Uncommon Thief

Chapter 1

Love at First Sight

Summer, 1965

When Fred Fuller was young, morality—like sex—wasn’t often discussed by his parents or teachers. There were plenty of rules laid down that had to be followed, but little discussion as to the rationale behind them. At the time Fred didn’t think much about morality. Good behavior was just expected, so he did what he was told simply to avoid having angry parents or teachers. Deep down inside, he believed he was of the highest moral character. He assumed his parents and friends felt the same way about him; no one ever told him differently. But he had never explored the depth of his morality and was not prepared for the challenges that befell him in the fall of 1965.

Fred Fuller’s greatest regret was the embarrassment and humiliation he brought to his family and friends. He could endure the consequences of his own behavior, but he knew they didn’t deserve what he had brought down on them. It grieved him greatly to see their expectations shattered, particularly since it happened before the national media. Despite his contemptible behavior, though, his friends and family had stood beside him and helped him through those most difficult times.

It all started when Fred spotted a very attractive brunette, Maria Shepard, at the UCLA orientation program at the beginning of the summer. Fortuitously for Fred, he found himself seated next to her at one of the programs. She had olive skin and large, incredibly beautiful brown eyes that took his breath away. Unfortunately, being somewhat shy, he failed to ask for her telephone number—a stupid mistake he kicked himself for time and again thereafter. Eventually, he decided to track her down and ask her out, no matter what.

After diligently searching all of the Ventura County telephone books and calling over thirty-seven of the Shepards listed, Fred located her and asked her out for the following Saturday night. Much to his surprise and delight, she accepted with alacrity. He was to pick her up at six at her place. It was about a twenty-minute drive east from Ventura to the small town of Ojai, and he was very nervous. Everything so far had been too easy, and Fred was expecting something to go wrong.

As he approached Maria's house, he was impressed. It was located in a quiet, upper-class neighborhood of large Spanish-style homes. Each one had a white stucco exterior and a red tile roof. Magnificent eucalyptus trees towered high above the homes, providing not only shade but also privacy from the rest of the city. The lawns and bushes were neatly manicured, and many of the homes had private tennis courts and swimming pools.

This setting was a little uncomfortable for Fred, as he was not accustomed to an affluent lifestyle. His father was a clerk for a local insurance company, and his mother was a checker at Von's Grocery Store. They made a decent living but had always lived in a modest neighborhood and had just recently moved to a trailer park since his father’s retirement was near.

It was five 5:45 p.m. when Fred got to 4436 Sunswept Terrace. Since he was early, he cruised around the neighborhood a while to kill time. At precisely six, he knocked on the door and waited eagerly.

The door opened, and a dark-haired little girl stood looking up at him.

Hi. Is Maria in? he asked.

She gave him a hard look and then replied, You must be Fred.

Yes, I am.

Ma . . . ri . . . a! she yelled in a voice so loud he figured Maria must be in the back yard under a mattress.

In a few minutes, Maria appeared and stood before him with a broad smile. She was wearing a Ventura College t-shirt and white shorts. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. He took a deep breath in an effort to maintain his composure.

Fred! Come in, she said, taking his arm and escorting him inside.

Thanks.

I guess you met my little sister, Jessica?

Jessica gave him a little curtsy and a big smile.

Fred nodded. Briefly, he replied. She's got quite a voice.

That’s for sure, Maria agreed.

How old is she?

Ten, but you wouldn't know it from the way she acts sometimes, Maria said, giving Jessica a disapproving look. Jessica narrowed her eyes and feigned great emotional injury. Maria sighed, stifling a laugh. I guess I can't complain though . . . she's pretty good most of the time. Come in the kitchen. I want you to meet my parents.

Maria took Fred’s hand and pulled him into the kitchen, where her mom and dad were seated at the kitchen table. They looked up and gave him a once-over.

Mom and Dad, this is Fred Fuller. Fred, this is my mom, Mary, and my dad, John.

Fred smiled and nodded, wondering what they were thinking. Do they like me? I hate meeting a girl’s parents. It’s so awkward. Nice to meet you.

