount of laundered money is so huge that we will ask for a ten-year prison sentence. We are prepared to reduce that sentence if your client will tell us more about who delivers the money package to his car."

"I'm uncertain if he knows any more than what he's already told you," replied Norrega. "I suspect that he won't say anything further, if indeed he knows more, for fear of retribution to his family or to himself in prison."

Herman replied, "Perana's wife has a green card. She has been arrested as an accessory to money laundering. We will be prosecuting her and expect to ask for a sentence of at least two years. Afterwards, she will be deported and will never be allowed to return to the USA even though her daughter was born here." Herman stared at Norrega for a noticeable interval before he made his offer. "We might make it possible for her to return a few years later if her husband will give up his supplier." He paused before adding, "Of course, we will have confiscated Mr. Perana's home, his car, his bank account, and his cash on hand. That's not negotiable."

Norrega went into the questioning room, and we watched him talk to his client. Perana appeared shocked and then began to weep, a total contrast from his earlier demeanor.

"I don't think you need us anymore," I said to Ryan. "Unless you do, we're going to take off."

Ryan and Herman George thanked us effusively. We drove back to the office, discussing the questioning of the drop man on the way. "I feel sorry for Perana," said Steve. "He will lose his liberty, his possessions, and his wife."

"I do too," I replied. "He shouldn't have become a mule in the first place."

"I can understand him wanting to protect his wife's family, though," commented Steve.

"All Perana needed to do was to contact the DEA," I said. "They would have gathered information from his sister-in-law and family and put them in protective custody in the USA. Instead, he took the chicken way out, accepted the payoff, and now has to face the penalties."

"I guess you're right," said Steve, finishing the topic.

"You did a great job there questioning Perana," I said. "I'll tell that to Thompson."

# CHAPTER 24

Back at the office, I arranged for forensics to take fingerprints at the Vista drop house. We then grabbed the arrest warrants for Collins and Swift, gathered deputies to assist us, and drove in separate cars to Swift's home in San Marcos. The black maid opened the door, and I told her to bring her employer to the door. After a minute, he and Marge Holmes came together. "What do you want now?" Swift asked in a very disgruntled manner

"You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder," I responded as Steve moved forward and put handcuffs on him.

"What are you talking about? Whose murder?"

"The murder of Arthur Flynn," I replied.

"I don't know what you are talking about. I didn't even know he was murdered. I had nothing to do with it anyway." He turned and looked at Marge. "Honey, call Sweeny immediately." He turned to me. "Where are you taking me to?"

"The sheriff's office on Cope Street," I replied.

"Tell Sweeny to go there," he said to Marge.

We put Swift in one patrol car and drove directly to Andy Collins's apartment in Oceanside, also in North County. Steve and I knocked on his apartment door, yelling, "Police, open up."

Collins came to the door and snarled, "I've been arrested already, and I'm out on bail."

"You're under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Arthur Flynn."

"You're crazy," Collins replied angrily. "I've murdered nobody. Haven't you assholes got anything better to do?" He took an aggressive posture.

"Put your hands behind your back," Steve commanded.

Collins backed away, but I moved quickly behind him and grabbed his wrists. He began to struggle, but Steve and the accompanying deputy restrained him with difficulty. Collins was a strong man, and it took us a minute to put him in handcuffs. His strength would have been invaluable in overcoming Flynn. "We may charge you with resisting arrest," I told him before giving him a Miranda warning.

"Fuck you," he said. "Fuck you both. I've never heard of Flynn before. I don't know what you are talking about."

We put Collins in the other patrol car and drove through heavy traffic to arrive at our office after six o'clock. We had them fingerprinted and photographed and put in separate questioning rooms. We offered Swift a coffee and invited him to talk. He told us angrily he didn't know Flynn had been murdered and, if that was the case, he had nothing to do with it. He declined to talk further without his attorney. We did the same thing with Andy Collins, inviting him to open up, but he too denied having anything to do with Flynn's murder and refused to say anything without a lawyer. We told them they would be questioned in the morning after their night in jail. Both expressed anger volubly.

I looked forward to questioning the two men and noted our office address had become Cop St. when I arrived the next morning. Pearson Sweeny showed up at nine o'clock, claiming to represent both men. "I just had my clients released on bail two days ago," he said angrily. "Are you planning to charge my clients for money laundering under state law as well? That would be double jeopardy, and I am putting you on notice that it is unwarranted and that you may be sued for false arrest."

"Your clients are material witnesses or participants in a murder," I told him calmly.

Sweeny's face changed. "I'd like to talk to my clients privately after you have told me why you suspect them," he said.

Steve and I gave him a summary of why they were suspects, and then we left him and his clients alone for half an hour. Sweeny emerged from the questioning room and said he would be representing only Mr. Swift on the conspiracy charge. He had referred Andy Collins to another attorney, who was on his way in. We gave Swift his Miranda warning and began to question him, questions designed to get him to lie or reveal incriminating items while, at the same time, not disclosing much of the evidence we had.

"Did you know Flynn had seen your uncle counting out drug money?" I asked.

"My client will say nothing here that might pertain to the charges for money laundering," interposed Sweeny. "He will concede Bert Swanson told him Flynn had seen him counting out money."

"Did you know Flynn had written a letter to the DEA about the incident," I asked.

"No."

"Have you seen this man, Joseph Bailey?" I asked, putting Bailey's photo in front of Swift.

"I have never seen him in my life."

"Then, why did you make phone calls to him from your home?"

"I don't know who Bailey is, and I never phoned him."

"Did you know Bailey tried to kill Flynn by tampering with his gas stove?"

Swift looked startled. "I know nothing of the sort."

"Did you know Rafael Arzeta sent Collins and Bailey to the Russian River fishing camp to murder Flynn?"

"I know nothing of this," replied Swift.

"You must have been aware Andy Collins had been sent north to assist Bailey in the murder, since he would not have been providing you courier service for illegal funds."

Swift spoke despite Sweeny raising a hand to stop him. "Rafael told me there would be a short hiatus in the deliveries."

"Did you ask him why?

"No. I never asked questions like that to Rafael.'

"Do you know where Arzeta is?"

"No."

"Mr. Swift, did you call Arzeta when we raided your office?"

"No," said Swift just as Sweeny said, "Don't answer that."

Sweeny raised his hand slightly to stop his client from speaking further. "I understand that Mr. Flynn has only disappeared. You don't have a case for murder or even conspiracy to commit murder."

"We have found Flynn's car, which forensics has shown contained a dead body with DNA matching Flynn's."

Sweeny looked nonplussed. Swift offered, "I know nothing of this."

"We have a warrant issued for the arrest of Rafael Arzeta. When we interrogate him, we expect him to confirm your involvement both in the murder of Mr. Flynn and the money laundering. We will shortly be questioning Andy Collins in a similar manner." Neither Swift nor his attorney responded to my leading statement. I continued. "If you will tell us the extent of your involvement, the district attorney may propose a lesser sentence in order to avoid the time and cost of a trial. If your involvement is instead confirmed by Collins or Arzeta, then the DA will seek the maximum penalty."

"My client has nothing to say on this charge, which is highly speculative and, I believe, will be dismissed in court," replied Sweeny."

Steve and I asked more questions, but we obtained no replies that might have revealed Swift's participation in the murder or knowledge of other participants in it.

We then entered another questioning room, where Andy Collins sat with his attorney, who introduced himself as Jose Amendez. We took the attorney out and briefed him on the case. He then he conferred with his client while Steve and I drank coffee outside the room.

Amendez came out fifteen minutes later to say, "Mr. Collins says he knows nothing about the killing of Mr. Flynn and is fully prepared to answer any of your questions on that issue. He will not be responding to any of your questions that pertain to the federal charges."

We went inside, turned on the voice recorder, gave Collins a Miranda warning, and started the questioning. I wanted to find out how the murder of Flynn was accomplished.

"Who sent you to go with Bailey to the Russian River Camp," I asked.

"I was told by Rafael Arzeta to take a ride with a man called Joe and that it would be for two or three days."

"How did Arzeta tell you, by phone, e-mail, or personally?"

"He phoned me."

This confirms part of Steve's theory.

"Did Arzeta tell you the purpose of the trip?"

"Only that I was to help a man called Joe."

"Didn't you ask him what kind of help?"

"Rafael is not the kind of person to ask why."

"How so?"

Amendez interrupted, saying, "Don't answer that question, Andy."

"Did Joe Bailey tell you what this was all about?"

"No. He said this was a fishing trip and I was there to help him drive."

"Help him drive?"

"Yes, he said he suffered from narcolepsy and couldn't drive all the way by himself."

I did not believe this and told Andy so. He did not respond. "Did you help kill Arthur Flynn?"

"I don't know who Flynn is, and I never helped in any killing."

"So, you knew a killing was undertaken?"

"I know nothing of the sort."

"Did Bailey murder Flynn?"

"I don't know."

"You were there, so you should know."

"How could I? I hated being at that damned camp. I spent as much time as I could away from it."

"Why did you drive Flynn's car to Compton?"

"I don't know who Flynn is, I didn't take his car, and I didn't drive to Compton."

"When did you leave the camp?"

"That Monday...no, Tuesday..."

"You don't seem very sure about that."

"I drove into San Francisco both days."

"You mean that Saturday and Sunday."

"Yes, that's right."

"So where were you on Monday?"

"I was in San Francisco, like I said."

I looked at Steve, who nodded his recognition of this inconsistency.

"Can anybody confirm that you were there?"

"I went to a Chinese gambling joint. They won't confirm anything."

"Where did you, or Bailey, dump Flynn's body?"

Andy raised his voice in anger. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I had nothing to do with anyone's body."

"Did you stop for gas or a meal anywhere on your return from Chinatown?

"I don't remember. I'd had a bit too much to drink."

"Are you saying you came home with Bailey on Tuesday?"

"No. He seemed angry with me. The bastard drove me to Santa Rosa and dropped me off there, telling me to get lost. I had to take buses to get home. I didn't get home until Wednesday morning."

This supported the theory that Flynn had been killed on Sunday night, when Collins was in San Francisco. Bailey had abandoned the stolen Avalon in Santa Rosa. Bailey had driven Flynn's car, the corpse in the trunk, to some place outside the campground on Sunday night. Then he'd driven to Compton on Tuesday. But why would he have taken the risk of leaving a dead body in the car and returning to it later. He could have left it where he'd dumped it. Why drive it to Compton? Perhaps it was to confuse law enforcement about the connection of these perps to the murder. These thoughts ran through my mind before I asked the next question.

"Did you know the car you went in was stolen?"

"Don't answer that question," said Amendez.

The look Andy gave to his attorney told me he knew it was stolen. Therefore, he knew he and Bailey were conducting a criminal enterprise.

"Why did you hide your identity when you registered at the fishing camp?"

"Joe told me to."

I changed the subject. "What is your relationship with Rafael Arzeta?" I asked.

"Don't answer that question," said Amendez.

Andy ignored his attorney. "He tells me what to do.'

"Why?"

"It's personal."

I tried another topic. "Where did you get the money we found in your safe?"

Collins looked at his attorney, who said his client was not prepared to answer that question. I persisted. "It's the same amount Flynn had on him when he went to the fishing camp."

"Those funds were not obtained from Mr. Flynn," said Amendez.

"We are examining them for Flynn's fingerprints as we speak."

Collins and Amendez did not respond to this statement. Our further questions to get Collins to admit involvement in Flynn's murder or his knowledge of Bailey's role produced only guarded and evasive answers. I admonished Collins to tell me anything more he knew about Arzeta and Bailey, saying any evidence he gave would help him in sentencing. He added nothing. I asked him if he had any information about Swift's involvement with the murder.

"I never interact with Mr. Swift," he replied.

"But he is your landlord. You pay him rent. Surely, you interact with him?"

"I don't pay rent."

So that's his compensation for being a money courier.

Amendez then asked, "Are you going to release my client, or are you going to charge him?"

"We are going to discuss this immediately with the district attorney," I replied

Steve and I called Brenda Williams at the district attorney's office and said we would be over immediately to discuss our findings. It was the first time I had met Brenda, and I was delighted to find her an Afro-American like myself, a skin color kinship.

We played the recordings of our questioning to Brenda. When I finished, Steve said, "I think Collins knows more than he's telling us. I'm certain he's hiding something."

"I'm sure Bailey did the killing, not Andy," I said. "He wants to deny all knowledge of it to avoid homicide or conspiracy charges."

"I guess you guys hoped he would confess so you could give me this case on a platter?" said Brenda.

"Of course," we said simultaneously.

"Collins may have had a role in the murder or knowledge of it," said Brenda. "If you find Flynn's fingerprints on the seized cash, then I will be able to prosecute him. In the absence of a dead body, I don't think I could convince a jury that Collins helped kill Flynn. And I certainly don't believe he conspired in that killing. That lies at Swift's and Arzeta's door. So, I think you should let him go. You've got more work to do. Find out who was driving the car to Compton and when it arrived. Check on Collins's bus alibi."

I did not like her decision, but I respected it.

"Keep the pressure on the man," said Brenda. "Monitor his phone calls... It might lead you to Arzeta or Bailey... Question him again on details to check for inconsistencies... I will also check with the federal prosecutor to see if they will give leeway in Collins's sentencing for money laundering in return for info on Flynn's murder."

I thanked Brenda and then called the office to speak to Amendez. "We are not satisfied with your client's responses," I told him. "I will arrange for his release now, but I may bring him in again for more questions."

# CHAPTER 25

A week or so later, Thompson came to our joint office looking very pleased with himself, so pleased, in fact, that he invited me and Steve to dinner. He took us to a restaurant with a fabulous bay view, patronized by higher-paid attorneys working the downtown courts. A couple of those attorneys acknowledged Thompson as the hostess took us to our table and took our order for drinks.

"It's very kind of you to invite us here, Harry," I told our host. "I've never been here before."

"That goes for me too, Harry," said Steve.

It was the first time I'd heard Steve calling Thompson by his first name, a privilege or right I had commandeered for myself and one I knew my boss disliked but tolerated from his most senior subordinate.

"You and Shane deserve this dinner for your effort," replied Thompson, ticking me off by addressing Steve, not me, the senior detective on the case. He further added to my discomfort by saying to Steve, "Brenda Williams told me how your phone call research helped justify the conspiracy charges against Larry Swift and Collins."

"Very kind of her," replied Steve, nodding at me. "Shane here was too busy organizing the raid to do the research herself."

"That's why we're having this dinner," remarked Thompson, taking a large sip of his cocktail. "I heard from Jackson there was over nine hundred thousand dollars in cash in Swift's office safe. He told me the sum of Swift's business and personal bank accounts is over twenty million dollars. And then we get to sell the property and personal effects, which will certainly total much more than that. We've done very well. Our share of this will make a great contribution to our budget."

I told Thompson we were very pleased to hear the operation had been a financial success. Then, to flatter his ego, I asked him to tell us about the raid at Swift's house.

"Swift wasn't there, of course. The black maid was very scared when she opened the door to see two patrol cars with their lights flashing and several other vehicles. We just barged by her and ordered everybody in the house out. That included the maid, a housekeeper, a cook, and of course, Marge Holmes.

"How did she react?" I asked.

"She was absolutely furious," he said. "More furious than scared. A beautiful woman, she assessed the situation quickly. She didn't lose her cool."

"How so?" I asked.

"She asked to see the warrants and actually read them. Then she called an attorney. She was in her housecoat and wanted to change before going outside. I had to guard her until I could get a female deputy to escort her to the bedroom. That deputy told me she had to restrain Marge from putting on jewelry but did not stop her from putting on makeup. Women are funny about how they want to appear in public. When she exited, she was all dolled up. I commented on it, and she said she had to look good for the press waiting outside. She tried to take her purse, but I would not let her. I opened it up later and found two thousand dollars in cash there as well as valuable jewelry, all of which I confiscated. Was she pissed!"

"Anything else?" asked Steve.

"I had the safe in the bedroom opened," Thompson replied. "There was just one. It didn't contain any valuables belonging to Swift. Titles to his cars and house, insurance policies, and the like were in the drawers of a desk in an office there. The safe contained a modest amount of cash and a certificate of deposit for one hundred thousand dollars in their joint names."

Thompson took another long sip of his cocktail before continuing. "I took the certificate and made her give me details of personal bank accounts the two of them had. Her bank account contained five hundred thousand dollars, and his a similar amount. I told her these accounts were being seized. She said she had nothing to do with whatever Larry was being accused of. She gave me the usual bullshit that she was an innocent party and had no idea what her partner was up to. She kept asking me how was she going to live with all her resources taken... I told her to talk to her attorney about it."

Thompson took another sip of his cocktail and went on. "Jackson tells me they are still reconciling the revenue from the various businesses with the funds deposited in the banks. They, of course, simply added the drug money to the revenue of the various businesses, which were clearly quite profitable in themselves. We know that from examining the computers in Swift's outer office. The reconciliation is difficult because the funds were deposited into accounts of owner entities rather than accounts for the separate businesses. Moreover, the ownership in those entities is murky. Jackson says they will understand that better when they examine Swift's computers in the inner office, which are password protected."

I went home that evening pleased I had contributed so much to the department and miffed at Thompson for favoring Steve over me. The next morning, Drew Ryan called me to ask when we were going to send him the money we had taken from Andy Collins's apartment. "It's being examined by forensics to see if Flynn's fingerprints are on it. We'll send the money to you as soon as we get the results." I paused, and as an afterthought, I asked, "What happened to Wayne Collins? I heard he was released on his own recognizance."

"You haven't brought him in for questioning, then?"

"No. We've been concentrating on his brother and Larry Swift. We need to look at the e-mails on his computer, which you have, to see if he has any involvement in Flynn's murder."

"Our examination of the computer shows no connection to money laundering. There are a few e-mails to and from his brother, all concerned with photography listings."

"What about his phone records?"

"Nothing of significance there either."

"And how did Wayne react to being questioned?

"The guy was shocked, so shocked, in fact, that he began to cry. I went over the money laundering evidence, emphasizing his brother and Larry Swift were sure to be charged with that crime in order to impress him with the seriousness of the case. I also told him about the murder of Flynn and that you would be questioning him there. I mentioned death penalty provisions were in play just to give him a scare and to get him to reveal anything incriminating. He was scared all right, but he appeared to have no idea what had been going on."

Forensics called me later that morning. "We did not find Flynn's fingerprints on the money you took from Collins's safe," reported Danny Chu. I expressed my disappointment. Danny continued. "We had a hard time getting into the Collins's computer. It had a highly encrypted password, but when we got in, we found a lot of kiddy porn. You've got quite a sicko there. I've reported it to the sexual crimes section. They are sending someone out to arrest him as we speak."

That's why Collins was so guarded and evasive.

I called Steve and told him the news. "I'll bet Arzeta knew about it. That's why he had Andy under his thumb," he commented.

Thompson called me later that same day with some shocking news. "I got a call from another homicide unit. Detectives from the sexual crimes section went to arrest Andy Collins and found he had been shot dead. They called it in to homicide since no weapon was found. The other unit knew we were on Collins's case, so they passed it over to us. There are deputies guarding Collins's apartment. You'd better get out there and investigate. The evidence team has already been notified, and they are on their way."

I grabbed Steve, and we drove north in the typical heavy traffic in late afternoon on Highway 5. I told him what forensics had found on Collins's computer.

"Wow... Did they say anything about fingerprints on Collins's cash?" he asked.

"Yes. They said Flynn's prints weren't there. I told them to courier the cash to the DEA, as well as the excess Bolder had from the raid."

"That's too bad," said Steve. "I'll bet Andy pilfered bills from some of the money laundering packages."

"Yeah, but that wouldn't be the reason for killing him. I would think he was assassinated because he could incriminate Swift and Arzeta in Flynn's murder."

We arrived at Collins's apartment building around six o'clock, with the setting sun casting shadows in the parking lot. We asked the deputy guarding Collins's apartment where the sex crimes detective was. "He took off once he knew you were on the way" came the reply. "He gave us these arrest and search warrants saying you could use them for searching the apartment."

"Are you the only deputy here?" I asked.

"No. The other deputy is knocking on doors to see if anybody heard or saw anything."

"How did you get into the apartment?"

"It wasn't locked. We opened it when nobody responded to our knocking. The detective was able to see the man lying on the couch with a bullet wound to the head. He felt the man's pulse, confirmed he was dead, and called it in right away."

I looked at the door lock and jamb. The door had not been forced by the assassin. The outside windows were securely locked, the screens undamaged. Steve and I put on latex gloves and entered the dark interior of the apartment. I switched on a light and saw the scene exactly as the deputy had described. Blood had run down the side of the couch and congealed on the floor. The apartment was in a neat condition, no sign of a robbery. It became apparent to Steve and myself that this was a planned killing. We began asking tenants at the complex if they had seen or heard anything. The answers we and the other deputy obtained were all negative.

"Collins's whole body was on the couch," I remarked to Steve. "I don't think he was shot while sitting on it. Otherwise, his legs would have been on the side of the couch. I think he was lying on the couch when he was shot, perhaps napping. That means he didn't let somebody into his apartment. Whoever killed him let himself in."

