by David Bishop
“So,” the lieutenant continued, “if the wife killed ‘im, she had another accomplice in addition to the neighbor and that shoe best fits the neighbor’s boyfriend, this Benjamin Gibbons.”
Sue spoke up. “If, for the moment, we assume Paige Crawford again honed her shooting skill, these two ladies with no criminal experience would still need to make up a whopper of a story, and somehow arrange for the printing of a fake FBI card. But I doubt they could have defeated county security to secret the body into a refrigerated bag in the ME’s office? For my money, that’s too big a leap.”
“Love can conquers all, Detective,” Adam Harrison said.
“Sue and I can’t see it going down that way.”
“You mentioned the bank where her husband worked, or some of our state’s infamous smugglers. Flesh those out.”
Maddie put the toe of her foot on her bottom desk drawer. “This entire line of thinking started with the imposter FBI agents who approached the house, searched it, and took the victim’s body.”
“To check it into the morgue while they were closed,” the lieutenant offered.
“Yeah,” Maddie said, “as it turned out. The fake FBI agents, if there were in fact any fake FBI to begin with, claimed they had Sam Crawford under surveillance for money laundering. We certainly have our share of human and drug traffickers in Arizona. They could tie in to that angle. We checked with Digger. He had heard nothing, but he agreed to make inquiries. He called a short while ago to say no dice. Nothing he can find.”
“Laundering and counterfeiting, if the money was funny, that stuffs a federal beef. You checked that angle?”
Maddie nodded. “They got nothing. I checked with the FBI and got a firm no. We checked with the Secret Service and got a second no. There appears, at least officially, to be no federal case in process against Sam Crawford or Nation’s First Bank & Trust.”
When Maddie paused, Sue chimed in. “And no record of any FBI agents with the names that were used.” Sue leaned forward, extending her hand with the fake FBI card with the name, Agent Dennis Powell.
“I’ve seen it,” the lieutenant said, waving off actually taking the card. “You got anything about this laundering angle other than supposed statements by the phony feds who came to her door?”
Maddie shook her head. “Not a thing.”
“So this could be nothing more than a ruse to take control of the house, get the widow out, and search the place.”
“In all likelihood, but without money laundering or smuggling, why did they search the house?” Maddie asked rhetorically. “What was so important that they risked being seen in order to remove it? And did they remove whatever that was?”
Sue spoke again. “They could have referred to money laundering because he was killed by drug and human smugglers who didn’t want to make reference to their own activity. In any event, they certainly meant to remove his body. They did that. What else they removed, if anything, we don’t know. On a broader view, why did they elect to kill Sam Crawford to begin with? Right now, we lack a motive.”
“Murder gets exceedingly hard without a motive,” the lieutenant said. “Not to mention prosecution in the event you come up with a suspect.” He turned toward Maddie. “Anything else, Sergeant?”
Maddie looked to Sue, then back to Adam Harrison. “Yes. There is another thing that points me toward the banker.” Harrison raised his eyebrows. “The Crawfords held a safe-deposit box at Nation’s First Bank & Trust. Paige Crawford said she went down there after her husband’s death. With her key missing from where it had been kept in her home, the bank drilled the box. When she opened it the box did not contain the quarter-million dollars she claims had been there before her husband’s death.”
Lieutenant Harrison whistled and held it until his breath gave out. “A quarter mil of cash, what did the bank’s sign-in sheet show?”
“No one had been in the box since the prior time the wife had, when she swears the cash had been there.” The lieutenant started to speak. “I know. I know,” Maddie said. “That can’t happen. Not with a safe-deposit box. Still, the widow says it did. She figures the only one who could have pulled it off was the bank CEO.”
“Sounds more likely the widow’s lying.”
“I agree, sir. However, a few minutes ago you used logic to establish that if Paige Crawford killed her husband, it would be foolish of her to go see a divorce attorney the day before. That same logic applies here. Assuming for the moment that Paige Crawford killed her husband, why would she announce her safe-deposit box held what she admitted to me to be a quarter-million of ill-gotten gain? According to the bank records, no one could have removed it other than her. So, why reveal its existence at all?”
