The Betrayal

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  15

  Back in the Game

  Monday, February 8, 12:30 p.m.

  Boone’s plan upon leaving the party was to nose around at Haeley’s bank. Apparently the same employee had processed both deposits to her account, and he wanted to see what the teller remembered.

  But on his way out, Boone found himself having to work through a phalanx of partygoers who all seemed to be looking for their coats and saying their good-byes. He overheard Jack Keller confirm with Pete Wade that they had a one o’clock meeting.

  It was innocuous and should have been inconsequential, but if Boone Drake was anything, he was a trained observer who followed his hunches. Something gave him pause. Hurrying out, tugging his parka over his slinged shoulder, he began rehearsing what wasn’t adding up.

  Pete Wade was punctual to a fault. Boone had never known him to be late for anything—a meeting, a ride, a stakeout, a dinner, anything. So what?

  Well, Pete was helping his wife put on her coat, and he was wearing his. Was he just walking her to her car? They lived in Naperville, farther away than CPD regulations allowed, but apparently winked at by the brass due to Wade’s years on the job and pristine record. But there was no way he could run her home and get back in time for a one o’clock meeting, nearly sixty miles round trip.

  Was Boone overly suspicious? He wasn’t about to dismiss anything. He hurried to his car and pulled around the corner to where he could see the exit of the CPD parking garage. The effort nearly spent him. He sat panting, shoulder aching, lung stabbing, breath fogging his window as Mrs. Lamonica’s car fought to heat up.

  He was watching for Commander Wade’s black, late-model, top-of-the-line Toyota Avalon sedan. And here it came. Boone was suddenly overcome with self-doubt. What was the matter with him? Wade could easily be dropping his wife anywhere. A store? Her own lunch date? But why hadn’t they driven separately if he had a post-party meeting? Surely Thelma Wade had her own car.

  Boone hung back a block, grateful for a fogged-up windshield and, of course, the out-of-state plates. Pete Wade was a trained observer too, but the last thing he would suspect was to be followed now.

  A little more than ten minutes later Boone followed Pete Wade off the Kennedy Expressway to Ohio Street, where he exited and drove into the River North area. Boone nearly lost him at a light on LaSalle but saw the Avalon turn onto a tree-lined street. He pulled around the corner just in time to see Wade head down an alley leading to a motorized gate that opened as he neared it.

  Hanging back in the shadows, Boone had an unobstructed view of the Wades’ car. It didn’t appear the couple were looking at each other, let alone talking. Pete stopped before a row of garage doors that served a block-long complex of high-end, three-story brownstones. He reached to his sun visor and one of the doors opened, revealing a white matching version of his car. Boone memorized the license number.

  Mrs. Wade left the car, seemingly without a word, and appeared to stride wearily into the garage. Pete pulled away out the other end of the alley long before the garage door closed, so Boone assumed his wife had hit a switch from inside. Boone was only guessing, but because Pete had clearly triggered the automatic gate and door, it appeared this was no visit. These people lived here.

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “This is Keller.”

  “Jack, where does Pete Wade live?”

  “Naperville. It’s no secret. And don’t make anything of it. CPD is aware and unwilling to make an issue of it.”

  “You ever been to his place?”

  “No. They aren’t really that social.”

  “You know the address?”

  “I could get it, but what’re you gonna do with it? I mean, he’s in the phone book.”

  “Okay, great.”

  “Boones, don’t go there.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do, ring the bell?”

  “Then what?”

  “Just curious. Does he also have a place in Chicago?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Where are you going with this?”

  “What kind of money would Pete make? . . . You there, Jack?”

  Keller swore. “C’mon, Boones. What’re you up to?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Over a hundred and fifty thou. Maybe close to two hundred. Now leave him alone. I know you don’t like what he’s got on Haeley—”

  That was the understatement of the year. “Thanks for the info.”

  “I told you nothing; remember that.”

  “Remember what?”

  “That’s my boy. You know you should be as far from this investigation as you can get.”

  “And you know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  Before pulling out, Boone called Fritz Zappolo.

  “Sorry, sir, he’s with a client.”

  “I have just one question.”

  Sigh. “Hold please.”

  When Zappolo came on, he was agitated. “You’ve got to let me handle my other cases since I’m doing yours basically free.”

  “I know. Sorry. Let me give you an address. All I want to know is the property value.”

  “Like I’ve got time for that.”

  “Fritz. You’ve got hot and cold running secretaries. Put one of ’em on it and have her call me. Should take all of five minutes. You’ve got my number.”

  Boone left his phone open and set it on the passenger seat, then headed for Haeley’s bank. If a call came, all he would have to do was hit Answer and Speaker. By the time he reached the bank parking lot more than half an hour later, however, only two calls had come. One had been from Haeley and the other from Francisco Sosa. Bad as it made him feel, Boone had immediately hung up on both calls.

