by Julie Hyzy
“You can keep the letters.” He swung his hand behind us. “It’s the bank account statements I want to see.”
Never accuse Bart of being a sentimentalist. Had our situations been reversed, I would have killed to read my mother’s letters. “Okay, deal,” I said. I’d put in an expense report for the cost of duplication, looking forward to the look on Bass’s face when I presented it to him. This would be one hefty photocopy bill.
“But I’m keeping this,” Barton said, ripping his mother’s will from my grasp, with a look that dared me to object. “And the cash.” As though to underscore his meaning, he held tight to the document with both hands, pressing it to his chest. With what seemed to be enormous relief, he closed his eyes and muttered, “This is just what I need to keep that loan shark off my back.”
“Fine.” I bit back both my disappointment and a more harsh retort. “Just don’t lose it.”
“I won’t,” he said.
I believed him, but he had a peculiar gleam in his eye that I didn’t understand.
Chapter Twenty-two
When we got back to his car, Barton took off with his photocopies right away, crawling back into his hole at the Tuck Inn to count his money again, I supposed. I watched him go, then dragged the two shopping bags full of papers into my house, only to be greeting by the telephone’s shrill ring.
I picked it up in the kitchen without even checking Caller ID.
“Hello?”
David’s smooth voice came over the line, asking how my day had gone.
“You sound like you’ve been running,” he added.
Walking back to the living room, I took a deep breath to center myself. “I have been, in a way. I just came home. Haven’t even closed the front door yet.” Punctuating that remark, I pushed it shut with a slam. “There,” I said, smiling. “Now I’m in.”
“Where were you all day? I tried calling you twice.”
I opened my mouth to tell him, then stopped myself. “I spent a little time with my sister,” I said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, and I embellished on the truthful parts. “I haven’t spent nearly enough time with her since she’s been home.”
“Do anything special?”
The fact that David had told me Mrs. Vicks had left her entire estate to Barton still had me rattled. Until I could sort out the truth here, I didn’t want to share what I knew with anyone other than Detective Lulinski. Making a mental note to call him next, I avoided David’s question by deflection. “Not really. Tomorrow, though, she and I plan to spend the day together.”
David made a regretful-sounding noise. “The whole day?”
Making my tone sounds just as regretful, I said, “Pretty much,” then added, “She wants to go downtown. I’m there every day, but for her it’s something exciting and new. We’ll find plenty to keep us busy, I’m sure.”
“She might enjoy Navy Pier,” he suggested. “I know I did.”
“Actually,” I said, almost to myself. “She might. Thanks. That’s a good idea.”
“ I could always meet you both there. For lunch, perhaps?”
I’d been about to reply that Lucy wanted time alone with me, but he interrupted.
“Tell you what,” he said in a hopeful voice, “I’ll call you tomorrow after I get a few things squared away. Don’t rearrange any plans on my account, but let’s keep our options open, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing I’d probably decline. Lucy needed one-on-one time.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
I left a quick message on Lulinski’s voicemail and then glanced at the kitchen clock. The lunch Aunt Lena had prepared was long gone and I was starting to feel hunger pains again. No doubt I could stop by to pick up Lucy and scrounge some dinner over there, but the bagged files clawed at my consciousness. I couldn’t ignore them.
After a quick phone call to my aunt, I pulled out the files and tried to make sense of the copies of bank records and hand-written notes Mrs. Vicks had seen fit to keep under lock and key.
Two hours later, the phone jarred me out of my concentration.
“What’s up?” Lulinski asked.
I hadn’t gone into deep detail in my phone message, but I did so now. I told him about the letters, the will, and now the files I was sorting through.
“What do you make of it?” Lulinski asked. “You haven’t seen the more recent will, have you?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’m going on David Dewars’ recollections. I have no idea if he’s got the story straight or not. Maybe she did change her will. My gut tells me she didn’t. But . . .”
“But?”
“There’s more here.” I scratched my head, vaguely aware that it’d become dark outside. “What time is it?” I asked, even as my gaze strayed to my clock.
“Eight-thirty,” Lulinski answered. “Why. What’s on your mind?”
“Honestly,” I said, hesitating. “I’m not sure.”
“You found something else in the safe deposit box.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. “Want me to come by?”
“It’s late. You’ve been at this all day.”
“So have you.”
“Yeah,” I answered, acknowledging his point. “But Mrs. Vicks was a friend and I have a personal interest in finding answers here.”
Lulinski was silent.
“You there?” I asked.
When he answered, he spoke in a low voice. “Don’t you think I have a personal interest in solving all my homicides, too?”
I winced, grateful he couldn’t see me. “Sorry.”
“The offer still stands. You want me to come by tonight?”
“There’s someone I really need to talk to first.” I hedged telling him more, since all I had were questions, and only guesses at their answers. “How about I call you after that, and we’ll go over everything.”
“Okay. You have my number. Oh, and Alex . . .”
“Yeah?”
“We got a line on Grady. He’s been spotted in Michigan.”
