“So you saw her regularly? How often would you say? Every week? Month?”
“Once a month, maybe a little less. With online banking taking off, we don’t see our customers as often as we used to.”
“Did you know her husband?” Lucy asked.
“By sight. He only came in a couple times to sign papers, such as when they refinanced their home. Mrs. Albright handled most, if not all, of the family’s finances, which isn’t a surprise since she was an accountant.”
Interviewing a witness—as well as a suspect—meant quickly profiling the subject. Perhaps unfair at times, it almost always succeeded. Because Pollero was on the old-fashioned side, over fifty, had a daughter roughly Lucy’s age, and was in the conservative banking profession, Lucy and Nate made an unspoken decision that she would be the nice agent and Nate would be more aggressive. Though they hadn’t been partners long, they knew each other’s strengths well.
So when Nate spoke, he was more commanding. Coupled with his military background and intimidating broad shoulders, he came across as authorative.
“Didn’t you think it was suspicious that Mrs. Albright changed the account of one of her clients?”
“I— Um, no, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I knew her.”
“I know Agent Kincaid, but I would find it suspicious if she wanted to take her husband off their joint bank account.”
“This was completely different,” he said. “Mrs. Albright set up the account, she had the authority to change it.”
“But she set it up with Mr. Kiefer and he was one of the signatories who was supposed to approve any transaction over ten thousand dollars.”
“Yes, but she had the appropriate forms.”
“Which she could have forged or manipulated Mr. Kiefer into signing,” Nate pushed. “You didn’t even think to call him? Verify that he gave her permission to—essentially—control a three-million-dollar account?”
“I— She wouldn’t— I mean— I had never thought— It wasn’t that unusual.”
“You have a fiduciary responsibility to protect your customers’ assets, and you not only acted wholly unprofessional, but she was able to transfer the money that night without raising any red flags on your end?”
“I— I don’t see why—what—I mean, I followed all regulations for that type of transaction.”
“Agent Dunning, I’m sure Mr. Pollero trusted Mrs. Albright. He’d been her banker for years.”
“I did,” he said, jumping on Lucy’s out. “I trusted her explicitly.”
Lucy gave him a half smile and showed him the photo he had provided three years ago of Denise Albright coming into the bank. She had on large sunglasses, her hair was down and partly shielding her face, and there was no clear shot of her without the sunglasses. Based on photos they had of Denise, the woman may have been her, but the photo was so grainy that they couldn’t even tell the woman’s hair color. The only thing they could be sure of was that she was Caucasian and approximately five feet six inches based on the lines on the door where the image was captured. Denise Albright’s medical records indicated she was a half-inch taller than five foot six but certainly within the range.
“You sent this picture in when asked for surveillance film that morning. You indicated in your statement that the bank only had a camera on the door. But you didn’t provide the entire video, only this image. You can see why my boss is skeptical that this is Denise.” Lucy watched as Pollero stared at the picture.
“Yes, the quality isn’t the best, we’ve since upgraded our system. But that’s Denise.”
Nate said, “Do you know that it is a felony to lie to federal agents?”
“Of course!” he said, his voice rising. “I gave your office everything I had, and I’m sorry I didn’t think anything was wrong, but at the time nothing seemed unusual. I went over all this with the sheriff’s department, and again with the FBI, and I don’t see why you’re coming back now.”
“Because we don’t believe that this is Denise Albright,” Nate said bluntly.
“I would never have authorized the change if it wasn’t her.”
“Denise Albright may already have been dead when she allegedly came into the bank.”
His face drained. “I— That can’t be. The police told me that she and her husband crossed the border that night. That’s what they said. They had a picture to prove it.”
Lucy said, “The correct answer, Mr. Pollero, is that she couldn’t have been dead because you spoke to her at ten fifteen that morning.”
He stared at her, blinked, seemed confused, then said, “Yes, of course. That’s the right answer.”
The way he said it had Lucy backtracking. Something about his demeanor … he had been coached. And her prompt seemed to calm him down, as if she were telling him what to say.
“Thank you for your time,” Lucy said as she stood. Nate clearly didn’t want to leave, but he rose with her, and she was grateful he didn’t argue. They needed to regroup and look at this case in a different way.
“Um, yes, and if you need anything else, let me know,” he said.
Lucy opened the door and Nate followed her out. They got all the way to the car before Nate said, “He was lying and you let him!”
“He was coached. Someone told him exactly what to say to the FBI three years ago to make us go away. He gave Laura what she asked for, nothing more or less. He has never been in trouble, so there was no reason to investigate him. Now there is. We need a warrant for all the records, because I think he’s the one who falsified the banking records that enabled the embezzlement. Bankers are under intense scrutiny, but they also are knowledgeable about how the system works and he could have made it look like Denise authorized the change to the account. He gave us that grainy photo plus his statement that she didn’t appear to be under distress—he did his part. Exactly what he was told to do.”
“Then where’s the money?”
“I think he was paid or blackmailed. I lean blackmail because he’s not living above his means and I don’t think he would have done it just for money.”
