Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  “What day did she actually embezzle the money?” Lucy asked.

  “Friday, September 21.”

  “The day they went missing,” Lucy said. “The day she was told of the independent audit. Why would she take the money then if she knew there would be an audit? Why not wait a week?”

  “I can’t answer that, I can only tell you the facts. We interviewed the bank manager. The transfer was made online, but that morning she went into the bank to change the authorization signatures and codes. This wasn’t unusual, because many companies make changes as people come and go and the bank manager knew Denise because she was a longtime customer.”

  “But she didn’t actually withdraw the money then.”

  “No, and the bank wouldn’t have just let her walk with three million. Every transfer was done electronically.”

  “And nothing was flagged?”

  “They’re flagged, and the IRS will look at anything that is abnormal, but many businesses move millions of dollars every day. So it’s not going to be noticed right away and depending on the account history may not have caused any red flags if there were typically large transfers.”

  “What was her demeanor like?” Lucy asked. “Did the manager say she appeared distressed?”

  “I don’t think so. I would have put something like that down in my notes.” She frowned, as if thinking. “All I remember off the top of my head is that he didn’t think anything was unusual because Denise was a regular customer.”

  “What are you thinking?” Nate asked Lucy.

  “We agree that they didn’t leave the country and were killed on the twenty-first, correct?”

  Nate nodded.

  “She was party to the embezzlement, but she didn’t actually embezzle the money.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Laura said.

  Lucy pulled out one of Laura’s spreadsheets. “These are the days and times of each transaction you tracked. Friday, the twenty-first, at four forty-five p.m. the funds were taken from the Kiefer account and transferred to the first shell corp. On the morning of Monday the twenty fourth—after we believe they were already dead—the money was transferred again. And then again and again until the twenty-eighth. Each layer making it more difficult to track.”

  “Yes,” Laura said, but she didn’t see what Lucy was trying to show.

  “She had a partner. Someone who she worked with on this, or who forced her to do it.”

  “Forced her how?”

  “Threatened her family. Her kids. Maybe she had committed a crime and didn’t want to go to jail. Or maybe she uncovered a crime by one of her other clients and wanted the money to disappear—but they got to her first. I don’t know. That’s why we want all the client information. If she was privy to a crime, maybe she was being blackmailed and used the money to pay a blackmailer.”

  Nate said, “She was probably dead the minute she transferred the money at four forty-five.”

  “Her and her entire family?” Laura said. “That seems— Well, tragic just doesn’t cut it.”

  “Maybe the kids walked in when they weren’t supposed to. Maybe they saw something. Maybe the killers thought Denise shared the information with her husband. This is a lot of conjecture right now,” Lucy said.

  “I think I know what you’re getting at. I can follow up personally with all her clients, they already know me.”

  “Tread carefully there,” Nate said. “We may be heading into the territory of organized crime. Don’t interview anyone solo.”

  “I’ll run these names and businesses by Daphne first,” Laura said. “You know when something’s wrong, but you can’t put your finger on it? We have her client records, but it’s clear she shredded documents before she left. We weren’t able to put them back together—it’s a state-of-the-art shredder that crosscuts and then injects ink into shreds. So I was thinking she was working for one or more clients that she didn’t want us to find. And in light of the fact that they were murdered, maybe she was scared of one of them. She kept great business records—for her taxes. But we couldn’t find anything in her taxes to point to illegal activity.”

  “If I were scared of a client I was doing business with, I’d take something to protect me,” Lucy said. “Like if she was an accountant for the mob—keep a set of books that you could use against them.”

  “I’ll see if there’s anything in any of these companies that is a red flag. There wasn’t at first blush, but we were looking at them as possible victims. It could be that she worked for someone under the table, and that’s going to be harder to uncover after three years. I have her calendars, and there are some holes, but that may not mean anything.”

  “I didn’t see the calendars,” Nate said.

  Laura sorted through the file, and they were at the bottom. “A printout from her computer.”

  “May I?”

  Laura handed it to Nate, and while they reviewed the calendars Lucy looked again at the photos from the Albright house. They were all printed, but each referenced a digital file they were attached to. They’d been taken by the sheriff’s department, but they’d sent the FBI hard copies, which made it easier to go through.

  The Albright house had been bright and homey, even after a thorough search by the police. A large family room with multiple places to sit to watch a large-screen television. Lots of books and videos for kids of all ages packed into a bookshelf. The dining room looked unused, but the kitchen had a big, scuffed table in the nook and kids’ artwork had been framed for the wall.

  Along the staircase were school pictures of the kids and candid photos of the family, framed seemingly haphazardly, but together they were charming. Lucy found herself saddened at the loss of life. A family destroyed because of horrific violence.

  Looking at the kids’ bedrooms was almost too much. Lucy could generally suppress her emotions—partly because of her personality and partly from her training. She wanted to believe with all her heart that Ricky Albright was alive and well … but realistically, he’d probably been murdered as well. Buried far from the others. And the call to his grandparents wasn’t him but a cruel prankster.