“Unless it was never there to begin with,” Sue Martin said.
“If it had never been there to begin with, Paige Crawford would have no cause of action against the bank. All it does is raise the specter that her husband or she had been involved in nefarious dealings. Under our current hypothesis, he’s dead by her hand, so why would she want to have that kind of thinking brought up at all? No. To the contrary, the same kind of logical thinking which supports no divorce attorney would support no claim of the existence of the cash. If it had ever been there, the bank records establish that only she could have removed it. So, if she has it, and it’s illegal, why would she mention it at all?”
“Unless, there was money laundering,” Lieutenant Harrison said. “That could explain the killing of Sam Crawford, the invasion of his house by phony FBI agents, the stealing of his computer and cell phone, even this disappearing money. All of it fits in when one assumes money laundering by either Sam Crawford without his employer’s knowledge, or by Sam Crawford as an agent for his superiors in the bank.”
“Yes, sir. A lot makes sense when we accept that premise. This is why, despite laundering having been mentioned only by FBI agents who don’t exist, money laundering lurks in the shadow of this case. However, we have no proof there was ever any money in the box or any laundering. The only evidence we have establishes there was no money. And, let’s not forget, all the appropriate federal agencies deny any case of laundering or other action involving Sam Crawford.”
“I see the fake FBI agents as being part of the wife’s story,” Detective Martin said. “I see all that as misdirection to help obfuscate a genius plan by a woman who murdered her husband. Now, before you ask, I have no idea how Paige Crawford, likely with the help of Carla Roth, got her husband’s remains inside Dr. Conner’s medical examiner’s office. That’s one of several big potholes in the road to my theory. And that’s without mentioning how she got the shot taken from a distance.”
“You’re correct,” the lieutenant said. “It is only Mrs. Crawford, supported by this Carla Roth, who claims the existence of the agents, their statements about surveillance, claim of money laundering, and that they took control of the home. All of that rests squarely and solely on the veracity of the wife, Paige Crawford. All of that could be misdirection as you state. But why does she claim the quarter mil of cash? If there was no laundering, as you are postulating, where did all that cash ever come from? Or if that cash never existed, what tactical benefit does the killer-wife get by claiming that it did exist?”
“The booty, sir,” Sue Martin said. “With money laundering, there would be payoffs. That suggests a horde of kickbacks did exist, some of which she claims have now disappeared. That scenario could argue Sam Crawford had been killed by mobsters or, I suppose, his wife. If she is crafty enough to figure how to get his body under refrigeration in the county office, she could be crafty enough to figure how to get the money out of the bank safe-deposit box without a record of that. May I continue?” Sue asked. With nods from Maddie and the lieutenant, she did. “If we go back to the bit about her seeing the divorce attorney, she did that to get the result she got. The cops deciding she wouldn’t see a divorce attorney, if she was going to ice her old man.”
“Sergeant,” the lieutenant sai
d, “what Detective Martin lays out, despite its obvious holes, ties up neater than some of the other possibilities we’ve discussed.”
“Get’s too complicated, sir,” Maddie said while shaking her head. “Just too damned complicated.”
“In what way?”
“If it was all a hoax to focus investigation away from her then her neighbor had to be an accomplice. Carla Roth says she was there. That she heard and saw everything Paige Crawford claims she heard and saw: the murder, the FBI agents, the search of the Crawford home, and the third person claiming to be the medical examiner. That would make Carla Roth a strong, active accomplice.”
“What do we have on Carla Roth?”
“She’s a straight arrow,” said Sue. “Clean. Just like Paige Crawford. I know that argues against my thesis, but that part’s fact.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Maddie said. “The explanation Sue is offering means two women with no criminal record and no expertise in murder and running cons would have to not only stitch together a wild-ass story, but know how to defeat security at the morgue so they can slip in and leave the body. Then, to top that, they wrap up their caper with an invisible robbery of a bank safe-deposit box. And even this ignores who took the kill shot from distance.”