"Let's talk to the manager to see if anybody else had a key to his apartment," said Steve.

We went to the manager's office and found her there, a frightened elderly woman drinking coffee, who promptly offered us a cup. I could see that sitting with her would lessen her fright, so I accepted her offer.

"You didn't hear any gunshots today?" I asked.

She replied she had heard nothing, nor had she seen any strangers that day. "Just like I told the officer."

"Do you have any CCTVs here?" I asked. When she asked me what they were, I knew there were none.

"Is there anybody else who might have a key to Collins's apartment?" asked Steve.

"He asked for two keys when he rented the apartment five years ago. He sometimes has a friend who stays over."

"What can you tell us about this friend?" I asked.

She hesitated. "He has a lot of friends. They are all very quiet. They don't cause any trouble. I don't ask any questions."

The inference that Collins was homosexual raised the possibility of a lover's spat. We went back to the apartment when the forensic team and medical examiner were present. There was nothing else we could do but tell the deputy to get the apartment sealed after forensics had finished and the body had been removed. "After you've put police tape over the front, you won't have to stay guarding it," I told him.

In the parking lot, Andy Collins's blue Honda stood in its assigned parking space. I took the opportunity to remove its transponder. It was quite late, and we were both hungry. "I'll call Emanya and tell her not to keep anything for me in the oven," said Steve as we drove to a nearby Italian restaurant.

We ordered our food and discussed the matter as we ate. "It looks as though a professional using a silencer assassinated Collins, since nobody heard a shot," I said.

"I agree," said Steve. "The question is, did Collins let his killer in, or did the killer open the door with a key? Either way, it suggests Collins knew the killer."

"And that would most likely be Bailey."

"The medical examiner said rigor mortis had set in, so Collins had been dead for several hours. If the killer is Bailey, he's long since taken off."

"I agree. He's a professional, so he won't leave the city by air or bus, where there will be CCTVs to record his departure. Instead, he will probably buy a secondhand car for cash from a dealer's lot, if he doesn't have one already, and drive it away. It's too late now to put out traffic checks on our main freeways."

"But why kill Collins?" asked Steve. "We have Andy and Swift cold with respect to the money laundering charge. Is there something about Flynn's murder we don't know?"

"Our theory is that Bailey did the killing and drove the car to Compton," I said. "It's possible Collins knew more about Flynn's killing than he told us. Perhaps he knew something that would further prove Swift's role in it. I suspect he would be very frightened of being sent to prison on sexual charges, especially if he was homosexual. Arzeta and Swift might have thought Collins would be desperate for a reduced sentence on those charges and be willing to say more about money laundering and Flynn's murder. They would also want him not to reveal how much drug money he delivered over the years."

"There's also the simple explanation that he was killed for siphoning off money from the drop," commented Steve.

We went to the autopsy the next day. Gunshot residues in his hair showed Collins had been shot at close range. A .22-caliber weapon had been used, the favored weapon of professional assassins. Death had been instantaneous. The medical examiner confirmed our belief Collins had been sleeping on the couch when he'd been shot. The manner of his killing ruled out murder by a jealous homosexual lover in our view. Thus, we did not rigorously question Collins's friends.

# CHAPTER 26

The San Diego Union newspaper reported Andy Collins's murder two days later. The report speculated that his alleged role in money laundering may have been a factor in his assassination. I wasn't sure if his attorney, Jose Amendez, read the paper, so I called him early to make sure. He expressed shock at the news. I asked him if he could give us any information about his deceased client that would help identify his killer or the motivation for his death. He said he would come to our office.

"I have to be circumspect about what I say about Andy," said Amendez. "He has family members and associates, so I prefer to speak off the record so nothing I say may be used in court. However, I am fine if anything I say helps you find and convict his killer and those who conspired to have him killed."

"We suspect his killer was Joseph Bailey, the man he travelled with to the fishing camp," I said. "Did Andy have any knowledge of Bailey's killing of Flynn?"

"He said he knew nothing about it, but he did feel Bailey was capable of it."

"Did Andy say anything about Bailey that would help us locate him?"

"He told me Bailey was a very taciturn individual who said nothing about himself and disliked being asked questions. Frankly, Andy was scared of him. The only true thing was that Bailey could nod off to sleep very easily."

"Anything else about Bailey?"

"Andy said he appeared to enjoy fishing and that he had a Midwest accent."

"What was the nature of his relationship with Swift and Arzeta?"

Amendez stared at me. "I take it you were able to get into Andy's computer?" I nodded. "Then you know that Andy had a weakness for children involved in sex. I don't know the exact details, but Arzeta must have found him involved in it personally quite a few years earlier."

"And that's why Arzeta had such a hold on him."

"That's right."

"Did he tell you anything about Arzeta that would help us find him?"

"No. He was scared of Arzeta. He feared his weakness would be exposed and he would be crucified in prison. That's why he obeyed Arzeta without question."

"Did he say anything about Larry Swift?"

"Not really. He simply said he was his landlord and his only dealings with him were with minor maintenance issues. He said Swift didn't charge him rent."

"So, he never felt threatened by Swift even though he knew his landlord was a huge money launderer."

"I think he suspected that Arzeta had some kind of hold over Swift. But it must have been a minor hold since Swift enjoyed a very upscale lifestyle."

"Did he say if his brother Wayne knew anything about Flynn's disappearance or the money laundering?"

"He said his brother was a good man and how sorry he was to have somehow involved him."

Steve and I looked at each other. Amendez had told us all he knew, but it had not helped us. We thanked him for his time and told him we looked forward to working with him on other cases.

I checked Collins's charge card account and found charges for bus fares from Santa Rosa to San Francisco on Tuesday, Sept 16, and from there to Oceanside a day later. This confirmed he was not the one who drove Flynn's car to Compton. Clearly, Bailey had stashed that car in Santa Rosa and dumped the Avalon there. He was the one with the savvy to spray oil over the vehicle to ensure fingerprints could not be taken. It left the question open as to how he'd gotten back from Santa Rosa to the fishing camp on the Sunday night when the murder had taken place. Perhaps the phone call Collins had received from Bailey in San Francisco had been about picking the latter up on the former's return to the camp. Maybe Andy had been too drunk to remember that he had done so or had been scared to admit his role. The uncertainty as to how it had been done would come up later in the trial of Swift for conspiracy to commit murder.

During the next few weeks, Steve and I worked to wrap up loose ends. We questioned Wayne Collins after reviewing his past e-mails and phone logs. Ryan had concluded that he had nothing to do with the money laundering. We decided Wayne was not involved with the murder of Flynn. His computers and records were released to him. I heard later he hired an attorney to get back the money from his business, personal, and wife's accounts that the DEA had taken. Sadly, the attorney told him it would take so long that his fees would exceed the seized funds. The DEA reported their examination of the computers and paperwork seized from Swift's various businesses indicated the businesses were operated both legally and profitably.

Brenda Williams called me three weeks after Collins's death to say the federal attorney handling the money laundering charge would like me and Steve present during her questioning of Laurence Swift. "You two were so involved in the investigation that led to his arrest that she...her name is Jane Daumont...feels your presence could be helpful. She will be calling you." Brenda coughed before continuing. "Give me a written synopsis of the evidence against Swift so I can forward a copy to Daumont." She coughed again. "Sorry, I've got a cold. There's always the possibility that in being questioned about money laundering, Swift may say something implicating himself or others in Flynn's murder."

I asked Steve to review my written synopsis and to be ready to accompany me. I let Thompson know where things stood and then began writing the synopsis, six pages in all. I had Steve look at my work to make sure I had not omitted anything. He made a useful suggestion concerning the alibi for Dollar and Johnson, but then he irritated me by making editing corrections on my report. "They are to make the points clearer or less ambiguous," he said apologetically when I raised my eyebrows at them. Steve had a better command of English than I, so I accepted his corrections. But I did not like them being pointed out by my subordinate. I gave the synopsis to Thompson, who reviewed it promptly and said that I had expressed myself very well in assembling the evidence. Then I sent it by department courier to Brenda Williams.

The forensic report on Collins killing came the same day. In addition to what we already knew came the information that any fingerprints found in his apartment belonged either to friends or house cleaners. There were no Bailey fingerprints.

Brenda, Steve, Jane Daumont, and I introduced ourselves in an office at the federal detention center. Also present were Drew Ryan and Joseph Jackson, the latter carrying a briefcase filled, I was sure, with financial reports on all of Swift's businesses, statements on the type and values of assets seized, and an evidence report on the money laundering process, including the marked bills. Jane Daumont, about forty years old, blessed with good looks, elegantly dressed in a Vera Wang top, slightly taller in her four-inch heels than my seventy-one inches, stared down at me when we shook hands. Her patrician air and Southern accent disturbed me in part due to envy and in part due to innate racial prejudice. Brenda told me later Jane had been at the University of Alabama and later graduated from Stanford University's law school. Already present were Larry Swift and his attorney Pearson Sweeny.

Jane started the interview. "Mr. Swift, we have tried to question you before, but you have declined to answer. We are here to present our case to you in the hope that you will cooperate and reach a plea agreement with us. I need to impress upon you how serious we view this case. It is not just a matter of laundering money believed to come from the sale of illicit drugs. We also believe the money laundering led to the murder of two men, one of which the state believes involved you."

Pearson replied, "My client gave no order to murder anybody and is unaware that any of his associates or employees were involved."

"Our evidence shows you have been laundering money recently at the rate of four million dollars per month," stated Daumont. "Is that a correct number?"

"My client will concede the validity of that number," answered Sweeny.

"How long have you been laundering at that rate?" asked Daumont.

"My client tells me that it has gradually built up to that rate over a period of twenty years," replied Sweeny.

Daumont took out a calculator and pressed a few buttons. "That would mean you have laundered about five hundred million dollars over that period of time?" she asked.

Sweeny looked at Swift, who responded. "Something like that."

"Processing a sum of that magnitude merits the maximum federal penalty," said Daumont, "unless you give us mitigating evidence or lead us to others who have participated in that processing."

Sweeny raised his hand to speak. "My client has prepared a written statement about his involvement in money laundering."

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out copies of a thick document and handed one to each of us. "My client would like to tell you how he became involved and why he is requesting leniency in the handling of his seized assets. This document lists in an appendix all the assets he controls and the names of the various entities that own them. The ownership of those entities is also listed and marked whether that ownership came by legal or illegal funds. You will find many local investors in that legal category, people of sterling reputations. We are asking that their ownership be protected from seizure."

He motioned for Swift to speak, but Daumont forestalled him. "Mr. Swift, your assets have been seized because they are all tainted by your money laundering activities. Nothing you can say here diminishes that tainting. Cooperating in our investigation by telling us the extent of the money laundering and what you know about other participants that will allow us to convict them could be helpful in any recommendations we might make for leniency in the sentencing for your crime."

What a damper!

Sweeny looked at Swift, who shrugged and said, "This conversation is being recorded, I presume." Daumont nodded, and Swift continued. "My name is Laurence Swift, and I am fifty-two years old. I live at 2455 Magnolia Drive in San Marcos, California. I am the general partner or managing director of the various entities that operate the numerous businesses that are listed in the document you have been given. These businesses have all been operated legitimately, and their closure following seizure of their assets has put my valued employees out of work. Given the current state of the economy, I earnestly request that they be allowed to open for operation."

He paused for a moment as though he expected some acknowledgement signal from Daumont. None was forthcoming. "To understand how I came to be where I am," he continued, "I need to tell you something of my career. I grew up in San Diego and obtained my degree in accounting from San Diego State University. I got a job with the local National Republic Bank in San Diego right after graduating at age twenty-two. By age twenty-nine, I had become the branch manager. I became friends with many of the bank's wealthier customers, and this put me in good stead when an opportunity arose. The then owner of the Palomar South mobile home park suffered some severe losses in his other businesses and needed to raise money quickly. I formed a consortium to purchase the park in which I put what modest cash I had saved at that point together with cash from these customers to make a twenty percent down payment. My bank made the bridge loan until we obtained long-term financing. I earned a reputation among these bank customers as an entrepreneur. I also earned a monthly fee for managing the park, where I installed my uncle as manager."

He paused before he resumed. "A few months later, one of these customers offered me a job to manage a check cashing business he had in town at a salary that was sixty percent higher than what I was earning at the bank. He also said he would back me in any further real estate or business ventures. It was an excellent offer, and I took it. The client base for a check cashing business is quite different from that of a bank, but I adapted to it. The check cashing business grew as I introduced better ways of serving the customers and expanded our reach to sharing data with pawn shops and liquor stores. About two years into that job, my patron wanted me to write a check from the business for twenty-five thousand dollars for the cash he said his friend had won at the casino and did not want to declare to the Internal Revenue Service. My patron..."

"What was his name?" interrupted Daumont.

"His name was Hector Gomez," replied Swift. "He is deceased."

He stared at Daumont as though expecting her to interrupt again. She did not, so he continued. "I knew it was wrong, but my patron had been very good to me, so I declined to report this large cash transaction to the authorities. I hid it by making three deposits under the reportable amount of ten thousand dollars spaced out over three weeks. My patron was very pleased and gave me a bonus of two thousand dollars. The same thing happened a couple of months later. This time, he said his friend had won the money betting on horses. I did not believe him and asked him if he was sure about the origin of the money. He replied that he was not really sure but that this friend had a hold on him and might injure him if the transaction did not go through. I said he should go to the police, but he replied he would then have to report the prior transaction as well. 'That would cause you a lot of trouble,' he said, staring at me in his usual friendly way. I realized then that I had been compromised. I hid the money in the business as before and received a bonus of nearly ten percent of the funds processed."

Swift sighed and shook his head before continuing. "I was asked to hide further monies, and I did so for a year or so, but I declined to be compensated for doing so. As the funds to be hidden grew, I pointed out to Gomez this process was bound to be discovered, since the amounts to be hidden were overwhelming the check cashing business. I said we needed to start another such business and we should diversify into other cash generating businesses to better conceal the funds. Gomez said that was a great idea. He said he and his friends would put up the money to start other businesses. He advised me to put what further money I had saved into any new businesses and to demand a cut of the laundered funds. I told him that I did not want to earn anything from the money laundering. I said I would start businesses and would operate them completely legitimately but that I would add drug money to our deposited funds. I said it would help our image if some of my old bank customers could be part owners in the businesses and earn proportionate shares of the legitimate profits. All profits would be declared to the state and federal governments; partners and shareholders would receive legitimate and illegitimate dividends or payouts to the appropriate parties. I demanded to have full control to ensure I would not be required to launder money in excess of forty percent of the legitimate revenues. I reckoned that would be reasonable enough to hide, though it turned out to amount to over two hundred percent of our legitimate profits. I said I would take no salary but wanted ten percent of the legitimate profits for my overall management. I said ownership of the businesses would be hidden from public view as limited partners or as shareholders in an S corporation."

Swift took a deep breath before he continued. "Gomez said he would get back to me on my proposal, but he said it sounded reasonable. And a few days later, he met me and said his parties were delighted with the proposal. It meant their money was being laundered at no cost to them when others might charge as much as forty percent." Swift looked up before continuing. "I miss Gomez; he was kind and charming. He told me later he was a little sorry he'd compromised me and would make it up to me. When he died of cancer six years later, he willed me his twenty percent ownership in that first check cashing business. The drug people had one proviso to my proposal...that they would have one of their people working with me...to make sure they were not being cheated, of course."

"That would be Arzeta?" Daumont asked.

"Not initially," replied Swift. There were two or three others. One was especially difficult to work with, and I suspected him of taking money off the top before I processed it. I talked to Gomez, and he was instantly replaced. Gomez told me I had earned a reputation for probity with his parties and they wanted somebody sensible and familiar with bookkeeping to work with me. Arzeta has been with me for nearly nine years. I still hardly know the man. He is very efficient in what he does."

"Did you or Arzeta organize this delivery method of the drug money?" Daumont asked.

"The drug mafia rep and I would pick up the money at drop points like the gym, a mail box, or a storage locker. Sometimes, we would have money shipped in to us by mail, FedEx, or United Parcel Service. As our businesses grew, we had to make more pickups, and we both realized that carrying them frequently into our office would invite suspicion. I suggested the vacant home method to Arzeta eight years ago, and it was he who recruited Andy into doing it... Poor Andy."

"Do you know how the recruitment was done?" I asked.

Swift replied, "I don't really... I suspect Arzeta had some kind of hold on Andy."

"Did you pay Collins?" Daumont asked.

"No. Arzeta told me simply not to charge him rent. I thought that amount small considering the risk Andy was taking. I reckoned there was another factor keeping Andy from protesting."

"So, you're claiming you have never been directly paid for laundering money?" asked Daumont.

"Except for those first two times eighteen years ago, that is correct," replied Swift.

"But many new businesses were started in whole or in part with laundered money?" asked Daumont.

"Yes, they were," replied Swift. "Those owners earned legitimate profits as well as profits from laundered money. Legitimate owners who invested their own funds were paid only their share of legitimate profits."

Sweeny spoke up. "You have seized assets worth over one hundred million dollars belonging to my client and his legitimate partners. We will be challenging the judicial hearing that is required because the assets are over one and half million dollars. Can you tell me when that hearing is scheduled?"

We all looked at Daumont, who answered, "It has not been scheduled yet, but we are required by law to schedule it within six weeks of the seizure."

"You realize," said Sweeny, "that people who invested their own money in good faith into Mr. Swift's businesses will lose their investment if you retain those seized assets."

"You are correct, Mr. Sweeny," replied Daumont. "Those businesses are all tainted by Mr. Swift's money laundering activities. We will insist all seized assets be retained."

"You have also locked the doors on these businesses," said Sweeney. "Is it your intention to sell them?"

"We have not considered that," replied Daumont. "At this point, we regard them as criminal enterprises that must not be allowed to continue operation."

"You realize, then," said Sweeney, "that since these businesses are no longer operating, their goodwill and their employees will dissipate. These businesses will become valueless. Surely, it would pay you to release them to operational status so that does not happen?"

"Mr. Sweeny," replied Daumont, "that is not my concern. Those legitimate investors—she emphasized the word "legitimate" disparagingly—should have done due diligence before investing with Mr. Swift."

"You have also seized all cash from the Palomar South mobile home park, whose ownership clearly precedes any involvement in money laundering," said Sweeny.

"That park is owned as a California limited partnership," replied Daumont. I suggest the limited partners look at their partnership agreement and select a new general partner in view of what I anticipate will be your client's bankruptcy. That partner can attend the judicial hearing and make his claims. I'm sure the park will operate adequately until after the hearing is held."

She paused for a moment. "Mr. Swanson has been arrested, but we are not filing money laundering charges against Mrs. Swanson, so she should be able to operate the park in her husband's absence."

Daumont looked at the notepad she had in front of her before speaking. "Mr. Swift, are you prepared to plead guilty to the money laundering charges we have filed against you?"

Sweeny spoke up rapidly. "I have advised my client not to plead guilty to any of these charges. I would like first to hear what sentencing guidelines you will be telling the judge."

"I can't reply to that at this time," replied Daumont. "We will need to examine this document you have provided and assess its value to us in this investigation." She stood up indicating the interview was over and left the room accompanied by Ryan.

"What is your posture with respect to the murder of Andy Collins and the alleged murder of Arthur Flynn?" Sweeny asked Brenda.

Brenda looked at me and Steve. We said nothing... It wasn't our place to do so. She turned to Sweeny and replied. "I will review the matter with our investigative staff and seniors in my office before issuing a decision."

# CHAPTER 27

Sweeny and Swift were escorted out, and Brenda motioned Steve and me to stay. "Did you ever find Flynn's fingerprints on the money in Collins's safe?" she asked.

"'Fraid not," I replied.

"Too bad," said Brenda. "It would have solidified the case." She paused. "I have to deal with my boss in offering a plea bargain to Swift. His attorney, Pearson Sweeny, says his client is innocent and wants a trial, which my boss wants to avoid. I've read your synopsis, but I would like you to opine on the matter here so I can make a recommendation."

I said, "Brenda, the first thing is to look at motivation. Swift wanted Flynn not to give evidence against him and his uncle. Swift had a very upscale lifestyle to protect. Then we look at means. His money laundering associate, Arzeta, telephoned a professional hit man called Joseph Bailey the same day as he heard about Flynn's discovery of money laundering. Swift made a phone call to Bailey two days later. The next day, an attempt was made on Flynn's life by damaging a gas connector in his mobile home. Bailey's fingerprint was found on that gas connector. Swift phoned Bailey from his home two days after the failed first assassination attempt to tell him Flynn was going to the Russian River fishing camp and to follow him there. He knew where Flynn was going from his live-in girlfriend, Marge Holmes. Arzeta made Andy Collins go with Bailey. They used a stolen car to travel to the fishing camp and obfuscated their registration there to avoid being identified. Bailey dropped Collins off at Santa Rosa, where the stolen Avalon was found. We believe Bailey killed Flynn, stuffed his body in the trunk of the dead man's car, and dumped it somewhere near Santa Rosa to be picked up later. Furthermore, Bailey made a phone call to Swift that Tuesday, which we believe was to confirm Flynn had been killed. Bailey then drove the car to Compton. There is clear evidence of Flynn's dead body being in the trunk of that car. We believe Andy Collins was killed to stop him from giving evidence against Swift and Arzeta on Flynn's murder and perhaps the extent of the money laundering."