“I thought you didn’t suspect him in the murder.”
“What I said was that we didn’t find his blood type at the crime scene,” Lulinski said. “There’s the possibility he was working with an accomplice and that’s whose blood we found.” He grunted. “Keeping our options open.”
David had used that exact phrase with me earlier in a totally different context and the echo of his words coming from Lulinski felt odd.
“Plus,” Lulinski continued. “I’m planning to nail him for accosting you in the parking lot. The sooner we bring him in, the better.”
* * * * *
For some reason, I’d anticipated getting Maya Richardson’s answering machine, when I called her at home. I hesitated contacting her, particularly since I didn’t want to do anything to upset the FDIC investigation currently going on at the bank, but the records in front of me appeared to deal with a different matter entirely. With her name penciled onto the top file by Mrs. Vicks, Maya seemed like my best bet.
The familiar phone prefix and exchange gave me the impression that she lived in the south suburbs, probably near Palos Hospital. She picked it up on the third ring.
“Maya, this is Alex St. James. We met the other day?” I put it as a question, hoping she remembered.
“Alex, yes of course,” she said.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” I began.
“That’s all right,” she said with automatic politeness. “What’s up?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, “I’m not sure. I have some files here—”
“Are you at the bank?”
“I’m at home.”
I could hear wariness creep into her voice. “Owen let you take bank files home with you?”
I took a deep breath. “No.” I explained the circumstances that brought the files to my possession. She was mostly silent during my narrative, offering up an uncertain, “Okay,” that I knew meant more to prompt me along than to agree
with anything. I left out the fact that I’d made copies that Barton now possessed.
“I have an idea of what some of this means,” I said. All of a sudden this phone call felt lame; my expectation that she’d be able to sort through all my questions, without seeing the records, was the work of a pie-eyed idealist, not the ace researcher I tried to be. Knowing it’d be a tough sell to pull her out on a Saturday night, I forged ahead. “But I’m not sure if the conclusions I’m coming to are solid, or way off. If it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, could I meet you somewhere to get your ideas?”
Her thoughtful silence over the phone made me believe I’d lost her. “Tonight?” she asked.
“Well . . .yes.” I’d been about to hedge, to suggest that we get together Monday after work, but I knew that my questions couldn’t wait, and I still had Bass on my back, waiting for me to cough up a story. “I realize it’s a Saturday night, and you’ve probably got a million things you’d rather do, but—”
She cut me off, her voice skeptical. “You think this has something to do with why Evelyn was murdered?”
“I honestly don’t know. That’s why I need help here.”
Sensing that she was choosing the right words to decline, I clenched my eyes shut for a split second, worried about the chance I was about to take. “Listen,” I said, “do you know why the bank is being audited by the FDIC?”
“Because we’re due for an audit.”
“That’s not the whole story,” I said. I took a deep breath, and decided to go for it. “They’re investigating you.”
“What? Me?”
“Please,” I said. “I promise not to take much of your time. Is there a restaurant or something near you where we can talk?”
“What exactly do you have there? What kinds of files did you find?”
For a half-second, the antagonism in her voice made me wonder if she was, indeed, involved in some embezzling scheme at the bank, but my gut told me differently.
“I’m no banker—”
“What did you find?”
I took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know what some of this is. If I’m putting it together correctly, it looks like you’ve set up an elaborate scheme to siphon money out of the bank, but,” I added that in before she could interrupt, “a couple of things don’t fit that scenario. I think you’re being set up. Let me show you, okay?”
I took her silence to mean she was considering my proposition. Wanting to tip the scales my direction, I added, “I could be out your direction in twenty minutes.” Closer to thirty, I thought, but I’d push.
“Okay,” she said at last. “But I have to tell you, I’m not real happy to be thinking you’re considering me a suspect here.”
“I’m not,” I said. “If I did, you’re the last person I’d talk to.”
* * * * *
Twenty-five minutes later, having grabbed a cheeseburger and iced tea at the fastest drive-thru I knew, I rang Maya’s doorbell. When she’d finally agreed to meet me, she suggested I come to her home rather than discuss bank business in a public place. I had an initial feeling of unease about that, but I attributed my nervousness to the fact that I might be on the verge of finally coming up with some solid leads.
On the drive over, just to be safe, I phoned Detective Lulinski to tell him my plans. I’d learned, the hard way, not to put myself in compromising positions without a backup plan. I got his voicemail, which was just as well. I had no doubt he’d try to talk me out of my visit, or worse, he’d want to accompany me. I knew in my gut that I’d get a lot more information from Maya girl-to-girl, than with a detective listening in.
Maya opened the door, not smiling, but the looseness of her hair, released from its customary pulled-back style, framed her dark face giving her a softer appearance. She wore a belted silk robe in an African pattern, and her feet were bare. I offered a smile, relieved at least, to see that she wasn’t in a hurry to go out.
Coffee-colored eyes bore into me, not with the furtive apprehension of a guilty party, but with a pointed anger—”kill the messenger” rang out loud and clear.
