Above the Law (38 page)

Diane Richards made a vodka martini for Kate and one for herself. She talked briefly to her husband over the phone from the kitchen, then rejoined Kate where they were sitting.

“He’ll be home in about forty-five minutes,” she told Kate.

“Would you like me to be gone by then?”

“I’d prefer it.”

“Sure. We can be finished by then.”

They drank their martinis in silence for a few minutes. Then Diane finished her story.

“I lost contact with him altogether. I called his family, but they didn’t know where he was, or at least they wouldn’t tell me. I could tell they didn’t approve of him seeing me. I was the reason for his dropping out. I could understand that.” She sipped her drink. “So after a while, I stopped trying.”

“And you never heard from him again?”

“Once. Towards the end of my junior year at Northwestern. I had readjusted—slowly. I’d met Ron by then, he was there in graduate school, we were dating. My family approved of him, not that I gave a damn, I cut off all communication with them, paid my own way through school on partial scholarship, student loans, work.”

Diane nibbled on her cocktail olive.

“But it was good with Ron, he was solid. There for me. It wasn’t like it had been with Reynaldo, that fire we had. But you can only have that when you’re young. I wasn’t looking for that anymore.” She paused. “I didn’t want that.”

Kate watched and listened, sipping her own drink. It was as if, for a moment, the woman went somewhere else. Then she returned from wherever she’d gone.

“There was a postcard in my mailbox. It was a picture of Machu Picchu, in Peru, those famous ruins. Just one line—‘You would love seeing this with me.’ No signature, no return address.”

“It was from him.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure.”

“And that was all.”

Diane nodded. “That was all, I never heard his name again…until last fall, when I heard it on the news.”

“You knew it was him.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“And you knew your brother had led the raid.”

Another nod.

Kate hesitated before asking the next question. “When you were at Stanford—when you were seeing Reynaldo—did you know he was dealing drugs?”

“Yes. Not there, he wasn’t selling them there while he was a student, he promised me he wasn’t, but I knew he had.”

“What did you think about that?”

“Honestly?” Diane smiled. “That it was glamorous. I knew it was wrong, but you know, a young girl practically out of the convent, the edginess of it, being with someone who lived in an illegal world, it was exciting. Vicariously, not for real,” she added hastily.

Kate pondered on that. “What would have happened if you had stayed together? If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, say, and your family hadn’t found out? How would you have dealt with being married to a drug dealer? A menace to society? Someone whose life would always be in jeopardy?”

“I wouldn’t have.”

Kate looked at her, the skepticism clearly showing on her face.

“He would have gotten out of the life.”

“You know that for sure? That sounds more like a young lover’s dream than a reality.”

Diane nodded emphatically. “We talked about it, extensively. He knew how I felt. Not only about the immorality of it, but the danger. To him, to us as a family in the future.”

A sudden thought flashed through Kate’s mind. “I just had a weird hit. Sad, really.”

“What’s that?”

“Your brother, who wound up being a crusader in the war against drugs, helped push Juarez into going back to being a seller when he was really on the way out.”

Diane nodded somberly. “Yes, I know. I’ve thought of that, many times.”

Another thought came to Kate. Much heavier, chilling. “Do you think your brother Sterling knew that that boy he almost killed, and Reynaldo Juarez, the legendary drug lord, was the same person?”

“Yes. He had to know.”

Jesus, Kate thought. Wait until Luke hears about all this.

“What about the people your brother worked with over the years at the DEA? Do you think any of them had knowledge about what happened between Sterling and Reynaldo? The vendetta your brother was carrying against him all those years?”

Diane shook her head. “I’m sure they didn’t. I don’t think anyone ever knew, outside of our immediate family. We never talked about it after that. It was one of those terrible family secrets everyone takes to their graves.”

“No one except Reynaldo Juarez,” Kate corrected her. “Who took it to his.”

“Yes.” Diane was on the verge of tears, finally.

It was time to go—Kate had what she needed. She put the Stanford yearbook back into her briefcase. “One last question, Diane.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think your brother Sterling might have killed Reynaldo Juarez? Do you think he was capable of it?”

