“Could you give us the name and number for the landlord?” Madison took a stab at it being a rental.
Smith seemed to consider the question for several seconds. “One minute.” She retreated down a hall behind her and called out, “You two stay right there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Madison mumbled under her breath.
Smith returned a few minutes later and handed Terry a piece of lined paper with swirly handwriting on it.
He held it up and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Smith smiled and added, “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”
“Thank you.”
The door was slowly closed in their faces.
Back in the car, Madison positioned her fingers over the keyboard of the on-board laptop. “Landlord’s name and number?” she prompted Terry.
He gave her the name of Jerrod Stevens and his phone number.
She keyed it in. “All right. He’s only a few blocks from here.” She put the car into gear and took them to the landlord’s house.
They were knocking on his front door about ten minutes later, and after the third time, it was obvious the landlord wasn’t home. She turned on the stoop and looked over the street. The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a rich blue. A gorgeous day for March. Even the temperature was mild. It was like the weather mocked her mood. She was with Terry, working the case, but her thoughts kept slipping to Troy and that ring he had hidden away in the laundry room. What had made him change his mind? Or was he just waiting for the perfect time? Somehow the latter assured her and lightened her heart, soothed her stomach. She could understand that Cynthia’s wedding wasn’t the ideal time for him to propose, but he’d had three weeks since then to ask her, and he hadn’t.
The other thing killing her was seeing Roman Petrov’s name attached to the address for the mystery woman, but it wasn’t like she could sneak off and probe that any further right now.
She glanced back at the house, disappointed that Stevens wasn’t home, but she and Terry weren’t without leads. She glanced at the clock; it was going on eleven. “I think we should go talk to Carson’s banker, Alan Lowe. According to Lana Barrett, Carson added Abbott to her bank accounts and her mortgage. He may have gone to the bank for this to happen. Lowe might have Abbott’s details—”
“Except you’re forgetting that by his nature he’s a fraud. He very well could have provided fake ID with a fake address.”
“God, this is frustrating.”
“Since when does a lack of answers frustrate you?”
She glanced over at him ready to say, “Always,” but he was smiling.
“All the time,” he said in response to what had been a rhetorical question.
She waved him off. “Here’s the thing, I believe Saul Abbott would have had to give the bank something in the way of identification to be added to Carson’s account. We go have a talk with them, see if they’ll let us look.”
“Worth a try, I suppose, but can we stop for a bite to eat or a coffee? There’s a Starbucks a couple blocks over.”
She drove there, quite certain she wouldn’t be able to stomach a coffee or a cappuccino. But if she went in and got their order, she’d have some time alone to call her doctor’s office without Terry over her shoulder.
“I’ll go in,” she volunteered as she parked. “The usual drink?”
“Sounds good to me.”
He loved hazelnut caps.
“And to eat?”
“Turkey breast and swiss on rye.”
“You got it.” She went inside the coffee shop and got in line, then placed her call to her doctor’s office. She got through on the second ring and booked an appointment for four that afternoon. She should have just enough time to get from there to her shrink’s by five. It could be pushing it, but Dr. Talmadge usually saw his patients right on the mark.
She got Terry’s order and a chocolate chip muffin for herself, seeing as she’d left the cranberry muffin at the station. She handed Terry his coffee and sandwich and settled behind the wheel.
“Where’s yours?” Terry held up his cup.
“I’m coffeed out, but I was hungry.” That was the truth. Now if she could just keep it down…
“I’d say you’re feeling better, but a coffee limit?” Terry took a sip of his drink, then said, “You’re still not feeling well, are you?”
She sighed and smacked the sides of her hands on the steering wheel, stared out the windshield.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Terry.” That’s all she could get out, a warning, a plea to stop pressing her about her health, to stop worrying, to stop causing her to panic.
He raised his hands in surrender, which she caught out of her peripheral vision. “Excuse me for caring,” he mumbled.
“I’m sure I’m fine. Everyone gets a little bug now and then. It’s not the end of the world.”
“But you made a doctor’s appointment?” He started unwrapping his sandwich.
“I will,” she said, hating herself for lying. It was one thing for Terry to follow up on her making an appointment and another for him to know when it was—he’d be persistent in finding out the results.
-
Twenty-Seven
I’m sorry, but Mr. Lowe is in a meeting with clients at the moment.” Brittany, the woman who was seated behind the customer service counter of Stiles Investment and Savings, was in her early twenties and had a bright smile when they’d arrived. After Madison had introduced herself and Terry as police detectives, she became more reserved.
Madison tapped the edge of her badge on the counter, softly, just enough that Brittany’s gaze went to Madison’s hand. “When is he scheduled to be finished?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Normally, Madison wouldn’t accept waiting, but if she did, then Alan Lowe might be more willing to cooperate and possibly even show them documents without requiring a warrant. Sometimes playing nice had advantages. “We’ll wait. Please let him know we’re here.”
