Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Freed's thin lips grew even thinner. "Ernie Tramine's substantial bank account was bilked – the money wired through a Cayman clearing account that was subsequently closed. Nothing concrete to link him to Betters. Nothing new on Reggie Rondell, but from what we've seen, his story checks out."

"You were right about the apartment where you had your first cult meet," Thomas said. "It's vacant. When I pressed the manager, he admitted that some college girl offered him a couple hundred to rent the pad for the day. She matches your description of Lorraine. I took a peek through the place – nothing. After the sign-up-fest, they cleared out."

Tim scanned over the numerous charges. Theft by trickery, 3-14-96 – arrest only, DA reject. Embezzlement, 1-17-99 – acquitted after jury trial. Unauthorized access to computer data, 9-21-01 – released, insufficient evidence. "Busy citizen."

"Busy enough to have learned his way around the law by this point in the game," Freed said. "He's got no wants, no warrants. He pays his taxes. We can't pry in with any wage-and-hour laws since he pays his herd as dollar-a-year consultants, and the Department of Labor won't be bothered without a complainant. Betters picks extremely affluent people who sign their cash over to him – nothing illegal about that."

"How about cooling – off – period laws?"

"It seems they all thaw out quite happily. No one's ever come forward to protest."

Tim tapped Bear's elbow with a pen. "Reggie could open a class action."

"Yeah," Bear said, "I'm sure he'll get right on that."

"Money trail?"

Freed said, "I called my hook at the IRS and spent the better part of ten hours rifling through Betters's filings, got dick and more dick. The cash he protects in this elaborate offshore scheme, that we had a tough time untangling, but it looks to steer through all the right loopholes to stay legal. He conducts business through a network of dummy corporations and holding companies." Freed's clean-shaven face took on the taint of a scowl, a rare show of emotion. "He's unscrupulous as hell, but for the life of us, we can't find a single thing he's doing that's illegal."

"How about the shrink who disappeared? And Katanga, Will Henning's hired dick?"

"I tracked down the detectives for both cases," Thomas said. "Nothing forensic, nothing circumstantial, nothing at all. He's the king of Teflon this guy. Nothing sticks."

"What's he worth?"

"Upward of seventy million dollars," Freed said.

Bear let out a whistle.

"In 2000 he was living in a Silver Lake residence, long since sold. He's an Internet and P.O.-box junkie – your typical privacy freak. Different accounts under different names, the whole nine yards."

"How about the corporation?"

"It's been active. This year alone it bought land in…" Freed licked his thumb, turning back several stapled papers. "Here we go. Houston, Scottsdale, Spokane, Sylmar – right here in the North Valley, Fort Lauderdale, and Cambridge, Mass."

Bear shot Tim a knowing glance. Sylmar was a short drive from both Leah's former Van Nuys apartment and the San Fernando P.O. box.

"He's in escrow in Kushiro, Japan; Christchurch, New Zealand; and a village outside Hamburg. Seems to me your boy's looking to build an empire."

The thought brought a tingle across Tim's neck. "What kind of land?"

"Remote rural facilities. Former communes. Campgrounds. Retreats. Bankrupt rehabs. The place in Spokane's just fallow wheat fields."

"Tell me about Sylmar. Looks like that's where I'm headed."

"It's way up on the north peak of the Valley bordering Santa Clarita, smack in the middle of federal land – the Angeles National Forest. Colorful history to the place. Some Hollywood director built a ranch way back when, let it go to pot."

"Hollywood players and cult leaders, I'm learning, share a particular approach to the world. Doesn't surprise me they also share taste in real estate."

"For decades it was a home for fucked-up juveniles, but it went on the block about a year back. TDB Corp snapped it up. The Department of Defense got caught with their pants down – turns out they'd earmarked the area for a chemical-weapons incinerator facility. Talks were had, Betters wasn't selling. DOD sicced the IRS on him, got nowhere – not surprising."

Freed looked at his partner expectantly, and Thomas flipped through his notes, finger tracing down the sheets until it tapped twice. "June sixth last year, they sent in the FBI on some unsubstantiated fraud charges. They hit dead ends all around. To top it off, they got a bit aggressive. Things got ugly for a minute and a half. The ACLU cried religious freedom, though Betters's outfit insists it's not a religion. Betters, turns out, isn't afraid to get litigious. Next thing you know, the Feebs are facing a boatload of injunctions and criminal-action suits."

"Why didn't we hear about this?"

"It quieted down in a hurry. Betters hates press, and I'd guess the DOD wasn't eager for word to spread they were planning to put millions of rounds of decaying chemical weapons upwind of taxpayers."

Tim tugged on the collar of his shirt. "Christ."

"Special agent I talked to said Betters worked them like a Tijuana donkey."

"Impressive candor for the Feebs."

"He was a former Ranger."

"That explains it."

"Law enforcement won't go near the place now. It's a weird, scary group with an in-house staff of brainwashed lawyers. I think the cops and the agents figure, let sunning snakes lie. No one wants a civil suit up their ass."

Freed brought his hands to rest on the table. "Everything Betters does is just one inch legal."

"No layups," Tim mused.

"Not a one," Thomas said. "You want him, you're gonna have to go out and sniff the trail." He looked away sharply, disrupting the brief rapport they'd developed, and started shoving papers back into the files.

"Have you briefed the marshal on this?" Tim asked. "The stuff with the Feebs?"

Freed shook his head. "Your case, we'll let you spin it."

"He's gonna want no piece," Thomas said. "It's a hornet's nest."

Freed gave Tim a little nod before leaving, but Thomas ignored him. Bear and Tim sat for a while with their thoughts, crunching stray Styrofoam peanuts under their shoes.

Finally Tim said, "You send in the food samples?"

"Sheriff's crime lab."

"Aaronson still over there?"

Bear nodded. "Said he'd swing a twenty-four-hour turnaround. We get a good bounce, maybe you don't have to go undercover."

"What did you get on Skate Daniels?"

"Nothing. Name didn't put out."

"You try the moniker database? Odds are Mrs. Daniels didn't name her boy 'Skate.' "

"Right. No, I didn't." Bear held up his fists and squeezed – his big-shot way of cracking his knuckles. "Given all the pitfalls around Betters, how do we convince the old man to let you press forward?"

"I've already burned eight lives with him, so you'll have to suit up. Present it to him like an opportunity. Be excited – you're selling him on what great news this is. If we find the right leverage point and lean, there'll be a windfall of charges. Betters is Al Capone, and we're looking for income-tax evasion. Once we nail him, Tannino gets to scratch some back for the Department of Defense, get them that parcel of land, maybe even throw table meat to his buddies in the private sector. He goes into the next Puzzle Palace budget meeting wearing a red cape. Plus, it's his big chance to show up the Feebs, and we both know the thought of that makes his engine turn over cold mornings."

Bear tugged at his cheeks. "I don't know how you come up with this shit."

An image of himself at five years of age, working a mortuary parking lot in a snap-on leg cast, clutching to his chest a donation bucket his father had salted with a few creased twenties. Tim emerged from his thoughts to find Bear staring at him expectantly. "What?"