“They could hire an expert in break-ins,” Sue said, “a locksmith maybe who could get into the M.E.’s office.”
“All this is possible, Detective Martin,” the lieutenant said, “but not likely.”
“There’s another piece, sir,” Maddie said, “one last piece that might play into it.”
“I assume this last piece will add another unlikely, nutty component.”
“Yes sir, it is all of that.”
“My ginger ale’s empty, Sergeant, so let’s wrap it up.”
“Paige Crawford’s mother is a former planner for CIA black-bag operations back in the sixties maybe into the seventies. It’s represented that she gave up that line of work well over twenty years ago.”
Lieutenant Harrison crossed his legs, took a deep breath, and looked at Detective Martin before setting his gaze on Maddie. “If momma dearest put all this together for her daughter, the CIA lost a hell of a mastermind. If Paige Crawford killed her husband, as Detective Martin has asserted, we have the widow and her mother pulling in a neighbor, a locksmith or burglar, who might have doubled as the phony medical examiner. The mother’s background admittedly makes the planning of this more plausible, but not more likely. If this twist is valid, they all did all this to eliminate a husband she could have simply divorced in our no-fault state. Then again, from a different angle, with his death the wife would get the entire estate, while in divorce she would end up with only half. Do you have a feel, Sergeant, for the size of their holdings?”
“Paige Crawford did tell me that even without the claimed lost quarter million, she would still be okay financially. We do have information on their brokerage investments that total a few million. Paige Crawford also told me that they had a decreasing term life insurance policy that would pay off their home. So, yeah, I’d say, aside from greed, that half would provide for a very comfortable life.”
“Sergeant, it seems to me, that if these people were thugs they might have turned to murder, but they aren’t. Divorce would have been their choice. These are all solid citizens. All this assumes skills not in evidence. Except for maybe momma who might be able to mastermind it, but I don’t see her cracking county security and carrying her son-in-law in over her shoulder. Momma could have taken the shot, even the uncle who we’ve barely mentioned. He could have carried the body into the morgue, but you say both momma and uncle have an ironclad alibi for the time of the shooting.”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant. The only way we can put this together is to take some of the thinking that goes with a murder by the wife, and some pieces that go with money laundering. Our problem is that we can’t find a way that both of these scenarios could both be true. And, even if we could, the play would require too many people to be plausible.”
“So, where are we, Sergeant?”
“We got a lot more work to do, Lieutenant.”
“You know, we don’t solve ‘em all. Damn it. Some just never come together. This may end up being one of those.”
“I’m not ready to cash in my chips on this one, Lieutenant. Not yet.”
Chapter 21
Maddie’s cell rang as Lieutenant Harrison left her office. She glanced at the caller ID, and then waved Sue out motioning for her to shut the door.
“Hello, Ryan. Did you call to arrange our having that talk?”
“We’ll do that, Maddie. Not today, but soon. Two things are more urgent. I want to go to your place a little later today and get with Brad to work on his throwing a slider. Is today okay? I’m guessing Rita will be there. I’d prefer to do it when you’re there, but since you’ll be working late tonight, and because this afternoon works well for me I was hoping you’d have no objection.”
“And what makes you think I’ll be working late tonight?” Maddie sat back, the toe of her left foot again finding the corner of her desk drawer.
“That’s the second urgent thing, but I’d like to wrap up this first one before we get into number two. Sliders are important, Maddie, at least to Brad, but it’s your call. If you want me to wait, that’s fine.”
“Sure. Go on by. Rita will be there. I know Bradley will be glad to see you. He’s been asking everyday when you’re coming by.”
“I’ll get there a little after he gets home from school.”
“Now that that’s taken care of, what’s your number two and why does it mean I’ll be working late?”