Her house was small, as Palos Park homes went, but it was still at least twice the size of mine. An affluent suburb of Chicago, Palos boasted sprawling mansions deep in wooded cul-de-sacs. Maya’s brick ranch must have cost her a fortune, though it was certainly not out of the reach of a Loop bank vice-president’s salary.
“Forgive the mess,” she said, the way a woman always will, when faced with a surprise guest, even if her house is pristine. “Just moved in a few months ago,” she said, gesturing around the older home. “Didn’t get much done, yet.”
“I really am very sorry to bother you,” I said again, taking in my surroundings as quickly as I could. Framed prints sat atop the back of her sofa, leaning against the wall, in preview of their placements. The musty smell of the home’s past lives relaxed me. Not a pretentious house, it was sturdy, creaky with promise, and just waiting for its new owner’s personal touch. “This is lovely,” I said, meaning it.
“Let’s sit in the dining room, the light’s better,” she said. She moved with wary impatience, as though she both wanted to know, yet was afraid to see what damaging evidence I held in the papers I carried close.
Chapter Twenty-three
“The bastard!”
Maya stood up from the chair she’d taken just over an hour ago. Her exclamation bellowed in the otherwise quiet room, where we’d been discussing the records in whispers, as though some unseen entity might overhear.
She paced the dining room, her bare feet making angry “whumps” as she strode over the creaky wooden floor, head down, her loosened hair shaking from side to side.
I waited.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she said. Stealing a look up at me, she cringed, her eyes imploring, as though I could somehow make all this go away. She fingered the gold cross hanging from the chain around her neck. “Lord Jesus, help me in my time of need,” she said, her voice cracking.
We’d just finished reading a letter written by Owen Riordan, addressed to the Banner Bank human resources manager, with copies to Maya’s personnel file and to David Dewars. In the letter, Owen voiced his concerns about Maya’s honesty and reliability, and stated that he suspected she was attempting to perpetrate a huge scam from her position in the loan department. The peculiar thing was that the letter was dated over three weeks in the future, but I’d found it in Mrs. Vicks safe deposit box.
Maya nodded, a glint of anger making an appearance behind her wet eyes. “I’m not going to let him set me up—I swear.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s exactly the attitude we need.” I picked up my pen and looked at her pointedly. “Now, talk. Let’s go over what we’ve got here one more time.”
Tugging her robe tighter around her slight frame, she nodded, her gaze already dancing over the papers on the table, stopping long enough for her to grab the hand-lettered page Mrs. Vicks had seen fit to create.
“I still can’t believe all this,” Maya said, holding onto a corner of the legal sheets, “Banner Bank opened ‘Line of Affluence’ accounts for dozens . . . no, more than that . . . hundreds of people who probably never knew they applied for the accounts.”
“You’re sure?”
“No,” she said, “but it makes sense. Look,” she said, digging to find the copy of a computer printout Mrs. Vicks had made with tiny blue ink checkmarks in the column adjacent to many of the names. “Here. Every one of the people Evelyn indicated on this list has a Chicago area PO Box as an address. That’s the first clue that they’re bogus. You always get a home address when you’re issuing a loan. Always. It’d be stupid not to.”
I took the copies from her as she continued.
“These people,” she tapped the yellow sheets this time, “according to Evelyn’s notes, are nursing home residents. From all across the country. Their names and socials match up to the files, but I doubt they’d apply for this kind of loan. We marketed this program to young
, urban professionals. Retired seniors are far different from our target demographic. And yet,” she sighed with quiet incredulity, “every one has my name on it as approving their application.”
“But you didn’t approve them, did you?”
Her eyes jumped, her voice shot out angry—defensive. “I’ve never even seen these before tonight—how could I have approved them?”
“Hey,” I said, in a soothing voice, “I’m on your side.”
Her expression shifted; she leaned forward, pulling tight at the front of the robe again, covering protectively. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why are you on my side? Why didn’t you just take all this information and bring it to Owen?”
“Because . . .” I met her eyes, “I knew better.”
I could almost see her brain working behind narrowed eyes, so I explained. “Remember that day you tried to rescue me from the bowels of the vault department?”
She nodded.
I held up the copy of the computer printout to show her the scrawled message: Approved: M. Richardson – Please File. “The note you wrote that day—completely different handwriting than this.”
Canting her head, her voice went up a notch. “You can recognize peoples’ handwriting? After one look?”
I smiled at that, and for the first time since I’d arrived, I felt a small amount of tension drift away. “No, but I do remember thinking that your handwriting didn’t match your personality.” I held out a hand her direction. “You’re energetic and outgoing. Your note looked like it was written—no offense—by a timid third-grader.”
Leaning back in her chair she let go a short laugh. “Thank the nuns for that. They used to crack the rulers against my desk and scare the living daylights out of me if I didn’t keep my letters small and legible.” With a wistful smile, she added, “I guess I never realized I’d be so glad they were tough on me, huh?” She narrowed her eyes again. “That’s it? You came out all this way, and took a chance because of some handwriting?”