"I get very uncomfortable when you use the word believe," said Brenda. "I take it you can prove the phone calls were made to Bailey?"

"Yes," I replied. "We are certain about that. There is uncertainty about the time when Flynn was killed and where his body was dumped, likely buried. The more important point is that Flynn was killed and that people involved in money laundering carried out that act."

Brenda brushed her hair back and thought for half a minute. We sat in silence until she spoke. "I tend to agree with Dorothy McMain of Sonoma County. The evidence isn't good enough to charge Swift with murder. Conspiracy to commit murder is a better fit for the evidence. I'll confer with my boss, but I'm leaning toward a penalty of ten years, the same as for involuntary manslaughter." She stood up. The conversation was over.

Back at my office, I read over the document Swift had provided. The list of his partners and shareholders in his S corporations was extensive. It contained seven criminal owners and nearly fifty law-abiding investors. I recognized many of their names; one of them had been pictured in the morning's newspaper society photo. I felt sorry for them. They had invested in good faith, and Swift had not cheated them. In fact, he had not even cheated his criminal investors. I could see how a little greed and becoming compromised had gotten him into this situation. He had profited, and now he was being forced to give up all his earned profits and his lifestyle. I wondered how Marge and her daughter, Sally, would react to this chaotic change.

Brenda called me a week later. "Swift refused to accept the plea deal. We will be going to trial. However, my boss has told me to wait until Swift's trial for money laundering in federal court is completed."

I did not attend the judicial hearing about the seizure of Swift's assets that was held three weeks later, but I read about it in the newspaper. Thompson told me that our take in the assets might depend on how sympathetic the judge was to Sweeny's claim that the seizure was unconstitutional. The federal judge, a conservative appointee of President Bush, followed the law as written. He declared all assets seized were tainted by Swift's money laundering, and he fully ratified the seizure. He put the sheriff's department in charge of the sale of Swift's real estate. That turned out to be complicated because some properties were owned in common with legitimate entities. A real estate broker hired by our department began negotiations with these other owners to buy out the interest owned by Swift or an entity he controlled. The negotiations took over two years.

Swift's trial for money laundering took place in federal court four months later, the trial of the year in San Diego. I was told he wanted a trial because he wouldn't agree to the sentence proposed by Daumont. People love to read in the newspaper about the fall of the mighty, and Swift had been one of the mighty. Sweeny argued the warrant to search Swift's office was flawed. He said it was speculation by law enforcement both that Collins was a money courier and that there was a chute between Collins's and Swift's offices. Law enforcement, he claimed, had never actually witnessed Collins picking up drug money. The search of Swift's office had been a fishing expedition, and any evidence seized there should not be introduced into the trial. It sounded like an outrageous claim, but Sweeny was just doing his job. All of this was stated in the absence of jurors, witnesses, press, and audience. The judge took the claim seriously enough to ask Daumont to rebut it.

I learned about this since Daumont had me come to the courthouse to support the warrant affidavit made by Forbes and Svenson. I made the same case to the judge that I had made to Judge Moretti.

Sweeny challenged me. "You made the claim Mr. Swift was motivated to have Mr. Flynn killed since he had allegedly observed drug money being counted out by a Swift employee. Is it not true you suspected two others of killing Mr. Flynn before that?"

I acknowledged the truth of the question. Sweeny went on. "Is it not possible that you, as an Afro-American, were biased against Mr. Swift, who is white, wealthy, and has stature in the community, and that this led you to prefer stating his possible connection to Mr. Flynn's murder over the other two suspects?"

"That question is outrageous," said Daumont quickly and loudly.

"I'll allow it," said the judge.

I was annoyed at this challenge to my professionalism, but I wondered if there was a tiny element of truth there. Not that Swift was white, but that he was powerful. I responded calmly, "The other suspects' only motivation was stealing the ten thousand dollars in cash Flynn had on him. The motivation for Mr. Swift was protecting the one hundred million dollars in assets that he controlled and his upscale lifestyle. That one of the participants believed involved in Flynn's murder has been assassinated confirms my judgment that Mr. Swift's office was a hub of criminality."

Sweeny argued that my mentioning Collins's killing was improper, being a consequence of the illegally authorized raid on Swift's office. The judge did not buy that argument and eventually rejected Sweeny's claim.

Jane Daumont invited me for lunch the next day. "I was worried about that warrant affidavit," she told me. "I called Judge Moretti to ask about it. He told me you made a very credible case. He was right. You did a great job supporting that warrant affidavit yesterday and didn't falter when Sweeny tested you. I am very grateful."

I appreciated the compliment and her graciousness, while regretting my initial prejudice against her. I thanked her and said I looked forward to working with her when we had to give evidence at Swift's trial.

I followed the news reports daily. Steve, Bolder, and I gave evidence about the marked bills being placed in the package at the vacant house and how we had monitored Collins returning to his studio, where a chute to Swift's office below was later found. The court was packed with reporters from the media and the local television stations. One of them questioned me when I left the courthouse, asking how the drop house scheme was discovered. I declined to answer.

Sweeny argued strongly to persuade the jury and the judge that Swift had been forced into the money laundering and had operated his businesses legally. He had employees of Swift testify that they'd handled funds only from their respective businesses and that no extra cash had been brought into them. Swift explained how he had been compromised by the drug mafia and had tried to work honestly under their restraints. In the summation, Sweeny compared his client to Allen Glick, a realtor from San Diego who'd invested in a Las Vegas casino in 1967, found it to be controlled by the mob, and had not been allowed to extricate himself. The movie Casino suggested his ordeals.

Brenda asked Daumont not to bring up the murder of Flynn or Collins to avoid tainting any jury pool for the subsequent state trial. Despite Daumont requesting the maximum penalty of twenty years in jail, the judge sentenced Swift to only eight years.

Swift either decided not to appeal this lenient sentence or he had no money to do so. The latter became apparent when his trial for conspiracy to commit murder took place three months later. His defense attorney, a young black lawyer named Shauna Rogers, came from the public defender pool. No Pearson Sweeny came to the courtroom. What a comedown. Rogers tried to get her client's money laundering conviction from being mentioned in the prosecutor's opening statement but was refused, since the motivation for the murder was to be offered in evidence. The press showed a picture of Marge Holmes, who had to testify that she had known Flynn had gone to the fishing camp and had told Swift. Steve gave evidence about the phone calls showing Swift had ordered a hit man to murder Flynn. He and Mrs. Shannon testified about the stolen car driven by Bailey, whose criminal record was put into evidence. Mrs. Brown and William Watson testified Bailey had occupied the site opposite Flynn's. Danny Chu gave very convincing testimony that Flynn was dead and that his body had at one time been in Flynn's car, which had been found abandoned in Compton. His testimony that Bailey's fingerprint on the gas connector and on the hammer in the stolen car was convincing. Brenda called me to the stand to state how I'd identified Andy Collins as Bailey's partner in the murder of Flynn and how I had deduced his role in money laundering and how he had delivered the money to Swift.

Rogers grilled me on the weak points of the case. "Did you have other suspects for Flynn?"

"Yes, but they had an alibi."

"Their only alibi came from a close relative, did it not?"

"Yes, but we have not disproved that alibi. Furthermore, the motivation, moneywise, for those suspects was minimal compared to that of Mr. Swift."

And later on, Rogers asked, "Do you know the exact date when Mr. Flynn's car arrived in Compton?"

I have learned to not give a simple yes or no when a more complex answer will sway the jury one way or the other. "We checked diligently in the area, but none of the residents there could tell us the exact day." They couldn't give us any day, let alone the exact day.

"Witnesses have said that Mr. Flynn's car was gone by that Monday morning. Evidence has been presented that his dead body was in it. Yet Bailey's car left a day later. So, where were the car and the body on Monday?"

"We believe Flynn's Camry was taken to Santa Rosa, where Bailey picked it up after dumping the Avalon he and Collins had used to drive to the fishing camp."

"You want the jurors to believe your killer might leave a dead body in the trunk of a car in a public area for a day, where the smell of the decaying body might reveal its presence?" Her voice conveyed disdain.

"We do not know when Flynn's dead body was removed from his car. It could very well have been buried that Sunday night, so there would have been no smell from the Camry trunk. Joseph Bailey and Andy Collins would know what actually happened."

"How convenient it is for the prosecution that Mr. Collins and Mr. Bailey are not here to testify."

Brenda Williams objected loudly to that remark, and the judge rebuked Rogers.

Rogers went on. "Isn't it more likely that Flynn knew an attempt had been made on his life and simply drove his car off by himself?"

Brenda interrupted. "I object. You're asking for speculation by the witness."

The judge replied, "The witness is an experienced detective. Her opinion is relevant... You may answer the question." He waved his hand at me to reply.

"The evidence is clear that a dead body occupied the trunk of Flynn's car and that its DNA matched Mr. Flynn's. Where, when, and how the murder was committed is less relevant to the charge of conspiracy to commit murder."

Brenda smiled at me. I had stolen one of her closing arguments. That ended my testimony. Later on, Rogers brought in a pathologist to give his opinion that Flynn's body, left for a day in the trunk of a black car, would smell sufficiently to be noticeable as far as thirty yards away. Brenda asked him if he knew what the temperatures were at the fishing camp over the relevant time period. He replied that he had used some kind of weighted temperature in making his calculations. I could see that did not go down too well with the jury. Brenda brought Danny Chu back in as a rebuttal witness. Danny is so professional and so precise when he answers questions. I reckoned his personality carried as much weight as his evidence. He pointed out that trunks are well sealed to keep out moisture and that the seal would be very effective in keeping out smells. There was a little laughter in court as he corrected himself to say, "Keeping the smell in."

Rogers brought Swift to the stand, and he said he was completely innocent of the charges. Brenda hammered him with his motivation to avoid being discovered as a money launderer and that he had made phone calls to Bailey. He denied making the calls to Bailey. She pointed out he had denied making a phone call to Arzeta, both when his office had been raided and in subsequent questioning. He said he had made the denials due to panic and confusion. She hammered him on the lies, saying it behooved him to lie about the other phone calls. I could see the jury was not impressed by Swift's denials. I think the jurors were intrigued by two black lawyers battling over charges levied against a white society man. Brenda made sound closing statements, emphasizing Swift's money laundering guilty verdict and that as much as five hundred million dollars had been involved.

I think it human nature to expect persons of wealth and stature to be more righteous than those who can less afford that virtue. There is a small pleasure in bringing one of them down. Thus, it was not surprising that the jury came back in two days with a verdict of guilty.

I was not in court, so Brenda told me about it later. "Swift looked devastated," she reported. "Curious thing was that Marge Holmes was not in the courtroom when the verdict was read. I guess she abandoned her sugar daddy."

Shauna Rogers polled the jurors to find any grounds for an appeal. I heard about it from the attending bailiff. The jurors were satisfied Swift had conspired to murder Swift due to two factors: the phone calls between Swift and Bailey, and the Bailey fingerprint on the gas connector coupled with the fact that Swift's employee, Collins, had been sent with Bailey to murder Flynn at the fishing camp. The jurors had not been satisfied with our evidence on the timing of Flynn's murder, but they'd decided it was irrelevant to the charge of conspiracy.

Sentencing took place four weeks later. Brenda told me the sentence for conspiracy to commit murder was the same as murder, which was twenty-five years to life. However, she considered Swift to be under considerable pressure from Arzeta and his criminal associates, so she recommended a prison sentence of fifteen years. The judge, however, noted Swift had been sentenced to eight years on the federal charges and so gave the defendant a term of ten years—to be served consecutively, though, rather than concurrently. Shauna Rogers appealed the sentence, but the appeals court declined to hear it.

Later, Brenda told me that Rogers had approached her before the trial without Swift's cognizance to see if the charge could be changed to involuntary manslaughter. In that way, if Swift were found guilty, he could not be charged with murder when Flynn's body was found. Brenda had rejected the proposed change in part because she'd inferred Rogers thought her client had committed the crime.

# CHAPTER 28

Steve told me at the end of Swift's state trial that he had taken the exam to be a sergeant and passed. That meant he would be working once more in all sheriff departments for a few years before he became a unit head. I told him very truthfully that I would miss him since he was such a good partner. I wished him luck and told him to stay in touch. So, Norman Bolder became my partner, and we kept a running joke on his first name, sometimes "No Man" and sometimes "Snowman." It fluctuated like our office address of Cop St. or Cope St.

One of Swift's limited partners in the Palomar South Park had been promoted to general partner and taken over the operation of that park. The revised partnership borrowed money and paid to have Swift's interest released to it. The same procedure happened for two of the car washes, where a revised partnership paid for the share owned by Swift and his tainted partners or shareholders. The jewelry store was a leased location, and the landlord released it. That also applied to the pawn shops and the liquor stores. The check cashing businesses never reopened, in part, I heard, because no bank was prepared to service them. Interpol was notified about outstanding warrants for Arzeta, if that was his real name, and Joseph Bailey. I read about the sale of Swift's house in San Marcos, which took place about a year after his conviction for money laundering. There was a picture of it in the newspaper with an underlying title: "Five Million Dollars for Money Launderer's House." Marge Holmes had apparently managed to live in the house until the sale completion. I wondered where she'd gone afterwards.

I heard Larry Swift had been released from federal prison after five years instead of serving his full sentence of eight years. He had earned time off for good behavior and credits from teaching bookkeeping to fellow inmates. He was promptly transferred to the Richard Donavan Correctional Facility, a state prison that lies in the southeast of San Diego County, to serve his ten-year sentence for conspiracy to commit murder. I had to see a prisoner there one day on an evidential matter, and after I had finished, on impulse, I asked to see Larry Swift. I scarcely recognized him when they brought him into the questioning room. He had lost over fifty pounds, and his face and neck had grown wrinkles; he looked more than his age of fifty-eight.

He looked at me sourly. "What do you want?" he asked.

"As a detective, I always like to know that my investigation and evidence led to a just conviction and sentence," I replied.

"You must think I'm stupid to ask a question like that," he answered angrily. "You bastards railroaded me with this conspiracy charge. You wouldn't have succeeded if I hadn't been convicted of money laundering."

"Of which you were guilty as charged."

"Yes, but that damn well prejudiced me on the state charge. Why in hell's name did you come here? What do you expect from me?"

"I thought you might have learned where Bailey or Arzeta are or that you might have a clue on how they might be located. I know you can pick up a lot of information in prison."

Swift snorted. "First of all, I try to avoid having anything to do with those heavy-duty inmates. My motto here is the same as in federal prison: I see and hear nothing, and I certainly don't ask. I am innocent of anything to do with Flynn's murder... I hope you catch Bailey and Arzeta and clear me."

"But you made those phone calls to Bailey," I reminded him.

"I bloody well did not. I think you bastards damn well manufactured those phone records."

There was no point discussing the matter with him and I stood up to leave. As I did so, I asked him if Marge Holmes had visited him in prison. His face soured further. "I haven't seen her since I entered."

"Really?"

"She is, or was, a beautiful woman and a great lay. But as soon as I had no money left, she wasn't interested in me. You guys left me destitute. I still don't understand how you can take all a man's money before he is convicted, together with that of his friends and legitimate co-investors. Marge got mad at me because you guys took all her money as well."

"Did she have a lot of money?"

"I was giving her twenty grand per month to run the house and pay her personal expenses. She had good taste. She liked jewelry, designer clothes, and high society. She asked me for more. And I was paying for her kid's chemo as well." He sighed. "Sally was such a sweet girl. You know she died a year after I was sentenced. I really loved her. So did Art Flynn. I was sorry Marge insisted he be denied visitation rights in her divorce."

"So that was Marge's idea?"

'Yes, but she told Flynn it was mine."

"Why did you never marry her after the divorce?"

"She certainly wanted me to. But I found her a bit too demanding and manipulative. I thought if we lived together for a couple of years, when the stress of Sally's illness was over, she might be a little less pushy."

I thanked Swift for his time. He had given me a portrait of Marge that corresponded to the one expressed by Flynn's neighbors.

Over the years, there were occasional sightings of Joseph Bailey, but he was never caught. We would get requests for Flynn's DNA data to see if it matched bodies that had been found from Chula Vista to Redding in California. There were no matches. Bailey had done a good job of dumping the body. Steve came back as a homicide detective six years after Flynn's murder. Dane Hanson became his partner. I knew very well that when Thompson retired, Steve, being a sergeant, would become unit head. I had wanted that job myself, so I steeled myself for that retirement, which took place in May 2014. Thompson called me into his office in late March of that year.

"You know I'm going to retire in a couple of months, Shane," he said, "and I know you wanted my job. If you had passed the exam to be a sergeant, you would be getting it."

I had passed the written exam for sergeant many years back but had failed the interview. The sheriff's department had encouraged minorities to join the department to improve diversity, and thus encouragement was viewed as a preferential leg up. Thus, minorities like me had to suffer the belief by the majority whites that we weren't quite up to their standards. Perhaps it was true, but the merest hint of it by that one interviewer enraged me, and I reacted in my true Shane capacity. I wasn't exactly encouraged by Thompson to take the exam again. Perhaps it was because I was an excellent homicide detective with a well-above-average closure rate and he needed my skills. Perhaps he thought I would never pass the interview anyway. All such perhaps are in the past. It doesn't pay to dwell on them.

Thompson went on. "The lieutenant asked me to talk to you about this since I know you better than he, and we thought you might be upset because, as you probably have guessed, Steve, whom you once mentored, is to become unit head. You might feel you are entitled to the position because you have the most seniority. But you know the hierarchy here. You have to be a sergeant to become the boss."

"Harry, you didn't encourage me to take the sergeant exam again... Was that because you perceive I have negatives?" I asked bluntly.

"Shane, we all have negatives. Some are more significant than others."

"Harry, you're beating around the bush. Get to the point."

"Well, you're a mouthy broad to start with, and you also have inadequate respect for authority."

"Harry, don't damn well tell me my calling you Harry all these years was a factor."

Thompson smiled. "An irritant, not a factor." He gathered his thoughts before he spoke again. "Shane, you're a smart woman and an excellent homicide detective, but you have a temper that gets you into trouble. You're also smart enough to recognize that Steve is better qualified to be the unit head."

I appreciated Thompson taking the time to talk to me, as well as his compliment. The talk had not been necessary, since I already knew the outcome. I had to acknowledge its validity. Steve was indeed a very competent detective and noted for his civility and helpfulness. He would certainly not play favorites like Thompson. Yes, he would be a better boss.

I have had disappointments and sadness in my life. My mother died of breast cancer just before I graduated from university. I suffered covert racial prejudice when I began my career as a sheriff deputy, prejudice that did not entirely disappear when I became a detective. My marriage failed, though it gave me a beautiful son. While I reveled in catching Swift at money laundering, I grieved we had never caught Flynn's murderer, Bailey, or his abettor, Arzeta. I have learned from life that carrying grievances around perpetually is a poor way to live life.

The next day, Steve asked me to go to lunch with him, and I knew he would say something about his promotion. We went to my favorite lunch place, a nearby Mexican one with fabulous burritos. I ordered one with a Coca Cola, and we moved to a table furthest from other patrons.

"I knew you would have liked to be the unit head," said Steve, biting into a taco that squirted out salsa onto his shirt. He wiped himself and continued. "You know the drill; you have to be a sergeant. I want to let you know it has been a very rewarding professional experience to work with you in this homicide detail. I am very grateful for your mentoring me and showing me how mentoring is done. It shows in how you have brought Norman Bolder along in our unit. I'm looking forward to your continued working in this homicide detail, and I hope it will be a long time before you decide to retire from being a detective."

I put my hand on his wrist. "Steve, congratulations. You deserved the promotion more than I did. I look forward to working with you also."

Steve smiled, one that told me he had been uncertain how I would handle it. "It's okay for you to call me Steve instead of Sergeant," he added. "And I will be putting Bolder with a new man. Hanson will be your new partner."

In an early December morning of 2015, I received a phone call at work from a Lily Gross, who said she was an insurance adjuster for the National Harper Insurance Company (NHIC). "A Marge Holmes has requested a court hearing to have Arthur Flynn declared dead," she said. The whole case flooded through my mind as she spoke. "I understand that you investigated his disappearance, and I further understand you believe Mr. Flynn was murdered. I am aware that Laurence Swift was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder. Could I meet with you to discuss the basis for this assessment of murder? I would very much like to see your evidence file."

I told her I would have to discuss the matter with my boss and would call her back. "You are not to release your evidence file to her," said Steve emphatically. "She will have to get a subpoena for that or alternatively ask the judge to request a copy. Tell her to look at the trial transcript."

"Should I meet her?" I asked.