  Yet there was a sliver of hope.

  She picked up the three photos of Ricky’s room—obvious because it was all boy. Baseball pictures—his team was the Astros—a signed ball under a glass dome, though she couldn’t make out who had signed it. The room was messy—clothes tossed randomly in a corner, books stacked every which way on the lone floor-to-ceiling shelf. The top of his dresser overflowing with comics and Legos and Army men. His desk covered with his schoolwork.

  Wait.

  She straightened. “Nate, his books.”

  Nate looked at where she pointed.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is a math book. A schoolbook. And a binder. A pencil box. This is…” She squinted. “This looks like a grammar book, I can’t quite make it out.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s no backpack.” She flipped through the other photos and showed him that two backpacks were in the laundry room. “The notes say these were Tori’s and Becky’s backpacks. Ricky’s backpack wasn’t found in the house.”

  “Didn’t we agree that the killer likely grabbed him when he was coming home from the Youngs’?”

  “Yet his books are here. Books that he would have had in his backpack.”

  “He could have left his books at home that day. Especially if he didn’t need them.”

  “But there’s a binder and pencil box. We need to talk to the Young kids again. Find out if these items were in his backpack when he left.”

  “Would the kids remember something like that?”

  “They might remember if Ricky didn’t have his math book in class,” Lucy said. “It’s a long shot, but his backpack is not inventoried and neither is his bike. But if these books were in his backpack that Friday, that meant he came home when he left the Youngs’, then disappeared again.”

  “The killer could have returned and fo
und him. That’s why he wasn’t buried with his family,” Nate said.

  Nate was right. But still … it seemed odd. Because why would the killer dump out the books and then take Ricky’s backpack and bike?

  “We both think there’s a chance he survived, right?”

  Nate nodded. “The call to his grandparents. It’s something.”

  “We can’t overlook this.”

  She frowned.

  “I’m with you, Lucy. I want Ricky to be alive, too, but we don’t know where to look.”

  “He went home,” Lucy said. “After he left the Youngs’ house, he went home. He packed a bag to leave … he went somewhere. But he was nine years old. He couldn’t have gotten far. Where would he have gone? I think back to the Youngs’.”

  “I don’t think that JJ Young was lying to us,” Nate said. “And if we accuse his son of lying, he won’t let us through the door.”

  “It’s not his son who is lying,” Lucy said. “It’s bugged me since the interview yesterday, but Ginny was very quiet and she didn’t really look us in the eye.”

  “She’s a twelve-year-old kid being interviewed by two federal agents,” Nate said. “We need to tread really carefully.”

  Though Nate was being cautious, she had him thinking.

  Lucy gathered up the photos. She wanted to look at them again, just to see if she missed anything. She looked at the log in the folder. They’d been taken the Thursday after the Albrights disappeared—nearly a full week. According to the Kerr County Sheriff’s Department, they didn’t go into the house on Monday when they were doing a welfare check. The FBI enlisted a locksmith, who unlocked the property after they secured a warrant.

  But there had been no information at that point about their whereabouts.

  “Laura, is it unusual that you were unable to find anything on their computers or phones about their plans? No maps or searches or research? No one goes to Mexico without some sort of plan, even last minute.”

  “We never recovered their phones. We had a warrant to ping them, but they never popped, telling me they took out the batteries and then destroyed them. If you’re trying to avoid police, you get a burner phone. The computers in the house showed no sign of travel research, but those are just the ones left behind. There was a laptop missing, and family believed that was Mrs. Albright’s work computer, which was never logged into the Internet for protection of client data. A lot of accountancy firms have superfirewalls because of the financial data and risks. Albright likely would attach a flash drive to export the old-fashioned way.”

  There was no evidence found of cell phones or a computer with the bodies.

  Becky’s best friend said that she gave no hint that she was leaving town. That Tori had grabbed her from practice and she told her friend that she’d call later.

  What if the mom felt threatened? Asked her girls to come home, then planned to run? Pick Ricky up on the way … except they couldn’t. Because someone stopped them.

  Or they weren’t planning on leaving the country, but maybe she wanted to send the kids away because she thought there was some sort of threat to her family. Had she considered going to the police? Maybe she agreed to embezzle the money for someone else … and got cold feet. Sent the kids away with her husband so she could go to the police without fear of them being in danger.

  “I want to talk to that bank manager again,” Lucy said. “If he knew Denise Albright, why didn’t he notice that something was amiss?”

  “She was a good actress. Or he didn’t want to see anything wrong.” Laura shrugged. “Would he even remember three years later?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to talk to him,” Lucy said. “I’m going to take these files home. I don’t understand the financial and accounting stuff as well as you, but I want to look at the Albrights’ personal information and study these pictures in more detail.”

  “I’ll review all the client information tomorrow while I’m at the courthouse,” Laura said. “I may have missed something.”

