"How's she going to do that? He has money stashed in bank accounts all over the world. And some are banks he owns. She'd end up with the same nightmare we're facing, which is how to trace his assets. Reba's got that down cold. She knows where the bodies are buried if we can get to her."
"What makes you think he didn't change it all while she was gone?"
"Why would he do that? He may vary the game plan, but the accounts have been in place for years. Setting up an offshore bank is an expensive proposition. He's not going to go back and start from scratch unless he's forced to. That's why the feds are so worried about tipping him off. They don't want him to panic before they're ready to roll."
"What do they want from her?"
"Facts and figures, banks, account numbers – whatever she can get her hands on. Some of the information they have, but they need corroboration, plus whatever she knows that they haven't come up with yet."
"But what's her motivation? You've got nothing to offer. She's a free human being. Ask her for help and she'll run straight to him."
Cheney reached into the inner pocket of his sport coat and removed a manila envelope that he pushed across the table.
"What's this?"
"Take a look."
I undid the clasp. Inside I found a series of grainy black-and-white photographs of Beck, probably taken with a telephoto lens. In two, his companion's face wasn't clear, but she appeared to be the same woman. The pictures had been taken on five different occasions, judging from the date and time recorded in the bottom right-hand corner of each print. All had been snapped within the past month. The last photo was a shot of the two of them leaving a motel I recognized on upper State Street. I slid the photos back into the envelope. "Who's the woman?"
"Her name is Onni. She's Reba's best friend. He's been bedding her ever since Reba landed at CIW."
"What a shitheel," I said. "And I'm supposed to show her those in hopes of persuading her to turn on him?"
"Yes."
I tossed the photos and they skittered across the table to him. "You have the resources of the entire United States government at your disposal. Find someone else to do your dirty work."
"Look, I understand where you're coming from, but this isn't penny-ante stuff. What Beck's doing is -"
"I know what he's doing. Don't give me this 'Money laundering is evil' bullshit. I got that already. I don't see why I should be the one who talks Reba into rolling over on him."
"We're guys. We don't know her the way you do. Just call her and chat. The woman trusts you."
"She does not. She doesn't even like me. I'm telling you, she got really pissed off when I tried telling her the truth. How can I turn around and call? She'd know I was up to something. She may be an idiot, but she isn't unaware."
"Think about it – please – before you make up your mind."
I stood up and pushed back my chair. "All right. I'll think about it. In the meantime, I need to go home and take a bath."
Chapter 10
I did not sleep well. My encounter with Cheney Phillips had generated a gloom that seemed to permeate my dreams. I woke often and stared up through my skylight at the overcast night sky. His proposal had at least served to diminish his appeal. Reba was vulnerable by nature and only marginally stable, given to veering off course in response to her own internal tumult. So far she seemed fine (sort of) but I didn't want to trip her into a downward spiral when she'd just reached solid ground. She'd been free for two days. What would she do if she heard about this? She'd go off the deep end. On the other hand, she'd pinned her hopes on a bum and what was I to do? Sooner or later, she was going to learn the truth. Was it better to tell her now while she still had an opportunity to redeem herself?
At 5:59 A.M. I shut down my alarm and pulled on my sweats in preparation for a run. I went through my usual bathroom routine – brushing my teeth, splashing water on my face, lamenting the state of my hair, which was sticking up every which way. I looped my house-key in my shoelace, locked the apartment, and started walking at a fast pace toward the bike path that runs parallel to the beach.
Gradually I broke into a trot, my muscles protesting. My feet felt leaden, as though someone had affixed ten-pound weights to the bottoms of my shoes. The sun had already risen and for once there was no evidence of fog. The day promised to be a good one, clear and sunny. Across the rumble of the surf, I could hear the barking of a sea lion, probably some hoary old guy who'd staked out a place for himself on a marker buoy. In hopes of shaking off my depression, I picked up the pace, my sights focused on the bathhouse where I made my turnaround. By the time I started back, I wasn't exactly light of heart, but I didn't feel quite so dead.