"Yes, I think you should," Steve replied. "You may tell her about the case, enough for her to see if she wants to agree or oppose the Holmes petition."

I called Lily back, and she agreed to come to the sheriff's office. Steve decided to sit in on the conversation. She entered the conference room and offered her hand to us with a very warm "So pleased to meet you."

We introduced ourselves and, at her invitation, used first names in our discussion. Lily, in her mid-forties, was dressed in a blue top over black pants that revealed a modestly overweight figure. I empathized. She had a distinctly domestic air that was disarming. However, she quickly revealed her intelligence with penetrating questions. I had recovered the evidence file and my notes from storage before the meeting and had reviewed them beforehand.

"You probably want to know why this petition is so important to Marge Holmes," said Lily, opening the conversation. We both nodded. "Arthur Flynn has an accidental life insurance policy whose beneficiary is Sally Holmes, Marge's daughter."

"How is it that the policy is active?" I asked, noticing Lily had used "has" instead of "had." "Flynn was killed over seven years ago."

"It seems that when the Palomar South Park attempted to foreclose on Flynn's home, Mr. Laurel stepped in. He produced a listing for the mobile home signed by Flynn and petitioned the court to have him declared conservator of Flynn's estate. The mobile home was sold, and the proceeds put into Flynn's bank account, which had an automatic deduction to pay the monthly policy premiums." Lily looked at her notes and said, "Sally Holmes died on March 14, 2010."

"I had heard she had died," I offered. "What caused her death?"

"Well, the little girl had acute lymphocytic leukemia and was undergoing expensive chemotherapy treatments at the time of Mr. Swift's arrest. The seizure of his and most of Ms. Holmes's assets meant there was little money to pay for the treatment. Sally Holmes died a year later when she was only eight years old. Thus, if Mr. Flynn was murdered, then the insurance proceeds would be paid to Ms. Margery Holmes as the contingent beneficiary."

"Marge Holmes knew about the insurance policy seven years ago. Why didn't she make a claim on the policy at that time?" I asked.

"She did. The insurance company did not feel that Mr. Swift's conviction of conspiracy to commit murder assuredly meant a murder had taken place. I called the Sonoma County district attorney and was told they had declined to prosecute Mr. Swift for murder in the absence of Mr. Flynn's corpse. NHIC consequently rejected her claim."

"And now?" asked Steve.

Two factors. A person may be declared dead in this state if he or she has been missing for over seven years. Secondly, being missing for over seven years makes it much more likely Flynn is deceased."

"How large would the insurance payout be?" asked Steve.

"Two million dollars," said Lilly. "I have been hired by NHIC to make sure that Mr. Flynn did indeed die of an accidental death, and murder does so qualify."

"Whew," I blew though my teeth, a whistle echoed by Steve.

"I see why Marge wants this petition to succeed," said Steve. He motioned me to talk about the case, which I did, mentioning Swift's conviction for conspiracy to commit murder and that we believed Bailey, under Arzeta's instructions, had carried out the assassination.

When I had finished, Lily asked me, "I take it you have not been able to arrest Bailey or Arzeta?"

"That is correct," Steve replied. "Arrest warrants for them are still outstanding."

"Did the Sonoma Sheriff's department send out cadaver dogs to look for Flynn's corpse?" asked Lily.

"Not to our knowledge," I replied. "Since Flynn's car was found in Compton, some four hundred miles away from the fishing camp, they felt there was too much uncertainty in location to justify that kind of search."

Lily sat back in her chair. "I appreciate you're spending this amount of time on the case. I will be reporting back to the insurance company. My recommendation will be to oppose this petition. I suspect Ms. Holmes' attorney will ask you"—she pointed at me—"the chief investigating officer, to give evidence at the hearing." She stood up; the meeting was over.

# CHAPTER 29

Two weeks later, I received a letter from an attorney requesting my attendance at a court hearing in early February on the petition to have Arthur Flynn declared deceased. I showed the letter to Steve, who had me talk to the district attorney, who, it turned out, was still Brenda Williams. I had seen her little over the past seven years, and it was very pleasant to talk to another professional black woman in law enforcement. We discussed what progress we had made over that period of time. Brenda had reached a senior level in the DA's office. I congratulated her.

"It's very clear," said Brenda. "You are not to give the evidence file to the Holmes attorney. You should tell the judge merely it is your belief Flynn was murdered and the evidence file is confidential since the case is not closed."

Three weeks before the hearing, I received a call from Tom Small. I did not recognize his name or his voice on the phone, and he had to remind me he was still manager of the Russian River fishing camp. "There's been a body discovered upstream of the camp on the other side of the river. Have you heard about it from our sheriff?"

I told him no. "I bet it's your missing man," he said. "I heard there was no skull with the corpse; it was mostly just a collection of bones. They'll probably have to extract DNA from the bones and compare it to your missing man's. That's probably why you haven't heard from them."

I thanked Tom for the information and waited for the call from Sonoma County. They had received a copy of the evidence file seven years earlier, so they would be reviewing it before they talked to me. They would also be conducting an extensive forensic examination of the site and the remains of the body. I was excessively curious to know if the corpse was Flynn's and wanted to call to find out. I decided to wait and not tell Lily Gross about it until officially notified.

I was delighted when I answered the telephone a week later to find Angie Haigh on the line. "Yes, I'm still the sergeant in charge of homicide detail here," she said, "but I plan to retire next year. I'd like a warmer winter climate and will be considering San Diego or Phoenix."

"I think you'll like San Diego better than Phoenix," I countered. "If you come down here to check the area out, give me a call, and we'll hook up."

We made small talk for a couple of minutes before Angie got to the point. "We found a skeleton a week ago somewhat upstream of the Russian River fishing camp that we have identified as your missing man, Arthur Flynn."

"How did he die?" I asked, clearly interested in the assassination details.

"His head was sawed off," Angie replied. "Obviously, that would have killed him. There was no evidence of broken bones or other evidence to indicate if he had been stabbed, strangled, or drugged prior to his decapitation."

"The bones do not show evidence of a bullet wound, then?" I asked.

"That is correct," replied Angie. "The medical examiner's report states the cause of death is unknown. This presents a conundrum for us since he is not prepared to say it was a homicide despite decapitation being a form of homicide."

"Wow! Is there anything we can do at this end?" I asked.

Angie replied, "Could you and any other of your departmental staff involved in the investigation of seven years ago sit in on a conference call with us to discuss our options. We'd also like the DA staff member who decided to prosecute Mr. Swift for conspiracy to commit murder participate as well. If you get me their direct phone numbers and a convenient time to call, that would be very helpful."

I agreed to get her that information. I liked Lily Gross and decided to call her about this turn of events. "You mean that sawing off Flynn's head isn't considered murder?" she said incredulously. "That's right," I replied, "but you can't say it was not accidental. I would guess your insurance company will have to make the payout."

"I'm going to have to think about this," said Lily. "You tell me you guys are to confer on the matter. I assume it will be on whether to charge Mr. Swift with murder or not. Please let me know what happens. It will affect what I recommend to the insurance company."

I agreed to do so. "I will let Marge Holmes' attorney know what is going on," added Lily. "I'll suggest he request a delay in the petition hearing."

I gathered the direct phone numbers of all the interested parties in San Diego County and e-mailed a list of convenient times to Angie, who selected Wednesday, January 6, at 1:00 p.m. "We'll have all the holiday celebrations out of our system by then," she commented. "Also, Swift isn't going anywhere."

I had a great holiday season. My son, Ralph, flew in from Boston, where he is a professor of history at Dartmouth University. I thoroughly enjoyed his two-week visit. He is divorced but is on good terms with his ex-wife, so he gets to see his two small children frequently. I also had the opportunity to get out my roasting pan, untouched for over fifteen years, and cook us a turkey with stuffing for Christmas day. Brenda Williams, another single mother, joined our little celebration. It would have been impossible not to discuss the Flynn case when the man's body had just been found.

"It's amazing how that man's observance of another entering his mobile home listing could cause so much trouble," remarked Ralph. "You have Swift in jail, likely to be charged with murder. You have Marge Holmes impoverished and her daughter dead. You have Andy Collins assassinated and two men on the run. And you have most of Swift's businesses closed and his employees out of work."

"Stop this, Ralph," I said. "I just don't see that as Flynn's fault or mine."

"But would you blame Swift, who got compromised when he did a favor for a friend?" he responded.

"I'm not in the morality business," I replied. I'm in the law enforcement business."

Before the conference call, Brenda and I reviewed the evidence file and our notes on why the decision had been made to charge Swift with conspiracy to commit murder. Thus, we were prepared for the big Wednesday meeting in the New Year. Angie's conference phone call found me seated with Steve in his office, our evidence file and notes in front of us. Brenda said she was on the line. At her end, Angie introduced a Sonoma County DA named Barnsky and a forensic technician. Angie said she had reviewed our evidence file of seven years earlier and wanted to know if there had been any further information developed since then.

Brenda spoke up. "I prosecuted Swift for conspiracy to commit murder. He was sentenced to ten years in jail, which he was required to serve after finishing his sentence of eight years in federal prison for money laundering. His appeal of the conviction was denied. He has been released from federal into state custody, where detective Notfarg questioned him a year ago. Of course, he continued to deny any involvement in the murder of Flynn. The other two principals in the murder, Raphael Arzeta and Joseph Bailey, have not been apprehended."

I felt like speaking out here to say Swift did not have the money to appeal his conviction, since it had all been seized by the DEA, but decided the remark would be considered unhelpful.

Barnsky spoke up. "Dorothy McMain from our office interacted with you seven years ago. She has retired, and I have taken over her cases. I called her, and she recollected telling your office it would be possible for you to prosecute Swift for conspiracy to commit murder and very difficult for her to prosecute him for murder in the absence of a body. Well, now we have the body and, of course, the jurisdictional responsibility. McMain's reasoning then was there was no body and your theory of how the murder was done was very hokey. I have reviewed the transcripts of Swift's trial and have also conversed with Swift's attorney, a Shauna Rogers. She claimed her client's conviction was based on circumstantial evidence and was prejudiced by Swift's then recent conviction for money laundering. I too am unsatisfied with your theory of how the murder was done. You claimed Bailey, together with Collins, killed Flynn. But Collins said he left the park a day after Flynn's car had gone. You believe that Flynn was taken from the park, killed, and perhaps buried the night of September 14. You claimed Bailey picked up the dead man's car, parked it somewhere for a day, and then drove south on September 16, but you have no evidence to support or negate that theory."

"That the Avalon car the perps drove was found in nearby Santa Rosa supports our theory," I responded. "We expected Andy Collins to confess when he was interrogated on another matter, but unfortunately, he was assassinated before that was done," I added.

Barnsky replied in a very annoyed tone, "That's no help at all. Did you find anything to confirm Flynn's car being parked that Monday at Santa Rosa or elsewhere, including the front of the fishing camp?"

"There were no cameras adequately viewing the front lot of the camp, and we could find no witnesses to confirm or deny the presence of Flynn's car there on Monday, September 14," I replied. "The car was more likely parked in the vicinity of Santa Rosa, since that's where the perps' vehicle was abandoned. Bailey called Collins who was in San Francisco that Sunday night, and we believe it was to arrange being picked up on his, Collins's, return to the fishing camp."

"Let me summarize your principal evidence against Swift," said Barnsky. "A, Swift wanted to stop Flynn giving him evidence on money laundering, i.e., motivation. B, Collins was assassinated so he could not give evidence about money laundering or the killing of Flynn. C, Swift made phone calls to the hit man Bailey on a time basis consistent with the attempts on Flynn's life. D, Swift denied making those phone calls, but his credibility was challenged when he denied making phone calls to Arzeta during the raid on his premises though his cell phone records clearly showed he had done so." He paused. "Am I correct, or do you have anything else to add?"

None of us said anything. Barnsky continued. "I think you were lucky to get Swift convicted of conspiracy to commit murder given you didn't have good evidence of where or when it was done. I can only suppose the jury was swayed by Swift's conviction for money laundering."

Brenda replied tartly. "We conducted a very professional prosecution. I am sure that if you conduct a similar one, you will get a guilty verdict."

Barnsky might have been at a loss for words, but at that moment, Angie pitched in, saying, "You know that drug mafia cut off heads to demonstrate the penalty for somebody in their organization snitching. Are you sure Flynn was not, in fact, part of the money laundering operation but simply got pissed that Swift took his gal?"

Steve looked at me, clearly expecting me to respond, which I did. "Arthur Flynn demonstrated a sterling character. He was liked and respected by his neighbors and his coworkers. He had no criminal record, and his letters to his mother showed he had moved on from Swift stealing his woman."

Barnsky had recovered from Brenda's sharp response. "I would much rather be prosecuting Bailey and Arzeta. I am quite astonished we have not been able to catch these two men in this seven-year period. As for Swift, I would like a copy of your prosecutorial notes, Brenda. I am very uncomfortable with your theory of the murder scenario. Understanding how and when it was done may not have been essential to your prosecuting Swift for conspiracy to commit murder. That is not the case when the charge is murder."

Brenda said, "Mr. Barnsky. There is no doubt a murder was committed, and Swift is the only one in custody whom you may charge. I suggest you file the murder charge and see how much pushback you get from his defense attorney. That will tell you whether you can work out a plea bargain."

"Thank you, Ms. Williams. I do appreciate being told how to do my job." That acid note terminated the conversation.

As I strode on the treadmill that evening, I went over the conference discussion. Angie Haigh had suggested Flynn might have had his head cut off for snitching, and the notion bothered me. My investigation showed Flynn to be an upright person with no involvement in money laundering or any other type of crime. I knew cutting heads off in the drug money business was done to keep crew members in line and rivals out. Flynn would have been a bystander; there would be no message sent in cutting off his head. But on the other hand, they hadn't cut off Andy Collins's head. They'd shot him. But that was because they'd wanted to kill him off silently and quickly before he could give evidence. I cogitated further. How had they killed Flynn? If he had been stabbed, there would have been blood on the cot, but none was found. Since there was no blunt trauma or bullet wound, then he must have been chloroformed or strangled. But he would have yelled or struggled. In that case, there would have been evidence like a broken cot or scattered belongings in his tent. Could he have been lured out of the park? Had Collins or Bailey invited him to go out of the park for a drink at Guerneville? If that had happened, it would explain why Flynn and his Camry had not been there on Monday morning. Was it possible that Flynn had suspected the people in the Avalon were after him, had fled, and that they had followed him? None of these hypotheses made sense. I went to bed very puzzled.

Angie called me to ask if I would look at the medical examiner's voluminous autopsy of Flynn, which she would express mail to me. It arrived the next day. The corpse was a collection of bones that had been disturbed by animals. I could see why the medical examiner had declined to call it a homicide. There were saw marks on the neck vertebrae. He stated it was highly difficult to kill a live man by sawing off his head. Two persons, at least, would be needed to hold him down, and in struggling, the saw would leave marks on several vertebrae. The examiner had found saw marks only on one vertebrae, so he'd deduced the man had been dead beforehand. He'd seen no sign of injury to any other bones they had recovered. They had not recovered any sharp weapons or bullets from the burial site. Therefore, he'd listed the cause of death as unknown. That would make a wrinkle in charging Swift with murder.

I went to lunch still thinking about the sawed-off head, asking myself why anybody would want to take the trouble to cut off Flynn's head. It would have made more sense if somebody were trying to hide the body's identity. But why would his executioners want to hide that identity. We clearly knew it was Flynn from his DNA. Could there have been a DNA mix-up at the laboratory the Sonoma County forensics used? Extremely unlikely. The height of the skeleton was sixty-eight inches, an inch less than Flynn's but within measurement uncertainty given that the skeleton was not complete. I looked at the autopsy report again. It stated the bones were of a male in his fifties to sixties that exhibited arthritis. The age was more than Flynn's but, again, not outside forensic uncertainty. All arthritis is relative. I have some but still manage to walk vigorously on the treadmill. And Flynn was jogging in the park when he came across the money laundering. I might have questioned the body as Flynn's if it were not for the explicit DNA match. I dragged out the voluminous evidence file on Flynn and looked at Danny Chu's forensic report. He had obtained samples of skin from Flynn's clothes and had performed DNA tests on those samples and those taken from the hairbrush and toothbrush in the bathroom. He also mentioned finding a strand of red hair in the shower that he reckoned belonged to the red-headed neighbor who had so conscientiously and thoroughly cleaned Flynn's mobile home. I guessed Mary Smith had left it in the shower when she'd cleaned it. Then I remembered being puzzled at the first meeting we had with DEA staff why Mary Smith hadn't responded to Drew Ryan's business card left at her door. Nor had she told me about it. Perhaps the wind blew it away. I hadn't followed it up since Flynn's dead body in his Camry then dominated our thinking. I speculated, as women do. Maybe she'd taken a shower there. But that could imply she'd been having a relationship with Flynn. I had a sudden cold thought: why did the short-haired Flynn have a hairbrush? My short-haired former husband, blast his soul, did not.

Could Flynn have spiked the sampling process? If he had, he would have had to find a dead body as well. Easier said than done. You can't raid a morgue or a funeral home without it being noticed and reported. He would have needed a man to die whose disappearance would not be noticed. The logistics of that would stagger anybody. I could see Flynn might have wanted to disappear. He had written a letter to the DEA about money laundering, which he feared might be leaked or dismissed. He might have suspected the gas connector was deliberately damaged. But where could he get a body? His neighbor had been sick for sure, but he'd been alive when we went to his mobile home both times. We'd heard him coughing. Or did we?

# CHAPTER 30

I suddenly remembered wondering at the time if it was safe to move a hairy cat into the home of a man with emphysema and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). But I hadn't seen who was coughing. I remembered Mary saying her husband was sleeping and that she preferred to talk to me inside Flynn's home rather than hers. Furthermore, she'd claimed her sick husband had never been inside the missing man's home, so I hadn't bothered to interview him. If the recovered corpse were Smith's, then who had been coughing? The only reasonable solution to the puzzle was that Flynn had returned and had been pretending to be the sick man. What a bizarre scheme if I were correct!

My new theory meant Flynn and Mary Smith had planned it together. Perhaps they were in an intimate relationship; that comported with her strand of hair in Flynn's shower. I liked my theory more as I thought about it. It would explain why Flynn's car had left before Collins and Bailey's had. It would explain why those two had waited a full day before deciding Flynn was not coming back despite his leaving the tent and gear behind. I could see why Bailey would phone Swift on the Tuesday to say he had failed to kill Flynn. Swift would have had to deny receiving that call as well as the other ones ordering Flynn's assassination. Bailey had had no reason to return to San Marcos, since he'd had no idea where Flynn had gone. So, getting rid of the stolen car and dismissing Collins in nearby Santa Rosa would have been a reasonable move on his part.

I called the crime lab and was pleased to find Danny Chu still working there. "Danny, you have short hair; do you use a hairbrush?" I asked.

"No. I don't. Why do you ask?"

"Well, your forensic report on Arthur Flynn of seven years ago reported determining DNA from samples taken from his hairbrush and toothbrush."

"So?"

"Flynn had very short hair."

"You didn't show me his photograph. He might have had the brush from a time when his hair was longer."

"Danny, I had no reason to question your sampling at the time. I do now."

"Why don't you let me pull my report so I can review it again. I'll call you when I've done so."

I twiddled my thumbs until Danny called back. "You will recall Flynn's neighbor had been paid to spring clean his home," he said. "She did a terrific job. His bedclothes were spotless, as were most of his clothes. Clothes in the top drawer of his dresser had matching hair and skin. The only hair I found on the carpet belonged to the cat."

"What samples were used for the DNA analysis?"

"They were from the hairbrush, toothbrush, and the skin droppings."

"Did you find hair or skin droppings on the clothes in the other drawers?"

"No. I didn't."

"Don't you think that's odd?"

Danny hesitated. "I didn't at the time, but now that you're pointing it out to me, I do."

"Could those clothes and those brushes been substitutes from another man? Could they have been carefully planted to confuse you?"

There was a long silence. "I'm looking at my report again... I would not want to admit that I was deliberately misled."

"But you could have been," I insisted.

Danny paused for a good ten seconds before speaking. "Yes...yes, I guess I could," he replied with a sigh.

I let him go and postulated further. Had Mary killed her husband and gotten Flynn to carry off the body? Given his character, Flynn would have never condoned Mary killing her husband. Then, maybe he hadn't realized it was a murder. Why would Flynn have wanted to do it instead of just disappearing if he were frightened of being assassinated? Why would he have agreed to such a criminal activity? If Robert Smith had simply died, why hadn't Mary just called the medical examiner? If my theory were correct, then Flynn and Mary Smith would have long ago left the park.

I was very excited as I drove north to the mobile home park and went directly to the former Smith mobile home. My bizarre theory nicely fitted all the facts. If I were correct, we would finally be solving the seven-year-old case of the missing man. I rang the doorbell with more vigor than it needed, and an elderly lady came to the door and looked at me suspiciously. I showed her my badge and asked about Mrs. Smith, the former owner of her home.

"I bought the home from the Watkinses," she replied. "I've never heard of Mrs. Smith."