Brittany watched as Madison tucked her badge away and met Madison’s eyes. “I will,” she said.
“Thank you.” Madison grabbed Lowe’s card from a holder, then said, “We’ll be right over there.” She wiggled a finger in the direction of a small grouping of chairs positioned in the central area of the bank.
“Okay.” Brittany smiled, or at least a small touch of one brightened her face.
Terry leaned in toward Madison and spoke low. “Impressive. You can be patient.”
“There’s that whole flies-with-honey thing.” She rolled her eyes and took a seat. Her stomach tossed, but it was for hunger not nausea for a change. Terry had swallowed his sandwich in a few bites, and she started thinking about the chocolate chip muffin in the car. But she couldn’t chance munching it down and having it come back to haunt her. In less than fifteen minutes, she’d be speaking with Alan Lowe in financial advising. She looked at his card.
Lowe’s face had been slapped on there, and Madison held it for Terry to see. Lowe was thirtysomething and wearing wire-rimmed glasses with small lenses that seemed to get lost on his doughy, round face.
Madison crossed her legs and watched people in the bank go about their business. All different ages, body types, faces, but the more she observed, the more they blended.
“Detective Knight?” A man stepped toward them. His gaze was on Terry when he spoke.
“That’s me.” Madison stood.
“My apology for the assumption. I’m Alan Lowe.” He extended his hand to her.
No glasses, and he’d shrunk since the photo was taken for his card. He had sunken cheekbones and defined jaw lines. His suit draped on his frame as if he’d misjudged his size, still thinking of himself as being bigger than he was.
“I’ve been watching my carbs,” he said.
Madison feigned confusion at his remark. “What—”
“You’re just looking at me surprised I don’t look like my card.” He pointed to the one in her hand. “I’ve been petitioning for new ones for a while now. I’ve lost a hundred pounds. Eating better and exercising thirty minutes, six days a week. It took me a year and a half to do it, but…” He let his words taper off to nothing.
“It’s obvious the hard work and dedication paid off. Congratulations.” It had taken her the equal amount of time to burn off the last stubborn twenty. Though her habit of consuming Hershey’s bars had probably played a role in that. Still, his weight loss was impressive.
“Thank you.” His gaze drifted to Terry again.
“Detective Grant,” Terry said.
Lowe nodded. To Madison, he said, “I got your message and intended to call today. Guess that won’t be necessary now.” He looked at a young couple who had just sat down nearby. He smiled at them and went over. “Something’s come up, and I’ll just be a few minutes late for our meeting. If you’d like water or coffee, Brittany would be happy to get either for you.”
The woman smiled and nodded. The man said, “Thank you.”
Lowe returned to Madison and Terry. “All right, follow me.” He took them into his office and gestured to two chairs across from his desk. After he got settled, he regarded them silently, apparently waiting for them to reveal the purpose of their visit.
“Unfortunately, we have some bad news about a former client of yours,” Madison began. “Chantelle Carson was found murdered on Saturday.”
Lowe let out a gasp. “Oh.”
“We appreciate that must come as a shock,” she said.
“You could say that. Wow.”
“We found your name and number on a piece of paper in her pocket,” Madison disclosed. “Do you know why she might have had that?”
“Ms. Carson has been a client of Stiles Investment and Savings for many years. For an exact length of time, I can look it up if you’d like.” His eyes darted to the computer monitor.
“Please,” Madison said, and Lowe proceeded to click on his keyboard.
After a few seconds, he looked up and said, “She’s been with us for twenty-five years. Most of that with her husband and then in the last two years on her own.”
“On her own,” Madison started. “So no one else had access to her money?”
He peered at the monitor again. “Actually, Chantelle added someone by the name of Saul Abbott six months ago.”
Just hearing this from the banker made it sink in that Abbott must have held real power over Carson. She’d invited him to move in after a month and added him to her accounts after two. Sad really.
Lowe sat back and frowned. He clasped his hands across his lap, his arms out as if to accommodate the extra weight he used to carry. “Not sure if I should say this, but the reason she probably had my number on her was that I’ve been working with her, trying to get her approved for some financing. She ran into some money problems and was trying to work out repayment.”
“Money problems? Can you clarify?” Madison wanted to know what Lowe’s take was on Carson’s financial situation.
“Her bank accounts were tapped out, her credit card was maxed, and her mortgage went into default. She ended up selling her house, but for less than what she owed. I managed to get her loan for the balance of that amount—at least she wouldn’t be saddled with the entire debt load.”
Lowe was presenting himself a good guy—and he’d done a decent thing—but extending credit would have been in the best interest of the bank, more than concern about Carson. She was surprised, though, by how easily Lowe was parting with this information. “And this sort of activity was unusual for her? The maxed-out card, etcetera?”
“Absolutely. She always had money in her accounts, and she never carried a balance on her credit card.”
“And when did that change?” Madison was quite sure she knew when but wanted to hear it from the banker.
“About four months ago.”
