Ryckman still had the unruly hunger of an adolescent. I watched him pile his tray with a serving of lasagna the size of a brick, two grilled sandwiches, a mound each of corn and french fries, and a hefty side of salad with a dipper of Thousand Island dressing poured on top. He tucked two cartons of low-fat milk into the remaining space on his tray. I followed him in the line, picking up plastic flatware from a bin. I opted for a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich and a modest log pile of fries, hungrier than I thought possible given the institutional nature of the setting. We found a free corner table and unloaded our trays.

“Were you working in Perdido when Wendell formed CSL?” I asked.

“You bet,” Ryckman said. “‘Course, I never invest in deals like that myself. My dad always told me I was better off with my money stashed in a coffee can. Depression mentality, but it’s not bad advice. Actually, you better hope the word on Jaffe doesn’t get out. I know a couple deputies lost money on that scam. He shows his face, you’re gonna have a posse of irate citizens riding down on that dude.”

“What’s the deal?” I asked. “I don’t understand what these guys are about.” He squirted ketchup on his fries and passed the dispenser to me. I could tell we shared the same intense interest in junk food.

Ryckman ate quickly, attention focused on his plate as the mountain of food diminished. “System works on trust—checks, credit cards, a contract of any kind. People perpetrating fraud feel no inner moral obligation to make good on their agreements. They operate along a continuum that runs from financial irresponsibility to civil consumer puffing to fraud to criminal lies. You see it all the time. Bankers, real estate brokers, investment counselors…anyone exposed to large sums of cash. After a while they can’t seem to keep their hands off it.”

“Too tempting,” I remarked. I wiped my hands on a paper napkin, uncertain whether the grease was coming from the sandwich or the pile of french fries. Both were heaven to a person of my low appetites.

“It’s more than that. Because it’s not just bucks these boys are after as far as I can tell. The money’s just a way of keeping score, like they say. You watch these guys operate and pretty soon you realize it’s the game they get off on. Same goes for politicians. It’s a power trip. Us ordinary mortals are just fuel for their egos.”

“I’m surprised anyone in law enforcement fell for his scheme. You guys ought to know better. You probably see enough of it.”

He shook his head, chewing on a bite of sandwich. “Always hope to make a killing. A little something for nothing, and I guess we’re not above it.”

“I had a conversation with Jaffe’s ex-partner last night,” I said. “He seemed pretty slick.”

“He is. Went right back into business, and what the hell are we gonna do? Everybody around here knows the guy went to jail. Day he comes out they’re ready to invest again. What makes these cases so hard to prosecute is the victims don’t want to believe they’ve been deceived. The victims all become dependent on the crook who’s cheating them. Once they invest, they need him to be successful to get their money back. Then, of course, the con man always has last-minute excuses, stalling repayment and dragging his feet. Case like that is a bitch to prove. Lot of time the DA can’t even get corroboration.”

“I really don’t understand it when smart guys get into stuff like this.”

“If you look back far enough, you could probably see it coming. You know, old Wendell’s got a law degree, but he never passed the bar.”

“Really. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, he got into some trouble just out of law school and he ended up letting the whole business drop. He’s just one of those guys: smart and well educated, but he had a bad streak that showed up even then.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Some prostitute died in the course of rough sex. Jaffe was the john, pleaded down on a charge of manslaughter, and got off on probation. It all got hushed up, of course, but it was ugly stuff. There’s no way you practice law with that in your background. Perdido’s too small.”

“He could have gone somewhere else.”

“He didn’t seem to think so.”

“Seems weird somehow. I haven’t been thinking of him as the violent type. How’d he get from manslaughter to fraud?”

“Wendell Jaffe’s sly in more ways than one. It’s not like the guy lived in a four-thousand-square-foot house complete with swimming pool and tennis court. He bought a nice three-bedroom tract house in a good middle-class neighborhood. He and his wife drove American cars, the stripped-down economy models and not like new ones. His was six years old. Both of his sons went to public schools. Usually, with these guys, what you’ll see is a pattern of conspicuous consumption, but Wendell didn’t do that. No designer clothes. He and Dana didn’t travel much or entertain lavishly. From the point of view of his investors—and this was something he was quick to assure them—he poured every penny right back into the business.”