I then went to the park office, where the manager politely answered my questions. "I took over this job from Mrs. Swanson six years ago," he said, "after her husband went to jail. You probably know about that."

I assured him I did. I asked him if he knew where Mr. and Mrs. Smith of space number 76 were. "I have no idea," he replied. "I don't keep records of departing tenants for more than three years, and there have been no Mr. and Mrs. Smith residents in that space while I've been park manager."

I told him I needed to ask around the park to see if anyone knew where they had gone. He asked why. "Police business," I told him politely. I went to the mobile home at space number 78 in the hope the talkative neighbors of the Smiths, the Bessins, were still there and could help me. They were not, but the occupants of the mobile home told me they had bought their unit three years earlier from the Bessins, who had left to go into a retirement home.

"Which one?" I asked.

Was I pleased they had an answer! "I believe it was the Wesley Palms home in Pacific Beach."

Pacific Beach is a seaside community on the north side of San Diego, some five miles from our office, now on Cope St. I did not want to drive to the retirement home without assuring myself the elderly Bessins were still there. I called the home and was delighted to learn they were still residents. The reception office transferred my phone call to their room. Mr. Bessin answered, but he did not understand what I was saying. He brought his wife to the phone, and I spent some time reminding her how we'd met seven years earlier. I asked her if she knew where the Smiths went to.

"I don't know where they went," she replied. "They sold their home a couple of months after Art went missing," she said. "Why don't you come around and visit us and tell us what ever happened?"

I thought they might have pertinent information, so I set up a meeting time for ten o'clock the next day, and I mentally prepared myself for sifting through a long conversation for relevance. I did not tell Steve or my other co-workers what I was doing. After all, this was still just a hunch. Wesley Palms is a retirement community set in the hills above Mission Bay on the north side of San Diego. There was plenty of room for me to park on its spacious circular entrance driveway. I checked in at the reception desk, where I was directed across a courtyard and through a corridor to the Bessins' room.

Mrs. Bessin said, "Call me Mabel and my husband Roger," sat me down, and had a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies in front of me in less than a minute. She apologized for her husband not acknowledging me on the phone, saying, "The poor dear keeps forgetting to put in his hearing aids."

They were evidently in now, since Roger started the conversation. "About six weeks after Art disappeared, Mary told us that Bob was getting worse and she was going to have to put him in a VA-sponsored nursing home in...Los Angeles, I think."

"I'm pretty sure it was Irvine," chimed in his wife, "but why are you so interested in the Smiths?"

I temporized. "I believe they might have information pertinent to the men we believe killed Mr. Flynn."

"I heard they had discovered his body up north," said Roger, "and somebody cut his head off too." The newspapers had indeed reported the story under the headline: "Body of Convicted Money Launderer's Victim Found. I had looked at the headline and noted it inferred without specifically saying that Swift had killed Flynn.

"Do you know the name of the nursing home or Smith's referring physician?" I asked them.

"Not a clue," replied Roger, his wife nodding in agreement.

"Do you remember which sales agent sold the Smith home?" I asked.

"I think it was Sam Laurel and Associates," said Mabel, "That's who Art used to work for."

I made a mental note to visit Sam afterwards. "This is a lovely retirement home," said Mabel. "The staff are so kind and helpful. My kids say that when they retire, they would like a place like this."

The Bessins rambled on about their children and their homes in distant states, the infrequency of their visits, their grandchildren, their occupations, their dreams, and their travel plans. I did not want to interrupt them, because I was accepting their hospitality by drinking their coffee and munching their cookies. I just hoped some relevant information might arise so that I could turn the conversation to my concerns. Finally, Roger asked, "Shane, are you planning to retire soon? You'd love this place."

"I'm not ready for retirement yet," I replied. "I'm still trying to solve the murder you read about in the paper and its connection to Larry Swift, the man who was sent to jail for money laundering."

"Oh yes. We remember that," said Mabel. "It's hard to believe our park was owned by a crook. Did you know that Marge Holmes, who was living with him, had to go back to work? In fact, she works as a waitress part time here at Wesley Palms. You should talk to her; she might know more about the Smiths than we do."

I planned to avoid talking to Marge Holmes at that time, since I didn't want her to know the dead man might not be Flynn. "Why don't you tell me what you know about the Smiths before I talk to Marge," I said.

Mabel replied, "Mary is a sweet gal. She worked as a waitress in New Mexico at a truck stop, where she met Bob, who drove a truck. She developed multiple sclerosis in her twenties and agreed to marry Bob, who said he would look after her during an incapacitating bout of the disease. She told me she hoped that when he married her, he would look after her and raise a family together. But Bob, it turned out, did not want children. He said he had a son who had been turned against him by his estranged ex-wife. On top of that, Bob, a constant smoker, developed emphysema soon after and couldn't work anymore. He was pensioned off and became very frugal. That's what Mary told us, and she hardly had money for clothes. She even offered to do clothes washing and cleaning for me to make some pocket money. I believe she did some for Art Flynn as well."

Roger added the caveat: "I don't think Bob needed to be that frugal; he had a steady pension and told me he had some savings. I think his illness made him paranoid about money. He seemed to blame Mary for having MS. It wasn't fair how he kept Mary on a shoestring. She deserved better."

"When did you last see Bob?" I asked.

"I don't actually remember," replied Roger. "Do you, Mabel?"

"Not really," she replied. "He sort of faded away. He smoked despite having emphysema. Crazy! Wasn't it? I would hear him coughing and coughing. Mary would occasionally take him to the VA hospital in Los Angeles early in the morning so as to beat traffic. She would come home late and push him in his wheelchair up the ramp into his home."

That got my attention. "You saw him in his wheelchair after Art disappeared?" I asked.

"Oh yes," replied Mabel. Poor man, bent over, dressed in a hoodie, and covered by a blanket and coughing away."

"Did you actually see his face?" I asked.

Mabel looked surprised at being asked the question and took her time to reply. "Now that you mention it, I didn't see his face. I was so used to seeing the hoodie and the blanket that I was sure it was him." She looked at me and asked, "Could I have been wrong?"

I don't know, "I replied and changed the subject rapidly. "What do you know about Bob's estranged son?"

"Don't know a thing," said Roger, "except I believe he lives in New York City."

"Do you know his name?" I asked.

"No," he replied.

Mabel butted in. "Bob told me once his ex-wife loved movies with Kirk Douglas and that she named her son after him."

"Kirk, you mean," I said.

"No, Kirk was his stage name. I don't remember his given name, but the choice irritated Bob no end...said it was crazy for his wife to give his son a Jewish name...said she did it to spite him."

# CHAPTER 31

I looked at my watch. It read 1:23 p.m. I had been talking to the Bessins or had been talked at by them for nearly three and a half hours. I asked to use their toilet. Time to go and explore leads. I thanked them for their hospitality and declined their invitation to accompany them to the Wesley Palms cafeteria. "Please come back and visit with us," said Mabel as I left.

I promised I would. I then drove to Sam Laurel's real estate office in San Marcos and was delighted to find its owner there. Sam said he remembered me as I was escorted into his small conference room. "How may I help you?" he asked in his stilted military tone.

"Do you keep records of real estate sales of seven years ago?" was my question.

"Not usually," he replied. "Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"Yes. I'm told you sold the mobile home belonging to the Smiths in space 76 in the Palomar South Park shortly after Art Flynn disappeared," I said.

"You're in luck," replied Sam. "Art was the mobile home specialist in the office, and I took over the niche in the hope I could keep it for him when he returned. I think I sold two more mobile homes that year, the Smith unit as well as Art's home. Their files are still in my desk, which I have planned to clean up for the past year." He walked over to his desk and began searching through it. Not finding what he was looking for, he turned his attention to one of two adjacent file cabinets. "I'm sure I have it," he said as I sat waiting. About ten minutes later, now on the second file cabinet, Sam waved a couple of files with an exclamation: "Got them!"

He took the documents from the file and spread them over the conference table. I examined the closing escrow statement for the Smith home and wrote down the address the settlement funds of ninety-four thousand dollars had been sent to...a location in Irvine, California. I saw no mortgage payoff on the escrow document. Robert Smith had owned his home free and clear in joint tenancy with his wife.

"Why are you looking at the Smith sale?" asked Sam.

I simply told him it was a police matter. Sam was smart enough not to question me further. I looked at the listing agreement; it was signed by Robert and Mary Smith. "Did you see Robert sign this?" I asked.

"Ah...no," replied Sam. "The poor man was so ill. I could hear him coughing away in the bedroom. Mary took the agreement in for him to sign and returned it to me."

Sam looked at me quizzically, as though expecting me to comment. I did not. The file contained a photograph of the front of the mobile home. My eyes gleamed. It also showed the green handicap-equipped van of the Smiths in the driveway.

"Do you have a magnifying glass?" I asked. Sam went out of the conference room and asked one of his agents, and he returned with one a couple of minutes later. I looked closely at the photograph and was just able to make out the van's license plate number. I jotted the number down. "Did you ever hear from the Smiths afterwards?" I asked.

"No" came the reply. Sam then laid down the sale documents pertaining to Art's home. We looked at the listing agreement, known to have been signed by Flynn, and compared its signature to the listing document for the Smith home. Sam said nothing, but he could see as well as I the similarity of the handwriting.

"I need to take these documents, and I would appreciate you not discussing what we have seen together here." Sam nodded his assent.

I signed a receipt for them and returned to my office. I checked DMV records to find the name and address of the current owner of the Smith van. It was not in the California records, so I sent my request to the other states. Time now to tell my boss what I was up to and get authorization to continue.

I intercepted Steve just as he exited his private office, and I said I had important information on the Flynn case. He motioned me into his office and listened intently as I spoke.

"We have been convinced that Flynn was murdered by Bailey, helped possibly by Andy Collins despite his denying involvement. The dead body in the car and the matching DNA told us there was a murder, and we stretched to see how that was done, including initially stretching to accuse Dollar and Johnson of the crime. Since we had no corpse and a stretch on how the killing was done, we were able only to prosecute and convict Larry Swift of conspiracy to commit murder rather than murder itself. Noteworthy was that both he and Andy Collins said they had nothing to do with it. The autopsy shows that the body was decapitated. No head was found. It puzzled me why the head had been cut off when Flynn clearly didn't participate in money laundering and didn't merit that kind of retributive penalty. So, I began to wonder if both Swift and Collins were telling the truth. Finally, when I looked at the autopsy report, it said the skeleton exhibited arthritis. That wasn't consistent with Flynn. He was running in the park when he found Swanson entering the vacant mobile home. Even though the DNA and the driving license in the burial site identified the corpse as Flynn's, I began to believe it might be somebody else's. That didn't make sense either. It required Flynn to substitute a body for his and trick our forensics into believing substituted biomaterial was from him. I checked with Danny Chu, and he said it was possible that DNA sampling could have thus been compromised. The only body it might have been was Flynn's very sick neighbor, Bob Smith, but that seemed impossible, since I heard him coughing in his adjacent mobile home every time I was there. Also, Bob was seen by his neighbors after Flynn disappeared. I have just ascertained Bob Smith was not actually seen by his neighbors. They believed they had seen him when Mary Smith wheeled out somebody in a hoodie with a recognizable blanket on a wheelchair. I think the head was cut off so dental records could not be used to identify the corpse. I think Flynn came back and substituted himself for Bob and its Bob's corpse that was found."

"Wow...! That's quite a mouthful," said Steve. "Why would they want to make that illegal substitution?"

"I don't know the answer to that."

"Have you got any specific evidence at this point?"

I showed Steve the escrow and sales listing documents for the Smith mobile home. Mary Smith had written her signature consistently in the two documents. Bob Smith's signatures were not consistent between the two documents. I produced Flynn's employment application, which I had recovered from the evidence file, and the listing document on his mobile home, and I thrust them by the side of the other two documents. Steve looked at them carefully for nearly a minute before he spoke.

"I'm not a writing expert, but I would think you're right in suspecting these signatures are all in Flynn's handwriting. You'd better get these documents to forensics' handwriting expert." He paused. "I would prefer we don't notify the impacted parties until you can confirm your suspicion. We have enough time before that hearing where you're required to give evidence. So, go ahead. Give this your priority. I will notify the Sonoma County district attorney that we have questions about the identity of the corpse so they don't do more work preparing to prosecute Swift for murder."

I left Steve's office very pleased with myself, and I did some initial work before I went home. I did a reverse search to find the phone number of the address, an Irvine apartment, to which the Smith home sales proceeds had been sent. I phoned that number only to be told that there was nobody called Smith at that home, apartment 46, which they had occupied for five years. The responder gave the phone number of the apartment manager. The manager was not on duty, but I left a message for him to call me back. I then went home and drank two large glasses of wine to celebrate that I was near to closing this missing person case.

The next morning, I phoned the escrow office, explained who I was, and asked them to check their records. I wanted to see at which bank the escrow check from the sale of the Smith home had been cashed. The escrow company officer said she wasn't sure if they had kept records that old but that she would get back to me later. The Irvine apartment manager phoned to say she had been in residence there for six years and that she could not tell me who had been in that apartment 46, since records of all former tenants were discarded after four years. I asked her if any of the neighbors living near unit number 46 had lived there more than seven years.

"Yes, there was one, a Mr. and Mrs. Jones in number 48."

She gave me their phone number. I phoned and reached Mrs. Jones.

"Oh yes, I remember, there was a Diane Sparks" came the voice of an elderly lady.

"Do you know where she moved to?" I asked.

"To heaven, my dear," came the reply. "Poor Diane passed away due to cancer five or six years ago."

"Did she have a sister called Mary who visited her?" I asked.

"Can't remember that, I'm afraid," replied Mrs. Jones.

A dead end, not untypical of detective work, a result I am used to, one I have learned not to be discouraged by. The escrow company office manager called me just after lunch to say that the check to the Smiths was Number 6318 through the Wells Fargo Bank branch in San Marcos. It had been cashed, and only that bank would possibly have a record of what account it was paid into. She gave me their account number and said she would e-mail the bank to let them know it would be okay for me to ask them that question. I did not have a warrant, so that permission was necessary. I called the Wells Fargo branch half an hour later and explained I wanted to see who had signed that check number and into whose account the check had been paid.

"A check that is over seven years old," the bank officer said. "You've got to be kidding."

I assured him it was important to my investigation of a murder. "I'll do my best, but I can't guarantee that I'll find the record, and it will take me a couple of days to investigate," he replied.

The next day, I got an e-mail from the New Mexico DMV. The title of the Smith van had passed from the Smiths to a Bobby Colson, who lived in Albuquerque, in December 2008 and then to a local scrap yard in March 2012. I got Colson's phone number and called him. His wife answered the phone and told me her husband was out.

"Is there anything I can help you with," she asked.

I explained who I was. "I wanted to find out about the couple who owned the green GMC van your husband bought seven years ago."

"We actually bought it from a dealer in town... Let me think...that would be Westin Motors on Dubuque Street."

"Are they still in business?"

"Yes, they are. Hold on, and I'll give you their phone number."

I hear Mrs. Carlson rustling some paper before she returned to the phone. "It's too bad that Donny crashed the van; it was a good one. We bought another from Jim Westin, not as nice as the first one. That's why I have his phone number handy." She paused. "Do you have a pencil and paper handy?"

I told her I did, and she gave me the pertinent number. I promptly called Westin Motors, and the owner picked up the phone "Jim Westin here. How may I help you?"

I explained my mission and asked him if he remembered buying a green handicap-equipped van seven years ago...the one he'd sold to Donny Colson. "Yeah. I do remember it. They had a ginger cat that got out of its carrier, and we had a hell of a time chasing it. I would keep poking a broom under my cars to get it to come out only for it to go under another one. I got my pants all dirty from that."

"Could you describe the people you bought it from?"

"Well, she was a nice-looking woman with reddish hair. I would have made a pass at her if she wasn't married."

"And the man?"

"About forty-five to fifty years old with glasses and white hair. A pretty trim-looking fellow."

That clearly was Arthur Flynn. "Did they say where they were going?"

"They took a taxi, and that was the last I saw of them."

"Who signed the title over?

"Both of them. I was a little worried they were taking such a low price. The man said the van had belonged to his mother, who had just passed away. They did not need it anymore, and looking at it reminded them of his mom's pain and her struggle with the wheelchair."

"Did you check their ID?"

"As I remember, she produced her driver's license. He only had a paper copy with him. It did show the correct name on the title, so I didn't worry that the picture was too dark to be readable."

"Did they say why they were selling the van there in New Mexico rather than in their home state?"

"I didn't ask. It was a very good deal for me."

That's how dealers get into trouble.

# CHAPTER 32

I thanked Jim Westin for the information and rubbed my hands with glee. My theory that Flynn had taken Robert Smith's identity had been confirmed. I buttonholed Steve and told him about my findings. "I think we can safely tell Barnsky the murdered man was not Flynn," I said. "In addition, since the DNA of the corpse and that from Flynn's home match, we know murder, if any, was carried out in San Diego County."

"I agree," said Steve. "He'll be happy to avoid effort on what would have been a difficult case. I'll call him today,"

"Should I tell the insurance adjuster?"

"You still don't know if Flynn is alive. He could have died accidentally in the past seven years."

"Yes, but I think I should tell her of our suspicions so she can request a delay in the court hearing. She can tell the attorney handling the Holmes petition."

Steve concurred. I called Brenda Williams to tell her of the developments.

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "You mean to say Flynn was hiding all these years, letting people think he had been murdered?" She paused. "Then whose body was identified as Flynn's?"

"I'm fairly certain it was his neighbor, Robert Smith."

"Wow!" Brenda paused before speaking again. "I'm sure glad I don't have to prosecute Swift for murder now. I thought we were lucky to get a conviction on conspiracy to commit murder, though I have no doubt he attempted to have Flynn killed. I take it you are getting an arrest warrant for the murder of this neighbor?"

"It's a little complicated. Smith's head was cut off, and the medical examiner states Smith had to be dead before the head was removed."

"And so?"

"And so, he states the cause of death is unknown."

"How odd. Keep me posted on what you are doing. Has anybody contacted the Sonoma county DA?'

"Yes. Steve has, and they are saying if Smith was killed in San Diego, it occurred in San Diego and it will be your office's responsibility to prosecute the murderer."

"Thanks a lot," she said with resignation in her voice. "I'll have to tell my boss about this turn of events."

That ended the conversation. I called Lily Gross to give her partial information. "We're not sure the corpse is Arthur Flynn's. There's a possible DNA mix up."

"Then whose corpse is it?" she asked.

"We're still trying to figure that out."

The Wells Fargo bank officer called me to say they normally purge their files of records more than seven years old but had been a little slow doing so this early in the New Year. The check, just two months older than the seven-year purge date, had been signed by Mary Smith and deposited into a Bank of America account. He said he would e-mail me a copy of the deposit slip.

I needed to track down Robert Smith's son. I did a Google search of Kirk Douglas to find his given name was Issur Danielovitch. I searched phone numbers in New York City for an Issur Smith and found there were only two. I struck gold on my first call when a Mrs. Smith answered the phone and confirmed her husband's first name was Issur. He had not yet returned from his job at the post office. I explained I was a detective in San Diego, California, and was conducting a murder investigation. Her husband had never told her anything about his estranged father except that his name was Robert. She would have her husband call me when he arrived home.

The e-mail from Wells Fargo arrived with the Bank of America account number. I called that bank and asked if the account was still active. I was connected to a senior officer named Barb Nefke. "I can only tell you the account is active. You will need a search warrant before I can release further information," she said. I told her I would get the warrant and be back to her the next day.

Issur Smith phoned just as I was going to the gym. "What's this all about?" he asked, suspicion rather than curiosity in his voice.

"I'm detective Shane Notfarg, and I'm investigating the disappearance of a man who was a neighbor to your father." I did not want to tell Issur at this time it was likely his father had been murdered. "Do you know anything about your stepmother?"

"Nothing except my mom told me her name was Mary and that she was quite a bit younger than my father."

"Have you ever heard from her?"

"No, never."

"Mr. Smith, we have found a corpse that may be your father's. It is too decayed for visual identification, so I want you to go to the local police station and arrange for a DNA swab to be sent to me."

There was excitement in Issur's voice. "Really. How did he die? When did it happen?"

"It's too soon to be sure. It's part of an ongoing investigation."

Issur was enthusiastic in his willingness to help. I gave him our address and thanked him for his time. The next morning, I obtained my search warrant for any account of Robert or Mary Smith and presented it to Barb Nefke at a nearby branch of the Bank of America. She inspected the search warrant and stated firmly, "With my computer, I can only access eighteen months of records, while your warrant requests records going back to August 2008. If you need to go back that far, I will need to have our back office do so."

"I do need those records, Ms. Nefke."

"Ms. Notfarg, I can't promise you we can get records that far back. Like most banks, records are purged after seven years. "

"I understand. Just do the best you can."