Hello, Mr. Shepard replied with little enthusiasm.

Hi, Mrs. Shepard said smiling. Maria told us about meeting you at orientation, and she was so happy when you called her.

Maria frowned. Mom, you're not supposed to repeat everything I tell you.

Oh, I am sorry, honey. I didn’t—

That’s right, Mary. What were you thinking? Mr. Shepard said. God forbid a woman should tell a man how she actually feels about him right off the bat. No, she’s got to keep him off balance and in the dark for a while. It’s standard female torture.

Maria laughed and shook her head as she took Fred by the arm. Fred, I think we should leave. I don't like where this conversation is heading.

What do you mean? Mr. Shepard replied playfully. You just can’t stand to hear the truth, can you?

She gave him a sardonic smile. You’re a real hoot, Dad. Then she turned to Fred and shook her head. Don’t pay attention to him, Fred. He gets jealous whenever I go out on a date. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.

Okay, honey, drive carefully. Don't be too late, Mrs. Shepard said. Nice to meet you, Fred.

Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting both of you.

As they left the house, Fred felt like they’d just gone ‘round and ‘round in a revolving door. Things were developing faster than he had expected. They got in the car and drove twenty minutes back to Ventura to a Polynesian restaurant called the Kon Tiki. Maria was very open and candid, as if they had been dating for a long time. She asked Fred some very penetrating questions and shocked him by sharing some of her innermost secrets. He was somewhat disarmed by all of this and began spilling his guts to her as well, which was very uncharacteristic of him. Most people considered Fred very quiet and introverted, but Maria opened him up like a can of tuna. After dinner, they continued to talk.

So, what have you been doing this summer? she asked.

Well, I've been working for Bank USA.

Oh really? What do you do for them?

I'm a messenger. I deliver and pick up data processing from half a dozen or so branches between Ventura and Fillmore.

Do you like it?

Oh yeah, it's a sweet job, and it pays well. Luckily, I'm going to be able to transfer down to LA when school starts.

That's great. I hope I can find a good job like that.

You probably will. UCLA has a great placement office.

The waiter brought their check and placed it next to Fred’s plate.

Well, . . . are you ready to go to the movies? he asked.

Not really. It's been so much fun talking. I'd rather just go somewhere quiet and continue our conversation.

Okay. I know a really pretty place where we can sit and look at the lights of the city.

That's perfect.

Fred didn't mention it to her, but the place he had in mind was the most popular teenage parking spot in Ventura County. He wondered what she’d think when she realized it. When they got to downtown Ventura, they went up a very steep hill to the beginning of the road that led to ‘the Cross’, as it was called by the locals. It was the burial site of several missionaries who had lived and worked at Mission San Buenaventura.

Fred always worried that his car wouldn’t make it up the hill since it was so steep, but somehow it always did. They slowly made their way up the switchbacks until they were high over the city. From the Cross, you could see the spectacular California coastline by day and the dazzling lights of the city and ocean traffic by night. Surprisingly, the parking lot was deserted, so they parked in the spot with the best view. Fred turned off the engine and slid over to be next to Maria.

This is magnificent, Maria exclaimed.

Isn't it?

Yes. The lights are so pretty. I didn’t know this place even existed.

Yeah, I love it up here.

How many innocent girls have you brought up here before me?

I don't know . . . I don't ask them if they're innocent.

Well, I'm innocent, she said.

That's good to hear.

At that moment their eyes met and they began inching toward each other. Soon they were in each other’s arms kissing passionately. Maria’s soft, sweet lips felt wonderful to Fred. He hadn’t dated much, so he’d never felt such pleasure. They’d been going at it about ten minutes when they heard a pounding noise on the window. Startled, Fred pulled away and looked up only to be blinded by two glaring lights.

Shit! It’s the cops, Fred whispered.

You kids can't park here! the officer yelled.

Rolling down his window, Fred said irritably, Okay, Officer, we're moving on.