  As he sat in the parking lot, Boone called the bank, identified himself as a CPD detective, and asked to talk to the manager. He was informed she was not in and was redirected to the assistant manager.

  When the man came on, he eschewed pleasantries and demanded to know “what this is about.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes and would like to talk with the teller who processed the two deposits into Haeley Lamonica’s account on January—”

  “I know when it was, Detective. We have already been through this, answered all the department’s questions and—as you probably know—the questions of the US Attorney’s office, too.”

  “Just routine follow-up, sir. Sorry.”

  “That’s what it always is. We’re not a big branch. Our margins are slim. Our people are stretched and overworked. I can’t afford to have them away from their stations all the time—”

  “I’ll handle this with the utmost dispatch.”

  “How long?”

  “No promises, but it should be just a few minutes.”

  “No promises?”

  “Only to be as brief as I can.”

  “She’s about to go on break. I’ll have Mrs. Archibald in my office, and I’ll be prepared to give you some privacy.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Like I’ve got a choice. It’s this or a warrant, right?”

  “Probably so. Thanks for cooperating.”

  “Whatever.”

  Boone called Pastor Sosa and apologized for having been unavailable. “Not a problem, Boone. Just checking in. You okay?”

  “Matter of fact, I’m not and could use a little of your time.”

  “You say when. I have meetings this evening but I’m available late.”

  “I hate to ask that. You’ve got a family, and—”

  “They’ll be asleep, and I’m taking tomorrow off to spend with them. Where do you want to meet?”

  Boone hesitated. Talk about hating to ask . . . “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of running today, and I’m pretty wiped out.”

  “Your place, then. Ten okay?”

  “You’ll forgive me if I doze off?”

  “No.”

  That got Boone’s attention. “Really?”
/>
  “I’m kidding, but I’m coming at your request, bro. Take a nap before I get there.”

  “You got it.”

  He called Haeley. “I was driving; sorry.”

  “Boone, has Zappolo told you that I may have to go back in? This time to the MCC.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s what the US Attorney wants is all I know. I told Mr. Zappolo that if he didn’t want his client to disappear he’d better guarantee my mother can take custody of Max.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “He told me not to worry about incarceration yet. He just wanted me to plan ahead. I said, ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ Golden-tongued hotshot didn’t know what to say.”

  “I’m on it, Haeley; that’s all I can tell you. Can I ask you something, though?”

  “Always. Boone, if you don’t know I have no secrets from you, you don’t know me at all. You know me, don’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. What do you want to know?”

  “You told me you never even socialized with Garrett Fox.”

  “Yes?”

  “How about Pete Wade? . . . Haeley?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m asking about Pete Wade.”

  Her voice suddenly sounded flat. “And what are you asking?”

  “Did you ever socialize with Pete Wade, ever have a meal with him?”

  “Only with you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When you came on board, we all went to the Chop House for lunch. You, me, Chief Galloway, Jack, and Pete.”

  “Never another time anywhere? During the workday or otherwise?”

  “What, you want me to take a polygraph?”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Well, I hope not too. But listen to me, Boone. I’ll submit to anything anytime anywhere, but I won’t take a polygraph to convince you. If you don’t believe me, our future doesn’t exist. You got that?”

  He hesitated in spite of himself.

  “Boone, tell me you believe me.”

  “You’re saying zero socializing with either Fox or Wade.”

  “Ask me again and I’ll hang up on you.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  And she hung up on him anyway.

  Boone was about to get out of the car when his phone chirped and he recognized the number.

  “Drake.”

  “Sir, this is Stephanie from Zappolo and Associates. I have the information you requested. The real estate values in question are as follows: there are eight virtually identical brownstones connected on that block. They are all the same age and basic layout, though some have been upgraded, some not. Three have been sold within the last two years. Three others have sold twice in ten years. That is the only reason for the disparity in the values. Anyway, the units are valued at a low of 1.3 million and a high of 1.6. One is currently for sale at 1.75 but is not expected to sell for more than a million and a half.”

  “Very helpful.” Boone gave Stephanie the address he had seen above the garage Mrs. Wade entered.

  “Recently remodeled. Valued at just over 1.5.”

  “Is there a name associated with that unit?”

  He heard her leafing through papers. “The owner is listed as Thelma Johnson.”

  “No kidding. Can you do me one more favor, Stephanie?”

  “If I’m able.”

  “Check the property value on an address in Naperville.”

  “If it’s in the public record, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Problem is, I don’t know the address. I just have a name. Peter Wade.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  1:45 p.m.

  When Boone entered the bank, the assistant manager emerged from his glassed-in office and said, “Drake?”

  Boone nodded and showed his ID.

  “Mrs. Archibald is right there. I’ll make myself scarce.”

  The woman proved to be a massive Texan who spilled out of her chair. As she accepted Boone’s handshake and introduced herself with a thick accent, his phone rang again. “Excuse me just a moment.”