“Only two months after Saul Abbott was given access to her money.”
His gaze darted to the door. “I feel responsible in a way, and I couldn’t help her.”
Madison leaned forward. He’d already said he got her a loan, so he was hinting at something else. “Help her in what way?”
Lowe glanced at Terry, back to Madison. “Yeah, she, um, was in more recently and asked me all sorts of questions about the guy.”
“Like what?”
“Mostly she wanted to know if I’d conducted a thorough credit check or background on him before adding him to the account.”
“And did you?” Terry asked.
Lowe shook his head. “Since she was assuming the financial responsibility, I just needed her to sign off. That’s all the bank requires, but I did insist on getting a photocopy of his driver’s license.”
Based on all those pictures in her car of Abbott and the locked files on her computer, she had to have been conducting some sort of investigation into the man. And to come to Lowe, she might have been feeling desperate. “Would we be able to take a look at it or make a copy?”
Lowe bit his bottom lip. “I could…with a warrant.”
“Huh. Okay.” It didn’t take much to summon disappointment, as that was exactly how she felt.
“I’d like to show you, but…well, I could jeopardize my job.” He looked appealingly to Terry, who nodded in understanding.
“No one needs to know,” Madison interjected, stealing the banker’s gaze. “And it might be a way you can help Ms. Carson.” If all else failed, guilt trips often worked. She’d learned from the master—her mother.
“I don’t—”
“Truly,” she said. “We’ll keep your name out of this.” She didn’t want to play dirty and point out that they could report him for an infraction of confidence just with the amount he’d told them already. It wouldn’t get them any further, and it would be a bully move, but she’d resort to the threat if necessary.
Lowe’s expression softened. “You sure about that?”
“You have my word,” she said.
“Okay, give me a minute.” He got up and left the office.
Terry leveled a look on her. “You shouldn’t have promised him that.”
“There’s no reason his name even needs to come up. Besides, it’s probably a fake license that won’t get us anywhere.” She hated to think that was likely, and because of the negative thinking, she wondered why they’d even come. But at least they had confirmed that Carson had been doing all she could to get information on Abbott. It would seem that she had planned on confronting him or reporting him.
Lowe returned to his office with a folder. He sat behind his desk again, opened the folder, and took out a sheet of paper, which he handed to Madison.
It was a color copy of a license. The photo was the face they were familiar with and attributed to Saul Abbott, but the address had him in Arkansas. She pointed this out to Lowe.
“I asked him about that. He said he hadn’t a chance to update it yet.”
Was it possible that Saul Abbott was his actual name, after all? There was something about seeing it in print that had doubt slipping in. “When Mr. Abbott was here, do you remember what he was like with Ms. Carson?”
He rubbed his arms as if he were cold, but he was wearing a suit jacket and the temperature in his office hadn’t dipped. “Do you think this man killed her?”
“Too early to say,” Madison admitted. “But what was he like with her?”
“Very doting. Maybe too doting. Insincere. Sort of like how children are sometimes when they come in with their wealthy, elderly parents. All they see is money, and they’ll say or do anything to get into their good graces.”
Yet Lowe still hadn’t conducted a background or credit check on Abbott—p
rocedure aside. She had little tolerance for those who just did the required minimum.
“Can we have a copy of this?” Madison lifted the sheet a little higher.
“I’d prefer not.”
“How about a picture?” she countered.
“Sure.” Lowe pulled on his collar.
She took out her phone and snapped a photo. “Thank you.” She gave him the sheet back.
Lowe put the photocopy back in the folder. “As you said, please don’t tell anyone that I gave you that.”
“I don’t see any need to go there.”
“Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.” Madison stood, and Terry did the same. She made it to the door before turning around. “You might want to push for a new policy.”
Lowe angled his head as if he didn’t quite follow.
“If existing clients want another person or persons added to their accounts you should conduct due diligence regardless of what’s protocol. It would protect your clients and the bank.”
Lowe nodded slowly. His shoulders were sagging. She felt that he must be experiencing remorse, but he had only done what a client had asked of him and followed the procedure set in place. Sad to think that following the rules had contributed to the destruction of a woman’s life.
Back in the department car, Madison plugged in the license number from the photo she’d taken of Abbot’s ID into the laptop. The result was almost immediate. “Huh,” she said. “The number was valid at one time, and it does tie back to a Saul Abbott. Definitely not the man we know by that name, though.” She pointed to the image of a white-haired man.
“Never saw that coming.”
“Me either.” She pulled up another screen and searched Saul Abbott and the address in Arkansas. “Deceased twelve years.” So much for her earlier moment of doubt that had her wondering if Saul Abbott was his real name. She went on. “The real Abbott’s identity was stolen and used by whoever created the ID for Abbott. Makes me wonder if our con man has ties to Arkansas.”
“Unfortunately, without a real way to track the guy—and not knowing who he really is—that’s something we’ll probably need to pin for now.”
What We Bury Page 14