The stern-faced officer stood there and watched Fred as he fumbled with the keys. Fred had never been so humiliated in his life. My first date with Maria and I get hassled by the police. Damn it! Quickly, Fred started the car, and drove off. They descended down the steep winding road from the Cross and headed back toward Ojai.

Maria was silent for quite a while, and Fred felt sure she'd never go out with him again. After a few minutes, though, she turned toward him and shook her head. Well, you'd think the cops would have something better to do than harass innocent kids minding their own business.

Feeling much relieved, he smiled back at her. God, I know. They ought to be spending their time catching thieves and dope dealers rather than bullying teenagers.

Really. Listen, I know a place not too far from my house where we can go and, you know, finish our conversation without fear of arrest.

Fred smiled broadly. That would be nice.

As they got to her neighborhood, Maria pointed to an alley and indicated Fred should go down it. They drove several blocks before she pointed to some servants' quarters. Park here, she said. No one ever comes back here after dark.

Fred wondered how she knew this, but he was afraid to say anything that might jeopardize the rest of the evening. They began kissing again, gently at first and then more passionately until the windows started to fog up. While their lips were locked together, Fred’s hand wandered down to Maria’s soft, smooth leg. It felt so good he was afraid to breathe for fear Maria would stop him. After a while he wondered how it would feel if he went even farther. Maria seemed to be enjoying it too, so he inched his fingers farther and farther up her thigh until she grabbed his hand and broke away.

Remember. . . . I told you I’m innocent, she said, and I'm going to stay that way until my wedding night. Do you have a problem with that?

No. Absolutely not, Fred said worriedly. He’d never felt such excitement with a woman and feared he’d upset her. I am sorry. I just got a little carried away. Can you forgive me?

Maria sighed. It's okay. I'll forgive you this time.

Fred was glad he had been forgiven but didn't want to push his luck, so he took Maria home. By the time they got to her door, he had an intense urge to use the toilet, so he asked her if her parents would mind if he came in and used her bathroom. She said they wouldn't, so he followed her in the house. She pointed down a hallway. It’s the second door on the right, she said.

Just as he was approaching the bathroom door, Jessica tore by him, went inside and locked the door. Really needing go badly, Fred figured there would probably be another bathroom somewhere in the house, so he walked back toward the kitchen to ask Maria. As he approached the kitchen, he couldn't help but overhear Maria talking to her mother. Not wanting to interrupt them, he hesitated before entering.

Hi, Mom.

"Hi, honey. How was your evening?

Great. I had a wonderful time.

That's good. Fred seems like a nice young man.

I think so.

So, are you going to go out with him again?

Oh yes, without a doubt. He’s the one I’ve been waiting for.

Mary frowned. Huh? What do you mean, honey?

I mean, he’s the man I’m going to marry.

But you just met him, Mary protested.

So, what’s that got to do with anything.

Mary knew when her daughter made up her mind about something, there was no dissuading her, so she decided to tread lightly.

But how can you be so sure? This was only your first date.

I’ve seen him before in my dreams.

In your dreams? But—

Goodnight, Mom. With that, Maria left her stunned mother in the kitchen and came back into the living room. When she saw Fred standing there, she said, You're done already?

Well. . . . yeah, I guess I am.

Okay. You better go. My parents won't like us alone here in the living room.

Sure. Thanks for letting me use your bathroom.

No problem.

I had a great time tonight. I'll call you, okay.

Okay.

Fred felt a little guilty about overhearing Maria’s private conversation with her mother, but he was glad he had since he was very much attracted to her and flattered by her comment. Knowing Maria had strong feelings for him would make him much more comfortable and confident around her. Driving home that night, he felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Chapter 2

Cover-up

Congressman Charles Bartlett had been in a Republican Congressman for nearly twenty-two years. Born and raised in Ojai, California, he had been a star football player for Ventura High School and later went on to USC on a full scholarship. He did well in college, but a knee injury prevented him from being drafted into the NFL.

Even though his football career was over when he got back home to Ventura County, he was still popular and in high demand as a guest or speaker at schools, clubs and business venues around the county. He got many offers of employment too when he returned home after graduation but wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He eventually took a job selling commercial real estate as his notoriety got him lots of listings, yet the job wasn’t so demanding that he couldn’t play golf at least two or three times a week.

