Turner waved it away. "Maker's on the rocks. A double."
"Would you like anything else?"
"That's fine. What about you, Cheney?"
"I'm good."
"By me," I said.
As soon as the waiter disappeared, Turner picked up his baton of napkin-wrapped flatware, unrolled the utensils, and set a place for himself. On his right hand he wore a heavy gold-and-garnet class ring, but there was no way to read the legend that encircled the stone. His face was shiny with perspiration, but his pale eyes were cold. He lined up the handles of his knife, his spoon, and two forks, then checked his watch. "I'm not sure how much Lieutenant Phillips has told you about me. It's one-fifteen now. At two-fifty, I'll be on a flight from here to LAX and then on to Washington, D.C., where I meet with a group of IRS investigators and the DEA. That gives us approximately one hour to conduct our business, so I'll get straight to the point. You have questions or comments, feel free to raise your hand. Otherwise, I'll talk until I get to the end. Is that agreeable?" He made another minute adjustment to the silverware.
"Fine with me," I said. I found it easier to watch his hands than to look him in the eye.
"I'm forty-six years old. Since 1972 I've worked in the Criminal Investigation Division of the Bureau of Internal Revenue. My first assignment was as assistant to the man who pursued the case against Braniff Airlines in the laundering of illegal corporate campaign contributions. Braniff, like American Airlines, needed the occasional government assist in those days and began to funnel money to the Nixon re-election committee by way of Maurice Stans. You remember him?"
He looked up at me long enough to see me nod.
"Having cut my teeth on Watergate, I developed an appetite for financial chicanery. I've never been blessed with a wife or children. My job is my life." He glanced down at his jacket and removed a tiny speck of lint. "A year ago, in May of 1986, Congress, in a rare moment of common sense, passed Public Law 99-570, the Money Laundering Control Act, which has provided us the hammer with which to pound the shit out of violators of the Bank Secrecy Act. The banking community is already feeling the effects. For a long time, banks in this country treated reporting requirements as a trivial matter, but that's changed. Many violations once considered misdemeanors have now been elevated to felony offenses with maximum prison sentences, fines, and civil penalties. Crocker National Bank has been fined $2,250,000; Bank of America was fined $4,750,000; and Texas Commerce Bane-shares was fined $1,900,000. You can't imagine the satisfaction I've felt forcing these guys into line. And we ain't done yet."
He paused, looking up with a smile that warmed his face from within. His ice blue eyes suddenly contained a merriment impossible to resist. I think in that moment, my position shifted. I'd do what I could for Reba, but if she came up against this guy, she was in deeper shit than she knew.
The waiter arrived with his Maker's Mark, which was the color of strong iced tea. Vince Turner sucked down half without hesitation and then placed the glass carefully in front of him. He folded his hands and lifted his eyes to mine. "Which brings us to Mr. Beckwith. I've spent the past year assembling a comprehensive dossier on him. As I'm sure you know, his lifestyle looks clean and his social credentials are solid, largely because of his late father's standing in the community. He's considered by most to be an honest, law-abiding citizen, who'd never dream of trafficking in drugs, pornography, or prostitutes.
"He's what we call a market-based offender. He takes the profits from these same illegal activities, disguises their origin, and introduces them back into the system as legitimate earnings. For the past five years, he's been 'rehabilitating' funds for a man named Salustio Castillo, a Los Angeles jewelry wholesaler who also deals in scrap silver and gold. The business is just a cover for what he really does, which is to import cocaine from South America. Castillo bought a large property in Montebello through Mr. Beckwith's real estate firm. Mr. Beckwith brokered the deal, which is how they became acquainted. Mr. Castillo needed someone of Mr. Beckwith's professional reputation. His company is diverse and his financial dealings of sufficient magnitude to camouflage the funds Castillo was so eager to place. Mr. Beckwith saw the possibilities and agreed to help.
"At first, he employed the standard laundering techniques – structuring transactions, consolidating the deposits, and using wire transfers to move the money out of the country. By the time the money was routed through his company books and back to Castillo, the sources appeared to be legitimate. After six months, Mr. Beckwith got tired of paying his smurfs or maybe he got tired of keeping track of the myriad accounts he'd opened across Santa Teresa County. He began to make big deposits – two and three hundred thousand dollars at a clip, claiming these were the proceeds of commercial real estate ventures. This time he was the model of compliance, making sure all the appropriate CTRs were filed. In truth, he was counting on the fact that the IRS has to process so many millions of CTRs that his were in little or no danger of being flagged for scrutiny. Soon he was running a million a week through the system, taking one percent off the top as his service fee.