Barb had me sit down on the other side of her desk while she checked files on her computer. "The Mary Smith account is active," she said. "It has a current balance of one hundred dollars, which is our minimum for a checking account. There is a steady payment of four hundred and fifty dollars per month being paid into it. There appears to be cash withdrawals from that account at about six-month intervals, the last one being five weeks ago."

"At which bank are those withdrawals made?"

Barb juggled some keys on the computer. "They are made at the Logan Street branch in Orlando, Florida."

"Are there any other deposits or withdrawals to that account?"

"Not in the eighteen months of records I can see here."

"Who is paying the weekly payment to Mary Smith's account?"

Barb juggled keys on the computer. "There is an automatic deduction from the Robert Smith account."

"What can you tell me about that account?"

My search warrant did not cover the Robert Smith account. I did not mention the issue, and Barb continued typing on the computer keys.

"That account has a current balance of one hundred and seventy-three thousand five hundred and seventy-seven dollars and sixty-four cents. It shows a steady seventeen hundred and five and thirty-two cents being paid monthly into the account from a pension administration entity. There is also a five hundred and thirty-one dollars and eighty cents paid in each month from the Veterans Administration. There is an automatic monthly payment to Mary Smith of four hundred and fifty dollars. There are no other transactions during the past eighteen-month period." She paused. "I see Mr. Smith has a certificate of deposit with the bank of a nominal value of twenty thousand dollars that has accumulated an interest of three thousand six hundred and thirteen dollars and fifteen cents."

Why do these bank officers feel it is necessary give me these numbers down to the level of cents? Is it because, in conveying such precision, they want to convey self-worth? She must surely know I'm not interested in that level of detail. "Thank you for the info," I said. "Could you please give me a printout?"

Barb juggled keys, and a printer began coughing out the data.

"Who are the signatories to these two accounts?" I asked.

Barb looked at the computer. "On the Robert Smith account, he is the only authorized signatory. On the other account, both Mary and Robert are authorized signers."

"What address do you have for them?"

"They both have the same address, at 3753 Grand Ave, Space number 76, San Marcos, California 92078."

Does this gal like precision in numbers? I'd merely wanted to find out whether Mary had put down a Florida address, but I had found that she had not changed from the one in the Palomar South Park. "I also need the Smiths' Social Security numbers, which you must have had to open accounts for them."

Barb wrote the numbers down on a bank notepad. She wrote down her name and direct phone number on it as well. She asked for my business card and said she would call me when the Smiths' long-term records had been recovered. I felt very pleased with myself. I had found the Social Security numbers of the missing couple and discovered they were now living in Florida, most likely in the Orlando area. I wondered what statute Mary Smith was violating by taking money credited to her account from a dead man who shouldn't be receiving the money in the first place. I'd let Brenda figure that one out. I contacted the Logan St branch of Bank of America in Orlando and got a hold of the manager. I asked if they had the CCTV recording from five weeks ago. I hoped I might see the make, color, and even license plate of the car Mary Smith had been driving. The manager told me that their CCTV kept records for only a month, not long enough to help my search.

Issur Smith's saliva swab arrived by express mail, and I turned it over to forensics. I reckoned Flynn and Mary Smith had started their life together in Florida with about one hundred thousand dollars. That would give them funds to live modestly for maybe three years. The monthly draw from Bob's account would help, but one or both of them would have to go to work. It seemed very likely Flynn would assume Robert Smith's identity and use either his own or Smith's Social Security number for employment purposes. I submitted an inquiry to the Social Security Administration about these two alternatives as well as one for Mary Smith.

Two days later, Danny Chu called me. "There's a familial relationship between the DNA taken from Flynn's home and the son's swab you sent me," he said. "I guess somebody snookered me." I was delighted to have confirmation that the recovered body of bones belonged to Robert Smith. "Our handwriting expert also believes there is a ninety-five percent chance that the man who signed the employment application also signed the sales documents," added Danny.

I notified Steve, who said he had already called the DA in Sonoma County to tell them of the body identification. "They were very relieved," he told me, "because it meant that Robert Smith was killed in San Diego County. As far as they were concerned, that meant it was our jurisdictional responsibility. They are quite right, of course. You should prepare a warrant for the arrest of Flynn and Mary Smith for murder."

"Yes," I replied, "but the problem is that the certificate of death for Smith states the cause is unknown."

"Well, you can at least start off by making the arrest warrant out for improper disposal of a body and for forgery."

"The forgery only applies to Flynn himself, not to Mary, though."

"You'd better check then with the district attorney's office on what charges need to be filed against Mary Smith. They should be of sufficient magnitude to justify extraditing the pair from Florida once you are able to locate them."

# CHAPTER 33

Angie Haigh from Sonoma County called me. "I was sitting with Vojin Barnsky when your boss called in on our conference line. You should have seen Vojin's face when he heard the news. He had been freaked out on how to prosecute your Larry Swift for murder, since he didn't believe your theory of how those two guys carried it out. He's been very hard to work with ever since the case came up, so I want to thank you for letting us off the hook."

"I wouldn't have found out what happened without your asking me to look over the autopsy of the corpse," I replied. "So, you should thank yourself also." We chitchatted a little more and agreed to stay in touch.

I called Brenda Williams to ask about the specific charges to be filed against Flynn and Mary Smith. "Do you think either Flynn or Mary Smith were motivated to kill Robert?" she asked.

"Flynn would have no motivation as far as I can see," I replied. "It would also be completely inconsistent with his character. Mary, on the other hand, is different. She was married to a man who kept her on a financial shoestring, did not father children with her as he had promised, and blamed her for having MS."

"He sounds like a pretty miserable husband," said Brenda.

"We both know about that, don't we?" I said, chuckling.

Brenda laughed also before she replied. "I don't think we need to worry about what the medical examiner said. We need to get this couple to come clean when you've caught them. It's best to arrest them for the murder of Robert Smith and question them there. You will get a better sense of what happened and who participated in Robert Smith's demise and helped in the transport of his body to north California. A warrant for both of them for failure to report a death and improper disposal of a body will add a clear legal sufficiency for that arrest. You can add forgery and mutilation of a corpse to the warrant for Flynn. Make sure the warrant includes the search of their home for information pertinent to the death of Robert."

I thanked Brenda for her advice and promptly got Robert Neill to approve my warrant affidavits, after which I took the warrant applications to the courthouse and obtained the pertinent warrants. The Social Security Administration reported there had been no report of income on any of the three Social Security numbers I had submitted. I was disappointed. Finding Flynn was not proving to be easy. Barb Nefke e-mailed me the records for Robert Smith's bank account going back to January 2009, exactly seven years. I made a graph of the data to extrapolate the data back to September 2008, when his death had occurred. I wanted to see if the account had been plundered. If that had been done, it would be useful in preparing the warrant for Flynn and Mary given the ambiguity as to the cause of Robert's death. The extrapolation led to a balance of about twenty thousand dollars. Clearly, the account had not been robbed. The data told me that Robert Smith, while not rich, had been a long way from destitute. In 2008, he'd owned his mobile home outright, had twenty thousand dollars in savings, and received a monthly pension of over twenty-two hundred dollars. No reason to keep Mary on such a miserable monthly allowance for groceries and personal expenses. I could see why she would resent it. But did she resent it enough to kill her husband?

I felt assured Flynn and Mary Smith were in Florida. An internet inquiry revealed three thousand seven hundred Robert Smiths living in Florida. I could narrow that down to perhaps three hundred and seventy if they were living within a fifty-mile radius of Orlando. I mentioned my problem in locating Flynn to Steve.

"Flynn could be working in the underground economy," he said. "If he has enough money, he could stay low like Whitey Bulger, the Boston gangster who evaded capture for fourteen years."

"Yes, but Whitey had saved a huge stack of cash and could afford to lay low," I offered. "Flynn and Mary have money enough for three years at most. They would need to get an income."

"Shane, if you were Flynn, what would you do?"

"Let me think." I took several deep breaths as I postulated before answering. "I have been selling real estate, mostly mobile homes, for many years. That's my specialty. I would try to go back in that field but with a phony Social Security number."

"Sounds like you've given yourself a good lead."

I smiled. "You're absolutely right." Inside, I was kicking myself for not thinking of that independently. I wanted to solve this case all by myself. But Steve is a smart guy, one of the reasons why he'd become my boss. I returned to my desk and went to the website of the Florida Real Estate Commission. I was able to download an Excel spreadsheet of all their real estate licensees. The spreadsheet gave the names of the brokers' offices where these licensees worked. There were twenty-one Robert Smiths. I began to call each office and ask for the broker of record. I identified myself as a detective in San Diego, California, to the broker or to the receptionist if the broker was unavailable. "I'm looking for a missing person who is using the name Robert Smith," I said. "Will you give me your e-mail address so I may send you a picture of the missing man?" I reached fifteen offices that day and sent off fifteen e-mails.

The next afternoon brought a return e-mail from a broker in Titusville, who said their Robert Smith matched the photo I had sent. I told Steve that I had located Flynn. "Fly there with Hanson and bring them back here," commanded Steve. "Don't forget to call Lily Gross and tell her Flynn is alive and well."

"Will do," I responded. "I need to thank you very much for your suggesting he would go back to selling mobile homes."

"You'd have thought about it a little later anyway, and the case would never have broken without all your effort in putting these things together," Steve replied. I appreciated that generous comment. I had become reconciled to Steve as my boss; he had proved to be fair minded and very efficient, a vast improvement over Thompson.

I called Lily Gross and told her we had determined the corpse was not Flynn's. I then told her our man was alive and living in Florida.

"Wonderful news," she responded. "You've worked hard on this case for many years. You'll be glad it's wrapping up." I acknowledged the truth of that comment. Lily said she would notify Marge Holmes' attorney so he could call off the petition hearing. "National Harper Insurance will be delighted at not having to pay out a couple of million dollars," she added.

Our travel department booked flights to Orlando for me and Dane Hanson, including a rental car for the Wednesday. Return flight dates and times were left open. I notified the Titusville police we were coming to arrest two residents of their town and requested they help us with deputies for the arrest as well as use of their questioning room. I went home and packed for a two-day trip that would start at 6:40 a.m. the next morning. That's the trouble with the coast-to-coast flights: they nearly all start early in the morning on the West Coast so the plane can be turned around and fly back (with a different pilot) on the same day. I would need to get up by four o'clock the next morning to make the flight and pick up Dane Hanson on the way.

It was dark when I picked up Dane. It was only when we got to the airport that I saw how his recent divorce had impacted him. He was wearing a dark-brown jacket with gray pants. His wife would never have let him out of the house with that color combination.

The United Airlines flight was not memorable. There were no in-flight movies, so I passed the time reading a novel by Sue Grafton. Her name spelled backwards is the same as mine, which came from my father, an opportunist from Germany who took advantage of my naïve and lonely mother while serving in the US army in Frankfurt. He'd simply wanted to acquire US citizenship, and after he had done so, he'd left my mother and me, never to pay child support. My mother, now deceased, had continued in the army until she'd retired. I digress. Our flight arrived in Orlando at 5:00 p.m. East Coast time. We picked up our rented car, a newer Chevrolet Impala, and Dane drove the thirty-five miles to Titusville. He didn't ask me if I wanted to drive. Funny thing about men: driving is a masculine thing and makes men feel entitled to drive their womenfolk around. I'm so used to this male trait that I did not protest. We arrived at our centrally located hotel too late to check in with the Titusville police administration.

The next morning, at eight thirty, we presented ourselves at the Titusville police station and showed our credentials and the official arrest warrants to the officer in charge. He provided two deputies and two patrol cars for the arrests. The deputy first drove us to Flynn's real estate broker, where Dale and I went in to ask if Robert Smith were present. I looked around the office and saw that Flynn was not there. We showed our credentials to the receptionist and demanded Smith's home address, cell phone number, and the make, model, year, and color of his car.

"What's this all about?" said the broker as he came over to the receptionist's desk. I told them it was a police matter and impressed on them not to contact Smith.

The deputies drove our cars to Flynn's home in a mobile home park, a very upscale on full of retired citizens, many, by their accents, from Brooklyn. We knocked on the door, and Mary Smith opened it. A small, blonde-headed boy held her dangling shirt. I was momentarily nonplussed by the sight of the little boy. Before I could say anything, Mary began to cry, and the child began to wail with her. "I thought we would never be found after all this time," she sobbed.

"Mary Smith, you are under arrest for the murder of Robert Smith," I said firmly to her, thinking best on how to handle the situation. I waved my warrant in front of her and moved inside the home, motioning her to sit down. She did so, putting her arms around the child and soothing him even as she wept copiously. I gave her a couple of minutes before asking her, "Is Arthur Flynn here?"

"No. he's out," she said between bouts of sobbing.

I went to the open door, where Hanson was standing, and told him to tell a deputy to call child protective services (CPS), hoping Mary would not hear me.

"Do you know where he is?" I asked her.

"He's with a client in the park," she responded, still sobbing. I told Dale to go with the other deputy and drive around the park to find Flynn's car and arrest him there. I sat down, watching Mary as she slowly gained some composure. "I remember you," she said unsteadily.

"And I remember you," I replied. "Is that your boy?" I pointed my finger at him. Mary nodded. Then she shook her head from side to side, tears still running down her cheek. The child continued to cry in concert with his mother's distress.

She looked up at me. "Did you say I was being arrested for murder?" she asked, her voice a little steadier.

"Yes," I told her.

"I never murdered Robert," she said. "He was dead when I found him."

"Tell me about it," I asked, careful not to ask her questions before the expected demand for an attorney.

"Robert was very ill. He had been for a long time. We had expected he would die at any time. It just happened just a day or so before Robert—I mean Art—was going on his fishing vacation."

"Really," I said with a mild tone of skepticism.

"Robert coughed a lot due to his emphysema. He would wake up to cough in the night every two hours. I grew used to being wakened by it. When he didn't wake me that night, I went in to see him." Mary saw my hidden thought. "Yes, we slept in separate bedrooms." I nodded my understanding. "I saw he wasn't breathing, so I woke up Art next door, and he came over in his pajamas. He said Robert was dead."

My cell phone rang. The call was from Hanson. "I've arrested our man," he said.

"Take him directly to the city jail," I told him. "I'll meet you there after I get things straightened out here."

Mary's son turned around in his mother's arms to face me. He looked cautiously at me; I was entranced by his clear blue eyes, pink complexion, and golden hair. I smiled at him. Mary saw my smile. "His name is John," she said. "You're going to take me away from him, aren't you?" she said, beginning to weep again. John turned to snuggle with his mother.

"You are going to be questioned at the police station," I told her. "We've called child protective services. If you have a relative or a friend to look after him, then I can call off CPS."

Mary did not reply, and I informed her I was searching the house. I asked the accompanying deputy to confiscate her cell phone if she had one and to guard her while I conducted my search. In a desk in the bedroom, I found a file drawer containing five files of medical records labeled Robert A, Mary, Bobby, John, and Robert. I looked at them and ascertained the Robert file pertained to the original Robert Smith. The file must have been kept there for a purpose. I looked for copies of the escrow document and bill of sale of the Smith mobile home and the handicap-equipped van, documents that might incriminate. I searched for any diary, letters, photographs, or personal documents that might reveal how Robert Smith died or their participation in forging sale documents. I found nothing useful. I returned to where Mary was sitting. Her son was playing with a toy in front of her and chattering with an amused deputy. "He's a cute kid," the deputy said. John looked at me fearfully.

"Who is Bobby?" I asked Mary.

"He's my older son," she replied though a tear-stained, reddened face. "He's at primary school."

I asked her which one, making a mental note to have CPS pick the boy up there. Mary gave me the name and then added, "I don't think I should say anything more until I have talked to Robert...I mean Art...and an attorney."

"I understand. I will be taking these documents," I told her, waving them in front of her, "and also your laptop."

This jogged Mary's memory. "We made a video of what we did when Robert died. It's on a memory stick," she said. She stood up, saying, "I'll get it for you."

I restrained her and told her to tell me where it was. She gave me the information, and I retrieved it from a labeled can for gum in a desk drawer. CPS hadn't arrived yet, and I was tempted to play the memory stick on their computer, but I wanted Hanson to see it at the same time, so I refrained. I asked Mary to help me prepare a suitcase of clothes for her two sons, which we did together. I felt sorry for the woman, who was going to be separated from her two small children while we determined her role in Robert Smith's death.

# CHAPTER 34

CPS arrived and took a screaming John away from his weeping mother, then in handcuffs, and went on to pick up the older brother. We drove to the city jail, where Mary was fingerprinted and processed. I told Hanson about the memory stick, and we decided to play it on Art's conveniently available laptop before we questioned Mary or Art. The video lasted just under seven minutes. Robert Smith lay completely motionless on the floor in his pajamas. A woman's hand was seen holding a mirror to the man's mouth for a minute before turning over its mirrored face to show no sign of condensed moisture. The camera moved to show the entire pajama-clad body, indicating no observable wounds or blood or evidence of blunt trauma. The camera moved to an adjacent newspaper showing the date of Thursday, September 9, 2008, i.e., three days before Flynn had left for the fishing camp.

"I would say the man is clearly dead," said Hanson.

"I agree," I said. "Unfortunately, the video doesn't tell us how he died. He could have been poisoned or suffocated for all we know. Maybe we'll get an answer from forensics when they examine it."

I had Hanson e-mail the video to the crime lab in San Diego while I looked at the medical files. The Robert Smith file showed the man had had a litany of illnesses, many in terms incomprehensible to me. Mary Smith's file showed her getting prenatal and postnatal care in giving birth to her two sons. She'd also had a three-month bout of MS between the two births. Art Flynn's thin file showed only his good health. Bobby's file showed him born on April 24, 2009, with a weight of seven pound, thirteen ounces, the weight of a full-term baby. That would mean he'd been conceived on July 24, 2008, plus or minus a week. I deduced Mary had been about six weeks pregnant when Robert Smith had died. I wondered if she'd known then that she was pregnant. It could have affected what happened.

We were informed that Art and Mary had hired an attorney, who was waiting to talk to us. Dale and I went to reception, where the attorney, a woman of sixty dressed in fashionable black top and pants, sat in an adjacent chair. We introduced ourselves, and she, in a faint Baltic accent, gave her name as Caroline Mehr. "Both of my clients have told me about the death of Mr. Robert Smith," she said, "and that you have the video they made of it. May I see it?"

I told Caroline that our crime lab was examining it now and I would e-mail it to her later, but she said it wasn't right for us to question her clients about the death scene having seen it while she had not. So, I conceded and set up the computer for the viewing. She made no comment on it. "What specific crimes are you charging my clients with?" she asked.

"We are charging Mr. Flynn with forgery, identity theft, mutilation of a corpse, and improper disposal of a body," I responded. "We are, of course, investigating both of your clients in the murder of Mr. Robert Smith."

"I would like to address that issue, Ms. Notfarg. My clients claim that Mr. Smith's death was due to natural causes."

"That can be determined upon their return to San Diego."

"My clients want an extradition hearing. Mr. Flynn is quite prepared to return to San Diego to face the first set of charges. He wants the charge against him and Mary Smith for murder dropped. There was no murder, and he wants his wife, I mean Mary Smith, to stay in Titusville with her two small children."

I told Caroline I would need to consult with my unit head. Then I immediately called Steve.

"An extradition hearing will cost," he said. "We would have to send out a medical examiner and a lot more witnesses if Flynn wants to fight the other charges as well." He paused. "You and Dale should question the two of them separately to check for consistencies in their stories. Get a feel for how truthful they are. I'll have the crime lab accelerate its review of that video. Don't forget to scan Smith's medical records and send them on. Before you go much further, you need to have someone confirm the body in the video is indeed that of Smith."

I told Steve the Bessins at Wesley Palms would be able to make that identification. He said he would take care of it.

Hanson and I discussed Robert Smith's demise. "Flynn didn't need to get involved with the man's death," Dale said. "He could have let Mary call 911 and let matters take their course. She could have joined him later wherever he was hiding from Swift and company. She probably had to persuade him to undertake this bizarre behavior."

I replied, "I agree, so let's talk to Flynn first and get his side of the story."

We then went to the questioning room, where Flynn in an orange jumpsuit was talking to Caroline Mehr. He had aged well in the past seven years. Now fifty-five years old, he appeared fit, his face pink from tanning in the Florida sun. He stood up to introduce himself and his attorney. His voice was calm, and his demeanor positive.

I could sense why he would be a successful real estate salesman. I opened the conversation after turning on the voice recorder by announcing the date, time, and names of those present. I gave Flynn a Miranda warning before starting our questioning. "I was the detective assigned to investigate your disappearance seven years ago. I and Mr. Hanson here are only going to question you about Mr. Smith's death. The charges already filed against you of identity theft, mutilating a corpse, improper disposal of a dead body, and forging real estate documents will be addressed in San Diego when you are returned."

Flynn replied, "I understand. I'm sorry you went to a lot of trouble, but I heard that as a consequence, you were able to prosecute Larry Swift for money laundering and conspiracy to commit murder."

"That's right," I said. "So, you were aware the damaged gas connector in your mobile home was deliberate?"