Much to his delight, the local country club offered him complimentary membership with the unwritten stipulation that he would play with the club owner’s friends and family from time to time. Bartlett had no problem with this as he was quite gregarious and enjoyed meeting new people, particularly if they were likely to send some listings his way.

Ventura County had long been a Republican stronghold so; it was inevitable that eventually Bartlett would be courted by the party to become a candidate for public office. The inevitable came to fruition in December 1955 when the district’s eleven-term congressman Burt Smallwood died. This meant a new candidate for congress had to be found quickly as the primary election was only six months away.

When the offer came, Bartlett jumped at the opportunity as he didn’t particularly like the commercial real estate business and saw a much more promising future for himself in politics. Once he got the nomination that first time, reelection had pretty much been a sure thing. He could be a congressman the rest of his life, if he wanted, or move on to higher office. He knew the only things that could derail him would be poor health, public scandal or disgrace. Since he was happily married, watched his drinking and exercised regularly he wasn’t worried about any of those things, but perhaps he should have been.

It was the fall of 1965 and his reelection campaign was just gearing up for another run. Bartlett had gotten an ominous phone call from his finance chairman, Tom Barnes, demanding an immediate meeting to discuss a very serious matter. Bartlett didn’t like the tone of the phone call and the fact that he’d had to cancel a tee time in order to accommodate the meeting.

The one aspect of running for Congress that had bothered Bartlett was campaign finance. Bartlett knew nothing about bookkeeping or accounting and even had trouble balancing his checkbook. So, when Barnes and Brewer, one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the county, offered him help in raising contributions and agreed to manage his campaign fund, he was greatly relieved and accepted the offer with alacrity.

Bartlett wasn’t in a good mood when he entered the firm’s reception area and walked up to the receptionist Margie Small. Hi, Marge. I’m here to see Tom. He’s expecting me.

Yes, Congressman. I’ll buzz him right away and let him know you are here.

Thank you, Bartlett said and took a seat in an overstuffed chair. Just as he was about to pick up the latest edition of Life Magazine Tom burst out of his office.

Congressman. Come on in. Sorry to keep you waiting.

Bartlett got up and followed Tom into his spacious office overlooking downtown Ventura. Tom went directly to his chair and opened a ledger. Bartlett took a seat across from him and waited expectantly.

I’ve got some bad news, really bad news, Tom said anxiously. I should have seen this sooner, but you just don’t expect something like this to happen.

What is it? Bartlett said irritably. Spit it out for godsakes!

It’s your campaign manager.

Bartlett squinted. Joel Roberts? What about him?

He’s been embezzling money from you.

What! No. You must be mistaken. That couldn’t be true.

Tom shrugged. I think so. It’s the only explanation for the mission cash.

Missing cash?

Right. Five million dollars.

Five million dollars! What are you talking about? How could five million dollars be missing?

Well, actually $4.7 million.

What? Haven’t you been paying attention to your job! How do I know you didn’t steal it?

I don’t write checks. I’m a bookkeeper. He’s been hiding it very well. I just noticed it today. He’s been writing checks to bogus companies and depositing money into an off-the-books account.

Bartlett stood up and began to pace back and forth angrily. You’re absolutely sure about this?

Tom nodded meekly. Yes, there is no doubt.

Have you told anyone?

No. You’re the first to know. We should contact the FBI.

No. We can’t do that. There would be an investigation. I’d be disgraced and a dozen people would run against me for reelection. We must keep a lid on this.

But, how? We’re missing $4.7 million. What happens when we need to pay bills with that money?

I don’t know. Maybe, Joel will have some ideas for us. He’s a lawyer and I’m sure he doesn’t want to go to prison for the rest of his life.

Okay, I’ll set up a meeting. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

Yeah, you should be. If you’d have been doing your job, you could have prevented this or at least caught it before it was a nuclear disaster. God damn it! I can’t believe this.