The former Diane Jerome stared down at the floor, her elbows on her knees. She was spent, this evening had taken a heavy toll on her. She looked up at Kate.

“I don’t know if Sterling killed Reynaldo. I hope he didn’t. But I do know that Reynaldo was a lifelong obsession with Sterling, ever since going back to that time at Stanford.” She sat up straighter.
“Did
he kill him? Like I said, I don’t know. Did he want to? I’m sure he did. Was he
capable
of doing it, emotionally?” Her eyes bored in on Kate. “Absolutely.”

K
ATE’S NEWS HIT ME
like a bombshell, since it was one.

We were sitting in my temp office, after hours. I’d had a grueling day with my grand jury witnesses. She had called as soon as she left the Richards house, but she hadn’t reached me with her news until the following morning. She’d flown back to Blue River from Chicago via San Francisco, arriving shortly after I was finishing up with the grand jury for the day. My head hadn’t been in the testimony I was taking—I was anxiously waiting on her.

On the airplane she had made copious notes about their meeting. I skimmed through them while she helped herself to a Beck’s from the office refrigerator.

I dropped her information on my desk. “This changes…I don’t know what this changes. A lot of things. Holy shit! Good work, Kate!” I congratulated her.

“Thanks, boss.” She chugged some beer. “What do you think you can do with this information?”

“Keep it to the immediate team, for openers,” I said, meaning the two of us and my other investigators. “I don’t want this getting out prematurely.”

“Do you think anyone at his agency knows?”

“I can’t imagine they do, or they wouldn’t have allowed Jerome to be the agent in charge of busting Juarez. They never would’ve let him near Juarez. They’re sticklers on that kind of stuff.” I got a brew for myself. “Kim’s going to shit marbles when he finds this out. The whole Justice Department will. This is going to drive a hole right through that agency.” I took a long, sweaty hit. It went down good. At this moment, I was a happy man. “If….” I held a finger in the air.

“If…?”

“We get an indictment on Jerome.”

“Do you think there’s a chance you won’t?” she asked, surprised.

“I think there’s a good chance we will, but it’s hot a lock,” I cautioned her. “Let’s not break out the champagne yet, beer’ll do for now.” I leaned back in my swivel chair, the kind lawyers and newspaper editors favored fifty years ago: I like them, too, but they’re hard on your back. It was what had been available up here when we decorated.

“In and of itself this is not enough proof that Jerome killed Juarez. He had plenty of other reasons for hating the guy, legitimate ones. And we know that he was ferocious on the subject of bringing Juarez in alive.”

“Talking the talk and walking the walk are
muy
different,” Kate rebutted me. “You don’t think if Jerome had brought Juarez back alive, Juarez’s lawyers wouldn’t have used what happened back then against Jerome?”

“How could they have?” I like sparring with people who think, it keeps me on my toes. “If anything, that’s confirmation that Jerome was zealous against Juarez even back then. Don’t forget, Juarez was already an established drug dealer when he hit the Stanford campus. What brother is going to sit by idly while his innocent little sister gets involved with a death merchant? They’d give him a medal.”

“Jerome didn’t know anything about Juarez’s background,” Kate snapped derisively. “All that thickheaded mick knew was that Juarez was a greaser who’d knocked up his holier-than-thou sister, the family virgin. The war on drugs had nothing to do with it.”

“You know that, and I know that,” I told her. “But Jerome could plead otherwise, that he had found out about who Juarez was, and that was his reason for beating his ass to a pulp and leaving him for the vultures to feed on. Not because he knocked her up and disgraced the family.” I laughed. “From what you’ve told me, that’s a hard family to disgrace.”

Kate drank some beer. “I thought you’d be more excited.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” I told her, “I am incredibly excited. This absolutely points us in Jerome’s direction as the prime suspect.” I held up my hands like a crossing guard. “What I’m saying, though, is that this information, in and of itself, isn’t enough to go for an indictment. We might be able to get one, but it would be weak, and we probably couldn’t get a conviction. An indictment’s only a way station, Kate. I want a conviction.”

I finished my beer, tossed the bottle into the trash can. “I want an airtight case. No leakage.” I grabbed up her notes. “Make copies of these. Just us for now.”