"I figured it very likely," replied Flynn, so I thought it better for me to disappear until the DEA had Swift in jail. Then I would be able to return to San Marcos without fearing for my life." His reply reminded me that until we contacted the DEA, that agency had not undertaken or proposed any action against Swift.

"So, whose idea was it for you to switch identities with Robert Smith?" asked Dane.

"It was my idea," Flynn replied. "Mary woke me up at four in the morning to tell me she had found Bob dead in bed. He slept very badly and woke every couple of hours coughing... That's why they didn't sleep in the same room. She realized she hadn't heard him coughing, and that's why she went to his room."

"And she came straight away to you after that?" I asked

"That's right. I'm a sound sleeper, and I might not have woken if she'd called on the phone," Flynn replied.

"Wasn't she sleeping in your bed instead?" demanded Dane.

Flynn waved his hands, a gesture to acknowledge we knew he had been intimate with Mary Smith. "Not that night. Mary knew that Bob was very ill and might die soon. So, she felt she needed to be vigilant in watching him to see when he should be taken to hospital."

"So, what did you do?" asked Dane aggressively.

"I went across and confirmed Bob was indeed dead," replied Flynn.

"How did you know he was dead?" I asked.

"There was no pulse in his neck," replied Flynn.

"Was his body warm?" I asked.

"It hadn't gotten cold. We saw his arms and legs were still flexible when we pulled him out of bed," replied Flynn.

"Why didn't you call 911 right then and there?" asked Dane.

"Mary wanted to, but I asked her to wait," Flynn replied.

"Why was that?" I asked.

"I wondered what would happen if the DEA investigated Swift and found nothing. He's a clever man with a lot of resources. He might even have had a confidant in the DEA to tip him off. Where would I be if the drug money people were not behind bars? They would continue to go after me," said Flynn.

"What did Mary say to that?" asked Dane.

"Nothing really. She asked me what I had in mind, which I was rapidly formulating. I told her we had an opportunity if she would take it with me. I suggested burying Bob's body and taking his identity. I thought coming back to his home and pretending to be him would make it impossible for people to connect the two of us. I had planned the fishing trip to the Russian River fishing camp a couple of months before this Swift money laundering thing came up. I thought I could bury Bob's body up there and if it was ever found, then they might think it was me. Then they might suspect Swift, a payback for his trying to kill me."

"And for seducing Marge?" I said. Flynn just shrugged at my comment.

"Did Bob know you were sleeping with his wife?" asked Dane.

"I very much doubt it," replied Flynn. "If he even suspected it, he would have stormed at Mary, but he never did so. In his last two months, he had become very ill, sleeping most of the time, and had little interest in what was going on around him."

"Did Mary love Bob?" I asked.

Flynn seemed perplexed by the question and its abrupt change of substance. I could see he was thinking how he might reply without compromising Mary, so I pushed him. "Isn't it true he mistreated her?"

"You should only answer what you saw or heard there," interrupted Caroline, "not what Mary told you."

Flynn did not listen to his attorney. "Well, Mary said Bob never physically abused her," he replied. "He certainly didn't have the strength to do so in his last year."

"So, he verbally abused her, then?" asked Dane aggressively.

I could see Flynn mentally backpedal. "Well, she told me he called her spendthrift and wasteful, but then his mind was twisted by illness, leading to an unnecessary frugality... Why are you asking me these questions about Mary?"

Dane ignored his question. "So, Mary knew you were going and might not come back. Did you know she was pregnant at the time?"

"Yes. She told me that morning."

"So, she was motivated to be with you, the father of her baby."

"Of course. I was ecstatic I might become a father. I had adored raising Sally when she lived with me."

"Didn't it occur to you Mary might have moved Bob's death along?" asked Dane.

"What do you mean?" responded Flynn.

"Didn't she tell you she suffocated Bob by putting a pillow over his head and that he was too weak to resist?" asked Dane.

Flynn's mouth opened, shut and opened again. He had clearly never considered the possibility. "That's impossible. Mary would never do a thing like that. She's a sweet soul, whom I love dearly. You can't possibly think she would do a thing like that." Moisture came into his eyes.

I noticed he had denied she could have done it rather than denying she had confessed it to him, an important distinction. We let him think about this for a minute before we resumed questioning. "So, you suggested taking Bob's place while he was still in the bed?" I asked.

"Yes. Only when I realized he was dead did the notion of taking his place strike me. I decided taking his identity would give more assurance the drug money crowd would never find me."

"Did Mary ever suggest she simply join you after the drug money hullabaloo had gone away," asked Dane.

"No. I told her the hullabaloo, as you put it, might never go away. I said the choice was me being Flynn pretending to be somebody else or being somebody with a bona fide identity"

"Did she argue with you?" I asked.

"No. She thought about it for a few minutes and said my idea might work. She was concerned that with Bob dead, there would be no income coming into the house. I wouldn't be around to help. She would be destitute and have to return to work when she was expecting a baby. Stress like that might cause another bout of multiple sclerosis."

"So, she didn't need too much persuasion, then?" asked Dane.

"Mary loves me. She was going to be the mother of my child, and I wanted to be a father to it. I wanted to look after her and the baby. Taking Bob's identity seemed to offer a safe and secure way of doing so. It was Mary who suggested thoroughly cleaning my apartment and putting Bob's stuff in there in case DNA tests were made."

I looked at Dane, and he nodded back, indicating he thought there was little to be gained by further questioning. I switched off the voice recorder and called an officer to take Flynn back to his jail cell. I asked Carolyn if she was also representing Mary Smith.

"I am at the moment," she replied, "but I have seen your line of questioning, and I reserve the right to decline representing them both after you question Mary, which I understand you're going to do next."

I told Caroline that Dane and I would discuss Flynn's responses to our questions before we interviewed Mary Smith. Caroline left the room.

"It's clear that if Mary suffocated Bob, then Flynn doesn't have a clue about it," I offered.

"I agree," said Dane. "I don't think they've rehearsed. Flynn was genuinely shocked at our suggestion that Mary bumped off her husband."

"I think you're right about their not rehearsing for that question," I said. "I don't think Mary would have brought it up, because it would have raised in Flynn's mind the possibility that she had done so."

"Yes, and I think the key question is how she responds to the question on whose idea it was for the identity switch."

We got ourselves coffee and fortified ourselves before questioning Mary half an hour later. Caroline was drinking a cup of coffee next to Mary, whose reddened face showed she had been crying again.

Mary looked up at me and said, "I remember you investigating Art's disappearance. I thought you were very concerned. I hope you will be the same here."

We sat down, and I turned on the voice recorder and went through the usual drill. I gave her a Miranda warning, necessary now that she had retained an attorney.

"Mary Smith is very concerned about her children, who have never been away from her," said Caroline. "That is why she is in such distress."

I responded to this opening. "Mary, CPS will take very good care of your sons, who are both together. If you have a responsible relative or neighbor you would prefer to look after them, then that can be arranged. You should be careful who you choose, since you could be away for a long time."

Tears began to roll down Mary's cheeks, and Caroline interjected. "That's unreasonable pressure to put on my client. You are assuming her guilt."

"We are assuming nothing," I replied. "We do know Mary aided and abetted in the crimes Mr. Flynn is charged with. We therefore expect truthful answers to the questions we are about to ask." Mary's sobbing diminished, and we began to ask the same questions that we had posed to Flynn. Finally, I posed the key question. "Mary, was it your idea or Flynn's to switch identities."

"It was my idea, "she replied. "I had just found out I was pregnant. I loved Art and didn't want him to disappear on me. I was worried the DEA might not jail the drug people and they would go after Art. If he took on Bob's identity, he would be much safer."

Dane and I looked at each other. "That Art felt it necessary to disappear made it difficult for you now that you were pregnant, did it not?" asked Dane assertively.

"Of course," replied Mary. "He was the father of my baby."

"So, it would help you if your husband died, then," asked Dane in a loud, bullying voice. "He wouldn't be around to find his wife had been having sex with another man. You wouldn't have to suffer his verbal abuse anymore. Art could take on his identity and disappear safely forever. Isn't that right?"

Mary looked both startled and shocked. "Don't answer that question," said Caroline.

"Bob's death did offer you an opportunity?" I asked Mary softly.

"I suppose so," she replied after a few seconds.

"Did you climb on Bob's bed and put a pillow over his head to create that opportunity?" demanded Dane loudly.

"I did not," replied Mary, almost shouting.

"We asked Art if he saw spit or saliva on the pillows on Bob's bed, and he said he did," said Dane in a lie to draw out Mary.

The answer should have been: "There couldn't have been saliva on the pillow, since Bob died naturally." Instead, the answer came back: "We didn't look at the pillow, since we were too busy getting Bob out of the bed to take a video of him."

I put on some pressure. "We believe Mr. Smith's face in the video showed scratching that could have arisen from trying to move his head back and forth under a pressure-imposed pillow." Mary opened her mouth but said nothing, her face expressing shock.

Is it shock that we are considering the death due to suffocation or shock that her crime left evidence?

Caroline interceded. "Detective, a qualified medical examiner will need to make that assessment."

Dane pushed on. "We asked Art if he thought it possible you might have suffocated Bob. Do you know what he said...? I guess she might have."

"I don't believe that," said Mary, beginning to cry again. I let her cry for a full minute before asking, "Did Bob know you were sleeping with Art?"

"I don't think so. We were discreet. Most of the time for the prior three months, Bob hardly ever got out of bed. He just watched TV and slept."

We tried a few more trick questions but were unable to get any more information on whether Bob Smith's death was enhanced. We called for an officer to escort Mary away.

Caroline looked at us and said, "I suspected this line of questioning might occur. It would be better for me to represent Mr. Flynn solely." She then left the room while Dale and I reviewed our questioning of Mary Smith.

"Caroline recognizes there is a conflict between representing Flynn and Mary if the latter is charged with murder," I said to begin our discussion.

"Yeah. And I believe she thinks it possible for Mary to have done the deed. That's why she wants to withdraw," said Dane. "What do you think, Shane?"

"It's possible Mary might have suffocated Bob Smith," I replied. "There is an inconsistency between her and Flynn on whose idea it was to switch identities. Maybe she's thinking that saying it was her idea might diminish his responsibility in the disposal of her husband's body and failure to report it. Also, the answer to our question about saliva on the pillow was odd. It suggests that if she had indeed suffocated her husband, she had never thought about saliva on the pillow as possible evidence of the crime."

"There could have been saliva on the pillow from natural drooling by a sick man. Shane, the bottom line is we're not sure one way or the other if Mary suffocated her husband. I'm leaning toward Flynn having nothing to do with it and, if it did occur, that he doesn't know anything about it."

"Dane, I fully agree with that assessment. When I investigated Flynn many years back, his peers vouched for his integrity. Participating or knowing about any suffocation would be totally out of character for him."

# CHAPTER 35

I called Steve and let him know we had questioned the pair. "E-mail the recordings of the questioning to me and the DA's office. That office is responsible for extraditions, so they should decide on whether to proceed with one. They will need those recordings and the medical examiner's analysis of the video to make the decision. Also, send Robert Smith's medical records file."

"Should we return or stay here until the DA makes the decision?" I asked.

"I'm hoping the video will be analyzed by tomorrow or the next day," Steve replied. "So, why don't you stay over until then. I hear Titusville is a tourist town."

I told Dale we had a day at least to kill so we might just as well play as tourists. Dane said he wanted to visit the nearby Kennedy Space Center the next day. I didn't fancy the crowds I anticipated would be there. I told him to take our rental car, while I would look at local tourist attractions. After a leisurely breakfast the next morning, I walked to the American Police Hall of Fame and admired the early motorcycles used for patrolling. I also visited the Space Museum in town and the North Brevard Historic Museum. In between these tourist spots, I browsed antique stores and indulged myself by buying some older Wedgewood pottery for my collection.

Late that evening, Steve told me to be ready for a video conference at ten o'clock next morning with the medical examiner, who had analyzed the video. "That'll be one o'clock here," I pointed out to him.

"If you're lucky, a decision will be made that will let you act and get a late flight back here together with one or two perps," he replied.

I thought that very optimistic. Furthermore, there might not be any seats on the return flight if booked so late.

We had a morning to kill the next day, so we drove up the coast to St Augustine, a town of historical interest, and looked around. At one o'clock, Dale and I sat in a room at the Titusville police station that was set up for video conferencing and waited for our call, which did not come until half an hour after the scheduled time, irritating us by the wait. We will not be flying out today, I thought.

Steve's face came onto the screen, and he said, "I'm sitting here with Brenda Williams from the DA's office and with pathologist Dr. Rajani and Daniel Chu, whom you both know." Steve motioned Rajani to proceed, and the pathologist proceeded to run the entire video through without making a single comment.

"Well, what did you think?" I asked. Rajani did not reply. Instead, he reran the video, commenting on it and stopping at points to illustrate his comments. "The man is clearly dead. He could have been dead before that dated newspaper. The people did not move the body's arms, where the stiffness might have given us a clue as to when rigor mortis set in."

"We are more interested in how he died rather than when he died." I said.

"That's the problem," said Rajani. "There is no evidence of bruising or scratches on the open limbs that we can see. The body has already started to turn blue, so if he was suffocated by putting a pillow on his face, discoloration on his face or signs of scratching are not to be seen." The video continued as he spoke. "I looked at the autopsy report on the body and noted there was no evidence of broken or fractured bones. The absence of soft tissue on the corpse made it impossible for us to determine if he had been poisoned." He looked at us as though he expected us to answer more questions. We did not, so he continued. "I appreciated your sending me the dead man's medical records. They were very helpful in my analysis."

He pulled the notes from his briefcase. "Mr. Smith was a very sick man. This latest record is dated August 28, 2008, just two weeks earlier than the date of this video. He suffered from emphysema and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The video showed large swelling of his ankles, a typical symptom, which testifies to his condition. His oxygen saturation level was measured at seventy-four." He looked at us. "Normal is close to one hundred. His respiratory rate was thirty-two, when normal is between fifteen and twenty. His resting pulse rate was eighty-six, when a rate of sixty-five to seventy would have been normal for a man of his age, fifty-seven." Rajani looked at us as though expecting questions. We all preferred to let him show off his professionalism. "Mr. Smith was very close to death given these metrics. I cannot say he died naturally or unnaturally." He put down his notes and added, "Mr. Smith was a very weak man. He would have been unable to resist being suffocated."

Danny and Rajani departed, leaving just Brenda and Steve still on the video conference. I spoke up first. "We have to figure out if a murder took place and whether it can be proven. What's your take on this, Brenda?"

"If that video were the only evidence, I would not be able to convince a jury there was murder beyond a reasonable doubt. I would need a confession. I didn't see a confession in the recording of your questioning of the pair. Do you think they are being truthful? Do you think that putting more pressure on them might get one of them to turn on the other if indeed a murder took place?"

"They love each other and their children deeply," said Dale. "If there was a murder, then Flynn would never give up Mary. Mary, on the other hand, would consider giving up Flynn in order to be with her children. But she can't give up Flynn without implicating herself. My read is that even with pressure, we will never get a confession."

"What's your take on this, Shane?" asked Brenda.

"My sense of Mary's character is that she's docile and stayed with a cantankerous husband because she's a kind person. She would need to be goaded badly to suffocate her husband."

"Isn't the panic she felt with Flynn about to disappear, leaving her pregnant with a child not fathered by her husband, sufficient goading?" asked Brenda.

"Perhaps," I replied, "but I'm convinced Flynn had nothing to do with the murder if there was one. Mary would be taking a tremendous risk by suffocating her husband. If Flynn saw evidence of it or if she confessed it to him, I don't believe he would go along with it. He's far too upright a character to be an accomplice to a murder. So, I conclude there was no murder."

"That's how I see it," said Steve. "Mary suggesting to Flynn that he take her husband's identity gets him firmly committed to her. She could point out that by substituting biomaterials, if the corpse were discovered, it would most likely be identified as Flynn's. Then nobody would be looking for Flynn with that death publicized. And nobody would be looking for Robert Smith. They would be free and clear." He paused and smiled. "Their scheme would have worked if there hadn't been such a smart detective figuring it out."

I felt my face flush at the compliment. Brenda then said, "I would like to avoid the time and expense of an extradition hearing where we have to fly witnesses to Florida and board them while we make our case. If we can get at least Flynn to San Diego without having to extradite him, we can successfully prosecute him on the charges of forgery, identity theft, mutilation of a corpse, and its improper disposal... I'm going to discuss this with my boss and let you know what we decide."

Brenda called me at the hotel around five p.m., too late to return to San Diego that day. "I discussed the matter with the head of my department," she said. "Our feeling is that Mary Smith might have facilitated her husband's death, but there is no positive evidence that she did. There's far too much doubt and no evidence here, so we are not recommending murder charges be filed against her."

"Do you want to charge her with anything, like aiding and abetting Flynn's role in the matter?" I asked.

"Not worth the trouble." Brenda paused before asking "Are you still holding her?"

I gave her an affirmative.

"Then release her and tell Flynn that there will be no charges against her."

"Her attorney will want that in writing," I said.

"I understand. I will send her an e-mail to that effect and ask her to e-mail me the extradition waiver for Flynn."

I relayed Brenda's conclusion to Dale Hanson. I arranged for Mary Smith's release from jail and went to see Flynn to inform him of the DA's decision. "You've got a good chance of being released on bail when you get to San Diego," I told him, "though you'll have to stay in San Diego County. Call Mary and have her prepare a suitcase of clothes to take with you."

Flynn was delighted that he would be able to see his wife and children before being taken to San Diego. I booked a next-day flight back to San Diego for the three of us.

Flynn had been processed out of jail when we picked him up the next morning. He was wearing his Maine University class ring and his Hopi belt buckle. Hard to give up things of sentiment even if you have to disappear, I thought. Dale handcuffed him and put him in our rental car while I gathered the computer, medical records, and other documents that I had left in an evidence bag at the Titusville police station. "Why did you call your son Bobby when the real Robert Smith was unkind to his mother?" I asked Flynn as we drove.

"I needed a fake Social Security number to get work. I simply registered Bobby and used his number."

When we got to Flynn's home, we uncuffed him and escorted him inside. His two children rushed to him, golden-haired John and a redheaded Bobby. Flynn knelt and hugged and kissed them, a touching family scene. Then he hugged and kissed the smiling Mary Smith. "I thought we were safe," he said to her. "I'm so sorry for what happened to you." Flynn asked us how much time we had, and I told him an hour. He asked if he could have a conjugal visit, and I told him it was out of the question. I pointed out to Flynn his suitcase of clothes would be taken from him when he went into jail in San Diego. I said it might be better for him to get a San Diego attorney now who could take custody of the suitcase when he arrived there. He asked if I could recommend one, but I told him it was against policy for law enforcement to do so. We had no need for the computer or the medical records, so I gave them to him.

"Why don't you fire up your computer and Google for an attorney," I suggested. Flynn followed my suggestion and soon came up with an alphabetical list of criminal attorneys in San Diego. He asked if I had worked with any of them, the implication being favorably. The third one on the list was Jose Amendez, and I said, "Aha," when I saw his name.

"Have you worked with him before?" asked Flynn. I said I had, and the tone of my voice must have suggested approval, because Flynn promptly telephoned his office. Amendez was apparently in court; his receptionist promised a return call. Amendez called Flynn while we were driving to the airport and said he would meet him immediately upon arrival. I uncuffed Flynn for the trip. He and Dane Hanson watched the movie Casino on the plane while I finished my Sue Grafton novel. I told them the movie reflected the tribulations of a realtor who purchased a mob-controlled casino in Nevada. I mentioned that Swift's attorney, Pearson Sweeny, had claimed Larry Swift had been similarly boxed in by mobsters.

# CHAPTER 36

Amendez met us in the airport baggage area and introduced himself to his new client. He took custody of Flynn's suitcase and said he would be at the arraignment. A patrol car outside took Flynn back in handcuffs to jail. I went home that Friday feeling very satisfied with myself. I drank a little more wine than usual, and over the weekend, I binge-watched some HBO TV series. I looked forward to the end of my missing man investigation.

Monday at 1:00 p.m. found me, Brenda Williams, and Jose Amendez in the questioning room, facing Art Flynn. Jose Amendez had spent the morning with him and was ready for his client to be further questioned.

Jose said, "My client wants to make a statement, so please hear him out before you ask him questions."

We all nodded, and Flynn began.

"As soon I examined the damaged gas connection, I was sure I had been targeted. I was astonished that somebody could be so callous in wanting to kill me that they would needlessly harm others in the explosion. I then told Mary, to whom I had become very close, that I had observed drug money being counted by the park manager, Larry Swift's uncle. She told me to write to the Drug Enforcement Administration, which I promptly did. She suggested I not return from the fishing camp until the DEA had completed their investigation and Swift and his associates were behind bars. I had scheduled that trip long beforehand, and I thought nobody would go after me there. But then I realized that Marge knew where I was going, as did my boss and coworkers. I could readily be found. I figured I would have to disappear until Swift and his associates were convicted. Now, my neighbor, Bob, had been very ill with emphysema and COPD for some time, and it was a coincidence that on that Thursday morning, Mary found him dead in bed. I had come to love Mary and did not want to leave without her. She needed help because she would have no income when Bob died and would be helpless if she suffered further with her MS. I decided to help her and myself by taking Bob's identity. I just had to get rid of the body."