“That’s a quick moral assessment after a fifteen-minute conversation.”
Lucy was a bit hurt that Nate didn’t trust her psychological profile, but she probably should have given him more to go on.
“Yes, it is, and I shouldn’t have just walked out without discussing it with you. I want to watch him. Investigate him. If Max is right and Stanley Grant was threatened into confessing to Victoria’s murder, maybe Pollero was threatened into falsifying the financial authorization. Or blackmailed—because while Grant had been a gambler, Pollero could still be a gambler. And no one would want a banker to be a gambler … too great a risk to borrow money that doesn’t belong to you.”
Nate wasn’t completely appeased, but he no longer looked angry. “Maybe. But he might have talked if we pushed harder. He lied to us. I don’t like people lying to me.”
“Neither do I, Nate, and you’re right, he may have talked. But if he felt there was a threat to his family, I don’t think he would have given us everything, not without tangible proof of wrongdoing. And we can get it.”
“How?”
“He thought I was coaching him into what to say. It was a slight change in his tone, but he was relieved when he thought I gave him the answer that he had seen Denise that morning. When we threw the wrench out there that she might have already been dead, he didn’t know what to do—because his lie was falling apart. I’m a federal agent, yet he didn’t think it was odd that a federal agent was prompting him with a ‘correct’ answer. It was subtle, in his eyes, the way his body shifted, relaxed. He was relieved. And I got to thinking about the Young kids—and their animosity to law enforcement even though their parents hold no such animosity. They aren’t old enough to get it from peers, and their parents seem very religious and law-and-order. Former military, rules the kids follow, more freedom to roam over structured play. The kids should have liked us,
or at least been inquisitive. Where did they get that animosity? Specifically, why did Ginny ask such unusual questions? I think it was because Ricky had a run-in with a cop and he told her about it, passing his fear on to Ginny. And Pollero took instruction from a cop, so had no hesitation at letting me lead him. And you yourself didn’t want to share our theory about Ricky with the sheriff’s department because you thought they dropped the ball—or might have known something more about the case.”
“I don’t think I said that.”
“You didn’t have to, it was implied. Your instincts told you something was off, but you automatically assumed incompetence. Maybe it was incompetence, but now I’m leaning against it. We can’t trust them—but we can use that against them.”
“I was with you, but then you lost me.”
“We get Pollero to talk—and he will, if we stage it. Even if we have nothing to show him, a formal setting with the president of his bank, a white collar crime expert, and we can get him to tell us everything. But not there, not now. It’s his environment, and we might be able to fluster him, but he won’t tell the truth until we put him in a different setting.”
“I like it. Okay, let’s do it.”
“If I’m right, and a cop coached Pollero, he’ll tell us. It’s just a matter of the right approach.”
Chapter Nineteen
Max got off the phone with her producer and smiled at Sean, who was working on his laptop at her hotel desk.
“Sounded like Ben found something good,” Sean said without looking up.
“Harrison Monroe was suspected, never proven, of running an illegal gaming club at Texas A and M. The other name that came up?”
“Stanley Grant,” Sean guessed.
She shook her head. “Simon Mills.”
“Victoria’s brother? You think that her brother was involved in killing her?”
“I haven’t gone there yet, but the operation was quite well organized. One reason why Harrison got away with it is because he cultivated relationships—illegal relationships—with key staff and professors, getting them on tape either gambling or with college girls, girls that Harrison paid to flirt. No one could take him down without risking exposure.”
“Important people knew about his sideline.”
“He ran it for two years without incident. He trained his replacement, a kid by the name of Andy Tompkins, to take over for him but kept a cut as a ‘consulting fee.’ Andy was successful for a while, but when he blackmailed the wrong teacher he was expelled. It’s through Andy that Ben learned about Harrison. I’m actually fairly impressed with Ben that he tracked down this guy in less than twenty-four hours.”
“So am I,” Sean admitted.
“It’s who you know, and that’s what Harrison played on. He had a sixth sense, Andy said, about who to blackmail and who to stay away from. He was subtle and personable. He rarely had to use the blackmail card—it was unspoken that he knew information, and most staff who gambled didn’t want to get in trouble for it. He moved the games regularly, had a complex system for weeding out potential snitches, and he raked in tens of thousands of dollars a month.”
“Where did these kids get the money?”
“He targeted rich kids who had disposable income, though a few kids who had allowances lost a lot of money—apparently several had to leave school because they couldn’t afford to stay. Some kids gambled only what they could afford to lose.” Max eyed Sean. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you?”
“How could you know that?”
“I’m a good judge of character.” She assessed him. He wouldn’t play anything that he could lose. “You count cards,” she said. “Blackjack.”
“Counting cards is forbidden in casinos.”
But he was smiling. Of course he did it, because Sean was one of those guys who liked to game the system—and a system like gambling, which favored the house, Sean would want to beat.
“If I had engaged in such behavior, it was a long time ago.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To Harrison Monroe’s office. He’s in this morning. I’m going to talk to him.”