“What’s my next step?”

“Start looking at Sterling Jerome. Let’s find out what else there is in his ugly past. A couple more of these”—I handed her the notes—“and we’re off to the races.”

Sheriff Miller poked his head into my office, carrying a manila folder in his hand. It was a few days after Kate had brought me her exciting news.

“Got a minute?”

“For you, Tom, anytime.” I was feeling expansive. Breaking a case can do that for you, and we were definitely onto something. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

He took the chair across the desk from me, turning the folder over in his hands.

“I know I’m not part of your investigation, but this is important to me, too. More important than it is to you, Luke. To you, it’s a job. To me, it’s…” He hesitated. “More than that. It’s a stain on my record that has to be wiped off.”

“What happened out there that night was no reflection on you, Sheriff. You did everything you could to avert it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should’ve been more assertive.” He was fighting for self-control, thinking back to the incident. His old weather-lined face was reddening. “It was my jurisdiction. Jerome had no right to shut me out like he did.”

“Yes, I agree.” Then I asked, “Are you feeling the same way about me not including you in my investigation?” I knew he was, but I felt obligated to ask.

“I’d be happier if I was part of it,” he admitted freely, “but like I’ve told you, I can understand why it has to be this way. Not being a part of it—officially.”

The way he said “officially” perked my ears up. He was working toward something.

“I have been nosing around,” he said. “Checking things on my own. Not getting in your way, Luke,” he added quickly, “I wouldn’t do anything unprofessional like that. But I have friends in law enforcement who lend a helping hand if I need one. Here in California—and back in Washington, too.”

He opened the manila folder, took out a sheet of paper, handed it across the desk to me. “Follow up on this.”

I glanced at what he’d handed me. It had been faxed from FBI headquarters.

“We haven’t asked the FBI to come in on this.”

I was peeved—I didn’t want my investigation going off the tracks. People out of the loop, freelancing on their own, no matter how well-intentioned, usually cause trouble.

“I know you haven’t, and I apologize in advance for stepping on your toes, if I have,” he said. “But we’re all pulling on the same oars, aren’t we?”

“I. hope we are.”

“Then take that and follow up on it.” He pointed to the document in my hand.

I looked more closely at the page. It appeared to be a bank statement, from the Miami branch of a Colombian bank. Most Central and South American banks have big divisions in Miami. It’s the de facto financial capital of South America—many rich South Americans don’t want their money in banks in their own countries, their economies are too unstable.

There were no names on the statement, just numbers: ID numbers and what might have been financial numbers, dollars most likely.

“What is this?” I looked more closely at it.

“Somebody’s bank account.”

“I can see that,” I said with exasperation. “What about it?”

“It might be worth your looking into.” He calmly sat across from me like an owl perched on a limb, scanning the ground below for his next meal.

“Does this have anything to do with our investigation?” It had to, why else would he be giving it to me?

“Check it out and then you’ll know,” he said, deliberately being enigmatic.

“Tom.” I dropped the document on the desk in front of me. “Let’s not play games with each other, okay? If you’ve got something to tell me, tell me.”

He got up. “I accept that I can’t work on this officially—I don’t like it, you know that—but you can’t stop me from nosing around on my own. I’m the sheriff, that’s my job. And I have friendships going back decades, friends in high places who believe in me.” He looked at me, to make sure I was get’ ting the drift. “Who knows? If I do it good, you might sign me on as part of the team. Officially. I prefer walking in the front door instead of the back, Luke.”

He leaned down to me. “You’re missing a bet not using me, son. I’ve got a wealth of information stored in this old head, and contacts going back decades. If you truly want to solve this crime and bring who did it to trial, you ought to take advantage of me. I only want to help, that’s all.”

He stood tall. “And I’m going to. Officially or unofficially.”

The senior judge of the Muir County Superior Court, Cyrus McBee, had been assigned to our case. The local counsel for the big lumber companies before he was appointed to the bench, he was a team player who knew what side his bread was buttered on. He found a friendly judge in Florida who issued a search warrant for the bank account, and I was on my way to Miami. I could have sent one of my investigators, but I had a feeling this was going to be big, and I wanted to see what was in that account as soon I could.