Flynn took a deep breath and continued. "I told Mary my plan, and she agreed to it, telling me she had just discovered I had made her pregnant. She was worried what might happen to me if Bob's body was discovered and not identified as mine. I told her the risk was very low given all the steps we were to undertake. I told her I would rather be alive with her and have the opportunity of looking after her and the baby in safety than the alternative. I took a seven-minute video of Robert lying on the ground with his face up and that morning's newspaper visible by his side. The video is on the thumb drive, which law enforcement now has.

Flynn continued. "Fortunately, Bob and I were nearly the same height. It was still dark that morning, so I was able to cram Bob's body, still in his pajamas, into the freezer in my shed without being seen. I cashed two commission checks to have money to support ourselves until Mary's mobile home was sold. I arranged for Mary to clean all my clothes and my home very thoroughly and to put a few of Bob's clothes in my chest of drawers. I left Bob's hairbrush and toothbrush in my bathroom so forensics would mistake Bob's corpse for mine if it was ever discovered. Very early Sunday morning, I removed Bob's body, now frozen in a fetal position, and put it in the trunk of my car. I drove to the camp, arriving sufficiently early to get some fishing in."

Despite being asked not to interrupt, I did. "Did you notice the two men in the Avalon car that had taken your spot in T1?"

"Yes. They had taken my spot. I didn't feel like challenging them, especially since I had a dead body in the trunk of my car. Not getting the prime space wasn't that important, since I was going to leave soon anyway. Just before midnight, when I judged everybody to be asleep, I left all my camping gear and slowly drove out of the park to another part of the river. I dug a hole in the bank of the river and buried Bob's corpse. I sawed off his head while it was in the trunk, so it got bloody in there. If the body was every discovered, I wanted it to look like I had been killed for being a snitch. I also didn't want anybody to compare my dental records with Bob's."

"What did you do with the head and the spade you used to dig the grave?" I asked, interrupting again.

"I put the head in a black plastic bag. I dropped it and the spade in one of the gas station dumpsters as I drove south. I left the car in Compton, where I arrived around eight a.m. on Monday morning. I took public transportation to Long Beach, where I stayed at the library until Mary picked me up. After dinner, she drove home, and we arrived in the dark. I simply put on Bob's hoodie, wrapped myself in his blanket, and Mary wheeled me up the ramp into her home. Over the next eight weeks, I would cough if the mailman or neighbor came by. Mary would say I was too sick to see anybody. On two occasions, Mary rolled me out in the wheelchair in the dark of early morning and drove away, telling neighbors I was going to the VA hospital for treatment. Finally, she took me to a motel in Irvine, where I stayed until the mobile home sold. Mary wanted to say goodbye to her sister before we left, a sister very ill with cancer who also lived in Irvine. She did not tell her sister any of this."

He took a breath before continuing. "Mary was very sad at leaving her ill sister. She knew she would never see her again. If she did go back to see her, I might be discovered by the drug money thugs. We drove to Albuquerque, where we sold the van for cash. We purchased another car there for cash and drove to Orlando, where we looked around, deciding what to do. After Mary gave birth to our beautiful little boy, Bobby, I decided to go back to work. We needed an income. I applied for a real estate license and a driver's license in Bobby's name and got a job in Titusville doing what I used to do...selling mobile homes. Mary and I bought a mobile home there and became part of the local community.

"Did you know that Marge Holmes's daughter died?" I asked.

Flynn's face saddened. "I didn't know. She was a sweet little girl whose life I was privileged to share for three or four years... I'm very sorry for Marge."

His statement over, he looked at me, expecting me to ask questions, which I did.

"Why didn't you empty out your bank account before you went to the camp?"

"Because I wanted to leave the impression that my disappearance was not planned."

"Did you forge Robert Smith's name to the mobile home listing agreement and escrow documents?"

Amendez forestalled Flynn. "I have advised my client not to say anything on this matter. I will discuss this with the district attorney later."

Brenda spoke up. "Your client has admitted to the charges of mutilation of a corpse and improper disposal of a body. You should also be aware we will be charging him with identity theft as well."

"That's not fair," said Flynn. "I was taking the identity of a dead man. He couldn't use it anymore."

Amendez cautioned him not to speak as Brenda rebutted his claim. "Mr. Flynn, using somebody else's identity is a felony irrespective of whether the person whose identity is stolen is injured in any way. You felt you had done no injury, but the failure to report Mr. Smith's death led to pensions being paid into his account for many years after his death. Furthermore, the failure to report his death meant that his son could not inherit his father's assets."

Flynn's face fell, and his attorney whispered something to him I could not hear. Brenda said she would be filing the extra charge and there would be an arraignment hearing two days later. Amendez asked if he could meet with her to discuss plea considerations and bail requests. They agreed on a time. That broke up the meeting. I heard from Brenda on the Monday that she and Amendez had been unable to reach an agreement on the penalties to be imposed if Flynn pled guilty to the various charges. "He wants a jury trial," she said, sadly knowing the time and cost it would take. It would also require me to give evidence.

I had to go to court on another case on the day Flynn was arraigned. My testimony finished early, so I went to the courtroom where Flynn was being arraigned and found the hearing in process. It was the last hearing of the morning, so I waited there to see if Brenda and I could have lunch together. Brenda stated that the charges against Flynn were forgery, identity theft, mutilation of a corpse, and improper disposal of a corpse. The judge asked Flynn if he understood the charges, to which he replied yes. "Do you have any objections to the defendant being released on his own recognizance," the judge asked Brenda. She replied she wanted Flynn prevented from returning to Florida, since that could involve the state in an extradition hearing. She said she would consider such a release if Flynn were fitted with an ankle monitor with the requirement that he not leave San Diego County. Jose Amendez said those conditions were acceptable to his client. Thus, I saw Flynn escorted out of the courtroom by the bailiff to be taken back to jail for fitting the ankle monitor.

As Brenda and I walked down the corridor, we passed a bunch of people sitting on the benches outside, attorneys, jurors, family members, witnesses, and even a reporter. Some were reading, some talking, some playing games on their cell phones or computers, and some making phone calls. One of them making a phone call was an attractive dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses who had been in the courtroom. She seemed vaguely familiar to me. It bothered me that I couldn't place her—a former deputy, a former witness, a retired colleague, an old neighbor? I returned to my office after lunch with Brenda and worked on my caseload, still trying to place that woman in my memory. Our office address had changed that day to Cop St. Was it telling me anything? Around four in the afternoon, I realized the woman I'd seen was Marge Holmes. Why had she been at the courthouse for the arraignment? If she expected to waltz into Flynn's arms, she was mistaken. He was well and truly in a relationship with Mary Smith, a relationship cemented by their children. I could not fathom why she would be there. And who and why was she phoning?

A horrible thought came into my mind. Had we barked up the wrong tree in prosecuting Swift for the attempted murder of Flynn? We had assumed that the purpose of the murder had been to stop him from giving evidence against Swift and Arzeta about their money laundering enterprise. One of the important pieces of evidence in Swift's trial had been the phone calls to and from his cell phone to Bailey. He had denied making those phone calls, and we had not believed him. Indeed, we had been able to persuade a jury that he'd been lying. That Swift had been convicted in a well-publicized conviction for money laundering had stigmatized him as a criminal and biased the jury. We'd never understood why Andy Collins had been assassinated. We had assumed initially it had been to stop him from giving evidence about the money laundering. That had never made sense, since the physical evidence against Swift and Arzeta was overwhelming. Andy Collins's testimony, presumably in return for a reduced sentence, would have been superfluous. So, we'd then reckoned Collins had been slain so he couldn't give evidence against Swift for his attempts to have Flynn killed.

I began to hypothesize instead that Marge Holmes had wanted Flynn killed because she had known of his accidental life insurance policy in which her daughter was the beneficiary and she the contingent beneficiary. If Flynn were to die in an accident, she would control two million dollars, and she would inherit that if her daughter Sally died. Had Flynn been killed by the gas leak in his mobile home, that would have appeared accidental. Had Flynn been found drowned in the Russian River, that would have been deemed accidental. If Collins and Bailey had been in a hurry to kill off Flynn to stop him from giving evidence about the money laundering, why not bump him off by shooting him like they had with Andy Collins? Is it possible Andy Collins was shot to death because Bailey had somehow let it slip that Marge, not Swift, was the one who had ordered the killing? Maybe it was Marge who had made and received the phone calls from Bailey. Could Marge be calling Bailey to kill off Flynn still? If I were correct, then she might have been calling him to tell him to watch the exit from the county jail and follow Flynn to where he would be staying.

I called Jose Amendez and asked him where Flynn was. "I picked him up at the county jail and brought him to my office, where I gave him his suitcase."

"Is he still there?"

"No, he took a taxi to the Super Ten Motel in Mission Valley."

"How long ago was that?"

"An hour ago. Why do you ask?"

I did not answer the question, I thanked Jose, dashed out of my office to an unmarked car, and sped off to the Super Ten Motel. I called for backup as I drove. If my suspicions were correct, Bailey, or even Marge, might have followed Flynn to the hotel to find out which room he went to. The motel was an older type with exterior doors to the rooms, which made it easy for an observer to see which one a guest went to. I told the backup deputy to wait hidden in the parking lot of another motel two blocks away. If I was correct, then Bailey would return in the dark but was probably waiting nearby, watching the room to make sure Flynn did not leave. I did not want him to see me interacting with Flynn. I went to the manager's office and asked the desk clerk which room Flynn had gone to—number 36. I gave a description of Bailey and Marge Holmes to the desk clerk and asked if either of them had checked in after Flynn. The desk clerk said neither had. I then got onto the house phone and called Flynn.

Thank God he's there. "Art, this is Detective Shane Notfarg. Listen to me very carefully. There is a possible dangerous situation that I am concerned about. I want you first to lock your door and put the chain or security lock on it." I kept my voice low so the desk clerk could not hear me. No point getting motel management upset as well.

"What's this about, and where are you?"

"I am at your motel, watching your room. I believe there may still be a further attempt to kill you."

There was a pause, an audible gulp. "Why's that? Are they still mad at me because I snitched on them seven years ago?"

"Art, I don't know. But I think there's a situation we will be able to correct tomorrow. If somebody knocks on your door without identifying themselves, do not open the door. Retreat to the bathroom and lock it."

"Can't I come out and join you?" His voice had a begging tone.

"No. It's dangerous for you to leave. We have a possible opportunity here to catch the man who has twice attempted to assassinate you. That opportunity exists only for tonight."

Tomorrow, we would get Art to cancel his insurance policy and eliminate this possible motivation for him to be killed. But tonight, there was a chance we could catch Joseph Bailey. If we did, perhaps he might lead us to Arzeta. The motel had a coffee shop from which it was possible to see the parking lot. I sat at a table in the shop and ordered a coffee. I called the back-up deputy, telling him to grab a quick takeout meal. I bought a newspaper from a stand and pretended to read it while watching the parking lot. I could hardly wait the whole night there. Indeed, the coffee shop shut at 11:30 p.m. I would need to go to the toilet at some point. I needed more eyes.

I telephoned Dane Hanson and caught him on his way home. "Dane, I need your help. Don't ask questions. I want you to come to the Super Ten Motel in Mission Valley and register for a room as close as possible to room 36 and one where you can easily see the parking lot. I'm in the coffee shop. Call me when you're in your room. Then I'll tell you what this is all about."

It is a great thing to have a reliable partner, and Dane, who replaced Steve, had, over the past year, proven himself. I watched the parking lot and saw Dane arrive in his gray Ford. He glanced at me in the coffee shop as he went to the manager's office. I watched him leave and enter room 46, which was directly above Flynn's room. Damn! Why couldn't he get a downstairs unit? I will need help to make the arrest if there is one.

He phoned. "Shane, they don't have any more downstairs rooms. I got this one since it's the closest. What's this all about?"

"Turn off the light and close the blinds so there's just a small gap for you to look through without being seen from the outside. Then tell me how much of the parking lot you can see."

"I can see all of it. Please tell me what's up."

I explained my theory, adding, "I can't upset the applecart by having a deputy in plainclothes join Flynn in his room, since that would tip off Bailey if indeed he is out there and watching."

"You're leaving Flynn in considerable danger. There will be hell to pay if something happens to him."

"Don't I know it! My job and reputation will be on the line."

"So, if your theory is correct, then Bailey may show up. If your theory is wrong, then you will have to explain why I've charged a room to the unit account and why we will be charging for overtime as well."

"Dane, thanks very much for showing up. I'll take full responsibility for this gig. We need to be watching the parking lot between us until Bailey shows up if indeed I'm right. We'll get Flynn to cancel his insurance policy tomorrow so we won't then have to worry about his being murdered. I'm going to get a meal here in this coffee shop while you watch the parking lot. Then you come and eat here. I don't want to go to your room. It might look odd if Bailey is watching somewhere."

Dane agreed, so I ordered a fish and chips dinner, eating it slowly so I could actually read some of the newspaper I had bought earlier. After I had eaten, I called Dane, and he came down to eat. I told him not to sit with me or acknowledge my presence. He returned to his room and phoned me to say he was in a monitoring position. He could see the cars in the parking lot, but the glare of the parking lot lights made it impossible to see if there was anybody sitting inside any car. I took a toilet break. I was wondering where I would go when the coffee shop shut. Dane would call me as cars arrived or left the hotel. I recognized one of them as belonging to a well-known pimp in an older Cadillac, who unloaded his girl and watched her saunter to one of the motel rooms. This was not the time to arrest him. I watched him leave. Around eleven o'clock, Dane phoned, saying a car with a pizza delivery sign on it had arrived in the parking lot.

"The driver's getting out. No, it's not Bailey. He's too short. He's going to a room below me. I'm not sure which one." Jeez. Has Flynn ordered a pizza? I looked across the parking lot and saw a heavily built man leave a parked car in the lot and stealthily and quickly get right behind the pizza delivery man. He pulled a weapon from his waistband.

"It's Bailey!" Dane and I barked into our phones. The pizza man knocked on the door of Flynn's room and announced, "Pizza." I sprinted across the parking lot, yelling, "Stop!" I heard Dane exiting his room above.

Flynn opened the door exactly as Bailey wheeled around and fired at me. He missed. I dropped to the ground and fumbled to get my gun from its holster. Bailey fired at me once more, hitting me in my arm. I yelled in pain. I could see Bailey turning to face Flynn, and I thought, God I'll be crucified for putting a man in danger and watching him get killed.

There was a shot. But not from Bailey's gun. It had come from Dane Hanson's Glock. Bailey dropped to the ground, and the pizza man and Flynn looked down at him with horrified expressions on their faces. Dane quickly ran to the downed man and removed his gun. He waved the pizza man off, a young fellow, perhaps a college student, whose fear was staining his pants. Dane ran over to me. The slug had passed right through my arm, and I was bleeding heavily.

"Flynn, bring me a pillow case!" Dane yelled.

The desk clerk and several of hotel guests appeared in the parking lot. "I've called the police." said the desk clerk. "Call for two ambulances as well," Dane told him. "Tell them an officer has been shot."

Dane took the pillow case from Flynn and made a tourniquet with it on my arm.

"Is Bailey dead?" I asked between groaning with pain.

"Don't know. I shot him in the chest. He's still breathing."

The nearby patrol car arrived, and the deputy began to secure the area. He told people to return to their rooms, and he parked his car outside Flynn's room to protect the area. The first ambulance arrived, and their crew worked on Bailey, whose condition was more critical than mine. They were loading him into their ambulance when the second one arrived. I told Dane to go with the first one and to arrange for a full-time guard to be posted outside Bailey's hospital room. The second ambulance arrived, and their crew quickly replaced the pillowcase tourniquet and injected me with a painkiller. I passed out and didn't remember anything more until the next morning, when I found myself in a hospital bed as well. The nurse saw I was awake and notified the resident doctor, who immediately came to my bedside. He asked me how I was feeling. The painkiller was wearing off.

"Like shit."

The resident smiled. "Ms. Notfarg, you have been lucky. You were hit with a small-caliber round that passed right through your arm. It damaged your artery and a tendon, but not a single bone. We have stitched up the artery and tendon, and there is no reason not to discharge you."

"You'll give me something for the pain. It hurts like hell at the moment."

"The nurse will give you a shot, and you will be discharged with a fifteen-day supply of codeine pills. There'll be enough for you to take them one in the morning and one before you go to bed."

I thanked him and asked the nurse for my cell phone. I phoned Dane to find out what was happening. "How are you feeling?" he asked, recognizing my call.

"As well as can be expected," I growled. "Did Bailey die?"

"No, he survived the shot. It hit a rib, tore an artery, and punctured a lung. The ambulance crew were able to save him from bleeding to death. The surgeons operated on him. He's still unconscious, and we're waiting to interview him when he comes to."

"Are we waiting for him to recover before we charge Marge Holmes?'

"No. We don't need to wait. I checked his cell phone. You were right. Holmes called him at exactly the time you saw her phoning at the courthouse. We're preparing the arrest warrant now. I'll be arresting her as soon as I get it."

"I'd love to serve it myself, but I'll have the pleasure of seeing her in court... For God's sake, contact Flynn and tell him to call Lily Gross to get that damned insurance policy cancelled."

Dane said he would. He must have handed his phone to Steve. "Congratulations, Shane. An outstanding piece of detective work. Enjoy being disabled for a while. I'll have Dane cover your cases until you recover."

They wheeled me out of the hospital in the early afternoon. I took a taxi home, where I took it easy and awaited the local television news. However, it only said that there had been a shooting at the Super Ten Motel in Mission Valley the previous night. Two people had been shot, one of them in critical condition. The other, a police officer, had been treated and discharged from hospital. Our public relations department must have decided to hold the news until Marge Holmes had been arrested and brought in to be questioned.

The next day, the San Diego Union paper had a major headline: "Margery Holmes, Girlfriend of Former Money Launderer Laurence Swift, Arrested for Murder and Attempted Murder." Below the headlines were details about Marge Holmes, Arthur Flynn, and Laurence Swift. The Union reporter had interviewed Art Flynn and had reported the details of his burying his neighbor near Guerneville. It made for juicy reading.

I went back to work a week later. There was a loud cheer from my peers as I entered the homicide section. I felt good. My arm had stopped aching. I was ready to prepare the evidence against Marge Holmes. Dane Hanson had already questioned her in the presence of her attorney from the public defender office. She'd said that it must have been Arzeta who had called for the murder of Flynn and Andy Collins. Bailey had been questioned. He had initially refused to say anything., but when Brenda Williams had said she would reduce the charge to second-degree murder, which took the death penalty off the table, he'd become willing to turn evidence against Holmes. They were both tried in state court. Bailey got twenty-five years to life for his role, and Holmes got the same sentence. Amendez succeeded in getting a plea deal for Art Flynn, a total of two years in prison, so I did not have to give evidence against him. Arzeta was never caught. I doubt if he's in the country.

# EPILOGUE

The saddest thing about the whole business concerned Swift. He had been convicted of conspiracy to commit murder and was serving time for it. He requested a hearing to have his sentence vacated, and it took over a year before the court granted his request. I had to give evidence at his hearing. Did he ever look savagely at me!

A few months later, I decided to drive around the various businesses that Swift had owned. I went by his beautiful house in Lake San Marcos. It had been sold, of course. Five cars sat around the front, serviceable vehicles, not antiques. I deduced the house had been sold to a family with high school and college-aged children. Swift's office building looked the same. His former office was occupied by a data analysis consulting service. Wayne Collins was still in business. A bookkeeping service now rented Andy Collins's studio.

I made the round of the car washes. Two of them were vacant, and weeds were poking their way through cracks in the parking lot. The two liquor stores had been taken over by other operators and, from the stream of customers, were doing good business. The check cashing businesses stood vacant. I was informed most banks had declined to service them due to money laundering concerns.

Marge should have been satisfied with the large allowance Larry Swift was giving her. Instead, she'd wanted the large extra that would have come from the accidental death of her former husband. Her actions had triggered the imprisonment of her wealthy boyfriend. They had left her unable to pay for the treatment of Sally and hence her sick child's death. They had led to her imprisonment. They had led to the loss of employment of over one hundred people and to the blight of many of Swift's businesses. I was reminded of what a stock broker had once told me: "Bulls make money, bears make money, but pigs never do."

I ran into my old boss Harry Thompson one day and had lunch with him. I mentioned my thoughts about Marge Holmes to him. "Shane," he said, "those actions led to the shutdown of a major money laundering activity that supported the evils of illicit drug use. Closure of that money laundering led to a sixteen percent increase in our budget for that year. The result was very helpful for society."

"But was it constitutional to seize Wayne Collins's assets or those of the legitimate businesses owned by regular investors without any criminal conviction?"

"It was, or is, until the courts or legislature decides otherwise," he replied.