Tom swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. Bartlett shook his head and stormed out angry and confused. Feeling tears welling in his eyes, he couldn’t look at Marge when he rushed by. When he got into the elevator, was alone and the door closed behind him, he pushed the stop button, so he’d have a moment to compose himself.

That morning when he woke up, he’d been looking forward to a little golf, some sunshine and a pleasant day at the club, he thought, taking a long deep breath. Now he was facing scandal, ridicule and ruin and he hadn’t done a goddamn thing wrong. How could this have happened? he moaned to himself. He closed his eyes. He had to fix this, he thought. There had to be a way out of this. If he lost his seat over this bullshit, somebody was going to fucking die!

Chapter 3

Bank USA

Steve Robins and Randy Hanson were Fred’s best friends. They had all met and become friends in elementary school. Steve and Randy were both tall and slender, but Steve had a slightly heavier build. That was the extent of any similarity. Steve was quiet and shy, whereas Randy rarely closed his mouth and always wanted to party. Politically they encompassed the entire political spectrum—Steve the conservative, Randy the liberal, and Fred the moderate. They had grown very close over the years since they had spent so much time together and none of them had a brother.

Randy had just gone off to college at the University of Pittsburgh, where his father and grandfather had gone before him. Steve and Fred, both a year older than Randy, decided to go to UCLA and rent an apartment together. They had gone to Santa Monica in June to select the apartment. They had looked at the campus dorms, but they’d both lived in dorms their freshman year and wanted more freedom and privacy. The new off-campus coed dorms, where male and female students lived together on the same floor, were intriguing but far too expensive. Both Steve and Fred were basically on their own financially. Their parents would have liked to have helped, but really couldn't afford it. They finally settled on a two-bedroom apartment about fifteen minutes from campus called the Westgate Apartments. The apartment had a typical two-story rectangular design with one end opened to provide access to the pool and common area. It was probably ten or fifteen years old and well maintained. The tenants were mostly students with a few retired couples and blue-collar workers.

Steve and Fred arrived in separate cars, both bursting with all the necessities of domestic life. Steve had a black 1957 Chrysler that used to belong to his father. It was a big car and had lots of room to haul junk back and forth to school. The only problem was that it was a gas guzzler and kept poor Steve financially drained.

Let's go to the manager's office and check in, Fred said.

Steve looked around. Where is it?

Around the corner. Apartment 101.

Steve nodded, and they walked around the corner looking for the number. When they found it, they went inside. The manager— ‘Mrs. Walker’, according to her name tag—was sitting behind a desk in the corner of the small room. She looked up at the two of them and smiled.

Ah, Mr. Fuller.

Yes, that's right. You remembered. You've got a good memory. This is Steve Robins. He's going to be my roommate.

Nice to meet you, Steve. Your apartment is ready. Come with me, and I'll take you to it, she said as she got up and walked outside. They followed close behind her, anxious to see where they’d be living for the next several years. She went across a courtyard and down a long walkway to Apartment 118, opened the door, and held it for them.

You have a pleasant inside view of the pool area. The apartment has been recently painted, and the carpets have been shampooed.

Thank you, Fred said. It looks great.

Well, if you need anything, just give me a holler.

Thanks.

After Mrs. Walker left, they carefully checked out each room and imagined how it would look once they’d moved all of their stuff in.

It looks pretty clean, Steve observed.

Hey, did you notice the chicks working on their tans near the pool? Fred asked.

Yeah. I think we may need to take a swim here pretty soon, Steve suggested with a sly grin.

Definitely, Fred agreed.

Since the apartment was furnished, getting settled in didn’t take long. After a couple of hours, they’d moved in most of their stuff and had everything in its place. When they were done, they sat down to relax.

It was a warm day in southern California. The temperature was about eighty-five degrees and, of course, there was no air conditioning since Santa Monica always had a cool breeze coming in from the Pacific Ocean. To take advantage of the breeze, most everyone had their windows opened, which made it quite pleasant.

Steve was about to turn on the television when they heard a loud moaning sound from the next apartment.

Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Oh. Oh . . . Ahhh, a female voice moaned. Ahhh . . . Ahhh . . . Oh. Oh . . . Yes! . . . Yes! she continued.

Steve looked at Fred with a puzzled look on his face. Neither one of them had ever heard such a noise from a human being. Fred frowned, not quite sure what to make of it.

Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! Yes! Yes! . . .Oh! Yes! she screamed.

Just then, they heard a male voice say, Honey, if you’re going to make love with the windows open, you've got to keep your voice down.

Steve looked at Fred and began to laugh. I think I’m going to like this place, he said.

Fred nodded enthusiastically. I think so too.

That night, they went swimming and met some of the girls around the pool area. They were all pleasant and friendly, but as Fred talked to them, he kept thinking of Maria and felt guilty and uneasy. Later, he tried to call Maria, but the switchboard operator didn't know her room number yet.

On Tuesday, Fred reported to the data processing center for Bank USA in downtown Los Angeles. His transfer had gone through, and he was to report to Henry Sinclair, the Transportation Supervisor, for assignment. Bank USA was headquartered in Pasadena, California. The Transportation Division was divided into seven regions: LA, San Diego, Ventura, San Francisco, Eureka, Sacramento, and Bakersfield, each servicing its own data processing center. Every night, all banking transactions were processed on large mainframe computers. Each morning, bank messengers delivered the night's work to each of 545 branch banks throughout the state. In the evenings, the messengers delivered each branch's work to the data processing center.

Each messenger covered seven to ten branches, which were an average of eight miles apart. This meant the average messenger’s route was fifty to sixty miles and took three to five hours to complete. Most of the routes in the LA Division were short ones between the myriad of cities that made up the Los Angeles metro area. A few routes were longer, however, stretching out north and south 100 miles or more from downtown LA.

Fred was not totally a newcomer to LA. His father had taken him to a few Dodgers games at Chavez Ravine, and they had been to Pasadena many times to visit his aunt and uncle. Nevertheless, downtown LA was a pretty unique experience for him, having come from a small town like Ventura. As he drove past the tall buildings and hordes of people walking the streets, he felt out of place and a little scared. Then he remembered he was being paid $7.50 per hour for simply driving around. This thought quickly overshadowed all his fear and discomfort.

All of his life, Fred had been very ambitious. He was the kid who walked the streets selling all-occasion cards, candy, and even a magazine called Grit. He was the newspaper boy, the one who cut your lawn, and the one that waxed your car. If there was any way he could earn money, he would be out there doing it. But all these jobs involved hard manual labor, and he dreaded every minute of them. Not only was the work grueling, but it was also tedious.

Driving, on the other hand, was a pleasure. He loved to drive anytime, anywhere—a passion he had inherited from his father. Almost every weekend, his father would pack up the family in the old Nash Rambler and take them out on the road. They must have visited every state and national park, museum, monument, fort, lake, river, and dam that had been built—from the depths of Death Valley to the summit of Mt. Shasta and from the magnificent Redwoods to the Mojave Desert.

Fred often wondered why his father loved to travel so much. As he got older, he realized it was an escape from the boredom of his job. Every morning, he’d go to work at seven and shuffle papers until four. It had to be incredibly tedious. After he got home, he’d eat dinner, watch four hours of network TV, and then end the day listening to George Putnam and the Channel Eleven News. Day after day, he followed the same routine with little variation.

Although Fred’s father was home every night and always did his best to make life as comfortable as he could for Fred, there was very little communication between them. He was forty years of age when Fred was born, and Fred guessed this age difference made it difficult for them to be close.

But on the weekends, his father became a different man. From a dull office worker, he was transformed into a great adventurer, full of anticipation for what he might find over the next hill or around the next turn. Every Friday at four, Fred’s father was set free to live his dreams, and Fred knew he was fortunate to be able to go along for the ride. So, the thought of getting paid just to drive around was like a gift from God, and Fred was certainly going to enjoy every minute of it.

The LA division headquarters took up one square block of downtown LA. It was a large, beige, single-story, windowless, brick building that could easily be mistaken for an