  It was Stephanie. “You know, Detective,” she said, “there are several Wades in Naperville, but no Peters.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Something jumped out at me, though. A house purchased nearly nine years ago for $890,000 is in the name of Thelma Johnson. Seemed an interesting coincidence.”

  “Sure does. What would that place be worth today?”

  “Thought you might ask. Similar homes in the neighborhood increased a hundred percent in nine years, then lost value during the recession. Looks like most of them are valued at about a million and a half now.”

  She gave him the address.

  “I owe you, Stephanie.”

  “Anytime, sir.”

  16

  Digging

  “This is so excitin’,” Mrs. Archibald said, her perfume overwhelming Boone. She had huge rosy cheeks she apparently felt should not go unadorned, and her rouge was clownish. “I’ve never been interviewed by so many legal officials. And you’re also with the police department?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boone said, draping his parka over the back of a chair. He was aware Mrs. Archibald was staring at his shoulder-holstered Beretta, normally hidden by a suit coat. He sat and balanced his notepad on his knee, trying to manage it all with one hand.

  “My goodness, what happened to you?”

  “Wasn’t watching where I was going. I’m a klutz.”

  She trilled a laugh. “That makes two of us. I fell gettin’ out of the shower the other day. Bruised my hip something awful.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Now, who else have you talked with, Mrs. Archibald?”

  “Well, the first was also a policeman. An African American gentleman. I don’t recall his name.”

  “Older, white-haired?”

  “That’s him! And he had a younger officer with him, also black, in uniform.”

  “His name?”

  “I don’t think he was introduced.”

  “And then?”

  “A couple of younger people from maybe the State’s Attorney’s office?”

  “Could it have been the US Attorney’s office?”

  “Yes, sir, it surely could have been, not that I would know the difference. It was a man and a woman, certainly still in their twenties. I think they told me they were legal assistants.”

  “Well, I apologize if this is redundant. I know it can be frustrating to have to rehearse the same thing over and over.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind! Makes me feel special.”

  “Let me make this quick, ma’am. I understand you processed both Ms. Lamonica’s deposits on the day in question.”

  “I did. I’ve waited on her before. Nice young lady.”

  “And what do you remember? Did she make both deposits at the same time?”

  “Oh no. She only made the one. Her paycheck.”

  “Is that right? And what about the other? Who made that transaction?”

  “Her uncle. He’s so sweet. She wasn’t gone five minutes when he got in my line, even though there were shorter ones. I was puzzled till he told me what was going on. So precious.”

  “And what was going on, ma’am?”

  “Well, he wanted me because he knew I’d waited on her. I think he’d actually been waiting out of sight.”

  “Is that so?” Boone was scribbling, hoping he’d be able to read his own writing.

  “He was the cutest little thing. Well, not little, but short, know what I mean?”

  “Not little?”

  “Stocky, I’d say. He was wearing a hat, but he had really dark hair, maybe black.”

  “How old would you guess?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Thirties? Maybe five years older than you.”

  “And he made a deposit to Ms. Lamonica’s account?”

  “He did. He didn’t quite know how to go about it. He
said he was her uncle and that he wanted to surprise her. He didn’t have her account number or anything, and he wanted to do it in cash.”

  Boone looked up. “Cash?”

  “He pulled out a little envelope from another bank, like the ones we use when we give people more than ten bills.”

  “What bank?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. Sorry. I just noticed it wasn’t one of ours. Anyway, he had fifty hundred-dollar bills, and he was kinda shy about it. He kept it right in front of him, you know, like he didn’t want anybody else knowing his business. He asked me if there was any way he could just have it deposited into his niece’s account. He even said something like, ‘I know you can’t be giving out any of her information, but if I could just get a receipt that proves I did this . . .’

  “I told him he surely could. I took the money, counted it out for the cameras, filled out a receipt with just the last few digits of her account number on it, then turned my monitor around—covering the confidential information with my hand, of course—and showed him her name and the deposit. I was careful not to even show him her balance. I mean, I didn’t doubt he was her uncle. Who else would give somebody an anonymous gift like that? But I’m not to give out any information on any of our customers without their permission, unless, you know, it’s to law-enforcement officials.”

  “I really appreciate this. Anything else?”

  “Well, yes, there was something. I know he didn’t like being touched.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, it’s just something silly I’ve got in trouble with before, and I’m working on it. I’m a toucher. Sometimes, like with an elderly person or a child, if they seem lonely or scared or something, when I’m thanking them for their business, sometimes I’ll just squeeze their hand. One old man reported me.” Here she whispered. “Frankly, I think he’s one of those germophobes, you know? My boss told me to be careful of people’s personal space. Like I say, I’m working on it.”

  “And you touched Ms. Lamonica’s, uh, uncle?”

  “I couldn’t help myself. He was just so sweet. I wish I could see her face when she checks her balance. You just know she’s gonna call, all worried about the mistake. But I put a note in her file so whoever checks it will be able to tell her it was an anonymous gift and totally hers.”