“Bad idea.”
“Good idea. I’ve been an investigative reporter for more than a decade. Sometimes being stealthy works. But I’ve found that the direct approach is usually the best approach.”
“If we’re right about Harrison Monroe, he has either killed or ordered to be killed six people and threatened others. He ordered an entire family to be executed, I don’t think he’ll have a problem killing a reporter.”
“But he can’t frame someone for my death or disappear my body.”
“Don’t count on that.”
Max was joking; Sean sounded too serious. “Trust me,” she said. “In this instance, going to him and just asking questions is going to help. I have a far greater chance of getting information because I’m going in as family, of sorts. If he’s keeping on top of this investigation, he knows that I came to San Antonio at the request of Victoria’s father because Stan recanted.”
“He could also know you talked to Stan.”
“Stan didn’t tell me much of anything, but going to Monroe and telling him what Stan said could give us more than we have now.”
“This is not going to end well. Your partner David scares me. If you get hurt, I don’t want to face him, or Ryan.”
She laughed. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m going to his office because it’s public, and I’m going in alone. But because I recognize that the situation might get dicey, I’ll let you listen in.”
Sean was shaking his head.
“You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you know how to turn my phone into a one-way speaker.”
He held out his hand and she put her phone in it. He did a few things that she couldn’t see, then said, “See this app here?”
She looked. “The Wine App? What’s that?”
“You drink wine like water, so if anyone looks at this they’ll think it’s literally an app about wine. But I created a shortcut. Press it and it turns your phone into a transmitter. I can hear everything on my phone. Record if I want, but I know that gets into a gray area.”
“We’re not using this in court. Record it.”
“We may not be able to let Lucy listen. It would become fruit from the poisonous tree.”
“I really detest rules.”
“Sometimes, so do I, but this one I’m all for—civil liberties and all those pesky rights we hold so dear.”
“No need for sarcasm, Rogan.”
“If you’re in trouble, like he’s talking nice but has a gun on you, say you’re late for a lunch meeting. I’ll be there.”
“How? Just going to sit in their waiting room?”
He smiled. “I’ll be around.”
* * *
Max went to Harrison Monroe’s office without an appointment. She knew he was in because she’d called earlier in the day and tricked the receptionist into giving out the information. But that was no guarantee that he would see her.
Max usually got exactly what she wanted, and today was no exception.
While at first the receptionist balked, Max gave her a business card and said she was here at the request of Grover Mills, the father of a murder victim who had once been engaged to Harrison Monroe. That was a small fib—Max didn’t know if they had been engaged. Grover had told her they dated for four years and had been talking about marriage, but when he took the job in Chicago, Victoria left him.
That may not have been true, either. Max had learned over the years that adult children often kept personal and romantic information from their parents.
She was betting on Monroe’s curiosity, as well as her family name. Most people in the high-end financial world knew of the Revere family. Her grandfather had been a banker, and her grandmother came from the Sterling family, who began with nothing but an idea and created substantial wealth. They parlayed one successful business into multiple others and invested
wisely.
Not five minutes after she sat down in the simple, classy waiting room—perfect for a company that handled tens of millions in client assets—an impeccably dressed young man came out and said quietly, “Ms. Revere? Mr. Monroe is ready to see you now. May I get you anything? Coffee, water, tea, sweet tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and followed the assistant.
Monroe had one of two corner offices in the suite. A sign of status and success. The office was as impeccable and classy as his assistant and reception area. He had his desk situated in the corner, so the River Walk could be seen behind him. Max could see her hotel from his view.
She didn’t know what to expect of Monroe. He had no social media presence, and the only photo Sean could find had been in his college yearbook, which showed a lean white male with dark hair and indeterminate eye color.
But she didn’t expect the soft-spoken, bespectacled gentleman in a thousand-dollar suit. He was shorter than she was, even if she weren’t wearing heels, yet stood tall as he greeted her. “Ms. Revere, I would have been happy to schedule an appointment at any time. Your reputation precedes you.”
“This is a spontaneous visit,” she said, and shook his extended hand. Soft hand, firm handshake.
He motioned toward a seating area with a long leather couch and two matching chairs. She sat in one chair; he sat opposite her on the couch. This was a man comfortable with his stature and position; he didn’t need to exhibit false images of being in charge by claiming his desk—which denoted power—or the chair, which was more formal than the couch. He wore his suit well; it was professionally tailored. His demeanor said wealth without screaming Money, something the truly wealthy who would entrust him with their money to invest would appreciate. His watch was a Piaget worth at least twenty thousand, Max noticed.
“I know you’re busy, so let me get to the point,” Max said. “I’m in San Antonio at the request of Grover Mills, Victoria Mills’s father. He asked me two months ago, after her murder, to help him understand the investigation and mediate with the local press after Stanley Grant pled guilty. I became familiar with the case. When Mr. Grant changed his plea, I asked to meet with him, and he agreed.”
Cut and Run Page 20