“Bennie Gibbons. You ready to take down an address?” Maddie grunted in the affirmative. Ryan gave it. “Now hear this, Maddie. Make no mistake, Benjamin Gibbons is a stone-cold killer with lots of skill and no compunction. He’s done it all and survived. I recommend you take a SWAT team, at the minimum several backup officers, experienced ones who’ve been tested under fire. Bennie will be gone all day. He’ll be at that address, sometime between dark and ten tonight. He has a Harley in a parking space numbered to match the apartment number in his address. Give him no slack. He is supremely confident that he can shoot his way out of hell. Why? Because he’s done it. Your key is to not give him the option to try.”
“We know how to do our job, Mr. Testler.”
“Yes, you do. You’re good at it with local thugs. That’s not meant as a criticism. It’s simply most of what all local cops deal with. Gibbons is a cousin-counting country boy. He learned to shoot sitting on his uncle’s knee. He’s a trained killer, a seasoned assassin. He can be disarmingly charming when he wants to be. In today’s processing of applicants for Special Forces, the military would discover this kind of sociopath before he got in and got trained, but not so when Gibbons went in. He looks like the neighborhood paperboy with a smile that melts ladies’ hearts. Don’t be fooled. If you knock on his door and announce yourself, you won’t be able to avoid a shootout. He’ll choose escape or die, nothing in between. He won’t buy whatever you’d try to sell to get him to open his door. People will die. Surprise must be used.”
“What made you say he’d be home by no later than ten?”
“He’s expecting a hooker at ten so he’ll be home by then. Maybe hours earlier, I can’t say. You’ll need to keep the hooker away from his door unless they happen to meet up in the parking lot or something. She’ll be a blonde with long hair, big … large breasts and no taller than about five-eight.”
“You know an awful lot about this hooker, Mr. Testler.”
“Bennie likes ‘em that way. Maybe you’ve got a savvy lady cop who fits that description. She’s expected and he doesn’t know her. That could get the door open without him being unduly alarmed.”
“We could do that. I have someone in mind. We might need to augment the, ah, what did you call them, breasts, a bit. Just so you know, Mr. Testler, I’ve heard the word tits before.”
; “Well, shut my mouth, Missy Richards.” They laughed.
“Anything else?”
“He has a duffle full of weapons and ammo in his place. Including a rifle I figure he used for the shot that killed Sam Crawford.”
“If he took the shot, that is.”
“I got nothing on who hired him, but Bennie’s your shooter. He admitted that to me.”
“Thanks, Ryan. How did you get onto Gibbons?”
“Not important. We’ll talk later.”
Ryan Testler hung up.
* * *
Ryan was afraid for Maddie. It was doubtful she had ever gone after a killer the caliber of Benjamin Gibbons. Still, taking Gibbons was her job and he respected her right to do that job. But he could be there, without her knowing it. At a distance, but first he had to do something he had been looking forward to for days.
“Hi, Rita. Is Brad around? I spoke with Maddie and she approved my coming by to help the boy with his slider.”
Rita pushed open the screen door.
“Rita, does all this baseball talk about sliders make any sense to you?”
“My husband loved baseball. He hated coming to Phoenix from the east because there was no major league ball out west. When the Diamondbacks got started, he went to their first home game and remained a fan the rest of his life. He got me hooked. I still watch the games, only now I do it with Bradley. Now you come on in here, and don’t you be doing that formal routine ‘round here.”
“Now is okay?”
“He saw you coming down the street and headed in for his glove and ball. He’s in the bathroom. Be out in a minute. Here he is.”
“Hello, Mr. Testler. I’ve been hoping you’d come every day. I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I Brad. You ready to get started?”
They headed out to the backyard.
* * *
Maddie needed an arrest warrant for Benjamin Gibbons and a search warrant for his apartment. She would base her request on an anonymous tip that had come in on her cell phone from an undercover federal officer working another case. This was a guess about Ryan Testler, but not a big guess. She headed down the hall to see Lieutenant Harrison. On the way, her cell rang again. Maddie looked down to see if it might be Ryan, maybe with an update on Gibbons. The caller was her mother. Maddie quickly walked back down the hall and into her own office.