  “I doubt it,” Lucy said, “but we’re looking at this in a completely different way now. Is there anyone who has a business that might have been used for criminal activity? Think outside the box.”

  “I hate that expression,” Nate said.

  Laura laughed. “I know what you’re looking for.”

  “We appreciate it.”

  “It’s my job. And I hope you’re right and that little boy is alive.”

  So did Lucy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max arrived at the Mills home in Fredericksburg that evening, later than planned because of the shooting and her subsequent follow-up with the detective. Stanley Grant was in critical condition and the odds didn’t look good. He hadn’t regained consciousness.

  The police had no suspects, but Sean was pretty certain that the shooter had been caught on tape outside the archive building. Maybe the police had already ID’d a suspect and weren’t announcing it. Max hadn’t gotten anything out of Reed today, but she would try again tomorrow. Or she’d go up the ladder. She found that in some jurisdictions she could parlay the media card into information if she talked to the right person. Cops didn’t generally like reporters, but she had a few friends.

  Unfortunately, none in San Antonio PD.

  Max had a headache, but she couldn’t cancel on the Mills family. Earlier, she’d been looking forward to it—she’d spoken to Grover many times over the last two months. She liked him and appreciated that he’d been close to her grandfather, whom she still missed even though he’d passed away more than a decade ago. Yet, after talking to Simon this morning, she wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Grover and Judith Mills lived on a working ranch, over twenty thousand acres and two thousand head of cattle. He was self-made, starting with a dozen head of cattle and two hundred acres he’d bought with a loan from Max’s grandfather. Times were different then, she remembered her grandfather saying. Character mattered. Grover had no collateral, no college education, but he’d had a solid business plan and the skills to achieve it. Fifty years later he was semi-retired, but in Max’s experience true self-made men or women rarely retired.

  Her phone rang as she stepped out of the car. Ryan. She winced. She should have called him earlier about the shooting.

  “Hello, darling,” she answered.

  “Don’t darling me, Maxine.”

  She bristled. Yes, she should have called him, but he didn’t have to be short with her.

  “It’s been a busy day.”

  “Let me explain relationships to you.”

  “Do not condescend to me.”

  “I just needed to know that you were breathing. Is that difficult?”

  “I’m learning to be less independent, Ryan. But this is who I am.”

  “You think I want you to be less independent?” He laughed, and she was about to hang up. She didn’t need personal strife during an investigation. “Max, I love you because of who you are. But because I love you, I want to know you’re safe when I hear the man you flew to San Antonio to interview was shot outside the courthouse.”

  He was right. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

  “Accepted. Only because I know you don’t say ‘sorry’ if you don’t mean it.”

  That was true. She could count on one hand the times she’d told someone she was sorry, and each time she’d been in the wrong and they deserved an apology.

  “I am getting used to this. I appreciate your patience.”

  “How formal. You’re getting used to being in love, just say it.”

  She squirmed. Not because she didn’t love him, but because she wasn’t as comfortable talking about it. She preferred showing her feelings rather than sweet-talking.

  “What happened out there?” Ryan asked, and Max was grateful he changed the subject.

  “I met with Grant this morning and he lied to me.”

  “About?”

  “A lie of omission. He knows more than he’s saying. Maybe it’s just that he’s had six we
eks in jail thinking about how to get out of the hole he dug for himself.” She told Ryan about the alleged threat against his sister and the subsequent car accident. “His fear appeared real, but I don’t like flying halfway cross-country and having someone attempt to play me. Yet someone tried to kill him, which has me thinking he does know something and whoever ‘they’ are that he mentioned want him silent. He gave me a small lead and Rogan is pursuing it.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fredericksburg. I just arrived at the Mills ranch.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes,” she said, knowing where he was going.

  “If the shooter knew when Grant was leaving the courthouse, they could know that you met with him. They might think you know something.”

  “And his attorney? You think they’ll kill both of us?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I promise, if there was a threat then I would have asked David to return from California. Rogan’s helping me.”

  “But he’s not with you now.”

  “They wanted Stanley Grant dead. Maybe because he reneged on his agreement. Maybe because he knows something about the bad guys that they don’t want the police to know. The detectives were going to have to look at Victoria’s murder again to prepare for trial, and maybe their case would fall apart. They didn’t need a solid case when he pled. And I’ve been thinking about this on the drive up to Fredericksburg—Grant must have known enough details about the murder to be convincing. Which makes me think either he was there during or after the fact or the killer gave him specific information.”

  “Or he killed her. Consider that someone close to the victim might not have been happy with his plea change.”

  She had, especially after seeing Simon in the court this morning. “I’ve been leaning against his guilt ever since Sean learned that funds he allegedly embezzled weren’t stolen until four days after Victoria’s murder, yet that was his claimed motive—that Victoria found out about the embezzlement and he killed her in the heat of an argument.”

  “Are you sure?” Ryan sounded surprised.